Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (38 page)

Sister Titmuss had put it differently. ‘
Broken
heart, if you ask me. He had nothing else.’

He shut it from his mind. The past was the past, and better kept that way.

‘Lieutenant-Commander Foley here?’

Foley turned, off guard. It had happened before and he had been caught unprepared, as if it was someone else. He had caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window on his way here, the new rank on the sleeves, two and a half stripes. Like an awakening.

‘That’s me!’ He saw the boat builder hide a grin.

The workman who was clinging to one of the slipway’s trestles called, ‘Phone for you, sir! Mister Tregear’s office!’

Tregear said, ‘No peace for you, not even here!’ He turned away to shout something at one of his men who was trailing a length of wire through a puddle of oil.

Foley smiled. ‘Or for you, either!’

He climbed up from the slipway and felt the noise and confusion from the rest of the yard closing in on him. To think that when he had found adventure on that holiday here in Falmouth, all those years ago, his sister Claire had not even been born. Now she was in love with her Polish pilot; an
affair
, as his mother had dismissed it. Perhaps she did not remember her own war, the separation and the fear.

He picked up the telephone. On the wall opposite him someone had written a few numbers, with an added warning.
Not on Wednesdays. Her old man is off work then!

‘Lieutenant-Commander Foley?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Speaking.’

She said, ‘I love you.’

He covered his ear with his hand, to exclude the noise, everybody else.

‘Margot! It’s you, darling! Have you been waiting long?’

‘Ssh. Listen, we might get cut off.’ He heard her quick intake of breath. ‘
Again
. I had to use a lot of flannel to get through to you as it was!’ She was either laughing or crying.

She said, ‘My friend Toni, you know, the one who met your Number One . . .’ and hesitated as if her confidence had suddenly left her.

‘Tell me, Margot. Don’t stop. I’ve missed you so much.’

She said, ‘I don’t know what you must think, Chris. But Toni has a friend in Cornwall. A place not far from you, a village called Philleigh. Her friend owns a cottage there.’ She was fainter now, the line or her breathing, he could only guess. ‘I’ve got a few days’ leave. I could see you, be with you, if you can get away . . .’

He said, ‘I’ll be there, no matter what. You don’t know what this means to me.’

‘I’ll call you, darling Chris. I think we’re going to be cut off. I wanted to tell you how much I need to be with you, and I thought . . .’

This time she was cut off.

Foley replaced the receiver very gently.

Nothing must spoil it. He opened the door, the noise crowding in again.

Not even the bloody war.

Tregear said, ‘I’ve got some more details to show you,’ and watched him curiously. A young man who had known a lot of danger. The kind you read about in the papers, or heard about on the news. One who had known suffering.

He opened his file with elaborate care. It was always the same, even after all these years. You build something, give it life, watch it sail away.

He looked at the young officer beside him. Going into
heaven alone knew what. He seemed not to have a care in the whole world.

Foley grinned at him. ‘Fire away, then! I’m all attention!’

He could still hear her voice.

Paymaster Lieutenant-Commander Philip Brayshaw leaned back in his chair and regarded his friend with concern. He had removed his jacket and had opened a window behind the blackout shutters to admit some cold air. There was thin frost on the puddles outside his office but the heating had gone berserk again, and the radiator pipes hummed with heat, as if they were about to explode.

He said, ‘I’ll shoot that damned stoker if he can’t get his bloody boiler to behave!’

He watched Masters filling his pipe, saddened, but pleased that he had come to his office to share his thoughts.

Masters said, ‘I’ve heard they’re going to reduce the personnel and facilities here. Quite soon, that was the buzz.’

Brayshaw nodded. ‘Supposed to be confidential, but signals so intended are usually the easiest to intercept.’ He became serious again. ‘And I hear that you’re leaving us shortly. Not permanently, I hope?’ He held up his hand before Masters could speak. ‘I
know
, it’s all hush-hush. I should be used to it!’

