The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  The bright sunlight lanced through the wine as the marine poured it carefully into their glasses. Drummond watched Beaumont’s face as he tested it with a careful sip. What would he do, he wondered, if it didn’t suit? Send the poor marine all the way back to London for another bottle probably. But it was good to enjoy the drowsy heat, the sounds of insects and birds, and the distant rattle of a tractor. The sky was an open blue, and there was nothing, not even a vapour trail, to give any stain of the war. Just two naval officers sitting in a field, eating smoked salmon and drinking hock. He grinned, despite his normal reserve. Some war.

  “That’s more like it.” Beaumont nodded at him. “Relax a bit. Take it off your back. We’ve earned a break. ” He looked across at the car where the marine was opening his Thermos and a packet of cheese rolls. “The German Navy has got a fuel dump in the same fjord as the midget submarine school.”

  Just like that. Drummond stared at him, a sandwich halfway to his lips. The sun and sky, the clicking insects and cheerful birds seemed to fade away before Beaumont’s simple comment. Peace and escape, they were the myth.

  He heard himself say, “And we’re going for the lot, sir?”

  Even as he spoke he could picture it, or most of it anyway. He had been at the second battle of Narvik at the start of the war. When the British were merely prolonging what could only end in retreat. But it had been a great moment. The battleship Warspite, like a pale grey berg against the sides of the fjord, the throwback from her great guns rendering speech and thought almost impossible. And the destroyers, dashing in around her like maddened terriers. But that had been three years back. In war that was an eternity.

  “The lot. ” Beaumont took a long sip at his glass. “Won’t be easy, but it can be done.” He lowered the glass, his face suddenly grim. “It will be done, by God!”

  “You want my opinion, sir?”

  “Not necessarily.” Beaumont smiled, but his eyes did not flicker. “Shoot. “

  “We’d never get the scheme off the ground. Admiral Brooks said that to give maximum help to the Russians and pave the way for our invasion of Europe we’d have to have a crack at the

  major German warships along the Norwegian coast. By the time the autumn comes the pace will have slowed, the Germans will be up and fighting-fit all over again. It’ll be too late for us, or any other force, to help.”

  “I agree entirely, old chap.” He held the bottle above the glasses. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. In fact, I said much the same to Nick Brooks. Which is why”-he looked steadily into Drummond’s eyes—“we’re not waiting at all. ” He could not hide his excitement. “We’re going to prepare for the attack as soon as we get back!”

  Drummond dragged his pipe from his pocket and held it with both hands. It helped to steady him.

  “In bad weather it would be a less than fifty-fifty chance.” He glanced at the sky, remembering the great, unbroken swells in the far north, the bombers coming out of an Arctic sun. The convoys must have looked like helpless insects pinned down to await their fate. He continued in the same flat voice, “But at this time of year it would be suicide.”

  Beaumont said dryly, “Thanks for your encouragement. But I’d rather have your attitude than the stupid buggers who agree with everything I say.” He consulted his watch. “Better get going. Lot to do.”

  He relented slightly and laid one hand on Drummond’s shoulder.

  “Not to worry too much. Nick Brooks has fingers in all sorts of pies. If he says he is going to back this operation, then back it he will. Right down the line.”

  Drummond held a match above the pipe and watched the smoke floating above the hedgerow. It had taken less than a few minutes, and yet he could accept it. It must be like that when you are condemned to death, he thought. He shook himself with sudden anger. There was far more at stake than his own uncertainty.

  He said abruptly, “If it came off, it’d be the biggest raid of all time. “

  Beaumont smiled gravely. “That’s more like it. The old destroyer spirit. Bash on regardless!”

  Drummond followed him towards the car where the marine was repacking the glasses and canvas chairs. As he climbed into the rear seat he paused and looked back at the little clearing by the hedgerow. A bird was hopping in the lush grass, probably enjoying some fragment of smoked salmon sandwich. There was nothing at all to show any human had been there, and the realisation disturbed him almost more than Beaumont’s crazy plan.

