by Stuart Slade
Mullback looked over the water to where Hood was anchored. It was late evening and the last of the tourists would have left her by now. “I guess if we see her being recommissioned we’ll know something is really serious.”
“Doubt it. They’ve taken her screws off and the engine rooms have been opened up for tourists to gawp at. Now, if they commission the one behind her… “
Mullback laughed. The ‘one behind her’ was HMS Victory. “You’re right there Jock. If they recommission her, we’ll know times are desperate.”
“I’ve got a feeling they already are, Jerry; we just haven’t found out yet. You grab all the time with Sam you can, we’ll cover for you.” Baillie put on an effort to leer lecherously. “In exchange for copies of her better pictures, of course… “
HMS Hotspur, Alongside, Vickers Fitting Out Basin, Barrow
“She’s a big one, that’s for sure.” Able Seaman Johnson and his companions looked up at the ship towering over him.
“Makes the old Acorn look tiny, she does.” Leading Seaman Goldsteam was trying to spot his traditional station, starboard lookout, but the sleek superstructure didn’t seem to have watch positions.
“Look at those guns. Six-inchers just like the cruisers. Not a four-inch pop-gun.” Able Seaman Tunney was equally impressed, although he was trying not to show it. The rest of the draft from the old Acorn was spreading along the dockside to inspect their new home. Morale had been grim on the train up from Portsmouth. It always was when a crew were drafted from a decommissioning ship and had yet to reach their new home. Now, as their ship was before them, it was climbing again.
“I say, you chaps, stop dithering about down there. Fall in on the flight deck immediately.” Sub-Lieutenant Hargreaves’ voice echoed from the ship. In response, the draft picked up their sea bags and scurried up the gangplank that led to the rotodyne deck. To eyes accustomed to a tiny A-class destroyer that had never heard the beat of wings, the flight deck was a vast expanse, more than 60 feet across.
“Look at that Taffy.” Johnson jogged his friend’s elbow. “Two rotodynes.”
“Aye, and what’s the odds we’ll have to sleep in them.” Tunney grumbled. His pessimistic approach to everything had long ago earned him the nickname ‘Tragic,’ but life on the cramped Acorn had led to her crew having few expectations of comfort.
“Quieten down you men.” Hargreaves walked along the ranks of the draft, checking off each man on the roster to make sure that they were all present and accounted for. “Welcome to HMS Hotspur, the latest and finest addition to the fleet. We’re still completing and won’t commission for another six months, but that doesn’t mean we’ll have an easy time of it. The ship may be incomplete, but we have much work to do on board and we’ll have to do it while the yard men are still installing equipment. So we’ll need patience and tact as well as hard work. The mess decks are amongst those that still require additional work… “
“Told you we’d be sleeping in the hangar.” ‘Tragic’ Tunney whispered lugubriously.
“… but that doesn’t mean we’ll be sleeping in the hangar Able Seaman Tunney.” Hargreaves carried on as smoothly as if he’d never heard the remark. “As the first draft of the crew, your accommodation is complete and ready for you to occupy. Leading Seaman Goldsteam? Take the following seven men and proceed to this compartment.”
Hargreaves handed the Leading Seaman a compartment address and a list of seven names. Goldsteam was surprised to see Tunney, Johnson and five other seamen listed. All men on his watch and ones he got along well with. Hargreaves left him studying the list and picked out another Leading Seaman to receive a second list and compartment address. From the look on his face, he was pleased by the selection. It occurred to Goldsteam that somebody had been watching the draft on its way up and made out the lists according to the relationships between the men.
“Grab your kit, boys. Let’s find our new home.” Goldsteam lead the way into the hangar and down a deck. He could smell the distinctive “new ship” smell, a combination of fresh paint, raw metal and other odors that would, all too soon, be lost under the press of a crew living on board a warship. The ship was obviously incomplete. Cabling was hanging loose and there were timber structures every so often. He read the address again. The allocated compartment was forward but on this deck. Well, that didn’t seem too bad. He made his way forward and quickly found the allocated compartment. The hatch was open and he looked inside.
