'Fine. But just catch him, eh? A nice feather in our caps. Won't do any harm when we get back to the Job, will it?'

  They both laughed. In their work they had to, to keep sane.

  Not very far from the S.I.B.'s local headquarters stood an old artillery barracks, or the half of it which had not been bombed flat. It was walled off from prying eyes, and any gaps left by the many air-raids were filled with sandbags and barbed wire. Off-limits to civilians and servicemen not actually on duty, it was a dismal place which smelled of charred wood, damp and decay. Even its former owners had not used the place since the heaviest raid had made it uninhabitable.

  In a small army hut another of MGB 801's small company was waiting, standing quite still, like an actor about to move on stage and still uncertain of his lines.

  Acting-Lieutenant Mike Fairfax RNVR, Mentioned-in-Dispatches for bravery under fire and still only twenty-one, was facing the worst morning he could remember.

  He felt lost and trapped at the same time. There was nobody to share his thoughts with. Marriott for instance might have helped him to cope, to understand. There was nothing. He saw his reflection in the dull glass of the window. In his best uniform, as if he was going on parade. Every sudden sound made his heart leap and he found himself wondering what sort of man was going to be shot. He felt his throat contract. If he was sick he knew he would never be able to do anything.

  The door swung inwards and a massive chief petty officer with freshly blancoed belt and gaiters stamped to attention.

  ' 'Awkins, sir. Chief Gunner's Mate.' As his mouth snapped open and shut with the precision of a breech-block, his eyes flitted critically over Fairfax's general appearance. He seemed satisfied enough and added, 'Firin' party is fell in outside. All gunnery ratin's, sir.'

  Fairfax swallowed hard. The chief gunner's mate was one of a mould. In every barracks and establishment as well as many of the larger ships, you would always find a Hawkins. They could bawl and bellow until even the thickest sailor could work a gun or handle a rifle and bayonet. He could arrange a guard-of-honour for a visiting dignitary, a burial-party or, like now, a firing-squad.

  As a breed Fairfax disliked them, all mouth and trousers, and could recall how one of them had taken such pleasure in tormenting the young would-be officers at the King Alfred training establishment.

  Now, on this unusually dull morning, he knew he was never so glad to see anyone in his life.

  'Will it take long, Chief?'

  'Long, sir?' He pondered on the word while all the time he took in Fairfax's demeanour, his ability, and whether or not he might screw it up. 'Nuthin' to it, sir. It's all in the book. I've spoken to the 'ands – they know what to do.' He repeated, 'Nuthin' to it.'

  Fairfax persisted, 'Have you had to do this sort of thing before?'

  'Well, only once, sir. Anyway, that was a wog.' He made it sound as if it barely counted. 'Caught nickin' the stores.'

  He added, 'Word of advice, sir.'

  'Anything, Chief.'

  'The Provost gentleman who is in charge 'ere... is a bit odd, if you'll pardon the term, sir.'

  It was getting more unreal by the second. 'In what way, Chief?'

  Hawkins kept his face quite stiff. 'A bit of a poof, sir.'

  He faced the door. 'That'll be 'im now, sir.' His thumbs were exactly in line with his trouser seams as he glared at the entrance. 'Don't take no stick from 'im, sir. We're not in the bleedin' army!' He was in charge again.

  The door opened and a languid-looking captain wearing a Military Police armlet entered and smiled. He had a leather swagger-stick beneath one arm and wore a heavy revolver in a webbing holster.

  He nodded, bobbed would be a better description, and said, 'You're Fairfax, I expect?'

  Fairfax could almost feel the chief gunner's mate steaming.

  'Yes. The firing-party is outside, I understand?'

  The man pouted. 'I had been expecting marines, but still –' He examined his watch. It looked expensive. Loot.

  'Time to get started. This way, er – Fairfax.'

  They left the hut and walked through a sagging gate and into a bare courtyard.

  There was a long plank supported at regular intervals by posts. About shoulder-high, so that a firing-party could rest their rifles on it to take aim. No chance of a stray shot or a miss.

  Hawkins marched across the yard, his boot heels cutting little horseshoes in the dirt. He touched the plank and sniffed. 'A coat of paint wouldn't come amiss, sir!'

  For the first time Fairfax made himself look at the opposite wall. There was a post some eight feet in front of it, behind which was stacked a neat barrier of new sandbags.

  Fairfax stared at the post. It was exactly what he had been expecting. Like a film. Not real at all. That was the worst part.

  The Provost captain gestured casually with his swagger-stick. 'I've had the rifles covered with some newspapers. We're not expecting the weather to change just yet, otherwise –'

  He sounded petulant, and reminded Fairfax of Lowes. He saw the shining butt-plates of the twelve rifles just protruding from the untidy line of newspapers.

