And she felt like death.
A hot bath, even the one they had shared at Plymouth, a clean shirt, time to gather her thoughts. It was not to be.
The driver opened the door for her. “I’ll keep an eye on your gear, miss, er, ma’am. They’ll be waitin’ for you, I expect.”
Security checks, a murmured telephone call. She was to go straight to one of the offices. Even this part of the citadel must be underground; the air felt tired, lifeless. She thought of the other places she had been stationed after her application had been accepted for Operations. Larne in Northern Ireland, Portland Bill; even poor, battered old Plymouth with its air raids was preferable to this.
There were a lot of Wrens in Western Approaches Command, and it was her decision. She made another effort, and rapped on the door.
“Come!” A woman’s voice. Anna took a deep breath and pushed it open.
The only occupant was sitting at a desk on the far side of the room beneath a huge map of the British Isles. The desk was quite empty, and the Wren officer who occupied it, her fingers interlaced, gave the impression that she had been sitting here just waiting for this first encounter. She did not rise, nor did she smile.
“Take a pew,” she said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
Anna sat on a hard-backed chair, which also looked as if it had been prepared for her. Like being at school, she thought.
She studied the other woman as she opened the envelope which had travelled all the way from Plymouth. She could have been any age, in her thirties or possibly older. Everything about her was severe, as if she had done all she could to dampen any familiarity at the outset. The hair was pulled so tightly to the nape of her neck that it looked as if it might be painful, and her features, which were certainly striking, even attractive if they had been given the chance, seemed detached, aloof.
The two and a half blue stripes on her sleeves showed her to be a first officer, and her name was Crawford. Naomi Fitzherbert had heard of her, but then she knew just about everybody. All for the service, my girl, and no time for anyone who thinks differently. A battle-axe on the outside, but a bit of a love when she feels like it.
That part was harder to believe.
“I’ve seen your dossier, of course. You come to us highly recommended. But . . .” The but hung in the air as she turned over the letter. “A Canadian, too.” A pause. “We have a lot of your countrymen in and out of here.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes very still. “I’ll take you into the main Operations Room shortly. After that, the Boss will want to see you. Commodore Raikes has very high standards, so be warned.” She picked up her hat. “Come with me.”
Anna Roche stood up and followed her to the outer door. They knew enough about her to send a car to collect her, and the R.T.O. would have explained about the delays on the line. But so far nobody had thought it necessary to offer her a cup of tea, or show her a place where she could make herself presentable.
Surprisingly, it calmed her. She had met with this kind of thing before.
If they can be tough, so can I!
First Officer Crawford walked with her down a long, narrow tunnel, confining and painted white, and lighted at intervals by shatterproof lamps. Her voice echoed around them.
“Western Approaches is a vast concern now, with repair facilities large and small to keep the ships at sea. Londonderry, Greenock, Belfast, even St John’s in Newfoundland. And it’s all beginning to work. When I came here, we were losing an average of four hundred thousand tons of shipping a month. Crippling. Not enough escorts, no long-range air cover, and the enemy building more submarines than we could hope to destroy.”
They strode past a man sitting in a small telephone box, who was writing something on a signal pad. He did not look up. Anna could hear the other woman’s heels clicking in the stark tunnel, and quickened her pace to keep up.
“But it’s changing now.” She opened another door. “And we are in the centre of it. The hub!”
Anna glanced at her. No boast. It was pride, personal. As if I don’t exist.
She walked through and stopped by a safety rail. The Operations Room seemed to engulf her. The walls were giant charts, each one covered with coloured markers and numbers. Long ladders glided soundlessly back and forth, as Wrens added fresh information, and removed others.
Crawford said, “Everyone is represented here.” She gestured to one of the big tables which faced the main wall. “R.A.F. Coastal Command, the signal traffic officer—you’ll be helping her, by the way. The one with the beard is the submarine tracking officer, and the chap next to him is the Met expert. He thinks so, anyway.”
Anna glanced at her pale profile, but there was no hint of humour.
“See that convoy they’ve just moved? From Canada, coming here . . . Thursday, all being well. That one further over is on passage to Gibraltar. You can see the disposition of the escort group clearly from here.”
