Even as he spoke he could picture it, or most of it anyway. He had been at the second battle of Narvik at the start of the war. When the British were merely prolonging what could only end in retreat. But it had been a great moment. The battleship Warspite, like a pale grey berg against the sides of the fjord, the throwback from her great guns rendering speech and thought almost impossible. And the destroyers, dashing in around her like maddened terriers. But that had been three years back. In war that was an eternity.
“The lot. ” Beaumont took a long sip at his glass. “Won’t be easy, but it can be done.” He lowered the glass, his face suddenly grim. “It will be done, by God!”
“You want my opinion, sir?”
“Not necessarily.” Beaumont smiled, but his eyes did not flicker. “Shoot.”
“We’d never get the scheme off the ground. Admiral Brooks said that to give maximum help to the Russians and pave the way for our invasion of Europe we’d have to have a crack at the major German warships along the Norwegian coast. By the time the autumn comes the pace will have slowed, the Germans will be up and fighting-fit all over again. It’ll be too late for us, or any other force, to help.”
“I agree entirely, old chap.” He held the bottle above the glasses. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. In fact, I said much the same to Nick Brooks. Which is why”-he looked steadily into Drummond’s eyes—“we’re not waiting at all. ” He could not hide his excitement. “We’re going to prepare for the attack as soon as we get back!”
Drummond dragged his pipe from his pocket and held it with both hands. It helped to steady him.
“In bad weather it would be a less than fifty-fifty chance.” He glanced at the sky, remembering the great, unbroken swells in the far north, the bombers coming out of an Arctic sun. The convoys must have looked like helpless insects pinned down to await their fate. He continued in the same flat voice, “But at this time of year it would be suicide.”
Beaumont said dryly, “Thanks for your encouragement. But I’d rather have your attitude than the stupid buggers who agree with everything I say.” He consulted his watch. “Better get going. Lot to do.”
He relented slightly and laid one hand on Drummond’s shoulder.
“Not to worry too much. Nick Brooks has fingers in all sorts of pies. If he says he is going to back this operation, then back it he will. Right down the line.”
Drummond held a match above the pipe and watched the smoke floating above the hedgerow. It had taken less than a few minutes, and yet he could accept it. It must be like that when you are condemned to death, he thought. He shook himself with sudden anger. There was far more at stake than his own uncertainty.
He said abruptly, “If it came off, it’d be the biggest raid of all time.”
Beaumont smiled gravely. “That’s more like it. The old destroyer spirit. Bash on regardless!”
Drummond followed him towards the car where the marine was repacking the glasses and canvas chairs. As he climbed into the rear seat he paused and looked back at the little clearing by the hedgerow. A bird was hopping in the lush grass, probably enjoying some fragment of smoked salmon sandwich. There was nothing at all to show any human had been there, and the realisation disturbed him almost more than Beaumont’s crazy plan.
Was that how it went? Not even a shadow to remind others you had once been here.
Beaumont settled back in the seat and remarked casually, “After this little lot’s over and done with, I suggest you take a spot of leave. I hadn’t realised how much strain you’d been under.”
“I’m all right.” He shrugged. “As much as anyone.”
The car jolted off the grass verge and fell in behind a lorry full of singing airmen. He looked back again but the hedge hid even the two oaks from view. Beaumont was already asleep, his pale manicured fingers interlaced across his stomach. He wore an expression of complete peace, like a man who has just come face to face with truth for the first time.
Drummond relaxed and stared at the swaying lorry ahead of the staff car. Here we go again. Or, as Beaumont had said, right down the line.
Leading Writer Pickerell removed the last folder and said, “That’s the lot, sir. I’ve put the other signals over here.”
Drummond leafed through the clip. He had seen all the important ones as soon as he had come aboard, but there had been nothing, secret or otherwise, which bore any relationship to either Beaumont’s battle plan or the dead German in the Falmouth mortuary. Back. aboard his own ship, with all of Warlock’s familiar smells and sounds around him, it was hard even to believe that all the rest had happened. Brooks, the Savoy, Beaumont and his smoked salmon. He sighed and then held one signal flimsy away from the rest.
“What’s all this about?”
Pickerell leaned forward from the waist. The schoolmaster again, checking somebody’s essay.
“Ordinary Seaman Davis, sir. The one who went adrift before we sailed.”
Drummond stared at him. “I know that. But it says here that he’s in custody, awaiting escort, etc., for desertion. ” He paused, feeling the same unreasoning anger again. “Well?”
Pickerell smiled thinly. “First lieutenant handled it, sir. The shore patrol picked up Davis near his home in Gillingham. He was sent here direct, in view of our, er, special orders.” He sucked his teeth.
“All right, Pickerell. ” Drummond sighed. The leading writer knew well enough, but it was out of his province. “Who was O.O.D. when this rating was brought aboard?” He lifted his pad. “Oh, I see it was Number One.”
Pickerell watched a point somewhere above Drummond’s left shoulder.
“Well, as it happens, no, sir. That is, Sub-lieutenant Tyson was acting, so to speak.”
“Yes. I see.” He looked at the bulkhead clock. “Ring for Owles.”
The door opened. “Ah, sir.” Owles beamed at him with obvious pleasure. “You’re back then, sir. Good leaf?”
“I wasn’t on-” He shook his head. “Never mind. Get me a large drink, and find the first lieutenant.”
Pickerell said, “I think he’s across in Waxwing. You weren’t expected for another hour yet.”
Drummond thought of the way Beaumont had goaded the marine to drive faster and still faster. It was a wonder he had arrived at all.
Pickerell was still by the desk, his-folder under his arm. He looked meaningly at the one remaining book.
“You’ve not seen that one yet, sir.”
Drummond rubbed his forehead. Perhaps they had all been going round the bend for months without realising it.
“The visitor’s book?”
He opened it, nevertheless, and flipped over the worn pages, seeing scrawled signatures. Moments of warmth or drunkenness made small pictures swim from each page. Old friends now at the other ends of the earth. In other ships, prisoners of war, discharged wounded or unfit. Dead. There were all the signatures when Frank and Helen had got married. It had been quite a party. The last page stiffened in his grasp.
He said sharply, “Mrs. Sarah Kemp? Aboard this ship?”
Pickerell said nothing. There was no point in adding more fuel now.
Owles came in with a decanter and a glass, still smiling. “I’ve- passed the word for the first lieutenant.” He busied himself at the table. “Won’t be long.”
Somewhere overhead the tannoy intoned, “Stand easy. Senior hands of messes muster for mail.”
Drummond stood up and walked to an open scuttle, letting the sea air play across his damp forehead. The land was shimmering in haze, and below the headland he could see a slow procession of small fishing boats making their way into harbour. Peace or war, fog or gale, it made no difference.
She had been in this ship. His ship. Knowing he was in London. Why? It shouldn’t matter. He did not even care. He swallowed the drink and almost choked. But it did matter. Now more than ever.