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.”
Dunbar ordered, “Slow ahead both.”
Sparrow was coming up to her berth at the quay and Smith pointed, saying, “That must be your transport, Mr. Morris.”
Morris glanced across the quay at the big Rolls Royce that had come from St. Pol and returned the waves of the two wildly gesticulating young officers who stood beside it. Sparrow came alongside and tied up. Smith watched Morris walk down the brow and across the quay to have his back slapped by his friends. A cork popped and champagne frothed from a large bottle. Smith shook his head and grinned ruefully. Champagne in the forenoon! He said dryly to Dunbar, “Ah, youth! I’m going to the Commodore.”
Dunbar glanced around but there was no one in ear-shot. He said, “I was near out o’ my mind the night afore last and I’d taken drink beside. But I remember what I said and I meant it, sir.”
Smith answered, “I’ll remember it. But we’ll not talk of it again.” For it was dangerous talk.
Dunbar nodded. “No need, sir.” He watched Smith stride off along the quay, a slight figure, a little shabby and walking quickly, with that sense of urgency there always was about him. Dunbar muttered, “Three years o’ Trist but now at last —” He saw young Sanders in the waist and roared at him, “Sub! Hands to coal ship! And smile! Things are looking up!”
Smith found Trist in the long room, shuffling papers that littered his wide desk, gathering them together and stuffing them in a drawer. Smith wondered why Trist did not let his staff take the lot away to file or deal with. He suspected Trist was a man who wanted to deal with all of the paperwork, trusting nobody. The Commodore was immaculate but harassed, glancing at his watch. He seemed irritated at Smith’s arrival, snatched the reports handed to him and stuffed them in the drawer.
Smith said, “I think that report to Intelligence is urgent, sir.”
Trist stared at him. “You do, eh? What do you suggest, that I mark it, ‘Commander Smith considers this urgent’?”
Smith swallowed his anger. “Sir, I —”
But Trist had stiffened, remembering. “What was the meaning of that insolent signal?”
Smith looked back at him blankly. “Insolent?”
“You know what I mean. ‘This flotilla will cope.’”
“It wasn’t intended to be insolent, sir. It was an answer and that’s all. We could cope. And —” He hesitated, trying to put it into words. Trying to say that he wanted the flotilla to see itself as an entity with a life and spirit of its own and not just a pair of ships thrown together by words on paper –
Trist did not wait for him. “I consider it insolent and I will not brook a repetition. Is that understood?”
“Understood, sir.” Smith bit off the words.
Trist glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at his watch again then down the length of the room to the double doors. The Lieutenant who always sat at a desk outside the doors, apparently on guard, had opened them to admit a party of marines carrying the planks and trestles of a table. Trist said impatiently, “I have representatives of the Army Staff, and possibly the General himself arriving for lunch. We are to discuss future operations. Needless to say, I have promised them maximum support.”
Smith was being dismissed. He had wanted to talk to Trist about the future operations of his flotilla and tell him of Schwertträger — what there was to tell. Trist was in no mood to talk plans but Smith tried once more. “There’s just one thing, sir, and it will only take a minute.” He realised he was pleading for time and was angry again that he should have to. He controlled his voice and said patiently, “That second report, sir. I wish you would look at it and pass it on. And I’d be grateful for your opinion.” That was true enough. He would be grateful to anyone who could possibly shed light on the mystery.
“Oh, all right!” Trist took out the report, scanned it and sniffed. “I suppose it might mean something to Intelligence, if it means anything; the babbling of a man in delirium. In any event it’s their concern and not ours.” He shouted to the Lieutenant and when he came hurrying, thrust the report at him. “For the Director, Naval Intelligence — Urgent.” He looked at Smith. “Satisfied?”