Straightening up she turned to face him, pulled off the scarf and shook her short brown hair. ‘Do sit down.’ She removed her coat from the armchair. ‘It’s too cold in the parlour.’
‘After the bridge of a corvette,’ he said with a trace of awkwardness as he sat down, ‘this is absolute heaven, I assure you.’
She too sensed the awkwardness. The moment of impulsive invitation and acceptance had passed. They had seized the moment and were now not quite certain what to do with it. Jenny fetched the teapot, then reached up for the tea caddy on the mantelpiece over the range. He watched her uplifted arm and the soft curve of her breast beneath the dull woollen cardigan. He wondered about her life, wondered about the men in it.
‘It’ll be a moment, I’m afraid,’ she said, pottering about folding a tea towel and picking up her coat from over the back of a plain upright chair that, with three others, ringed a small, square table. She had tossed it there when offering him the armchair and now she put it on a wooden hanger. ‘If mother was still alive, I’d, have left the kettle on the hob, but now I’m alone I don’t like to go out and leave it. I’m sure it would be all right, it always used to be. It’s just that if anything were to happen while I was out – you know, a bomb, or something – I’d… Well, it worries me a bit.’
She closed the door to the hall and hung the coat and hanger on a hook on its back. The warmth of the stove filled the room. ‘But if I go out,’ she went on, ‘I always keep the range in. It’s horrible coming into a cold house.’ Jenny’s remarks, uttered nervously in the tension of their proximity, made Clark think of the privations of civil life: of rationing, of coal and coke in short supply and of the war of small, disrupting inconveniences being fought on the home front amid the greater terrors of the blitz. She gave a quick smile. ‘As a treat, I have some home-made biscuits…’ Again she reached up to the mantelpiece, again he regarded her body. ‘Mrs Gilbert makes them, her husband works on the docks…’ And Clark glimpsed the irregularities in the smooth running of civil society in wartime, of the pilfering and cheating that eased indigence, and of the tip of the greater evils of the black market. Jenny’s remark hinted at the profiteering which would leave its exponents wealthy, whoever won the war, while less fortunate men died, their throats and stomachs seared by oil, or scalded by escaping superheated steam. Did war change people, or did it just reveal them in the dreadful truth of their inequities?
Jenny placed the tin barrel on the table and took off the lid. Then she fetched a plate and shook a few of Mrs Gilbert’s home-made biscuits on to it from the tin. The irregular discs rattled out just as the kettle began to sing.
‘Shall I warm the pot?’ Clark asked, pulling himself up from his soporific lolling, embarrassed at her activity.
‘No. I’ll do it.’ And then, as if realising her refusal had been unintentionally abrupt, as she picked up the oven glove and lifted the heavy kettle, she smiled at him. ‘I like doing this for you.’
He looked at her. She avoided his eyes as she busied herself, the hot steam rising in the drab little room.
‘There’s not much else we can do for each other this Christmas…’
He was aware that her voice had changed. She was pushing at the threshold of propriety and he felt his heartbeat quicken. There could be little doubt of her desire; only of his.
‘That’s kind of you,’ he said as she put the kettle back on the hob. As she turned back to the table, he caught her wrist. ‘Jenny…’
That night, or on the one that followed, Clark’s daughter was conceived.
The First Sea Lord
December 1941
Clark found Gifford less chatty when he returned to the Admiralty. Despite his new assumption of the two and a half bands of gold lace on his cuffs, changed into at Gieves’ on his way, his reception was brief. Not uncordial, Gifford was clearly preoccupied with events of some moment elsewhere. He unbent to the extent of remarking as he indicated that Clark should take a seat, ‘Some rather mixed news from the North Atlantic snookered by some not so good from the Med.’
