England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  Thomas had been an infantryman in his younger years. He’d fought at Cambrai, Ypres and all three battles of the Somme and survived all of it. Even by 1940 standards, he wasn’t a well-educated man, but he was loyal, hard-working and attentive, and those three attributes often made up for any lack of wit or cunning in an honest man. These were qualities that had been clearly recognised in Thomas, and were the reasons for which he’d been given the assignment as Max Thorne’s orderly.

  It was a job that was his pleasure to perform. The newly-promoted air vice marshal was a generally quiet man, and domestically-speaking was also remarkably self-sufficient for an officer. Thorne asked little of Thomas most of the time, and requests that were made were always taken care of immediately and efficiently — Thomas saw to that.

  He was the CO’s orderly, a posting that required total loyalty and trust; one of the reasons he hadn’t reported Thorne’s alcoholic episodes in the Officer’s Mess after the first night he’d found him there… nor after the many that had followed. The other main reason was that Thomas couldn’t think of whom he should report it to anyway. Thorne was the ranking officer at Hindsight, and he had no idea who below the CO would be the most appropriate person to speak to: he didn’t know any of the other officers well enough to decide who would be the best option. Thomas eventually let the matter drop in the hope that it would just ‘go away… something that was of course not to be.

  A great despondency had settled over the entirety of Proserpine and the anchorage. The remaining Hindsight survivors — both those who’d flown to safety on aircraft and those who’d weathered the maelstrom on the ground — were shell-shocked and stunned at the losses they’d suffered. The personnel at the main naval base were also subdued and solemn, as much out of silent relief they’d been spared the savagery of the attack that had shattered their neighbouring units. All were also aware of how fortunate they’d been that the two jet fighters had been available: without their vast technical superiority, the two dozen Mustangs couldn’t have prevented the destruction from being far worse, even had they arrived early enough to intercept the entirety of the attack.

  Short-term accommodation had been hastily arranged for all the displaced officers and other ranks within the barracks of Proserpine, as all of the billets at Hindsight had been destroyed during the raid itself or in the spreading fires that followed. The gesture had also been extended to the use of the various messes, and it hadn’t only been Max Thorne who’d required a drink or two dozen that first night to settle their nerves.

  Cecil Thomas was enjoying an off-duty smoke in the Proserpine Ratings’ Mess that evening as Commander Eileen Donelson appeared at the open doorway. The mess was a large structure of slatted wood planks and heavy roof beams, with enough internal volume to require wooden pillars as support for the high ceiling at regular intervals. Décor was all but non-existent, save of course for the de rigueur picture of the King above the Bar, and the tables and chairs, while numerous, were of the simplest construction and an odd assortment in their style and construction.

  The bar and a plain fireplace occupied the centre of one long wall, and the only entrance, a pair of plain double doors at which Donelson now stood, sat at one end of the opposite wall. The one exception to the generally austere nature of the large room was a small, low stage at the far end on the same side as the bar. A set of rather worn old instruments sat forlornly on that stage, an upright piano and battered set of drums among them.

  Along with the thousands of sailors that regularly filed through as their ships came and went, there was also a core of regular personnel posted permanently to HMS Proserpine involved with the operation and upkeep of the base itself. Among those men were enough with reasonable levels of talent to form a swing band for their own entertainment on special occasions. Few officers at Scapa Flow were imprudent enough to enquire as to the where the instruments had originally come from, and those who did were quickly shown the error of their way by their peers, as the band also regularly played for other messes, including the officers’.

  There were no more than two dozen naval ratings and junior NCOs present that day, yet Donelson didn’t step beyond the threshold of the entrance: she was as aware and respectful as any career soldier of the sanctity of Mess regulations. She was an officer — her Realtime naval rank had been recognised immediately by Whitehall — and officers weren’t permitted to enter an OR’s or Sergeant’s Mess without an express invitation. All of the men present took note of the female officer at the door, and none who did missed the fact that she was also quite attractive. Fortunately, none were stupid enough or thoughtless enough to make any remark on her appearance that she could actually hear.