  Was that how it went? Not even a shadow to remind others you had once been here.

  Beaumont settled back in the seat and remarked casually, “After this little lot’s over and done with, I suggest you take a spot of leave. I hadn’t realised how much strain you’d been under. “

  “I’m all right.” He shrugged. “As much as anyone.”

  The car jolted off the grass verge and fell in behind a lorry full of singing airmen. He looked back again but the hedge hid even the two oaks from view. Beaumont was already asleep, his pale manicured fingers interlaced across his stomach. He wore an expression of complete peace, like a man who has just come face to face with truth for the first time.

  Drummond relaxed and stared at the swaying lorry ahead of the staff car. Here we go again. Or, as Beaumont had said, right down the line.

  Leading Writer Pickerell removed the last folder and said, “That’s the lot, sir. I’ve put the other signals over here.”

  Drummond leafed through the clip. He had seen all the important ones as soon as he had come aboard, but there had been nothing, secret or otherwise, which bore any relationship to either Beaumont’s battle plan or the dead German in the Falmouth mortuary. Back. aboard his own ship, with all of Warlock’s familiar smells and sounds around him, it was hard even to believe that all the rest had happened. Brooks, the Savoy, Beaumont and his smoked salmon. He sighed and then held one signal flimsy away from the rest.

  “What’s all this about?”

  Pickerell leaned forward from the waist. The schoolmaster again, checking somebody’s essay.

  “Ordinary Seaman Davis, sir. The one who went adrift before we sailed.”

  Drummond stared at him. “I know that. But it says here that he’s in custody, awaiting escort, etc., for desertion. ” He paused, feeling the same unreasoning anger again. “Well?”

  Pickerell smiled thinly. “First lieutenant handled it, sir. The shore patrol picked up Davis near his home in Gillingham. He was sent here direct, in view of our, er, special orders.” He sucked his teeth.

  “All right, Pickerell. ” Drummond sighed. The leading writer knew well enough, but it was out of his province. “Who was O.O.D. when this rating was brought aboard?” He lifted his pad. “Oh, I see it was Number One.”

  Pickerell watched a point somewhere above Drummond’s left shoulder.

  “Well, as it happens, no, sir. That is, Sub-lieutenant Tyson was acting, so to speak.”

  “Yes. I see.” He looked at the bulkhead clock. “Ring for Owles.”

  The door opened. “Ah, sir.” Owles beamed at him with obvious pleasure. “You’re back then, sir. Good leaf?”

  “I wasn’t on-” He shook his head. “Never mind. Get me a large drink, and find the first lieutenant.”

  Pickerell said, “I think he’s across in Waxwing. You weren’t expected for another hour yet.”

  Drummond thought of the way Beaumont had goaded the marine to drive faster and still faster. It was a wonder he had arrived at all.

  Pickerell was still by the desk, his-folder under his arm. He looked meaningly at the one remaining book.

  “You’ve not seen that one yet, sir.”

  Drummond rubbed his forehead. Perhaps they had all been going round the bend for months without realising it.

  “The visitor’s book?”

  He opened it, nevertheless, and flipped over the worn pages, seeing scrawled signatures. Moments of warmth or drunkenness made small pictures swim from each page. Old friends now at the other ends of the ear
th. In other ships, prisoners of war, discharged wounded or unfit. Dead. There were all the signatures when Frank and Helen had got married. It had been quite a party. The last page stiffened in his grasp.

  He said sharply, “Mrs. Sarah Kemp? Aboard this ship?”

  Pickerell said nothing. There was no point in adding more fuel now.

  Owles came in with a decanter and a glass, still smiling. “I’ve- passed the word for the first lieutenant.” He busied himself at the table. “Won’t be long.”

  Somewhere overhead the tannoy intoned, “Stand easy. Senior hands of messes muster for mail.”

  Drummond stood up and walked to an open scuttle, letting the sea air play across his damp forehead. The land was shimmering in haze, and below the headland he could see a slow procession of small fishing boats making their way into harbour. Peace or war, fog or gale, it made no difference.

