To Risks Unknown (14 page)

Crespin grinned. ‘And where does all this hardware come in?'

‘I've got to turn this gallant little fleet into a suitably protected fighting force. A bit of armour here and there, a few guns which my lads have begged, borrowed or stolen, and a certain amount of divine belief in indestructibility!'

‘Ah, Crespin.' Scarlett appeared through a flap in the nearest tent. ‘Getting up to date, eh?'

Moriarty's smile faded and he turned and hurried back to his men.

Crespin said, ‘Quite a going concern here, sir.'

Scarlett was dressed in khaki drill again and looked even more tanned than before. He said absently, ‘I flew in just in time. The Army has been getting a bit slack. But I jollied 'em along and they've lent me some sappers to bring in some more gear from the desert.' He watched the sweating seamen. ‘Just a few more days and I'll be ready.'

He turned and Crespin followed him into the tent. It was tall and cool after the dusty heat outside, and after the chaos and disorder of the abandoned vehicles appeared almost clinically neat. Piles of crates and cases of ammunition, blocks and cordage, spare canvas and coils of wire, everything numbered as if in a naval barracks. It was certainly impressive.

Then Crespin saw the girl. She was sitting at a trestle table, a hand over one ear as she spoke quietly into a field telephone. She was wearing khaki slacks and an open-necked shirt, and her jet-black hair was no longer neat but speckled with sand and dust.

‘Nice to see you again, sir.' She sounded as if she meant it.

Crespin grinned. ‘What does it feel like to be here? Surrounded by thousands of lonely soldiers?'

She grimaced and gestured towards the piles of ammunition cases. ‘I feel safer with these sometimes!'

Scarlett sat down in a canvas chair and said, ‘I've not got you here just to admire the view, Crespin.' He was smiling, but sounded vaguely annoyed. ‘There's one hell of a lot to do, so you must get cracking right away.' He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘You've heard about my special boat squadron from Moriarty, I gather. He's a garrulous bastard, but quite a good engineer. Well, the boats are almost ready, and when we eventually get to grips with the enemy, up in the Adriatic and so forth, they'll be worth more than all your precious destroyers and cruisers. They can sneak in and out of the islands and inlets, drop partisans and guerillas, and generally play merry hell!'

Crespin eyed him calmly. ‘That'll be a while yet surely, sir? We've got to take Sicily first, and then there'll be Italy.' He paused, seeing the annoyance growing on Scarlett's dark features.

‘I'm coming to that!' Scarlett stood up and walked rapidly across the sand. ‘I want your ship to start training. I have laid on a good programme for you, so get down to it as of now.'

‘Training? I'd have thought that a bit unnecessary, sir?' Crespin thought he saw the girl give a slight shake of the head, but he did not care. It was amazing the way Scarlett managed to get under his skin. Now he was making him rush to the defence of his ship like an anxious hen to a chick. The realization only made him angrier.

Scarlett said smoothly, ‘Yes. I want you to get used to working at night. Rendezvous with landing parties which I will arrange along the coast. Practise berthing and disembarking men in complete darkness until your people know their jobs blindfolded. And I want you to make your officers change round with their work, so that even if you get your head shot off someone can take over instantly.'

‘How long have I got for all this, sir?' Crespin kept his voice level, but it was not easy.

‘Two weeks at the outside. If you're no good by then you're no use for the sort of thing I have in mind, right?'

A petty officer in filthy overalls peered into the tent and said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but we've just hauled in another crate of nine millimetre ammo. Shall I get my lads to put it in here?'

Scarlett stared at him. ‘Do I have to do everything around here? God, man,
use your initiative
!'

The petty officer flushed. He was elderly for his rank and had probably been in the Navy for twenty years or so, Crespin thought.

Scarlett snatched up his cap and sighed. ‘Very well then. I'll come and have a look.' He paused and shot Crespin a meaning glance. ‘Initiative and guts. That's all I need in this unit!' He stamped off calling for Moriarty.

Crespin pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to jab tobacco into the bowl with quick, angry thrusts, aware that the girl was studying him across the trestle table.

