Edward Wyatt, staring out of the carriage window at the familiar features of Dover’s Marine Station, waited until the train had stopped before he stood up and beat at the skirts of his greatcoat to knock the dust off. The South East and Chatham Railway Company was a splendidly efficient organisation, and there had been times when its officials had worked miracles – at the time of the Somme offensive, for instance, they’d run twenty special hospital trains a day, on top of routine services – but it hadn’t the staff to keep its trains as sparkling clean as they’d been before the war.
Wyatt wondered what the admiral was going to say to him. He’d hardly put Mackerel into the dockyard’s hands, up in the Thames, before he’d had the telegram saying that Admiral Keyes wished to see him personally and as soon as possible.
To give him a new ship, perhaps. And just possibly, promotion! If they were giving him a brass hat, they might give him a flotilla-leader to go with it?
He stepped down on to the platform. It was about one mile to the headquarters houses, and the walk would be good for him. He hadn’t seen Keyes since the Dardanelles, two years ago. Keyes had been a commodore then. Now he was an acting vice-admiral, promoted from rear-admiral in order to rank higher than Dampier, who was the admiral commanding the Dover dockyard, the engineering side of things. Last time Wyatt had met Keyes had been when Admiral de Robeck, Keyes’s chief at that time, had sent for him to congratulate him on the taking of that Turkish battery, the landing party he’d led.
This time – what? Promotion, and a new ship, and a bar to his DSC? Even – possibly – a DSO?
Tim Rogerson had also just stepped out of a train, but at Portsmouth. He was here to have luncheon at Blockhouse, the submarine headquarters, with an old shipmate, ‘Baldy’ Sandford. He hadn’t the least idea what for: or why one of Baldy’s older brothers, who was a lieutenant-commander with a DSO and had apparently just arrived at Dover to join the new admiral’s staff, should have sent for him and given him this cross between an order and an invitation.
On the part of the older Sandford it had seemed to be an order, but from the younger, Baldy, an invitation. One might hope to discover, over the meal perhaps, what the devil it was all about.
Rogerson walked out of the station precincts and down to the wooden harbour jetty. A twenty-foot motorboat lay alongside, and its coxswain was a leading seaman with an ‘HM Submarines’ cap-ribbon.
‘Lieutenant Rogerson, sir?’
He returned the salute, and stepped into the boat’s sternsheets.
Baldy Sandford was an archdeacon’s son, he remembered. And one of a large brood: he was the seventh son, in fact. Which made one ponder on how archdeacons spent their leisure hours: and one could marvel, too, at such a churchly man having so un-pious a son. Not a respecter of persons, old Baldy: a very humorous, jolly fellow, a terrific messmate. Determined as a character could be, in spite of that. The iron-jawed type. If Baldy wanted something done, it was done.
Even if he had to do it himself.
He greeted Rogerson on the Blockhouse jetty with a warm, bone-cracking handshake.
‘How splendid you could manage it!’
‘Oh, they don’t exactly keep us on the hop, you know, in Dover.’
‘They don’t?’
‘Not the submarines.’
‘What do you get up to?’
‘This and that. We’ve moored ourselves to anti-submarine barrage nets, pretending to be buoys and hoping Hun submarines might come and put themselves in front of our tubes. And we’ve done a lot of research on tidal ranges off the Hun ports – graphs of rise and fall, all that… I suppose it might come in useful, one day.’
Sandford nodded. ‘Indeed it might.’ His expression changed back to one of amusement. ‘But you’re bored stiff, eh?’
'Pretty well.’
‘I can offer you something so un-boring it might make your ginger thatch stand on end.’
He was a bit conscious of other men’s ‘thatch’. Rogerson nodded. ‘I’ll take it, sight unseen.’
‘Third hand of an old “C"?’
‘Now you’re having me on.’
The C-class submarines were old, virtually useless, reserved for coastal-defence – and soon the breakers’ yard. As they strolled up the jetty, he could see a couple of them anchored in the mud of Haslar Creek. Here, alongside, were two K-boats and an E. Sandford pointed at the two anchored boats.
