Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (8 page)

Then Brayshaw had seen something else he would not forget. Masters had turned as Downie had climbed from the car and said quietly, ‘I shall be leaving in an hour or so. I broke the rules today by attending an incident without back-up. I shall not hear the last of it.’ No smile, no emotion, and yet Brayshaw had seen the youth, for that was all he appeared to be, look up for the first time. Dazed, puzzled, anxious. It was all there.

He said, ‘Me, sir?’

Masters reached out and touched his arm.

‘If you’d like that.’

Brayshaw had been unable to hear the reply. He doubted if anyone did.

But two hours later when they returned to the gates Downie had been waiting with his bag and hammock. He had climbed into the car, beside the driver this time, and they had driven along the coast road in silence.

Brayshaw noticed that Downie had not looked back.

The meeting was over, papers were being packed away, Chavasse was snapping his fingers for his steward. He rarely drank in front of subordinates. A careful man, Brayshaw had decided long ago.

Masters waited for him and said, ‘You must be dog-tired, Philip. Not at all your scene, I’d have thought.’

He was smiling, so that he looked roughly his age again, the strain temporarily diminished. But it did not reach his eyes.

Brayshaw halted by the door.

‘That was a fine thing you did for the lad. He’ll never forget it.’

Masters looked past him into the waiting darkness. A very long day . . . He thought of what Brayshaw had said, and Downie’s frantic cry.
He was my friend.

He said, ‘Sometimes it’s not enough just to survive.’

Brayshaw was still gazing after him when the door closed.

The car was waiting by the ‘quarterdeck’ and she opened the door for him as he walked past the flag-less mast.

For a moment he hesitated, feeling the tension, the barrier. The guilt.

He said, ‘I was told you had asked for a transfer.’

She ran her glove along the top of the door.

‘I changed my mind.’ She turned away. ‘Sir.’

‘I’m glad.’

He was asleep before the car had reached the main road.

Leading Wren Lovatt watched the looming bushes and walls in the tiny, shielded headlights. Nothing had changed, despite what had happened. A man had died, and she had seen others behave in a way she had not seen before, or shared. She tried not to think of her brother. She was afraid to.

Something moved swiftly from left to right and she braked. A quick blink of eyes, most likely a fox, and it was gone.

She glanced in the driving mirror, but there was only darkness. He was still asleep, or pretending to be.

She thought suddenly of her last leave, how it had disturbed her. Petersfield, a small market town, had always been her home, until the war had changed everything. A friendly place where people went about their business without fuss, except on market days, which had created the bustle and excitement she and her brother Graham had loved as children.

On that last leave she had been unsettled by the way her parents had been unable to accept what had happened to their only son. His room was as he had left it, and there was an album of his photographs on the old coffee table.

Her father had lived in the area all his life; her mother had met him when she had been a nurse at the local hospital. They were respected, trusted and, in many cases, envied.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. Like the car, for
instance. Even now, her father as a doctor was privileged to have a petrol allowance, which he would never abuse, of that she was certain.

It was as if Graham would still come home, when things settled again. In some way she understood it, or had tried to. He had been so full of life, always surrounded by friends, good at everything. Doing what he liked most, rowing – he had pulled an oar in the college eight at university – and dinghy sailing. He was into everything. Maybe that was it; she had always been a little in awe of her brother.
We all were.

Her mother adored him; she could only recall one occasion when she had expressed any criticism.

Graham had left university to join the navy as soon as he could after the outbreak of war. He had been selected as a C.W. candidate, for wartime commission, but even there his impetuous gift of independence had made him volunteer instead for the submarine service. It had meant that his chance of a commission would be delayed, if not forfeited altogether.

Her mother had said, ‘I can’t understand you sometimes, Graham. So full of ideas and things you want to do! How can you bear to be sealed up in one of those things?’

Did she ever remember those words now?

She glanced in the mirror again, recalling her disbelief when she had been told about Commander Critchley’s replacement. She should have requested a transfer right then back to Plymouth, to apply for Wrens’ motor boat crew, which so many of the girls wanted. Speeding around with mail and stores among the ships and men
who were daily fighting the war at sea, in Western Approaches and across the breadth of the Atlantic.

