The Captain had visited him, but it now seemed like part of a dream, with Royston-Jones’ figure hovering against a background of red mist. Beaushears, too, had found a moment, and had patiently answered Chesnaye’s desperate, wandering questions.
Now, as some of the mist cleared, he could piece together what he had been told. Of the faces he had known in the Saracen who were now dead, or scattered somewhere in this ship like himself. Of Lieutenant Travis who had lost a leg but stayed on the bridge until he had died. Of Nutting, the Padre, who had gone mad as he had crawled from one corpse to the next, his gabbled prayers meaningless in a world for which he had never been trained. And of Commander Godden, who despite his wound seemed happier and more relaxed than he had ever been.
Beaushears had said bitterly: ‘He’s glad to be out of it! He must think the Captain acted wrongly.’ He had shrugged, suddenly old and weary. ‘To think I once thought him a better man than the Captain!’
Chesnaye remembered, too, what Major De L’Isle had said when he had paid one of his visits to his wounded marines. ‘It could have been a great campaign, boy!’ He had peered round the shell-scarred wardroom which was being used as an additional sick bay, his red face sad and disillusioned. ‘It was devised by a genius, but it was left to bloody fools to carry out!’
Perhaps that was a suitable epitaph.
There was a step on the deck beside the bunk, and Chesnaye opened his eyes. For several moments he stared at the soldier who leaned on his stick and peered down at him.
Robert Driscoll took a deep breath and shifted his bandaged leg to a more careful position. Very carefully he said, ‘I knew I’d find you if I looked long enough, Dick.’
They watched each other without speaking. Driscoll looked thin and much older, his uniform hanging on him like the rags on a scarecrow. After a while he added, ‘We can go and see Helen together now, eh?’
As the hospital ship shortened her cable, Driscoll perched himself on Chesnaye’s bunk, and each allowed his thoughts to drift back to the distant Peninsula and all that it would mean to them for as long as they lived.
Driscoll’s sudden appearance had brought a faint warmth to Chesnaye’s heart, but sadness too with the memory it had conjured up. Again it was of Pickles, when he had come to look for him. ‘I knew I’d find you if I ran far enough!’ Perhaps he was still up there in the cleft of rock, his eyes wide and empty of pain.
There was the sound of cheering, and Chesnaye roused himself from the drowsiness which always seemed to be ready to close in. With sudden desperation he gasped: ‘Help me, Bob! Hold me up!’
His eyes eagerly sought the bottom edge of the big open port as Driscoll’s arm lifted his shoulders from the bunk. For a moment he thought the other ship was moving, and then with something like numbness he realised that it was the hospital ship which was gathering way and already gliding towards the end of the anchorage.
He had to blink rapidly to clear his eyes so as not to miss even the smallest detail of that scarred but so familiar shape which passed slowly across his vision.
The high, ugly bridge and tripod mast, the big, ungainly turret, and those splintered decks which had once gleamed so white and new. In his mind’s eye he could see the three battle ensigns, and hear the cheering soldiers on the laden troopships.
Driscoll said quietly, ‘I’ve got my binoculars here, Dick?
Chesnaye struggled upright and shook his head. The Saracen was already a world away, but the sudden pain of separation was almost too much. He wanted to find the strength to cheer with the others, but nothing came.
Almost to himself he replied: ‘No, I want to see her just as she is. Or perhaps as she was.’
The hospital ship altered course, and the small picture of the blackened listing ship changed to one of the open sea.
Robert Driscoll stood up and glanced down the long lines of silent bunks. Perhaps, he thought, if someone like Chesnaye could feel as he did it had not all been a waste of time.
Limping heavily, he moved across to the open port, feeling as he did so the first easy pitch to the vessel’s deck as she met the first swell of the open sea. He leaned out over the crisp water and drew several deep breaths.
He tried to sum it all up with a few thoughts, but he could only think of it as a farewell to something lost. The brooding shape of Achi Baba, the trenches and the wire. The true comradeship of fear and pride, the dirt and the ignorance of what lay in store.
He turned his back on the sea and looked towards Chesnaye’s white face, and wondered.
