Wreckers Must Breathe Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lizard light was plainly visible along the coast. There was still a slight glow in the sky ahead, but despite this I found it very difficult to see the path and every now and then I was reduced literally to feeling my way along for fear I should strike out towards the edge of the cliffs.
    I passed the big white house on the headland and in a little while came to a part-wooden bungalow that did service as a café. Half of a window still showed light through orange curtains, but the other half was already blacked out with brown paper. I suddenly remembered that for more than three hours I had forgotten all about the crisis. The rum seemed to recede all at once from my brain and leave me wretchedly depressed. I climbed another stone stile and followed the path inland as it circled a long indent. I followed it automatically, for my mind was entirely wrapped in a mental picture of the Western Front. And I suddenly felt that, having come so near to death that night, a merciful God should have finished the job rather than spare me to rot in a stinking trench.
    I was possessed of the cowardice that is the heritage of an imaginative mind. It is anticipation and not the pain itself that breeds fear. I singled myself out for a horrible death as I trod that cliff path. In fact, from the way in which I regarded my death as inevitable one would have thought that it was for that sole purpose that Hitler had regimented Germany for six years. And when I almost stumbled into a man standing, a vague blur, on the path in front of me, I recoiled involuntarily with a little cry.
    â€˜I am sorry. I am afraid I frightened you,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, no,’ I said. ‘You startled me a bit, that’s all. I was thinking about something else.’
    â€˜I was hoping you could direct me to a cottage called Carillon that lies back from the cliffs somewhere near here.’
    â€˜Carillon?’ I murmured. Suddenly I remembered where I had seen the name. ‘Is it above Church Cove?’ I asked.
    â€˜That is right,’ he said. His speech was so precise and impersonal that I felt he must be a B.B.C. announcer on holiday.
    â€˜If you care to come with me,’ I said, ‘I think I can find it for you. It lies just back from this path about half a mile further on.’
    He thanked me and fell into place behind me. As I went past him I found that the rather stiff-looking waterproof he wore was soaked practically to the waist.
    â€˜You’re wet,’ I said.
    There was a moment’s pause, and then he said, ‘Yes, I have been out in a boat and had some trouble getting ashore. The sea is getting quite rough.’
    â€˜Funny!’ I said. ‘I’ve just got wet through too.’ And I told him about my little adventure.
    Somehow I got the impression that he was rather impressed by what had happened. ‘And what do you think it was?’ he asked, when I had finished.
    I told him I thought it must have been a shark. He had drawn level with me as the path widened, and I saw him nod. ‘They are to be seen about these western coasts. It went for the mackerel.’ He then referred to the crisis and asked me whether there were any fresh developments. Then he asked if I had seen anything of the fleet. I told him it had passed down the Channel a week ago and that not a single naval vessel had been seen off the coast since then, except for five destroyers and one submarine of unknown nationality.
    He sighed. ‘I am afraid it will be war,’ he said.
    I nodded. ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘it’s no more than one expected. But it’s a bit of a shock when it comes.’ I sensed that he too was depressed. ‘Will you be called up?’ I asked.
    â€˜I expect so.’
    â€˜What branch?’
    â€˜Navy.’
    â€˜It’s better than most,’ I consoled him. ‘Better than the trenches.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ he said, but he did not sound very