Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (30 page)

The worst part had been when he had visited Downie in the sickbay. He had been pleased about the recommendation, because, as he had put it, he felt a part of it.

He should have told him immediately. That the explosion had wiped the truth from Downie’s memory was no excuse. It made Lincoln sweat to recall that he had said nothing.

He touched one of the chairs, remembering the lieutenant he had seen sitting there. ‘Dicer’ Lewis. In his twenties, but sporting a jaunty beard already tinged with grey, he had looked much older. Lincoln was uncertain of the nickname. Good with the liar dice? Or had he been one to take chances? He had only spoken to him once.

Like most people Lincoln had heard, and felt, the
explosion; Swanage was only about twenty miles away in a direct line. And it had been a big mine, they said. Dicer Lewis had been on the job for two years, a true veteran, with many successful missions to his credit. A few failures too, but he had survived. This mine had been half-buried in mud after all the rain, the worst sort of obstacle, when the beast had to be dug, scooped out of its lair before it could be made safe.

A miscalculation, or maybe he had been too tired to prepare for something new, a trap he had never seen before. Two years might have made him overconfident.

Like those early days of bomb disposal Lincoln had heard and read about, when young army officers died at an ever-increasing rate, some said to match a subaltern’s life span on the Western Front in the Great War.

He ran his fingers through his hair. He could picture it exactly, as it had been. Downie’s torch, his voice quite steady, calm even, as he had called out what he had found and what he intended to do about it.

And I did nothing. I couldn’t move or think.

He had thought of Downie again just now. He had seen a dog sitting by the road to the gates, Dicer Lewis’s dog. Waiting. Not understanding.

Downie was fond of animals, but it had taken Masters to tell Lincoln what he should have learned for himself. Should have seen it that day on the beach, and later in the boat when they had been going out to the
Latchmere
. He had been making friends with that stray dog then, the one which had jumped or fallen into the trapped water where Downie had seen the device.

In the sickbay Downie had asked about that same dog. He remembered nothing else.

All Lincoln could find to say was, ‘It saved your life.’

Downie had reached out impulsively, smiling, in a manner he had not seen before.

‘
You
did that, sir!’

Lincoln had taken his hand, knowing in some confused way that it was important.

He sat carefully in the chair and looked around the room. Downie was back to duty again. They would be working together like the other times, as if nothing had happened.

One thing was stark and plain. He would be living a lie. He thought of his father when he had asked him once if they could have a dog of their own. His father had scoffed at the idea. A guard dog to protect his precious builder’s yard was his only concern.

He was on his feet without realizing what he had done. He had written to his mother, told her about it. The lie was complete.

A seaman peered in at him, a broom and bucket balanced in one hand.

‘Your assistant is ’ere, sir. Rarin’ to go, too!’

He was still chuckling and shaking his head as Lincoln strode past him.

It were better cloudy and wet again, he thought. The flotilla would be coming back shortly, what was left of it. Sunshine and clear skies seemed an insult.

Downie was waiting by the covered way which joined the offices to the wardroom, dressed in his Number
Threes, his collar newly washed and pressed, as he had been taught, no doubt, by some old three-badgeman. He looked fresh and showed no sign of strain, and if anything younger than ever.

And tanned, despite the nearness of winter. For something to say, Lincoln had remarked on it when he had made his visit to the sickbay. Downie had been sitting beside the bed, wearing some outsized pyjamas loaned him by the staff. The jacket had been partly open and Lincoln had noticed how brown his skin was.

Downie had said, ‘There’s a place up the coast – we used to go there sometimes when we weren’t on call. It was good.’

Lincoln knew he was referring to the lieutenant who had been killed defusing a device aboard a crashed Junkers; the boffins were still delving into it, but the only real information so far was Downie’s sketches. Not officer and rating, but
we
.

‘Sorry to hear about Mister Lewis, sir.’

‘You knew him?’ They fell into step and walked towards the water.

‘I met him, sir.’

Not quite the same thing. Lincoln glanced at the ambulances, a pile of stretchers partly covered by blankets.

Downie said, ‘We had one once which had fallen into mud.’

