Sword at Sunrise
by
Alan Evans


Also by Alan Evans

The End of the Running

Mantrap

Bannon

Vicious Circle

The Big Deal

Thunder at Dawn

Ship of Force

Dauntless

Seek Out and Destroy!  Deed of Glory

Audacity Eagle at Taranto

Night Action

Orphans of the Storm

Sink or Capture!

For children

Running Scared

Kidnap!  Escape at the Devil's Gate

SWORD AT SUNRISE

A Novel of D-Day

Alan Evans

Hodder&Stoughton

LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

My thanks go to Messrs Paul Motte-Harrison, J. A. Cress-well and Henry
Higgs, all LCT men.  Also to John Lambert for plans and the staff of
Walton Library for their assistance with research.  Finally I would
like to acknowledge the mine of information I found in The War of the
Landing Craft, by Paul Lund and Harry Ludlam.

Author's Note

This book is a work of fiction and the characters in it are fictitious.
I have used Landing Craft (Tank) numbers 332, 403 and 7011, but for
fictional craft.  They have no connection with the original ships
bearing those numbers.  The village of St.  Florent is fictitious, but
anyone who was there might see a resemblance to Colleville.

Copyright Alan Evans 1994

First published in 1994 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

The right of Alan Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has
been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Evans, Alan Sword at Sunrise I. Title 823.914 [F]

ISBN 0-340-60320-8 Phototypeset by Intype, London

Printed and bound in Great Britain by!  Mackays of Chatham PLC,
Chatham, Kefc Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

A Division of Hodder Headline PLC

338 Euston Road

London NW13BH

ONE

May 1943.  Off the North African coast

Just a year to the Big One, the invasion of Europe.

"She's an LCT!"  Langley was tall, twenty years old, long-armed and
long-legged like a young Gary Cooper in crumpled white shirt and
shorts.  He shouted the report, binoculars pressed to his eyes, staring
out at her on the distant horizon.

Scouse Gilhooley named her but that came later.  Richard Langley,
Sub-Lieutenant, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, saw her first.  Through
the glasses he could see she lay under a low cloud of black smoke and
there was a heat shimmer above her.  He added, "She's on fire in her
hold!"

She was a twin of the ship in which he served, LCT 403, but she lay
burning and lifeless on the sea.  She was a Landing Craft (Tank), a
steel shoebox nearly two hundred feet long and thirty-one in the beam,
with her engines at one end and at the other a square bow that let down
to form a ramp.  Between was the hollow, roofless hold of the tank
deck, built to carry five 40-ton tanks or ten Shermans.  The fire
blazed there.  The flames were pale in the brassy glare of the midday
sun.  The Afrika Korps had been driven out of Africa or surrendered
just a week ago, but the aircraft of the Luftwaffe still flew from
their bases in Sicily and Italy.  Langley thought that this looked like
their work.

"Dear God!"  He whispered it to himself, imagining the horror that
might lie inside her.  He had been first lieutenant for six months now.
But there were only two officers aboard those craft anyway, captain and
first lieutenant.  In this one they treated each other with polite
dislike.

"You're getting to be a nuisance, Number One!  I hope you aren't going
to make a habit of this!  You keep bringing things that nobody wants
like a dog fetching sticks."  Lieutenant Ralph Bellanger was captain of
LCT 403.  While Langley and the rest of his crew dressed in whatever
was comfortable to work in, Bellanger wore a spotless white drill shirt
and shorts, with his cap cocked on one side of his head at a jaunty
angle.  He was handsome, smiled a lot and showed his teeth in a grin
now, implying that he was joking.  Langley did not believe he was.
Bellanger went on, "Only a week back you found that dinghy with the
body in it and we had to carry it into Alex.  Bloody thing stank us
out!"  His crew listened in shocked silence.  Langley stared at him and
wondered how he could be so callous.

Bellanger snapped bad-temperedly into the voice-pipe, talking to the
helmsman, "Port ten."  It was said reluctantly, but they had to go and
look at the ship on fire.

Langley had been standing his watch on the bridge a week ago, as
Bellanger said, but the signalman had sighted and reported the dinghy.
Langley did not argue because it did not matter.  And anyway he had
passed that stage with Bellanger.  He watched the other craft as they
closed it, until they were within a cable's length and he could see her
number painted on the front of her bridge: LCT 332.

Bellanger began to circle her now at that cautious distance of two
hundred yards.  They found bodies in life jackets floating in the sea
but none of them living.  Bellanger stopped again and again so the
hands could climb down a scrambling net and put a line around each of
the bodies in turn.  They were hauled up and inboard, then laid out
under a tarpaulin in the empty tank deck.  All of them were near naked,
the clothes burned from them.  And they had burned.  The hands toiled
in the midday heat in silence, appalled.  These had been men like
themselves.

"You've brought us some more, Number One!"  That was Bellanger shouting
down from the bridge.  Langley was helping with the work, down on the
catwalk that ran along each side of the "shoebox" above the tank deck.
In those craft the bridge, engines and accommodation were all right aft
with the tank deck stretching forward into the bow.

Langley squinted into the sun, peering up at the bridge.  He did not
answer at once but took off his cap to run his fingers through his
hair.  It stood up on end, yellow as straw.  He thought that LCT 332
had not sunk nor exploded.  So they had to do something about her.
Ralph Bellanger's lips moved, swearing.  He changed that to a smile
when he saw Langley watching him, but Richard had seen that cursing and
exasperation, knew the cause of it.  All he said was, "I'm ready to go
aboard her, sir."  His voice was startlingly deep for so young a man,
and it carried.

Bellanger grumbled, "There seems damned little point in that.  She's
showing no signs of life, the fire's gutted her and she's a danger to
shipping.  Best to sink her by gunfire so she won't be a hazard."

"We might be able to salvage her and ..."

Bellanger cut in: "And we might not.  I'm not asking some chap to risk
his life for a wreck that could go down any minute."

Langley objected stubbornly, "She hasn't yet."  And before his captain
could refuse again he went on, voice carrying from end to end of the
ship, "And besides, sir, we've only picked up five bodies and she'd
have a crew of twelve, same as us.  There might be one or two of them
below, too badly hurt to come up on deck or make a signal.  We
can't..."  He stopped there, did not finish "... sink her with them
aboard."  He left the phrase hanging in the air for any of the crew
around to hear and complete for themselves.

Bellanger knew they would do that and saw what he had to do, make the
best of it.  "Right, Number One!  I think you're being optimistic and
when you've seen as many bombed ships as I have ... But we'll have to
give it a try."  He knew his job and now he gave his orders crisply. He
was a ruggedly handsome man who cut a bluff, swashbuckling figure with
his cap tilted on one side and his seemingly easy-going grin.

Richard Langley dropped down the ladder from the bridge and ducked into
the little wardroom to pick up his life belt, thinking: Just in case.
Out on deck again he pulled on the belt and picked up a couple of fire
extinguishers.  A four-foot wide catwalk ran along each side of the
hold.  He loped along that on the port side until he came to the bow
and halted there, fastening the life belt and glancing warily down into
the narrowing strip of sea as Bellanger conned his ship in towards the
derelict.  Two of the hands came running at his bidding to hang fenders
over the bow where she would rub against the other.  One of them
grumbled, "We haven't got any paint to worry about, for Christ's sake!
What does he think she is?  The Royal bloody yacht?"

The other warned, "You look out for yourself over there, Mr.
Langley."

"I'll try," answered Richard.  He held out the two fire extinguishers
he had picked up on his way forward: "Throw these over to me when I get
across, please."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Now the bow was closing the stern of 332, at first frighteningly
quickly, then checking and inching in as Bellanger sent the engines of
403 astern then stopped them.  With the last of the way on her 403
rubbed her fenders against the rust-streaked after end of the derelict.
A shift of the wind suddenly sent a cloud of smoke swirling aft from
the fire in her hold.  The smoke wrapped around Langley and the two men
with him, setting them all coughing and squinting into it, but Langley
was poised, ready, and he jumped.

He hurdled the gap clumsily, all arms and legs, and landed on the deck
of 332 on his hands and knees.  He climbed to his feet, still
half-blinded and choked by the smoke and wondered if he had bitten off
more than he could chew.  But he yelled, "Right!  Toss 'em over!"

He caught the extinguishers one by one and just in time; Bellanger was
already hauling his ship astern, wanting to take her clear of the
danger of fire or explosion threatened by the burning craft.

One of the men in the bow said "Him and young Langley don't like each
other, do they?"

The other, older, answered shrewdly, "Bellanger wants to be an admiral
and to hell with everybody else.  Langley knows it and shows his
feelings.  You wait.  Bellanger'll get rid of him."

Langley did not stay to watch 403 go but turned and edged forward
through the smoke and past the bridge, its paint scorched and
blistered, until he could see down into the tank deck.  There was the
source of the fire and where the fire had been.

Now he could paint a mental picture of what had happened, just by
looking around him.  She had been attacked from the air there were
holes from cannon shells punched in the wheelhouse and the deck.  Her
cargo had been three trucks and one of them, that nearest the bridge,
was loaded with petrol in cans.  That had been hit and burned.  With
her engines stopped so she could not manoeuvre, the wind had blown the
flames aft.  Those of her crew who had survived the air attack had
become human torches and jumped into the sea to escape, only to die
there from their burns and shock.

But the fire now was only smoke and smouldering embers.  There was one
truck right forward in the bow, its canopy destroyed and paintwork
scorched but otherwise apparently intact.  The smoke swirled around
Langley again.  He choked and coughed, wiped his eyes and asked
himself, Can I put that out?

He could see no water in the tank deck.  He thought, She's not holed,
then.

He looked for the wounded, first dropping down through the open hatch
to the engine room.  There were huge holes in the deck head and the
twin Davy Paxman diesel motors looked, to Langley's eyes, as if they
had been attacked with a sledgehammer.  That was the work of cannon
shells again, of course.  Diesel from ruptured fuel lines spattered
across the gratings and over a boiler-suited figure that had been the
engineer. Cannon shells had done that, too.

He returned to the deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge.  The two
officers lay there.  The four men that were the crews of the two 20mm
guns, one on either wing of the bridge, sprawled by the weapons.  They
were surrounded by used shell cases that rolled and tinkled on the deck
as 332 wallowed in the swell.  All of these seemed to have died
horribly from machine-gun fire.  He vomited into the sea before he
finished his inspection, hung over the rail then took a breath and
turned inboard.

All accounted for.  Now he should report to Bellanger, who was eager to
get to Malta because his craft was one of twelve in a flotilla.  The
present commander of the flotilla was moving up into another job any
day now and Bellanger as the senior captain should succeed him in
command.  That was common knowledge.  Langley believed Bellanger wanted
to be in Malta, in waiting, to grab the job as soon as it was offered
to him.

He thought that this nondescript steel box of a ship had survived the
air attack and been abandoned by her crew.  She was still here.  And he
thought that there would be petrol in the tank of the truck that had
survived so far.  As long as the fire smouldered there was a danger
that a shift in the wind might spread the blaze again to that truck and
whatever else might be stowed forward, paint, timber or other stores.

Langley climbed down into the tank deck and put out the fire.  He used
the extinguishers he had brought with him and three more he found near
the bridge of his new vessel.  He was left with shirt and shorts singed
and holed, red and weeping eyes and numerous burns where he had rubbed
against hot steel.  Once he stumbled and grabbed at the side of the
burned-out truck to save himself from falling into the ashes.  The
truck was still hot enough to take the skin off his hands.  He stamped
out the last few embers with his white shoes then walked back along the
tank deck and climbed back up to the catwalk.  Only then did he hear
Bellanger's exasperated bellowing echoing metallic from the tin
megaphone that was all they had as a loud-hailer: "Mister Langley! What
the hell are you doing?"

Langley saw Bellanger had brought the ship in close because he had
repeatedly hailed without result?  He made a funnel of his hands that
were blistered and raw, and answered, "No survivors, sir, and I think
all the crew are accounted for, seven of them."  And before Bellanger
could speak.  "I've put out the fire, she's not holed and we can get
her in to Malta.  I'll make ready to receive a tow."  He did not wait
then for his captain to speak but started forward.  Bellanger wanted to
be on his way without delay, but at the same time he would be tempted
by the chance to steam into Malta with a salvaged LCT in tow.  And it
would be hard for him to refuse now; the whole crew knew the chance was
there so if he failed to take it up they would talk about it.  And that
might be the end of the job of Flotilla Leader for Bellanger.

He only took a few seconds to think it over.  "Right, Number One!"  his
voice rang across the narrowing gap as he brought his ship closer.
"Stand by to take a tow!"

Langley stood in the bow and bawled again, "And could I have another
man to spell me at the wheel?"

Bellanger answered testily, "Very well!"

His coxswain, a petty officer, stood below the bridge out of earshot.
He shook his head and muttered, "Watch yourself, Langley, boy.  He's
got it in for you."

A seaman new to the ship asked, "What for?"

"Because Langley's too good.  Bellanger knows his job all right, but
that lad is better.  Langley doesn't know it but Bellanger does.  And
Langley doesn't like him and Bellanger knows that as well.  One of them
will have to go and it'll be the lad.  Pity."

The tow was passed and a man came with it.  Langley swore when he saw
him: Scouse Gilhooley.  He was a young man of Langley's age but skinny
and undersized, so all his clothes looked too big for him.  He was
shipped as a stoker aboard Bellanger's craft.  There were two stokers
and a motor mechanic to stand watches in the engine room.  The motor
mechanic was a foul-tempered Glaswegian who ruled the engine room with
an iron hand.  His bellow coming out of the engine-room hatch as he
berated Gilhooley had become familiar: "Ye're a thickheid!  A bluidy
amachoor!  Ye've got certificates?  Pieces o' bluidy paper'll dae ye
nae guid oot here!  Ye can't dae bugger-all on yer own, have ter be
telt iverything!  Ye useless gowk!"  And Gil-hooley was sullen,
uncooperative and kept to himself, the odd man out.  On the few
occasions Langley had given him an order or spoken to him he had obeyed
only lethargically or answered in monosyllables.

Now, as the stern of the other craft eased towards Langley, with the
two men standing ready with the steel shackle of the towing hawser,
Gilhooley peered gloomily into the narrowing gap then scowled across at
Langley, who thought with a sinking heart it would be him.  Of course,
Bellanger had sent him the man most easily spared, the one he wanted to
be rid of.

Langley shouted to Gilhooley, "Come on, then, man!  Jump!"  There was a
moment when the two craft rubbed together and Scouse stepped over.
Langley grabbed him and pulled him inboard.  Then together they heaved
in the shackle and the first few feet of the wire towing hawser before
the other craft drifted away.  They made it fast, Gilhooley being a
necessary, extra pair of hands, but doing only what he was told.  When
that was done he stood back and waited for orders.

Langley started aft and called, "Shake it up!  We've got a few jobs to
do!"  And thought, He won't like this one.  Nor would Langley himself;
the corpse in the dinghy had been the first dead man he had seen.

Gilhooley looked down into the tank deck as they walked along the
catwalk and then up to the bridge that was pockmarked by cannon fire.
He muttered, "Bloody Norah!"

Langley said drily, "That's not a bad name for her."

But when they came to the bridge and the gun positions he heard
Gilhooley's sharp intake of breath.

They collected the torn bodies with horror, but as gently as they
could, because they were young men like themselves.  They laid them on
the tarpaulin aft of the bridge, another tarpaulin spread over them.
The body in the engine room was last and worst.  They had to haul the
man up on a line and realised the full meaning of the term
"deadweight".  And then Gilhooley vomited over the side.  Langley told
him, "If it's any consolation I dumped my breakfast over there too."

Gilhooley weakly muttered an obscenity.

Bellanger was bawling furiously again.  "What's the delay, Mr.
Lan-gley?  We're ready to get under way!"

Langley looked at Gilhooley, sweating and pallid under his tan, and
asked him, "All right now?"  Gilhooley nodded and Langley told him,
"See if you can find yourself a drink of something.  You'll feel a bit
better.  And fetch me some as well."

Gilhooley muttered, "Won't be owl worth having on this old cow."  But
he followed Langley into the deck house under the bridge.  In the
passage there he turned right and slouched off to the galley.  Langley
turned left and passed the captain's little cabin.  He pulled open the
door into the wheelhouse that was right under the bridge, stepped
inside and took the helm.  Bellanger moved ahead and the towing hawser
straightened.  There was a jerk that sent a shudder through the craft
and then Bloody Norah was under way.  Langley steered her in
Bellanger's wake and now she had some life about her, albeit
artificial, as she rose and fell to the seas.

And she was his.  He was no longer just the first lieutenant, engaged
in a long-running battle of wits with Ralph Bellanger, but in command.
He laughed at that, in spite of his empty stomach and the pain of his
burns.  Captain of a ship with a one-man crew, and that man in a
permanent state of near-mutiny!

He looked round from the wheel and saw Gilhooley staring at him.
Langley said, "Sorry.  Just thought of something funny."

Gilhooley waited a few seconds, but when Langley did not explain, he
shrugged and held out a thick white china mug.  "Found some tea an'
made a brew."  Then he caught Langley's eye on him and added, "Sir."

Langley lifted one hand from the wheel and took the mug.  The tea was
strong, hot and sweet with tinned milk.  He sucked at it gratefully,
suddenly realising that he had been labouring and sweating rivers
through the heat of the day, was parched and hungry.  Then he saw that
Gilhooley was staring at the wheel and there was blood on the spokes
where he had held it.

Gilhooley said, "What've you done to your hands?"

"I burned them a bit."

"They look bad to me."  Scouse pulled a face then said, "I found these
an' all."  Now he held out a tin of biscuits.  Langley set the mug down
on a ledge and took one.  They munched together until the tin was
empty.

Langley had used the time to think.  He was not ready to surrender the
wheel.  He told Gilhooley, "Those engines looked to be in a right mess
to me, but I'm not a mechanic."

Gilhooley sniffed.  "You were right, anyway.  Knocked to bits, they
are."

"Can't you do anything with them?"  And before Gilhooley could answer,
Langley went on, "Look, I'll see to things up here for the time being
and you have a go at those engines."

He got a shrug and, "If you want."  Then Gilhooley caught his eye again
and finished, "Aye, aye, sir."  He gathered up the empty mugs and
biscuit tin then slouched out of the wheelhouse.

Langley stayed at the wheel all through that afternoon and into the
evening as Bloody Norah plugged on westward at the end of the tow.  He
finally decided to call Gilhooley up from the engine room when there
were only a couple of hours daylight left.  His hands were hurting him
and sticking to the wheel.  He had to wrench them free, painfully,
again and again.

It was then that Gilhooley shouldered in through the wheelhouse door.
He carried a mug in one hand again, and in the other a plate with
sandwiches.  "Found this lot.  Only corned beef an' a bit o' mustard.
And these."  He held up some bandages and a tube of ointment.  "It says
it's good for burns."

So he smeared each of Langley's hands in turn as he held the wheel and
wrapped them in the bandages.

"Thank you."  Langley eyed the sandwiches and realised he was ravenous,
but asked, "What about yourself?"

"Had some ... sir."

Langley said, "I want you to take the wheel for a bit."

Scouse recoiled as if avoiding a bite from a dog.  "Me?"

"There's nobody else.  Here, get hold of it."  And when Gilhooley
reluctantly gripped the spokes, Langley told him, "Just watch her head
and the tow."  From the wheelhouse they could only see the ramp in the
bow, the first few feet of the tow and the tip of 403's mast.  The
other craft towing them was hidden by the lift of the bow.  "Be ready
to put the helm over because she has a tendency to yaw, but go easy,
don't overdo it."

He watched Gilhooley steer as he ate the sandwiches.  The corned beef
was warm and semi-glutinous but he was used to that.  He had to grab
one-handed at the wheel a couple of times because Scouse was
overcautious to begin with, but then he gained a little confidence and
made a good enough job of it.  So when Langley had drained his mug he
said, "I'm going to take a look round, maybe have a wash.  Yell out if
you want me."

But first he walked forward along the catwalk and checked on the tow
for any sign of chafing.  He found none and from there he went to the
officers' heads, aft of the galley, found soap and a towel and washed.
That left the bandages damp but he decided they would soon dry.  On his
way out he passed through the little wardroom, with its three-foot-long
table and the six-foot-long settees on either side that doubled as
beds.  A shirt lay on one of the settees.  It looked clean and intact,
far different to his own that had huge holes scorched in it and stank
of burning.  The same could be said of the life belt.  He took the
clean shirt with him and found a half-written letter under it,
abandoned when the machine-gunning started.  There were dogeared
photographs of smiling girls stuck up on the bulkhead.  He came out of
there sick at heart.

He stood on the catwalk looking down into the tank deck to see if there
were any signs of fire breaking out again.  As he did so, he stripped
off the life belt and shirt, balled them and set them aside.  He pulled
on the new shirt and it felt cool against his skin.

He nodded with satisfaction then, because there were neither smoke nor
flames in the hold.  He walked on and finally peered into the engine
room to see what, if anything, Gilhooley had done.  The gratings were
littered with chunks of machinery.  It was as if the engines had
disintegrated.  Langley withdrew, appalled, and climbed up to the
bridge.  From there he could look forward over the length of the tank
deck.  He thought that she still looked a mess: "Bloody Norahr But she
was no longer on fire and she was sound.  He muttered, "I think we can
get you home, Bloody Norah, old girl."

He returned to the wheelhouse and asked Gilhooley casually, "Think
those engines are a job for the dockyard?"

Scouse sniffed and said gloomily, "More like a breaker's yard ... sir.
I reckon they weren't too clever afore those cannon shells hit 'em."
But he went back to them when Langley took over the wheel again.
Richard remembered then that he had left his burnt shirt and life belt
out on the deck.  He shrugged; he would pick them up later.

He saw a small figure appear at the masthead of 403.  It hung there for
a minute or so and he thought he recognised the coxswain, wondered what
he was doing.  Then he saw the figure descend out of sight, leaving a
red light, pale in the dusk, at the top of the mast.  The coxswain was
looking ahead.

So was Richard Langley.  He would have to sleep and so would Gilhooley.
They would have to stand watch and watch about, four hours at the
wheel, four off.  Night was falling now and the sea was getting up.  He
thought he would stand this first watch until he saw how the weather
was shaping.  The darkness closed in and the craft ahead of him faded
to nothing but a blurred square of deeper darkness, marked only by the
single red pinprick of light at her masthead.  She was blacked out
because there were enemy submarines operating in these waters.

He held Bloody Norah on her course at the end of the tow as the wind
strengthened and the bow crashed into bigger and bigger seas.  Just
short of midnight there was a change in her motion.  For a minute or
two he didn't realise the cause, only felt that there was a
sluggishness about the feel of the helm as if she wasn't answering.
Then it came to him as he looked for the red masthead light and found
it gone.  The tow had broken under the pressure of the wind and seas.
Bloody Norah was left wallowing heavily in the sea as he had found her,
a powerless hulk.

For what it was worth, he lashed the wheel, then staggered forward
along the catwalk, shifting from handhold to handhold as she rolled.
She was shipping the big seas in over her side, threatening to tear him
loose and throw him down into the tank deck.  Half the time he was
under water as a huge wave broke over him.  When he finally got to the
bow, it was to find it a fruitless exercise.  He only confirmed what he
had guessed.  The shackle of the tow was still there but the wire
dangled loosely over the bow, straight up and down.

He made his way back to the wheelhouse and tried to keep her head to
the sea by use of the rudder but that was hopeless.  He could see water
slopping about in the tank deck now, glistening black in the night and
creaming, and more falling into it with every minute that passed.  He
shouted into the voice-pipe to the engine room, again and again,
"Gilhooley!  Gilhoo-ooley!"

And finally heard him answer, '"Ello?  ... Is that you, sir?"  Who did
he expect?  Langley shouted, "Get up here, Gilhooley!"  The answer came
squawking, "Sir, the engines ..."  Langley was not in a mood for
argument.  "Never mind the bloody engines.  The tow's broken.  I'm
trying to keep her head to sea but it's no good and she's taking water
aboard by the ton.  I don't want you down there when she fills up!"  He
wondered briefly what they would do then, without a boat or raft?  She
carried a float net as all those craft did, but that was no more than a
net with cork floats at every knot to give it buoyancy.  You were
supposed to throw it into the sea and hang on to it.  Langley thought
that would do no more than delay drowning.  But he left the wheelhouse
and clawed his way to the float net where it was housed on the
starboard side.  He manhandled it over into the sea by himself because
Gilhooley had not appeared, and left it tethered by a single line.  The
next big sea almost hurled it back inboard and knocked Langley flat. 
When it drained away he staggered aft again, cursing Gilhooley and
looking for him.  He bawled down the engine-room hatch, "What the hell
are you doing down there?  I told you to come up!"

But Gilhooley, true to form, was arguing, "I think I've got one o'
these engines fixed the port one.  I was just going to tell you.  I can
give you power on that.  Hold on."  And seconds later Langley felt a
tremor through the deck beneath his feet.  He bumped his way along the
passage to the wheelhouse and seized the spokes.  There was a new feel
to the wheel in his hands.  Bloody Norah had life again and he brought
her round to face the big seas.  And that was the start of the fight.

He stayed in the wheelhouse all through that night, hunched over the
wheel that he used for support as much as steering.  Gilhooley stood
guard over that one engine that thumped away steadily, but he also
found time to start the pumps.  So while there was still water surging
back and forth across the tank deck, at least it was not gaining.

As the sun rose astern, Langley squinted around out of sore, tired,
reddened eyes and saw only an empty sea.  The ferocity of the wind was
unabated, the seas burst green over the bow and spray lashed the bridge
and wheelhouse.  There was no sign of Bellanger nor any other vessel.
Some of the guardrails in the bow were bent and twisted by the sea, and
the float net had snapped its tethering line and disappeared.

Gilhooley came, unshaven and oily but bearing another thick mug of tea.
He muttered, "Managed to boil a kettle but it's hell's own job,
everything jumpin' about."  He clung to the screen, looked around in
his turn and sniffed, "Can't see nobody."

Langley drank the tea, hot and sweet, and answered hoarsely, "No."  He
asked, "How did you get that engine to work?"

"Stripped bits off the other one, then fixed the fuel lines where they
were cut."  Gilhooley said it casually, offhand, but there was an
underlying note of pride.

Langley thought he had a right to that and said, "Well done."

Gilhooley said with satisfaction, "Balls to McNally, anyway."  McNally
was the Glaswegian engineer.

Langley said, "I should think he would be impressed if he were here."

Gilhooley sniffed.  "If he'd been here he wouldn't have let me touch
the flaming engines, any more than he would let me get my hands on his.
Bloody sweeper-up, that's all I was.  To make him look good."  Then he
remembered he was talking to an officer and shut his mouth.

Langley saw that and changed the subject: "How do you feel?"

Gilhooley shrugged his narrow shoulders.  "Not bad.  Bit hungry now.
Thought I'd try to find a bit o' breakfast."

"You're not tired?"  Langley could not believe that.

But Scouse said, "Not too bad.  Tell you the truth, two or three times
I tucked myself in a corner and got my head down for a bit o' kip.
Wouldn't like to leave that engine for long but if anything was to go
wrong I'd soon have woke up."

Langley thought: Down there in the engine room with its deafening
rumble and the gratings tilting like a see-saw, rising and falling like
a lift as Bloody Norah soared and plunged.  Sleeping.  He shook his
head and grinned.  "Well, you can stand a trick on the wheel.  But
first clean up and eat.  Then come up here."

Scouse nodded, "Right aye, aye, sir.  I'll have a look at that engine
first.  Got to keep an eye on it."

But later he took the helm for a few minutes.  Langley dared not leave
him for long; Bloody Norah was a cow to steer with only one engine.
Scouse was a novice at the wheel and in that gale it showed.  He would
let her head fall away so she was suddenly rolling madly and shipping
the big green seas into the tank deck again before he wrenched her back
on course.  But it gave Langley time to stoop over the chart while he
chewed on a sandwich.  He plotted their position, or rather his rough
estimate based on where Bellanger had taken Bloody Norah in tow, and
after a night of steaming into the wind.  From there he laid off a
course for Malta.

He checked his calculations again then straightened and blinked down at
the figures.  He hoped to God they were somewhere near right.  Malta
was a small island.  If he missed it he might land up in

Sicily or Spain or ... But that did not bear thinking about.  He found
a razor in the officers' heads, washed and shaved then staggered back
to the wheelhouse.  He felt better for the food but was still
dog-tired.

He took over the wheel from Scouse Gilhooley, who asked, "When do you
reckon we'll get to Malta, sir?"

"Tomorrow morning."  And Langley saw that Gilhooley accepted that,
nodding as he went back to his engine.  Langley crossed his fingers. He
brought Bloody Norah around until she was on the course he had laid
off.  She no longer had her head to the seas, was taking them on the
port bow and started shipping some water again.  But it was nowhere
near as much as on the previous day and Langley thought the pumps would
cope with that.  During the night they had imperceptibly gained until
they had sucked her dry.

He still had to fight her to stop her falling off, keep her from
turning her side to the sea when the big waves would break over her and
swamp the tank deck again.  He fought her all that day and into the
night, with only short spells when Gilhooley took the wheel for a few
minutes.  He could not be left for long, was still unhappy about taking
the wheel at all, let alone trying to control the steel box of Bloody
Norah as she rolled, pitched and tried to slide sideways.  But through
that long night Scouse brought a succession of mugs of tea, some of it
tasting bitter: "We've run out o' flaming milk now!"  But it was always
hot.

The gale blew itself out as the dawn broke.  Langley hung over and on
to the wheel.  His burnt hands were one perpetual throbbing soreness.
His body ached and his long legs felt loose under him.  He lashed the
wheel for a minute and stepped out on to the deck, climbed to the
bridge.  He stared out of slitted eyes, hardly able to believe what he
saw as the sun rose.  He climbed wobbly-legged down the ladder again,
called to Gilhooley down in the engine room, "Come up here a minute."

Gilhooley came, eyes screwed up against the sunlight, looking as
desperately tired as Langley felt.  Langley took him up to the bridge
and pointed a finger wrapped in dirty bandage: "There she is."

Malta was lifting out of the sea ahead of them.  Gilhooley nodded and
accepted Langley's miracle as routine.  "Good job we're nearly there.
To tell you the truth, that engine isn't good for much longer.  What I
did was just cobble it together.  It wants taking down; dockyard job.
The other one is a write-off... sir."

He went back to his engine.  Langley took Bloody Norah into

Grand Harbour and to a mooring in French Creek.  From there he was
taken with Gilhooley to the naval hospital at Bighi.  Langley's legs
gave under him when he sat down in the ambulance.

He sank into unconsciousness or a deep sleep, one or both.  He had
spent nearly forty-eight hours on the bridge of Bloody Nor ah.  His
last recollections were of Gilhooley's voice squawking, "Here!  Mind
what you're doing with him!  He's a bloody marvel!"  And some time
later a girl bent over him, concerned, but smiling when she saw his
eyes open.  He wanted to say, "You're pretty", but thought she might
think it cheek.

Then exhaustion overcame the pain of his body and closed his eyes.

TWO

"Suzi short for Suzanne Jones."  She gave her name when he asked it.
That was the day after they had carried him into the high-ceilinged
ward.  He was already feeling better, apart from the burnt hands.  The
doctor had pursed his lips when he saw them and muttered, "Might have
been worse, but it'll take a week or two."  Langley was young and fit;
sleep had done the rest.

Langley said, deep-voiced, "Susan?"  He was sitting up in bed and she
was cutting up his food; he could not use a knife and fork with his
mummified hands.

"No, Suzanne, with a 'z'.  It's French."

"Oh, I see."  While she was looking down at the plate he could study
her.

She guessed he was.  "No, you don't, but I'll explain it later."  She
helped him to pick up the spoon.  "You can manage now."

"I'm not sure.  Are you going?"

"You can and I am.  I have work to do."

He said, "Mine's Richard."

"Yes, I know."  She knew a good deal about him, had heard the story of
how he and a mechanic had saved a burned-out landing craft and brought
it through a storm into Grand Harbour.  And she had stripped and washed
him when he was first brought in, but she did not tell him any of this
because she knew it would embarrass him.  She knew he was shy.

When he was allowed up she took him out to the gardens behind the
hospital.  Walking beside him, she would have just fitted under his
arm.  They sat on a bench out there in the sun looking out over Grand
Harbour and talked.  Or she did.  She saw he would take some drawing
out and made conversation so he could relax.  He liked that because
then he could just sit and watch her.  She was dark-haired,

dark-eyed, with a wide-mouthed grin.  She was not a beauty but he
thought she was.

"I came here in 1940."  She had a husky voice and a Cockney accent. "My
dad was English and my mother was French.  We had a cafe in Paris.
Usually they sent me to my gran in the summer, that was Gran Jones, in
Wapping, down by the Thames.  That's where I learnt half my English; my
dad taught me the rest.  But that year they didn't want me to risk
crossing the Channel because of U-boats, so they sent me to an aunt in
Marseilles.  When Jerry overran France she panicked and put me on a
ship because she thought he was coming right through to Marseilles.
Well, he didn't, not until 1942, anyway.  But the ship was coming to
Malta so I finished up here."

She was.  silent for a moment, staring out over Grand Harbour, the
corners of the wide mouth turned down.  Then she said, "I thought of
going back to England to my gran, but it wasn't easy to get a passage
and I hadn't any money.  I was only sixteen.  Then I heard Mum and Dad
had been killed in an air raid when they were trying to get to England.
Somewhere outside Cherbourg, that was.  And Gran was bombed with a lot
of other people in Wapping that September."

Langley hesitated to put his arm round her, but said, "You had a bad
time.  I know how you must have felt."  He explained, "My father was
killed in the Norwegian campaign, back in 1940.  My mother was run over
in the blackout by some drunken fool.  I was in the Navy by then but I
managed to see her before she died.  She never regained consciousness.
But what did you do?"

The corners of her mouth turned up again.  "You went back to your ship,
right?"

"Of course."

Suzi said, "Well, I got a job in an office, and a room with some
people.  Then when I was old enough I came here."

He said boldly, "Lucky for me."

She was aware of his gaze, light blue eyes in a face burned brown by
the Mediterranean sun.  She laughed at him but got up hurriedly,
feeling the flush rise to her face.  "You're going solo now, anyway.  I
have other things to do.  I'll call you when it's time for lunch."

Another time she told him, "Your friend Bellanger came to see you that
first day when you were still sleeping it off.  He said they'd searched
for you but only found some flotsam and the float net

Langley said, "That's right.  We lost it."

"And he said your shirt, with your name on it, was in with the rest,

tied up with your life belt.  So they concluded you'd been lost with
the ship.  And they had engine problems so they had to come in here."

Langley said absently, thinking first of Scouse's dislike and distrust
of Bellanger's engineer, and then of the ship, "Bloody Norah."

Suzi's eyebrows twitched up.  "I beg your pardon?"

He grinned at her, "That's what we called her, Gilhooley and me -Bloody
Norah."

"Oh.  Well, Mr.  Bellanger said to tell you he had been given command
of the flotilla and was sailing for Tunis."  He had also said, smiling,
"Call me Ralph."  And she had persistently addressed him as "Mr.
Bellanger".  She went on, reciting from memory, word for word, "He sent
you his best wishes and said he'd had to ship another first lieutenant
but he was sure you would get a good berth.  I think I've got it right.
He only stayed five minutes.  It seemed like a duty call."

She shrugged off Bellanger, then laughed.  "Your Mr.  Gilhooley was
admitted when you were but he didn't have the problem with his hands
and he seemed to have kept up with his sleep.  So he was discharged to
the barracks and light duty.  He came to see you.  I told him you were
asleep but he stayed until we threw him out.  He left you what he said
was 'a bar o' nutty'."  She mimicked Scouse's nasal twang and Langley
grinned.  She finished, "That's the bar of chocolate you've got in your
locker."

Langley was touched.  "That was nice of him."  And then he thought that
Bellanger had been quick to be rid of him.  That came as no surprise;
the mutual animosity had prepared Richard for that.  He ran his fingers
through his straw-coloured hair so it stuck up on end and he said,
"Well, they'll find me a ship of some sort, that's certain."  Because
the invasion of Sicily would be soon.  But he was prepared to wait, was
happy to sit in the garden and listen to this girl.

She spent far more time with him than her duty dictated.

But there came a day when his hands were healed and he was discharged
from Bighi, to live in the officers' quarters in Valletta.  And the
next day he stood on the deck of Bloody Norah where she lay alongside
the wharf in Dockyard Creek.  The tank deck and the rest of her had
been cleaned and painted, the engines completely repaired.  She was
ready for sea again.  She did not have a crew as yet, but she did have
a captain: Sub-Lieutenant Richard Langley.

He could not believe his luck, was both elated by the honour and
terrified by the responsibility.  The squadron commander who had given
him the news had seen his surprise and said, "People are rather pleased
with the way you saved her, you know.  They thought you deserved her."
And later he told his colleagues, laughing but kindly, "You'd think
we'd given him Warspite" The 30,000-ton battleship was in the
Mediterranean at that time.

Langley didn't care what people thought, or anyway, what most people
thought.  And she was his first command.  He made a note of the date
when he first stepped aboard her as her captain: Sunday, 6 June.  Then
he borrowed a bicycle and pedalled the switchback two miles to Bighi
through streets with huge gaps ripped in the rows of houses.  Malta had
suffered over three thousand air raids.

Suzi laughed up at him, sharing his delight.  "That's marvelous!"

His crew felt differently.  Half of them were even younger than he was.
Almost to a man they were from ships that had sunk or had sailed
without them for some reason.  They were nostalgic for their "proper"
ships, corvettes or destroyers.  They looked aghast at Bloody Norah
that hardly looked like a ship at all.  The two exceptions were the
first lieutenant and the coxswain.

Harry Darville was inches shorter than Langley, red-faced and cheerful.
Like Bellanger he wore a perpetual smile but his was artless.  He was
two years older than Langley and had spent those two years as an
ordinary seaman aboard a boom defence vessel.  He grinned at Langley,
"Then my skipper told me about the course at Lochailort."  That was the
training school for potential officers of landing craft.  "I went
through the mill for three months there and here I am reborn a
Sub-Lieutenant."

Langley asked, "Is this your first appointment?"

"That's right."

Langley, aware that the invasion of Italy would be soon, thought it
might be Darville's last ship, but did not say so.  Harry had a wife
and young son.

The coxswain, Petty Officer Fairbrother, was in his late thirties and
the oldest man aboard except for Underbill, the art teacher.
Fairbrother was an ex-regular recalled from the reserve when the war
broke out.  He was big-chested and solid but nimble, seeming to bounce
along on short, thick legs.  The crew soon christened him Farmer
because of the plants he grew in pots on the bridge and in the
wheelhouse.  He knew this as he seemed to know about everything that
went on aboard Bloody Norah and a lot that didn't.  When a man got into
a fight in a Maltese bar and evaded the shore patrol, he still found
Farmer waiting for him as he came aboard: "And what have you been up
to, sonny?"

They said the old bastard had a bloody jungle telegraph.

He was the guardian of naval tradition and seamanship.  Whenever
Langley, in his youth, veered from the Admiralty code, he would hear
behind him the hiss of Farmer's intake of breath and know he should
think again.

The motor mechanic running the engine room was Brannigan, an Irishman.
And then there was Scouse Gilhooley.

Langley received a message that Gilhooley was under arrest and had
asked to see him.  He went to the naval prison and learned that
Gilhooley had been charged with drunkenness and missing his ship.
Bellanger had sailed without him and he had been posted absent.  He had
been given a light sentence because of his part in saving Bloody Norah
but it still had some weeks to run.

Langley, exasperated, told him, "You're a damn fool!  One day you get a
commendation and then you miss your sailing through drink!"

Gilhooley, skinny and with his hair cropped short, looking very young,
shook his head.  "Wasn't like that, sir."

"You mean you weren't drunk?"

"No.  Well, just a bit.  But that wasn't the cause.  I'd jumped ship
anyway.  Just thought I'd have a good drink while I could because I
knew the shore patrol would haul me in and I'd get bugger all in
here."

"Then why ...?"  Eangley stopped then, beginning to get an idea.

Scouse confirmed it: "I'd had enough of Mr.  Bellanger and that git
McNally.  So I did a bunk.  Not for good, I wasn't deserting.  Couldn't
desert on this flaming island, anyway could I?  But I thought, when you
were better, you'd be getting a ship, and I thought, maybe if they
wanted somebody in the engine room I could go along o' you.  That's why
I asked if you'd come and see me."

Langley ran his fingers through his hair and stared at Gilhooley, who
looked at him expectantly.  But Langley took a severe tone: "You can't
do things that way.  There are proper channels.  Suppose everybody who
didn't like his ship just went missing?  No, I'm sorry, but there's
nothing I can do.  You'll have to serve your time."

Gilhooley shrugged, "All right sir.  But will you put a word in for me
when you get a ship?"

"I've got one.  Bloody Norah."

Scouse nodded, "That's good.  We know her, don't we?  What's her
skipper like?"

"He won't stand for any bloody nonsense from you, I can tell you that."
Then Langley left him.  And pleaded his case, lied magnificently about
Gilhooley's redeeming virtues, making him out a paragon.  That was not
believed, but he got his way because it was still remembered that the
pair of them had saved Bloody Nor ah.  Gil-hooley was given an early
release and joined her just before she sailed.

Farmer challenged Gilhooley incredulously, "You volunteered for this
lot?"

"That's right."

"What was your last ship?"

"LCT, same as this."

"Ah!  That explains it then.  You don't know any better."

Scouse shook his head.  "No, I don't.  I was sick o' 403."

"So what's different about this one?"

"Him."  A jerk of the thumb towards the bridge.  "The Bloke."

"Langley?"

A nod.  "He's all right.  Now can I stow my gear?"  And he humped his
kit bag below to the mess deck leaving Farmer thoughtful.

Bellanger had returned and Bloody Norah was added to his flotilla as
the twelfth ship.  He was now a lieutenant-commander and had taken to
wearing a silk scarf knotted at his throat when on the bridge.  He
wrung Langley's hand and patted his back.  "Congratulations on your
command!  And on being alive!  We all thought you'd gone down with her!
And it's good to have you along!"  All said with a wide smile.

Langley thanked him but did not believe him.  He asked, "I want to go
out and do some training, sort of a shakedown, sir."

"Or shake-up!  Fine!  Bring her up to scratch with the rest of the
flotilla, eh?"  He urged Langley off the big Fairmile motor launch,
that was now his command vessel as flotilla leader, and sent him on his
way.  "Take her out, by all means!  I'm sure you can make something of
her!"

Langley had already determined that he would.

"Here comes the boy!"

He heard that stage whisper as he climbed on to the bridge in the first
pale, dawn light.  It might have come from the signalman, Tubby

Anderson, round little belly bulging out the waistband of his shorts.
Or Curly Chambers, able seaman and prematurely bald at twenty-three.
But most likely Brannigan said it as he passed on his way to the engine
room.

Langley tried to ignore it, but despite the coolness of the morning
air, he was sweating.  He was taking his own ship to sea for the first
time, even though it was only as far as a Maltese beach.  Once out of
the harbour they shifted into the usual landing craft rig of whatever
was comfortable, a random selection of shirts, vests, shorts, trousers,
shoes or plimsolls.  When they arrived off the beach they practised
landings: running in to the shore, dropping the kedge anchor off the
stern, grounding and lowering the ramp, then coming out again.

On the first attempt Farmer Fairbrother was on the bridge because
Langley wanted Anderson, and later the five seamen, to take a turn at
the wheel.  That was partly for them to gain experience, partly to
judge their competence.  It was a decision that had met with an
approving nod from Farmer.  But Langley had to shout, "We'll do it
again!"  because on that first attempt, in his nervousness, he let
Bloody Norah yaw and she slid into the beach sideways.  He heard
Farmer's quick-drawn breath, the hiss of disapproval.

And later, "We'll try again!"  because this time he got it right but
the ramp jammed halfway down as it was lowered.

"We'll get it right!"  In the heat of noon the wire on the kedge anchor
that was dropped on the way in to help pull her off on the way out,
tangled on the quarterdeck.  The anchor never reached bottom.  They
towed it in for those last fifty yards to the beach and were lucky to
get off again with only the power from the engines.

"We will get it right!"

So they tried once more.  This time they lost the kedge, the wire
parting as they tried to haul Bloody Norah off the sand.  Curly
Chambers swore savagely, "Bloody Norah?  More like Bloody Bastard, if
you ask me."

And Langley, shirt plastered to his skin, hair sticking on end as he
ran his fingers through it, throat raw and hoarse with shouting: "We'll
shift the bow anchor into the stern and use that for a kedge on the
next run-in!"

And finally they got it right, returned to Grand Harbour in the dusk
and Langley humbly requested a replacement kedge anchor from stores.

"I'll be away for a bit," Langley told Suzi.  He had cycled up to Bighi
after a conference where he was briefed on the forthcoming invasion of
Sicily.  The Allies were determined to gain a foothold in Europe.  A
senior officer had told the gathered officers in chilling tones that
they were to expect heavy casualties.  Meanwhile, Harry Darville was
supervising the loading of five Churchill tanks into Bloody Norah's
hold.

"Oh."  The corners of Suzi's mouth turned down then curved up again.
"Well, I'll watch for you coming back.  Bring me back a parrot."

"Do you speak Italian as well?  Because I expect the parrot will."  She
laughed, but: "I have to get back; I just slipped out for a minute when
they told me you were here.  Take care."  She stood on tiptoe and
pulled down his head so she could kiss him on the mouth.  Langley
pedalled happily back to his ship in the dusk.

"Captain, sir!  Captain!"

He woke, blinking at the light.  The captain's cabin would have been
six feet three by five feet nine, but the funnel and mast ran through
it, taking up a quarter of the space.  Langley's bunk, set against the
six-foot-three bulkhead, was just long enough, but his feet had to fit
in between the bulkhead and the funnel.  A chair and small wardrobe
made up the rest of the furniture.

He peered past the mast to where the gangway sentry stood in the
doorway, rain dripping from his oilskins, and explaining, "Sorry to
disturb you, sir, but Brannigan's fallen down the mess deck hatch."

"Oh, hell!"  Langley shoved his feet into shoes and walked along the
short passage past the wardroom to the hatch.  A glance out of a
porthole showed him that the weather had turned foul with wind and
rain.  And he thought that in a few hours they would be sailing for
Sicily.

He climbed down the ladder to the mess deck and stooped under the deck
head  Ten men lived there in a steel box fifteen feet by twelve. They
ate their meals from a scrubbed table, sitting on wooden benches and
slept in hammocks that were lashed and stowed against the bulkhead
during the day.  Now they were occupied, swinging side by side. Langley
pushed his way between them.  The bulkheads sweated and ran with
condensation.  There were two portholes, both closed against the
weather, and the air was thick and noisome.  The twin engines were in
the next compartment and when they ran the vibration shook the deck.

The mechanic was laid out on his bunk and groaning feebly.  "I've
broken my leg, sir.  Heard it go, an' look at it."  The lower limb was
bent at an unnatural angle.

Langley spared him no sympathy.  "I could smell the booze on you from
the top of the ladder!"  He sent for an ambulance and Brannigan was
taken off to hospital.  Langley, thinking of Suzi, envied him.  He
called Gilhooley up to the deck as Brannigan was being carried ashore
and asked, "Can you manage the engines?  Because we won't get a
replacement for Brannigan before we sail."

Scouse yawned, "I should be able to keep the buggers turning over as
far as Sicily, anyway."

"Mr.  Darville!"  Langley shouted it.  Now it was early morning and his
ship was preparing to sail.  He had walked out forward of the bridge
and seen a stormy sea under a lowering sky, the big rollers breaking at
the mouth of Grand Harbour and that was not all.  When Harry Darville
came hurrying, Langley demanded, "Who did this?"  He jabbed a finger at
the front of the bridge.  The ship's number was painted on there: LCT
332.  But now there was also a garish cartoon figure of an overblown
harlot, big-bosomed, short-skirted, fat-legged and leering.  And the
name: Bloody Norah.

Harry stared.  "Good God!"  And, "I don't know.  It wasn't there last
night when we finished work.  After that I sat in the wardroom all
evening.  I think it must have been done then.  When I did rounds it
was dark, of course.  But the gangway sentry must have seen what was
going on.  I'll call..."

Langley asked, "Cox'n?"

Farmer Fairbrother, some instinct warning him of trouble, had appeared.
He blinked at the painting and said, "Strewth!  I was ashore till after
dark, sir, didn't see anything when I got back aboard.  But I'll damn
soon find ..."

But Langley had remembered and bellowed, "Underbill!  Pass the word for
Underbill!  I want him up here!"  He heard his demand carried on from
mouth to mouth like an echo, then thought a stage further and told
Farmer, "Get Gilhooley out of the engine room."

Underbill, commonly called Over-the-hill because he was forty and
greying, came first.  He stood to attention, awkwardly and unnaturally
because he was not a seaman but a teacher who had volunteered to go to
sea.  Then he waited, patiently polite.

Langley said, "You're an artist."

"Art teacher, sir.  I used to teach perspective and so on to grubby
little boys who wanted to be draughts men  I never really considered
myself to be..."

Langley cut him off: "You're too modest.  You painted that?"

Underbill glanced at the painting.  "Yes, sir."  Now he was
embarrassed.  "It's not typical of my work, but it was suggested ..."
His voice trailed away then.  He would not name names.

Langley did not push him because he saw Scouse Gilhooley coming from
the engine room and charged him, "You put Underbill up to this!"

Gilhooley regarded the sexual extravagance with pride.  "She looks a
treat, doesn't she?  Makes the old ship a little bit different, eh?"

"She's not supposed to be different!  Who gave you permission to deface
the bridge like that?"

"Deface?  All the lads like it sir."

"That is the bridge of one of His Majesty's ships!  Not somebody's
backyard wall!"

"Mr.  Langley!"  That call came from a megaphone held by Ralph
Bellanger.  His Fairmile launch was sliding slowly past, on her way to
lead the flotilla to sea.  His voice rose a tone as he went on, "What
the hell is that on the front of your bridge?"

Langley swore under his breath, glared at Gilhooley, then made a funnel
of his hands to bawl back, "It's sort of traditional, sir!  It takes
the place of a figurehead."

"Bloody Norah?  It's bloody awful!"

"It's very good for morale, sir.  Breeds esprit de corps!"

The Fairmile was drawing away.  Bellanger ordered, "Remove it!" Langley
put a hand to his ear.  Bellanger repeated, "Remove it!"

Langley shook his head, spread his hands helplessly and told Harry
Darville, daring him to argue, "I can't hear him.  And it's time we got
under way."  Then on his way to the bridge ladder he paused in front of
Scouse Gilhooley and said softly, "Before you do anything to this ship,
you ask me.  If you pull a trick like that again I'll have the balls
off you!"

Gilhooley blinked, shaken and still mystified.  "I can't see owl wrong
wi'..."  He caught Richard Langley's eye on him then, pale blue and
icy, and finished, "Aye, aye, sir."

So they sailed out into the storm that morning, and a slight
dark-haired, dark-eyed girl stood out in the hospital gardens at Bighi,
high above Grand Harbour, to see them go.  She watched, heedless of the
rain that ran down her face until they were lost to sight.

They fought the storm all that day.  Then as Bloody Norah still plunged
and rolled in the pitch blackness of the night that followed, Tubby
Anderson, the signalman, shrieked, "She's going to run us down!"

THREE

The destroyer roared out of the night and the murk like a runaway
train.  Langley had the watch and swung around just in time to see the
knife-edge bow looming over the port side of Bloody Norah.  Above the
bow were the shadowy outlines of the two 4.7 inch guns and aft of them
lifted the bridge and superstructure all that he saw in the time it
took for him to draw breath.  Then he yelled into the voice-pipe, "Hard
astarboard!"  Though he knew it was too late.  And he jabbed his thumb
at the alarm button.

The bells started their clangour as the destroyer's siren yelped like a
startled hound.  Then her bow struck.  She had already been turning
away.  If she had struck Bloody Norah at right angles she would have
cut the landing craft in two.  But instead, the blow was glancing and
right forward.  It was still enough to heel Langley's ship over under
his feet and send Anderson sprawling across the bridge.  Langley clung
on to the screen and swore, part enraged, mostly frightened.

"Hard as tar Christ Almighty!  hard astarboard, sir!"  That was
Underbill, answering from the wheelhouse as the bow struck.  The side
of the destroyer was rushing past now, like a steel cliff hanging over
Langley.  She was making two or three times the speed of Bloody Norah,
plodding along at the convoy's seven knots.  So the steel wall passed
in seconds and then Langley was staring after her stern as it
disappeared into the night.

"What's going on, Skipper?"  Harry Darville raced up the ladder to the
bridge, come from his bunk in the wardroom.  He peered about him, head
turning, holding on to the screen like Langley as Bloody Norah fell
back on to something like an even keel again.  She was turning tightly
to starboard now, or as tightly as her clumsy, shoebox design
permitted.  That manoeuvre was taking her out of her column in the
convoy.

Langley countermanded his last order, voice deep, "Port twenty."

"Port twenty ... Twenty of port wheel on, sir."  Underbill sounded calm
enough now, had got over his shock, but he deserved an explanation.

Langley added, "We've just been rammed by a destroyer but I think we're
all right."  That was as much for Harry Darville as for Underbill.  Now
he told Harry "She hit us on the port bow.  Go and have a look and let
me know what damage we've taken."

"Aye, aye, Skipper."  Harry dropped down the ladder again and trotted
forward along the catwalk on the port side.  Langley saw the stocky
figure of Farmer Fairbrother following Harry.

Anderson complained, "I never saw her, sir.  One minute there was
nothing there, then she was on top of us.  She was going so naming
fast!"

"Not your fault," Langley gave him absolution.  "You heard those depth
charges."  A statement, because Anderson had looked at Langley when the
sullen "thumps" of the underwater explosions came rolling over the sea.
He had said, "Sounds like they're after a sub, sir."

Now he nodded, "They were somewhere off to starboard, sir."

"So that destroyer was probably answering a call for help.  That's why
she was going flat out."  And the night had hidden her.  It was dark
and cloud-covered.  The sea was high and all Langley's concentration
had been centred on keeping his ship in her station in the convoy,
following the next ahead.  The lookouts on the guns, port and
starboard, had not seen the destroyer in time either.  There were two
men to each 20mm Oerlikon, gunner and loader.  He had told them, "One
of you on each gun can get his head down, but the other keeps a sharp
lookout."

Now he blasted them.  "What sort of watch were you keeping?  We could
have been boarded by the Schamhorst and you would have seen damn all!
So wake up, and wake your ideas up!"  Then he bent his long body again
to order, "Meet her ... steady ... steer that."  Bloody Norah was back
on course and on station.

He cursed softly under his breath.  Where was Harry?  Langley had seen
him and the coxswain, just two blurred figures in the night, leaning
out over the bow.  Then they were gone.  Down to the tank deck?  He
needed to know how badly his ship had been hurt.  Dawn was two hours
away and so was the coast of Sicily.  Bloody Norah was a small part of
the huge seaborne force bent on invasion of the island.  The airborne
attack, by parachutists and troops carried by glider, had already been
launched.  In the hold were the five Churchill tanks, their five-man
crews battened down with them under the tarpaulin hatch-covers. Langley
wondered what it must be like for them down there with only a few hand
torches for light, Bloody Norah rolling and pitching.  And they would
be wondering what that terrifying bang forward meant and whether they
were sinking.  He did not think they were, but... Then Harry Darville
came running back to the bridge and panted as he reached the head of
the ladder, "We've got a whacking big hole you could shove a barrow
through, right in the bow, and we're shipping a lot of water. The cox'n
says he's going to patch it but I think he'll have a hell of a job."

Langley thought Harry might prove to be a good officer but this was his
first ship, except for the boom defence vessel, and he had not been
aboard one with a hole in it.  Nor had Langley, but Bloody Norah did
not look or feel to him as if she was sinking.  He said, "Take over
here.  I'm going forrard to have a look."  Then to Kirkpatrick, one of
the gunners, a soft-spoken Scottish seaman and former assistant in a
gents' outfitters: "Call the watch below."  He stopped, then changed
that to, "Call Gilhooley."  Tolliver, the stoker, was on watch in the
engine room and every other man was on some duty or other.  Only Scouse
was left.  "Tell him we want some baulks of timber, and canvas or
blankets, anything that'll plug a hole.  You're to bring 'em forrard
and quick!  Got that?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Langley shouted to Curly Chambers and the other two men of the guns'
crews, "You come with me!  You're doing no good here!"  He dropped down
the ladder to the catwalk and ran forward to the bow.  He leaned over
there and saw the hole.  Huge it certainly was, about three feet
across, but most of the time it was above the water line.  Only the
swell was driving the seas high up the bow and into the big gash.

Bloody Norah's tank deck was a box inside a box, the outer one being
the hull washed by the sea.  The catwalks on either side joined the
tops of these boxes, so the inner and outer skins enclosed a space four
feet wide that held lockers and stores.  In the bow, however, because
of its shape, this space widened to seven feet on each side.  In there
were the winches, port and starboard, that lowered the ramp.  And in
there was the hole.

Langley climbed down the ladder into the tank deck and stepped through
the doorway into the winch-space where the light of a torch danced on
the streaming plates of the deck.  He was immediately drenched as the
sea jetted in through the hole, almost knocking him from his feet.

Farmer Fairbrother held the torch, grabbed him and steadied him,
shouted in his ear above the thunder of the sea against the bow, "I've
got some soldiers here but they're in no fit state to help, sir!  I'll
need some of our men Ah!"  He stopped then as he saw the three climbing
cautiously down into the tank deck after Langley.  "I see you've
brought some, sir."

Langley spat out water then turned Farmer's hand with the torch so that
its glow lit the little group of soldiers.  They were gathered behind
Farmer, the lieutenant who commanded them at their head.  All of them
clung weakly to the bulkhead to keep their balance as the sea rolled
Bloody Norah.  Langley agreed with the cox'n: they would be little help
and looked more dead than alive.  He answered Farmer, "I've brought
three of the hands.  There'll be two more and some timber and canvas
down here soon."

"We can make a start now, sir.  I've collected this lot."  Farmer
jerked a thumb at the heap by his, feet  There were several lengths of
timber Langley recognised them as being used to chock vehicles that
came aboard, or serving as levers and a length of old tarpaulin.  That
was part of the cover that had mostly burnt away in the fire when he
found Bloody Norah.

"Bear a hand, you men!"  He shouted that at the three gunners as
another sea squirted in and fell over all of them, leaving them gasping
and spitting.  They were soaked again and again as they laboured to
plug the hole with the tarpaulin and clamp it in place with the
timbers.

