Sixty Minutes for St George

by Sixty Minutes for St George (retail) (epub)

  Nick asked the other three, ‘Is it necessary to hate them, d’you think?’

  Bell only raised his eyebrows and his glass. Underhill rubbed his cleft chin thoughtfully. Rogerson suggested, ‘I suppose it does make the whole thing simpler?’

  There was a dream-quality now about it all, a jumbling of recollections and detail. What had come first or last, what in between: fear of that unshored section of the bulkhead merged into a battle with the sea in which the weapons had been wires, lines, cables, men’s strength and courage… Nick forced his mind away from it, back into the present: at least, he tried to: he saw Wyatt at attention, wooden-faced, staring straight at him, and behind Wyatt half the ship’s company motionless, immaculate, parade-ground bluejackets: this was how the crowd saw them, the civilians packed tightly around this rectangle of ritual grief; but for one’s own part one saw through to the dark foul-smelling crowded caverns of the messdecks and a threatened bulkhead, and tired, hungry, haggard men playing cards, joking, even singing… Cockcroft said suddenly, as clearly as if he’d been standing there at his elbow, ‘Fine body of men, what?’ But nobody had spoken, and Cockcroft had said it – what, four days ago? Only four days? Wyatt was still staring at him. Mr Gladwish was on Wyatt’s right, while Grant and Watson were on either side of Nick. The bugle’s last note blossomed, quavered, died. In the utter silence that followed it, he heard a man sob, somewhere close behind him. He nearly did the same himself: he could have, he could have let go completely, sunk to his knees and cried like a child. But it was over now, all over, and they were marching back through the town, through quiet, sympathetic crowds, grey streets and a bitter December noon.

  * * *

  ‘Sit down, Everard.’ Wyatt pointed. ‘Help yourself to a glass of that stuff.’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’ He sat down, though. Just a few days ago, this cabin had been an operating theatre: it seemed strange that it was now once again a place where one might be invited to sip pink gin. Wyatt looked surprised that he didn’t want one: he stared at him for a moment, then he shrugged. He said, ‘I wanted a word with you before you go to this – interview, or investigation, whatever it’s going to be.’

  It was to do with the trouble in the Fishermen’s Arms, the brawl and the Military police report on it. Nick had to report himself at an office in the secretariat at 2.30 p.m.; that was all he knew.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Wyatt stood up, and placed himself at the scuttle, staring out. Stooping slightly, and with his hands clasped behind his back. He cleared his throat.

  ‘As you know, I washed my hands of the whole affair. I felt you’d not only behaved in – in an unseemly manner, but that you’d very badly let me down. Let this ship down. I – ’ he turned, glanced at Nick briefly and away again – ‘I think in my position you’d have felt the same.’

  Nick waited, through another interval of throat-clearing.

  ‘But as I mentioned to you the other day – ’ Wyatt gestured towards the harbour entrance – ‘when we were being brought in – as I said then, I’ve acquired a very high opinion of your professional abilities…’

