Beri-Beri was watching him, his eyes hidden as his body leaned this way and that as if to follow his shadow on the bulkhead.

  'If you close the land now you'll be right amongst the sweeping area, but you realise that, don't you? I know we're safe enough with our depth, but there may be a few drifters around.' He reached out and took his arm. 'But that is what you intend, isn't it?'

  Marriott returned to the chart, the coastline and pencilled markings blurred as he tried to control his racing thoughts.

  It was over. Done with. And anyway you couldn't leave them to brew up without trying something. Not one of your own.

  He said between his teeth, 'When we do find the bastard I'll lay odds he's put the fire out and is on his way to Neustadt!'

  Beri-Beri watched him, feeling his sudden anxiety. Torment was a truer word.

  Silver swayed down the ladder with his recognition book, more dog-eared and stained than ever.

  He said bluntly, 'She's Lieutenant Duncan's ML, sir. Call-sign Vagrant.'

  'Yes, I see.' Marriott tried to clear his mind. He could see the ML's skipper quite clearly in his thoughts. A round-faced, cheerful Devonian from the River Exe. He had been in Coastal Forces for all of his service, and two years in command of this ML.

  Now he was out there somewhere. Fire. Feared, dreaded more than anything else by sailors.

  Fairfax called down. 'Ready, sir! Course to steer is South-Sixty-East!'

  'Very well. Half speed. Bring her round, Number One. I shall be in the W/T office.'

  Down in the hutchlike compartment with its shining bank of instruments and flickering dials, Telegraphist White peered over his shoulder with surprise.

  'Nothin' more, sir!'

  'Try R/T.' How dry his throat had become, and his back felt like ice.

  He watched the telegraphist switch on, his eyes on Knocker White's fingers moving the dial, seeking the other vessel. Why did they call Whites Knocker?

  'Hello Vagrant, this is Otter, do you read me –'

  He felt the hull begin to jerk as the screws beat the sea into a mounting bank of foam. But the motion was easier. MGB 801 was at home in these conditions.

  'Dead, sir.'

  'Keep trying.' Marriott clambered back to the bridge, aware that every sheltered place was crammed with silent, watching figures.

  'Full speed, Number One.' He groped his way to the chair where Beri-Beri was clinging to a handrail, his hair rippling, standing on end as the hull bounded forward, suddenly unrestricted as if cut free from a leash.

  'Lighthouse, fine on the starboard bow, sir!'

  They all saw the edge of the long beam waver then fade as the far-off lantern completed another turn. Regular, constant, reliable. No wonder old sea pilots called them their Silent Sentinels.

  Rae said, 'No more signals, sir.'

  Marriott gripped the back of the chair hard. In his mind's eye he could see the hidden mines, the ones which those sweepers were supposed to clear at first light, before he had even arrived here.

  He raised his glasses and saw the tremendous arrowhead of white-banked water surging back from the bows. It was impossible to hold them steady. Where the hell was she?

  Silver had relieved Rae at the voicepipes so that the bridge could have the benefit of his cat's eyes.

  He yelled, 'Signal from HQ, sir! Plain language!'

  Marriott knew what it would say. He replied, 'Repeat it!'

  'Fire reported in area south of Staber Huk. No further details. Attention is drawn to –'

  Marriott snapped, "That's enough! We should see something soon!'

  He heard someone retching and knew it was Lowes. Another rude awakening for him.

  The hard glare of the lighthouse swept over the black water. It was a dangerous place for ships which had too much draft and too little power in their engines.

  'Dead ahead, sir! Fire on the water!'

  Marriott watched in silence, feeling Fairfax and Beri-Beri pressing against him on either side while they trained their night glasses on the flickering glow of yellow and orange flames. It was like being carried against his will. As in a dream when you can't run away or hide.

  Fairfax shouted, 'Fire-parties to your stations! Stand by rafts and heaving lines!'

  Marriott tried again to moisten his lips. 'Remain on this course. We must hold up to windward.' But it was like hearing someone else giving the orders. A robot.

  Men blundered about in the darkness, sometimes blinded by the sweeping impartial glare from the lighthouse.

  Marriott said, 'Half speed all engines.' The keepers must have telephoned about the fire. Germans seeing their old enemy in danger, but the code of the sea too strong to challenge.

  The bows seemed to slide down and hurl the spray as high as the masthead. Men with torches were groping along the slippery foredeck, others called out for assistance, or cursed horribly as they fell over some immovable object.

  'All ready, sir!' Fairfax was back on the bridge again, breathing fast, eyes shining in the glow.

  Marriott raised his heavy binoculars very slowly and then stared at the fire on the water.

