first patrol. Crespin could still hear his shrill cries. It had been like a woman screaming in agony.
The burning fuel had flickered and died, and as if satisfied the boat had cut her searchlight and with a roar of engines had faded into the darkness.
When daylight had at last come Crespin had discovered that the land was only a mile away. At the time it had seemed endless, and when he and the remaining three men had crawled up on to the burning sand the impossibility of their position had been almost too hard to bear.
Now, looking back, it was even harder to understand why the commander of that patrol boat had done what he had. He must have known exactly what he was doing. Must have wanted to do it. For if he had been unwilling to burden himself with prisoners he could have left them to fend for themselves, knowing that the land was within their reach. After that they could have managed for themselves as far as he was concerned, but at least his conscience would have been clear.
Crespin sat up on the bunk and shivered. The sweat on his body felt like ice water. It was mad to go on like this. It was over. Finished.
But as he pulled a blanket over his shoulders he knew in his heart that he would never forget. Nor could he find it within himself to forgive.
Eventually, worn out by his tortured thoughts, Crespin fell back on the bunk and was instantly asleep.
The small Tunisian port of Sousse seemed shrouded in a permanent dust cloud through which the sun only just managed to penetrate. It was hardly surprising, for it had been one of the last vital supply routes for the retreating Afrika Korps, a final toe-hold in North Africa, and although it had been in Allied hands for almost two months it still looked desolate and ground down by the machinery of war. But amidst the ruined buildings and along the waterfront with its ravaged houses and cratered jetties there was an air of purposeful rejuvenation. Troops and vehicles slogged through the swirling dust, while sappers and bulldozers pushed away the wreckage of past battles and laid a foundation for the next one. It was a clearing-up process. North Africa was cleansed of the enemy, and Rommel had gone. The remnants of his desert army were either captured or had managed to escape across the Strait of Sicily, where, if they had avoided being bombed or torpedoed on the journey, they were no doubt licking their wounds and awaiting what must be an inevitable invasion of their own territory.
After exchanging signals with a red-faced and overworked berthing officer the
Thistle
groped her way alongside a burned out Italian storeship and stopped her engine. It was a poor berth, but with the harbour littered with wrecks and filled almost to overflowing with the victors, they were, as the redfaced officer implied, lucky to get one at all.
As at Gibraltar, the build-up of power was impressive to see. Warships of every kind, landing craft and supply vessels, while overhead friendly aircraft maintained a regular umbrella to ensure that the preparations remained undisturbed.
Crespin leaned over the bridge screen and watched as Petty Officer Dunbar clambered along the other shipâs scorched and splintered deck and supervised the final arrangement of mooring wires.
They had done it. Three days, with hardly a complaint from Magot, and not a single hour wasted in repairs or faults.
It would probably turn out to be an anticlimax. Crespin knew his Service well enough to expect this sort of thing. In the Navy you did everything earlier than necessary. If you went to sea it was always at the crack of dawn, or in the dead of night when the hands were too tired even to think properly. It must be left over from the days of sail, he thought, when their lordships were always worried in case the wind died and their ships were still far from their prescribed stations.
Wemyss climbed on to the bridge and saluted. âShip secured, sir.â
âThank you. Well, I donât imagine that
The burning fuel had flickered and died, and as if satisfied the boat had cut her searchlight and with a roar of engines had faded into the darkness.
When daylight had at last come Crespin had discovered that the land was only a mile away. At the time it had seemed endless, and when he and the remaining three men had crawled up on to the burning sand the impossibility of their position had been almost too hard to bear.
Now, looking back, it was even harder to understand why the commander of that patrol boat had done what he had. He must have known exactly what he was doing. Must have wanted to do it. For if he had been unwilling to burden himself with prisoners he could have left them to fend for themselves, knowing that the land was within their reach. After that they could have managed for themselves as far as he was concerned, but at least his conscience would have been clear.
Crespin sat up on the bunk and shivered. The sweat on his body felt like ice water. It was mad to go on like this. It was over. Finished.
But as he pulled a blanket over his shoulders he knew in his heart that he would never forget. Nor could he find it within himself to forgive.
Eventually, worn out by his tortured thoughts, Crespin fell back on the bunk and was instantly asleep.
The small Tunisian port of Sousse seemed shrouded in a permanent dust cloud through which the sun only just managed to penetrate. It was hardly surprising, for it had been one of the last vital supply routes for the retreating Afrika Korps, a final toe-hold in North Africa, and although it had been in Allied hands for almost two months it still looked desolate and ground down by the machinery of war. But amidst the ruined buildings and along the waterfront with its ravaged houses and cratered jetties there was an air of purposeful rejuvenation. Troops and vehicles slogged through the swirling dust, while sappers and bulldozers pushed away the wreckage of past battles and laid a foundation for the next one. It was a clearing-up process. North Africa was cleansed of the enemy, and Rommel had gone. The remnants of his desert army were either captured or had managed to escape across the Strait of Sicily, where, if they had avoided being bombed or torpedoed on the journey, they were no doubt licking their wounds and awaiting what must be an inevitable invasion of their own territory.
After exchanging signals with a red-faced and overworked berthing officer the
Thistle
groped her way alongside a burned out Italian storeship and stopped her engine. It was a poor berth, but with the harbour littered with wrecks and filled almost to overflowing with the victors, they were, as the redfaced officer implied, lucky to get one at all.
As at Gibraltar, the build-up of power was impressive to see. Warships of every kind, landing craft and supply vessels, while overhead friendly aircraft maintained a regular umbrella to ensure that the preparations remained undisturbed.
Crespin leaned over the bridge screen and watched as Petty Officer Dunbar clambered along the other shipâs scorched and splintered deck and supervised the final arrangement of mooring wires.
They had done it. Three days, with hardly a complaint from Magot, and not a single hour wasted in repairs or faults.
It would probably turn out to be an anticlimax. Crespin knew his Service well enough to expect this sort of thing. In the Navy you did everything earlier than necessary. If you went to sea it was always at the crack of dawn, or in the dead of night when the hands were too tired even to think properly. It must be left over from the days of sail, he thought, when their lordships were always worried in case the wind died and their ships were still far from their prescribed stations.
Wemyss climbed on to the bridge and saluted. âShip secured, sir.â
âThank you. Well, I donât imagine that
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