There was another figure now, very tall, with a single, thin stripe on his sleeve. Mr Holmes, the Admiral’s signal boatswain, with the weathered face of someone who had stood on more ships’ bridges than most sailors have had hot dinners, as Nobby had once said.
He had even been a boy signalman at Jutland, aboard the flagship Iron Duke. The Boss certainly knew how to choose his team.
He had a pad in his fist but did not bother to consult it.
He said, “R.A.F. report just in, sir. Two German cruisers were reported in Bodø, bad weather prevented any useful reconnaissance. Until today. They’ve both slipped out.” He observed Raikes impassively. “No intelligence information as yet.”
Raikes clenched his fist. “I wonder what their lordships will have to say about that? ” Then, just as quickly, he was calm again. “Going north, is my guess. They came from the Baltic originally. Narvik, Tromsø, or up to Scharnhorst ’s old lair, Altenfjord, right at Russia’s back door!”
Captain Tennant had quietly joined them, and acknowledged the tall signal boatswain as he departed.
“If we had more time . . .”
Raikes touched Anna’s elbow. “I’ll buy you a drink.” He glanced at the Chief of Staff. “Time? It just ran out.”
Martineau stood alone in his day cabin, aware of the shipboard noises above and around him without truly listening. They had taken on extra fuel, although they had used very little on the fast passage from Liverpool. But even a small amount could make that difference, the margin of endurance. There was still a tang of fuel in the air, although they had returned to their allotted moorings nearly an hour ago.
He wiped the glass scuttle with his sleeve and stared across the busy anchorage. It was unusual to see Scapa bathed in sunlight, which through the toughened glass gave an illusion of warmth.
Lying apart from the destroyers was the cruiser Durham. A fine-looking ship by any standards, powerful too, with twelve six-inch guns in four turrets, as well as torpedoes and smaller weapons. In addition she carried three aircraft which were launched from a catapult athwartships, invaluable for the work she was required to perform.
It was as if some superhuman power had taken over from the minds of mere men, rolling everything before it, as if nothing would or could divert the chain of events. The great convoy was already moving to its assembly point; reinforcements like the cruiser Durham had been transferred from their normal duties at virtually no notice. It was no longer a case of how, but when. Tomorrow, Hakka and her consorts would leave Scapa, with Durham in close company.
Thirty-seven ships of vital war materials: he had skimmed through the lists at the conference aboard Zouave this morning. There would be time later to study the cargo details, to memorize the names of the ships and where each one would be in the convoy.
He swung away from the scuttle and looked at the signal pad on his desk. A huge operation. He felt his jaw tighten. But the smaller pattern of events could not be forgotten.
He had heard the motor boat returning alongside. Sub-Lieutenant John Barlow had been sent ashore to collect some charts from the base while Hakka had been taking on fuel. Now he was back. The schoolboy in a man’s guise, like so many. Too many.
Fairfax had offered to break the ice. Martineau had heard his own curt reply.
“My responsibility, Number One. It goes with the job.”
Tonkyn had made himself scarce. But he was never far away.
There was a tap at the door and Sub-Lieutenant Barlow peered in at him. He had removed his cap, so that he looked younger than ever. But he had done well, better than many he had known who were much senior.
He said, “Come in. Shut the door.”
It was all there. Anxiety, curiosity, nervousness because he expected a bottle for something.
“Sit down, if you like.” He stared at the signal pad, hating it. He should be used to it. But it mattered, and he was not.
“I’ve some bad news, Sub.”
Barlow swallowed hard and seemed to straighten his back. In a very level voice, he said, “It’s my father, sir?” He gazed at the ship’s crest on the bulkhead, his eyes distant. “He’s had a weak heart for a long time now.”
Martineau said, “I’m afraid not.” He walked over to him and gripped his arm. “There was an air raid. Two nights ago. The house was destroyed.” He gripped the arm more tightly, wanting to help, to share it, when he knew he could not. “Nobody survived.”
