Emerald Decision

In the distance, there was a fount of white water as a mine exploded, but no thump of shock-wave reached them. Then a second fountain, and a third. The flotilla's sweep wires were cutting the first leg of the prescribed path with an uninterrupted regularity. A fourth fountain, then a mine bobbing perhaps a couple of hundred yards astern of the Bisley, almost immediately sending up its fountain of water like a signal of its release as rifle fire exploded it. A slight tremor ran through the deck plating, and the shock of water thumped against the stern of the minesweeper.

At the end of the first lap of the sweep, Bisley hoisted the signal to take in port sweeps and stream to starboard in readiness for the second leg. It was a quick turn around — the men on Bisley's sweep deck working even more like automata, drilled, oiled, perfect — in the reasonably calm water, with sufficient breeze blowing offshore to take the funnel smoke clear of the look-out's arc of vision. A flow of sightings and detonations continued to reach Bisley until the flotilla was some miles into the second leg — the grey dawn light had strengthened but the low cloud remained, diffusing the weak sunlight so that it rubbed against the eyes like an irritant — but then minutes went by for Gilliatt on the sweep deck without a fountain of white water and without Bisley cutting a single mine.

For over a mile, there was a preternatural stillness that was undisturbed even by the steady beat of the engines. No rifle fire, no detonations. The telephone rang and Gilliatt picked it up.

'Is the sweep running well?' Ashe asked.

'All in order, sir.'

'We haven't cut a single mine for more than a mile, Number One. Pilot has marked the area. Damned odd. We'll finish this lap, then run another leg and check as we sweep. I don't like it—'

'Sir?'

'I don't know what I mean, Number One.'

'Couldn't it be the minelayers, sir? Or perhaps the mines laid haven't been released from their sinkers?'

'I'd expect that of an enemy minefield laid in a hurry — but not of the Manxman and Co.! Stand by, Number One.'

Gilliatt remained puzzled until they had completed the second leg of the sweep. Within minutes of Ashe's gloomy, mystified comments, they began cutting mines again. When they had reached the end of the lap, another quick turn around was followed by the port sweeps being streamed again for the third lap. As the flotilla, trailing as before behind Bisley, moved towards the suspect area where they had cut no mines, Ashe sent a signal by lamp to the rest of the flotilla.

'Watch sweeps closely. Indicate anything unusual and any mines cut from now. Report immediately with three siren blasts.'

Gilliatt felt his body tense, as if a net had closed over his skin and was being pulled tighter. Instinctively, he seemed to know the moment when Bisley moved into the empty area, and found himself waiting for the lack of danger, a false and more dangerous safety.

On the bridge the pilot, an RNVR Lieutenant, checked his chart as Ashe sat drinking a cup of cocoa, knowing that his own deliberations were matched by the more inexperienced guesses of the pilot. They were both thinking that they had stumbled across the beginnings of a swept channel across the British minefield running roughly from north by east to south by West.

Then three blasts on a ship's siren, followed by a detonation. Ashe looked up, and the pilot nodded.

'Just over a mile, sir,' he said.

Gilliatt watched the first fountain of water, then a mine bob to the surface which had been severed by their own wire. Rifle fire detonated it within another minute, and the fountain of water remained on his retinae, superimposed upon the long minutes of silence and calm sea. The double-image chilled him.

At the end of the third leg of the sweep, Ashe looked up from the bottom of his cup, held still as a chalice in his hands. He had come to a decision which pressed itself urgently upon his attention. He looked across at the pilot.

'Pilot, we'll detach from the flotilla, steam to the suspect area and make a search through it.' He paused, as if the next words were too difficult to utter in the same level voice. 'We'll check out your theory of another swept channel across our own. It's too important to wait until we've finished sweeping. The rest of the flotilla to continue with the sweep.'

He turned to the Chief Yeoman of Signals. Having broached the subject, it was easier to continue. 'Ask the First Lieutenant to come to the bridge. Then prepare to take a signal to the Admiralty.'