She said quietly, ‘He's been working pretty hard, you know.'

Crespin struck a match and said harshly, ‘And so have a few million others!' He relented slightly. ‘Is it always like this?'

She sighed and spread out her arms. ‘Usually. Captain Scarlett uses his authority to get what he wants, and he sometimes treads on a few toes in the process. But it is for a good purpose, and most people seem to understand that in the end.'

‘And I suppose that if his charm fails he sends you in to tip the balance?'

She did not drop her eyes. ‘You could put it like that.' Her lips puckered in a smile. ‘Men really are rather horrid!'

‘Especially with each other.' Crespin blew the smoke towards the roof of the tent and watched it hang motionless. ‘I'm sorry if I was rather rude just now. It's not your fault.'

She did not reply directly. ‘Captain Scarlett has had a lot of experience in managing people, you know.' She ran her eyes over Crespin in a slow appraisal. ‘He's a good bit older than you are, and comes from a different sphere of things.'

Crespin stared at her. She was summing him up, giving her considered assessment. A mere girl, who due to somebody's influence or favour was in a position to make a game of this sort of thing.

He said coldly, ‘You think I'll be good enough then, do you?'

She looked at him calmly. ‘I cannot answer that, sir, now can I?'

At that moment Scarlett reappeared in the tent. He said, ‘Well, that's settled.'

Crespin looked from one to the other. It was just as if the whole interview had been stage-managed before he had arrived. After he had gone Scarlett and the girl would exchange notes to see if he had measured up to the task in hand, like a schoolboy applying for his first job.

He said shortly, ‘Perhaps I can return to my ship, sir?'

Scarlett nodded. ‘Certainly. Time ashore is time wasted as far as I am concerned.' Then he smiled warmly. ‘We can start getting down to work after lunch. That'll give you time to warn your people what to expect, eh?'

When he left the tent Crespin found that the Bren carrier had disappeared without waiting for him. Or perhaps Moriarty's men had sawn it up for scrap. Either way he would be damned if he would ask Scarlett to lend him some transport. By the time he had found his way back to the jetty he was sweating, tired and still seething with anger.

If the interview had been a strain, the days which followed it were a living nightmare. Scarlett had chosen his location well, for whereas Benghazi had once been a hinge in the desert campaign for Englishman and German alike, it was now a backwater, and he was able to put his strangely assorted force through its paces with nobody but an amused and critical army garrison to break the isolation.

True to his word he had the ship going through every conceivable manoeuvre and situation, some of which he seemed to dream up on the spur of a moment. Once he sent a brief summons for both Crespin and Wemyss to report to him ashore, then immediately sent a signal to the ship ordering it to weigh anchor and patrol a mile offshore.

The approaches were littered with wrecks and handling the ship was no easy matter. Crespin had been forced to stand in helpless silence while the
Thistle
had edged this way and that, her squat funnel pouring smoke as her screw thrashed from ahead to astern, churning up sand and weed until it looked as if she was already aground.

It seemed as if he was always in open conflict with Scarlett, always making excuses for his ship, so he held his tongue and watched the
Thistle
's efforts without a word. She had managed to scrape her side against one small wreck, but had at last reached deeper water without further mishap. It turned out later that it was due more to Joicey's efforts on the wheel than to any coherent orders from the bridge.

Under cover of night they had made several mock landings and pickups from vague chart references, and had fought off sudden attacks laid on by ‘hostile' forces, enthusiastically played by the local troops, who were not averse to using their fists as well as thunder-flashes and carefully aimed rocks.

Sometimes Scarlett accompanied them on manoeuvres, and without warning would point at an officer or rating and yell cheerfully, ‘You're dead!' Then he would peer round and shout, ‘Come on then! Who takes over? Jump to it!'

The only one to escape from direct interference was Magot, but as he squatted in his engine room and watched the crazy demands of his telegraph dial he found little comfort from that.

Crespin's early resentment hardened over the days into a determination which he found almost alien to himself. From disordered and dangerous manoeuvres it seemed to change into a personal conflict between him and Scarlett, with neither speaking openly of it, yet each pressing the other to fresh limits at every opportunity.

