Ship of Force (10 page)

Sparrow
’s guns opened fire, the six-pounders barking and the twelve-pounder slamming away on the bridge, the smoke whipping away on the wind of her passage, the ejected empty cartridge cases flying and clanging across the deck.
Marshall Marmont
was firing too. Not the huge fifteen-inch that would not bear aft anyway, but the two anti-aircraft guns she carried in the stern. And then as the Rumplers tore in, their speed now suddenly apparent as they closed the ships, the Vickers machine-guns on the ships added their chatter to the din. There were bursts all around the aircraft but they grew in Smith’s eyes until they lifted, snarled overhead and on, higher now, two hundred feet or more. One — two — three. A spread line, one behind the other, a couple of hundred yards apart, leaving
Sparrow
and heading for the fat target, the monitor dragged along at the end of the tow. They swept over her and Smith saw the bombs fall, the Rumplers shedding their entire load so the bombs seemed to rain down. They fell abeam and astern and ahead of her. The tug’s stern lifted and fell and a tower of water half-bid her. Was the tug all right? The
Lively Lady
chugged on and
Marshall Marmont
followed her.

The guns ceased hammering and chattering in response to bellowed orders as the Rumplers shrank and became tiny with distance, climbing far ahead. But they were turning. They wheeled, seemingly slowly, and their formation broke up as they scattered to come back at Smith’s flotilla, one on either side, one from ahead.

Sparrow
was making twenty knots now and pouring out smoke from her funnels as she thrust up abreast of the monitor and tug and then passed them to take station ahead. Smith glanced astern and saw them receding, said quietly, “Good enough.”

“Half-ahead both!” Dunbar ordered.

Now
Sparrow
was again where Smith wanted her, where she could meet the attack first but the Rumplers were split now — “Turn her broadside to ’em Mr. Dunbar!”

“Port ten!”

Sparrow
turned, showing her side to the raiders so she could at any rate fire her puny broadside of the twelve-pounder and three of her six-pounders and they opened up as the Rumplers came in, starting to dive and weaving with their biplane wings rocking. They snarled in and passed low over the ships with the trails from their exhausts criss-crossing. The one that ripped over
Sparrow
seemed to flick past the masthead. Smith saw the scarf trailing back from the pilot’s throat like a pennant, the machinegunner standing up in the rear cockpit to fire down at the thirtyknotter right under him. Then the Rumplers were gone, forming up again beyond the ships and heading for the coast. The guns ceased firing.

Dunbar mused, “Unusual.” And when Smith glanced at him, “They’re usually content just to chase us off, stop us bombarding. They don’t chivvy us like that.”

Smith grunted. It was just another oddity. He had plenty to think about. He wondered about the aircraft endlessly patrolling over De Haan.

The rain came in squalls through the rest of that day and brought dusk early. As night was falling Garrick reported the monitor’s rudder and engines repaired, just as the main force passed them, undamaged, returning from their bombardment of Zeebrugge at an easy ten knots. Trist signalled from his flagshipfor-the-day, the monitor
Erebus
: ‘Do you require assistance?’

Smith snapped, “Reply: ‘Negative! This flotilla will cope!’” He saw the exchange of grins on the bridge.

They anchored for the night back in Dunkerque Roads, the spread line of monitors rocking together like a row of elephants, and as the whaler carried Smith from
Sparrow
to
Marshall Marmont
he reflected that now he knew what he had to deal with, to fight with. He was certain now that Trist had dumped his problem ships on him. He believed Dunbar; Trist was covering himself, and whatever went wrong in these ‘offensive actions’ would be laid at Smith’s door. So he had to make certain nothing went wrong. Easier said than done.

* * *

Victoria Baines sat on her bunk, sank her feet tenderly into a basin of hot water and sighed with voluptuous pleasure. A minute before she had seen the whaler pass with the slight, thin-faced Commander sitting erect in the stern. Now she thought, Well, he managed that all right.

There was something about this one.

