Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Read online

  His second hand in the engine room was Stoker Petty Officer Maginnis, who had served in a light cruiser, but had changed to something livelier when the chance came his way. Larger than life, always ready with a tot of rum and some boozy song, he should have got on Shannon’s nerves. Chalk and cheese . . . maybe what they both needed.

  Foley was thinking of his conversation with Masters. A man who thought deeply about every aspect of the job, quick to ask a question if he needed something clarified. Interested, and interesting. It was hard to believe there were only four years between them.

  Foley knew about the most recent incident, and the officer who had been killed. He even thought he might have met him at some time; the navy was like that. And the young seaman Masters had taken under his wing as his assistant was on board too, acting as messenger. In Motor Launch 366, everybody had at least two jobs.

  Masters was saying, ‘When we get in, I’d like to discuss the exercise with you.’

  Foley turned swiftly as a lookout called, ‘Light, starboard bow, sir! Low down!’

  It was Signalman Chitty. It would be.

  Foley pressed his mouth to the voicepipe. ‘Chief, dead slow, watch your revs. There’s something in the drink.’ It was as if he had shouted, but he knew he had not even raised his voice.

  He reached out and took Allison’s arm. ‘Pass the word, Toby. Nice and easy . . . Got it?’ He felt him nod and released him.

  It could be anything. Never take chances.

  He pictured the chart they had been studying, well-worn where it was folded over the table; shelf was a better description. Frayed by countless calculations and fixes, stained at the edges with circles from mugs like the one he was still holding. Part of the boat. Of himself.

  He glanced at the sky. In two hours it would be daylight. In three or less, they would be alongside.

  Allison asked, ‘What is it, d’you think?’

  Foley held out his hand and felt somebody take the mug. ‘A corpse, most likely.’ He sensed that Masters had turned towards him. Surprised, perhaps, at the unnecessary brutality of his answer.

  He moved to the opposite side of the bridge and stared down at the sea alongside, the bow wave, snaking away, but not even breaking. Black glass. He thought of all the other such lights he had seen. They didn’t last for long; usually they didn’t need to. Sometimes a couple clinging in a last embrace. But one had to die first. And occasionally they were in groups.

  Allison said quietly, ‘I had to pick up a man who’d been washed overboard in a gale. We lowered a whaler.’ Nobody said anything and he fell silent again.

  Masters said, ‘What do you reckon, Chris?’

  The casual use of his name caught Foley off balance. It was probably the timing: returning to base, the last hours when men became too relaxed, even careless. Thinking of tomorrow. Of somebody.

  He answered, ‘An airman, I expect, sir. One of theirs, one of ours – either way, trying to get home. I’ll let Air-Sea Rescue know the score later on.’

  He moved to the compass and peered at it, his eyes showing briefly in the feeble glow. It was routine. There was no point in losing time to stop and haul a corpse aboard. Unless . . .

  Masters said, ‘You’re not happy about it?’

  Foley shook his head. ‘You never know.’ He looked at the small, bobbing light. Suppose there was someone clinging to life by a thread, still able to hear, to feel the muted tremble of the boat’s engines. Then being left, the bitter cold reaching for the kill.

  I should never need reminding.

  He said, ‘Tell Harrison to stand by, starboard side forrard. I’ll try and touch alongside.’ He reached out as the anonymous figure made to scurry away. ‘Tell him, boathook and net if need be. I’m not lowering a raft.’

  Harrison would not need telling. A leading seaman and gunlayer on the quick-firing three-pounder, he was a first-class hand. He had pulled enough men from the sea in the months they had been together. Foley gripped a stanchion. In this boat.

  ‘Chief? Be ready to stop, port and starboard outer. Dead slow until I give the word.’ He heard Shannon’s clipped acknowledgement, could picture him down there with his dials and levers and the pulsing heat of his three charges. And the knowledge that he would be the first to brew up if the worst happened. There was scarcely enough room to stand upright.

  Another look at the sky. Maybe his eyes were sharper now after the shaded chart-light below. He stared astern. Patches of grey, the dying wash. Hardly anything. He bit his lip. But visible.

