the door closed again.
Marriott stared around the room, the bare benches and much-used canvas-backed chairs. The U-Boat officers must have gathered here too.
The White Rabbit reappeared, a sheaf of signal flimsies clutched in one paw.
'This way, sir.'
The adjoining room was brightly lit by freshly rigged lights, the cables of which snaked through another door like part of a film set. In the dead centre of the room was a desk, completely covered with files, signal clips and a jar of freshly sharpened pencils. On one wall, illuminated by its own special lamp, was an enormous map of the area, Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish border right down to Kiel and the bay of Lübeck. To the east of the sector was a thick red line marked with several Russian flags. Perhaps for the first time Marriott began to see the full extent of their responsibility and authority. It was huge, with the sprawling mass of Kiel but a tiny part of it.
God, if it's all like this . . .
He looked at the scattered cases and metal cabinets which littered the room, a nerve-centre, which even now was reaching out beyond the chaos to naval vessels and personnel and heaven knew who else.
Meikle entered from the other door wiping his hands on a small towel. Without his elegant cap he looked younger, but his thick curly hair in its neat regulation cut was iron-grey, brushed back from a high and intelligent forehead. He merely glanced at Marriott and then gestured to a chair, which apart from his own was the only one present.
Even Meikle's blue working-dress was impeccable, and the shirt cuffs which showed evenly at each wrist were crisp and starched.
'All settled in, Marriott?' Again the quick scrutiny which missed nothing. 'I gather Macnair had a rowdy sendoff this morning.'
Marriott thought of Cuff's blaring horn, their combined sense of pride and loss.
'Hope we didn't wake you, sir.'
Meikle was searching through a file and did not look up.
'Hardly. I was down in Plön for most of the night with the military commander there.'
Marriott stared. Meikle looked as if he had just showered after a good night's rest. Instead –
Meikle said, 'I wanted to speak to all my commanding officers separately. Something which, I gather, was rather unusual under your previous arrangements, hmm?' He did not pause for a reply. 'I have to know my people, even if I cannot always be with them. If I can't work with someone – well, that's something else.'
Marriott saw his lips tighten and could guess what the something else implied.
Meikle looked at him directly for the first time. His eyes, like the glance, were dark and deep.
'Your duties under my command will be as varied as the situation here demands.' He looked down at the papers again. 'I shall recap. Two of your flotilla remained in Denmark to be used at the discretion of the N.O.I.C. there. Two left this morning for the UK. That leaves your 801 and Lieutenant Glazebrook's plus the three MLs, some trawlers and the salvage vessel HMS Sea Harvester. She is under the command of one Lieutenant Commander Crawford, something of a diving expert.' He pursed his lips. 'He's going to earn his bread-and-butter in this harbour.'
Marriott blurted out, 'But the flotilla, sir? Surely it will be regrouped.'
Meikle shook his head. 'I think not. The Pacific War – well, that's hardly our concern, not yet anyway. Our work is here in Kiel and our adjoining responsibilities. The Naval-Officer-in-Charge is setting up his own HQ and a full operational and communications staff as well as a minesweeping command are sorting out their allotted stations.'
Marriott stared at the big wall-map, but all he could see was the dismantling of his flotilla. New faces had replaced those killed and wounded, different boats from time to time had filled the gaps. But always the same flotilla. He could almost hear the voices of those lost faces singing their old morbid song after some
Marriott stared around the room, the bare benches and much-used canvas-backed chairs. The U-Boat officers must have gathered here too.
The White Rabbit reappeared, a sheaf of signal flimsies clutched in one paw.
'This way, sir.'
The adjoining room was brightly lit by freshly rigged lights, the cables of which snaked through another door like part of a film set. In the dead centre of the room was a desk, completely covered with files, signal clips and a jar of freshly sharpened pencils. On one wall, illuminated by its own special lamp, was an enormous map of the area, Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish border right down to Kiel and the bay of Lübeck. To the east of the sector was a thick red line marked with several Russian flags. Perhaps for the first time Marriott began to see the full extent of their responsibility and authority. It was huge, with the sprawling mass of Kiel but a tiny part of it.
God, if it's all like this . . .
He looked at the scattered cases and metal cabinets which littered the room, a nerve-centre, which even now was reaching out beyond the chaos to naval vessels and personnel and heaven knew who else.
Meikle entered from the other door wiping his hands on a small towel. Without his elegant cap he looked younger, but his thick curly hair in its neat regulation cut was iron-grey, brushed back from a high and intelligent forehead. He merely glanced at Marriott and then gestured to a chair, which apart from his own was the only one present.
Even Meikle's blue working-dress was impeccable, and the shirt cuffs which showed evenly at each wrist were crisp and starched.
'All settled in, Marriott?' Again the quick scrutiny which missed nothing. 'I gather Macnair had a rowdy sendoff this morning.'
Marriott thought of Cuff's blaring horn, their combined sense of pride and loss.
'Hope we didn't wake you, sir.'
Meikle was searching through a file and did not look up.
'Hardly. I was down in Plön for most of the night with the military commander there.'
Marriott stared. Meikle looked as if he had just showered after a good night's rest. Instead –
Meikle said, 'I wanted to speak to all my commanding officers separately. Something which, I gather, was rather unusual under your previous arrangements, hmm?' He did not pause for a reply. 'I have to know my people, even if I cannot always be with them. If I can't work with someone – well, that's something else.'
Marriott saw his lips tighten and could guess what the something else implied.
Meikle looked at him directly for the first time. His eyes, like the glance, were dark and deep.
'Your duties under my command will be as varied as the situation here demands.' He looked down at the papers again. 'I shall recap. Two of your flotilla remained in Denmark to be used at the discretion of the N.O.I.C. there. Two left this morning for the UK. That leaves your 801 and Lieutenant Glazebrook's plus the three MLs, some trawlers and the salvage vessel HMS Sea Harvester. She is under the command of one Lieutenant Commander Crawford, something of a diving expert.' He pursed his lips. 'He's going to earn his bread-and-butter in this harbour.'
Marriott blurted out, 'But the flotilla, sir? Surely it will be regrouped.'
Meikle shook his head. 'I think not. The Pacific War – well, that's hardly our concern, not yet anyway. Our work is here in Kiel and our adjoining responsibilities. The Naval-Officer-in-Charge is setting up his own HQ and a full operational and communications staff as well as a minesweeping command are sorting out their allotted stations.'
Marriott stared at the big wall-map, but all he could see was the dismantling of his flotilla. New faces had replaced those killed and wounded, different boats from time to time had filled the gaps. But always the same flotilla. He could almost hear the voices of those lost faces singing their old morbid song after some
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