Royce looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall, and smiled ruefully. He certainly was a weird sight, with his loose, blue hospital overall, and scuffed battledress trousers. Even if his new uniform had been ready for him, he would have been unable to encase his bandaged arms in the sleeves, while his healing body would certainly have taken unkindly to any sort of stiff jacket. He was even more appalled by his face. All youth seemed to have been drained from it, and left instead a haggard, almost shrunken imitation of its former self. The eyebrows had not yet fully grown, and his forehead still bore the angry marks of the fire’s caress. The crudely clipped hair was disguised and held in place by a brand-new cap, with glittering badge, which he had purchased for the occasion, and now seemed to accentuate and magnify his wild appearance.
“Well, I’m going anyway,” he said firmly. “I look dead already, and I will be if I stop here much longer.”
A taxi stood ticking over in the driveway, and the driver thrust his head out of the window. “’Ere y’re, sir, Commander Emberson told me ter pick yer up and deliver yer safe to ’im.”
Royce grinned, and levered himself into the back seat, and with a roar they were off.
Whether it was the jolting of the cab, or the excitement of being out again and still alive, or whether it was just the fact that he did not fully realize the inner extent of his injuries, he could not say, but after about ten minutes he was hanging on to the side-straps, and swallowing hard, to prevent himself from being violently sick. The aged driver had been watching him in the driving mirror and suddenly stopped the cab.
“I think I’d better be taking yer back. It don’t do no good to kill yerself like this.”
Royce didn’t trust his voice, but shook his head vigorously, and painfully scrambled out on to the pavement. “I’ll be okay, but I think I’ll walk for a bit; you just follow me up, if you don’t mind.”
“Lor’ bless you, I don’t mind, if you don’t!”
So with the slim figure in the flapping blue coat striding with great concentration down the pavement, and the old taxi growling along the kerb behind, they continued the journey.
Royce felt he could breathe better, and even the giddiness was a bit easier, although every so often he would pause as if to study a shop window, while the street swam in a mist around him. In this way he was able to fool the driver, and gather strength for the next stretch.
By the time they reached the wired gate of the Coastal Forces mooring area, he was shaking from head to foot, and desperately he manoeuvred his bandaged hands across his face, now shiny with sweat. A Petty Officer wearing a Naval Police armband stepped from a small hut, and saluted, his eyes wide with obvious amazement.
“Look here, sir.” He sounded concerned. “It’s none of my business, but I think I should telephone the P.M.O.”
“No, it is none of your damned business!” snapped Royce. “D’you think I’ve come this far to be held up by a lot of blasted red tape!”
The Petty Officer was unmoved. “Very well, sir, then I shall take it upon myself to escort you to Commander Emberson’s boat. Fortunately, it’s not far.”
Royce relented, and smiled. “Sorry, P.O., I think I must be getting a bit edgy.”
They reached the foot of the gangway without further incident, and Royce leaned against his escort, while he let his eye travel along the seemingly enormous length of the M.T.B. She was one of the new Fairmiles, and almost twice the size of those in his own flotilla. Vicious looking muzzles peeped from every direction, while the torpedo tubes visible from the jetty, pointed menacingly at the Fleet Mail Office. Her decks were suitably busy with overalled seamen, under the direction of a fresh-faced Sub-Lieutenant, smart in blue battledress and a gleaming white sweater. Very right and proper for the Senior Officer’s boat he thought. Must be some of old Kirby’s influence. He watched the young Sub moving purposefully about the deck, attending to his duties, and compared him with the image he had seen in the hospital mirror, half an hour or so previously. Was it possible that he had looked so full of youthful high spirits when he had first reported to Harston? About the same age too, but only in years. His inner searchings were cut short, the Sub having stepped lightly to the jetty without his noticing. Must be losing my grip, he thought fiercely.
“Lieutenant Royce?”
He straightened automatically. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank, and it sounded strange, and rather formal.