  The outline of the ML's hull was sharper now, like a black line beneath a flicker of fire and steam, the latter probably from hoses and extinguishers.

  Beri-Beri whispered, 'They've not got it under control. My guess is it was the engineroom. We might be able to grapple before she loses all her power!'

  Marriott barely heard. He had seen a few tiny figures momentarily in silhouette against the flames. How small and vulnerable they looked.

  'Call them up. Let them know we're coming.' He doubted if anyone had the time to man the W/T office, and he saw Silver's Aldis lamp clattering away, telling them in his own fashion that they were no longer alone.

  He gripped his glasses more tightly to prevent them slipping from his grasp. He could not drag his eyes from the dancing, evil-looking flames. Men were hurt, perhaps dying, praying for rescue. And all Marriott could see was his own boat. Burning and burning, so that those same pitiful screams seemed to be right here beside him.

  'Stand by forrard!'

  Marriott felt his eyes stinging but still could not look away. Below the bridge he heard someone shouting above the engines' roar, to encourage those who would not hear. He wanted to find the man and shake him, tell him there was no hope. He recalled Beri-Beri's own words.

  She ran out of luck.

  'Dead slow!' Marriott tried to clear his throat and tasted the stench of burning for the first time.

  Beri-Beri said, 'I'd not get too close.'

  Marriott nodded. So he knew too. The old instinct. He heard Lowes sobbing quietly at the rear of the bridge and thought he was too frightened to care what the others thought.

  But for once Lowes was not thinking of himself. He had heard the name of the stricken ML's commanding officer called from the W/T office, Lieutenant Duncan. It had been his birthday Lowes had been invited to share when the German boy had been dragged from the harbour.

  Marriott said, 'Port fifteen.' He watched the flickering flame reflecting from the gently moving water, as if it came from the sea-bed itself.

  Beri-Beri said, 'Why doesn't he abandon? He must have seen us!'

  Marriott felt his hand shake as he pressed down the switch of the loud-hailer.

  'D'you hear there? Abandon ship, I shall pick you up –'

  He got no further. The flame seemed to flare straight up and then expand until the whole hull was engulfed. Then came the explosion, strangely muffled and yet so powerful that the complete deck and most of the bridge was hurled into the air in flaming pieces, some of which hissed down right alongside.

  Fairfax gripped a rail for support and stared aghast as the fragments continued to fall. He heard something solid drop on the foredeck, the instant response from someone's extinguisher.

  He cringed in the fierce glare which made the men around him look like lifeless studies in bronze. For a few moments he saw Lieutenant Kidd with his arm around the Skipper's shoulders, and for a second more imagined that Marriott had been hit by a falling piece of timber or worse.

  As he made to run towards him the light suddenly doused, leaving him almost blind in the impenetrable darkness. Only the lighthouse beam remained, licking out and over the swell, painting the bobbing pieces like silver.

  Fairfax gasped, 'Are you all right, sir?'

  Marriott turned very slowly, knowing that but for Beri-Beri's arm he would have fallen.

  He said, 'Get up forrard, Number One. You know what to do.' He tried again. 'I'm relying on you.'

  Beri-Beri snapped, 'And take that officer with you! Keep him bloody quiet!'

  But when Fairfax reached Lowes he found Leading Seaman Craven speaking with him, his voice unusually quiet.

  He was saying, 'In war, any bloke can get the chop. I've seen a-bloody 'nough of 'em go like that!' He bobbed his head towards the figures in the forepart of the bridge. 'Our Skipper 'as died just once too often, see?'

  Lowes wiped his face with the back of his hand. 'Yes. Yes, I see–'

  Behind his back Craven sighed. Never in a thousand bloody years!

  The hull moved slowly across the water, torches and the bridge searchlight reaching out on either beam, finding and rejecting.

  Beri-Beri murmured, 'I should have been aboard her by rights.'

  Marriott came out of his thoughts as Fairfax called aft, 'No survivors, sir!'

  Marriott shouted, 'Keep looking!' To the bridge at large he added, 'There must be someone. There has to be.'

  Beri-Beri watched his anguish and wished there was something he could do. He had been there when Marriott's boat had blown up. As close as they had been to the ML. He knew how Marriott had tried to overcome it, had given himself to his new command more than ever before. But after this . ..

  Evans asked doubtfully, 'Shall I take her round again, sir?'

  'Yes.' He swallowed hard, feeling the fear like something wild and alive. 'You never know. Think how it would feel to find hope and then see it sail away, leaving you to rot?'

  When first light found them they were still circling the place where the ML had been blasted apart. The light revealed what the darkness had mercifully hidden. Bodies and pieces of men, familiar uniforms and badges, burned and bloodied in that last explosion.