PART TWO—1941
1
The Captain
April in the Mediterranean, the month when Malta should have been at its best, with the night air cool and clear after the heat of the day. But this was April 1941, and the unusually low clouds which hung above the battered island and hid the stars were slashed and torn in a mad galaxy of colours as the nightly air raid got under way and mounted in steady force.
Occasionally above the crash of anti-aircraft fire and the rumble of collapsing buildings could be heard the steady, unbroken beat of aircraft engines. Dozens or hundreds, it was difficult to assess. The sound was without break, without change. It was a constant threat, a mockery against the blind barrage which seemed to rip the night apart.
From the naval anchorage the long streams of gay tracers crept away into the sky, whilst from inland the heavier guns hurled their shells to explode beyond the clouds so that their underbellies seemed to be alight.
Streets which had been clear and busy during the sunlight had become narrow valleys between walls of rubble and scorched timber, beneath which men and women cowered and waited, whilst in the chaos around them the despairing troops and workers searched out the feeble cries and felt for the imprisoned hands.
It was like a mad storm of forked lightning, every night a repetition, but for the fact that each one was just a little worse than the one which had preceded it.
The Night Operations Officer in one of the many naval underground strongpoints gritted his teeth as a fresh, muffled rumble made the naked light bulb dance on its flex and brought down another layer of dust to join that which already covered filing cabinets, desks and occupants in a grey film. The tarnished lace on his jacket proclaimed him to be a lieutenant-commander, but his tired and strained face, which twisted with each distant explosion, seemed too old for his rank.
Through a massive door he could hear the constant jingle of telephones and the clatter of a teleprinter. Signals, demands, orders and chaos. It never let up. His eye fell on a week-old paper from England. The headline referred proudly to Malta as ‘the gallant island fortress’. ‘The thorn in Italy’s soft underbelly!’ Another roar, and the lights flickered momentarily.
A petty officer crunched through the dust and placed a chipped cup and saucer on the officer’s desk. ‘Char, sir.’ He glanced incuriously at the flaking walls and said, ‘Good thing we’re down here, sir?’
The Operations Officer picked up the cup and watched the tea’s surface quivering in his hand. Bitterly he replied: ‘Built by galley slaves hundreds of years ago. They at least had the right idea!’
A rating poked his head round the door. ‘Stick of bombs across Parlatoria Wharf, sir.’
The officer looked at the floor. ‘Again? I hope to God the destroyers there are all right.’ Almost viciously he added, ‘Let me know more as soon as you can!’
The petty officer walked to the operations board which covered one of the walls and ran his finger down the pencilled list of ships’ names. ‘With raids day and night it’ll be hard for the ships to take on fuel, sir.’
‘Unless we get some help and some fighter planes there won’t be any damned fuel! What the hell do they expect of us?’ He glared at the man’s worn features. ‘Do they want us to go and fight them with pikes or something?’ He broke off as the other door opened slightly. ‘What th’ hell d’you want?’
The petty officer stiffened and cleared his throat noisily, his eyes t
aking in the shadowy shape of the newcomer with both experience and immediate caution. He had seen the feeble light from the corridor shine briefly on the four gold stripes, and he tried to cover his superior’s surprise by saying hastily, ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?’
Captain Richard Chesnaye limped into the centre of the room so that the naked bulb shone directly above his head and made his dark hair appear glossy and fresh, although in fact he had not slept for two days. He sat down in a vacant chair and looked calmly at the other officer’s dazed face. He said: ‘My name is Chesnaye. I believe I was expected yesterday, but the convoy was attacked.’ He saw the man jump as the floor quivered to another explosion. ‘So if possible I should like to join my ship at once.’
The Operations Officer passed his hand across his face and turned wearily to his desk. He forced himself to leaf through a pile of papers while he reassembled his thoughts. A year ago, perhaps even a month, and he would have jumped with horror at the thought of being caught off guard by a full captain. Now it did not seem to matter. The whole world was falling around them. It was just a matter of time. The enmy bombers which were destroying Malta and preventing sleep, or even rest, were flying from a mere fifty miles away. How could an island right on the enemy’s door-step, with a mere handful of clapped-out fighters, expect to survive?