  She had been in this ship. His ship. Knowing he was in London. Why? It shouldn’t matter. He did not even care. He swallowed the drink and almost choked. But it did matter. Now more than ever.

  There was a tap at the door and Sheridan stepped over the coaming.

  “I was in Waxwing, sir. ” He watched him curiously, his features in shadow. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the gangway. “

  Drummond said, “Ordinary Seaman Davis.” Even as he spoke he saw something else on Sheridan’s face. Surprise, and perhaps relief. He continued, “What the hell has been going on?”

  “Oh, Davis. They caught him in civilian clothes apparently. Obviously trying to desert. Tyson sent a party ashore to collect him from the provost boys. He’s in his mess under close arrest if you want-“

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” Sheridan stepped nearer. “All I can think of.”

  “Did it never occur to you that once off this ship and out of his usual surroundings, Davis might very well start shooting his mouth off? About what we’ve been doing, and might be training for in the very near future?”

  “Tyson said-“

  Drummond could feel his hands shaking and he thrust one into a pocket and gripped the empty glass with the other.

  “I’m not talking about Tyson! I want to know what the hell you were thinking of to treat this matter so lightly? Don’t you realise even now that men’s lives depend on security? Not keeping mum and all that rubbish, but trusting their officers’ judgement even if they hate their guts!”

  Sheridan said quickly, “Look, sir, I’m not sure what I’ve done, but if you would explain, then I’ll try and put it right.”

  “Yes.” He placed the glass on the table. “You will put it right, Number One. I want Ordinary Seaman Davis charged with overstaying his leave, being drunk, being beaten senseless by enemy paratroopers if you like, but I want him kept in this ship, do you understand?” He could sense Sheridan’s shocked surprise at his anger, just as he could imagine Owles listening behind the door.

  Sheridan said stubbornly, “He had every intention of deserting. “

  “Perhaps. Although I always thought he was a good man. Either way, I want his yardarm cleared as of today. This ship is not on the bread-run, nor is she in Falmouth for all time. She is detailed for special duty, work which might well kill the whole damn lot of us, right?”

  “Right, sir.” Sheridan’s features were like stone. “Is that all?”

  “Carry on. ” He waited until he had reached the door. “Why were you ashore when all this happened?”

  Sheridan opened his mouth to reply and then saw the open visitors’ book on the desk. He said shortly, “I think you know that, too, sir. “

  As the door closed the other opened and Owles hurried to the decanter.

  “All done, sir. Now you can settle down again. “

  Drummond looked away. “If one word gets beyond this cabin … “

  Owles regarded him sadly. “What a thought, sir.” He sounded hurt. “As if it would.”

  He left the cabin, and for a long while Drummond sat by the desk, seeing nothing, remembering only his anger against Sheridan. He should have leaned on him, but there had been no need to make him eat dirt like that. Had it been because of her, or because he was really beginning to crack wide open? He would have to watch himself with no less care than his subordinates, for his was the greater responsibility.

  Two hours later Lieutenant Rankin came to the cabin, his blank features guarded as he stood in the dead centre of the shabby carpet.

  “Ordinary Seaman Davis, sir. ” His sleek head shone in the reflected light. “Had a word with him. In my division, after all, quite a foolish thing to do, but … “

  Drummond nodded. He had hoped Sheridan would return. Together they might have sealed the sudden rift.

  Rankin added crisply, “Had some mad idea he was going to overstay his leave with a woman he’d met.

  “Didn’t intend to desert?”

  Just for a moment Rankin came out of his trance. “No, sir. I explained things to him.” His mouth lifted slightly. “Forcefully. I’ve put him in the first lieutenant’s report. “

  “Thank you, Guns. I’ll have a word with the young idiot later. But thanks.”

  The gunnery officer touched his centre parting with one finger as if to test its straightness.

  “I’ll give Davis so much to do he won’t have time to worry about anything.”

