The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  Tyson bustled into the wardroom, his face creased into a frown.

  “Signal from the pier, sir.” He looked at the half-empty glass, his eyes disapproving. “A visitor requesting to come aboard. Officer of the guard verifies that it is in order.”

  Sheridan looked at him thoughtfully. Tyson was all wrong. His attitude, his inability to lose an argument without his temper going as well, and most of all the fact that he seemed to make people turn against him.

  “Better send the motor boat then.” He waited, seeing Tyson’s frown growing. “Well?”

  “It’s a woman, sir.”

  Sheridan dropped his legs and walked to a scuttle. “Is it, by God? “

  “Yes. A Mrs. Kemp from the Ministry of Information.” Sheridan shaded his eyes against the glare. “Mrs., eh? Still … “

  “I don’t think it’s right to allow women aboard. Not in wartime. “

  Sheridan regarded him sadly. You wouldn’t. He said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Sub. Now whistle up the boat before the cox’n succumbs to his rum ration.” He walked to the pantry hatch. “Get some fresh glasses, Napier. I might want some sandwiches, too.”

  The face in the pantry hatch was expressionless. “Well past

  time, sir. I’ve washed up all the lunch crocks.”

  “Relax, Napier. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  Sheridan walked to a mirror and straightened his tie. These four days had given him an even better idea of what a command could be like. Dealing with visitors from the shipyard or naval stores. Entertaining other officers, who like himself had been left stranded by their captains for various reasons. He had even been in Drummond’s day cabin to check the mail and the daily flow of signals. It was childish, and he knew he should have known better.

  He heard the motor boat spluttering away from the side and wondered what this Mrs. Kemp would be like. Probably an intense investigator gathering more information about the war at sea. He would have to put her off, unless her authority forced a decision on him. He recalled the excitement when they had entered harbour, the awe on the faces of the working party which had been sent to offload their strange capture. As it had been swayed out to waiting transport he had seen the dead German staring out of his little cockpit, as if he, too, was amazed at all the fuss. But after taking on oil, Warlock had moved out to her buoy again, and had remained there. All her officers and ship’s company, apart from the usual handful, were ashore, and this unexpected visitor might help, if only in part, to explain their isolation from outside events.

  He heard more feet overhead, and guessed that the quartermaster had roused himself to welcome the returning boat.

  Sheridan picked up his cap and ran quickly up the ladder and into bright sunlight.

  The motor boat was already lurching against the gangway, the bowman’s face flushed as he made two attempts at hooking on. Then he saw the visitor, the respectful way the motor boat’s coxswain helped her on to the short ladder, his eyes never leaving her legs. She was wearing a plain blue dress which left her arms completely bare, and carried only a small bag and what looked like a camera. The latter was interesting, he thought. She must have a lot of pull to be allowed to bring it into a restricted anchorage. He forgot all about the camera as she reached the deck and stood looking around her, as if searching for something familiar.

  “I’m David Sheridan.” He held out his hand. “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s good to see you.”

  She smiled at him. Her mouth was the only part of her face which moved, for her eyes were completely hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses. She had a good handshake, but her skin was hot and moist, and for that brief moment he imagined the blue dress clinging to the supple body underneath.

  She asked calmly, “Do you approve?”

  “Sorry.” He grinned. “I’m a bit out of practice.”

  “I can imagine.” She brushed some of the hair from her forehead. It was the colour of polished chestnut. She added, “You’re the first lieutenant.”

  “How did you know that?” He did not really care, and was glad of the chance to make up for the first opening.

  “I know everything.” Her mouth lifted slightly. It was moist, and he could see tiny droplets of perspiration below her hairline.

  “Well, come below and have a drink or something.”

  She tilted the glasses down her nose, just long enough for him to see her eyes. They were dark brown.

  She grimaced. “I’ll take the drink, if there’s a choice.”

  In the wardroom Sheridan was relieved to see that Napier had arranged some clean glasses on a tray, and some small, neatly cut sandwiches were close by.

