The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  She hugged him and ran her fingers lightly across his thigh. “I hate the thought of leaving this hotel.”

  He smiled. “The manager thinks we’ve taken root!”

  She was looking at him now, her hair brushing his mouth. “I want you, my darling.”

  “And I you.”

  Midshipman Allan Keyes stood on the road opposite the theatre and examined it carefully. It was not quite what he had expected, and was not in the West End of London either. In the middle of a seedy-looking street, flanked on one side by a bombed-out fish-and-chip shop and on the other by a boardedup shoe factory, it bore all the signs of a Victorian relic.

  But he crossed the road and thrust his way through the blackout curtain and past a sign which announced “House Full,” where he was confronted by a heavy-jowled man with a cash box.

  “And where the hell d’you imagine you’re going, my lad?” Keyes said stiffly, “I am expected.” He held out the little card. “See for yourself.”

  The man took it and looked from it to Keyes with apparent surprise. Then he grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned!” He recovered and said, “It’s the interval in a few minutes. I’ll show you round the back to her dressing room.” He looked at the midshipman again and shook his head. “Well, well”

  Keyes didn’t care what the man thought or why. He had had a terrible leave, Shunted back and forth between his parents’ friends and relatives, made to recount the story of the action again and again, until he was heartily sick of it. The parts he wanted them to know, he found were too private. Too personal when it came to the moment of telling. His mother usually burst into a fit of sobbing and said. “My poor boy.” His father followed up with, “Must have been a proud moment. ” Or something of the sort.

  And every single day of his leave he had telephoned the theatre to speak with Georgina. To begin with, the persons he was able to talk to had seemed doubtful. Then as he had persisted, somebody had looked up some bills and had agreed that Miss Georgina Dare would indeed be coming to this theatre with Forces Frolics in due course, although God alone knew how he had discovered the fact! It restored his faith, made him glow to realise that he knew more than the theatre.

  It had not helped his nerves. He had lost his appetite. Got drunk twice, and had mwee his mother remark severely, “I don’t know what they teach you in the Navy, but I don’t like it, Allan!”

  His father had, as usual, taken the neutral course. “Don’t harass the lad, Mother! He has to spread his wings a bit.” But he, too, had seemed a bit worried.

  And now he was here, at the theatre. He was reminded of the old films he had seen in his boyhood. The “bloods” and stagedoor-johnnies waiting to escort their girls of the chorus to the Cafe Royal, or somewhere like it. But he was visiting one of the stars. Through the sealed doors he heard the thump of an orchestra, the responding chorus of male voices in “Let’s all go down the Strand. ” It could have been Grand Opera to him at that special moment.

  The man returned and gestured to some narrow concrete stairs. “Up the top. First door.”

  As Keyes hurried up the stairs the stage-doorkeeper said, “Bit of a change for Georgie, ain’t it?”

  The man with the cash box rubbed his chin. “Must be more to him than shows at a glance, eh?”

  Keyes hesitated outside the flaking door. There were telephone numbers and messages scrawled over the wall. An air of decay, smells of grease and powder, of dust and sweat hung in the narrow passageway like part of the building itself.

  He rapped on the door and-heard her call, “Just walk right in, sailor!”

  She was sitting at a dressing table, the large mirror of which was surrounded by different coloured light bulbs, as well as wads of postcards and old telegrams, the flotsam of previous occupants. She had her back to him, and was wearing a short, very flimsy coat with a collar of pink feathers. The coat was open almost to her waist, and as he stared at her reflection in the mirror, spellbound, she looked up at him for the first time.

  She swung round on her stool. “You!” She pulled her coat together. It only helped to reveal her breasts as well as uncover a larger portion of bare thigh. She swallowed hard. “Where-I mean … “

  He held out the card. She was so overcome by his arrival that he wished he had telephoned her first.

  “I’m so sorry.” He hesitated, feeling the flush rising to his face. “Georgina.”

