A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  “Lost, sir?”

  “I’m looking for—” He stopped, his glance travelling across the Chief’s massive shoulder.

  She had just come in from the veranda, stripping off her oilskin and cap, shaking out the dark curls, and rubbing her cheek with a mittened hand. Quite clearly, he heard her say to another girl, “There’s an M.T.B. at the quay. What’s she doing right up here?”

  Blindly, he pushed past the astonished Yeoman, brushing a sheaf of signals from a desk, until he was right behind her.

  “She’s my boat. Care for a cruise?” he gulped.

  She swung round, the large brown eyes wide with astonishment. “Heavens! Clive! What on earth?” Her small hands fluttered about her grubby shirt, and patted her wind-blown curls. “What a way to find a girl.”

  “Only just got in. Got to leave in two hours. Can I see you somewhere?” The words tumbled out of him.

  “It’s awfully nice to see you again. You’re looking much better; a command suits you.” She studied his face. “It’s difficult. But I’ll see the Two-Oh.”

  Dazedly, he saw her hurry to the desk, where the telephone argument was progressing well. The Wren Officer glanced in his direction, and said to the telephone, “Hold on, Flags, but I still say you’re mistaken!” and dropped the instrument heavily. It must have cracked “Flags’s” eardrum.

  “Don’t be long, Lieutenant; you can have her for ten minutes. It’s only because you’re a stranger. Or are you?”

  The Wrens tittered.

  Julia plucked his sleeve impatiently. “Come on,” she whispered. “I’ll get you out of here while you’re still safe!”

  Outside, a thin drizzle had started, and they found themselves walking quickly away from the building, yet in no particular direction. Royce was torn by many emotions. He was happy beyond words to find himself in her company again, but worried and uncomfortable because it was not working out as he had planned it in dreams, so many times in the past. It was like saying good-bye to someone very dear on a railway station, a scene which is enacted every day of the year. The two persons wait, saying nothing, unless it is to remark on the weather, or some such triviality, although their hearts are bursting. Then, as the train begins to move, out comes the pent-up flood, the hopes and fears. Too late, the precious time has been wasted.

  Desperately, he turned. “Isn’t there anywhere we can get a cup of tea or something? There’s such a lot I want to say.”

  “Only a canteen hut the dockyard maties use.” She pointed. “Over there.”

  The drizzle was getting heavier, and thankfully they pushed open the ill-fitting door of the little Nissen hut, and glanced round its spartan interior.

  It was barely furnished with scrubbed tables, where the workmen could eat their sandwiches, and boasted a small canteen counter, and a pot-bellied stove which glowed warmly. Two men in overalls leaned against the counter, gossiping to the blowsy woman behind it. They all looked up in surprise, as the worried-looking young officer, and an attractive Wren in a rain-soaked oilskin, burst in on their private world.

  Royce guided her to a bench by the stove, all the time drinking in every little detail about her. She took off her cap and shook it, hissing, over the fire, running her fingers through her hair.

  “Phew, I’m afraid I’m not looking my best. I wasn’t expecting company. I expect you’re sorry you came?”

  “Good Heavens, you look wonderful, really fine,” he burst out.

  She looked at him, the little secret smile playing round her lips. “I believe you mean it, too,” she said.

  “I certainly do mean it, I—”

  A harsh voice interrupted him. “If you’re wantin’ anything t’eat, you’ll ’ave to get it at the counter. We got no posh waiters ’ere!”

  The two workmen grinned.

  Royce fumbled in his pocket and banged down a sixpence. “Two teas then.”

  He hurried over to her, slopping most of the tea on the floor. He heard the awful woman say something about “show ’em where they get off.” He didn’t realize the reason for her hostility, or care.

  Julia warmed her hands on the cup, her large brown eyes thoughtful. “I would have liked to get a closer look at your boat. It’s like old times to see an M.T.B. again,” she added wistfully. She brightened suddenly, and for a brief instant he saw her brother’s quick change of mood in her. “Still, never mind, tell me all about yourself. How have you been getting on?”

