The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  With a minimum of haste the majority of Warlock’s ship’s company hurried ashore to make every minute of their liberty count.

  Some, like Galbraith, went home to their wives. Galbraith was a Scot, but like many of the flotilla’s officers, lived in the South, near Canterbury. His wife was a sturdy, uncomplaining woman, and she had given him two girls. They were all his pride and joy, and the only thing which spoilt every leave was knowing that he would soon have to go back to a ship.

  Others, like Rankin, were less happily married. He had taken his wife too soon, before he had “bettered himself,” as his mother had observed more than once. As he sat in a badly ventilated train speeding south to his home on the outskirts of London he pictured her face. Once very pretty, as all barmaids were supposed to be, she had become slovenly, even sluttish. He was equally certain that she shared several beds when he was away. He would have it out with her. He sighed, edging away from a snoring army officer. No, he wouldn’t. He never could. But when the war was over he would not go back to her. He yawned, tasting the vast amount of gin which had kept him aboard long after the last libertymen. Perhaps, this time, she would be different. Kind to him.

  In an hotel room not far from the one where Warlock’s captain lay in a heavy, dreamless sleep, Vaughan was cursing himself for drinking too much. He drank very little as a rule, but the Wren officer had made it sound like part of a bargain. “I’ve met men like you,” she had said. “Get you sloshed, and then take advantage.” But she had got sloshed all the same, and so, unfortunately, had he. He slung his jacket on a rickety chair and looked down at her sprawled on the bed. She was still in uniform, and her hair was in abandon as she tried to see what he was doing.

  She said, “I’d better be going.”

  He sat beside her and unbuttoned her jacket. She seemed to sober up, and gripped his wrists, staring at him with something like horror.

  “But you’re a doctor!”

  He fumbled with her shirt, feeling her breast hot under the material, the blood thundering in his brain. She struggled, and the cloth tore open.

  She gasped, “My shirt! What’ll my girls think!”

  He pulled the torn shirt up and over her shoulders with a kind of madness.

  She said as he half fell across her. “Anyway, I can’t. Not at this time of the month.”

  Vaughan jerked up violently and glared at her.

  “You silly bitch!”

  He slipped and fell against the table, knocking an ancient wash-hand-basin into clattering fragments.

  Someone banged angrily on the dividing wall. “What have you got in there, mate? A ruddy tiger?”

  Vaughan and the girl stared at each other, stunned and confused.

  Then with a rueful grin she threw the rest of her clothes on to the floor and said, “Come here, Doctor! We’ll make the best of it! “

  He saw himself in a mirror, flushed and wild-eyed. He grinned down at her. “Coming, Tiger.”

  Another train which was already nearing London well ahead of Rankin’s contained at least two more of Warlock’s company.

  One was Able Seaman Jevers, going home, despite all his plans and caution. To be absolutely certain. To know he was safe for all time.

  Another was Midshipman Allan Keyes, wide awake as he enjoyed the luxury of an almost empty first-class compartment. He did not want to fall asleep in case any of the next few hours and days might be marred by his dreams. Nightmares.

  He concentrated on his destination, and the girl who had not forgotten him after all. Georgina Dare.

  Opposite him, his eyes half asleep and red-rimmed, was a merchant navy chief officer. He watched Keyes’ fresh face, the way he kept looking at a photograph. He sighed. Poor little sod. His sort never stood a chance. Not for long.

  15

  Time for Thought

  VICE-ADMIRAL NICK BROOKS held a cigarette in one of his wizened hands and studied Drummond coolly. In the big map room deep below the Admiralty the air was dry, like the admiral. Almost lifeless.

  Drummond tried to glean something from the charts on the walls, but there was nothing to give him a clue.

  It had been a strange, unreal four weeks since Warlock had gone into dry dock at Rosyth.

  Other commanding officers had often known such an existence, but he had just not considered it. He had seen fellow captains sharing their lives between ships in for repairs and their other demands of homes or families, but it had been outside his true understanding. Until Sarah.

