Ride Out The Storm (26 page)

‘What about
Vital
?’
the admiral asked. ‘Is she available yet?’

‘Later in the day, sir. They’ve had a lot of trouble.’

That was putting it mildly. The job had been far more complicated than Lieutenant MacGillicuddy had expected. That near miss as they’d gone astern from the mole had done much more damage than they’d thought. In addition to the trouble with the bearing, they also had leaking steam pipes, sheared bolts, and broken gauge glasses, and everything, both in the engine room and the decks above, had been covered with particles of paint, dust and soot. The damage had all to be cleared before they could get at the oil feed to the overheated bearing which was up against a bulkhead and barely within reach, so that they had to pick out the suspect pipe from a whole array of others, bent double in the stifling engine room at a point where there wasn’t even space for them to work side by side.

When they’d finally found the stoppage, they’d realised that whatever was causing it couldn’t be cleared with a piece of wire or blown out with compressed air. The message that had gone up to Hough had thrown him into a frenzy of impatience but he’d held on to his temper, knowing that no one could do the job as fast or as well as MacGillicuddy. Struggling to give some form to the sketchy picture of the problems in his mind, he was waiting like a caged tiger in his cabin, while down below in the engine room MacGillicuddy cursed
Vital
’s
age and the politicians who’d allowed her to grow rusty with neglect.

‘We’ll have to saw it out,’ he said. ‘Bit by bit, till we find what it is.’

‘That’ll take all day,’ the chief ERA pointed out.

‘Then it’ll have to take all day, won’t it?’ MacGillicuddy snapped.

They cut the oil feed pipe nine times before they found a piece of cotton waste jammed inside with the consistency of a wooden plug. No one knew how it had got there and certainly no one was likely to own up. They simply removed it and set about brazing the pieces together again.

It was about this time that the message came down from the castle and Hough rang through to the engine room. ‘Request from the castle, Chief,’ he said. ‘They want to know how long we’ll be.’

MacGillicuddy drew a deep breath. ‘Midnight,’ he said.

The reply was received at the castle in icy silence.

The chief of staff tried to sugar the pill. ‘One bit of good news, sir.
Vanquisher
reports that the mole’s functioning again.’

‘Good. Make sure the personnel ships are informed.’ The admiral thought for a moment. ‘And lift the suspension of sailings. What about the beaches?’

‘They’ve got them working well now, I gather, sir.
Royal Sovereign
’s
already completed loading and she’s on her way back. Do we know how much longer we’ve got?’

The admiral frowned. ‘A meeting’s been called in London. Between the PM and the Service Ministers. Gort believes it’s possible to bold the perimeter until June. We’ll build up a reserve for a final effort up to dawn on that day.’

As hopes in Dover increased, for the small boats navigation grew steadily worse. Several were run down in the confusion and the smoke, and the surface of the water was littered with every kind of wreckage imaginable that had floated up from sunken ships. There were bodies, ropes, planks and upturned boats. There were even floating torpedoes, relics of the previous night’s attacks; and, above all, the shallows were full of soldiers trying to be sailors for the first time.

Handling the little boats was growing progressively more difficult as muscles and minds protested, and unexpectedly the wind began to freshen from the north-west to lift an awkward surf; ignoring the queues, tired and anxious soldiers began to push out from all directions. Many of them drowned before they reached safety and here and there it was possible to see exhausted men praying quietly while, in an angle of the dunes, a group of young soldiers were listening to an older man reading from the Book of Common Prayer.

It didn’t seem at all odd. Because the sky was so incredibly blue, it didn’t even seem real.

All the time the planes rained their bombs down on the scattered boats and men, while batteries like Hinze’s bombarded the approaches. Shells now dropped constantly among the crowded shipping and, though most of them exploded in the water, they occasionally hit something. Just offshore, an elderly sloop, her stern blown off, was being towed away by a ship half her size while every tug and fishing boat and launch in the area of the explosion scurried towards her as she settled in a cloud of steam.

By this time everyone was growing hardened to the air raids. Like Scharroo they’d noticed that the bombs did considerably less damage in the soft sand than the noise suggested and they could time their dashes for the dunes to a nicety now. Fortunately, there was no shortage of cigarettes. Most men had at least five hundred from the looted NAAFIs, and some had thousands.

Many arriving on the beaches now had no boots and had marched miles on bleeding feet. Some officers worked themselves to a standstill for the safety of their men. Others concerned themselves only with their own safety. But still they were lifted.

At Dover, the admiral studied the lists, wondering what else he could do. They were still waiting for the final instructions from the meeting in London. When they came they were exactly as he’d thought they’d be.

‘Every man possible must be lifted before dawn on 1 June,’ he was told. ‘French troops must be given equal opportunity of evacuation – not only in their own vessels but also in British ships.’

For a moment the admiral was silent, then he drew a deep breath. ‘Then I must have the H, I and J ships back,’ he said.

There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the telephone. ‘We daren’t risk any more,’ the First Sea Lord pointed out bleakly. ‘We must preserve the balance of the fleet against the future.’

‘Sir,’ the admiral said, ‘I have to provide for the present. There are thousands of men still waiting to be picked up. These are the men who’ll have to defend this country against invasion, and round whom the new armies will have to be built.’

There was a long silence, then the First Sea Lord spoke again. ‘I take your point,’ he said. ‘I’ll see that you get them.’