Soon there came a yell from the deck above, "Below!"  That was Scouse
Gilhooley.  He and Kirkpatrick lowered more timber and a roll of
sailcloth into the hold and then clambered down after it, to be swamped
in their turn by the next sea.

Gilhooley blasphemed and Langley told him, "Shut up and get on with
it!"  Scouse still cursed but added his weight to the press of them
fighting to manhandle the unwieldy mass of tarpaulin into that huge
gash against the pressure of the thrusting sea.

Langley worked with them until the patch was in place and Farmer was
wedging it there.  Then he stood back and wiped water from his face.
"I'd better get back to the bridge now, Cox'n.  Well done, all of
you."

Farmer said, "I'll finish up here, sir.  She looks to be all right till
we can get to a dockyard.  The pumps should be able to cope with what
we're taking aboard now."

Langley said flatly, "They'll have to."  Bloody Nor ah was going to
carry out her orders.  He saw the men's faces turn towards him, saw
that flat statement taken on board.  He glanced at the young
lieutenant, "You can tell your chaps it's business as usual.  We're
still afloat and we aren't going to sink."

The soldier grabbed for handhold as Bloody Norah hung on the crest of a
big sea then plunged forward into the trough.  He put a hand over his
mouth as he felt his stomach rise, then took it away to say, "So I
see."

Langley grinned at him and turned away.  As he set his foot on the
ladder leading up to the catwalk he looked back along the black vault
of the tank deck, lit only by two or three bobbing hand torches.  They
were held by soldiers staggering about among the massive steel car
cases of the tanks that crowded the deck.  Others sat or lay on the
Churchills because the deck was ankle-deep in sea water that washed
back and forth with the motion of the ship.  Langley glimpsed, in the
beam of one torch, a scum of vomit on the surface of the water.

He climbed the ladder to the catwalk and strode aft to the bridge.
Later Harry Darville came aft along the catwalk, the five men of the
impromptu working party trailing at his heels.  The gunners went back
to their guns, Harry to his bunk and Scouse Gilhooley to his engines.
This although he was not due to go on watch for another hour when
Bloody Norah was to start her run-in to the beach.  He grumbled, "Might
as well get down there now.  At least I'll get dry."  He would, in the
heat of the engine room.

Ten minutes later Farmer came aft and reported, "She's all secure now,
sir."

Langley asked, "What about the ramp?"  Because the Churchills had to
get out soon.

Farmer answered that one: "The doors and the ramp are OK, sir.  No
warping or jamming.  And the winches; I checked them."  He was talking
of the winches that raised and lowered the ramp.  He added, "If you ask
me, sir, we were lucky."

Langley told him drily, "Let's hope we get a bit luckier.  We can do
without that sort of thing."

Farmer grinned, "I think those soldiers would be glad if we sank, just
so long as we kept still."

Langley did not feel too comfortable himself, was sympathetic.  "Take
Oswald off the gun.  Tell him to make some tea for them and take it
down there."  The soldiers would be landing on a hostile shore, under
fire, at first light.  He could at least offer them the meagre comfort
of a mug of hot tea inside them.

"Aye, aye, sir," said Farmer.

"Here yare, sir.  Hot an' wet."  Now it was close to dawn and Langley
took one of the two mugs of cocoa from Uncle Oswald.  "Thank you."

Anderson took the other.  "Ta, Uncle."

Oswald was small, skinny and a cook.  In his last ship, a cruiser, he
had run a floating loan business; if a man was short of a few bob he
would borrow from Oswald and settle up, with interest, on payday.  That
earned him the name of Uncle and it had followed him.

Langley had earlier seen Oswald take the big kettle of tea below to the
soldiers.  They were showing signs of life now.  Harry Darville's
fo'c'sle party that would open the doors and lower the ramp had been at
work for some time stripping the covers from the hold.  The weather had
eased so that the big seas no longer came inboard, but when they broke
on the bulwarks the spray fell in sheets into the tank deck.  The
soldiers were getting wet but they were also breathing fresh air after
a night spent under the tarpaulin and they had hot tea inside them, if
nothing else.  They tottered about among the Church-ills on weak legs
and now the first of the tanks' engines coughed, hesitated, coughed
again then burst into a steady roaring.  One by one the others
followed.

Langley sucked at the cocoa burning his tongue but feeling the drink
warming the inside of him.  A signal lamp flashed out in the last of
the night.  That was from Bellanger, the order to start the run-in to
the coast.  Langley spoke into the voice-pipe, "Starboard ten."

"Starboard ten," farmer Fairbrother answered.  The cox'n had taken the
wheel now for the beaching.

Langley watched the compass card as Bloody Norah's head came around,
then ordered, "Meet her ... steady ..."  He heard Farmer repeat the new
course steered but he was already looking to the rest of his command.
Harry Darville was forrard in the bow with the four seamen, one of them
Uncle Oswald, who made up his fo'c'sle party.  They were swinging back
the two doors inside the bow and hooking them back against the sides of
the tank deck.  Mclver, a Scot like Kirkpatrick but bent-nosed because
he had been a boxer in a fairground, waited in the stern by the kedge
anchor, ready to let it go on Langley's order.  Tolliver, the stoker,
hairy and muscular, stood by below the bridge, ready to give a hand
wherever needed.  And with Scouse Gilhooley below in the engine room,
that accounted for all his little crew.

Now he saw a pinpoint of brightness in the night, knew it was the
submarine Unison, sitting on the surface and showing the green light to
mark the release point.  There the bigger landing ships were lowering
the little Landing Craft (Assault), just steel boxes each carrying
thirty closely packed soldiers.  They bounced about on the sea, that
was still rough for such small craft, like toy boats in a bath. Langley
thought grimly that the soldiers they carried would probably now be
even sicker than those aboard Bloody Norah.

But these LCAs were the second wave, the first had already gone in and
the Churchills in the hold were to support the assaulting infantry in
that first wave.  He stared ahead but still could not see the shore.

They were getting close now and the light was growing, day would soon
be on them.  Richard Langley glanced to starboard then to port; on
either hand there were craft of the flotilla, identical to his own,
loaded with tanks, trucks, guns.  And there were also ... They looked
like huge packing cases, battered and broken, floating half-submerged
and surrounded by flotsam of shattered pieces of timber.  There were
two to starboard, another to port and yet one more off the starboard
bow.  He stared at them for several seconds, not recognising them for
what they were.  Then Tubby Anderson said hoarsely, "They're gliders,
sir!"  And then added, "Poor bastards."

The one off the bow bobbed closer as Bloody Norah steamed in towards
the coast.  It slid by the starboard side, near enough for Langley and
Anderson to look down on it from only a few feet away.  He did not see
any bodies, realised sickly that they would be entombed inside the
glider or, if any had escaped from it, dragged down by the weight of
their equipment.  He learned later that more than fifty gliders had
fallen short and landed in the sea that night.  As had hundreds of
paratroopers.  Now he shuddered and turned away.

He peered forward again, out over the bow.  There was a deeper darkness
standing out of the sea ahead of them now and black against the sky.
That was the coast.  Then he saw the line of surf, grey in the last of
the night, that showed the line of the shore.

He warned Farmer Fairbrother below in the wheelhouse, who could see
nothing beyond the lift of the bow, "Beach is in sight.  Right ahead.
About a couple of minutes."

"Thank you, sir."  So Farmer would be ready when she struck.

Langley stepped back from the front of the bridge and glanced over his
shoulder, looking between the funnel and the 20mm gun on the starboard
wing of the bridge.  Through that gap he saw Mclver standing ready at
the kedge anchor.  His face was turned up towards Langley on the
bridge, waiting for the order.  That would be soon.

Langley turned his back on Mclver and stepped up to the screen.  He
thought they were about three hundred yards out.  When they were a
hundred ... The shock caught him unprepared.  As Bloody Norah struck
and ground to a halt he was thrown forward on to the screen so it
caught him on the chest.  He gasped with the pain of it as the air was
driven out of his lungs.  He clung there for a second, realising his
ship was still beneath his feet.  He saw Anderson sprawled across the
deck again and heard him curse.  The soldiers in the tank deck and
Harry Darville's party forward, all of them were strewn about the decks
like fallen skittles.

In the next second he realised what had happened and started to take
action.  He scrabbled for the tin megaphone and bellowed through it,
"We've grounded on a sandbank!  Mclver!  Stand by to launch the
dinghy!"  Then he snapped into the voice-pipe, "Full astern both!"  But
though the screws churned the sea under the stern to foam, Bloody Norah
did not move.

"Achtung!  That one will do!"  Hauptmann Franz Engel studied the
distant, boxy shape lying still in the morning light, then put down his
binoculars and turned to his map.  He and his men still wore the khaki
drill jacket and trousers of the Afrika Korps, though they had left
North Africa for Sicily two months before.  Engel lay bellied down
behind the crest of the ridge looking down on the beach.  His map,
compass and binoculars were in front of him.  On one side of his long
body lay the signaller with his field telephone, now passing on the
firing orders to the guns as Engel gave them, starting with the
warning, "Achtung!"  On the other side was Pianka, Engel's driver.  A
canvas sheet, topped with stringy camouflage netting and supported on
short poles, spread over all three of them.  It sagged in places until
it almost touched their backs but it kept out most of the rain.

It did not stop Engel's leg from aching.  It was permanently stiff with
a steel plate inserted in the knee.  That was from a wound received in
Russia.  Pianka's right eye was puckered by a scar; he had got that
bringing the wounded Engel out.  Engel had been blown up by the
commandos during the raid on St.  Nazaire when he was one of the
defenders.  After that he spent a brief period attached to the embassy
in Madrid as an Intelligence officer.  But that had bored him.  He
demanded a posting and got it because the embassy wanted to be rid of
him; he drank and said openly that the Fuhrer was mad.  The embassy
thought he was.  So he joined the Afrika Korps at El Ala-mein just in
time for the long retreat from there.

An officer had asked him, peering at the stiff leg, "How did you get
passed fit for combat?"

Engel looked down at him with a cold, mad stare and told him, "I lied
about my age."  The officer did not press the matter; Engel was known
to have a savage temper, and could be violent.

Now he rubbed the leg, swore softly, absently, then reached out one
hand to Pianka, who put the bottle in it.  Engel took a long pull at
the schnapps and handed it back to Pianka, who said, "You should get
something from the medics instead of this rotgut."  He lectured Engel
who did not listen because he had heard it all before.  He went back to
issuing his fire orders through the signaller.  And then said, "Shut
it."

Pianka sighed and gave up.  Engel's eyes were on his watch.  The
ranging gun had fired, he knew the time of flight of the shell and now
he set the binoculars to his eyes as it was due to fall: "Here we
go."

The first shell plunged into the sea off the port side.  Langley heard
splinters rattle on the hull below the bridge, felt and smelt the
spray, stinking, thrown up by the burst and driven inboard on the wind.
But he was shouting orders again into the voice-pipe.  "Stop both!" to
Mclver, "Lower the dinghy!"  And, "Number One!  Send your party aft!" 
The extra hands would be needed.  They came running, Harry Darville at
their head.  With Mclver and Tolliver they lowered the dinghy and hung
the kedge anchor over the stern of it.  Curly Chambers climbed down
into the stern sheets and Underbill took the oars.  As the one-time art
teacher rowed the dinghy away, Langley looked around him. It was full
day now.  He took off his steel helmet and ran his fingers through his
hair, settled the helmet on again.  To starboard another LCT was hung
up on the same sandbank and her skipper and crew were also manhandling
their kedge into the dinghy, but they were some minutes behind
Langley's men.  To port?  The craft that had gone in there some hundred
yards away had not hung up on any sandbank but had beached and was
already discharging her cargo of vehicles.  So that was the way to
go.

He turned his gaze inboard again, saw Harry and his fo'c'sle party were
paying out the wire of the kedge as the gap between the stern and the
dinghy widened.  Mclver was on the reel on the port side by the foot of
the bridge ladder letting the wire run out, but controlling it so as
not to give too much slack.  Every foot of wire between ship and dinghy
was more weight for Underbill to tow.

Engel said, "Not bad."  And to the signaller, "Go left one hundred."
Because the shell had fallen a hundred metres or more to the right of
the big box of a boat on the shore.  He heard that passed, waited for
the gun to fire.  He was not an artilleryman but the battery had been
reduced to three guns and all its officers killed or wounded, so he had
been given it to command.  His fire orders were not according to the
book, but he said, "What the hell!  So long as we hit the target."

He had been an Intelligence officer, his job to reconnoitre, but he had
told Pianka when the Wehrmacht were driven out of North Africa, "We're
not going anywhere now but back, so we won't be reconnoitring."  And
the battery needed an officer while he wanted the command.

The signaller reported, "Fired!"

Engel checked his watch then lifted the binoculars again.  "Now let's
see if we've got 'em bracketed."

Langley shouted, "That's far enough!"  But a shell burst in the sea,
this time near the starboard side, drowning his voice and hurling
splinters.  Some of them tore through the thin steel skin of the funnel
by his head so that he ducked.  He thought, That was close!  And:
They're ranging!  He shouted again, "Far enough!"

This time they heard him, both on the deck below and in the dinghy.
Curly Chambers let the kedge slip to sink into the dark sea and
Underbill spun the dinghy round and pulled back to the ship.  Harry and
his men took a couple of turns around the capstan.  Langley yelled,
"Haul in!"  And into the voice-pipe, "Slow astern both!"  Slow, because
if she came off the bank too quickly she might ride over the wire of
the kedge and wrap it round her screws.  Tolliver, the stoker, was on
the capstan, regulating its electric motor with the brass wheel on top
of it.  It began clattering and the wire started to come in.

Engel grinned, showing his teeth, lowered the binoculars and told the
signaller, "Go right fifty.  All guns three rounds."  That meant three
rounds per gun, nine shells in all.  He wondered what it was like for
the Tommis out there under the hammer, rubbed the leg and reached out
for the bottle.

Richard Langley was aware that the gunfire had increased, that shells
were falling all around them now.  The LCT stranded to starboard had
taken a direct hit forward and was on fire.  The guns on either side of
the bridge were not manned so Bloody Norah was not firing back.  Should
he order them to be manned?  To give encouragement to his crew?  But he
told himself the men were needed on the anchor work now, and anyway,
there was no one to shoot at.  The firing came from guns out of sight
inland.

Langley licked his lips that were dry, as was his throat.  He kept
swallowing.  The bridge gratings were vibrating under his feet as the
screws turned.  The capstan revolved, hauling in the wire, and Mclver
wound it in on the reel as it came off the capstan.  The wire that had
earlier sagged in the middle so that it hung in the sea now tautened
until it was almost straight.

Underbill and Curly Chambers were almost back to the ship but keeping
the dinghy well clear of the wire in case it parted and whipped.  And
if it parted and the kedge was lost?  Langley tried to remain
impassive, told himself they could always try again with the anchor in
the bow.  But this was not a rehearsal on a Maltese beach, it would
take time and they were a sitting target now for the guns ashore.  He
held his breath, eyes fixed on the wire, hearing the note of the
electric capstan change as the strain increased.  Then he felt the
motion of the ship beneath his feet, at first almost imperceptible but
then she was definitely sliding astern and a few seconds later she was
floating free.

Langley took her astern until Harry Darville yelled, "Up and down!" The
anchor was right under the stern and then it broke the surface and was
swung inboard.  As Langley turned Bloody Norah to port he saw the
shells falling in the patch of sea where they had lain on the
sandbank.

The dinghy was hoisted inboard and Harry led his party back to the bow,
running along the catwalk.  Langley conned Bloody Norah parallel to the
shore until she was past the first of the LCTs that had beached.  Then
he turned her to starboard and ran her in.  When she was a hundred
yards or so off the beach he yelled, "Slip!"  And Mclver knocked the
pin out of the Carpenter's Stopper named after the man, Carpenter, who
invented it.  The two steel jaws of the stopper fell apart, releasing
the wire they had gripped.  The kedge dropped into the sea once more
and the wire snaked out.

"Lower!"  Harry Darville shouted as Bloody Norah ran on.  He and his
men were down in the tank deck.  The doors had been swung back earlier
in readiness before that first premature beaching.  Now one man was at
each of the winches under the catwalk on either side.  They unwound
until the ramp was lowered to thirty degrees above the horizontal.
Pawls, again, let the cables run out and brakes stopped them for the
time.  And now Bloody Norah took the ground with grinding and
vibration, slid on up the beach with the way on her, then came to a
halt.

Langley shouted, "Down ramp!"  And the men on the winches in the bow
knocked off the brakes, let the cables unwind again and the ramp
smashed down into the shallows.  "Stop both!"  Bloody Norah was at rest
and the first Churchill rumbled and clunked over the ramp.  It ploughed
a track over the beach beyond and headed inland.

The others followed, the hollow-eyed and empty-bellied soldiers glad to
be on land again.  The commanders, standing with heads out of the
turrets, waved to the ramp party as they swayed past.  Then the last of
them disappeared into the growing light of day, the mist and smoke.

Shells were still falling on the beach.  It was time to get out of it.
Langley ordered, "Haul in!"  And into the voice-pipe, "Slow astern!"
Tolliver started the capstan, hauling in on the kedge wire again while
the screws churned slowly to drag Bloody Norah off the beach.

Langley bawled through the megaphone, "Up ramp!"  Forward in the bow
Harry Darville set his men to winding in on the two winches there.  The
winches were not powered and the ramp was dragged up by sheer muscle
power.  The men sweated and strained but slowly the ramp came up.
Bloody Norah was afloat again and steadily going astern.  She came
above her anchor once more and that was recovered by Underbill.  Then
Langley turned her neatly and set her on a course out to sea, on her
way back to Malta.

" Tanks!"  Pianka grabbed Engel's shoulder and pointed.

Engel batted the hand away with a swipe from his own.  "I can see them,
you fool!  I'd be blind if I couldn't!"  They were right in front of
him, less than a quarter-mile away and crawling up the slope from the
beach towards him.  But the guns could not see the tanks because they
were on the other side of the ridge.  And if they tried to lob a shell
on to the tanks they would hit the crest first.  Engel was not an
artilleryman but he had a good eye for ground.

"If we stay here they'll run over us.  Move!"  And he jerked a thumb
over his shoulder.

The three of them slid out backwards from under the sheet and the
camouflage netting.  Engel got to his feet awkwardly because of the
stiff leg.  The other two knocked down the sheet and netting, rolled it
up with the supporting poles inside and Pianka tucked the bundle under
his arm.  The signaller picked up the field telephone and started to
reel in the wire as they trotted back to the Kubelwagen waiting at the
foot of the ridge, Engel swinging the stiff leg in a hop along gait.

Pianka tossed his bundle in the back of the squat, jeep-like vehicle
and slid in behind the wheel.  Engel took the passenger seat beside
him, manoeuvring in the stiff leg.  The signaller climbed into the
back, still reeling in the wire as Pianka drove the car bouncing over
the rutted track running inland.

He asked, "What now?"

Engel dug into Pianka's jacket pocket for the schnapps.  "There's a
farm along here, remember?  We'll get up in the roof and work from
there."

Pianka said, "Well, we gave them a fright, even if we didn't hit the
boat."

"We didn't."  Engel drank and sighed, "If they'd lain there another
minute we'd have got them.  I wonder if the bastards know how lucky
they were?"

The invasion of Sicily had succeeded.  The Allies now had their
foothold in Europe.  But "You're lucky to be alive.  We're all lucky to
be alive."  Two days later, Farmer was reminding them, all crammed into
the mess deck on their first night in harbour, and all of them
grousing. "Because we were stuck on a bank that nobody knew was there
and Jerry was using us for target practice.  If we hadn't got off when
we did ..."  He drew his finger across his throat.

Curly Chambers shrugged into a clean "flannel", preparing to go ashore.
He smoothed down the seaman's white shirt with its square, blue neck
and admitted, "That's true enough, Farmer, but we're still waifs and
bloody strays."

Because those two days had been spent ferrying supplies to Sicily,
despite the patched hole in the bow.  Bellanger had told Langley:
"Senior naval officer needs an LCT for some work so I've put your name
forward.  It'll help your chaps shake down."

Langley had refused to complain and answered, "That's fine."

Now Curly went on, "Bellwether's got it in for us.  Detached us from
the flotilla to run everybody's errands.  We've only got a night in now
because the dockyard mateys are working on that hole."

"Bell-who?"  Farmer peered at him, suspiciously.

"Bellwether Bellanger.  Over-the-hill here says it's a good name for
him.  Go on, tell him, Over."

Underbill explained, "Bellwether means the leading sheep of a flock and
they used to hang a bell round its neck."

"Ah!"  Farmer said, "Very clever.  And you're the painter.  That
reminds me, I've got some painting needs doing most of this flaming
ship.  So I'll see you tomorrow.  But we all know our old man doesn't
get on with the boss, and vice versa.  That's why we've been detached.
But I'd rather be a waif or a stray with Langley than rubbing up
against your Bellwether every day of the week.  Think about it."

They did.  And groused about Uncle Oswald's cooking instead.

"I thought I might see Suzi Jones."  Richard Langley stood hopefully in
the corridor, cap in hand.

The ward sister, Scottish and a disciplinarian, said severely, "That
you cannot.  She's on duty and we have a lot of patients."  They were
dealing with wounded from the Sicily landings.  But then she relented
because she had sons his age: "Ten minutes.  No more, mind."  And she
went to take over from Suzi for that time.

Suzi laughed up at him, though he thought she looked tired.  "I've seen
your ship come in and go out.  I thought you'd forgotten me."

"We've been busy.  When will you have some time off?"

"I don't know; maybe tomorrow evening.  That's an impressive piece of
artwork on your bridge."

"The lady wasn't my idea, but the chaps like her.  So I'll see you
tomorrow about this time?"

"Lady!  But I will if I can.  I'll try."

Langley went back to his bunk between the funnel and the bulkhead but
it was midnight before he slept.  He had a lot of ideas for improving
the evolutions of beaching and kedging off, making them more efficient,
and he wrote them all down in detail.  For one thing, there was hauling
up the ramp under fire.  That needed speeding up and he knew how he
would do it.  And when he switched off the light he knew he had Suzi's
promise for the morrow.

But Bloody Norah sailed the following afternoon for Djidjelli in North
Africa.  And that morning Langley complimented Gilhooley, "You kept
those engines going, as you said."

Scouse sniffed, '"Course I did.  I'm a mechanic."

Langley did not argue.  "Oh?"

Scouse said, "I am.  Served my apprenticeship in a garage, night
schools and all and on diesels.  I've got my certificates."

"So why are you a stoker?"

"Ah, well..."  Gilhooley glanced around him, not wanting anyone else to
hear.  "See, when I was called up they asked me what my trade was.  My
brother, he's in the army, he said, "Tell 'em you're a clerk and you
might wangle a billet in an office."  So I did.  And they sent me on a
stoker's course."

Langley kept his face straight.  "Hard luck."

"That's right.  And on that first ship, Bellanger's, I tried to tell
the mechanic, showed him my certificates but he said they were just
bits o' paper because he hadn't got any."

Langley asked.  "You have them now?"

'"Course.  In my ditty box."

"Get them."

And when Scouse brought them up from the little brown attache case on
the mess deck Langley took them ashore.  He should have gone to
Bellanger but he knew that would not have worked and anyway, Bellanger
and the flotilla were at sea off Sicily.  But the squadron commander,
whose squadron included Bellanger's flotilla and two more, was in
Malta.

Langley went to him, produced the certificates and pleaded

Gilhooley's case: "Just an administrative error, sir.  The man is a
mechanic, always has been.  I think he should be rated as such."

The commander scowled at the certificates, "Isn't he the man who helped
you bring her in?"

"I wouldn't have got her here without him, sir, and he's been acting
mechanic ever since, doing the job without the rate."

"I'd have liked Bellanger's endorsement."

"When I first went aboard her, sir, when she was derelict and I needed
the best man Mr.  Bellanger could spare, he sent me Gilhooley.  I think
that speaks for itself."

Langley returned to Bloody Norah, gave Scouse his certificates and told
him, "You're rated mechanic, and you're getting another stoker, a chap
called Noakes.  He'll be down any minute now."  He left Gilhooley
open-mouthed.

Bloody Norah spent the next two months running between Djidjelli and
Syracuse.  She carried troops, tanks and vehicles to Sicily and
returned to Djidjelli loaded with Italian prisoners of war.  She
finally rejoined the flotilla early in September, but only briefly.
They were at Reggio, on the toe of Italy, having taken part in the
landings there a few days before.

Ralph Bellanger smiled broadly.  "I've got a job for you, old boy.
There's a shortage of LCTs; some have been sent back to the UK."
Langley knew that.  To get ready for the Big One?  A landing on the
Atlantic coast?  But Bellanger was going on, "You'll be attached to the
21st Flotilla.  They've got a show on and they need an extra craft."

And when Langley read his orders later, Harry Darville blinked and
asked, "Where in hell is Vibo Valentia?"

They found that hell was exactly where it was.

FOUR

"There's a wire wrapped round one of the screws!"  Gilhooley was
dressed in only shorts and boots for the heat of the engine-room, ribs
sticking out through his skin.  He came to the bridge and told Langley,
swearing.  "I reckon it's an old kedge cable somebody's lost!"  The
21st Flotilla was sailing from Reggio in the toe of Italy for Vibo
Valentia, fifty miles north, at six of a fine evening.  Bloody Norah
was going with them and was intended to land her cargo of tanks and
stores in the first wave, but she had only moved a hundred yards when
her engines faltered and stopped.

Langley swore along with Gilhooley, his bass tone a growl, but briefly.
He verified Scouse's statement for himself.  Leaning far out over the
stern and peering down he could see the trailing end of the rusty old
wire hawser that had wound itself around a propeller shaft.  He
diagnosed, "Somebody lost his anchor cable."  Then he told Tubby
Anderson, "Flash up the cruiser.  Make: "Request assistance of
diver.""

Tubby's Aldis lamp clattered, flickering out the signal to the cruiser.
Soon her diver was working in the dark water under the stern.  He
succeeded in cutting the wire loose, but Bloody Norah was two hours
behind the rest of the flotilla when she finally left Reggio astern.

She made up some of that time during the night, overtaking some of the
vessels in the follow-up waves, but the sun was up when she ran in from
the release point and Harry Darville joined Langley on the bridge.
Harry had gained in experience and confidence in the last two months,
had proved good at his job.

Now he used his binoculars to peer at the vessels Bloody Norah was
passing.  He said, "That's Erebus."  The flatiron-shaped hull of the
monitor, with the two 15-inch guns in the forward turret, sat low in
the water.  "And Scarab."  She was a gunboat, originally built for
service on Chinese rivers and mounting a pair of 6-inch guns.  Both
ships were there to give gunnery support to the landings.

Bloody Norah chugged on and entered the little harbour of Vibo
Valentia.  If Reggio was in the toe of Italy, Vibo Valentia was just
about where you'd knot your shoelaces.  It lay in a bowl overlooked by
low, tree-covered hills.  Langley squinted up at them, eyes narrowed
against the early sun, but he could see no life up there.  The harbour
was busy, LCTs already beached and discharging troops, stores and
vehicles from their ramps.  He could hear nothing above the thrumming
of Bloody Norah's engines.  There was no sign of any resistance.

Harry Darville said uneasily, "It's very quiet."

Langley nodded agreement, but the shore was close and he said, "Better
get forrard, Harry."  And the first lieutenant made his way into the
bow to supervise the lowering of the ramp.  Langley thought, Well, it's
supposed to be like this.

That was the plan: now the Allies had crossed the Straits of Messina to
Reggio and were fighting in mainland Italy.  This was to be a leapfrog
operation, landing troops fifty miles up the coast from Reggio.

He thought, Hitting the enemy where they were thin on the ground and
not expecting it.  They've got their hands full miles south of here,
fighting off the Eighth Army way down in the toe of Italy.

He was still not convinced.

Hauptmann Franz Engel had received the order to withdraw in the night.
He limped through the bivouac just north of Reggio, swinging the stiff
right leg.  He wound his way between the guns, bawling at the gunners,"
"Raus!  "Raus!"  They woke slowly because they had been in action and
slept little in the last forty-eight hours.  But Engel cursed them out
of their blankets and on to their feet.  They shivered in the chill of
the night, though they had exchanged the thin khaki drill of the Afrika
Korps for the grey-green service dress of European winter.

Soon they were on the road, the men huddled into the trucks, the three
guns towing behind.  The guns were the 75mm infantry weapon,
short-barrelled howitzers, each with a five-man crew.  They bounced and
rocked as they rode over the potholes, forming only part of a seemingly
endless trail of vehicles; the entire army was withdrawing to the
north.

Pianka sat beside Engel, driving the Kubelwagen, with the signaller
wedged in the back among their kit.  Engel's long body was curled up to
fit into the little car.  Pianka, a head shorter, fitted better.  He
was a veteran of 1914.  They had been together for a long time, since
serving with the Abwehr Intelligence, during the Spanish Civil War of
1937-9.  Their relationship was not the usual one between officer and
NCO.  Pianka would advise, criticise and warn "Somebody will turn you
in if you keep on saying Hitler is out of his mind."

But Engel would show his teeth in a grin and pronounce, "They won't,
because if they did, some of the muck might stick to them.  They'll
just keep clear of me."

They did.

Pianka was still only an Unterfeldwebel, a sergeant, and that rank only
accepted reluctantly at Engel's insistence: "If I give you a job
handling some men you'll have more clout with the stripes on your arm!"
The scar twisting the corner of Pianka's right eye gave him a sinister
look that was totally misleading.  He was old enough to be Engel's
father but they might have been of an age.  Engel's hair was iron-grey,
his long face lined.

They were both haggard in the first grey light before dawn when the
military policeman flagged them down.  He was a corporal in the
Feldgendarmerie and wore its badge, the metal gorget, the Ringkra-gen
on his chest below his jaw.

The Kubelwagen jerked to a halt and the gun-towing trucks crowded up
behind it, brakes squeaking.  Engel demanded, "What's going on?"

The corporal pointed to a road turning off towards the coast.  "The
Tommis are making a landing at Vibo Valentia.  We have orders from the
general to send units down there to mount a defence!"

Engel grunted acknowledgment and told Pianka, "All right.  Let's go."
And they turned on to the side road.

The sun was up when Engel led his little column off the road and
rocking across a quarter-mile of rough country.  He finally halted them
in a clearing in the trees that ran up to the crest and over it.  He
looked behind him and saw more trucks and guns swaying down the road.
He would not be alone for long.  Minutes later he thought that was just
as well.

He had walked on over the crest and stood at the edge of the trees,
binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the scene in front of him.  The shouts
and clangour of the gunners echoed behind him as they unhooked the guns
and prepared them for action.  The signaller had run out the telephone
wire and was standing on one side of Engel, connecting up the
instrument.  The Gefreiter who was the range taker and who had his two
stripes because of his skill with the rangefinder, was setting up the
instrument, but not on its tripod stand.  Instead he lay prone and
rested it on its case.  If he could see his target, then the target
might see him and shoot back.

Engel was aware of all this, but the harbour held his attention.  It
was filled with landing craft nosed on to the beach and unloading.
Engel's Zeiss glasses brought them up close.  He muttered, "Herring
boxes again."  Men and vehicles were streaming ashore.  There were more
craft outside waiting their turn to enter.  Engel muttered, "The
bastards won't be on their own."  He looked for the escorts then and
saw them out on the horizon.  One looked to be a big ship with big
guns, the others were smaller but they all added up to firepower. Engel
muttered, "God help us later."  But for now ... He bawled into the
field telephone, "They're like ducks in a barrel!  Come and get 'em!" 
He pointed out the target to the range taker who read off the range. 
Engel passed on to the guns the range and bearing from his position. 
On the gun position they would be converted to range and bearing gun to
target.  He waited until the signaller reported, "Guns ready!"

Engel ordered, "Feuer!"

The bark of the 75s broke the stillness of the morning.  Their first
target was an LCT at the far end of the line from Bloody Norah.  The
shells tore into her, bursting in the tank deck, reducing a truck
rolling down the ramp into blazing wreckage.  Langley saw his own cargo
was all ashore and shouted through the tin megaphone, "Up ramp, Mr.
Darville, please!"

Farmer Fairbrother at the wheel and gulping down his shock raised his
eyebrows at the formality of that.  But Langley on the bridge above him
was searching through his glasses for the guns that were shelling the
beach.  He did not see them but he saw -just the orange flashes and
jets of smoke from their muzzles high on the hills above the bay.  He
thought that he was probably the only one able to see them, the other
LCTs strung along the shore being masked from them by the wooded
hillside.

He shouted, "Anderson!  Get Underbill to lend you a hand!  Man the gun
on the port side!"  Underbill came running, to act as loader,

and belted Tubby Anderson into the harness of the 20mm antiaircraft
gun.  As a small crew, every man had to be able to do another job or
two besides his own.  Langley pointed, "See the darker patch of trees,
right ahead and halfway up the slope!  At ten o'clock from there!"

They peered, saw the flame and smoke as the guns fired again and
yelled, "Got 'em, sir!"  Tubby Anderson opened fire, short, ripping
bursts, part tracer, that led the eye to their target.

Langley was at the voice-pipe, telling Farmer Fairbrother, "Full astern
both!"  He heard the clang of the telegraph in the wheelhouse, passing
that order to Gilhooley in the engine room.  Then Langley was shouting
to Tolliver, the first stoker, with black hair curling from under the
shirt he wore, manning the capstan in the stern, "Haul her off and keep
it taut!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  Tolliver answered.  "Smiler" Noakes, the new second
stoker, tattooed and morose, stood by to lend a hand.

That last was only a reminder; they had already had enough trouble from
someone else's discarded hawser fouling their propeller shaft without
running back over their own as they backed off the beach.  She was
moving now as the ramp came up, screws churning the shallow water under
her stern into foam.  She was drawn seaward as she seemed to suck in
the hawser that helped pull her off, like a huge spider climbing its
own silken thread.  And all the while Anderson and Underbill at the
20mm gun hammered away, hosing the section of woods with three hundred
rounds to the minute.

They did no harm to Engel or his guns.  He was bellied down below the
crest on the forward slope and they were some fifty yards behind it,
correcting their fire at his orders.  But the shells smashed branches
from the trees to rain down on the heads of the gunners.  The shriek of
their passing and the snarling of the ricochets turning end over end
had those same gunners ducking and wincing apprehensively.  Engel swore
and shifted the fire of his guns from the LCTs stranded helplessly on
the beach to the one now going astern that was at the source of the
looping chains of tracer.  "Feuer!"

Bloody Norah was coming up to her kedge now.  Langley stopped her,
turned her on her heel while recovering the kedge, then headed her out
to sea.  The shells from the enemy battery up on the hill still fell
around her but he ordered, "Port twenty!... Starboard twenty!  ..."  so
that she weaved drunkenly, clumsily swerving to avoid the fall of shot.
She was not built for that kind of manoeuvring, but it worked.  Shells
fell close but she was only hit twice, one bursting on the starboard
side but well above the water line.  The other was below it but Curly
Chambers and Uncle Oswald plugged that hastily with blankets and
timber.

Engel glanced along the crest of the hill.  More guns were scattered in
a long line there now.  These were the mobile 88mm guns with a flat
trajectory.

They were far more powerful guns but could not lob shells high into the
air like Engel's 75mm howitzers.  They would not be able to depress
their long barrels far enough to be able to hit the landing craft on
the beach, the boats were too close under them.

The "herring box" hauling off now, though, the 88s could train on her.
She was still firing and there was another coming in.  He studied it
through the glasses.  There was something different about this one, she
was not the simple shoebox shape of the others.  Then the 88s cracked,
hurling their first rounds out to sea.

Langley and all of them aboard heard and recognised the difference in
those flat reports.  Harry Darville came to the bridge and reported,
"Ramp's up and secured.  Doors closed," though Langley could see that.
Harry said, "Those are different guns."

Langley had heard them before and told him, "Eighty-eights."

Harry had heard of them and said, "Oh, Jesus!"

The first shells went over with a rip of torn air and burst in the sea.
The next salvo fell alongside but one of the shells threw up a
waterspout that splashed Langley and the gunners on the wing of the
bridge.  Harry spat foul, salt water and shouted, "They're ranging in
onus!"

Langley nodded, swallowed, took off his helmet and ran his fingers
through his hair.  He told Harry, "Get two of your party to man the
other gun!"

Harry shouted, "Chambers!  Kirkpatrick!"  Then to Langley, doubtfully,
"I think we're nearly out of range."

Langley said, "It's worth a try."  And it was better than just sitting
there to be shot at.  Bloody Norah had done what he wanted and drawn
the initial fire from the beach.  Now she was to pay the price.  But
not like some poor, dumb animal waiting for the humane killer.

Curly Chambers came running, clapping a steel helmet on to his bald
head and Kirkpatrick belted him into the 20mm gun on the starboard side
of the bridge.  Seconds later it opened fire, adding its clatter to
that of the portside gun.

Langley looked about him and saw the LCTs that had been trapped in the
harbour were backing off, turning and scurrying out to sea, all their
guns in action now they were able to see a target.  But another line of
them were pressing in, the sea piled up in white foam under their
square bows, kicked up by their screws into a frothing wake at their
square sterns.  They were pressing in because the guns and troops they
carried were desperately needed by the soldiers already ashore and
under fire.

One of them had a different silhouette.  She was an LCG, a Landing
Craft (Gun), a vessel like Bloody Norah, but converted to give gunnery
support on landings and mounting two 4.7 inch guns.  Harry Darville
used his binoculars then shouted against the racketing roar of the guns
on the bridge-wings, "That's Twelve!"  Langley nodded, could not see
her number but knew from his briefing that LCG 12 was one of the ships
ordered to give close gun support.  Now she fired her guns, a double
report, one following on the heels of the other.  And the 88s shifted
their fire to her.

She drew their fire while Bloody Norah and the other LCTs made their
escape.  She took on Engel's battery and the 88s, punished them and was
punished in her turn.  Langley watched the battle as his ship steamed
away, saw the LCG fight a desperate battle to save the LCTs and win it.
He saw her limp away at the end, battered and broken.  And, he learned
later, with her officers and most of her crew dead, her guns silenced
and an ordinary seaman in command.  But she had done the job

And now the monitor Erebus, cruising outside, opened up with her
15-inch guns.  The two long barrels pointed at the sky and recoiled as
they were fired.  Tongues of flame and clouds of dirty grey smoke
jetted from their muzzles.  The shells were on their way.

"I want a drink."  Engel had just switched the fire of his guns yet
again, their stubby barrels swinging round to menace the LCTs now
entering the harbour and beaching below him.  He lowered the glasses
for a moment and wiped their lenses with his handkerchief, turned to
Pianka beside him to say, "Get me a bottle from behind my seat."  He
had a case oistrega he had picked up in Reggio in the back of the
Kubelwagen.

Pianka objected, "It's a bit early."

Engel told him, "Don't talk like a thickhead.  It's never too early.
For some poor bastards it's too late."  He gestured with the glasses at
the bodies sprawled on the beach.  Pianka started to move, turning to
crawl back from the edge of the trees, and Engel warned, "But keep your
head down."

Pianka grumbled, "I'm not a raw recruit!"  But he obeyed and flattened
to the ground to work his way back for the first few yards.  It was
then that the first salvo from the two big guns in the single turret of
the monitor plunged down on the battery's position with the roar of an
express train.

Engel and Pianka both cowered under the threat, pressing close to the
ground with their hands clapped over their ears, shrinking and tensed.
Some of the gunners reacted, throwing themselves down, but some did
not.  Then the two shells burst, each of them weighing close on a ton.
One fell on the edge of the gun position and the blast from it felled
trees and may have killed men standing on the position.  But that might
also have been done by the second shell that fell on the right-hand gun
of the three.  Engel only knew at first that the earth lifted under him
and a hot wind scoured his skin and the ground around him and sucked
the air from his lungs.  Dirt, stones and branches showered down on
Pianka and himself.  His ears rang and he thought he was about to
die.

"Move!"  He bellowed it.  He lay in and under a pall of smoke that
stank.  He gasped for breath, drawing some of it in that set him
coughing.  He stretched out a long arm and shook Pianka by the
shoulder, saw him lift his head.  Pianka in his turn shook the
signaller.  The range taker was already moving, brushing dirt off the
rangefinder with his fingers, examining the instrument anxiously.

"Let's get out of here!"  Engel shouted, beckoned and led the way,
squirming round and snaking on his belly away from the front of the
crest.  Then he shoved up to his feet, awkward with the stiff leg, and
limped further into the smoke that was now drifting away on the wind.
The others followed him, the signaller reeling in his wire, the range
taker cuddling his rangefinder.  Blinking through the shreds of smoke,
Engel made out the two guns nearest to him, men getting to their feet
around them but others lying still.  The third gun was not there. He
saw a huge hole dug where it had been and he hobbled towards it, halted
on its edge.  Now he could see the gun.  It lay at the bottom of the
crater and was twisted and bent like so much scrap iron.  He could see
what might have been men but he could not be sure.  There were no
survivors in the crater, he was certain of that.

He turned away.  He knew what he had to do.  Now another Kubel-wag en
not his, bounced over the rough ground on to the position and halted
just short of him.  A major leaned out and looked around, then at
Engel.  "Your boys are out of their depth here.  And there will be more
where that came from.  Leave it to the eighty-eights and get out and
back on the road."

Engel rasped, "Good, that makes it official."  He had already come to
that decision.  The Kiibelwagen carrying the major bounced away.  The
smoke all gone now, Engel saw men standing by the battery's trucks in
the cover of trees about two hundred metres behind the gun position. He
beckoned, pointed to the guns and saw one of the group lift a hand in
acknowledgment.  Then the group shredded, the drivers, for that was
what they were, running to their trucks.

The sole surviving NCO on the gun position, a Gefreiter, was shoving
the survivors back to man the two remaining 75s.  Engel shouted to him,
"Forget it, Corporal!  We're getting out!  Hook up!"

He moved among them, confirming those of the bodies that were dead, and
when the trucks ground up, helping to load the wounded in over the tail
boards  Then he grunted and heaved with the rest of them, lifting the
trails of the guns to hitch each one on to the truck that towed it. All
the while the huge shells from the monitor out at sea fell along the
crest of the hills surrounding the harbour, seeking the other guns up
there.  But many of the 88s still survived and fired out at the ships
standing off and the landing craft still driving in to the beach. As
the second of Engel's two surviving guns clunked on to the towing hook,
his Kiibelwagen rolled up beside him and Pianka shouted, "Come on,
before they drop another one on us!"

Engel waved the guns on their way, lurching and leaping over the rough
ground, engines howling in high revs and low gear.  Then he slid into
his seat beside Pianka, swung his stiff leg in and settled it
comfortably.  "Go!"  Pianka let out the clutch and they bounced and
rocked after the guns until they came to the side road, when the going
became smoother.

Engel told Pianka, "Look for ambulances or a doctor."  They had wounded
to be tended their own medic had been left on the field at Reggio.  He
fumbled behind his seat as Pianka grunted in answer.

Engel saw a nerve jumping in the Unterfeldwebel's jaw as he steered the
truck and thought, I'm feeling that way, too, Pianka, old son.  His
groping fingers found the bottle and he pulled out the cork.  He
offered it to Pianka who lifted it one-handed and took a big swallow,
squinting around it at the road ahead.  As he passed it back he asked,
"What's wrong with your hand?  You're bleeding."

Engel glanced down, saw the red trickle on the back of it and something
there ... He picked at it with a dirty finger and teased out a shred of
metal.  "Splinter."  He left it to dry, wiped the mouth of the bottle
with his palm and drank.  They came to the road and found the corporal
of Feldgendarmerie still there.  He directed them to a field dressing
station, a little cluster of trucks and tents.  They left the wounded
there and eased their vehicles back into the long stream heading slowly
north.

Engel said, "Call me when you want me to take a turn at the wheel."
Pianka grunted again and Engel settled as comfortably as he could in
the little truck and closed his eyes.  That was too close, he thought,
much too close.  Just a sideshow.  Pull off the road and fight a little
local action.  About an hour later you're back on the road again less
one gun and a dozen men killed or wounded.  And all before breakfast.

He remembered the landing craft that had first fired back with its
popgun Oerlikons, drawing his fire.  And he had fallen for it.  A
natural reaction; somebody fires at you, you shoot back.  But he should
have concentrated on the craft lined along the beach, sitting targets.
He recalled that particular herring box waddling off out to sea as it
fought his guns, a losing, running battle.  There had been a number on
its stern 332, or 1812?  It had not been easy to see at that distance
and through the smoke.  Some of those herring boxes had numbers of
7,000-odd.  The British and the Yanks had thousands of the damned
things!

He wondered if that number, was an omen: 1812, the year of Napoleon's
retreat from Moscow, the beginning of the end for Bonaparte.  And here
they were on the road that had started at El Ala-mein.  And ended
where?

He wondered if he had sunk the herring box.

She limped back to Messina where the plugs they had rammed into the
shell holes were taken out and more serviceable patches applied.  But
from there she returned to Malta and the dockyard for a proper repair.
As Richard Langley conned her into Grand Harbour he looked up to the
colonnaded front of the naval hospital at Bighi.  This time he saw a
small figure there, waving a scrap of white.  It might have been
anybody at that distance but he thought, hoped ... When he met her that
evening he asked her and she admitted, "I happened to be out in the
garden and saw you come in.  You saw me wave?"  She had "happened" to
be out there for any spare minute she had every day, watching for that
particular LCT.  She would not tell him that.  He was happy, anyway.

His crew discussed him, crammed into the tin box in the stern that was
their living quarters.  It stank of the diesel from the engines and
still vibrated to the thrum of the generators in harbour.  Curly
Chambers said, "He's a lad!"  But nobody called Richard Langley "the
boy" now.

Scouse Gilhooley shrugged out of his boiler suit preparatory to
washing.  "Who?"

"Your Bloke.  When them guns opened up on us and the bricks were coming
in, he was cool as you like.  Wasn't he, Farmer?"

Farmer Fairbrother nodded and pointed out, "I told you we'd got a good
'un, didn't I?"

There was a rumble of agreement and Scouse reached for his towel, eyed
Farmer and reminded him, "And I told you."

Curly said, "But he's full o' surprises.  Have you seen that tart of
his?"

Gilhooley scowled at him, "She's nice."

Curly grinned.  "Hot little piece, eh?"

"Naw!  I mean she was nice to me.  When I went up to the hospital to
see how he was."

'"Course, you and him are mates."  Curly winked at the others.

Scouse picked up his towel and moved to the door on his way to the
heads to wash.  He had a long walk before him; the ratings' heads,
washbasins and lavatories were at the far end of the ship under the
catwalk in the bow.  He said, "I used to wonder what fellers meant when
they talked about short and cur lies but you're one.  Short on sense. I
don't know how he'd have got on that time there was only him an' me
aboard her if I hadn't got those old engines turning over, but I know
where I'd ha' been if he hadn't been up in that wheelhouse swimming
like a brick."

In the next few weeks the landing at Vibo Valentia was consolidated,

one step in the long march up the length of Italy.

Bloody Norah worked at the endless ferrying of supplies, tanks,

trucks, troops and prisoners.  And then the squadron commander summoned
Ralph Bellanger and said, "I want one of your craft for a special
job."

Bellanger smiled confidently, "Of course, sir.  I think ..."  But the
commander told him, "I know who I want."

FIVE

30 November 1943

"It looks like the place."  Young Richard Langley peered through
narrowed eyes at the distant shadow of the land, trying to pierce the
darkness.  The little harbour ahead might be any of a score scattered
up and down this stretch of the Yugoslavian coast, but he was sure his
navigation had been correct.  And the shape of the breakwaters, the
silhouette of the town behind and the lift of the hills beyond that
matched the description he had been given in the briefing and the
dog-eared photograph.

Harry Darville, standing on one side of Langley, said, "There's a light
of some sort."

On Langley's other side, Tubby Anderson agreed, "Looks to be red,
sir."

Langley murmured, deep-voiced, "Don't raise your hopes too high.  I
doubt if you'd find any shady ladies this trip."  The signalman
chuckled, then all three were silent.  Langley decided, "Give 'em the
signal."  Anderson triggered the Aldis lamp and it blinked out a short
and a long twice.

Harry muttered, "Let's hope they aren't in bed."

Langley did not answer that and watched for a reply to the signal.

Bloody Norah had been given this task after several runs between North
Africa, Malta and Sicily, carrying crates of rations.  Ralph Bellanger
had said, lolling in a basket chair in the makeshift mess the flotilla
had established ashore in Naples, "It will be a change for you, old
boy.  Bit of cloak and dagger.  I was asked to provide somebody who
could act independently and you chaps in Bloody Norah are used to
that."  He was being sarcastic at Langley's expense because of his late
arrival at the Sicily landings and then at Vibo Valentia.

Bloody Norah had sailed from Barletta, north of the heel of Italy.

She was loaded with supplies for partisans fighting the Wehrmacht in
Yugoslavia, and, Harry Darville complained, "Quite apart from the
smell, there's the job of cleaning out after them."  He was talking
about the mules that they also carried.  There were a dozen of them in
pens hastily knocked up on the tank deck by a gang of carpenters.  They
were boarded in tightly so in theory they could not go down, but by the
grace of God the crossing from Sicily had been smooth.  A Yugoslavian
muleteer was with them.  Darville had muttered, "He smells as high as
they do."  Harry was concerned because he was responsible to Langley
for the cleanliness of the ship.

Now Langley said absently, "Farmer will be pleased, anyway.  He can use
the manure on his plants."  He was worried by this operation, had an
uneasy feeling about it.

Harry Darville said definitely, "He won't put it on the ones on this
bridge."

Anderson chuckled again, then they were all silent.  Bloody Norah was
barely creeping along.  Anderson, a pace behind Langley, could feel the
heat of the funnel at his back.  A following wind occasionally blew the
diesel fumes forward to swirl about them on the bridge.  It set them
coughing but it was a fact of life they were used to.

At Langley's order the Aldis blinked out the signal once more, then
after a pause of five minutes, a third time.  There was no answering
flash, just that faint red glow that waxed and waned.  Langley looked
down at the cargo piled in the dark cavern of the tank deck along with
the mules.  He could smell them.  All this was desperately needed by
the partisans ashore.  Something had gone badly wrong, he was sure of
that.  The signal should have brought an answering wink of light and
then, more importantly, a boat to lead them into the harbour.  And he
was supposed to pick up a British agent and take him back.

He could not tamely abandon that man, nor would he return with this
cargo undelivered just because everything hadn't gone right at the very
beginning.  He turned on Darville: "Lower the dinghy.  I want a good
man to row and one to handle the lead line.  Side arms.  And I'm going
with them."

Harry objected, "Can't I go, Skipper?"

"No."  Langley wanted to see for himself.  And this might be dangerous
so he would not send anyone else.  "Now get on with it, Harry.  We've
wasted enough time hanging around."  And minutes later, when Bloody
Norah was stopped and he was about to go down into the dinghy he told
Darville, "I'm going to see why we haven't had a pilot come out.  When
I've made sure it's all right I'll flash the signal."  He held up his
torch then jammed it in his pocket and went down into the boat.

He found Curly Chambers at the oars and Farmer Fairbrother squatting in
the bow.  Langley demanded of the coxswain, "What are you doing here? I
wanted you to stay with Mr.  Darville."

Farmer answered simply, "I'm the only one as knows how to handle the
lead, sir."  The rest of the crew were "Hostilities Only", signed on
for just the duration of the war and probably had never seen the lead
used before, let alone used it themselves.

Langley accepted, then was glad that he would have Fairbrother with
him.  "Very good."

He folded his length into the stern sheets of the tiny dinghy.  Bloody
Norah had been issued with small arms for this operation.  He and his
little party all had pistols in holsters belted round their waists.  He
said, "Make sure your safety catches are on."  He did not want a pistol
discharged accidentally.  A man might be killed or injured or their
presence disclosed to the enemy.  What enemy?  He wondered why he
thought there might be an enemy on that dark shore.  There might be all
manner of reasons why his signal had not been answered.  But he took
out the Colt .45 he carried and checked the safety catch on that before
replacing it in the holster.

Curly Chambers bent to the oars and the dinghy slid away from the wall
of Bloody Norah's side, black in the night.  Soon she was lost to
sight, blending into the darkness.  Langley stared ahead, seeing the
two breakwaters take shape more clearly now, standing higher out of the
water from his position low on the surface of the sea.  The dinghy rose
and fell slowly on the swell.  Farmer Fairbrother in the bow was
casting the lead and calling softly, "By the mark, two... and a
quarter, two ... By the mark, two ..."

Langley listened with half an ear, noting the depth: 2 to 2V4 fathoms
12 to 12V2 feet would be ample for the LCT that only drew seven feet.
His eyes and attention were focused on the gap between the breakwaters
and the harbour beyond.  The gap was about thirty yards wide.  As they
entered it, the harbour opened out before them.  It looked to be about
two hundred yards or more across and the dinghy was heading for the
middle of it.

He said, "Keep it quiet."  Curly Chambers slowed his stroke, dipping
the blades gently so there was no splash.  The dinghy crept on.

Now Langley could hear distant voices in the town.  And that red glow
came from a fire; there was a spiky fringe of flames and the dark lift
of smoke above them.  He could smell the smoke carried on the slight
breeze coming off the land.  There were men moving on the quay ahead,
some walking, others trotting, but all half-crouching.  And The voices
came loudly, close from the breakwater on the port side.  He made out
the figure of a man there, squat or kneeling not fishing?  No!  Don't
be a bloody fool, he told himself, that's not a fishing rod he's
holding, that's a rifle!  And the voices, hoarse, clabbery, from the
throat: "Wiegeht's ..."

"Jat ... "Dunkel ... Nacht..."

He did not know what the words meant but he recognised the language.
The town was in the hands of the Wehrmacht.  He whispered softly,
"Stop!"  The oars were still, the men's eyes watching him, Farmer
Fairbrother turned in the bow to face aft.  Langley went on, breathing
the words, "Jerry.  Turn around."  He made a circling motion with his
hand.  Curly Chambers obeyed, pulling gently on one oar, backing water
with the other, so the dinghy turned on her heel.  As the bow came
around to line up on the mouth of the harbour again, Langley ordered,
whispering still, "Together!"

He thought they were about fifty yards from the harbour mouth.  It came
towards them very slowly.  There was a moment when a shot rang out and
Curly Chambers let go of his oar, fumbled for the pistol at his waist.
Langley hissed, "Leave it!  Keep rowing!"  The shot had cracked out
seemingly close but there had been no sound of its passage.  And there
was no second shot.  He thought that one may have been fired in the
town; the sound would carry a long way in the stillness of the night.
He also thought that firing a pistol from a rocking dinghy in the night
and at that range would have been useless.  He should have brought
along a sub-machine-gun.  Then Curly grabbed his oar again and the
dinghy moved forward once more.

They were between the breakwaters then they were through and meeting
the slight swell outside again.  Langley was still conscious of his
back as a broad target for a rifleman behind him.  But the harbour fell
away astern and after a minute he thought they were far enough away and
gave the order, "Right!  Never mind the noise; pull like hell!"

Curly obeyed gladly, heaving at the oars, while Farmer Fairbrother
carefully coiled the lead line.  He said, "Well, gave me a bit o'
practice, sir."

Langley did not answer him, was deep in thought.  When Bloody Norah
loomed up out of the night he took the dinghy alongside her and climbed
the Jacob's ladder to her deck.  Harry Darville was waiting for him
there and said, "We thought we heard a shot."

"You did, but it wasn't at us.  Jerry is in there, swarming all over
the place.  That red light is a fire.  I think it was probably started
in the fighting when they took the town."  He climbed to the bridge as
he talked, and once there called for revolutions for five knots. "We'll
take a run south-eastward down the coast.  The partisans obviously
aren't there and it looks as though they were only chased out today so
I don't believe they will have gone far.  From what I hear, you travel
a long way in a long time on that terrain.  We should make better time
than they did."

Darville asked, "Suppose they went north, or inland?"

Langley shook his head.  "They knew we were coming so I think they will
stay on the coast if they can.  And I think they will have gone south
because I understand the main enemy concentration is to the north.  I
think that's where they came from to attack this place."

Harry Darville did not seem convinced, but Langley turned Bloody Norah
and she got under way, chugging down parallel to the black lift of the
shore and a mile distant.  They held that course for an hour and after
the first thirty minutes Langley ordered Anderson, "Give 'em an "A'."
The signalman flashed the short and long signal and they sent it
winking out every five minutes after that.

They spent another edgy, nervous half-hour in silence but for the low
throb of the twin diesels, the occasional clatter of a hoof from the
tank deck and Langley's curt orders to Underbill at the helm.  Richard
wondered if he had read the situation aright or had the partisans been
chased back into the hills?  Was the agent he was supposed to meet
already lying dead in the captured town?

But finally all three of them on the bridge spoke together, "There it
is!"

And from the deck under the bridge came Farmer's voice like an echo,
"There's a light, sir!"

The pinprick flicker came from the dark mass that was the shore.
Langley inspected the coast through his binoculars.  "It looks to be a
shallow bay.  Not much protection in there if it blows up but there's
no sign of that.  We should be able to get out again pretty quick if we
have to."  Or as quick as Bloody Norah could move at any time.  But
they were points to be borne in mind.

Another was the time factor.  The original plan had been worked out to
give him time to enter the harbour, discharge his cargo and be well on
his way back to Sicily before dawn, thus avoiding enemy air patrols.
The abortive attempt to land at the harbour had consumed some of that
time and another hour or more had gone searching for the answering
blink of light.  If this was now the right place to leave the mules and
supplies, and that was not certain, he would need to be careful not to
be caught near the coast when morning came.  But first: Who was
answering the signal?

He said, "Stop her."  He heard the tinkle of the telegraph down in the
wheelhouse passing that order to Scouse Gilhooley in the engine room.
And he called to Farmer standing below the bridge, "Lower the
dinghy!"

They rowed in again, Langley in the stern sheets Farmer Fairbrother in
the bow but not casting the lead.  This time he knelt with a Lanchester
sub-machine-gun, the rifle stock tucked into his shoulder, the barrel
trained out over the bow.  That was Langley's order, remembering when
they thought they were being shot at in the harbour.  Slowly they
approached the land, creeping in until the dark bulk of it lifted above
them and the white line of breaking surf was strung across their front.
The light had blinked at them again several times as they stole in. Now
they could see the mass of figures on the beach ahead and one of them
standing in front of the others.  The light came from a torch in his
hand.

