A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  Before Mr Royce could make a similarly casual remark, he heard his wife’s voice, with the merest quaver in it, and he steeled himself.

  “Tell me quite truthfully,” she said quietly. “Does it seem that we—that Clive—” She faltered and stopped.

  Emberson and Murray exchanged quick glances.

  “Now just you stop worrying.”

  His assurances were halted by the sudden entrance of the Surgeon-Commander, and both the officers stood to attention.

  “I’m Commander Lloyd, and I’m very glad you got here all right,” he said gruffly. “Now just come along and see your boy and then we’ll fix you up with a real unrationed dinner.”

  Without speaking, they hurried down the bare corridors to the private ward.

  As the Commander reached for the handle, the door was wrenched open, and he nearly collided with the sister.

  “Where are you going?” he hissed. “What’s happening?”

  Mrs Royce felt faint, and held her husband’s arm, watching the sister’s face, who was clearly put off her guard.

  “It’s all right, these are his parents,” barked Lloyd, trying to conceal his fears.

  “It’s the young officer, sir,” she stammered, glancing from one to the other. “He spoke to me!”

  “Good God! Did he?” and the bulky Commander pushed past her, closely followed by the others.

  Mrs Royce let out a soft cry as she saw the figure in the bed, but the doctor paid no heed to either of them until he had finished his examination. Eventually he drew himself up, and let out a great sigh.

  “Your son,” he said slowly, “has done the impossible. He has, in fact, turned the corner quite safely.” He turned to the door. “You may sit here for ten minutes; I’ll arrange for your meal. Come with me, sister.” The door closed.

  An ambulance drove noisily up the gravel approach to the hospital, and somewhere in the far distance sounded the wail of an air-raid siren, but in that small room, at that moment, there was complete peace.

  When the sister returned, she found them still sitting there, and with a great smile she laid a tray of tea at the bedside.

  “Thought you might like a nice cup of tea to be going on with.”

  Mrs Royce’s eyes shone. “Bless you for taking so much trouble. Could you please tell me what he said to you?”

  The sister paused, puckering her brow.

  “Well, I was just sitting there by the window, when I heard him move, so I went over. As I reached him, he opened his eyes and looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Are the others all right?’ So I said, ‘Yes’ or something, and he smiled at me, and sort of relaxed. You know the rest.”

  “My poor Clive, his face looks so thin.”

  “Don’t you worry. Commander Lloyd says it’s going to be just fine.”

  “By the way,” Mr Royce’s voice was a little unsteady. “What did happen to ‘the others’?”

  The sister busied herself noisily with the cups. “There were only eight survivors, I’m afraid.”

  Reluctantly, they had to go, and after an enormous meal, which they scarcely noticed, they were taken to a room in the annexe, where, for the first time since receiving the telegram, they slept.

  The following morning was bright and crisp, with a keen, steady breeze sweeping the estuary into a million tiny white-caps. The sky was, for once, completely clear, a fine if rather hard blue. The vessels tugged impatiently at their cables, as if to jerk their crews awake for such a refreshing day, and already from countless galley funnels, faint wisps of smoke, and mixed aromas of frying bacon or utility sausages, blended invitingly with the more prevalent ship odours of oil and men. The preparative flag mounted the gaff of the port signal tower, two minutes to Colours, and on the newly swept and scrubbed quarter-decks, the signalmen waited to hoist their ensigns, so that another naval day could be officially started. One minute later, Royce opened his eyes, and slowly, very slowly, his brain and senses battled to find some common understanding. At first he had the impression that he was suspended in space, a feeling of unreality and disem-bodied detachment deprived him of any sort of realization. There was only a bright haze surrounding him, no feeling yet of self-possession, or in fact, the will to bring himself back to his real world, so recently a world of torment.

  Out on the vast parade ground of HMS Ganges, an unknown boy bugler was to start the wheels turning once more, was to give Royce his cue, his reintroduction to the land of the living. The bugler raised his shining instrument, and moistened his lips. The Officer-of-the-Day roared hoarsely, “Make it so!” and as the gleaming flag mounted the mast, the strident notes rang out round the sombre buildings, causing the dozing gulls to rise in squawking protest, and echoing and ebbing until they eventually penetrated the subconscious barrier of Royce’s mind.

