For Valour

by Douglas Reeman

  Anna Roche stood beside the draining-board and dried the plates as they were handed to her. It was a big, homely kitchen, or must have been once, she thought. She glanced at her companion, touched by the genuine pleasure in her arrival. In her sixties, she supposed, with a striking face and intelligent eyes. It was strange to realize that there was more of Graham in her than in the several photos she had seen around the house of his late father. Another naval officer, was that it? But her eyes were exactly his, like the sea, blue-grey, thoughtful one moment, distant the next.

  She dabbed some soap from her borrowed jersey. That, too, made her feel completely different. Her uniforms were all new; the rest had been destroyed in the nightmare bombing attack. She could still hear the scream of the bomb, her own rising to match it. The gentle hand stroking her face, but so cold when the rescue party had dug them out.

  She tried not to listen to his voice in the adjoining room. Calling his ship, or contacting someone who would.

  His mother had delayed telling him that Hakka had been ringing this number. She had been so excited about his unexpected visit that she had forgotten, she said. Anna had seen their eyes meet briefly. They had both known it was a lie.

  She said, “I so enjoyed the meal, Mrs Martineau.”

  The other woman looked at her. “Call me Joan, all my friends do. You are that, aren’t you?”

  Anna smiled. “I want to be.”

  “I do, too.” She put down some knives and seemed to listen for a moment to the voice in the other room. “I get so worried about him. You never know, really know what they’re going through . . . Unlike you. You must be right in the thick of it.”

  Anna dried the knives mechanically. In her mind’s eye she could still see the ship, the pathetic bundles waiting to be landed for burial. His concern for her, when it should have been the other way round. And earlier when the news of the battle had started to filter through various channels, the casualties, including one officer killed in action. She had died several times until it had been clarified, and had been ashamed of her own gratitude that it had been a man she did not know who had been cut down.

  She said, “We all try to share it, Joan,” and saw the other woman’s expression soften. “But in the end it’s still out there. ” She had already told her about the German petty officer who had offered his thanks. Joan Martineau had nodded, seeing it. “It sounds just like him. His father, too.”

  She said, “Three days—can you stay that long too? You’re more than welcome. I can arrange things . . .” She looked down as Anna put her damp hand on hers.

  “A friend, Joan, remember? I wouldn’t be the cause of gossip for anything.” She looked around the kitchen, the black dog dozing now on a much used blanket. “Here, of all places. No matter what I feel for him.”

  “Thank you for that. I don’t blame you.”

  Martineau walked into the kitchen and said, “I have to go back. Tomorrow.” He knelt down to pat the dog, but she knew it was to conceal his feelings. “I have no choice.”

  His mother said, “Is it something you can talk about, Graham?”

  He looked up at her. “One of my officers is dead. Committed suicide. Just a kid . . . I scarcely knew him.” Anna saw his fist clench, the scar on the skin stark in the soft light. “I should have seen it.”

  She said, “You can’t know everything, Graham,” and then, gently, “Did I meet him?”

  “Seton.” One word. Then he added, “Midshipman.”

  So that was it. An admiral’s son. She had heard others mention him.

  He said, “I can stay the night.” He looked from one to the other. “After that . . .” He did not finish it.

  Anna said, “I’ll call Commodore Raikes. He can arrange transport for you.”

  The dog yawned and then changed it to a growl.

  Joan Martineau patted her hair, suddenly girlish. “That’ll be the Reverend. He’s bringing some things for the W.V.S.”

  She hurried away, Ahab padding after her.

  Anna folded the tea towel and faced him again.

  “I was right there in Southampton, and I had no idea you were passing through. No idea until I came here.” She brushed her eyes with her wrist. “Right there. We could have met. Been alone.”

  He cupped her shoulders with his hands and held her. “My mother likes you very much. I can see that.” But he was thinking of her words. Been alone. “Has Raikes been treating you all right, Anna?”

