Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He heard a young lieutenant say, ‘They should have had the Last Post. I would!’

  His friend said sardonically, ‘I’d have thought Joe Loss was more in your line!’

  Sherbrooke smiled. It was good to know that the spirit was still there, as it had been in Portsmouth after the bombing.

  Then she was beside him, almost touching as they walked in the slow-moving press of people.

  ‘I heard you were coming, Captain Sherbrooke. We had a message. It was good of you.’

  ‘You must miss him, Mrs Meheux.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘Yes, I think I shall. He could be difficult, but that was just his way. I think he overdid things.’

  ‘What will you do now? In your work, I mean?’ He looked at her, saw the hair hidden by her thick coat and a long strand which had blown across her brow.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get used to my new boss, I expect. Although from what I’ve heard . . .’ She touched his arm. ‘Never mind that. When are you going back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. There’s a lot going on.’

  They walked out into the crisp air, the crowd lingering or dispersing in groups as the mood took them. The doors closed and the organ stopped. It was over.

  She said, ‘It’s been a long trip for you. Where are you staying?’

  ‘My case is at the naval club. I was just going to get it.’

  She watched, aware of his uncertainty.

  ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  Why should he explain?

  ‘I was going to walk to the Point. There’s a memorial.’

  She said, ‘Your father?’

  He said, after a moment, ‘I just thought . . . Well, you never know.’ He was conscious of her hand on his sleeve, the wedding ring shining, like a warning.

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You’re alive. It matters.’

  ‘Thank you for that. I didn’t mean to be such a drag.’

  She watched him very steadily. ‘You’re not.’ She hesitated, then said abruptly, ‘Take me with you, will you? I won’t intrude.’

  He was about to speak when someone said, ‘Why, Captain Sherbrooke! It is you, isn’t it?’

  He swung round and saw a woman in a long fur coat and black hat coming towards him. She was not old, but she had a quality of hardened confidence which might soon make her so. Light brown hair, a treble row of pearls displayed at the neck of her coat, a crisp, persuasive manner. He had no idea who she was.

  She said, ‘It was some time ago.’ She held out her hand. ‘At Cowes, I believe. You were a three-ringer then.’ She laughed. ‘Just.’

  It was like turning back the pages of an old photograph album.

  Olive, he thought, her name was Olive.

  He said quietly, ‘Mrs Stagg – of course. I came today because . . .’

  She stared with a keen interest at the girl. ‘I know why you came. He rang me. And this is?’

  She answered for herself. ‘Emma Meheux. I was Sir Graham’s assistant at the Admiralty.’

  ‘A Wren officer?’

  ‘No.’ She seemed very calm. ‘I’m a civil servant, Mrs Stagg.’

  ‘There now.’ Stagg’s wife turned to Sherbrooke, as if to shut her out. ‘I have a car. Johnnie will drive us. We could lunch somewhere before you head north again.’

  Sherbrooke saw a heavily-built army officer, probably a lieutenant-general, loitering, watching the progress of the conversation. Johnnie.

  The girl said, ‘I have to accompany Captain Sherbrooke to an appointment, Mrs Stagg.’

  ‘I see.’ Her eyes flashed between them. ‘Quite so. To be questioned about my husband’s victory again, no doubt.’ She thrust out her hand. ‘Never mind. Some other time.’

  Sherbrooke saluted, and watched with relief as Stagg’s wife was escorted to a waiting staff car.

  ‘Thanks. I can see why you got the job with Edwardes!’

  She smiled. ‘Forgive me, Captain Sherbrooke. I was feeling rather protective – selfish, if you like.’

  He took her arm, and together they walked toward the street, of which nothing remained but the kerb stones to mark where people had once lived, loved, and hoped.

  She said softly, ‘If I had known, I would have brought some flowers. But there’s nothing much in the shops at this time of year.’ She fell silent as the captain beside her removed his cap and knelt by the recently erected stone.

  Passing sailors looked over; some saluted; others respected his complete isolation.