  He squinted, closed his dry lips, and tried to move, and as the stab of pain lanced his back, he became, in that split second, fully aware of everything but his surroundings. At first, he was filled with fear, and then curiosity, as he painfully twisted his head towards the source of the light, where, sitting by the window with her head nodding, he saw a nurse. So he had made it. The very effort of trying to marshal his thoughts made him weak, but silently he struggled back over a period of blankness, until he saw with sudden clarity the enemy ship. It was so real that it seemed to shut out the light, to fill the room. He felt his body go clammy; it was the first time he had really noticed the presence of his limbs, and he tried to move his legs. He could not. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, holding his breath and contracting his stomach muscles with the effort. Little red and green dots jumped lightly before his eyes, and he lay back gasping, while in the back of his head a hammer began to pound mercilessly. So this was it; someone had rescued him, but for what? To be a helpless cripple? He shut his eyes tightly, and bit his lip to prevent a whimper of self-pity. Even his arms refused to rise above the sheets, and a surge of sudden panic made him fling his head from side to side on the pillow, each movement making the pain worse, until eventually he heard himself cry out, a sort of gurgle. Instantly, there was a patter of footsteps, and a cool hand pressed gently but firmly across his brow, and with it came a peculiar feeling of security. He stared up at the concerned grey eyes, and was dimly aware of a smell of soap, and the squeak of starch in the white uniform. He opened his lips, which felt like old leather, and tried again.

  “Where am I?” He halted, frightened. Surely that wasn’t his voice? It was too high, too cracked.

  He cleared his throat, and felt the taste of petrol. Instantly, as if sparked by an explosion in his mind, the terrible memories came flooding back, tumbling over themselves, in wild and horrible confusion. Crackling flames, gunfire, and rushing water tore round within his brain, like a symphony from hell, with a background of screams, some of which were his own.

  How long this paroxysm lasted he didn’t know; he only became dimly aware of strong hands holding him, and soothing voices, soft, yet persistent.

  He lay limp and quiet, his mind dead once more, until one of the voices penetrated and held him in its grasp. “Now come on, old fellow, wakey wakey, it’s high time you sat up and took a little nourishment!”

  Frantically Royce gathered himself together, and found himself looking into the heavy, confident face of the surgeon. “Sorry, sir, everything went a bit rocky,” he stammered. “But I feel a lot better now.” As he said that, he really did feel a surge of life pulsate through him, and he tried to smile.

  “Well now, since you’ve decided to stay with us, you’d better hear what’s wrong with you.” He raised one hand hastily, as Royce flinched. “Now don’t get worried, I promise you that you’ll be all right and about again in a few weeks. Provided you’re a good boy of course. Just the odd burn, and a scratch or two; you’ve been very lucky. Comparatively speaking that is,” he added with a broad smile.

  The surgeon’s matter-of-fact manner began to have the desired effect. All the perfectly normal service catch-phr
ases and casual slang made Royce feel more at ease, and he found himself thinking of things and happenings outside his own personal torment.

  “Tell me, sir,” his voice was quiet and tense. “How did I get here? Are the others safe?”

  The big figure settled itself comfortably on the edge of the bed, and slowly and carefully the surgeon retold the story of Raikes’s gallant rescue, of the destroyer’s arrival on the scene just at the right moment, and lastly he came to the piece that he could personally vouch for, the survivors’ arrival at the hospital.

  Royce listened with amazement. It seemed impossible now that he had ever been involved in such happenings, let alone been the principal character. The other man’s voice stopped, but Royce knew that he must have omitted much, just to spare him. He smiled grimly. “And there were only eight of us left, you say? Are they getting on all right now?”

  “Fine! Why you’re the only one who’s caused any panic so far, so you just think about getting better, and going on some leave! Besides, we need your bed!”