  ‘Now, Chief.’

  The motion increased immediately, the hull swaying and rolling in a succession of troughs. He could see black shapes on the foredeck, shining faintly like seals in their oilskin coats. Then he saw the dinghy. It was right under the starboard bow, rising and falling, sliding away when the boathook tried to snare it. Someone was clinging to the low guardrail where the scrambling net was lashed for a full-scale rescue attempt. The little light was suddenly extinguished, and he thought he heard Bass give a sigh of relief.

  It was not being callous. There was no point in hanging about, asking for it. And they trusted him.

  But it seemed to be out of his hands. ‘All stop!’

  The motion increased still further. Foley heard someone swear as a mug and spoon rattled across the deck covering, and a man slipped on the Oerlikon mounting abaft the bridge.

  All the sounds of sea and movement seemed to crowd into and over the hull. Foley seized the screen, willing himself to concentrate, to respond to something which had reached far beyond mere instinct.

  He felt the chill at his spine despite the layers of clothing, a sharpness, a premonition which something inside him had refused to ignore.

  It was impossible to gauge the bearing or what distance it might be. But it was there. The thrumm . . . thrumm thrumm . . . of those powerful, deep-throated engines he had learned to hate and fear on the east coat. E-Boats.

  Dougie Bass had picked it up too. ‘Jerry’s about, sir!’

  Foley gestured quickly and heard someone hurry forward to warn Leading Seaman Harrison.

  In his mind, he could even see the old chart. E-Boats. From one of the Channel groups this time. Two of them, but one much stronger and steadier than the other. A lame duck. In a fight somewhere earlier, and now creeping back to base, Le Havre probably, or even as far as Cherbourg. Damaged or not, they could have ripped this boat to pieces with their heavier armament and superior speed.

  They might still have seen or heard something. Enough to bring one or more to investigate.

  Minutes passed, but it seemed like hours, and Foley knew that the danger was gone. This time.

  The messenger returned. ‘The chap’s dead, sir. One of ours. Badly shot up.’

  Foley felt the seaman watching him intently through the darkness. He could see the shape of his face now, and Bass’s left hand moving the lifeless wheel. Waiting to move. To get the screws racing again.

  Trying to get home. But for the dead airman, drifting alone in his little dinghy, they might all have died this morning. They were safe now.

  ‘Tell Harrison to . . .’ He looked at the compass, so faint in the growing light. Cast him adrift, make a signal to Air-Sea Rescue. Nothing more we can do.

  But he said, ‘Go forrard, Number One. Get the airman aboard. Somebody will be waiting for him.’

  Masters watched him move closer to the voicepipes again. The dinghy was already spiralling abeam, caught in a surge of foam as the starboard motor roared into life.

  He saw Foley lift his hand to his battered cap; there was a rising breeze now. But it looked, just for an instant, like a last salute.

  Rear-Admiral Fawcett clapped one hand to his ear as another explosion crashed and re-echoed around the cliffs like a full-scale bombardment.

  ‘God, aren’t they finished?’ He glared at the drifting smoke. ‘I do believe the bloody marines get a kick out of doing that!’

  Masters saw some khaki figures scampering dow
n a steep crevasse in the cliff below them. They appeared to be skipping from ledge to ledge, weapons and tackle glinting occasionally in the misty sunlight.

  Portland Bill. Nobody had ever really explained it. A great five-mile spur of rock and stone jutting due south into the Channel. Nothing grew on it, and it was linked to the mainland only by a narrow causeway and a road that overlooked Portland Harbour. In other times convicts from the local prison worked here, cutting the stone that eventually formed the pavements of London and many other cities. The Bill was the southernmost point of England. Masters smiled. Only their lordships would have dreamed up a place like this for a base and an anti-submarine establishment.

  Fawcett was saying, ‘I was a little hot under the collar hearing about your involvement when Sewell bought it. No heroics, remember? Can’t afford any more unfortunate accidents.’ The blue eyes steadied. ‘But Captain Chavasse seemed fairly optimistic. He quite surprised me, in fact.’

