Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Read Online Free PDF Page B

months’ sea time in a clapped-out destroyer, a short course at H.M.S.
Hornet
, and now here. He looked even younger in his brand-new Number Fives, his reefer dragged off one shoulder by his respirator haversack.
    He saluted. ‘Come aboard to join, sir. Sorry I was held up – lot of traffic on the road.’
    Foley tried to push his thoughts aside. Harry Bryant was gone. It was the way of the Andrew.
Never look back.
    He thrust out his hand. ‘Glad to have you. I’ll put you in the picture while you settle in.’ The subbie’s name was Tobias Allison. A bit of a mouthful, he thought. ‘What do you like to be called? This is a small ship, so we’d better get it right from the start.’
    Allison stared at him and then smiled. ‘“Toby” suits me, sir.’
    Foley glanced over his shoulder. ‘Have Number One’s gear taken below, ’Swain!’
    He could almost hear Dougie Bass saying, ‘Old Chris’ll soon get
him
sorted out!’
    He smiled. It had been a long time.
Old Chris . . .
Foley was twenty-five.
    He led the way down to the wardroom, which his own little cabin adjoined. Foley had served in two small craft before 366, and was accustomed to the lack of space; his cabin, like an enlarged cupboard, was a luxury compared with the others. He saw Allison’seyes moving everywhere, and wondered what he was thinking. An elderly destroyer on the East Coast run would seem like a cruiser by comparison.
    ‘I’ll show you around myself as soon as I can. I’ve got to hang about until I know what’s happening. We have a new senior officer taking over today.’ He smiled at the subbie’s uncertainty. ‘I
think
!’
    It was strange for the boat to be so still, as if she were listening. The W/T office which was just through the door was silent, without the usual stammer of morse or the crackle of some garbled broadcast. And music, sometimes; it was vaguely unsettling to hear German voices.
    But they had been given three days’ leave, more to allow a quick overhaul than for anyone’s personal benefit.
    Foley came from Surrey. A long way there and back in wartime, but it was worth it, and his mother and father were always glad when it happened. Almost grateful, he sometimes thought.
    Allison had removed his new cap; he had fair, unruly hair, and looked even younger without it.
    He said, ‘We heard about Commander Critchley often enough, especially at
Hornet
. When I got to Dorchester I was told about his death.’ He hesitated and looked around at the small space they would share, perhaps understanding for the first time how his life had changed.
    Foley said slowly, ‘It was a bit of a shock to everybody. He made quite a mark in our sort of work – everywhere he went, really.’
    He heard someone bringing Allison’s cases down the ladder, whistling tunelessly. Another face: Titch Kelly, seaman gunner, a Scouse from Liverpool who had managed to get into more trouble than most in the three years he had served in the navy. He had somehow managed to find himself in the notorious Detention Barracks at Canterbury, and had survived. As a final chance or out of sheer desperation, somebody had accepted his request to join the new Special Service, risks or no risks. The drafting office had jumped at the idea, and Titch Kelly had not faced a defaulters’ table since.
    If he had not been away on that brief leave, Foley wondered if he might also have gone to the memorial service. There would have been some familiar faces, friends too, the ones you tried not to worry about in case it was their turn. Or yours.
    But mostly it would be ceremonial. Showing respect. Not like the usual funeral: the burial march, the grim faces, the eventual firing party. The worst part was seeing the parents, if they were present. He thought suddenly of this last visit to his home in Surrey. How old they had looked. Like those others . . . Critchley had no parents, and in any case there would be nothing left to bury. There never was, with a beast.
    He heard