She frowned as a burst of clapping erupted from the lower floor. A seaman messenger, hurrying past with a tray of signals, said breathlessly, “Got a U-boat! It’s just been confirmed!”
Like the marine driver, as proud as if he had been there himself.
Somebody was moving another marker, and a voice said, “That was Hakka ’s kill. Confirmed. Bloody good show!” There was utter silence again.
“We’d better move along.” Crawford looked at her searchingly. “What is it?”
“It’s all right. I saw Hakka in Plymouth just after I’d returned there from Portland.” But all she could see was the concern in his eyes when he had offered to help her at the naval club. And he had been out there. It looked like the Scilly Isles on the giant chart.
Hakka’s kill.
Crawford was saying, “She’ll be here in Liverpool in a day or so.” She waited, as if testing something.
“Is it always like this?”
“Hmm. Usually. And now we’ve got a new C-in-C, Admiral Sir Max Horton, took over last month. He’s a real ball of fire.” She hesitated, and then added quietly, “Commodore Raikes admires him very much.” They paused by yet another door and faced one another. “I thought you should know.”
So Naomi, the Hon Fitz, was right about that too.
She smiled. “I’m ready.”
The hot bath could wait.
Commander Graham Martineau stepped over the coaming of a watertight door and paused to accustom himself to the stillness. He looked down at his damply crumpled duffle coat, stained from various encounters on Hakka ’s bridge, and came to terms with it. This was the first time he had left that bridge since the ship had departed so hurriedly from Plymouth, and he was feeling it, even though he had spent far more time at sea on almost every other occasion. Maybe he was still deluding himself and he was not ready; maybe his enforced stay ashore had left him lacking something he had previously taken for granted.
He pushed open the door and was taken off guard by the white, shining interior of the ship’s sickbay. With the deadlights lifted from the scuttles it seemed almost blinding, especially after their arrival in Liverpool in the grey half-light of morning.
After the strain of the last few miles, nursing the damaged tanker into safer waters and the swept approaches to Swansea Bay, their entry here had been unnerving. It seemed that every person on the base had turned out to greet them and give them a cheer as they had manoeuvred carefully towards Gladstone Dock. At one point there had been crowds of Wrens, hundreds of them, joining in the welcome, and even the normally imperturbable coxswain had exclaimed, “All that crumpet! Turned out just for us!”
And now the ship was still. Alongside. He peered through the nearest scuttle and saw a giant gantry, its huge crane towering above the masts, moving soundlessly on invisible rails, as if Hakka was still under way.
The sickbay was situated in the after superstructure, almost next door to his own pristine and empty quarters, and the bunk he had hardly used since taking command. But now there would be formalities to undergo. Capt
ain (D) to be entertained, reports to be made, signals to be authorized. And there were other matters, no less important. The rest could wait.
The inner door opened, gleaming in the deckhead lights like polished marble.
The sick berth attendant, Petty Officer Pryor, known in his own mess as “Plonker” Pryor, was good at his job, and Fairfax had spoken highly of him. The last doctor had applied for a transfer after the savage air attack and it had, surprisingly, been granted. A new doctor would be appointed very soon, although Martineau suspected that if Pryor was like most of his breed he would deeply resent it.
He was watching him now, obviously surprised by a visit from his commanding officer but doing his best to conceal it.
“How’s the patient?”
Pryor gave up trying to hide his astonishment. “Doing well, sir. A couple of stitches here.” He touched his own skull with one fat finger. “A few grazes.” He nodded. “He was lucky, that one.”
Martineau walked into the other part of the sick quarters. White-painted, folding cots, racks of bottles and jars which were still rattling despite the ship being alongside, disturbed by some piece of Morgan’s machinery buried deep in the hull.
Ordinary Seaman Wishart, one of the first lieutenant’s volunteers, was indeed lucky to be alive. He had lost his balance when he had tried to secure a line as the tug Goliath was about to take the tanker in tow. Fairfax had told him that the tanker’s crew had been close to exhaustion from their long ordeal after being left by the convoy, and Wishart had been helping one of them when he had gone over the side, hitting his head in the process.
