To Risks Unknown Read online

  ‘How long have I got for all this, sir?’ Crespin kept his voice level, but it was not easy.

  ‘Two weeks at the outside. If you’re no good by then you’re no use for the sort of thing I have in mind, right?’

  A petty officer in filthy overalls peered into the tent and said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but we’ve just hauled in another crate of nine millimetre ammo. Shall I get my lads to put it in here?’

  Scarlett stared at him. ‘Do I have to do everything around here? God, man, use your initiative!’

  The petty officer flushed. He was elderly for his rank and had probably been in the Navy for twenty years or so, Crespin thought.

  Scarlett snatched up his cap and sighed. ‘Very well then. I’ll come and have a look.’ He paused and shot Crespin a meaning glance. ‘Initiative and guts. That’s all I need in this unit!’ He stamped off calling for Moriarty.

  Crespin pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to jab tobacco into the bowl with quick, angry thrusts, aware that the girl was studying him across the trestle table.

  She said quietly, ‘He’s been working pretty hard, you know.’

  Crespin struck a match and said harshly, ‘And so have a few million others!’ He relented slightly. ‘Is it always like this?’

  She sighed and spread out her arms. ‘Usually. Captain Scarlett uses his authority to get what he wants, and he sometimes treads on a few toes in the process. But it is for a good purpose, and most people seem to understand that in the end.’

  ‘And I suppose that if his charm fails he sends you in to tip the balance?’

  She did not drop her eyes. ‘You could put it like that.’ Her lips puckered in a smile. ‘Men really are rather horrid!’

  ‘Especially with each other.’ Crespin blew the smoke towards the roof of the tent and watched it hang motionless. ‘I’m sorry if I was rather rude just now. It’s not your fault.’

  She did not reply directly. ‘Captain Scarlett has had a lot of experience in managing people, you know.’ She ran her eyes over Crespin in a slow appraisal. ‘He’s a good bit older than you are, and comes from a different sphere of things.’

  Crespin stared at her. She was summing him up, giving her considered assessment. A mere girl, who due to somebody’s influence or favour was in a position to make a game of this sort of thing.

  He said coldly, ‘You think I’ll be good enough then, do you?’

  She looked at him calmly. ‘I cannot answer that, sir, now can I?’

  At that moment Scarlett reappeared in the tent. He said, ‘Well, that’s settled.’

  Crespin looked from one to the other. It was just as if the whole interview had been stage-managed before he had arrived. After he had gone Scarlett and the girl would exchange notes to see if he had measured up to the task in hand, like a schoolboy applying for his first job.

  He said shortly, ‘Perhaps I can return to my ship, sir?’

  Scarlett nodded. ‘Certainly. Time ashore is time wasted as far as I am concerned.’ Then he smiled warmly. ‘We can start getting down to work after lunch. That’ll give you time to warn your people what to expect, eh?’

  When he left the tent Crespin found that the Bren carrier had disappeared without waiting for him. Or perhaps Moriarty’s men had sawn it up for scrap. Either way he would be damned if he would ask Scarlett to lend him some transport. By the time he had found his way back to the jetty he was sweating, tired and still seething with anger.

  If the interview had been a strain, the days which followed it were a living nightmare. Scarlett had chosen his location well, for whereas Benghazi had once been a hinge in the desert campaign for Englishman and German alike, it was now a backwater, and he was able to put his strangely assorted force through its paces with nobody but an amused and critical army garrison to break the isolation.

  True to his word he had the ship going through every conceivable manoeuvre and situation, some of which he seemed to dream up on the spur of a moment. Once he sent a brief summons for both Crespin and Wemyss to report to him ashore, then immediately sent a signal to the ship ordering it to weigh anchor and patrol a mile offshore.

  The approaches were littered with wrecks and handling the ship was no easy matter. Crespin had been forced to stand in helpless silence while the Thistle had edged this way and that, her squat funnel pouring smoke as her screw thrashed from ahead to astern, churning up sand and weed until it looked as if she was already aground.