  Royce took a deep breath. The initiative had been passed to him. “Never mind about me.” He leaned forward, looking into her eyes earnestly. “It’s you I’m worried about.” No, that was no good. He tried again. “I wanted to see you again, so much. You’ll never know how much I’ve been thinking about you.”

  He waited for a rebuke. None came. She was listening closely, her eyes lowered. He noticed the dark curve of her lashes.

  “You see, I don’t think it’s right. You’re right up here, and I’m stuck down at the other end of the line. I want to be able to see a lot more of you,” he ended lamely.

  She smiled up at him, showing her even, white teeth. “But you hardly know me.”

  He suddenly seized her hand, desperately; this was it, now or never. “Believe me when I tell you that I’d like to remedy that. I want to know you very much better, if you could put up with me.”

  He was aware that she hadn’t withdrawn her hand from his, nor had she raised any objection. He trembled, quite unaware that the three characters at the counter were watching closely.

  “I’d like that,” she said softly, “but what shall we do about it?”

  Royce’s heart gave a leap. His inside felt like rubber. “Do about it?” His voice rose with excitement. “You must come back to the old flotilla!”

  “Shh!” She raised her finger. “You must keep calm.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, but I’m a bit in the air. I’m not used to being with a beautiful girl.”

  “That’s a good one. I’m in a mess at the moment!” But she was touched by his boyish sincerity.

  He dragged his eyes to his watch. “Lord, I’ll have to be going,” he groaned.

  Together they stood up, buttoning their coats, and with obvious reluctance went outside to the din of the dockyard.

  The canteen manageress sniffed. “Didn’t even drink their blessed tea!”

  They were back by the signal station again, and they stood sheltering in the deep doorway.

  “You didn’t mind my coming here to see you?” he asked.

  “I’m very glad you did. Now what have we decided?”

  “Well, look, it’s Christmas soon; what are you doing? Have you any leave to come? Were you going home?”

  She waved her hand, embracing the harbour. “This is my home now,” she said flatly.

  He could have bitten out his tongue. “I’m a fool; I didn’t mean that. Could you come down south?”

  “To do what?” she questioned.

  He laughed vaguely. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I shall be out on Ops or not. But you could stay at the White Hart or something. Could you?” His voice was imploring. “It would be wonderful.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’d like that very much. Leave it to me.” She knew full well that if any other person had made such a suggestion it might have implied one thing only. But she knew that this anxious face was harbouring no such thoughts. Having decided that, she felt very much better, as if she had been given a new lease of life. “I must be off now. My Number One is probably having fifty fits already.”

  He held her hands in his, unwilling to leave. “Think of us sometimes, won’t you?”

  She nodded, her eyes serious. “Look after yourself, won’t you?”

  He released her, and stepped back, as if to sever the bond between them. Then he started to back away, while she still stood uncertainly in the doorway, her face wet with the rain.

  He went suddenly hot, and he found himself clenching his fists. I must, he told himself, I�
�m not going without holding her just once. He squared his shoulders and marched back to her. She opened her mouth in an unspoken question. Taking her elbows in his hands, he gently pulled her towards him.

  “Good-bye for now, Julia.” His voice was shaky. “God bless you.”

  And with that, he bent and kissed her quickly on the mouth. For one brief instant he felt the smoothness of her skin, and tasted a new compelling warmth. Then he turned and blundered away. He then realized that she had not spoken a word. Fearfully, he looked back, but she was still there, her face shadowed by the doorway. She waved to him slowly, then she was gone.

  He found himself climbing aboard, without realizing he’d made the journey back through the yard. Vacantly, he returned Carver’s salute, and walked blindly to the bridge. He wanted desperately to be left alone.

  Carver pattered after him, pouring out details in a steady stream: fuel on board, boat ready for sea, war correspondents in wardroom swigging gin, etc., etc.

