All Clear

He’d thought he’d got the Commander and Jonathan killed, and he hadn’t. Which meant maybe other things he’d feared weren’t true either. Maybe it wasn’t true that he’d been unable to find Denys Atherton and get Polly and Eileen out before Polly’s deadline. Maybe it wasn’t true that something he’d done that night in that he’d been unable to find Denys Atherton and get Polly and Eileen out before Polly’s deadline. Maybe it wasn’t true that something he’d done that night in Dunkirk—saving Hardy’s life or hauling that dog up over the side—had lost the war. If the Commander and Jonathan were alive, then anything was possible.

Or maybe it was just his relief at not being a murderer. Or the brandy.

“These last four months we’ve been helping map the beaches in Normandy,” the Commander said casually.

Mapping the beaches. Jesus, an incredibly dangerous job. And, if they were caught, one that could undo everything Fortitude South had worked so hard to accomplish the last few months.

“Your turn,” the Commander was saying. “What have you been doing? How long were you in hospital?”

“Nearly four months,” he said. “I tried to get in touch with you. That’s why I thought you were dead. After I wrote you, Daphne—”

“Our Daphne, from the Crown and Anchor?”

“Yes. She came to tell me you hadn’t made it back from Dunkirk. Have you sent them word you’re alive?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“Not even your mother?”

“No. After we brought Colonel Tensing back, they sent us straight out again to lay mines against the invasion, and by the time we got back, they already thought we were dead.”

“Which we might have been at any time,” the Commander said. “And then when we started doing missions for Intelligence, everything had to be hush-hush. And we were as good as dead anyway, with the sort of thing they wanted us to do. It was only a matter of our having been killed a bit later than they thought. And if Jonathan’s mother had known he was alive, she’d never have let him do it.”

Jonathan nodded. “So it seemed better all around to let them go on believing we were dead. I suppose that seems hard to you.”

“No,” Ernest said, thinking of what he’d done to Polly and Eileen. “I know sometimes things like that are necessary.”

The Commander nodded. “If it means the difference between winning or losing this war”—

Or getting Polly and Eileen out or not.

—“then it was worth the sacrifice, wasn’t it?”

Yes, Ernest thought, it was worth the sacrifice. And speaking of which …

“I need to go,” he said.

“Go? In this weather? Are you daft? Listen to that.” He jabbed his pipe up toward the ceiling. “It’s raining cats and dogs. You’ll catch your death, lad. No, you stay.

You can sleep in the bunk there.”

It was a tempting offer.

But the last time you did that, you ended up halfway to Dunkirk.

“Sorry. I have another delivery I have to make,” he said, and stood up. He waded over to his duffel, took out the parcel and letter, and gave them to the Commander.

“What’s this then? Explosives?” he asked, but when they opened the parcel, it was long thin strips of silver-colored foil.

Chaff, to fool the radar into thinking there were large numbers of ships in an area.

“It says here,” the Commander said, reading the letter, “that when we hear the message that tells us the invasion’s on, they want us to head for Calais and throw this stuff out behind us.”

Which would be even more dangerous than mapping the beaches. “Good luck,” Ernest said sincerely. He put on his almost-dry coat and shouldered his duffel bag.

“Goodbye, Commander.”

“Not Commander—Captain,” he said proudly.

“Grandfather got his commission,” Jonathan explained.

“Congratulations, Captain,” Ernest said, and saluted. The Commander beamed. “Good luck to both of you.”

“We don’t need luck,” he said. “Thanks to you, we’ve got the Lady Jane, and she won’t let us down. We’re going to come out of this all right, you mark my words.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ernest said, shook hands with Jonathan, and went up the ladder onto the deck.

And into a veritable hurricane. He had to force his way, bent double, off the boat and back along the dock, hoping he wouldn’t be blown into the water. When he heard Jonathan behind him, calling, “Seaman Higgins!” he thought, If he’s coming after me to bring me back, I’ll go.

But Jonathan wanted to give him something—a flat packet wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. “Am I supposed to give this to Tensing?” Ernest shouted, using his real name, since there was no way anyone could possibly overhear them in this gale.

Jonathan shook his head, raindrops flying from his wet hair. “It’s for my mother,” he shouted. “It’s in case we don’t make it back. So she’ll know what happened.”

“For after the invasion?” Ernest yelled.

“No!” he shouted back. “For after the war. All these secrets won’t matter then.”

No, Ernest thought. They won’t.