Unaware of the concern of the admiral for the return of
Vital,
Hatton had unexpectedly found himself free from the war for a while. He was still dog-tired and he still hadn’t been to bed; his own job had been easily taken care of and he’d been at the beck and call of every department short of an officer. He’d helped to ammunition and supply ship and been sent about the town on a dozen and one errands, most of them frustrating and bringing only insults because
Vital
was still immobile. In his free moments he’d tried to write a report for Hough to pass on to the castle, but it was constantly interrupted and now he’d been sent ashore again to collect signals and sealed envelopes containing orders. At the castle, however, there was obviously some change of plan in the wind.

‘
Vital
might have to go to Southampton,’ said the elderly captain. ‘There’s a move towards Cherbourg and some of our chaps may be going with the French. How long will it be before you’re ready?’

‘The engine room thinks midnight, sir.’

‘Well, there’s no hurry then. Can you find something to do for three hours till we know?’

Hatton wasn’t certain how to answer and the captain waved him away. ‘Surely you can find
something
?’
he said. ‘Know Dover?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Got a girl here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go and have tea with her then. Do you good.’ The captain glanced at his watch. ‘Three hours. All right?’

Hatton grinned, ‘
All right,
sir!’

Outside again, he drew a deep breath. The instructions were so unexpected they’d taken his breath away and almost without thinking, he walked to the nearest telephone box. There was a queue of soldiers outside who’d just come from France and were telephoning relatives, and he had to wait for a quarter of an hour. It didn’t change his mind. After living through seventy-two hours of tension he needed someone near him whose flesh was soft and unmuscular and who didn’t stink of sweat or cordite or salt sea air. To his surprise, Nora Hart’s voice sounded much gentler than when he’d last rung her.

‘I’m free for a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘It’s official.’

There was a moment’s silence and he was terrified she wouldn’t respond. Then her voice came again. ‘Like to come round?’

Within five minutes he was knocking on her door. She opened it immediately and he felt his nerves relax as he saw the bright chintz in the little flat. She was wearing a yellow-and-white striped blouse and a neat grey skirt, but he noticed that her eyes looked tired. ‘Sorry I was a bit short when you rang before,’ she said. ‘I had someone here.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Not really. Man I knew. Just got back.’

Hatton’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought there might be someone else with the same qualifications of bravery he now had. Jealousy dug at him. ‘He must have got back early,’ he said.

She smiled, sensing what was going through his mind. ‘He’s a born survivor.’

She lit a cigarette and handed the packet to him. ‘You look good in uniform,’ she observed.

‘Everybody looks good in uniform.’

They talked for a while, quite easily and with no awkwardness between them to remind him how badly he’d treated her. When he’d left for Fleet Street, she’d written heart-broken letters he hadn’t answered and he knew now that he’d been a bastard.

‘Shove your legs up on the settee,’ she said. ‘I expect you’ve been on them for ages.’

‘Ever since I saw you on the docks.’

She lifted his feet up for him. Then she unexpectedly bent and kissed him, gently, in a sisterly manner, her eyes concerned and suddenly warm. ‘Was it awful?’ she asked.

Hatton shrugged, uncertain how to reply. There had been one dreadful moment on the second trip when his fear had finally taken over and he’d bolted below deck after a machine-gun attack that had left wounded men writhing at his feet. The doctor had seen him but, recognising exhaustion and shock, had wisely left him alone, and after a while he’d pulled himself together.

‘A bit,’ he said.

‘Different from the newspapers.’

‘We’re awful liars when we get into print.’

She paused then went on with a rush. ‘You know, Barry, you
were
a clot to go to London. We were doing all right, you and I.’

He pulled her gently to him. ‘I always thought we’d make a go of it,’ he said, trying to believe he was telling the truth.

She said nothing, but as his arms went round her she caught her breath. For a second they stayed together, their faces only an inch or two apart, then his fingers slipped under her blouse, and he felt the warm skin in the hollow of her back and the sudden quivering tension of her body.

‘You’ve got a bloody cheek!’ she said, but she wasn’t angry. ‘You buzz off to London and then turn up out of the blue and expect me to fling myself on the floor at your feet. You men always think of us women simply as the matching half of your not so lovely private parts.’

Hatton grinned. ‘“Person” they always called it in police courts,’ he said. ‘Remember? “He exposed his person.”’

They began to laugh, and for Hatton it was as though a whole lot of taut strings that held him together were loosening. He kissed her, feeling her against him, as warm and interesting as she’d always been, his hands began to move.

‘
Do
you always do this when you come ashore?’ she asked.

‘Oddly enough, no.’

‘Why now then?’

He couldn’t possibly explain that she represented all the things that were missing across the Channel. She represented peace, even England come to that. His hand moved higher up her back and she shuddered. ‘I think you’re a swine, Barry,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘I was in love with you, you know.’

Her head turned uncertainly as he kissed her throat but she didn’t resist as he unbuttoned the blouse and kissed her again. ‘Was this what you were after when you rang up?’ she asked.

‘No. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. The only thing I wanted was to see you again.’

She seemed to ponder for a moment and, as his hand moved again, she put her cheek against his.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Go on, Barry. It’s all right.’

When Hatton woke up, she was standing over him fastening her stockings.

‘You said two hours,’ she pointed out quietly.

He began to button his shirt and reach for his shoes.

‘You know,’ she went on. ‘You might almost be worth saving.’

‘What from?

‘You. You used to be a selfish devil but perhaps the war’s altering that.’

He was silent, still shocked by the passion of his love-making, the sheer carnality which had been twice as intense because it was such a change from the desperate fear of dying.

Rising, he pulled her to him, and she stood quietly in his arms, allowing him to kiss her.