  Royce lay back, and for the first time he felt relaxed, his worst fears had been dispelled. He had been tested, and he had made it.

  In his opinion, the next three hours of his new-found life were the most difficult, when with his parents sitting by his side, he tried desperately to make light of all his experiences, and to prevent his mother from taking complete control from the sister, who smiled at some of her suggestions, which made Royce blush with embarrassment. Eventually they had to go, and he felt suddenly tired and weak, as his mother lingered by the bed, watching him anxiously.

  “The doctor says you’ll be able to come home soon,” she said. “So look after yourself, my dear, and don’t worry about not being able to write to us. We’ll send you some things to replace the ones you have lost.”

  Royce looked down at his heavily bandaged hands. The thought of not being able to do all the usual little jobs, writing, shaving, filling a pipe, or even opening a door, had not occurred to him.

  Mr Royce saw the look of dismay on his son’s face. “We’ll be off now, Clive. It was grand to see you again. Your mother and I are proud of you.”

  “Proud? I did what I had to do, Dad.” His voice, too, was getting weaker.

  “Now you get some rest; we’re off to get that train, and start getting the house ready for you.”

  As they stood looking back from the open door, he cleared his throat. “Yes, proud, that’s what I said. We saw two of your officers this morning. They told us everything. Cheerio, son.”

  The sister immediately took charge again, straightening the blankets, and making him comfortable, in the manner of nurses the world over, muttering dark threats, and grumbling at her patient. Unfortunately, it was not difficult for anyone to see she adored her latest patient, as the surgeon pointed out.

  The days which followed were difficult for Royce, cut off from the life he knew and trusted, and constantly forced to endure the pain and discomfort of his injuries, and their treatment. He was not allowed any visitors, for fear that too much conversation would weaken him, but the letters and messages of good wishes and congratulations which had poured in from the Royston moved him beyond words.

  The one exception to the rule was Raikes, who had been so persistent, and who had kept up his stream of inquiries to such a degree, that he was permitted to sit in the room for most of the afternoon, provided he didn’t make Royce too excited. It worked beautifully, and most of the time the two men were quite content to sit and lie in silence, each sharing the richness of comradeship and achievement.

  At the end of the first week, their little routine was interrupted by the sweeping entrance of the matron, in a high state of excitement, an unusual occurrence for that particular pillar of strength.

  “Good Heavens alive!” she boomed, her starched cuffs waving. “This place is a pigsty; it won’t do at all!” She then proceeded to readjust every article in sight, until it seemed to be to her liking, although to everybody else the room looked just as usual, spotless.

  Royce creaked his head round on the pillow, in the way he had now perfected.

  “What’s up, Matron? The Admiral coming?”

  She shook her finger at him, frowning. “Now, how did you know? I only knew myself ten minutes ago!”

  Royce paled. “You mean an admiral really is coming? To see me?”

  “He certainly is.” She consulted a tiny watch on her plump wrist. “And he should be here any minute.”

  Raikes stood up, his eyes shining. “Well, sir, I’m sorry to say this, but I’m desertin’ you this time. Admirals aren’t in my line!” And with a wicked grin he vanished.

  “Phew, what’s gone wrong now, I wonder,” he muttered, staring hard at the ceiling. “Surely they’re not going to put me through it again.”

  Vice-Admiral Sir John Marsh, Flag Officer in Charge of the base, was a small, unassuming figure, so that many persons had been shattered by his unexpectedly forthright, and often harsh, manner. And as he stepped lightly into the small room his sleeves ablaze with gold lace, his sharp eyes darting round, Royce could almost feel the energy given off by this miniature volcano. The Admiral wasted no time.

  “My boy, I’m pleased to meet you,” he barked. “I expect I’ll be seeing more of you later, but right now I have to get on with the war.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Royce lamely.

  “However, I wanted to tell you personally, that I think you’ve done a grand job. A really fine piece of work.”

  “But it was only a trawler, sir, I—”

  “I know what happened, and I know what you did, exactly.”

