For Valour

by Douglas Reeman

  He thought of Lovatt, the senior radar operator, now an acting petty officer, who should be off watch, trying to find something warm to eat or drink, or to wear. But radar was a world of its own, and Lovatt knew the importance of the day, probably better than anyone. He was a slightly built, serious-faced man, who looked more like the schoolmaster he had been than a veteran of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. You never even questioned it any more, although there had been plenty of regulars who had sniffed at the idea in the early days of war.

  No more. Errand boys, bakers, shop assistants and postmen, they had all had to change with the rising demands of war.

  He recalled the signal he had sent, massaging his eyes, and trying to clear his thoughts. George Zebra. Brevity of every signal was essential. But the Atlantic seemed to be theirs. No convoys, no stragglers, and no U-boats. Yet.

  He heard another fanny of cocoa coming into the bridge. Pusser’s kye, they called it, so thick with hand-sliced cocoa and condensed milk that you could stand a spoon upright in it. It lined your ribs, the old hands insisted. Today it would be laced with rum.

  He listened to the regular throb of engines. In these four weather-tossed destroyers the most important men were the chief engineer and the cook, in atrocious conditions like these.

  But it was brighter. He groped for his binoculars, and saw faces turn to look at him. Faces which had been dark, featureless blobs before.

  Then he saw Jester, on the starboard beam, heeling over to the ridge of water which had just passed under Hakka ’s keel before rolling away into the unbroken curtain of spray. He could even make out the tiny patch of colour which was her tattered seagoing ensign.

  He thought of Liverpool. They would somehow find time to celebrate, even with somebody like Raikes in control.

  What would she be doing?

  He slid from the rigid chair, and saw Fairfax and Ossie Pike, the chief boatswain’s mate, their streaming faces only inches apart but shouting at one another as they peered up at the fore-mast, as if concerned about some intricate piece of weaponry. He felt his mouth crack. Which perhaps it was, in its own special way. It was a huge wreath, almost as large as a Carley float, which they had constructed out of wire and hand-painted leaves, as well as some real holly which somebody had found on that last run ashore. None of it would survive very long unless the wind eased, or they could turn into it again.

  “Kye, sir?”

  That was Sub-Lieutenant John Barlow, who shared this watch with Driscoll. Hakka was his first ship. Before joining the navy he had been a schoolboy.

  He saw Kidd appear from the chart space, and recalled the officers’ conference he had convened before leaving harbour. He had noticed a difference then in the bluff and usually out-spoken navigator, and on the bridge as well. Not subdued, but introspective; maybe he was considering the A.F.O. which had mentioned the possible advancement of R.N.R. officers with his qualifications. He had noticed that Kidd had also somehow found time to trim his beard.

  The new doctor had visited the bridge. Once. The passage from aft had been hazardous, with lifelines to prevent the unwary from being swept overboard by the heavy quarter sea. Not so young as most ships’ doctors, or medical students dressed up as officers, as Martineau had heard voiced often enough, he was a quietly spoken, withdrawn man, who had been serving aboard a fast fleet minelayer until he had requested a transfer.

  Of the minelayer he had said only, “All the hands were too fit to need a doctor. In that job, if things go wrong, a chaplain is far more use!” It would be interesting to see how Plonker Pryor got on with him.

  He levelled his glasses again. How frail the other destroyer looked against the heaving grey backdrop.

  He moved to the rear of the bridge and looked aft. Oil-skinned figures were moving warily about the glistening deck, checking the boats, making sure they were snug against their davits, securing wires, dodging each torrent of spray.

  At their stations, the gun crews took what cover they could behind the shields, but he saw a lot of faces defying the wind and spray and peering up at the bridge. The yeoman of signals, Onslow, was here as well, watching Pike’s men to make sure that the great wreath did not foul the halyards or interfere with aerials or gunnery controls. And like the others, remembering, thinking of this day.

