Figures passed this way and that, and he saw the S.B.A. gently putting a dressing on a man’s face. There was a stench of burned oil, of vomit, of survival.
The thing was already alongside the quarterdeck, held clear by some spare fenders which Noakes must have been saving for his own part of the ship. It looked very much like a torpedo, except now that it was just. below his feet, Drummond could see it contained a small perspex dome, rather like the ones they used to cover pies and sandwiches in railway buffets.
Noakes flashed his torch carefully along the rounded shape as the hastily rigged tackles took the strain.
Drummond looked at the dome again. It contained a staring, petrified face, the head of which was covered by a sort of rubber helmet.
He said quietly, “Midget submarine. No wonder we got no contact.”
“Hoist away!” Noakes stood back as the seamen laid on to the tackles. “Take up the slack!”
As the strange, torpedo-shaped cylinder rose above deck level it tilted to Warlock’s swaying motion. Inside the little dome the helmeted head lolled, and Drummond saw water slopping from its mouth.
Noakes muttered, ‘Rum do, sir.”
“Yes.” Behind him he heard a man scream with sudden agony. “I only hope it’s worth all this.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. ” A marine sergeant held open the door. “They are waiting for you now.”
Beaumont threw his cigarette into a white-painted tin and snapped, “About bloody time!”
Drummond followed him from the tiled waiting room and into a long passageway. His body felt chilled to the bone, although whether it was the actual building or the fact he had hardly snatched more than two consecutive hours’ sleep for six days, he was not sure.
Warlock had tied-up in Falmouth that afternoon, and he had been surprised at the reception committee which had swamped the upper deck, whisking away their strange capture on a carefully disguised trailer, with a full escort of marine and military police.
Drummond had waited aboard to see the decoy’s survivors safely into the waiting ambulances, a small, silent procession of bandaged, limping men, the less fortunate being carried on stretchers. The man who had had most of his face burned away had not survived after all.
Drummond thought of Frank, the accusation in Helen’s eyes. Perhaps it was just as well that one so mutilated should have been saved the embarrassment of living.
The immediate aftermath of their attempt to lure the spy-ship into betraying itself, the horror of the two burning vessels, and the totally unexpected discovery of the midget submarine had been further livened by an air attack as they had altered course for the last approach to Falmouth.
A German bomber had come across them almost by accident, it seemed. The pilot had probably been making a quick hit-andrun raid along the coastline, when diving out of low cloud had sighted Warlock and the other three destroyers immediately in his path.
At any other time, and especially with a ship’s company comprising largely of new and inexperienced hands, it could have been a disaster. It was a known fact that many sinkings were caused on the way home after a mission or patrol, with gun crews thinking more of wives and girl friends than of watching the sea and sky around them.
Perhaps Warlock’s company were still shocked, still smouldering at seeing the nearness of death, at having the gasping, burned survivors living amongst them for the passage back to Falmouth. Whatever it was, Drummond had been surprised at the ferocity of the barrage from pom-poms and Oerlikons, the accuracy of the very first time which his new company had fought together in earnest.
They might have clipped the German’s wings, or equally they might have missed him altogether. That did not matter. Just seeing the bomber speeding away within feet of the sea, pursued by occasional shots from the other destroyers’ main armament, had been something like a tonic.
Beaumont had gone ashore immediately, having been picked up on the jetty by an imposing Humber staff car. That, Drummond had thought, was the end of it. He had gone around the ship, speaking with the men who had suffered burns when Warlock had grappled with the blazing decoy, examining the damage, telling Sheridan his plans for repainting the blackened scar along the starboard side of the forecastle.
He knew now that Vaughan, the doctor, had been right when he had insisted, “You should be resting, sir. It seems to me, you’ve done far too much of this sort of thing.”
Vaughan was a strange fish, he thought. Distant, very cool. Impossible to measure. Inexperienced or not, he had proved he was good at his work. The fact that only one of his charges had died spoke volumes. He had also been very right about Drummond.
At the end of his inspection he had been about to go aft for a bath and change of clothing, when a messenger had hurried aboard with a summons to the local mortuary, which had apparently been commandeered by the military.
Now, as he followed Beaumont beneath one enamel-shaded lamp after another, he was aware that the other man was none too pleased at being kept at arm’s-length while experts examined their catch.
“Bloody eggheads! What do they know of new weapons?”
It was an illogical comment, but Drummond could appreciate his feelings.
The marine threw open a door and they walked into what had once been the room where post-mortems were carried out. In the centre, propped on stout trestles, the midget submarine looked even larger in this confined space. Close by, naked under powerful lights, lay the corpse of its luckless commander. On another table, his rubber suit, helmet and various pieces of equipment were displayed in neat rows, like exhibits in a museum. There was a strong stench of disinfectant, which refused to merge with the other smells of oil and death.
There were about two dozen people present. Some in army battledress, and several naval officers of various ranks and ages. Two grave-eyed men in white coats were walking around the miniature submarine, followed at a discreet distance by a plainlooking girl in A.T.S. uniform who was taking down notes in shorthand.
The taller of the two white coats said, “Ah, here you are then.”
He shook hands warmly with Beaumont and nodded to Drummond. Across the room Drummond saw himself in a mirror, above which were the words, Wash your hands afterwards. Afterwards.
No wonder the man in the white coat had all but ignored him. Once more, Beaumont’s elegant appearance had made him look like another survivor.
“Please find yourselves some seats.”
The white coat was obviously important, and all the people in the room were sitting down in seconds. The girl sat, with legs crossed, her back against the table within inches of the corpse, her face completely expressionless, even bored.
“This must all be kept as top secret, naturally.” The white coat darted a searching glance around the room. “It is a great find. A discovery which will certainly disturb a few brains in Whitehall.”
“Didn’t know there were any!”
The second white coat was obviously the light relief, Drummond thought wearily. Several people laughed.
“To continue. We know that there has been quite a deal of success with two-man torpedoes in the past, by us, and, of course, the Italians. The ‘chariots,’ however, differ greatly from this.” He paused to lay his hand on the black metal. “Inasmuch as they were used to carry a warhead, which could then be attached to an anchored vessel’s bilge keel or other underwater protrusion, inside an enemy’s harbour. A time fuse would be set, and the remaining part of the chariot would carry the two, er, riders back to a rendezvous with a conventional submarine.”
Several people shuffled their feet, and when Drummond looked at Beaumont he saw that he was sitting exactly upright, fingers tucked between his reefer buttons. He could have been thinking about anything.