Smith nodded. Morris said, “I thought you would.”
Smith watched him trudge away across the pave then turned and boarded Sparrow.
Late that same evening, the 9th of July, Sparrow had taken on ammunition and coal; the signs of the latter were hosed away and the rain helped, falling steadily and bringing dusk early as Sparrow slipped, moved out into the channel and headed towards the sea and her U-boat sweep off the Nieuport Bank. Smith, huddled in oilskins on her bridge, listened to the jaunty notes of Galt’s mouth-organ and watched the low, black shape of a CMB slide out from the Trystram lock ahead of them and turn seawards. The man at her wheel, also in oilskins, stood very tall in the cockpit and Smith thought it might be the American, Jack Curtis. But the light was going, the rain driving between, and the CMB hauled rapidly away and out of sight. When Sparrow’s stem lifted and dipped to the sea in the Roads there was still light to seaward, a greyness on the horizon and he could make out the low, fat bulk of the disabled Marshall Marmont where she lay at anchor with the other monitors. She was due to be towed into the dockyard for engine repairs. Garrick would see to it.
Sparrow picked her way through the shoals off Dunkerque and stole up the West Deep, a dark ship on a dark sea with the night and the rain folding her round. Smith said quietly, “Mr. Sanders.”
“Sir?”
“Eyes skinned and ears pricked. Go around and rub it in.” And Dunbar added, “Here are my keys. Unlock the small arms and issue ’em.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sanders disappeared from the bridge. Because Sparrow was sneaking into the enemy’s backyard and ever since Evans’s men in H.M. Destroyer Broke had fought hand-to-hand with the crew of a German destroyer in the Straits of Dover, small arms had been issued when action seemed likely.
Sanders’s departure made a tiny bit more room on the bridge, crowded anyway with Smith and Dunbar, Gow hanging over the wheel, the signalman, the bosun’s mate at the engine-room telegraphs, look-outs, the crew of the twelve-pounder. Sparrow’s crew was at action stations. Nieuport showed soon on the starboard bow and steadily drew abeam. Dirty night or no, they could see the town as a flickering glow against the low clouds and the sullen rumbling of the guns came to them across the sea. It fell behind as Sparrow fractionally altered course and headed farther out, running steadily, quietly through the night with only the low drum-beat of the engines.
Smith had told them where they were headed and why, that they were to hunt U-boats in the waters off Nieuport and north to Ostende and every one of them knew that ‘hunt’ was a double-edged word and Sparrow could become the prey. And they knew that there were German destroyers based at Ostende and Zeebrugge, big boats and faster than Sparrow. Sparrow’s only hope was to surprise a U-boat running on the surface because, with no reason to submerge, she could cruise faster and more economically on her diesels. But even a surfaced U-boat was hard to spot while Sparrow was a big, tall target and her smoke made her taller still.
Dunbar grumbled, “Black as the inside of your hat. More like winter than high summer.” The rain had stopped but there was a chill dampness in the air, the clouds hanging low. There would be more rain. He grumbled but he knew very well that the last thing they wanted was a fine night.
Sanders was back on the bridge. He muttered uneasily, “Couldn’t see a battleship in this, never mind a submarine.”
So it was no surprise that they almost ran her down. They were so close to her that the look-out’s yell of “Dead ahead! Boat —” formed part of a chorus.
Dunbar at the same instant rapped, “Port ten!”
And Smith: “CMB! Hold your fire!”
Sparrow’s stem swung away even as it seemed to hang over the CMB and then the destroyer swept past her. She lay only feet away and they saw a blur of faces aboard her, a man crouched behind each of the Vickers machine-guns she carried, one forward, one aft. She rocked to Sparrow’s bow-wave and then to her wash as Sparrow drew past her.
Smith said, “She’s stopped. Probably in trouble. Turn and close her.”
Sparrow continued in her turn, came around as Dunbar ordered, “Slow ahead both.” The engine-room telegraphs clanged and Sparrow slowed. They searched the darkness for the CMB, lost now, but — “Port beam, sir.” The look-out pointed and there she was, still rocking. Sparrow crept down to her.
“Stop both,” ordered Dunbar. Sparrow lay about ten feet away but drifting slowly down on the CMB. Smith saw that instead of torpedoes she carried a dinghy lashed on over the chutes. A party were already in Sparrow’s waist hanging fenders over the side to protect the CMB’s fragile hull. As the gap closed, the men forward and aft aboard her threw lines that were caught and she was drawn in alongside. It was CMB 19.
Smith peered at her, lifted the megaphone and called, “Mr. Curtis?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes, sir. Can I come aboard?”
“Yes.”
Smith slid down the ladder to the iron deck and walked aft to meet him. Curtis stank of petrol and oil and his face was smudged as if he’d drawn a dirty hand across it. He was naked except for his cotton drawers and his hair was plastered wetly to his skull. He was breathing heavily. “Sir! Am I glad to see you. We’ve fouled both our screws. Ran across a whole mess of wreckage, timber, with a trailing wire. The wire’s wrapped around and around them. Me’n the engineer, we’ve been over the side working on it but it’s nowhere near free.”
Smith said, “All right. We’ll tow you.”
“Thank you, sir, but it’s not that simple.” He hesitated, glanced around at the surrounding seamen and said, “Can I talk with you privately, sir?”
Smith blinked. “If it’s essential. But I don’t want this ship lying stopped any longer than she’s got to be. For obvious reasons.”
“Yes, sir. Only take a minute and it is essential.”
“Come on.” Smith strode quickly aft until they were clear of the party in the waist. “This will have to do.”
“Dandy, sir. Fact is, we’re on detached duty and I understand it’s Intelligence. That’s all. Our orders are to pick up a party from the beach north of Ostende. There’s a definite time and it’s getting close. We can’t make it, but I think somebody has to.” He stared at Smith. “They’ll be waiting.”
“What time?”
“Twenty minutes after midnight.”
Smith peered at his watch. It was 11.32. He snapped, “Show me on the chart,” and hurried to the chart-table abaft the first funnel.
Midshipman Lorimer was stooped under the hood of the charttable, recording their course. Smith dislodged him without ceremony and with Curtis at his side peered at the chart. Curtis picked up a pencil. Water dripped from his hair on to the chart and he swore softly and wiped at it with his hand. He used the ruler, measuring carefully and drew a neat cross on the chart.
“That’s the spot, sir. I landed them there last night.”
Smith saw it lay just south of the area of woodland at De Haan about forty miles from Dunkerque and fifteen from Sparrow now.
Curtis said, “It’s a bit tricky but it worked out right last night. The idea was we should cruise about a mile off-shore. Two lights would be shown. I was told they were to be set up by a couple of people, farmers maybe, banging lanterns in their barns so they’d be seen at sea and nowhere else. We were to get the lights in line and run in on that bearing real slow and quiet. When we were close inshore we were to wait for a signal. They tell me the Fritzes patrol the shore and we had to wait till somebody flashed an A and that meant the patrol had passed. We got the signal and landed them in the dinghy, then hauled out. The same schedule goes for tonight. The party we had to collect will flash an A when the coast is clear and then we were to take them off in the dinghy — the CMB’s too noisy to run right in. But the timing is very important. The two lights to give the bearing will only be shown for fifteen minutes. They daren’t risk any longer. So — whoever goes to make the pick-up has to be cruising on station at twenty after twelve. From then he’ll just have fifteen minutes to pick up the lights and run in. And it’s got to be done quietly. There are shore batteries at Ostende and light guns at De Haan and all down the coast and —”