She walked on, crossed two locks and the fish-market and headed for the Rue de la Panne. Where it opened on to the quay was a small bar called Le Coq. Victoria was less than enthusiastic about the name but she had found the staff courteous and respectful and it was comfortable, though now the windows were shuttered and the door closed because of the black-out. She paused outside the door to shake the rain from her umbrella and to unpin her blue-ribbon badge of total abstinence from her coat lapel and put it carefully into her bag. A little of what you fancy did you good and what the ladies of Kent didn’t see wouldn’t hurt them. Besides, they didn’t have to take a tug to sea. She peered back along the quay at a gangling RNVR figure striding long-legged towards her, recognised Jack Curtis and waved the umbrella at him, then entered Le Coq.
“Good evening, M’sieur Jacques. Two large cognacs, please. Mister Curtis will be here directly.” And she settled behind her usual table opposite the door, sitting straight-backed as she had been taught with her hands in her lap, but surreptitiously easing the shoes from her feet.
She watched the door for Jack Curtis and thought absently that there’d been a lot of pinnaces and boats below the fish-market and then remembered that Commodore Trist would be giving his orders and the boats would have brought the officers. Trist. She sniffed. Bloody man? Bloody old woman! Then she boomed, “Ah! Jack!”
Trist’s headquarters was in a big house in the Parc de la Marine. Trist’s office was in a long, spacious room with tall windows that must once have been a ballroom or banqueting hall. There was a scattering of chairs around the walls but the highly polished floor was empty except for Trist’s big desk and the highbacked chair behind it. He received his callers there, rising straight and tall, impressive. The wall behind his desk held a huge chart of the Channel and the North Sea. Smith thought uneasily that the whole setting was designed for effect. The long stretch of floor, the big, empty desk, the vast spread of the chart — why behind him, where he couldn’t see the damn thing? Now it was evening, the curtains drawn across the tall windows, but there were only lights at the end of the room where Trist conducted his briefing like an actor on a stage before the little group of officers seated in a semi-circle around the chart. Smith wondered again if it was all arranged for effect — the thought came then: mere window-dressing like his flotilla.
Trist looked around at the assembled officers. He stood below the big chart holding a long pointer that he tapped in the palm of one hand and he looked very much the schoolmaster. His Flag-Lieutenant stood attentively by the chart, a thick file of instructions under one arm. Trist summed up: “So there you are, gentlemen. The main force under my command will fire on Zeebrugge while Commander Smith and his — flotilla, attends to Ostende. The tides are right and the weather forecast is — hopeful. There’s nothing we haven’t done before, but bombardment of these ports has driven the U-boats inland up the canals to Bruges and so hindered their operations.” He smiled coldly at Smith. “Offensive action is nothing new to this command.”
Smith did not respond.
Trist still watched him. “Questions, anyone?”
No one spoke.
“Comments?” And when still no one spoke: “Surely our new boy has some bright light from the world outside to shed on our little struggle here!” It was said jokingly but there was an acid edge to it. The Flag-Lieutenant smiled.
Smith’s face twitched and Garrick sitting beside him stirred uneasily. Trist’s eye was on them. Smith said reluctantly, “Bombardments help, sir, but they don’t stop the U-boats, only make it harder for them. It’s just more difficult and takes longer for them to make the passage to the sea. They still get out.”
Trist snapped, “Where the patrols are waiting!” And when Smith was silent, “Well?”
The schoolmaster again — ‘speak up, boy!’ But Trist seemed an uneasy schoolmaster, uncertain — wanting to demonstrate his authority as if unsure of it? Smith answered, “A vessel on patrol finds it difficult to catch a U-boat. And so does a blockading vessel. In both cases the ship is looking for a U-boat that could be under the sea and hunting her.” Trist was red in the face now but Smith pushed on. He might as well speak all of his mind and get it over with. “And blocking the entrance to a port is difficult if not impossible. A ship sunk in the entrance might stop a destroyer or cruiser getting out but a U-boat on the surface draws a lot less water and will get around the obstruction. No, sir. Since you asked my opinion, convoys I think are the —”
“Convoys!” Trist chuckled, seeming relieved. “We have a prophet of the convoy faith among us, gentlemen.” He smiled tightly at Smith, confident now. “Convoys served in the days of sail but this is a modern war and the U-boat is a modern weapon. A convoy puts all your eggs into one basket. What a risk! Suppose a U-boat comes on a convoy of twenty ships, twenty fat targets? She’d wreak havoc!”
Smith thought the schoolmaster was trotting out phrases he had learnt from another, determined to play safe, take not a step beyond the rigid letter of his instructions. Smith said doggedly, “I don’t believe that. It can be a well-escorted basket. If the same number of escorts patrol seaways they have thousands of square miles to try to protect and the U-boats pick off the merchantmen as they like.”
And Garrick put in, “I agree, sir.”
Trist looked at him, sniffed. “You would, of course, you’re a disciple. I’ve explained to Commander Smith the arguments against convoy, that it is too great a risk. However, the decision to be taken is not ours. We simply do our duty as best we can. But I respect your loyalty although in this case it is misplaced! And talking of loyalty —” His eyes slid back to Smith. “I do not see Mr Dunbar. Is there any good reason for his absence?”
Smith had no answer. “I don’t know, sir.”
“I see.” Trist smacked the pointer into the palm of his hand. “Well. Dunbar is your affair.” He said it with dislike. “See to it, please.”
It was a rap across the knuckles for Smith before the other officers and he stared woodenly at the chart as Trist said, “Very well, gentlemen — until we sail.”
Smith did not speak as he walked rapidly down to where Marshall Marmont’s pinnace lay. Garrick strode along gloomily at his elbow. He was not an over-sensitive or imaginative man but it was clear to him that Trist had his knife into Dunbar and Smith. And now he himself was classed as a ‘disciple’. He said savagely, “Damn it to hell!”
Smith glanced across at him. Poor old Garrick. Promoted and given a command but all of it turned sour. He halted on the quay as a door opened to show a lighted bar and a table opposite the door where a man sprawled, head on his arms that were spread on the table. His naval cap rested by his head. The door closed and it was as if an eye had opened then shut. Smith was not sure, but was that Sanders, the young Sub-Lieutenant from Sparrow?
He hesitated, thinking about Sparrow — and Dunbar, then said to Garrick, “You go on. I want to walk around to Sparrow. You might take me off in about twenty minutes or so.” He watched Garrick stride away and then turned again to the bar, crossed to its door and entered. As he walked the length of the room, threading between the tables, he put his cap under his arm. He had seen Sanders only once but a glance now told him this sprawled Sub-Lieutenant was not Sanders, who was regular Navy. This man looked to be taller and the thin gold ring on his cuff was the wavy one of the RNVR. Opposite him and facing out on to the room sat a stiff-backed, red-faced old lady. She watched Smith approach and her gaze was truculent.