“Good luck!” The call came back softly. Maybe Victoria was subdued now, impressed with the secrecy of their slipping away. And there was the tumbling water between, the thumping beat of the tug’s engines and the churn of her screws.
He put over the helm and the whaler turned away from the tug and pointed her nodding stem at the port. The tug and the monitor had a long, weary haul ahead of them. Soon they were only vague shapes and then lost entirely. But he saw them once more as thunder growled and lightning stabbed down at them, saw them in the blink of an eye, the plodding tug and the unwieldy mass of Marshall Marmont, then the rain closed in. Victoria Baines had stared incredulously at him on the quay and muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing — or they’ll hang the pair of us. You can’t steal a warship from the Navy.”
Couldn’t he? Thunder rumbled again and he shivered again though he was not cold. He was soaked and the rain washed his face as the whaler soared and plunged, driving towards Dunkerque with that fair wind, but he was not cold. Buckley was whistling softly through his teeth and he and the crew of the whaler watched Smith covertly but he was unaware of it.
Jack Curtis waited for him aboard Sparrow in oilskins and seaboots, His CMB was tied up alongside the thirty-knotter. Smith glanced at it and saw that his orders had been carried out. As the sail came down and the whaler slid in against Sparrow, Smith saw that Curtis was talking with Sanders, the tall American and the shorter Scotsman side by side. They were of the same rank and age. Excited? He tried to remember how he had felt at that age and briefly felt a hundred years old but then he was climbing the ladder.
He called Curtis aside. “I want you and your boat to sail with me now.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what your note said.” Curtis was understandably guarded. Smith was a superior officer giving him an order. On the other hand the CMB was not seconded or attached to Smith’s command.
Smith asked, “No one will question your sailing?”
“No, sir. We’re still on this detached duty. Colonel Hacker, sir.”
Smith said, “Colonel Hacker will have no objection.” He smiled wryly. “But you must have some questions.”
Curtis grinned sheepishly. “Well, yes, sir. I sure do.” He paused and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wondering where to start. “Well. What are we going to do?”
“That calls for a fairly long answer and I’ll give you details later. But briefly, I intend to find out what is hidden in the woods south of De Haan. And then — what was that phrase of yours? — shoot the hell out of it.”
Curtis stared at him, swallowed, then said, “Well, that seems to answer one question, sir.”
Smith said quietly, “Then I’ll ask one. I’m giving you an order. Suppose I made it a request? Would you go?”
Jack Curtis was silent a moment, looking at this Commander who seemed scarcely older than himself, that he knew little except by reputation and that reputation was of a stormy petrel; Smith and bloody action went together. He was a lonely, aloof figure, yet men followed him and Sanders and Buckley came close to hero-worship. Curtis wondered why and then heard himself say, “Sounds like a good idea, sir. I’m in.”
Smith said, “I’m sorry about your party at St. Pol.”
Curtis was silent a moment then answered, “It was cancelled anyway, sir. Seems there was a call for a reconnaissance flight that their Commander had said he wouldn’t let anybody fly but himself. But he’s away in hospital and my friend Morris pushed for it and they let him go. He was shot down by Archie over Ostende. I talked to one of the guys in the Triplanes that flew as escort. He said the Harry Tate went into the ground like a bomb, exploded and burned as it struck. There was Morris and an observer — some Army officer. Both gone.”
Hacker had tried to hedge his bets, tried to uncover the secret of the woods at De Haan by flying a reconnaissance because there were very long odds against Smith succeeding. The odds had proved no better for Hacker. Smith thought Curtis was not the only one to lose a friend this day.
Sparrow went to sea with Jack Curtis’s CMB in tow, to save the motor-boat’s fuel.
Part Four — To a View
Chapter Nine
Sparrow was sliding furtively through the night now, a night that was oppressive, the air thick around them so she seemed to push through it over a sea like black glass, calm as if flattened by that pressure. The mine-net barrage lay far out in the darkness to port. It might have been a good idea to creep close to it. The enemy knew very well that it was there and so could be expected to steer clear of it. On the other hand there was always a fair chance that a destroyer and a mine-sweeper might be out to try to do it damage. The enemy might be anywhere. This course was closer to the coast but it saved time and time was short on these summer nights. De Haan was still more than forty nautical miles from Dunkerque and some of it shoal. One more risk to be calculated and accepted. Sparrow’s crew was at action stations and the look-outs strained their eyes into the darkness.
The signalman muttered, “Bleedin’ rain!” and hunched his shoulders at it. It was soft summer rain, almost warm, but it worked inside Smith’s clothes and left them clammy against his skin. He was glad of it. A fine summer night would have left Sparrow naked. He had that restlessness, that itch that almost always preceded action. And this time they weren’t searching blindly for they knew not what. They knew where they were going, if not what they would find.
It was hard to be restless in that tiny space that was more gunplatform than bridge, crowded with the crew of the twelvepounder and the bridge staff. Buckley stood right at the back below the searchlight platform. Smith took a couple of strides then forced himself to stand still on the gently heaving bridge and stare aft. He could just make out the CMB because her bow wave blended with Sparrow’s wash where the thirty-knotter towed her. Curtis’s little craft looked top heavy now with the hump of tarpaulin forward of her cockpit. He was glad Curtis commanded her. He had faith in that young man, trusted him. What was more important was that Curtis trusted him. Smith had told Curtis what he intended to do and the American had volunteered. Not rashly: he was a long way from being a fool and was well aware of the risks. So he must trust Smith.
Smith wondered why?
He turned forward and saw Sanders as restless as himself, the Sub’s fingers curling and twitching on the glasses that hung against his chest. It was no wonder that Sanders was nervous. He had done well when Dunbar was killed but he would have his hands full tonight. He was young…
The voice of Lorimer called through the pipe from the charttable where he was plotting their course, “Six minutes on this leg, sir. An’— and that’s it.”
“Thank you.” Smith answered absently, thinking that if Sanders was a boy, then what about the seventeen-year-old Lorimer? An infant. He felt again very old and muttered, “Don’t be a bloody fool.”
Sanders turned. “Sir?”
“Nothing. You know what you have to do?”
“Yes, sir. I patrol, passing your start-point every fifteen minutes.”
“For two hours. And then?”