by Nevil Shute
“This is a damn good show. Did you have any difficulty?”
“Not a bit, sir. It went exactly as we planned.”
“Fine. You’d better get on shore now and get a hot meal and some sleep. We’ll make out a report in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
He turned away; I stopped him. “I gave your message to the Wren,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I should bloody well think so,” I replied. “Next time you want a go-between, just you give the job to Brigadier McNeil.”
André was there. I spoke a few sentences to him in my lame, halting French, telling him to tell the ratings that they had put up a damn good show, and that the admiral would be very pleased with the ship. He replied with a volley of which I understood one word in five, and we beamed at each other, and then it began to rain.
It was practically dark and there were only a few of us now left on board. Boden was at my elbow, obviously very tired. I said to him: “I expect you could do with some sleep.”
“I’m not tired, sir,” he said. And then he said: “It’s a fine thing, that flame-thrower. There were three of them on the bridge, and they were just blotted out. And the two by the aft gun—they just disappeared.” He paused. “I think it was one of them we picked out of the sea.”
“Very likely,” I said. “We’ll make out a report in the morning.”
“Will we be going out again, sir?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to think about that.”
“We ought to go again, sir. It’s a fine game this—better than anti-submarine. I mean, you can see what you’re doing.”
The boat came back again. “Go on down,” I said to him. “The thing to do now is to have a meal and some sleep.” And a bromide for him, I thought; the surgeon would provide that. Boden went down into the boat; I followed him, and we were ferried ashore in the darkness and the rain.
In the two villas most of them were at supper. I told Simon that I would be out in the forenoon, and I had a word with the surgeon-lieutenant about bringing the dead German ashore and about the bromide.
He nodded. “Two or three of them can do with something of the sort,” he said. “I’ll look after that—I’ve got some stuff with me. I’ll stay here for an hour or two.”
McNeil and I left them; they would not settle down while we were there. We went back in the little lorry driven by the Wren to the Naval Centre, and I put in a telephone call to V.A.C.O. The admiral was still in his office and I spoke to him and gave him the substance of what had happened.
“That’s very satisfactory,” he said. “Give the ship my congratulations, Martin—no, I’ll make them a signal. And I should like to see the commanding officer, that Captain Simon, as soon as he has finished making out his report. I shall be here for the next two days.”
I rang off and we went back to the College for a late, scratch meal before bed. Next morning we went back to Dittisham and settled down with Simon and Colvin in the ward-room to hear the full story. And what it amounted to was this.
They left Penzance at about 13.00 in a squall of rain. It was warm and rainy all the afternoon, with visibility varying between one mile and five miles. They saw two aircraft of the Coastal Command and flashed their code sign at them with an Aldis lamp; they saw no enemy aircraft. They kept their speed meticulously, doing ten and a half knots in each hour by the log and plotting their tidal drift each hour with wind corrections. They set their course to pass seven miles to the west of Ushant, and as darkness fell they were approaching the island.
They had a bit of luck there, because the fog-signal was going from the lighthouse at Le Jument; they heard it faintly in the distance. It was too distant and too faint to give them more than an approximate bearing, but what they got out of it checked more or less with their dead reckoning, and they changed course off Ushant according to plan.
They were then upon a course as if to enter Brest, and they were perhaps twenty-five miles from the entrance to the Rade. There was some danger that they might meet a patrol vessel, so they put on their red and green sidelights and slung a white light half-way up the mast, fishing-boat style. At the same time they manned the flame-gun and made ready for action.
They were not intercepted. Visibility was poor, with occasional showers of rain. They had time in hand, and slowed to eight knots, at which speed their engine was much quieter. They stopped two or three times to take a sounding, and went on upon a course for Cap de la Chèvre.
They ran two and a half hours, about twenty miles upon that course, into the region which the French call L’Iroise. At any point in that course they might have met the fishing fleet, but they saw nothing of it. What they actually saw, at about 23.45, was a flashing light, which they identified as a minor lighthouse called Le Bouc, upon a rock about two miles west of La Chèvre.
Simon and Colvin bent over the chart-table together. “That’s the boy,” said Colvin. He put his pencil on the rock. “Just about where he should be, and if that’s not a bloody miracle, I’d like to know what is.”
Simon stared fixedly at the little pencil-line that marked their course. “The light must mean that there are vessels out to-night,” he said. “So much is certain; they would not have the lighthouse alight unless it was necessary to them.” He turned to Colvin. “This lighthouse, is it useful to ships going in and out of Brest?”
The other shook his head. “It’s right out of their way. It only serves ships going to Douarnenez.”
“Then it must be alight for the fishing fleet, or for their Raumboote.”
“Seems like it.”
Their course for the last twenty miles had been south-east, parallel with the string of reefs that runs from Ushant to La Chèvre, broken by the entrance to Brest. The fleet could not be to the north of that course, therefore if it was out at all it must be either ahead of them in the bay of Douarnenez or to the south down by the Chaussée de Sein, which we call The Saints. They stood on into the bay, still burning all their steaming lights.