It was a long time afterwards that Clark drew the conclusion that the ‘rather mixed’ news from the Atlantic concerned the destruction of several U-boats by an escort group under Commander ‘Johnnie’ Walker, helped by a support group centred on a small carrier and the loss of that carrier, HMS Audacity, which had been torpedoed and lost a few days later. The ‘not so good’ news from the Mediterranean was in fact disastrous, for Gifford’s understated admission referred to the complete immobilisation of two battleships – which only failed to sink by sitting on the seabed in Alexandria harbour – and the loss of two cruisers, a destroyer, a corvette and serious damage to several other men-of-war. Although these events had been preoccupying the Admiralty for some days, Gifford’s attention on Clark’s previous visit had been entirely focused upon the matter he had in hand. Now Clark was left to kick his heels amid an impression of muted turmoil based solely upon the comings and goings of the denizens of the Admiralty. To the waiting Clark those in uniform seemed rarely of rank above his own, while the others were not only civilians, but females, naval wives recruited into the Admiralty’s service when the RNVR officers originally deployed on clerical tasks were sent to sea in answer to the U-boat offensive in the Atlantic. These, Clark learned, were known as ‘The Second Sea Lord’s Ladies’ and he was impressed by their bustling efficiency. All had husbands at sea and all knew the Royal Navy and its ways. In passing, one or two of them smiled at Clark, and a motherly forty-year-old brought him a cup of tea.
‘There you are,’ she had said. ‘They’re keeping you waiting an awfully long time, Commander. I thought you might like a refresher.’
It was the first time anyone had given him the inflated courtesy title and it was, in fact, vastly more refreshing than the stewed tea.
He was left alone with the tea and the turmoil of his thoughts. He had buried the overwhelming betrayal of Magda in his brief affair with Jenny O’Neil. Both he and Jenny knew it to have been an encounter born out of circumstance and mutual expedience. But while Clark had come to Jenny’s bed bruised by Magda, it was Jenny who was left the more so. Apart from the yet imperceptible effects of Clark’s physical invasion, he had disturbed her with longings she knew to be impossible. An unworldly woman, life had offered her only one previous love, a man to whom she had become engaged at nineteen and to whom she had eventually lost her virginity. The engagement had dragged on, dogged by the complications of parental objection and unemployment, and ended abruptly when the young man vanished, to marry another within a month. The suspicion that she had long been deceived took root deep in Jenny’s heart and flowered in due season whenever any prospect of a new romance appeared. That she had so precipitately surrendered to Clark had in part been due to the disruptions and strains of war, in part to their sudden, unplanned propinquity, but mostly to the fact that Jenny had become susceptible to her boss’s handsome son.
Clark knew nothing of all this. She was a ‘girl’ from the typing pool, a woman who had raised herself from the grinding poverty of her class but whom a dependent mother had held in thrall to her locality. Such ‘girls’, it was assumed by many of the officers of the Eastern Steam Navigation Company, made jolly dancing and dinner partners; often they provided inter-voyage inamoratas, but rarely wives. Clark assumed she had sexual experience, certainly she knew how to enjoy herself and to pleasure him. But Jenny was not Magda; she did not possess the wanton abandon or the outrageously liberating impulsiveness of an equal. There was a submission about Jenny’s lovemaking that, in his moment of emasculation, Clark needed as much as he needed her affectionate kindness. He too had been engaged and he too had lost his lover; he too had taken casual consolations, but, with a male incontinence, attached less importance to the coital act than the receptive Jenny.
‘Write if you can,’ she had pleaded as he left her. It had been her only articulation of her love and her hope that she would not be discarded. She knew that, even had th
ey not been inhabiting a world made topsy-turvy by war, theirs would not be a romance that endured. Clark was no ordinary deck officer of Eastern Steam, he was the son of a director and would, one day, be on the company’s board himself. No one doubted that in the Water Street offices. Jenny’s consolation was that she had had her dream; her tragedy that it was over. Clark’s consolation was the binding up of his wound, while his tragedy would be in the long aftertaste of guilt.
Not that he felt guilt that late December Thursday in the Admiralty, for he was full of nervous anticipation. Jenny’s plump and eager body had interposed itself between him and the self-centred agony of Magda’s infidelity, but its interposition was insufficient to obscure the purpose of his presence that afternoon in Their Lordships’ waiting room. He wore a black reefer, bright with the gold of promotion, and was aware of its import. He was in attendance upon Their Lordships for a fell purpose: naked he could bring forth a life, uniformed he was empowered to destroy it. Such grim considerations steeled him as he sipped the bitter tea.