  Even the use of her name made her reserve scatter. What would she have done? What might he have thought of her?

  She said, “He’s a machine. Dedicated, and pitiless towards others who don’t measure up.” She did not resist as he pulled her against him. Without the formal protection of the uniform she felt defenceless, something she had sworn she would never be again.

  She could hear their voices in another room. The Reverend, Joan had called him. As if he had no other name.

  She felt the hand against her spine, the other cupping her chin as he lowered his face to hers.

  It was not just a kiss. It was like fire. She could hear pounding in her head, shutting out the voices, the danger of discovery like this, in his mother’s house.

  She responded, her tongue seeking his, her body pressed hard into him.

  “They’re in here, Reverend. You must meet them before you go to your service.”

  Martineau slowly turned the girl in his arms, feeling the need of her, the passionate response which had burned through their carefully worded excuses.

  She looked into his face, her dark eyes very steady.

  “I love you, Graham.”

  They both turned towards the door as the others entered. The Reverend, a man with shaggy white hair and a surprisingly young face, and his mother, her eyes seeing and recognizing all the signs which she had known, and had never forgotten.

  “We’ll go and listen to the wireless. The news will be on shortly.”

  They followed, his fingers touching hers, his mind still reeling from the embrace.

  She looked at him again, one hand to her breast, holding it there as if it was his hand and not her own.

  Outside it was raining again, and for just this small moment the war seemed a very long way away.

  Jenner, Hakka ’s petty officer writer, laid a folder on Martineau’s desk and observed politely, “The last, sir.”

  Martineau looked quickly over the neat columns of stores, most of which were replacing those lost in their fight with the German destroyers. He paused to massage his eyes. A lifetime ago. After all the rush and disorder of getting the repairs carried out and the ship refloated from the dock, there was almost a sense of anti-climax. Fairfax had done well, very well, and had been sincerely apologetic about telephoning him and ending his brief leave.

  Seton’s body had been removed from the hospital mortuary and taken to his home in Guildford. The storm which his father, the Admiral, had threatened to raise about the lack of interest shown by his son’s senior officers had blown over.

  Surgeon Lieutenant Morrison had reported, “I got most of the flak, sir. I was told that I would be called to an official inquiry, at which Midshipman Seton’s father would also be present, as was his right. I explained that I could only hazard a guess at his reason for taking his own life, as he left no written explanation. But I also said that I would have to give the full medical evidence, as I was the first to examine his body after his death. The presence of advanced gonorrhoea, though in no way fatal, would have to be mentioned.”

  It had stopped right there, as Morrison must have planned, but Martineau could find little satisfaction in it. As a very young midshipman he had also known desperate loneliness at a time when he had most needed advice. He thought of Anna’s quick defence, You can’t know everything. But somebody should have known, most likely Seton’s own father.

  He watched the petty officer gathering up the papers. He missed nothing, and would make a good secretary, or even a flag lieutenant.

&nbs
p; He heard the mutter of distant machinery, the Chief testing something. Even he seemed satisfied now that the last of the dockyard workers had departed. He had been reluctant to allow the most senior base engineer to inspect his department. Don’t want any deskbound plumber meddling with my things!

  The ship was ready again. Stored, ammunitioned and fuelled, with a full company, or it would be when Spicer the coxswain rejoined Hakka. A new sub-lieutenant had arrived, who looked even younger than Barlow. A round, innocent face: another wavy navy officer from King Alfred, but one who had the advantage of having taken an advanced radar/gunnery course. It was to be hoped Driscoll would see it that way.

  There had been no replacement for Arliss, which might mean that more authority would be vested in the leader once they got to sea again.

  Being confined to the dockyard made the news of the real war seem all the more impressive, but strangely distant. It was ridiculous after so short a time in the yard, but he sensed it even in the most casual remarks, or when used as an excuse for some misdemeanour across the defaulters’ table, although there had been remarkably few of those.