  The captain added, 'All loaded.'

  Fairfax tasted the bile in his throat again. The captain even had a lisp.

  'I see.'

  The chief gunner's mate growled, 'I'll march 'em in, sir. Gettin' close to the time.' He saluted smartly and managed to exclude the Provost captain completely.

  Eventually the firing-party, smart and businesslike in their belts and gaiters, marched to the plank in single-file, halted, and turned right towards the wall.

  The big chief petty officer strode up and down the line and said, 'In a moment you will make one pace forward an' take up arms. Each weapon 'as its safety catch on, an' don't you bloody well forget it, see?' He stood in front of them, one hand resting on the plank. 'On the order take aim, you will do so in the prescribed manner. There will be an aimin' mark, so nobody will 'ave an excuse for missin'. You are gunnery ratin's, not a bunch of tiffies, right?'

  Fairfax watched as one of the seamen hurried along the line and gathered up the newspapers before stuffing them around the gate. As he ran back to his place Hawkins thundered, 'Now stand easy!'

  He marched back to Fairfax and saluted. 'All ready, sir. One of the squad was askin' if there is a blank cartridge amongst the rifles?'

  The Provost captain touched his chin with his little stick and tittered. 'He's been reading Boy's Own Paper, I expect!' But he did not answer the question.

  Fairfax knew that the sailors had been picked from various sections and ships in harbour. Only one he recognised. It was Leading Seaman Rae. Neat and alert in his uniform, his cap tilted just an inch above his eyebrows. He saw Fairfax and gave a slight blink of recognition.

  The captain walked away, saying, 'I'll tell them you're ready.'

  You're ready. The casual remark brought Fairfax out in a cold sweat. He looked desperately at Hawkins. 'Carry on, Chief!'

  Hawkins barked, 'Squad, 'shun! Take up, arms!'

  Fairfax walked along behind the single rank as Hawkins stood them at ease again.

  They were murmuring quietly to one another. To show they did not care? Or was it an outward bravado to cover their true feelings.

  Fairfax heard one man whisper excitedly, 'Yeh, they got Frenchman's Creek on at the E.N.S.A. Cinema next week! Must see it. Missed it when it was on in Chatham!'

  Another was saying, 'Did you see the match between the Guards an' the Pioneers at the Kilia Ground on Thursday? Gawd, they was useless! Couldn't 'it a ball wiv a bloody elephant!'

  Only Rae who stood at the end of the line, the Lee-Enfield gripped loosely in his right hand, remained aloof. He heard Fairfax pass behind him and could guess what he was going through. Good enough as Jimmy the One, soft as shit for this kind of caper. He felt his new watch heavy on his wrist. There was a girl too. He would give Ginger and Bill Craven the slip soon and see what she was like. A tin of coffee should be enough.

  He heard the chief gunner's mate hiss, 'Comin', sir!' Then Fairfax clear his throat before calling them to attention.

  Fairfax watched as the silent procession entered the yard via another gate. A squad of redcaps, two officers of the Military Government, a massive sergeant-major, and then the prisoner. He was a pale-faced young man held on either side by two more MPs.

  Then last of all came a priest, his robe very clean against the dull brickwork.

  The Provost captain stood near Fairfax and murmured, 'Not long now.' He could have been discussing the weather again.

  It was when the prisoner was led to the post and his arms suddenly pinioned behind him that he seemed to understand what was happening. It was all done so swiftly and efficiently that it was almost too quick to follow.

  One of the Mil. Gov. officers was reading from a buff sheet of paper. Then he stood aside and waited while the priest started to murmur a prayer from his book.

  The prisoner stared straight ahead, directly at the line of sailors without seeming to see them.

  The sergeant-major hung a bright red disc around the Pole's neck and arranged it carefully on his chest, before fastening a blindfold with the same practised skill. It was then that the spell broke, and the prisoner lunged against his bonds and began to weep. He was peering towards the prayers, obviously pleading even as the officers, redcaps, and the sergeant-major withdrew, leaving him and the man of God isolated.

  In the sudden stillness the man's anguished sobs seemed very loud.

  Leading Seaman Rae licked his lips and muttered, 'Here we bloody well go!'

  Another near him said, 'Even the God Bosun can't 'elp 'im now!' But his face was as pale as the prisoner's.

  Fairfax realised that the officers were all looking at him, that the priest was walking very slowly towards the gate, his closed book held to his lips.

  Fairfax could feel Hawkins willing him to act.