Towards the end of the second week Crespin had to admit that the methods, though crude and dangerous, were certainly having a marked effect on his ship. During lulls or around the wardroom table there was never any lack of speculation or discussion about what might happen next, and even Porteous, a ready target for Scarlett's boisterous barrage, seemed to have found a little more confidence. He had certainly lost weight.

Shannon went about his duties with a fierce determination which left him spent and morose by the end of the day, and Wemyss had been heard to say more than once, ‘If the Jerries don't kill us, that bugger will!'

And then it was suddenly over, and they looked at each other as if wondering where all the days had gone.

With the ship swinging gently at her anchor and the town shining eerily beneath a pale crescent of moonlight Crespin went ashore to collect his orders. This time he went in an army jeep, but when he reached the site he imagined for a few moments he had taken the wrong road. One of the big tents had gone, and apart from a sentry there was no sign of life at all. Only the stripped remains of salvaged vehicles stayed to mark the extent of Scarlett's efforts, like bones from some nightmare feast.

He found the girl sitting alone in the remaining tent, crouching beside a hissing pressure lamp, her hair shining in the glare like polished glass.

She looked up and smiled. ‘As you can see, sir, the circus has moved on to the next village.'

Crespin sank down into a chair, the strain and prepared guard slipping away like steam. She was a very attractive girl. Again he felt the nagging sensation of envy.

She said, ‘Captain Scarlett has flown off to Algiers to see the Americans.'

Crespin nodded. ‘In his private plane, I suppose.'

‘Not exactly.' She was tapping her teeth with a pencil, her eyes shining with quiet amusement. ‘The Americans put one at his disposal.'

Crespin glanced around the tent. All packed up and crated, he thought. And the girl was sitting there alone in the desert. One more fragile possession to be collected when and where Scarlett decided.

He felt suddenly reckless. ‘Are you leaving soon?'

She pouted. ‘Yes. Back to Sousse.'

She pushed a bulky envelope across the table. ‘I was just waiting to give you this. You're to return to Sousse immediately and await instructions.'

Crespin watched her. ‘So we're off again.'

‘I don't know exactly what's to happen next. But it certainly looks like the big invasion.'

Crespin picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hands. Slowly he said, ‘When we get to Sousse.' He paused. He was on dangerous ground. ‘There may be a few days before we move again.'

She gave no indication of her thoughts. ‘Maybe.'

‘I was wondering if we could meet? Have a drink perhaps?'

She studied him gravely. ‘In Sousse?'

‘Yes.'

She looked at the end of the pencil. Considering it. ‘When the cat's away? Something like that, d'you mean?'

Crespin could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. Almost violently he said, ‘No, I didn't mean something like that!'

She smiled, showing her teeth. ‘All right. Yes, it might be fun.'

Crespin stood up. Somehow she had retained the advantage. He said awkwardly, ‘I'd better go now.'

She nodded, her eyes distant. ‘Just when we were getting acquainted.'

Crespin knew she was laughing at him again, but he did not care. He said, ‘I'll try to be sober next time we meet.'

Then he walked out into the moonlight, feeling better than for a very long time.

Two days out from Benghazi there was a sudden change in the weather, and by the time the
Thistle
had reached the protective coastline of Tunisia it had worsened considerably. Gone was the blue sky and placid water, the drowsy heat and steady motion which many of the ship's company had come to accept as permanent features of the Mediterranean, and while the north-westerly wind mounted to a full gale the sea changed to a wilderness of short, savage waves which threw the corvette about with no less vigour than the Atlantic.

On the afternoon of the fourth day Crespin stood on the grating at the port side of the bridge and watched with narrowed eyes as the ship moved slowly towards her new berth in Sousse harbour. He was thankful that it was no longer alongside the old freighter, for with only one engine at his disposal manoeuvring in the strong gusts was no easy matter. Twice he edged the bows towards the jetty and each time the stern swung away before the cursing line-handling parties could get their mooring ropes ashore, where despondent and dripping in spray some native workers waited to receive them.