“This can’t be right.” For once he matched Tunney for pessimism. His party pressed forward and then stopped dead. The compartment had eight bunks, each with its own locker and an overhead light. They were fitted with curtains so that a man inside could draw them and give himself a little privacy - or darkness to sleep in when the life of the ship meant that sleep had to come at unusual hours. There were chairs in the compartment, simple ones it was true, but chairs none the less. There was even a table that could be folded up against the bulkhead.
“This must be for the awficers. Ain’t for the likes of us.” Able Seaman Oswald, known as ‘Orrible’ Oswald after an incident in a Portsmouth public house that had gained Acorn fame around the fleet, looked at the palace and shook his head.
“Hurry up and unload your kit men.” Hargreaves appeared behind them, checking that his men had found their compartment and were stowing their kit safely. “This is your little home from home now. I’ve doubt if you’ve eaten properly on the way up here so I’ve arranged for the messdeck to be open for the next hour. We have cafeteria-style messdecks here, so head along and get yourselves a good feed. It’s straight down there.”
Goldsteam watched the officer disappear through a watertight hatch on his way to another compartment. He’d misjudged the man. At first he’d thought he was an ineffectual fop but the way the men had been split up into groups that all got along well and then making sure hot meals were available for the hungry seamen proved that there was a good man beneath the pose. “Right lads, pick out your bunks, I’m claiming the lower one at the rear.”
There was some good-natured rivalry over the bunks. There were two tiers of three, one on each side of the compartment and a two-high tier at the rear. Eventually, when they were all sorted and their gear stowed in the lockers, he led them out and followed Hargreaves directions. Sure enough there was a cafeteria-style mess three compartments forward. He closed his eyes and tried to place himself on the ship. As far as he could make out, they were under the forward edge of the aft superstructure; probably just aft of the vertical-launch Seadart battery.
The mess was as impressive as their berthing compartment. Very clean of course; it was still brand new, but well lit and bright. Wonder of wonders, there was a choice of food: sausages or a Cornish Pasty, chips or mash. And no less than three desserts: treacle pudding, figgy duff or jam rolly-polly. The men filled their trays and sat down at one of the tables. Goldsteam noted that it was big enough for eight so that all the occupants of a berth could eat together. A lot of thought had gone into designing this ship.
“This is good!” Johnson’s comment came out mixed with sausage and mash, well lubricated with gravy.
“You should know Fatso.” Johnson was indeed a well-built man but the Navy had long ago given up trying to slim him down. ‘Orrible’ took a bite of his Cornish Pasty, expecting the usual paste of unidentifiable meat-like substance inside. To his surprise, there were chunks of real beef and recognizable vegetables. To complete the shock, the chips weren’t soggy. “You’re right, this is good. We’ve just got to be in the wrong Navy.”
“Can’t be a Septic ship boys. An ice-cream machine is nowhere to be seen.” It was an article of faith that no American ship went to sea unless its ice-cream machine had at least six flavors available.
There was a polite cough from behind the serving bar and one of the cooks pointed at a corner of the mess. Sure enough, there was an ice cream machine there. Small by the standards of an American ship perhaps, but none the less, an ice-cream machine.
“All right lads, we are in the Septic Navy somehow. Let’s make the best of it.”
The ratings finished their meal and cleared the table up, obeying the signs that told everybody to clear their tables and clean up after them. It was a small price to pay for a feast of this standard. On their way back to their berths, they met Sub-Lieutenant Hargreaves. Goldsteam snapped out his best salute. “Sir, we’d like to get to work. Where to start?”
Hargreaves thought for a second. “Follow me, we need to get the watch keeping equipment set up.” As he lead the way forward, he smiled to himself. Nothing like a good berth and a good feed to keep Jack happy.