‘There they are… Listen to this, now. What about a C-class boat with a crew of six or seven picked men and her bow packed with five tons of Amatol?’
Rogerson rubbed his chin. He murmured, ‘Sounds – explosive.’
‘Oh, very.’
‘What would we do with it?’
‘I can’t quite tell you that. What I mean is, I’m not allowed to. But you know that brother of mine who got in touch with you is now working for Roger Keyes?’
‘One hears Keyes is collecting quite a large staff.’ Rogerson nodded. ‘Well?’
‘This thing I’m on is part of some great stratagem of our former Commodore’s. Some kind of mad attack or other.’
‘I’m on.’
Sandford glanced at him, surprised by the snap decision. Tim said, ‘I’m in. Don’t try to keep me out of it.’
‘Well, there’s a spot of preamble I’m bound to give you. It’ll be more than ordinarily hazardous. The question of whether or not any of us will get away, or end up prisoners-of-war or blown to smithereens or – well, the point is, it’s probably about as near to committing suicide as you could get without endangering your immortal soul. Are you sure you want to do it?’
‘Never been more sure of anything.’
‘Well, good for you!’ Sandford held out his hand. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘Nothing to what I am.’ Rogerson told him sincerely, ‘I’m tickled pink. Damn nice of you to let me in on it.’
Wally Bell saw Captain Edwards, who was in overall command of the Patrol’s MLs, striding towards him down the jetty. Wally stepped ashore to meet him.
‘Morning, sir.’ He saluted.
‘Morning, Bell. Your boat likely to be fit for sea soon?’
‘They’re putting her together again now, sir. She’ll be as good as new, the plumbers say.’
‘Better be.’ Graham Edwards stared with some disfavour at the litter of engine-room junk on the ML’s deck. ‘You’ve a lot of hard work ahead of you.’
Bell jerked his head towards his boat. He said, ‘It wasn’t just lying around doing nothing that cracked her up in the first place, sir.’
‘Work of a particular kind, Bell.’ Edwards told him, ‘I’m taking you and a few others off routine patrol work, and giving you to Wing-Commander Brock for his programme of experiments. It’ll be inshore smoke-laying, mostly.’
‘Oh.’
Those bloody burners. Black mess everywhere…
‘He’s got a new system he wants to perfect. None of that messing about with burners. It involves using chlor-sulphonic acid in your boat’s exhaust. Much more effective, apparently, as well as neater all round.’
‘Chlor-sulphonic, sir?’
‘Used in the manufacture of saxin. The sugar-substitute, you know? But that’s to be stopped now. All the chlor-sulphonic they can make – or grow, whatever the hell they do – will be sent here, to Brock.’
‘Sounds as if we’re expecting to lay an awful lot of inshore smoke-screens!’
‘Does rather, doesn’t it.’
Reaper told Nick, ‘You did well, Everard. Very well indeed.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’m sorry about Underhill.’
‘Yes.’ Nobody knew yet what had happened to CMB 14. The most likely theory was that the German destroyer had sunk her, or rather blown her up, and then hung around looking for survivors or trying to fish out wreckage for their intelligence people.
‘In the circumstances, you took the best possible decision.’
‘Are the prisoners proving useful, sir?’
Reaper’s eyebrows rose.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I wondered if the prisoners I brought back were worth their salt, sir.’
‘Why should you imagine there was any – any usefulness about them?’
‘Well, sir, they’re all I did bring back. And you’ve expressed satisfaction at the outcome of the operation. And before we set out I did rather understand you to say – well, to indicate—’
‘You lost one CMB and her crew. Considering you’d had the bad luck to run up against a destroyer, and to find yourself having to cope with moonlight instead of total darkness, I can quite properly congratulate you on having made the best of a tricky situation. And since it was your first experience of command—’
‘No, sir.’
He’d brought Lanyard back from Jutland.
Reaper raised one hand, and let it fall again. ‘The first time you’d been appointed in command, then. In that consideration, it’s considered that your conduct of the affair was – impressive.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Not only in my view, I may add.’