  In North Africa the Germans were in full retreat, and a proposed invasion of enemy-occupied territory was being openly considered. Among those who were in the know, he supposed that Raikes would see it as something already set down on a plan.

  The Russians, too, were forcing the German armies back. After their bloodily fought battle at Stalingrad the impetus had swung in the other direction. It was good to hear, but to those concerned with supplying their distrustful ally it would mean more convoys. Tanks, aircraft, guns, everything.

  One thing was certain. They were returning to Liverpool. The group would be reunited, except for the unfortunate Java, which had been kept in dock with a damaged shaft after losing a screw in that appalling weather.

  It all came down to weather, time, and distance. The worst of the winter and the permanent darkness was over. Next month would see seven hours of daylight in every twenty-four. It would mean a longer route for every convoy, and heavier escorts in case German surface vessels ventured out again to sever the vital artery to the Russian forces.

  Martineau did not need to be reminded. It was like yesterday.

  He opened a drawer and took out the photograph.

  They had spoken of it during those last precious minutes together. When there is never enough time, never the right words.

  He had insisted that she not wait. “Go when the car comes for me.”

  That had been in Southampton again. Wanting to talk, to touch, to be alone, when it seemed that every sailor in the south of England was passing by, all intent on saluting him and getting the right response.

  She had half-laughed, half-cried. “They’re jealous, that’s all!”

  The car had arrived; Raikes had been as good as his word, or maybe he saw his departure as a blessing.

  She had said, “That old photo? You’ve really still got it?”

  “It’s lovely, Anna. I’d never part with it.”

  For an instant she had looked uncertain, reminded perhaps of the portrait’s first recipient.

  Then she had hugged him and they had kissed. Somewhere, amused servicemen had whistled and cheered. They had heard neither.

  He looked at the portrait now. The eyes, the beginning of a smile. Like that first meeting.

  He had turned to look back, and she had still been there, waving.

  Liverpool: she would be there now. He thought of his mother, and what she had told him of their little chat in the kitchen. A proper girl this time, Graham. Don’t waste the chance. It was rare for her to be so outspoken.

  He got up and walked to a scuttle; the air was still very cold when he opened it. He could see the little hut where Seton had been found hanging. It would be good to get away from here. For all of them.

  Especially for Kidd, who had told him about the special licence he was getting so he could marry the woman who had been part of his other life at sea with the old Roberts Line. Liverpool again . . . There must be something about the place.

  Fairfax was to be best man, and he was touched that he had been invited also. The team.

  He shivered and closed the scuttle. It was March. Where had the months gone? He picked up the portrait once more. When we could have been together.

  Hakka slipped her moorings the next day and headed out into the Sound. Few watched her leave. Another warship, that was all.

  But not to the men fallen in fore and aft, chinstays down in the brisk offshore breeze, collars flapping with the brand-new White Ensign. Onslow, the chief yeoman, had told them that it was bad luck to fly a flag which had been used for burials. Thinking of his son, perhaps.

  And the men themselves, still a few who would be caught out, shocked even when they turned to seek a familiar face, a special mate, forgetting only for the moment that he was gone for ever.

  On the upper bridge, the usual pattern of order and purpose had formed. Signalmen with their glasses trained on senior warships, ready to fend off some critical or sarcastic message. Kidd by the gyro compass, the youth Wishart by the ready-use chart table; he had proved that he could do far more than sharpen Pilot’s pencils. And Leslie Tyler, the new subbie, his new cap carefully bashed out of shape to look like an old salt, enjoying every second of it.

  And right aft by the depth charge rack, Malt the Gunner (T), squat and unmoving by his quarterdeck party, and his leading seaman, who had not been recommended for promotion. Malt remained alone in this crowded ship, which was how he liked it.

  Others shared the moment in different ways. The elation of survival, coming to terms with the course ahead. Fear, and the ever-present dread of showing it to your friends when you needed them most.

