The watches changed, weapons were checked and tested as the little force headed slowly but purposefully south-west into the Atlantic. On either beam, out of sight and beyond contact, two separate groups of powerful fleet destroyers would be carrying out sweeps in case a solitary U-boat was trying to keep tabs on the strange flotilla.
Drummond looked at the sky. It would take another day to work into position. And then … He sighed and dabbed his sore face with a towel. The chiefs of staff were certainly doing them proudly, he thought. A force of bombers would make a strike to the south of St. Nazaire, another would cause a diversion further north towards the U-boat pens at Lorient. Heavy, but not unusual. Enough to keep the Germans busy, Christmas or not.
He thought about the letter he had written for Sarah. The hardest thing he had had to do in his life. If he were killed she would have to read it. It was more like a last will and testament, he thought.
It did not get much brighter, even during the forenoon. The patterns of grey merely got paler.
“Signal from Victor, sir! Ships in sight to the nor’-east!”
Down the lines of vessels the guns swung on their mountings, although like Drummond everyone was expecting the rendezvous.
A light winked briefly through the sleet and Ives said, “From Ventnor, sir. Nice to be back.”
Drummond thought about Christmas, but decided against anything flippant. It would not help Selkirk at a moment like this.
“Tell him. Good to have you in the family again.”
But as the two other destroyers loomed through the grey murk everything else seemed to fade. For a moment Drummond thought it was a trick of the light, or that he had been too long on the bridge. But as the destroyers drew nearer he was aware of a sense of discomfort, something akin to the embarrassment you felt when you were confronted with a disfigured or badly burned man.
Sheridan was the first to break the stillness.
“What have they done to them, for God’s sake?”
Ventnor was in the lead, but her outline was entirely changed. Extra metal plates had been welded to her bridge, and her unequal funnels raked right back from the foremast. The forward gun was missing, and had been replaced by a small pair of twenty millimetres. Astern of her, the Lomondshowed the same sort of crude surgery.
Drummond said quietly, “The attack will be in semidarkness. They will have all the outward appearances of German escort destroyers.”
The explanation did not really help.
He added heavily, “Make the signal, Yeoman. Take station as ordered.”
He lifted his glasses to watch the two ships manoeuvring to follow Victor’s lead. In the misty lenses he saw Selkirk’s face above Ventnor’s screen, some others just behind him.
A Sunderland flying-boat, glinting like a wet whale, circled slowly overhead, dipped its wings and started back towards England. The pilot had watched over his charges and delivered the goods, while two screens of fleet destroyers had done the rest.
Hillier remarked, “If the Jerries get the jump on us before we make our attack, it will all be wasted.” He sounded strangely moved. “I’ll never forget’ this. Never.”
Wingate gave a crooked grin. “I’m sure we’re all glad to hear that, Sub. Now go and fetch the next chart for me, eh?”
“Signal from Captain (D), sir.” Ives had his glass trained astern. “Reduce flotilla speed to ten knots. Execute Plan Baker.”
Drummond felt for his pipe, although it would be impossible to light it.
“Acknowledge. Tell the chief. ” He looked at Sheridan. “At seven o’clock tomorrow morning we will be in position to begin the final run-in.”
Wingate said, “I’ve got the charts set up, sir.”
Drummond tried to consider his feelings. Not what he had expected? Perhaps even to the last he had imagined Beaumont would delay the attack. The weather and visibility were poor. But if it got no worse it might act as an ally. Then, as evening closed in they would go about and steer south, and then east, deep into the Bay towards the Loire estuary. Just like that.
Sometime during the night the motor torpedo boats would come growling out of the darkness as additional support, and tomorrow they would move in for the kill. He gripped the pipe hard between his teeth until his jaw ached.
Owles appeared on the bridge, his features pinched in the bitter air.
“I’m makin’ some nice stew, sir. Just the thing to keep out the cold.”
Drummond looked at him and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll have it in the sea cabin.”
Owles seemed surprised but pleased. “That’s the ticket, sir. ” He grimaced. “With all them squaddies down aft, you’ve got to watch every blessed spoon!”
He was referring to a platoon of grim-faced commando who had been put into the wardroom and passageway. Tough, heavily armed, their heads covered in khaki stocking-caps, they looked for all the world like bandits. Throughout the small force of vessels there were about three hundred soldiers and marines. Specialists.
Drummond said to Sheridan, “I’m going down. For my Christmas lunch.”
They all ducked automatically as a great wash of spindrift sluiced into the bridge, and Wingate said, “I wonder what I got in my stocking this year?”
Later in the tiny sea cabin Drummond stared at Owles’ stew with something like nausea. His stomach contracted violently to the motion, but he knew he had to eat before something happened. He also knew it was not the motion which was making him the way he was. It was fear.
Drummond left the upper bridge just once more the following morning to check his calculations in the isolation of the chart room. As promised, the M.T.B.s had made contact, and the whole collection of vessels were now moving on schedule. He looked at the stained chart spread between his hands. Fortyseven degrees north six degrees- west, and the coast of France some two hundred miles ahead of the corkscrewing bows. It was incredible that they had got this far without any sign of discovery.
The regular signals from the Admiralty suggested that the weather was too bad for German air patrols. They did not mention that the R.A.F. ‘s Bomber Command might also be grounded.
As Wingate had remarked, “They won’t want to spread alarm and despondency!”
He returned to his chair on the bridge and considered their situation. They had formed into their new formation. Lomond and Ventnor in the lead, steaming abreast, about half a mile apart. His own ship and Victor followed closely in their wakes, while the launches and M.T.B.s made two large arrowheads even further astern. The two Hunt class destroyers and the heavy tug had steamed purposefully to the south. Would-be rescuers, undertaker’s men, their roles could change very quickly.
He turned to watch the command vessel, a motor gunboat, streaking up the starboard side, making a superb wash as she dashed past. He saw Beaumont’s oak-leaved cap on her small bridge beside her commanding officer. He looked vaguely theatrical, he thought.
The sleet had changed to flurries of snow, much as the met men had promised. It seemed almost warm after the wet, soaking downpour.
He heard footsteps behind him and saw the senior commando officer, a trim lieutenant-colonel, watching the M.G.B. carrying Beaumont to the head of the procession.
“Good morning, Colonel. I hope you slept well.”
The soldier smiled bleakly. “I spent most of the time trying to identify the creaks and bumps. Give me a field anytime.” He grinned and looked about ten years younger. “Different from North Africa!”
Drummond turned to look for Beaumont’s command vessel. He should be transferring to the Lomond before dusk. The M.G.B. would be needed by the marines’ senior officer to watch over and control the demolition party.