He glanced at his watch, frowned as he replaced it in his pocket. ‘So late… What did you mean about those prisoners, Everard?’
‘Weary Willie was based on Zeebrugge, sir. I believe – with respect, sir – I think prisoners are what we were really after. The Germans weren’t to think so, so it was better if we didn’t realize it…’ Reaper was just sitting there and staring at him, listening. He went on, ‘There’ve been rumours of an offensive. And – well, it would make sense from the anti-U-boat angle to attack Zeebrugge, blow it up or capture it or block the canal? Ostend as well, I suppose. But if—’
‘It’s a nice idea. And of course it’s been mooted more than once, in the last two years.’ A moment ago Reaper had looked sharply alert; now he’d relaxed. He smiled. ‘You’ve a powerful imagination. But – don’t broadcast your ideas, please.’
Nick felt fairly certain he’d hit the nail on the head. An operation against Zeebrugge and Ostend: block seaways out of Bruges and eliminate it as a base. Reaper murmured, ‘Wide of the mark. But we don’t want rumours flying.’ He was looking at his watch again. Nick, worried that he might jump up and rush away, began: ‘About what my next appointment’s to be, sir…’
Reaper looked surprised: as if he thought it was an odd subject to bring up. Nick thought dismally that he’d guessed right in this area too: he’d done the Weary Willie job, and that was the end of this man’s interest in him.
‘Am I to remain in Arrogant?’
A shake of the narrow head… ‘I’ve something else to tell you – and on which to convey to you Admiral Keyes’s congratulations. As a result of Mackerel’s action on Christmas Eve, you’ll be getting a DSC.’
He was astonished. Delighted, as it sank in, but as much surprised as pleased. He said, ‘Very generous of – of the admiral.’
Might Keyes really have sent congratulations? Would he even have heard of Nicholas Everard?
‘Lieutenant-Commander Wyatt gets a DSO.’
‘Is there a full list available, sir?’
Thinking about Swan. About all of them, but particularly Swan. Reaper shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ Another glance at his watch. ‘Have to cut this short, I’m afraid.’ He closed his eyes, as if to concentrate his thoughts: then opened them again and reached for the telephone. ‘Crosby. Telephone to Arrogant’s first lieutenant. Ask him with my compliments to have Lieutenant Everard’s gear packed and sent immediately to Bravo.’
Nick stared at him. He couldn’t surely have said Bravo? Reaper seemed deliberately to avoid his eyes.
‘If you can’t reach the first lieutenant, the officer of the day would do.’ He put the ’phone down. Nick couldn’t believe this. A ‘thirty-knotter’ – fit for nothing but defensive patrol work? And Bravo already had a first lieutenant – Elkington, Tim Rogerson’s pal! Unless they’d moved Elkington elsewhere; that must be the answer… But – patrolling over the Varne minefield, or hanging around the Downs: no hope of any action or excitement. If you had enormous luck you might get a crack at a U-boat: but then, so might a drifter!
Reaper was on his feet. Nick stood up too. He felt sick with the let-down of it. They praised you, gave you a medal, then kicked you down the stairs!
‘You’ll be glad to be in a sea-going appointment, I’m sure. If you’d stayed in Mackerel you’d have been in a London dockyard for months on end.’
Sugaring the pill… Reaper added, ‘But if in the future some offensive operation should be contemplated, I imagine you’d like a part in it?’
‘Yes, sir. I should.’
What was he saying – that Bravo would be only a temporary billet? Until the attack on the Belgian ports? Or might she take part in it? Hardly… His mind was snapping at guesses like a fish at flies… And hard reality remained: Minefield patrol. This is Wyatt’s doing… Reaper said, ‘Look, I really must cut along.’ Pausing, he looked quizzically at Nick. ‘You’re not a very trusting fellow, Everard.’
‘I – don’t think I understand—’
‘Obviously not.’ Reaper smiled. ‘Never mind.’ Offering his hand: ‘Thank you again, for a job well done. And – happy New Year.’