Langley called softly, "Who's there?"

The voice that answered seemed to come from behind the light, and in
the clipped accent of a British officer: "Andrew Rockingham, Major. And
these are partisans.  That's the Navy, I presume?"

Farmer Fairbrother muttered; "It's not Doctor Livingstone."

But Langley answered, "It is."  He had found the agent he was to take
back.  He ordered, "In we go."  The dinghy glided on.  grounded and he
stepped over the side into water up to his knees and waded ashore.

Rockingham held out his hand, "Well done."  Langley shook it.  He was
relieved to see the major.

One day he would curse the man, but that lay in the future.  He could
just make out Rockingham's face in the night and that he had a stubbly
beard.  He carried a big pack on his back slung from his shoulders, and
wore what appeared to be a goatskin jacket over baggy trousers.  The
jacket smelt very strongly.  He said now, sniffing, "You and your chaps
smell a bit gamy horses?"  Without waiting for a reply he went on,
"Good job you didn't go into the harbour when you didn't see my signal.
We'd gone there to be waiting when you arrived but Jerry hit us at
first light.  We held out for a while but then broke out along the
coast."

Langley did not mention that he had entered the harbour.  Time was
passing and he asked, "Are you in command here?  Is it safe for me to
disembark this cargo?"

"I'm not in command, just an adviser and liaison officer.  The leader
is Josip, the big chap here with the beard."  Rockingham made the
introduction.  The "big chap" was Langley's height but twice as broad.
The beard covered half his chest that was hung about with bandoliers of
ammunition, the brass cartridge cases gleaming dully in the night.  He
crushed Langley's hand in a fierce grip as Rockingham went on, "You're
safe enough here.  Josip's lads are dug in all around."  He smiled
sourly, "They're a funny lot.  Half the time they're shooting their own
blokes from the village next door instead of fighting Jerry.  But they
keep him busy.  If he comes after us you'll have warning in time to
pull out."

Langley asked, "What about the bottom?"

"I beg your pardon, old boy?"

"Are there rocks in the approach or where I'll have to beach?"

Rockingham apologised, "Sorry, can't tell you that."

Langley accepted that because he had to.  "All right.  Tell them I'm
coming in and I want to be out as quick as possible.  I mean that.  If
the stuff isn't all off by an hour before daybreak then I'll take it
away."

Rockingham pursed his lips.  "These people need all you've brought.  Is
it all that important to stick to a schedule?"

Langley told him starkly, "It is if I don't want this old girl sunk by
bloody bombers.  And that's what will happen if I'm around here in
daylight.  Others have gone that way."

"Ah!"  Rockingham nodded.  "I see your point.  But I think I can help
there.  I know a place just down the coast where you can lie up during
the day, then make the crossing in safety tomorrow night.  How about
that?"

Langley knew the supplies he carried were important to the partisans,
his orders had said so, and that he was to take any measure short of
hazarding his ship to deliver them.  And time was ticking away still.
He had to decide.  He looked past Rockingham at the men and women who
had fought their way to be here to meet him, who had been, and were,
depending on him and the Navy.  And he was the Navy's representative
here.  He said, "All right.  And about what you said about smelling of
horses1 have a dozen mules aboard for you."

"Marvellous!"  Rockingham turned to Josip, passing on the news.

Langley climbed back into the dinghy and steered it back to Bloody
Norah, scanning the surface of the sea for any sign of rocks while
Farmer cast the lead.  Once back on board he told Harry Darville,
"They're our customers.  There's a Major Rockingham with them.  Chap
with a goatskin jacket.  Look out for him as soon as the ramp is down.
And we've got to get this lot ashore double quick.  Chase them up when
they come aboard."

"Aye, aye, Skipper."  Harry Darville started forward, heading for the
bow and to take charge of the party to lower the ramp.  Langley took in
Bloody Norah, stealing in at a slow walking pace, ready to stop and
back off at any moment if she grounded prematurely.  But she didn't. He
dropped her kedge anchor and she closed the land until the mass on the
beach could be seen as individual men.  Only then did she ground in the
shallows, the ramp splashed down and the first of the waiting partisans
swarmed aboard.

Harry Darville did not need to chase them; Josip did that, bawling at
them from leather lungs, urging them on with slaps on the back from his
big hands.  The mules were led ashore, then the crates of supplies were
carried to the beach, hurrying chains of men, and women, trotting up
the ramp and into the tank deck, grabbing cases and swinging them on to
their shoulders, trotting back on to the beach.  The mules were loaded
early on, with cases piled high, then led away.  After that the cases
were carried off on the shoulders of partisans.  They trudged up the
beach through the soft sand and were lost to sight as they headed into
the darkness inland.

At Langley's invitation Rockingham came to join him on the bridge.  He
struggled to shrug out of the big pack, trying to do it left-handed,
his right arm dangling uselessly.  Langley had to help him shrug it off
and set it down at the back of the bridge.  Rockingham gave a grunt of
relief.  "I've been humping that bloody thing for weeks.  Everybody
carries his own gear in the partisans."

Langley asked, "Hurt your arm?"

"An old wound that's got worse."  Rockingham grinned wrily at Langley.
"It's become too bad for this lark and that's why I'm getting out for a
bit.  You really need both arms for guerrilla warfare."

Langley thought that was an understatement and turned back to watch the
unloading.  It was going well but they had started too late.  The tank
deck was almost empty when he looked at his watch and told the major,
"It has all taken too long.  It'll be light soon."

Rockingham nodded.  "And the Luftwaffe will hit you.  All right.  I'll
show you where you can hide up through the day."  And that was when the
firing broke out.

It came from the north, the direction of the harbour taken by the
Wehrmacht but much closer.  On the bridge they could hear the reports
and see the distant muzzle flashes of rifles and machine-guns.  They
looked to be barely a quarter-mile away.

Rockingham said, "I think it's time you got out of it.  That sounds
like Josip's outposts pulling back.  And him and his boys are on their
way."  The partisans were streaming out of the tank deck and racing up
the beach, Josip urging them on, his beard flying.

Langley used the tin megaphone to order Harry Darville, "Up ramp!"  It
lifted as Langley took Bloody Nor ah astern, pulling her out by the
kedge anchor.  The ramp slammed home and then they were over the kedge
and hauling it in.  Langley turned his ship and as he did so bullets
spanged against the hull, but by then they were heading out to sea and
no more firing came their way.

There were still muzzle flashes ashore, a rash of orange flames in the
night with here and there the curving arcs of tracer.  Langley asked,
"Will they get away?"  He was talking of the partisans.

Rockingham assured him, "That they will.  That's how they exist.
They'll be back in the hills before daylight."

Langley thought, We'd better be tucked away by then.  He remembered
Bloody Norah as he had found her, and that was after she had been the
target of an air strike.

But Rockingham directed them south-eastward still further down the
coast.  They ran for more than an hour and this time at ten knots.
Langley was becoming restive when the major, peering through binoculars
he had taken from his pack, finally said, "I think this is where we
want to be.  D'you think we could go in a bit closer?"  They were over
a mile from the coast.  Langley reduced speed and took Bloody Norah in
slowly while Rockingham continued to study the shoreline.  After a few
minutes he said confidently, "That's the place.

Can you see the headland over to the left?  Got it?  With a lone tree
at the end of it?"

Langley, his own glasses to his eyes and looking out over the port bow,
agreed, "Seen."

Rockingham said cheerfully, "Just where it should be.  There's an inlet
right ahead of us.  It's a bit narrow but the water's deep that I do
know and you'll be OK in there."

Langley hesitated a moment over whether to send the dinghy away again
to test the depth of the approach with the lead line.  But dawn was
coming in a faint lightening of the sky to the east.  Day would soon be
on them and Bloody Norah needed to be hidden before it came.  He
decided to trust the major and conned her in.  The inlet was so narrow
it was invisible until they were only a few hundred yards away.  Then
he saw the gap between the wooded shores.  The sides rose steeply out
of the water and the trees overhung it.  He stopped Bloody Norah, set
her briefly astern to take the way off her, then with the last of that
momentum she nudged in to the bank on her port side.

She nestled there comfortably when Curly Chambers and Kirkpa-trick
leapt ashore and secured her by moorings to the nearest trees.  Langley
turned out all hands, including Scouse Gilhooley and his two stokers,
to spread the camouflage netting they brought up from the hold. Langley
was not satisfied.  It was full day now.

He told Scouse Gilhooley, "I want the engines run for a few minutes
every hour, just in case we have to get out of here in a hurry."

Scouse grumbled, "No peace for the wicked."

"You said it."  Langley called Mclver and Kirkpatrick, the two Scots,
and ordered, "Draw a rifle each and come with me."  They reported to
him a few minutes later with rifles and bandoliers of ammunition slung
over their shoulders.  He led them up the steep side of the inlet,
scrambling up the slope from one tree to the next, then over the crest
and on for another hundred yards to a clump of trees on a little
hill.

He halted them there, all three of them panting.  Langley saw there was
a good all-round view for a half-mile or so.  It wasn't much but the
best he could do.  He told them, "Keep a good lookout.  You'll be
relieved in a couple of hours.  If you see an enemy patrol, one of you
come down to the ship and report to me.  If the patrol gets too close
to the one who's left, then he gets out and comes back to the ship.  He
doesn't start a shooting match.  The rifles are only if you have to
fight.

The whole idea is to give us time to get the ship clear, not start a
private war.  Understood?"

"I understand ye fine, sir," said Mclver.  "I'm a boxer, not a sniper."
Kirkpatrick muttered, "I couldn't hit damn all anyway."  But Langley
got them to repeat their orders.  When they had done, he was about to
return to Bloody Norah when they heard the buzz of aircraft engines.
They bellied down in the brush under the trees and Langley warned,
"Don't look up!  Your faces'll show like snowflakes on a pile of coal!"
But when the aircraft had passed over he squinted after them and saw
they were a flight of three Stukas.  He said, "Dawn patrol.  But keep
your ears open for them and your heads down if they do come back.  And
remember, we're all depending on you.  No sleeping on duty.  You'll
have time for that later."  Kirkpatrick said grimly, "I'll no' be
shutting my eyes up here."  Langley left them then.  He was still not
happy when he was back aboard Bloody Norah, would not be until she was
out of this and again at sea, but he had done all he could for her
safety and tried now to relax.  He took it in turns with Harry
Darville, one of them standing watch while the other dozed in a deck
chair on the bridge.  Rockingham slept all through that day, curled up
on one of the two bed settees in the wardroom.  He woke only to eat,
then went back to his bed again.  He told Langley early, "Haven't had
much sleep lately."  In the light of day he looked drawn and tired.

The day passed quietly, no one moving outside of the sheltering
camouflage except to change the lookouts on the hill.  The sun shone
down out of a cloudless sky and it was suffocatingly hot in the
confines of the inlet and under the sagging netting.  Camouflage had to
sag to break up the outline of what it was supposed to hide, but it
caught on caps, belts and buckles, its hanging folds had to be lifted
by any man who had to move about the ship.  They stripped down to
ragged old shorts and cursed it.

Harry Darville woke Langley as the sun hung on the horizon and dusk
crept in.  Richard shoved up out of the deck chair and stretched long
arms and legs then called, "Chambers!"

"Sir?"  Curly looked up from where he had been dozing below the bridge
in the speckled shade cast by the camouflage netting.  The sun
filtering through it shone on his bald head.  Langley peered up at the
wooded slopes of the inlet.  He started, "Go up and bring in the
lookouts ..."  But then he stopped, having seen movement at the top of
the slope.  Instead he yelled, "Never mind!  Mr.  Darville!  All hands
to get the netting off her!  Cox'n!  Take the wheel!  We're getting
underway!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  That came back as Farmer vanished into the
wheel-house.  Then the engine-room telegraph rang as Farmer worked its
handles, calling on Scouse Gilhooley to start his engines.  Tolliver
ran to the engine room to give Scouse a hand.  The other stoker, Smiler
Noakes, normally morose but now just scared like the rest of them, was
working feverishly with the other hands, striking down the
camouflage.

Langley had seen both lookouts, Underbill and Uncle Oswald, at the top
of the slope.  Now they came slipping and sliding down the steep side
of the inlet and jumped aboard.  Sweat plastered their shirts to them
and ran down their faces.  Underbill shouted up to Langley on the
bridge, "There's a patrol just over the top now, sir!  They didn't see
us but they were heading straight for this place!"

And probably they checked this inlet and some other places on their
nightly round.  Langley's eyes lifted to the top of the rise where the
patrol would first show but they weren't there so far.  The netting was
clear of the bridge and the engines were throbbing.  Curly Chambers and
Mclver waited in the trees by the mooring lines.

Langley shouted, "Cast off aft... cast off forrard!"  He took Bloody
Norah out stern first as the last of the netting was torn down, rolled
and slung below.  All the hands were working with their heads turned on
their shoulders, ready to throw themselves into cover if they were
fired on by the patrol.  The two 20mm guns were manned and trained on
the top of the inlet.

Langley's foresight and the speed at which his crew had worked paid
dividends; they were almost clear of the inlet when the first figures
showed in silhouette against the darkening sky.  They disappeared again
almost instantly as the guns opened up from either side of the bridge,
but only to take cover.  In seconds they were in action and their rifle
fire was clanging and richocheting from the side and upper works of the
LCT.  She still went astern until clear of the confining walls of the
inlet.  Langley turned her then and called for "Full ahead!"  She
picked up speed and hurried away.  Soon she was out of rifle range.
Minutes later the last twilight faded away on the western horizon and
the night covered her.

Richard Langley had carried out his orders.  Josip and his partisans
would be able to carry on the fight, tying down large numbers of the
Wehrmacht.

Bloody Norah berthed at Barletta the following morning and took on
fuel.  Then Harry Darville set the men to work hosing out the tank
deck, ridding the ship of the smell of mules.  Orders for Langley told
him to join the rest of the flotilla and they entered Grand Harbour in
the last light of a fine evening.  As he conned Bloody Norah in,
Langley looked up through his binoculars at the colonnaded facade of
Bighi hospital.  He was certain he saw Suzi Jones there by the wall of
the garden again, waving a scrap of white handkerchief.  He wondered if
she was on duty that night.

Bellanger and the rest of the flotilla lay in Grand Harbour but Bloody
Norah was assigned a berth in Kalkara Creek, one of those that opened
out of the harbour.  When she lay there, engines stopped, Rockingham
went ashore after voicing his thanks: "You did very well, a terrific
job.  The fact that you turned up and saw the thing through, in spite
of the change of rendezvous and the risk from the enemy, that did a
hell of a lot for the morale of Josip and his gang.  My stock went up
with them as well, just because of you.  Thank you."

He had hardly gone when a signal came out to Richard by hand.  It was
from Bellanger, saying he wanted to see Langley the next day.  He
showed it to Harry Darville, "Looks like you'll have all the work to do
yourself tomorrow."

"Haven't I always?"  But then Harry mused, "Wonder what it's about?"
Then he added wrily, "It won't be good news, coming from old
Bellwether."

Langley blinked at him, "Who?"

Harry grinned, "That's what our lads call our flotilla leader."  He
explained the nickname.  "I suspect Farmer started it.  But it might
have been Gilhooley; he is not fond of Mr.  Bellanger."

Langley wondered if this was bad for discipline, and if he should tick
off Harry.  But then he decided to ignore it.  He was weary.

Below in the mess deck one watch was changing to go ashore for the
evening.  Curly Chambers was not one of them, he was staying aboard. He
said philosophically, "Ah, well, we do see life.  A right bloody caper,
that was.  Over-the-hill, you old bastard, we'll put you in for the
steeplechase next sports day, the way you came down off that ridge!"

"I hadn't run like that for twenty years."  Underbill combed his
greying locks.  "But Langley got us all home again."

"That he did."  Curly looked round the crowded steel box, its walls
running with condensation, that was his home.  "And I'd rather spend
the night in here than lying in some Yugoslav river with a bullet up my
arse."

When Langley finally left his ship and went ashore he found Suzi
waiting for him on the quay, in her white uniform like a wraith in the
dusk.  He said, startled, "I was coming up to the hospital."

"No need.  I've finished for the day."

He asked, unsure, "You came down to meet me?"

She shrugged, "Half and half.  I have a little flat down here."  She
tossed her head, indicating the houses behind her.  "It's handy for the
hospital."  It was; only a few minutes' walk away.  "But I saw your
ship come in and I wanted to take a stroll anyway, though I thought I
might see you here."  She had waited an hour on the quay.

They wandered along by the Creek, skirting the occasional heaps of
rubble left over from the bombing.  When night closed around them she
offered, "Would you like a cup of coffee?  Black?  Because I haven't
any milk."  There were still shortages in Malta, though not on the
scale of a year before, when every convoy had to fight its way in from
Alexandria or Gibraltar.

Langley said, "My regular cook always has milk, the condensed variety,
out of a tin, like thick white treacle."

She laughed at him, "You can go back to your regular cook if you
like."

Langley thought of Uncle Oswald and grinned, "No, thanks."

Small talk and they both knew it.  In the flat he made love to her, of
course, and she was eager.  But she was also a young girl alone, had
been for a long time and knew her vulnerability.  She was not ready to
open her body to him, held him off gently and finally sent him back to
his ship.  "It's late and you have a job to do tomorrow.  So have I."

They parted reluctantly, slowly, but slept happily, with no thought for
what might lie ahead.

That was a blessing.

SIX

5 December 1943

"Nice to see you, sir.  Mr.  Bellanger's in his cabin."  The rating
manning the side of Bellanger's big launch smiled broadly when he saw
Langley who grinned back at him.

Langley had dressed in his last clean suit of whites for his interview
with the flotilla leader.  As he stepped aboard and saluted, he saw
Bellanger's new first lieutenant, the man who had taken his place.  He
was supervising some work right forward in the bow, an untidy,
harassed-looking young man, waving his arms excitedly.

Langley went below and found Ralph Bellanger sitting in a deck chair
reading a novel.  The little desk was crowded with photogVaphs and more
were hung on the bulkhead.  All were of different girls, all bore a
handwritten inscription: "To Ralph with love."  "To darling Ralph."
Langley had seen them before in his old ship when he had served as
Bellanger's first lieutenant.  He thought they looked like trophies,
knew Bellanger regarded them as such.

Bellanger's feet, in white shoes, were propped up on his bunk.  Like
the rating, he smiled broadly, but differently; his was born of
practice: "Ah!  There you are!  Have a seat!"  Langley perched on the
edge of Bellanger's bunk and waited.  Bellanger slid a sheet from a
signal pad into the book to mark his place, and set it aside.

"There have been some changes, Richard.  First of all, the flotilla has
been ordered back to the UK.  We know what that's for."  Langley did;
in preparation for the opening of the Second Front, the landing on
mainland Europe that had to come.  Bellanger went on, "But there's
still work to be done out here.  I was asked to supply someone to
finish off some odd jobs, and as you weren't here to get ready for the
trip home, I thought you would be the right man.  Besides, I suspect
you might be glad of a little longer in Malta."  He smirked,

"There's that little nurse.  I've only seen her once, but she looked a
hot little piece."

Langley had never supposed that his affair with Suzi Jones could be
kept secret, but he didn't like Bellanger's leer.  He stared at him
coldly and in silence.  Bellanger shrugged.  "At any rate, you'll be
staying in the sunshine.  Lucky devil.  It will be cold as charity when
we get back to England.  And you won't have the Second Front to worry
about."  Langley thought there could be another Vibo Valentia and that
Bellanger probably thought he himself would escape injury in the
landings in Europe as he had done so far and he might be right.

Langley stood up.  "Is that all?"

Bellanger smiled up at him.  "For now.  You'll be given written orders,
of course.  I've got a clerk in the office ashore typing them out now.
I'll send them on by hand as soon as they're finished."  He picked up
his novel and opened it.  "Cheerio!"

Langley thought, And to hell with you, too.  He left and walked back to
Bloody Norah.  There he gathered his little crew around him and told
them the news.  They stared back at him.  He asked, "Any questions?"
But they were silent.  He said, "Look, I know you all want to go home."
And he knew they were well aware that the landings in Europe could be
bloody, but they also knew they might as easily be killed carrying out
one of those "odd jobs" Bellanger was leaving them.  It happened.  He
said, "I'd like to take you home, I think you deserve it."  And he was
sincere.  He wondered if they knew about Suzi and decided they probably
did; they got to know about most things.  But he meant what he said, he
wished he could take them along with the rest of the flotilla.  He went
on, "But there are a lot of people out here who won't be going back for
a long time because there's a war still going on out here.  They'll
have to make the best of it.  We'll have to do the same."

He told Farmer Fairbrother, "Carry on."  And after the cox'n had
dismissed the gloomy crew, Langley said, "They're not very happy."

Farmer nodded, but said, "They'll get over it, sir.  A few beers ashore
and they'll be all right."

And as if in confirmation a muttered voice came from the shredding
group, '"T'aint his fault.  It's that bastard Bellwether.  Always lands
us with the shit."

Farmer said nothing to that, but winked at Langley.

Richard Langley told Suzi that evening when she came off duty and they
were strolling along by the side of Kalkara Creek.  She wore a thin
summer dress that showed off her figure, a cardigan around her
shoulders.  He explained, "I got his orders this afternoon.  We have a
trip to make tomorrow, she's loading now, stores to take up to Salerno.
We'll get details of the others as they come due but they'll be trips
that'll take a week or maybe less.  And I'll be back here in
between."

She teased him, "Now why should I care about that?"  And laughed at
him.

He grinned.  "Well..."  then stopped, lost for words.  He knew what she
meant to him.

Suzi asked, "You haven't told me anything about the last trip."

He said simply, "Can't."

"I know security.  But, come on, Richard, was it exciting?
Dangerous?"

"It was interesting."  He could say that safely, and it was true.

They paused in their strolling.  There was a troopship lying in Grand
Harbour that had called in on her way to Italy.  She carried a
battalion of Free French soldiers and their band was playing on the
quarterdeck.  The music came faintly over the water and Langley and the
girl stopped to listen.  She sang softly under her breath, tunes she
knew; she had grown up with them in Paris.

"Good evening, Mr.  Langley!"  Richard recognised the voice and turned.
Major Andrew Rockingham now wore a well-cut, well-worn suit of grey
barathea and an ageing trilby.  He lifted the hat in salute to Suzi
then held out his hand.  Langley shook it and performed the
introductions.  Rockingham fingered his jacket.  "This is better than
the kit I was wearing when we met, yes?"  He explained, "I've kept some
things here for the last two years.  They've been useful for -rest
periods."

Langley thought, When he's been able to get out of Yugoslavia.

But Rockingham was smiling at Suzi, "I hope you'll excuse me for
barging in, but I know Mr.  Langley might be off to sea again at any
time and I might not meet him again."

Richard said, "Well, I'll be putting in to Malta now and again during
the next few weeks."

Rockingham said casually, "I've just got one or two matters to clear
up, here and in Italy.  I'm going there tomorrow for a month or so and
when I come back here they're flying me home.  The last few weeks have
aggravated an old injury and it will be a desk job for me from now on."
Langley mentally raised his eyebrows; it wasn't everybody who was flown
back to England and that was a huge understatement.  He was impressed,
though he was sure Rockingham did not intend him to be.

The major said now, "I wanted to thank you again."  He glanced at Suzi.
"Mr.  Langley got me out of a very nasty situation.  I've just been up
to Bighi hospital to see a colleague of mine who wasn't so lucky and
was badly shot up."

He turned back to Langley.  "I don't think I made it clear the other
day, but Josip and the rest of our friends would have gone into the bag
if you hadn't turned up.  We were out of food and ammunition.  You gave
us both and the mules; you probably don't know how valuable they are in
that kind of guerrilla warfare.  And you saved my life.  If I'd been
captured I'd have been shot as something like a spy.  So I'm grateful."
Then he grinned and looked about him, out over the placid waters of the
Creek to the Grand Harbour beyond, all thronged with ships and craft of
all kinds and sizes.  "Having got that off my chest -this is a pleasant
spot."  He cocked his head on one side, listening to the French band. 
He laughed, "Just like being in the park at home!"

Suzi said, "I think the concert's over."  Now they were playing the
Marseillaise.  She sang softly, "Allans, enfants de lapatrie ..."

Rockingham heard her out to the end, watching her, smiling.  Then he
said, "Your accent is good.  You sound like a native."

Suzi laughed.  "I am!  You speak French?"

"I do, fluently, but as a foreigner."  Rockingham knew he would not
pass undetected in France for more than a few days.  The first time he
was questioned by the French mi lice or the Gestapo at a railway
station or in some random check on papers, his accent would give him
away. That was why he had not been sent to France.  In Yugoslavia he
had not needed to pass himself off as anything but a British officer. 
He was a guerrilla like the partisans.

Suzi told him something of-her background as they strolled along by the
side of the Creek.  But Rockingham wanted to know more and questioned
her.  Langley was content to walk at her side, listen and watch.

Finally Rockingham said, "And you are a nurse at the hospital now?"

"Yes."  And when he studied her intently for long seconds she asked,
"Is anything wrong?"

"No."  He shook his head definitely.  "Oh, no!  Far from it!  But I've
intruded enough.  Good evening."  He lifted the trilby again and left
them.

Suzi watched him go, then said, "So you couldn't tell me what you'd
been doing because of security.  It doesn't seem to worry him."

They stopped by a low wall and Langley lifted her on to it so they were
of a height.  He shrugged, "He probably makes his own rules."

Suzi smoothed her skirt and asked, "Who or what is he?"

"I don't know.  He was working with some partisans in Yugoslavia and we
dumped some supplies on the beach then brought him out.  That's all
there is to it and all I know about him."

Suzi mocked, "You and your silent service!"  Then she reached forward,
pulled his head to her and kissed him.

He sailed in a convoy for Salerno the next day.  After unloading there
he was sent on to Bastia in Corsica with a cargo of trucks.  And from
there he carried back to Malta another load of battered trucks in need
of repair.  They were mud-caked, filthy and leaking oil, in some cases
bloodstained.  Harry Darville grumbled, "You name it, we carry it.
We're a tramp, a flaming rubbish cart."

Langley reminded him, "Better than mules."

It was a pattern that went on into the winter.  When they got back to
Malta after that first trip they found the flotilla had sailed, but
Ralph Bellanger's "odd jobs" went on.  Then when they were completed,
Langley received fresh orders, a succession of them.  Bloody Norah was
just one small, ugly vessel among a multitude at the end of a long
chain of command.

Langley grabbed at any chance to see Suzi, even if it was only for an
hour or so, whenever Bloody Norah berthed at Malta.  They walked, or
ate in a restaurant.  She did not risk taking him to her flat again.
She was a girl of her time and her good name was important to her.

In mid-December he cycled round from Bloody Norah's berth in Dockyard
Creek to the flat in Kalkara, and when he found she wasn't there, on to
the hospital.  There was a car waiting at the gate, its driver, a lance
corporal in the Royal Army Service Corps, holding open its rear door.
Andrew Rockingham stood by the car, hat in hand, talking to Suzi Jones.
Then he climbed into the car and it drove away, passing Langley as he
shoved the bike up the short hill.  Rockingham did not notice him.

When Langley came up to the hospital, Suzi still stood outside, her
head bowed over her hands as if in prayer.  She turned to him quickly,
startled, when he asked, "What did Rockingham want?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."  She rubbed her hands down her
face, blinked at him and tried to smile, then looked away.  "He was
just visiting someone.  I bumped into him here at the door as he was
leaving.  He said he will be flying home tomorrow."

But he thought she was keeping something back and she was quiet all
that evening.  He had waited at the hospital until her shift ended and
then on the quay outside her flat while she changed.  They walked by
the side of the Creek then and into the next little parish of
Vittoriosa.  At last he asked, "Is anything wrong?  Had a bad case at
work?"  He knew how she worried over a patient who was not responding
to treatment or grieved for one who died.  She had told him once,
self-critical, "I'm still unprofessional in some ways.  And it
hurts."

Now she said, "No!  Everything's fine!"  And she brightened, talked
quickly, took his hand when they came to her flat again.  "Come on up
for a while," she invited him.  And when the door closed behind them he
found her in his arms.  He left her in the morning to sail for Messina
and Naples, Bloody Norah loaded with trucks and tanks.  There had been
heavy fighting north of Naples.  When he returned a week later Suzi had
gone.

The Maltese who owned the house and from whom she had rented the flat
told Langley, "The lady went quickly.  A car came and she told me she
was leaving.  One hour later the car took her away.  I think she went
to Luqa."  That was the airfield.  "She left this for you, sir."

Langley took the envelope.  The letter inside was just a single sheet
of notepaper, a few lines of hurriedly scribbled words: "Major
Rockingham has offered me a job and I think I should take it.  I can't
tell you any more.  I'm sorry.  I'll write when I can.  Please don't
think badly of me."

Langley went back to Bloody Norah and they sailed in the night.

"Merry Christmas, sir!"  Uncle Oswald came on to the bridge wearing a
paper hat soggy with salt spray and held the mug out to Langley. Bloody
Norah was a day out of Djidjelli, bound for Salerno.

"Thank you.  And the same to you."  Langley sipped at the coffee, smelt
the rum in it before he tasted it.  "I'll go easy with this.  We don't
want to get lost."

Uncle Oswald grimaced like a monkey.  "Reckon the old cow knows her own
way by now.  She should do."

"Happy New Year, Skipper!"  Harry Darville came to take over the watch
from Richard at midnight.  Bloody Norah was cruising through a dark but
placid sea between Bizerta and Sardinia.

Singing drifted up faintly from the mess deck "Should auld acquaintance
be forgot..."

Langley had been thinking of Suzi, wondering where she was, what she
was doing and did she think of him?  He answered, "Happy New Year."

And the chorus came from below at the end of the song: "Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!  Happy New Year!"

But none of them had heard of Anzio then.

SEVEN

Saturday, 22 January 1944

"All these landings seem to take place at some godforsaken hour of the
night."  Harry Darville hunched his shoulders inside his duffel coat as
he stepped on to the bridge to stand beside Richard Langley.  The night
was moonless but clear, they sky sprinkled with stars.  The sea was
flat calm, a black glass mirror only a little wrinkled by a breeze from
off the land.

Langley tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he answered,
"All quiet so far, anyway."  In low register his deep voice rumbled.
They were all nervous.  The shore was that of Italy.  Bloody Norah was
only one vessel in an armada of a hundred and fifty, made up of all
manner of craft from cruisers of 7,000 tons to motor launches.  They
steamed slowly some five miles north of the sleepy seaside town of
Anzio.  Another even bigger flock of ships carrying the American
landing force was cruising a few miles south of the town.

Langley had briefed his crew the previous day before they sailed from
Naples: "The idea is to land a division north of Anzio while the
Americans land another just south of it.  Anzio is a little seaside
resort about sixty miles behind the present enemy lines of defence.  So
we'll be taking them in the rear."  He remembered those words now as he
stood on the bridge in the chill of the night.  The operation seemed
simple, summed up like that.  Hopefully they would drive a wedge right
through the enemy and into Rome, splitting their forces in two.
Experience warned him it might not turn out that way.  That same shared
experience warned all his crew from Harry Darville down.  They all
remembered Vibo Valentia.  That had been another "leapfrog"
operation.

Harry looked at his watch now and said, "Won't be long before we find
out."

Langley realised his first lieutenant had been talking for some time,
apprehension loosening his tongue.  What had he been saying?  Langley's
mind backtracked, dredged up some of the half-heard words, patched them
together.  Harry had been debating the usual questions: Was the enemy
ready and waiting for them?  Would he blast them with gunfire before
they made the beach or catch them when they were stranded there?

Langley said, "Keep your fingers crossed and your head down, Harry."

"I'll do that."  Harry was silent a moment, thoughtful, then he said,
"I'm glad I'm not Tommy Phillips anyway."  Langley nodded agreement.
Because Tommy was captain of another LCT - 7011 in the line astern of
them now, and she was loaded with ammunition.  Harry drew in a breath
and said, "I'll go forrard, Skipper."  He dropped down the ladder from
the bridge and walked forward along the catwalk on the port side to
where his little ramp-lowering party awaited him in the bow.

Langley thought that was one more step on the road.  The action would
start soon with a bombardment by a rocket-firing LCT lying close
inshore.  Immediately after that the first LCAs, the little Landing
Craft Assault each carrying a platoon of infantry, would ground on the
beach.  All hell might be let loose then.  He was watching the ship
ahead, another LCT like Bloody Norah, and saw her start to turn, the
white cream of her wake bending.  He stooped over the voice-pipe and
ordered, "Starboard ten."

"Starboard ten, sir... ten of starboard wheel on, sir."  Farmer
Fairbrother had the helm now.  And starboard ten to bring Bloody Norah
around, following in the wake of the LCT ahead.

Langley watched her head come around and ordered, "Meet her ... steady
..."  He straightened as he heard Farmer acknowledge the order and saw
Bloody Norah's blunt bow nosing into the white track.  Now they had
turned towards the shore, had started on the long, slow run-in.  Anzio,
and the enemy, lay in the night ahead of them.

Franz Engel had slept through the afternoon.  He had brought his
battery of 75mm howitzers to Anzio, driving through the previous night
to avoid attacks by Allied bombers, and arrived in the town at sunrise.
That had been eighteen hours ago.  He had found a house with stables
and other buildings in the woods a mile or so outside the town and
billeted his men there.  Then he had lunched on bread, cheese and a
bottle of wine and stretched out his long body on his bed.

So now, at night, he slept lightly and the aching of the old wound in
his leg woke him in the early hours of the morning.  He pulled on his
jacket and boots, picked up his cap and the half-empty bottle oistrega
standing by his bed and walked out of the room.  His boot heels clicked
on the stone floor of the hall and woke Pianka before Engel reached his
bedroll tucked in against the wall.  Pianka shoved up on to one elbow
and asked, "What is it?"

Engel paused and said, "I can't sleep."

Pianka grumbled, "I can, if I'm given the chance."

"So you sleep your thick head off.  I'm going for a drive."  Engel
walked on.

"Wait for me."  Pianka threw back the blankets and swung his legs out
of bed, fumbled for his boots.  Engel had gone out of the house. Pianka
trotted to catch up with him at the barn where the Kubel-wag en was
kept.

The two guns that had survived the shelling at Vibo Valentia were
hauled in under the trees and draped with camouflage netting.  A single
sentry patrolled there, rifle slung on his shoulder.  He came to
attention when he saw Engel and greeted him: "Herr Hauptmann!"

Engel growled an answer and lifted a hand in salute.  He climbed into
the Kubelwagen, cursing automatically as he manoeuvred his stiff leg
into the little car.  Pianka slid in behind the wheel and said, "We
were sent here to regroup and rest, remember?"

Engel showed his teeth in a grin.  "We were sent to a so-called
'rest-area' about five kilometres behind the line, where the men would
have been working their arses off at fatigues for twelve hours a day
and guarding some supply dump for the other twelve.  I leaned on a
major who owed me and got our orders changed for here.  Be thankful."

Pianka nodded.  "Jawohl!  Just let me have some of that rest some
time."  He started the engine and asked, yawning, "Where to?"

"Let's take a look at the sea.  If you can stay awake that far."

"I can stay awake.  What do you want to look at the sea for?"

"I feel romantic.  I want to see the moonlight on the water."  ,

"Very funny.  The leg is bad, ja?

"The leg's fine.  Just drive and shut up."

Pianka drove out of the woods and across the plain to meet the road
that ran along the coast near Torre Caldara.  He asked, "Left or
right?"  Left would take them to Anzio itself.

Engel said, "Right."

Pianka obeyed and they drove slowly for some minutes along the road
with the sea breaking in a line of foam to their left.  The night was
clear and lit by stars.  Neither spoke.  They sat in silence and there
was only the low tick-over of the motor of the car.  Until Engel said,
"Stop here."  The car rolled to a halt by the roadside and he said,
"Switch off."  The motor died and now they could hear the soft wash of
the sea sucking at the sand.  And something else.

Pianka whispered, so as not to drown the distant sound, "Can you hear
that?"  Engel nodded and Pianka said, "There are engines out there."
Engel nodded again.  Pianka asked, baffled, "Is that why you came out
here?"

Engel answered, "Don't be stupid.  D'you think I've got second sight,
or something?"

"There are ships out at sea, a lot of them."  Pianka leaned forward,
pointing.  "You can see them!"  There were small, shadowy shapes moving
in the darkness.  They were blacker and more solid than the night
around them and they pushed the wide, white Vs of bow waves ahead of
them.  One, bigger than the others, was close inshore and moving slowly
parallel to the coast.  Pianka asked, "What's that one doing ...?"

He was not allowed to finish.  The long, low hull out on the dark sea
suddenly blossomed with a hundred darting flames that stretched out
like lances towards Engel and Pianka.  Both of them yelled, "Rockets!"
But neither heard the other, their voices drowned by the roar as the
rockets homed in on the shore.  They fell just inland of the road,
devastating a rectangle of earth a half-mile long and two hundred yards
wide.

The dust thrown up drifted across the road so that the Kubelwagen was
isolated as if in a fog.  Engel could hardly see further than the front
of the car.  He shoved at Pianka shouting was useless and circled his
finger in the air.  Pianka nodded, started the car and swung it round
in a tight circle.  They both flinched again, hunching down in their
seats, as another rocket-firing LCT rippled with light further along
the coast.  Then the car shot forward and Pianka was sending it
hurtling back along the road towards Torre Caldara.

Before they reached it they were passing small landing craft, driven up
on to the beach and discharging infantry.  Some of them had advanced
almost as far as the road.  Engel saw their faces were black under the
rims of the steel helmets they wore, then he realised they had been
blackened for this night attack.  The soldiers opened fire and Pianka
swore and prayed as he heard the bullets cracking into the side of the
Kubelwagen.  But then they were through and the turning in the road
showed ahead.

Pianka swung the car into it, back end sliding and the offside wheels
off the ground.  Engel clung on to the dash to save himself from being
thrown out.  Then the car banged down on to all four wheels again and
they were running straight.

Engel shouted, ears ringing but hearing again, "Are you all right?"

Pianka nodded and shouted back, "What now?"

"Now we have a war on our hands again!  That was one hell of a rest!"
Engel groped behind him for the bottle of strega on the back seat.

Thirty minutes later he stood on the crest of a ridge a mile inland
from the coast where the landings had taken place.  His two 75mm guns
had been hauled up by the trucks towing them and now were in the
straggle of trees on the reverse slope of the ridge.  The trucks were
two hundred metres further back.  The gunners had manhandled the pieces
into their final positions and that had been no mean feat; the crews
had been reduced from five to four through casualties so every man had
to heave more than his share of the load.  Now they were still working
furiously, spreading camouflage nets to blend in with the trees and
hide the guns, making ready the ammunition.  And all this had been done
without showing a light.

Engel nodded approval.  Pianka, standing beside him and remembering
other landings, warned, "As soon as we open fire we'll be a target for
the ships out there.  And you know what I mean."

Engel did, remembered the fifteen-inch shells that had obliterated one
of his guns at Vibo Valentia.  He said, "First they have to spot us.
That won't be easy.  And when they do, we'll get out.  We're the only
formation around here.  We can't fight an army.  This is just to slow
them up a little and give us some time."

They waited for the dawn, for the time when they would be able to see
the targets for the guns.  As the sky grew lighter behind them, Engel
limped forward down the slope until he stood in the cover of a leafy
copse.  His signaller was there with the field telephone.  So was the
Gefreiter who was the range taker standing behind his instrument on its
tripod.  As the day came and the beach opened out before them a mile
away, Engel lifted his field glasses to his eyes, adjusted the focus
and the images came up sharp and clear.

There were six landing craft, the bigger ones used for carrying tanks,
beached in a compact group.  They were right ahead of him, in the
centre of his field of vision.  One had a picture of some sort painted
on the front of the bridge, but it was too far away to make out.  He
lowered the glasses and pointed out the target to the range-taker and
the guns.  The range taker stooped over the metre-long rangefinder,
peering into the binocular-like lenses, stroking the knurled adjusting
screws.  He read off the range and the signaller at his telephone
passed that and Engel's fire orders to the guns.  They reported
ready.

The morning was still and a bird sang in the trees.  Engel listened to
it, head cocked on one side, eyes turned up to it.  Then he sighed and
shouted, "Feuer!"

Langley marvelled.  The landing had taken place without a shot being
fired by the enemy.  The LCAs and LCTs of the first wave had spilled
out their tanks, guns and men, then withdrawn.  Now the second wave
were on the shore.  On board Bloody Norah, as on every other craft
along that shore, they heaved sighs of relief.  Curly Chambers gave
thanks.  "I can't believe it, but thank God!"

Richard Langley had unloaded his cargo of trucks and guns, was hauling
off the beach when the shells howled in to burst among the five LCTs
still unloading.  One of them hit the craft at the end of the line and
holed her side, but harmlessly above the water line.  The second
exploded inside LCT 7011 that had lain next to Bloody Norah on her
starboard side.  Langley saw the flash of the burst and then came the
long lick of flame that spread like an opening red flower.  He thought,
Christ!  Tommy Phillips is on fire!

LCT 7011 was petrol-engined and the petrol was blazing now.  She was
one of the five still lying close-packed on the beach and still had
most of her cargo aboard.  If the fire reached that huge consignment of
ammunition the explosion would kill every man in or near the five craft
and hundreds of them working on the beach.

Langley looked forward and saw that Bloody Norah's ramp had been hauled
up above the horizontal and Harry Darville's men were still labouring
at the handles of the winches to lift it all the way home.

Langley used the megaphone to bellow, "Number One!  Leave that and
bring your men aft!"  Then to Anderson, "Make to Tommy Phillips: "Can
you move?"  " And as Harry came running, Langley shouted to him before
he reached the bridge, "Get the kedge in and reel in the slack of the
wire!  Then we'll bring up the ramp with the capstan!"  That was
officially frowned upon because it could warp the ramp, but Langley
gave his reasons briefly: "Tommy Phillips is on fire and I think we'll
have to tow him off."

Anderson's Aldis lamp had been clacking and now a reply winked from the
bridge of the burning LCT.  Anderson passed it on: "He says,
"Negative', sir."

Smiler Noakes, the second stoker, was controlling the clattering
capstan.  It hauled Bloody Norah off the beach as Scouse Gilhooley sent
her engines astern and spun up the kedge wire from out of the sea to
lie in dripping coils on the deck.  Harry Darville's yell came, "Kedge
is up and down!"  His men were now winding in the slack of the wire on
to the reel on the starboard side of the bridge, clearing the deck
again.

Langley bent over the voice-pipe and ordered, "Half astern port, full
ahead starboard," to bring her around quickly.  As he straightened he
saw the kedge being hauled inboard by the anchor party.  Harry Darville
already had two men running out the kedge wire from the reel, but now
along the starboard side catwalk to the ramp.  Langley spoke into the
voice-pipe again, "Stop both."  She was almost round far enough, would
have enough swing on her still to bring her where he wanted her.  He
watched, still hunched over the pipe, saw that swing slow and stop. She
was right.  "Slow astern both."  And now he explained to Farmer
Fairbrother below him in the wheelhouse, "We're going astern to give
Tommy Phillips a tow.  He's been shelled and he's on fire without
engines."

Farmer thought, God help us now.  He knew what the other LCT was
carrying.  He said, "Aye, aye, sir."

That flat answer brought some comfort to Langley.  There had been no
hissing intake of breath from the coxswain, so he thought Langley was
acting correctly.  But Richard had decided what he was going to do
anyway.  He shouted to the anchor party, "Lower some fenders over the
stern!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  Tolliver, the hairy first stoker, answered, then as
he went to comply with the order he groused, "Now he's worrying about
her paintwork when there's more bloody rust than paint!"  He said that
with one eye on LCT 7011 astern and creeping nearer.

The bent-nosed Mclver was with him and also watching the ship in
flames.  As he heaved a rope fender over the stern and made it fast, he
panted, "If that bastard goes up we'll lose more than our paint."

The capstan had started up again, winding in the wire that ran over the
reel beside the bridge and then along the catwalk to the ramp.  The
wire tautened and the note of the capstan changed as it took on the
weight of the ramp, started lifting it.  Langley told Anderson,
shouting above the hammering of the capstan, "Make: "Stand by to take
tow.""

All this while the shelling had continued, the bursts smashing down
into the other craft still lying with their ramps grounded, or plunging
into the beach to hurl up fountains of sand and shingle.  They were
falling little more than a hundred yards away from Langley and he
winced at each crashing report.

He had turned to stand by the mast now, was looking past the funnel and
feeling the heat from it, peering out over the stern.  He heard
Anderson's lamp clacking and saw the light flicker in reply from inside
the smoke that hung over the bridge of 7011.  He was tempted to send
his own suggestion to Tommy Phillips, that he should order every man he
could spare to abandon ship, because the fewer who set their lives at
risk the better.  But too many signals might confuse and time was
limited, might run out at any moment.  And anyway, in another few
minutes every man would be off the burning LCT.  He hoped.

They were closing her now, Bloody Norah easing astern at a walking
pace, the gap between the sterns of the two craft narrowing with every
second.  Langley heard Harry Darville yelling, could not make out the
words and turned to see Harry running aft along the catwalk from the
bow.  His little party were rapidly reeling in the wire that had been
laid along the catwalk to haul up the ramp.  And now Anderson
confirmed, "Mr.  Darville says ramp's up, sir."

"Thank you."  Harry had run on past the bridge into the stern and was
standing, chest heaving with his exertions, but ready to pass the tow.
Curly Chambers was with him, and every man of Bloody Norah's crew
except Anderson, the cox'n on the wheel and Gil-hooley below in the
engine room.  Even Uncle Oswald was standing by to lend a hand.

Langley bawled, "Mr.  Darville!  As soon as the tow's secure, I want
one man left ready for when we slip it.  Everybody else gets under
cover forrard!  Understood?"

Harry shoved up one hand to acknowledge and Curly Chambers standing
beside him muttered, "So if she blows we won't all be sitting back here
on top of her."

Harry snapped, "Shut up!  Stand by with that line."  Curly held the
coiled line that was tied to the end of the kedge wire that was wound
round the capstan.

The two vessels closed the last few yards until only a matter of feet
separated them.  Tommy Phillips stood in the stern of his ship with all
his crew gathered around him.  Several of them, Tommy included, had
their clothes charred, the skin of their faces reddened from fighting
the fire.  Langley knew something about that, had suffered himself when
saving Bloody Norah.  But there would be no saving this other ship.  He
could only hope to rescue these men and prevent a disaster on the
beachhead.  He did not know how much time they had.

As Curly Chambers threw the line, the coils opening out as it snaked
over the gap to be caught by one of Tommy's crew, Langley shouted,
"Make it fast as quick as you can, Tommy, then bring everybody over!"

"Righto!  Good of you to oblige!"  Tommy seemed cool, unworried.  His
men were hauling in on the line, then the wire hawser that followed
it.

Langley wished he was as cool as Tommy, took off his steel helmet and
ran his fingers through his hair so it stuck up like straw, felt it
sticky with sweat.  His face ran with it.  He thought that might be
from the heat of the fire, he could feel it searing his face now, but
was not sure.

"All secure!"  That yell came from Tommy's coxswain, short and
wide-shouldered.  The hawser was made fast to a bollard in the stern of
7011.  There was only a foot between the two craft, then a bigger sea
ran under them and they rubbed together.  The coxswain started shoving
his men across into the stern of Bloody Norah.  As they came over,
Harry Darville sent them on their way along the catwalk to the bow.
Last of all came the coxswain and Tommy.  Langley counted them:
eleven.

As Tommy walked past below the bridge he looked up and called, "Thanks!
That's the lot, I'm afraid.  We lost our mechanic.  He was down in the
engine room when the shell hit us."  He was bareheaded,

held his hands out from his body as though they hurt him.  He waved to
Langley with one of them and the palm looked like raw meat, red and
bloody.  Then he moved on and the men of Bloody Norah followed him.
Only Harry Darville stayed in the stern by the tow, ready to slip it.
That was as Langley had expected.  He thought, Harry is a good man, one
of the best, while stooped over the voice-pipe, calling down to Farmer
Fairbrother, "Slow ahead both!"

"Slow ahead both, sir!"  That came up the pipe, and Langley heard the
clang as Farmer put the telegraph over, signalling the speed to Scouse
Gilhooley in the engine room.  Langley watched the tow run out between
the two ships until all the wire was out and it lifted, tautened.  He
held his breath then, because the wire was meant for hauling off from a
kedge with the help of the craft's engines, and often it snapped under
that strain.  Now he was using it to tow off the deadweight of another
craft.

He breathed again when he saw the wire sag slightly and knew that was
because 7011 had broken clear of the ground and was afloat.  He watched
her, and the angle of the tow.  He wanted to see how she would tow,
because there was no textbook answer.  Without power or a man at her
wheel to give her some direction, she was like a huge sea anchor
dragging at Bloody Norah's stern.  But she was following, yawing this
way and that so that the wire alternately tautened and slackened, but
she was moving.

"Starboard ten."

"Starboard ten, sir."

That was to take 7011 out of the way of the queues of traffic running
into the beach.  Langley saw the wire tighten as Bloody Norah started
to turn and had to drag the weight of the burning hulk around after
her.  Then the stern of 7011 swung slowly to follow and the wire
slackened again.  He hesitated over whether to increase speed and
decided to leave well alone for the moment.  He looked up from the tow
in time to see shells bursting in the craft still beached and realised
he had not noticed them in his concentration on the job in hand.  He
also realised now that there were only a few guns firing at the
beachhead, two or maybe three.  Further along the shore there was no
shelling; troops, stores and vehicles were being unloaded as if this
was a rehearsal a hundred miles from any enemy.

He looked back to the tow, at the wire and how it sagged and
straightened, at the craft like a log at the end of it.  He thought it
was time and ordered, "Half ahead both."

Pianka opened his mouth, shut it again as the guns fired, then tried
again as the echoes rolled away.  "We're going to be outflanked!
They're moving inland on either side of us!  Any minute now we'll be
under fire!"

Franz Engel had the Zeiss field glasses at his eyes and did not lower
them as he answered, "Hold on a minute."  Then he mused, "Now why would
they do that?"

Pianka demanded, head on his shoulder as he looked for the enemy
circling around the gun position, "Why would who do what?"

"The ship we set on fire; there's another one towing her off."

"What does it matter?"

"It must matter or they wouldn't do it.  Ah!"  He let the glasses fall
to hang on their strap against his chest and grinned at Pianka.  "I'll
bet you she's loaded with petrol or ammunition.  So they want her out
of it before she blows them all to hell."  He tapped the range taker on
the shoulder and told him, "New target."

The first salvo howled in to fall into the sea between Bloody Norah and
7011.  Langley ducked, too late but instinctively, as the shells burst
under the stern.  For a moment as the spray hung in the air he thought
the tow had been cut, but then he saw it was intact and 7011 still
followed reluctantly, like a fractious old hound dragged along on a
lead.  He thought that if he had not ordered the increase in speed then
the shells would have fallen on Bloody Norah, possibly on him.  He
might now have been a tangle of shattered bones and flesh on the bridge
gratings.

He shuddered and straightened, shouted to Harry Darville in the stern,
"Are you all right, Number One?"

"All OK here, Skipper!"

Langley realised he was panting as if he was hauling Tommy's ship by
brute strength.  He tried to control his breathing and looked at the
tow, then beyond it to the retreating shore.  He had towed 7011 nearly
a quarter-mile now.  Soon it would be safe to cast off the tow and
leave her for one of the destroyers to sink by gunfire.  But not yet;
when she did blow up the wreckage would be thrown for further than a
quarter-mile.  He had to allow a greater margin of safety than that.

He looked around him, lifting his eyes from this little circle of water
where he was fighting his own battle to tow 7011 clear of other
shipping.  He saw the whole huge fleet spread about him, reaching out
to the rim of the ocean.  There were the troop carriers, big and
small,

from the little LCAs to the landing ships of four and five thousand
tons.  And warships, from minesweepers to cruisers.  He saw the muzzle
flashes, yellow in the sunlight, and the smoke jet from the guns of one
cruiser as she fired.  Then the next salvo from the battery ashore
plummeted in.

Engel growled with satisfaction, "Hit her!"  Then he heard the roar of
the shells coming in from the sea.  He threw himself down and saw the
range taker Pianka and the gunners doing the same, then the salvo
impacted on the crest of the ridge behind him.  The blast from the
six-inch projectiles sucked the breath out of his lungs and left him
gasping, sucking in air.  He shoved up to his feet, teetering because
of the stiff leg, but then Pianka came to help him.

They hurried back up to the crest and saw the guns intact, the gunners
getting to their feet.  Engel told Pianka, "It's time we got out of
here."  He bawled, "Hook up!"  Pianka ran on down the slope, past the
guns, gone to fetch the trucks.  The gunners brought the 75s out of
action and made them ready for the road.  The range taker packed the
rangefinder, that fragile and precious instrument, in its protective
box.  Then the next salvo fell among the guns.

The blast shoved at Engel again and a cloud of dust swept over him,
borne on the wind.  Splinters and debris rained down.  One man fell as
if axed, his face sliced open by a shard of stone and another man near
went to him yelling, "Medic!"  They had a medic now, to replace the man
killed at Reggio.  This one was an earnest youth.  He stumbled across
the broken ground, the satchel holding his instruments and dressings
slung over his shoulder, thick-lensed spectacles slipping down his
nose.

Engel looked for the trucks and saw the first bouncing over the rough
ground, rolling down towards him and the guns.  It swung around and
backed up to one of the 75s.  Engel limped over to it and helped the
short-handed gun crew to hook the piece on, then yelled at the men,
"Mount up!"

As they scrambled into the truck he limped over to the other gun, where
the second truck was now waiting.  He helped the gunners there to hook
on and sent them away: "Go like hell!"  Then he saw Pianka coming with
the Kiibelwagen, driving with one hand on the wheel and waving
furiously, the message clear: Get in here!  And the third salvo from
the cruiser fell.

"Tow's parted, Skipper!"  Harry Darville shouted a second after the
shells from the unseen shore battery burst on the stern of 7011.
Langley saw they had cut the wire and now it trailed in the sea.  The
hulk was falling astern as the way came off her.  Harry called, face
turned up to the bridge, "A few yards further forrard and they'd have
gone off in her cargo!"  And if they had burst among the trucks packed
with ammunition ... Langley ordered, "Haul in the wire, Number One."
Enough was enough; 7011 was a half-mile or more from any shipping and
she could hurt no one except Bloody Norah.  He took long strides to the
voice-pipe and called down to Farmer Fairbrother, "Full ahead both!"

"Full ahead both, sir!"  Farmer's answer came up the pipe and Langley
heard the clang of the telegraph being put over, passing the order to
Scouse Gilhooley below.

Langley added then, "The tow's parted so we've left her; she's safe
now."

"Thank God for that!"  Farmer acknowledged the information.  And
thought, But the sooner we're out of this, the better.  Come on,
Scouse, lad.

Gilhooley obliged and the throb of the engines increased until Bloody
Norah was hammering along at her emergency full speed of eleven knots.
They had barely attained that rate when the big wind caught them.  It
threw Langley against the bridge-screen and doubled him over it, sent
Harry Darville sprawling in the stern.  The explosion deafened all of
them, despite the cotton wool stuffed in their ears.  Pieces of 7011
and her cargo splashed into the sea around them or smashed down on the
ship.  Some fell in the tank deck, but all the men down there were
sheltering under the catwalk and got no more than a bad fright.  One
piece of jagged steel plating crashed down on the bridge only feet away
from Langley as he pushed himself upright, clutching his chest.

Then as their ears rang, the wave from the explosion caught up with the
fleeing Bloody Norah and lifted her stern like lifting her skirts.  It
ran under her so her stern dropped again and her bow pointed at the
sky.  Then it dropped again as the huge roller ran away.  There were
other waves but they were smaller.  The sea slowly calmed and Bloody
Norah came back to an even keel.  Langley looked astern and saw there
was nothing at all left of 7011.

When Engel opened his eyes again he was sitting by Pianka in the front
of the Kiibelwagen.  Pianka's foot was down and he was hurling the
little car along the first, long, straight stretch of the Via Anziate
that ran from Anzio to Rome.  Engel's head ached and he felt as if he
had been beaten all over.  He groped back in his memory and demanded,
"I remember hooking on the guns, but what happened after that?"

Pianka glanced sideways at him then back to the road winding beneath
the wheels.  "You were blown up, that's what happened.  I was certain
the bastards had killed you.  Those damned great shells came down and
when they went off the blast threw you all of twenty feet.  I swear it.
Never seen anything like it.  I was sure you were dead."  Engel had
been tossed down like a bloodied doll.  He had hung, a deadweight, when
Pianka tried to pick him up.  "But you were still breathing.  I yelled
for the medic and we got you into the car and on to the road.  He
wrapped you up and said I should get you to a hospital."

Engel pushed himself upright in the seat, swearing at the pain, saw he
had a bandage round his left arm, felt another round his head.  But he
twisted in the seat to look behind them, only to see an empty road.
"Where are the guns?"

"Sit still!"  Pianka swore a soldier's oath.  "You were leaking like a
sieve till the medic stopped the bleeding.  There are three or four
lumps of shell in the arm.  He said you were to keep still so you
didn't start bleeding again.  And the guns came out of it all right.
They're following us but a long way behind."  He didn't say that half
the gunners had been killed by that last salvo and the battery had
ceased to exist as a fighting force.

Engel had not finished.  He asked, "What happened to that last
target?"

"I saw that.  I'd just pulled back from the ridge and I looked round
just as it blew up."

"Which one?"

"Which...?"  Pianka thought for a moment, scowling, then: "The one at
the back, that was it.  The one at the front was still going."

"You mean the one that was doing the towing?  So we got the other that
was being towed, that I thought had ammunition aboard?"

"You were right.  They must have heard it in Rome!  So we got one of
them, anyway.  You can think about that while you're convalescing.  The
medic says you're certain to be sent home."

Engel only grunted acknowledgment of that.  He said, "The man who was
doing the towing he was brave.  He must have known what she was
carrying."

Langley's ribs still ached when he took Bloody Norah back into the
harbour of Naples.  Harry Darville grumbled, "I expect we load up, turn
around and go up again."  So did Langley; they were used to that
pattern of work.  But when the orders came out by the hand of a rating
he looked up from the sheet of paper to tell Harry, "They're sending us
home."

They grinned at each other.  Harry said, "That means for the Big One."
He was talking of the Second Front, the landings to be made on the
Atlantic coast of Europe.

Langley shrugged, "We could catch it just as easily out here."  They
had nearly "caught it" earlier that day off Anzio.  And the landings
there would get bogged down in the mud of winter, resulting in months
of bloody fighting.

