A Dawn Like Thunder Read Free Page B

docks and ships, and eventually the Thames itself, were ablaze. The double-decker bus was completely destroyed. She was never found. Was that why he had volunteered for Special Operations? Because he had nothing to live for?
    He did not realize that the injured youth had opened his eyes and was watching him fixedly as he gently kissed the photograph and whispered, ‘Oh, Evie, where are you?’
    He felt the deck tilt and heard the muffled bark of commands.
Going up.
    He began to put his wallet into its pouch, but looked once more at the photograph. He gave a great sigh. ‘Here we go again, Evie. I’ll be back!’
    After the stale, oily atmosphere inside the boat, the sea air and stinging droplets of spray were exhilarating, and Ross felt a sense of freedom which never failed to surprise andexcite him. It was still very dark, or appeared so, but he could see the cruising white cats’-paws breaking against the rounded hull, and feel the slow roll that was making some of the deck handling party reach for handholds as they stooped over the chariot, fixed to the saddle-tank by special fittings which they had collected at Portsmouth.
    He vividly recalled their doubts and uncertainties when, in those early days, they had been introduced to their first human torpedo. About the same size and length as a normal twenty-one-inch torpedo, it carried a ballast tank, pumps and hydroplanes, together with a battery motor that could offer a steady three knots for a limited period. In something rather like a car dashboard, it mounted a compass and an instrument panel fitted with luminous dials. And a joystick. Ross could remember his first trial run, the red-faced instructor’s words ringing in his ears. ‘Like ridin’ a bike – just take it nice an’ easy.’ They must have been simpleminded to believe that.
    He touched Tucker’s arm, glad he had been given him as a partner: a professional seaman, a leading torpedoman, mature and dependable. It made a change from the many volunteers who made up the Special Operations. Telegraphists, cooks, stewards and signalmen: you would never guess their employment from the badges they wore on their uniforms, on the rare occasions when they were wearing them.
    Apart from a quiet reserve, the first things you noticed about Tucker were his strength and the light way he moved. His hands were square and powerful, and Ross recalled a time in Scotland when they had been receiving instruction in self-defence and close combat from some battle-tested marine commandos. One, a burly sergeant, had whipped his arm around Tucker’s throat from behind and at the same time jabbed an imitation blade up into his ribs. His grin hadchanged to a cry of agony as Tucker had seized his wrist with one hand and squeezed it. The sergeant’s triumph had given way to anger and humiliation. ‘You nearly broke my arm, you mad bugger!’
    Tucker had given his gentle smile. ‘Only nearly, Sarge? I must be losing my touch!’
    A petty officer whispered, ‘Ready when you are, sir.’
    Ross lowered himself astride the chariot and felt Tucker watching him now, his outline suddenly sharper against a sky criss-crossed by the submarine’s jumping wire. It was so cold. He found he could smile. That was the first thing new recruits noticed about the Med. Too many cruising posters before the war made them imagine the place was full of sunshine, warm seas and smiling Italian girls.
    The sky was getting brighter. He could imagine the submarine’s skipper up there on his swaying bridge, gripping his night glasses. He smiled again.
Or wiping his hands on his jersey.
He tightened his jaw. He had known men crack even at the simplest reminder, a joke, a face, a memory.
    He tested his nose clip; it hurt, but they usually did, especially after so many dives. He adjusted the rubber mouthpiece and fixed the air and oxygen lock until he could breathe easily. He could feel the