Smith was up at dawn to write his reports; one for Trist and this time another for the Director of Naval Intelligence by way of Trist and this was a report on
Schwertträger
. When he had finished he read them through, flat statements of fact. A plain recounting of orders carried out and an equally plain record of the Kapitänleutnant’s words and Sanders’s translation. He added his commendations of Garrick and Dunbar and
Lively Lady
. He could not mention Victoria Baines because officially she had not been out with the flotilla.

He ate breakfast alone in his cabin then called for the pinnace and went on deck. Garrick had a party aloft, sending up a new yard and new rigging. Smith asked him, “Oiling and ammunition?”

“The ammunition comes alongside in an hour, sir. The oiler follows her.”

Smith nodded. “I’ll be back by then. Send the picket-boat in for me in an hour’s time.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” And Garrick asked, “Shore leave, sir?”

“For one watch. Two hours when you’re satisfied with the ship.” That meant half of
Marshall Marmont’s
crew would get two precious hours ashore in Dunkerque. The rest of her crew would have to wait their turn, in a day or a week or longer.

Smith crossed in the pinnace to
Sparrow
. She was preparing to enter the port to coal and take on ammunition and also to put ashore her survivors. There was weak sunshine but a stiff breeze that had now veered around to the north-east, and a chop that set the pinnace pitching. Aboard
Sparrow
Smith said, “I see
Lord Clive
is leaving us.” The twelve-inch gun monitor had already oiled and taken on ammunition and was now weighing anchor.

Smith nodded as Dunbar said, “Special operations.” And added, “She’s not the first. One by one they’re going. Wonder what’s up?”

So did Smith. Garrick’s First Lieutenant had told him of four monitors that had sailed in recent weeks with those same vague orders: ‘Special operations.’ Not a word had come back concerning any of them. Whatever the secret was, it was well-kept. As it should be. Smith said, “None of our business.”

Sparrow
weighed and stood in to Dunkerque. They had a berth for her again in the Port d’Echouage opposite the shipyard. Dunbar said, “We’ll get alongside for a few hours but it’s a bit of luck if they have room for us tonight. Usually we lie out in the Roads like last night and in any sort of a sea there’s damn-all sleep for anybody.”

Smith grinned at him. One couldn’t blame Trist for everything. Dunkerque was a busy and a crowded port. He said, “There won’t be any sleep tonight, either.” Because Trist’s orders had already been issued and
Sparrow
was to sail at dusk to patrol the mine-net barrage across the straits.

Smith turned and saw Morris, the airman, standing in the waist and beckoned him. The Lieutenant came on to the bridge, fresh-faced and clear-eyed and Smith said, “Your swim doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.”

Morris answered cheerfully, “No, sir. And your steward chappie looked after me very well, considering.” Considering that Morris had shared the wardroom with all the other survivors. It had not been a pleasure trip. The rest of the survivors stood in the waist, with the German seaman under guard and dejected. Smith thought the man should cheer up because at least he was alive. The Kapitänleutnant lay a blanket-wrapped corpse on a stretcher. Brodie was already working on clearing up the wardroom so as to be fit for use by its usual occupants. Smith had heard his cursing as he came aboard.

Morris said hesitantly, “I’m very grateful, sir. When I woke up this morning I was thinking — it’s a big sea to search for one man and that in the dark.”

Smith smiled grimly. Morris was only alive because of the recklessness of Skipper Byers of the drifter
Judy
, who had paid for it with his own life. “A lot of us were lucky that night.”

“It was quite a scrap, sir.” Morris peered over the bridge screen at the scarred and dented turtleback fo’c’sle.

Smith agreed. “It was.” Then he asked, “Have you remembered anything else to add to what you told me?”

Morris shook a tousled head. “No, sir. There was just this one boat, or raft hauled up on the beach that these chaps were working on. If it was a boat it was nearly square. And they’d used a team of horses to haul it up. That’s all. Though I’m certain my observer saw something and got some photos.”

But observer and camera lay in the sea somewhere off the Nieuport Bank.

Three CMBs slipped up the channel from the sea in line ahead, passing
Sparrow
on her way in also, throttled right back so they ran level and low in the water. They turned in succession towards the Trystram lock, weather-beaten, hard-worked little boats and Smith saw none of them carried torpedoes — now. The chutes in their sterns were empty.