The young sub-lieutenant turned and looked at him, his face frozen with disbelief.
“My sister, too?”
He said, “It was a direct hit. They couldn’t have known anything.”
He felt sickened by those words. They always said that. Of course they knew. Like Anna, when she had heard the bomb’s terrible scream.
Barlow did not resist when he pushed him into a chair. “Two nights ago, sir?” The disbelief was still there. “I was going to try and phone them, to find out if Dad was any better.” He shook his head. “And poor Jane . . .”
“Is there anyone?”
Barlow said, “My brother. He’s a doctor, at the local hospital. He’ll know what to do.”
Martineau moved away. He had sensed the bitterness. Something else hidden behind the schoolboy’s face.
He said, “We are under orders, Sub, but that you know. Otherwise I’d send you on compassionate leave this instant.”
Barlow was looking at him again, but was almost too blind to see him.
He murmured, “I want to stay, sir. With the ship. With you. I’m a part of it here!”
Martineau heard a slight movement from the pantry.
“Would you care for a drink, Sub? Just the two of us. While you get your bearings.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be all right, sir.”
But two glasses had appeared through the hatch nonetheless.
Martineau handed one to Barlow and said, “Just for a minute or two.”
He sipped the drink; it could have been anything. “I’m glad you said that, John. We’re going on a hard run this time.” He watched his words breaking through the pain, the loss. People he did not even know, and yet they were right here in the cabin, all three of them. He added quietly, “ Hakka ’s going to need the best we can give her.”
Barlow drank the neat Scotch without even spluttering. Then he stood up, and visibly braced himself.
“Thank you, sir.” It was all he said. It was everything.
Martineau sat for a while looking at the closed door. So many things required his attention, and there were people waiting to see him.
In all respects ready for sea. It must be fixed in every Captain’s mind. He thought of the secret report Bradshaw had shown him concerning the two missing corvettes, and that brave fragment of a signal. An epitaph.
Two cruisers were on the move. In his mind he saw the big operations room at Liverpool. She would be there, would know about the German cruisers which had been in Bodø. He confronted it, as young Barlow was facing his own anguish.
It was too important to allow personal doubts to intervene. It always was, now, and the one after this, and so on.
Fairfax opened the door.
“Go all right, sir?”
Martineau looked at him. “It was hell, Jamie. Bloody hell.”
Then he walked to the ship’s crest and touched it. As she had his medal ribbon when they had first met.
“But he’s determined to stay aboard. I’m glad. He’s good at his work.”
Fairfax relaxed very slightly. It was not the reason at all. It was because he cared about Barlow, about all of us.
He said, “I thought you should know, sir, that Bill Spicer, our stubborn coxswain, has reported back for duty. Cursing like Long John Silver, and half awash with neaters, which for once I chose to ignore, and he’s got a proper discharge certificate from the sawbones. I don’t know how he did it, but it will make my life a lot easier!”
Tonkyn, stooped behind his hatch, listened gravely, and heard them laugh together.
He glanced at the whisky bottle. Still quite a lot left. He smiled. Fair shares for all, I say. He took out a clean glass.
In Hakka ’s Number Nine Mess, starboard side, forward, the occupants were sitting around the table, waiting for the midday meal. When it was piped it was always, “D’you hear there? Hands to dinner!” And there was always the rejoinder from the messdecks, “And the officers to lunch! ” Like most jokes on the lower deck, they were always word-perfect and never stale.
The mess was looking more like its original self again. New pin-ups adorned the dockyard paintwork, and neatly lashed hammocks packed the nettings which had been blasted into splinters.
Wishart sat on a bench, jammed between two other seamen, while Forward was in his usual place beside the mess locker.
