Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Bliss replied cheerfully, ‘Just so long as we get there, eh?’

Sherwood thought of the two bottles of gin he had in his bag, packed alongside his instruments. That was what he needed right now. Oblivion. He recalled his feeling of disbelief when Bliss had told him about Commander Foulerton. It did not seem possible that it could happen to him. He was a genius. A quiet, unassuming man who had known more about mines than any other human being, be they magnetic or acoustic, dropped from the air, or laid by any ship which could slip through the defences.

As Bliss had been quick to point out, Foulerton had been a regular officer. But he had not mentioned that he had been a ranker, who had joined the peacetime navy as a boy, and had got there by his own sweat and intelligence. These rare characters who had climbed up to the quarterdeck the hard way were the backbone of the navy. He thought of Rob Roy’s engineer officer, |ohn Campbell, and poor old Bone with his dentures and his stomach troubles. They had to stand aside now and leave the medals to younger men, but without them the fleet would never have put to sea.

He leaned forward, as if his mind had been triggered like a time-fuse.

‘The sea. I’m sure I can smell it!’

The Wren called over her shoulder but fortunately never took her eyes from the twisting road.

‘That’s right, sir. That was Lyme Regis. We’re in Dorset now. We should be there in an hour at this rate!’

Bliss said irritably, ‘A few hours sleep then. I hope somebody has remembered to arrange our messing and accommodation.’ When Sherwood remained silent he added, ‘Well?’

Sherwood replied, ‘I shall go to the place first.’

The Wren had up to then believed that Bliss was some kind of V.I.P. Now she knew differently. The young, pale-faced lieutenant who rarely spoke or smiled was the one who counted for some reason. She had been told nothing, so it was obviously important.

Bliss said, ‘It’s up to you, of course—’

Sherwood stopped it there. ‘So it seems.’

Sherwood touched the girl’s shoulder and apologised as she-jerked with alarm.

‘Sorry.’ He pointed ahead through the filthy windscreen. ‘What’s the next place?’

She said, ‘Bridport, sir. We stop for a road-check usually, provided the army or the Home Guard haven’t all gone to the pub!’

‘I’d like to make a phone call from there.’

She seemed to sense the tension, the sudden determination in his tone. ‘Know just the spot, sir.’

Sherwood took out his wallet and felt the small notebook in the darkness. Why had he taken her telephone number? What did he think he was doing?

They^swept through a checkpoint, waved on by some vague, helmeted figures beside a sandbagged barrier.

Bliss said, ‘We could have been bloody Germans for all they know!’

The Wren was glad it was too dark for Bliss to see her grin. She knew most of the personnel who mounted these checkpoints, and few of them would care to stop one of the C-in-C’s own cars.

She exclaimed, ‘Here it is now, sir.’

Sherwood felt the car slew off the road and saw a small inn, its weathered sign swaying slightly in the chill breeze. Like a scene from Treasure Island, he thought.

Bliss said, ‘Don’t be too long.’ It sounded as if he was trying to reassert himself. ‘I’ll just go and pump the bilges while we’re here.’ He peered at his watch. ‘Why not snatch a pint? It’s still opening time, or near enough.’

Wakeford shook his head. ‘Not tonight, sir, but thanks all the same. Tomorrow, well, now, that’ll be different.’

Sherwood touched his shoulder and opened the door. Probably too close to the truth for comfort, he thought.

As the two officers left the car and separated in the darkness the Wren asked, ‘What’s it all about?’

Wakeford shrugged. ‘That’s Lieutenant Sherwood. The one who was given the George Cross, remember?’ He saw her eyes widen in the pale oval of her face. ‘He’s gone to phone someone. Probably thinks it’s his last chance.’

She looked away. ‘You make it sound like the condemned man.’

Wakeford sighed. ‘He is, in a way.’

Sherwood in the meantime had found his way into a bar which was barely furnished, with six farm labourers and two dogs the only customers.

The landlord looked at Sherwood without curiosity. His old battledress with the tarnished gold stripes on the shoulders implied he was up to something. That was nothing new along this stretch of coast. It was safer not to ask.

‘Telephone, Skipper? Roight through therr—’ His accent was as West Country as Drake.

Sherwood sat on a small stool and held his book near a ship’s lantern with an electric bulb shaped like an ancient candle. He dialled the number, then had to ask the exchange to help him. then he had a crossed line, and he thought he heard a car door slam: Bliss displaying his impatience.

Sherwood tightened his lips. Well, let him. He’s not taking the risks. A straightforward bed-and-breakfast job for him.

A man’s voice answered and Sherwood almost replaced the receiver. Then he remembered. She had said that she lived with her elderly parents.

‘Er, could I speak to, er – Rosemary, please?’

There was a lengthy pause, as if the man was thinking about it.

He said, ‘It’s a bit late, y’know!’

Sherwood felt the desperation rising like a flood.

‘I must speak with her!’

‘Now just hold on, whoever you are. My daughter’s not—’

There was a muffled sound, and he guessed the telephone had been covered by somebody’s hand.

When she spoke the line was suddenly clear. It was as if she was right here beside him.

‘Who is that?’

He tried to explain. ‘I had to speak to you. To tell you—’ He got no further.

‘Oh, Philip, where are you? I’ve been so anxious, so terribly worried. I thought you disliked me, that I’d done something—’

He said, ‘Please. Listen to me. I have to leave right now. It’s a job I must do.’ Now that he had begun he could not stop. ‘I’m not sure what’s going to happen.’ He heard her sharp intake of breath but hurried on. ‘I just wanted you to know what you did for me, how happy those days together really were.’

She said, i know. I wrote to you several times, but—’

‘They’re still following me, I expect.’ He heard the car toot its horn. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, Rosemary, you’ve had enough, but I couldn’t be so near to you without—’ He stared at the telephone, his eyes smarting. He was doing everything he had sworn not to do.

She said, ‘Don’t hang up. Whatever it is, wherever you have to go, please take care, for me if nothing else -1 must see you again, Philip.’ She waited and added, ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ One word, and he could barely get it out.

‘I shall never forget either—’

Sherwood murmured, ‘Goodbye, darling girl.’ He put down the telephone and two pennies beside it before walking back through the bar. They were all still in their places. Only one of the dogs had moved.

He climbed into the car without speaking.

Wakeford asked quietly, ‘All right, sir?’

Sherwood watched the bushes gathering speed again. ‘Yes. Now it is.’

He did not speak again until the car rolled to a halt and the sea opened up to greet him like an old enemy.

It took Sherwood only a few minutes to gather all the facts he needed. The mine’s parachute had snared itself on some sunken boat, a local fisherman’s apparently. The wind was still without much power, but there was a hint of more to come, snow too.

In the back of an army fifteen-hundredweight Chevrolet, its red-painted wings marking it as one of the Bomb Disposal Squad, Sherwood studied the map, his breath mingling with that of two sapper officers, and a lieutenant from the naval base at Portland.