  Nick remembered, rather vaguely: but Wyatt had expressed it in terms of – gratitude? Emotionally disturbed, perhaps, by the reception which Dover was giving Mackerel. They’d been cheering her into harbour: ships and jetties lined with shouting, cap-waving sailors, and a bedlam of sirens shrieking from destroyers, trawlers, drifters… Dockyard maties, driftermen, trawlermen, and crowds of civilians all along the Marine Parade, cheering themselves hoarse. Christmas evening… Dusk had been seeping down over the inland hills, and the wind had dropped; it had been quite easy transferring the tow from Moloch to the two big tugs who’d brought her in and berthed her. Totally different to the struggle to get the tow connected in the first place – at dawn, working on a heaving, slippery deck with the sea breaking right over her and knocking men off their feet. One hand for the ship and one for yourself was the old sailors’ phrase for it: but a man needed five hands, and preferably feet with suckers on them too. Nick had worked with his men, and the battle had gone on for hours: he still dreamt of it, of enormous seas mounting, hanging over the heads of sailors who couldn’t see them coming, who were caught, trapped in loops of wire-rope, doomed: he’d be trying to shout, to warn them, and his jaw locked so he couldn’t make a sound, only watch the sea break and boil… There’d been a light line to get over first – and heaving lines weren’t easy to manage in a high wind from a tilting deck and when ships couldn’t approach each other too closely for fear of being swept into collision – and then the grass, the coir rope that floated, had to be attached to the first line and hauled across; then, on the end of the grass rope came the 3½-inch steel-wire hawser. The mine-winch had proved useless, and the after capstan had been smashed in the action, so everything had to be done by manpower, muscle-power. When the ships were linked and Moloch moved cautiously ahead, dragging at Mackerel’s stern to get her round on course for Dover, the wire had sprung bar-taut and snapped as easily as a banjo-string: two minutes, it had lasted, after two hours’ backbreaking work – which had now to begin all over again. This time Moloch started by shifting two shackles of anchor-cable aft, and the wire was linked to it so that the chain-cable’s weight acted as a spring and prevented further snapping: under sudden strain. A pity they hadn’t done it in the first place; it wasn’t so unusual an evolution. It had worked, finally; but to get the wire inboard and secure it, with the cable’s weight dragging at it and the ship flinging herself in all directions, had needed practically every fit seaman in the ship, like a tug-of-war team strung out along her upper deck – slipping, sliding, cursing. A dozen times he saw men slip or be knocked off their feet: seconds and inches more than once saved lives. In the end, hardly knowing how they’d done it, they had the two ships linked, and Mackerel was on her way to Dover.

  They’d been entering the port, surrounded by the enthusiastic welcome, when Wyatt had called Nick to him at the front rail of the bridge. With the ship in the tugs’ charge, there was nothing for anyone to do. Wyatt had said, ‘If you hadn’t shored that bulkhead, Number One, we wouldn’t be here now. I’m very much aware of that. And your conduct generally has been of the highest order. I’m – grateful to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  It hadn’t meant anything to him. Nor had the cheering, hooting, waving. One knew what it was all about, and understood the meaning of Wyatt’s words, but there’d been a numbness, a feeling of remoteness. And there were so many things that needed seeing to, to be getting on with as soon as the ship was berthed: even inside the harbour, until that bulkhead’s lower part was shored one was aware of the weakness, one’s own neglect… But now, forty-eight hours later, Wyatt was saying roughly the same thing again, and Nick’s immediate reaction was a feeling of embarrassment, that he was sailing under false colours. What his captain was saying to him was You’re forgiven: you can stay with me, now… And he didn’t want to. It should have been possible to say so, and to say why: but he couldn’t, they’d been right last night in Arrogant, it would have been the action of a mug – achieving nothing except damage to oneself.

  All the same, this keeping quiet, letting Wyatt assume he’d want to stay with him, felt less like common sense or diplomacy than subterfuge.

  Wyatt told him, ‘I can’t undo what’s been said and done already, and I can’t predict what sort of view they’ll take. Un-officer-like behaviour ashore is not, even in wartime, something to be treated as of no account, or condoned.’ He scowled, and cleared his throat. ‘However, I’ve done my best to give you some support.’

  He picked up a sheet of foolscap from the desk-top near him.

  ‘I’ve sent a copy of this – an extract from my Report of Proceedings – with a covering letter expressing my wish to retain you as my first lieutenant, to Captain (D). He’ll have passed it on to this chap Reaper, the man you’ll be seeing. Whoever he may be.’

  Wyatt sat down.

 
‘There are – don’t discuss this with anyone else, please – there are – new faces about the place. Sir Reginald Bacon is leaving Dover, and Admiral Keyes is relieving him. With, I believe, more or less immediate effect. And naturally this will bring other changes at lower levels.’

  It wasn’t much of a surprise. There’d been talk of it for some while; and only last night Tim Rogerson had told Nick he’d heard it was imminent.

