They drove the rest of the way without speaking.

  The temporary headquarters for Naval Operations had once been a school. Later it had been used as a hospital for dealing with the mounting pressure of air raids, and as Marriott walked beside the commander he was aware of the stark contrasts on every hand. The peeling remains of children's paintings and drawings, from last Christmas he thought, Santa Claus on his sleigh, reindeer and trees covered with snow. In one empty room where desks had once stood, there were piles of rough palliasses, deeply stained with dried blood, awaiting disposal in one of the many fires which the army had built to rid the place of filth and the danger of disease. Parts of the roof had gone and, once, he looked up to see the sky, very pure and clean overhead.

  A few German sailors were busily removing rubbish and unloading steel cabinets from some army trucks; they stamped to attention as the two naval officers passed, their eyes staring and empty. How do they see us? Marriott wondered. Then he thought of Meikle's photographs, the horror of that place, the appalling suffering which must have made death more than welcome when it came to release them.

  He recalled what he had told Fairfax, and the young sublieutenant's face when he had spoken so harshly. Perhaps he had been wrong. Maybe it was better to keep your enemy in a periscope or gunsight, or through a bomb-aimer's crosswires.

  Here, it was like seeing yourself in defeat.

  Meikle snapped, 'Wait here.' He strode over to speak with a petty officer who was sitting rather self-consciously at a desk, isolated in the corridor, a sub-machine gun dangling from the back of his schoolroom chair.

  Meikle came back and said, 'The Operations Officer has a visitor, but he wants us to enter all the same.' He sounded quietly irritated. 'Just remember what I told you.' He ran his eyes over Marriott's attempt at formality. But his reefer jacket needed a press, and he had made this particular collar last from the other meeting. 'Hmmm.' The room looked over what had once been a pleasant garden, a study or library, Marriott decided.

  Maps and telephones were everywhere, and two RNVR officers and several telegraphists and signalmen were kept busy answering them, making and passing notes while a fat Yeoman of Signals waddled amongst them like an impressive guard-dog.

  At one end of the long room were a desk and some chairs, rescued from nearby houses, one still scorched from a near-miss.

  The Operations Officer was tall and angular, a regular, with the three rings of a commander on his sleeves. He looked very tired, but had a warm smile as he gestured to the chairs.

  'I'm Rodney Boucher, Marriott. The Bloke here for the moment until better things are fixed up. Sorry to drag you up here –'

  But Marriott was looking at the other officer who was sitting half-concealed by the back of a tall swivel-chair.

  The Operations Officer hesitated. He had a studious, almost gentle manner which one would hardly expect from an officer who was trying to build some semblance of order in a shattered dockyard and the movement of naval vessels there.

  'This is Commodore Paget-Orme.'

  The seated figure swivelled round and regarded Marriott for several seconds. He was the sort of senior officer who would make anyone feel crumpled and uncomfortable. His reefer was dark and shining, the very best doeskin, and the single thick stripe around his sleeve was like the gold on Meikle's cap. New. Bought for the occasion.

  He was clean too. Unhealthily so. Very pink and scrubbed with neat, square hands which rested in his lap like watchful crabs.

  The commodore said, 'I am here to hurry things along. I am responsible to the admiral.' He smiled gently, showing small even teeth. 'Nobody else.' It amused him, and his stomach, which even the perfectly cut reefer could not disguise, shook with silent mirth. 'A sort of God-figure!'

  Marriott glanced quickly at the others. Commander Boucher's expression was one of patient resignation, Meikle's not far from dislike.

  'Now, er, Lieutenant Marriott.' Commodore Paget-Orme readjusted one elbow on his chair and studied him critically. 'DSC and bar – one of the Glory Boys, they tell me?' He did not expect a reply. 'This affair with the vessel, er –'

  The Operations Officer prompted, 'Ronsis, sir.'

  'Quite.' The smile was fading. 'Well, I understand that you were ordered to turn the Ronsis back from her attempted escape?'

  Marriott pressed his knuckles against his side to contain his resentment. Perhaps this had been the headmaster's study? It was how it felt now.

  'I ordered her to stop, sir.' He had made signals to this effect, written it in the log and again in his report. It was like talking to an unstoppable wave. 'Then I sent a boarding party who discovered there were wounded soldiers and some women aboard. How many, we can't yet find out.' He expected an interruption but the plump commodore was staring at him intently. The two pink crabs had scuttled up his chest to link together beneath his chin as if for support.

  Marriott continued wearily, 'I made a signal to –'

  The commodore nodded impatiently. 'I know about that.' His eyes, which were very pale blue, swivelled towards Meikle. 'What was the response?'

