Most of the Royal Marines had turned to watch, and someone gave an ironic cheer. Their captain waited for Lincoln to reach him, and snapped, ‘You took your time! If we have to wait for the next low water we’ll lose a whole day!’
Lincoln attempted to tell him about the breakdown but knew he was wasting his time. It was a bad beginning.
‘Let’s get started!’ The captain gestured to a launch which was being fended away from scattered rocks by some of his men. ‘Muster the others, Corporal!’
They climbed into the launch and Lincoln hoped that it, too, would break down. It did not.
He looked around at the others. The marines were from one of the units based at Portland, highly professional, and employed mostly on demolition or clearing away wreckage after an exercise or training programme.
He shaded his eyes again and peered ahead past the
bowman. At first you might think it was an isolated spur of rock. At low water you could see all that was left of the old freighter
Latchmere
. She had hit a stray mine along this coast and her master had tried to beach her where she would cause the least harm to other shipping: a hazard or an aid to navigation, it depended on the circumstances. Today the remains of the old
Latchmere
were to be destroyed.
The captain of marines was also studying the approaching wreck. Like many of her kind, most of the freighter’s superstructure and cabin space was right aft. She had been carrying scrap iron when the mine had found her, and her cargo had broken open the hull and scattered where it would never be salvaged. He consulted his watch again. Just what he might have expected: a sub-lieutenant in battledress, working dress, as the navy chose to term it, with a wavy stripe on each shoulder so new that he must have been commissioned only months ago. So what was he doing with the special countermeasures section? And the rating . . . what were they thinking, for God’s sake? He looked like a schoolboy, reaching out to fondle the dog which had somehow slipped into the launch.
The wreck was closer now, looming over them, another forgotten victim of the narrow seas. Rust had overwhelmed most of the paintwork, and the bridge rails were badly buckled, the wheelhouse windows blasted away by that first explosion. There was other damage too, holes punched by cannon shells when a fighter bomber had used the old
Latchmere
for target practice. A pathetic sight, for anyone with imagination. The captain
of marines had none. Newly promoted himself, he was proud of his unit, but saw it and its efficiency as a stepping-stone to something even better. Above all, he loathed amateurs.
Lincoln was aware of the hostility. It made him angry, but he was used to it. He looked over at his assistant. What did the snotty little captain know? Downie had dealt with eleven serious incidents, ‘of major capacity’ as it was described in his report.
Twelve, if you count the one he stopped me from screwing up.
He found himself smiling.
I’m getting just like my dad.
He tried to concentrate on the job in hand. He had got all he could from Operations, and had even managed to speak with the first lieutenant of ML366, which had been confronted by an E-Boat right here only days ago. It was hard to imagine now. Lifeless, barely undulating water, the Channel empty of everything but two armed trawlers on their way to Poole or the Dover Strait. He saw the green wreck buoy, soon to be replaced by one with a beacon, which neither lookout nor radar could confuse with a lurking enemy.
The captain of marines was moving up the boat towards him.
Here we go.
He had heard most of the old jibes, including the R.N.V.R.
Really Not Very Reliable
. They had mostly died out now, or, like the young subbie who had been killed on his first ‘incident’, just died altogether.
‘Now you know what you’ve got to do, right?’
They both swung round as Downie said, ‘Check the bridge for any equipment not part of the wreck, sir.’ He lifted his arm so that the dog jumped to snap playfully
at his oilskin. ‘The E-Boat was reported as an S80 type, so she only drew a fathom at the most.’ He fell silent as one of the listening marines gave a chuckle.
Lincoln said, ‘Nothing bigger would dare to come in so near.’
They looked at one another like conspirators.
It was not lost on the captain. ‘Well, we can’t hang about. The new wreck buoy will be here this afternoon. I’ve got more important things to do.’
A Royal Marine corporal murmured half to himself, ‘I’ll bet ’is mother just
loves
’im!’