  He could taste the rum in the cocoa now. Like that which had been forced between his teeth when he and a handful of others had been dragged from the sea. These men didn’t ask for much for what they did, and what they saw. Like that curt signal, George Zebra. They had steamed another three hundred miles or so since then, to a pencilled cross on the chart somewhere to the south-west of Iceland. It meant nothing to most of them.

  He reached out and felt Kidd put the speaker in his hand. He would know. He stared down at the crouching figures who had suddenly appeared as if to a pipe.

  “This is the Captain.” He waited for the next crest to break over the side and surge past the torpedo tubes. In all his service it had never happened before, and yet he knew it had never mattered more. In peacetime, at sea or in port, the senior officers would wait on tables to serve their ratings, and afterwards everyone could play silly buggers to his heart’s content.

  There would be solemn prayers, and all the usual hymns. That was then.

  He saw Fairfax and Midshipman Seton; even the boy Wishart who had been saved by the first lieutenant’s and Forward’s immediate action, was watching, his head still wrapped in a bandage.

  There were other faces too, from another ship, men who had trusted him without question. Firebrand ’s people.

  He said, “Christmas Day, lads. All I can offer you is a tot of rum and a soggy sandwich.” He looked at the sea, and sensed that Kidd had moved closer.

  “What we are doing here is important, especially to those loved ones we are all thinking of today.” He could not go on. “Hoist away, Number One!”

  There were cheers as the makeshift wreath was hauled smartly to the masthead. There would be cheers too from Jester as she thrust into another barrier of bursting spray.

  Kidd said, “That was great, sir.”

  Driscoll frowned. He did not understand what he had heard and witnessed. It did not go by the book.

  Neither did he understand the man himself. An officer with a fine record, a coveted V.C. to prove it, and command of this first-class destroyer. With luck he should be promoted to full Captain, further if the war went on much longer. He had no need to prove anything to these men.

  Only Kidd really understood, because until a few days ago he had felt much the same as the Captain. Completely alone.

  “Radar—Bridge!”

  “Bridge!”

  “Convoy and escort at three-one-zero. Range one-double-oh!”

  Martineau said, “Alter course, Pilot.”

  Kidd strode to the voicepipes. “Right on time, sir!”

  Martineau smiled. Just in time would be closer to it.

  8 | No Better, No Worse

  “New course to steer is one-two-zero degrees, sir.”

  Fairfax lowered his binoculars and watched his breath fanning out like steam. It was bitterly cold; he could almost feel ice rime on the screen and bridge fittings. But the motion was easier, a deep, unbroken swell, without the savage rolls and plunges, and even the galley had managed to return to some sort of routine, producing tinned, square-shaped sausages and powdered potato. Bangers and mash, with a bit of imagination. And it was hot, too.

  Fairfax watched as Martineau consulted the gyro repeater and walked a few paces to ease his legs.

  It was strange to take orders from the ship you were escorting. But there were no chances with this one. The Ocean Monarch was a giant when set against her four lithe escorts, twenty-six thousand tons, with every foot packed with troops. There were apparently six thousand soldiers and their equipment inside that proud hull. Sardines. He had heard Kidd telling Midshipman Seton that Ocean Monarch had set several records as a passenger liner on the New Zealand and Sout
h African routes before the war. He could well believe it. Even the drab grey paint could not disguise her elegant lines and spacious superstructure. She had naval signalmen and a few gun crews aboard, but speed was her greatest defence, as well as a destroyer on either bow and another on each quarter, ready to respond to any signal, no matter what.

  No one watching her could forget the tragedy only two months ago, when the Queen Mary had rammed and sunk her cruiser escort. The Queen, as Kidd had called her, was twice the size of this beauty, over eighty thousand tons. Nobody knew the full story; perhaps it would never be explained. Maybe the cruiser Curaçao had zigged when she should have zagged after the emergency report of a U-boat. The liner had orders not to stop for anything, and both ships were making full speed at the time of the collision. Stories had filtered through of horrified soldiers aboard the Queen— she was said to have been carrying ten thousand of them, the largest number of people ever contained in a single ship—of how they had thrown rafts and lifebuoys, anything that would float as the great ship had surged over the broken Curaçao. Some soldiers had claimed they heard and felt nothing, only a slight tremor.

