Ashley went to the side of the bunk. ‘Christ, Number One, couldn’t you have thought of something more original? Been overdoing the champagne and smoked salmon, eh?’
‘Sorry, must have been something I ate.’ The voice was soft with a gentle Canadian accent. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment, I’m sure. Once I’ve …’ A look of disbelief came over the man’s face and he suddenly threw himself over the bucket. Ashley looked away; the sight of vomit always made him retch.
When Macleod had sunk back onto the bunk Ashley turned back and said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be fit for anything, Macleod. You’d best stay here.’
‘No! I’ll be okay. Really!’
‘Stay here! That’s an order. We’ll manage without you. Very well, in fact. You’d be surprised!’ He grinned.
Macleod smiled faintly and closed his eyes. The smile vanished from Ashley’s face and he said quietly to one of the seamen, ‘Keep an eye on him – temperature, pulse, everything. He looks bloody awful to me.’
He turned and made his way back to the deck, thinking: Damn!
The Canadian was his best man; very keen and very able. He must be really ill to have agreed to lie down; if he was capable of getting to his feet, he would. Ashley gritted his teeth. He’d have to find a replacement – Macleod was leader of the beach party. Macleod was the only one who spoke decent French.
Apart from himself there was only one other officer on the boat: the navigator, a man called Tusker. He was RN (Retired) and had bamboozled his way back into active service by nagging the Admiralty to death. Unlike the first navigator, Tusker was brilliant at his job. He’d got
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through rocks and narrow channels into countless pick-up points, in filthy weather and without a decent navigation aid in sight.
There was only one problem: he was forty-five and had a gammy leg.
Ashley made his way forward again, gripping tightly on to the available handholds. The boat pitched sharply forwards and then, trembling and shivering, heaved herself up once more, ready for the next wave.
Ashley climbed into the small space optimistically called the chart room. It was a wooden structure built on to the deck just in front of the bridge. Tusker was crouching over the collapsible chart table – a simple device which, when the boat pounded heavily, often lived up to its name. As usual, Tusker was making careful calculations. He never stopped, from the moment they left until the moment they got back, reworking the tides, the course, the speed, and the ETA.
‘How we doing, Tusker?’
‘Ah, should reach Les Vaches at 0135, and drop anchor at 0200.’ He always used Les Vaches, a large pair of odd-shaped rocks three miles off the beach, as a navigation point. He aimed the MGB straight for them and then, as he liked to point out, when they almost hit them they knew exactly where they were. He’d never failed to find them yet, despite a shortage of navigation aids. All there was to confirm the dead reckoning position was an echo sounder ticking away in the corner of the chart room.
Tusker wiped some drips off the transparent plastic chart cover and pointed at the chart. ‘We crossed the Hurd Deep forty-five minutes ago. I hope to pick up the edge of the Plateau de Triagoz in just over an hour. That’ll give us a good lead in. Unless of course we have to reduce speed still further …?’
‘No, we must bash on, whatever the weather. Otherwise we’ll be too late. We’re cutting it a bit fine as it is.’
The two men braced themselves as
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’s bows rose into the air and began to descend rapidly towards an approaching wave. There was a loud crash and the boat shuddered. Cascades of water thundered over the chart room, pouring down the windows and penetrating the cracks in the wood. Tusker methodically wiped the drips away and gazed down at the chart again. ‘Whatever the revs say, I’d be surprised if we were doing thirteen knots in this sea.’
Ashley nodded. ‘I’ve allowed a bit for the sea conditions, but I dare say you’re right. I still want to press on, though. Once we reach the plateau we’ll start to get in the lee of the land. Things should improve then.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘By the way, Macleod’s sick, so I’ll be leading the beach party. That means you’ll be in charge until I get back.’
Tusker’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I say, that’s a bit irregular, isn’t it? I mean, why not send Talbot or Eddington to the beach? They’d do the job all right.’
