Blackout

Saltram-on-Sea-29 May 1940

IT WASN’T REALLY A FOOT OF WATER. IT WAS ONLY ABOUT four inches, but it covered the hold. Mike could see why the Commander had asked him if he could swim.

“Nothing to worry about,” the Commander said, seeing Mike’s reaction. “Just need to get the bilge pump started.” He splashed unconcernedly through the water and lifted a trapdoor. “She’s been sitting here all winter. An hour or two out in the Channel, and she’ll be as good as new.”

An hour or two out in the Channel, and she’ll be at the bottom of it, Mike thought. And she won’t need a U-boat to do it. He looked around the hold. There was a tiny galley with a Primus stove against one wall and a scarred wooden table against the other. On it were a messy heap of maps and charts, a half-empty bottle of Scotch, a flashlight, several large cork floats, and an opened can of either sardines or bait. Against the other wall were two lockers and a bunk with a tumble of gray blankets.

The Commander got down on his knees and reached down through the trap. The bilge pump coughed and then died.

There is no way I am going anywhere on this, Mike thought, even to Dover. I’ll just have to find another boat. But the men on the dock hadn’t exactly been full of suggestions. Let’s hope Powney’s driving into town right now.

Commander Harold did something else to the bilge pump, and this time it chugged for a full minute before dying. “Needs a bit of oil is all,” he said. He splashed over to the galley, lit a fire under a coffeepot, and began rummaging through the pile of charts. “The Navy’s gone soft, that’s what’s wrong with it.” He unearthed an opened can of potatoes and then a doubtful-looking mug. “You know what they feed ’em on board ship nowadays? Tea with milk and sugar! You wouldn’t see Nelson drinking tea! Rum, that’s what we drank, and hot coffee!” He poured a cup and handed it to Mike. Mike took a cautious sip. It tasted like it looked.

“You should see what they sent-now, where did I put it?” the Commander said, attacking the mess on the table again. “I know it’s here somewhere-aha!” He fished a letter out of the heap and handed it to Mike with a triumphant flourish. “The Small Vessels Pool sent that letter four weeks ago.”

The Small Vessels Pool. That was the “Smale Vises School” Mr. Tompkins had been mumbling about. And this was the letter they’d sent out at the beginning of May asking small craft owners if they’d be willing to volunteer their boats for service in case of invasion or other “military emergency.”

“Sent one of their bloody forms along with it,” the Commander said. “Six pages long! I wrote ’em back the very same day, volunteering the Lady Jane and me for service.”

I’ll bet you didn’t tell them about the broken bilge pump, Mike thought, or the four inches of water in the hold.

“And haven’t heard a word since,” the Commander was saying. “Four weeks! It took Hitler less than half that to take over Poland! If they’re running the war in France the way they’re running the Small Vessels Pool, they’ll be surrendering to Hitler a fortnight from now!”

No, they wouldn’t, thanks to a ragtag armada of motor launches and fishing smacks and pleasure boats who’d arrived to rescue them in the nick of time. But the Lady Jane wouldn’t be among them. It would never make it out of the harbor, let alone across the Channel and back. And there was no way he was going to let the Commander take him up to Dover in it. Which meant he’d better get back to the Crown and Anchor so he wouldn’t miss Mr. Powney. “I’ve got to be going,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee,” and tried to hand the mug back to the Commander.

“You can’t go till you’ve seen the Lady Jane. This is her engine.” The Commander lifted another trapdoor to reveal an ancient-looking motor, black with grease. “You won’t find an engine like that nowadays.”

Mike could believe that.

“And you won’t find a more seaworthy boat,” he said, splashing through the water to show Mike a locker containing grapples, a tangle of ropes, and a signal lantern. There was a bucket in the locker, too.

Good, Mike thought, because the water’d risen at least an inch since they’d been down here.

The Commander took him up on deck to show him the bridge. There was no sign of Daphne, and the three fishermen were still in the same place. The Commander showed him the bridge and the wheel and then dragged him to the rear of the boat to see the gunwales, the anchor, and the propeller, delivering lectures as he did on her seaworthiness and the modern Navy’s shortcomings, then below again to show Mike his charts. “I don’t hold with all this modern navigation,” he said, pointing to a clock in the galley. “In my day we used dead reckoning.”