He told his crew, sitting on the table in the mess deck with all of
them gathered around him: "I think you all did really well this last
trip; a terrific show."

And afterwards, just the two of them on deck below the bridge, Farmer
Fairbrother said, "They're a team now, sir.  Ready for anything.  Let's
hope we can keep them together."

But neither of them touched wood.

EIGHT

February 1944

"She's attacking!"  Harry Darville shouted it.  Richard Langley saw the
corvette tearing out from the head of the convoy with the bone of a big
white bow wave in her teeth.  Then the depth charges were looping out
from her sides and stern like huge dustbins hurtling through the air to
plummet into the sea.  Richard and Harry waited tensely as the seconds
ticked away and then came the explosions as the charges burst and threw
up tall pillars of sea water, a pattern stippling the ocean.  And then
they waited again as the corvette turned tightly, preparing for another
run.

They stood on the bridge of Bloody Norah in the late afternoon.  The
convoy was two days out of Gibraltar and bound for Falmouth.  The
columns of ships were spread out astern and to port; Bloody Norah led
the right-hand column.  Now Curly Chambers and three of the hands came
running to man the Oerlikons on either side of the bridge.  The rest of
the crew, save the stoker on watch in the engine room, lined up on the
starboard catwalk and peered out to see the action.  The corvette's
contact was somewhere out there and ahead.  Two more of the escorting
corvettes were now racing up the side of the column to join in the
attack.  They were not needed.

The U-boat surfaced.  She came up in a rush, bow first, then the
conning tower and the two "bandstands" aft of it.  One of them mounted
a quadruple 20mm gun, the other a 37mm.  She was a mile away across the
leaden, foam-flecked sea, furrowed by the charge of the corvette.
Langley had his glasses on her and saw the tiny figures of men spill
out of the conning tower and crowd around the guns.  He shouted, "Open
fire!"

The starboard side Oerlikon, manned by Kirkpatrick and Mclver, hammered
rapidly, a short burst, then another.  The gun on the port side would
not bear.  Those on the submarine were winking flame and Langley
realised with a shock that they were firing not at the corvette, but at
him.  The shells were slamming into the steel side of Bloody Norah. The
men who had been looking out over the bulwark now scrambled for cover. 
The Oerlikon fired another burst but Langley could not tell whether it
was hitting the submarine, suspected it was firing over.

He took two quick, long-legged, scissoring strides over to Kirkpa-trick
and Mclver, his loader, and shouted, "Lower the range!  You're
overshooting!"  He knew the little anti-aircraft shells would not hurt
the U-boat but they would put off the submarine's gunners.  Then Bloody
Norah was hit again and he heard the crack!  and clang!  as the rounds
slammed into the bridge at his back.  There was a shout and he turned.
Tubby Anderson, the signalman, sat on the bridge gratings with his
hands pressed to his face.  Blood leaked through them.  Harry Darville
lay over on the port side now, face-down and with one hand outstretched
and scrabbling at the gratings as if trying to shove himself up.  He
had been standing on the starboard side with Langley until Richard had
moved to give the alteration of range to the gunner.

Langley shouted, "Lie still, Harry!  I'll get some help!"  He leaned
out over the bridge-screen and bawled down to the men on the deck below
him, "Bear a hand up here!  We've two wounded!"  He saw them start to
run to the ladders.

The engines had stopped.  He stooped over the voice-pipe and called to
Farmer Fairbrother who was at the wheel, "Why have the engines
stopped?"

"Dunno, sir!  Can't get an answer from down there!  And I can't hold
her on course!"  She was losing the way on her, coming to a halt and
sliding sideways out of control.

Langley swore, then: "You can't do any good there.  Find out what's
wrong in the engine room and report to me."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  That came up the pipe and Langley lifted his head. He
looked out again as he heard the deeper reports of a bigger gun. The
corvette had opened fire now as she ran in again and at that short
range she did not miss.  The U-boat's guns were silenced and then the
conning tower was hit.  A white flag was flapped from it and more men
clambered out to stand on the deck.  That was nearly awash again now
and she was listing.

Langley slapped Kirkpatrick on the shoulder and shouted to him,

"Cease fire!"  He thought the submarine must have been holed and doomed
when she was forced to the surface.  The shelling had only accelerated
the end.  The final show of fight when she fired on his ship had been
no more than a knee-jerk reaction, a determination to resist so long as
there might be a chance of escape, however slim.  That chance had never
existed.  The men aboard her had shelled Bloody Norah pointlessly, but
that was just one more example of the stupidity of war.

Now another hull loomed high, long and close between him and the
submarine.  That was the next ship in the column, a big freighter that
had swung out to pass the stopped LCT.  She trudged past at the convoy
speed of seven knots, her stained and rusty side only a hundred yards
away and filling the eye.  Then she was past and in that brief space of
time the U-boat had almost sunk.  There was only her bow standing
perpendicular out of the sea, her conning tower already submerged.
Langley watched as her foredeck slid down and down, finally slipping
from sight beneath the waves.  Men were struggling in the water and the
corvette that had sunk her was closing in, scrambling nets hanging down
her sides, to pick up the survivors.

Langley turned away and met the boiler-suited figure of Scouse
Gilhooley.  The engine room smell of diesel fuel, oil and hot metal
came with him.  He said, "The cox'n says you want a report on the
engines, sir."

Langley nodded, "That's right."  He demanded.  "What's happened, and
when can you give me power?  We're drifting all over the shop."  He
gestured at the other ships in the column overtaking Bloody Norah, one
already almost abreast and behind her another easing out to round her.
The freighter of a few minutes ago was now a quarter-mile ahead.  Then
he added, remembering, "And what about the stoker on watch?  He didn't
answer the cox'n on the voice-pipe."

Scouse sniffed, "No need to worry about Noakes.  Old Smiler got a hell
of a fright when the brick went through the engine room and he ducked
out o' the way, as anybody would.  But he's started sorting things out
down there now.  It's a mess.  Looks near as bad as when we first came
aboard her.  I can't tell you now how long it'll take, but you can say
all night for a start.  We might have her going again by morning, but
we could need longer."

Langley answered, "Very good," while thinking that it wasn't.  "Crack
on with it, then, and let me know how you're getting on."

Gilhooley went away and now Farmer was waiting.  He said, "I've had a
look around her, sir, and we're holed in a couple of places -again but
neither is below the water line and I've got men working on plugging
them.  And one of the lads has taken Anderson below.  I had a look at
him and he's got a nasty cut where a splinter hit him but nothing a
dressing won't cure."

"Thank you, Cox'n."  Then Langley walked past him to where two of the
hands, Underbill and Uncle Oswald, had laid a stretcher beside the body
of Harry Darville.  Someone had covered him with a blanket and pulled
it up over his face.

Uncle Oswald said, "He's copped it, sir."

Langley stood dumb for a moment, then protested, "But he was moving!  I
saw him!  I told him to lie still!"

Farmer Fairbrother came to face him over the body.  "Sorry, sir, but I
think that was just his last gasp, so to speak.  He's dead.  I looked
at him an' all, and covered him up."

But Langley would not accept that and went down on his knees beside the
body.  He twitched back the blanket and bent over Harry, but the face
was already misshapen in death.  The eyes stared up at him sightlessly
and now he saw the wound and accepted.  He replaced the blanket and
stood up.  He said, "Thank you, Cox'n."  Then he went back to his place
at the front of the bridge.

He heard Farmer order the hands, "Take him below, lads, then come back
and clean up the bridge."

The corvette was still hauling survivors from the submarine out of the
sea, but now a destroyer ranged alongside, its lean length close to
Bloody Norah.  An officer on her open bridge called through a powered
loud-hailer, "I take it you have trouble."

Langley answered through his own tin megaphone, "We took a shell in the
engine room and another on the bridge.  It killed my Number One and
injured a signalman.  My plumber tells me it'll take him all night or
longer to give us power again."

The answer came back at once.  The ships of the convoy were sliding by
and the convoy was the destroyer's business.  Her commander was eager
to get on with it.  He said, voice clipped and nasal through the
speaker, "Sorry to hear about your chaps.  Can't tow you, I'm afraid.
As soon as you are able to get under way, return to Gibraltar.  Do you
need any help with the injured man?"

"No, thank you, sir."

A pause, then a parting wish: "Good luck."  The destroyer surged away,
sweeping past the lumbering merchantmen one by one as it raced off to
the head of the convoy.  The tail of it was just passing Bloody Norah
now.  Her crew watched the long columns of ships with their fringe of
escorts steadily pull away from them.  They worked at cleaning the
bridge or plugging the shot holes punched in the hull by the submarine.
They cleared away the empty brass shell cases from the Oerlikons strewn
around the guns that tinkled as they rolled to the motion of the ship. 
But every now and then the men looked up to watch the vessels of the
convoy become small with distance, then just specks on the horizon.
Finally the horizon was empty.  Bloody Norah was alone as the darkness
closed in around her.

They spent an uneasy night.  The ship was uncannily quiet without the
steady beat of the engines.  The clang and clatter of tools and the
voices of Gilhooley and his stokers came up from the engine room and
were audible all over the ship.  They worked all night.  Langley sat in
a deck chair on the bridge, wrapped in a duffel coat.  Weariness helped
him to doze occasionally but most of the time he stared sombrely out at
the black sea.  Farmer Fairbrother saw to it that his captain was
supplied with mugs of cocoa and sandwiches through the long night. Most
of the time they were hardly tasted.  Farmer shook his head and
thought, He's taken it hard.  We all have, because Darville was a good
bloke, but he's taken it worse than the rest of us.  And the lads are
miserable as sin because they aren't going home after all.  And so am
I. To hell with it.  Then he went back to his work.

The wind rose in the last of the night and began to kick up a sea. When
dawn came it brought not sunlight but a leaden, low-hanging sky. But
soon afterwards the engines coughed and coughed again, then burst into
throbbing life, built to a roar then steadied to a deep-throated
rumble.  A weary and dirty Scouse Gilhooley came to the bridge and
reported to Langley, "Told you it would take all night, didn't I?  But
they're running sweet as you like now."  He rubbed black grease from
his hands with a fistful of oily waste.  "But we might as well have
taken our time.  No bugger wants to go back to Gib."

Langley got up stiffly from the chair and said acidly, "Nobody wants to
be caught out here without any power by another U-boat either.  Stand
by to get under way."

But Farmer Fairbrother came to the bridge then and saluted.  "Ready
now, sir."

Langley looked past him to where the canvas-wrapped body of Harry
Darville lay on a grating by the side.  "Very good."

He got his prayer book and they buried their first lieutenant.  And
afterwards Langley replaced his cap and told his little crew, "We're
not going back to Gibraltar."  They stared at him as Bloody Norah
bucked to a rising sea.  His eyes were red and blinked at them.  His
deep voice was husky and he swallowed as if there was something in his
throat.  But he went on doggedly, "I'm taking her right across the Bay
of Biscay.  That way we should make up some time."

He dismissed them then and climbed back to the bridge.  Farmer
Fairbrother cocked an eye at the weather, sucked in a hissing breath,
but said nothing.  The rest wondered about that rising sea, too.  And
some of them grew thoughtful about the passage across the Bay.  The
convoy had been routed far out in the Atlantic to keep it clear of the
enemy U-boat bases scattered along the Biscay coast: Brest, Lorient,
St.  Nazaire, La Rochelle.  Now Langley was going to run the gauntlet
of those bases, gambling that the bad weather would keep the U-boats
down.

Below in the mess deck Curly Chambers said, "I hope he knows what he's
doing."

Scouse Gilhooley, stark naked from a wash down in the heads in the bow
of the ship, reached out for clean clothes.  He grinned at Curly, "Hope
you can swim if he doesn't know what he's doing."

Curly sniffed, "Very droll."

Scouse threw the balled-up dirty clothing at him.  Curly fielded it and
objected, "I'm not running a dhobi farm!"  He tossed it to Uncle
Oswald, because besides his other duties the cook offered a laundry
service, dhobiing out the clothes with "Pusser's hard" soap Admiralty
issue and hard as a brick in a bucket in his galley.

But Uncle lobbed them back to Scouse and told him in a high falsetto
voice, "Not with this weather coming up!  I'd never get 'em dry!"

Nobody mentioned Harry Darville.  It was too soon to talk about him.

The storm was on them before- noon.  Langley was on the bridge for
twenty-four hours but there was no sleep for any of them.  Scouse
Gilhooley never left his engines in all that time.  Farmer Fairbrother
was either at the wheel or supervising work about the ship, such as
repairing the tarpaulin cover over the tank deck when it threatened to
carry away and leave the well open to flooding by the seas.  And any
man who was not on duty could not sleep while the fearful pounding of
the waves went on.

But they survived the storm, sore, weary and hungry for hot food,
because Uncle Oswald could not light the galley stove in that weather.
They saw no U-boats.  And on a fine morning they came up with the
convoy outside Falmouth and entered with the rest.

Ralph Bellanger slapped Langley's back and said, "Good to see you!
You're just in time for the Big One!  It's bound to be' this summer!"

Langley shrugged away from the hand.  "What about leave for my crew?"

"Of course!"

So they went on leave, home to their wives or their parents, their
children.  Scouse Gilhooley spent his leave in Liverpool pubs in the
company of his parents, four sisters, all on war work, and two of his
five brothers who also had leave from the army at that time.  The
terraced house was nowhere near as crowded as the mess deck of Bloody
Norah.  He had a marvelous time.

"My skipper?  He hasn't a bloody clue about engines.  He relies on me
totally but he's all right."

Richard Langley used a day taking Harry Darville's few possessions to
his mother.  Before they left the Mediterranean, his first lieutenant
had said, "Come and stay with us!"  Langley could not think of that
now.  He went to a large and expensive hotel.  He spent his days
trying, and failing, to find Suzi Jones.  In the evenings he went to a
succession of shows.  And early in March he returned to Falmouth and
Bloody Norah.

Pianka drove the Kubelwagen into the village of St.  Florent in
Normandy with Franz Engel sitting by his side.  They had come from the
headquarters in Caen down the road to Ouistreham, and then along the
coast so Pianka could see the de fences there.  The beach was thick
with mines and obstacles like steel teeth designed to rip the guts out
of landing craft.

Pianka had said, "Impressive."  Engel had nodded sour approval and they
turned inland and drove the three kilometres to the village.

Now Pianka swung the Kubelwagen into the square.  The chateau stood at
the far end, some fifty metres inside a barbed-wire fence that ran
across the square.  The sentry on the gate in the wire saluted when he
saw Engel and hurriedly swung the gate wide, wary of the Herr
Hauptmann.  Engel had been in St.  Florent a month, during which time
he had wheedled, bullied and blackmailed until he secured Pianka's
transfer from Italy.

Pianka steered the Kubelwagen in and halted it outside the front door.
Engel said, "There it is, my new command: das Blockhaus."  He studied
the face of the chateau and murmured, "It looks innocent enough,
barring the guns.  And you can only see them from down here; they won't
show on any aerial photo."  The frames had been knocked out of two of
the windows on the upper floor.  The barrel of a gun could be seen
gleaming dully just inside each of them.  The guns were 88s, not the
lighter anti-tank version, but the flak, anti-aircraft piece with a
vertical range of 10,000 metres, used instead for coastal defence.

Pianka said, "So those guns dominate the coast in front of here, but
anyone looking at the chateau from the air won't know what it really
is?"

Engel nodded, "Inside those walls is a steel framework.  The upper
floor .o reinforced concrete to take the weight of the guns.  Inside
the front wall is armour fifteen centimetres thick and there's more
armour under the roof, reinforced concrete inside the side and back
walls.  But that's not all."

Pianka glanced at him, "What else?"

Engel grinned, "Look around."

Pianka turned his head, taking in the houses round the square in which
the chateau stood, the church close to it on his right.  "So?"

"So the Tommis won't bomb or bombard this place because of the French
civilians living right on the doorstep, and the church next door is
twelfth century, a historical monument.  Those two factors are better
protection than any armour.  That's the theory."

Pianka said, "You mean we're using them as cover."

"That was the idea when this was planned.  But I can tell you that
every house in this village has a cellar and as soon as any shooting
starts the people around here will be down in them."  Engel added,
"Those that are still here.  A lot have shut up their houses and gone
away because they think there might be an invasion.  And we've cleared
out some more for the same reason.  But we have to use das Blockhaus.
If the chateau hadn't been here we would have had to build it."

The Wehrmacht had done that in a lot of places along that coast.  They
had constructed gun-houses and strong points of steel and concrete then
painted them to look realistically like houses with front doors and
curtains at windows.

Engel said simply, "We have to use das Blockhaus because it commands
the coast and the road inland."  He was silent a moment, then: "So, in
theory, we're safe."

Pianka gave him a sideways look.  "But you don't think it will work."

Engel shrugged.  "It will, up to a point.  If the Tommis don't find out
what it is."

"You said that on an aerial photo it would only show up as a chateau.
So how would they find out?"

Engel climbed out of the Kubelwagen and rubbed his bad leg, then the
arm that had taken the shrapnel and was still stiff.  He thought, You
poor old bastard, Franz.  You're falling apart.  He leaned on the roof
of the car and looked around at the houses, the windows like eyes
watching the square and the chateau.  He said, "If somebody told
them."

He wondered if that someone was watching them now.  4

NINE

0200, Tuesday, 25 April 1944

For long seconds the four Horsa gliders were silhouetted against the
night sky, like great gulls with their wings set on top of their
fuselages.  Then they dived steeply and flattened out close above the
field.  The leading two skimmed just inches above the roofs of the
village then dipped sharply again into the square before the house.
They were silent in their passage save for the rush of wind torn by
their wings -until they set down with a grating and crackling as the
skids under their noses bit into the coarse grass and turf beneath.

Two of them skimmed over the fence of barbed wire some fifty yards in
front of the house and set down on the grass.  They ran on with a
ripping of the plywood skins of the Horsas and halted side by side only
feet from the house.  The doors just behind the Plexiglas nose of each
glider were already open.  They were black holes in the green and brown
camouflaged sides that were uniformly dark in the night.

Captain Patrick Ward, commander of a light infantry company, was first
out of one of the holes.  He leapt from it crouching because of his
height and hit the ground running.  He held the Thompson gun two-handed
in front of him and made for the front door of the house.  As he went,
he glanced over his shoulder and saw the men of 1 and 2 Platoons
spilling out of the Horsas and racing after him.  Their mouths were
wide open, pink and white holes in their blackened faces as they
shouted: "Able!  Able!  Able!..."  "Baker!  Baker!  Baker!..."  That
was partly to identify themselves to each other, partly to unbalance
the enemy a war cry.

The other two gliders carrying 3 and 4 Platoons had landed two hundred
yards behind him, where the plywood cottages of the mock village began.
Lieutenants David Vicary and Tom Tyler, commanding those platoons,
would be following him with their men.

Ward had time for one sweeping glance around him.  There were the
cottages of the village surrounding the square and going on to cling
close to the sides and back of the house.  The house itself, with the
square in front of it, stood in the middle of the village.

It loomed over him now, a huge black shadow but spitting flame at him
as its defenders opened fire from a dozen windows.  He could see the
88s, the muzzles of the two guns poking out of their embrasures on the
first floor.  Then he fetched up against the front wall.  The three
steps leading up to the big doors were only a few yards away.  Zack
Tyzack, commanding 1 Platoon, was there with two of his men.  They were
setting the charges against the doors, now scurrying aside and
crouching to escape the blast.  All along the front of the house the
rest of Zack's men, and those of Jeremy Unwin's 2 Platoon, were hurling
grenades in at windows and hosing them with bursts from their Sten
guns.  The din was deafening.

The charges blew, tearing the doors from their hinges and hurling them
into the house.  Zack ran in, disappearing into the smoke and Ward
chased after him.  He took the three steps in one stride, coughed on
smoke, then was in the hall.  Now, in there, it was black as pitch. His
night vision had gone, destroyed by the gunfire and bursting grenades. 
Those same flashes gave him glimpses of the way ahead and he ran on
without checking.  There were the stairs leading up to the first floor,
Zack Tyzack already climbing them, his two men trailing him. Another
figure stood at the head of the stairs, seen in another camera blink.

Ward bounded up them and caught the two soldiers who were still
yelling, "Able!  Able!..."  There was some faint grey light here from
windows on the first floor and filtering through from the positions of
the 88mm guns at the front of the house.  So he could see the men and
thrust between them.  He saw Zack at the head of the stairs, trying to
shove aside the man in a bucket-shaped helmet who stood there.  But the
defender lifted the rifle he carried and slammed the butt into Zack's
chest.  He fell back.

Ward muttered, "All right!"  He stepped aside to let Zack tumble past
him and be fielded by the men behind.  Then Ward jabbed with his
Thompson gun, spearing it into the defender's stomach.  The
bucket-shaped helmet came down as its wearer folded over the Thompson.
Ward heard him curse, in Polish, grabbed the back of the helmet
left-handed, pulled and sent the defender head-first down the stairs.

He swung around the head of them, saw the open doorway leading to the
gun floor and fired a burst into it from the Thompson, followed it with
a grenade.  Men were pouring up the stairs and crowding around him now.
The upper floor was lit like day by the muzzle flashes and bursting
grenades.  Ward saw the 88s and the defenders coming out to fight to
the last.

The exercise umpires with their white armbands stopped the happy brawl
that followed, blowing furiously on their whistles.  The attackers and
defenders were separated and trooped outside.  A fatigue party moved
into the house to ensure no fires had been started by the charges or
grenades in reality thunder flashes  Ward's men joked with the Poles
who had played the part of defenders and got carried away by their own
enthusiasm.

They were all there now, 3 and 4 Platoons with their commanders David
Vicary and Tom Tyler.  And Captain Bill Jardine, Ward's
second-in-command, dapper even in the shapeless camouflaged airborne
smock and battle dress said, "Seemed to go very well."

The umpires agreed, then one of them looked round and asked, "Where's
your transport?"

Ward took off his close-fitting, airborne soldier's helmet and wiped
sweat from his brow.  He was black-haired and hard-eyed.  He answered,
"To hell with that.  It's not much over ten miles.  We'll be in camp in
time for breakfast.  Fall 'em in, Sarnt-Major!"

"Sir!"  That was Company Sergeant-Major Arkwright, regular soldier with
twelve years' service.  This was his company as much as Ward's.  He
made it work.  Now he called them together, not shouting but his voice
rasping, carrying, "Company fall in!  This isn't a bloody picnic!"

But they were already moving, had heard Ward's order, had been
listening for him.  They formed up and moved off at the quick light
infantry pace, Ward at their head.

As they marched through the night, boots drumming on the Wiltshire
roads, Ward went over the recent exercise in his mind.  It had been a
rehearsal for an operation to be undertaken soon.  The house had been
derelict before the war and was now part of a battle training ground on
Salisbury Plain.  The 88mm guns on the first floor were dummies made
roughly from wood.  The cottages of the village had been built out of
raw timber by Royal Engineers in the course of a week.  The courtyard
in front of the house was a hundred yards square, its other three sides
made up by the cottages.  The barbed-wire fence strung across it was
exactly as a similar fence was strung across the real square.  The
whole was a copy of a village in France.  Ward was the only member of
the company who knew that, and he did not know where the village was.

He knew the nature of the objective.  It was a blockhouse, a chateau
strengthened and fortified with two 88mm guns on its first floor.  It
stood in the middle of the village.  Ward and his company had been
given the task of capturing it in the near future.  He had not been
told why or when but guessed that it was in connection with the
imminent invasion of Europe D-Day.

The rehearsal had gone well, just as planned, like clockwork.  But he
had been training his company at night for months now, so that they
said, "We see more bats than birds!"  There were only two aspects of
the exercise that left Ward uneasy.  One was Zack Tyzack, striding
along behind him now at the head of 1 Platoon Able.  Zack was
twenty-two years old, a good officer.  He had led his platoon well
right up to the head of the stairs and then was dumped by the big Pole
impersonating the enemy.  Zack was one of the smallest men in the
company.

Suppose that happened on the day?  It was unlikely, but Ward was trying
to anticipate every possibility.  If that happened again, then the
attack might be stopped, thrown back.  He wondered, What if I swap Tom
Tyler and Zack around?  Tom was a hefty six-footer.  So put Tom and 2
Platoon in the lead?  Ward thought, Zack won't like it, nor the boys in
his platoon.  It could be bad for morale, shake their
self-confidence.

He decided to leave the dispositions as they were.  Zack had plenty of
guts.  And while Tom would not bounce, he would make a bigger target.
Like Ward himself.

That was why he had put Bill Jardine, his second-in-command, with the
two rear gliders.  Bill was there to take over if Ward caught it.  Ward
thought a lot of the company would catch it.

A second thing made him uneasy ... 1100, Tuesday, 25 April 1944

Hauptmann Franz Engel went down to the cells under das Block-haus.  His
men down there kept silent, as he had ordered.  There was only one
prisoner, Gaston Dubois, and they left the door of his cell open, again
at Engel's order.  That was so that Dubois could hear the Herr
Hauptmann coming, the slow dit-dah of his limping stride on the stone
slabs of the stairs.  Slow, to give Dubois plenty of time to anticipate
the worst.

When Engel finally entered the cell he towered above the man slumped in
the chair.  There was only one weak bulb shedding a yellow light and
that hung over Dubois.  Engel's face hung in shadow, etched sharp and
cruel.  He stood in silence for a full minute, the walking cane he
carried tapping slowly against his boot.  Then he said softly, "We
aren't going to hurt you," he paused then added, "unless you lie to
me."

Dubois said quickly, "I'll tell the truth."

Engel chuckled unpleasantly.  "I'll tell you some.  You come down here
from Paris every now and again to see your old aunt because you're her
only relative and you expect to inherit the cottage when she dies.  You
always bring her flowers and a present.  And you always burgle somebody
around here the night before you go back, just so that you show a
profit on the trip.  I had your aunt's house watched last night.  You
left it after curfew and you were followed.  My men watched you break
into a house outside the village.  An old man lives there and he's
totally deaf; you'd never wake him.  You came out with a sackful of
stuff and that's when they grabbed you red-handed."

Dubois started.  "I admit it, but I..."

"Shut up!"  Engel snarled at him and thrust the cane under his nose.
"Or I'll use this to leave you looking like raw steak!"  He held
Gaston's face thrust back on his neck at the point of the cane, then
moved it to point at the table nearby.  "There it is.  A cheese.  A
ham.  A bag of flour.  The food to see him through the next few months
and you were going to sell it on the black market in Paris.  You
bastard!"

The cane was back in Gaston's face now, quivering as he quivered. Engel
went on, softly again, but rapidly and his voice rising as his rage
appeared to take hold of him.  "You are a small-time crook!  A ponce! 
An informer!  Burglar!  Pickpocket!  You are scum!  And now you want to
buy yourself off by giving information to me!"  His voice dropped to a
whisper.  "Do you think you can haggle with me?  Do you think I can't
get the information out of you?  Suppose I tried a few tricks I know to
persuade you.  Like ..."

Engel told him, still whispering, and after a sentence or two the men
behind him in the shadows shifted restlessly and then Dubois threw
up.

Engel stepped back to avoid the mess, and waited.

Dubois mumbled thickly, "I heard these two in the cafe yesterday
-Emil's.  They didn't see me, I couldn't see them.  I was in the
pissoir.  They were outside.  One said, "So it's here?"  And the other
said, "That's right.  Tomorrow at noon."  And it was supposed to be
secret.  They were speaking quiet, you see?"

Engel saw, and he knew Emil's cafe; there were only two in St. Florent.
He walked out of the cell.  Pianka followed him and said, "You should
be an actor."

Engel ignored that, climbing the stairs quickly now, stiff leg
swinging.  He ordered, "I want a detail six men around the back of that
place at ten minutes after noon.  One man on normal street patrol to
give the signal when they are in position."

Pianka grinned and persisted, "You should be on the stage.  He believed
you.  The other guys in there believed you.  Even I nearly believed you
would do it."

They were up in the hall now and hurrying towards Engel's office at the
front of the building.  Engel snapped, "Shut up!  You go on like an old
woman.  Listen to what I say.  Another two men in the Kubelwagen with
us, ready to hit the place from the front when we see that signal.  Get
on with it."

"You could make a fortune in movies."  But Pianka threw that last dig
over his shoulder.  He was already on his way to pass on Engel's
orders.

Franz Engel went on into his office that was next door to the wireless
room and belted on his Luger pistol in its holster.  He wondered what
he would catch in his net if anything?

Suzi was early for the meeting.  It was for noon because she and the
organiser of the circuit had an appointment in a meadow outside Falaise
that night.  She rode down to St.  Florent on the tram from Caen and
arrived at mid-morning.  The wireless operator also lived in Caen and
travelled down on the same tram but they ignored each other.  When they
got off at St.  Florent they went their separate ways.  That was basic
security, just one of the things she had learned in training in
Inverness and at Beaulieu after Andrew Rockingham recruited her into
the Special Operations Executive.  She did not want to wait too long in
the cafe that, too, was basic security so she decided to check out the
possible safe house first.  She made her way through the alleys between
the cottages of the village and came out on the edge of the big square.
She did not pause to look at the Blockhouse but she took it in from the
corner of her eye.

She told herself, "Nothing's changed here."  She had urged and
disciplined herself in that way for as long as she could remember. "The
chateau is still there at the back of the square, but it would be,
wouldn't it?"  And the barbed wire fence encircled it.  The two 88mm
guns still poked their muzzles out of the windows of the first floor.
The sentry paced before the door set at the head of the three stone
steps in the centre of the front wall.

She could not see the rear of the building but she knew that, too, was
unchanged.  There was still the tennis court, overgrown with weeds,
where the rear wing had stood until most of it burned down in the
twenties.  And the old stable, separated from the house by the tennis
court and now used only as a garage for Hauptmann Franz Engel's
Kubelwagen.

Suzi knew that because her informants had told her.  Just as men
working for the Todt had given her precise details of the armour,
concrete and interior layout of the Blockhouse, so that she knew it
inside-out.  Todt was the Nazi construction organisation that built all
the de fences along the Atlantic coast, Hitler's "Atlantic Wall".

And just as other people in and around St.  Florent told her about some
other things that had changed, like the numbers of troops in and around
the village, the extra obstacles built on the roads, and the
Rommelspagel, the poles planted in many of the meadows to wreck any
glider attempting to land.  But there were still some fields without
"Rommel's asparagus".  All the information came to Emil and he brought
it to her at Caen, or she came to his cafe in St.  Florent.

She was out of the square now and walking down the broad street that
pointed towards the coast three miles away.  St.  Florent stood on a
slight rise so that the gunners back in the Blockhouse, looking out
from their first-floor vantage point, had a perfect view of the country
and the beaches.

The cottage she sought was halfway down the street, one of the middle
two in a terrace of six.  The old woman who lived there alone, Madame
Lequeux, opened the door to Suzi's knocking and let her in.  The
widow's name had been passed to her by one of her informants as a
sympathiser.  Now Suzi cautiously sounded out the old lady as she sat
in her straight-backed chair, her hands folded in the lap of her white
apron.  Suzi established that Madame's husband had died ten years ago
from the effects of a gas attack in 1917 and her only son had died
after being deported to work on the Atlantic Wall.  "He had done
nothing wrong, you understand.  He was only seventeen and I forbade him
to join the Resistance.  But they took him."

Suzi came to the point then and Madame listened, then nodded.  She
would supply Suzi with a safe house if need be.  She refused money for
that with pride, but said with peasant common sense, "If I have to feed
you, then I will need a few francs.  I am a poor woman."

Suzi voiced a few words of cautious advice, "You should not speak
against the Germans or for the Resistance.  That way you will not be
suspected and the house searched."

Madame smiled thinly.  "I can hold my tongue."  She eyed Suzi, slim and
slight, for a moment then said, "You are a child to be about this
business."

Suzi answered defensively, "I'm twenty."

Madame nodded, "A child."

Suzi left then, content.  The business had taken longer than she had
allowed but it could not have been rushed.  She had to feel sure of the
old woman before trusting her.  The lives of Suzi and her friends might
be at stake.

She hurried to the cafe but then cautioned herself, "Careful, girl,
remember what they taught you in training."  She slowed her pace and
stopped at the last corner, pretending to shake an imaginary pebble
from her shabby old shoes.  They had been made in France, just part of
her "cover".  From there she could see Emil's, two or three houses away
on the opposite side of the road.  She looked for watchers strollers or
loungers who might be keeping the cafe under observation but saw none.
She was about to go on but hesitated, uneasy.  Then she saw the soldier
appear at the other end of the street.

His rifle was slung over his shoulder and he paused as if idling, but
then lifted one hand in a signal.  Seconds later a Kubdwagen swung
round the corner opposite the soldier, obviously summoned by his
signal.  The squat, ugly little vehicle raced down the street and
halted outside Emil's cafe with a shriek of brakes.  Two soldiers
jumped from its rear seats and kicked in the door of the cafe.  At that
moment Suzi heard shouting from inside Emil's and realised it had also
been raided from the back.  The two at the front shoved in through the
door.  Hauptmann Franz Engel climbed out from his seat beside the
driver and followed them in.

Suzi knew Engel.

He had come to take command of the Blockhouse in St.  Florent just a
month ago, bringing Pianka with him.  The limp was from a wound
received in Russia.  He had almost lost the leg and it was held stiffly
together by a metal plate.  Pianka had nearly lost an eye at the same
time.  Engel had been in Abwehr, Intelligence, with the German Embassy
in Spain, but had requested transfer back to straight soldiering.
Because the Gestapo was taking over the work of the Abwehr!  That Suzi
did not know.  The rest came from snippets of conversation between
soldiers from the Blockhouse as they talked in bars and were listened
to by the people of St.  Florent.  It all got back to Suzi.

He had served in the desert and in Italy, where he was wounded again.
He was reputed to be eccentric to the point of madness.  From his first
day in St.  Florent he had talked to anyone and everyone he met.  He
would show his teeth in that mad grin, but question courteously, eyes
watchful, in his formal, correct but heavily accented French.  Suzi
believed he was gauging moods and temperaments, divining those who were
defiant or sulky and might be members of the Resistance.

Everyone outside and inside the Blockhouse feared him.  That included
Suzi.  Instinct told her he was dangerous.  Instinct had warned her now
and it had saved her.

So far.

She stood quite still for a second or two, stiff with shock.  Then told
herself, "Don't run!"  She turned on her heel and walked away, back
through the streets until she came to the square.  She strolled round
it, on her way back to the tram.  She tried to appear calm and
unhurried though she could feel her heart thumping.  As she turned off
the square into the narrow streets again she paused, looking over her
shoulder.

At that moment the Kilbelwagen entered- the square, swept through the
gate in the barbed-wire fence, held open by a sentry, and halted before
the front door of the Blockhouse.  Engel got out and Suzi took a step
back further into the shelter of the wall, pressing against it.  But
Engel did not look her way.  He climbed stiffly up the three steps to
the front door and passed from her sight.

A minute later the soldiers trotted into the square.  She counted eight
of them and they were using their rifle butts to herd their prisoners
along.  There were seven in the stumbling group, all with their hands
strapped behind them.  She saw Emil, still wearing his apron, Guy the
organiser of the circuit, Paul the wireless operator and four other
men.  Two she recognised as members of the local Resistance, the others
may have been members she had not met, or innocents caught in the
net.

The soldiers hustled the prisoners into the Blockhouse and Suzi went on
her way, walking faster now, trying not to run.  She knew that out of
the prisoners only Paul or Guy could point the finger at her, only they
knew the cover identity that she used in Caen and her address there.
Their orders, if captured, were to try to hold out under
"interrogation" for twenty-four hours to give the other members of the
circuit time to get away.  She believed they would give her that time,
if they could stand the pain.

She caught the tram and returned to Caen, went to Paul's room and got
in using the key he had given her.  She cleaned the place of anything
that might incriminate him, finding his cache of money and "one-time"
code pads, the wireless set in its case.  She worked rapidly and left
without anyone seeing her.  She cleaned out her own room in another
part of the town and then squeezed into a seat on a crowded bus, the
suitcase containing the wireless set on her knees, on her way to
Falaise.

In that town she had a contact who lent her a bicycle and she cycled
out to the landing ground.  It was known to her because she had used it
before.  The meadow was reasonably flat, firm and over six hundred
yards long.  There was a copse in one corner and she hid there with her
bicycle as dusk fell.  She was tired from lugging the suitcase holding
the wireless set, the travelling and the strain.  But she did not
sleep.

When it was almost time for the pick-up she left the copse and
stealthily made a circuit of the field, her heart in her mouth.  She
gulped with relief when she was sure no one was waiting to pounce when
the Lysander came in.  "Just think about what you're doing!  Get it
right!"  She walked out into the field then and set out the sticks she
had brought with her, three of them, each with a torch lashed to it.
She drove them into the turf in a long inverted L, one at the downwind
end of the field, two at the end of the long leg of the L, the upwind
end, and forming the short crosspiece.  She waited by the first with
the suitcase.

The Lysander was a few minutes late, long minutes when she wondered if
it would come, and if it did not, where she could go when the Gestapo
would be looking for her soon.  But then she heard the beat of its
engine and saw it circle low overhead, black against the dark blue of
the night sky.

She flashed the torch beside her in the recognition signal and saw the
winking reply from the aircraft.  She left that torch on, ran down the
field and switched on the other two so all three shone skyward.  She
stood well clear as the Lysander swept in over the copse and the first
torch, switched on its landing lights and set down, rolled towards the
other two lights.  As it reached them, slowing, landing lights out now,
it turned and taxied back towards the first torch.  Suzi ran in behind
it, snatched the two sticks with their torches out of the ground and
chased after it.

It turned again at the downwind end and waited with its wingtip over
that first torch.  Suzi jammed that stick under her arm with the other
two, grabbed the suitcase and ran to the short ladder.  A minute later
she was in the rearward-facing cabin behind the pilot, shouting to him
above the engine's noise, "No!  I'm the only one!"  Because he had been
expecting two passengers, herself and Guy, the organiser of the
circuit.  He lifted a gloved hand to show he had heard, then the
Lysander was racing forward and lifting off into the sky.

Captain Patrick Ward lay in his narrow bed in the boarded-off,
ten-by-eight section of the officers' hut that was his.  He thought
about the operation of the previous night and the D-Day that would be
coming soon.  The rehearsal had gone without a hitch and that was the
second thing he hadn't liked about it.  Two years before he had taken
part in the raid on St.  Nazaire.  After that he did not feel
optimistic because the rehearsal had worked; the reality could be
tragically different.

TEN

1600, Wednesday, 26 April 1944

"May I see your pass, please, sir."  It was not a question but a
demand.  The redcap was gravel-voiced, with eyes hard and watchful
under the peak of his cap.  He stood by the door of the car but there
were two more military policemen at the gate in the wall that was
topped with barbed wire.  All three wore bolstered pistols on their
white-blancoed webbing belts.

Patrick Ward stretched one arm out of the wound-down window of the
khaki-camouflaged Austin and the redcap took the orders that had
brought Ward there.  He had driven to Milston, near Bulford on
Salisbury Plain, to be briefed on the operation ahead, told what he was
in for.

The MP read the orders carefully then passed them back to Ward.  "Thank
you, sir.  We were told you were coming."  He stepped back and waved
the car on.  The other two manning the gate swung it open and Ward's
driver steered the Austin through and up the drive.  The house inside
the wall was ancient, stood back from the road and was hidden from it
by surrounding trees.

There were several cars parked in front of the house, their drivers
talking in a little group or sitting behind the wheel, reading or
sleeping.  One car bore no service insignia and the driver wore
civilian clothing, a dark-blue suit and cloth cap.  Big and burly, he
looked like a plain-clothes policeman.

Inside, the house was low-ceilinged and creaked with age.  Ward again
showed his orders to the corporal who kept the door and an orderly led
him to a room at the back of the house, ushered him in and closed the
door behind him.  A brigadier in service dress, immaculate and
sharp-eyed, stood in front of a long table with two other officers. One
of them had the mailed fist badge of the Royal

Armoured Corps on his cap tucked under his arm.  The other wore the
"commando" flash on the shoulder of his battle dress blouse.

"Hello, Patrick."  And the brigadier introduced him: "This is Patrick
Ward.  Patrick, meet Nigel Yarborough and Tim Ryan."  Yar-borough was
the commando.  They all shook hands.  That ended the courtesies and the
brigadier turned back to the table.  "Very well, gentlemen.  This is a
model of your objective.  The village normally has a population of five
hundred but the enemy has encouraged a lot of them to move inland,
sometimes simply turned out of their houses.  There are now about three
hundred people living there.  At the centre of the village stands a
house and the enemy has fortified it.  I'm not surprised; if I were in
his position I'd have done the same because it commands the road up
from the coast and the beach itself.  There are two eighty-eight
millimetre guns mounted on the first floor."

He saw Nigel Yarborough fumbling a notebook from his pocket and said,
"No notes, please."  The commando muttered an apology and the brigadier
went on deliberately.  "The guns and the house lie about three miles
inland.  We have named the house the Blockhouse.  The beach is named
Sword and is one of five at which landings will be made on the coast of
Normandy.  Your objective will be one of the first of Operation
Overlord, the invasion of Europe."

He waited a moment while they took that in.  Then: "I'll give you
detailed orders in a minute, but, simply, the objective is to silence
those guns.  That cannot be done by bombing from the air or shelling
from the sea without killing or wounding all or most of the people of
the village and destroying the church, a historical monument.  So
Patrick will seize the house by a coup de main, landing by glider an
hour before dawn."  His gaze switched from Patrick Ward to Yarborough
and Ryan.  "Two landing craft will put Tim and his tanks, Nigel and his
men, ashore on Sword immediately after the first assault wave and you
will drive inland to reinforce Patrick.  The Navy will allot those
craft in a day or two and you will carry out a rehearsal with them on a
beach similar to the real one on the other side."

Now they knew.  All the rehearsals and dummy runs of the past weeks
carried out on plywood copies of houses, on outlines of landing craft
chalked on the barrack square, now they all fell into place.

The brigadier continued, giving them details, talking them through the
model, the maps and the aerial photographs.  Ward asked once, waving a
hand at the model, "How up-to-date is all this information, sir?"

The sharp eyes crinkled as the brigadier grinned.  "As of last
night."

Ward said, "I don't mean the aerial photographs.  I'm talking about
details like the number of men in the garrison of the Blockhouse."

"That, too."

Ward whistled softly, "How on earth ...?"

But he got a shake of the head from the brigadier and: "None of your
business."

When he was done, he told them, "You'll be given green passes so that
you can come and look at this lot as often as you like.  But you will
take nothing away except what is in your head; no notes, written
orders, photographs nothing."  He looked at each of them in turn, then
asked, "Any further questions?"

Ward said slowly, "At the moment, just two.  First: my men will be
stuck out on their own from an hour before dawn until Tim and Nigel
arrive, something like three or four hours.  What about airborne
support say, a parachute battalion?  "

The brigadier shook his head, "All airborne units are committed, the
entire division.  The most dangerous enemy counterattack is expected
from the east, over the River Orne.  The airborne division's priority
task will be to seize the bridges over the river and form a defensive
shield there.  But if all goes well you will achieve complete surprise
and capture the Blockhouse intact.  You will outnumber the garrison.
Once inside you should be able to hold out against any enemy
reaction."

Ward said, "Will they also refrain from shelling the Blockhouse?"

The brigadier grinned wryly, "I wouldn't bet on it.  But that place
will stand some battering."  Then he prompted, "And your second
question?"

Ward put it: "Will there be a pathfinder, someone to mark the landing
zone with lights?"  He expanded on that: "Practice has shown that it's
a hell of a job to find a small area like that if it isn't marked." The
glider pilots had made that point after rehearsing for weeks.

"Noted."  The brigadier nodded.  "We will try all we can to set lights
for you."

There were no more questions, but all three of them had plenty to think
about as their respective cars took them back to their units.

Suzi got up from her chair in the room above their heads and strolled
to the window.  She wanted to stretch her legs she had been sitting in
the chair for the past hour but also to keep awake.  She wore the
sky-blue uniform of a section officer in the WAAF.  It had been waiting
for her at Tangmere when the Lysander landed there in the early hours
of the morning.  The commission was given to her when she joined SOE.

She peered tiredly out through the wet panes at the drive below,
watched the three men climb into the camouflage-painted cars and drive
away.  They were all young and one of them, wearing the maroon beret of
the airborne troops, was tall and lean, reminding her of Richard
Langley.

After a time she became aware that the captain seated at the desk
behind her had spoken.  From his raised voice it was obvious he had
addressed her more than once: "I said, Is that all?"  But it was said
with respect.  He was at once intrigued by and admired this girl.
Intrigued by her Cockney accent and turn of speech, her directness, and
admiring for what she had done.

Suzi turned and saw him waiting with pen poised above the sheaf of
foolscap.  The other sheets he had filled with the information she had
recited from memory lay in a neat stack on one side of the desk.  It
was all there, details of the village, the Blockhouse, its de fences
and garrison as they existed the evening before.  Suzi said, "That's
it. Short of me actually getting inside the Blockhouse."

"You mean the chateau.  Blockhouse is our code name for it."

"That's what the Wehrmacht call it, too: das Blockhaus."

The captain blinked at her, startled.  "Good Lord!  We didn't know
that!"

"Didn't you?"  Suzi gazed absently out of the window, her thoughts far
away.  "Anyhow, you know now."

The captain chewed his lip worriedly.  "It's a security risk.  That's
why we've given all these places code names.  For instance, St. Florent
is Piccadilly."

"Well, you're stuck with it now."  Then she turned as Andrew Rockingham
entered the room.  He wore his uniform now, service dress with a Sam
Browne belt that shone like his shoes.  He had recruited Suzi into the
Special Operations Executive and was her controller now.

He went to her and said, "Look, you'll have to go on to London on your
own.  I have to see a chap here and then we're having a meeting to
discuss a few things.  It will take some time.  I've told Charlie and
he knows where to take you."

Suzi shrugged, not caring, but asked directly, "Is Richard Langley in
this country now?"

Rockingham shrugged helplessly, unprepared.  "Langley?  I don't know.
Why?"

"I want to see him.  Will you find out for me?"  And when he hesitated,
she said quietly, "I haven't asked for anything else."

He nodded.  "I can't promise but I'll try."

"Please."  Then she turned to the captain and asked, "Is that all?  I'd
like to get away."

"Yes, of course."  The captain stood up hurriedly.  "You've been very
patient."  She had.  And, he thought, she must be very tired.  That's
why she's turned a bit testy now.

He was wrong about that.

He had to hurry to catch up with her as she left the room.

The policeman-like driver of her car climbed out quickly.  Suzi reached
for the handle of the rear door but he got to it first and swung it
open for her.  She slid into the leather seat and he asked, "Back to
London, ma'am?"

"Yes, please, Charlie."

The captain saluted as she was driven away.

Suzi stared ahead through the rain-spattered screen swept by the
flicking wipers.  She had not slept in the Lysander bringing her back
to England.  On arrival at Tangmere she had undergone a long debriefing
with Rockingham.  He had wanted to know every detail of the arrest of
the other members of the circuit and her actions.  Then she was driven
to Milston where the captain wanted to know any and every change in the
de fences and manning of the Blockhouse and the surrounding area.

She closed her eyes but opened them again when she recalled Rockingham
saying, "This has come at a very bad time.  We need the information out
of there and the Army want someone in there."  He had not elaborated,
but She thought that could wait for another day and closed her eyes
again.

When Charlie glanced surreptitiously at her in the rear-view mirror a
few minutes later he saw she was asleep.  Without the bold challenge of
the dark eyes the face was vulnerable, defenceless.  He drove the car
on through the rain towards London.  Twice the girl behind him
whimpered in her sleep and stirred restlessly.  He wondered, was she
dreaming of something that frightened her?  He watched her in the
mirror, frowning, concerned.  He thought this was a girl that a lot of
men would want.

And was there one man in particular who wanted her?

One man did.

Pianka had waited through Engel's morning bad temper then through his
irascibility of the afternoon, knowing the cause of both.  They were in
Engel's office in the Blockhouse that also served as his bedroom, his
camp bed set up along one wall.  Engel sat straight-backed at his desk,
his tunic hung over the back of his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up above
his elbows.  A glass of cognac stood in front of him.  Pianka squatted
on the edge of the bed and said, "You should go easy on that stuff."

Engel answered routinely, "Medicinal."  He claimed it was to ease the
pain in his leg.  It was an argument that had grown old and comfortable
now, that Pianka had never expected to win anyway.

Now he asked, "What about the prisoners?"

Engel said, "My prisoners."

"You've had them since yesterday.  You should have transferred them
last night.  They should have been in the hands of the Gestapo in Caen
today.  Haven't the Gestapo asked for them?"

Engel eyed him.  "Don't play games with me."

Pianka's brows went up.  "Me?"

"Yes, you.  I haven't told them in Caen that we've got any prisoners.
Yet.  And you know it."

Pianka said, "But you're going to tell them."

"When I'm ready."

"What are you waiting for?"

"One more."

Pianka blinked at him, "Which one?"

"How the hell do I know?  But there is another one out there."

"What makes you think so?"

Engel glared at him, exasperated.  "It's obvious!  We crash into Emil's
cafe and there is Emil behind the bar acting as lookout.  In the back
room we find half-a-dozen guys all trying to get out of the back door
at once and that won't do them any good because I've got men already
piling in at the back.  There's a table in there and seven chairs. Some
bottles of wine and seven glasses.  So there's a spare chair and glass
for somebody who hadn't turned up yet."

Pianka said, "Oh."  Then: "But you might wait weeks for that one.  Or
never find him."

Engel corrected him absently, "Or her."

"You think it might be a woman?  Why?"

Engel shrugged, "Just a feeling."  He wondered why.

Pianka said, "You should send them on.  Never mind waiting until you've
got them all.  Send on what you've got now, what you've had since
yesterday."

Engel looked at him.  "You know what the Gestapo will do to them."

Pianka knew; if the prisoners were lucky they would be shot.  "That's
not your business."

"Isn't it?"

Pianka warned, "Don't stick your neck out too far."

Engel pointed a finger.  "Don't stick your ..."  But a knock at the
door interrupted him and he bellowed, "Komm!"

Baumann entered and scowled disapproval at the sergeant sitting on the
bed.  Then his bullet head, hair cropped short and set into his
shoulders seemingly without any neck, turned and he looked at Engel. "I
see the French you rounded up last night are still in the cells."

Oberleutnant Otto Baumann commanded the gunners who manned the two 88s
mounted on the first floor.  He was Engel's second-in-command, a
mediocre, rule-book soldier, short-legged and now running to fat.  Too
young for the war of 1914-18, he had arrived in France in 1940 too late
to see any action.  He had stayed there peacefully ever since.  He had
a wife and numerous children living just as peacefully in a village
outside Hanover.  He wrote to them almost every day.

Engel stared at him for some time without speaking, until Otto started,
"I said ..."

Engel shouted, "I know what you said!  I know they're still down there!
So what about it?"

"They should have been handed over to ..."

Engel bawled, "I know they should!  I'm just wondering what the hell it
has to do with you.  Or anybody else.  Who's going to come in next and
ask about the damned prisoners?  That fat slob of a radioman Willi
Schulz?  The sentry off the gate?  The bloody cook?"

Pianka muttered as the bellow died away, "Well, they can all hear
you."

Engel glared at him.  "I want them to hear me, so they know this was my
decision.  So if the boys from Caen come around asking questions then
Otto and all the rest of you can say it was all my idea.  That way
everybody will be in the clear and they won't get their next furlough
stopped.  All right?"  He turned the glower on Baumann, knowing that
Otto, like Willi Schulz, just wanted to go home.

Otto said stiffly, "That is true.  But also, you could get into big
trouble for not sending them up to Caen.  Already they are overdue. The
Gestapo know the French are in the cells here.  They will be asking why
you have not sent them."  He stopped there, but when Engel did not
speak, went on, "You did report to Caen that you had them?"  And when
Engel still did not rely, Otto shook his round head disapprovingly.
"You did not?"

That finally got an answer from Engel.  He said poker-faced, "I'll tell
them I've been busy.  I'll tell them I've been planning for the
invasion."

Otto shook his head.  "You will get into trouble.  We do not want that,
not for the sake of a few French ..."

"They're not all French locals," Engel broke in with that, grinned at
Baumann and Pianka.  "Two of them are British.  Or maybe American.  But
not French, not locals."

They stared at him and Baumann demanded, "How do you know?"

"My God!"  Engel sighed.  "I've been talking to them all since I
brought them in here, for better than twenty-four hours.  You know
that.  Two of them don't make mistakes.  The local French haven't been
trained to face interrogation and they make mistakes here and there
don't remember names, times, places correctly the second or third time
they are questioned.  That's human, normal, memory not being perfect.
But two of them never make mistakes.  They've learnt their stories off
by heart.  And if I ask them something they haven't rehearsed, then
they say they can't remember."

Otto Baumann blinked.  "Do you mean they are spies?  Then that makes it
worse for you if you do not turn them over at once."

Engel looked from Otto to Pianka then swallowed the cognac and refilled
the glass.  He said quietly, "Enough.  We'll forget that now."  His
eyes were on them and this time they were silent.  He said, "A minute
ago I mentioned the invasion and neither one of you took any notice."

Otto Baumann spread his hands as if to show them empty.  "We are as
ready as we will ever be.  If it comes ..."

Engel cut him off there: "Not if when.  Stalin is clamouring for a
second front to be opened in Europe, so the British and Americans can't
wait another year.  It will be this year.  And they won't wait till
winter, the rain and the mud.  They'll invade at the beginning of
summer when they can look forward to months of campaigning weather.  So
they'll come soon.  Where?"  He put the question to Otto Baumann.

Baumann answered stolidly, "There is the Pas de Calais and ..."

"... and here," Engel finished for him.  "This Normandy coast.  And
which is more likely?"

"The Pas de Calais.  It is only a twenty-mile crossing, easier for
them."

Engel said, "Obviously.  And that's why they won't cross there.  It's
too obvious.  I'm betting they'll go for the tougher option that will
give them the advantage of surprise.  And they'll choose a moonlit
night because that will be good for their paratroopers.  And they'll
know about us.  All these aircraft that overfly this place will be
taking photographs.  They'll have nearly as many pictures of das
Blockhaus as they have of Betty Grable.  They know we command the beach
from here so it will be a priority task for them to take us out. That's
right.  Us.  You.  Me."

They were staring at him now and he grinned at them.  "They're coming,
and they're coming here.  You can bet your life."  And he thought,
That's exactly what we are doing.

Otto Baumann swallowed, cleared his throat, opened his mouth to argue,
then shut it again.  He had no argument left.  He turned and walked
out.  Engel and Pianka sat listening to his boots clumping as he
climbed the stairs to the upper floor.  Otto had his room up there
where his guns were.  His gunners and some of the other enlisted men
slept up there, too.  the rest in a barrack room across the passage
from Engel's office.

Pianka said, "You've spoilt his day."

"Too bad."

Engel wondered, Where is that damned woman?

Thursday, 27 April 1944

Rockingham came for Suzi when it was close to midday.  She had slept
late, the weariness and strain of months soaking out of her.  She woke
slowly, not starting up as she did when in the field.  Subconsciously
she knew she was safe there, in London.  For a time she lay quietly,
savouring this, and the knowledge that she would be able to sleep
peacefully again this night.  And that led her to think of Richard
Langley and she wondered why that was.  And knew very well.

The room was on the upper floor of a house in a quiet road behind Baker
Street.  She heard his feet on the stairs, then there came the tap on
the door and Andrew Rockingham called softly, "Are you awake?  Can I
come in?"

"Hold on!"  Did he have news for her?  She pulled on a dressing gown
over the pyjamas they had given her and ran to open the door to him.
She held it wide and asked eagerly, "Well?"

Rockingham looked tired; he had been up half the night in conference at
Milston and then seeking the information he had now.  But he smiled at
the girl and told her, "He's in the UK, based at Southampton, in
fact."

Suzi had heard that word "based" before and knew it was an elastic
term; when Richard Langley was based in Malta he was often away for
weeks.  She pressed, "Where is he now?"

Rockingham took the point and admitted, with a glance at his watch,
"Just about to put to sea."  Then he added, "But he will be berthing
again in Southampton tomorrow morning.  I've got you a room in a hotel
there."

Suzi kissed him and he left her.  As he went down the stairs he felt
guilty and wished he had another job.

The train she caught was delayed and crowded, as they all were, but it
got Suzi into Southampton that evening.  Rockingham had booked her a
room looking out over the Solent and she sat at the window for some
time watching the crowded shipping.  There were a lot of landing craft
like Langley's Bloody Norah.  She was in bed by ten because she thought
his ship might berth early the next day.

He woke as dusk gathered about the two columns of ships.  Bloody Norah
was one of a convoy of a dozen Landing Craft (Tanks) and Landing Craft
(Infantry) steaming slowly off the coast of Dorset.  She was last in
the port column which Bellanger led in the big Fairmile launch that was
the flotilla leader.  Langley stood up from the deck chair at the back
of the bridge where he had been sleeping and stretched long arms and
legs.  He saw that his craft was keeping her station in the convoy and
that none of the others were straying.

Ranging far ahead was Dogrose, the Flower-class corvette that was one
of the two close escort ships.  The other... He turned slowly,
searching, but could not see the second corvette that had been bringing
up the rear.

He stepped forward to the front of the bridge where Farmer Fairbrother
was standing a watch so his captain could sleep, although Langley was
only an arm's length away if any crisis threatened.  Farmer had the
watch because a successor to Harry Darville had not yet been
appointed.

Langley asked, "Where's the escort we had astern?"

Farmer answered, "She signalled Dogrose about a half-hour ago, sir.
Said she had engine trouble and had to go home."

"Thank you," Langley answered, but felt a stir of unease.  Before the
convoy sailed, all captains had been briefed and part of that briefing
had been a warning that there was a possible E-boat threat.  The deadly
torpedo boats that the Germans called Schnellboote operated in these
waters.  But he told himself that doubtless there would be another
escort on the way to fill the gap.  Just the same He ordered, "Keep a
sharp lookout."  And his voice was raised so the men standing watch on
each of the 20mm guns on either side of the bridge would hear him.  He
saw them, Underbill and Mclver, the boxer, turn towards him.  Their
hands lifted to show they had heard.

He took a turn across the bridge to loosen his legs after dozing in the
chair.  The intention of the exercise was to simulate as nearly as
possible an attack across the Channel, though in reality the troops and
tanks would be landed soon after dawn of the morrow on the coast of
Dorset.  So they had sailed from Southampton in the morning of a day of
sunshine and would cruise slowly through the night.  The convoy now was
moving at little more than a walking pace.  Langley knew that another
convoy carrying American soldiers was steaming off the Devon coast.