Her mother would never understand what it was like to be a part of it, the link which held them all together. Some remained alone, like the man behind her. A man she had been prepared to blame, even to hate, who was compelled by something far stronger than she could ever know. Yet still able to give a part of himself, as she had seen with the young sailor Downie. She had driven plenty of officers who would have gone about their affairs without giving it a passing thought.

She saw the familiar stone gates of the farm; the house was next.

At least the driving gave her a kind of independence. Some of the girls thought she was a bit stuck-up, even prudish. She had told herself that she was not touched by some of the escapades they recounted to shock her . . .

She said, ‘We’re here, sir.’

After today she knew she wanted to be a part of it. Like a challenge. She half smiled. Or a warning.

She felt his hand on her shoulder, as if she had spoken aloud, or he had read her thoughts.

‘Don’t get out. I’ve kept you up long enough.’ The door opened and shut, and she saw him standing by the car. Such a short time, and yet she had noticed the respect others had for him. Even Brayshaw, who knew everybody, and whom the girls called ‘Old Sweetie’ out of earshot, had been unable to hide his emotion when the explosion had shaken the car, or his relief when Masters and Downie had appeared by the gate.

She recalled Critchley, his amusement, the way he
had looked at her. Like the two Italians who had stared at her in the road.

Masters was studying the sky. There was more cloud now, but no moon for the bombers.

‘I’ll get another driver for tomorrow. Early start, it seems.’

He did not need to tell her, or to talk at all. He did not want to go into the house, with Coker fussing around all the time; she sensed that he wanted to be alone. She tried to think of her brother, the dream she had often had, the submarine lying in perpetual darkness. How could she have misunderstood? Being alone was the one thing he had feared.

‘I’ll be here, sir.’

She reversed carefully and edged out onto the road. Somehow she knew he had not moved.

She belonged.

Leading Seaman Dougie Bass, ML366’s killick coxswain, eased the spokes half a turn, this way and that, his glance dropping to the faintly lit compass. West-by-south. For some, the compass card might be difficult to read; to others, newcomers, it seemed a glaring invitation to be attacked.

Like the even, steady motion, he was used to it. He half listened to the sounds around and beneath him, his trained ear seeking anything unusual.

His salt-encrusted lips smiled. In the early days some people had asked him how he had become so accustomed to the changing moods of a small, fast vessel.
After being a civvie?
He had never bothered to explain. Now he did not need to. But anybody who could serve soup when the old
Bournemouth Belle
was racing across points at sixty miles an hour soon learned to keep his balance. Or pouring a dry sherry for some first class passenger when you were shooting through a tunnel, to
the exact level and without spilling a drop. He either got it right, or found himself on the dole.

Now he could imagine being and doing nothing else. Even his hands, resting almost loosely on the spokes, were as hard as any true seaman’s. And his hair, longer than regulation requirement, was the mark of a veteran. Big ships were different. Here, in Harry Tate’s Navy as they called it, it was something else. But if any outsider tossed an unfriendly remark, it would usually end in a brawl.

Neither moon nor stars defined the line between sea and sky. They had been to Portsmouth, as part of the escort for two landing craft, something to do with forthcoming exercises. He was glad to be rid of them. He could not imagine what they must be like to steer and handle in any kind of a sea.

Dark, and yet he knew where every man was, or should be at this time. Gun crews fore and aft, Bob Chitty the signalman a few feet away on the starboard side of the low bridge, night glasses at the ready. If the boat moved too heavily into a sudden trough he might hear the faint clink of metal from the twin machine-guns, which Chitty would swap for his lamp and flags at the drop of a hat. Worked in a fairground at one time, on and off, as he had put it, when he had worked at all. But show him a blinking signal, or put him behind the two Brownings, and he was another man.