Visibility was a bit better by that time. They saw the great bluff of La Chèvre and went on past it right into the Bay of Douarnenez. They were in the enemy’s waters with a vengeance then, in range of batteries that could have blown them out of the water with the greatest of ease. They must have been seen from La Chèvre; in all probability their steaming lights protected them.
They got within about six miles of Douarnenez at about one o’clock in the morning. There was no sign of the fishing fleet in the bay. They turned and steamed along the south shore of the bay, about two miles from land, heading back towards the west.
Near Beuzec, suddenly, a searchlight leaped out at them, and caught and held them in its glare. From the wheel-house Simon shouted out in French—“No firing. Two or three of you wave your hands at them. So—that is good.” The white light lit up every detail of the ship, blinding, intolerable. They puttered on upon a steady course towards the west, each moment expecting a shell.
Then the light went out, and for some time they could distinguish nothing in the inky darkness.
Simon turned to Colvin. “We must look very like a fishing-boat,” he said.
“Sure,” said the other. “If we didn’t we’d be looking like a butcher’s shop by now.”
At about one forty-five they saw a light ahead, and slightly to the north, low down upon the water. Then there were several lights, and presently a number, scattered rather widely in their course.
Simon and Colvin bent together over the chart. “They’re all around the end of the land,” said Colvin quietly. “I reckon that the flood is bringing the fish up through this bit they call the Raz de Sein.…”
They were all on their toes as they approached the fleet. Coming from the direction of Douarnenez their approach was natural enough, if it was ever natural for a vessel to come out from harbour in the middle of the night to join the fleet. They moved on towards the swaying lights, and saw no sign of a patrol vessel. Then it oc
curred to them that the Raumboot would be to seaward of the fishing fleet, while they were approaching from the land.
Presently they could see the hulls of the vessels. All had their bows towards the south and their engines ticking over as they stemmed the flood-tide, keeping their station with the coast, trailing their gossamer nets in a wide, gentle bag not far below the surface. All of the vessels wore a light upon the mast; about thirty per cent of these were orange lights, and the remainder white.
They took station with the fleet, extinguishing their red and green sidelights, leaving their white light burning on the mast. With bows towards the south they rode for a time at the tail of the fleet. The nearest boat, burning a white light, was within fifty yards of them; they avoided the neighbourhood of the orange-shaded lights, the boats that held the German petty officers. They rode like that for half an hour, tense and waiting developments. But nothing happened at all. It would have been very easily possible for them to go alongside one of the boats wearing the white light, to exchange messages or to land an agent. The first object of the reconnaissance was proved.
The officers discussed the position in low tones. Simon said: “Now we should slide away, and make for England again. Next time we come, it will be with a purpose.”
Boden said: “We’re not going home without having a crack at a Raumboot, sir, are we?”
Rhodes was still at the flame-gun, growing a little tired, with the thought of Ernest brooding darkly in the back of his mind. Colvin said:
“This sliding away. Do we put the light out here, where everyone can see us put it out, and then slide? Or do we slide away with our light on? Seems to me we get the Raumboot on us either way.”
Simon thought for a minute. “We will slide away with the light on,” he said definitely. “I think you are quite right. In either case the Raumboot will come to us, but if we drift away towards the north with the light on we shall be some distance from the other ships, and what we hope to do may then look like an accident.”
He turned to Colvin. “Drop backwards very slowly with the tide,” he said. “Let it seem that we lost position accidentally, keeping the bows to the south.”
“Okay,” said Colvin. “Now for the fun.”
The slow beat of the engine dropped still lower, and the boats near them began to draw ahead. In the dark night, misty and wet with a light rain, they waited, peering over the water. Boden, in charge of the six Thomson gunners, crouched down behind the low bulwarks on the wet deck, tense and listening. An alarm gong, sounded from the little wheel-house, would bring them into action; till then they were to remain concealed.
Colvin was at the wheel himself, the engine controls at his hand. By his side was Simon, with a speaking-tube to Rhodes at the flame-gun.
Nothing happened for a quarter of an hour.
They dropped further and further back from the fleet; by the end of that time they must have been over a mile from the nearest of the fishing-boats. Five minutes more went by, in unendurable tension.
“Don’t believe there’s any Raumboot here at all to-night,” grumbled Colvin.
Simon said: “Well, you are wrong. She comes now, over there.”
He pointed at a white light over to the west, and the faint glimmer of a green light. A vessel was coming northwards under power, heading towards them. A faint buzz of whispers ran around the decks.
Simon asked, whispering: “How large is she?”
Colvin measured the height of the lights from the water with his eye. “She’s only a tiddler,” he said. “Not much bigger’n we are.” In fact, she was nearly twice their size; he meant that she was not a destroyer.
She passed a quarter of a mile away from them; the green light broadened and a red appeared; then white and red alone were visible. “Coming up along our starboard side,” said Colvin. “I’ll give her a sheer in a minute, so as we get right up to her.”
Simon bent to the speaking-tube. “She comes up now upon the starboard side,” he said. “You see her clearly?”
Rhodes said: “I see her.”
In a minute Simon said again: “Rhodes, listen to me. There is nobody on deck in front of the bridge. If there is a gun there, it is not manned. Fire first at the bridge, and then to the aft gun, if she has one.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Fire first at the bridge.”