Lincoln turned away. He was not alone. He thought of the memorial service he had watched at the base; he had never seen a firing party in action before. He had met Masters there too, but only briefly. Of today he had said, ‘No heroics. Just have a look around for anything strange or unexpected. We’ll not get another chance, not with the old
Latchmere
, in any case.’
And he had seen the young woman Masters had been with. Tall, wearing a fur coat, like someone out of a film. He smiled again.
My sort of film, anyway.
Downie was gripping the gunwale, staring up at the wreck. Even the boat’s fenders would have a rough time on the jagged plates. It was probably a waste of time; he had sensed that most of the others thought as much, Lincoln too. Otherwise why would they have sent only him? Downie still did not know if he would ever understand him, or know him like Clive. Not afraid to stand up for himself.
Or me.
But he had a chip a mile wide on his shoulder.
They were level with the tilting wheelhouse now, the
shattered ports and scuttles like blind eyes. On a bracket by the bridge door was a hanging basket, now rusty and bent like everything else. But it had once held flowers or potted plants, like the ones his mother had always cherished in their little garden behind the shop. He felt the dog rubbing against him; it only made it worse.
After all this time.
‘Stand by, forrard!’
He saw two large and ungainly rubber floats hooked on to the derelict superstructure, and some marines in frogman suits waving and jeering. They were met with cheerful insults, equally crude.
He would never understand the Royals, either. Soldiers one minute, sailors the next. They even called their quarters, a bunch of gaunt-looking Nissen huts, their ‘barracks’. He had also noticed that despite their warlike, camouflaged denims, each man had a Globe and Laurel badge on his beret polished so brightly you could have seen it ten miles away.
The boat grated alongside, and grapnels brought them as close as possible. Downie peered over the deck. Trapped water moving this way and that, some carpet rolled tightly behind a stanchion. Perhaps someone had been cleaning the bridge, ready for reaching port, when the mine had blasted the ship apart . . .
One of the NCOs was shouting something, then their captain called, ‘Look, let’s not make a meal of it!’ The wristwatch again. ‘Not much time for my men to plant the charges. No point in dithering, is there?’
Lincoln said, ‘I’ll be as fast as I can,
sir
. Have you
got the torch, Gordon?’ He saw Downie nod, and two of the marines nudging each other.
It was a dangerous descent. Outside the wreck the sea had seemed calm, almost lifeless; once below the bridge deck it seemed powerful, heavy enough to take away your balance. Slippery and treacherous, with jagged glass and buckled plating adding to the risk of injury.
Somehow Downie had got ahead of Lincoln, although he did not recall seeing him pause or hesitate. He looked up through a broken skylight, the solitary funnel above it like a tusk against the sky. Even the sounds were different here, booming water trapped in the lower hull, or what was left of it. Hissing, rustling sounds, as if creatures still lurked here. He swung the torch, dipping the beam slightly beneath the water. Some broken cups in one corner, charts still folded in their rack, although he knew they would fall apart at the slightest touch. Water had lapped over his boot and his foot felt like ice. He peered up again at the skylight. The paintwork was stained but still intact, one part of the wreck which remained above water even when the tide was at its highest. He screwed up his eyes, trying to remember the correct naval term. He had heard the ML’s young captain use it when he had been aboard that night and they had fished the dead flier out of the drink. His mother had warned him about doing that to his eyes.
Make you look old before you know it.
And he would be twenty next month. And Sub-Lieutenant Lincoln would be . . . He gripped a voicepipe and stared. Lincoln was crouched at the upper end of the sloping deck, gazing into the water, searching for something. His eyes were
fixed, vacant. Like that moment near the railway. The extra fuse. The booby-trap. He had been unable to move or speak.
Downie heard more voices, but they did not seem to matter. His arm had become numb, and the torch had swung almost into the water.
He must have screwed up his eyes again without realizing it. When he looked again, he saw the brightly coloured cylinder bolted to the old varnished woodwork, the size of a small fire extinguisher. And a wire, also carefully stapled into place, leading perhaps to the skylight, perhaps the remaining funnel.
‘Sir!’
Lincoln seemed to come alive, his eyes staring, questioning. But still he did not move.
Downie shouted again.
