by Nevil Shute
Simon, in the meantime, had found out from the Breton lads in his crew the circumstances that governed the position of the fishing fleet in the Iroise. He spread out the chart before me in the ward-room in the little villa at Dittisham. “On the flood-tide it is easy,” he said. “The fish, the little sardines, they come northwards with the tide up from the Bay of Biscay. The tide sweeps them up the Bade d’Audierne,” he showed me with his finger on the chart, “until they come to the Chaussée de Sein. Then the tide sweeps through the Raz de Sein between the Chaussée and the land—very, very quick.”
“I know,” I said. “It runs up to six knots through there. And the fish go with it?”
He nodded. “The tide carries the fish through the Raz into the Iroise. Always, at the first of the flood, the fishing fleet will lie in the Iroise at the entrance to the Raz, stemming the tide with their bows to the south, drifting their nets to take the fish as they come northwards on the tide. That is the way we found them on that first night of all.”
“The tide was on the flood then, was it?”
“Yes. Our Breton lads knew where the fleet would be the whole of the time. But they did not know then just exactly what we wanted, and we did not think to ask them.”
“What’s the tide doing on the thirty-first?” I asked.
He pulled over the nautical almanack and turned the pages. “It is good for us upon that night.” He showed me the entry. “Raz de Sein—the flood-tide makes towards the north at 21.40, Greenwich time. That is 22.40 of our time.”
From Dartmouth I went to Plymouth about the motor-gunboats. I went first to the Commander-in-Chief’s office and spent ten minutes with him, telling him what we wanted to do. Then I spent half an hour with his Chief of Staff, bending over the chart. It did not seem to be difficult. Zero, we decided, should be about the time of moonrise—say 23.00. That was when the motor-gunboats would begin to do their stuff. It would take them an hour to get into position on their silent engines at low speed, and five hours from Plymouth under average weather conditions. That meant that they should leave at 17.00, sunset time, which seemed reasonable enough. They would have daylight for their departure. They would be back off Plymouth at 04.30 or soon after; if the wind were in the west they might anchor in Cawsand till the port opened at dawn. We could arrange a tender for them there, in case of casualties. One of the mine-sweeping trawlers could do that.
We wrote a draft of an operation order there and then, that I could talk over with V.A.C.O. “This thing will have to have a name,” the Chief of Staff said. His eyes roved around the room. There was an iron bedstead in his office, the bed made up with sheets and blankets; evidently it was his habit to sleep there upon occasion. “Operation Blanket,” he said. “It’s got to happen in the blanket of the dark.” So Operation Blanket it became.
The M.G.B.s were in the Cattewater. I went down to see them with a young lieutenant-commander of the R.N.V.R., more for interest than anything else. Boats numbered 261 and 268 were detailed for the job; the officer commanding 268 was senior, and we went on board her. He was a lieutenant in the R.N.V.R. called Sanderson. He was twenty-two years old, and before the war had been at Cambridge studying to become a schoolmaster. He was a very tough-looking young man with hard eyes and a prominent jaw, dressed in a very dirty uniform. The officers of Geneviéve looked like a pack of Sissies beside that chap. His Number One was a sub of twenty with a great red beard. I never saw such a pair of pirates in my life.
Their ship was one of the new Vosper-boats, and she was very interesting. I spent an hour on board her, wishing that I’d had the chance of a command like her when I was young. She was good fun, that boat; well armed, comparatively seaworthy, and very fast. I thought a lot of her.
I went back to London, and two days later I went down to V.A.C.O. about Operation Blanket. It was shaping quite well; indeed, it seemed to be a fairly simple little job, without great risk to anybody. McNeil was gathering his Tommy-guns and ammunition together, two lorry-loads of them. Their weight would put the Geneviève ten inches lower in the water and therefore slow her down a bit, but that didn’t seem to matter very much. Repairs were up to time and she came off the slip to schedule. Finally, Simon’s hand was getting on quite well.
Simon came up to London a few days after that, and I met McNeil with him for a discussion of the message to Douarnenez. There was an agent over there, I learned, who was to pass the message through: a man at Quimper who supplied the fish-packers with tinned steel sheets. In some way that I did not understand a message would reach him.