New Year’s Eve…
It didn’t feel like it. It hadn’t felt like Christmas, either. He shook Reaper’s hand.
‘Sit down, Wyatt.’ The admiral drew his own chair closer to the desk. ‘Last time you and I met was also an occasion for congratulation, as I recall.’ He nodded at the ribbon on Wyatt’s shoulder. ‘That DSC, of course. But hadn’t you been nicked by a Turk’s bayonet?’
‘A pinprick, sir.’
‘H’m… Great days while they lasted, eh?’
‘Damn shame we were obliged to withdraw, sir.’
‘As you say.’
Nodding. Thoughts reaching back to the Dardanelles and to his own conviction that the Navy could have forced the Narrows, should have done. His commodore’s rank then hadn’t cut much ice.
‘But it’s the present and future we must think about, Wyatt. Not the games we’ve lost.’ Fingers drummed briefly on the desk. ‘Your ship’s out of commission, you face a period of inactivity, and that’s hardly to your taste. Am I right?’
Wyatt nodded. The admiral continued, ‘Your talents in command afloat are undoubted. But you made a useful soldier of yourself, out there, too.’ He wasn’t just making conversation; he was watching his visitor closely, to assess reaction. ‘How would you like to do something of the sort again?’
Wyatt started carefully, ‘If you have some such employment for me, sir—’
‘I’m planning a – a certain enterprise, Wyatt.’ Keyes slid a drawer open, took out a folded sheet of paper, passed it across the desk. ‘Read that, would you.’
It was a letter to him from Admiral Wemyss, who had now taken over from Sir John Jellicoe as First Sea Lord. Wyatt read,
In view of the possibility of the enemy breaking through the line on the North Coast of France, and attacking Calais and Dunkirk, a special battalion of Marines and a company of bluejackets will be placed at your disposal for reinforcements, and to act as demolition parties, etc., to destroy guns and stores. You are to make every preparation for blocking Calais and Dunkirk harbours at the last possible moment, with the ships whose names have been given to you verbally, so as to deny the use of these ports to the enemy if necessary.
Wyatt looked up. ‘I see, sir.’ He passed the letter back. Keyes contradicted him, with a smile. ‘No, you don’t. This is a great secret which we’ll allow to leak out. It will explain to the over-curious why certain ships are having peculiar modifications made to them, and why we should be training a lot of sailors in various offensive and destructive arts which are more usually left to men in khaki. But I can trust you, I’m sure, to keep your own counsel. No need to burden you now with the details: suffice it to say that my operation will be not defensive, but offensive.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir.’
‘But it will be an extremely hazardous undertaking. If you elected to join me, I’d be glad to place a section of the landing force under your command. You are, of course, exactly the sort of chap I need for it. But before you give me your answer, I must tell you that the chances of your returning alive from the assault would be – slender. One might say non-existent.’
Wyatt was looking as delighted as if he’d been offered the Crown jewels.
‘Where shall I go, sir, and when, to study these esoteric arts?’
Crosby, the paymaster in the other office, was falling over himself in efforts to be helpful. Before, Nick had found him moderately insufferable. He took the long, buff envelope, containing his appointment to Bravo, from him; it bore the seal of Captain (D)’s office, and was addressed to Lieutenant Nicholas Everard, DSC, RN. The paybob said, ‘Captain Tomkinson’s only just in the process of taking over—’
‘Tomkinson?’
‘The new Captain (D).’
He remembered: Reaper had mentioned him. He was pushing the buff envelope into his pocket; Crosby asked him, ‘Excuse me, but – shouldn’t you read it?’
As if an appointment to an oily wad was something to drool over… Crosby said, ‘I do think you should—’
‘Yes. Later on. ’He nodded at the fussy little man. Some of these office people lived for their bits of paper, records, memoranda… As for Tomkinson, it seemed Dover was filling rapidly with four-stripe captains, as Keyes built up his staff. God help Dover, Nick thought; and God help Nicholas Everard, too. He told Crosby, ‘I’ll give it some undivided attention later. But now I think I’ll go on down. You say there’s a boat already waiting?’