‘No, I’d rather go myself,’ Ashley said crisply. He didn’t want a discussion. He was perfectly well aware that a commander shouldn’t leave his ship, but this was a very small ship and the circumstances rather unusual. ‘No, I’d prefer Talbot and Eddington to stay here. You’ll want them if there’s a fight. It’s more important to leave the ship properly manned. Anyway …’ He smiled breezily at Tusker, ‘… after all this time I want to have a look at this beach and meet some of our Breton friends.’
Tusker nodded reluctantly. ‘As you say.’
‘Now, this is the form. You are to wait until 0315, at the very latest, and then you are to leave, even if we haven’t returned. Is that understood?’
The other man nodded.
‘And if there’s any sign of trouble, the usual rules apply – get out and as quickly as possible. Just because I’m ashore, don’t try to be clever and wait around. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Good!’
It was raining now, drumming against the window, mingling with the salt spray in a steady deluge of running water.
Ashley murmured, ‘Christ! We’re not going to see very much at this rate.’
‘No, but it may not last. We’ve still got an hour before we need to start worrying about visibility.
Ashley sighed. ‘I just wish that, for once, we’d have a bit of luck. It would make a pleasant bloody change!’
It was 0140. There was no sign of Les Vaches. Although the seas were much lower here in the shadow of the land and the boat was riding the waves more easily, the weather was still foul. Every few minutes heavy showers came through, obliterating the few precious yards of visibility, turning the already dark night into a wall of black.
Ashley stood at the side of the bridge, his teeth set, his eyes straining to penetrate the inky darkness. He tried to resist the temptation to call down to Tusker again, but failed. He reached for the voice pipe. ‘Tusker! Any ideas?’
‘Give it five minutes, then we can try turning east.’
‘Five minutes is a hell of a long time!’ Ashley knew he was sounding testy but, damn it, he was.
‘Yes, five minutes should get us right up to Les Vaches,’ came the calm response.
‘I thought we were meant to be there already!’
‘Well, allowing for losing some time in those seas …’
‘Okay! Five minutes!’
He threw the pipe back into its socket and stared back into the darkness. He had four men on the bridge now, all of them looking – for anything: any sign, any indication of rocks, land, E-boats, anything. A hundred miles, they’d travelled, and now they were looking for two rocks in the middle of the sea. Ridiculous!
Nothing. Not even the customary smell of the land. Ashley thought: Tusker’s finally blown it.
The rain stopped. Strange new shadows flickered across the pattern of the night. Ashley screwed up his eyes. It was almost impossible to know what you were seeing … But the visibility had definitely improved, no doubt about that.
‘Sir! Port bow! I think I see something, sir!’
They all turned and stared, no-one speaking, an electric silence filling the bridge.
‘Yes, sir.’ It was the coxswain’s voice, steady and firm. ‘Just fine on the port bow, sir. A rock, I would say.’
Ashley looked again, and saw it this time. It was a large rock. One of two. Les Vaches.
Ashley breathed out slowly, his body sagging as the tension eased away. He called down the pipe, ‘Well done, Tusker. Your rock’s popped up on the port bow.’
Thank goodness it had. He always had a vision of getting the boat lost and steaming on to a barely submerged rock and the boat tearing her guts out … He tried not to think of such things, but on bad nights one couldn’t help it …
Tusker took some bearings and they pressed on towards the land. Because the wind was offshore and would carry the sound of their engines away from the ears of German sentries, Richard decided to risk a fast approach. Time was ticking away. It was 0150.
At two miles they reduced speed to five knots, searching for the familiar landmarks, feeling their way in towards the anchorage. Finally they were on station, one mile offshore in the open arms of a wide, rocky bay, lying to their grass-rope anchor. It was 0215. Only one hour at the most.
The beach lay in a cove in the western arc of the bay, its sides guarded by a myriad of small rocks. The surfboat was already in the water, the two crew waiting at their oars which were muffled with heavy sacking.
Ashley jumped down and sat in the stern, a compass in his hand and the wireless on the seat beside him. At his feet was their new gadget, a hydrophone, which, when its sensor was dropped in the water, would pick up the sound of 309’s echo sounder and guide them back to her. They would need it tonight.
The surfboat buffeted her way through the waves, the water hissing and slapping at her sides. Already the MGB was a shadow in the deeper darkness behind them.