HMS Collingwood, At Sea, North Atlantic
“All right men, settle down.” Captain Gregory Hooper looked around the cramped compartment. The nuclear-powered submarines were big, much larger than the diesel-electric boats they replaced, but there was little enough space in them. The Royal Navy had only eight of them. Three were now at sea, heading for the South Atlantic. The interesting thing was that if anybody cared to check, all three boats were somewhere else according to whatever records people could find. In fact, they were anywhere else other than on route for the South Atlantic.
The men in the compartment were also officially anywhere else. They were an elite squad, part of the Royal Marine Special Boat Service. The SBS had started its life doing beach reconnaissance for the invasion of Europe back in ‘47, slipping ashore to gather sand samples, measure gradients, plot exit routes from the beaches, all the things that planners had to know before selecting the ground for an amphibious assault. They’d had another function as well; striking fear into the hearts of the Germans guarding those beaches. That also, they had done; leaving Germans with cut throats in the darkness of the night. Since that time, they’d become the tip of the spearhead, the leading edge of any cross-shore operation. This particular unit had been specifically trained for operations in the bitter cold of the Arctic winter.
“What’s going on, Boss?”
“A very good question, Stokes, I didn’t know myself until just a few minutes ago. I actually had sealed orders, only to be opened when we were three days out. Well, three days after we got underway to the very minute, I opened up the envelope and found we’re on our way to South Georgia. Yippee, I thought, mint juleps, barbeques and southern belles all lusting after my body.”
A series of catcalls went around the compartment accompanied by some lurid suggestions. “Err, Boss, that’s Georgia. South Georgia is somewhere else.”
“No it isn’t, Sandy. I looked it up on the ship’s charts. South Georgia is nowhere. And I mean nowhere; it’s stuck out in the South Atlantic, so far from anywhere else that it doesn’t even have its own tax collector. It’s seriously nowhere. Its sole occupants are thirty-odd men from the British Antarctic Survey split between two stations and, get this, two women doing a television documentary on the island.”
“Two women for thirty-odd men. If they’re on the game, they’ll be making a
fortune.”
“Shut up, Harry. One of those girls is the daughter of a belted Earl.”
“That settles it then. She is on the game.” The occupants of the compartment broke out into song.
“It nearly broke her father’s heart
When Lady Jane became a tart
But blood is blood and race is race
And so to save the family’s face
Her father bought her a cosy retreat
On the shady side of Jermyn Street. “
“Quite. Now, let’s get serious shall we? The fact is there could be as many as forty British citizens on South Georgia and they’ve got just about one shotgun and a carving knife to defend themselves with.”
“Whose going to attack them, Boss?” The atmosphere had changed completely. Now, it was all business.
“We hope, nobody. We hope this could all be nothing. But, the Argies are on the move and it looks like their target is Chile. There’s a problem about that. The Septics don’t like people invading other people and they tend to get very nasty about it. Especially since they smile on Chile. So, Her Majesty’s Government believes that the Septics will warn the Argies off. Very emphatically. To give you some idea how seriously they take it, they’ve moved Ohio and North Dakota into the area and they’ve started B-70 overflights of Argieland. That’s warning off with a vengeance. Then, just to drive the point home, they’ve organized a naval regatta in Santiago with virtually every fleet in the world sending ships. So, do the math. You’re the Argie government, you’ve got the population psyched up for a war and suddenly you get warned off by nuclear-armed bombers and you haven’t got a friend in the world. What do you do?”
“Find somebody else to declare war on. Pronto. Somebody the Septics won’t object to. Us.”
“Right. The Pescadores business a few years back showed the Septics don’t mind people fighting over islands as long as it stays contained. They’ve even got a reasonable cause for action in the Falklands, but if they go there, they’ll go to South Georgia as well.”
“So we’re the South Georgia garrison.” Harry’s voice was thoughtful. “All, what, twenty of us?”
“All twenty of us.”
“But why? The Argies will start a war with us because the Septics warned them off Chile? Doesn’t make sense.” Another of the Marines, Curly, was puzzled.