  He forced his mind to cope. “Everybody on board, then? Right, make to Tower: Request permission to proceed— then start engines.”

  Thankfully, he leaned against the chart table, his back to the signalman, who was busy flashing. She didn’t stop me, she didn’t tell me I’m a fool, he repeated. “Julia,” he said deliberately. He glanced round quickly, but no one had noticed his weakness.

  “From Tower: Affirmative, sir.”

  The little ship slid carefully from her moorings, and with her decks glinting in the rain, and a growing white froth at her rakish stem, she steered down the channel.

  “Signal from Tower,” reported the signalman, surprise in his voice.

  “They say: Happy Christmas, sir.”

  “What on earth do they mean? It’s only November,” muttered Raikes, as he spun the spokes of the wheel.

  But Royce plunged across the bridge, swinging up his glasses. In an instant he had found, and focused, on the signals veranda. The small, gleaming figure stood by the searchlight, waving.

  With his glasses raised, Royce waved, until the Tower was hidden finally by a towering cruiser. He swung round, and even the seamen fumbling with the wires on deck seemed to him to be perfect. “A very nice trip, Cox’n.”

  Raikes sucked his teeth, and studied the line of buoys. “All right for some, sir,” he grinned.

  7 |

  THE RETURN TRIP was successful, in that it was quite uneventful, for Royce at any rate. The crew still talked with misgivings about the first part of the trial run, the stiffened airmen, and the charging menace of the merchantmen in the fog, but Royce knew that it would change to a casual boast when they were ashore, in suitable company, and eventually it would warrant no comment at all. They would fall into the pattern and shape of the Navy at war, provided they were allowed to live long enough.

  He was thankful to be rid of the war correspondents, for to him they seemed somehow shallow and patronizing, with their ready flow of first-hand experiences, apparently from every battle-front but this one. They were ever ready to give full vent to such sentiments as, “you chaps are doing a magnificent job” and “nothing’ll be too good for the boys in blue, when this lot’s over.” Of the merchant navy, too, “the heroes of the little silver badge.” The last one made poor Raikes hurry from the bridge, pleading a stomach upset.

  Royce had the impression that so many of these people, whose sole job it was to present the war news to the bewildered general public at home, did little to understand it themselves. He knew that this was a completely unfair assessment; it was just unfortunate that he had been blessed with such encounters as these. In addition, he wanted to be able to combine the running of his new ship with thinking about Julia, and whereas at any other time, a new face and a different viewpoint were more than welcome, these two great obsessions excluded all other possibilities.

  He watched with anxious anticipation as the seamen hooked on to their buoy astern of the Royston, keeping the engines ready to roar to the rescue should one of them develop a case of stage fright, and drop the lines in the water. The manoeuvre was successful, and thankfully, he shook hands with the “gentlemen of the Press,” and saw them scramble into an immaculate pinnace which had been sent to collect them. Perhaps it was unfortunate that the cruise had been a blank, from their point of view, but no doubt imagination would rally to their support.

  Within a quarter of an hour, he found himself aboard Royston, along with all the other C.O.s of the flotilla, assembled in the Operations Room. He was glad to see the old faces again, and to welcome the new. It was like doing something useful after being on the shelf. As he entered, Kirby, who stood by the wall charts, cleared his throat noisily.

  “Ah, Royce, you’re late. Your E.T.A. was thirty minutes ago. Was it not a straightforward run?”

  The tired young faces turned towards him. He felt absurdly like a schoolboy, arriving after class had started.

  “Had to drop my passengers, sir,” he said shortly.

  “Well, well, first things first, I suppose.” He turned his back, and stared at the charts, while Royce sank gratefully into a vacant chair.

  “What ho, chum, how’s the wee boat behaving?”

  He glanced sideways into the wrinkled grin of Jock Murray. “Fine, but I know now what a nitwit I must have been when I first started!”