He glanced quickly across his desk at the newcomer. He noticed that one of the gold stripes was brighter than the other three and that he was wearing several decorations which he could not recognise in the poor light. His mind began to recover. This captain was yet another sign of what was happening to the country and the Royal Navy.
With Britain standing alone against the combined weight of Germany and Italy every experienced officer was seemingly being promoted overnight. At the other end of the scale even yachtsmen with brief weekend sailing their only background had been pitchforked into the battle as temporary Reserve Officers. There was no time for training now, and few with experience to pave the way. Yet from the look of this stranger’s newly added gold stripe he guessed he had only just been promoted, and that pointed clearly enough to the fact that he was yet another officer who had been ‘beached’ between the wars and so lost way in the struggle for advancement and promotion. He noticed, too, the small tense lines at the corners of the captain’s mouth. As if he was forcing himself to appear calm with constant effort. He had a grave, intelligent face, and his figure was slim, even youthful. And yet . . . he shook his head and tried to clear his starved mind. A month ago he would have had every appointment and fact at his fingertips. He groped through the pile of papers. ‘Which ship, sir?’
Richard Chesnaye watched him without expression. He had seen that look on faces enough to know what the man was thinking. ‘I am taking command of Saracen,’ he said.
The Operations Officer sat down heavily and felt his inner resentment change to something like pity. It was slowly coming back to him now. In his mind’s eye he could even see the signals which had referred to this man Chesnaye who was coming from England to assume command of the Saracen. He had seen the elderly monitor alongside the wharf only that forenoon. She must be over twenty-five years old, he thought. She was something of a joke at the Base, or had been until joking had gone out of fashion. She was an ugly, antiquated-looking ship, her disproportionate shape made even more peculiar by her garish dazzle paint which had been introduced to foil the prowling submarines. As a colleague had remarked at the time, ‘Like a poor old spinster in a party frock!’
Her previous captain had just returned to England following a court martial. He had taken the old ship to the North African coast to lend support to the hard-pressed troops who, even now, were falling back across Libya, leaving positions and bases which they had won so bravely months before. The monitor had ‘fired short’, and several hundred British soldiers had been killed and wounded. On top of that the Saracen had run aground and had only been towed clear within minutes of the dive-bombers smelling her out. It might have been better if they had got to her first.
Too lightly he said, ‘I expect you know all about her, sir?’
‘My first ship.’ He repeated the words in his mind. My first ship. What a lot they implied. But no one could understand what they meant to him at that moment.
Chesnaye added half to himself, ‘Yes, I know a great deal about her.’
He shifted in his chair as the ache in his thigh returned. A few more hours and he would be aboard. All the waiting and the yearning were nearly over.
What would she be like now? Perhaps like himself. Unsure, even unwanted.
Some of the old anger and defensive bitterness moved within him. Sharply he said, ‘I should like to get to her at once.’
The Operations Officer nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do. She’s out on a buoy at the moment.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you the full formality, sir. I expect you’re thinking it’s rather different from peacetime?’ He bit his lip as the words dropped out. That was a stupid thing to say. This captain was like so many others. He must have spent many of the peacetime years lost and miserable without the Service which so unexpectedly had been denied them. He had seen them at Fleet Reviews and Open Days at the dockyards. Eager, keen-eyed, yet so pathetically on the outside.
He saw the shutters drop behind Chesnaye’s grey eyes. Hastily he muttered, ‘I’ll put through a call, provided the line’s still in place!’
Chesnaye forced himself to sit back in the chair, to ignore the officer’s short, staccato words on the dusty telephone. The man was sorry for him, and confused too. It no longer mattered. It had hurt at first, but not any more. As if to reassure himself he touched the lace on his sleeve, and felt the excitement welling inside him.
The other officer dropped the telephone and looked uneasy. ‘No boats running tonight, sir. Very heavy raid up top. It gets worse all the time.’ As if to make the unwanted conversation last he added: ‘They fly over in daylight and machine-gun the place too. St. Paul’s Bay, the outlying villages, everywhere!’
