H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Erskine laughed. ‘It’s a bloody wonder I don’t look like his father, the things which I’ve got on my mind!’

  Ballard, the senior steward, emerged from the pantry. ‘We’d like to lay the table for dinner now, sir?’ He eyed the letters bleakly. ‘Er, could you . . .?’

  Erskine nodded. ‘I’ll move.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

  Wickersley rubbed his hands as some more figures drifted wearily into the wardroom. ‘I think a noggin is indicated.’

  Erskine shook his head. ‘I never drink at sea Doc.’

  ‘Your loss, my friend!’ Wickersley waved to a steward. ‘Large pink Plymouth!’ He beamed at Lieutenant Norris, who had just slumped down in one of the battered armchairs. ‘What about you, old sport?’

  Norris looked pasty-faced and crumpled from sleep. ‘A large one, please.’

  Erskine paused and looked down at him. ‘Watch it, Malcolm,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve got another Middle Watch in four hours.’

  Norris flushed. ‘I can manage, thank you.’

  Erskine shrugged and walked to the scuttle. The sea was getting furrowed with deep shadows, and the sky lost its warmth. Three more days and they would be back in Alexandria. Then what? A place full of bustling activity alongside fear and indecision. Orders would be waiting for them, and then they would be off to sea once more.

  And somewhere in the middle of all this there was Ann. Even now she might be in her tiny apartment above the harbour, watching the ships, and waiting for him. Or helping at the hospital. She might even be laughing over a drink with some other naval officer.

  Ann Curzon, tall, slim, so completely desirable. Erskine remembered vividly that first night when they had had a little too much to drink, and they had made love with such fierceness in that same apartment.

  Yet he knew so little about her, or what had made her leave England to join this mad world of uncertainty and chaos. She was only twenty-three, yet in so many ways seemed more mature than he. She always appeared to be laughing at him, thrusting away his caution and reserve with her own happiness. Yet he had the deeper feeling that she could be easily hurt.

  How had it all started? He thought of her wide, clear eyes, and the way her short, sun-bleached hair tossed when she laughed at something he said. Now he would have to choose. Perhaps it would be easier than he imagined. He pressed his head against the cool glass to compose himself. The radio began to blare with another sentimental song. Vera Lynn. ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover . . .’ Somebody started to whistle. The clink of glasses. Small talk and age-worn jokes while the officers waited for dinner. Without looking round, Erskine knew what was happening. The exact picture, the exact moment.

  The long tablecloth, now soiled and stained, the worn chairs, and the much-used wardroom silver. The officers sitting and standing around, legs straddled to the gentle heave of the deck, the eyes swinging occasionally to the pantry hatch. As if they did not know what was coming. As if some superb meal was to be expected, instead of tinned sausages and dehydrated potatoes.

  He toyed with the idea of going to the bridge, and imagined Chesnaye sitting in the tall chair, his face in shadow. It was a strong face, he thought. But it was almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. Like Fox, Erskine was used to conforming to the ways of various captains. To all their little mannerisms and foibles. But Chesnaye gave away nothing. He seemed completely controlled, impassive. And yet there was so much more to him than Erskine could understand.

  The way he handled the ship, for instance. Calmly enough, and yet with a quiet desperation, as if he were afraid he was going to fail in some way. When the ship had left harbour Chesnaye had watched every detail, from the very moment the hands had been called for getting under way, from the second the slip-wire had been let go. He seemed to nurse the ship, as if at the slightest display of temperament from the old monitor he would feel that he and not this twenty-five-year-old relic had made a mistake.

  At first Erskine had assumed it was because Chesnaye was unsure of his own ability after his enforced absence from active duty. After what he had seen when the bombers had made their attacks he knew differently. Even from aft he had seen the effort and cunning Chesnaye had used to elude the ruthless Stukas. Astern the ship’s wake had curved and waved, and the deck beneath his feet had seemed to buck as the engines had been put this way and then that.

  He shook his head. It can’t go on. It can’t last. Sooner or later Chesnaye was going to discover that he and the ship were only essential because of a general shortage. If he puts a foot wrong he’ll be finished for good, he thought.