As he came abreast of Farmer, he asked, "Who's at the helm?"

"Kirkpatrick, sir."

Langley nodded and moved on, then paused to look out over the bow
again.  The last of the light was going and the ships were losing their
third dimension, becoming black cutouts in the night.  And just in
front of the bridge was the tank deck, its cargo of Shermans and their
crews hidden under the tarpaulin cover.  He could hear them singing,
and between the songs the buzz of talk came up to him.  He asked, "Are
the soldiers all right?"  remembering other times when

they had been horribly seasick and the hold had to be hosed down after
they had left it for the shore.

Farmer chuckled, "I should hope so, while it stays like this."

Langley grinned.  The sea was as flat as a sheet of black glass.  He
walked on quickly back and forth across the bridge until he felt the
stiffness gone from his limbs and Uncle Oswald came up from the galley
with two mugs of cocoa.  Langley took the thick mug offered to him and
cradled it in his palms.  "Thanks."

He sipped it cautiously, careful not to burn his tongue.  Uncle Oswald
said, "Nice night, sir."

Langley nodded agreement.  It was cooler now but the sea was still and
there was a sliver of a moon.  Farmer Fairbrother laughed softly and
said, "Like a pleasure cruise.  All we need is a band and a bar."

Langley reached out one hand to touch the wood of the bridge-screen and
wondered why he had done that.

"The English coast lies about forty kilometres ahead!" Kapitanleut-nant
Karl Neumann shouted that above the thunder of the big Daimler engines.
He swung up into the armoured cupola of the Schnellboofs bridge to
stand beside Johannesen, the big bear of a coxswain.  Side by side they
balanced against the sway of the boat as it cruised across the Channel
at an easy thirty knots.  Karl's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. 
He had just come up from the light of the chart room after checking his
position.

He glanced quickly forward and back along the 115-foot length of his
boat.  There was the 20mm gun in its cockpit sunk in the deck below him
and just forward of the bridge.  The twin torpedo tubes were on either
side of the bridge with two spare "fish" on chocks on the deck just aft
of it.  Then there was the 40mm Bofors gun in the stern.  The guns'
crews manned their weapons and the torpedomen stood by their tubes.  He
nodded to himself with satisfaction.

Johannesen was inches taller than his captain and ten years older. They
had been together since the early days in 1939 and seen a lot of
friends die.  He shouted, "You think there will be a convoy?"

Karl's shoulders lifted and fell.  "There's nearly always a convoy."
His teeth showed in a flash of white as he grinned without humour at
his friend.  "But finding it, hitting a ship or two and getting away
afterwards, that's the hard part."

Johannesen knew that too well, grimaced and nodded.  Karl glanced over
his shoulder at the rest of the flotilla, the two boats following
astern.  Rudi Meisel captained the first, Victor Stockmann the second,
both of them old friends of Karl.  The boats sat low in the water,
making their speed without sitting on their sterns with their bows in
the air.  They threw up very little bow wave.  That, and their low
profile, made them very hard to see in the night.

Johannesen asked, "Are the Cherbourg boys out tonight?"  Karl Neumann's
flotilla was based at Le Havre but there were another nine boats
operating out of Cherbourg.

Karl answered, "They are, but further west, over towards Plymouth."

They stood in companionable silence for a minute or two, but with their
heads turning, each of them covering a half-circle of the dark sea
around them, so between them they took in all of it.  They knew they
were not the only hunters out there.  Destroyers of the Royal Navy and
aircraft of Coastal Command were searching the seas for E-boats.

They were alone on the bridge and the men crewing the 20mm gun in its
pit just forward of the bridge would not hear them above the engine
noise, nor would the torpedomen huddled by the tubes on the deck on
either side of the bridge.  So Johannesen asked, "Did you hear from
Karin?"

Karl glanced at him quickly, the teeth showing again but in a genuine
smile this time.  "I did.  She's wangled permission to visit me in a
month's time.  I think her father pulled a few strings."  His
father-in-law was a general in the Wehrmacht.  "I've booked a room in a
quiet hotel."  He had not seen Karin, his wife, for almost a year.

Johannesen nodded approvingly.  "Good.  I'm glad for you."

"I'm looking forward to it."  Karl never thought that he might bitterly
regret that meeting when it came.

But now he pointed out over the bow and Johannesen looked along that
line of bearing.  He saw the black blips on the dark horizon and Karl
bawled, "Convoy!"

Langley had taken over the watch just before midnight and sent Farmer
below.  "Get some sleep.  We'll be busy early in the morning."

The coxswain had grinned wryly.  "Don't I know it, sir putting that lot
ashore."  He gave a jerk of the head that might have indicated the
tanks in the hold or the human cargoes of all the landing craft in the
convoy.  Then he had gone down to his noisy bunk in the mess deck aft
of the engine room.

Langley had given up his cabin to one of the three officers commanding
the ten Shermans secured in the hold.  The other two were sleeping in
the little wardroom.  He shared the watch now with Anderson the
signalman.  Both of them peered through binoculars to sweep the dark
horizon on either side from bow to stern.  The sea was calm and quiet.
The earlier singing and buzz of talk that had come up from the hold had
died away.  Now there was only the steady pulse of the engines and the
wash of the sea alongside to be heard.

That silence was broken when Anderson exclaimed, "Lights -looks like
flares, maybe starboard beam!"

Langley swung round, lowering his glasses then lifting them again as he
saw the lights hanging over the inshore horizon.  Beyond the horizon
lay the coast of Dorset.  Through the glasses he could make out nothing
under the flares except the wrinkled, reflecting surface of an empty
sea.  But closer there were the ships in the starboard column and they
were cut stark and black against the hanging light from the flares.  As
he lowered the binoculars his fingers were already groping for the
button as he shouted to the men on the guns, "E-boats!  Look out to
starboard!"  Then his finger found the button and the klaxons blared,
calling Bloody Norah's crew to action stations.

He swung on his heel and lifted the glasses again, this time sweeping
the sea to port.  He had been told at the briefing that this could be
an E-boat tactic, for one boat to send up flares to light up a target
for more boats on the other side of that target.  That second group of
attackers would see all of the convoy outlined black against the light
of the flares, just as Langley had seen the ships of the starboard
column.  The torpedoes might already be running.  And Bloody Norah
could be the target.

He scanned the sea desperately, searching for the tell-tale tracks of
torpedoes, praying that he would not find any.  Because he knew Bloody
Norah was too slow and clumsy to avoid them.  Then the glasses jerked
in his hands as the first sullen, thumping explosion rolled across the
surface of the sea.  He snatched the glasses away, blinking as he
peered forward, seeking the source of that explosion.  So he was in
time to see the second torpedo strike.  A yellow flash spiked up from
the side of an LCT in the middle of the column ahead of him, glowed and
died, but before that dying came the same dull thump of the
explosion.

One of the craft near the head of the column swung out of line, turning
in a slow and slowing half-circle before she came to rest.  She had a
peculiar, nose-down look.  So she had been the victim of the first
torpedo.  The rest of the convoy carried on, trudging past it.  Then
Langley saw one of the craft ahead of Bloody Norah alter course to
swing out of line.  But then she straightened up again and he realised
she had moved out to pass the ship in the middle of the column, hit by
the second torpedo.  She lay dead in the water.  He squinted into the
darkness again, seeking the enemy that had hit the two craft in this
port column, but he saw no E-boat.

He shouted, "Can anyone see them?"  Uncle Oswald and Kirk-patrick, the
soft-spoken Scot, were on the guns now, Kirkpatrick who had hardly got
into his bunk after standing his watch at the helm.  They were acting
as loaders for Underbill and Mclver, the bent-nosed boxer, who were
belted into the 20mm Oerlikons.  None of them answered Langley.  He
realised he could do nothing.  He could see no enemy to shoot at with
his little guns.  They were lying out there still, preparing to mount
another attack and he was helpless.  Then Farmer Fairbrother came
running to the bridge.  Langley told him what had happened, and, "Get
all those soldiers up out of the hold.  I want everyone above the water
line."  That would give them some chance of survival if Bloody Norah
was hit by a torpedo.

Farmer dropped down the ladders again and Langley stooped over the
voice-pipe, ordered, "Port ten", to take Bloody Norah around the
torpedoed craft in the middle of the column.  He saw she was low in the
water, almost awash, and men were jumping from her deck.  The sea was
speckled with the little red lights on their life belts  Then they and
the sinking ship were left astern and Langley turned back to look for
the enemy.

He wondered how many E-boats there were.  One to starboard, at least,
that had lit the flares, while the torpedoes had come from others on
the port side.  But how many?  And now the flares were dying, being
snuffed out one by one in the sea.  Darkness was closing in to cover
the convoy but would it also give cover to its attackers?

Karl Neumann saw the dying of the flares and shouted to Johann-esen,
"Victor will be on his way out now!"  He had sent Victor Stockmann
stealing around the rear of the convoy to take the inshore station and
send up the flares.  When Victor lit up the convoy Karl and Rudi Meisel
had fired four torpedoes between them, two of which had struck home.
That was a good result from only four "fish"; you needed a wide spread
of torpedoes to be sure of a hit.  The torpedo-men aboard both E-boats
were now labouring to load the tubes again with the reserve "fish", the
engines of the boats idling.

They shouted, "Ready!"  Karl went to the torpedo sight at the back of
the bridge again, as did Rudi Meisel in his boat, close alongside. They
picked their targets and seconds later four more torpedoes splashed
into the sea.  Karl returned to the front of the bridge to stand by
Johannesen and told him, "We'll hit them now to take the heat off
Victor."

He spoke into the voice-pipe.  "Full ahead!"  Seconds later he heard
the engine note deepen and felt the increased vibration through the
bridge gratings as the boat began to work up to her maximum speed of
forty knots.  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Rudi Meisel's boat
following his example, racing along off the starboard quarter.  Each of
them cut an arrowhead track in the sea, aimed at the heart of the
convoy, seen against the last glow of the flares.

Langley saw the result of those torpedoes when another flame licked up
from a craft near the head of the column.  It was gone in the blink of
an eye and then came the deep drumbeat of the explosion again.  He
swore, searching still for the enemy, and saw Dogrose inshore of the
starboard column and making all speed towards the rear of the convoy.
The corvette had obviously gone to hunt the E-boat that sent up the
flares.  And now Langley saw that boat.

At first she was just a grey "moustache", a flat M that was the bow
wave as he saw the boat heading for him.  She was also on the far side
of the port column and steering to pass astern of it.  He yelled,
"E-boat starboard quarter!"  and pointed, saw the gun barrels swing,
themselves like pointing fingers.  The boat grew rapidly, changed from
just that bow wave to a silhouette of low hull, hump of bridge, guns
forward and aft.  Then they opened fire and his night vision was
destroyed.

The guns hammered out in the darkness and from either side of the
bridge.  The tracers curled seemingly lazily from out there but flicked
past the bridge in a blur.  He was deafened, blinded.  Then the gunfire
stopped but the night was still full of lights whirling before his
eyes, his ears still rang.  Slowly his vision returned and he began to
hear again.  He saw that Bloody Norah was keeping her station in the
convoy, then looked about him.

The E-boat lay stopped a quarter-mile astern and she was on fire aft.
He thought she must have been hit in her engine room.  And now Dogrose
came swinging around the tail of the starboard column and she opened
fire.  The corvette was a bare half-mile from the E-boat and her
four-inch shells slammed into the stationary target.  The flash and
crash of each burst came on the heels of the muzzle-flame.  The first
shell sent debris hurtling into the night sky, the second exploded
somewhere below and the boat rolled over on to her side.  For a second
or two she hung there as the sea rushed into her.  Then she slid down
stern first, the fire was snuffed out and she disappeared beneath the
sea.

Johannesen had yelled at Karl Neumann, "Victor has caught it!"  He
jabbed an arm out to starboard and Karl looked out there.  He saw the
E-boat stopped and on fire at the tail of the convoy and sucked in his
breath.

He answered, "We've got to draw the Tommis away from her!"  Both boats
were racing in towards the convoy at forty knots, Rudi Meisel off the
starboard quarter again.  They opened fire together just as Karl saw
the corvette appear at the end of the convoy and the first shell from
her exploded on Victor Stockmann's boat.  Karl knew then that Victor
was doomed.  Now he could only try to wreak some vengeance.  There was
a gap between two ships ahead and he shouted into the voice-pipe,
"Starboard a point!  Take her between them!"

Langley turned to face forward only in time to see more firing in the
convoy ahead.  Some of it came from the ships in the port column of
which he was part, but most was from outside, from some enemy out there
in the darkness to port.  The enemy was invisible but his position was
roughly marked by the chains of yellow tracer.  They slid in from that
outer darkness to strike at the ships of the convoy.  First they were
close, then closer and then Langley shouted to his gunners, "They're
inside the convoy!  E-boats to starboard on the bow!"  He saw the
barrels of the guns swing around even as he realised the E-boats were
racing down between the dark columns towards Bloody Norah at the tail.
The port side gun would not bear, but that manned by Mclver on the
starboard side of the bridge banged away furiously, adding its tracer
to the madness.  Because now the tracer came from both columns,
crisscrossing that of the E-boats in the dark valley between them. And
the guns of Dogrose added their fire to the din.

That madness lasted only seconds.  Langley glimpsed the boats, twin
"moustaches" of bow waves under the flickering gun muzzles, then they
were swinging hard around to their starboard to turn between Bloody
Norah and the next ahead.  The "moustaches" lengthened and flattened
into the long, low, black side-silhouettes of the boats.  They
disappeared under the bow and their firing battered at the ramp and
howled over the bridge.  Langley ducked instinctively, uselessly and
too late.  Then he straightened, opened his mouth to yell at the gunner
on the port side but shut it when Underbill opened up on his own
initiative.  The gun hammered briefly, faltered, fired a short burst
again then was silent.  The E-boats had gone into the night.

Karl Neumann was still swallowing excitement and fear mixed.  The wild
Valkyrie ride under the guns of the convoy, cutting into it then
charging down the valley between them, that always both stimulated and
terrified him.  It had ended when he saw the corvette at the tail and
turned away from the guns it carried.  He and Rudi Meisel slipped
through another gap between the last two vessels in the convoy and
hurtled on into the outer darkness.  The guns ceased firing.

Johannesen came on to the bridge after going round the boat.  He
growled, "We took a couple of casualties two dead when we cut in front
of that last sardine tin.  She hit us with a burst."

Karl winced and said bitterly, "Not so good."  And they had lost Victor
Stockmann, his boat and all her crew.  Karl thought that his flotilla
had claimed three kills this night and if you totted up the score then
he had won a victory.  That did not make him feel any better.

The two surviving Schnellboote were clear of the scene of action,
leaving any pursuit behind.  He told Johannesen, "You have the con.
Slow to cruising speed.  I'm going below to lay off a course for home."
And he dropped down the ladder to the chart room.

The big coxswain bent over the voice-pipe and passed on the order to
reduce speed, then straightened and looked aft where some of the hands
were wrapping the bodies in tarpaulin and lashing them to the deck.  He
thought, Most of us are still alive.  Lucky.  But the luck ran out for
those two and Victor Stockmann.  How much have we left?

Langley saw the convoy, the twin columns ahead of him, were turning to
starboard.  He knew that was in obedience to the orders given at the
briefing: if the convoy was attacked it was to head in to the land.
Bloody Norah was drawing up to a patch of sea that was sprinkled with
little lights.  He knew they were more marker lights of life belts like
those his ship had already passed.

Farmer Fairbrother came panting to the bridge, glanced over the side
and sucked in his breath, then said hoarsely, "Look at those poor
bastards."

Dogrose charged past but a quarter-mile distant, racing back to her
post at the head of the convoy.  She was obeying her orders, to protect
the ships that were left.  It made cold, logical sense.  And Langley
thought that it was not his job to stop to save men in the sea, risking
his ship if there was another E-boat attack.  He should obey his orders
and save his ship and his men.  But they were all staring at him.  He
could see the pale blurs of the faces of the men at the guns turned
towards him.  And all the soldiers that he had ordered on deck for
their safety were looking up to him on the bridge.

He took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair, jammed the cap
on again and bent to the voice-pipe.  He ordered, "Port twenty, slow
ahead."

"Port twenty, slow ahead, sir."  That was the response from Curly
Chambers, now at the wheel.

Langley straightened and told the coxswain, "Stand by to pick up
survivors.  And use those soldiers to do some of the hauling."

Farmer answered eagerly, "Aye, aye, sir!"  He dropped down the ladder
again.

While Langley spoke he was watching his ship's head and estimating her
speed through the water.  As she closed the area where the survivors
drifted, he ordered, "Starboard ten ... meet her ... steady.  Stop
her."  He heard the clang of the telegraph as that last order was
passed to the engine room by Curly Chambers.  Bloody Norah ran on
slowly with the last of the way on her, then eased to a halt and lay
steady as a rock in the quiet sea.  His last helm orders had brought
her broadside to the winking red lights and drifting down on them.

Now he could see something of the men in the sea.  There were no white
faces.  He knew there were a few black and brown men among the soldiers
carried in the ships of the convoy, but now all the faces were stained
dark by the leaked fuel oil that covered the sea.  Their mouths were
open like pink gashes, some trying to shout for help but only croaking
hoarsely.  Others cursed weakly and many simply gasped for breath or
coughed up the choking oil.

Farmer had organised scrambling nets to be hung over the side and
several of Bloody Norah's hands clambered down them to the water line.
They clung on there with one hand while Farmer and the men on the deck
above lowered lines with loops on the end of them.  The men on the nets
secured the loops around those wallowing in the sea and those on deck
hauled the survivors up to safety.  The soldiers aboard Bloody Norah
tailed on to the lines and added their weight to bringing up the
helpless men, then carried them away.  They laid the shivering, shocked
and gasping bodies where they could, some in the mess deck two or three
in the little wardroom.

They worked until all the men had been lifted out of the sea and there
were no more bobbing red lights.  Farmer shouted up to Langley on the
bridge, "We can't see any more, sir!"

Langley answered, "Very good, Cox'n.  We'll get under way!"  And he
ordered, "Half ahead both.  Starboard ten."  He took Bloody Norah
chugging back to where the first craft had sunk, to the first rough
circle of red lights twinkling with a grisly, mock gaiety.

Then later he and his crew and the soldiers aboard collected the last
bodies from where the third craft had gone down.  In between, the men
working on the nets down on the water line came up to the deck to rest.
Inevitably they were soaked from the ship's gentle rolling as the men
aboard her shifted their weight, and that rolling immersed the men on
the nets in the sea.  They were stiff and cramped, and they cursed the
cold.

They came up for the third time and Farmer reported yet again, "We've
got all we can see, sir."

And Langley answered again, "Very good, Cox'n."  He set a course to
follow the convoy and passed it down the voice-pipe to Curly Chambers
with a demand for: "Full ahead both."  He heard that acknowledged and
the beat of the diesels quickened until Bloody Norah was making her
best speed of ten knots.

Scouse Gilhooley, skinny body swathed in a boiler suit that hung on
him, came up from the engine room soon afterwards.  He stood by Langley
on the bridge, wiping his hands on a lump of oily waste.  He stared
forward then aft and said softly, "Christ Almighty!"

There were men sitting or lying on every inch of deck space because
Langley would not send any of them down into the hold.  Men whose ships
had just been torpedoed would not willingly descend below the water
line again.  Uncle Oswald was working furiously in the galley, boiling
up soup and tea.  Two of the hands were going round doling them out of
steaming buckets.

Scouse said, "I had to step over them to get up here.  How many have we
picked up?"

Langley answered flatly, "I don't know yet.  We just concentrated on
getting them inboard.  Farmer's counting them now."

"You did a great job, sir.  Mind, I wasn't too happy when I heard you
were going to wander about looking for survivors."

Langley said, "I wasn't jumping for joy.  I thought about you down
there."

Scouse shrugged.  "You were right to do it.  I'm glad it wasn't down to
me to decide."

Langley was not listening, his mind still on the survivors.  He said,
"I asked for "Full Ahead' because we have to get them ashore as soon as
possible.  We can do damned little for them aboard here."

Gilhooley asked, "So when do we get into Southampton?"

"We don't."

Friday, 28 April 1944

Suzi woke soon after dawn and ran to her window.  She looked again to
see if she could pick out Langley's ship, but the landing craft moored
in rows looked identical.  They were too far away for her to read the
numbers on their bows.  But Rockingham had said he would follow her
down to Southampton and would bring Langley to her as soon as he
stepped ashore.  She bathed, dressed and went down to breakfast,
stopping herself from singing before she entered the dining room.

She was back in her own room at her window and it was mid-morning when
she heard the heavy tread in the passage.  She ran to answer the knock
and found Rockingham and Charlie waiting outside.  She invited them,
"Come in."  But as they entered it registered: Them, not just
Rockingham.  He had brought a driver: Charlie.  Why?  And why that look
on Rockingham's face?  Guilty?  Sad?  For whom?  She tackled him
head-on, "What the hell are you looking at me like that for?"

Rockingham said, "I'm sorry.  Langley won't be able to get here in
time.  He's been delayed."

Suzi flinched, then took a breath and asked, "What's happened to
him?"

"Nothing!"  Rockingham was quick to reassure her.  "There was a bit of
a dust-up in the Channel and he's going to have to put in somewhere
else.  But he is all right!"

Langley had headed for the nearest port, Dartmouth, to give the
survivors aboard Bloody Norah their best chance of early medical
treatment.  And now he and everyone else involved in the actions of the
night were being held incommunicado pending an enquiry into the twin
disasters.  The other convoy, T4, had also been attacked by the E-boats
out of Cherbourg.  Close on a thousand American soldiers had drowned
off Slapton sands on the Devon coast.  Ralph Bellanger, red-faced,
red-eyed and furious had demanded of Langley, "Where the hell did you
get to?  Your orders were to head for the shore if attacked!"

And Langley had replied harshly, "I don't think those orders envisaged
me leaving two hundred men to die in the sea!"

For a moment relief was Suzi's only emotion, then she remembered that
look on Rockingham's face it was still there and the fact of Charlie's
presence.  And She asked, "What do you mean, he won't be 'in time'?  In
time for what?"

Rockingham answered her directly.  "We want you to go in again."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight!  I only got back Wednesday morning!"  And then, remembering
the driver, "You want me to go down now for briefing?"

Rockingham nodded.  "And fly out tonight.  I'm sorry."

Suzi said bitterly, "You're not the only one."

Rockingham explained apologetically, "We need an agent in place as soon
as possible and we think you will be best for the job.  And there's a
flight and a reception committee already arranged for tonight.  You can
go on that.  But you'll have to learn a whole new cover story and be
briefed as to what you have to do.  We need to leave here within the
hour."

Suzi thought, Oh, hell.  She stood disconsolate, mouth drooping.
Rockingham fiddled with his cap and Charlie shifted from one foot to
another, the floorboards creaking under his big feet.  And only after a
little time did she think to ask, "Flying from where?"

Rockingham answered, "Tangmere."

Again: "Where to?"  And then realised that he would not answer that
while the driver was listening.

But he did: "Same place."  The driver did not know where she had come
from.  Then Rockingham saw that hit her hard and added, "I know.  But
it is important."

Suzi thought: Back there.  If they were putting her in at the same
place where she had almost been caught, where people knew her, with all
the extra risks that implied ... There had to be a very good reason.
But hers not to reason why.  She said, recalling childhood and her
father reciting "The Charge of the Light Brigade", "Into the bloody
valley."  You must never let them see you were afraid.

Rockingham said, "What was that?  What valley?"

"Never mind.  Will you wait downstairs while I pack?"

"Of course."  Rockingham hesitated, then said, "You needn't be too
fussy with the packing because we'll fit you up with a whole new
outfit."  Then he and Charlie left her alone and she got on with it
straightaway.

She climbed silently into the car and Rockingham handed her a file:
"Read that, please."  And with a glance at Charlie in the driving seat,
"We'll talk about it later."  The file held comprehensive details of
her new cover in Normandy and her orders.  She immersed herself in them
until they arrived at the ivy-covered cottage on the airfield at
Tangmere.  Then Rockingham talked her through them.

That night Suzi left the cottage with Andre, the young man who was to
be the new wireless operator in Caen.  They collected their parachutes
from the nondescript barn where the agents were issued their final
pieces of equipment and walked out to the waiting Lysander  They
climbed into the rear seats and a minute or two later the little
aircraft ran briefly along the runway then lifted off and turned on
course for Normandy.  Young Andre, a nervous stranger, was close to
her, but in the engine-filled noise and darkness of the cabin she felt
alone.  And finally she allowed herself to cry.

ELEVEN

0100, Saturday, 29 April 1944

Suzi saw the black earth rushing below and the tops of trees waving in
the wind.  Then the first light set out by the reception committee
flickered past under the wing and was left behind.  The Lysander's
wheels bumped once, twice and then it was down and running over the
turf.  It circled when it came to the two lights at the upwind end of
the field and taxied back to the first.  It turned again then and
stopped with one wing over the torch.

The men came trotting out of the darkness beyond the faint glow of the
skyward-pointing torch.  They were not soldiers.  Suzi drew a sigh of
relief when she saw that and shoved open the door of the rear cockpit.
One of the men took her suitcase as she passed it out then she climbed
down.  The young wireless operator followed her and dragged out the
other suitcase containing the radio set.  Once they were clear of the
Lysander, Suzi signalled to the pilot, waving.  His silhouette raised a
gloved hand in acknowledgment, then the little aircraft ran off along
the field.

The field lay outside Rouen.  There were three men in the reception
committee and they collected the torches they had set out as markers
for the pilot, then hurried Suzi and Andre away before the drone of the
aircraft's engine had faded into the distance.  One of them said, "The
Boche is restless."  And later they had to hide in a ditch as a
four-man patrol, rifles slung over their shoulders, trudged by on the
road only feet away.

The reception committee took Suzi and Andre to a house where they dozed
for an hour or two.  They were awakened as dawn was breaking and each
given a bicycle.  Two of the men cycled into Rouen with them and guided
them to the bus stop in the centre.  There the guides left them,
wheeling the bikes away.  None of them had asked where Suzi and Andre
were going or the nature of their mission.  They would not have been
told if they had asked.

Suzi travelled separately from Andre, as if they were strangers to each
other.  She left him at Caen and stepped off the tram at St.  Florent
in the late afternoon.  There were few people about at that time and
she wound her way through the back alleys with a scarf over her head
and a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, as if she had a cold or a
toothache.  She saw no one she knew or, more importantly, knew her.

The alley she sought ran along the rear of a row of houses with little
back gardens.  She walked up the path through one of them, lugging the
suitcase.  It was not heavy, unlike Andre's with a wireless set
weighing thirty-two pounds.  Suzi's held only a few clothes and some
small items of equipment, but she was glad to set it down at the back
door of Madame Lequeux.

The old woman answered her knocking and after one startled "Oh!" pulled
her inside by her sleeve.  She peered out then, left and right before
she closed the door and asked, "Did anyone see you?"

Suzi shook her head and pulled off the scarf, put away the
handkerchief, "No one."

Madame watched her with a bright, black eye, and said, "After you were
here that day the soldiers raided EmiPs cafe and arrested everyone in
there, Emil and six others.  They are being held in the Blockhouse."

, Suzi stared at her.  "In the Blockhouse?"  Still?  Why hadn't they
been transferred to the Gestapo headquarters in the Avenue Foch, in
Paris or to Caen?

But Madame was going on: "In the cells, yes.  And the soldiers say -you
know how they talk in the bars, thinking no one understands them they
say that the off icier Engel, is still looking for another agent."  Now
she was eyeing Suzi shrewdly.

Suzi thought, So someone has broken under "interrogation", and talked.
She shuddered inside at the thought of that "interrogation", but
managed to keep her face impassive.  She wondered how much Engel knew
now?  Her former identity?  Where she had lived?  Did he know she had
visited St.  Florent more than once?

Was he looking for her now?

Franz Engel hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, staring out
through the window, the steel shutters thrown open now in the light of
day.  After a while he lowered his gaze to Pianka, sitting on the other
side of the desk, and said, "That was Bruno Hechler."

Pianka nodded.  "I remember him from Italy.  And you've just asked him
to come down here and help you with an exercise.  So?"

"So he commands a company of Grenadiers.  He's bringing them down
tomorrow and we're making a house-to-house search.  We'll see if that
turns up our little bird."

Pianka asked, "You think she's still around here?"

Engel grinned at him and reached for the bottle on the desk.  "That's
right.  And I've got room for her downstairs."

Richard Langley wondered again, Why me?  When I can't stand the bloody
man and he knows it?

Bloody Norah had closed the land before the sun rose.  There was a mist
on the water that her square bow shredded as it shoved through a placid
sea.  It was not a hostile shore.  Ahead lay a stretch of England's
south coast between Angmering and Littlehampton.  Langley and his crew
were engaged in a mock invasion.  They were not alone.  Ralph
Bellanger, cap at a rakish angle, was a hundred yards to starboard of
Bloody Norah, on the bridge of the craft he had been given to command
for this operation.  Her official designation was LCI(s) Landing Craft
Infantry (Small).  She was no more than a big launch, just over thirty
yards long, seven in the beam and square at each end.  With her full
load of a hundred troops and her crew of seventeen she drew less than
three feet forward.  That was so that she could, hopefully, beach and
set her soldiers ashore dry-shod.

She carried her full load now, had embarked the commandos, a hundred of
them, the day before at Southampton as Bloody Norah loaded her hold
with ten Sherman tanks.  Both craft had sailed on this rehearsal in the
early hours of the morning.  The destroyer escort patrolled astern now,
waiting to shepherd them back to Southampton once this practice run was
over.

Langley moved from compass to voice-pipe and ordered quietly, "Steady
on that."

"Steady on that, sir."  Fairbrother, the coxswain, was at the wheel.

Langley straightened his lean frame and asked himself once more: Why
did he choose me?  Bellanger had sent for him and greeted him with that
quick, practised smile.  "I've been given a special task and I need one
other LCT.  I think you and Bloody Norah would fit the bill."

Langley eyed him expressionlessly, cautious.  "Why?  I mean, why am I
better fitted than any of the other skippers in the flotilla?"

Bellanger spread his hands, palms up, to show he had nothing to hide.
"Because I think you are."

Langley was unconvinced and asked, "What is this job, then?"

"To land a sort of small combat team, a squadron of tanks and a hundred
commandos, on an enemy coast.  I've not been told where, but obviously
the betting is that it's somewhere in France.  And they haven't told me
when, either, but it has to be soon."

That made sense, anyway, and Langley nodded agreement.  But he had not
believed the rest of it Bellanger's facile reason for choosing him out
of the dozen captains in the flotilla.  Then the flotilla leader had
pressed him: "It's a big job, important.  There's an admiral giving us
our orders.  I think if we make a success of this it will do us both a
bit of good."

Langley did not know what that might mean for him, but for Bellanger it
was the promise of promotion to commander.  So no mystery there.  And
the rest of the flotilla knew about Bellanger's ambition.  Farmer
Fairbrother had let out casually but deliberately?  "So we're doing
this with the Showboat, sir."

Langley had stared at him.  "What?"

"The Showboat, sir.  That's what everybody's calling Mr.  Bellanger's
craft.  I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't."  And would not discuss it.

But the original question still remained: What had induced Bellanger to
choose Bloody Norah and Langley?

But now he thrust speculation aside.  He had been given the job and it
was important that he get it right for the sake of the men he was to
put ashore.  He saw their commander, Major Tim Ryan, moving among the
Shermans down in the hold, speaking a word here and there.  The engines
of the tanks were running up now as the two landing craft neared the
shore.  The exhaust smoke wafted back to Langley on the bridge on the
wind of Bloody Norah's passage.

He looked round for his new first lieutenant and saw him standing by
the starboard side Oerlikon, peering across at the LCI(s) through
binoculars.  Langley thought: Looking for Cousin Ralph Midshipman Simon
Hartington was Bellanger's cousin.  When he had first reported aboard
he had been openly proud of that.  "I've always intended to follow in
Ralph's footsteps.  I asked to go to his flotilla when I passed out of
training.  I couldn't go on his ship, of course,

because people might think there was favouritism.  Not that Ralph would
favour me just because I was his cousin.  But I'm very glad to be with
you in the flotilla, sir."

Langley thought from what he had seen of Hartington that the youth
would make a useful officer in time.  An adequate replacement for Harry
Darville?  That was another matter, but Langley told himself he must
not judge this raw youngster against the record of the experienced
Harry.  He would not be prejudiced against Bellanger's hero-worshipping
cousin.

He called him now.  "Mister Hartington!"  And when he came hurrying,
"Get forrard now and prepare to beach."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  And Hartington trotted away along the catwalk to
where his party for lowering the ramp were already gathering in the
bow.

Langley stooped over the voice-pipe again and ordered, "Full ahead."

"Full ahead, sir."  Farmer Fairbrother acknowledged that and passed it
on to the engine room.  Scouse Gilhooley would be down there now to
handle the engines for the beaching.  Langley heard their beat quicken,
felt the increased vibration through the bridge gratings.  Bloody Norah
began to pull ahead of the LCI(s).  That was the reason for the order.
The plan was for Langley to put Tim Ryan and his tanks ashore five
minutes before the commandos hit the beach.  That way the tanks could
clear a way through the minefields and provide some cover for the foot
soldiers.

Langley lifted his own binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the
shore.  He saw the long reach of shingle stretching away on either
hand, the party of VIPs in a little crowd at the back of the beach, the
first sunlight winking on their binoculars now as they watched the two
landing craft surge in towards the shore.  Langley thought, Waiting to
see if we make a cock-up of it.  And: Won't be long now.

And it all went smoothly.

The ramp crashed down and the two lead tanks, fitted with flails,
lumbered down the ramp, chugged through the shallows and started up the
shingle and sand of the beach.  The flails were chains mounted on drums
on the front of each tank.  As the drums revolved, the chains thrashed
a pathway clear of mines a little wider than the tank itself.  The
other Shermans followed, churning up the shingle and on to the
grassland beyond.

Five minutes later Bellanger set the bow of the LCI(s), the Show-145

boat, on the beach.  Instead of one wide ramp that was almost the width
of the bow, it carried four ramps on the foredeck, two on either side.
Each was just wide enough for a man to pick his way down.  These were
run out from the bow till the landward ends dipped into the surf and
grounded there.  The commandos made their way down on them, one hand on
the guard rope strung down the side of each ramp.  They carried huge
Bergen rucksacks and rifles or sub-machine-guns.  Bandoliers of
ammunition were hung about their shoulders and draped across their
chests.  When they felt the shingle under their feet they broke into a
trot, chasing after the tanks grinding away ahead of them.

Langley thought that it had all gone like clockwork.  But he wondered
how it would be if the sea was not as flat as a millpond, if there had
been men and guns waiting inland to rain a murderous fire on the
landing craft as they came in.  Like Vibo Valentia?  Anzio?

He went ashore to the debriefing, climbing up the sloping bank of
shingle that skated away under his shoes.  The little party of
observers, the senior officers and their aides, waited in a group that
straggled along a pebbled ridge in a loose line so that they could all
see the exercise.  There were a general and several colonels among
them, all wearing the red tabs of the Staff.  And there was Rear
Admiral Terrefell, known as Ivan the Terrible.

Langley had never seen him before but knew him by that name, and his
reputation as a man who saw his objective clearly and went for it
ruthlessly.  A man only let him down once.  Ivan the Terrible dumped
him then and there.  He was short and slight with a weather-beaten red
face under a dwarfing cap thick with gold lace.  His eyes glared out
from under its peak like two live coals.

He acknowledged the salutes of Bellanger and Langley as they came up,
then stared at the pair of them in silence for a full minute, his eyes
unblinking.  Then he growled, "You're Langley."  His voice was hoarse
as if from shouting Langley had heard drill instructors with voices
like that after a day spent on the square.

He answered.  "Yes, sir."

Terrefell nodded, "I've heard good reports of you.  I thought you'd do
for this job."

Langley realised that his questions had been answered.  Bellanger had
not chosen him at all.  Ivan the Terrible had told Bellanger who was to
be his partner in this enterprise.  Now that made sense.  But reports?
What reports had got back to Terrefell that had decided him to pick
Langley out of the flotilla?  And going further: Had Bellanger chosen
Bloody Norah for the Vibo Valentia operation or had someone higher up
demanded her?  These thoughts flashed through his mind in a second,
then he realised the admiral was waiting for an answer of some sort.
There could only be one from a sub-lieutenant: "Thank you, sir."

Terrefell thought, Wait until it's over before you thank me.  If you're
able to.  For a moment he reflected miserably that his job demanded he
should always select the best for the most hazardous operations.  And
only too often they were young, too young.  And he had lost his elder
son in the Atlantic in 1942.  The younger was commanding an X-craft, a
midget submarine.

He shook off the mood the two young men saw him shrug his shoulders and
he asked of Langley, "What dye think?"

Langley answered cautiously, "It should be all right, sir.  Depends on
the weather, of course.  And the de fences

Terrefell said grimly, "There'll be de fences no doubt of that."  He
had seen them plotted on a large-scale map, the beach obstacles
designed to wreck the landing craft, mined to blow them up.  And on the
shore were the machine-gun posts, the concreted gun emplacements, more
mines, barbed wire.

He considered the two young men in silence again.  He thought that both
of them sounded right, though.  Bellanger was a bit too good to be
true.  There was something insincere about him.  He was the sort of man
who put his career before the ship and his men.  But he would be good
for this job, when he might well have to sacrifice his ship and his
men.  And Langley had proved himself at Anzio and before that.  Quite
an extraordinary young man.

Terrefell said deliberately, "You are to press home the landing at all
costs.  The tanks and commandos must be put ashore, no matter what
happens to the landing craft.  Is that understood?"

It was: They were expendable.  They answered in turn, "Aye, aye,
sir."

Terrefell dismissed them then with a salute and: "Very good."

As Langley walked back over the shingle to Bloody Norah he saw Tim Ryan
and the major leading the commandos still in conversation with the
general.  He wondered how much they knew about this operation.  He and
Bellanger had only been told of the part that concerned them: that they
were to put the little combat team ashore at a time and place to be
notified to them at some time in the future.  They knew nothing of the
task set the soldiers once they were ashore.  But he thought they would
know soon enough.

That first night Suzi got Madame to fetch her five sticks, each of
which Suzi sharpened at one end and taped a torch to the other.  Then
she slipped out after curfew and hid the sticks and the bomb,
wire-cutters and pistol in a barn on the outskirts of the village.  She
saw some soldiers on patrol but they did not see her.  Then she went
back to Madame's and fell into bed.  The cottage had two low-ceiling
storeys and an attic under the roof.  Suzi had been given the attic
room.

The bawling woke her as the first light filtered through Madame's lace
curtains.  She slid out of the bed and stood by the window, but a pace
back from the curtains and not moving them.  She saw a soldier, a rifle
in his hands, standing in the streets outside the house.  His head was
back, his eyes scanning the windows, seeming to stare into hers.  There
were other soldiers, one at either end of the street.  And, as she
watched, three more were kicking in the door of the end house and
shouldering inside.

Suzi whispered, "A house-to-house search!  Get out!"  She pulled up the
covers on her bed and smoothed them.  Then she dressed quickly, picked
up her case and ran down the stairs to the room below where Madame
slept.  She woke the old woman and told her, "They're making a
house-to-house search!  Can I hide in the cellar?"

Madame mumbled dazedly, still shaking off sleep, "Oui."

Suzi ran on down to the ground floor and to the cellar stairs, though
she had little hope that she would escape capture there; the cellar
would be searched.  Should she try to run for it?  A cautious peep out
of the kitchen window showed more soldiers in the alley at the back of
the house.  Running would only bring her a bullet in the back.

Then Madame called, "Wait!"  Suzi paused at the head of the stairs, the
darkness of the cellar below her.  The old woman hobbled downstairs
from her bedroom in her long nightdress, a shawl thrown around her
shoulders.  She pointed to the kitchen table: "Move that!"  And when
Suzi dragged it aside, Madame knelt down creakily, a kitchen knife in
her hand, inserted the blade between two floorboards and prised up one,
then another.  Each of them was about two metres in length so they
exposed a hole that long and a half-metre in width.  It held a tin box
and several tins of food.  The box chinked when Madame lifted it out.
Then she took out the cans and Suzi realised this was the old woman's
bank and her cache of food.

Now Madame grabbed Suzi's case, threw it into the hole and gestured to
the girl to follow.  She obeyed.  The hole was a tight fit, with her
feet resting against the case and a baulk of timber pressing on the top
of her head.  She scarcely had time to blink before Madame hissed,
"Keep still!"  Then she slammed the boards back into place and stamped
them home.  One touched Suzi's nose and her arms were crammed against
her side.  It was like being buried alive.  Already she could sense the
dust in her nostrils and she managed to work her right hand across her
body and then up to seize her nose between finger and thumb.  She knew
she must not sneeze.

Above her, Madame shoved the table back into place, tossed the cans
into a cupboard and tucked the tin box under her arm, concealing it in
a fold of the shawl.  Then she hurried to open the front door as the
rifle butts hammered on it.

Suzi heard the harsh voices in the house, then the boots trampled
overhead and the dust they loosened fell on her face.  She breathed
through slitted lips.  Boots and voices moved away, then came again
from beneath her as the Grenadiers searched the cellar.  Then that
noise ceased and all was quiet.  She lay still, it seemed for hours,
but finally she heard the grating of the table legs as it was pulled
aside, then the boards were levered up again and she saw Madame's face
peering down at her.

The old woman said shakily, "It is safe now.  They have gone."

Suzi crawled out and said equally shakily, "Thank you."

Madame smiled and shook her head.  "We are fortunate they did not have
a woman with them.  They thought your bed had not been slept in but a
woman would have seen it was not properly made."

Suzi nodded agreement, knew she had been lucky.  Those long minutes
under the floor had been like a foretaste of death and she shivered at
the memory.  She asked, "Engel?"

Now Madame shivered.  "Yes, he was there, in the street."

So he was searching.  For Suzi?  Maybe not, but he obviously suspected
a network of some sort was still in being.  She knew that she would not
know a moment's safety so long as she was there.

But she had to wait, and she settled to it, day after long day, all
through the month of May.

The orders she had committed to memory before she flew out of Tangmere
had to be carried out when she heard a certain message broadcast by the
BBC.  So every night she listened in with Madame Lequeux, the pair of
them hunched close to the crackling little set.  They turned the volume
down to a whisper so it could not possibly be heard more than a few
feet away, let alone by some German patrol passing outside.  There were
always a string of seemingly innocuous, often ridiculous messages for
the Resistance.  But they were code words, of course, to trigger action
by the listeners.  That usually meant the sabotage of a factory, a
railway line, a bridge ... Suzi and Madame listened every night but no
message came for them.

Suzi waited as the days of summer lengthened.  She spent most of her
time hidden in the little attic bedroom tucked up under the roof.  She
dared not risk being seen.  Her new identity and papers had served to
get her past the controls at Rouen and Caen but she had visited this
village several times over the last four months.  If she went out she
stood a good chance of being recognised.  And she could not use the
handkerchief-over-the-face trick too often; that of itself would
attract attention.

So Madame walked around the village every morning, looking for changes
in the Blockhouse and the other de fences  When any were seen she
reported them to Suzi, who prepared a message for her to take to Andre
in Caen.  She travelled there on the tram in the afternoon and met him
in a cafe.  Then Andre wirelessed the message to England.  Suzi did not
like using the old woman but she had no choice.

From her narrow dormer window she could look down on the village
street.  She never showed her face during the day but peered out from
behind the faded lace curtain.  At night, though, she opened the window
and leant out, invisible in the dark stillness.  She breathed in the
cool air and peered up the street towards the square and the
Blockhouse, down it to the last houses and the start of the road
running down to the coast.

Then she rehearsed in her mind, every night, how she had to set out the
lights.  They had to form a T. The long leg of the T would be made up
of three lights on sticks, their sharpened points driven into the grass
verge at the side of the road just outside the village, spaced out in a
line thirty yards long and pointing towards the square.  The crosspiece
of the T would be formed by two more lights, set out ten yards on
either side of the line at the end nearest the village.  She came to
know exactly where to place them.

In the day she read the newspaper from front to back and the few books
in the house.  And she rehearsed again all the other details of the
mission she had been given, from leaving the house to retrieving the
sticks, lights, pistol and other equipment from their cache in the
barn, and then on ... The days passed slowly.  When Madame did not have
to go to Caen she would come puffing up the stairs, grumbling over her
rheumatism.  Suzi would sit on the bed and let her have the single
chair.  Madame would talk, usually about old times.  Suzi guessed this
was a deliberate ploy because Madame knew the girl was lonely and
afraid.  Madame would talk of times before the war and the war before
this one.  She would ramble on, eyes gazing into the distance of times
past, talking of feasts and funerals, weddings and scandals.  And, of
course, the fire.

"I used to work in the big house."  That was the chateau, now the
Blockhouse.  "I remember the fire."  Suzi had heard this before; the
fire had been the biggest event ever in the life of the village.  All
its people talked of the fire.  "The Vicomte was alive then, a young
man still..."  He had tried to save the wing that ran away to the rear
of the chateau but had failed.  He did not have the money to rebuild it
and anyway, he was a sportsman.  So he built a tennis court on the site
of the burned-out wing.  The stub end that had survived, furthest from
the house, he used as a stable.

"He saved some of the wine from the cellars but a lot was lost.  He was
working alone, of course.  None of the men would go, and who would
blame them?  With the house burning over their heads!  But that was
twenty years ago."

Suzi listened and smiled or shook her head in horror, though she came
to know the story word for word.  It was soothing to listen to the old
woman, because Suzi had too much time to think.

Several times when she was peering out from behind the lace curtain,
she saw Engel.  He rolled by in his Kubelwagen with his soldier servant
at the wheel.  She only saw the lower half of his face then, the rest
of it hidden by the roof of the little car.  The wide mouth was set
like a steel trap or grinning sardonically, depending on his mood.  Or
he passed on foot, stalking with that dot-and-carry-one rhythm, his
stiff right leg swinging.

That was when he frightened her most.  His eyes seemed to sweep
everywhere and the first time their cold gaze flicked up to her window,
she stepped back a pace, sure she could not be seen but heart thumping.
Engel marched on, but always she took that pace back when she saw
him.

And always she thought about Richard Langley.

Then the weather broke in days of gales and pouring rain.

Monday, 5 June 1944

In the evening of that day the clouds seemed to squat on the roofs of
the little houses of St.  Florent.  The trees spaced along the street
and around the square bent to the wind that drove the rain angling
across the village.  Suzi saw the Blockhouse, distanced from her by
half the length of the street and the hundred yards of the square,
blurred by a curtain of rain.

She stood well back from the window and peered at it.  The square and
the street were empty.  The people of the village were already indoors,
anticipating the curfew.  Soon it would be time to draw the blackout
curtains and turn on the lights.  The sentry at the doors of the
Blockhouse was the only soul to be seen.  His rifle was slung over one
shoulder, upside down so that the muzzle pointed at the ground and the
rain would not get in.  He pressed in close to the doors to keep out
the downpour that lashed the square.

Then another lash came into play.  The cart came up the road from the
coast, dragged by the horse between the shafts, head down with effort.
As it entered the village street the gradient steepened for a few yards
and the cart came to a halt.  The horse pawed at the cobbles but could
not break the inertia.

Suzi saw this, and the child who suddenly appeared on the far side of
the street.  It was a small boy.  He stood in the doorway of the
cottage where he lived, for a moment irresolute as he screwed up his
face at the rain.  Then he started to run across.

At that moment the peasant, sitting wet and miserable on the cart with
a sack over his shoulders, used his whip.  He laid it across the wet
hide of the horse with savage force and a crack like a pistol shot. The
horse reared and bolted, the cart rocking and bouncing.  The man fell
from his perch on to the road and the boy, halfway across, froze like a
rabbit mesmerised by the headlights of an oncoming car.  The horse may
have tried to swerve aside or stop.  Or maybe it just skidded on the
wet cobbles.  But it fell, legs kicking, and the cart turned over on to
its side.  The boy was somewhere underneath.

Suzi ran down the stairs and into the street.  She was first to reach
the horse where it lay blowing and shuddering.  She patted it and spoke
soothingly, looked for the boy and saw him under the front of the cart.
But it covered him without resting on him.  He lay curled up inside the
space between the still slowly turning wheels and the horse's hooves
that jerked spasmodically as it shivered.

The carter appeared and grabbed at the horse's head and Suzi snapped at
him, "Doucement!"  He heeded her and took up her stroking of the horse
while she reached over the shafts of the cart, got hold of the boy and
hauled him out.  He opened his eyes as she lifted him and showed he was
alive by bursting into tears.  When she set him down clear of the
wreckage and felt him over quickly he gave no sign of being in pain,
not flinching or crying out.

She asked, "Are you hurt?"  He did not cease his crying but shook his
head.  So she pushed him in the direction of the house from whence he
had come then ran back to Madame's.  She looked quickly up and down the
street before closing the door behind her.  The street was still empty
except for the boy running homeward and the carter helping his horse to
rise.  So no one had seen her.

She stood with her back to the door, panting as if she had run a race.
She had taken a risk, and not just with her own life at stake.  When
she saw the boy she ran, instinctively, unthinkingly.  White-faced now,
she told herself she was a fool, a novice.  She was here to do a job
and the lives of a lot of men depended on her.  She might have put them
all on the line by this moment of carelessness.  She told herself, You
stupid little bitch!

Madame came through from the kitchen at the back of the house, wiping
her hands on her apron.  She stared at Suzi and asked, "You have been
out?"

"Just for a minute.  There was an accident."  She told Madame all about
it.  "But no one saw me except the boy and the carter and they don't
know me."

The old woman said pointedly, "All the more reason for them to talk
about you."

That was true and Suzi acknowledged it with a nod.  And if that talk
got back to Engel... There was only one thing to do.  She glanced out
at the darkening street and said, "It's too late to leave now.  It
would be long after curfew when I got to Caen.  I'll go first thing in
the morning."  She could not risk being caught if the house was
searched again.  She did not think her papers and new identity would
stand up to "interrogation" and she did not want to implicate the old
woman.

She swore under her breath as she climbed the narrow stair to her
little room.  She was going to pay for that unthinking action.  Her
mission was here.  Now she would have to hide in another "safe house"
in Caen.  That meant risking the possibility of arrest on the journey
there.  And when the message came, calling on her to act, she would
have to make the trip again, back to St.  Florent, possibly in the
night and on foot.  But there was no help for it.  Security came
first.

She wondered, suppose she had not been seen?

But she had.

Off Southampton the rain had cleared but left an overcast sky.  The
foul weather of the last few days had retreated but more threatened.
This lighter period was only a temporary reprieve but Richard Langley
stooped over the voice-pipe and ordered, "Starboard ten."

Farmer Fairbrother down in the wheelhouse answered, "Starboard ten ...
Ten of starboard wheel on, sir."

Bloody Norah had weighed her anchor and was under way.  Langley stood
on her bridge, looked out over the tarpaulin-covered tank deck and
watched her head come around.  Then: "Midships."

"Wheel's amidships, sir."

"Steady..."

"Steady ... Steady on One-Oh-Five, sir."

Langley straightened, took off his cap and ran his fingers through his
hair, put the cap back on.  Bloody Norah's square bow was now butting
into the wake of the next ahead, the Showboat, Bellanger's LCI.  Her
deck was crowded with the commandos she carried, as were the catwalks
below Langley.  The men of the tank crews had come up from their
confinement under the tarpaulin and lined the rails.  They had come for
a glimpse of England under the grey sky.  Langley thought it might be
the last sight of it for many of them.

"It looks like every ship in the world is here!"  That was from an
excited Simon Hartington, come to join Langley on the bridge.  Richard
glanced at him, saw his face flushed with excitement and could
understand it.  The whole mass of shipping filling the Solent was on
the move.  The armada was setting out, and this was only a part of it.
Similar fleets were setting out from ports around the coast from
Swansea to Felixstowe, nearly seven thousand vessels in all.

Now Simon met his gaze and said deferentially, "But you've seen all
this before, of course."  He was referring to Langley's experience of
operations in the Mediterranean.

Langley grinned at him.  "Not as big as this."  There had never been so
huge an armada, so meticulously prepared and planned to the last
detail.  He thought that, surely, it could not fail.  It must not.
Failure would mean an indefinite prolongation of the war that already
seemed endless.  He had been a schoolboy when it began.

But Hartington was little more than that now.  And of late he had been
subdued, saying little.  Langley probed, "How do you like the ship?"

"Oh, fine.  She just takes a bit of getting used to."

Langley chuckled.  "She's not Warspite, that's a certainty."  But
Hartington had not come to Bloody Norah prejudiced by previous
experience aboard a bigger or more conventional warship like a
battleship or destroyer.  Langley asked directly, "So is anything
worrying you?"  And at once amended that: "Apart from this operation?"
Because all of them were apprehensive about what lay ahead.

The midshipman shook his head and Langley knew he was hiding something.
But he could delve no further and left it there.  Only he would keep an
eye on Simon.

Soon the long columns of shipping were out in the Channel and Bloody
Norah began to pitch and roll as she met the sea.  Langley thought the
planners of Operation Neptune could reasonably have expected summer
weather in June, with clear skies and a calm sea.  Instead they had
this.  There were soldiers lining the rails again but.  this time
because they could find no room in the heads.  Most of those aboard
were seasick and so was Simon Hartington.  He came up to stand his
watch, but Langley sent him below again and told him, "I'll be staying
on the bridge.  I'll call you when I want you."

Langley wanted the time to think about what he had to do on the morrow,
to go over it all again in his mind, trying to foresee whatever might
go wrong and preparing a plan for every possible crisis.

And as the dusk gathered about the thousands of craft ploughing
eastwards through the darkening sea, he thought about Suzi Jones.  He
wondered where she was, and if she was safe.

Gaston Dubois waited until after the curfew began before leaving the
house of his aunt and sidling nervously through the rain-swept, empty
streets.  But he did not try to avoid the two soldiers he met as they
trudged gloomily around the village on patrol.  He told them what he
wanted and they took him to the Blockhouse.

Engel was still in his office, working at his desk.  Pianka was
stretched out on Engel's camp bed against one wall, snoring gently.  He
woke and sat up as the knock came at the door and Engel bawled,
"Komm!"

One of the two soldiers poked his head round the door, cautiously,
because Engel had a reputation for throwing any object that came to
hand, like an empty bottle, at unwanted callers.  "We have a suspect
who says he has information for you, Herr Hauptmann."

Engel scowled at them.  "Bring him in."

They shoved Gaston Dubois into the room and Engel said mildly, "Well,
well.  An old customer.  You weren't practising your thieving trade?
Because I told you what would happen if I caught you at it again."

Dubois winced at the memory.  He protested, "I'm only here on a visit.
To see my aunt."

Engel's gaze shifted to the two soldiers.  He said, "My men were
supposed to let me know if you came back here."  They shuffled their
booted feet uneasily, avoiding his eye.

Dubois got them off the hook, said frankly, "I sneaked into the village
and didn't go out of the house so you wouldn't know I was here.  I
didn't want you to be bothered."

Engel said, "You're a lying bastard.  But you asked to see me now and
you say you have some information.  You've played that tune before."

"And what I told you was true.  Yes?"  Dubois had heard from his aunt
of the arrests made in the raid on Emil's cafe.

Engel nodded slowly.  "So what now?"

"This evening two, three hours ago I was looking out of the window."
There had been nothing else to do; the silly old cow was always talking
to herself.  "Across the street is the house of Madame Lequeux."
Another moralising old bitch.  "This cart came up the road ..."  He
related the story of the stampeding horse and the rescue of the boy,
and finished: "This girl, afterwards, she ran into the house of Madame
Lequeux like a scalded cat, like she was afraid of being seen.  And she
looked up and down the street as if to see if anyone was watching."

Engel prompted, "And?"

Dubois shrugged.  "That's it."

"You call that information?"

Dubois argued, "She was acting suspiciously.  And my old aunt she's
always at the window she says the Lequeux woman doesn't have anybody
living with her.  But she thinks she saw this girl calling there a
month or so back."

Engel thought, A month ago ... He jeered, "You've been mixing with too
many policemen."

"But there is a reward?"

"If anything comes of it maybe.  I'll see.  Now get out."  And he told
the soldiers, "Take him home."

Dubois said quickly, "I don't want to go to my aunt's house.  I told
her I was going home to Paris.  If I go back to her place, and you
arrest somebody across the way, people might think I'm an informer."

Engel said acidly, "They might at that."

Pianka said, "There's a ration wagon in the yard going back to Caen in
half an hour."

Engel told the soldiers, "Put him on that."  And grinning at Dubois,
"You'll be in Caen in time to catch the first train to Paris in the
morning."  While Caen was only four miles away, the wagon, like most of
the Wehrmacht transport, was horse-drawn.  "Get him out of here

The soldiers led Gaston Dubois away to the yard at the back of the
Blockhouse and Pianka asked, "D'you think this girl is the one you've
been looking for?"

Engel muttered, "Maybe."

Pianka said, straight-faced, "So when you've got her you'll send the
lot of them up the line to the Gestapo?"

Engel scowled at him.  "You just do as you're bloody well told.  I want
a dozen men."  And when they were lined up outside his office, rifles
slung over their shoulders, watching him nervously, he told them where
they were going and what they were to do.  He finished, "Half at the
back, the rest at the front.  Nice and quiet.  No truck.  No talking.
No shooting, because I want her to talk.  I'll have the balls off the
first man who makes a sound or fires a shot.  Understood?"  He ran his
eyes over them and they all nodded.

"Right," he said, "let's haul her in."

TWELVE

2300, 5 June 1944

Suzi switched off the light, drew aside the curtains of the attic
window and peered out at the night.  The street was a valley of
shadows.  She stood very still, watching.  Rain was falling, rattling
on the panes before her face, but lightly.  The wind had eased.  No one
moved below.  Satisfied, she moved back from the window.

Her suitcase was packed with her few belongings.  She carried it down
the two nights of steep, narrow stairs and set it by the front door.
She was ready to go the next morning, dressed for the road except for
her shoes and the shabby old coat that was part of her cover.  They
were still upstairs, the coat on the bed and the shoes standing by it.
She wore a thin cotton dress, a cardigan, a kerchief on her hair and
for slippers a pair of old plimsolls given to her by Madame Lequeux.