  Fairfax wiped his face and turned to watch the liner, her huge stem smashing through the water with something like contempt.

  Three hundred and thirty-eight men had perished that day. Less than a hundred of her company had been picked up. Fewer still would ever get over it.

  He glanced at Martineau. How did he manage to keep going? He had scarcely left this bridge for more than minutes. If I crashed down now I’d never wake up. It was the routine that took it out of you. No alterations of course unless so ordered. Everything worked out to allow for any possibility. And no signals, only in those first minutes when the original escorts had handed over their massive charge.

  There had been a few hasty Christmas greetings, and even the flashing signal lamps had seemed dangerous. The usual witty one from their senior officer: We shall leave the easy part for the amateurs! Someone had signalled, Good luck! Only to be answered curtly, Actually, we rely on skill!

  Like hurried handshakes, people meeting in a busy street, not in this vast, hostile ocean.

  Two more days. He peered at the sky, but there was nothing to see but solid cloud. And no horizon. Just a grey wilderness, and five ships.

  Martineau said, “Weather will be our best ally, Number One.”

  Fairfax smiled. He was getting used to the uncanny way the Captain seemed to read his mind.

  “It was like that on the Arctic runs—you had the choice. In good weather you had to follow the ice edge, up around Jan Mayen and Bear Island. It was quite a haul, with long-range bombers, surface units, all eager to have a bash at you. In the winter the ice closed in and the weather got worse.” His teeth bared in a grin on the stem of his unlit pipe. “But at least it kept Jerry from bothering you too much.”

  Fairfax saw him clench the gloved fingers of his other hand. Was that how it had been? The German cruiser, breaking the pattern to go after some helpless merchant ships?

  One ship alone between the cruiser’s Captain and his prey. He glanced up at the masthead, where their wreath had finally been ripped to pieces by the wind. But not before the soldiers aboard Ocean Monarch had seen it. All Canadians, it said in orders. He was glad they had made the gesture.

  Martineau said quietly, “The cruiser was the Lübeck.”

  Farifax nodded, but said nothing, afraid to break the spell. Everybody knew about the Lübeck. It had made all the headlines, as had the earlier act of courage when Glowworm had rammed the cruiser Hipper, giving them back their pride after so many defeats. But Glowworm ’s Skipper, who had been awarded one of the war’s first Victoria Crosses, had not lived to share it.

  Lübeck was renowned for her gunnery; Fairfax had even been aboard her at one of the peacetime Spithead Reviews. Nine five-point-nines against Martineau’s four smaller guns, all of which had been knocked out when he had charged to the attack.

  Martineau raised his binoculars to study the liner, but somehow Fairfax knew he was not seeing it.

  “I was at H.Q. before we left Liverpool. Derby House. Makes Hakka seem like yachting. Wouldn’t do for me.” Then he turned and looked at him directly. Like that moment on this same bridge when Grebe had been mined. “The Commodore showed me some R.A.F. reports. Lübeck was in Norway, Trondheim, for a while, undergoing repairs.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and studied it. “She’s not there any more.”

  Fairfax said, “Perhaps there was nothing more they could do, sir.”

  “They did it, all right. She’s probably at sea at this very moment.”

  He thrust the pipe into his pocket and added abruptly, “It’s hard to take, for me, that is. All those men.”

  “Preparative, sir. Alteration of course!”

  Fairfax turned. “Stand by. Warn the wheelhouse and fetch Pilot. He’s in the chart room.”

  He noted the diamond-bright eye winking from the high-sided liner, the acknowledgements from the escorts. He could almost see the chart in his mind, and imagined the one at Derby House. And that had been in Martineau’s thoughts ever since. At the officers’ conference, after he had come offshore for the last time. When he had tried to telephone somebody. And when he had spoken to Hakka ’s people on Christmas morning.

  All those men. It was like stumbling on someone’s secret. Or guilt.