  It seemed as if he was always in open conflict with Scarlett, always making excuses for his ship, so he held his tongue and watched the Thistle’s efforts without a word. She had managed to scrape her side against one small wreck, but had at last reached deeper water without further mishap. It turned out later that it was due more to Joicey’s efforts on the wheel than to any coherent orders from the bridge.

  Under cover of night they had made several mock landings and pickups from vague chart references, and had fought off sudden attacks laid on by ‘hostile’ forces, enthusiastically played by the local troops, who were not averse to using their fists as well as thunder-flashes and carefully aimed rocks.

  Sometimes Scarlett accompanied them on manoeuvres, and without warning would point at an officer or rating and yell cheerfully, ‘You’re dead!’ Then he would peer round and shout, ‘Come on then! Who takes over? Jump to it!’

  The only one to escape from direct interference was Magot, but as he squatted in his engine room and watched the crazy demands of his telegraph dial he found little comfort from that.

  Crespin’s early resentment hardened over the days into a determination which he found almost alien to himself. From disordered and dangerous manoeuvres it seemed to change into a personal conflict between him and Scarlett, with neither speaking openly of it, yet each pressing the other to fresh limits at every opportunity.

  Towards the end of the second week Crespin had to admit that the methods, though crude and dangerous, were certainly having a marked effect on his ship. During lulls or around the wardroom table there was never any lack of speculation or discussion about what might happen next, and even Porteous, a ready target for Scarlett’s boisterous barrage, seemed to have found a little more confidence. He had certainly lost weight.

  Shannon went about his duties with a fierce determination which left him spent and morose by the end of the day, and Wemyss had been heard to say more than once, ‘If the Jerries don’t kill us, that bugger will!’

  And then it was suddenly over, and they looked at each other as if wondering where all the days had gone.

  With the ship swinging gently at her anchor and the town shining eerily beneath a pale crescent of moonlight Crespin went ashore to collect his orders. This time he went in an army jeep, but when he reached the site he imagined for a few moments he had taken the wrong road. One of the big tents had gone, and apart from a sentry there was no sign of life at all. Only the stripped remains of salvaged vehicles stayed to mark the extent of Scarlett’s efforts, like bones from some nightmare feast.

  He found the girl sitting alone in the remaining tent, crouching beside a hissing pressure lamp, her hair shining in the glare like polished glass.

  She looked up and smiled. ‘As you can see, sir, the circus has moved on to the next village.’

  Crespin sank down into a chair, the strain and prepared guard slipping away like steam. She was a very attractive girl. Again he felt the nagging sensation of envy.

  She said, ‘Captain Scarlett has flown off to Algiers to see the Americans.’

  Crespin nodded. ‘In his private plane, I suppose.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She was tapping her teeth with a pencil, her eyes shining with quiet amusement. ‘The Americans put one at his disposal.’

  Crespin glanced around the tent. All packed up and crated, he thought. And the girl was sitting there alone in the desert. One more fragile possession to be collected when and where Scarlett decided.

  He felt suddenly reckless. ‘Are you leaving soon?’

 
She pouted. ‘Yes. Back to Sousse.’

  She pushed a bulky envelope across the table. ‘I was just waiting to give you this. You’re to return to Sousse immediately and await instructions.’

  Crespin watched her. ‘So we’re off again.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what’s to happen next. But it certainly looks like the big invasion.’

  Crespin picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hands. Slowly he said, ‘When we get to Sousse.’ He paused. He was on dangerous ground. ‘There may be a few days before we move again.’

  She gave no indication of her thoughts. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I was wondering if we could meet? Have a drink perhaps?’

  She studied him gravely. ‘In Sousse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at the end of the pencil. Considering it. ‘When the cat’s away? Something like that, d’you mean?’

  Crespin could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. Almost violently he said, ‘No, I didn’t mean something like that!’

  She smiled, showing her teeth. ‘All right. Yes, it might be fun.’