  “Who says you’re not now?” Benjy hissed over his shoulder, grinning hugely.

  “When you’re settled, gentlemen?” Kirby’s voice was sour. He waited till they had given him what he considered to be suitably intelligent expressions, then continued. Royce thought he was looking much older.

  “I think you’re all fully conversant with this chart.” They noticed with interest that it showed the approaches of Ostend, with a riot of colours depicting minefields, patrol areas, and other local data. He really had their attention now.

  “Intelligence reports that the fast minelayers which have been playing havoc in the Channel, and across all the local shipping lanes, are now based here. Tactics, as we know, are to dash out at high speed by night, get rid of the mines, and hurry back before dawn. What we didn’t know was how they cleared our destroyer patrols.”

  He paused, and dabbed his mouth with an immaculate handkerchief. “We know now. Certain information is being wirelessed by agents here, in England, direct to France, concerning local convoys. Immediately the enemy receives this information, he dispatches minelaying aircraft to the Thames Estuary, or Southampton Approaches, or the south-west corner, ‘E-Boat Alley’ as some of our newspapers deign to call it, or sometimes all three at once. Immediately, all commands concentrate the sweepers, plus escorts, to keep the ports open, while the patrols are needed to cover the convoys from attack while all this is going on.”

  He surveyed them with a cold stare. “It is at that moment, gentlemen, that the real menace slips from Ostend, and does its work.”

  They exchanged meaning glances.

  “As the sea-distances are so small, yet our patrol areas so large, it is obvious, therefore, that we must destroy them as they leave the base. No other vessel can do it. No other vessel has the speed to get in and out before the enemy’s air cover can be used. The task is ours.”

  A babble of murmurs broke out, and Kirby raised his hand.

  “If you please, I suggest you would do better to address your comments to me. Now.” He sat down.

  Benjy scrambled to his feet, his jovial face slightly perplexed. “How do we know when they are out, sir? I mean, they aren’t going to drop us a wire, are they?”

  There was a chuckle.

  Kirby studied him pityingly. “We will patrol in pairs, off this area, on every convoy departure night. Intelligence is giving us every support.”

  There was a loud groan, and Murray rose hastily. “Would it not be better to get them when they’re well clear? We could perhaps bag all of them.”

  “It would not.”

  It was quite obvious that Kirby was running true to form. He was tight on all other inform
ation. It was his party, and that was all there was to it.

  As they leaned against the bar, sipping their gins, they discussed the matter at some length. One thought was uppermost in their minds, “Just so long as it doesn’t mess up Christmas!”

  The following day, while Carver exercised all hands, Royce sat in his cabin composing a letter to Julia. He was so full of the prospect of seeing her again, and in the foreseeable future, that he found it difficult to put into words such details as the weather, the food, and the state of his health. Eventually, he took the plunge, and told her exactly how he had felt as he waved her good-bye, and almost guiltily he popped it into an envelope and dashed on deck to catch the postman. As the duty boat chugged away, he sighed: the letter was on its way; he had made a start.

  He leaned for a while against the port tube, and listened to Raikes patiently instructing five seamen in the use of a scrambling net. “It’s like this. You sling it down over the side, and then you send two of the strongest lads down on it. One at each end. They ’elp to keep the net steady, an’ they can yank the survivors outer the water. Any questions?”

  A spindly youth, named Cleavely, whom Royce knew already, as he had been earmarked as a potential officer, stepped forward. “But if they’re badly injured, you’re not supposed to handle them like that, surely?” His voice was shocked.

  “Either you gets ’em up, or you leaves ’em!” Raikes was final.

  “It seems a bit antiquated to me. Why not rig a davit, or something?”

  “’Cause you’ll be too busy, I shouldn’t wonder,” answered the Coxswain mildly.

  Royce walked away, smiling. Raikes always had been one for understatement.

  But altogether, as he made his tour, he found the hands very willing to learn their new trade, and were obviously much awed by the other battle-scarred boats which lay around them.