Three-quarters of an hour later the same motherly lady returned. ‘My word,’ she remarked, seeing him still patiently waiting his summons, ‘one would think this war was all about waiting around and queuing.’ She picked up Clark’s emptied cup, adding, ‘I’m sure they won’t keep you much longer.’
‘I rather hope not,’ Clark responded, thanking her for her thoughtfulness.
‘There’s rather a lot going on at the moment,’ she said obliquely.
‘So I gathered.’
He watched her go, a comely enough creature though running to fat. He wondered who her husband was and where he was. Their eyes met as she turned in closing the door and she smiled again. The touch of loneliness and anxiety in her glance lingered in Clark’s mind as the closing door obscured her, and he was still staring at it when it was abruptly opened by Gifford’s four-striped arm. Gifford remained outside and it was clear that he was opening the door for someone else. Standing up, Clark heard the heavy, uneven tread of a man limping with a stick, and a moment later Sir Dudley Pound confronted him.
Clark would never forget the preoccupation evident in the expression of the First Sea Lord. Much later he heard opinions damning the Royal Navy’s operational chief, the kindest of which explained his failures, especially that relating to the destruction of Convoy PQ17, as attributable to his lack of sleep. This in turn was caused by the constant chronic pain of an arthritic hip. Others added the explanation that the brain tumour that was to kill Pound in October 1943 was already compromising his intellectual abilities, but for Clark none of those conclusions even obscured that first impression of a deep and abiding concern. Just as he had divined the loneliness of his genteel tea lady, Clark’s perception – he was convinced to the day of his own death – was of Pound’s utter devotion to his beloved Service.
Pound studied him for a moment, then his eyes relaxed, his brow smoothing, his narrow mouth smiling. ‘Lieutenant Commander Clark?’
‘Sir!’
‘Do sit down.’
Clark resumed his seat and, as Pound eased himself stiffly into the upright chair opposite, Gifford closed the door.
‘Captain Gifford has appraised you of this operation, I know. For no good reason, we are calling it Operation TREE-TOP and Captain Gifford will give you the latest operational intelligence available, along with your communication schedule, before you leave Scapa Flow, but I wished to meet you and to wish you luck. You will not need me to emphasise the importance of the absolute secrecy with which this mission must be concealed…’ Pound paused.
Clark shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Not a word of it should leak out and you must therefore keep as much as you can from your crew. When you brief them you are to tell them your mission is to gather meteorological information to facilitate our convoys through the Barents Sea and enable us to route them as far north as possible, close to the ice, but as far distant as possible from enemy aircraft operating out of Banak, near the North Cape. In addition you are to search for and destroy German weather ships on a similar errand to your own. If and when we transmit Orca’s nearest known location, it will be as though she too is a weather ship. There is one other fact that you should know about, capture of any German vessel is not a matter for broadcast: This is a standard precaution, allowing us the possibility of channelling disinformation to the enemy, and this is the reason you should give your ship’s company if you are successful in achieving your objective. It lays an absolute compulsion to secrecy upon them, a breach of which will be regarded as treason.’
Pound paused again to let the medieval import of the word sink in. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes, I do, Sir Dudley.’
‘Very well.’ Pound turned to Gifford. ‘Anything else, Captain Gifford?’
Gifford shook his head. ‘I think not, sir.’
‘The DNI doesn’t want to see Clark?’
‘He’s left it to me, sir.’
Pound smiled at Gifford and stood up, turning towards Clark again. ‘Well, Commander Clark, it only remains to me to congratulate you upon your promotion and to wish you and your ship well.’ He transferred his walking stick to his left hand and held out his right. ‘God speed.’
Clark shook Pound’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’
A moment later Clark was on his own and Gifford’s footsteps merged with the receding stump of the First Sea Lord’s.
