Alan Evans - Ship of Force

Dunbar mused, “Unusual.” And when Smith glanced at him, “They’re usually content just to chase us off, stop us bombarding. They don’t chivvy us like that.”

Smith grunted. It was just another oddity. He had plenty to think about. He wondered about the aircraft endlessly patrolling over De Haan.

The rain came in squalls through the rest of that day and brought dusk early. As night was falling Garrick reported the monitor’s rudder and engines repaired, just as the main force passed them, undamaged, returning from their bombardment of Zeebrugge at an easy ten knots. Trist signalled from his flagshipfor-the-day, the monitor Erebus : ‘Do you require assistance?’

Smith snapped, “Reply: ‘Negative! This flotilla will cope!’” He saw the exchange of grins on the bridge.

They anchored for the night back in Dunkerque Roads, the spread line of monitors rocking together like a row of elephants, and as the whaler carried Smith from Sparrow to Marshall Marmont he reflected that now he knew what he had to deal with, to fight with. He was certain now that Trist had dumped his problem ships on him. He believed Dunbar; Trist was covering himself, and whatever went wrong in these ‘offensive actions’ would be laid at Smith’s door. So he had to make certain nothing went wrong. Easier said than done.

Victoria Baines sat on her bunk, sank her feet tenderly into a basin of hot water and sighed with voluptuous pleasure. A minute before she had seen the whaler pass with the slight, thin-faced Commander sitting erect in the stern. Now she thought, Well, he managed that all right.

There was something about this one.

Smith was up at dawn to write his reports; one for Trist and this time another for the Director of Naval Intelligence by way of Trist and this was a report on Schwertträger . When he had finished he read them through, flat statements of fact. A plain recounting of orders carried out and an equally plain record of the Kapitänleutnant’s words and Sanders’s translation. He added his commendations of Garrick and Dunbar and Lively Lady . He could not mention Victoria Baines because officially she had not been out with the flotilla.

He ate breakfast alone in his cabin then called for the pinnace and went on deck. Garrick had a party aloft, sending up a new yard and new rigging. Smith asked him, “Oiling and ammunition?”

“The ammunition comes alongside in an hour, sir. The oiler follows her.”

Smith nodded. “I’ll be back by then. Send the picket-boat in for me in an hour’s time.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” And Garrick asked, “Shore leave, sir?”

“For one watch. Two hours when you’re satisfied with the ship.” That meant half of Marshall Marmont’s crew would get two precious hours ashore in Dunkerque. The rest of her crew would have to wait their turn, in a day or a week or longer.

Smith crossed in the pinnace to Sparrow . She was preparing to enter the port to coal and take on ammunition and also to put ashore her survivors. There was weak sunshine but a stiff breeze that had now veered around to the north-east, and a chop that set the pinnace pitching. Aboard Sparrow Smith said, “I see Lord Clive is leaving us.” The twelve-inch gun monitor had already oiled and taken on ammunition and was now weighing anchor.

Smith nodded as Dunbar said, “Special operations.” And added, “She’s not the first. One by one they’re going. Wonder what’s up?”

So did Smith. Garrick’s First Lieutenant had told him of four monitors that had sailed in recent weeks with those same vague orders: ‘Special operations.’ Not a word had come back concerning any of them. Whatever the secret was, it was well-kept. As it should be. Smith said, “None of our business.”

Sparrow weighed and stood in to Dunkerque. They had a berth for her again in the Port d’Echouage opposite the shipyard. Dunbar said, “We’ll get alongside for a few hours but it’s a bit of luck if they have room for us tonight. Usually we lie out in the Roads like last night and in any sort of a sea there’s damn-all sleep for anybody.”

Smith grinned at him. One couldn’t blame Trist for everything. Dunkerque was a busy and a crowded port. He said, “There won’t be any sleep tonight, either.” Because Trist’s orders had already been issued and Sparrow was to sail at dusk to patrol the mine-net barrage across the straits.

Smith turned and saw Morris, the airman, standing in the waist and beckoned him. The Lieutenant came on to the bridge, fresh-faced and clear-eyed and Smith said, “Your swim doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.”

Morris answered cheerfully, “No, sir. And your steward chappie looked after me very well, considering.” Considering that Morris had shared the wardroom with all the other survivors. It had not been a pleasure trip. The rest of the survivors stood in the waist, with the German seaman under guard and dejected. Smith thought the man should cheer up because at least he was alive. The Kapitänleutnant lay a blanket-wrapped corpse on a stretcher. Brodie was already working on clearing up the wardroom so as to be fit for use by its usual occupants. Smith had heard his cursing as he came aboard.

Morris said hesitantly, “I’m very grateful, sir. When I woke up this morning I was thinking — it’s a big sea to search for one man and that in the dark.”

Smith smiled grimly. Morris was only alive because of the recklessness of Skipper Byers of the drifter Judy , who had paid for it with his own life. “A lot of us were lucky that night.”

“It was quite a scrap, sir.” Morris peered over the bridge screen at the scarred and dented turtleback fo’c’sle.

Smith agreed. “It was.” Then he asked, “Have you remembered anything else to add to what you told me?”

Morris shook a tousled head. “No, sir. There was just this one boat, or raft hauled up on the beach that these chaps were working on. If it was a boat it was nearly square. And they’d used a team of horses to haul it up. That’s all. Though I’m certain my observer saw something and got some photos.”

But observer and camera lay in the sea somewhere off the Nieuport Bank.

Three CMBs slipped up the channel from the sea in line ahead, passing Sparrow on her way in also, throttled right back so they ran level and low in the water. They turned in succession towards the Trystram lock, weather-beaten, hard-worked little boats and Smith saw none of them carried torpedoes — now. The chutes in their sterns were empty.

He thought: A raft? Or a square boat? There was nothing sinister in that, it was almost comic: a square boat! Maybe some blunt-bowed, square-sterned fishing boat? But why the patrol over the wood, the anti-aircraft batteries…

Morris burst out, “There’s Jack Curtis!” He yelled, “Jack! Hey, Jack!” And waved furiously. Dunbar scowled incredulously at this performance on his bridge but let it go. He stared as did Smith. A canoe was slipping out between the wide-open gates of the Trystram lock. Smith had seen pictures of canoes like that with painted braves in feathered head-dresses but Jack Curtis sat in the stern of this one and waved a paddle at Morris before sending the canoe spinning around and shooting back into the lock after the CMBs.

Morris said, “Jack commands one of those boats. American chap actually. He made that canoe himself out of ply and canvas. D’ye know him, sir?”

“We’ve met,” answered Smith.

“He comes over to the mess at St. Pol sometimes. He promised to take me out in that canoe of his. I must take him up on it. Awfully nice chap.”