The tension was unbearable. The Raumboot came up on their quarter about fifty yards away; they heard the clang of her engine-room gongs as she slowed. Her bow came level with their stern.…
Colvin stooped and jerked the throttle half open, and gave the wheel a twist to starboard, to close the gap between the ships. “Fire when you like now, Bo’,” he said laconically.
Simon shouted down the speaking-tube: “Rhodes—fire!”
A jet of blazing oil leapt out from the camouflaging nets, setting them well alight. It lit up the Raumboot coming up alongside them, dark grey in colour and now only thirty yards away. Appalling, fascinating, the jet seemed to travel slowly to its target. It was a horrible, yellowish-red writhing spear; it carried at its point to strike the enemy a dark blade of unburnt oil, ever consumed and ever sailing nearer to the bridge. Its light went on before it, and in that light they saw a bearded officer in an oilskin, leaning over the rail towards them, megaphone in hand. In an instant that stayed etched in Colvin’s memory they saw him staring at this frightful thing sailing through the air at him, horrified and immobile.
Then it hit him, and all sign of the bridge vanished in a terrible furnace of bright flame. For three or four seconds the flame played upon the bridge with a hoarse, windy noise, then it trained aft to the petrified gun crew at the stern. It came very swiftly on them. They hesitated; there were three of them. Then they broke and left the gun. One of them dived for a hatch and may have got below; the others went down in a violent belch of fire.
Colvin, watching intently, saw the Raumboot start to fall astern. He spun the wheel and sheered away from her; she dropped further astern, and Rhodes could no longer bring his fire to bear upon the gun. He traversed up her decks again as she fell further back. Then he cut off his fire, and black darkness fell on them, lit only by the burning camouflage nets on Geneviève and the blazing oil fires on the Raumboot.
Simon roared out to the Breton crew, speaking in French, to get the net fire out and to take down the mast-head light. Then he looked astern. There were men upon the foredeck of the Raumboot; there was another gun there.
“Turn quickly,” he said to Colvin. “Or they will shoot us up.” And down the speaking-tube he said: “Fire at the forward gun, upon the foredeck, when you can. There are men there now.”
The gun was evidently stowed and unloaded; a long immunity had made the Germans casual. The fire burst upon them as they were fixing a drum to the breech, and they were hidden from sight in the violence of the flame. In a few seconds Rhodes trained back on the bridge.
The Raumboot was now stopped. Colvin continued with his turn across her bows, slowed, and drifted down her starboard side as she lay burning.
Simon said down the speaking-tube: “Rhodes, give her oil now.” The flame died away; there was a moment’s pause, and a great hosing jet of black oil burst from the gun. Where it fell upon a flame it blazed up and fire ran along the deck; in other parts it made great dripping, smearing pools.
“Now the fire.”
The flame blazed out again and trained the full length of the ship; she became a furnace from end to end.
The fire from the gun ceased, and they lay rocking by the burning ship, watching what they had done. “Time we were out of this,” said Colvin tersely. “What say, we get going now?”
There was no sign of life now on the Raumboot; nothing but a great sea of flame. She was alight down to the water’s edge. She lay between them and the fishing fleet; they were well placed to get away towards the north. Moreover, it was time. Other ships must be making for the burning Raumboot at full speed; it could only be a matter of a few minutes before they were discov
ered in the light of the blazing ship.
They put on power and began to draw away. Almost immediately one of the Bretons shouted from the bows; there was a body in the water ahead of them. Simon spoke to Colvin and shouted a command to André. They reversed engines to check way upon the ship beside the man, now seen clearly floating in the water by the topsides. In urgent haste they made a bowline on a rope and lowered one of the Bretons down into the sea; he made a rope fast round the body and it was unceremoniously hauled aboard. They put on speed again at once and drew away towards the north; they were barely a quarter of a mile distant when they saw other vessels coming up behind the burning ship.
Colvin said: “Let’s hold on this way for a couple o’ minutes more. Then, what say we jink a bit?”
They went on for half a mile or three-quarters, doing their full twelve knots. Then they turned sharply to the west, and in a few minutes turned again and made for the south-west. Several vessels were around the burning ship, and amongst them was at least one other Raumboot. They went on, tense, expecting every moment to be picked up by a searchlight. But no light came, and presently they altered course again towards the west. They saw the blaze upon the water till they were distant about five miles from it; then it was blotted from their sight by a rain squall. The glow on the horizon lasted for half an hour.
After a time they turned to the north-west.
Boden came up to the wheel-house presently. “That German that we picked out of the water died,” he said.
Simon said: “Died? Was he alive at all?” He had risked waiting by the burning ship to pick the body up because he wanted to bring home a trophy of some sort, something to show for certain that they had engaged the enemy.
“He was alive, within the meaning of the act,” said Boden. “Caspar gave him a shot of morphia with the hypodermic.” Caspar was one of the Danes who had been a chemist in his previous existence. The morphia he gave was a full lethal dose, and presently the body on the deck found peace.
“Where had we better put him?” asked Boden. “I suppose you want to take him home with us.”