Clark hesitated a moment before putting on his greatcoat and picking up his hat, gloves and respirator box. He was about to leave the room when a breathless Gifford reappeared. He was holding a brown envelope with the familiar OHMS superscription.
‘You made an excellent impression, Clark. Well done.’ Gifford handed the envelope to Clark.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And I’m sorry we kept you so long. We’ve had a succession of flaps, I’m afraid.’ Gifford looked at his watch. ‘I’ve a car outside ready to take you to King’s Cross. Where’s your sea kit?’
‘Already at King’s Cross.’
‘Good man.’ Gifford indicated the envelope Clark was putting into the breast pocket of his reefer. ‘Those are your operational orders. They tell you to proceed to Scapa by way of Rosyth and place yourself under Commander-in-Chief, Home Fleet. Report to Sir John Tovey in the formal manner. He knows enough about you to ensure you get your torpedo tubes fitted, but thereafter you’re on your own. You’re to keep those tubes under cover from the moment they come aboard and you’re to let the C-in-C’s staff know when you are satisfied with them. There will be one practice shoot from each but you will not be able to carry these out locally. You’ll have to take it on trust that the installations will work, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t. You’ll load your torpedoes at Rosyth. Theoretically they’re intended to re-arm Home Fleet destroyers and you’ll discharge some to maintain the pretence.’ Gifford paused a moment. ‘I think that’s all, for the time being. The moment the C-in-C lets us know you’re operational, I’ll be on my way up to see you. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good luck then.’ They shook hands. ‘Oh, and happy Christmas.’
* * *
The simplicity of the brief meeting concealed its momentous nature. In the months to follow Clark became aware of its primary importance amid the scandal and aftermath of the destruction of PQ17. But it was only many, many years later that he realised that he had been brought as near privy to Great Britain’s best-kept wartime secret as he could have been. For the most junior lieutenant commander on the Navy List to be informed that silence over the capture of German warships was to allow the Admiralty the possibility, in Sir Dudley’s phrase, ‘of channelling disinformation to the enemy’ was as close as it was possible to get to telling him of the decoding of German signals sent by Enigma that was then being undertaken at Bletchley Park. He realised all those years later that he had not been ordered to attempt the recovery of an Enigma machine or any of the Kriegsmarine’s codes because of t
he risks he might thereby incur. In principle his mission was simply the destruction of the German submarine cruiser the British knew as Orca; as usual, it was in the detail that the devil resided. So much for the reason which he should give his ship’s company if he were to be successful in achieving his objective. The threat implicit in the treasonable nature of any revelation, unwitting or not, was a chilling finale to a briefing he had thought might be little more than a pep-talk.
As he shivered in his unheated railway carriage, Clark thought the cold the warning radiated far exceeded any he might encounter amid the ice floes of the Barents Sea. The professional cordiality of that trio of officers holding the quiet, low-key meeting in the informal environment of a waiting room, seemed horribly portentous. Between them had yawned the deep crevasse of naval rank and of naval obligation, a crevasse dark with the uncertainties and forebodings of war that might yawn yet wider with the passage of time and Clark’s distance and isolation from the Admiralty. And yet Clark was not insensible to the honour done him, of the perception that there, in the Admiralty, the operational headquarters of the Royal Navy, he was part of an extraordinary brotherhood. Notwithstanding his status as an officer of the reserve, his mission had warranted the personal involvement of the First Sea Lord.
He wondered how long that sensation would last.
HMS Sheba
December 1941–February 1942
For no discernible reason, Clark’s train was held up south of Doncaster for several hours. It had previously lingered outside Peterborough, from where distant flashes, the faint probing of searchlights and the occasional crumps of bursting bombs, indicated air raids somewhere far to the west of them. Despite this it was unclear why their train had sat stationary in the darkness of flat farmland, nor why it now waited in the middle of nowhere for some unseen intelligence to beckon it onwards. Uneasily, he tried to sleep, but he found it impossible in the cold and, as dawn broke, he watched his breath form into frost on the inside of the train window as he lifted the blackout. War was indeed all about waiting, a resented suspension of the personal life so that even the basic necessity of sleep was withheld.
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