  She watched him, her hands clasped, more deeply moved than she could have imagined. She saw him trace the name listed with all the others. Commander Thomas Sherbrooke, Royal Navy, Retired. She waited, holding her breath, as his hand moved over and down. A fine, strong hand; a hand, she thought with strange, sudden pain, which had nearly died.

  He said, ‘They should have put their names together. But they didn’t know, you see. She was visiting. There were so many that night.’

  She saw him touch some dead flowers at the base of the stone, as if he were lost in some memory. She noticed that his hair was touching his collar, longer than she might have expected of a naval captain. The hair was brown, but the sideburns were grey.

  She could not stop herself. ‘Who was she?’

  He stood up, and replaced the cap with the bright gold oak leaves on its peak.

  ‘A girl I knew a long time ago. I was thinking of her just now. When I think of her sometimes I can only see her in her school uniform, green blazer and a floppy panama hat. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  She waited, wanting to take him away from this place, knowing that if she did, some fragile contact might be broken.

  ‘I don’t think so. My husband was a Territorial before the war. He was called up immediately. We got married on his first and only leave, and on the third day he was recalled to his unit. So you see, I do understand. Very well.’

  They walked on, past the remains of the famous old inn, The George, which had also been a victim of the bombing. It had been Nelson’s last stop before he had joined Victory.

  He said, ‘You’ll probably laugh at me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I want to see you again. I have absolutely no right, and with the war moving as it is, it might be just another heartache for you. But I do want to see you, to know you. It matters to me.’

  When she remained silent, he looked down at her, and was shocked to see tears on her cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. But we both know it would be wrong to hope. To do something . . . might harm something special. It would be cruel . . . unfair to us.’

  ‘Suppose . . .’

  She wiped her cheek with her fingers, a young girl again. ‘Suppose?’

  ‘If I was able to get some leave. We could meet. Have meals together, talk and understand each other, like other people.’

  ‘As friends, you mean?’ She stopped and waited for him to face her. ‘And how long would that last?’

  ‘As long as you’ll put up with me, Emma.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not ready. I thought I could handle things. God knows it’s easy enough to go off the rails – the two girls I share rooms with never stop talking about it. How do you think I would feel? Being with you, but not with you?’ She held out her hand. ‘No. I’m strong – I’ve had to be.’ Then she lifted her head, her eyes dark, and yet luminous, burning him. ‘I was watching you just now, you know. Sharing it, because some of it was like my own experience. I wanted to put my arms round you. I didn’t care about all your gaping sailors and your rear-admiral’s wife. And then I knew I couldn’t. We couldn’t.’

  She gripped the ring on her finger, and twisted it.

  ‘In my heart, I know he’s still alive, no matter what those bastards say about being missing. If half of what I’ve heard and read is true, he’ll come back eventually – to me. And he’ll need me, something that might not have been true before. Three days . . . that was all we had.’ She added sharply, as though pun
ishing herself, ‘Two nights. That’s all I really knew of him. Before that, like your girl, he was just someone I grew up with!’

  She stared down at her watch, like that first time.

  ‘I have to go. My new boss will expect it. I came here in case it was you instead of Stagg . . . I told myself not to be such a witless idiot, but you did come. Maybe it would have been better . . .’

  He felt her stiffen as he put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t.’

  He said, ‘No bargains, and no promises.’ He raised her chin with a gentle hand. ‘But I won’t pretend, either.’

  She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his.

  ‘Friends.’

  He watched her walk away, and waited in case she looked back.

  This time she did, or perhaps he imagined it. When he looked again, she was gone.

  Then he returned to the memorial stone, reasoning that it was on the way to the naval club.

  But he paused there for some time, thinking many things, reliving it moment by moment.

  Then he touched his cap, and said aloud, ‘Thanks.’

  His father would have understood.

  8

  Fast Convoy

  Sherbrooke walked out on to the port wing of the bridge and levelled his binoculars on the nearest destroyer. He could feel the sun’s heat on his shoulders and his cheek, and a sense of release, something he could scarcely remember. He watched the destroyer lifting and dipping over the glittering water, deep, deep blue, with a sky so empty that it looked almost colourless.