  She took a very deep breath. “Of course. Iceland.” She patted a chair, giving herself time. “Sit down. You sound all in, er…’

  “Allan.” He looked round the dressing room. “You look marvellous. “

  “I seem to recall that I gave the card to one of your lieutenants. “

  “Yes. He’d forgotten to pass it to me. Otherwise … ‘ She nodded slowly. “Otherwise. Yes, I get it.”

  He decided to try again. “I thought we might go out some where. To a restaurant. Have dinner.”

  She studied him gravely. He had changed in some way. He looked strained. Desperate. She thought of the pilot officer called Mike, and gently eased him from her mind.

  “Well, Allan. Where’s it to be?”

  “I thought perhaps you’d know of a decent place.”

  She looked in the mirror, seeing the way his hands were gripped together, and was suddenly moved by what she saw.

  Georgina Dare, aged twenty-six, whose name on a birth certificate described her as Grace Wilkins of Shoreditch, London, who was married to a soldier in the First Army, and knew more about ways to excite men than most, was actually touched by the sad-faced, eager boy in a midshipman’s uniform than she would have believed possible.

  Gently she asked, “How much cash have you got?” “Three pounds, and a bit.”

  She took a deep breath. She could not allow him to escort her to one of the local places. Someone would spoil things. And up West, after the theatre had closed, the price would be three pounds just for a glass of watered wine.

  She said firmly, “There’s a place down the road. They sell drinks. Tell them I sent you. They’ll let you have some Scotch.

  He stared at her, completely lost. It was getting out of control.

  She stood up and touched his hair with her hand. She was very close to him and he could see her neck and shoulders, very white, through the flimsy coat.

  She added softly, “After the show we can go back to my flat. “It’s not far.” She hesitated. “Unless you really wantto go to a restaurant?”

  He replied, “No. Whatever you want. Really.”

  “That’s settled then.”

  She touched her hair with a comb. Anyway, it would make certain that they did not bump into Mike.

  By the time they reached her flat Keyes’ mind was in a complete whirl. They had stopped on the way at a small backstreet pub where they had had quite a few drinks and exchanged greetings with some other jovial characters. “Showbiz people,” she had explained casually. A couple of old-timers from the Hackney Empire, a chirpy comic from the Mile End Road. It was another existence to Keyes.

  She unlocked the door of her flat. Picked two letters from the floor, remarking, “Damned bills, I expect!” and switched on the lights.

  It was a tiny flatlet, with a kitchen and bathroom opening like large cupboards from either end.

  She nodded towards the sideboard. “Some glasses in there. ” She saw his uncertainty and crossed the room to face him. “What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?”

  He put his arms around her, like someone handling a piece of priceless porcelain, and answered shakily, “I’ve wanted to see you for so long. And now … “

  She pushed him firmly into a battered sofa. “Drinks first. Then some music.” She was groping amongst a pile of records. “Geraldo. He’ll do.”

  Keyes’ head revolved as he watched her moving busily round the room. Drinks appeared, and Geraldo’s orchestra provided a muted accompaniment.

  She said, “Hang your nice coat on that chair.” She leaned over the back of the sofa
and ruffled his hair. “Here’s to you then, sailor. Now, I must get out of this dress. It belongs to the show anyway.”

  She vanished into the bathroom, humming in time with the gramophone.

  Keyes loosened his tie and poured another drink. He had only had whisky once in his life. At his aunt’s funeral. It was hot and fiery, but not as bad as he remembered.

  She came back in a white n6glig6 and stood by the door, eyeing him calmly, a small smile on her red lips. She asked, “Approve?”

  He nodded and said hoarsely, “You look lovely.”

  She nestled beside him, sensing his sudden confusion and despair. In another moment he would make an excuse and leave. His moment and dream shattered. And her evening wasted.

  She touched his face and then pulled his head round towards her and kissed him hard on the mouth. He was stiff as a board, but she was not one to give in easily. She said into his ear, “Hold me, Allan.”

  He reached out blindly, his eyes buried in hair. The n6glig6 was wide open, her breasts and supple body right here under his hand. ‘

  She gave a small sigh, her hands tugging at his shirt and exploring his chest. She could feel his agitation giving in to something far stronger. She thrust him away and stood up, letting the n6glig6 fall to the floor.