“Oh yes it does. What’s every war about in the end? Money. Economics. Argieland is going broke big time. They need resources they can trade; that’s why they want Chile. All that copper you see. Now, there’s huge deposits of everything under Antarctica and, guess what guys, Antarctica is divided up between nations on the basis of how much of the surrounding ground they own. Specifically, how much of the baseline of the Antarctic Convergence they control. Argieland has a little slice, from its holding in Tierra del Fuego. Even occupying Chile won’t really change that, But measuring from those existing holdings to South Georgia puts a massive amount of Antarctica into their hands. And that’s worth a lot of money.”
“So, Argies attack us and we surrender. Where does that leave us?” The speaker’s voice was resigned.
“This time, I don’t think we will surrender.” Hooper looked around. “Just remember, Prime Minister Newton killed RAB Butler. Did it himself in an ambush. He won’t get caught out like poor old Winnie did. This time, we’re going to fight. And our little bit of that fight is South Georgia. So now we get the maps out and work out how.”
CHAPTER FOUR MOVEMENT ORDERS
Headquarters, Transvaal Rifles, South African Border.
“Do you know how much trouble you two idiots have caused?”
Standing at attention in front of the General’s desk, Captain Shumba Geldenhuys and Lieutenant Bastiaan van Huis exchanged glances. That was a question nobody could answer without hanging themselves. A studied silence was the only real option. Still, van Huis consoled himself, he was only a reservist and he still had his civilian career. Geldenhuys was different. He was a career officer and this affair could break him. Geldenhuys was a good man; he didn’t deserve this. Van Huis had already made his mind up that, worst came to worst, he’d make sure his Captain got a good job in van Huis Engineering. Wouldn’t be the same of course, but a man had to look after family.
“No excuses, Sir. My responsibility, my orders. Lieutenant van Huis was simply obeying my orders.” Geldenhuys was emphatic on that point.
“So your report said. And the women riding on your vehicles?”
“Some were pregnant, Sir; some were sick. Only way to get them out before the militia came back.”
“You shouldn’t have been trying to get them out at all.”
“Respectfully Sir, I disagree Sir. It was a matter of honor, Sir.” Geldenhuys spoke but van Huis nodded emphatically.
General Brock shook his head. Secretly he sympathized with the two young officers. In their place he would have done the same thing. “I suppose you know there was trouble at the new village this morning
?”
It felt like a punch to the stomach and van Huis almost visibly gasped. “Sir?”
“Some newspapermen went in there, got past the security fence somehow and tried to get the villagers to tell them how you had forced them to leave. The villagers attacked them, quite vigorously so I am told. It’s lucky for you that the first newspaper reports caused the Irish to send an investigation committee on a ‘fact finding mission’. If their members hadn’t been there, it might have gone badly for the press. As it was, the Commissioners laid on the Irish charm and cooled the whole thing down. Lucky for you they did. By the way, their report tends to exonerate you two of any responsibility for the evacuation of the villagers. ‘Best choice from a bad range of options’ was their conclusion. You two can’t stay on the border though. We’ll have to find somewhere else for you.”
There was a profound silence as their General’s words sank in. At first relief that the inquiry was running in their favor, then a terrible suspicion as to what he had planned for them.
“Oh no, Sir. Not the International Zone Garrison.” Van Huis got the dreaded words out. The International Zone, in what had once been Egypt, was a feared posting. Tiny, isolated cantonments in the Nile Valley around the antiquities and one in Gaza as a refugee staging point, surrounded by a hate-filled and resentful enemy that savored the chance of over-running what they regarded as abominations. Most communications were by tactical transport aircrafts, usually Australian Pelicans, although the Nile Valley garrisons were connected by rail and by truck convoys. The tiny zones were a perfect breeding ground for what the French had called “Le Cafard,” the desert madness born of depression, boredom and loneliness. A place where there was nothing to do all day but try and fit bits of the Sphinx together. It was rumored that sometimes, South African units got out for short forays into Caliphate held territory but such penetrations were top secret and officially denied. Just as it was denied that some of those missions, if they had ever taken place of course, had failed to come back.