  Beyond the dockyard and the hotel, life for the rest of the world had continued. The promised and expected invasion of Italy had got under way, and after the grim and deadly conflict at Salerno the Allies were now beginning to make real headway. But to the Warlock, and others like her, that was a war apart. In the busy dockyard, affairs were only concerned with putting right damage done by enemy and weather in the Atlantic, the North Sea and on all the urgently required convoys.

  He knew that in earlier days he would have felt restless, fretting at the delays which were keeping him and his ship on the sidelines. This time it was totally different. His need for the girl, her responding love which she had given completely, had made a new life for him, something real and precious.

  She was out there now, waiting for him, in a London little different from his last visit when he had met her at Beaumont’s press conference.

  Brooks said, “No captain can expect to get much rest when his command is in dock for repair and overhaul. I would have been to see you myself in Scotland, but affairs here and in the Mediterranean have kept Special Operations rather occupied.” He blew out a stream of smoke and patted ash from his crumpled grey suit. “But in view of your work, the splendid dash of the attack into Norway, I would like you to hear some news from me now.” He gave a wintry smile. “Yesterday our midget submarines were able to penetrate all the net defences and minefields, and laid their charges beneath the German battleship Tirpitz in Altenfjord as planned. Actual damage is still unverified, as we had losses, and Norwegian reports say that some of our midget submarine crews were taken prisoner. However, there is no doubt at all that Tirpitz is out of the war for a considerable while. Long enough for us to concentrate on her remaining large consorts. Long enough to plan her final destruction by -more conventional means. ” He showed his long upper teeth. “But for your attack, and the destruction of the fuel dump, Tirpitz would certainly be ready to put to sea when we could least contain her. As for the German midgets, `Negroes’ and the like, there again, the damage and losses you inflicted will have put the enemy well behind in training and supply. It was a fine piece of work. Imaginative in planning, determined in execution. “

  Drummond tried to relax. It was like a carefully rehearsed lecture. A sales talk.

  He had not set eyes on Beaumont since the raid, but had heard of him quite a lot. In the newspapers he had been shown making a speech at a warship week, when people paid their hard-earned savings towards building another ship for the Navy. At factories on war work, his cheerful, confident face had been seen from Tyneside to Cardiff. The man of action taking time to encourage the many thousands who worked behind the scenes and without much praise.

  Once, ae had been in an Edinburgh cinema when the inevitable had happened. Beaumont had been shown on one of the newsreels, pointing at some vague strips of film, showing how it was done. One minute excited, the next grave and sad for those who had died in battle.

  Sarah had squeezed his hand in the darkness and had whispered, “Let’s get out of here. He makes me feel sick.”

  He said, “I had wondered about the Tirpitz, Sir. I’m glad it went off well. I’m afraid I’d never make a submariner. I like to see where I’m going.”

  “Quite so.” Brooks lit another cigarette. “I keep out of the limelight. Have to. But I don’t miss much. Can’t afford to in this business. ” He eyed him calmly. “I’ve heard a few things about you and Captain Beaumont. Things I’m not too happy about.”

  “It’s not co
me from me, sir.” Drummond felt immediately on guard. “I have not even seen Captain Beaumont since the attack. “

  “I know. But there’s more to it than that. In war, there are many different threads you must weave to complete a victory. Bombing and convoys, tanks and infantry, and all the lines of supply it takes to keep them coming. But no less important, Drummond, is confidence. A belief, an absolute faith in final victory. It’s no good telling a man who has to struggle to work every day on train or bus, regardless of air-raids and the fact his house has just been bombed flat, that all is well. He must be made to believe it. To hold on when everything looks at its blackest. “