  Poor old Bacon. He’d foundered, finally, on the floodlit minefield. And the Admiralty committee who’d forced that issue had been headed by Keyes, who’d now displaced him… Wyatt said, ‘Here is what I said in my report, Everard.’ He coughed, and read:

  ‘I wish to draw their Lordships’ attention to the high standard of leadership and initiative displayed by my second-in-command, Lieutenant Nicholas Everard, Royal Navy. First, as already stated, this officer aimed and fired the torpedo which sank one enemy destroyer. Subsequently throughout the hours following the action his personal energy, zeal and professional ability provided an example to the entire ship’s company. Finally the passing of the tow, of which he took charge on deck under extremely adverse weather conditions, was a triumph of seamanship and good discipline.’

  Wyatt slid the document on to his desk, and asked Nick, ‘Fair comment?’

  ‘More than generous, sir.’

  And neat. Commending Nick, it avoided – as no doubt it would in the main body of the report as well – any mention of it having been his decision, not Wyatt’s, to shore the bulk-head – or that he’d felt it was necessary after Wyatt had talked of going at Mackerel’s ‘best speed’, against Nick’s and the engineer’s advice. Obviously, Wyatt wouldn’t have filled in such details. He was no ‘mug’, either.

  Nick looked down at his clasped hands, and thought. But Swan’s still in there…

  He glanced up, and met Wyatt’s stare.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be putting in recommendations – with the report on the action – for honours and awards?’

  Surprise: suspicion… Wyatt thought he might be about to propose some decoration for himself! He went on, ‘Chief Petty Officer Swan, sir. Perhaps you’ll have included him already. But in case not – well, he was at that bulkhead in full awareness of the danger of it bursting. Even because of that.’

  'I’ll – consider your suggestion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  * * *

  Mr Gladwish, reclining in an armchair, looked up over his Daily Mail as Nick entered the wardroom.

  ‘There’s some mail for you, Number One.’

  ‘Good.’

  The gunner winked. ‘How was – ’ He jerked his head, towards the skipper’s cabin. Nick shrugged.

  ‘Much as one might have expected.’

  He was only just realizing what Wyatt had done: that he’d offered him a trade. Nick should keep his mouth shut about bulkheads and speed and so on, and in return for that he’d have Wyatt’s support and commendation.

  The mail was on the table, and there were three letters for him. One was a bill, from Gieves. Needn’t even open that one. On another he recognised his stepmother’s writing, and the third was from his uncle. His spirits rose immediately; those were the two people he liked to hear from.

  ‘Sherry please, Warburton.’ He sat down at the table, and ripped open his uncle’s letter first. ‘How about you, Guns?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Gladwish nodded. ‘Very civil of you… Plymouth an’ bitters, steward.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Rear-Admiral Hugh Everard had written from his cruiser flagship in Scapa Flow,

  I cannot tell you how pleased we have all been, and how delighted I am personally, by the news of your recent success in the Dover straits. Well done! Most refreshing, at a time when affairs seemed to be going less well down there. How splendid that it should have been your ‘Mackerel’ that has – let us hope – turned the tide. I congratulate you most heartily and look forward to your account of the action.

  From this northern fastness I have no excitements to report. Our weather has been some of the worst in living memory, and very trying for all concerned, particularly of course for the small fry. But we keep the seas, and our powder dry, and live in hopes that the Hun may one day poke his snout out of his earth again.