  The NCO on duty left the bar and approached her. They spoke for a moment before Eileen stepped back outside to wait patiently as the petty officer walked over and passed the message given to Corporal Thomas. He appeared apprehensive as he stood and walked toward the door, and Eileen had a feeling she knew why.

  “In addition to your duties as CO’s orderly, I believe it’s been your job to keep tabs on the bar stocks at the Hindsight Officers’ Mess, corporal… would that be correct?” She asked the moment Thomas had joined her outside, the coolness of evening quite brisk as a light layer of mist floated below a clear and darkening sky.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s right. I kept records on what was brought across from the Proserpine Q-Store from week to week. Wasn’t a hard job really: yourself and the other Hindsight officers never drank much, even when you were off duty.” He shrugged. “All gone in the fire now though, of course… more’s the pity…” but his tone made it seem as if the fact were more of a bonus than something to be regretted.

  “Yes,” Eileen agreed dubiously, falling back on her ability for perfect recall. “Yes, it seems stocks hardly dropped at all since we’ve arrived, considering the numbers of healthy young fellows on base — particularly healthy young officers.” She almost smiled ruefully, honestly acknowledging that she was herself one of those ‘healthy young officers’ who’d had more than her share on occasion. “Stocks of everything that is, except for the rum… isn’t that right?” She added finally.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am,” Thomas dodged desperately, fear in his expression now. He glanced nervously to either side, as if worried someone else might be listening. “I can’t say that I noticed stocks of anything being used up at any greater rate than any of the others…”

  “Bollocks!” Eileen snapped softly, the use of language surprising Thomas somewhat: ladies weren’t supposed to use words like that. “That’s complete bollocks! Squadron Leader Trumbull remarked two days ago that the mess had almost run out, and that surprised me, because I was the Duty Officer when the last delivery of alcohol for the mess turned up three weeks ago, and I know I signed in six quarts of rum that day. I have a photographic memory, corporal, and I remember it quite clearly, yet when I checked the stocks after hearing that remark I found just one bottle left.”

  “Is that so, ma’am…? If you’ve all the answers already, you don’t need any confirmation from me, do you?” Thomas’ reply was almost petulant. He didn’t like being spoken to by a woman in such a manner, regardless of rank.

  “Don’t get smart with me, soldier!” Donelson hissed sharply. “You’ll keep your answers straight and to the point, or I’ll have you up on a charge as soon as look at ye!” The venom in her reply rattled the corporal somewhat, and knocked any remaining arrogance out of him in an instant. “If I’m right about what’s been going on, it’s vitally important we get the problem fixed up quickly; for Air Vice Marshall Thorne’s sake and ours!” Her eyes narrowed as she went directly for the ‘kill’. “How long’s he been drinking at night?”

  “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am,” Thomas stammered.

  “Yes you do, corporal,” she countered, not letting up. “Understand this: I’ve known our CO for over ten years, and I’ve gotten to know him one hell of a lot bett
er than you ever will! He’s a good man — a great man — but he’s had problems in the last few years that it seems he hasn’t completely resolved yet. Added to that are the pressures of the last few months, and his first command under combat… none of which are small issues either! He’s already showing difficulties in making decisions that are affecting this unit, and his judgement will continue to be severely impaired and become far worse unless this is resolved. This base has suffered enough already… I need to know what’s going on!”

  “There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know, ma’am, if you know the CO as well as you say,” Thomas’ tone was one of resignation, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to implicate his commanding officer.

  “How long…?” The seriousness of her expression required a straight answer and Thomas gave one.

  “As long as I’ve been assigned to him…”

  “Thank you, corporal…” She paused for a moment before adding: “… I appreciate your honesty… and your obvious loyalty… the air vice marshal could do a good deal worse for an orderly.” But as she turned and walked away, Cecil Thomas felt as if he’d just been handed thirty pieces of silver.