  Tomorrow, according to Rhodes, they would sight land, and Table Mountain the following day.

  It was three weeks since they had left Scotland’s damp and cold, and it was almost impossible to accept such a difference, let alone what a change of circumstances could do for Reliant’s ship’s company. There were even a few cases of sunburn.

  Six thousand miles. Each day they had exercised with their six destroyers, five destroyers now, as one, the Mediator, had been forced to leave the group and head for Gibraltar after reporting a shaft defect.

  Sherbrooke had been in the chart room with Stagg when he had been informed of it.

  Stagg had said scornfully, ‘God, they don’t make ships that can stand up to everything, not any more!’ Then, grinning, ‘Nor the men to go with them. Not like us, eh, Guy?’

  Perhaps it had been the cue he had been looking for.

  ‘I heard that you met up with old Edwardes’ assistant when you were down in Portsmouth. Quite young, I gather?’

  Sherbrooke had not found it easy to keep a straight face. Mrs Stagg was as sharply observant as her husband, in some things, anyway.

  Stagg had pressed him. ‘Pretty, is she?’

  ‘I think so.’ It had surprised him how easily it had come out.

  Even if he had been able to see her again before Reliant had left for the Cape, it was just an illusion, a conceit. But a moment he would never forget.

  Stagg had shaken his head. ‘You’re a dark one, and no mistake. But then, you always were. Stay with the ship. It’s safer in the long run!’

  Sherbrooke let the glasses fall to his chest and allowed the destroyer to dwindle into the distance.

  Around him, he could hear the signalmen talking amongst themselves, and Yorke, the yeoman, comparing his log with that of his leading hand.

  Despite the intake of new recruits and recently qualified ratings, this passage had done much to draw them together. They had observed the Crossing the Line ceremony when Reliant had steamed across the Equator. Most of the hands had never been so far south before: Reliant’s war had been fought in the North Atlantic, in the Norwegian campaign in support at the second battle of Narvik, in clashes with German cruisers preying on Russian convoys, and only once down to Africa, an unhappy mission, when Reliant, with other heavy units, had bombarded the French fleet at Dakar, in case they might later attempt to join up with the Germans and their Italian allies. When France had surrendered, leaving Britain quite alone, the loss of the French fleet to Germany had posed a major threat. Its destruction was necessary, they had said, but there would be many a Frenchman who would recall that incident with hatred.

  He heard the tannoy echo up from the maindeck.

  ‘Up spirits! Senior hands of messes muster for rum!’

  That brought a few grins from the watchkeepers.

  He considered the convoys. So many troops: it had to mean something. The German Afrika Korps was still falling back in North Africa. Allied victory in the desert was not a fluke, no longer merely wishful thinking. The convoy they would be escorting would consist of ex-liners and modern cargo vessels, fast, more than a match for any would-be raider, and Reliant could defend it against any such attempt.

  He looked up, shading his eyes against the glare, and saw Stagg’s flag streaming out in the strong breeze. If there was to be an invasion, Stagg would expect to be in the thick of it.

  He heard Frazier’s voice from the bridge, occupied as usual with his lists and inspections. Today had begun for him with Requestmen and Defaulters. He was both mayor and magistrate again.

  There were not many defaulters. The men were on their best behaviour, rather than lose the chance of a run ashore at Cape Town. It would seem like another world to most of them.

  He leaned out, watching the mechanics working on the Walrus flying boat. They were supposed to be getting another plane when it was available. Reliant had sufficient hangar space for three aircraft. He thought of Rayner’s surprise and astonishment when he had sent for him and told him that he had been put forward for a Mention-in-Despatches, both for his action against the Minden’s float plane, and in response to a glowing report from his previous captain in the old cruiser.

  Rayner had touched the livid bruise by his mouth. ‘Gee, thanks, sir.’ Then he had grinned. ‘It was worth it.’