  “Gin and?”

  He watched her as she moved slowly around the wardroom. She had a perfect figure, and he liked the way she reached out to touch things. Like a child.

  “Anything.” She turned and removed the glasses. “So long as it’s cool.” -

  When he had finished preparing the drinks he saw that she was sitting in one of the battered chairs, her legs crossed, her eyes watching him thoughtfully.

  “Now, er, Mrs. Kemp. What can I do for you? The captain’s away, I’m afraid, so …”

  “Yes. I met him. In London.” Again that slow smile. “I’ll

  bet he’s having a fine old time right now.” Sheridan forced aa grin. “He’s earned it.” She raised the glass. “Cheers.”

  Even that touched Sheridan’s guard. It was what Drummond always said. Without thought. Like part of an old joke which Sheridan did not share.

  “I can see that you’re sincere.” She touched her upper lip with her tongue. “What did you put with this gin? More gin?”

  1 She waved him away. “It’s all right. I’ll live.”

  “Are you living around here?”

  “In an hotel. I only arrived last night. Off again shortly. ” She leaned back on the worn leather. “Now, about you. I understand that you were mixed up in that convoy when the battleship Conqueror was sunk?”

  Sheridan stared at her. If she had told him she had just been assaulted by the port admiral he could not have been more surprised.

  She said, “Your old captain was the escort commander, right?”

  He replied tightly, “It’s well known.”

  “I know it is. He killed himself after the enquiry.”

  “Look. ” Sheridan found he was on his feet. “I don’t know if this sort of thing is allowed or not. All I know is I’m sick of people dragging that man’s name through the mud. They weren’t there, he was. He’d seen and done more than their sort will ever know-“

  She said, “Easy! Don’t get so touchy!”

  “It’s just that I’m fed up-

  “You told me.” She was very calm. “Sit down. Please.” She put her glass on the deck. “The point is, you were there, too. You must have thought the orders all wrong, misguided?” She leaned forward, her eyes unwavering. “Tell me. It will go no further. It wouldn’t be allowed anyway. ” Her mouth tightened and she added bitterly, “But I’ve pulled strings to see you and I’d like an answer.”

  Sheridan grew calmer. The tone of her voice, that brief moment when he had seen her despair, had changed things. She had come from London to see him.

  He said quietly, “Well, let’s make a bargain. You tell me why.”

  “My brother was aboard the Conqueror, he was a quarters officer, whatever that means.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  She picked up the glass. “That’s what everyone says. Ididn’t know. Why should you, for God’s sake?”

  Sheridan smiled. “You’re right, of course. People always do say that ” He looked away. “I once saw a man burn to death.

  Couldn’t get near him because of the blazing fuel. I told an officer at the base about it afterwards. He said, `If he had to die, it was a fine way to go.’ ” He looked at her again and saw a new brightness in her eyes. “Can you imagine that?”

  She nodded. “Now I can. �
� She stood up and moved restlessly to the open scuttle. “My brother used to tell me about your Captain Beaumont. He was a commander then. On the admiral’s staff.”

  Sheridan said quietly, “Conqueror was the flagship.”

  “Yes.” She sounded distant. “Well, he’s changed. He’s altogether different. I can’t understand it.“In what way?”

  She shrugged. “Tim, my brother, used to tell me what a bastard he was. Sarcastic. Always riding everyone, and never in the wrong himself. I grew to loathe him, just listening about him. ” She turned swiftly, her eyes in shadow. “Does that make sense to you?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps your brother was wrong. It can happen “

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t like that.” “When did you meet Beaumont?”

  “Shortly after the disaster. He came to the Admiralty for a private press conference.” She shuddered. “It was like seeing someone else. He was nothing like Tim’s Beaumont. Charming. Tragic, if you can understand, and full of humanity. But as I’ve got to know him, I’m beginning to think it’s all sham. That Beaumont is empty inside. It’s why I wanted to hear your part of it. The mechanics of naval warfare are beyond me. “

  “Did you ask my skipper about him? He was with Beaumont before the war.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t think of checking back. What does he say about him?”