  Meikle said, 'The N.O.I.C. repeated that the original order was to be executed. That the ship was to await a Russian escort.' He looked at Marriott, his voice, like his face, empty of expression. 'The Russian senior naval officer was informed to this effect.' He gave a brief shrug. 'Our responsibility was then ended.'

  The commodore ran his tongue over his lower lip.

  'So the German-controlled ship then attempted to escape.' His eyebrows were raised slightly. 'An old freighter or whatever, against a fast patrol boat. Rather ridiculous, I'd have thought?'

  Meikle said, 'We shall never know what the ship's master was trying to do. Maybe he wished Lieutenant Marriott to challenge the Russian's authority so that he could slip away, ground his ship maybe, throw himself and his passengers on the mercy of the Swedes or even us.'

  The commodore gave a childlike smile. 'One hell of a lot of maybes.'

  The Operations Officer said abruptly, 'I have a dispatch from the Russian admiral, sir. His explanation is that his patrol boat fired only when her commander believed that the Ronsis had outmanœuvered or outwitted MGB 801's commanding officer.'

  Marriott heard himself exclaim, 'It's a lie, sir! They murdered those people in cold blood! I could have taken her under my charge and put a full boarding party aboard if –'

  The commodore nodded. 'Ah yes, Lieutenant Marriott. If. That one word which makes all the difference. But you did not and I am glad for you.' He was suddenly cold-eyed, all humour gone. 'You would have created a serious rift between us and the Russian command at a time when we are barely able to cope with matters here! And all you would have got would have been a court martial for disobeying orders! Let me assure you of that!'

  The Operations Officer waited until the commodore had regained his self-control and said, 'If we dispute the Russians' explanation they will alter it. They always do. They will say that you were deliberately allowing the Ronsis to escape, to Sweden perhaps?' He looked at Marriott and added gently, 'Try to forget it. It was an aftermath of war.'

  Marriott tried again. 'If you speak with the survivors, sir, it might give you a better bargaining point?'

  The commodore examined one finger and frowned. 'They have gone. I ordered them back to the Russian sector this morning.'

  Marriott pictured the stricken woman who had lost her child, the face of the army nurse, the wounded soldiers and a couple of Latvian seamen.

  Paget-Orme looked at Marriott and asked, 'Why should you bother yourself? The Germans would have done the same if Russians had been trying to escape.' He became tired of it. 'Anyway, Marriott, I shall need your boat in a couple of days. I intend to carry out an inspection of local facilities, docking and salvage and the like.' It sounded vague. 'Do the Germans good to see a veteran in their midst!'

  Marriott replied, 'I should have left them all to die.'

  Meikle said harshly, 'Doubtless you've had to do that often enough in the past!'

  The words were still ringing in his mind when a car carried him back to the dockyard.

  The motor gunboat's main messdeck was crowded to capacity, the air so thick with pipe and cigarette smoke you could cut it with a knife. Every scuttle and vent was wide open, and the stench of the harbour added its power to the humid atmosphere.

  Many of the seamen sat around a mess table, peering over one another's shoulders to devour the two newspapers which had finally arrived from England. In the confined space beneath the low deckhead others pressed or 'dhobied' their clothes, or swapped yarns while they shared the handful of mail which had also been delivered by the same ship which had brought newspapers and parcels from home.

  Leading Seaman Craven was saying, 'Christ, look at the crowds outside Buckingham Palace! I'll bet there was bloody fun-and-games that night!'

  The others peered at the front page, the palace seemingly hemmed in by a solid mass of faces, flags waving, some figures squatting on the roofs of taxis, the delight and astonishment of victory so evident that, like Craven, most of the others were missing it. Wishing they had been there to share the rejoicing.

  Another said bleakly, 'Look at these other pictures, Hookey.'

  Craven stared hard-eyed at the stark review of a liberated concentration camp. The walking dead, the unspeakable horror of it.

  Craven said, 'Bloody bastards!'

  Ginger Jackson peered in from the main doorway, dressed as usual in overalls scrubbed and laundered so often they were more white than blue.

  'It's all part of it.'

  Craven glanced up at him and grinned. 'An' what about your lot? You must have shipped enough gin to float the bloody Hipper!'

  Leading Signalman Silver tied the last knot in some wool as he repaired another sock and said, 'Commodore's comin' aboard tomorrow, that right, Ginger?'

  Ginger did a few mincing steps and lisped, 'An' he's bringin' 'is own chief steward with 'im!'

  The sailor who was trying to press his shoregoing bell-bottoms into the seven desired creases on the gunboat's only ironing-board yelled, 'Watch out, Ginger, these are me best nookey trousers!'

  Craven sighed. 'I dunno what you're expectin' when we do get a run ashore. From what it says in the little book, you're more likely to catch a dose of clap than anythin' else.'

  A young ordinary seaman named Langford asked, 'What exactly is a commodore, er, Hookey?'