Martineau moved to the one occupied cot and stared down at the face on the pillow. It was very pale, the bandages making it look even younger, defenceless.
Fairfax had been hard put to describe what had happened next. The seaman named Forward had dived over the side without hesitation. He had been wearing a pusser’s life jacket, but it would not have saved him in that sea.
“I saw him reach Wishart and take hold of him. The current was running fast—they didn’t stand a chance.” He had stared at his own hands as if he had somehow expected to see the Schermuly line-shooting pistol still there. It was the only chance, and he had fired the whole line. Somehow they had managed to haul both of them aboard the tanker, and the vessel’s master had produced a bottle of Scotch to help revive them.
Martineau recalled the surprise and the genuine pleasure when he had told Fairfax that he would be putting him up for a decoration, Forward too.
“You did well, Number One! You all did!”
He realized that the youth had opened his eyes and was gazing up at him.
“Just wanted to make certain you’re not still full of sea water. We’ll get something done about the injuries.”
He saw Wishart’s hand move out to touch his sleeve, then it stopped, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, and where he was.
“I—I want to stay, sir. I’ll be all right now.”
Martineau glanced at the S.B.A.
“What do you think?”
Pryor pouted sternly. “If the new doctor comes aboard soon, sir, he could deal with it right here, on board.”
Martineau looked at the pale face again, seeing the sudden relief. So it was that important to him to remain in Hakka. It had certainly not been an easy start for him. For any of us.
He nodded, and felt the deck sway up towards him. Too long ashore.
“Very well.” He picked up his cap from the blanket although he did not remember removing it. “Where did you learn to swim, Wishart?” He saw the youth’s eyes focus on his cap, the fine new oak leaves around its peak. Seeing himself, perhaps?
Wishart’s eyes were drooping, but he could still smile. “The baths, sir, at Surbiton.”
He walked to the door. And we got a U-boat. But at this small moment in time, that seemed almost incidental.
Plonker Pryor readjusted the blanket and exclaimed, “Well, really! ”
But he was pleased all the same. In spite of the new doctor.
Tonkyn, the chief steward, watched his Captain as he knotted his tie and then stretched his arms.
“A shower and a change of clothes works wonders, sir.” He added as an afterthought, “I was told you sent for Forward, sir.” Quietly disapproving that a commanding officer should have a mere rating visit him in his quarters.
“Send him in.” Martineau smiled. “And some more of that coffee, if it’s going. I feel better already.”
He glanced at the desk in the adjoining cabin. Signals, some dealt with, or for information only, not much mail; it would eventually catch up with them. One he recognized as a bill from Gieves, and he thought of the young seaman in the sickbay, staring at his new cap. But nothing else. What had he expected? A letter from Alison? It would have to be faced. She wanted a divorce and she would have it. Her father would see to that.
There was a tap at the door, Forward waiting to see him. He was smartly turned out in uniform, a far cry from the half-drowned creature they had dragged from the sea. Dark, hawkish features. Watchful, someone who never took things at face value.
“I just wanted to tell you, Forward. I am submitting your name for some kind of recognition. That was a brave—some people might say crazy—thing you did, but you saved his life. I’ve just spoken to young Wishart myself.”
Forward showed a glimmer of surprise, but contained it. “I’ll bet that pleased him, sir. He wants to be an officer one day.”
Martineau rubbed his eyes. The hot shower was not enough after all.
“The way this war is going, it might be sooner than he thinks. And you can get your hook stitched up again. It will be in orders, but I thought you should know anyway.”
Forward stared at him. “Thank you, sir. It’ll stay there, this time.”
Tonkyn padded in, and Forward left the cabin.
Tonkyn did not properly understand his new Captain, not yet. It might take longer with this one, he thought as he expertly refilled the cup. Most Captains would have made a bee-line for the senior officer’s ship, to grab all the glory, and would certainly not bother about one young seaman who had almost got himself drowned, and another who’d dipped his hook after a fight ashore. Everybody had looked up to and admired the previous commanding officer. Tonkyn had always had a good memory; you needed it in his work with so many light-fingered skates about. But, offhand, he could not recall the other Captain doing anything for anybody. He gave a mournful smile. Except for himself.