  “I’m waiting, Allan.”

  She watched him as he struggled with his clothing, and reached out to help him.

  “My poor darling.” She did not know why she had spoken. “Let me do A.”

  She laid down beside him and kissed him again. This time he was ready. She sighed with catlike satisfaction. And very able.

  Two miles from the room where Midshipman Keyes was being led deliciously into manhood, Able Seaman Jevers stood in a crowded bar staring at his beer.

  Back to the ship tomorrow.

  He downed the beer and gestured to the barman. And everything was quiet. As it should be. Nobody had said much about

  his wife, and he guessed they were too embarrassed. Funny that. The whole bloody city falling in bits under the bombing, yet these daft buggers still bothered about unfaithful wives and unhappy marriages.

  He’d go back to the ship and try for his leading rate. He was due for promotion, which would make him eligible for chief quartermaster. He had it all worked out. As Leading Seaman Harry Rumsey, Warlock’s chief Q.M., had somehow survived the shellburst, his job would not be vacant. He’d apply for a draft chit to another ship. There would be no questions asked that way. It would be the natural thing for a matelot who was trying to better himself. He grinned and swallowed another glass of watery beer.

  In the other bar, the Snug as it was called, Sergeant Matthew Wagner kept out of sight behind a bottle-glass partition. The thin-haired railway porter at his side nodded firmly.

  “That’s ‘im, all right, mate.”

  The American gestured to the barman. “Scotch for my friend here. Make it a triple.”

  The barman showed his teeth. “Where you bin, chum? Scotch? I’ll give Bert a large gin, s’all I can manage.”

  The elderly porter smiled at the American’s grim face.

  “There was this article in the Hackney Gazette. Had a bit about Jevers. Local bloke an’ all that. Got a mention in despatches for stayin’ at the wheel in the middle of the battle, or surnmat”

  He laid the newspaper cutting on the wet bar. It was an old picture of Jevers, but there was no mistake.

  The porter named Bert said, “It’s ‘im all right. The same chap as I saw that night when ‘is wife went missin.’ Right ‘ere, on the manor.

  “Thanks, Bert.” Wagner felt the surge of rage again. “I’ll not forget. “

  Bert said, “Well, I said I’d phone you, didn’t I? I promised!”

  “Sure you did, old-timer. And I’m grateful. ” He peered round the partition but saw the space at the bar was empty.

  Bert said, “S’all right. ‘E’ll ‘ave gone to his old ‘ouse, I spect.”

  The sergeant nodded and pushed his way towards the door, his mind racing. Now he would be able to get it out of Jevers. The porter would give evidence if necessary that he had been at his home on the night he’d claimed to be elsewhere. What a bit of luck the picture in the paper had been.

  He hesitated, his eyes blind in the blacked-out street. Then he heard Jevers’ uneven steps in a narrow alley, saw the pale rectangle of his blue collar.

  He called harshly, “Hold it, fella! Right there!”

  An off-duty policeman and an air-raid warden found the American’s body half an hour later. He was still alive, but a knife-thrust had almost certainly punctured a lung, and he was barely breathing. As the warden ran to call an ambulance the policeman stayed with Wagner, shielding his face from the rain which had just begun to fall over the East End of London.

  Once the American opened his eyes and managed to gasp one word. It sounded like a girl’s name. Janice.

  The policeman sighed. Another fight no doubt. Local boy and Yank. Brawling over a girl.

  He would telephone the American provost marshal. He was better at this sort of thing.

  Down the alley in the little pub the porter called Bert heard the ambulance roaring past, its gong going for all it was worth. He sipped his large gin and thought about Wagner. Nice chap. One of the best.

  Lieutenant David Sheridan sat in a deep chair with his feet on the wardroom fender watching the glow in the stove. It was almost welcome to feel the ship moving again, lurching occasionally against the piles of the jetty where she had been since leaving the dock. Tomorrow the bulk of the hands would return from their long leave. He had already been aboard for four days, sorting out new faces, fitting them into watch-bills and duty rotas.