  Sheridan smiled. “You’ve met Drummond. Do you think he’s the sort who gossips?”

  She grimaced. “I didn’t really get a good look at him. I was angry at the time. “

  “He’s a career officer. A very competent Scot. I’ve watched him at work. I’ve not seen ship-handling like his before. ” “What about him? The man?”

  He looked down. “I’m not certain I know him. Does that sound disloyal?”

  “It sounds honest.”

  He smiled at her. “How about having a meal with me tonight?”

  “All right. If you like. Can you get away?”

  He nodded. “The skipper will not be back today.”

  “No.” She picked up her sunglasses. “He’s returning tomorrow afternoon. ” She looked at him impassively. “I told you. I know everything. Almost.”

  He followed her from the wardroom to the ladder, and could feel her warmth as she brushed against his arm. He wanted to reach out and hold her, here and now. But she was not that sort of girl. Apart from being married, she obviously knew how to deal with casual encounters.

  The messman pattered into the empty wardroom and studied the uneaten sandwiches with disdain.

  “Bloody officers!”

  Sheridan watched the motor boat curving away towards the shore and shaded his eyes to look for the girl in the cockpit. But she was looking away and did not turn to wave back at the ship.

  Tyson said stiffly, “A pretty woman, I thought, Number One. “

  Sheridan was miles away. A proper meal in some local hotel. Get behind her guard, as she had his. He could not really help her about Beaumont, for there did not seem any more to say on the subject. But if that was all it needed.

  He asked, “What did you say?” But Tyson had gone.

  Vice-Admiral Brooks dabbed his mouth and reached across the table for his cigarettes. An elderly waiter waited just by his shoulder, matches ready, his face lined with concentration.

  He asked, “Enjoy your dinner, sir?”

  Brooks nodded curtly. “Fair.” He drew in on the smoke and said to the others, “But still…”

  Drummond sipped the wine and watched the crowded tables all around him. Every sort of uniform, and the buzz of conversation and clatter of cutlery was more than a match for some violin music which was filtering from somewhere in the hotel.

  He/knew Brooks was discussing something with Beaumont, and that Salter was close to being drunk, but he was able to detach himself from all of them.

  Fair, Brooks had said. Yet he had just enjoyed some minced pheasant with asparagus tips and Madeira sauce, and was now washing it down with some 1928 Chateau Yquem. It was incredible. Drummond thought back over the last months, the food he had eaten in his sea cabin after its perilous journey along the upper deck. Even the loyal Owles could not keep a certain amount of salt spray from reaching under his dish cover. Spam. Tinned sausages. And, if you were lucky, the occasional wedge of tough beef. He watched the waiter lay a dish of ice cream before him and smiled. Fair.

  He thought suddenly of the girl. Sarah. A nice name. How good it would have been to be with her across the table from him. Make all those red-tabbed staff officers turn and stare. He frowned. But she probably came to places like the Savoy every week.

  The head waiter came to the table.

  “An air-raid warning has just been sounded, sir.” It was almost an apology.

  Brooks grunted. “I see. We’ll go round to my club and talk for a while, if that suits, gentlemen?”

  The bead waiter looked at Salter, whose head was lolling.

  There was wine slopped over his shirt-front.

  “Perhaps a taxi for the gentleman, sir?” Beaumont flashed a grin. “Just the thing.”

  They left the table with Salter still dozing to await his trans

  port.

  The elderly waiter waited for Brooks and Beaumont to leave the grill room and then asked timidly, “You’re Commander Drummond, sir?” He was bent, and looked as if he rarely slept.

  “Yes.” Drummond felt some of the other diners staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

  “My boy, sir. He served with you …” He faltered, his hands winding and unwinding his napkin. “I saw you afterwards. At the funeral.”

  Drummond looked at him and then touched his arm. “What was his name?”

