Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Read Online Free PDF

for a solution.
    The worst part had been the listing steamer. They were near enough to read her name,
Worthing Queen
, and see her decks crammed with soldiers. There had not been an inch of space for a man to walk. Some stood in tight groups, huddled against deck houses and broken equipment; others lay together where they could, staring at the sky. Some might have been dead; there was blood near one of the paddle-boxes, and the scars of an earlier air attack. Some of them had been fully dressed, and were wearing their steel helmets and carrying weapons of some sort. Others were half-naked, perhaps dragged from the sea after some other disaster.
    Only one figure had stood out. A soldier standingupright on the old-fashioned, varnished wheelhouse, a Bren gun held almost casually, it had seemed, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He had watched the little launch, might even have thrown up a wave or a salute.
    Someone had yelled, ‘The bastard’s comin’ back again, sir!’
    Foley had walked to the boat’s only armament, an old American stripped Lewis gun, probably a relic from the Western Front and the days of Biggles.
    And all the while he had been conscious, deafened if that were possible, by the utter silence. Just the throb of the boat’s engine and his own breathing. From the paddle-steamer with its helpless cargo of exhausted, beaten men, there was neither sound nor movement. And Foley had felt only anger.
    He had heard the Bren first, sharp but brief; the magazine only held thirty rounds. Funny how that snippet of his peacetime training had remained; and the soldier had probably been hit anyway.
    He had peered through the sight and felt the gun bucking wildly, the blurred arcs of the aircraft’s propellors and the stab of machine-gun fire matched only by the insane scream of its engines.
    A long, long time ago now, but it had stayed with him. The luck, and a moment of pride. Nobody knew if he had even marked the plane. Some of the German’s fire had made a mess of the launch’s foredeck, to within a yard of where he had been standing, but the plane had not returned for another attack. He had watched it, low on the water, fading from view, smaller and smaller until it was gone altogether. He recalled one of his menthumping him on the back and stammering an apology for forgetting himself. Another had been shaking his fists at the sky and weeping.
    But the old paddle-steamer had made him remember it, and the exhausted, despairing men who had seen this as their last and only chance of getting back to England. After the retreat through unknown and sometimes hostile countryside, the waiting and the attacks and the diminishing hopes, his lonely gesture of defiance and fury on their behalf had done it. As if they had been given new life, every man had seemed to be on his feet, cheering and waving, clinging to one another, some shouting wildly across the water towards the launch. Even those unable to stand had attempted to join in. And others, who would never stand again, had somehow shared it. It was not something he would ever forget. Or want to.
    He was about to lower himself down the vertical ladder when he heard Bass call, ‘Boat comin’ alongside, sir.’ He sounded as if he was covering up a grin.
    Foley turned and rested his palms on the handrails. He could even feel the faint tremble of machinery. One of the Chief’s generators, but it felt like 366’s own breathing. He shook himself. He had to be on top line today. They all must, with the new boss coming. And a regular officer, too, not like Critchley. Even he had somehow heard about the Dunkirk incident, had punched his arm and given his famous smile. Things might be different from now on . . .
    The boat nudged alongside, Bass watching grimly until the rope fenders were in place.
    The sub-lieutenant who climbed lightly aboard was almost what Foley had expected. He knew all that there was to know about 366’s new Number One. Nineteen years old, three