They were tennis shoes and had come from the big house before the war.
Madame had dug them out of a drawer and given them to the girl.  "They
were never any use to me and never will be.  The Vicomte gave them to
me.  One of his young lady guests left them when she went back to
Paris."  Madame's tone set the word in italics, but she had already
told Suzi of some of the "goings-on" in the old days.  The shoes were
well worn but still sound and fitted comfortably.  Suzi was grateful
for them.

Now the old woman said, "It is a pity you have to go."  And she meant
it; she was sorry to lost the girl despite the risk she ran while
hiding her.  They had grown to like each other.  So they sat together
in the kitchen on straight-backed chairs, companionably, heads bent
close to the wireless standing on the scrubbed wooden table.

Not in companionable silence.  Madame listened intently to the news
broadcast by the Foreign Service of the BBC but muttered her comments
at the end of each item and into the beginning of the next.  The
messages that followed, intended for the Resistance, made no sense to
her and she talked through them.  Suzi had to put up with it but did so
out of affection and strained her ears.

Nevertheless, she did not catch the phrase in full the first time it
came over and then she hissed, "Sshh!"  The old woman, startled, sat
back, mouth open, staring at Suzi who held a finger to her lips.

The phrase came again: "... bercent man coeur dune longueur
monotone."

Suzi switched off the set.  The signal had come.  She was to act this
night now.  She said, "I have to go.  This minute.  I'll leave the
case.  Get rid of it if you can.  If anyone asks where it came from,
tell them you found it in a ditch."

Madame still stared at her and said, disbelieving, "Now?"

And the rifle butt slammed against the front door.  Both of them jerked
round, shocked, but Suzi converted her turn into a swift-flowing
movement.  She was on the stairs before the second blow shook the door
in its frame, running into her room as the third blow tore the door
loose to dangle from its hinges.  She heard the first soldier charge
in, then bellow with rage.  She did not see the reason but her case was
in his path and he fell over it, sprawling his length.  The man behind
hesitated, had to edge around his comrade trying to scramble to his
feet.

Suzi crossed the room and snatching up her coat, she slung it over her
shoulder.  She shoved the window open, throwing it wide, then wriggled
out on to the roof, legs thrashing.  She paused a moment to close the
window behind her that might lead them to search the room, thinking she
was still hidden there then flattened her body against the roof and
wormed her way upward.  She was in a panic to get away but forced
herself to go steadily.  The tiles were slippery with the rain, and she
dared not dislodge one of them.  A falling tile would point a finger to
her for the hunters below.

She could hear them in the house.  Looking over her shoulder she could
see the broad path of light stretching across the street from Madame's
front door.  She could not see any of the hunters because they would be
close to the house at the front anyway.  Now her fingers hooked over
the ridge of the roof and she pulled herself up cautiously until she
could see the garden at the rear.  She lowered her head again, inch by
inch because a sudden movement might catch the eye of the soldier
standing back from the house.  He was far enough away to be out of its
shadow.  Suzi saw him as another shadow.  But there came no shout nor
shot from the rifle he held loosely in one hand.

Now her head was below the line of the roof once more.  She started to
traverse along it, shifting right hand, left hand, right hand ... The
cottage was in the middle of a terrace of six, all sharing a common
roof.  An alley separated it from another such row, then came the
square and the Blockhouse.  She was halfway to that end of the roof
when the window crashed open behind her, one of its panes shattering to
send glass tinkling down the steep pitch of the roof and into the
street below.

She turned her head and saw a soldier leaning out of the window, his
rifle in his hands.  He had smashed the window out with that.  His head
swung, searching, turned her way and he saw her, yelled to her.  Suzi
could not make out the words but she guessed he was calling on her to
stop and she kept going, shuffling along the roof, hand to hand, even
faster.

He set the rifle to his shoulder and fired.  He was only yards away but
holding the weapon at an awkward angle as he leaned out of the window.
He was also panting from his race up the stairs and the barrel of the
rifle wavered.  Just the same, the shot smashed into the tiles just
above Suzi's head and she felt the burn as a splinter nicked her cheek.
She went on, scrabbling desperately now, expecting the shock of the
next bullet.

Down in the street Engel raged.  "I told the bastards no shooting!" And
he bellowed, "Stop that shooting!  I want her alive!"  Then he backed
away across the street, seeking a position where he could see what was
happening on the roof, muttering, "I'll get damn all out of her if
she's dead!"

Suzi heard that voice and guessed again what it meant when another
bullet did not come.  Engel wanted her for questioning.  That spurred
her on.  She was a dozen yards from the end of the terrace.  She
wondered if she could jump the alley on to the next?  And if she
succeeded, what then?  Engel's men would still have her trapped on the
roof.  She whispered, "No bloody good, girl."  She had to get down and
get out.

The soldier clambered out of the window, rifle in one hand, then tried
to crawl after her.  He moved too quickly and dislodged one tile, then
another.  He yelled as he felt the others moving, then he and the tiles
slid down the roof over its edge into the street below.  Another
soldier took his place at the window and began to climb out.

Suzi hauled herself up again so that she could look down on the rear of
the terrace.  She looked for the soldier who had stood behind Madame's
cottage but could not see him now.  Gone inside?  She thought it was
possible and she would take the chance offered.  She rolled over the
ridge of the roof and then slithered down the far side, her face to the
tiles.  Her skirt was up around her waist but she did not care about
that, feared only for the drop.  Her feet caught momentarily on the
guttering then that, rotten with years, gave way under her weight.  She
slid on, her hands clutching at the wet tiles to try to slow her
descent, but failing.  She lost her last grip of them and then she was
falling.

She landed feet first in soft earth made glutinous by the rain, but
rolled as she had been taught in parachute school.  Suzi shoved up to
her feet, shaken but apparently unhurt.  She ran, at first sloshing
through the mud of the garden then she jumped the low fence at the foot
of it and was out in a lane where the footing was firmer.

She heard a shout and looked behind her then but without slowing her
pace.  There was a humping shape breaking the silhouette of the
roof-ridge.  That was the second soldier who had climbed out on to the
roof and he had seen her, would be bawling the information down to the
others in the street.  Suzi ran on, twisting and turning through the
alleys until she was out of the village and in open country.  She
slipped through the first gap she saw in a hedge, pausing just long
enough to be sure no one was on her heels.  Then in the field beyond
she stopped in the shadow of the hedge to catch her breath.

She found she still had the coat.  She shrugged into it, partly for its
warmth and to keep out the rain her thin cotton dress was soaking wet
partly because its dark colouring was better cover in the night.  She
shivered as the coat pressed the dress clammily against her skin, but
her mind was busy.  She knew where she was and where she wanted to go,
and set off across the field.

It took her ten minutes of trudging through muddy fields, shoving her
way through the gaps in their hedges or forcing a way of her own, to
reach the barn.  She reconnoitred it, sidling stealthily around from
one patch of cover to the next, until she had gone full circle and was
sure the barn was not watched.  She entered, still cautious, slipping
in quickly so that she would only be outlined in the doorway for a
split second, just in case anyone was lying in wait inside.  But the
barn was empty.

She dug into the straw piled at one end, squeaked as a rat skittered
over her hand.  But she found the sticks and torches, the wire-cutters,
pistol and bomb where she had hidden them, all wrapped in an old sack.
Then she looked at her watch and settled down to wait.  And to a final
mental rehearsal.

She had to get this right or men depending on her would die.

Engel had pieced together what had happened and spelt it out to Pianka
as they stood in Madame's kitchen.  "The old wife says she knows
nothing about the girl.  The case that was behind the door, the case
that the first bloody fool fell over as he charged in, she says she
found in a field a few days ago.  Tonight the girl appeared out of
nowhere and claimed the case was hers.  Then she ran up the stairs when
the soldiers kicked in the door.  The bed in the attic has been slept
in recently but Madame says she sleeps in there herself sometimes.
There's a pair of shoes up there by the bed that aren't hers but she
says she found them a long time ago and just hasn't decided what to do
with them."  He glared at Pianka.  "And if you laugh, you bastard, I'll
bust you to private and send you back to Russia."

Pianka was being very careful not to laugh.  Engel knew it and went on.
"So she was here.  Dubois was right.  When the men out there came in
here she made off over the roof, dropped down at the back and
disappeared into the alleys.  She could be halfway to Caen by now."

He turned the glare on Madame, sitting in a chair at the kitchen table.
He bent his body on its long legs so his face was level with hers.  He
said softly, menacingly, in his careful French, "I could have you
shot!"

Madame said nothing, remained expressionless.

Engel straightened, swung on his heel and stalked out of the cottage.
Pianka paced at his side and asked, "Are you going to pull her in?"

Engel snapped, "Balls to that!  She harboured the young woman but
that's all she knows.  Questioning her would be a waste of time.
Locking her up would be a waste of space.  To hell with her."  His men
had searched the cottage and found nothing but the suitcase.  That only
contained clothes and both clothes and case had been made in France.
There was nothing incriminating.  Engel had not expected that there
would be.  Now the soldiers stood around in the street and he barked at
a Gefreiter, "March 'em back to the Blockhouse."

The non-com bawled in answer, "Jawohl!"

The soldiers formed into file and trudged off up the street.  Engel and
Pianka followed them.  The Blockhouse loomed up ahead of them out of
the night.  First they came to the end of the street where it debouched
into the square.  They crossed that, halfway over passing through a
gate in the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the Blockhouse.  Engel
acknowledged the salute of the sentry with a flick of the hand. Another
fifty yards and they were at the front door of the house.

Some thirty feet away from them but inside the Blockhouse, off to the
left of the hall that lay behind the front door, and just past Engel's
office, was the radio room.  The radioman was Obergefreiter Willi
Schulz.  Willi was overweight, overage and only wanted to go home.
Engel knew this because Willi had told him as soon as he arrived to
take command.  And an enraged Engel had told Willi, "So long as I
command here you can forget about home.  If the war lasts a hundred
years you'll still be here, you fat slob!"  But he had got Willi a
week's furlough.

He had only been back two days.  His jacket with its two chevrons hung
on the back of his chair where he sat before the set.  That stood on a
table to the left of the window covered with a blackout screen.  He had
the night shift, there was a long way to go and he was bored already.
His bunk lay along the wall behind him.  He finished writing the
message he had just received, tore the top sheet from the pad and
pushed up out of the chair.  It took an effort.  He had eaten well in
that week at home and his flabby bulk was wedged inside the arms of the
chair.  He worked out of it, grunting, and waddled to the door.  He
opened it and shouted, "Runner!"

A soldier came from the guardroom further along the hall towards the
rear of the house.  He had been dozing on his bunk and was rubbing his
eyes, fastening his tunic, his rifle tucked under his arm.  Willi
thrust the message at him: "For Engel.  Tell him it's a Navy report
from Le Havre.  I've got a mate up there who feeds me some stuff when
we talk to each other.  Engel said he wanted to know everything, so
give it to him."

The runner took the flimsy and asked, "Where is he?"

Willi shrugged his fat shoulders.  "Who knows?  Out somewhere.

He tells me nothing.  Finding him is your problem."  He backed into the
radio room, shut the door, lay down on his bunk and picked up the book
he was reading.  But he made a mental note not to doze off.  If Engel
caught him sleeping, Christ help him!

The runner looked into Engel's office, found it empty, then set out to
look for him.

Engel paused with Pianka at the foot of the steps leading up to the
front door of das Blockhaus.  Above them gaped twin black holes in the
face of the building, the windows that had been fortified with
reinforced concrete into embrasures.  Engel could just see the dull
metallic sheen of the gun barrels.  That first floor of the chateau had
also been roofed with reinforced concrete and underpinned, with massive
steel and concrete pillars.  So the guns were effectively inside an
armoured box within the walls of the chateau.

Pianka said drily, "It's fairly safe."  Then he jerked his head at the
houses ringing the square, and reminded Engel, "As long as they're
here."

Engel nodded; he had said it: The strongest defence of das Blockhaus
lay in the houses standing so close to its walls.

Pianka went on, "And so long as the Tommis don't say "To hell with the
French," and bomb it anyway."

"They might decide they have to."  Engel turned round to look out over
the houses to the distant coast.  From the first floor the gunners
could see the beaches.  He said, "If the Tommis land there then the
guys on the eighty-eights up here could have a duck shoot.  That's why
we've been put here.  But the Tommis won't stand for that.  They'll hit
us then."

Pianka said, "That would solve your problem with the prisoners in the
cellars."

They laughed.  Engel said, "That's right.  We'd all go up together."
The magazine holding the ammunition for the guns was in the cellars
next to the cells holding the prisoners.

But talk of bombing had jogged Engel's subconscious and now he listened
to the engines droning high overhead and recalled that he had heard
other engine noises passing north or south of St.  Florent all evening.
He muttered, "There's a lot of air activity tonight."

Pianka shrugged.  "As usual.  They've been at it for months now."  They
were talking of the nightly bombing raids by the Royal Air Force.
"They're heading inland."

Engel said, "There are more tonight."  And after a moment's silence, "I
don't like it."

The runner came out of the Blockhouse then, slinging his rifle over his
shoulder.  He snapped to attention when he saw Engel and held out the
slip of paper.  "A signal for you, Herr Hauptmann."  He repeated
Willi's comment regarding its source.

Engel took his torch from his pocket and used its shielded beam to read
the signal.  He studied it for several seconds before putting it in his
pocket along with the torch.  He told the waiting runner, "All right.
Dismissed."  And when the man turned back into the Blockhouse Engel
told Pianka, "There are radar reports of an unusual amount of shipping
in the Channel.  Le Havre has ordered out some E-boats to take a look."
He put his head back to stare up at the sky, the moon glimpsed between
scattered clouds.  The rumble of aircraft engines came from high
overhead.  Pianka stood behind him, watching, listening.  Engel said,
"This could be it invasion."

Pianka thought about that for a moment then shook his head, "Not with
this bad weather."

"It's not so bad now.  The wind has dropped a little and the rain has
eased off.  There's a hell of a lot of air activity.  And a moon.  Now
they say the Channel's full of ships."  He swung on his heel and strode
into the Blockhouse.  Pianka hurried after him, into the house and then
into Engel's office.  Engel dropped his cap on the desk and picked up
the telephone.  He saw Pianka standing in the doorway and told him,
"This is it.  I'm asking for reinforcements."

Pianka said worriedly, "Are you sure?  You'll look pretty silly if
you're wrong."

Engel said grimly, "If I'm right and I don't get 'em, we'll be dead!"

0210, hours Tuesday, 6 June 1944

"One good thing, sir, you'd have a hell of a job to get lost!"  Tubby
Anderson, the signalman, chuckled.  Bloody Norah was steaming down a
buoyed lane, the lights on the buoys all pointing towards her.  Tubby
added, "Like walking down the High Street before the war and the
blackout."

Bloody Norah was out in the Channel and bound for Normandy.  A pale
moon blinked through streaming clouds to show her and the other ships
around her as rocking shadows in the night.  A half gale kicked up a
lumpy sea and hurled spray on to her bridge.  Richard

Langley stood up there, one hand gripping the bridge-screen to keep his
balance.  His coffin-shaped craft pitched and rolled to the seas that
broke inboard and swilled along the catwalks for her two hundred-foot
length.  Strictly this was Simon Hartington's watch and he stood beside
Langley, but Richard had wanted to keep an eye on the handling of the
ship for a while and stayed on the bridge.  Simon had been grateful for
that.

Langley grinned now but Hartington did not.  Richard still strained his
eyes as he peered about him because it was a crowded street.  In the
night he could make out the silhouette of that vessel next ahead, the
Showboat, Bellanger's LCI(s).  And astern there was another LCT like
Bloody Norah, plugging along in her wake.  Before night fell Langley
had seen that his ship was but one in a seemingly unending column.
There were nearly seven thousand craft of all kinds bucketing down this
channel swept of mines and heading for the French coast.  Collision
could be easy.  But would not happen if he could help it.

He said, "We could make a name for ourselves if we ran into somebody
here and stopped all this lot."  Anderson laughed again but Simon was
not amused.  Langley wondered, What the hell is wrong with him?  Young
Hartington had been proud and bubbling with excitement when he first
came to the ship.  Now he was silent and withdrawn.  If something was
worrying him, he was keeping it to himself.  Langley mentally shrugged.
But he had watched Simon at work.  He was competent and if he didn't
snap out of it soon, or say what was on his mind, Langley would ask.

And then there was the morning to look forward to.  He rubbed spray
from his face with the towel wrapped round his neck and tucked into his
duffel coat.  Before they sailed he had briefed his little crew on
their task and Scouse Gilhooley had said, "Looks like we'll have some
muck flying our way that morning, then."  Langley thought that was an
understatement.  He knew the de fences to be overcome, the batteries
that would be firing at him and his men and Bloody Norah.  He wondered
if he knew too much.

"Mind if I come up?"  Major Tim Ryan stood on the ladder below the
bridge, peering up at Langley.  He was the commander of the ten
Shermans crammed into the tank deck.

"You're welcome," Langley answered.

Ryan climbed up to join them and gazed out in his turn at the long
columns of ships steaming south-eastward.  "It's impressive, isn't
it?"

Langley grunted agreement, eyes on the ship ahead still.  Ryan went on,
"Sure you won't want that bunk of yours?"  The soldier had been given
the use of Langley's bunk for the night just as the tiny wardroom had
been turned over to two of his officers, because Richard knew he and
Hartington would be on the bridge all night.  But Ryan had come
prowling on deck twice already.  Seasick?  He had not appeared so. Each
time he had come up from the well where his tanks were carried and then
moved around the catwalks, shifting from handhold to handhold as the
shallow-draughted landing craft's bucking tried to throw him off his
feet.

Langley answered, "No, thanks, I won't be needing it."  And went on,
"Are your chaps all right?"

Ryan grimaced.  "No, they're not.  Most of 'em are sick as dogs."  Then
he glanced sidewise at Langley and added, "But they'll be OK
tomorrow."

Langley nodded and asked, "Can you tell us now what you have to do?"
His and Bellanger's orders were clear and precise as to where and when
the Shermans and commandos were to be put ashore and that Bloody Norah
and the Showboat were expendable but they had no idea of the combat
team's objective.  Ryan had given his own men their briefing only the
night before, had finally told them what the months of rehearsal had
been leading up to.  That was for reasons of security.

Now he said, "Don't see why not, now we're out here and it's only a few
hours away."  He paused a moment, then went on, "When you put us
ashore" he gave Langley a crooked grin then and put in "if it's in the
right place look about five degrees off to your left and you'll see a
big house, a chateau, three miles inland.  We call it the Blockhouse,
and so does Jerry, I believe.  It stands in a village on top of a low
hill.  You'll see it just as anybody in there will see you, because the
Blockhouse looks down on the beach and the road up from it.  Jerry has
a couple of eighty-eights hidden in there.  An hour before dawn
there'll be an attack on it by a glider borne force.  They'll land slap
bang in front of it and charge right in.  Then they hold it until we
that's us and Yarborough's commandos in the ship ahead of us now get up
there in the morning."

Langley asked, "You said the guns were hidden in this Blockhouse so how
do you know they are eighty-eights?  And how do you know Jerry calls it
the Blockhouse?"

Ryan shook his head.  "I only know what I'm told, but presumably we
have somebody in there feeding us information.  Has to be.  You don't
get that kind of detail from an aerial photograph."

Langley said, "Whoever it is has plenty of nerve."

Tim glanced at him and asked, "I understand you've done this sort of
thing before, and more than once."

"That's right."  And Langley thought, Too often.  And remembered again
Vibo Valentia and Anzio.

"So this is just another job?"

Not, it bloody well isn't, thought Langley.  But he said, "It helps to
think of it that way."  Or not think about it at all.

Tim Ryan took a deep breath.  "I'll try to do that."  He grinned at
them again now, "And I'll take up that offer of the bunk. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."  Langley and Hartington said it together as Ryan climbed
down the ladder and disappeared into the deck house under the bridge on
his way to Langley's hutch of a cabin.

Richard Langley peered at the luminous dial of his watch, then at
Hartington.  "I'm going to sleep for an hour.  All you have to do is
keep her on station.  If you're worried about anything or we get any
signals, give me a shake."

"Aye, aye, sir."  Simon sounded nervous.

Langley told him, "Just handle her the way you have been these last
weeks.  You can do it."  And he turned to the deck chair lashed in
place at the back of the bridge and alongside the funnel for its heat.
He wrapped a blanket round him and sank down into its canvas seat.

It sounded like a hell of an operation.  Tim Ryan's crack about putting
him and his tanks ashore in the right place was funny only so long as
Bellanger and Langley got it right.  And the enemy guns would have a
bearing on that.  If he and Bellanger failed, then God help the men
going in by glider.

And then he slept.

Patrick Ward and his men climbed into the trucks and were driven
through the night to the airfield at Tarrant Rushton.  The four Horsa
gliders were marshalled astern of their tugs on the runway.  Each
Horsa, with its 88-foot wingspan and fuselage 67 feet long, was nearly
as big as the Halifax bomber that would tow it.  The gliders were built
almost entirely of wood by furniture makers and designed not for grace
but simply to carry a payload of close to their own weight of just over
three tons each.  That showed.  Hence the name chalked on the fuselage
of the leader just aft of the big Plexiglas cockpit: Ugly Duck.

As the trucks rolled round the perimeter road, the four big engines of
each Halifax tug started up in turn.  They revved up, bellowing, then
slowly eased to a steady, roaring tick over  The tow ropes were laid
out on the runway between each tug and its glider like long, thin
snakes frozen in their squirming.

When the trucks halted Ward got down from his seat by the driver of the
leader and watched his soldiers climb out from the dark interiors of
the trucks.  Their bodies were monstrous shapes in the camouflaged
airborne soldiers' smocks worn over the khaki serge battle dress  They
bulged with packs, grenades and ammunition and formed into three ranks
in front of him, marshalled by the low-voiced urging of Sergeant-Major
Arkwright: "Come on!  Get fell in!"

Ward thought, That's no good.  And said, "All right, Sarnt Major."  And
lifting his voice, "Gather round, please."  He was an inch or two
taller than any other man there, but he stepped up on to the running
board of one of the trucks to make sure all of them could see him.  He
looked out over the crowded faces, blackened with burnt cork, a dark
field that bristled with the muzzles of rifles, Bren or Sten guns.  Now
he had to say something to them.

He had not prepared a speech, had shied away from it because he was not
one for speeches.  He had known them all for a year, he trusted them
and they trusted him.  Little Zack Tyzack and the other platoon
officers, Sergeant-Major Arkwright, the martinet, the NCOs and the men
like Joe Billings, the company clown, determined never to be promoted
above his rank of private.  And Corporal Shorty Hogan, equally
determined to pull sergeant, almost hidden among the bigger men in the
dark.  They were ready to follow him.  What was he leading them to?

And what could he say to them now?

Somebody coughed and he realised he had been staring at them bleakly
for almost a minute.  He said, "I just want to say..."  He stopped to
clear his throat and started again, "I'm glad it's you lot that are
going with me."

He got down from the truck, finished.  And, of course, it was Joe
Billings, Yorkshire tyke, who answered for all of them, "And the same
to you."  That raised a low rumble of approval as the group broke up.

They went behind the trucks so as not to be seen by any WAAFs on the
airfield, and urinated for the last time.  Then they split into their
separate platoons and trooped to their gliders.  There were twenty five
infantrymen and five sappers of the Royal Engineers in each.  The
sappers were the experts in demolition.  All of them climbed into the
waiting Horsas and at the last Ward walked round the gliders.  He poked
his head in at each door and growled, "Good luck."  Finally he climbed
into the leading Horsa, the Ugly Duck.  He stood at the front of the
cabin, looking through the open door in the bulkhead that led to the
cockpit.

The two pilots were in there, in the Plexiglas nose like a greenhouse.
Staff Sergeant Archie Dent was at the controls in the first pilot's
left-hand seat, Sergeant Jock Cassidy on the right.  Archie was
twenty-three years old and a veteran.  He had been flying gliders for
over two years.  Normally a cheerful young man, he was serious now.
Jock Cassidy, at twenty-one, was the younger half of an experienced
team; they had flown together for the past twelve months.  They had a
view of 180 degrees from side to side and 90 degrees from the
instrument panel by their knees up to the roof.

Patrick Ward looked past Archie and out through the big screen wrapped
around the front of the cockpit.  The four big Rolls-Royce Merlin
engines of each of the Halifaxes, throttled back until now, grew to a
thunderous roar.  Patrick shut the door of the Horsa, pulling it down
from its bay in the roof, then also closed the door to the cockpit.  He
could feel the glider shuddering now in the wash from the propellers.
He sat down and fastened his Sutton harness.

Zack Tyzack and Robb, his platoon sergeant, sat opposite Patrick.  The
men were packed in shoulder to shoulder on the wooden benches lined
down each side of the thirty-four foot length of the cabin.  Another
three sat on the cross-bench at the rear.  All of them were pulling on
their own Sutton harnesses, four webbing straps over their shoulders
and round their waists fastening at the navel with a locking pin.  They
held their rifles gripped between their knees, butts on the deck,
muzzles pointing at the roof.

Archie Dent heard the voice of the pilot of the Halifax coming down the
telephone wire woven into the tow rope and crackling in his ears: "All
set for takeoff, Matchbox?"  That was an old jibe at the all-wood
construction of the Horsa.

Archie answered, "Ready when you are."

The Halifax moved ahead and the tow rope straightened, became taut as
Archie held the glider on the brakes.  Then he released them and she
moved forward at rapidly increasing speed in the trail of the Halifax.
Archie watched the airspeed indicator and when the needle passed the
eighty mark he eased back the control column and the Ugly Duck lifted
off.  They flew like that for some seconds as the Halifax still raced
along the runway, then it, too, flew off.  Glider and tug climbed
together and the singing started in the cabin, "He flies through the
air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man ..."

They sang as the Ugly Duck crossed the coast and Patrick glimpsed the
ruffled surface of the sea, far below.  The next land they sighted
would be the shore of Normandy.  The Horsa dipped and soared and
twisted at the end of the tow rope.  At the other end the Halifax
droned across the night sky.  Its shadowy silhouette was marked by the
blue navigation lights on its wingtips and tail.  They flew at six
thousand feet and 120 knots.

Patrick Ward could not see the other three gliders but knew they and
their tugs were flying astern.  The pilot of the Halifax towing the
Ugly Duck had reported that through Archie Dent soon after take-off.
Towed by their respective tugs, they were following at intervals of two
minutes.  Patrick sang with the rest of them, but automatically.  In
his mind he was still going over the operation ahead, looking for
anything he might have forgotten or overlooked, checking over plans for
any and every emergency he could think of.

They were still singing when Archie Dent shoved open the door from the
cockpit and beckoned.  Patrick loosened his harness and leaned forward,
his head over Archie's shoulder.  He saw the pilot's face was stricken
and felt a stomach-dropping fear.  Archie said, "Message from the tug,
sir: "One of your chaps has broken his tow and gone down in the drink."
"

Patrick kept his face devoid of expression and said quietly, "Oh, my
God."

THIRTEEN

0300, Tuesday, 6 June 1944

"You two-timing bastard!"  She had shouted that with tears on her
cheeks and then slapped his face.  After that she had not spoken.  The
smack did not matter.  He didn't know which of the other two hurt most,
the accusation or the silence.

Kapitanleutnant Karl Neumann hunched ovej the wheel of the old Citroen,
peering through the screen with its fine pebbling of rain.  The wipers
clacked wearily, slowly, barely clearing the glass.  The weak
headlights, hooded because of the blackout, only lit the road for a few
yards ahead.  The car was ancient, had been requisitioned from its
French owner back in 1940 and hard-used ever since.  Karl drove as fast
as it and the conditions allowed because he was answering a call to
duty.  The signal had been phoned through to the hotel by the duty
officer at the base: radar reported a lot of shipping in the Channel
and Karl was to take his boats out on a patrol.  The ringing of the
phone had cut through the row with Karin.

He wondered what to do about her.  He had been a bloody fool last
Christmas, he knew that.  But he had reason at the time and he had been
drinking.  He went over the row in his mind, again and again, like a
nagging, aching tooth he could not leave alone.  There was an ache and
it was still there when he drove into the base at Le Havre and left the
Citroen outside the barracks.  The car was not his but borrowed from
the supply officer.  He didn't know if he would be able to get it
again.  How the hell would he get back to Karin in the hotel on the
outskirts of the city if he did not have the car?

In his little room in the barracks he changed rapidly out of his good
walking-out uniform with its black-peaked cap that he had worn to
escort his wife last night.  Instead he pulled on the old reefer jacket
he kept for sea with the two thick and one thin gold rings of his rank
on the cuffs.  They, and the eagle made of gold wire on the right
breast of the jacket, were tarnished with age and sea salt.  He jammed
the grubby old side cap on his head and walked quickly down to the dock
and the waiting boats.

Now his abstraction ended and he began to function like the
professional he was.  There were only the two Schnellboote in the
flotilla now and their diesel engines started up as he came out on to
the quay.  Rudi Meisel, commander of the second boat, had seen him
approaching.  Karl jumped down from the quay to the deck of his own
boat and swung up on to the little armoured bridge.  The burly
Johannesen was waiting for him there and reported, "All ready to go."

A seaman stood on the quay by the bow and another by the stern, waiting
for Kail's order.  He gave it: "Cast off forrard ... cast off aft." The
seamen threw off the moorings from the bollards and jumped aboard as
the boat eased away from the quay.  She was moving ahead now, picking
up speed.  Karl glanced over his shoulder and saw Rudi Meisel following
astern.  As they came to the entrance to the harbour Karl spoke into
the voice-pipe to the engine room: "Revolutions for twenty knots."

"Twenty knots, sir."

The beat of the three big Daimler engines quickened and the boat surged
ahead.  But then they were out in the open sea and she began pitching
and rolling, slamming into the big waves so that her frame shook.  Her
normal cruising speed was thirty-five knots, but... Karl said, "I'll
keep her at this."

Johannesen nodded approval.  "Foul weather to be out."

They went plunging westward.  The big coxswain was braced in one corner
of the swaying bridge, bunking against the spray flying inboard as he
squinted out into the darkness.  He asked, "How was it?"  He had to
raise his voice because of the deep rumble of the engines.  He was
talking about Karl's.  leave of absence from the base last night,
granted because his wife had wangled permission to visit him.
Johannesen had been a guest at Karl's wedding to Karin two years
before.

There were just the two of them on the bridge.  The helmsman was below
in the wheelhouse under their feet.  Karl answered bitterly, "Bloody
awful.  She found out about that tart at Christmas, the one in the
concert party.  The bitch had borrowed my dressing gown I never use it
on the base and left a photo of herself in her costume in the pocket.
There wasn't much of that costume and she'd signed the photo and
written, "With thanks for a wonderful night."  The damned thing fell on
the floor when I pulled the robe out of my case in the hotel and Karin
picked it up."

The big coxswain grimaced, a gargoyle grin barely seen in the night.
"Oh, hell.  That's bad."

"Hell is right and Karin raised it."  Karl stared out broodingly over
the screen.  "It was no use trying to tell her I was blind drunk
because we'd lost two boats the night before.  She wouldn't listen."

Johannesen said, "I remember those boats.  And I had a skinful of beer
that night."

Karl glanced at him.  "Did anything like this ever happen to you?"

"No.  Could have done, but I suppose I'm lucky."  The coxswain thought
about that for a moment then added, "Must be, as I'm still here."

Karl grumbled, "I wonder if my luck is running out."

Johannesen told him, "Balls!"

But then they both reached out to touch the wood of the screen, and
laughed together.  And Johannesen said seriously, "You tell her the
truth when you get back."

Minutes later the attack hit them.  The rumble of the Daimler engines
hid the sound of the aircraft until it was almost overhead.  Karl and
Johannesen both heard it together and their heads turned frantically.
In that one split second of focusing Karl saw the silhouette against
the sky, moonlit and covered in ragged clouds.  He thought, Wellington.
A fraction of a second later the broad beam of light washed over them.
It was a Leigh light, named after the man who thought of it, a
searchlight mounted under the belly of the Wellington bomber.

Karl yelled into the voice-pipe, "Hard astarboard!"  The helmsman spun
the wheel, the boat heeled in the turn and Karl grabbed at the screen
to keep his balance.  The 20mm gun just in front of him could not fire
because the bridge masked it, but the 40mm aft was hammering away.  The
bomber was only a vague, menacing mass behind the light that blinded
him.  He thought he saw something fall from the Wellington just before
it swept overhead, something that turned in the air then plummeted into
the sea astern of the boat.  He was conscious of machine-gun fire
coming from the forward turret of the bomber and the red fireflies of
tracer arching down into the boat.  Somebody screamed and the 40mm aft
ceased firing.  The Wellington raced away ahead and the 20mm forward of
the bridge rattled briefly, chasing it.  Then the light went out and a
second later the firing ceased as the gunner on the 20mm lost his
target.

Johannesen cursed, jumped down the ladder from the bridge to the deck
and headed aft, moving from handhold to handhold as the boat bucked
through the seas that broke over the waist of her.  Karl ordered,
"Midships!"  He shouted, deafened, like all of them.  Then he turned
back from staring after the bomber to peer astern.  All this is only
seconds.

The helmsman answered, "Midships ..."

He did not finish his acknowledgment of the order.  The sea astern of
them erupted and Karl said, "Oh, my God!"  The depth charges dropped by
the Wellington he had seen one fall but there had been two were set to
detonate at a shallow depth.  They exploded now in a double thump.  One
of them lifted a tower of water out of the sea.  The other blew up Rudi
Meisler's boat as he ran over it.  His boat snapped in the middle and
the halves flew apart as if struck and broken by a blow from a huge
stick.

Karl lifted his eyes to the sky, but not before he saw a body hanging
over the side of the mounting of the 40mm gun in the stern.  And he saw
the gun was fully manned again and the barrel swinging as the men
behind it searched the sky.  So did Karl, because the Wellington would
be back.  He knew its pilot had his boat fixed on radar and no amount
of twisting and turning would enable him to escape from that unseen
beam.

And now it came.  He heard the roar of the engines, his head swinging
as he tried to pinpoint the source of the noise but expecting it to
come from astern again.  It did.  Once more he saw that great shadow
and he shouted, "Hard aport!"  The light blazed down at him and the gun
in the stern opened up.  This time he saw sparks struck from the
armoured cupola of the bridge by the machine-gun fire from the
Wellington.  The bomber swept low overhead and the 20mm gun just feet
in front of him fired into it.  And he saw the depth charges fall.

They plunged into the sea ahead but off the starboard bow.  The turn to
port he had ordered, and which was angling the deck under his feet now,
was taking the boat away from them.  And the Wellington was hit.  He
saw the nose of it lift and for long seconds it climbed steeply, but
veering so that the wide beam from the light swung wildly across the
sea.  Then the nose came down in a shallow dive and he saw the light
snuffed out as it crashed into the sea some kilometres ahead.

He ordered, "Midships."

The helmsman acknowledged.  "Midships... wheel's amidships, sir."

Karl looked down at the compass: "Starboard ten."  Then as the boat's
head came around: "Steady ... steer that."  So they were now running
back along their course.

Johannesen climbed back on to the bridge behind him and reported
hoarsely, "The gun's crew were hit!  Henschel's dead and we've taken
Meckel below with a bullet in his arm."

Karl asked, "Any damage to the boat?"

"No."

"Very good."  Meckel was a comparative newcomer, had only been in the
boat a few months, a replacement for one of the old hands killed in a
fight with British motor torpedo boats.  But Henschel had been another
of those old hands, with Karl, in the boats for over four years.  There
weren't many of them left.

Survivors.  That was the business now.  He had faced a choice just a
minute ago: whether to hold to his course and look for anyone who might
have escaped from the crashed Wellington, or turn back to search for
Rudi and his men.  There hadn't been any choice, really.  You looked
after your own first.

They found Rudi Meisel's boat, or what was left of it.  Part of the bow
still floated, just.  No one clung to it, or was in the cockpit where
the 20mm gun sagged uselessly.  There were some scraps of timber and a
cap floating nearby but that was all.  So they began to search,
cruising in ever-widening circles around the wreckage.  The bow soon
sank but they kept on: one of their comrades might still be clinging to
life in that cold sea.

Suzi left the barn allowing herself plenty of time in which to carry
out her orders.  She was not in a hurry to risk her life but she had
not rehearsed this job on the ground, only in her head.  So she had to
allow time for stages that might take longer than she had thought.  But
not longer than one hour and thirty minutes: a half-hour before, she
had set the time-pencil fuse on the bomb to go off in two hours.

She carried under her left arm the five sticks with the torches taped
to them, the wire-cutters and the bomb, all wrapped in the old sacking
in which they had been buried.  Her right hand was free to use the
pistol, carried in an inside pocket of her coat under her left arm.  It
was the Walther PPK, snub-nosed automatic.  Suzi did not want to use
it, still hoped that, if she was stopped by a patrol, she would be able
to talk her way out of it.  But she knew that was a forlorn hope.

She swung in a wide circle, moving cautiously through fields or narrow
lanes between high hedges so that she came to the village on the
opposite side from the house of Madame Lequeux.  Before she entered the
streets she hid the sticks again, thrusting them into the bottom of a
hedge by a lone tree so that they would be easy to find again.  She
thought she might be in a hurry when she came for them.  Then she
walked on, into the village and heading for the Blockhouse.

Suzi was walking slowly, hardly making a sound, but she was breathing
quickly now.  In the streets she felt exposed, despite the cloaking
shadows cast by the houses on either side, but she soon came to the
square.  In front of her was the barbed-wire fence and beyond it loomed
the side of the Blockhouse.  She was not quite level with the front of
the house, more to the rear, so she could not see the sentry at the
front door.  That meant he would not see her but that brought her
little comfort.  There was another sentry who patrolled around the
house inside the wire.

Suzi waited.  After some minutes he came, strolling lethargically,
rifle slung over his shoulder.  She watched him pass and disappear
round the back of the Blockhouse.  Then she moved quickly.  She ran,
crouching, to the fence, knelt beside it and worked at the lower
strands with the cutters.  They parted one by one with a low twanging
and she winced at each one though she knew it would not be heard more
than a few feet away.  When she had made a hole barely a foot across
she wriggled through on her back, holding up the wire so that it would
not catch her in its grip.  Then she ran to the side of the house and
tiptoed to the corner that looked out on the front.  She eased her head
forward until one eye peered round the corner.

The sentry was there, standing on the steps at the front door.  The
window of the wireless room was just ten feet from where she stood but
the sentry was only forty feet away.  There was a moon behind the
clouds that gave some light and she could see his features in profile
quite clearly.  He would also be able to see her if she moved round the
corner to the front of the house, no doubt of it.  But others had
watched the sentries at night for weeks from the houses surrounding the
square and their reports had filtered through to her.  All the sentries
on the front door acted roughly in the same way.  They dared not lean
against the wall in case Engel caught them, dared not smoke for the
same reason.  All they could do was take a few paces one way or another
in front of the door.  And they did.

She whispered breathlessly, "This one will, Suzi.  Wait for it...
Now!"

As he turned and took the first stride away from her she was moving,
flitting across that long ten feet of space.  She was at the window. It
was closed with steel shutters but she had expected that, knew that the
shutters were only just thick enough to stop a rifle bullet, not like
the armour used to protect the gun embrasures on the upper floor. That
was in short supply and only used where absolutely necessary.

The bomb was a "clam", a metal box packed with plastic explosive and
with a magnet in the base.  It had been made to size for the task on
her instructions before she flew out from Tangmere.  Its magnet clapped
it firmly and neatly to the steel shutters just above the wide sill.
And at that moment she heard Engel's voice from the next window, just
twenty feet away.  She did not make out any words because the steel
shutters were closed over his window too, though the window itself was
open.  But she knew that voice, harsh and mad.  Her heart turned over.
Then she was running back to the corner, rounding it then halting, back
pressed tight against the wall.

She paused there, breath held, listening, hand on the pistol under her
arm.  But the sentry had not seen her.  There was no shout from him, no
pounding of boots as he pursued her.  She eased her head to the corner
again and peered out.  He was back et his post in front of the door,
his helmet in his hands, scratching at his head where the helmet had
made it itch.  But beyond him the second sentry had appeared round the
far corner of the house on his slow patrolling.

She had to be clear before he reached the corner where she stood.  She
ran on her toes across to the hole in the wire and wriggled under it
again.  It took her ten seconds to pull the wire together so that the
gap would not show in any casual inspection by the sentry, would not
give away the fact that she had passed that way.  Then she was up and
running again, back to the shadowed canyon between the houses.  Only
when she was in their cover did she slow to a cautious, silent pace.  A
few strides took her to where she was able to see the front of the
Blockhouse again.  She had gambled that she would be able to take those
ten seconds to put back the wire and she had been right.  The
patrolling sentry had paused to chat briefly with the guard on the
front door before moving on.  The watchers had reported that he always
did.  It was human nature.

She took a deep breath.  That was a start.  But only a start.  "Time to
move on, Suzi."

Pianka now dozed, stretched out on the camp bed in Engel's office, but
he woke and opened his eyes as Engel spoke into the telephone.  He
still sat straight-backed at his desk, one hand resting on its top,
long fingers wrapped around a glass holding cognac.  The other hand
held the telephone as he barked into it: "I'm still waiting for those
damned reinforcements you promised me!  What's keeping them?  Are you
transferring them from Russia?"  He paused for a few seconds listening,
then: "No, they aren't here!  I wouldn't be phoning if they were!  I
know they should be here, but they bloody well aren't!"  He listened
again, lifting the glass to his lips, froze with it almost there.
Pianka saw that, swung his legs off the bunk and stood up.

Engel rasped, "I see.  Thank you.  But I told you so hours ago!"  He
banged the telephone down on its rest and grinned at Pianka.  "That was
headquarters at Caen."

Pianka nodded and said drily, "I guessed.  So?"

"They tell me we are now on alert.  There have been reports of heavy
bombing all over Normandy."

Pianka said, "We know that.  The whole area has been plastered for
miles around."

Engel gulped at the brandy, sighed his appreciation and set down the
empty glass.  "There have also been reports of airborne landings."

Pianka said heavily, "Ah."

Engel nodded, "Ah."  He got up, walked out into the hall and bellowed
up the stairs, "Baumann!  Baumann!  Get your fat arse down here!"  He
kicked open the two doors across the hall, one that led to the
guardroom, the other to the barrack rooms, and shouted, "Turn out! Turn
out!"

He walked back into his room as the guards shouldered frantically out
of the door into the hall, buttoning their tunics with one hand, rifles
gripped in the other.  Engel turned his head to shout at them.
"Defensive positions!  Upstairs!  You'll see damn all from down here!"
They clattered up the stairs.  Baumann, on his way down, had to shove
and curse his way through the jostling tide of them.

In Engel's office he asked huskily, still blinking from sleep, "What's
going on?"

Engel stood behind his desk, refilling the glass.  He said seriously,
"The reinforcements haven't arrived."

Young Leutnant Werner Schoenenberg appeared running, buckling around
his slender middle the belt that held his Luger pistol in its leather
holster.  He stopped behind Baumann who rubbed thick fingers on his
stubbly hair and said incredulously, "You're losing your head!
Panicking!  Just because they haven't come is no reason to ..."

Engel cut in furiously, roaring, "Panicking!"  Then he grinned and went
on softly, "But they're coming!"

Baumann blinked at him.  "So.  Why are you ...?"

Engel went on, "Not the reinforcements the Tommisl As I told you! We've
been put on alert!  The invasion has started!  Any minute now they
could be walking all over you!"  He watched the shock hit Baumann and
then was sorry for him.  "Just look after your guns, Otto."

Baumann nodded his bullet head and walked out, climbed the stairs
slowly.  Werner Schoenenberg stood aside to let him pass then stepped
forward to take his place.  He asked eagerly, "The invasion?  You're
sure?  In this weather?"

Engel said wearily, "Another one who thinks the Tommis won't come
because they might get wet.  Yes, in this weather."  Werner was the
only other officer in the Blockhouse, third in the chain of command.
Engel thought, Look at him, straining at the leash, can't wait to get
at them.  Ready to die for his Fuhrer.

Then he heard the tramp of marching, booted feet outside in the square.
It halted on a shouted word of command.  Engel pushed past Werner into
the hall and then out through the blackout curtain and the front door
to stand in the outer darkness by the sentry.  He could just make out
the three chevrons on the arm of the Unterfeldwebel who marched up to
him and crashed to attention.  Engel looked beyond him as the man
reported that he had brought a platoon of reinforcements for das
Blockhaus.  Engel saw them and counted them where they stood at
attention facing him.  He said, "That is your platoon?"

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann."

Engel shoved him aside and walked forward to stand in front of the
soldiers.  He said, "Sixteen.  That's barely half a platoon.  All
right."  He said that last with a lift of the hand as the
Unterfeldwebel started to mutter excuses.  "Not your fault."  His own
command was under strength; that was one reason why he had demanded
reinforcements.  And here they were.

He walked along the ranks, a pace at a time, putting his face close to
that of each man in turn, partly so that he would know that man again,
partly to make some quick assessment: too old, too old, too fat, looks
ill... He looked at them all and then walked back to stand in front of
them.  He thought, ENT soldiers.  Too old to send to Russia or sent
back from that front as no longer fit to fight there.  Sent here to
plug the gaps.  Oh, well.

He was aware of Werner Schoenenberg standing a pace behind his shoulder
and told him, "Take them inside and keep them together as a mobile
reserve for the time being."  Werner started barking orders and Engel
left him to it.  He started across the square, took a few paces
swinging his stiff right leg and then Pianka showed alongside him,
holding out a steel helmet.  Engel limped on but asked, "What's that
for?"

Pianka said patiently, "You know what it's for."  Engel was bareheaded.
"They're still bombing all around us.  I know the theory is that they
won't bomb this place because of the French but they might make a
mistake."

Engel grinned at him.  "And you think that pisspot will stop a bomb?"

"It will stop splinters."  The bombs were still falling inland and the
anti-aircraft batteries boomed, but distantly, as none were sited near
St.  Florent.  Their shells still burst over the village as they
trained on aircraft passing over.  The slivers of steel from those
bursting shells clanged and tinkled as they fell in the streets.

Engel paused in the middle of the square, just short of the gate in the
barbed-wire fence, and stared up at the sky.  Pianka argued, "And we've
both seen guys who've had.  their hair parted by splinters.  Anyway,
you're showing a bad example to the men."

Engel jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  "You mean the Hitler Youth
back there?"

"That Werner, and the others.  But he thinks you're terrific.  He still
looks shocked when you lead off about the Fuhrer but he thinks that's
because of your wound, that it's left you a bit " Pianka tapped his
head.

Engel guffawed.  "He's not the only one.  Baumann thought I had lost my
head.  Now you're worrying in case I do.  Give me that thing."  He took
the helmet from Pianka, then tucked it under his arm.

Pianka said, "You bastard."

Engel grinned, then jammed the helmet on his head and said, "Are you
happy now?"  Then the grin faded and he muttered, "They're up there,
and some of them are down on the ground already.  And there'll be whole
armies of them on the sea and on their way here."  He turned and
started back towards the Blockhouse.  He said, "There's nothing wrong
with Werner that time won't cure."  He paused, then added, "If he gets
any."

Suzi had worked her way through the back alleys until she came to the
rear of the Blockhouse.  From there she traced the telephone wires from
where they came over the barbed-wire fence and went looping from pole
to pole along the side of the road.  Until she came to the place she
had marked long ago, where one pole stood close to a low wall.  She
shrugged out of her coat with the dragging weight of the pistol and put
the wire-cutters between her teeth like a pirate with his cutlass. Then
she climbed on to the wall and from there up the last few feet of the
pole.  She clung on with one arm wrapped around the pole while she
worked on the wires with the cutters.  It was muscle-aching work but
she kept at it until all the wires were severed.  Only then did she
slide down the pole to the wall and thence to the ground.

Her bare legs were scratched and grazed where she had gripped the pole
and slid down it.  She swore about that, as she had sworn breathlessly
all the while she had cut at the wires.  But that job, too, was done.
She put on her coat, slid the cutters into a pocket and looked at her
watch.  "Right on time, Suzi."  She was keeping to the schedule she had
set for herself, and set out again.

First she made her way back to the hedge where she had hidden the
sticks with their torches.  She dug them out of their concealment and
tucked them under her left arm.  Now she walked softly, cautiously,
around the outskirts of the village heading for the street where
Madame's house stood.  Suzi knew she was almost done now.  She only had
to set out the lights, though that might be the most dangerous task.
When she had planned this part she had not expected that Madame's house
would have been raided, and soldiers might still be there, close by
where she would be setting up the lights.  But it had to be done.

Engel was limping back across the square on his way to the Blockhouse
when he heard the rumbling, clanking and squealing.  He and Pianka
halted, waited, watching the road coming up from behind the Blockhouse,
the road from Caen.  The noise seemed to come from there, though it
echoed round the village.  Engel could just see Otto Baumann's gunners
moving in the darkness of the first floor of the house, when they came
to the embrasures where the muzzles of the two 88s poked out.  They
would be ready.  And now the chips were down, Otto would fight as hard
as anyone.

Pianka said happily, "That's got to be ..."

Engel cut him short.  "Don't count your chickens.  Let's see what we've
got before we open the champagne."

He could see beyond the house the glow of fires from the bombing
inland.  But the bombing seemed to have eased, or rather moved its
focus.  Now the explosives were raining down on the beach positions
behind him and all along the coast, but none came near the village. The
flak still burst over St.  Florent and there was an intermittent
rattling as the splinters rained down.

Pianka exclaimed, "Here she comes!  The little beauty!"

The tank's snout shoved out of the darkness into the square, then the
rest of the armoured hull came into view as it rolled on its
caterpillar tracks down the side of the barbed-wire enclosure.  The
engine rumbled, the tracks squealed and clanked as it turned along the
front of the fence and then swung again to pass in through the gate.
Engel walked towards it, one hand held above his head with spread palm
turned towards the tank.  Its commander stood with his body from the
waist up out of the hatch in the turret.  Engel saw his lips move as he
spoke to the driver and the squealing and clanking of the tracks
ceased, the rumbling of the engine dropped to a low tick over as the
tank came to a halt.

Pianka said happily again, "Now that's better!"

The tank was a Panzer IV.  Its 75mm gun poked its muzzle out in front
of its squat steel body and its commander leaned one arm on the
machine-gun mounted on its turret.  He was an Unterfeldwebel but his
three chevrons were on the sleeve of the black tanker's uniform.  The
radio headphones, that were also his communication with his driver,
were clamped on his head over the soft, black side cap.

He reported to Engel, and, like the other Unterfeldwebel must have been
warned about the Herr Hauptmann, eyed him warily.  "Reinforcements from
headquarters."

Engel nodded.  "You know the situation?  That we are on alert?"

The Unterfeldwebel tapped his headphones.  "I heard it on the radio,
Herr Hauptmann."

"Good.  I anticipate an attack will be mounted on das Blockhaus.  I
want you to break it up before it reaches the village.  I think it will
most probably come up the road there " He pointed to its entrance
across the square and facing the Blockhouse, the road that ran down to
the beach.  "But I don't know.  So sit here, where I can deploy you
when and where you are needed.  When it starts to get light I'll find
you another post with some cover."  He paused and grinned at the Panzer
commander, "But I expect we'll be in action before then."

He turned and walked back into the Blockhouse, sat down at his desk.
The cognac bottle in front of him was empty.  He tossed it in the
basket intended for papers dealt with and unlocked the bottom drawer of
the desk.  He took a fresh bottle out of there, opened it and filled
two glasses, pushed one over towards Pianka who said, "This stuff can
kill you."

Engel said, "Tonight?  Don't be funny."

But Pianka had picked up the glass and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"So now we wait."

"I don't think it will be long."

They raised their glasses to each other, an unspoken toast, and
drank.

Outside there was a rumbling, clanking and squealing again as the
Panzer manoeuvred.  Then that ceased and it squatted in the centre of
the square, between the Blockhouse and the gate in the barbed-wire
fence, with the long barrel of the 75mm pointing down the road to the
beach.

Suzi crossed the last field and worked her way through a gap in the
thick hedge that bordered it.  She came out on the verge of the road
that ran up from the sea to St.  Florent.  And just where she wanted to
be.  She had been ordered to set up the lights on this stretch of road
just outside the village.  There would be a line of three, some thirty
yards long, with the sharp points of the sticks rammed into the
rain-softened earth of the verge.  Then at the end of the line nearest
the village, in fact in the gardens of the first two cottages, one on
either side of the road, she would set up the last two lights to form
the crosspiece of the T. She knew it meant a landing, but what kind of
landing?  What aircraft could set down in the village street, wide
though it was, or the square at the end of it?  She started on her
task, jabbing the first stick into the soil, leaning her weight on it
so that it sank in and stood firm.  She moved on, counting her paces.
She would not light the torches until it was time.  She glanced at the
face of her watch.  That would be in another fifteen minutes.

The second stake went in and she moved on to the third.  She was
stepping cautiously while pressing into the shadow of the hedge as she
had done from the beginning.  Engel and his soldiers had raided
Madame's house only a few hours earlier this night.  Some of those
soldiers might still be on watch or patrolling the streets at this end
of the village.  She peered into the darkness.  There were still
flashes of gunfire lighting up the country in the middle distance
inland.  They were from guns firing at the bombers that had been flying
over all night.  There was also the glow from fires caused by the
bombing.  And now the coastline de fences behind her were being
blasted.

She wished she could see more, the flickering lights spoiling her night
vision, and wished she could hear better, the grumbling of the guns
drowning the sound of her own movements but they would also be hiding
those made by some patrol.  Still, she had to go on.  She was about to
step over the rickety, low fence into the first garden when she paused,
staring up the road.  For a moment she was uncertain, but then the moon
showed for brief seconds through the cloud cover and she could see
along the hundred-yard stretch of the street to the square and what lay
there.

Then she was running.

FOURTEEN

0450, Tuesday, 6 June 1944

Suzi was running away from him.  Richard Langley watched her go, her
slim body seeming to fly, dark hair streaming on the wind.  He wanted
to cry out to her to stop, to come back to him, but he could not get
the words out.  Then he woke and felt the wind and spray on his face,
the heat from the funnel, smelt the salt and the fumes from the
diesels.  He was sitting in the deck chair on the bridge looking out on
a dark sea under low clouds, a desolate scene and he was miserable.

The chair was tucked in between the funnel and the starboard side
Oerlikon.  Now Simon Hartington appeared, pacing round the funnel from
the port side of the bridge.  Langley peered at his watch and told
himself that he was captain and should show an example.  He tossed
aside the blanket, feeling the damp wool, smelling it.  He stood up and
stepped forward, said with forced cheerfulness, "You're becoming keen,
Simon!"  Because Hartington should have called him to take the watch
nearly an hour ago.

"Well, you were a bit late getting your head down, Skipper, and
everything was quiet."

Langley thought, And for a time she felt like she was all yours.  But
Simon did not seem exhilarated by the experience, huddled inside his
duffel coat, mouth turned down.

He went on, "Quiet except for that lot, of course."  He pointed at the
night sky where the engines still droned as the aerial fleets cruised
overhead towards the French coast.  "Anyway, I thought you wouldn't
mind if I let you sleep over."

"Thank you.  It's appreciated.  But don't do it again.  There are times
I have a good reason for wanting to be called."  Like when they were
going to beach and he needed the precious minutes to get his courage in
hand in the cold dawn.  "Now you turn in."

Simon Hartington did as he was told, slumped into the deck chair and
pulled the blanket round him.  Langley glanced at the compass course
them looked about him, saw that Bellanger's boat was next ahead and the
same LCT trudging astern; Bloody Norah was keeping her station in the
long column of ships.

He thought again that Simon was unhappy or worried about something and
he would have to tackle the youth about it.  Langley felt the
loneliness of command at this time of night on the bridge.  He was
responsible for this ship and all aboard her.  And this was the last of
the night, the cold hours before the dawn.

He realised that the glider borne troops given the task of capturing
the Blockhouse would be flying in now and wondered how they would fare.
And what did the day ahead hold for all of them embarked on this
assault on Europe?

And he wondered where Suzi was, prayed that she was safe.

"One of your chaps has broken his tow and gone down in the drink."  The
words still echoed in Patrick Ward's mind.  Thirty of his soldiers
plunging to their deaths in the cold waters of the Channel.  There was
no chance of survival with the men loaded as they were with equipment.
They would sink like stones.  The Horsa was wooden and would float but
the weight of the men in it would drag it down.

He stared ahead between the two pilots of the Horsa at the Halifax on
the other end of the long loop of the tow.  They flew in bright
moonlight above a carpet of cloud.  He tried to forget about the men
for now.  God knew he would remember them later.  He had lived and
worked with them for a year, knew each and every one of them.  But for
now he had to forget them.  He had to think of it as just the loss of
the glider and what that would mean to the overall plan.  He would have
to make changes but that was easily done.  He had tried to imagine
every possible mishap and then prepared an alternative plan.  He had
coldbloodedly envisaged the possible loss of a glider from enemy action
or other causes and prepared for that.  Because he had to.  But had it
brought bad luck?

He thrust that thought aside.  Rubbish.  Now there were just three
Horsas, three platoons.  They could still do the job.  Had to.  He and
the two pilots of the Ugly Duck were the only ones who knew about the
lost Horsa and he had told them to keep their mouths shut.  The men
behind him were still singing raucously.  Little Zack Tyzack sat
opposite him, bawling out the songs with the rest.

Archie Dent was flying the Horsa now.  He gripped the spade-handle
control column, his booted feet on the rudder bar.  To his right was
the lever that operated the flaps and another that would release the
tow.  One hand moved to that now as the voice of the tug's pilot
squawked in his ear.  "Tug to pilot: We are on our run-in.  Pull off
when you're ready."

Archie acknowledged that and turned his head to call to Patrick, "This
is where we get off, sir."  He yanked on the release lever and Ward saw
the tow fall away from the nose of the Ugly Duck to dangle loosely from
the Halifax as it flew away from them.  Archie put on half-flap and
thrust the control column forward.  Jock Cassidy set his stopwatch as
the Horsa dived down towards the cloud.

The crew of the Halifax had done all the navigating up to this point.
Now the Horsa was over the wide mouth of an imaginary funnel.  If
Archie followed it down to its narrow end he should find his designated
landing zone, the square before the Blockhouse.

All Ward's glider pilots had practised this manoeuvre dozens of times
over the past weeks.  They called it a dead stick landing" because they
had to set the Horsa down accurately in a confined space.  They had
done it first normally, in the light of day, with a straight run in to
the landing zone marked in a field.  That was money for jam.  But then
they started flying in by times and courses, and later the pilot flying
the glider wore a blindfold, then finally at night.  They used
stopwatch and compass, turning hard right two or three times before
straightening out for the last run-in.