  Masters saw a motor launch, not unlike 366, moving away from the land, a two-flag signal whipping from her yard. The exercise was over. There were some senior American officers at Portland today. Everything had to go just right. He watched the ML until it had rounded a jagged pillar of rock, and thought of Foley and his company of volunteers. Men from all walks of life, garage manager, milkman, telegraph boy, clerk, even a railway restaurant car waiter. Now, they were the true professionals.

  Fawcett made up his mind. ‘Actually, the boffins are quite pleased with their findings, such as they were. The drawings were the decisive factor, I think. Sorry to lose Sewell, of course, but not in vain this time.’

  Masters waited. It was like getting blood out of a stone. ‘An anti-personnel device, sir?’

  Fawcett’s manner was characteristically evasive. ‘You’ll hear soon enough through Operations, but I’ll tell you now. There have been a few setbacks on the Italian front, another new weapon.’ He hurried on, as if afraid of saying too much. ‘Our people have known about German experiments with rockets – they began just after France threw in the towel, if not sooner. There have also been reports from the Russian front, but, well, you never know.’ He seemed to come to a decision. ‘They used guided rockets against the bombarding squadron. H.M.S. Warspite was hit by one of them and had two near misses. The Old Lady was badly damaged, lot of casualties, boilers flooded – she only just managed to crawl out of range before another attack. She was taken in tow, but she’ll never be the same again.’

  It was rare for Bumper Fawcett to reveal such feeling.

  But it was like that in the navy: good ships and bad ones, and nobody could ever explain why. Happy ships, and those which brought nothing but trouble to captain and company alike, with the defaulters’ table always fully occupied. Warspite, the veteran battleship which had been at Jutland, and had served with distinction ever since, was always a happy ship. Even if you had never laid eyes on her, you heard stories about her characters, and the admirals who had hoisted their flags over her. Admiral Cunningham, the C-in-C Mediterranean, and perhaps the most popular flag officer on the list, would feel it badly. She had been his flagship.

  Fawcett added angrily, ‘A rocket, fired from an aircraft and guided onto its target. Some American ships were hit, too. A cruiser was in a sinking condition when I last heard.’ He gestured with his cap towards the distant buildings. ‘I’ll lay odds that’s what our American allies are discussing right now, what?’

  They both turned as if some signal had been given and walked back along the cliff path.

  Fawcett said, ‘In Sicily, the weather and some stupid mistakes were the problem. Salerno and beyond, we’ve got rockets to expect. In France, for instance, where we shall have tidal variations to contend with,’ he shot him a glance, ‘which they do not have in the Med, landing vessels will be in even greater danger if the bombarding squadrons can be held at a distance!’

  The mood changed and he raised his hand to one of his aides, who was hurrying towards them.

  ‘About bloody time! The gin pennant must be hoisted at last!’

  Masters said, ‘What about Intelligence? They must have been following it.’

  They both stopped, and he saw the ML reappear far below them. He thought of the inlet, lost in the mist along the coast, as it had been the morning when Foley had brought his boat alongside the makeshift pier. Despite the hour there had suddenly been crowds of shadowy figures, coming to take 366’s lines, or to watch in silence. One seaman had shaving soap on his face; another, a cook, had been carrying an empty coffee pot, which he had not appeared to notice. Signals must have called an ambulance; its crew went about their routine with detached efficiency.

  Masters had seen the airman before he was taken ashore. A pilot officer, young, early twenties, if that, with one of those ridiculous moustaches beloved by the R.A.F, the ‘Brylcreem Boys’. Pathetic but somehow moving, he had thought, with the moustache plastered across the face, the eyes fixed and staring as at the moment of death.

  A telegram, a letter from his C.O., a few belongings to be sent home. It was all too common.

  Masters contained his sudden anger. Being with Foley and his company, in a living, moving ship of war, no matter how small, he had been doing something. It was all that really mattered in the end.