  He looked again at the sea. Whatever else happens, I must not get involved again. He spoke the words inwardly like a prayer. Sentiment is one thing, but if I give way now I will never get another chance. He thought again of Chesnaye’s face that first day when he had assumed command. Desperate, hungry, even grateful. I could be like him, he thought. When this war’s over they’ll soon forget. There’ll be plenty of Chesnayes again. Thrown out, unwanted.

  Ballard coughed at his elbow. ‘Permission to lower dead-light, sir? We’d better darken the wardroom before we start dinner.’

  Erskine turned away from the circle of sea and sky without comment. Yes, he thought savagely, let us get on with the game. Calm and cool. Cheerful and offhand about everything. Who the bloody hell are we fooling!

  3

  Face from the Past

  John Erskine held up his hand to shield his eyes from the light which seemed to be burning into his brain. One moment he had been deep in an exhausted sleep, and the next he was struggling in his bunk, his body still shaking from the messenger’s violent tugging.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Erskine peered beyond the torch at the seaman’s shadowy shape. His brain still rebelled, and every muscle called out to him to fall back on the bunk. He was still partly under the impression that he was dreaming. His mind cleared with startling suddenness as he realised that the reassuring beat of the ship’s full power was muted and feeble.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, sir. ’E wants you on the bridge at once.’

  Erskine fell out of his bunk and switched on the small table lamp. No wonder he was tired. He had only been off his feet for a few hours. The Morning Watch had not even been called yet.

  Being careful to keep his voice normal, he asked, ‘What’s happening up top?’

  The seaman was looking round the cramped and untidy cabin with open interest. Perhaps he had expected something better for the ship’s second-in-command. ‘Stopped the port engine, sir. Trouble in the shaft, I think.’

  Erskine’s mind began to work again. That’s all we need, he thought. One bloody engine. ‘Tell the Captain I’m on my way.’

  He followed the man briskly on to the upper deck, blinking his eyes in the deep darkness. By the time he had climbed to the upper bridge, past the dozing gunners and peering lookouts, his mind had been further cleared by the crisp night air, and only the soreness of his eyes and the kiln-dryness in his throat reminded him of his complete fatigue. He groped his way to the forepart of the bridge, where he could just discern the Captain’s tall figure against the screen.

  ‘Good morning, John.’ Chesnaye’s voice was calm enough, but more abrupt than usual. ‘Bit of bother in the engine room.’

  ‘Bad, sir?’ Erskine tried to gauge Chesnaye’s mood.

  ‘More of a nuisance really. The Chief has been up to tell me that a bearing is running hot. Might be a blocked pipe.’ He laughed shortly. ‘He was very insistent that I stop that screw to give his men a chance to look round.’ He added bitterly: ‘It’s an after bearing. A bit tricky to get at. Still, it might have been worse, I suppose.’

  Erskine nodded. If they didn’t stop the shaft it might seize up completely for lack of oil. There could be no dodging the bombers with only one screw, he thought. His tiredness made him suddenly angry and despairing. All Chesnaye’s desperate manceuvring had done this. If only this
was a thirty-knot destroyer, he thought. One screw or two, you always had a few thousand horsepower up your sleeve then!

  He said, ‘Shall I call the men to quarters, sir?’

  ‘No, let half of ’em get their sleep. They need it.’

  Chesnaye had spoken unconsciously, but his words brought the sudden realisation to Erskine that the Captain had been on the bridge almost continuously since the ship and slipped her buoy in Malta.

  Erskine asked: ‘Can I relieve you for a bit, sir? The ship’ll hardly make headway in this sea.’

  ‘I’m all right. I just wanted to put you in the picture.’

  Erskine leaned against the cool plates and looked at the black sea. ‘Very quiet, sir.’ A slight breeze fanned his face and rattled the signal halyards overhead.

  Chesnaye grunted. His arm moved like a dark shadow towards the starboard beam. ‘Tobruk’s over there. Less than a hundred miles away. I wonder how the Army are managing?’