  Silver watched Marriott staring down into the water as they passed a floating corpse, afraid to interrupt his suffering.

  'Minesweepers astern, sir!' He looked at Beri-Beri question-ingly. Marriott had not heard a word.

  Beri-Beri said, 'Signal the senior officer. There are no survivors.' He had seen the long metal tanks which the minesweepers and salvage vessels had been issued with, for macabre relics like these. 'He can carry on from here.'

  He looked at his friend. 'They had no chance. Neither did we.'

  Marriott turned as Silver's Aldis clattered the signal towards the leading trawler.

  'Would you tell Number One to secure his fire-party.' He moved to the bridge chair and rested his arms on its high back.

  He knew that Beri-Beri was examining the chart and in minutes would put the gunboat back on course for Neustadt.

  At any other time he would have objected, resisted anyone's attempt to help.

  But he could barely move, any more than he could free his mind from that last searing explosion.

  He felt the deck begin to shake, the sudden increase of power and the thrash of foam from the outer screws making the silent figures come to life again.

  Evans was stepping down from the wheel, his place taken by Townsend, in more ways than one.

  Beri-Beri joined him by the chair but did not look at him.

  'You know what I think, Vere? I believe that we are the survivors.'

  Marriott pulled out his pipe and jammed it between his teeth to prevent them from chattering.

  He felt more like tears than he had believed possible. But it could not be like that. Meikle had proclaimed that it was not a game. He was wrong. How else could they have endured it, with survival just a joke?

  He said, 'Quite right, Beri-Beri. If you can't take a joke, then you shouldn't have joined!'

  Neither of them dared to laugh. Each in his own way knew he would be unable to stop.

  8

  Yesterday's Enemy

  Marriott walked along the stone slipway and stared up at his command. It was so strange to see her out of the water after so long, her spartan hull scraped and dented and still dripping with weed.

  Just a few days, Meikle had said. Somehow or other the naval party with the squads of Royal Engineers had managed to clear several of the slipways, a godsend to the many smaller vessels which were working all hours to open up the harbour.

  In the meantime 801's company had been put aboard one of the newly arrived accommodation ships, a huge former steam-yacht which even dull pusser's paint could not disfigure. There had been more than a few moans from the messdeck. Most of the hands had hoped that the boat would be sent back to Felixstowe for a well-deserved overhaul. At least aboard the accommodation vessel they would be able to enjoy baths and showers, catch up with their dhobying and jewing, as the sailors called repair work on their uniforms.

  Marriott saw the Chief talking with a plump official in a boiler suit, his instructions being translated by another former German petty officer. It was odd when you thought about it. None of the naval personnel who was working under the British was allowed to wear either his former rank markings or rates, and yet the divisions between them were as rigid as ever. Even the few German officers who were employed here seemed little different, despite the bare patches where their stripes and Nazi eagles had once been worn.

  It was easy to feel more like an intruder than the occupying power, he thought.

  Adair saw him and saluted. 'Take a look at this, sir.' He pointed up with an oily finger at the port outer screw. It was badly scarred and buckled.

  He added, 'I think it was when we were at Neustadt, sir. Must have hit some underwater wreckage.' He gestured to the plump man in the boiler suit. 'Klaus here thinks he can get it fixed. He's got a good machine-shop in the yard despite all the bomb damage.'

  'I'll be guided by you, Chief.' Marriott glanced along the gunboat's boxlike hull. So it was Klaus already. So much for non-fraternisation. It was to be allowed only within the needs of duty, Meikle's little book had instructed. So in this case ... He saw Adair hand a cigarette to the German, who bobbed his head and grinned before placing it carefully in a little tin and stowing it in his boiler suit.

  The new currency, Marriott thought.

  He heard Fairfax coming down the slipway and wondered how he saw his skipper now.

  He thought of Neustadt. It had all been a waste of time anyway. The sappers there had blown up the offending wreck without waiting for the navy's explosives. Somehow the wires had got crossed. Another cockup, as Cuff had put it.

  Marriott had stayed there for two days awaiting orders, before returning to Kiel and this unexpected slipway. Neustadt had been unsettling. Groups of soldiers standing on the shoreline watching the sea, trying to identify the drifting wreckage and lolling corpses that were still coming ashore from the final days of the Russian offensive. As if it was some kind of gruesome contest. The town was ravaged, and he had noticed that, unlike Kiel, the British heavy artillery had not been stood down or reduced. Quite the reverse. He had seen the gunners busily throwing up new emplacements while German labourers carried out other defence work with concrete and steel supports.