Ashley looked at his watch. It was 0222.
He couldn’t help thinking that for once they really were cutting it a bit fine.
The clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece, syncopating with the gentle snores of Tante Marie, asleep in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
Julie stared at the book which lay open but unread on her lap and listened intently to the other sounds, the sounds of the night. A wind was blowing, quite a strong one, vibrating the windows and moaning softly around the buildings; and there was rain, coming in sudden squalls, drumming loudly on the outhouse roof, pit-patting against the glass.
She listened and almost imagined she heard the rumbling of the surf down in the cove and the scrunch of boats as they grounded on the pebbles. Almost imagined, too, that she heard the sound of footsteps as the guides led the passengers past the farmhouse down to the beach …
With a sigh, Julie returned to her book. Always imagining things!
But she stared at the pages, unseeing, and thought of the waiting men and the steep path to the beach and the dark cover again. She hadn’t been back to the beach since that night, four months ago now. In one way she was sorry – she’d rather enjoyed it – but she was determined not to get involved too deeply. Her instincts still told her that it would all go wrong, that, sooner or later, it would end in disaster. And she couldn’t bear the thought of being caught. Nothing could be worth that.
At the same time she couldn’t help worrying. Especially tonight.
The night had a bad aura about it, an indefinable atmosphere of depression and doom. She couldn’t say why, or in what way. At ten she had gone to bed and tried to sleep, but her feeling of despair had been so strong that she had come down to sit with Tante Marie and wait. Of course a man would laugh at the whole idea of
feeling
these things, but for her it was almost tangible.
Except that now, two hours later, she wasn’t quite so certain as before. Perhaps nothing was going to happen after all. She rubbed her eyes. She was beginning to feel tired. It might be worth trying to go back to sleep again.
It was comfortable there by the stove. She rested her head against the chair-back and closed her eyes. She’d make the effort to go to bed in a moment.
Suddenly she stiffened.
There was a slight unidentifiable sound, something that hadn’t been there before …
She stood up and, dousing the small oil lamp, went to the door and opened it.
The wind was sighing and rustling round the farmyard, a cow shuffled restlessly in the barn, then … Yes, it was there!
Something
… Julie felt her blood run cold.
But what was it!
What?
Machines? Men?
Whatever – it was something that shouldn’t be there.
Quickly she closed the door, lit a candle and took it to her room. She found warm clothes: vest, woollen blouse, thick sweater, trousers, socks, sturdy shoes. Back in the kitchen she took a waterproof cowman’s jacket from the back of the door and Jean’s beret, pulling it low over her head and tucking her hair up inside the crown.
She touched Tante Marie’s arm. The old woman woke with a start and looked at Julie in horror. She exclaimed, ‘Where are you going? What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t worry! I just have to get out, that’s all. Just to listen … and watch for them.’
‘Julie, don’t go!’ Tante Marie hissed. ‘You don’t know where the patrols are! You might stumble into one of them. Don’t go, I tell you!’
Julie shook her head. ‘I’ll be careful … I just want to see that everything’s all right. That’s all. Don’t worry.’
She turned quickly and went to the door. Waving briefly to the old woman, she stepped out into the night. She waited a moment to get her eyes accustomed to the darkness, then walked quietly round the side of the house to the road.
She paused and listened. Whatever that sound had been, it had gone. There was nothing now, only the rustling of the trees and the sigh of the wind.
But still, she had to go. She set off along the road, walking rapidly, her shoes making no sound on the hard surface. After five minutes she had made good progress: almost halfway up the hill that led to the open heathland. She walked steadily, her hands deep in her pockets, her mind locked on the necessity of reaching the clifftop. Once there she would wait and listen until she knew everyone was all right.
She stopped dead. There was that sound again.
It was a low whining, far off, back towards the village.
It was like the whining she’d heard in her imagination once: the whining of trucks. Trucks climbing.
Up the hill towards her.
She froze, still listening, unbelieving …
… the sound of trucks climbing. Oh God!
Then she ran, she ran fast and straight; she ran along the dark narrow lane, up and up, on and on, until the air rasped in her throat and the heavy shoes were like lead on her feet.