  Erskine stared at him. The Captain was concerned about his ship, yet he found time to worry about the nameless men in the desert. The ship trembled beneath his shoes, and he felt thankful that he were here and not lying out on the sand and rocks, waiting for the dawn to uncover the advancing enemy.

  ‘You’re not married, are you, John?’

  The question was so sudden that Erskine was momentarily confused.

  ‘No, sir. That is, not yet.’

  ‘Thought about it?’

  Erskine had a fleeting picture of Ann’s face and felt even more unsure of himself. ‘Not really, sir. In wartime it’s hard to make such a decision.’

  Chesnaye was tapping the stem of his unlit pipe against his teeth, and might have been studying him but for the darkness. ‘You don’t want to think like that, John.’ Then with unexpected vehemence, ‘No, it’s a chance that does not come very often.’

  There was a metallic clatter from aft, and Erskine heard Chesnaye curse under his breath.

  Somewhere in the darkness Harbridge, the Gunner (T), said stiffly, ‘The stokers are ’avin’ a go, sir!’

  ‘Bloody row!’ Chesnaye took off his cap and ran his fingers across his hair.

  ‘It’s a big job. But Tregarth will be as quick as he can. He’s a good Chief, sir.’ Erskine waited for Chesnaye to answer and added: ‘To go back to what we were saying, sir. About marriage. I was wondering why you haven’t done so if what you say . . .’ He faltered as Chesnaye took a step toyards him.

  ‘Let us keep our minds on the job in hand, eh?’ Chesnaye’s tone was cold, like a slap in the face. ‘I suggest you take a turn around the decks to see that the men are aware of what is happening. We still have the A/S trawler with us, but I want a good lookout kept!’

  Erskine stepped back, stifling his resentment and his surprise. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  As Erskine walked past the tall, warm shape of the funnel where the Morning Watch was being mustered, he bumped into the lanky figure of McGowan.

  ‘’Morning, John, is all well in the world?’

  Erskine bit back the angry words which seemed to be bursting from his lips and replied shortly: ‘Bit of a flap on. Nothing the Captain can’t handle, apparently.’

  McGowan watched him go and wondered. He heard his petty officer say throatily: ‘Two volunteers for a nice cushy job! ’Oo are they ter be, then?’

  Two voices called assent from the anonymous swaying ranks of duffel-coated seamen.

  ‘Right,’ said the P.O. ‘Bates an’ Maddison. Get aft an’ clear the blockage in the officers’ ‘eads.’

  The men groaned, while their comrades sniggered with unsympathetic delight.

  McGowan said severely, ‘Now is that the way to get volunteers, P.O.?’

  The hardened regular rubbed his hands and grinned. ‘A volunteer is a bloke wot’s misunderstood the question, sir. Either that or ’e’s as green as grass. But the officers’ ’eads ’ave got to be cleaned afore you gentlemen gets up in the mornin’!’

  ‘Er, quite. Carry on, P.O.’

  The men shuffled away into the darkness, and McGowan started to climb towards the bridge.

  * * * * *

  For the rest of the night the ship pushed her way at a snail’s pace, while down below, right aft and beneath the waterline, Tregarth and his mechanics worked and sweated to trace the one tiny injury which was making every man aboard apprehensive and irritable.

  Morning passed, and with it came a stiff north-east wind which whipped the flat water first into a mass of dancing whitecaps and soon changed the whole sea to a pitching panorama of long, steep rollers. The Saracen slowed even more, until eventually it was only possible to retain steerage way. The monitor took the mounting sea with obvious dislike. The long diagonal swells cruised rapidly to hit her below the port bow, each jagged crest crumbling beneath the force of the wind, so that the men off watch felt the surging power of water thunder against the hull like a roll of drums, and then waited as the ship staggered and heaved herself bodily over and down into the waiting troughs, and so to the next onslaught. On watch it was even worse. The gunners, signalmen and lookouts were always in danger of losing their footing and handholds. Equipment and ammunition rattled and banged, men cursed as their boots skidded on the heaving decks, and their eyes and binoculars were blinded by the long streamers of shredded spray which seemed to cruise over the hull and superstructure like birds of prey.

