Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  Two orderlies and a large, round nurse that Cole took to be the infamous Noonan appeared to take Dickie off to X-ray.

  “Wait for me, will you, Jordan? It gets terribly lonely here.”

  “Sure. How long?”

  Dickie looked at Noonan for an answer.

  Noonan nailed Cole with a defiant glare. “Well, it won’t be five minutes, I can tell you that. We don’t run St. Elias just to make you sailor boys happy. Forty-five minutes and not a second less, and if we’re stacked up like we were yesterday, it’ll take as long as it takes.”

  Dickie rolled his eyes and said, “There’s a lovely little square just to the rear of the hospital. Go and have a quiet smoke and then come and see me.” Dickie quickly cupped his hand and brought it to his mouth several times, flashing a ridiculous grin.

  Cole smiled and nodded. He left the hospital and found a small store run by an ancient man that sold spirits. He bought an overpriced bottle of gin that the storekeeper grudgingly slipped into a paper bag, after examining his ration coupon. “Most don’t have need of a bag. They just slip it under their arm and go about their business,” he said, fixing Cole with a cold eye.

  Cole found the square that Dickie mentioned, a carefully tended patch of grass and shrubs around a ring of wrought-iron benches, and sat down, glancing at his watch. At least a half hour to kill before Dickie was safely returned to his room. He was just lighting a cigarette when he saw her enter the square. “Rebecca?” he called out. “Mrs. Blair?”

  She stopped, puzzled. Then she realized who had called to her and walked toward him.

  “Lieutenant Cole, is it?” There was that voice again.

  “Yes,” Cole said, standing as she approached. “Dickie’s friend. Are you playing hooky?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry,” Cole said. “It’s an American expression. When you skip school. Please, join me.”

  “Oh,” she said, smiling. “I see. No, I’m not playing hooky, but I should like to very much. I’ve worked my first eight and I have an entire thirty minutes before I start my second.”

  “Sixteen hours?” Cole whistled.

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve never worked those sorts of hours.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, “I have but—”

  “You think it’s different somehow because I’m a woman?” she said without malice. “Is that it?”

  “How do I get out of this?” Cole said playfully.

  “Raise your right hand,” Rebecca said. She waited until Cole did and then she said, “I faithfully promise never to underrate women as a class and any woman that I meet, so help me God. Say it.”

  “I faithfully promise,” Cole returned with a smile. “Coming from you, that doesn’t seem like such a difficult promise to uphold.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks tinged red with embarrassment. She fumbled for a cigarette.

  “You really care about those guys in there,” he said, trying to ease the awkwardness that he had created. “It’s not just a job with you.”

  “Sometimes I wish that it were,” she said, taking a light from Cole. “Before the war it could be rough at times, but this …” She stopped and shook her head.

  Cole knew immediately that she was overwhelmed. He saw her immersed in a world of death and suffering, and then he thought how trite the two words sounded, linked to describe the horror that she must see every day.

  “Rough?” Cole said because he could think of nothing else and because he wanted her to continue talking.

  She chuckled dryly and he sensed the worn condition of her soul. “Rough. Yes, that’s it. I often go home and have a good cry.” She dropped the cigarette at her feet and looked at him, making a valiant attempt to mask her pain. “Anymore, that doesn’t seem to be enough. Sometimes there are simply no tears left.” She wasn’t embarrassed about her emotions, that she felt so much of what she saw. “What about you, Lieutenant Cole? Have you seen the effects of war, firsthand?”

  “No,” he said. “Not really. I’ve seen what everyone else has seen, I guess. The destruction. I’ve seen dead people laid out on the sidewalk. I just control my emotions.”

  She smiled in wonderment. “Control your emotions? How does one do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Just something that I learned as a kid. Keep an even keel.” It was his turn to smile, watching her eyes respond to his words. “Why? Don’t tell me you let everything get to you. If you do that, Rebecca, you’re going to end up a basket case.” He thought calling her by her first name sounded natural.

  “Basket … ?”

  “Nuts.”

  “I should think it would be the other way around, Jordan.”