  “Course to steer is zero-seven-zero.”

  Fairfax moved to the voicepipes even as Kidd clambered up from the chart room.

  Martineau said, “No. I’ll take her, Jamie.” Then he smiled a little. “You are a good listener.”

  “Port ten.” He glanced quickly at the ticking gyro, and then across the salt-patterned screen as the great ship began to turn. “Increase to fifteen.” His mind barely recorded the quartermaster’s voice but he saw Forward’s face, when he had told him about his rerating as leading hand and of the recommendation for a medal for his part aboard the tanker, and saving Wishart’s life.

  “Midships.” He felt the compass quivering under his hands, the whole ship responding. “Steady!”

  “Steady, sir. Zero-seven-five.”

  “Steer zero-seven-zero.” He straightened his back and stared at the liner. As before, as if they had never shifted.

  East-north-east. He said, “Go round the short-range weapons, Number One.”

  He tugged down the peak of his cap to stare at the clouds. Something made Fairfax hesitate at the bridge gate. “Can’t rely on air cover this time, or anything else, for that matter.” He stared at the deep swell, a garland of gulls riding over it, like a wreath, he thought. “There’s only us. Tell them that, will you?”

  He climbed back into his chair. The waiting was almost done.

  As in other destroyers, the ratings’ messdecks were situated in the forepart of the hull, and to any landsman or casual visitor they would appear exactly the same, with no thought for comfort or privacy.

  Number Nine Mess was no exception, a long scrubbed table clipped to the deck, with a bench seat along the inboard side. Opposite, and curved to fit the great flare of the hull, were lockers which also acted as seats, and as bunks for off-watch hands who were lucky to find enough space to lie down. Hammocks were not slung at sea. They impeded movement, and would prevent men escaping by way of the solitary deck-head hatch if the worst happened.

  At the head of the table was the mess cupboard, where all the “traps” were stored in racks. Plates, cups, knives and forks, and a roll of oilcloth to use as a tablecloth when the occupants were having a meal.

  But exactly the same? That was a joke to the men who lived here. They yarned and argued, wrote letters and compared photographs of families and girlfriends, and woe betide anyone who disgraced the mess by untidiness or offensive behaviour.

  Three other messes shared this space in Hakka ’s forecastle, but you would scarcely have known it. The identity of each one was completely different.

  Ian Wishart, the young seaman, sat at o
ne end of the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand while he wrote a letter to his parents. It was hard to describe this place, and how he lived and worked with these characters who were lounging around him. Some were dozing, and one two-badge seaman was squinting with concentration while he darned a sock, indifferent to the occasional lurch of the hull, the boom of the sea as it thundered along the side.

  He gingerly touched the bandage on his forehead. Even that had given him something. The others had offered him sippers of rum; one had washed out his overalls for him. Perhaps he would never be completely accepted in their world of coarse, often brutal humour and toughness, but he knew he would miss them, if and when he was sent to the officers’ training establishment.

  He sat recalling the rescue, how he had felt Forward holding him above the waves, the line, fired out of nowhere, being fastened around his shoulders.

  Nobody here had made a big thing of it. He smiled to himself. Almost as if he had become the mess mascot.

  But to describe it to his mother and father in Surbiton?

  His father was assistant manager at the local bank where he had worked all his life, since he had been discharged from the army at the end of the first war. A quiet man, firm but always reasonable. Not the sort who would ever manage his own branch, he had overheard his grandmother say. And he never spoke about the war, although he had served in Flanders with the county regiment. Once a year, that was all. He would put on his dark overcoat with its poppy and his medals and he would join some of the others at the war memorial. Local again. It had always touched Wishart. Creepy in a way: on the stroke of eleven all the traffic would stop, bus and tram drivers step down and stand in silence. Most of them wore their medals too. One year Wishart had discovered his mother crying. She had lost two brothers on the Somme.

  The clock chimed, somebody might even sound the Last Post, and then life would restart. As his father had remarked softly, “For the lucky ones.”