Redcap

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The road convoy from the north lumbered in through the gates, halting briefly for the police check. Moving on, the leading vehicle drew up at the jetty and a corporal of Sappers jumped down from the cab, walked back to inspect the big crate which was lashed down to the articulated trailer. As the truck carrying the armed infantry detachment pulled in behind, the corporal went over to a small group of men standing in the lee of the customs shed.

Singling out a soldierly-looking civilian, the corporal halted in front of him and gave a swinging salute.

“Reporting as ordered, sir. Convoy all correct.”

“Thank you, corporal. No trouble on the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” The civilian turned abruptly, spoke in a crisp voice to an overalled party of Royal Engineers. “Right, you men. Get the crate aboard quickly now.”

Men moved towards the vehicle and began casting off the lashings.

The convoy had arrived alongside the ship in Tilbury Docks at 3:18 p.m. precisely, in a steady drizzle which soaked into the men along the jetties, ran in little rivulets between the coils of rope and the bundles of straw packing and lids of crates which littered the dockside, dropped down on the roof of the customs shed to spread its aura of English gloom, soaked into the weeds and the scrubby, coarse tufts of grass which grew between the rails of the sidings, made even the great new liner’s shining paintwork dull and damp and depressing as she waited there to go out across blue water into the blazing Indian Ocean sun.

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