  “I thought that was more for the propaganda people than us, sir. “

  Brooks shook his head. “The enemy has propaganda, Drummond. The Allies have sources of information. Quite different.” He winked. “But you are correct in seeing the importance of close contact between the few who fight and the greater mass which has to suffer if the country is to survive.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “No. You are a seagoing officer. Not ‘a politician. You see, Drummond, when the Conqueror went down, it was not merely another ship going to the bottom. You know that. She was a symbol, like the old Hood, the Royal Oak. The country had come to rely on them, even though most people had never laid eyes on any of them. Conqueror’s destruction came at a bad time. Heavy losses in our convoys, severe shortages at home, almost nightly bombing in our cities, some of which will never recover. In the field, too, our troops were faring badly for the most part. Conqueror might well have been the stone to tip the scales. Instead, she offered us a living symbol. Someone who could endure the very worst and still fight back. A man of war. Somebody we could all recognise, in whom we could see something of ourselves.”

  “Captain Beaumont?”

  “Just so.”

  There was a long silence and then the admiral said, “When we decided to create a little flotilla under the auspices of Special Operations, I, for one, had no idea of its capability, its chances of success. That, I must admit, is why I selected older, less valuable vessels for the task. Also, from my experience, the older, harder-worked ships inevitably produce the best and most determined companies and captains. They haveto be to survive. You don’t get much drive by swinging round a buoy in Scapa Flow, “

  “I think we all realised that, sir.”

  “I am sure. I am equally positive that you would not wish to upset the apple-cart at a time when this damned war has taken a turn in our favour. “

  “If you mean the raid, sir … “

  “Well, you said it.” Brooks searched for a fresh pack of cigarettes. “I have heard that some of your people are feeling bitter about the manner in which the raid was carried out. Not about the manner in which you and your ships were asked to perform a miracle.”

  Drummond eyed him steadily. “I can’t speak for anybody else, sir. But I did think that the attack should have been executed as originally planned. If the enemy had been bringing up heavy units, including the Moltke, and some fleet destroyers, we’d have been done for anyway. Surprise was all we had.”

  “You are being too modest.” Brooks frowned. “You are suggesting that as Captain (D), Beaumont should have sent the whole flotilla into the fjord, regardless of any threat which might have been coming from elsewhere.”

  He paused, watching Drummond’s grave features. “That is what you would have done in his place?”

  “Yes.”

  In his mind it was suddenly very clear. The destroyer slewing round and going aground, the heavy fall of shells from the hidden shore battery. Ventnor’s side steaming from a massive explosion, the Norwegians dashing along the hillside above burning German vehicles.

  He added simply, “My three ships could have been knocked out without getting to the major targets at all.”

  Brooks tapped his knee as he perched on the corner of a table. His face was grave and thoughtful.

  He said slowly, “It’s water under the bridge as far as that’s concerned.” His face relaxed slightly. “I have to tell you that the Distinguished Service Order is being awarded to you for your part. Others will be recognised, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t seem too impressed?” Brooks eyed him curiously. “Are you afraid of becoming a hero?”

  “Of becoming something I’m not, sir.” He thought of the Whirlpool vanishing in one blinding explosion. “I was as scared as the rest of them.”

  “That I can believe. I was not always a crabby old admiral, you know. Another war, and I was much like you. Only the methods change.”

  “Is that what you wanted me for, sir?”

  “Of course not. I wanted to hear it from you, naturally. But also I needed to know how you feel about another operation. “

  Drummond tensed. “We’ll not be going back to general service, then, sir?”

  “Is that an answer?” He showed his teeth. “In a way, I suppose it is. But you see, I cannot merely order you to perform another of our little miracles. It will be a hard one, it could easily be a complete failure. “

  “In your opinion, sir.” He was torn between his emotions like a piece of flotsam. He kept seeing her face, knowing what she meant to him. She was his future now. Everything. “Is it a plan which has a real value?”