“We weren’t expecting you so soon, sir. This is very nice. The C.O.’ll be tickled pink. He’s got some friends to celebrate your return, as it were.”
He paused, and peered at him, his face clouding. “D’you feel all right, sir?”
Royce sucked in a lungful of salt air and nodded. “Yes, lead on, it takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all.”
“I see, sir.” But he obviously didn’t. “By the way, my name’s Bird, with all the obvious disadvantages, and after I’ve finished on deck—we’re just going to test our new Browning—I’ll be in the wardroom drinking up the experiences of my betters!”
“Bitters, you mean!” Emberson strode forward with hands outstretched. “Clive, you crafty old devil, you made it then, and thwarted my reception committee.”
Royce held out his hand, and then they both looked at the shapeless bandages, Emberson with his hand half raised for the automatic handshake.
“Sorry, Artie, I forgot. We must bow to each other!”
The problem of getting him down the steep ladder to the wardroom had already been discussed, and two seamen stood below, guiding his feet, while the Coxswain and Emberson dealt with the top half. Royce didn’t have to do a single thing for himself.
The wardroom was long for an M.T.B., and narrow, with all the usual varnished fittings, and pipes criss-crossing the deckhead. The sight of the rippling reflection of the quiet water on the rough anti-condensation paint, the gentle movement beneath his feet, and the accompanying shipboard smells and noises were a welcome indeed.
A tall seaman in a tight white jacket was laying tea, and pulled up the most comfortable chair.
Royce sat on the edge gingerly, and grimaced. “Nearly didn’t make it, but it was worth the effort. I can’t tell you what it’s like to be back.”
“I know, I know, it’s not much, but it’s home.”
“Where are the others that your Subby was telling me about?”
“Don’t fret, they’ll be back. They’ve just gone over to the Kitson to look at this new radar gadget. All the new ships have got it in Harwich.”
The curtain was thrust aside from the door, and Benjy Watson, Jock Murray, and three other officers entered.
“Here he is!” yelled Benjy. “Who told me he had resigned?”
Royce looked from face to face, wondering what they thought of his crumpled appearance, and realizing just how much he had missed them.
“Too tough, that’s me,” he grinned.
They enjoyed to the full the carefully prepared tea—goodness only knows where so much rationed stock had been filched, but it was marvellous. Then with pipes well alight, they talked and yarned until they were hoarse, and Royce felt again the creeping faintness and sudden giddy lapses, which caused him to speak quickly and nervously, as if afraid he would be forced to break off and leave.
The others knew full well what was happening, and several meaning looks were exchanged. Emberson would have sent for the taxi earlier, but his main surprise was still to come. He glanced at his watch anxiously.
“I’m very much afraid your probation is running out, Clive,” he said quietly. “You have to be back in half an hour. That was the arrangement with the old Doc.”
Royce rose unsteadily, knowing that his reserve was beginning to fail. The faces around him blurred, and he blinked to clear his vision. He had been holding a cup between his muffled hands, as a dog will hold a bone, and the effort of setting it on the table was unbearable. He vaguely noticed that the others were silent. Even Benjy looked st
range, and worried.
“Thank you for having me, gentlemen.” He forced a crooked smile. “It’s been just what I needed.”
It was at that moment that the Browning machine-gun on deck fired a practice burst, and although he had been forewarned, he was seemingly unprepared for its violence, and his own reaction. The wardroom, the officers, everything dissolved in front of him. All his racing brain could follow was the dreadful staccato rattle that in a split second made his sick mind lurch, and with a gasp, he threw his body to the deck.
Even as they jumped to his aid, Emberson swearing horribly at the unseen gunners, the curtain by the door jerked aside once more, and the small figure of a Wren stepped hurriedly inside.
“I’m late, I’m afraid, sir, the bus—” She broke off, her eyes widening at the scene, her face suddenly white. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”
Emberson looked up. “Blast, just too late,” he said. “Quick, hold his head, and keep his shoulders off the deck!”