He looked at the small pile of papers on the Captain’s desk. Another big difference. The previous Skipper always had a pile of letters waiting every time they came into harbour. Women, mostly; some used to put perfume on them. For all he had cared. He usually chucked them away.
He moved soundlessly around the cabin, and snatched up a telephone as it broke the stillness.
Martineau took it from him and said, “Derby House. Today. ” He half listened to the O.O.D.’s explanation, then replied, “Arrange it, please.”
He looked at the coffee, thinking of the tanker they had helped to save. She would be unloaded by now, her precious cargo pumped ashore. Like her officers and crew, except for three who had died in the bombing attack, she would have a brief respite. Then off again, another convoy, and more U-boats. And in Germany certain families would be getting those same telegrams, or whatever they sent over there. The bare, brutal facts. What would they think if they saw the real war at sea, the confirmation of Hakka ’s kill? A few pieces of flotsam, a lot of fuel, and some oilskin coveralls, the kind watchkeepers wore in U-boats, their only protection when cruising on the surface. Except that these coveralls had pieces of their owners still inside when Hakka had gone looking for evidence, the necessary confirmation required by their lordships.
He stood up, angry with himself.
“Good coffee.”
He strode from the cabin. The Captain again.
It was her third day at Liverpool when she was told that the Bos
s wanted her. It had all been such a rush since she had arrived at Derby House that looking back it was hard to separate the sequence of events, the names, and the faces.
Her first meeting with Commodore Dudley Raikes was something she would not forget. He was, she supposed, most people’s idea of the typical naval officer, but she had been more aware of his energy than anything else, as if he could barely contain it, and she had yet to see him sitting down. He had been in a great hurry that day, and any idea she might have had that it was to impress or intimidate her was soon dispelled. He was, apparently, always like that. She had followed him around the various departments and had seen the reactions of those he spoke to; interrogated might be a better description. He always seemed to start off with Where is . . . ? or Why is . . . ? and Why the bloody hell not?
He was treated with great respect, even fear, and she guessed it was to prevent any kind of overconfidence or lack of vigilance.
He obviously took personal fitness very seriously, and, in his perfectly tailored uniform with its single broad ring, he looked the part. Lean and hard, as if all unnecessary surplus had been honed out of him. It had made her even more conscious of her own travel-worn appearance.
First Officer Crawford had tried to smooth the way for her, saying what an asset she would be for visiting Canadian commanders.
He had retorted sharply, “I need a good and efficient staff, not hostesses!”
Despite all that, she had managed to settle in. Her roommate was the signal traffic officer, a second officer like herself, named Caryl, who had been with Western Approaches for ten months. It feels more like ten years! She was a pretty, long-legged girl of about Anna’s age, with very fair skin and short, bouncy curls, which she confided she had modelled on the style introduced by Ingrid Bergman in her first starring role.
Of Raikes she had said, “Believe me, Anna, his bite is worse than his bark!”
She was good at her job. You went under very soon here if you weren’t.
Commodore Special Support Groups was an imposing title, and she imagined Raikes was not the sort of officer who would tolerate any slackness from a subordinate which might endanger his own position. You had only to study the giant wall charts to grasp the enormity of the command. Convoys coming and going, escorts being ordered immediately back to sea when at any other time they would be allowed a breathing space for men and ships alike. You had to concentrate on your own duties, and not be diverted by the harrowing signals, ships lost or sinking, help desperately needed, when there was little enough to offer. As Raikes had explained in his curt manner, “With Nelson it was always a lack of frigates. With us, it’s a lack of destroyers, ships fast and well-armed enough to go after the buggers! For months and months the cast-iron rule was, the speed of the convoy is the speed of the slowest ship in it. Rather like some of the brains in government, eh?” He had hurried on, pausing to stab his finger on a signal pad. “Who did this? Find out and see me! ” A man who took care over his appearance, who never looked as if he had just been called from his bed. Even his hair, which was completely grey, was neither long nor short, as if it never needed to be cut.
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