  He said, 'Firing-party, ready] Present!' From a corner of his eye he saw the twelve rifles rise and settle on the long plank. 'Catches off!' He wanted to turn away as the prisoner began to shriek with terror. Pictures flashed through his mind. 'Take aim!' His father going on about the profession, Meikle's suggestion that his time might be better used in medicine. His brother, always playing golf with other doctors. He felt his muscles go wire-taut. 'Fire!'

  So loud and instant was the fusillade that it sounded like a single explosion, the echoes hanging in the yard, making the pale smoke writhe up towards the dull-coloured sky.

  Leading Seaman Rae had always been an excellent shot, and had even been in a naval team when still under training.

  He watched the bright red disc move slightly as the prisoner wrenched helplessly at his lashings, his head thrown back as if to peer under the blindfold.

  Rae had taken the first pressure before Fairfax had managed to get out his orders, and then at the last second had eased the foresight up very slightly until the man's blindfold was dead in the centre. That way he had known his shot had found its mark. The others had smashed through the man's body with such force it had the same effect as a cannon shell.

  It seemed an age until the chief gunner's mate shouted, 'Ground arms!'

  Rae glanced at the figures already moving towards the lolling corpse. Poor old Jimmy the One had not been able to get the command out this time.

  Hawkins yelled, 'Right turn! Quick march! 'Eads up there! Swing them arms!'

  Hawkins came back after seeing the sailors into a waiting lorry. He asked, 'All right, sir?'

  Fairfax stared past him. Even in the dull light he could still see the great splash of scarlet. The thing which they had killed.

  'Thank you, Chief, yes.'

  'I've got a tot in the truck, sir. Drop o' Nelson's blood!'

  Fairfax retched. 'Thanks.'

  The two Military Government officers walked past, and one, a lieutenant colonel, asked irritably, 'Don't they teach you to salute superior officers in the navy, Lieutenant?'

  Fairfax stared blindly after them, unable to speak, knowing at the same time that had he been able, he would be under arrest himself.

  When he looked again, the post was empty, and some Germans were raking sand around it like gardeners.

  Inside the little hut Fairfax waited as the chief gunner's mate produced a flat bottle and two chipped cups.

  Did it really happen? Or might he awake suddenly from a nightmare, the sort which kept Marriott company on so many nights?

  Have we changed that much, or are we really the same?

  ''Ere, sir.' He watched him over the cup. 'Down the 'atch!'

  Fairfax left the hut a few minutes later and was confronted by some men pushing a plain coffin on a hand-cart.

  He watched until it had vanished around the corner, and then he leaned against the hut and threw up.

  Leading Writer Lavender pattered towards the big desk and announced, 'Lieutenant Marriott has just driven through the gates, sir.'

  Meikle was standing by a half-open window looking out across the freshly cut grass. Such a timeless, satisfying smell, he thought. Cut grass. The sound of a cricket bat on a lazy summer's afternoon.

  He sighed. 'I know. Bring him in as soon as he arrives.' He had seen the stubby little scout-car in its new blue paint almost as quickly as they had telephoned from the main gates.

  He turned and looked at his desk and all the neat piles of papers which awaited his attention. Urgent. Immediate. Never.

  He glanced up at the wall clock and checked it against his watch. Over. A few minutes ago. How had Fairfax taken it? Lavender would probably tell him that too. He would have made an efficient spy, he thought. The door opened and Marriott stood there watching him. He looked very good, Meikle thought. Better than he had for some time. A lot better than he had expected.

  'Sit down.'

  Marriott lowered himself into a chair. His legs were stiff. Partly from Knecht's fast drive down from Flensburg, which had mostly been in silence. Marriott felt it had been a kind of protest, a rebuke, after what had happened.

  'How is Lieutenant Kidd?'

  Marriott wanted to yawn. Instead he smiled. Too much like Beri-Beri. 'They kept him in the army hospital in Flensburg, sir. A fracture, but not too bad, according to the "experts".'

  'You took your time.'

  Marriott met his gaze. How typical of Meikle, he thought. No wastage. Straight to the point without any trimmings.

  'I stayed over for two days until he was settled in, sir.' He waited for some sharp retort, felt himself rising to meet it.

  'Yes. Probably the right thing to do.' He turned away. 'You had a close shave by all accounts.'

  'But for the German tug crew I'm not certain –'

  'Spare me. They probably hope to gain a few favours from you after this.' He faced him again and gave a dry smile. 'Anyway, you completed the job.'

  Marriott thought of Beri-Beri's face when he had last seen him in the army hospital. The nurses were all British, probably the first over here. He might make a good impression on one of them. It had been a sad parting all the same. Too much to say, too much unsaid. As soon as he was well enough they would shift him down here again. What a party they would have that day.