Lincoln said nothing, not wanting to interrupt.
We.

Downie was frowning, one hand held up to shade his eyes. ‘We used a tackle, and borrowed a hose from some firemen. We did it in the end.’

Lincoln ignored the warnings, and said, ‘When we’re on the job I think we should drop the saluting and the
sirs
. What about it?’

Downie nodded slowly, his eyes grave. ‘O.L.Q.s, sir?’

‘Yes, that sort of thing.’ He was losing it. Downie would probably laugh at him behind his back. Or worse.

Downie was looking at him, uncertain or troubled, it was not easy to tell.

Then he said, ‘I’d like that, sir.’

Lincoln smiled. ‘So be it, then.’

Someone called out, and the leading motor launch appeared around the headland, moving slowly, her ensign very bright against the shark-blue water. Downie watched the second boat appear, then darted a glance at his officer.

It could never be the same, and he did not want it to be. But he needed someone. He heard the snap of commands behind him.
And he needs me.

One of the ambulances began to edge forward, the red crosses on its canvas sides gleaming like blood.

Downie looked round and saw that the place had filled with people, civilian workers from the makeshift yard, sailors and marines, some Wrens standing at the head of the jetty, leaning over to watch the slow-moving column of boats.

Only the dog lay as before. Watching the gates, and the road beyond.

As ML366 sighed against her rope fenders and the
mooring lines fore and aft took the strain, her engines shuddered into silence.

Chris Foley climbed up on to the starboard grating and gazed at the upturned faces along and beyond the jetty, the only movement being the handling parties of seamen who had caught the heaving lines and made fast each of the returning motor launches.

‘All secure fore and aft, sir!’ Allison hardly raised his voice, but it seemed loud in the oppressive stillness.

Foley touched his cap with his fingers. ‘Stretcher cases first.’ He should be used to it. The aftermath. The clearing up. He recalled one commanding officer who had told some of his less experienced hands not to collapse at the first sight of men killed in a sea fight.
Think of them as meat
. He had bought it himself soon afterwards. Had he had time to remember those words?

They were already climbing aboard, stretcher bearers, sickberth attendants, and a pink-faced surgeon lieutenant carrying a small leather bag.

The walking wounded went first, the stretcher cases apparently preferring to go ashore on their own feet. Pride, dignity? Or perhaps the sight of the canvas-covered bodies gave them new strength.

A shadow fell across the bridge and Foley saw the other ML’s first lieutenant waiting by the ladder.

He should be used to it . . .
Foley had been a survivor himself, when his own skipper had been killed. He knew what the subbie was thinking, Allison too, when he had seen him fall.

They shook hands. Like friends meeting on a street, and parting.

‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked briefly at the others. Bass and Chitty, Allison and Titch Kelly. What he was leaving. What he had lost.

Allison, unwilling to interrupt, said quietly, ‘Visitors, sir.’

Some of the spectators were parting to allow a group through, and Foley saw Captain Chavasse’s gold-leaved cap, Masters beside him, and behind them the captain’s secretary, Brayshaw, and the establishment’s first lieutenant. He turned to finish what he had been saying, but the subbie had already disappeared.

He said, ‘Now, the post-mortem!’ and clapped his hand to his side as he stepped down from the grating.

‘All right, sir?’

Foley forced a grin. ‘I’ve felt better!’

‘I’ll fetch the doc.’

‘
No.
Not now, Toby.’ He moved to the rear of the bridge to watch the rest of the rescued sailors being seen over the side. There were a few grins here and there, a thumbs-up to somebody. Some tears as well. The aftermath . . . He saw one of the stretchers being loaded into an ambulance. It was Miles, the young seaman, his bandaged eyes turned towards the boat, one hand partly raised.
We’re going home.
To what?

Chavasse was pointing with his walking stick, jabbing the air to emphasize something. Foley noticed that Masters was looking at 366, as if, over the jetty and bobbing heads, the stretchers and the carefully
hidden coffins, he was trying to reach him in some way.

It was Chitty who spoke first. ‘’Ere, sir. Take my glasses.’