  All in all, a good ship’s company. As good as . . . He cut the thought from his mind, and walked into the bridge.

  Frazier was standing with a solidly-built, stiff-backed chief petty officer. But this was no ordinary C.P.O. It was Keith Glander, the Master-at-Arms, nicknamed the Jaunty. As head of the regulating branch, he was policeman, father confessor, jailer, and if he could have his way with certain names, he would certainly be happy to act as executioner as well. Feared, hated, respected; he could match each challenge with practised authority. He had always wanted to be a policeman, even as a boy. When his chance had come, and he had discovered he was an inch short of the required height, he had joined the Royal Navy instead, out of pique or sheer disappointment he could not now remember. But in his neat uniform, with the crown and encircling laurels on either lapel, he had, by a roundabout route, achieved his original ambition.

  It was wise even for young officers to abide by his word. Ignore it over a request or complaint, or believe that the lower deck should know its place, and that officer was as good as sunk.

  Seeing him with Frazier now, it was hard to imagine him a few days ago with bright gold crown and a red beard, as King Neptune coming over the side to hold court in the time-honoured fashion.

  Frazier said, ‘Nothing very exciting, sir. One seaman requesting permission to marry. But he’s under age. Just a kid.’

  The master-at-arms gave a broad grin, something not often seen on his face.

  ‘’Sides, sir, she’s a tom, like her mother was when I was in the old Revenge. I’ll give him a quiet talking-to.’ The grin vanished. He waited for Frazier to sign his folder, then he saluted and marched from the bridge.

  Sherbrooke said, ‘He’s priceless.’

  Frazier glanced round restlessly as the tannoy intoned, ‘Cooks to the galley!’

  Sherbrooke drew him aside.

  ‘Everything all right, John?’

  ‘Why?’ He recovered immediately. ‘My wife and I had words, sir. Not exactly front-page, is it?’

  ‘If you feel like a chat, you know where I am.’

 
Frazier said, without smiling, ‘Thanks. I appreciate it, sir.’ He saw a petty officer trying to catch his attention. ‘Must be off. I’m going to exercise the foc’sle party. Don’t want any foul-ups when we drop the hook in Cape Town.’ He was gone, to his world again.

  The bearded navigating officer was waiting.

  ‘I’ve got the convoy listings, sir. Seven large ships in all. Should manage eighteen knots, by the look of it.’

  Sherbrooke glanced through the ships’ names. This was not like those early days in the North Atlantic, where the speed of the convoy had always been that of the slowest ship in it. Some could only manage about eight knots, and most of them had paid for it.

  Rhodes was saying, ‘We’ll be joined by the light cruiser Diligent. She was built around Reliant’s time . . . useful, but not very beautiful. Six single six-inch guns on the centre line. No protection for her crews.’

  It was a bleak but accurate summing-up. Another ship of an almost similar design, Curaçao, had been acting as a fast escort for a troopship in the Atlantic some four months ago, when Sherbrooke had been recovering from his own experience with Pyrrhus. But this had not been just any troopship; she had been Cunard’s pride, Queen Mary, packed to the deck beams with soldiers. It was still pretty much a secret, and there was some doubt whether Curaçao had ‘zigged’ instead of ‘zagged’ across the path of her giant charge, but the light cruiser had been cut in half by the collision. It was rumoured that some of the troops in the liner had not even felt the impact.

  It was not something any captain in a fast convoy could afford to forget.

  He looked up as Frazier reappeared, a pad in his hand. They walked toward the chart room without speaking, and Sherbrooke beckoned to Rhodes.

  ‘You too, Pilot.’

  He read the chief telegraphist’s neat, schoolboy writing.

  Then he said quietly, ‘A neutral ship, Spanish, sailing alone, was fired on yesterday by what is alleged to have been a German raider.’ He saw Rhodes leaning over the chart table. ‘Some two hundred miles south-west of Freetown, Sierra Leone. No further action was reported.’