  Craven stared at him. 'Speak, can you? I was beginnin' to wonder!'

  Langford was just eighteen and had joined the company a few days before they had sailed from England for Denmark. It had been a short war for him. It was always hard for a newcomer to settle in and be accepted. Especially one so completely green. And besides, most of them still remembered the man whose place he had taken. Or was trying to take. He had been lost overboard in the Channel. The night had been pitch-dark. They had not even heard him cry out.

  Sailors were a superstitious lot. A few had persisted that they had heard the luckless seaman since. Calling out from the darkness.

  Craven considered it. 'A commodore is neither one thing nor t'other. If it was peacetime, I mean real peacetime, he'd be a captain who was 'opin' to make flag rank. 'E could fall back to bein' a four-striper, or he could rise to flag rank and be a big-'eaded admiral, see?'

  Silver gave a dry chuckle.' 'E could be dropped altogether, o' course, kicked out of the Andrew.'

  Ginger Jackson pushed himself on to the bench seat and rested on his elbows.

  To Craven he said quietly, 'I mentioned you-know-what to Mister Lowes.'

  Craven and Able Seaman Rae, who had been reading the Daily Mail very slowly, his lips silently forming every word, both sat bolt upright.

  Craven exclaimed, 'You done what, you stupid bugger?'

  Rae muttered, 'Christ, I want my demob when this lot's over, not the sodding glasshouse!'

  Ginger smiled gently. 'Oh, 'e's all right. Good as gold. Once we get started he'll get properly 'ooked.' He bowed his head and persisted, 'Look, mates, we need all we can get. It'll be a piece of cake, you see.'

  Craven was unconvinced. 'All the same, Ginger, you're takin' a bloody chance. Snow White may be a bit wet, but 'e's still an officer, for Chrissake!'

  Leading Signalman Silver chuckled quietly and studied the completed repair. A right bunch they were, he thought. They had not even begun their scheme to get rich at the Jerries' expense, and already they were in dispute. He folded up his 'housewife' and wondered what the Skipper was doing. He had seen him on his return, and their eyes had met as he had climbed to the bridge where Silver had been tidying up the flags and signal lamps. Whatever had happened at HQ, the Skip was taking it badly. Carrying it all, as he had carried them since he had assumed command. Silver had served with a few in his time, but Marriott was the best. He leaned back and tried to think about his life at the dogtracks as a tick-tack man, a skill handed down by his father. Would he ever be able to go back to it after this? Fights at the dogtrack bars or in the local at the end of the street. The coppers shoving everyone around with their usual goodhumoured toughness. Until things got too rough, then it was the hurry-up van and a ride to the local nick with a few more thumps on the way for good measure.

  He let his gaze move around the crowded messdeck. Their refuge, their home. Where they had swapped news from families and girl-friends, shared the bald notices about a bombed house, relatives wiped out while we thought we were taking all the risks.

  Familiar faces, men he knew like his own people in London. Scouse Arkright, the best of mates in a battle, but a fighting maniac after a few jars ashore. He was bending over his banjo, his mind empty of all else as he adjusted the strings. It would be 'Maggie May' before pipe-down. Again.

  And Leading Seaman Townsend who did a bit of everything. Apart from the coxswain they carried no deck petty officers. Townsend was not only the senior gunlayer but also acted as chief boatswain's mate, boss of the messdeck, and a ready ear if someone had dropped a clanger and needed advice.

  Like most of the others Townsend would be leaving soon, he thought. To pick up his PO's rate and join some general service ship to be packed off to the Pacific.

  The radio squawked and fragments of Vera Lynn's voice echoed above the buzz of conversation.

  Someone shouted, 'Turn that row off! I just want a bit of crumpet, I don't need to hear a bloody song about it!'

  Silver grinned. How could they settle down to civvy street when it was all finally over?

  He realised that Rae was staring at him, his eyes wide and unblinking.

  Silver asked, 'Wot is it?'

  Instead of answering, Rae put one finger to his lips, then shook his head to indicate he did not want anyone else to hear.

  Then he leaned over the table, his mouth to Silver's ear.

  'There's something moving against the hull, Bunts.'

  Silver glanced at the others but they were still chatting, reading, or doing repairs to their clothing.

  Had it been anyone else .. . Silver nodded very slowly. They had all owed their lives to Rae's quick senses more than once.

  He felt a chill run down his back in spite of the hot air. There it was again. Not driftwood this time. He tried to think clearly. They had all been lectured on the 'Werewolves', the Nazi youth who would hit back after the occupation forces had dropped their vigilance. Suppose that was one of them? Jesus Christ, the sound was right against one of the main fuel tanks. A limpet-mine –

  Rae said, 'You go. I can't get out without drawing attention –'