  When she said his name it was as if he were hearing someone else say it for the first time. He berated himself for acting like a child, for letting his feelings run away with him. But it felt wonderful, somehow, her soft voice speaking his name. He tried to calm his emotions.

  “I suppose that I should be going,” she said.

  “Don’t you have a few more minutes?” he pleaded carelessly.

  She stood and looked down at him, smiling. “I cannot run in these silly shoes and I must not be late. Noonan, you know.”

  “Can I walk with you?” He held up the bottle. “I’ve got to see Dickie anyway.”

  “I shouldn’t let Noonan see that,” Rebecca said. “Regulations state that I must inform the head nurse of all irregularities.”

  “Can you be bribed?”

  “Do you have an extra pair of silk stockings?”

  Cole laughed and began to walk with Rebecca, feeling her presence at his side. Silk stockings were nearly impossible to obtain, except through the black market, and even then they cost most people nearly a week’s wages.

  “Is your wife here with you?” she asked as he basked in the warmth of the weather and the comfort of having her nearby.

  “No,” he said. “I mean I’m not married. Engaged once but it didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. As they walked Cole felt suddenly very protective of her. He wanted to put his arm around her small shoulders and draw her close to him so that nothing could harm her. He folded his arms clumsily behind his back, fighting back the impulse.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “Better to find out before the marriage than after it.”

  They walked slowly, neither in a hurry to part—their pace evenly matched despite their difference in height.

  “That’s an oddly detached way of putting it. Almost clinical, in fact,” she said.

  “Nothing else to it.”

  “Who … ?” she began and then quickly added, “Oh, now I’m being much too nosey.”

  “She did,” Cole said. Ruth was taller than Rebecca, her hair much darker and her eyes equally as dark. Overbearing, Cole had reported to his friends, but that was his excuse. You never talk, she had said to him, you never tell me what you’re thinking. What you’re really thinking. Nothing, Cole responded most of the time, brooding over her attempts to intrude on his thoughts, on the feelings that he so carefully tended and cultivated until they were stunted and withered. “Funny,” he said. “That’s the first time I ever told anyone the truth about my engagement.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said. “I’m sure the parting was very painful.”

  “No,” Cole lied as he felt Rebecca’s caring eyes examining him. “It wasn’t.”

  Chapter 5

  Aboard H.M.S. Firedancer, escorting Convoy EBX-740, the North Sea

  Captain George Hardy was blinded as the detonation destroyed his night vision and devoured the darkness. An instant later the shock wave from the exploding freighter shook Firedancer viciously. Flaming debris shot crazily into the air, fantastically graceful arcs of fire that ended abruptly in the coal-black North Atlantic.

  Hardy clapped the 7x50 Barr and Stroud binoculars to his eyes, straining to make out the dying vessel across the columns of the convoy.

&
nbsp; “Bridge, W.T. Bridge, W.T.,” the wireless/telegrapher operator called through one of the brass voice tubes banded together on Firedancer’s tiny bridge.

  Lieutenant George Land, number one of Firedancer, pulled one flap up of the Russian sealskin helmet. He had been feeling sorry for himself because he was tired and cold, and the oil-skinned duffel, overcoat, oilskins, scarves, balaclavas, and that damned helmet didn’t help keep the frigid air of the North Atlantic from stealing into his body. All that was gone now. Men were dying out there.

  “Bridge, W.T. What is it?”

  “Merchant ship Mecoy struck by torpedo. Requests immediate assistance.”

  Hardy, his grim features frozen in the phosphorescent glow of the emergency action station switch, shot Land a glance before the officer could speak. “We do not leave this station, Number One, until ordered to do so. Has he heard from Captain D?”

  Land leaned into the voice tube. “W.T. Bridge. Have you any orders from Captain D?” The captain in command of the destroyer flotilla would have to give them permission to abandon their station and precede either to the assistance of the Mecoy, or to hunt for the U-boat.

  “Nothing, sir,” W.T. replied.

