The Man who Missed the War by Dennis Wheatley Page B

whole convoy lined up ready to put to sea in just over an hour. Soon after midnight the tugs gave hoots of farewell, the
Regenskuld
replied and, taking the full strain on the towing cables, headed in a north-west by westerly direction, with Coney Island on her port quarter and the light of Sandy Hook flashing almost dead astern.
    They were going slowly now, not much over four knots, owing to the great weight they were towing. For another half-hour Philip and Eiderman strolled up and down the deck, then the latter suggested that, as they had to be up very early next morning, they might as well turn in, so they said good night and went to their respective cabins.
    Philip undressed and got between the sheets, thinking as he did so that these might be the last few hours of carefree rest he would enjoy for a long time to come; but for some time he could not get off to sleep. It was over-excitement, perhaps. The little scene with Lexie that afternoon had awakened in him long dormant emotions, and now there was the stupendous thought that, after all these many months of waiting, planning and disappointments, he was at last really setting out to prove his great idea, which might mean so much to Britain in her hour of need.
    At length he fell asleep, but only to become the subject of a most vivid dream. He was back in the Rectory library talking to the Canon. His fat little host was not seated, as was his wont, in his favourite armchair but walking agitatedly up and down.
    ‘You’re behaving like a blind fool, Philip,’ he said angrily. ‘Unless you rectify your mistake in time you’ll be dead in twenty-four hours. For goodness’ sake get up on deck immediately.’
    Philip woke with a start. Insistent, commanding, the Canon’svoice was still ringing in his ears, ‘Get up on deck immediately.’
    For a moment he lay still, trying to argue with himself that to leave his warm bunk on account of a dream was really the height of absurdity; yet he could not get rid of the feeling that something must be wrong with the string of rafts and that he ought to go up to have another look at them. Perhaps he had overlooked some vital factor which might yet be rectified at this eleventh hour before he entrusted himself and his crew to the launch and the ocean next morning. Getting out of bed he slipped on his dressing-gown and slippers and went up on deck.
    He found that the night was darker than before. There was no moon, and swiftly moving clouds now obscured most of the starry sky. When he reached the stern rail he could no longer see all the rafts and could only count five ever smaller streaks of foam where they ploughed up the sea; but, thousands of yards away, he could clearly sight the last beacon, although the raft that bore it was hidden from him.
    All seemed well, so after a moment he turned and began to make his way back to his cabin. It was then that he caught the sound of voices coming through an open skylight. He paused because there seemed something unfamiliar about them. Suddenly he realised what it was: someone down below was talking German!
    Kneeling down, he peered beneath the raised, glass-filled mahogany frame and found that he could see one wall of a cabin. Against it leant his bullet-headed bo’sun, Hans Auffen, next to him stood the scraggy-necked Dirk, and then came one of the big, doltish-looking squareheads. But none of them was talking. They were listening with evident respect to someone else whom Philip could not see, yet whose voice he now recognised as Eiderman’s.
    Philip had been on the Modern side at his public school, so knew enough German to understand the gist of what was being said; but as he first concentrated on catching the words he got only the end of a sentence which had something to do with being able to reach Boston by Friday.
    ‘
Jawohl, Herr Kapitan
,’ Hans Auffen replied in a guttural voice, and every muscle in Philip’s body seemed to go rigid as he heard Eiderman go on:
    ‘It is