‘Sir!’
He gestured towards the cylinder. ‘Stay where you are! I can get it!’
Two things happened at once. A piece of wood splashed into the slopping water, and the terrier followed it, mouth already open to retrieve the prize. Downie was already halfway into the water. It was surging around his body, running through his clothing, exploring his limbs, numbing all sensation. The explosion was almost incidental, uninvolved. The flash so vivid that it was white, colourless, and he knew he had been deafened by the blast. There was blood on the surface, all about him, and hands reaching out to seize his coat and drag him to safety.
But all he could see was the dead dog, still clinging to the piece of driftwood. Then there was nothing.
The Angel Inn was and always had been Chaldon St Mary’s only pub. It occupied the same street as most of the other major buildings but managed to remain apart, as the centre of local affairs. It had a garden which was lined with trees, beyond which the Channel was just visible. Social events were limited to space and timing. The Rotary Club’s Christmas dinner had always been considered special, the farmers gathered there for their N.F.U. meetings, and there was sometimes a wedding to celebrate, or the aftermath of a funeral. Almost anything which affected the village and the neighbouring farms had been decided here at the Angel. The war had changed everything. Children or entire families being evacuated, land commandeered by the armed services, troops billeted in homes left unattended; the locals soon found themselves a small minority. Many resented it. Some, like Ben Turner, the Angel’s landlord, accepted it as a blessing.
The two main bars were packed every night. Sailors and marines from the local establishment which had once been the old school, airmen and WAAFs from the barrage balloon sites, and gunners from the surrounding anti-aircraft batteries. Ben Turner had been forced to employ three extra barmaids to cope with the demand, and a pianist as well, and the pub was usually so noisy with songs and laughter that locals tried to gauge their visits accordingly.
There was one small, additional bar named the Snug, where the ceiling was so low you could touch it with your hand. There was the usual dartboard, surrounded by a protective motor tyre, and the notices about blackout
regulations, air raid instructions, and being careful with glasses. Servicemen often found it difficult to believe that it was harder to obtain new tankards and glassware than to replenish the cellar. There was a war on . . . The Snug was quieter than the other bars, the predominant theme being cricket. The landlord had been a well-known cricketer, at one time captain of the local team. He had gone onto play for the county and had been on the final selection for the England team to play New Zealand, when the war had changed that as well.
A cricket bat, in a glass case and autographed by some of England’s greatest players, held pride of place near an open hearth with pictures of the King and Queen on either side.
At night, until the landlord had to use a megaphone to bellow, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ there was no privacy even here, and to attempt to be alone with a girl was just asking for trouble.
Ben Turner was leaning with both elbows on the bar, preparing for yet another battle with his friend the butcher. Rations, availability, delivery and so forth. It was a little past noon, although he made sure that the clock was always slightly fast, just in case closing time became too difficult. And it was quiet. A farmer was sitting by the log fire, his dog sprawled out asleep by his boots. The local postman was in one corner, sipping his ale, and apparently sorting his mail bag. Turner knew him of old. He was actually reading the postcards from God alone knew where, before he delivered them. The gossip king of the village. Postcards told him where such and such a serviceman might be, just as he would
always know which wife or girlfriend was having it off with a sapper or some sailor from the inlet.
The butcher murmured, ‘Heads up, Ben!’
The door opened and closed; the dog raised one eye and shut it again.
Ben Turner was about to say that at quiet times like this, in the middle of the day, there was no point in opening the Snug for only two clients. The place had to be lit and heated; in wartime you had to consider these things.
It was a young naval lieutenant with an even younger Wren. The butcher nudged him, but he had remembered anyway. The girl had sometimes stopped outside the Angel in the big Wolseley staff car, either to visit the post office or to call at the garage for something. She was the one who had nearly been killed in the accident. As pretty as a picture; it was hard to believe it was the same girl. And the lieutenant, smiling but uncertain, looking round for reassurance. Turner saw the medal ribbon on his jacket. Maybe he was the one who had gone to help her? He noticed that the postman was looking up, interested. He would know.