Masters tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. He had been back to Weymouth again, to the old boarding school, and had gone right through the translated
procedures for the German midget submarine until he thought he knew them by heart. The two engineers had been pleasantly surprised at his grasp of the details. They were, in fact, simple enough.

Bumper Fawcett had been onto him again, too. A temporary replacement would be coming direct from H.M.S.
Vernon
. All very secret, of course. Perhaps Fawcett had already written him off.
Were a submariner.
He should know.

He clicked his lighter and hesitated. It was still not too late. Things had moved even faster than he expected.
It was still not too late.
He turned the lighter over in his hand, and remembered her giving it to him in the restaurant. Suppose she had taken part in some secret operation? He clicked the lighter again and watched the flame. She may have been taken by the enemy. It was different for Wykes and his staff. They had the responsibility, but none of the terrible risks.

Tomorrow he would go to London. Like the last time, but with a difference.

He said, ‘If I screw things up, Philip.’ Their eyes met through the drifting smoke. ‘That package in your safe . . .’

‘Leave it with me.’ No names, no promises. Why they had always got along so well. Always . . . it was only a matter of weeks, not even three months yet. The navy’s way.

He thought of Chris Foley, probably envied by those who scarcely knew him. Promotion and a new command. A veteran at twenty-five. Perhaps he could share
his hopes and his fears with his girl, if she had decided to join him.

They heard the clanging sounds of a shovel from the cellar. The stoker was making another attempt to control his boiler.

Brayshaw said, ‘Soon, then?’

‘I’ll be seeing the intelligence people before Friday. After that, it’s anybody’s guess.’

Secrecy was everything, and yet how many people knew about the proposed operation? Starting with the ‘catch’ being towed into Portland, then transferred to a temporary hiding place in the old school swimming bath. More men would be needed to hoist it on a special crane through the roof of the building. Then the R.A.F. would take over, with one of their giant lorries known as ‘Queen Marys’, normally used for transporting large aircraft, bombers, when there was no other way to move them. People would talk.
D’you know what we had to shift today, dear?
He forced himself to relax. It happened all the time. The planners were used to it.

And it mattered.
All the work, the sacrifice and unstinting courage of the countermeasures team would count for nothing if this new and easily operated weapon could be used to destroy all hope of invasion.

He did not need reminding of his own first beast, and those which had quickly followed, when every move and breath felt like the last one on earth. As it had been for so many of the people he had known.

How much worse for the overloaded infantryman, trying to wade and struggle ashore at a place of which he had never heard. The moment they had all been waiting
for, dreading, but still a part of it. And then being killed, gutted by the unseen mines, with landing craft blown to pieces within sight of victory.

It mattered, all right.

‘And if it goes wrong . . .’ He did not finish; he did not need to. Brayshaw knew all about him. His father had been killed at sea during the Spanish Civil War; an accident, they said. His mother had died soon afterwards. She had never really come to terms with his death.

Apart from his uncle, an ex-commander who had transferred to the Royal Indian Navy and had chosen to remain out there when the war had started, there was nobody else. He was reminded of the young torpedoman, Downie. Perhaps it was why he had felt so sorry for him. Responsible. They had something in common.

Brayshaw said, ‘Who knows, David, you may be offered a seagoing command after this job.’

Masters thought of the moment when he had climbed into the cockpit of the midget submarine. Wrongly named, in any case; it remained at the same depth all the time. A strange sensation, but how different from the real thing, out in the open sea.
It was still not too late.
A seagoing command. It would be the loneliest of all time. As first lieutenant of another T-Class submarine, before he had been given
Tornado
, he had taken part in several attacks on enemy shipping, mostly off the coast of France and down into Biscay. Moments of suspense, chilling tension when the enemy’s sonar had tapped along the hull like Blind Pew’s stick, and wild excitement at any successful attack, a blurred glimpse
of a ship in the crosswires, going down, and the sounds of metal tearing apart under the waves. A ship dying. But they had all been together; it was their strength. It was not so long ago that he had been unable to think about it, remember it. There was always
Tornado
.