Royce lay on his side, only dimly aware that he was alive. Everything was dark, he heard a voice yelling, “Cox’n, make a signal: Urgent, send ambulance!”
Ambulance? At sea? Impossible. Weren’t we in action? Yes, that was it. The guns—must keep them firing. He turned his body, but someone was holding him, stopping him. He struggled feebly, and tried to get his eyes in focus.
From far away he heard his voice protesting. It was at that instant he saw Julia looking down at him, close enough to touch, and then he felt content; the pain and urgency seemed to slowly disperse.
“Julia, my darling,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe . . .” His voice trailed away.
He was only dimly conscious of the white jackets, and the stretcher, but the vision of that face, with the tear-filled eyes, made him suddenly desperate. Some hidden strength made him cry out, urgently, and as the mist closed over him, he heard that voice once more, just as it had been at the railway station, soft and sweet, “It’s all right, Clive, everything’s going to be fine now.”
As the ambulance tore towards the hospital, its gong sounding shrilly, he felt a great peace sweeping over him. The Cease Fire bell, that was it. Yes, everything was going to be fine now.
Royce sat by the window in his dressing-gown, the pale yellow glow of the afternoon sun lighting his face, and easing away the lines of strain. For once, he paid little heed to the activities of the harbour, and even yesterday’s visit to the M.T.B., with the dreadful aftermath of delirium, and this morning’s stern rebukes from both the doctor and the matron, had faded into insignificance, and all because of the letter, which he had read and re-read half a dozen times, and which now lay in his lap. When he had recovered from his drugged state of semi-collapse, he had been half fearful that the one bright spot, the one brief moment of pure happiness, had been but another dream, a figment of his tortured imagination, but the letter, hastily written on N.A.A.F.I. notepaper and handed to him by the nurse, had dispelled all his fears, and left him with a feeling of excitement, and a trembling anticipation. The letter was brief, and in her firm, neat hand Julia Harston had done her best to cram as much as she could into its construction, while apparently keeping one eye on an impatient railway clock. He started to read it again, smiling secretly to himself, and still unable to realize his good fortune.
She explained fully how Emberson had made a long distance telephone call to her, and had in fact told her how Royce had been on the danger list, and had been asking for her in his moments of semi-consciousness, and he thought she might well be able to improve and encourage his recovery. A hurried explanation to an understanding Second Officer, a quick sub by one of the other girls at the signal station, a fast train south, and she had arrived in time to see his suffering, and to understand the pain and shock which he had endured so bravely. He found himself feeling rather pleased at that piece, for he knew in his own mind that if he looked ghastly when he had left the hospital, he must have been a gibbering wreck when she had made her entrance. Altogether a bad impression to make under the circumstances. Reading this, he felt considerably better. She continued by telling him that she had had to hurry off back to Rosyth, but not before the hospital had informed her, rather coldly, that the patient was “as well as could be expected, in view of his escapades.” He grinned. That was more or less what the matron had said to him. It was the end of the letter he really liked.
I’m so very sorry about the way I treated you when we last met, but I now know that we both understand. If you still want to see me, I shall be very happy, and I shall look forward to hearing from you. Please look after yourself, and give my thanks to Commander Emberson, who has told me so much about you.
Yours sincerely, Julia.
That was the piece that made him glow. And she had signed herself simply Julia. It was only a written word, on the cheap paper, but to him it was a breath of true intimacy. Once it had been only a dream, something to think about during the wearying hours of watchkeeping, but in a flash, or so it seemed, there had been a series of breathtaking and terrifying changes in his life, and the dream had changed to something real, and the future had been given life and hope. All the same, he mused, it would have to be handled extremely carefully, for up to now, the initiative had been in the hands of others, and if he wasn’t going to make another mess of it, he would have to give the matter a great deal of thought. The first thing was to get his service life rearranged, and straightened out, and that meant he would have to get well clear from the hospital. He immediately got down to the latter problem, with his usual keen and methodical way, and the doctors and nurses, overworked though they were, were quick to notice his sudden interest in his treatment, and a new impatience at any delay or setback.