‘Should be.’ Crosby nodded. He still looked worried. ‘Or on its way in. By the time you get down there—’
‘Right. Thank you.’
The boat was there, waiting for him – if that motorboat out at the naval pier steps was Bravo’s. He could see it as he crossed the Marine Parade. He could see Bravo herself too, in the centre of the destroyer moorings, rolling and tugging at her buoy. The wind was rising, high clouds scudding over; the usual south-wester was blowing up, and as usual there was ice in it. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat and set off down the pier.
There was an RNR midshipman in charge of the boat. A skinny, dark-haired lad who looked as if he thought Nick might bite him.
He stepped into the sternsheets. ‘Carry on, please.’
‘Shove off for’ard! Shove off aft!’
Quite choppy in the harbour. The destroyer berths were in shallow water; tides ripped in from both entrances and met here in the middle, to the discomfort of destroyer men seeking a rare night’s rest in port… He gazed at Bravo as the boat bounced out towards her. Strange-looking craft, the thirty-knotters. This one, a D-class boat of 1897 or ’98, had two funnels instead of the more usual three. They were low, stunted-looking, and there was an absolute litter of ventilators all over her upper deck. A turtle-back foc’sl led to a bridge that was only about half the height of Mackerel’s and two-thirds of which was occupied by a twelve-pounder gun. There was a six-pounder aft, and two more on each side between bridge and after funnel. The pair of torpedo tubes just for’ard of the stern gun would be eighteen-inch. The general effect was of clutter, bits and pieces everywhere.
But she was clean, well kept. That would have been Elkington’s responsibility, and it was obvious he’d been a very conscientious first lieutenant. The motorboat curved in towards the port-side gangway. Nick wondered what sort of CO he’d be getting now; he couldn’t remember Elkington having mentioned him.
The midshipman had cut the boat’s engine. Almost at the gangway’s foot. Now he’d put her astern and he’d reversed the helm: and stopped again. It had been quite neatly done, and Nick told him so. The boat’s coxswain, a leading seaman, looked as pleased as the snotty did. Bowman and sternsheetman had their boathooks out and hooked to the boat-rope. Nick stepped on to the gangway.
Above his head, he heard the quiet order, ‘Pipe!’
Pipe?
Only commanding officers – and foreign naval officers, and the King and members of his family, and certain other categories of visitor such as the officer of the guard and four-stripers and above – were entitled to be piped over the side of a Royal Navy ship. He didn’t fit anywhere in that list. Someone, obviously, had blundered. He began to climb the gangway: the note of the pipe had risen, dropped, cut off. As he reached the top it began again. He saw Bruce Elkington standing stiffly at the salute, and a colossally broad CPO – it would be Bravo’s coxswain, probably – beside him, and two seamen, one of whom was the bosun’s mate and doing the piping. Behind Elkington a sub-lieutenant and a warrant officer were also standing at attention. Finally, as he paused on the top platform of the gangway, he saw a long line of sailors fallen-in on the iron deck abreast the funnels, and a similar rank on the other side.
His hand snapped up to the salute, and he stepped aboard. The pipe’s note fell, held for a few seconds, died. Elkington stepped forward.
‘Welcome aboard, sir. On behalf of all hands may I say how delighted…’
His head span. This was – it was happening, it was real, and yet—
‘His fingers touched the unopened envelope in his pocket. He could visualize one startling, glowing phrase in it: … appointed in command… Reaper’s voice grated in his brain: You’re not a very trusting fellow, Everard… Elkington said, ‘Ship’s company is ready for your inspection, sir. May I first present Sub-Lieutenant York – and Mr Raikes, torpedo gunner… This is Chief Petty Officer Garfield, our cox’n.’
Shaking hands… Still dizzy. I’m dreaming this, I must be… A destroyer command, at twenty-two? Oh – only an oily wad, but still a—
‘Will you inspect the ship’s company, sir?’
Walking slowly for’ard, past the tubes and then a dinghy in its davits. He glanced up at the masthead, saw the ensign fairly crackling in the rising breeze.
Not just the ensign. His!