Foley took the heavy signals binoculars and raised them above the screen. The pointed stem, the three-pounder with its chips and scrapes from the enemy’s cannon fire, where a man had been cut down, the stains and the splintered planking, all dropped out of focus as he trained the glasses on the figures at the end of the jetty wall.

Three Wrens standing side by side, the one in the centre lifting her hand to remove her cap, as if she was afraid he might not recognize her.

Foley took off his cap, and gritted his teeth as the dressing dragged at his torn side like hot wires. Then very slowly he waved the cap from side to side, until the pain made him lower it. He could sense Allison and Bass waiting to come to his aid, but nothing could stop him now. He saw her fumbling with her shirt front, pulling her tie to one side, then holding something bright where he could see it.

He thrust the binoculars out to Chitty: they seemed to have become suddenly heavier, and misty.

‘Thanks.’

Chitty managed to summon one of his cheeky grins.

‘My pleasure, sir.’

Someone else was saying, ‘
Told
you he’d get us back to base, didn’t I?’

But something was wrong. Foley tried to clear his mind, to grasp what had happened. He was sitting down,
his eyes watering in the hard sunshine while somebody was trying to support his head and shoulders.

Allison was down with him, his face only inches away. A boy no longer.

‘It’s all right, Skipper. She’s safe with me.’

What did he mean? This boat, which had brought them home one more time? Or the dark-eyed girl who wore his pendant, so that he should know?

He said, ‘Get me below, Toby. Give me a few minutes . . .’

‘Take it easy, Skipper. I can deal with the visitors.’ He thought of the Wren’s cap he had accidentally seen in Foley’s locker. ‘I’ll see that she doesn’t worry.’

But Foley had lost consciousness.

Allison stood up again. ‘Find that bloody doctor, somebody.’ He did not recognize his own voice. ‘Then man the side for our visitors. I’m just in the mood for it!’

When he looked over the screen again the coffins and the ambulances had gone.

Half to himself, he murmured, ‘Welcome home.’

Foley opened his eyes and for a moment he believed that his mind had cracked. The sounds and familar movements, even the smells, were gone. It was like floating in space: everything white, blurred.

He moved his arm, and his hand brushed against his skin. He was naked, but when he tried to raise himself on his elbows he felt as if every ounce of strength had been drained out of him. Sedated, or drugged without his knowledge, he had no idea. The
pain in his side was still there, but, like this place, blurred.

He made another attempt. Lying on a bed, and when he turned his head very slightly he saw his torn and bloodstained seagoing gear folded in an enamel tray, his wallet and watch lying slightly apart. He swallowed hard. As if he was laid out, already dead.

Somewhere, in another world, he heard the faint trill of a boatswain’s call, then the disjointed sentences of some announcement. A door banged, and he recognized the sound of marching feet. It was coming back . . .

He had passed out on the bridge. Just now, last week? He peered at the watch, but it was well out of reach.

Then the smell. The smell of hospitals, like the last time, when he had gone to see Margot.

Her name seemed to drag his reeling mind to life again. Seeing her through the signalman’s binoculars. The little pendant glinting in the sunshine, the other two girls shielding her from any attention or unwanted stares. Then there was a stretcher, one of those left by the walking wounded. Going down the brow; faces peering over him, a few hands reaching out to touch him, a voice calling out, ‘Easy does it, Chris!’

He felt the dressing on his side. There had been a doctor, hard, cold fingers. Then later, more pain, something probing his flesh like a claw.

He could see the ceiling overhead, steeply sloped, like a church hall or an old-fashioned school room. He fell back on the pillow. It was the room used as officers’ ward in the sick quarters; he had visited wounded and sick friends here several times. Four iron
beds, equally spaced, the legs touching a painted white line, as if on parade.

Suddenly there was somebody beside the bed, a round, almost babylike face looking down at him.

‘There now, all awake, are we?’

Petty Officer Sickberth Attendant Titmuss was known by his colleagues as ‘Sister’ Titmuss, sometimes even to his face. He seemed to enjoy it.

But always, Sister Titmuss was very much in charge, and his deceptively soft hands were like steel when it was necessary.