‘When can I get across, then?’ Unwittingly Chesnaye dropped his guard and leaned forward.
‘First light, sir.’ He glanced at the petty officer. ‘We could give you a bunk here if you’d prefer not to go over to the quarters? It’s not much, but’ll be on hand.’ He dropped his eyes as Chesnaye’s face flooded with obvious relief.
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’ Chesnaye stood up and grimaced.
The petty officer held open the door and reached for a torch. ‘Hurt your leg, sir?’
Chesnaye paused in the doorway and regarded him slowly. ‘A long time ago. But it helps to keep my memory intact!’
The door closed behind him and the Operations Officer stretched his arms above his head.
A rating called urgently, ‘Number Seven fuel tank ablaze, sir!’
The officer shook himself. ‘Bloody hell!’ He reached for his telephone.
* * * * *
Lieutenant-Commander John Erskine, the Saracen’s First Lieutenant, ran his fingers through his long fair hair and sat back in his swivel chair. His tiny office was lined with shelves loaded with ledgers and files, and the hanging deck covered with signals awaiting his attention. It was early morning, and the sun which filtered through the one thick scuttle was as yet without warmth. Erksine had breakfasted alone in the still deserted wardroom which smelled of drink and tobacco from the previous night. He had persuaded himself that he wanted an early start to allow himself time to clear the mounting pile of paperwork, although he knew well enough that the real reason was quite different.
The other officers would be watching him, gauging his mood and reactions to the events which had so suddenly changed his small world. He was twenty-eight years old, with a clear-cut open face entirely devoid of pretension, but at this moment was filled with gloom. He had been in the old monitor for nine months, almost since the day Italy had cast caution to the wind and joined with Germany in a combined attack on Britain. During that time he had watched
the change creep over the ships and men of the Mediterranean Fleet, once the most efficient and powerful force of its kind in the world, but now stretched to and beyond the limit even of safety. It had all been so clear cut at first. In peacetime they had exercised with extravagant enthusiasm under every condition conceived by an overconfident Admiralty. Always with the knowledge that the other great navy, the French, was ready to close any gaps and make the Mediterranean the one sure buffer below Europe’s long coastline.
Without apprehension they had watched the rebirth of Germany’s sea-power and skill, and with amusement the preparations with which the Italians had followed their partner’s every move. It was still hard to fathom what had gone wrong. The swift, lightning war in France, followed by Dunkirk and the complete collapse of England’s European allies. Only the Greeks tagged along the end of the line now, and even they were receiving the first probes from a confident Wehrmacht. In the Mediterranean the Navy had managed to retain its old appearances of calm superiority, up to the last few months, that is. Ships of the Fleet had followed the Army’s triumphant advances along the North African coast, where one crushing defeat after another had scattered the Italian troops to the winds and filled the prison compounds to overflowing. Now the tide was turning even there. With Europe safely under lock-and-key and the remains of the British Expeditionary Force flung back across the English Channel, the German Army was able to look around, to estimate the extent of her enemy’s remaining positions. Apparently disgusted with Italy’s efforts, the Wehrmacht had joined the battle. In spite of the hard-pressed naval patrols, German troops were being ferried across to Africa, and aircraft of every kind were making their appearance in the clear and smiling skies.
In the Saracen, too, the new strain had shown itself very clearly. From a new complement of officers the strength had shrunk and changed. New, untrained faces appeared each month. The straight lace of the regulars was replaced by the wavy lace of the R.N.V.R. and the intertwined braid of the R.N.R. Erskine had been irritated by his appointment to such an ancient ship, although it was the rule rather than the exception now. The Mediterranean Fleet, once filled with the cream of the destroyer flotillas and the proudest cruisers, was now supported and reinforced with the strangest collection of craft ever assembled. Ex-China river gunboats, flat-bottomed and unsteady even in a slight breeze, cruised along the African coast and grimly exchanged shots with modern E-boats and screaming dive-bombers. Paddle steamers, once the joy of day-excursionists on their trips from Dover to Calais, swept mines, patrolled the boom-gates and tried to do the hundred and one tasks for which they had never been designed. So the old monitor was just another symbol of events.
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 17