  Land looked at Hardy, who merely turned away. “Right,” Land said softly into the tube. How heartless could the man be? Couldn’t he signal Captain D and request permission to leave his station and go help those poor bastards on the Mecoy? They couldn’t last more than a minute or two in the freezing water.

  Another blast tore the darkness far on the port beam of H.M.S. Firedancer. Land found that he could not help himself; his eyes were drawn to the bright death that glowed seductively in the night. He noticed Hardy watching as well and wondered what the man must be thinking.

  “St. Luke, Number One, chapter fifteen, verse four,” Hardy said into the darkness, but it was obviously meant for Number One. “‘What man of you having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the other ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost until he find it?’” Hardy adjusted his duffel and pulled his scarf tight around his neck. “Well? Are you that type of officer?”

  “Bridge, W.T. St. John struck by a torpedo. Captain D advises he expects an attack in Firedancer’s quadrant.”

  Hardy leaned over the voice tube, his eyes still on Land. “Reply, ‘Signal acknowledged. Standing by.’ Well, Number One. I see by your silence that you have not made a decision. ‘Indecision’ is not good enough out here. ‘Indecision,’” Hardy added, “kills sailors and sinks ships.”

  Land felt warmth spread over him despite the cold as he fought back his anger. There were times when he found Hardy tolerable and once or twice he actually enjoyed the man’s company. There were other times, most of the time in fact, when he couldn’t stand to be around the sharp-tongued, ill-mannered officer.

  Hardy slid the binoculars to his eyes again and said, “We’ll speak about it again when you do know how to make decisions.”

  Chief Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Sandy Baird, standing next to the MK 1 Depth Charge Rail sandwiched between the two TSDS Davits at Firedancer’s stern, removed his gloves, blew on his fingertips, and examined the fuses in the six depth charges. His shivering crew, bundled in every bit of clothing that they owned so that they looked more like a band of unemployed dock workers than sailors of the Royal Navy, stood near him, awaiting orders. “‘The Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty hereby appoint you captain of His Majesty’s Ship Firedancer and direct you to repair on board that ship.’” He slipped on his gloves. “Now of course,” he continued, as the men around him tried to rub some warmth into their torsos, “everyone bloody well knows that you’ve got a case of the shakes. And everyone bloody well knows that your Jimmy the One—”

  Another explosion racked the St. John, and Baird’s eyes narrowed in hatred as he watched the flames roll into the darkness. “That your Jimmy the One,” he continued, using lower-deck slang for Number One, “is sailing ‘two balls at the yardarm.’”

  “What’s—” Seaman Tommy Blessing began.

  “‘Not under control,’” Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Engleman said. “Sandy there knows all there is to know about our officers, Sandy does. Ain’t that right, Sandy?”

  “Young Seaman Tommy has a right to know,” Baird said. “It wasn’t long ago that the lad was just a boy seaman straight off of H.M.S. Ganges, and God bless all that sailed on her.”

  “You men,” Sublieutenant Morrison said, “quit your loafing and make ready in case we’re called in.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Baird said sharply, and then watched as Morrison made his way along the starboard gangway to the Y-throwers. “Lord Nelson himself come back to life.”

  “Sandy’s never had a kind word for anyone,” Engleman said to Blessing. “How he’s managed to stay chief torps this long is a mystery. Every P. R. O. in Andrews wants a short talk in a dark room with Torps Baird. Enemies he’s got all right. Thirty years of them.”

  The deck telephone rang three times in quick succession. Sublieutenant Morrison slid back along the icy deck and barely stopped himself long enough to pick up the receiver.

  “Depth Charge, Morrison.”

  Baird felt a change in the timbre of the ship’s engines and a slight list to starboard as Firedancer changed course. He smiled at the others and gave them a thumbs-up. They were going after U-boats now.

  Morrison laid the receiver down on the cradle, his face strangely white and pinched with fatigue. He was afraid, Baird knew, maybe not afraid of the enemy or even death, but chances there was some of that for sure. He was afraid of not doing his job and doing it properly—he was afraid of letting his chaps down. Ah, he’s a boy, Baird told himself in a brief moment of understanding, but then the chief torps realized the truth of the matter: there was no place for boys in this business. They came to Andrews all proper and polished, stiff with loyal indignation and clear faces and pressed uniforms. Boys, just boys.