  Eileen found Richard Kransky walking alone among the rows of new graves at the Lyness Naval Cemetery, preoccupied with his own thoughts as he stopped to read the words on some of the headstones at random. He wore his usual khaki fatigues under a camouflage-patterned combat jacket, but for a change he was completely without weapons, although his radio remained clipped to his belt. The lack of a rifle over his shoulder somehow made his appearance seem almost alien or unreal.

  “Got time for a word, Richard?” Eileen called softly from a distance as she walked up the slight incline from the naval base. “…If I’m not coming at a bad time…?” He turned toward her with a start, almost as if she’d actually caught him by surprise.

  “What…? No… of course not,” he replied quickly as he realised who it was, barely managing a thin smile. “Glad of the company.” The time following the raid hadn’t been a good one for any of those who’d survived, and Eileen’s unexpected appearance now left him strangely shaken and cognisant of how lost in his own thoughts he’d actually been: no one should’ve been able to approach that closely without detection.

  “Have you seen Max?” Eileen began, trying to hide her discomfort as she drew near, but Kransky didn’t have to stretch his imagination for the reasons behind the question as he noted the look on her face.

  “Not for a while.” He replied honestly. “Alec and Evan were helping him reposition the radar units and one of the Tunguskas, but that was a few hours ago.”

  “Any idea where I might find him… you do know what goes on around here most of the time…”

  “If I knew about what went on around here, Drews, Cassar and Clarke and the rest of the men here would still be alive today,” he said softly, his eyes lowering slightly and his voice turning a little hollow. Eileen was glad he’d deliberately not mentioned Nick Alpert, who’d been a good friend for a long time, or she mightn’t have been able to contain the tears that welled up within her the moment the other’s names had been spoken.

  “You know there was nothing more that could’ve been done,” she said with equal softness, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and nodding sadly as she saw the look in his eyes. “And I know that doesn’t make it any easier… c’mere, laddie…!” She insisted suddenly, deciding both of them needed a hug, and pulled him close to embrace the man. The gesture was greatly appreciated, and the pair remained together for some time, allowing simple human contact to help assuage their feelings of sadness and loss a little.

  “I know this won’t make him feel any better,” Kransky began, “but tell him from me that losing men’s lives never gets any easier…o matter how many times it happens…” As she stared up at him, Eileen suddenly realised the man somehow knew exactly what she suspected of Max Thorne’s problems.

  “Taking them doesn’t either, does it, Richard?” She queried gently, stepping back from him slightly but holding both his hands in hers between them. The time they’d spent working together during the time at Hindsight so far had produced strong feelings on both sides, and their close friendship contained a great deal that both had chosen to leave unsaid.

  “No… that doesn’t either…” He said simply after a long pause indeed. Kransky wasn’t the type to cry all that often, regardless of the circumstances, and he was mightily glad of that at that moment. “That never does… ever…”

  The following silence between the two was palpable in the extreme, and recognised a great deal of feeling on both sides that’d never been given voice or expression. Eileen reached up for a moment and brushed an imaginary hair from the man’s cheek, the intimacy of her touch in a ‘grey’ area somewhere between innocent friendship and the ‘something more’ that both felt.

  “Why is it, mister…” she began, almost smiling for the first time “…that in all these weeks, you’ve never made a pass at me?” Eileen hadn’t been blind to some of the feelings he’d shown for her, and she couldn’t honestly say that at least some of those feelings weren’t reciprocated on her part.

  “I’ve sometimes seen Max down near the Martello Tower at Hackness when he feels like a little privacy,” Kransky’s answer came with an ironic smile, and she knew that remark hadn’t been a change of subject. What he’d said was as clear and perceptive an answer to her question as any might’ve been.

  In a moment of instinct rather than conscious thought, Kransky lowered his head just enough as Eileen again stepped in close and lifted to touch her lips softly against his, the movement so quick and so light it’d almost never happened.