Wishart had written another letter to his parents, and with luck it would go ashore tonight. He hated the idea of somebody reading and censoring his letters, and wondered if that was why Bob Forward never wrote to the girl he had seen in the photograph. He even kept that hidden. Maybe it was over, or maybe she was somebody else’s girl? Like now, it was never easy to guess what Forward was thinking. The dark, deepset eyes gave nothing away, except for rare flashes, like the time he had caught him when he had almost collapsed after finding Seton’s corpse. Watching him from a corner. Wishart shivered. And times when, without making a show of it, he had stood up for him when sneering remarks had become insulting or hostile. That never happened now, thanks to Bob Forward. It was said that he would become chief quartermaster because of his proficiency during the battle. The coxswain was back; they had all heard the din in the chief and petty officers’ mess. Jimmy-the-One had been up there with them. No secrets in a destroyer. He glanced around. In Hakka.
Like the subbie, Barlow. His mother, father and young sister had been killed in an air raid somewhere in London. They all knew, but nobody would mention it. It was like that here.
And now they were going on a really big convoy operation. To Russia. Nobody had said so, yet everybody knew. What would the censor say if he had put that in the letter?
Up on deck the rum was being issued to the senior hands of messes. Down here they were all waiting expectantly. Lieutenant, as he was now, Cavaye was O.O.D. and would be supervising the issue as if it was coming out of his own pocket.
Wishart wondered if he would ever be able to wear that uniform, and be the part. It was all so different. He could smell the rum now. That was enough to go to your head. Someone might offer him sippers, but he hoped not; he knew his own limits. Like the time Bob Forward had brought him down here and had plied him with some of his own hoarded supply. When he had apologized, or as near as he ever could, for not being interested in his studies.
He looked at him now, a man alone, despite the bodies crammed around the table, and the other messes nearby. He was using a needle and palm to put the finishing touches to a belt he had made to carry his knife and marline spike, the mark of a real seaman.
It was hard to imagine anything which would hang on his mind, but something was. If only he could do something, to make up for all the other times when the withdrawn Forward had helped him.
Forward was well aware of his scrutiny but concentrated on the needle, the careful stitching on the leather.
Under orders. In many ways he was glad. Although that would stop or prevent nothing if it was true about the cops. But how could it be? Nobody knew, and his travel warrant had been wrongly dated. He was covered. For one day at least.
What made a girl like her into a bloody tom? Sleeping with anybody and everybody, letting them do what they liked with her, to her. It was wrong, although he knew that many were not so squeamish. In Alexandria he had seen the soldiers shuffling along in queues outside a brothel, some reading magazines while they waited, the whole thing supervised by hard-faced redcaps.
Next, please? Sick, dangerous too, as the snotty, Seton, had found out the hard way. And his father was an admiral. He frowned. Serve him right.
But suppose . . . It had to be faced, like any danger. You think it out. When splinters had ripped through the wheelhouse and men had fallen dead or twisting in agony, blood everywhere, and the coxswain bellowing like a bloody bull in heat, he had stayed calm. It was the only way.
If the cops had really wanted to make trouble he would have heard by now. He had been at enough parades to watch some sailor weighed off for punishment, his Skipper reading the Articles of War as if he was Nelson or somebody. There had been no delays when he had laid into the coward, and had dipped his hook because of it. No delays at all.
This was a top-secret job. Even if every man-jack in the Andrew seemed to know about it. Outside inquiries would be unwelcome. He looked down at the new medal ribbon on his jumper. A hero as well.
But if . . . He could run, desert. Plenty did. He paused, the needle poised like a dart down at the local his dad had used.
They knew nothing.
A pair of legs appeared on the ladder and the odour of rum filled the messdeck.
“About bloody time, Hookey!”
“When you pour, no thumbs in the measure, right?”
Forward relaxed and looked over at his young friend, for that he was. And for some strange reason, it mattered.
Outside a tug pounded abeam, the wash making the destroyer’s graceful hull rise and dip to the moorings.
As if Hakka, too, needed to leave.
Lieutenant Roger Kidd shrugged his shoulders deeper into his heavy bridge coat and stared at the craggy, timeless panorama of the Orkney Islands. The group had left at first light, south through the boom-gate at Hoxa Sound and then west and north along the coast of Hoy. It was strange to be in one company again, he thought, with the cruiser Durham showing off her lines as she turned slightly in the watery sunlight.