That was training.  This was real.

The singing died away as the noise of the tug's engine faded.  There
was silence in the cabin except for the sigh of the wind as the glider
nosed down.  Ward shed his Sutton harness and struggled to his feet,
awkward in the bulky equipment in the confined space of the cabin.  He
turned to the door.  Zack Tyzack and Sergeant Robb also unbuckled the
straps that held them in their seats and stood up.  They grabbed him by
the back of his belt and held him as he opened the door.  It slid up
into the roof and for a second he stood framed in the doorway looking
down at the cloud cover rushing up at him.  Then he stepped back and
all three of them sank into their seats again.  The other two
refastened their harnesses but Patrick did not.

He slid open the door to the cockpit and heard Archie Dent ask going to
beach and he needed the precious minutes to get his courage in hand in
the cold dawn.  "Now you turn in."

Simon Hartington did as he was told, slumped into the deck chair and
pulled the blanket round him.  Langley glanced at the compass course
them looked about him, saw that Bellanger's boat was next ahead and the
same LCT trudging astern; Bloody Norah was keeping her station in the
long column of ships.

He thought again that Simon was unhappy or worried about something and
he would have to tackle the youth about it.  Langley felt the
loneliness of command at this time of night on the bridge.  He was
responsible for this ship and all aboard her.  And this was the last of
the night, the cold hours before the dawn.

He realised that the glider borne troops given the task of capturing
the Blockhouse would be flying in now and wondered how they would fare.
And what did the day ahead hold for all of them embarked on this
assault on Europe?

And he wondered where Suzi was, prayed that she was safe.

"One of your chaps has broken his tow and gone down in the drink."  The
words still echoed in Patrick Ward's mind.  Thirty of his soldiers
plunging to their deaths in the cold waters of the Channel.  There was
no chance of survival with the men loaded as they were with equipment.
They would sink like stones.  The Horsa was wooden and would float but
the weight of the men in it would drag it down.

He stared ahead between the two pilots of the Horsa at the Halifax on
the other end of the long loop of the tow.  They flew in bright
moonlight above a carpet of cloud.  He tried to forget about the men
for now.  God knew he would remember them later.  He had lived and
worked with them for a year, knew each and every one of them.  But for
now he had to forget them.  He had to think of it as just the loss of
the glider and what that would mean to the overall plan.  He would have
to make changes but that was easily done.  He had tried to imagine
every possible mishap and then prepared an alternative plan.  He had
coldbloodedly envisaged the possible loss of a glider from enemy action
or other causes and prepared for that.  Because he had to.  But had it
brought bad luck?

He thrust that thought aside.  Rubbish.  Now there were just three
Horsas, three platoons.  They could still do the job.  Had to.  He and
the two pilots of the Ugly Duck were the only ones who knew about the
lost Horsa and he had told them to keep their mouths shut.  The men
behind him were still singing raucously.  Little Zack Tyzack sat
opposite him, bawling out the songs with the rest.

Archie Dent was flying the Horsa now.  He gripped the spade-handle
control column, his booted feet on the rudder bar.  To his right was
the lever that operated the flaps and another that would release the
tow.  One hand moved to that now as the voice of the tug's pilot
squawked in his ear.  "Tug to pilot: We are on our run-in.  Pull off
when you're ready."

Archie acknowledged that and turned his head to call to Patrick, "This
is where we get off, sir."  He yanked on the release lever and Ward saw
the tow fall away from the nose of the Ugly Duck to dangle loosely from
the Halifax as it flew away from them.  Archie put on half-flap and
thrust the control column forward.  Jock Cassidy set his stopwatch as
the Horsa dived down towards the cloud.

The crew of the Halifax had done all the navigating up to this point.
Now the Horsa was over the wide mouth of an imaginary funnel.  If
Archie followed it down to its narrow end he should find his designated
landing zone, the square before the Blockhouse.

All Ward's glider pilots had practised this manoeuvre dozens of times
over the past weeks.  They called it a dead stick landing" because they
had to set the Horsa down accurately in a confined space.  They had
done it first normally, in the light of day, with a straight run in to
the landing zone marked in a field.  That was money for jam.  But then
they started flying in by times and courses, and later the pilot flying
the glider wore a blindfold, then finally at night.  They used
stopwatch and compass, turning hard right two or three times before
straightening out for the last run-in.

That was training.  This was real.

The singing died away as the noise of the tug's engine faded.  There
was silence in the cabin except for the sigh of the wind as the glider
nosed down.  Ward shed his Sutton harness and struggled to his feet,
awkward in the bulky equipment in the confined space of the cabin.  He
turned to the door.  Zack Tyzack and Sergeant Robb also unbuckled the
straps that held them in their seats and stood up.  They grabbed him by
the back of his belt and held him as he opened the door.  It slid up
into the roof and for a second he stood framed in the doorway looking
down at the cloud cover rushing up at him.  Then he stepped back and
all three of them sank into their seats again.  The other two
refastened their harnesses but Patrick did not.

He slid open the door to the cockpit and heard Archie Dent ask in an
agonised whisper he was not meant to hear, "Can you see the lights?"

Jock Cassidy peered out of the big Plexiglas dome and shook his head,
"Can't see anything but cloud."  His eyes went back to the stopwatch.
And then he was counting: "Three minutes forty-one, forty-two turn!"

Archie wrenched the Ugly Duck around in a ninety-degree turn to the
right, watched his compass, altimeter, airspeed, said, "On course."

They were sliding down through the moonlight with not another aircraft
in sight.  There was no flak, nothing but the flat layer of cloud
coming up at them.  Then they were in it, the white cotton of it piling
against the screen, blinding.  And Jock counted, "... forty-one,
forty-two-turn!"

Archie swung the glider in another right-hand turn through ninety
degrees, watching his dials, and said huskily again, "On course."  Then
they were out of the cloud and he almost shouted, "There's the coast!
Crossing it now!"

Ward eased cautiously forward to stand crouched under the low roof
behind Archie Dent.  Looking past the pilot he could see the white line
of surf that marked the coastline.  And Archie said, "But I can't see
the lights.  Jock?  Can you see them?"

Jock looked up briefly and shook his head, "Can I hell!"  Then his eyes
went back to the watch.  He said, "We should be on the final run

-now!"

Archie pulled back on the control column and the glass beak of the Ugly
Duck reared up then steadied and she ran level.  The flaps now cut back
her speed and Archie said, "Right!"  He recited, "On course

five hundred feet, one hundred and twenty knots.  And I can't see the
bloody lights!"

Ward strained his eyes, peering out at the black earth rushing beneath,
the lighter darkness of the sky ahead, the ragged silhouette cut on the
horizon.  Now they were lower and he could see the square patches that
were fields, the grey ribbon of a road and He snapped, "What's that
right ahead?"  He reached over Archie's shoulder to point.

Archie said, "Where?"  Then: "That's it!  There's the village, the
street, the houses, the bloody Blockhouse!  Just like the model and
we're hitting it dead to rights!"

The grey strip of road under them led like an arrow to the street
between the houses.  Then their roofs were flicking beneath the wide
plywood wings of the glider and the square was opening up ahead. Archie
yelled, "We're too high and too fast!"  Ward saw the airspeed indicator
on 100.  Archie went on, "Hit that parachute!"

The gliders had been fitted with the arrester parachutes to be streamed
from the tail to slow them on landing though they were as yet untried.
Jock Cassidy's finger went to the button but Patrick, about to drop
back into his seat and snap on his harness, paused to shout, "There's
something in the square!"

Jock Cassidy bawled, "Jesus Christ!  It's a tankr

And they were going to fly into it.  That would mean the death or
mutilation of all of them.

Archie said nothing but he hauled back on the control column, whacked
up the flaps and prayed the Ugly Duck would not stall as her beak came
up.  He swung her to the left as she rushed over the tank and held her
in the turn so that she banked away from the house, turning on one
wingtip.  The roof of the Blockhouse flicked under her but only a foot
away; Archie could see the separate tiles in the moonlight.  Then he
righted her so that she flew level once more.  The roofs of the village
flashed past close underneath her now she was still in a shallow dive
and then they were gone and she was over dark fields cut into squares
by black hedges.

And Archie wondered or prayed, Oh, God, where do I put her down?
Because nearly all of the fields around the village were planted with
"Rommel's asparagus", the twenty-foot-high poles set up at Rommel's
orders specifically to wreck gliders attempting to land.

Archie's prayer was answered by Patrick Ward: "Look!"  He was pointing
again and Archie saw the lights, but there were only four of them, set
out in an inverted L, its short arm at the far end of the long leg.
Archie twitched the control column so that the beak of the Ugly Duck
was lined up on the long leg of the L, then shoved the column forward,
banged on full flap and yelled, "Hit the chute!"

Patrick was back in his seat and shrugging into his harness, fastening
it.  He thought that this could be a trap, because of the tank and
because the lights were in the wrong place.  Was he taking these men of
his, who trusted him, into an ambush, certain mutilation or death?  He
could only pray that it was not a trap, because they had no choice but
to land.  The Horsa would not climb again.

Archie saw the outline of trees lifting black right in front of him.

He swung the control column again, and again the Ugly Duck tilted
sideways, one wingtip dragging, and passed the trees.  He levelled her
off once more, for the last time, with the lights coming up at him now.
Then Jock Cassidy banged the button and the parachute cracked open
astern.  The Ugly Duck's tail lifted and her nose dipped.  Archie saw
the fifth light flick on then, turning the inverted L into a T,
completing the crosspiece.  He was right on top of it.

Suzi saw the nose dip as her fingers fumbled with the switch of that
fifth torch.  She looked over her shoulder as the torch lit and saw the
glider as a monstrous hawk rushing in on her.  She tried to run but she
had already run herself into the ground.  Her legs wobbled and would
not respond.  She threw herself down or fell as her legs gave way and
heard the whistling sigh as the huge bulk of the Horsa swept over her,
one wingtip seeming to brush at her in passing.

The Ugly Duck smashed on to the soft earth, reared up again but with
all three wheels of her undercarriage gone, then slammed down once
more, this time on the skids under her belly.  She careered across the
field, ploughing through the mud and puddles that lifted in spray past
the screen, then ran into a hedge and rocked to a halt.  For some
seconds there was silence, some of the men inside briefly unconscious,
all with the wind knocked out of them.  Patrick Ward was the first to
move, yanking the locking pin out of his harness and shrugging it off.
He stepped to the open door, a dark rectangle of the night outside cut
in the black wall of the Horsa.  He shouted hoarsely, "Out!  Get
out!"

He shouldered through the doorway and his voice, harsh and urgent,
dragged the rest after him.  As he stepped clear of the shattered
plywood of the glider he heard the whistle overhead.  He looked up and
saw another Horsa, low and huge, rush past only feet above him so that
he caught a glimpse of the shadowy forms of the two pilots in its nose.
Then it was gone, dipping down over the hedge and he heard it land in a
long-drawn-out tearing and crackling of smashing timber.  Then silence
closed in again.

He rasped, "Get down in some cover!  The enemy might be all round us!"
He shoved them as they came out of the door, Zack Tyzack and Sergeant
Robb leading, the men stumbling out after them.  His hand in their
backs or on their shoulders sent them running, crouching, out into the
field to sprawl there, peering over the barrels of their rifles into
the darkness.  Archie Dent and Jock Cassidy simply crawled out through
the shattered beak of the Ugly Duck into the hedge and thence to the
field.

As Ward stared out into the darkness his eyes adjusted to the gloom and
he made out the hedges boxing-in the field, the copse of some
half-dozen trees standing at the far corner where the Ugly Duck had
swooped in perilously low.  And then a voice came out of the gloom,
disembodied, high, "Don't shoot!  Hold your fire!  I'm coming in!"

Zack Tyzack whispered, "What the hell...?"  Then he suggested, "D'you
think it's an agent in the Resistance?"

Ward answered, "We'll see."  He lifted his voice and repeated, "Hold
your fire!"  Then he demanded, "Show yourself out there!"  A slight
figure rose from the darkness of the field, hands lifted above its
head.  Ward called, "All right!  Come on in!"

The figure advanced, trudging through the mud, lowered its hands as it
came close and said, "Sorry about the change of plan, but they stuck a
bloody great tank right in the middle of the square so you couldn't
have landed there.  I had to run like mad to get here in time to lay
these lights out."

The voice was husky, with a strong Cockney accent.  Ward saw this was a
girl with a kerchief over her hair and tied under her chin.  She panted
as if she had run a long way.  She wore a coat that hung baggily around
her, the cheap fabric pulled out of what little shape it might have had
by heavy objects straining at its pockets.  The pale face was smeared
with mud.  The dark eyes in it peered up into his cork-blackened
features under the airborne soldier's round, brimless helmet.

Ward said, "You're English?"  And thought, That's how the brigadier got
his up-to-date information, but as her head nodded he came to the
point: "You'll guide us to the Blockhouse."  And that was not a
question.  Then: "One of the gliders came down on the other side of the
hedge.  Come on."

He forced his way through, Zack Tyzack and the others crashing after
him, and found he was standing in a road between high hedges.  A lane
ran out of this at right angles and going away from him.  The other
glider had dropped in over the hedge he had just pierced and landed in
that lane.  Looking down the length of it he could see the Horsa a
hundred yards away.  The wings had been stripped from it at the roots
by the hedges and the trees on either side.  So now the fuselage lay
filling the lane.  But men were there, seeming to materialise at the
tailfin of the glider that was still intact and lifted its full
nineteen feet, towering above the hedges.  And some of the men were
already advancing up the lane towards him.

They saw him and scattered to either side of the lane.  One of them
challenged Ward as he walked down the lane towards the crashed Horsa:
"Cricket!"

Ward answered, "Balls!"  And that was the correct answer.  The men had
grinned when he had told them at the briefing.  Now they came out of
the cover in the hedges and trotted along the lane to meet him.  In the
lead, when they met, was David Vicary, commander of 3 Platoon, and
Sergeant-Major Arkwright who had flown with him.  According to the
plan, 2 Platoon in the second glider should have landed in the square
behind the Ugly Duck.  David and his men in the third glider should
have landed outside the village on top of the marking lights which had
not been there.  The fourth glider, with Tom Tyler and his 4 Platoon,
and Bill Jardine, Ward's second-in-command, should have been with
David.  Ward thought, They're all scattered to hell and gone!

David Vicary said with relief, "Christ!  I'm glad to see you, sir!  My
pilot said he couldn't see the village, the Blockhouse, damn all.  Then
he spotted the Ugly Duck and followed her, saw the village then but
still followed her when she turned away because he couldn't see any
lights.  The rest of us didn't know what the hell was going on, sitting
on our arses in the back.  When he landed I didn't know where we were,
only that we weren't just outside the village as we should have been.
But he told me what he'd done, and said he'd seen the lights and come
in over the top of the Ugly Duck so she had to be somewhere behind
us."

He stopped then and Ward said, "He did well."  He looked past David and
saw 3 Platoon were now spread out along the hedges on each side of the
lane, kneeling or prone, awaiting orders.  He could see their eyes, the
whites of them peering out of the darkness, watching him.  He called,
"All present?"

And David Vicary pointed the question, "Sergeant Cullen?"

His platoon sergeant answered, "All correct, sir!"

Ward said, "Come on, then."  And when they were all back in the field
by the wreckage of the Ugly Duck he raised his voice so that the men of
both platoons could hear him: "We've got a lot to do and we're late."
And to Suzi, "Lead on."

David Vicary asked, "What about the other two, sir?"  He was talking
about the other gliders.

Ward answered curtly, "Never mind them.  We'll just have to do the job
on our own."  If it could be done at all now.  He was without half of
his force, the men of one glider known to be down in the Channel and
the other only God knew where.  And besides the loss of the men there
was the explosive they carried with them, meant for the destruction of
the Blockhouse.  But one thing at a time.  Suzi pushed through the
hedge into the road and turned left, leaving the gliders behind her,
heading back towards the Blockhouse.  Ward followed her, curtly
ordering, "One Platoon to lead."

He passed the girl to walk close to the hedge and a yard ahead of her.
Suzi demanded, "I thought you wanted me to show you the way."

He turned his head and told her harshly, "You can direct me from where
you are.  When I drop, you drop."  She didn't argue with him now.  He
looked past her and saw what was left of his company tailing out behind
him, hugging the hedges on each side of the lane, the diminutive figure
of Zack Tyzack at the head of 1 Platoon and about five yards behind the
girl.  Then Ward faced forward and strode on, the Thompson gun held
ready across his chest.  He trod softly in the mud at the side of the
lane but set a fast pace.  With every passing minute they were
jeopardising the essential element of surprise that their landing right
in front of the Blockhouse would have guaranteed them if that surprise
had not already gone.  He glanced quickly at the face of his watch and
saw the time was 0515.  They were fifteen minutes late now.

Just twenty minutes earlier, Hauptmann Franz Engel had set down his
glass and reached out for the bottle where it stood on the desk.  At
that moment his chair lifted under him and the bottle danced away from
him across the table to fall and smash on the floor.  Plaster rained
down from the ceiling and a jagged crack ran down the wall behind him.
He was deafened, stunned for some seconds, then he was out of the chair
and out of the room with a long-legged, limping, hop, step and jump.
Pianka followed him, coughing on dust and wiping it from his face.

Outside in the hall was Werner Schoenenberg, the men of the
reinforcement platoon bunched at his back.  Engel snapped at him, "Get
out front!  Look for a gun or a mortar in the village!  But watch out
for yourself!"

Werner ran out through the flapping blackout curtain covering the front
door and Engel went to the wireless room.  Its door had been blown from
its hinges and lay against the opposite wall.  The wireless room was in
semidarkness, its light snuffed out by the explosion.  The bulb in the
passage outside shed some illumination but it only showed the room to
be full of smoke and dust.  Engel dug out of his pocket the torch he
always carried at night and shone its beam into the room.  He made out
through the dust that the glass from the windows was spread around the
room in shards.  The bottom halves of the steel shutters that had
covered the windows from the outside were bent up and into the room as
if lifted by some giant hand.  The table to one side of the window
where the wireless set had stood was still there but the set was not.
It lay in pieces on the floor at the foot of the opposite wall.

Pianka coughed and asked, "Where's Willi?"

They searched.  His chair, a substantial affair chosen to take the
weight of Obergefreiter Willi Schulz, lay as firewood among the pieces
of the radio.  They found him under the table.

A few minutes before, Willi Schulz had written down the latest signal,
another warning of more parachutists landing east of the River Orne. He
had risen to take it through to Engel in the next room and dropped it. 
A draught from below the door had blown the flimsy message slip under
the table and he was grovelling under the table, reaching for it, when
the world fell in on him.

Engel dragged him out by his feet.  He and Pianka then lifted his
flabby bulk between them and carried him out into the passage and into
Engel's office.  Baumann was already there and demanded, "What in hell
is going on?"

Engel shoved a chair under Willi and let go of him.  He told Pianka,
"Get the medic to him."  Now Willi was blinking owlishly at them
through a film of dust.  Engel said, "He's alive, anyway."  And
beckoning to Baumann, "Let's go and find out what's going on."

He led the way out of the front door and over to the Panzer stationed
in the middle of the square.  The Unterfeldwebel stood with his head
and shoulders out of the turret, peering back at the Blockhouse.  Engel
called up to him, "Did you see any sign of firing before that
explosion?  Or anybody fooling about at the front of the building?"

The Panzer commander shook his head.  "I didn't see any firing.  Don't
know about das Blockhaus; I was watching out that way."  He pointed
down the road leading to the sea.  "Then I heard that bloody great bang
and I thought the top of my head was coming off."

Engel said drily, "You wouldn't have noticed if it had."  He stalked
back across the square to the window of the wireless room and peered at
the huge hole blown in the steel shutter covering the window.  He
pointed to it and told Baumann shortly, "Bomb."  He looked around him,
then walked to that section of the barbed-wire fence running along the
side of the house.  He paced back along it until he could no longer see
the front of the house and then looked down at the wire.  He stopped,
awkwardly because of his stiff leg, prised apart the wire where Suzi
had cut it and pulled it together again.  He straightened, pointed
again and told Baumann, "Where they came in and got out."  He paused,
then added, "Or he.  Or she."

Baumann was swearing, angered, outraged.  Engel disregarded that as a
waste of breath.  He walked back along the front of the Blockhouse and
said, "Whoever it was, they had nerve."  He or she -had to cover the
ten feet from the corner of the Blockhouse to the window of the
wireless room, plant the bomb and then get back into cover again.  And
if the sentry had seen them he would have shot them on sight.  Those
were his orders.

He was at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door, but
paused and glanced back over his shoulder because he had heard the
Panzer commander challenge and receive an answer.  Engel saw the answer
had come from Werner Schoenenberg coming in through the gate in the
wire at the head of the reinforcement platoon.  And behind Werner,
suddenly looming huge, its wings spread wide, wider than the street
beneath it, was an aircraft.  It was painted black or some other dark
colour so that it almost merged into the background of the clouded
night sky, but Engel made out the shape of it as it rushed down on him.
Baumann yelled behind him, heard clearly because there was no engine
noise, just a whistling sigh as it curved away.  Engel thought, Glider!
It seemed to stand on one wingtip, to brush the roof of the Blockhouse,
then it was gone.

Engel turned and found Pianka standing in the doorway, gaping at the
sky.  Engel pushed past him and Pianka said, "Was that a glider?"

"What did you think it was, thickhead?  Lufthansa starting flights into
here?"  Engel hurried on, stiff leg swinging.  In his dust-covered
office he found an empty chair in the middle of the floor and the medic
standing beside the desk, repacking his satchel.  Engel demanded,
"Where's Schulz?"

The medic snapped to attention.  "He was all right, Hen Hauptmann,)ust
shaken up."

"Up, down and sideways."  Engel guffawed, picked up the Schmei-sser
machine-pistol from its rack behind his desk and stuffed the pockets of
his tunic with spare magazines.  He laid the cold steel of its barrel
against the medic's cheek and demanded, "I didn't ask you how he was! I
want to know where he is!"

The medic shuddered at that touch and held his head rigid, swallowing.
"He went next door, Hen Hauptmann.  To the wireless room."

Engel found Willi in there, pieces of the wireless set in each hand,
blinking through the dust that still hung in the air at the chair where
he had sat and the hole in the steel shutter where death had come in
looking for him.  Engel took him by the shoulders and turned him
around, stooped to look into his face and said gently, "Listen, Willi,
that thing is finished.  Leave it."  He took the pieces of metal and
wire out of Willi's fat palms and tossed them away.  "Where's your
carbine?"  Then he saw it, propped in a corner by Willi's bed.  He
picked it up and pressed it into Willi's hands to take the place of the
radio fragments.  "That's all you'll need now, Willi.  Go on upstairs
and report to Hen Baumann.  He'll tell you what to do."

He urged Willi ahead of him, out of the wireless room.  In the passage
he found Baumann, and Werner Schoenenberg behind him, coming out of his
office where the medic still stood.  Otto said, "I've been looking for
you."

Werner spoke over his shoulder, "That was a glider!"

"Congratulations, Werner, you just passed your aircraft recognition
test."  Engel pushed Willi towards the stairs and told Baumann, "He's
yours.  So is this place, until I get back.  Telephone Caen and tell
'em we've got a glider landing here."

Werner Schoenenberg broke in, "No gun or mortar out there, Hen
Hauptmann."

Engel grinned at him, "Not yet, Werner, not yet.  But bring that mobile
reserve of yours.  We're going hunting."

He stumped out of the door and Schoenenberg yelled for the
reinforcement platoon.  Otto Baumann turned back into Engel's office
and reached for the telephone.  Willi Schulz slowly climbed the stairs.
He realised that the awful possibility he had always dreaded but had
been able to hide at the back of his mind for five years, had finally
become fact.  He was now a fighting soldier.

Engel hurried to the Panzer.  Pianka, with his rifle slung over his
shoulder now, followed one pace behind.  The tank commander had started
the Panzer's engines and Engel shouted up at him above their bellowing,
"We're going after the glider!  Follow me!"  The commander lifted one
hand in acknowledgment and Engel walked on to the gate in the wire.

Pianka asked, "Do you think it's a good idea bringing him?  Suppose
they have anti-tank weapons?"

Engel glowered at him.  "Suppose there's more than one glider.  And how
many Tommis in a glider ten, twenty, thirty?  And suppose they are
pathfinders, come to prepare the way for a regiment or maybe even a
division?  I can't sit in a bunker and let them get on with it!  I have
to hit these guys before they get organised or they will be hell's own
job to handle.  At the same time I have to leave Baumann with a full
garrison because das Blockhaus must be held.  So what have I got?"  And
he gestured with his thumb over one shoulder.

Pianka glanced behind him at the sixteen men of the reserve platoon,
Werner Schoenenberg at their head, trotting after Engel.  He said, "I
see what you mean.  You need the tank's fire-power."

"Right.  And I need a lot more, starting with some luck.  I have a
nasty feeling about tonight."

Engel limped rapidly through the streets and alleys around the side and
the back of the Blockhouse, on to the road leading inland to Caen.  He
told Pianka, "It was too low to get up again or turn back.  It has to
be out on this road.  But all we need now is a trumpeter out front. Our
friend back there is shouting; "Here we come!"  " He was talking of the
rumbling and squeaking Panzer."  Tommi will be deaf if he doesn't hear
that."

Patrick Ward heard it.  He halted, turned and waved his arms, gesturing
to his men to take cover in the hedges.  He saw the girl watching him
and growled, "Get down."  He pushed her into the hedge so that she fell
and sprawled her length.  Suzi gasped with outrage, then he hissed,
"Tank!"  And she swallowed what she had been about to say.  Ward faced
forward again, flattened into the mud.  He thought, A tank!  The one
that was in the square?  Probably.  And he cursed.

There was just so much you could carry in a glider and they had no
antitank weapons, save Gammon bombs.  He felt in his camouflaged smock
now and found the one that he carried.  His eyes were fixed on the road
ahead of him.  The noise of the tank was louder but first of all he saw
men walking close to the hedges on either side of the road.  One of
them, the leader, appeared to be very tall though that might have been
because Ward was belly down on the ground.  He set the stock of the
Thompson gun to his shoulder and lined up the sights on the chest of
the tall figure.

Engel saw the road ahead still empty.  He was never sure later if it
was instinct warning him or just nervousness, but he threw himself flat
and yelled, "Get down!"  As he was falling he saw the flame rip the
night ahead of him and something passed his head with a crack.  His
shouted warning might have been an order to fire.  Muzzle flashes
rippled along the hedgerows and he replied with the Schmeisser,
squirting short bursts at the flames that spat at him.  Men were
screaming behind him, and firing.  The machine gun of the panzer opened
up.  Dirt was kicked up from the road only inches in front of his face
and Pianka tugged at his ankles and shouted, "Get back out of this!"

Engel knew he was right.  The muzzle flashes lined out in front of him
told him he faced a force that outnumbered his own.  And he had not
caught them unprepared.  They had damn near caught him.  The Panzer was
lumbering down the road towards him, its machine gun sweeping the road.
This was why he had brought it.  So he wriggled around on the road and
worked his way back, snaking along close to the hedge and following
Pianka until the tank had ground past them.  Engel yelled at Werner
Schoenenberg and his men who were following it along the road, "Move
over into the hedge and get down!"  He set them an example that they
copied.  The tank rumbled and squeaked on down the road and they
watched it.

Werner pleaded, shouting, "Can't I follow it up with a few men?  I
could get right in among the Tommisl"

Engel shook his head.  "I want to see what's going on here before I
commit what men I've got."  He had to preserve his little command.  And
now there was a pause in the firing as both sides lay low and looked
for targets.  Engel did not hear the engine noise because of the
clattering of the Panzer ahead of him.  Then the Kubelwagen raced past
him.

Patrick Ward saw the tank now, bulking large in the road, its machine
gun firing bursts that ripped splinters from the surface of the road or
cut twigs from the bushes lining it and killed.  He searched
frantically in the hedge near him until he found a gap between roots
that was just wide enough to let his body pass through.  In the field
beyond he got to his feet but still crouched almost double as he ran
along behind the hedge.  When he was almost level with the tank he
halted and went down on one knee.

He held the Gammon bomb in one hand.  It was no more than a stockinet
bag with a fuse at one end and stuffed with plastic explosive.  When he
heard movement behind him he turned, swinging the Thompson gun
one-handed and stared into the face of Zack Tyzack.  Behind him was Joe
Billings, the company clown.  Both held Gammon bombs.  Ward took a
breath and said, "Good.  Together ..."  He was watching the turret of
the tank that was now lifting over the top of the hedge, drawing level
with them.  There was a pause in the firing then and he heard the
screech of brakes and a sudden metallic crash of steel on steel.  He
shouted, "Now!"

He stood up.  As his arm came up with the bomb he saw in one swift
glance a Kubelwagen smash into the rear of the panzer.  He hurled the
bomb at the tracks of the tank, glimpsing briefly the figures of the
other two standing beside him throwing their bombs.  Then he and they
were flat on the earth again and the explosions were crump!  crump!
crumping!  The tank stopped.  Its machine-gun no longer fired.  Smoke
boiled up in a thick cloud from the other side of the hedge.

Two of the bombs fell on the right-hand track of the tank and tore it
from its bogie.  The third burst on the front of the turret.  Engel and
his men hugged the earth in their meagre cover as splinters of ragged
steel scythed through the branches above their heads.  Engel lifted to
an awkward crouch, his stiff right leg thrust out behind him, as the
echoes of the explosions died away.  The Panzer no longer clanked or
moved.  Smoke rose from its right-hand side where the bombs had burst.
The Kubelwagen was crushed up against its rear end.

A figure detached itself from the wreck of the little car and ran on
wobbly legs back up the road.  Engel reached up, grabbed the man's arm
as he came level and pulled him down.  He started to struggle then
ceased as he recognised Engel, who demanded, "Where the hell were you
going?"

The driver blinked at him and Engel could feel him shaking as he
panted, "Herr Baumann tried to telephone Caen but the line was dead. He
told me to take the Kubelwagen and tell them a glider had landed."

Engel swore then: "And you ran my truck into the back of a tank!  So
now you'll have to use your legs.  Get back up the road, then through
the hedge and cut across country till you can pick up the road again
when you're clear of this lot.  If you find a phone, use it.  If you
find any of our people with communications still open to Caen, get them
to pass the message.  Now run like hell!"  He gave the man a shove and
sent him pounding off up the road the way he had come.

The tank was burning.  Werner started to rise to his feet but Pianka
grabbed him and pulled him down again.  Engel snapped, "Stay where you
are!"

The young Leutnant fought to pull free from Pianka's grip.  "Take your
hands off me!  There are men in that tank!"

"There are a lot more waiting to pick you off as soon as you climb on
to it!"  Now Engel seized him by his shoulder, pulled him close and
shouted into his face, "We're trying to keep you alive, you prick!  Now
get back up the road with half of these men and take up a holding
position!  You'll want one or two men out in the fields on either side
because the Tommis are working through them!  Then cover the rest of us
as we fall back!"  His hand on Werner's back shoved him on his way.

Engel faced forward, saw flames leaping high from the Panzer now and
heard Werner shouting, high-voiced, for the men he wanted to go with
him.  Engel saw those still with him had their heads turned to gaze
longingly after Werner's detachment, now drawing back up the road. They
scuttled along, bent double, using what cover lay in the deeper
darkness cast by the hedges.  Engel bawled at that handful of men left
to him, "Look to your front!  Hose those hedges or they'll bury you
here!"

He fired a long burst from the Schmeisser into the darkness from whence
the bombs had come.  He swore, mouthing curses that were inaudible in
the din as the men around him joined in, firing rapidly, working the
bolts of their rifles.  Then he started back along the road, taking
them with him.  He moved like a great stork, bent from the waist to
make a low target, unable to crouch because of his stiff leg.  He told
himself that if the Tommis had got alongside the tank by creeping in
the field on the other side of the hedge, then they could outflank him.
The men Werner should have posted in the fields by now should keep the
Tommis' heads down and slow them, but not stop them.  He paused to fire
another burst, changed the magazine on the Schmeisser then told Pianka,
"And I don't want to wind up in the bag."

He almost did.  Patrick Ward led David Vicary and his men past the
wrecked tank on the road, all of them sprinting through the pool of
yellow light cast by the flames from the blazing Panzer, so they were
silhouetted against it for split seconds only.  And he sent Zack Tyzack
and Sergeant Robb, each with two sections, half of Zack's platoon,
prowling in the fields on either side.  His intention was simple, to
outflank and surround the enemy holding the road in front of him.  It
would have succeeded but for the opposition met by the men in the
fields.  Somewhere in the night ahead of them, firing through the hedge
from the next field, was always a rifleman or two.  They were hard to
pin down because they moved their positions as soon as the firing
zeroed in on them.  They had to be wink led out by cautious stalking,
one at a time.

Only once, at the beginning of that slow advance, did Zack Tyzack catch
a glimpse through the hedge of a tall figure bent awkwardly.  Zack
could just make him out where he moved in the shadows on the far side
of the road some twenty feet away.  Before Zack could fire the tall man
swung his way and fired a ripping burst from a sub-machine-gun that
sent Zack diving down into his own cover.  When he moved and lifted up
again to reply, the man was gone and the road was empty.

Patrick Ward also glimpsed the long shadow moving among those that
stood still.  He lost it before he could swing the barrel of the
Thompson gun and fire.  He triggered a short burst anyway and knew he
had missed when an answering burst clanged and whined off the tank
behind him.  That sent him flat on his face.  When he pushed up again
to move no firing was coming from the road ahead of him.  He turned to
beckon the men behind him and found them close.  And among the leaders
was the girl.

He demanded hoarsely, "What the hell are you doing up here?"

Suzi answered as before, "You wanted me to show you the way to the
Blockhouse!"  But her voice shook.

He heard that and demanded, though not looking at her, his gaze
shifting from the men moving past him now to the road ahead, "Are you
all right?"

"No, I'm scared."  And dirty.  And the burning tank was giving off a
sickening stench.

Ward answered, "You'd be a bloody fool if you weren't."  And still not
looking at her but searching the faces of men as they passed, "Does
this road lead into the village?"

"Yes."

Now Ward saw the face he wanted and called, "Corporal!"

Shorty Hogan stepped out of the file hurrying past and Ward ordered,
"You escort this lady.  Keep her at the rear out of harm's way."

Shorty opened his mouth to protest but saw the glitter in Patrick
Ward's eyes and grumbled, "Sir."

Firing broke out again further along the road, round the next bend. Its
crackling echoed between the hedges and the muzzle flashes lit up the
sky above them.  Ward set off up the road at a long-legged trot. Shorty
hitched at his pack, summoned up what little of his schoolboy French he
could remember and said, "Apres vous, Mamzelle."

Suzi managed to laugh at him.  "Don't be a clot.  I'm as English as you
are.  Come on, Shorty."

She started up the road after the men disappearing into the darkness
ahead of her.  The stocky corporal hurried after her.  "I'm not
English.  I'm Welsh.  And how did you know they call me Shorty?"

"I didn't."

He was still taking that in when they came to the main body again.  The
enemy were once more holding positions ahead and the process of
outflanking was going on in a din of small-arms fire and bursting
grenades.  Shorty shoved her to the ground again then and crouched
beside her.  He thought that this was a hell of a job.  He dared not
hang back in case they became separated from the main body, dared not
keep too close to them because of the danger of the girl being hit.
That was when he swore, but under his breath because she was there.
Suzi was also cursing silently because of his presence.  So they hardly
exchanged a word while that long advance went on.

Engel and Werner Schoenenberg alternately held the line while the other
passed through with his men.  In that way they fought their way back
into St.  Florent.  At last they came to the rear of the Blockhouse.
The sentry there was holding open the gate in the barbed-wire fence
that ran all round the house.  Werner sprinted through the gate into
the yard, chivvying his surviving soldiers in front of him as if they
were a flock of sheep.  The black shadow of the old stable lifted to
his left and he shouted to the sentry on his right, "Never mind the
gate! Get into the house!"  The man followed him at a run.

Then Engel bellowed at his own men, "Run, you bastards!"  He limped
after them as they galloped over the cobbles and into the shelter of
the Blockhouse.  As he hopped up the steps and in at the back door the
firing from the far side of the yard behind him chipped splinters of
stone from the walls to tear into his face.  A machine-gun hammered
from a window on the upper floor, giving him covering fire, then
another joined in.  But then he was in the hall, the steel door clanged
heavily shut behind him and the bolts shot home.

Patrick Ward came to the gate in time to see David Vicary charge
towards the Blockhouse at the head of a group of his men.  They were
not halfway across the yard when the machine-guns fired from the upper
floor.  They raked the yard in long bursts.  Vicary fell on his face,
then two of his men collapsed, legs crumpling and arms flung wide.  The
others halted, hesitated, firing back at the machine-guns.

Ward shouted, "Get back here!  At the double!"  And they obeyed him,
came running to dive into cover behind the stable where he joined them.
The machine-guns stopped firing and there was a ringing silence.

Engel leaned back against the wall and compared notes with Werner. They
had lost two men killed, left out in the fields or the streets of the
village.  There were three wounded, two seriously, now in the hands of
the medic.  Engel thought, God help them.

Then Otto Baumann clumped down the stairs from where he had been
keeping watch with his gunners.  He reported, "I tried to telephone
Caen but the lines must be down.  I got nothing.  So I sent a man in
your Kiibelwagen."

Engel grinned at him madly and said, "I know."  He wondered how long it
would take the man to walk and run to Caen or if he would ever get
there.  He thought, And God help the rest of us.  He and his command
were isolated in das Blockhaus.

Patrick Ward lay on the cold, wet cobblestones behind the old stable.
Peering round the corner he could see the back of the Blockhouse just
fifty yards away but failure stared him in the face.  There was no
crossing that empty yard under the machine-guns on the upper floor;

the bodies of David Vicary and his men lying out in the yard testified
to that.

Ward heard the click!  and clank!  as his men cut through the wire
behind him to get to him otherwise he would have had to run out through
the gate again to reach them.  He saw they were all there, kneeling or
sprawling in cover along the fence, waiting for his orders.  But what
was he to tell them?  They had got here too late and the coup de main
had failed.  The Blockhouse was out of his reach.

FIFTEEN

0600, Tuesday, 6 June 1944

Karl Neumann had kept up the search for a long time, the Schnell-boot
bucking and twisting as it slowly circled that area of broken sea where
Rudi Meisel's boat had gone down or just ceased to exist.  He did so
with dwindling hope and there had been little to start with.  Rudi had
been right on top of that colossal explosion.  Karl finally rubbed
wearily at his face and said, "That's it.  We have a job to do.  We
have to get on with it."

He stooped to the voice-pipe and ordered, "Starboard ten."  And when
the boat was back on course: "Twenty knots."  The weather was no
better.  He cocked his head, listening.  There was still the drone of
aircraft noise passing overhead as there had been for hours of this
night.  But no low-flying Wellington came with its belly death-laden.

Johannesen swung up on to the bridge, glanced at Karl's drawn face and
told him, "You've done all you could."

Karl shook his head in defeat.  "We didn't find a damned thing.  Waste
of time."

"You had to look.  There might have been some poor bastard hanging on."
Then Johannesen added grimly, "But in a way it's a mercy we didn't find
anything after she went up like that.  I wouldn't fancy fishing those
bits out for identification."

Karl knew what he meant, had seen the remnants of men hauled out of the
sea in a bucket and did not want to think about that.  He said, "She's
yours for a few minutes.  I'm going below to see Meckel."  He had taken
a bullet in the arm from the Wellington's machine gun.

Johannesen moved to stand by the voice-pipe.  "He's not too bad.  I
looked in on him."

"Good.  I have to carry out this patrol but I want to tell him I'll get
him to a doctor as soon as I can."  He started down the ladder, then
paused, remembering, and asked, "How's your boy?"

Johannesen was silent a moment, worried by thoughts of his son of
eighteen, flying with the Luftwaffe in Russia.  He had once told Karl,
"I wouldn't let him go to sea, not after what I've seen."  Now he said,
"He's all right, last I heard.  That was a letter he wrote three weeks
ago."  The boy had seemed in good spirits or was that just the sort of
letter you wrote home so that people didn't worry?

Karl said, "Well... That bomber... We'll take a quick look to see if
anyone got out of it alive."

So after he had talked to Meckel and was back on the bridge, they were
circling slowly again.  And again with little hope.  So Karl said, "I'm
giving it just ten more minutes.  It'll be light soon."  And when the
ten minutes were almost up they found the airman.

"Man in the sea!"  One of the men on the 40mm gun in the stern yelled
and pointed.  Karl brought the boat around slowly, engines idling,
until she drifted close to the body and the men back there in the waist
hauled it inboard.  Johannesen went down to deal with it and Karl
brought his boat back on course again at twenty knots.

When Johannesen returned to the bridge he reported, "Another waste of
time.  I think he was dead before the plane hit the sea.  Maybe he was
in the rear turret and was thrown out.  He's got more holes in him..."
He took a breath.  "Anyway, we've wrapped him in a tarpaulin and lashed
him to the deck aft alongside Henschel."  He was silent for a time,
swaying as the boat punched through the big seas with the spray flying
back over the bridge into his face.  He said, "He was just a young
fellow."

Karl stared out over the bow.  He wondered just what was out there in
the Channel.  They would soon know.  There was still a lot of air
activity, the sky seeming full of their buzzing, like a swarm of bees.
He thought that it had been a hell of a night and it wasn't over yet.

0700, Tuesday, 6 June 1944

"Brought you some breakfast, sir."  Little Uncle Oswald had come from
the galley carrying a box lid he used as a tray.  It held two mugs and
a plate of sandwiches.  Uncle added, "And for you, Tubby."

Richard Langley said, "Thank you."  The day was beginning and the night
had ended as it had begun, with that same lumpy sea under a dark and
overcast sky.  A cold wind rattled the halyards above the bridge.
Bloody Norah would soon reach the "departure point" and start the
run-in to the Normandy coast.  They had passed the twin-funnel cruiser
Scylla at first light.  She was Admiral Vian's flagship, marking the
lowering point.  The big landing ships were anchored around her,
lowering the little assault landing craft that carried just a platoon
of infantry down to the sea.  The gunners manning the two 20mm
Oerlikons on either side of the bridge huddled inside their duffel
coats.  Bloody Norah's crew were at action stations.

Uncle peered out over the screen.  "They're still lambasting them.
Can't see anything yet, though."  His voice was raised as all were and
]| they had all become used to that.  They had heard the aircraft
growling overhead all night, and the rumble of the bombing had grown
louder as they approached the French coast.

Langley swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and sipped at the tea, then
told Uncle, "What you heard earlier was bombing.  All the noise now is
shelling coming from God knows how many ships lying offshore, from
destroyers to battleships.  Warspite and Ramillies are out here today,
to name just two."

The landings were to be made on five beaches along a fifty-mile stretch
of the Normandy coast between Le Havre and Cherbourg.  They were named,
from east to west: Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha and Utah.  The beach ahead
of Bloody Norah, and where she would make her landing, was Sword.

Uncle said, "Hell's flames!"  And: "Look at that smoke!"  All that
could be seen now were the lines of dan buoys marking the channel swept
clear of mines.  The coast itself lay over the horizon, and that
horizon was wreathed in smoke.

Langley explained again, "That's partly from the bombing and the
shelling, I suppose, but mainly from ships and planes laying a screen.
The idea is to stop Jerry's guns from seeing us as we go in."

Uncle sniffed.  "Let's hope it works, then."

Richard Langley warned him, "You'll see something soon enough.  Don't
rush it."

"I was willing to wait at home, sir.  You could have sent me a card
telling me all about it when you got to a post office."

Langley said amiably, "Get off my bridge."  He knew all his little crew
had thoughts of home.  And all of them had left good jobs when the war
came and volunteered for the Navy.  He drank more of the tea Uncle had
brought him and called after him, "Oswald!"

"Sir?"  Uncle paused on the ladder, face turned up to him.

"How are the soldiers?"

Uncle's teeth showed as he grinned, "Bit better, sir.  I think most of
them have brought it all up now.  We'll have to hose her right through
tomorrow after they've gone."  He paused a moment, then added, "Poor
bastards.  I don't fancy their job."

Langley thought, Amen to that.  Tim Ryan, Yarborough and their men
would be landing on the open beach in daylight and facing the massed
fire of the defenders.  Those defenders had spent years planning the
fields of fire, building the casemates for the artillery, siting the
machine-gun nests.  Ryan and Yarborough had to fight their way through
to reinforce an objective that might not even have been captured.

He said, "Find Major Ryan and give him my compliments.  I think you'll
find him on the tank deck.  Ask him if he could come to the bridge for
a minute.  And fetch some breakfast up for Mr.  Harting-ton."  Langley
could see Simon walking aft from the bow along the catwalk, returning
from checking the lowering gear for the ramp.  He had sent him on that
errand to keep him occupied.

Uncle answered, "Aye, aye, sir."  Then he disappeared, dropping down
the ladder on his way to the tank deck.  Langley had seen Ryan go down
there as dawn was breaking, after sleeping in the bunk Langley had lent
him.  Langley had dozed for a while in the deck chair at the back of
the bridge.

Simon Hartington climbed the ladder to stand beside him and said,
"Didn't the Yanks go in half-an-hour ago, Skipper?"  He stared gloomily
ahead, shoulders hunched.  Langley could not help comparing him with
the cheerful Harry Darville.

Langley answered, "That's right."  Because of the difference in the
times of the tides, the Americans landing on Utah and Omaha beaches
further west had landed at first light.  It would soon be the turn of
Bloody Norah but there was something Langley wanted settled first.  He
asked, "How do you feel, Simon?"

The midshipman forced a smile, "I'm fine."

Langley refused to accept that answer and exploded impatiently, "For
God's sake, man, you've been moping for the past week!  Now what's
wrong?  Is it the ship, your job or trouble at home?  And don't give me
a lot of flannel!"  Hartington was silent for a moment, then drew a
breath and said, "Well, I've been talking to some of the chaps in the
other boats, the

Jimmies."  (Jimmy the One was a first lieutenant.) "They tell me that
my cousin is not as bloody marvelous as I'd thought."

"What d'you mean?"

"They say he's too keen to get on, that he uses people or tramples on
them on his way up."  He blinked at Langley.  "You see, he's been
something of a hero to me for years now and it comes as a bit of a
shock to find ..."

Langley cut in then, "Look, nobody is universally popular.  And he's
not in a popularity contest.  Just because he's rubbed one or two
people up the wrong way..."

But now Simon interrupted.  "It wasn't just one or two.  Damned near
everyone in the flotilla feels that way.  They say he's all show and
they call that craft of his the Showboat..."

"That'll do!"  Langley shut him up, then went on.  "I don't want to
hear any more of it.  He's our flotilla leader.  He does his job and we
have to do ours.  We've a duty to him, the men aboard here and those
already ashore.  So snap out of it.  Never mind what anyone has said,
just concentrate on getting this job done.  Understood?"

Simon answered stiffly, "Aye, aye, sir."  But later he thought that
Langley had never asked what the other blokes had said about himself.
And it had all been laudatory.

Now Tim Ryan came to the bridge, climbing up from the tank deck.  He
glanced around and said, "It's like a regatta!"  The sea ahead swarmed
with landing craft carrying the first assault wave.  Ryan sounded
cheerful, grinned at Langley and Hartington.

Langley said, "And we only have a worm's eye view.  This is just one
sector of one beach."

Tim Ryan leaned his head back to scan the sky and said, "No sign of the
Luftwaffe, then?"

Langley shook his head, "No.  Nor of their navy."  That had been
something of an anticlimax.  He and all the other tens of thousands
involved in this operation had been told that the Luftwaffe had been
broken.  But they had still said, "I'll believe that when it happens."
Well, it was happening, or not happening now.  The invading armada had
not been bombed or attacked from the sea.  But Langley now cautiously
hedged his bets and said, "So far, anyway."  He went on, "I think it
would be a good idea if your chaps tried to get some breakfast inside
them.  We'll beach in about thirty minutes from now."  He wondered what
it must be like to be weak and empty-bellied from vomiting, and knowing
soon in the cold dawn you would have to charge ashore in the face of
the enemy's fire?  That took courage.

Ryan nodded, "All right.  I'll tell them."  He held out his hand.  "In
case I don't see you again before we go in thanks for the ride."

Langley shook the hand, "You're welcome.  And good luck."

"The same to you."  And Ryan left the bridge and went down to the tank
deck again.

Uncle Oswald reappeared with another mug and a sandwich for Hartington.
"Here yare, sir."

Hartington took it.  "Thank you."  And found he had an appetite, chewed
and sucked at the tea.

Langley told him, "Soon as you've finished that, Simon, start getting
the covers off and then go forward to the ramp.  We'll be starting the
run-in soon."

"Aye, aye, sir."  Hartington ate hurriedly while Bloody Norah plodded
on, then drank and shoved the empty mug on the shelf under the screen.
"That's better."  He turned to Langley and said, "And thank you,
sir."

He left the bridge, showing some energy now and shouting for his
working party, leaving Langley wondering why he had been thanked?

Tubby Anderson said, "Not long now, sir."

"No."

Then they would hit the beach.

Zack Tyzack urged, "I'm ready to try, sir.  If a few of us can reach
the door and blow that in, then the rest will be able to follow."

Patrick Ward shook his head.  "No."  No one would cross that empty yard
where there was no shred of cover under the fire of those machine-guns.
He knew he had to get in, had to find a way, but not like that.  Not
yet.

He and his men had cut away the barbed-wire fence until they could walk
through to the back wall of the stable with ease.  They were gathered
there in its cover now.  He said, "I'm going to do a recce."  The old
saw: Reconnaissance was seldom wasted.  In this case he was looking for
a way in, though without much hope.  He had already studied the model
of this place, so he did not think a short inspection on the ground
would produce a solution now.  But he had to try.

"Before I go: Orders.  I want a couple of sentries on the road we've
just come up.  No doubt the man in there" he jerked a thumb at the
Blockhouse " has called for help and I think his relief column will
most likely come up that road."

"He'll have had to send somebody on foot or in a truck."  That came
from Suzi.  Ward turned to her and she went on, simply, "He has no
radio.  I blew that.  And I cut the telephone wires."

They all stared at her, dumbfounded, until Ward said, "Did you, by God!
Well, that should give us a little more time."  He needed it.  He went
on with his orders that would effectively set a string of men around
the Blockhouse.  But they would have to be ready to face both ways
because they were themselves surrounded now in hostile country.  "I'll
come back here, so for the time being, this will be myHQ."

He was conscious again of the girl standing back behind the men.  He
could not see her face where they stood in the shadow cast by the
stable, but he could make out that she cut an odd figure among the
camouflaged and face-blackened soldiers.  She still wore the kerchief
over her hair and the shapeless, cheap coat.  And were those plimsolls
on her feet?  It was hard to tell because they were caked in mud.  She
looked like some peasant woman come in from the fields, or a factory
girl going home from her work.  And that, he thought, was a good
disguise when you came to think of it.

He realised he had been staring at her and went on quickly, "You'd
better stay here with Sergeant-Major Arkwright and Corporal Hogan."

"You mean Shorty?"

"That's right."  Ward wondered how she had got on to nickname terms
with one of his men so quickly, and when they had been in continuous
action.  But he was already moving, as were Zack Tyzack and the rest of
them, setting out to take up the positions Ward had ordered.  He left
half-a-dozen men with the sergeant major, Shorty Hogan and Joe Billings
among them.  Arkwright pointed out their positions to them: Shorty and
Joe watching the Blockhouse and two others guarding their rear, the
road they had just fought over.  The last two stayed with Arkwright as
a reserve.

Suzi found a rock in the cover of the old stable and sat down wearily
on that.  It was cold and hard but would not soak her clothes through
as would the mud at the side of the road.  She needed a rest, had been
on the run or on edge, counting the passing minutes while hidden in the
barn, for the last several hours.  She asked, "Didn't you say you were
Welsh?"

Shorty Hogan was down on one knee where he could see past the stable to
the back of the Blockhouse.  He was thinking that this was all right
while the shadow from the stables hid him, but he would need better
cover come the light of day.  He turned his head to blink at Suzi and
answered, "That's right."

"With a name like Hogan?  That's not Welsh."

Shorty had turned back to watching the Blockhouse but he explained,
"That was my grandfather's name.  He came over to Cardiff about fifty
years ago."

"From Ireland?"

"No.  New York."

Suzi gave it up.  "So you're from Cardiff?"

"Ah!  Wish I was there now."

"So do I."

That turned Shorty's head again and he stared at her.  "You know it "

"Never been there in my life, but I wish I was now."  She grinned at
him.  He still stared, startled, for a second, then he grinned back at
her before turning again to watch the Blockhouse.

And that last turn of the head was one movement too many.  The sniper
shot him.

The stocky corporal jerked as if kicked and then his body went loose,
seemed to dissolve inside the camouflage smock and the lacing of the
webbing equipment.  Joe Billings threw himself past Suzi to grab Shorty
by the legs and pull him back into the cover afforded by the stables.
She bent over the corporal but saw at once that there was nothing she
could do.

Arkwright came plunging in from the road through the gap cut in the
wire.  He went down on his knees beside Suzi.  "Let me see him."

She sat back on her heels and told him, "He's dead."  Arkwright saw
that for himself now and nodded.  Joe Billings took Shorty's gas cape
from his rucksack and spread it over the body, covering the face and
the awful wound.  He swore softly under his breath all the time.  Suzi
went back to sitting on her rock, arms wrapped around her, shuddering
inside the old coat.  She tried not to look at the body only feet
away.

The stone wall of the stable was hard and cold against her back.  She
was conscious that the Blockhouse was only fifty yards away on the
other side of the stable.  Guy and Paul, the organiser and wireless
operator of the old circuit, were still imprisoned there along with a
handful of Resistance men.  She wondered again why Engel had kept them.
There was room for them, of course.  There were eight cells besides the
magazine for the guns in those huge cellars stretching all the way
under the house.

For a moment she sat still, then she jumped up and seized the shoulder
of the sergeant major where he knelt at the corner of the stable
watching the Blockhouse but he was not easing his head round the
corner; instead he peered through a crack in the stonework.  He twisted
round at her touch and she demanded, "Get your officer!  Quick!  And
blow a hole in this wall!"  And she told him why.

Arkwright called, "Fred!  Double off and fetch the Old Man!  Tell him
it's urgent!"

One of the two sentries watching the road answered, "Right!"  He got up
and set off in a crouching run.

Then Arkwright shouted for one of his reserves, "Ginger!  Make us a
hole in this wall, will you?"  He winked at Suzi.  "He's an
engineer."

Five minutes later Ginger had tamped his plastic explosive into a
crevice dug between the stones of the stable wall and lit the fuse.
Suzi lay between him and Joe on the other side of the road, their heads
down and covered by their arms.  The earth shook under them but the
explosion was muted.  They stood up, crossed the road and passed
through the gap cut in the wire while the little cloud of dust still
hung in the air.  And that was when Patrick Ward demanded, "What the
hell is going on here?"

Suzi turned from the hole now blown in the wall, big enough for a man
to crawl through, and told him.  Ward sent a runner to call in his men
except for a few sentries.  When he had them all together he told Zack
Tyzack: "Sergeant Robb to take two men and one of the mortars.  The
other mortar and the rest of your platoon stay here with you."  A
minute later Robb was on his way to the front of the Blockhouse and
Zack's men were setting up the other two-inch mortar.  Ward was inside
the stable and his men were following him.  Suzi stayed outside.  He
had told her, "You've done your share and in there you would only be in
the way.  Everyone to their own trade."

"All right," Suzi agreed for the time being.  These men were a
practised team and she was an outsider.  She stayed with Zack Tyzack
and he found time to think that she was quite a pretty girl.

"Check those doors are closed."  Ward was talking of the big double
doors opening out from the stable on to the yard and looking across it
to the Blockhouse.

"They're shut, sir."  Arkwright's voice came out of the gloom.  Now
Ward used his torch.  He and his men found a smell of oil and petrol
left by the Kiibelwagen, and wisps of straw in the corners from the
time the stable had been just that.  They prised up four of the stone
slabs making up the floor and exposed the earth beneath.  Ten minutes'
frenzied digging with an entrenching tool cut through the foot of
hard-packed earth and exposed the stone below.

Ward nodded.  "That looks good.  Get on with it."

The two engineers with him planted their explosive against the stone
and paid out the fuse, then shovelled the earth back into the hole and
stamped it down.  Then they lit the fuse and backed off into a corner.
There they crouched, like Ward and the rest of his men, pressed round
the wall of the stables with their hands over their ears.  Then he
shouted, "Right, Zack!"

Tyzack's mortar fired then and the bomb burst against the back wall of
the Blockhouse.  More bombs followed in quick succession.  Sergeant
Robb, down on one knee in a street just off the square and facing the
front of the Blockhouse, heard their explosions, sharper and closer
than the shells from the distant warships bombarding the coast.  He
yelled, "Fire!"  And his own mortar started lobbing bombs across the
square to burst against the front door.

So the explosion in the stable went unremarked in the Blockhouse, just
one of many.  Ward crawled forward, the beam of his torch virtually
useless because of the thick cloud of dust hanging in the air, but he
found the hole and shone the torch down into it.  He saw another stone
floor some ten feet below him and a stack of chairs piled one on top of
another.  He put the torch away and let himself down through the hole
to the length of his arms, then dropped.

He fell only a couple of feet and moved forward at once, using the
torch again.  Its flitting cone of light showed the cellar ahead of
him, thick supporting columns marching away in a row into the darkness.
Furniture was stacked along its length: more chairs, sofas, cupboards
or wardrobes.  He guessed they had all been shifted down from the house
to make room for the guns and the soldiers who manned them.

He could hear the irregular scrape and muffled thump as his men
followed him through the hole and down into the cellar.  They were at
his back now as he passed the last column and came to a closed door. He
switched off the torch and put it away, held the Thompson gun
one-handed and tried the door.  It was held by no more than a latch and
he lifted it and opened the door.  Beyond was a passage lit dimly by a
single, dangling bulb.  The floor and ceiling of the passage were of
the original stone of the chateau, but the brickwork of the walls was
rough and looked new.  The doors down either side were also raw,
unpainted timber and solid, with a small grille set in at the top of
each of them.  He realised these were the doors of the cells, built
since the Wehrmacht moved in.