We settled to design the message. “Charles Simon says,” it ran at last, “the English will send seventy sub-machine-guns with three thousand rounds for each. On the night of October 31st/November 1st gunfire will begin about 23.00. Fishing vessels should put out their lights and scatter. Seven vessels should rendezvous without lights in the Anse des Blancs Sablons three miles north of Cap de la Chèvre. Charles Simon will be there to meet them in a Douarnenez sardine-boat painted black and will give to each vessel ten guns and ammunition. Confirm that on that night the fleet will fish north of the Raz de Sein. Ends.”
Two days later a reply came. “Charles Simon’s message received and understood. Seven boats will meet him as arranged. The fleet will fish north of Raz de Sein from 22.00 to 04.00 weather permitting. Ends.”
I went down to Plymouth on the twenty-ninth with McNeil; Simon met us there, and we had a conference in the Chief of Staff’s office about Operation Blanket. The commanding officer of M.G.B. 268 was there, Sanderson, whom I had met before, and with him was a quiet young man called Peters, who was in command of 261. In an hour we had settled the detail of the operation. Geneviève would sail direct from Dartmouth as before; her officers preferred the longer journey rather than the inconvenience of making their last arrangements in a strange port. That meant that she must leave in the forenoon of the 31st. We arranged to confirm the operation by telephone that morning, in view of the weather at the time.
There was no more to be done. I went back to Dartmouth with McNeil, and we went on to Dittisham. There was a lorry down there at the hard unloading Tommy-guns in their boxes into the boat to be ferried to the ship. It would have been easier to bring her up against a quay, of course, but Simon and Colvin had preferred the secrecy of Dittisham.
I went on board Geneviève and made a semi-official inspection of her. She was in good shape; the damage had been well repaired and they had taken her to sea one day to test the flame-thrower. Colvin said she was as good as she had ever been.
So they went.
* * * * *
We got them away at about 11.00 on the morning of the 31st, deep-loaded with their Tommy-guns and ammunition and a full tank for the flame-thrower. I was at Dittisham to see them off; McNeil could not get down, nor was there any need for him to be there.
The weather was quite good, with high cloud and occasional bursts of sunshine. The forecast was for fine weather and moderate cloud off Ushant during the night, with only a slight chance of rain. That suited us quite well. It would make it easy for the fishing-boats to find the rendezvous; if the forecast had been for thick weather we should have been obliged to postpone.
I stood down on the hard with the shore party and watched them go. They slipped their mooring and went down between the wooded hills by Mill Creek till they were lost to sight. Then I turned away; the Wren was going to drive me back to Newton Abbot in the truck.
She was beside me. “Wish them luck,” I said a little heavily.
She said: “Do you think I’m not?”
I glanced down at her, smiling in what I meant to be a reassuring way. “They’ll be all right,” I said. “It’s not as if they were going out to look for trouble this time.” She knew well enough what they had gone to do.
She did not answer that. I glanced at her again. She seemed to have got much older in the last few weeks, much more mature. I saw for the first time that she was wearing an engagement ring, turquoise and diamon
ds, very little stones; a ring that a lieutenant who had nothing but his pay might give his girl.
I said: “I see that I’ve got to congratulate you, Miss Wright. Is that, by any chance, for any of our chaps?”
She raised her hand and looked at it. “It’s for Lieutenant Rhodes,” she said. “You must have known. It’s horribly conspicuous. I suppose the new look goes away after a time.”
She wasn’t at all excited over it; she wasn’t even smiling. That seemed to me rather dreadful and unnatural.
“I’m terribly glad,” I said as warmly as I could. “I hope that you’ll be very, very happy.”
“That’s awfully sweet of you,” she said. “I’m sure I hope so, too.”
The shore party had dissipated; we were momentarily alone by the waterside. I did not want to go away and leave her in that frame of mind. “You mustn’t feel like that,” I said. “You get a double lot of troubles when you get engaged, but you get the hell of a lot more fun.” It wasn’t quite what I had wanted to say, but it was the best that I could manage impromptu.