  “Jelkes, sir. He was a-

  “I remember.” It pushed across the faces and the gleaming tables like a screen. A round-faced youth, full of fun. Could he really have been this man’s son? “Leading Telegraphist. And a

  good one. I’m very sorry. ” Another picture. The bomb bursting in the sea close against Warlock’s hull. The screaming splinters scything through the frail plating. The old waiter’s son had almost been cut in half.

  The man said, “He always spoke very kindly of you, sir.” Beaumont’s voice was coming back, and Drummond said,

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  “Did you enjoy your meal, sir?” Their eyes held.

  “Bloody good. I hope I can come again soon.”

  The waiter watched him go. He would tell her about this when he got home in the early hours.

  A red-faced group captain asked sharply, “Who was that, Jelkes?”

  The waiter regarded him impassively. “A gentleman, sir. Just a gentleman. “

  7

  During the Night

  “JUST tell me this, Keith. ” Beaumont leaned back comfortably in the neat canvas chair and tucked a napkin into the front of his jacket. “Do you believe in fate?”

  Drummond pushed a persistent fly away from his face and tried to regain a sense of reality. The staff car in which he and Beaumont had driven from London was partly hidden beneath the shade of two great oaks, and as far as the eye could see there appeared to be nothing but open fields, neat green hedgerows and occasional clumps of trees. Beyond the nearest hedge he heard the irregular growl of heavy transport, the rarer note of a car. Otherwise there was nothing to show the closeness of the main road which headed to the West Country.

  The marine driver had the car boot open and was carefully placing sandwiches on paper plates, and Drummond could see a bottle of something glistening in a silver bucket.

  ” Sometimes. “

  Beaumont regarded him with amusement. “You’re too canny. That’s your trouble by half.”

  Drummond smiled. Beaumont was obviously very pleased with himself and all that had happened in London.

  He was saying, ” I thought this would be a good place to stop for a bite. Almost halfway to Falmouth. I used to own quite a piece of land hereabouts, but had to let it all go
for the war effort.” He grinned. “At a fair price, of course.

  The marine said, “Shall I open the bottle, sir?”

  “Unless you want me to do it with my teeth.” Beaumont added sarcastically, “Be careful with it, man. The way you drive won’t have done it much good.

  Drummond watched the man’s back as he stooped over the bottle. He could almost feel his resentment.

  Beaumont was unconcerned. “Strange how things work out. Between ourselves for the moment, but you’ll have to know sooner or later. ” He glanced across at the perspiring marine and lowered his voice. “Nick Brooks has certainly been looking into things since we brought our catch to Falmouth. It seems there are more reasons than we imagined for mounting an attack on that Norwegian fjord.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  Drummond saw the merest twitch of annoyance on Beaumont’s smooth features. Like a child whose secret has come to light too soon. But it passed just as quickly.

  “With the better weather on the Russian front, and Ivan trying to get his own back against the Germans, the enemy’s need of fuel is more desperate than ever. Hitler, after all, is an army man, and sees more sense in giving priority to tanks and transport than to costly, and in his eyes useless, capital ships.”

  He paused as the marine handed them the plates and placed glasses on a small folding table.

  Drummond asked quietly, “The big German ships are being kept at anchor because of a fuel shortage?”

  It sounded like just one more myth. Wooden tanks the Germans were said to have had when their army slammed into Poland. They had turned out to be very strong indeed. Only a handful of submarines, none of which could operate deep into the Atlantic, and so on. He wondered if it had been men like Miles Salter whose optimism and lies had caused so many losses and deaths in those early days of war.

  Beaumont lifted the corner of a sandwich and nodded. “Smoked salmon. A word in the right place still has some value, it seems.” He looked up again. “I know what you’re thinking, but this time it’s true. Our intelligence people and the Norwegian underground have left no doubt that the Germans are in a bad way for fuel until the winter closes down again. The big ships can still come out for something worthwhile, of course. A nice, fat, Russian-bound convoy, for instance. But the fuel will not be squandered, you can rely on that!”