  “Depth Charge Party, close up!” Morrison shouted, trying to sound brave. “Captain’s orders. Spread of six at his command. Depth, 150 feet. Baird, see to it. I’ll notify the Y-mounts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Baird said, digging into his duffel and pulling out the depth-charge-setting key that hung from a chain around his neck. “All right, chaps. Remove the blocks.” Wooden blocks were used to wedge the fuses in place prior to dropping the charges. It prevented premature explosion of the squat drums packed with three hundred pounds of TNT. When that happened it would be a brush and shovel job. If the explosion didn’t sink the ship, that would be the only way to retrieve the bloody pieces of the men’s bodies from the scorched and twisted stern of a smoldering hulk.

  Baird knelt down, inserted the key into the tumbler, and dialed 150 feet. When he stood he noticed the others watching him nervously. They’d never been in battle before. Most where Hostilities Only and they depended on the leadership, wisdom, and just the physical presence of Active Service men like Baird, Engleman, and the others. Even Jimmy the One and Morrison were H.O. And Hardy? Hardy was Active Service and had come out of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, but there were too many questions about him. It was said that he’d taken a corvette into some French port and had it out with German tanks but then his nerves began to fail him. No one could say for sure that’s what happened, but the fact that it was even reason for talk belowdecks over a steaming hot cup of kye was cause for concern. Baird and his chaps could forgive anything except a man on the bridge that they did not respect.

  Baird forced himself to laugh. “Is it a wake you’re going to? Why, we’ll have this over in no time and then it’s Splice the Main Brace. Rum is bound to make anyone feel better. Even our own Lord Nelson.”

  Firedancer rolled to starboard again and the deck danced beneath their feet as the engines increased. Then there was a quick turn to port and another shift to starboard.

  “Well,” Baird said loudly with a confidence that he did not feel, “the old man has found somethin
g, all right. Maybe old George is a proper seaman, after all.”

  There was an explosion a thousand yards on the starboard bow and Baird watched with amazement as a tanker disintegrated in a mass of flames. He could think of nothing else except the word volcano, although he’d never seen one or even a moving picture of one, but he’d heard talk of them and they must surely look like this. The fire was alive and feeding on the ship as if it had been imprisoned at one time within the ship’s hull and now suddenly let loose and wanted to destroy with a vengeance the thing that held it captive. It rolled and licked and boiled high into the air, over the deck and superstructure, and dripped from the ship’s scuppers into the inky water. This must be hell.

  The telephone rang again and Morrison was at it in an instant.

  “Depth Charge Station, Morrison.”

  The others waited, watching for any hint of action from Morrison’s face.

  The tanker continued to explode, showering the surrounding sea with flame.

  “God help those poor sailors,” Baird heard Engleman whisper. He turned his attention back to Morrison. He could see the telephone receiver tremble in the young officer’s hand.

  “Yes, sir. Right, sir. We’re ready, sir.” Morrison’s eyes found Baird’s in an unspoken plea.

  Baird turned quickly. “All right, you Jack-my-Hearties, stand by. Smartly now or it’s over the side with the depth charges you go. When these splash I want six more on the rack faster than you can light a Woodbine.” He made sure that his crew was in place before turning back to Morrison. The officer replied with a tiny nod, or perhaps it was nothing more than a tremble. Suddenly his hand tightened on the receiver.

  “Yes, sir,” he said and then raised his arm and shouted to the crew. “On my mark!” Baird gripped the gate release handle and rested his foot on the gate lock pedal.

  “Now!” Morrison shouted.

  Baird stomped on the pedal and jerked the lever back. The gate flew open and depth charges began to roll out of the rack. He heard the sharp crash of the port and starboard Y-throwers as the charges propelled the depth charges far away from Firedancer and into the darkness. The depth charges at his feet clattered down the track, a tiny train in motion, and suddenly they were gone. He knew that somewhere in the darkness below him they sank innocently, indifferent to the cold.