  I have been south only once since I saw you on leave at Mullbergh, and this time I did not visit the old place. Sarah has her hands full enough as it is, with her convalescents, and in any case I was obliged to spend some time in the vicinity of the Admiralty. I have had no word from, or news of, your father…

  When he’d finished reading it, he folded it and stuffed it in his pocket. He had a great affection and respect for his uncle – whose tales of the Navy, all through Nick’s childhood, had fired him with the ambition to go to sea. Admittedly there’d been a period, of some years’ duration, at Dartmouth as a cadet and later as a midshipman with the Grand Fleet when he’d been thoroughly disillusioned: his feeling had been that the Navy his uncle spoke of with such enthusiasm – Hugh Everard had never ceased to, in spite of the fact that it had once rejected him, virtually thrown him out – that this great Service he loved so deeply was the Navy of past years, changed now into something entirely different, while Hugh clung to his own image of it. Until Jutland, Nick had detested it. The Navy had seemed to be – well, all Wyatts, little ones and big ones; all pomp and humbug, dreary routine and self-importance, silly ritual. That described Dartmouth, all right, and it described a dreadnought’s gunroom too if you added a generous measure of sadistic bullying. But the other side of the coin, which Nick had first glimpsed at Jutland, was there as well. If the Wyatts and other distractions could be cleared away, leaving the view of the purer concept, what might be thought of as an up-dated Nelsonian view… Perhaps it could happen. Meanwhile one needed to keep it in mind and see past the Wyatts… Returning to Hugh Everard’s letter now: it was odd that he’d stayed away from Mullbergh. He and Sarah, Nick’s young stepmother, got on so well, so obviously liked each other. Nick, adoring Sarah and admiring his uncle, had always been happy to see their friendship. Because Sarah needed support, and because he was ashamed of his father’s treatment of her and glad Uncle Hugh existed as proof that not all Everards were brutes.

  Sarah had once said to him, ‘You’re so like your uncle!’ and he’d thought it was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

  He sipped his sherry, and read her letter eagerly.

  My dearest Nick. Such wonderful, exciting news of you and your magnificent Mackerels! I must hear all about it – write now, at once, if you have been so churlish as not to have done so by the time this reaches you. Better still – take some leave. COME HERE and thrill me with the details! I have absolutely no doubt that you yourself will have been wildly brave and dashing again; please PLEASE send or bring me news as soon as you are able!

  Life continues to be hectic here, now that we are a hospital-cum-convalescent home. I have an excuse, moreover – in fact dozens of them, some laid up and some hobbling about on crutches – to keep big fires blazing and warming this cold old place. It’s so good to feel it’s serving a useful purpose instead of just rotting away. Meanwhile I have heard from your father for the first time in two months; he tells me that he is well, has a new address and is commanding some training establishment which is also a remount depot. Alastair Kinloch-Stuart, whom you may remember meeting here and who is by chance in the district again – staying with the Ormsbys as it happens – tells me that it must be a riding school. Apparently officers are being commissioned now who do not know how to ride! One finds it difficult to imagine your father in such company – and one would certainly not wish to be one of his pupils!

  Nick skimmed through the rest of it: with the name and face of Captain (or was it Major?) Kinloch-Stuart sticking in his mind like grit. He’d arrived at Mullbergh for luncheon, one day when Nick had last been there on leave; he’d been supposed to be staying with friends nearby then too, and Sarah had int
roduced him as ‘an old friend from years ago’… A bit later, lunching with Uncle Hugh in London and short of news or subjects for conversation, he’d mentioned him, and Hugh Everard had bristled like a dog catching a whiff of cat: and then denied having even heard the man’s name before.

  Nick pushed Sarah’s letter into his pocket. Her phrases ‘by chance’ and ‘as it happens’ were mistakes, he thought. She’d overdone it. And she needn’t have mentioned the man at all: she must have wanted to, wanted to put it before his, Nick’s, eyes, to tell him something…

  He pulled the letter out, re-read that part of it. It was not, he told himself, any of his business. Nor were his assumptions necessarily correct. He was almost certainly doing Sarah a great injustice. Not that anyone could have blamed her, if she had—

  One knew nothing, so what was the point of brooding and conjecturing? Kinloch-Stuart was a Cameron Highlander, so far as he could remember. Might his hanging around Mullbergh explain Uncle Hugh’s staying away from the place? And what sort of appointment might the man hold that seemed to keep him almost permanently on leave, sponging on everyone in turn?