  In the near distance the trawler pitched and yawed, showing first her bilge and then her open bridge, upon which her watchkeepers in shining oilskins clung like seals on a rock.

  Chesnaye forced himself to stay in his chair. Occasionally, when off guard, his eyes strayed to the engine-room telephone. The handset was temptingly near, but he knew it was futile and a waste of time to call Tregarth to speak to him. He was doing his best. That had to suffice.

  ‘Your oilskin, sir!’ A bosun’s mate was holding it out to him, so that Chesnaye realised with sudden shock that his uniform was dripping from the spray and blown spume. He nodded with a brief smile and pulled it across his shoulders. As he leaned forward in his chair to tuck the coat behind him he caught a glimpse of Erskine and the Chief Bosun’s Mate, followed somewhat reluctantly by a small party of seamen, making their rounds of the fo’c’sle and anchor cables. He noticed how the men’s bodies stood at nearly a forty-five-degree angle as the wide deck canted against the weight of water which piled up beneath the bows. Spray burst across the guard-rail and drenched the groping men, and Chesnaye saw Erskine turn to shout something, his collar flapping in the vicious wind.

  Chesnaye sat back and thought about his conversation with Erskine during the night. I was wrong to speak to him like that. Stupid, and cowardly.

  He was glad he had been unable to see Erskine’s face when it had happened. But even that was small comfort. How was he to know about Helen? Chesnaye cursed himself once more. By bringing up the subject of marriage in the first place, he and not Erskine was to blame.

  He ducked his head as more water deluged across the screen and ran down his stubbled face and through the soggy protection of the towel he had wrapped around his neck.

  The Mediterranean. Calm and inviting. Or wild and irresponsible. It had all happened here, he thought. Meeting Helen Driscoll in Gibraltar. The Dardanelles and the misery which followed. He remembered the long journey back to England in the hospital ship. So full of hope in spite of his feeling of loss and despair. Robert Driscoll had never left his side, and even afterwards in that Sussex hospital he had visited him often.

  But the rest of the dream had never materialised. Helen Driscoll had stayed in Gibraltar, and had been there when the Saracen had eventually dropped anchor en route for home waters and the final battle for France.

  Even now, after all these years, Chesnaye could not accept what had happened so easily. He knew he had no rights, no first call or demands over her. Nevertheless, he had felt real pain when Robert Driscoll had met him with the news.

  Helen had become engaged to Mark Beaushears, o
nce midshipman of the Saracen’s unhappy gunroom, then acting lieutenant and en route with the monitor for a new ship. An up-and-coming young officer, they had said, and Chesnaye had written to him to wish him luck. He had written the letter while the misery was fresh in his heart and the hatred very real in his mind.

  In all parts of the world and on many occasions he had told himself: If only she had waited. Why Beaushears? But he had known well enough that it was just another delusion which, like the Saracen’s memory, never left him.

  Lieutenant Fox lurched across the bridge and saluted. ‘Signal, sir. Priority. Small convoy being attacked. Request immediate assistance!’

  Chesnaye pushed himself off the chair and limped towards the charthouse. ‘Is there more of it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Still coming in on W/T. Two Italian cruisers and some destroyers have dropped on the convoy from Piraeus. The bloody Eye-ties must have pushed down the Greek coast during the night.’

  He watched Chesnaye’s eyes flicker from the signal pad to the chart, and the almost desperate speed with which he moved the parallel rulers and dividers. He knew well enough what Chesnaye was thinking. Crete to the north, the Libyan coast to the south. The small convoy must have skirted the island of Crete on the mainland side to keep as covered as possible from surface attack. Then it had turned south with the intention of wheeling eastwards to Port Said. It was one of the many urgently needed convoys of supplies for the British troops in Greece. The enemy were obviously aware of the importance of every ship in the area. They intended to finish off this convoy, and only the Saracen by a stroke of fate was in a position to help them. That is, she would have been in a position to help them, thought Fox grimly as he watched the anguish on Chesnaye’s face.

  The dividers clicked across the chart once more, as if Chesnaye had not trusted his first impression. Slowly he said, ‘But for this breakdown we would have been right amongst them.’