Like the Oerlikon gunner just abaft the bridge, his tuneless whistle drowned out by the muted growl of the motors: Titch Kelly, not much between the ears, and one who had been in trouble more times than that, until
366. But of course he was from Liverpool. In the navy it was always the same, as it was if you’d sprung from Birmingham, for some reason. Scouse or Brummie, and it would be, ‘I’ll be watching you, my lad!’ He had even heard the Jaunty down at their makeshift base say something of the sort.

He heard someone clear his throat and smiled. Allison, the new Jimmy the One. The smile broadened to a grin.
Tobias.

Seemed nice enough, but you never could tell so soon. Anyway, the lads would have their little jokes. The smile faded. Until it got out of hand. ‘Killick’ coxswain carried its own responsibility. And trust went both ways. There had been some talk of possible promotion, a petty officer’s course. What would the old-timers on the
Bournemouth Belle
say if he turned up in fore-and-aft rig, gold badges and all?

He felt the same sense of uncertainty, but it went far deeper than that. Like being here in the Channel . . . He had started in Coastal Forces on the east coast, Grimsby, Lowestoft, Hull, places that smelled of fish. Small ports which had become a first line of defence, and attack. Harwich and Felixstowe combined were the main base of the convoy escorts, destroyers and sloops. He thought of the Number One who had just left them. And the Glory Boys. Right down as far as the Dover Strait, Hellfire Corner as the war correspondents liked to call it. They didn’t have to sneak the convoys through, with the krauts just on the other side of a twenty-mile strip of water. The lads called it Shit Street. It suited.

He thought he heard voices from the chart space below and forward of his position. The skipper and the new boss, the two-and-a-half from
Vernon
, Masters. They seemed to be getting on well enough, so far. But then, they had both been through the mill.

He considered promotion again. Face it, he thought, you don’t want to leave the boat. Not after all . . .

The sub-lieutenant moved up beside him, his duffle coat pale against the sky and sea. Brand-new, probably. Like him.

‘The Needles are abeam, estimate about ten miles, ’Swain.’

Bass nodded, his eyes on the faintly lit compass. ‘Who needs radar, eh, sir?’ and for a moment he thought he had gone too far, then Allison said, ‘She handles well.’ He reached out to steady himself as the hull lifted and dipped again, spray drifting over the bridge like gentle rain.

Bass had seen him the previous day when they had left the inlet, wearing his second-best jacket, but the single wavy stripe was still like new, and the trousers also. He had heard the skipper say cheerfully, ‘Grey flannel bags are my advice, Sub.’

Sub.
Bass had noticed that, too. As if the skipper could not yet bring himself to forget Harry Bryant. A good first lieutenant unless you crossed him. Then, you thought a cliff had fallen on your head.

Anyway, they were heading back to base. Three hours, maybe more if there was other traffic around Weymouth. He licked his lips. Time for some ‘ki’. The skipper would already have thought of that.

Steps on the short ladder, two darker shapes against the new paintwork.

‘Some ki, ’Swain?’

Bass grinned.

‘Jarvis, shift yerself! An’ don’t spill any of it!’

He wiped his face with his hand. No, he did not want to leave her . . . not yet in any case. That was what he always said.

Foley glanced at his passenger. ‘Getting rather lively, sir.’ And to Bass, ‘Alter course a point to port, ’Swain. The currents hereabouts are a bit bothersome.’

Masters said, ‘You know this area well. Good thing, on this kind of work.’ He had learned quite a lot about 366’s commanding officer, what he had achieved both before and after getting his own boat. He had survived the loss of his last; they had been shot up somewhere in the North Sea. His skipper and seven of the ratings had been killed. It had been bitterly cold, freezing, when the rest of them had baled out, their only support a small life raft. Another had died before a rescue launch had found them, eleven hours later.

Masters had asked him about it, why he had not received a decoration of some kind. Foley had just given a distant smile.

‘Well, you know this regiment, sir. You don’t get a gong just for staying alive.’

For an instant Masters had imagined it was aimed personally at him. But he knew, even after so short a time with this young officer, that Foley would be unable to tell you a lie to your face. He wore the blue and white ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross, but, like the
smile, it seemed as if it were shared with the boat, and the rest of his small company.