Trist grumbled, “I’m getting reports that the men of Marshall Marmont and Sparrow are starting to regard themselves as an élite, almost as a separate Squadron.”
Smith asked, “Reports from what source, sir?”
“That’s my affair.”
“The reports are incorrect. I believe the men have done well and I have told them so. That’s all.”
“I hope so,” Trist shot a glance at Smith and it was nervous. “Those ships are part of the Dunkerque Squadron under my command and they should not forget it. Nobody should forget it.”
Smith did not have an answer to that. He was bewildered. Did Trist seriously believe that Smith was trying to undermine his authority?
But Trist seemed to have finished with that topic. His eyes were on the chart again and he muttered, “They’re badgering us again about offensive action against U-boats. They want to know why you haven’t got more U-boats as you did that first one.”
So Trist’s boast about his idea of an anti-submarine flotilla working, had rebounded. Smith said, “We were lucky that night.”
“You sank her just seaward of the Nieuport Bank. They may still be slipping through there.”
Smith admitted, “It’s possible, but —”
Trist pushed on, not listening, obviously following a preconceived train of thought, “It is your considered opinion that operations in those waters are practicable?”
Smith wondered at the point of the question. The Navy did operate in those waters, laying mines for one thing. But — “Yes, sir. I think —”
Trist said, “Very well. I’m prepared to authorise you to carry out a limited operation with the vessels at your disposal. You are to make a sweep along the coast by night to seek out and destroy U-boats entering or leaving their bases or trying to slip around the end of the mine-net barrage like the other one.”
Smith said, “You mean — just Sparrow, sir?”
“Well, Marshall Marmont is hardly suitable.” Trist’s sarcasm brought a chuckle from one or two of his staff but the rest stayed silent.
Smith saw it. Trist was getting the best of both worlds. He was sending Smith and Sparrow on a sweep against U-boats that he could justify by the demands made on him for offensive action and by the precedent set by Sparrow when she sank a U-boat in those waters. Moreover, whatever went wrong he could lay at Smith’s door because he had given his ‘considered opinion’ that operations in those waters were practicable. Smith wondered if that was why Trist had the Staff there, why some looked unhappy; were they there to bear witness? He knew he could hedge and put his objections in writing: that the chances of Sparrow sighting a U-boat, let alone sinking one, were remote; that the chances of her meeting a big destroyer that would blow her out of the water, were not.
He knew that if he did object Trist might seize on the chance to have him relieved; his little flotilla would cease to exist as such. And Trist might well order Dunbar to make the sweep instead, and when Dunbar objected as he undoubtedly would, then Trist would start using words like ‘disloyalty’ and ‘collusion’.
Smith was getting to know Trist. There would be an unholy row and an inquiry that would uncover the truth about Dunbar being unfit to take his ship to sea because of drunkenness…‘Commander Smith! Did Lieutenant Dunbar, in your presence, make comments critical of your superior officer, Commodore Trist?’ It would be bad for the flotilla, the Dunkerque Squadron, the entire Dover Patrol.
He thought the war had gone on too long for Trist, who was worried, cautious, trying to please his superiors and yet risk nothing. Or risk as little as possible: one small, old TBD with a captain Trist considered dumbly insolent and a Commander he regarded as a threat to his authority?
Smith swallowed the bitter pill because he had to. “I’ll carry out the sweep, sir.”
He was at the door when Trist called, “What do you think of Dunbar, now you’ve had him under your eye for a time?”
Smith stood there stiffly, resenting this discussion of another officer before the listening Staff. He answered, “A good officer, sir.”
Trist pursed his lips. “Well, he’s your responsibility.” He had nailed that down in front of witnesses, too, but Smith did not care. He would answer for Dunbar and Sparrow, and Garrick and Marshall Marmont for that matter. Trist said, “I suggest you keep a close eye on him. You know my views on discipline. I will break any officer who falls short in that respect.” And then he smiled, “Good luck.”
Smith believed he meant it, really wished them luck, hoped Sparrow would come home with another sunken U-boat to report and so take the pressure off Trist, for a little while at least. “Thank you, sir.” But as Smith strode from the big house into the air and breathed it deeply he thought, We’ll need luck but not Trist’s luck. That would not take them far. Trist had stated his intention, if obliquely: given the least excuse he would break Smith.
As he walked the last yards back towards Sparrow where she lay alongside the quay he looked beyond her and froze, seeing Hacker. The Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff stood a hundred yards away by the Trystram lock, but despite the light rain and the ground mist that wisped in tendrils between, there was no mistaking that tall figure. Hacker was looking out over the channel with a hand raised, beckoning. Smith saw the canoe out there with the American, Curtis and Morris the airman aboard. Curtis paddled the canoe into the side of the quay at Hacker’s urging and climbed up to talk with the soldier.
Morris climbed up also, but walked along the quay towards Smith, who tried to put Hacker — and Eleanor Hurst — out of his mind. Nevertheless, he wondered absently what a ‘movements brass-hat’ could want with the lanky commander of a Coastal Motor Boat. Then Morris said glumly, “Filthy weather, sir.”
Smith smiled as he returned the salute. He liked Morris. “It keeps you on the ground. I’d have thought you liked that.”
“Normally I would,” Morris admitted frankly. “But I was hoping to have another go at flying over De Haan. The Squadron Commander won’t have it, of course. He says we’ve had too many losses trying it and got nothing out of it except my report. And that wasn’t much good.”
“So?”
Morris grinned sheepishly, “Well, to tell the truth, sir, he’s going into hospital in a couple of days — some shrapnel that got left in his knee they want to dig out — and as soon as he does go, and if the Army asks for a flight again, then I’ll ask the second in-command to send me. I think he will, provided the weather is fit for flying. But nobody’s flown for the past two days.” He saluted. “I’ll be on my way, sir.”
He turned, but Smith called after him, “You’re quite determined. Why?”
Morris paused with rain dripping from the peak of his cap as he stared down at his boots. He had borrowed someone’s trench-coat and it was too big for him. He said, “Because there must be something there. Bill, my observer, saw something. So — I suppose it’s for him. If I don’t do it then he was just — wasted.” He looked up at Smith. “D’ye see, sir?”