Submarine

The distant call of a curlew down on the marshy ground drifted upwards, plaintive, inexpressibly sad… up here in the gathering dusk, he wished with all his being that he could believe in something. He was facing the moral crisis of his life: within a few days he would, as FOSM said, probably be dead. As captain of Orcus he was entrusted with leading his men. But here he was on Exmoor, still wrestling with fundamentals.

The clouds were lowering over Dunkery, scudding black across the rising half-moon. A fitful light shone through the scurrying clouds. From time to time he could make out the sea to the northward, a line of silver, glistening, shivering and then merging with the night. Death. Was it the end of everything? That final patrol, which submariners knew they all had to face, was never discussed: the implosion, the split-second of recognition, the deluge — and when that was over, was life snuffed out, just like that — kaput? Certainly most of his ship's company and at least two of his officers were convinced that there was a hereafter, but he had always declined to lead any prayer service.

He wished he could have more time — but the condemned' man always asked for that, didn't he, when facing the firing squad? His ship's company needed more training, the first lieutenant in particular. Tim Prout could only become reliable with time- but thank God for Bowles, the best submarine Cox'n with whom Farge had ever been shipmates. Bowles must be a Christian, though he never referred to his belief. He always accepted without rancour whatever cock-up occurred, and the hands never took liberties with him. Farge shivered. The old dog was creeping behind him for shelter, the wind fluffing up the hairs of her coat.

Farge climbed to his feet and faced the dark line of the distant coast. In his imagination he could hear the breakers, hurling themselves upon Foreland Point, curling across the out-lying rocks and spurting, like geysers, into the sky. 'Heel, Meg!' he called. She was already starting down the track for home. Farge turned his back on Dunkery and began the trek back to Newdyke House.

Chapter 4

Exmoor, 26 April.

It was past ten when Julian Farge finally turned to back his father's Volvo into the Spinneycombe farmyard.

'Miss Prynne's out,' the middle-aged shepherd explained in his Somerset burr. 'Er's down at the Exford lamb sales. Dunno when she'll be back,' and he accepted the sack containing the body of his dog. 'Bloody shame about Spot.' He shook his head, tilted his crumpled felt hat. 'Er's been a good dog. I'll give Miss Prynne your message,' he nodded, dismissing Farge. 'Tis a pity the mistress bain't in: Mrs Prynne be down in Plymouth.' He laid the stiff bundle in the weeds round the lambing shed. 'Oi'm danged if Oi know 'ow to tell 'er.'

Farge eased himself back into the car. It was no fault of his, but he felt acutely embarrassed. Down here at the bottom of the combe, this old farmstead had rested for centuries, as if sculpted from the gentle landscape. The stone tiles on the roofs of the farmhouse and outhouses were mossy and fern-fringed, and the beeches framing the old house were in young leaf where they leaned across the stream chuckling down to its parent, the Barle. In his rear-mirror he could see the shepherd staring after him, motionless, his arms stiffly at his sides. Farge slapped into second gear and began threading up the shale track which wound upwards to the road cresting the combe. On his right the ewes were nibbling the short grass of the spring pasture, while not far from them their lambs gambolled and skipped. He stopped at the gate to watch them: surely, the scene represented something of what he and his men were fighting for, trying to protect this England — and it seemed to him worthwhile.

He turned into the gradient to coast down the winding, high-hedged lane. He was thankful the girl had been out. He wound down the window to sniff the scents of the moor which was awakening after the long winter. He started the engine as the gradient steepened, slipped into second to brake the heavy car.

Earlier, he had phoned through to the duty officer at Northwood without trouble. Jack Rackham had come on a moment later, keeping the conversation short and sweet: 'Thanks, Farge,' he said. 'See you on Tuesday. We're taking care of your onward transport.' End of chat.

Farge pressed back into the driver's seat, stretched his legs as the car swung into the next bend. Through the gateway he glimpsed the shining blue ribbon of the Barle — and a feeling of freedom lifted his spirits to clear the doubts from his mind: the decision was made. From now on, the action was up to him. He had always appreciated professionalism and now he could apply his years of training… but what was in the wind? The Barents? Mine-laying on the enemy's doorstep? Or….