Brayshaw said, ‘The Old Man’s moving on too, did you know?’

Masters tapped out his pipe. He did not remember smoking it. ‘Another buzz.’

‘Getting a barracks appointment. Chatham, I think, God help him.’

‘What about you?’

He shrugged. ‘Another captain will come along. He’ll need someone who knows about misinterpreting signals, and where the paper clips are stowed. I’ll survive.’

It was time to go. Tomorrow, London. At least it would be a different hotel, otherwise he would always have been looking. Hoping. He stood up.
He still would.

He thrust out his hand and smiled. ‘Like the song, Philip. I’ll be seeing you.’

Brayshaw stood staring at the closed door, for how long he did not recall. He did not know the extent of Masters’ orders; it was better that way. But Rear-Admiral Fawcett had been like a bear with a sore head since
it
had happened, and there had been Top Secret signals flying back and forth, until one from the First Sea Lord himself had killed the speculation stone dead.

He glanced at the safe and thought about the little package, and the girl who might never see it again.

Masters was quite alone, and when it came down to
brass tacks, his was the only decision which would mean success or disaster, life or death.

He sighed. Once before, he had seen envy on Masters’ face. But now he knew what it felt like for himself.

He picked up a shovel from a fire-prevention bucket and used it to hammer the radiator until the banging in the cellar stopped.

He murmured under his breath, ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

True to his word, Gilbert Tregear had his latest creation afloat and alongside the pier without fuss or ceremony. A new keel would be laid down before another week had passed, and work begin all over again.

Builders and mechanics became fewer, and naval uniforms took over.

Chris Foley was aboard early on this particular morning. It was not just another hull, not any more. Gear was properly stowed, guns cleaned and trained fore and aft, all lines flaked down. Even the new paint was dry and had lost its smell. The hull had suddenly become a naval vessel in her own right. Almost.

She even felt different in the water, he thought. Nearly a hundred tons of her despite her rakish appearance; he could compare the motion with 366’s livelier behaviour even in harbour.

And this was the day. Once again he glanced along the length of his new command, at the men he would
soon know as well as they would him. A few older hands this time, with good conduct badges to prove it; badges for ‘undiscovered crime’, they called them. And their collars were scrubbed pale to distinguish them from most of their small company, whose collars were still dark blue like their best uniforms, which they were all wearing today. Foley had done all the necessary signing to make the handover official, and tried to remain composed, outwardly at least, while Tregear and the officer from the contracts department had countersigned each document.

‘Standing by, sir!’

Foley heard the first lieutenant acknowledge the shout.

Dougie Bass had arrived in Falmouth the previous evening. Even he had been unable to hide his surprise at the speed with which things had moved after his request for a transfer.

Must ’ave influence in ’igh places, sir!
And he was here, on this special day. No longer a killick coxswain but a petty officer now, with the crown and crossed anchors on his sleeve to prove it. As an acting P.O. until his new rate was confirmed he still wore his seaman’s square rig.

They had had a drink together and Bass had confided, ‘Never thought I’d leave the old girl, sir. But then, when you left, I asked meself, ’ow will ’e manage without me?’ As ever, he knew exactly just how far he could go.

Kidd saluted. ‘Ready, sir.’ His strong features were expressionless. Perhaps thinking she might have been his own command? The sea was his life. This might be his last chance.

Foley looked over his shoulder and saw a rating right up in the bows, the Jack carefully folded over his arm, the halliards ready and in place. Aft, another seaman was at the staff, a brand-new White Ensign clipped into position. Two leading hands stood to one side, their silver calls raised, moistened on their lips to prevent any last-second discord.

He saw that a crowd had gathered on the shore, as close as they dared to Tregear and the officer from the contracts department. There was also a full commander who had come from Plymouth to represent the admiral. Yard workers, who had seen it all before, some women from the canteen, three small boys who must belong to somebody. And right there by the office where he had taken her call was Margot, the only woman in uniform here today. When he had left her it had still been dark, and he had hated to let her go.
You ought to be right there, beside me.