Salter watched her worriedly. She was really concerned. Near to tears, which was not like her.
He said abruptly, “Canteen. Cup of char. ” He took her arm. “We can talk there.”
He watched her stirring the awful canteen tea, the way her perfect breasts were moving under her dress. Just imagine it. With her. Pushing aside her protests, and then…
Salter asked wearily, “What’s the trouble?”
“I’m not a child. I know there’s a big one coming off. I want to be involved with it. Because of …“She dropped her eyes. “I don’t have to spell it out to you, Miles.”
“True. ” He studied her for several seconds. How wrong he had been about her. He said, “You don’t get it at all, do you?” He played with his spoon. “Captain Beaumont doesn’t trust you. Because of your brother. Because of Keith Drummond, too, in many ways. I wanted to get rid of you months ago. To transfer you to a nice department where you could work with sane, everyday people. I thought you’d be safe that way. Out of his reach.” He knew she was staring at him incredulously but could not stop. “I’m as much to blame as anyone. When you’re a real-life journalist, and you get dropped into an organisation like this, you can’t help yourself. You make a story, and then the story makes you.” He added bitterly, “Beaumont would riot hear of your being transferred. He wants you where he can manipulate you. Like he does me, and damn near everyone else.”
“You sound as if you hate him?”
“Hate?” He looked at her and gave a crooked grin. “He scares me to death. Like Frankenstein’s monster. We’ve made it, and can’t do a goddamned thing to control it.”
She gripped his hand across the stained table. “Thanks, Miles. But I must see him. I love him. It’s real this time.”
He nodded, watching her hand on his. “I can see that, my love. ” He made up his mind. “A minesweeper came into port yesterday. It had shot down a Dornier with one ancient machine gun. Either that or the German pilot had heart failure. ” He saw her desperate eyes, and for a moment longer enjoyed her need of him. “The boat is down in Falmouth. I can get you a special pass and travel documents for that. All you need.” He took her hand and examined it closely. “Falmouth could be just what you want. ” He squeezed it. “And Christ help us if you let the cat out of the bag!”
She stood up and said huskily, “Thank you, Miles, I’ll never forget this.”
He watched her go and called, “I’ll still want that story about the minesweeper’s bloody Dornier!” He gave a great sigh. Well, why not? It would probably be the last time they ever met.
17
Smash-Hit
Drummond thrust open the wardroom curtain and stepped inside. He had just come from the chart room by way of the upper deck, and had noticed how treacherous everything was underfoot. Sleety rain had left a layer of slush on decks and fittings which could hurl the unwary into something hard or jagged. It was strange he could consider such minor injuries, he thought. With Operation Smash-Hit now firmly fixed in his mind.
The two destroyers had tied up in Falmouth that evening, and almost before the engines had fallen silent Drummond had received the next draft of his orders. He was glad of one thing. That Kimber was prepared to leave the briefing to him and nobody else.
Now, as he saw their expectant faces glowing in the comfortable wardroom lights, he was not so sure. Some of them would soon be dead. Perhaps all of them.
He had already told Sheridan. It was. the beginning of a new trust, a bond between them. Carefully begun, handled like something fragile but infinitely precious.
Sheridan said formally, “All present, sir.”
Drummond gestured around him. “Please sit down. I’m the visitor here.”
He thought of the Victor alongside, of her R.N. V. R. captain, Roger North. He would be telling his people now. In his own way, as Drummond was about to do. Not treating them like machines, as a remote staff officer might have done.
He began, “The last weeks of training have brought us all very close together. The old hands teaching the new. The new bringing fresh ideas to replace some of ours. Working in and out of Greenock, seeing the marines and commando doing their exercises, has told you that we’re getting ready for something big. Even Midshipman Keyes must have found time between writing letters to realise that!”
They all laughed, and even Keyes overcame his embarrassment at being the centre of attention.
“So I’m going to put you in the picture. It’s soon now. In fact, we must be ready for the signal to move at any time from now onwards.”
He paused, watching them as they glanced at each other, smiled, or tried not to show too much concern.
“A special flotilla of ships is going to attack the German installations in St. Nazaire on the Bay of Biscay.”
Something like a great sigh went round the wardroom.
He continued, “Two of our friends, Lomond and Ventnor, have been stripped out and filled with high explosives. They will proceed under their own steam, but with reduced complements of picked volunteers, all of whom have been chosen. ” He looked down. “Lieutenant-Commander Selkirk has remained with his ship.”
There was utter silence around him, and he could feel the ship noises intruding like whispers, as if Warlock was trying to say her piece.
“A force of torpedo boats, another of motor launches, will be employed as escort and for landing a shore demolition party. Fleet destroyers will be around to keep inquisitive Germans out of the way-” Someone, probably Wingate, gave an ironic cheer. “And air cover is being laid on. The target will be the new dock installations. The method, to ram Lomond and Ventnor into them and fire the charges. Support craft will land and evacuate as many of the shore-party as possible. We will then withdraw.”
For a long while nobody flinched, each man immersed in his own thoughts, examining his own part of it.
Sheridan said slowly, “I think we’re all glad you told us like this, sir. Keeps it in the family.”
Galbraith added wryly, “Aye, like the ‘flu.”
“What is our role in things, sir?” Rankin watched him glassily.
“To assist the two ramming ships. ” He let his words sink in. “In any way we can. Two other destroyers will be accompanying us for some of the way, towing M.L.s, as we will, so as to conserve their fuel.”
It seemed that Brooks and his staff had thought of everything. He looked at each officer in turn. Except of these living men, who would have to do it all.
Rankin, closing his mind to everything but what his guns would have to achieve. Wingate, tense, alert. Resigned, perhaps? Tyson and Hillier, side by side, yet a world of difference between them. The clean-cut New Zealander was probably composing one of his enormous letters. Dear Dad. Today we were told about the big raid. He and Keyes were always writing. Tyson was sitting with his chin on his chest, eyes fixed on the faded carpet. He could be shaking. He had not recovered from the last one. He was obviously terrified. Mr. Noakes, grim and unsmiling, a man without warmth or further ambition, no matter what he proclaimed. But he would not crack. His sort never did. Maybe war was endurable only for the unimaginative. The doctor was outwardly untouched by what had been said. His pale eyes were far-away, and only his scrubbed fingers moved in a small, restless tattoo. Young Keyes had grown up a lot. But not so much that he could hide his feelings. Anxiety was there. Pride, too, at being part of it. He looked at Galbraith and they exchanged quick smiles. As the engineer had said more than once, you up there, me down here. We’ll get the old girl through. Hell or high water.