  “You see far too much, Richard,” she said finally, only half sad as she stepped away from him and began to walk back toward Lyness Naval Base, raising a hand as a farewell without breaking step or turning back.

  “More than you’ll ever know,” Kransky muttered softly, staring after her. He could only watch for a few moments before he felt the need to turn away and stare at one of the nearby headstones instead. He knew that his own nightmares were going to be bad that night, and years of experience told him that all the alcohol in the world wouldn’t help.

  ‘Glad of the company’, he thought sadly of what he’d said as she’d approached, then thought of where he stood. A shudder ran through him as he noted there were plenty of new piles of earth for company in that cemetery now. Being alone was something Kransky was no stranger to — his whole ‘working’ life had been spent alone, in one hellhole or another — and as such he hoped things would work out between Donelson and Thorne… they could both do a good deal worse than each other in both an immediate and a broader sense, and neither deserved the loneliness under which they both clearly suffered. The shudder ran through him once more, and he decided he’d probably spent as much time in the company of others for the time being as was prudent. His thoughts were becoming darker than anything he could imagine, and he started to once more relish the idea of solitude on the field of combat.

  More than you’ll ever know… He thought sadly in silent response to Eileen’s parting remark. More than you’ll ever know…

  Martello Towers were a common theme for defensive fortifications built by the British at home and around the Empire during the 19th Century. Standing up to twelve metres high, and with two or three floors (and sometimes also a basement), the round, cylinder-like structures were built with thick masonry walls that were highly resistant to the cannon of the time. Usually garrisoned by around twenty men and one officer, the forts normally carried one or two cannon on the rooftop terreplein, mounted on pivots that allowed a 360̊ firing arc. Beneath the gun platform, barracks, food and ammunition storage would all be housed within its walls, and the structure was usually built upon a well or cistern that could be refilled with rainwater drained from the roof.

  The inspiration for the towers had come from experience in combat against a similar type of round fortress t
hat had been part of Genovese defences at Mortella Point in Corsica. On the 7th of February 1794, two attacking British warships with a total of 106 guns between them were beaten off by the fort’s two 18-pounder cannon. Unfortunately for the tower’s garrison however, its design meant that its two main guns could only fire out to sea while there was only a single six-pounder cannon that could be used for defence against attack from the rear.

  The tower eventually fell to a landward attack after two days of heavy fighting, but the impact the structure’s capabilities had made upon the British was nevertheless significant. Within just a few years, a huge construction program saw Martello Towers (the name incorrectly taken from their inspiration — Mortella Point in Corsica) appear all over the British Isles and in other Empire colonies around the world. Intended to protect against French invasion forces during the Napoleonic Wars, over a hundred were built around the English coast alone, and another fifty in Ireland.

  Only three towers were built in Scotland. One, known to locals as the Tally Too'er, was erected during 1807-09 at Mussel Cape Rocks (on what is now the land-locked eastern breakwater for Edinburgh’s Leith Docks. The remaining two could both be found at Scapa Flow; one at Crockness on Hoy, about 2,000 metres south-east of HMS Proserpine, while the other stood at Hackness on the north-east coast of South Walls, both guarding the Bay of Longhope and the south-eastern approaches to the anchorage. The Hackness Martello Tower stood in open fields, a hundred metres back from the water and perhaps twice that distance to the south-east of the disused Hackness gun battery, also dating from the 19th Century.

  A narrow track ran past the tower and on to the battery, and an old, flatbed Ford truck stood parked beside that track, in the lee of the tower. A small concrete pillbox stood at the shoreline directly in front of the tower, and from that point it was possible to look straight out across The Flow and the surrounding islands. Flotta lay to the north-west, and the NEB Coastal Battery on that island’s southern-most tip was clearly visible across the water. As Max Thorne sat on the grass, not far from the pillbox, he could also look out across The Flow to the north-west between Flotta and Hoy, and stare in silent wonder at the silhouettes of warships anchored there in the fading light of dusk.