The clock said five after six. How exactly was he going to navigate using dead reckoning with a stopped clock? Mike looked at his Bulova. It was nearly noon. Powney had to be back by now. Daphne was probably out looking for him. “Thanks for the tour,” he said, “but I’ve really got to be going.”

“Going? You can’t go yet. You haven’t finished your coffee. Or said why you were looking for me.”

Mike wasn’t about to tell him he’d been looking for a boat to take him to Dover. “That’ll have to wait till later,” he said, wading toward the ladder. “Right now I’ve got to…” He hesitated. He couldn’t tell him about Mr. Powney either. “Get back to the Crown and Anchor-”

“The Crown and Anchor? If it’s your dinner you’re wanting, you can have it here. Sit down.” He forced Mike into a chair, handed him the mug of cold coffee, and rummaged through the heap on the table again. He came up with a pot, which he dumped the sardines into. “In my day, every man in His Majesty’s Navy knew how to cook and mend sail and scrub decks.” He dumped in the can of potatoes. “Hand me that tin of bully beef.”

Mike handed it to him and he cut it open, dumped it in the pot in a solid block, stirred the mess with his knife, and set it on the Primus stove. “Nowadays, all they know how to do is fill up forms and take tea breaks. Soft, that’s what they are.” He rummaged again, came up with a tin plate and a crusted fork, and gave them to Mike. “I’ll wager Hitler’s soldiers don’t take tea breaks. Hand me your plate, Kansas.”

“No, I really can’t stay. I’ve got to report in to my paper, and-”

“You can do that after dinner. Hand over your plate.”

“Grandfather!” a voice called, and a young boy poked his head down the ladder. “Mum says to come home to dinner.”

Rescued in the nick of time, Mike thought. “I’ll be going, then,” he said, standing up.

“You stay right there. Jonathan!” he shouted up at the boy. “You go tell your mother I’m having my dinner on board. Go on, then.”

The boy, who reminded Mike a little of Colin Templer, though he was even younger, stayed where he was. “She said to tell you it’s going to rain, and you’ll catch your death.”

“You tell her I’ve been taking care of myself for eighty-two years and-”

“She said if you won’t come, to put this on.” Jonathan came down the ladder, handed the Commander a peacoat, and turned to Mike. “Are you from the Small Vessels Pool?” he asked.

“No, I’m a reporter,” Mike said.

“A war correspondent,” the Commander said. “Now, off with you. Tell your mother I’ll be home when it suits me.”

“A war correspondent!” Jonathan stayed long enough to say. “Have you seen lots of battles? I’m frightfully keen to get into the war. I’m going to enlist in the Navy as soon as I’m old enough.”

“If his mother’ll let him,” the Commander said after he was gone.

“He’s your grandson?”

“Great-grandson.” He tossed the peacoat on the bunk. “He’s a good lad, but his mother coddles him too much. Fourteen, and she won’t even let him go out in the Lady Jane with me.”

I can’t blame her, Mike thought.

“Won’t let me teach him to swim either. He might drown, she says. And what the bloody hell does she think he’ll do if he doesn’t learn to swim? Here, give me your plate.”

“No, really, I have to go, too. I’ve got to write up my story.”

“In my day, reporters were on the front lines, reporting the real news. I’ll wager that’s where you’d like to be instead of in a backwater like this.”

I’d like to be in Dover, Mike thought.

“Not that anybody’d want to be in France now, with everything going to hell in a handbasket,” and was off again on a rant about the incompetence of the French, the Belgians, and General Gort. It was twelve-thirty before Mike was able to make his escape. Luckily, the Commander’d gotten so worked up over the softness of the BEF that he’d forgotten about Mike’s having come to ask him something. And he’d forgotten about the stew.

But if I’ve missed Mr. Powney …

Mike sprinted back along the dock. The old men had disappeared. He hurried to the Crown and Anchor. Daphne was behind the bar, pouring ale from a pitcher for several customers. “Mr. Powney hasn’t come back, has he?” Mike asked.

“No, I can’t think what’s keeping him.” She went over to the end of the bar, consulted with the ale drinkers, and came back. “They say he might have gone straight home instead of stopping in.”