He glanced behind him now and saw Arkwright on one side of him, Joe
Billings on the other.  Beyond them was a mass of cork-blackened faces,
white eyes staring at him.  He and they were panting like dogs.  He
turned and trotted long-legged along the passage until he came to
stairs leading upwards on his right.  In front of him was a closed
door.  He pointed to Arkwright, then at the door and the sergeant major
nodded.  As Ward went on up the stairs he heard the door crash open
behind him as Arkwright and some of the men charged in.

Ward turned at the head of the stairs into a hall that stretched from
front to back of the house.  Ahead was the front door and the foot of
stairs that led upwards and to the rear of the house, just as in the
rehearsal on Salisbury Plain.  He ran towards the stairs, knowing he
could leave the other doors to the men boiling behind him.  As he
turned at the foot of the stairs he saw a tall figure appear at the
top.

The upper floor of the Blockhouse was mainly for the guns and the
gunners.  The rooms at the back were the living quarters of Baumann and
his men and a few more of Engel's soldiers.  The partitioning walls at
the front had all been knocked out to make one long room running across
the length of the house.  The two 88s squatted there on their cruciform
trails.

Engel had paced back and forth the length of that long room while
Baumann raged.  The day had come but he could not fire his guns because
the beach was hidden by smoke.  And the observation officer down there
could not give him the data for a blind shoot because the radio no
longer existed and all the telephone wires were cut.  That was assuming
the observation officer in his bunker was still alive.  The bombardment
from the sea was deafening and the bursting shells showed as a curtain
of flame through the smoke.

Franz Engel had his own problems and glared at Pianka.  "What the hell
are they up to?  They've been sitting around us for the past hour!"

Pianka pointed out, "They can't get at us.  Nobody could cross the
square or the yard with those machine-guns covering them."

"I know that!  But you don't suppose they've given up, do you?  Use
your thick head!  It's not there just to hang your cap on!  How many
are there of them?  A half-company?  Not much more, I'll bet!  So as
soon as Caen finds out what's going on here, they'll be overrun.  And
they will know that!  So they can't lie out there and just take the odd
shot at us like they are doing.  They've got to get in here or get the
hell out of it.  And they didn't come all this way to run at the first
check.  So what are they up to?"

But Pianka only shook his head and Engel went on with his pacing.  So
he happened to be passing the head of the stairs when Ward and the
first of his men appeared at the foot.  It was as if they had come up
through the floor and Engel gaped for a moment in shock.  Then he
realised that must have been exactly how they got into the Blockhouse,
and he acted.  He saw the Thompson gun in the hands of the tall man
below swing up to point at him and jumped back before the burst was
fired.  It kicked a shower of plaster out of the wall over his head and
he knew the tall man would be running up the stairs now.  Engel had a
stick-grenade hanging from his belt but there was a steel cupboard
standing beside him at the head of the stairs, a locker holding kit
belonging to one of the soldiers who lived up there.  He seized it and
swung it round, half lifting and half dragging it, then shoved it down
the stairs.

It fell horizontally across the stairwell, slammed into Ward's chest
and sent him staggering back.  He regained his balance but now the
locker was a steel fence from wall to banisters rail and jammed between
them.  And then he saw Engel's stick-grenade looping through the air.
He yelled "Grenade!"  He threw himself over the rail and flat on the
floor, saw Joe Billings and the other men with him following suit. Then
the grenade burst with shrapnel sweeping the stairs where he had stood
and the front hall beyond.

Before the smoke cleared he had wriggled back to the rear hall where he
was out of sight from the top of the stairs and safe from grenades
thrown down.  Sergeant-Major Arkwright came to him there and reported,
"Found three men in the magazine, sir.  I put them in the cells.  The
young lady has let out the blokes that were in them."

"She's done what?"

"Let 'em out, sir.  Said they were friends of hers.  She's taken them
out to the stable."

"I told her to stay out there!"

"Yes sir.  And there was an electric hoist in the magazine for carrying
the shells up to the guns.  I ran it halfway up and jammed it there so
nobody could drop a grenade down."

Ward agreed, "We wouldn't want that."

"Too true, sir.  The place is half-empty but there's still enough ammo
in there to blow up the whole flaming village.  A grenade might not set
it off, but I wouldn't like to chance it."

And now more reports came in from other NCOs.  When he had listened to
the last of them Ward knew that the ground floor had been deserted; the
entire garrison were on the floor above where they could look down on
the square or the back yard.  He held the ground floor.  He had cut off
the guns from their ammunition, except for the few rounds they probably
had close to the guns as a ready-use stock.

But he had not captured the upper floor and the tall man who had thrown
down the cupboard had installed a simple but effective blockade.  That
could be destroyed by a Gammon bomb such as he had thrown at the tank,
but there would still be the stairs.  One man with a supply of grenades
could hold those stairs.  And soon there would come a relieving force.
If the defenders of the Blockhouse had not sent a messenger to Caen
then the headquarters there would soon investigate when they found
communications with the Blockhouse had been severed.

Arkwright gave a jerk of the head, indicating the floor above, and
said, "He hasn't used those guns yet, sir."

Ward answered abstractedly, "Probably can't see a target for smoke."

"Ah!  So what now, sir?  Because I reckon if we don't get him out of
there soon we'll have his mates running all over us!"

SIXTEEN

"She's dropping back, sir."  That was Tubby Anderson, the signalman,
looking out to starboard from Bloody Norah's bridge.  He was talking of
the Showboat.

Langley answered him, "That's all right.  She's supposed to.  We lead
her in by five minutes."  So that the tanks could go ashore first and
sweep a path through the beach de fences for the commandos to follow.
He glanced across at the LCI a cable's length away.  He could see Ralph
Bellanger's tall figure on her bridge.  Her decks were almost deserted,
as they should be.  The commandos would stay below until she was on the
point of beaching.

That thought turned his eyes towards the shore.  It was still hidden by
smoke, but that long, grey, black and brown cloud was closer now.  In
another fifteen minutes Bloody Norah would be in it and a few minutes
after that The smoke was around her, too, wreathing out over the sea in
patches so that he saw other ships then lost them again as the drifting
banks hid them.

He spoke into the voice-pipe: "Watch your head."  Bloody Norah was a
fraction of a point off her course.

"Watch her head.  Aye, aye, sir."  That was Farmer Fairbrother at the
helm for the run-in, answering patiently.

Langley straightened, checked on the compass and saw that minuscule
error in the course corrected.  He wanted his landfall to be exact. Now
he looked over his ship again.  Aft of the bridge the hand who would
let go the kedge anchor was standing ready.  The 20mm guns on either
side of the bridge were manned, the gunners strapped into their
harnesses.  And forward of the bridge the tank deck lay open, the
tarpaulin covers hauled off.  Now the Shermans down in the hold started
their engines, warming them up one by one until all of them were
revving.  The din was deafening and the exhaust smoke drifted back over
the bridge.  The commander of each Sherman stood with his upper body
out of the turret, looking forward to the ramp.  Tim Ryan was going
from tank to tank, having a last word with his men before they went
into action.  And right forward in the bow stood Simon Hartington and
his party, ready to lower the ramp as soon as Bloody Norah grounded.

Langley thought there was only one other department and Scouse
Gilhooley said behind him, "Won't be long now, then."

Langley turned, saw Scouse wiping his hands on a dirty rag and told
him, "I was just wondering how you and your engines were."

Gilhooley sniffed.  "Running like a clock.  We're all right down there.
How about up here?"

"So far, so good.  We haven't been bombed or shelled."

Gilhooley nodded.  "Hasn't really started yet, though, has it?  I
reckon it will be different when we hit the beach."  He cleared his
throat, then finished, "Anyway, you look out for yourself, sir."  He
started down the ladder on his way back to his engines.

Langley turned and called after him, "And good luck to you!"  He was
glad he was not confined in that steel cavern below the water line, and
prayed that Scouse Gilhooley would come out of this all right.

As he faced forward again, turning, in one sweeping glance he took in
the sea to port, choppy and jumbled from the manoeuvring of the mass of
ships and small craft.  It was the colour of pewter and veined with the
white of foam, rimmed by the smoke reaching out from the shore.  Then
one craft emerged from it, lean, low and black but with a big, white
bone of a bow wave in her teeth.  And Langley yelled, "E-boattoport!
Open fire!"

They had been running in the smoke for some minutes.  Karl Neumann and
his crew had heard the low thunder of guns above the throb of the
Daimler engines.  Johannesen looked questioningly at Karl and said,
"What the hell...?"  Then the Schnellboot ran out of the smoke into
open sea and for a moment both of them on the little bridge were silent
in shock.  They were cruising parallel to the shore though it was still
hidden by the shifting, drifting black and grey cloud.  Ahead of them
was more of that smoke but only lying in patches.  Between those
patches the ships and landing craft were ranked as far as they could
see.

Johannesen said huskily, "My God!"

The scene reminded Karl Neumann of his attack on the convoy just a
month or so ago.  But that had been at night.  This was in the light of
day and the scale was hugely, incredibly different.  He had never seen
so many ships at one time, knew he never would again.

Johannesen said, "It's the invasion!"

Karl yelled at him above the roar of guns and drumming of the engines,
"Get a signal off to base!"  And as the coxswain dropped down the
ladder on his way to the radio room, Karl swung round to the torpedo
sight.  He peered ahead over the top of it, seeking, or rather trying
to choose, a target.  They were massed ahead of him.  But there, just
off the starboard bow was a landing craft, long and boxy.  Beyond it
was another, more graceful in her lines, looking like a big launch.  He
could not see the bow of that second vessel because it was hidden
behind the first.  But that was all to the good; the pair made one big
target.

He shouted at the torpedomen on either side of the bridge,
"Attacking!"

Langley saw the tracks of the two torpedoes but too late to take
avoiding action.  He tried, snapping down the voice-pipe to
Fairbrother: "Hard aport!"  But Bloody Norah was not a destroyer, able
to turn on her heel to point her bow at the torpedoes, "combing the
tracks".  She lumbered around, but slowly, had barely turned a quarter
of the way when the phosphorescent wakes foamed in towards her and
passed astern.  Langley saw the further of the two go by some thirty
yards astern.  Uncle Oswald, looking aft from his post on the port side
Oerlikon, saw the nearer slide right under the stern, and involuntarily
stepped back.  That was a waste of effort; if the torpedo had struck,
that pace would not have saved him.  He shouted, "The bastard's only
missed us by a yard!"

Langley was stooped over the voice-pipe, about to order a turn to
starboard to take him back on to his original course, but hesitated.
Was that the only E-boat?  Were there others to come out of the smoke,
more torpedoes?  He let the coxswain hold the ship in that turn to
port, saw her head come around until it pointed at the oncoming E-boat.
Instinctively he was listening for the solid thump which would signal
one of the torpedoes striking home, but it never came.  They ran on,
harmlessly, out to sea.  He looked over his shoulder and saw that
Bellanger had not tried to "comb the tracks", but had steamed on and
was now some way ahead of Bloody Norah and increasing the gap with
every second now she was on a course diverging from his own at a right
angle.

"Hardastarboard!"

Farmer acknowledged: "Hard astarboard, sir!"

Because the E-boat was turning to port.  Langley was trying now to
bring Bloody Norah back on course while still watching the E-boat.  The
20mm gun she carried in her bow was flaming as it fired, pointing at
him.  He could see the tracers arching in to slam into the side of his
ship.  Uncle Oswald, manning the port side 20mm gun with Kirkpa-trick
as his loader, was also firing in reply.  Bloody Norah's bow was coming
around, but slowly.  The E-boat had turned and now the 40mm gun she
carried aft opened up.  The shells hammered into Bloody Norah and these
Langley could feel, shuddering through the fabric of the hull.

He ordered, "Meet her ..."  Her head had come around and now he could
return to his original course.  He thought that was the right thing to
do; his orders were to put the tanks ashore.  He could see the men in
the Shermans staring up at him, a speckle of white faces pale in the
gloom of the hold.  And forward in the bow, Simon Hartington and his
party were flattened on the deck for cover.

Farmer Fairbrother acknowledged, "Meet her, sir."  And spun the spokes
of the wheel the other way to check the turn.

"Midships ... steady ..."  Langley straightened, eyes still on the
E-boat and saw the tracer sliding in at him again from the 20mm gun in
her bow.  The shells smashed through the bridge screen and then he saw
Uncle Oswald collapse against the port side Oerlikon and Kirkpatrick
fall to the deck.  Langley ran forward, Anderson went with him and
together they unbuckled the harness from around Uncle.  Langley yelled
at Anderson, "Take him!"  And as the signalman dragged the body away
Langley shoved his shoulders into the twin stocks of the gun and
grabbed the hand grips, left finger curling over the trigger.  And
fired.

The magazine had just been changed and he emptied it of its sixty
rounds.  He thought the little shells were striking home but he was not
sure.  When the last shell had gone he turned to find Anderson and
Kirkpatrick behind him.  Langley asked, "Are you hurt?"

Kirkpatrick answered shakily, "Oh, aye.  Uncle bumped into me when he
was swinging the gun around and away I went.  But I'm OK.  It's Uncle,
sir.  He's dead."

Langley saw him swallow sickly as he said it, and a glance at little
Oswald, face a mask of blood, showed why.  Langley ordered him and
Tubby Anderson, "Take over on the gun."  Then he shouted,

"Mclver!  Tolliver!"  And when they came running, "Look after Oswald!"
The little cook might not be dead.

Langley went back to the bridge.  He found his hands were shaking and
set them around the brass mouth of the voice-pipe.  Now he was aware
that the E-boat had raced on past Bloody Nor ah, was no longer firing
at her but instead was engaging the Showboat.  He could see the 40mm
gun pumping shells into the fragile hull it was only plywood with some
patches of thin armour plate and knew she could not take much of that
punishment.

"Port ten!"  Karl Neumann had cursed when the torpedoes missed, turned
his boat to rake the big, boxy landing craft as he passed her.  He was
close enough to see the man run across her bridge to take over the
firing of the Oerlikon she carried on the port side.  The muzzle of the
gun flickered with a red light and he knew he was under fire but turned
away, looking for the next target.

He saw her ahead, the other craft that had the looks of a big launch.
She was firing at him already, the two 20mm guns she carried amidships
flamed and there were machine guns in action, too, their tracers like
pale fireflies in the daylight.  He spoke through the voice-pipe to the
quartermaster at the wheel, "Starboard a point."

"Starboard a point," came the acknowledgment and Karl saw the boat's
head ease fractionally around, just enough so that she ran parallel
with the big launch.  And then he became conscious that the boat was
slowing, not so much from the note of the engines, because that was
almost drowned by the gunfire, but by the feel of the boat under him.
She was no longer sliding easily through the sea, but labouring.

And then Johannesen appeared beside him and bellowed, "We took a score
of hits in the engine room and below the water line!  From that
floating sardine tin!  We've only got power from one engine and we're
losing fuel by the barrel!"

Karl cursed again, but his eyes were still fixed on the big launch on
the beam.  Her guns had ceased firing now, the crews or the guns put
out of action, and her deck was filling up with men.  Soldiers?  He
thought so because they wore khaki.  That was one lot that would not
get ashore.  Maybe he'd got the two of them?  He glanced over his
shoulder, looking out to sea, and saw the other landing craft,
Johannesen "floating sardine tin", was far astern but still coming
on.

Johannesen urged, "We'd better get out of here!  We only got this far
because of the smoke.  Their escorts will hit us any minute now."

Karl ignored him.  He would make certain of the big launch.  Her bridge
was wrecked and he could see the holes punched in her side.  The
soldiers aboard her were firing at his boat now, he heard a bullet
ricochet from the armoured cupola around his bridge with a snarl and
drone.  But he had set his teeth into this one and he would not let go
until she sank.

Johannesen grabbed his arm and tried to reason with him.  "You've got
her!  She's sinking now!  Leave her to it and get out of here!"

Karl shook him off.  "I want to make sure of her!  I'm not going back
without one!  For Rudi Meisel!"

Johannesen looked around him worriedly, saw the other landing craft
astern and more beyond her.  Ships, ships, ships ... He shouted,
"Destroyer!"

Karl spun on his heel and saw her coming out of the smoke astern.  He
ordered, "Hard aport!  Full ahead!"  Now he was running for the cover
of the smoke again and the boat's head swung towards the long bank of
it lying over the sea.  It was not far distant but the Schnellboot no
longer had the speed that went with her name.  She laboured towards
safety at no more than twenty knots.

The shells caught her as the long cloud wrapped her round.  One burst
on her port side just below the bridge and a second just aft of it.
That second almost cut her in half, but the working engine still drove
her on like a headless chicken.  The first killed the men at the
forward 20mm gun and heeled her over on her starboard side, throwing
Karl and Johannesen into the sea.

The destroyer followed the E-boat into the murk.  That set the men on
the destroyer's deck and bridge to coughing and straining their eyes to
pierce the man-made gloom.  They were wary of other E-boats that might
be lurking in there, but they saw none.  There was only the scattered
trail of flotsam that led to the shattered stern standing vertically
and only a foot of it showing above the water.  There were bodies in
the water and the men of the destroyer climbed down her side on a
scrambling net and fished them out.  And there was one man, buoyed up
by his life jacket and swimming, holding the head of another out of the
sea.

The swimmer helped them put a line around his comrade and the party
above on the deck hauled him in rapidly, though he was a big man and
heavy.  Two of the men on the net helped the swimmer up to the deck
where he stood dripping, gasping and coughing up sea water.  He tried
to reach the other man lying prostrate while the doctor knelt over him,
but his guards held him back.  He panted out short bursts of explosive
German but none of them understood a word.  Nor did the doctor, but he
guessed at the nature of the remarks, that they were questions, and
after a while he tried to answer them.  He looked up and said, "1st
gut."  That was almost all the German he knew.

It was enough for Karl.  He followed silently as they carried
Johannesen down to the sick berth, relief giving way to mourning for
the boat and the friends he had lost.

He wondered when he would see Karin again.

She answered the rapping at her door.  Karin Neumann had not slept
since Karl left, answering the telephoned summons to duty.  For a long
time she sat at the window of the hotel room, the light out and the
blackout curtains drawn back.  She watched the distant flashes of the
bursting bombs and gunfire lighting up the sky, heard the rumble coming
from them like thunder in the night.

Now she looked up at the naval officer standing outside in the hall,
his mouth set like a trap.  She asked, "Yes?  What is it?"

He answered, "I'm a friend of Karl's from the base.  We've been put on
alert.  That means the invasion is expected ..."  He glanced over her
shoulder at the scene through her window and said drily, "... or may
have started.  Karl is not back from patrol yet.  I cannot give you
transport to take you inland to a place of safety, nor supply an
escort; neither can be spared.  But I can offer you shelter in the base
here."

The blonde girl put her hand to her mouth, tried to think but then
answered, "No.  I'll stay here."

He warned her, "This hotel may be shelled."  It stood on the se afront
outside Le Havre.

Karin shrugged.  "They will be trying to destroy your base.  I think I
will be safer here."

"The base is bombproof almost.  But, as you wish."  He would not press
the point.  He wasn't going to argue with a general's daughter.  He
stepped back and snapped up a hand in salute, then marched away.

Karin went back into the empty room.  She wondered why she had said she
would stay.  But that was not important.  She stared out of the window
again and harked back to the train of thought that had kept her
sleepless.  Gunther.  That had been last summer.  He was on leave and
she hadn't seen Karl for a long time.  She had not yielded, but Gunther
had been very correct.  She had not been drinking but thought he was
handsome and strong.  She was tempted.  He had not made a pass at her
but she had wanted him.

Now she remembered why she had told the officer she would stay in the
hotel.  She had let Karl go without a word, and he would come back
here.  They had to talk.  Or, maybe better, just go to bed.  She would
wait for him.

Langley saw the destroyer follow the E-boat into the smoke but his
attention was focused on the Showboat.  She was stopped a quarter-mile
off the starboard bow.  The orders given to him had been explicit.  He
was to put the tanks ashore and stop for nothing.  That was clear.  But
he knew that the Shermans were only one half of the force that had the
objective of relieving the glider borne troops holding the Blockhouse.
They could not do the job alone.  And what was to happen to the
commandos aboard the sinking LCI?

He bent to the voice-pipe and said gruffly, "Starboard ten."

"Starboard ten, sir."  Farmer repeated the order calmly, spun the wheel
and caught it, his eyes on the compass card.  "Ten of starboard wheel
on, sir."  He wondered what the hell had been going on up top, knew the
ship had been hit, had heard it, felt it.

Then Langley's voice came down the pipe again.  "Just so you know,
Cox'n.  We've had a fight with an E-boat.  She's buggered off now but
she did some damage.  The LCI is in trouble sinking so I'm going
alongside her to take off her people.  Understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Right.  Stand by."  Langley straightened and used the tin megaphone to
bellow, "Mister Hartington!  Stand by to take off the men from the LCI!
Starboard side to!"  He saw Simon Hartington wave in acknowledgment and
he and his party ran to spread themselves along the starboard catwalk. 
Langley watched Bellanger's craft as Bloody Norah ran down to her.  The
Showboat was perceptibly lower in the water and down by the head.  And
now the smoke in front of them was thinning, drifting aside. Langley
froze for a second as he realised he was at last looking on the coast
of Normandy.  There, ahead of him, lay Sword beach.

In the Blockhouse Otto Baumann shouted excitedly, "There's a gap in the
smoke!"  Franz Engel paused in his pacing to stare over Baumann's
shoulder.  He saw the smoke drifting on the wind, shifting aside so
that now he could see a stretch of the beach and the sea beyond.  It
swarmed with ships of all sizes but two were closer inshore than the
others.  One was like a big launch, the other, astern of it, was the
coffin shape of the landing craft he had seen in the Mediterranean.

The range taker was stooped over his two-metre-long instrument, twice
the size of that used by the 75, calling off the range.  Baumann
shouted to his gunners, "Load!"

Engel asked him, "How much ammunition have you got up here?"  Otto
grinned at him, "After you told me about the invasion I got the men to
build a stockpile up here.  There's plenty!"  He turned, saw his guns
were ready and bellowed, "Feuer!"

Sword beach ran for eight miles from Ouistreham at the mouth of the
River Orne, westward to St.  Aubin.  But Langley snatched no more than
a hasty impression of a low-lying shore studded with occasional
buildings, then he turned once more to conning his ship.  He had also
seen the prickle of flame from guns inland.  He watched Bloody Norah's
head and the shrinking gap between her and the Showboat.  He had to
judge the speed of his own ship through the sea, how fast she was
eating up that gap.  And he had to lay her exactly right and quickly,
because there was no time for caution or error, a second chance.  Then
the shells from the guns inland roared in to plunge into the sea just
in front of the bow, hurling up huge towers of dirty water that stank
of explosive as Bloody Norah nosed through the hanging spray.

Langley saw Simon Hartington and the other men on deck all crouching
instinctively.  The men in the Shermans in the hold huddled down into
the turrets.  But he was looking beyond them, wiping the spray from his
face, blinking it from his eyes.  The cloud of it sank down to the sea
and he saw the Showboat again and she was close.

He ordered, "Starboard a point, stop both."  The vibration of the
engines ceased and Bloody Norah slid on, the ship quiet.  Then the
salvo ripped overhead and plunged into the sea off the port quarter and
burst with a double crack-crack.  Splinters smashed holes in the thin
skin of the ship.  Langley winced and stooped over the voice-pipe again
and ordered, "Full astern both."  She was rushing down too fast on the
LCI.  Then, "Stop both."  Bloody Norah sidled in with the last of the
way on her.  Simon Hartington's party had hung fenders over the side
and she rubbed these against the other vessel, came to rest.

Langley saw his men scattered along that starboard side grabbing lines
hurled over by the crew of the Showboat, then making them fast to hold
the two vessels together.  He used the megaphone again, this time to
shout across to them and the commandos aboard the LCI: "Come over as
quick as you can!  She hasn't got long!"  He saw them crowding to the
rails, the commandos throwing their rucksacks over first then following
them.  Some were passing over wounded on stretchers.  Langley added to
himself as he lowered the megaphone, "And nor have we."  The two
earlier salvos had missed, probably because Bloody Norah was under way
and manoeuvring.  But now she was still.

The point was hammered home only seconds later when another salvo found
the target with that double crack-crack.  One or both of the shells
burst in the bow of the LCI.  She carried four ramps there intended to
be lowered for landing the troops she carried.  They were tossed into
the air to fall across the foredeck.  The men clustered on her deck in
the waist and those already climbing over from her to Bloody Norah
staggered from the impact.  But they kept on surging over the rails,
like a rolling, khaki wave, to break and spread when they reached the
catwalk.  Then Simon Hartington and his party shoved them towards the
ladders leading down into the tank deck.

They took Langley's words to heart and crossed quickly.  In only a few
minutes the deck of the LCI was empty except for one lone figure.  But
they were long minutes for Langley, waiting for the salvos to fall,
wincing as they burst to starboard of the Showboat, then off Bloody
Norah's port quarter, and a third smashing once again into the wrecked
bow of the LCI.  She had sunk until her deck was far below the level of
that of Bloody Norah.  That lone figure left aboard her had to crane
his neck to peer up at Langley on his bridge.

Richard Langley recognised in that figure the first lieutenant of the
Showboat and called down to him, "Come on, Peter!"

Peter Wright looked about him despairingly, then appealed to Langley,
"What about the dead?"

Langley swallowed, but had to harden his heart.  His concern had to be
for the living he had just plucked from the sinking LCI.  He answered,
"We can't do anything for them.  Come on over!"

Peter Wright obeyed and as he climbed up the net now hanging over the
side of Bloody Norah the men waiting above him cast off the lines
holding her to the LCI.  The two began to drift apart and Langley
ordered, "Full ahead both, port ten!"

"Full ahead both, port ten, sir!"  Farmer acknowledged the order and
turned the wheel, passed on the order for full speed to Scouse
Gilhooley in the engine room.  Both of them obeyed with relief because
they had heard the crumping reports of the falling shells.  And now
came two more: crack-crack!

Langley, shoulders hunched against their coming, saw them burst
squarely on the deck of the LCI now falling astern.  The double
explosion sent timber and plating soaring high to hang and then fall :.
in the sea.  She lurched over to port and went down by the head still
further; her foredeck was now awash right back to the bridge.  He
looked ahead and saw the smoke drifting across in front of him again,
hiding the beach from his view and hiding him from the guns.  He took a
breath of relief but that was shortlived.  There was a sluggishness
about the ship under his feet now.

He lifted the tin megaphone and bellowed deep-voiced, "Mr.
Hart-ington!"  And when he saw Simon turn a white face towards him,
"Get hold of every man you can and take 'em below!  Find where she's
shipping water and plug the holes!"  He lowered the megaphone as he saw
Simon wave.

Mclver appeared, blood and grime on his hands, and said hoarsely,
"Uncle's breathing but he's had a clout i' the heid.  Tolliver an' me
have put a dressing on it.  He's laid out on one of the beds in the
wardroom."

Langley said, "Thank you."  He felt relief at that and told Mclver, "Go
forrard and help Mr.  Hartington."

Then Peter Wright came to the bridge and said, "Thank you."  His face
was pale and his voice shook.

Langley asked, "What happened to Ralph Bellanger?"  He saw Curly
Chambers climbing up from the tank deck and glancing at the bridge,
knew he would soon learn the reason for that sluggishness in his ship's
sailing.

Peter rubbed at his face and said, "The skipper was on the bridge and
the first shell hit it.  He, the coxswain and the signalman, all of
them up there, they all went.  There were just pieces ..."

Langley cut him off then.  "I'd be grateful if you'd get together any
of your hands who can work."  An LCI(s) carried a crew of fifteen.

Surely a good proportion would be able to help?  He finished, "Then go
forrard and give Simon a hand.  He's going to be busy there soon."  He
watched Wright, head forward, staggering a little as Bloody Norah
rolled in the broken water.  Langley reckoned that Peter would be
better for being occupied.  He also thought that there had never been
any doubt about Ralph Bellanger's courage and that he had died a hero's
death.  He cast one last glance astern at the Showboat.  The name was a
macabre jest now.  He was just in time to see her stern slide down
after the already sunken bow.  There was nothing left of her but the
usual collection of flotsam, at that increasing distance only visible
as a scum on the sea.

Langley turned to face forward as Curly Chambers climbed on to the
bridge.  He was soaking wet and filthy.  He halted, gasping for breath
and reported, "I've been working below with Mr.  Hartington and the
ramp party, trying to stop the leaks and it's hopeless, sir.  She's got
more holes in her than a colander from that shelling we had from the
E-boat!  She's filling up fast!"

Langley forced himself to stay outwardly calm in the face of this news.
"I've just sent Mr.  Wright and some of his men to give you a hand.
Tell Mr.  Hartington I'll give three blasts on the siren just before we
beach.  When he hears that, he and his ramp party, and Mclver, are to
run like hell and be ready to lower.  Meanwhile plug as many of those
holes as you can.  Now get going!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  Now Curly had calmed down.  He turned and ran off
along the catwalk, heading towards the bow and Simon Hartington.
Langley thought Curly believed Bloody Norah was about to sink and he
was wrong.  He didn't know the landing craft as Langley did.  She might
well be sinking, but that was not the same thing as sinking now.

He saw the smoke lying in a long bank across his course and knew that
beyond it lay the shore.  The Shermans in the hold were all revving
their engines, ready to go.  The commandos were grouped in among them,
rucksacks slung on their shoulders, rifles or submachine-guns in their
hands.  All of them were waiting for him to set them ashore.  He had
been told to put them on the beach at all costs; he and his ship were
expandable.  He took off his steel helmet, combed through his hair with
his fingers then jammed the helmet on again.  He spoke into the
voice-pipe, deeply, "Tell Gilhooley I want everything she's got for the
next five minutes!"

He heard that order repeated by Farmer.  Then Langley swallowed his
fear, straightened and gripped the bridge-screen, looked out over the
bow as the smoke rushed up at him and Bloody Norah plunged into it.

SEVENTEEN

"Open fire!"  Langley shouted the order to the gunners on either side
of the bridge and strode across to each of them in turn, Kirkpatrick
and Underbill, to point out their targets.  Bloody Norah was under fire
from artillery and machine-guns.  The smoke was not impenetrable once
they were in it.  The stench of it caught at their throats and it hung
around them like a veil but they could see some distance through it.
The enemy could also see Bloody Norah's square silhouette.  Their fire
splashed into the sea, kicked up spray and ricocheted off the flat bow
of her.

The Oerlikons hammered out now and Langley was back at the centre of
his bridge.  He saw the shore and the scattered houses again, and now
the obstacles laid by the enemy to frustrate a landing.  Those directly
ahead were "element C", timbers or steel girders bolted together in the
shape of a letter A and set into the shallows on their sides so the
legs of the A pointed towards the incoming landing craft.  All the
upper legs were exposed and each carried a mine or a fused shell set to
detonate when struck by one of the craft.  It was Langley's job to
steer Bloody Norah between them.

He knew that a band of heroes frogmen had swum in earlier to defuse
many of the obstacles but there would still be a lot left that would
explode on impact.  And the obstacles themselves were just that,
designed to hold off a landing craft from the beach.  Then the vehicles
she carried would run off the ramp into deep water and bog down or
drown.  He peered ahead through the smoke, a handkerchief to his mouth
and coughing, blinking out of streaming eyes but never taking his gaze
off the passage he had marked in his mind through the threatening steel
and timber jaws.

"Starboard ten!"

"Starboard ten... ten of starboard wheel on, sir."  That was Farmer
Fairbrother's flat acknowledgment.

Langley watched her head come around, then: "Meet her... steady..." Now
she was right, as he wanted her.  He added, for Farmer's benefit, "Not
long now."

And got the even-toned answer, "That's what Gilhooley tells me, sir. He
says he's got water washing round his ankles."

That only confirmed what Langley had already known.  The ship under him
was slowing, labouring.  He could see she was lower in the sea, knew
she was slowing because of the tons of sea water she carried in her
bottom now.  Scouse Gilhooley had obeyed the order given him and was
driving his engines to destruction, but the shore seemed to come closer
only by inches.  And now the guns that had finished the Showboat opened
up again.  There came that horribly familiar crack-crack.  One shell
smashed into the sea to starboard but the other blasted Kirkpatrick,
Anderson and the port side Oerlikon to pieces.

Langley quivered with shock.  But now it was time.  He sounded three
blasts on the siren and seconds later saw the first of Simon
Hartington's men come up from below and join him in the bow.  Langley
used the megaphone to bawl to Simon, "Stand by to beach!"  He saw the
midshipman lift a hand to show he had heard, saw also the white faces
of the tank men and commandos turned up to him, pale blurs in the gloom
of the hold, as they heard his call.  He shouted, "Slip!"

"Sir!"  That was the answering yell from Mclver, also come running from
below and now standing in the stern.  He knocked out the pin.  The
kedge anchor plunged into the sea astern and its wire cable began to
unwind.

The ramp party in the bow had opened the doors in the tank deck, swung
them wide and hooked them back.  Now they were manning the two winches,
port and starboard, under the catwalks.  They were letting the ramp
down, checking it when it was still thirty degrees above the
horizontal, holding it there on the brakes of the winches until the
beaching.

The LCTs had been fitted with Mullock ramps, named after their
inventor, because of the flat Normandy beaches.  There were two of
them, each five feet long and two feet wide.  They were made of steel,
hinged on to the end of the existing ramp and so extended it by five
feet.  They were also heavy and Hartington and his men strained to toss
them over the point of balance so that they stuck out in front of the
ramp.

Now the beach was close and Bloody Norah was racing in towards it.  Too
fast?  Langley decided not.  He would shove her as far up the beach as
he could.  The tanks and men had to be put ashore and the shorter the
strip of sand they had to cross the better.

Bloody Norah scraped through the gap he had picked between two
obstacles, the timber of one of them rubbing paint and rust off her
side with a screeching to set the teeth on edge.  He saw the foot-wide,
fat, steel disc of a Teller mine capping the obstacle and sliding past
only inches away.  But it did not detonate.  Bloody Norah was through
and there was the beach coming up under her forefoot.

Langley shouted into the voice-pipe, "Stop her!"  He heard the jangle
of the telegraph operated by Farmer as he passed the order on to Scouse
Gilhooley in the engine room.  Then Bloody Norah drove on to and up the
beach with a grating of shingle and shriek of steel as I her bottom
rubbed, and came to rest.  Langley was thrown forward against the
screen by the force of the impact, saw some of the soldiers below
sprawling on the deck of the hold for the same reason.  But he had
brought Bloody Norah in as he had been ordered.  ;

Then that crack-crack came again as the shells burst.  One of them
exploded on the ramp and Langley saw the deadweight of it kick up and
fall again.  The second slammed in over the ramp and burst on the front
of the first Sherman.  Langley saw Simon Hartington's party working
feverishly but the ramp stayed up at thirty degrees above the
horizontal.  Men from the tanks he saw Tim Ryan among them -were
milling around that first Sherman.  Then he saw a man lifted out of it
and carried aside.  Langley did not need to be told that one shell had
warped and jammed the ramp and the other had killed or injured the
driver of the tank.  Bloody Norah was on the beach but her tanks and
soldiers were still trapped inside her.

He used the megaphone again, strove to keep his voice even and
unhurried, and asked, "Major Ryan!  Can that tank move?"  And when he
saw Tim's hand go up in confirmation Langley went on, "Mister
Hartington!  Use the tank to shove the ramp out!"  This time he saw
Simon wave.

Another driver climbed into the Sherman then the tank was moving,
lumbering forward.  The pivot with the steel chains of the flail
dangling from it rammed up against the ramp.  The engine of the Sherman
revved furiously and the ramp broke free with a flat clang like the
tolling of the bell on a buoy.  It went down with a run, splashed into
the shallows and settled on the shingle beneath, shoving the twin
Mullock ramps in front of it.  The leading Sherman trundled over ramp
and Mullocks then nosed on to the beach beyond.  The pivot mounted on
the front of its hull began to revolve, the chains thrashing, and the
tank headed up the beach, sweeping a path clear of mines before it.

Crack-crack!  This time the shells burst on either side of the bow but
short of it and on the beach.  They threw up clouds of sand and stones
but did no damage that Langley saw.  The rest of the Shermans were
following their leader and the commandos were trotting after them in
the path they had swept clear of mines.  The mixed column wound up the
beach and over the seawall at the head of it, on to the road that led
inland.

Langley was thrown across the bridge as the next shells burst.  For a
minute he lay still, dazed, the breath knocked out of him.  Then he
pulled himself to his feet.  He saw the last of the Shermans bump over
the ramp and grind up the beach, the last commandos moving, crouching,
behind it in its cover.

"Get this flaming harness off!"  Underbill shouted.  One shell had
burst under the starboard side Oerlikon.  All that wing of the bridge
now sagged at an angle steeper than 45 degrees.  The gun on its
mounting was now tilted at that angle and hung over the sea uselessly.
But its crew of Underbill and Smiler Noakes had survived.  The stoker
was picking himself up from where he had rolled by the guardrail, while
Underbill was picking at the harness.  Now Smiler staggered over to
him, stumbling on empty shell cases, and yanked at the buckles to set
him free.

Langley looked around at his ship and his men standing in the bow by
the ramp, their faces turned towards him.  Then he picked up the
megaphone from where he had dropped it when the shell struck and used
it one last time.  "Mr.  Hartington!  Abandon ship!  We'll try to find
some cover ashore!"  Because now Bloody Norah was just a sitting
target, immobile and defenceless.  He spoke into the voice-pipe,
"Abandon ship, Cox'n.  Tell Gilhooley to come up."

He made his way forward and met the rest of his crew as they gathered
there.  He counted them, mentally called the roll, making sure no man
was missing except the two he knew had been killed in the fighting.  He
asked Peter Wright, "Are all your people here?"

Peter nodded.  "All that came over."  He seemed to have recovered from
his earlier shock, or was controlling it.

Simon Hartington was pale and breathless, wide-eyed, but so were most
of the others.  Oswald was there, lying on a blanket in lieu of a
stretcher, a dressing wrapped around the wound to his head.  The four
men who had carried him, Farmer Fairbrother among them, were grouped
about him.  All of them crouched, huddling together inside the mouth of
the tank deck as more shells exploded alongside.  H

Langley took that as a warning.  He did not like the look of the i open
beach any more than his men did.  "We can't stay here.  We've | got to
get into cover away from the old girl because she's drawing fire now."
He gestured at a place under the seawall.  "We'll nip across to that
spot and dig ourselves in there for a bit."  They watched him, as he
shouted against the din, but intermittently, their eyes switching from
him to the beach outside where every now and again a machine-gun kicked
up the sand.  "Follow me and go like hell!"  he finished.

Langley ran down the ramp and splashed through the shallows beyond,
lifting his feet high out of the water to escape its dragging.  His
feet skittered on the shingle for a stride or two then gripped on hard
sand before he floundered in the soft sand that stretched up to the
wall.  Galvanised to action by his example, Hartington and the others
followed him as he ploughed up through it into the meagre shelter of
the seawall.  He knelt there on one knee as the others came up and sank
down beside him.  Three of the men carrying the wounded Oswald in his
blanket staggered as the fourth slipped and fell.  Langley ran out
again, grabbed at a corner of the blanket and helped them run its load
up into the comparative safety of the wall.

He counted them again and confirmed they were all there.  He had got
them this far.  But he had to get Oswald proper medical treatment and
he had left two dead aboard Bloody Norah.  His eyes turned to her where
she lay on the shore like a stranded whale gasping out its life.

What could he do now?

Patrick Ward wondered what he could do.  Crack-crack!  Every time the
two guns fired they shook the Blockhouse and dust filtered down from
the ceiling to fall on him and his men.  He still stood at the back of
the hall.  Arkwright and two more of his men were with him.  So was
Suzi, partly because she thought Ward might need her knowledge of the
Blockhouse again and partly because she had come through the cellars
looking for the members of the circuit held there.  She had released
them herself and found Guy, Paul, Emil and the other

Frenchmen pallid and unshaven, but unhurt.  Now they were in the
stable.

She was pressed back in a corner to be out of the way of Ward's
soldiers as they passed through the hall.  His men held all the ground
floor but they dared not try to cross the square or the yard at the
rear.  The machine gunners on the floor above made any such attempt
suicidal.  So they came in and left through the cellars.  There was now
only a small party outside holding the stable.

The guns still fired.  Arkwright had come to Ward and said, "Those
prisoners we took in the magazine, sir.  My German isn't up to much and
most of the time I used sign language, but I asked them some questions
about the ammunition.  As far as I can make out they say that just a
few hours ago they were ordered to move a lot of ammunition up to the
guns, over a hundred rounds."  So the guns would continue to fire
unless Ward stopped them.  And if he did not, then the ships lying
offshore would be forced to destroy them by shellfire -and most of the
village as well.

He swore, saw the girl staring at him and apologised, "Sorry."

Suzi shrugged, managed a smile and replied, "I think it's excusable in
the circumstances."

They turned together as boots tramped on the stairs leading up from the
cellars and Ward exclaimed, "Bill!  By God!  It's good to see you!"

Bill Jardine, Ward's second-in-command, was mud-stained and filthy,
haggard and exhausted.  He grinned wearily, "Nice to see you."

Ward asked him, "What happened to you?  How many men have you?"

Jardine's grin faded.  He said heavily, "I've only a dozen with me."
Out of a platoon of thirty men.  Ward winced.  Bill Jardine went on,
"We came down a couple of miles from here and made a bad landing in the
dark.  We ran into trees, lost both pilots and some others there.  Then
we had to fight our way across country.  I was forced to leave my
wounded, couldn't bring them along because I had to get here in a
hurry."

Ward squeezed his shoulder, "Well done.  But what about explosive?  How
much have you?  And is that sergeant of engineers with you?"

"He's coming through with the others."  Jardine jerked his head to
indicate the stairs where men were climbing up after passing through
the cellars.  All of them were as filthy and weary as himself.  And
then as one stocky figure, bulky in his airborne soldier's smock,
stepped into the hall, "Here he is."

Ward beckoned the sergeant and told him what he wanted done.  "See if
we have enough explosive between us to do that and, if we have, get on
with it."

He waited as the guns over his head fired spasmodically or were silent
when smoke obliterated their targets.  Then the engineer sergeant
reported to him and Ward looked at Suzi.  He asked, shouting between
the reports as the 88s cracked out above them: "Would I be right in
thinking you know something about the people upstairs?"  And when she
nodded, he said, "My sergeant major knows a few words of German, but he
isn't fluent.  D'you know if anyone up there speaks English?"

Suzi shook her head that was coated in dust from the ceiling.  That
information had never been called for.  But she remembered how Engel
had talked to everyone he met in St.  Florent from his first day there.
"I know Engel is pretty good in French.  He speaks it like a German who
learnt it from a book, but he understands very well."

"Who is Engel?"

"He is the commander of the Blockhouse.  He's up there; I've heard
him."  His voice had been raging as he hectored the men about him.  She
had shuddered and was tensed now to stay still.

Ward said, "Will you talk to him for me?"

Suzi took a breath and a minute later, when there was a pause in the
firing of the guns, she shouted, "Hen Hauptmann Engel!  Can you hear
me?  I have a message for you from the British officer."

On the upper floor Engel halted in his pacing, head cocked on one side.
Then he limped across towards the stairs, stopping just short of the
head of them so that he would not expose himself to fire from the enemy
below.  On his way he passed Baumann standing in the rear of his guns
and told him, "Hold your fire."

Pianka followed him and asked, "What does she want?"  He had only a few
words of French but had picked out Engel's name.

Engel stood between the two men he had posted to watch the head of the
stairs.  They held grenades ready.  He could see their faces, nervous,
the sweat standing out on them.  He answered, "She says the Tommis want
to talk to me."  The voice had been that of a woman, high, light,
clear.  He thought she sounded young but he could be wrong about that.
But he was sure this was the missing agent he had sought.

He called, softly for him, "I hear you, English lady.  I have been
looking for you."  He paused there.

Suzi, standing in the hall, face turned up to the sound of that quiet
voice, caught her breath.  Ward hissed, "What is it?"  But she shook
her head.  Engel knew who she was.

And now he asked, "What does your officer wish to say?"

Suzi translated Ward's ultimatum.  "He warns you that he is about to
blow up the Blockhouse.  He will do it in two stages, the first will be
in one minute from now if you and your men do not lay down your arms.
Do you understand?"

Engel was conscious of Pianka, Baumann, young Werner Schoen-en berg and
the rest of his command watching him, wondering.  He turned to them and
told them, "The Tommis are threatening to blow up das Blockhaus if we
don't surrender."  Then he swung back to face the stairs and bellowed,
"I have a message for your officer!"  He gave it and finished, "I
apologise for the expressions but he will understand them!"  Then he
took a grenade from one of the men beside him and flipped it down the
stairs.  It burst in the hall.

Suzi shrank back, hands over her ears.  Ward and the others at the back
of the hall instinctively pressed themselves against the walls behind
them, though they were already safe from grenades tossed down the
stairs.  As the echoes died away, Ward said, "I don't need to ask what
he said.  I take it the answer was 'no'.  But he went on a bit.  What
else did he say?"

Suzi shook her head.  She had heard Engel's "expressions" or their
equivalent before on the streets of London's East End and in Paris. She
was not shocked.  "I cannot repeat what he said," she told Ward.

Ward nodded at the stocky sergeant of engineers.  "Do it."

Engel limped back from the stairs.  When he halted in the middle of the
upper floor, a yard from where Baumann stood between the cruciform
trails of the 88s, Otto asked, "Do you think they will blow the place
up?"

Engel shrugged.  "They will try.  But our orders were to hold das
Blockhaus and shell the hell out of the Tommis.  We are doing that." He
turned and went back to the stairs but watched Otto and the guns. He
caught all the men on the upper floor staring at him but when they met
his eye they looked away.

Baumann turned to face front.  He set his binoculars to his eyes and
swept the line of the coast.  There was a break in the smoke and he
could see landing craft surging in towards the beach.  There was his
target and he yelled at his gunners, pointed it out to them and the
Gefreiter manning the rangefinder.  He saw the rounds inserted, the
breeches closed and shouted, "Feuer!"

Engel saw both guns lift together as a force lifted him and hurled him
back against the wall behind him.  For a time he was stunned then he
became aware that he lay at the foot of the wall and the upper floor of
the Blockhouse was filled with smoke and dust.  He dragged himself up
by the wall.  He could barely see the stairs, but the men he had posted
to watch them lay still.  He stooped and picked up one of their
grenades and lobbed it into the stairwell, heard it detonate below.

The sound came to him only distantly through a jangling in his head.
The cotton he, like all his men, had plugged into his ears to protect
them from the din of the guns' firing, had not saved his hearing from
the explosion.  For now he knew it for what it was.  The Tommis had
blown up the Blockhouse.  But he still stood on its upper floor.  So
...?

He shouted, "Pianka!"  Even his own voice came to him only from a long
way off.  He heard no reply and kept shouting Pianka's name as he
picked up more grenades.  The smoke was clearing, the dust settling or
being sucked out of the embrasures through which the guns had fired.
The front wall of the Blockhouse was still there, in a way.  The armour
plate was buckled and the original brickwork of the house had
collapsed.  But a wall remained, though the rectangular embrasures were
slanted drunkenly now.

The guns were there.  So was the floor but it fell away from the rear
wall at an angle and now the guns pointed down into the square.  Engel
thought it was as if the entire front of the Blockhouse had sunk two or
three metres into the ground.

In fact, the engineer sergeant and his men had used all the plastic
explosive they could rake up from among Ward's men to sever the steel
frame of the front of the building", so the upper floor sagged and now
rested on the ragged, bent Stumps of the girders.  Ward and his men had
raced up from the cellars where they had taken cover.  They reached the
back hall just as Engel's grenade exploded there.  They heard it
clearly because their ears had not suffered as Engel's had, and Ward
saw the flash of its bursting.  He halted and stopped the men behind
him: "They're still holding out up there."  Then he told one of them,
"Fetch the lady."  He asked, "Where's that engineer sergeant?"  And
when the man came: "Go down to the magazine and get ready to blow
that."

His time was running out.  One of his men carried a backpack wireless
set.  If Ward did not use it to send the signal confirming
neutralisation of the Blockhouse guns in a few minutes, then the
bombarding warships would take on the task of obliterating them.  He
did not know whether the guns were still capable of firing, nor the
condition of the defenders on the upper floor.  But someone up there
was carrying on the fight.

Suzi came and listened to him.  She was as filthy as any of them now,
felt as though she had been beaten all over and wanted only to lie down
and sleep.  But she turned to the stairs and called again, "Hen
Hauptmann Engel!  Can you hear me?"  And waited.

Engel had got the conscious on to their feet and had set some of them
in defensive positions, bawling his orders at them because they acted
like drunken men: "Look to your front!  If anything moves, shoot it! We
are holding!"  To the others he gave the task of tending the wounded. 
Pianka and Werner Schoenenberg were among them.  The dead had been laid
out in a windowless rear corner where the defenders would not fall over
them.  Otto Baumann was one of them.

And now Engel heard that clear, high voice again.  He crossed the
tilted floor, leaning against the angle of it, past the guns that could
not be trained to fire further than into the cobbles of the square in
front of them.  He halted at the head of the stairs and answered, voice
hoarse from dust and shouting, "I hear you."

"The officer asks that you order your men to lay down their arms and
come down.  He insists that you answer at once.  His orders are to
destroy this place without further delay."

"And my orders are to hold das Blockhausl" Engel's reply was harsh,
savage, automatic.  He glared around him at the survivors standing at
their posts, fat and homesick Willi Schulz among them.  Then at the
wounded, among them Pianka, lying with blood on his face, and Werner
Schoenenberg, pale and very young.  They were both unconscious.

Engel looked away from them, out through one of the embrasures and
lifted the binoculars he had taken from Otto Baumann's body and hung
round his own neck.  Through them he saw there were troops and tanks on
the road outside the village.  He thought the tanks were Shermans.  The
soldiers who marched behind them, strung out along either side of the
road, carried big Bergen rucksacks slung on their shoulders.

Beyond them was the shore, still under fire, but landing craft were
spread all along the water's edge and more of them were coming out of
the smoke.  He thought one of those on the beach was familiar, with a
picture painted on the front of its bridge.  Hadn't he seen one like
that at Anzio?  But then he told himself wearily that there were
hundreds of them and they all looked alike.  He lowered the binoculars
and turned back to the stairs.

Langley found a dressing station further along the beach.  He took
Oswald there, he and Farmer and two others trotting crouched to escape
the fire that still swept the beach and carrying Uncle in the blanket
between them.  A surgeon examined him and told a relieved Langley,
"He's got a gash in his head we'll have to stitch and concussion. He'll
have a hell of a headache for a day or two but after that he'll be
fine."

They left Uncle to be cared for by the staff there.  Then Langley sat
with his crew in their little shelter under the seawall.  All of them
were shocked, and were living through a nightmare.  The beach was
strewn with torn bodies as far as the eye could see.  They watched
numbly as more and more men, guns, tanks and vehicles drove off landing
craft, then up the beach to disappear inland.  They saw the tide
continue to rise, then halt and later begin to fall.  The shelling of
the beach became sporadic as the shore batteries were knocked out.
Small-arms fire ceased as the machine-gun nests and pill-boxes were
captured.  Now the only fire came from guns inland and far away at Le
Havre.  That still killed men but the others braved it.

Langley walked down to where his ship lay with the cable running out
from her stern to the kedge anchor like some umbilical cord tying her
to the sea.  He wondered why he had dropped the kedge when he knew she
was sulking.  He remembered this was the sixth of June, just a year
since he had been given command of her.  He had brought Bloody Norah
into Malta then, out of pig-headedness, because Bellanger had said she
could not be saved.

She was high and dry now, so that he could walk down along her
starboard side, then under her stern and up along the port side.  It
was as he rounded the stern, trying to keep a count of all the holes in
her,

that he realised Simon Hartington was following in his footsteps,
scanning the battered hull as he was.

When he had gone all round her he walked up the ramp and through the
tank deck.  He climbed to the bridge with Simon his silent partner and
looked over the chaos and carnage there.  At that point Farmer
Fairbrother emerged from the wheelhouse and called up to him, "I've had
a look in there and at the rudder, sir.  She seems all right; should
steer."

Langley heard cursing, went to the engine-room hatch and stood at the
top of the ladder.  Scouse Gilhooley was down there on the gratings
with his two stokers.  He looked up as if he sensed Langley's presence
and grumbled, "Right sodding mess down here..."  He listed the damage,
item by adjectival item and Langley listened in silence.

Until Smiler Noakes shook his head glumly and Tolliver chimed in, "The
old cow's buggered for good this time."

Gilhooley turned on them.  "What the hell are you talking about?  You
don't know her like we do!"  He looked up at Langley again and said,
"Give you power in a couple of hours.  Or three.  By the next tide,
anyway ... sir."

Langley nodded and returned to the bridge.  Farmer and some of the
hands had cleaned that.  They had taken the bodies of Anderson and
Kirkpatrick ashore with awkward reverence and returned.  They would
mourn later.  When Langley looked down from the bridge he saw Simon
Hartington, farmer Fairbrother and all his crew were below in the tank
deck or on the catwalks.  Mclver the pugilist, Underbill the art
teacher, Scouse Gilhooley and his two stokers, the bald-headed Curly
Chambers.  They wore the usual ragbag assortment of grubby trousers and
sweaters.  And behind them were Peter Wright and the remaining crew of
the Showboat.  They all stared up at Langley, waiting.  He had the
priorities mapped out in his mind and he leaned on the bridge-screen
and started, "This is what we're going to do..."

Patrick Ward evacuated the Blockhouse.  The first prisoners to come
down removed the cupboard that had blocked the stairs.  Then the others
staggered down carrying their wounded and he gathered them all in the
yard at the back of the house.  Engel came last of all, two of his
soldiers carrying Pianka between them.  Pianka was conscious now but
his face Engel had washed it clean of dust and dirt was pale.  It
twisted with pain every time his legs were jarred.  He and Engel saw
the dark-eyed, dark-haired young girl standing back in the shadows and
stared at her.  Pianka, hung between the two men with his arms around
their shoulders, glanced at Engel and said wryly, "You were right from
the beginning.  It was a woman."

Engel growled, "No use finding her now."

Pianka added, "Nice-looking little piece."

"Forget it.  You're too old to be chasing her."  Then Engel amended
that: "Too old to catch her, anyway."  He nodded to her or possibly it
was a fraction of a bow.

Suzi knew they were talking about her, though they spoke in German and
she did not understand a word.  But she met Pianka's curious gaze and
Engel's glare and found the latter did not frighten her.  She knew this
tall man would not harm her now.  Then they passed on.

Soon the Shermans and commandos of the relief column moved into
defensive positions around the village.  The doctor and medics who
followed them set up a forward dressing station in the old stable and
the wounded were moved in there, while the able-bodied prisoners stayed
out in the yard under guard.  Engel asked Ward, stiffly, formally, if
he could visit his wounded, a conversation carried on mainly in sign
language and with the help of Sergeant-Major Arkwright's limited
German.  Ward stiffly and formally agreed.  They would not become
friends for another two years.

Engel spoke to Werner Schoenenberg and the others lying in the stable,
telling them they had all done their duty.  Then he sat down on the
ground by Pianka, awkwardly because of his stiff leg, and held out his
bottle of cognac.  It was now nearly empty, most of its contents gulped
down by the wounded.  He and Pianka drained the last of it, passing the
bottle back and forth.

Suzi found a blanket in the Blockhouse, curled up in it in a sheltered
corner of the yard and slept.  She woke in the early afternoon, feeling
thirsty and grubby.  Arkwright gave her a mug of tea, dark brown and
sweet.  She drank that and then sneaked into the Blockhouse, found a
tap that still ran and washed her hands and face.  She had no towel and
just shook the water from her hands, let it dry on her face.

She listened for a moment.  Outside, the rumble of guns went on in the
middle and far distance but the Blockhouse was empty and silent around
her.  She went cautiously to the stairs and climbed them,

stepped on to the upper floor and saw the guns.  Their breeches were
open and empty.  There were still shells stacked along the rear wall
but the guns were useless and pointed only at the square.  Suzi
thought: So they were what it was all about.  Then she corrected
herself.  No, it was about the lives they might have taken but
didn't.

She moved further into the long room, picking her way through the
litter of papers, clothing, mugs and mess tins left by Otto Baumann and
his gunners who had lived up there.  Suzi paused between the two guns
and looked out through the embrasures.  She could see over the roofs of
the village to the road that ran down to the coast, and beyond that to
the shore and the ships covering the surface of the sea.

The smoke had almost cleared now and the shelling of the beach had
eased, the shore batteries and the machine-gun nests all overrun.  The
shells falling now came from batteries inland.  She could see a score
of landing craft, beached and unloading, but they were out at the limit
of the low tide.  There was one further in, high and dry, well above
the low-water mark.  She moved to try to see it better and something
turned under her foot.  On looking down she saw a pair of binoculars.
Engel had dropped them when he had gone to see to Pianka.  Now Suzi
picked them up, set them to her eyes and focused them.

She stood for a long time then finally lowered the glasses, climbed
down the stairs and crossed the square to the coast road.

Richard Langley came up to the bridge from the engine room and looked
out over the bow.  The road that led up from the coast was busy with
tanks, guns, vehicles and men, all pressing inland.  He could not pick
out the one small figure coming the other way.

But much later he, Simon Hartington and Farmer Fairbrother agreed that
every hole in the hull had been plugged with timber and tarpaulin,
blankets, hammocks anything they could find.  The engines throbbed into
life and Scouse Gilhooley told him, "They're running like clocks, sir."
And the tide was stealing in again, was already swirling around the
rudder and the boxy stern.  Then Langley looked out over the bow again
and saw the small figure was very close, standing at the head of the
beach.

He stared for long minutes then took off his cap and ran his hand
through his hair so that it stuck up on end like straw.  He told Simon
Hartington, who had a new hero now, "As soon as she floats, we'll take
her home."  Then he climbed down from the bridge of Bloody Norah, paced
forward along the catwalk and dropped down the ladder in the bow.  He
picked his way over the buckled ramp and walked long-legged and awkward
across the beach.

Alan Evans has recreated vividly and evocatively the atmosphere of the
First and Second World Wars in ten previous novels, most recently in
the Battle of Narvik-based SINK OR CAPTURE!  which was hailed by
Richard Hough in The Times as 'a brilliantly contrived sea thriller ...
the action has the rate of fire of an Oerlikon cannon'.  Born in
Sunderland, he was a member of the Royal Artillery (Volunteers) for
many years and has served both at home and abroad as a survey sergeant
in various RA units.