  Crespin stood up. Somehow she had retained the advantage. He said awkwardly, ‘I’d better go now.’

  She nodded, her eyes distant. ‘Just when we were getting acquainted.’

  Crespin knew she was laughing at him again, but he did not care. He said, ‘I’ll try to be sober next time we meet.’

  Then he walked out into the moonlight, feeling better than for a very long time.

  Two days out from Benghazi there was a sudden change in the weather, and by the time the Thistle had reached the protective coastline of Tunisia it had worsened considerably. Gone was the blue sky and placid water, the drowsy heat and steady motion which many of the ship’s company had come to accept as permanent features of the Mediterranean, and while the north-westerly wind mounted to a full gale the sea changed to a wilderness of short, savage waves which threw the corvette about with no less vigour than the Atlantic.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day Crespin stood on the grating at the port side of the bridge and watched with narrowed eyes as the ship moved slowly towards her new berth in Sousse harbour. He was thankful that it was no longer alongside the old freighter, for with only one engine at his disposal manoeuvring in the strong gusts was no easy matter. Twice he edged the bows towards the jetty and each time the stern swung away before the cursing line-handling parties could get their mooring ropes ashore, where despondent and dripping in spray some native workers waited to receive them.

  Wemyss shouted, ‘The harbour looks pretty deserted now, sir!’

  Crespin nodded. It was true. Apart from an elderly cruiser and some support ships the Thistle had the pick of moorings. The landing craft and destroyers, the encamped troops and the gathered clutter of invasion equipment had been spirited away as if by magic. As the girl had said, it would not be long now.

  He watched the bows edging towards the jetty once more and saw a burly seaman poised like a statue, a heaving line at the ready, while from aft he could hear Porteous calling anxiously to his own men as the tossing triangle of water lessened between the ship and the land.

  ‘Stop engine!’ Crespin leaned out over the screen and saw the line snake across the rail to be caught by some half a dozen yelling Arabs. The eye of the wire headrope followed jerkily above the water and was eventually dropped around a massive stone bollard, and from the quarterdeck there came fresh confusion as two lines fell short alongside before a third was seized and made fast.

  He snapped, ‘Full astern!’ The deck trembled violently as the screw thrashed the water into a great gusher of white froth and slowly but surely pulled the stern round, lending its weight and power to the straining seamen who skidded on the wet deck and threw themselves against the tautening wires.

  ‘Stop engine!’ Crespin felt the hull sidle against the waiting fenders and give a final convulsive shudder. To Wemyss he said, ‘Not the easiest place in the world to get into.’

  But Wemyss was still staring over the screen. ‘Look at that, sir!’ His tanned features split into a grin. ‘Now that is what I call a proper reception!’

  Crespin followed his stare and saw a jeep pulling to a halt almost opposite the ship. A seaman was at the wheel, but there was no mistaking the slim figure beside him. She was still wearing khaki slacks and shirt and on her head, barely held in place against the eager wind, a bright yellow sou’wester. She was peering up at the bridge, her eyes squinting against the blown dust and sand, her shirt already blotchy with spray.

  Some of the seamen were already swarming ashore to secure the springs and breast ropes, and more than one stopped in his tracks to whistle with appreciation until herded away by Petty Officer Dunbar.

  Wemyss said, ‘She’s a damn pretty girl. I don’t know what use she is out here, and I don’t much care. I just know it’s always good to see her.’

  Crespin saw Dunbar giving the girl a hand to climb aboard the main deck, his normally severe face split into a smile of welcome. Like Wemyss he seemed to look on her as part of their world now. Crespin knew Wemyss was watching him and wondered if his face displayed some of his own feelings. During the voyage back he had thought about her a good deal, but the suddenness of the confrontation had momentarily unnerved him.

  He said, ‘I’m going below, Number One. When the ship is properly secured you can dismiss the hands and send them to tea.’ He knew that his words were both unnecessary and stupidly formal. Wemyss’ broad grin was no help either. He added sharply, ‘And make sure the gangway staff are properly in the rig of the day. I don’t want some bloody reprimand from that cruiser because the ship looks like a day excursion to Southend!’