'Sir!' the Chief Yeoman replied, turning to the bridge telephone and passing on Ashe's order to Gilliatt. Then he moved across the bridge to Ashe, signal pad and pencil ready. Ashe rubbed his grey, drawn face, and then spoke slowly and steadily. 'Make to Admiralty. Immediate. Repeated to DMS, to C-in-C Western Approaches, and NOIC, Milford. 'Intend checking suspect area in minefield, apparently cleared, four miles into area from westward, running North by East to South by West and over one mile in width. Will report immediately search carried out.' ' He looked up at the Chief Yeoman for the first time. 'Take that to Lieutenant Bennett and ask him to code it up and have it transmitted immediately. Confirm when signal has been passed. Then we'll signal Knap Hill, repeated to the whole flotilla.' Ashe was speaking like a machine, with a voice that stepped on thin ice beneath which dark, chilly emotions waited for him.

Gilliatt arrived on the bridge, pausing at the top of the ladder as if he had burst upon some solemn ceremony that could not be interrupted. Ashe went on, speaking now to the leading Signalman whose Aldis lamp was already sighted back towards Knap Hill astern of Bisley: 'Make to Knap Hill. Assume command of flotilla for next lap. Am acting independently for special purpose. Will contact you at end of next lap with instructions.'

The lamp chattered in the silence as Ashe beckoned Gilliatt and the pilot to the starboard forward corner of the bridge. Gilliatt could see the marks of concern like scars on his captain's face but felt he was only looking into a mirror. Possibilities too huge and threatening to voice or contemplate lurked just at the back of the forebrain. Ashe's whisper seemed entirely appropriate.

'I'm worried, Number One. It doesn't make any sense—' He was moving backwards in time, reaching the shore of fact that lay over the horizon of speculation they could both see. 'If there was no major error by the minelayers, and all those mines don't have damaged or faulty release-gear, who's responsible for the hole in Winnie's Welcome Mat?' Gilliatt realized he didn't want an answer. 'I've told the Admiralty we'll carry out an independent search from north to south in the area Pilot has mapped. We'll steam ahead of the flotilla to the area on the fourth lap and then stream double Oropesa at the same settings—' Ashe raised his hand against an interruption Gilliatt had no intention of making. Rather, he was allowing his captain to express authority, certitude at a moment when he needed such a reassertion of self. 'I know we'll be taking a chance of blowing ourselves up on one of our own mines — and with my luck it wouldn't' be a dud — but we have to solve this, Peter.' His face darkened. Gilliatt had the impression of an actor reciting carefully rehearsed lines. The emotions were genuine, but they lay as a mask over other, less controllable, feelings. 'The Admiralty boffins and DMS will buzz when they get my signal.' The last words were a reassertion of wardroom manner, enclosing the self in safe, pre-war attitudes. Jolly good show—

Gilliatt wished he could re-enter reassurance's safe, comfortable room. He nodded, and added merely, 'Very good, sir.' Ashe studied his face as if for mockery for a moment before he continued.

'You prepare the double sweep, Number One. Pilot, make sure we sail down the middle of the suspected channel.'

'Sir.' The pilot rubbed his long sallow cheeks as if to smooth out the entrenched lines or rub away the habitual stubble of beard. He appeared about to say something but took his cue instead from Gilliatt's silence. Ashe dismissed them both with a curt nod.

Gilliatt returned to the sweep deck to organize the double sweep, while the pilot returned to his navigation table. Ashe stood morosely, wrapped in a tight net of gloomy prognostications now he was silent again, in the starboard for' ard corner of the bridge until Bisley approached the suspected channel.

'Five minutes, sir,' the pilot called from his table.

'Very well, Pilot,' Ashe replied in a rusty, unused voice. 'I want a course to steer to the northern edge of the suspect area, and then a course to steer down its centre. As he finished, a seaman from the signal cabin came up