  Brooks smiled wryly. “It’s not for propaganda, if that’s what you’re implying!”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  He tried not to think of Beaumont. The symbol. He recalled her words when they had first met. The image-makers. Maybe Beaumont was still the same man inside. The one he had known all those years ago. The one which Sarah’s brother had described in his letters to her. Perhaps he had been unable to resist creating a myth, and in so doing had become just that himself. He chilled, remembering the few moments when he had seen through Beaumont’s guard. Uncertainty or guilt, or had it really been fear at what he was building, and what might in turn destroy him with it?

  . “Would Captain Beaumont be in overall command of this new one, sir?”

  “Fair question. ” Ash fell unheeded on his suit as he snapped, “And, I think, a fair assumption. Afterwards,” he gave a weary shrug, “he will no doubt be asked to accept flag rank, where his talents for rallying enthusiasm will be of great value.” He coughed. “Well?”

  “How long have I got, sir?”

  Brooks smiled. “A few weeks.” The smile vanished. “Top secret. So watch your words with everyone.” He added sharply, “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No, sir.” ~Ve knows about Sarah. It was obvious. Just as it was that Beaumont had been talking about him with Brooks. “But I will be as soon as I manage to arrange certain matters.”

  “Splendid.” He looked away. “I’ll not keep you any longer for now.”

  As Drummond walked towards the thick iron doors he heard the admiral ask, “Do you ever think about your future?” He smiled and half turned. “Now, I do, sir.”

  “It’s nice to be back in Edinburgh.”

  They laid side by side looking into the darkness above the bed.

  She added, “Going back to London made the war seem more real. Closer.”

  Drummond slipped his arm round her shoulders and placed the palm of his hand against her spine. Outside the hotel windows and drawn curtains it was pouring steadily, and the air held the bite of an early winter. He thought of Brooks in his sealed bunker, the activity aboard Warlock when he and the girl had returned to Rosyth that morning.

  Warlock’s latest scars had all but disappeared under fresh

  welding and paint. He had seen some ratings being shown round the ship by Petty Officer Abbott, the way they had fallen silent as he had walked past. New hands to replace the killed and badly wounded. Men who had watched him, their captain, the holder of their destinies perhaps.

  She turned on her side, and he could feel her watching him in the darkness. Against his body her limbs felt like cool silk.


  She said, “You’ve got a big operation coming off soon?”

  He squeezed her shoulders. ` `I thought you were the one who knew everything that was going on?”

  She did not respond to his joke. “I forgot to tell you. When my leave is up I will be doing some other work for Miles Salter. He told me while you were at the Admiralty. Checking back over records for a factual film about convoys.”

  Drummond thought about it. “So you’re still with Salter’s department. But you’re not being given the run of information about our flotilla. “

  “That’s it.” She raised herself on one elbow. “Why? Is it important?”

  He tried to think of an easy way. Then he said flatly, “You mentioned that survivor from the Conqueror. The seaman called Carson. Do you know where he is at the moment?”

  He heard her intake of breath. “Yes. At a small hospital at Manchester. There are quite a few like him. Shellshock, loss of memory, that sort of thing.” She added softly, “You think my story was a true one? About Tim being on the raft with Beaumont?”

  “There are. several things about Beaumont which are worrying me.”

  She wriggled closer as the wind-driven rain slashed against the windows, running her hand across his chest, holding him.

  “Tell me, Keith. I love you so much. I can’t bear to see you worried. Things are bad enough as it is.”

  “That last operation. It was rougher than anyone knows. ” He felt her body-warmth moving across him, as if she was trying to cover him, protect him from memories. “At one point I thought he would kill the whole lot of us.”

  It was out in the open, but he felt no relief.

  She said urgently, “I had a feeling about it. Once or twice you’ve tossed and turned in the night. Like a man in fever.”

  “Sorry. ” He pressed her spine, feeling her body tremble, the pressure of her breast against his chest.

  “Don’t talk about it any more. Try not even to think about it.” In a smaller voice she asked, “How long do we have?”

  “Two or three days and Warlock will be ready to take on fuel and stores again.” He hesitated. “And then I’m not certain.”