“Wouldn’t he have had to come through the village?”

“No, his farm’s south of here.”

“How far?” Mike asked, thinking, Please let it be within walking distance.

“Not far. Only three miles south by the coast road,” she said and drew a map for him. “But it’s much shorter if you cut across the fields, like this.”

That was probably true, but if Mr. Powney hadn’t gone home, Mike might miss him heading there and waste more time. And there was always the chance somebody else would come along-maybe the Army would show up to put in the beach defenses-and he could hitch a ride with them.

So he kept to the road, but he didn’t see a single vehicle the whole way to the turnoff to Mr. Powney’s.

There wasn’t anybody at the farm either, though Mike tramped out to the barn and the outbuildings, looking for a farmhand he could ask who might know when Mr. Powney was coming back, and he couldn’t see anybody in the surrounding fields, except for a few cows.

Which means I’ll have to take the same damned route back to make sure I don’t miss him, Mike thought, looking longingly at the shortcut Daphne had mapped out for him. He hadn’t prepped for an assignment with this much walking, and the farm had been much farther from Saltram-on-Sea than Daphne’d said-the distance from the turnoff to the farm alone was a good mile-and he was tired and thirsty. And hungry.

He hadn’t had anything to eat since he got here. I should have had that kipper Daphne offered. Or some of the Commander’s pilchard stew. Even it sounded almost good.

I definitely should have had that cup of the Commander’s godawful coffee, he thought, yawning. It would help keep me awake.

The weather wasn’t helping. In spite of everyone’s prediction of storms, the afternoon was sunny and warm and filled with the sleep-inducing drone of bees. He trudged back along the farm track, fighting an overwhelming desire to lie down in the grass and take a nap. When Mr. Powney finally shows up, and I get in that truck, he thought, I intend to sleep all the way to Dover.

But the road back was deserted all the way to Saltram-on-Sea, and there was no truck outside the Crown and Anchor, even though it was nearly three.

He must not be coming back today, Mike thought tiredly. He couldn’t afford to wait for him any longer, with the evacuation racing irretrievably past. He had to get to Dover. It’ll have to be one of the boats, he thought, heading out to the quay. Some of the fishing boats at least should be back by now, and surely he could talk one of them into running him up to Dover-

He stopped, staring. The quay was empty. Down at the end, the Lady Jane was still tied to the dock, but every other boat had vanished, including the Sea Sprite. Its engine had been lying in pieces on its deck. Where could it-where could they-all have disappeared to?

Dunkirk, he thought sickly. The Small Vessels Pool was here while I was gone. But it couldn’t have been. The Lady Jane was still here. Commander Harold would have been the first to volunteer, and they couldn’t possibly have gotten their boats ready so fast. There had to be some other explanation. He sprinted down the quay to the Lady Jane. “Commander Harold!” he called. “Where’s everyone gone?”

No answer. He ran aboard, called down the hatch, and when there was still no answer, climbed down the ladder to see if the Commander was down in the hold.

Maybe he missed it like I did, Mike thought, but the Commander wasn’t asleep in his bunk. He must be at his granddaughter’s.

Mike ran over to the Crown and Anchor to ask Daphne where that was. The door to the inn was open, and next to it a bicycle was leaning against the wall. Mike went in. And nearly collided with the Commander, who was on the phone. “Put me through to the officer in charge of the Small Vessels Pool! The one who was in Saltram-on-Sea this afternoon!” he was bellowing into it. “Then put me through to the Admiralty! In London!” He spied Mike. “Incompetents, the lot of them! And they’re in charge of saying what’s seaworthy and what’s not!”

The Small Vessels Pool turned him down, Mike thought. That’s why he and the Lady Jane are still here.

“Said they need our boats for a special mission,” the Commander bellowed. “Special mission! The French have botched it, and they need us to go get our boys off before Hitler shows up. Say they need every boat they can get, and then tell me the Lady Jane’s not seaworthy!”

Well, seaworthy or not, it was the only boat left in town. He was going to have to get the Commander to take him to Dover in it. “Commander-” Mike began, but the old man went right on.