Within two weeks, he had discarded most of his outward signs of injury, and took pleasure in striding about the hospital grounds, and occasionally walking down to the base to see Emberson, and on one otherwise dismal morning, he carefully put on his new uniform, said his farewells to the hospital staff, and headed for home, for three weeks’ leave.
As usual, he enjoyed his leave to the full, and was pleased to be able to make his parents happy by being home again, but this time there was a difference. Within himself he was a changed person. At first he ignored it, and tried to overlook something which might be only fancy, but as the days of enforced idleness wore on, he began to realize that Lieutenant Clive Royce, D.S.C., was a completely different being from the worried, but easy-going young officer who had once muddled and struggled through the early intricacies of life in an M.T.B. The harder he thought about it, the more baffling it became. He could not even place the exact time of the change. After all, he told himself repeatedly, he had not had an easy war so far, so it wasn’t that—it was something far deeper.
He had written twice to Julia in Scotland, telling her of his progress, and now he hoped to be able to visit her as soon as possible. And he told her of his strange feeling, and fears. Her letters were, as always, witty yet soothing; friendly, but not showing a great deal of sympathy for his broodings. At first he felt rather hurt by her apparent sharpness, but as he strolled through the woods, ignoring the constant drizzle that seemed fated for his leave, reading her words over and over again, trying to find hidden meanings in every one, he realized that her approach was the right one. The past was history, but others would be looking to him from now on, relying upon his experience for their very existence. He knew then how he had changed. By responsibility to others. It was as if a curtain had been lifted, the way was now clear, and when the buff envelope was handed to him by his mother, four days before his leave was due to end, he felt in some way relieved.
“I have to report back to the Royston, ” he announced simply. “I don’t quite understand it. I have to appear before a Board.”
His parents quietly helped him pack his newly bought kit, when Royce suddenly jerked up as if he had been shot. “Good God!” he burst out. “Surely they don’t think I’m round the bend!�
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So often, he had seen officers classified as unsuitable for Coastal Forces, and even for any seagoing duties; men who had once been hardened fighters, and seemingly indispensable, had suddenly become shattered wrecks, grey-faced ghosts, who shied from any decision, and jumped at every sound. Such was the price of danger.
“Oh no!” he groaned. “They couldn’t do that to me now. I must make them see that I’m all right now!”
It was a miserable journey back to the base, and seemed to take twice as long as usual, and even the first glimpse of the Royston ’s ungainly bulk was now an anti-climax.
He hurried into the wardroom to pump his friends for information, only to find that the flotilla was at sea, covering a convoy, so there was nothing else to do but walk straight to the Commander’s office, and get it over.
Commander Wright looked up with surprise, as a thin-lipped Royce was shown in. “Good heavens, man, you’re back early,” he roared jovially. “It’s damn good to see you again. Oh, and congratulations, me boy.”
Royce stood stiffly. “I’d like to know if I may, sir,” he faltered. “The Board tomorrow morning, can I appeal against it?”
“Appeal against it? Appeal against it?” Wright bellowed so loud that the Writer in the next office shuddered. “What the devil d’you mean, sir? After all this trouble, don’t you want a command? Damn and blast my breeches, explain yourself, sir!”
Poor Royce was past any explanation. “Command?” he said weakly.
“Yes, don’t you know anything about it?”
“No, sir. I thought it was the Old Crock’s Rush they were giving me, you know, the Axe.”
Wright lay back in his chair, and laughed till his eyes were wet, looking rather like a newly boiled lobster. “Oh, Royce, you’ll be the death of me!” he wheezed. “Here’s me, pulling every damn string under the Old Pal’s Act to get you fixed up with a command—and to be serious for a moment, we need experienced M.T.B. men badly—and you come in here nattering about being bomb-happy!”
A Prayer for the Ship Page 13
