They left and Stratton swung himself up the ladder to con the ship from the square, boxed-in platform of the upper bridge. I followed him. ‘Slow ahead both engines,’ he ordered down the voice pipe. Their beat slowed and the ship glided, moving steadily and irrevocably nearer the beach. The stranded LCT was growing larger all the time. A spotlight had been switched on and I could see the number of her bows — L4400 painted black on grey. Wentworth and his men on the fo’c’stle were picked out in the beam’s glare.
Stratton lifted a phone from its hook. ‘All ready aft?’ He stood, staring ahead, his eyes narrowed as he watched the approach of the shore. ‘Let her go.’ He replaced the phone on its hook and the ship went on with no check to show that the kedge anchor had been dropped astern. A torch stabbed five flashes from the fo’c’stle. ‘Stop both engines.’ The deck died under my feet. Four flashes. I could see the man heaving the lead, bracing himself against the fo’c’stle rail for the next throw. ‘Slow astern together.’
Three flashes. Then two. ‘Full astern both…. Stop both.’ The ship hung motionless, heaving to the swell, staggering like a drunkard in the down-draughts. The howl of the wind came and went, a thousand demons yelling murder. The sound of the rocket was thin and insubstantial, but I saw the line curve out and fall across the stern of the other LCT. Men ran to grab it and a moment later a hawser was being paid out over our bows.
Just two minutes, and as the hawser was made fast, Stratton was on the phone again giving the order to winch in. For a moment nothing seemed to be happening. Up for’ard the lead was dropped again, the torch flashed twice. Then I felt the tug astern as the anchor bit to the power of the winch hauling in. Our bows were swinging towards the shore. From the compass platform I watched the sagging line of the hawser come dripping out of the sea, rise until suddenly it was bar-taut and shivering, all the water shaken off it. Our bows stopped swinging then. A ragged cheer came to us on the wind. Men in oilskins lined the beach, standing watching just clear of the surf. It was they who had cheered.
The bows swung back towards the other craft’s stern. The hawser slackened momentarily; then tightened again and I sensed that the ship was straightened out now, a direct link between stern and bow hawsers. Stratton sensed it, too. ‘Slow astern both engines.’ And as the screws bit, he ordered full astern. And after that we waited, tense for what would happen.
‘Either she comes off now … ‘ The phone buzzed and Stratton picked it up.’… Well, let it labour…. All right, Cox’n. But don’t let the fuses blow. Just hold her, that’s all. Leave the rest to the main engines.’ He put the phone down. ‘The stern winch — bloody useless when you’re in a jam.’ his teeth were clenched tight, his face taut. ‘Something’s going to give soon. Breaking strain on that kedge hawser is only about forty-five tons. Not much when you’re trying to hold a thousand ton vessel. And right now the Cox’n’s got to control both ships, and on top of that, there’s the added weight of all that sand piled up round Kelvedon’s bottom.’
Time seemed to stand still with the whole ship trembling and vibrating with the effort. I left the compass platform and went aft to the port rail of the flag deck. It was dark on that side. No glimmer of light and the screws streaming a froth of water for’ard along the port side, toppling the waves so that all the surface of the water was ghostly white. I felt a sudden tremor. I thought for a moment one of the hawsers had parted, but up for’ard that single slender thread linking us to L4400 remained taut as before. A faint ‘cheer sounded and then I saw the stern of the other ship was altering its position, swinging slowly out towards us.
Stratton joined me. ‘She’s coming. She’s coming. Ross — do you see?’ His voice was pitched high, exhilaration overlaying nervous tension. The stern swung out, the ship’s profile thinning till she lay like a box end-on to us, and there she hung for a moment, still held by her bows, until suddenly we plucked her off and Stratton ordered the engine stopped for fear of over-running the stern hawser.
Ten minutes later both ships were out in the bay with their bow anchors down, manoeuvring under power to let go a second anchor. Ashore, men waded waist-deep in the surf to launch a dory. It lifted to the break of a wave and the oars flashed glistening in the floodlights. Clear of the surf, it came bobbing towards us, driven by the wind. We were at rest with both anchors down and the engines stopped by the time it came alongside. An oilskin-clad figure swung himself up the rope ladder and came dripping into the wheelhouse, a shapeless mountain of a man with tired brown eyes and a stubble growth that was almost a beard. ‘Nice work,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think we might be stuck here for the winter with a load of scrap iron on the beach.’ He glanced round the wheelhouse. ‘Where’s Major McDermott? He’s needed ashore.’
‘I’ll get him for you.’ Stratton went out and the big man stood there dripping a pool of water from his oilskins, his face lifeless, dead with weariness.
‘Bad trip, eh?’ His voice was hoarse and very deep. The words seemed wrung out of him as though conversation were an effort.
‘Pretty rough,’ I said.
He nodded, briefly and without interest, his mind on something else. ‘The poor bastard’s been screaming for hours.’ And with that he relapsed into silence until McDermott appeared, his face paper-white and walking delicately as though not sure of his legs.
‘Captain Pinney? I’m ready when you are.’ He looked in no shape to save a man’s life.
‘Can you take Mr Ross ashore this trip?’ Stratton asked.
‘May as well, if he’s ready.’ The tired eyes regarded me without enthusiasm. ‘I’ve received instructions from Major Braddock about your visit. It’s all right so long as you don’t stray beyond the camp area.’
It took me only a moment to get my things. McDermott was being helped down the rope ladder as I said goodbye to Stratton. I dropped my bag to the men in the dory and climbed down the steel side of the landing craft. Hands clutched me as the boat rose to the slope of a wave and then they shoved off and we were down in a trough with the sea all round us, a wet world of broken water. The oars swung and clear of the shelter of the ship the wind hit us, driving spray in our faces.
It wasn’t more than half a mile to the shore, but it took us a long time even with the outboard motor. The wind coming down off the invisible heights above was so violent that it drove the breath back into one’s throat. It came in gusts, flattening the surface of the sea, flinging it in our faces. And then we reached the surf line. A wave broke, lifting the stern, flooding the dory with water. We drove in to the beach in a seething mass of foam, were caught momentarily in the backwash, and then we touched and were out of the boat, knee-deep in water, dragging it up on to the concrete slope of the loading ramp.
That was how I came to Laerg that first time, in darkness, wet to the skin, with floodlights glistening on rain-soaked rock and nothing else visible — the roar of the surf in my ears and the wind screaming. It was a night I was to remember all my life; that and the following day.
We groped our way up to the road, staggering to the buffets of the wind. A Bailey bridge, rusted and gleaming ‘with beads of water, spanned a burn, and then we were in the remains of the hutted camp. Everywhere the debris of evacuation, dismantled hut sections and piled-up heaps of stores and the mud shining slippery in the glimmer of the lights. The putter of a generator sounded in the brief intervals between the gusts and out in the darkness of the bay the landing craft were twin islands of light.