  Wemyss saluted smartly, ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ But he was still grinning.

  When Crespin reached the deck he found the girl standing below an Oerlikon mounting, talking with Magot. Crespin saluted. ‘This is unexpected. But I’m very glad to see you.’ Magot stood his ground, shifting his eyes from one to the other.

  Crespin asked, ‘Was there something, Chief?’

  Magot wiped his hands on his overalls and muttered, ‘It can wait, sir.’ With obvious reluctance he moved back to the engine room hatch, where two stokers watched the girl with unwavering admiration.

  She said, ‘Sorry to drop in like this.’ She looked around the upper deck. ‘It looks different this time. More businesslike!’

  Crespin watched her. She seemed tense, less confident than at their last meeting.

  He said, ‘Come below. You must be wet through.’

  The wardroom was very quiet after the wind and activity of the upper deck. He watched her as she tugged off the sou’wester and brushed away some strands of hair from her face.

  ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Then we can talk.’

  She turned and faced him squarely, her eyes troubled. ‘I’m very sorry. But this is an official visit.’ Her words seemed to fall like stones in the damp air. ‘Captain Scarlett flew in this forenoon.’ She studied the changing emotions on Crespin’s face. ‘So there it is.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for coming anyway.’ He could not disguise the bitterness. ‘It’s as well you warned me. I might have come barging in on you for a change. I wouldn’t want to upset things between you and Scarlett.’

  Her lips parted slightly and for a moment she looked as if he had attempted to strike her. Then she gave a small shrug and pulled a sealed envelope from inside her shirt.

  ‘These are your new orders, sir.’ She was in control again. ‘You’re to sign for them, if you please.’

  Crespin stared wretchedly at the envelope. ‘What is it this time?’ He did not really care. He had made a wrong move again and the change in her tone made him suddenly ashamed.

  She walked across the wardroom and stared thoughtfully at the ship’s crest. ‘Operation Husky is to start on the tenth of the month. It’s all there in the orders. The combined British and American forces are to invade Sicily’s south-east sectio
n, stretching about one hundred miles from Syracuse to Licata.’ She turned slightly to watch him as he flattened the closely typed pages on the table. ‘General Eisenhower and the C.-in-C. are already in Malta, and the whole invasion fleet is waiting for the order.’

  Crespin’s eyes moved rapidly down the pages. Rendezvous points, recognition signals, landing beaches and objectives, it was all there. He asked quietly, ‘Don’t they know about the weather?’ The invasion date was four days away, and if conditions stayed like this it could be a living hell for the landing craft and their cargoes of men and tanks. Due to the speed of the military build up most of the landing craft had been used for ferrying troops, and the young officers who commanded these unwieldy vessels had little experience or training in the actual business of beaching on a defended coast. In this sort of weather some of them might capsize before they reached the beaches. Others could miss their objectives altogether.

  She said, ‘There isn’t any choice, sir.’ The sir turned in Crespin’s heart like a knife. ‘The met people say that it could blow itself out in a couple of days. By that time it would be too late to change anything, even if the weather got worse. Some ships might not get their recall in time and go ahead on their own. Others could get scattered and picked off by the Luftwaffe.’

  Crespin did not need telling. This invasion was a must. It was the pattern upon which Europe’s fate would be decided.

  He turned over a page and stopped. There was an addition typed in red and headed: ‘Attention of Commanding Officer, Thistle’.

  Before he could start reading she crossed swiftly to his side and laid one hand directly across the paper. When he turned she was watching him, her eyes apprehensive and unhappy.

  She said, ‘The enemy must know all about the preparations for the invasion. He’s had plenty of time. Our people have to have all the help they can get.’ She made no attempt to remove her hand, nor did she take her eyes from his face. ‘Captain Scarlett put this plan to the C.-in-C. and the Americans. Both have agreed that it is possible, even desirable,’ she faltered, ‘under the circumstances.’