He thought: A raft? Or a square boat? There was nothing sinister in that, it was almost comic: a square boat! Maybe some blunt-bowed, square-sterned fishing boat? But why the patrol over the wood, the anti-aircraft batteries…

Morris burst out, “There’s Jack Curtis!” He yelled, “Jack! Hey, Jack!” And waved furiously. Dunbar scowled incredulously at this performance on his bridge but let it go. He stared as did Smith. A canoe was slipping out between the wide-open gates of the Trystram lock. Smith had seen pictures of canoes like that with painted braves in feathered head-dresses but Jack Curtis sat in the stern of this one and waved a paddle at Morris before sending the canoe spinning around and shooting back into the lock after the CMBs.

Morris said, “Jack commands one of those boats. American chap actually. He made that canoe himself out of ply and canvas. D’ye know him, sir?”

“We’ve met,” answered Smith.

“He comes over to the mess at St. Pol sometimes. He promised to take me out in that canoe of his. I must take him up on it. Awfully nice chap.”

Dunbar ordered, “Slow ahead both.”

Sparrow
was coming up to her berth at the quay and Smith pointed, saying, “That must be your transport, Mr. Morris.”

Morris glanced across the quay at the big Rolls Royce that had come from St. Pol and returned the waves of the two wildly gesticulating young officers who stood beside it.
Sparrow
came alongside and tied up. Smith watched Morris walk down the brow and across the quay to have his back slapped by his friends. A cork popped and champagne frothed from a large bottle. Smith shook his head and grinned ruefully. Champagne in the forenoon! He said dryly to Dunbar, “Ah, youth! I’m going to the Commodore.”

Dunbar glanced around but there was no one in ear-shot. He said, “I was near out o’ my mind the night afore last and I’d taken drink beside. But I remember what I said and I meant it, sir.”

Smith answered, “I’ll remember it. But we’ll not talk of it again.” For it was dangerous talk.

Dunbar nodded. “No need, sir.” He watched Smith stride off along the quay, a slight figure, a little shabby and walking quickly, with that sense of urgency there always was about him. Dunbar muttered, “Three years o’ Trist but now at last —” He saw young Sanders in the waist and roared at him, “Sub! Hands to coal ship! And smile! Things are looking up!”

* * *

Smith found Trist in the long room, shuffling papers that littered his wide desk, gathering them together and stuffing them in a drawer. Smith wondered why Trist did not let his staff take the lot away to file or deal with. He suspected Trist was a man who wanted to deal with all of the paperwork, trusting nobody. The Commodore was immaculate but harassed, glancing at his watch. He seemed irritated at Smith’s arrival, snatched the reports handed to him and stuffed them in the drawer.

Smith said, “I think that report to Intelligence is urgent, sir.”

Trist stared at him. “You do, eh? What do you suggest, that I mark it, ‘Commander Smith considers this urgent’?”

Smith swallowed his anger. “Sir, I —”

But Trist had stiffened, remembering. “What was the meaning of that insolent signal?”

Smith looked back at him blankly. “Insolent?”

“You know what I mean. ‘This flotilla will cope.’”

“It wasn’t intended to be insolent, sir. It was an answer and that’s all. We could cope. And —” He hesitated, trying to put it into words. Trying to say that he wanted the flotilla to see itself as an entity with a life and spirit of its own and not just a pair of ships thrown together by words on paper –

Trist did not wait for him. “
I
consider it insolent and I will not brook a repetition. Is that understood?”

“Understood, sir.” Smith bit off the words.

Trist glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at his watch again then down the length of the room to the double doors. The Lieutenant who always sat at a desk outside the doors, apparently on guard, had opened them to admit a party of marines carrying the planks and trestles of a table. Trist said impatiently, “I have representatives of the Army Staff, and possibly the General himself arriving for lunch. We are to discuss future operations. Needless to say, I have promised them maximum support.”

