Free Ride Out The Storm by John Harris Page A

risk.’ The admiral glanced at the staff officer, operations. ‘Signal the personnel ships and the hospital carriers to stand by. We’ll try to sweep Route Y ahead of them.’ He turned to the communications officer. ‘In the meantime, tell Fighter Command we shall need a heavy increase in patrols over the area. The Germans are still concentrating on the Belgians, and we might just get away with it for a while.’

    Sub-Lieutenant Hatton certainly hoped so.
    That Monday morning the quays in Dover harbour seemed very inadequate and, save for the cross-Channel station, the port quite unsuited for the heavy work with which it was now involved. It had been designed chiefly as an anchorage for the old Channel Fleet, yet, at the eight berths at the Admiralty Pier, Hatton could see as many as eighteen or twenty ships moored in trots two and three deep. As the tender from Vital headed towards the small boat stage, a hospital ship on the inside berth was unloading into a row of ambulances, and khaki-clad figures were moving ashore from other ships in a way that indicated sheer exhaustion. As he watched, one of the ships pulled out again, in tow behind a tug, and headed for the refuelling basin, and another tug began to butt at a ship whose white paintwork forward of the bridge was scorched in a great black scar with steel-work wrenched back like the lid of a sardine tin.
    Aware of a tremendous excitement underlaid with a sense of dread and a fear of defeat, Hatton stared up at the cliffs and the crooked old houses, and once more wondered if Nora Hart was still working in the town. He hadn’t really missed her when he’d moved to London but now, for all that he was aware of the notorious sentimentality of sailors, contacting her again seemed a project eminently worth pursuing; especially with defeat and possibly death somewhere in the offing.
    He was so busy with his own thoughts, he jumped when Hough spoke to him. ‘I’m going up to naval headquarters with the pilot,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You’d better come too. We might have to get everything down in writing.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’ Hatton felt privileged to be called upon, aware that not very long before he’d been an insignificant reporter and that now he was involved in history, like it or not.
    Every vehicle in the dock area seemed to be spoken for, so Hough set out briskly on foot, followed by Hatton and the navigating officer. They managed to hire a taxi at the gate where people were walking their dogs in the sunshine, much as though it were still peacetime.
    At naval headquarters, Hough went alone for his orders, and when the navigating officer also disappeared Hatton was left outside in the corridor, twiddling his fingers in boredom. There was a public telephone near the door which the ratings used and out of sheer nostalgia he looked in the directory to see if Nora Hart’s name was still in it. It was, and impulsively he pushed two pennies into the slot and tried it.
    ‘Who?’ she said when he told her his name.
    ‘Barry Hatton. Surely you remember me?’ He felt faintly hurt that she hadn’t recalled him at once.
    ‘Oh!’ Her voice seemed distant and didn’t show much enthusiasm. ‘What are you doing back here?’
    Because he couldn’t tell her, there was a long awkward pause, then she went on with no more interest than a nervous curate passing the time of day at a sticky garden party. ‘Are you here long?’
    ‘Don’t think so.’
    ‘Oh, well!’ She sounded relieved. ‘You’ll have to come round some time.’
    She slammed the receiver down too sharply for his self-esteem and he stared at the telephone, wondering where his charm had gone. Perhaps it was as well he was going across the Channel.
    There was a lieutenant at a table further along the corridor frowning at papers. He looked tired and, seeking information, Hatton approached him cautiously. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
    The lieutenant looked up. He didn’t seem to