“Not seaworthy, and then they take the Sea Sprite and the Emily B! The Emily B!” he thundered. “With a bad rudder and a captain who couldn’t steer his way to the counter for a pint. And then, when I volunteered to pilot one of their convoys for ’em, told me I was too old! Too old? What do you mean, there’s no one at the Admiralty?” he bellowed into the telephone. “Don’t they know there’s a war on?”

“Commander-”

He waved Mike away. “Well, then let me speak to the undersecretary! What about? About the war you’re losing!” He slammed the earpiece into the cradle. “Incompetent fool! I’ll have to go the Admiralty myself!”

“Go?” Mike said, but the Commander had already stormed out the door past him.

“Commander, wait!” Mike called, starting after him. “I need you to-”

“You’re back,” Daphne said, blocking his way. “Was Mr. Powney at home?”

“No… I need to-” he said, trying to get around her.

“You missed all the excitement,” Daphne said. “An officer from the Small Vessels Pool was here-”

“I know-hang on, I’ve got to catch the Comnmander.” Mike pushed past her and outside, but the Commander, on the bicycle, was halfway down the street.

“Commander!” Mike shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, and took off after him, but he was pedaling right past the quay. What the hell was he doing? You can’t ride that bicycle all the way to London. It would take him a week, and besides, he was heading the wrong way. No wonder the Small Vessels Pool wouldn’t let him lead a convoy. And now what? he thought, watching the Commander pedal out of sight, and then turning back toward the pub.

“Wasn’t Mr. Powney home?” Daphne asked, coming to meet him.

“No.”

“I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.” She linked her arm in his. “You must be worn out, walking all that way.” She led him back into the inn. “Come into the pub room, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. The officer was a Navy lieutenant, and a very handsome one, though not nearly so handsome as you,” she said, glancing flirtatiously over her shoulder at Mike as she put the kettle on. “He said, ‘I need every craft that can float to go to Dover straightaway.’”

She prattled on about how the men had grabbed their gear, loaded their boats, reassembled the Sea Sprite’s engine, and set sail in less than two hours. And I missed it, Mike thought. Like I missed the bus-

Was that the sound of a car? Mike jumped up and ran for the door, Daphne right behind him, in time to see a battered roadster go roaring by with the Commander at the wheel, both hands clenching it and his eyes fixed firmly on the road, looking neither to right nor left. “Wait!” Mike shouted and ran out into the street, waving both arms to signal him to stop, but he roared off, heading north, in a cloud of white dust, and out of sight.

Mike turned furiously to Daphne. “You told me there was no one else in town with a car!”

“I forgot about the Commander’s old roadster.”

Obviously.

“He hasn’t driven it since the war started. Where do you suppose he’s going?”

To London, Mike thought. And then, when he can’t find anyone at the Admiralty, to Dover. Where I have been trying to get since five this morning.

“I am sorry,” Daphne said. “He said he was going to put it up on blocks. But it’s just as well. He’s a dreadful driver. You’re much better off going with Mr. Powney. Are you very angry with me?” she said, pouting prettily.

“Angry” isn’t the word, he thought. “Is there anyone else here with a car you’ve forgotten about? Or a motorcycle. Anything. I have to get to Dover today.”

“No, no one else. But I’m certain Mr. Powney will be home before tonight. The Home Guard meets on Wednesday nights, and he never misses.”

And he doesn’t like to drive in the blackout, which means the soonest he’ll be willing to take me is tomorrow morning, and it’ll take all morning to get there. The evacuation would be half over.

He couldn’t afford to waste any more time here. He’d already missed three days of the evacuation he could never get back. I’m going to have to go back through to Oxford to make Badri find me a drop site closer to Dover.

“Don’t be angry,” Daphne was saying. “I’ll fry you a nice piece of cod for your tea, and Mr. Powney will be here by the time you’ve eaten it.”

“No, I’ve got to go.” He stood up. “I have to file my story with my paper in London.”

“But your tea’s nearly ready. Surely you’ve time-”

Time’s just what I don’t have, he thought. “No, I’ve got to get it in the afternoon edition,” he said and walked quickly out of the pub, out of the village, and up the hill, anxious to get to the drop before it got dark. The shimmer would be less visible in the daytime. Whichever boat had been offshore last night and prevented the drop from opening was halfway to Dover by now, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And the earlier he left 1940, the earlier Badri could set the new drop for.