  “What the Admiral means,”—Royce became aware that the Admiral’s languid Flag Lieutenant, a very overworked young man, was hovering at the rear—“is that some award—”

  “Shut up, you fool,” snapped the other testily. “What I mean is that you have been recommended for the Distinguished Service Cross. Suit you?”

  Royce stuttered. “Suit me, sir?” he gasped. “I’m so, so . . .” He struggled for words. “I just don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

  “I’m thanking you, Royce. Now I have to be off, but we shall meet again soon. Come, Roberts.”

  The door swung behind them.

  “Did you hear that, Matron, or am I dreaming?”

  “Yes, but you don’t deserve it. Look at your dressings; keep your head still!”

  But before she bustled out she gave him a little hug.

  So regular and efficiently planned is hospital life and routine, that even small things become highlights in the patient’s life, and Royce found himself becoming more and more restless, as his strength increased, and he eagerly looked forward to any unusual happening, such as his somewhat dangerous shave, which an attractive, if inexperienced, V.A.D. gave him every other day. Or the re-making and changing of sheets, when the whole operation was completed without moving the patient. Quite an extraordinary feat. And finally, after the doctor’s casual permission, the day when he was allowed to get up. Gingerly, he eased his feet into his slippers, and lurched to an upright position—at least that was what he had planned. But for the ever-vigilant sister, he would have fallen. He was quite determined, however, and step by step, he wobbled to the window, his sore limbs and bandages giving him a weird top-heavy feeling.

  If the journey was painful, the reward was great. As he stood, breathing jerkily, and leaning one shoulder against the wall, he saw the whole harbour laid out like a shimmering chart before him, and once more he felt at home, reassured. For a whole hour, despite the sister’s threats, he stood eagerly drinking in every detail, and studying every vessel in sight, trying to follow the many activities of the bustling harbour craft, and the ponderous cranes lining the busy jetties. He felt more determined than ever to leave the hospital in record time, especially as all the others had already been released, and had gone on leave. Raikes had seemed almost reluctant to leave him, but he too had now left. Royce smiled inwardly. Good old Raikes, thank
God he was going to get a D.S.M. for his selfless bravery.

  He laughed aloud when he remembered his last letter from Benjy Watson, for even though it was a little exaggerated, and rather colourful, it seemed certain that Kirby was not just a little displeased by Royce’s good fortune. But the mood passed, when he remembered the others who had been less fortunate.

  Emberson visited him as often as his exacting duties permitted, and kept him fully informed of the local flotillas’ activities and sorties against the enemy, and whenever possible he brought him brief items of news about his own boats, or of Benjy’s latest episode.

  “You got the other stripe, a D.S.C., and a reputation,” he drawled, his lined young face breaking into a warm smile, “so I think you’re booked for that command. Don’t scoff, my lad, you wait and see.”

  “Oh stop, Artie, you’re driving me up the wall,” laughed Royce. “Don’t you know what it’s like to be cooped up in here with all this”—he waved his arm towards the harbour— “going on just under my nose.”

  Emberson regarded him thoughtfully for a while. “Tell you what, Clive, come down to my boat next week; we’ll have a wee party. Nothing vast, of course, your doc wouldn’t like it.”

  “Could I? Will they let me?”

  “You leave it to me, old friend. It’d be a sort of recuperative holiday, a health-cure, in fact. After all, nothing’s too good for a wounded hero!”

  Royce almost danced. “If you can fix that, I’ll pay for the party!” he laughed gaily.

  He could think of nothing else, and even when they removed his head bandages, and he saw the bare patches where his scalp had been neatly repaired, he merely remarked, “It’ll soon grow again.”

  Eventually the day of the promised outing arrived, and as he stood by the Wardmaster’s office, where that harassed individual struggled with the vast amount of paperwork required of a hospital at war, he felt rather like a small boy who, having recovered from mumps, is about to take his first glimpse of the outside world.

  “I dunno what the Commander’s thinking of, letting you go gallivanting off into the town like this. It’ll be downright bad for morale, that it will!”