Directly abeam was the oldest landmark, the tall pinnacle of rock called the Old Man of Hoy. Why was it there? How had it survived when the rest of the island had been eroded by wind and sea?
He looked round and saw the new subbie, Leslie Tyler, lowering his eye to the gyro compass to take a fix on the lonely pinnacle, as thousands of other sea officers had done before him.
Seemed pleasant enough, keen and well versed in radar. That was as far as it went. Kidd knew he was being unfair, just as he knew the reason why. On the bridge this morning, with all the bustle of getting under way again, lights blinking, orders and counter-orders from the shore and the cruiser, and Bradshaw’s intention to do much as he pleased in his own group apparent, Kidd had gone to the chart table and had been surprised when he had bumped into Tyler. He had been expecting to see Seton. He shook himself. Getting past it. Seton was dead, kaput.
That was the real trouble. He had spoken impatiently, unfairly, to Seton the day he had killed himself. God alone knew, he must have been at the end of his tether, desperate, but he had not bothered to ask or listen. And he had sent Wishart after him. That, too, had been nagging him.
He stared at the passing landscape until his eyes watered. Once clear of the land, Marwick Head, where Lord Kitchener had met his death when the cruiser Hampshire had hit a mine in the Great War, the group would reform, with Durham in the centre, the leader and Hakka positioned on either bow, the others following in line astern. It might put some heart into the poor merchant seamen who would be relying on them in this big convoy. Kidd had sailed in larger convoys, but had had an ocean to move in. There was always a chance in the Western Ocean that you might get through undetected, unseen by the periscope’s eye. Not much, but a chance.
On this run there was only one route, one destination, all within reach of enemy ships and submarines for much of the way. Aircraft, too.
He had not been able to see Evie when they had been in Liverpool. Officers’ conference, intelligence reports to consider, hazards to navigation. There had simply been no time. Not even for the Skipper. He looked over at the empty, upright steel chair. Especially the Skipper.
But he had managed to speak to her on
the telephone, conscious the whole time of others waiting to use it, their tempers and patience measured against their rank and status.
She had tried to console him. To reassure him, and to remind him of the one, special time they had shared.
In his mind he had seen the little hotel in Birkenhead. It was no Ritz, but it was always busy when the ships were in, and it was hers.
She was too pretty to pass unnoticed. There would be others who would soon be after her. Her, and the hotel.
They probably say that about me!
“I’ll wait, Roger. I shall always wait for you.” He had heard the hesitation. “Do take care, dearest Roger, I want you back. In my arms.” She had been unable to go on. He knew he had not been much better.
He had told Fairfax about it, and he had listened, and had said, “You get that special licence, and I’ll get my sword out of hock for the occasion!” But Liverpool was a long way astern now.
Evie would hear about the two corvettes; they always announced losses on the news eventually. Bloody ghouls. Kidd had known the Skipper of Cranesbill, an ex-first officer in a tanker. They must have taken on a bloody cruiser from the sound of it. Hopeless. Like trying to stop a charging bull elephant with a peashooter.
He moved across the bridge and raised his glasses to study Durham. Plenty of firepower, with raked funnels to give the impression of speed. Not that she needed it. She could manage thirty-two knots with no trouble at all.
But compared to a destroyer she was big. Big, and a liability if things went wrong.
He ground his teeth together. Stop thinking of disaster. You know the score. Or should, by now.
Lights flashed in the hazy glare, and flags soared up the cruiser’s yards.
Onslow said, “Preparative, sir.”
Kidd came out of it. “Stand by to alter course. Acknowledge, Yeo.”
He stared at the island. Back to sea again. No reminders.
Leading Signalman Findlay said quietly, “Captain’s coming up, sir.”
Kidd nodded. Get a grip on yourself.
“Warn the wheelhouse.” He saw Tyler looking at him, his face a picture of innocence.
For Valour Page 28