She glanced up at me. “I suppose you had it in peace-time,” she said unexpectedly.
I did not understand her
“Getting engaged, I mean,” she said. “It must have been lovely to get engaged in peace-time, when you had time to give to it. I suppose some day there’ll be a world again where people can live quietly, and fall in love, and get married, and have fun. Where you can keep a rabbit or a dog—or a husband, and not have to stand by and see them killed. Where you can think of other things than burning oil, and rain, and darkness, and black bitter hate.”
I stood there thoughtful, looking out over the river. I was thinking that the Women’s Royal Naval Service has its complications and its limitations. If Geneviève went on upon this work, Leading Wren Wright would have to be transferred to other duty.
“Don’t worry too much,” I said as gently as I could. “This isn’t going on for ever.” I turned towards the car. “Let’s get along to Newton Abbot.”
“Very good, sir.”
We drove that thirty miles mostly in silence. She knew all the movements in Operation Blanket; she knew that I was going to Plymouth to see the supporting M.G.B.s away. At Newton Abbot station, as we drew up in the yard, she said:
“Will you be coming back to Dartmouth, sir? Would you like me to meet you here?”
I reflected for a moment. The M.G.B.s would be back very early in the morning. Geneviève could hardly be back before dark; as before, I had made arrangements for the port to be opened for her on her signal. I got out of the truck, crossed to the time-table upon the wall, and looked up a train. The afternoon train from Plymouth stopped at Newton Abbot at 3.40; that seemed suitable.
“You’d better meet me here at 3.40 to-morrow afternoon, Miss Wright,” I said. “I shall be corning back to Dartmouth then. This is going to be another middle-of-the-night show.”
She nodded. “Very good, sir. I’ll meet you here at 3.40 to-morrow afternoon.”
“That’s right,” I said. I hesitated, and then said: “If I were you I should go to the pictures to-night, and go to bed early.”
She said quietly: “Thank you, sir.”
I went on by train to Plymouth and got there early in the afternoon. I got down to the dock at about four o’clock. The two M.G.B.s were running their main engines to warm up, and taking on a few last-minute stores from the pontoons that they were moored to. Captain (D.) was there to see them off; I made my number with him as representing V.A.C.O. and we stood chatting for a time. At five minutes to five Sanderson came up to us, saluted, and reported that everything was ready and correct.
The captain took his salute. “Very good, Sanderson,” he said. “Carry on as soon as you can. The best of luck.”
The young man saluted again and went back to his boat. The captain walked up to the other vessel, 261, at the pontoon astern of 268. Above the heavy rumble of the engines he shouted to the young officer upon the tiny bridge: “Good luck, Peters.” The young man smiled and saluted.
Then the boats slipped bow and stern ropes from the pontoon and moved out into the stream, great clouds of steam vomiting from their exhausts in the grey evening light. They turned downriver to the sea, and very soon were lost to sight behind Drake’s Island.
I had a cabin reserved for me in the barracks, but I didn’t use it. I dined in the ward-room; then, wanting to be on hand for anything that might occur, I went back to the Commander-in-Chief’s office. It was a fine, starry night, without much cloud; I wondered if it were the same over on the other side.
There was no news for me in the Operations Room; indeed, I didn’t expect any. The boats were bound to wireless silence except for the greatest emergency; there would be nothing for me till they came back to Cawsand at perhaps four-thirty in the morning. I left instructions with the Duty Officer to call me when anything came in, went down into the shelter, and fell asleep upon a bunk.
I woke up with a start and looked at my watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. I was annoyed; it seemed to me that the boats must have been back for some time. I smoothed my hair and uniform and went up to the Operations Room again; in the east the sky was getting grey. But there was no news of the M.G.B.s.
“Nothing has come in yet,” the Duty Officer said. “There was no point in waking you.”
He lent me a razor, and I went and had a shave. I got a cup of tea and stayed on in the Operations Room. It was about 09.15 when the signalman passed a message to the Duty Officer.