  Beyond the steel hull he heard the wind moaning across the blacked-out basin, the tap of heavy rain on deck.

  Soon Warlock would be putting to sea once more. Another mission like the last? Or back to convoy? He found he did not care. Either way. He had not applied to leave her after all. He was still the first lieutenant.

  He had had a strange leave. He had taken long walks in the countryside. Keeping away from uniforms, searching for sol

  itude in small pubs and within himself. It had been like therapy, he thought. Self-inflicted.

  He had mett the captain only twice. Neither of them had mentioned a change of appointments. Drummond had seemed younger. Relaxed. That would be the girl, he thought. Despite everything, he grinned. Lucky beggar.

  Sheridan looked round as the coxswain peered through the door. He was wearing an oilskin and carrying a torch.

  “Ready for rounds, sir.” Mangin glanced at the empty wardroom.

  “Right, ‘Swain. Anything doing?”

  “Nah.” Mangin rubbed his wet hands. “Duty part of the watch ‘ave cleared up the messdecks. Most of ‘em are too shagged out to stay on their feet.”

  “Have a tot while you’re here, ‘Swain.”

  The coxswain took off his cap and stepped quickly to the fire.

  “Tha’d be just fine.”

  Sheridan handed him a large gin. “Well, I’m still here.”

  The coxswain took a swig and smacked his lips. “Knew you would be, sir. First day you come aboard. Knew you was a Warlock, like the rest of us poor buggers!” He grinned.

  ” ‘Ere’s to the next time!‘The coxswain became formal. “Some of the lads is off shore

  already, sir. A.B. Jevers is one. ‘E’s slapped in a request to see the old man about gettin’ ‘is.‘ook and transfer to another destroyer.”

  Sheridan nodded. He had forgotten about Jevers.

  Mangin added, “The Lomond’s got a vacancy for chief Q.M., sir. ‘Ers ‘as gone to the depot to sit for cox’n.” He showed his uneven teeth. “Smart chap!”

  They both turned as Sub-lieutenant Hillier stepped over the coaming, his cap and raincoat dripping wet. Hillier was holding himself very erect, and was obviously still recovering from his cracked ribs.

  “All right, Sub?”

  Hillier smi
led. “Yes, thanks. I’m not sure how you are going to be in a few minutes, Number One.”

  “Are you a bit stoned?”

  Hillier tossed his cap on to a chair and held his hands by the fire.

  “I just saw Captain Beaumont on the jetty. He seems to be making for this ship.”

  Mangin snatched his cap.

  “Wot? At this time o’ the night?”

  Sheridan scrambled to his feet.

  “Are you sure? I thought he was supposed to be in London. ” Hillier sat on the fender, pleased with the storm he had caused.

  “Well, he’s here now. More to the point, Number One, I’d say he was rather sloshed, too!”

  Sheridan dashed out and up the ladder, to be met by the duty Q.M. and gangway sentry. He saw the figure at the end of the brow. Hillier was not mistaken.

  Beaumont walked very slowly and carefully across the brow, and as he moved into the tiny glow of the quartermaster’s police light Sheridan saw that he was without a raincoat. His immaculate cap and uniform shone in the feeble light like blue metal. He was sodden.

  Sheridan said, “In here, sir. Out of the rain.”

  Beaumont did not move. He said, “The captain, where is he?”

  “Ashore, sir. He’s not due back until … “

  Beaumont swayed and seized the guardrail for support. “Fetch him, telephone him. Do what the bloody hell you

  like. But I want him here now!”

  Sheridan stood aside as Beaumont swayed towards the lobby door.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll attend to it right away.”

  Beaumont had vanished, and he heard him scrambling down

  the steep ladder, breathing hard and cursing with each step. Mangin murmured, “Somebody’s for it, sir. “

  “Hmm.” Sheridan groped through the gangway log. “What

  was that number?”

  A returning libertyman was staggering towards the brow. Looming forward and swaying back again into the persistent rain. Mangin knew from the man’s tipsy voice that it was Petty Officer Owles.

  “It’s goin’ to be one o’ them nights.”