  Fawcett said, ‘I’m in touch with D.N.I., naturally. Commander Critchley was too – right up his street, I’d have said. I’ll chase them up anyway. About time they did something.’ He waited as a lieutenant appeared around a sandbag barrier. ‘There you are. I thought you’d never get here!’

  Masters followed them in silence. Critchley. Dead or alive, he was never far away. The rest was all too vague: hold-ups in the Italian campaign, and the unforeseen air-to-surface guided rockets. Fawcett was right about one thing; any invasion in the future would be doomed without full covering fire from the sea.

  No heroics, Bumper Fawcett had warned. He thought of the experiments he had watched at Vernon, and in deep bunkers which would trap those working on some new time-fuse or suspected booby-trap. Where there were risks men would take them, if they thought it worthwhile. Men like Sewell, and the others he had known over the months. And Critchley, who had perhaps become careless or over-confident. That was as fatal as the sapper’s boot on the landmine still marked by its weatherworn cross.

  Once more he thought of Foley. A man with instinct, that second sense born of experience and danger. Foley was good, unassumingly so. No conceit or bravado. A rare balance.

  They walked through a side gate, and more salutes greeted them; they parted to allow the rear-admiral to pass unhindered. Masters hated this part of it. Too much to drink. False bonhomie. The post-mortem over the exercise they had watched might easily be lost in paperwork.

  A lieutenant, vaguely familiar, stood his ground and said, ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Fawcett frowned. ‘Laker, isn’t it? Operations?’

  The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. ‘Lawson, sir.’

  Masters remembered him. He was one of the officers present when he had been describing the incident and Sewell’s death, when Captain Chavasse had been so scathing. He had since changed his tune, according to Fawcett.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Just had a signal, sir. I was told to inform you personally.’ But he was looking at Masters.

  A steward hurried past with a tray of glasses and Fawcett said, ‘Get on with it, man!’

  ‘Another bomb has been found, sir. Just outside Bridport. The sappers have sealed off the area.’

  Masters recalled Sewell’s voice on the intercom, the young sailor’s supple fingers sketching the device, his private debt to his dead parents.

  He said, ‘Bridport. How far is that?’

  The lieutenant looked relieved. It was already out of his hands.

  ‘About twenty miles, sir. I’ve got a fast car and escort. I even brought your rating along.’

  Masters looked at the rear-admiral. Any agitation or uncertainty was gone.

  �
�You deal with it, but keep me informed all the way.’ Fawcett turned to the lieutenant. ‘Now, Mr. Lawson, let me see the signals, and be ready to connect me with D.N.I. the moment I tell you.’

  He tapped Masters’ arm. ‘Remember what I told you. You’re doing well. Keep it that way.’

  Masters nodded. No heroics. ‘I’ll not be on my own, sir.’

  Fawcett watched him leave, and walked purposefully through double doors which opened onto a throng of khaki and blue. He smiled as his cap was taken by a steward, and took a glass from another’s tray as he passed.

  One step at a time.

  Lieutenant Chris Foley strode out of the Operations building and paused in the pale sunshine to regain his composure. The Operations section looked harmless enough from the outside: it had originally been three small cottages which had been knocked into one, but inside it was like a madhouse. There was a flap on, and everyone seemed to speaking at once. Captain Chavasse was there; Foley had seen him holding a pair of headphones loosely to one ear, while speaking tersely into another handset at the same time.

  When he had eventually found an officer who was senior and interested enough in his problem, he had received no satisfaction. ML366 was at twenty-four hours’ operational stand-by. It was just one of those things. The word came from high up; that was all there was to it.

  Except that he had granted his boat’s small company local leave. Not that it presented any real problem; there was only one pub in the village, and no transport unless you hitched a lift to get to anywhere more exciting. Or the wet canteen right here at the base where the NAAFI supplied all the beer any Jack could wish for. Senior rates were to have been given overnight leave, if they had anywhere to go, and there was one, the boat’s Chief, Petty Officer Shannon. If they were under orders to move it was important, and the proposed exercises had taken second place. If the Chief was nowhere to be found . . . He almost collided with the captain’s secretary, Lieutenant-Commander Brayshaw, who was carrying an armful of files.