  And beneath his feet Martineau could picture the scene in the wheelhouse, where men had been cut down and Bill Spicer had fallen wounded. The coxswain had tried to stop them carrying him below, just as he had fought, argued, and pleaded not to be put ashore on their return to Scapa.

  Forward, the new quartermaster, had held them together that day. Not for long, but in the ship’s nerve centre it had been long enough, when the loss of a single soul could kill a ship.

  And Wishart, who had showed his mettle, and later his humanity when he had found the dead midshipman.

  He walked across the bridge to watch Plymouth breakwater sliding abeam. The swaying lines of men were gone, as were the wires and fenders; the Buffer’s world of seamanship, chasing anyone who seemed too slow for his standards in a crack destroyer.

  It would soon be time to test and fire the new Bofors gun, to settle down to watchkeeping and the necessary routine of running a ship of war.

  But it could wait a moment longer.

  Martineau gripped the screen and tasted the drifting spray on his lips, while the sea opened up on either bow to receive them. Some dents and patches covered with layers of dockyard paint, some new faces. But the same ship.

  They were ready.

  And so Hakka went back to war.

  Captain Lucky Bradshaw stretched out his legs and leaned back in the only big chair in Martineau’s cabin.

  “Did my heart good to see you come puffing in this forenoon. Pity about Java, of course, but still . . .” His eyes followed Tonkyn’s tall figure as he emerged from the pantry, the tray balanced expertly on his wrist. “Pinkers! Just the job!”

  Martineau took a glass from the tray, wondering how men like Bradshaw seemed able to drink any amount at any time, and still carry on with their duties.

  “You know we had a pretty straight job to do. I’d been hoping for a spot of action. Thought for a time we were going to get it.” Bradshaw looked at his glass, and seemed surprised that it was empty. “Which is why I sent you the recall. I expect you were fed up anyway playing wet-nurse to Hayworth’s Java. ” He showed his big teeth in a grin. “Still, didn’t do you any harm as it turned out. Your decision, I’d have done the same, and it’s given you another feather in your bonnet, eh?” H
e roared with laughter and Tonkyn reappeared with another large pink gin.

  Martineau had always thought that Bradshaw had been treated very badly when he had been dropped from the Navy List. So why the doubt, something like suspicion, at even a casual piece of banter like that? Was it because he had been absent on each occasion which had brought Hakka into the spotlight? The drifting tanker, the U-boat, and then a fight with two German destroyers and another victory, with prisoners to prove it this time.

  Bradshaw was the senior officer of the group, Captain (D); he had nothing to fear from anybody, unless he made a fool of himself or incurred the wrath of their admiral. What was it? Envy? The Victoria Cross did affect some people that way. It simply seemed so out of character.

  Bradshaw settled more comfortably in the chair. “You ought to put yourself about a bit, Graham. All work—you know what they say. That pretty young Two-Oh on the Commodore’s staff, now, she’s a real catch.”

  Martineau said, “Good at her job too, I’m told.”

  So that was it.

  Bradshaw nodded. “Take my wife, for instance. Doing her best to keep things running at home, not really interested in the naval side, never was, I suppose, looking back. Keep ’em separate, I say!”

  “I think we’re going to be pretty busy anyway, from all the signs I’ve seen.”

  Bradshaw frowned, disappointed perhaps by the change of tack. “The Russian convoys, you mean? I’ve already made my views quite clear to our Commodore. Given the escorts, we can get the convoys through, all the way to Murmansk and back, no matter what the Russkies say about it. Fast escorts, destroyers, we can do it.” He rubbed his big hands together. “And this year, who knows, we might be supporting an invasion, in the Med maybe, that’d be my choice. Better than the bloody Arctic!”

  Tonkyn cleared his throat discreetly.

  “The first lieutenant is here, sir.” The briefest glance at the other officer and then at the clock. It said it all.

  “Have him come in. I should know what it’s about.” He looked at Bradshaw. “If that’s all right with you, sir?”