Smith was being dismissed. He had wanted to talk to Trist about the future operations of his flotilla and tell him of
Schwertträger
— what there was to tell. Trist was in no mood to talk plans but Smith tried once more. “There’s just one thing, sir, and it will only take a minute.” He realised he was pleading for time and was angry again that he should have to. He controlled his voice and said patiently, “That second report, sir. I wish you would look at it and pass it on. And I’d be grateful for your opinion.” That was true enough. He would be grateful to anyone who could possibly shed light on the mystery.

“Oh, all right!” Trist took out the report, scanned it and sniffed. “I suppose it might mean something to Intelligence,
if
it means anything; the babbling of a man in delirium. In any event it’s their concern and not ours.” He shouted to the Lieutenant and when he came hurrying, thrust the report at him. “For the Director, Naval Intelligence — Urgent.” He looked at Smith. “Satisfied?”

Smith had got only part of what he wanted. He was not satisfied but he said, “Yes, sir.” He left Trist looking at his watch again and chivvying the corporal of marines to “get a move on with that damn table.”

Smith strode rapidly back along the quay, past the bars and cafes on his right hand, the French destroyers tied up at the quay on the other. He was certain now that Trist was a weak and insecure man under the show, anxious about his post, cultivating appearances — and acquaintances such as the General. He would be dangerous because of that, ready to let Smith or anyone else go hang to save his own career. Dunbar was right. Smith swore savagely. He had guessed almost from the beginning that this would be a difficult appointment but it looked worse with every passing day. But fast walking worked the frustration and anger out of him and his sense of humour came to his rescue.

Wildfire
and
Bloody Mary
! He remembered his bellowed exchange with Victoria Baines. And Galt, that gunner on the twelvepounder singing, ‘I do like to be beside the sea-side’. There were always compensations. He was grinning when he came to the Port d’Echouage and to
Sparrow
. But he could not waste a minute. This command was still new to him; he had a lot to learn and more to do and he hurried aboard.

Sparrow
slipped and moved under the coal chutes. The railway wagons up on the staithes tipped their coal into the chutes and it roared down to crash into the bunkers in an explosion of choking, black dust. The little ship lay in a cloud of it. Smith moved about her deck in a boiler-suit he had borrowed from the Chief Engine-room Artificer, moved among the men toiling in that foul atmosphere. Mostly he watched in silence but now and again he exchanged a few words with one man or another and each time committed a name, a face and an impression of character to memory. He learned that Galt played the mouth organ.

Marshall Marmont’s
pinnace came for him but before he went down into her he told Dunbar, “You’re on two hours notice for steam so you can grant shore leave to one of the watches.” He stared up the basin to where it turned. Around that bend lay the Bassin du Commerce where the French destroyers lay — and the old seaman’s quarter with its bars and cafes. The men would make a bee-line for it. He said, “Tell ’em to behave themselves.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Dunbar knew exactly who he would speak to, familiar names recalled, familiar crimes. McGraw and Galt to start with…

Smith went down into the pinnace and so out to
Marshall Marmont
where she swung to her anchor in the Roads. The oiler was alongside her and oiling in progress with the fat hoses snaking and looping across the gap between the ships. He moved about the monitor as he had done in
Sparrow
. He spoke to a pair of young stokers. “This is better than coaling.”

“Oh, aye, sir. You just connect up your hoses and away you go.”

“I’ve just been aboard
Sparrow
while she coaled. There was a certain amount of bad language flying about but they seemed cheerful enough.”

The two exchanged glances, grinned. One said, “Ah, well, sir. They’re a mad lot in
Bloody Mary
— I mean
Sparrow
,” he corrected hastily. “But after all, sir, you know what they say: ‘If they can’t take a joke they shouldn’t ha’ joined.’”

Smith returned the grin. “That’s right.”

He clambered around in the turret where the gunners worked in its dull-echoing steel cavern, cleaning and servicing the twin fifteen-inch guns. He poked his head in at the magazine where they were stowing ammunition. And when the liberty men were piped to go ashore for their two hours of leave he watched while they paraded in their best dress to be inspected and lectured by the officer of the watch.

He bathed and changed his clothes and ate in his cabin but this time had Garrick join him, listened to him talk of his ship and his crew and his plans. And finally Smith told Garrick something of his own plans. Garrick was startled but doubtfully agreed.