“That’s your Operation Blanket,” he said. “268 and 261 are passing Rame Head now.”
He rang up Captain (D.) to tell him; I spoke to him myself and asked permission to go down to the pontoon to meet the boats. Ten minutes later I was down there watching 268 as she came first to the pontoon.
She came in rumbling thunderously, vomiting white clouds from her exhausts. From the great flare of her bow to her squat transom she was glistening with water all over; the few dry spots upon her upperworks were streaked with salt. Her two young officers wore duffle coats; they were surprisingly wide awake and fresh-looking after the rough, lumpy trip they must have had across the Channel and back.
And then I saw she had no depth-charges left in her racks. 261, following behind to the pontoon, had none either.
Captain (D.) stepped across on to the slippery little deck of 268 as soon as she was moored; I followed him. Lieutenant Sanderson nipped down from the bridge in time to salute him as he came on board.
“Good morning, Sanderson. Everything all right?”
The young man’s jaw stuck out more prominently than ever. “Everything’s quite all right on board 268, sir. 261 reports one minor casualty. We had to depart a little from the operation orders. After creating the diversion, at about 02.20, we carried out a joint attack upon a German destroyer with depth-charges. I don’t think we sunk her.”
He turned to me. “Before attacking we saw the destroyer sink a fishing-boat by gunfire,” he said bluntly. “I’m pretty sure it was Geneviève.”
* * * * *
This was his account: From the time they left Plymouth everything worked out to schedule for the first part of the night. They kept in company at about twenty knots, each clearly visible to the other in the darkness by the broad white wake they made. They were off Ushant at about 21.45 and altered course down into L’Iroise; at 22.10 they slowed to seven knots and went on upon their silent engines.
The sky, they said, was cloudless and starry, and though the moon was not yet up, they picked up the high loom of land at Cap de la Chèvre without great difficulty. The next thing they saw was the lights of the fishing fleet away to the south by the Raz de Sein, a little galaxy of yellow and white lights low down upon the water in the distance. That was all satisfactory and according to plan and they went on, meeting no opposition and expecting none.
They kept to the westward of the searchlight which, they knew from Geneviève, was located on the cliff at Beuzec. They
closed the south shore of the bay somewhere near Goulin and reached a point about two miles off shore at 22.50. There they stopped engines and lay side by side upon the water for a few minutes, perhaps five miles from the fishing fleet, and between them and Douarnenez.
At 22.57 they started up main engines and turned to do their stuff. The wind was light and in the south-west; under the lee of the land and the Chaussée the water was fairly smooth. The boats had good conditions for high speed. They went roaring down upon the fishing fleet at thirty-seven or thirty-eight knots side by side. Their depth-charges were all set for fifty feet, and when they got within a mile or so of the twinkling lights 268 let one of them go to call attention to their approach.
It burst behind them in a great column of water, and as they closed the fleet 268 began firing tracer from her 20-mm. cannon low over the swaying lights. 261 let go another depth-charge and joined in the cannon-fire with her forward Oerlikon. The lights began to vanish one by one. They did not dare to close the fleet at that speed, fearing a collision, so they swung six points to starboard and went roaring round the north of them. Each of the boats dropped one more depth-charge, “just to help them with the fishing”, as Sanderson put it, and then they swung eight points to port again.
The fleet was now behind them, and all lights were out. They drew away, still firing over where they thought the boats must be. Simon had told them that the Raumboote lay normally to seaward of the fleet, and they hoped by their fire and by ramping round to seaward of the fleet that they would draw fire from one of them and make it show itself. But if there were a Raumboot there at all it lay doggo; it would have been no match for them, and probably realised it.
At 23.12 the fleet was far behind and they were getting rather near the Chaussée. They swung right round to starboard and headed north, slowing to twenty knots. At 23.17 they stopped their main engines and lay upon the water side by side, their silent engines ticking over slowly.
They had done their stuff. There were no lights now showing from the fleet, and the moon was just coming up above the land south of the bay. The night was fine and starry; soon it would be very light. By their operation orders they should now have set a course for home, but as sometimes happens, operation orders got mislaid.