I won’t care if it takes Badri a month to find me a new drop site, he thought, trudging up the hill. It’ll give me a chance to catch up on all the sleep I’ve lost. Or get over his time-lag. Whichever it was, he could barely make it up the hill. Thank God he was nearly to the top. I hope I don’t fall asleep waiting for the drop to open and miss it-

A half dozen children stood on the edge of the cliff, right above the path down to the beach, talking excitedly and pointing out at the Channel. He looked where they were pointing. A smoky pall covered the horizon, and several black columns rose from it. The fires of Dunkirk.

Christ, what next? Maybe I can bribe them to go away, he thought, and started over to them, but they were already scrambling down the path. “Wait!” Mike called, but it was no use. There were more children down on the beach, and several men. One of them had a pair of binoculars, and two of the kids were standing on Mike’s rock for a better view.

They’d be there till sundown, and if the fires themselves were visible from here, half the night. And in the meantime, what the hell am I supposed to do? he thought. Just stand here and watch my chance at observing the evacuation go up in smoke? Boats full of rescued soldiers were already pulling into Dover.

He turned angrily and started back down to the village. There had to be some other way to get to Dover. The Lady Jane was still here. Maybe Jonathan could pilot it. Or I could. He could follow the coast. And end up on the rocks. Or at the bottom of the Channel, he thought, remembering the water in the hold, but he went out to the quay anyway. Jonathan might know somebody who had a motorbike. Or a horse.

But Jonathan wasn’t on board. “Ahoy! Jonathan!” Mike called down the hatch. “Are you down there?”

No answer. Mike climbed down the ladder, stopping just above the water, which had gotten deeper since this morning. It was nearly up to the bottom rung. “Jonathan?”

He wasn’t there. I’ll have to go back to the Crown and Anchor and ask Daphne where he lives, he thought wearily, looking over at the Commander’s bunk. The gray wool blankets and filthy pillow looked incredibly inviting.

If I could just get an hour or two’s sleep, he thought, suddenly overwhelmed with drowsiness, I could think what to do, I could figure out something. And by then Powney may be back. Or the Commander. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, waded over to the bunk, and climbed in.

Maybe I’d better start the bilge pump, he thought, but he was suddenly too tired to move. This has to be time-lag. I’ve never felt this tired in my life. He could hardly pull the wool blanket up over him. It smelled of tar and wet dog, and the tail of it was wet from where it had dragged in the water.

The Lady Jane can’t sink in an hour, can it? he wondered, curling up on the bunk. The water sloshed as the boat rocked gently back and forth. That’s all I ask, an hour, and then, if the water level’s still rising, I’ll get up and start the pump. And at some point he must have staggered over, still asleep, and done it because when he woke he could hear it chugging, and could no longer hear the water sloshing.

How long had he slept? He held his arm up to look at his watch, but it was too dark to read it. Whatever time it is, I need to go see if Powney’s back and then go find Jonathan, he thought, and pushed the blanket off. He sat up and stepped down off the bunk.

Into over a foot of freezing water. The pump obviously wasn’t working, even though it was wheezing away. Its chugging filled the hold, so loud it-

“Oh, no!” Mike said and flung himself, splashing, across the hold and up the ladder. That wasn’t the bilge pump. It was the engine. They were moving. He jerked the hatch open.

Onto more darkness. He blinked stupidly at it, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and at the rush of wind and salt spray against his face. “Well, well, what have we here?” Commander Harold’s voice said jovially. “A stowaway?”

Mike could barely make him out in the darkness. He was at the wheel, in his peacoat and yachting cap. “I had a feeling you’d try to get in on this,” he said.

“In on what?” Mike said, hauling himself up onto deck. He looked frantically back toward the stern, but he couldn’t see anything, only darkness. “Where are you going?”

“To bring our boys home.”

“What do you mean? To Dunkirk?” Mike shouted at him over the wind. “I can’t go to Dunkirk!”

“Then you’d better start swimming, Kansas, because we’re already halfway across the Channel.”