  There was another tap on the door, but it was Wingate, the O.O.D.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir. But there’s a signal from Captain (D). All commanding officers to report aboard the Warden in two hours’ time.” His gipsy face split into a grin. “Action at last, sir?”

  Drummond felt the tension easing away. “A choking off more likely. ” In his heart he knew Wingate’s guess was close to the mark.

  Beaumont would be telling the others aboard the half-leader what he had already heard in London and by that quiet roadside. He was that eager to get things moving.

  He waited until they had both left the cabin and then poured another drink. Wingate was like a rock when things got difficult, and Rankin, whose imagination was limited almost to the length of a gun barrel, had not hesitated to make the unfortunate Davis believe he had intended to return to the ship. Eventually. Rankin was a book man through and through, and it must have cost him dearly to expand a lie for Drummond’s benefit. He thought of Sheridan, and how Frank might have handled it, and then forced them both from his mind.

  On the opposite bulkhead was a miniature of the ship’s crest. Who touches me dies.

  Whoever had thought that one up must have had Beaumont in mind.

  Two days after Drummond’s return to Falmouth the first stage of Beaumont’s plan had gone into motion. Drummond had watched Sheridan’s and Wingate’s expressions as he had told them the news.

  Wingate had spoken first. “Iceland, sir? And I was just getting used to this place.” But behind his eyes his mind had already been busy with his charts. Courses and currents, speed and distance to be made good. It never ended for the navigating officer.

  Sheridan had asked, “And then? Or is too early yet to know the whole plan?”

  They had barely spoken beyond the requirements of duty. Defaulters and requestmen, inspections and the like.

  Drummond had opened his great wad of orders. “Stage by stage. This is all I can tell you. It may come to nothing anyway. “

  But it had all begun on time, just as Beaumont had predicted. Without fuss he had left Falmouth aboard Waxwing and in company with two other destroyers, Victor and Ventnor. They would return to Harwich, join forces with the now repaired Lomond, Beaumont’s own ship, and make their way north to Iceland.

  A day later, with Warden, the half-leader, in command, the other four had slipped quietly out of harbour. It had all gone remarkably well. No more deserters, no last-minute news from the intelligence officers at the Admiralty to say that the enemy had got wind of this new, if elderly, force of destroyers. Nothing. Going like a clock.

  They had had one brief commanding office
rs’ conference before slipping from their buoys. Just the bare facts relating to recognition signals, R/T procedure, met reports. Nothing startling.

  Commander Hector Duvall, the flotilla’s second-incommand, and Warden’s captain, did not beat about the bush. When he had got rid of the other two captains he had said to Drummond, “One for the road.” As he had slopped gin into their glasses he had said in his thick, fruity voice, “Don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Never have. What with the commando, combined ops, the S.O.E. and the Special Boat Squadron all fighting their own private wars, and the Americans doing the same, I only hope we all arrive at the same bloody victory in the end!”

  He was in his early thirties, but with his thick beard, already tinted with flecks of grey, and his heavy frame, he looked years older.

  Drummond had said, “This job is just that bit more crazy. It might come off. You never know.”

  “It’s not that.” Slop, slop. More gin into the glasses. “It’s Captain (D). I can’t get his measure. You know him better maybe. How d’you rate him? I mean, actually in combat?”

  You were not supposed to discuss a superior in this way. Equally, everyone did.

  Drummond had replied, “He was with me when we went alongside the decoy ship. Seemed cool enough. But he was that eager to get after the Spaniard I had a hard time for a moment or two. “

  “I’d heard he was a callous bastard.”

  A small signal had sparked off an alarm. “Who from?”

  Duvall had seemed momentarily off guard. “A couple of nights ago. I forget exactly when. I was ashore at that nice hotel. Met up with your number one. He had a real charmer with him. I could have done her some damage myself.” He had frowned. “Where was I?”

  “The hotel. You heard something.”

  It was all Drummond had been able to do to hide his bitterness. It was stupid. He kept telling himself so. It still did not help.