Emerald Decision

astern in echelon formation. Bisley would begin the sweep, moving ahead with extreme caution into a known minefield. Each ship of the flotilla would follow astern, safe in an already swept overlap, sweeping a similar safe area for the ship astern of it. The trawlers with which the flotilla had made rendezvous were in the shadow of each minesweeper, marksmen aboard each one to destroy the cut mines by gunfire when they bobbed like shiny black snails to the surface. When the initial sweep through Winston's Welcome Mat had been made, the flotilla would turn and make another sweep back on a north-easterly course to widen the channel for the cruiser and its three merchant ships.

A more misty perspective, colder and more disheartening, lay behind the solidity of apparently unmoving men on the sweep deck, unmoving ships on a grey sea. Ashe's flotilla was opening a path to the heart of Britain, and he could not avoid the grandiose imagery because his fear, even despair, was similarly large, pressing down on his shoulders like grief or age. He tried to rid himself of his mood by shaking his head, but it persisted like a cataract over the eye, requiring surgery and not mere resolution.

Gilliatt heard the reluctance in Ashe's voice even in the tinnily distorted tones that came from the telephone. For him the horizon was bounded by the sweep deck, and the eight men on it with him. Beyond that, only the sense of the ship's bow moving through dangerous water, cutting deep enough to contact one of the black mines reaching up from its sinker on its thin wire towards the Bisley's hull. The fear was suddenly bilious in his throat and then he swallowed it and it was gone. It was an almost controlled habit of fear every time they began a sweep— every man on the sweep deck, aboard Bisley and in the flotilla shared it — but one which was familiar and transient.

The chief petty officer in charge of the sweep deck under Gilliatt stood next to him, his horizons only those of hands and procedures and techniques and implements. Gilliatt nodded to him, and he began snapping out his orders. Each man was suddenly aware of the forward movement of the minesweeper. The sweep wire, which would cut the wires holding the mines beneath the surface, was run from the port winch to the bollards, and then the port davit lifted the multiplane otter — looking like a child's elaborate sled — to the stern for the sweep wire to be shackled to it. Then the float wire was attached to the heavy Oropesa float, and a seaman checked that the float's flag was secure. In a calm sea, the men worked with the uninterrupted smoothness of a shore drill or of machines. Then the float wire was attached to the otter, which would move through the water, beneath the surface, controlling the depth and passage of the serrated sweep wire.

When they had attached the sweep wire to its companion implements, Gilliatt spoke into the telephone.

'Sweeping deck closed up and sweep ready for streaming, sir.'

Then he moved cautiously, like a factory inspector, around the float on its chocks, the suspended otter, the winches and tackle. One last look. He returned to the telephone. Ashe's voice was still tinny and unsubstantial but less colourless and afraid. Oiled by routine.

'Stand by to stream, Number One.'

'Hoist float and turn outboard,' Gilliatt ordered the Buffer, who bellowed the order.

'Stand by ready to slip,' Ashe ordered.

'Stand by, Chief Stoker.'

'All hands, clear of wires,' the Chief Stoker yelled, an excitable Londoner who enjoyed his authority on the sweep deck.

'Stream sweep,' Ashe ordered over the telephone.

'Watch your hands, Jarvis!' the Buffer yelled at one of the young seamen hoisting the Oropesa float. The calm sea had made him careless, or perhaps his nerves were worse because he knew for certain that the mines were there. His white face glanced thankfully towards the Buffer. The float was now suspended above the side of the minesweeper, the crewmen reaching up, arms outstretched in supplication as they steadied the float, appeasing some god with this committal of the float to the sea.

'Aye aye, sir.' Gilliatt yelled direct to the sweep party. 'Lower float and slip!'

The float hovered outboard, then moved gently, sedately down to the surface of the water.

'Float clear, sir!' the Buffer called from the ship's side.

'Stream sweep, Chief Stoker,' Gilliatt ordered.

The otter rattled against the stern before it entered the water. The serrated sweep wire sped easily over the racing bollard, down into the green water after the float and the otter. The Buffer stood near the sliding wire, which was marked at intervals, calling back the marks to Gilliatt.

'One hundred fathoms, sir.' The wire slid on, alive and eager. Removed and independent from them. The float was moving away and out from them suggesting the great and increasing arc of the sweep wire between it and the ship. 'Two hundred fathoms, sir.'

'Good. Check speed, Chief Stoker.'

The float bucked like a prancing thing, a whale's back or a porpoise celebrating life, then it settled and moved across the quarter in a wide arc to port.

'Another hundred fathoms, gently, Chief!'

The float checked again as the sweep wire slackened.

'Three hundred fathoms, sir!' the Buffer yelled.

'Check, check, check, Chief.'

'Winch brake on, sir!'

'Very good, Chief.'

'Sweep wire taut, sir!' the Buffer called.

'Lower away kite, gently, Chief.'

The kite was lowered over the stern. It was a second otter, to hold the sweep wire at the required depth, acting in concert with the otter beneath the float at the other end of the great arc of the sweep wire. The Chief Stoker called the depth of the sinking kite.

'Five fathoms, sir — ten fathoms — twenty fathoms, sir—'

'Easy, Chief.'

'Twenty-five, sir.'

'Secure kite wire, Chief.'

'Float running well,' the Buffer volunteered.

Gilliatt lifted his binoculars and checked the distant float as it rode steadily out on the port quarter, ahead of the second ship in the 'J' formation, HMS Knap Hill. He knew just how the float should move through the water, and he had taken to the expertise of minesweeping gladly and enthusiastically after the deadening years of desk-bound intelligence work. The float rode like a thoroughbred — it was all right. Satisfied, he picked up the telephone.

'Sweep running smoothly at twenty-five fathoms, with three hundred fathoms of sweep wire streamed, sir.'

'Very good, Number One. Post look-outs and report immediately any mines cut. We're not even sure of the density of this field — the tide could have shifted a few, but they should be in good nick. Pilot will plot every one cut.'

'Aye, aye, sir. I'll stay on the sweep deck for this lap. We may lose an otter or a kite. Sweeping our mines must be different from sweeping Jerry's!'

Gilliatt watched Knap Hill steaming cautiously, safely ahead in the arc of Bisley's sweep wire. He had no reluctance concerning his position as First Lieutenant aboard the flotilla leader, admitting rather the subtle, almost febrile, nerve of pleasure because his ship led the sweep, every time. Something close to the edge.

The flotilla moved steadily into the field. Gilliatt kept his glasses trained astern for an interminable space of minutes — aware of the bulk of the minesweeper at his back, thrusting ahead as if throwing out some obscure and ill-calculated challenge — and then he saw a mine bob to the surface, winking in and out of sight with the slight swell. The solid evidence that they were into the minefield plucked at his breath now, and he heard his heartbeat loud in his ears, punctuated by the first rifle shots from the side of the trawler. He waited, but the mine did not explode. It disappeared in the swell and did not re-emerge. The water had washed into the holes made by the.303 bullets. When it had gone, Gilliatt remembered to replace his cap with the steel helmet that hung across his shoulders. The rest of the sweep deck crew had retired behind him already.