Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Down, sir. In a bad way.’

  ‘Signal Captain (D) to stand by and assist Diligent. Report extent of damage.’

  He shut out the clatter of signal lamps, and levelled his glasses on the sea. The Walrus was rocking about, her power gone. It was a marvel they had made it at all.

  He seemed to hear Rayner’s voice. We can manage. Then he made up his mind. ‘Alter course for the Walrus, Pilot. Reduce to seven-zero revs in five minutes. That should do it.’ He turned away and saw a boatswain’s mate staring at him. ‘You – Oldfield, isn’t it? Pipe the seaboat’s crew and lowerers to clear away the port whaler.’

  He moved quickly to the radar repeater, thinking only of the pleasure in the man’s eyes, because he had called him by name. His father had once told him, remember their names. It’s just about all they own!

  Stagg walked across the bridge. ‘How is Diligent making out?’

  Rhodes called, ‘Down by the bows, sir. Montagu is standing by.’

  ‘Seaboat’s crew ready, sir!’

  ‘Very well.’ He looked over at Rhodes. ‘Slow ahead. Dead slow, if you think fit. Tell the Chief what’s happening.’

  Stagg said sharply, ‘I’d quite like to know, too.’

  ‘We can’t recover the Walrus, sir. It’s probably too badly damaged. I’m picking up its crew.’

  Stagg stared at him, then stalked out on to the open bridge wing.

  The orders were very faint when heard from up here. ‘Turns for lowering! Lower away! Avast lowering!’

  Sherbrooke had seen it done a thousand times, the boat dangling at the full extent of the falls, swinging gently above the sluggish bow wave. The five oarsmen in their bulky life-jackets, their coxswain ready to shout his commands.

  ‘Out pins!’

  Stagg raised one hand as if to prevent it, as if he could still not believe what was happening.

  ‘Slip!’

  Then the boat dropped freely onto the receding bow wave, veering away on the long line which would carry her clear of Reliant’s side and towering superstructure. A lonely moment for any boat’s crew.

  Rhodes said, ‘They’re almost up to the plane, sir.’ He sounded completely absorbed. ‘Boat’s cox’n is signalling.’ He snatched up his glasses again as the tiny figure in the whaler’s sternsheets semaphored with his hands, while the whaler lifted and rolled against the drifting Walrus.

  ‘One dead, sir. One wounded. Am returning.’

  Stagg snapped, ‘Get that boat hoisted and alter course after the others immediately!’

  He walked to the door and paused. ‘And then, I should like to see you in my quarters as soon as is convenient, and provided it does not interfere with the safety of this ship!’

  Rhodes and his assistant, Frost, had heard every word, and Sherbrooke knew that Stagg had intended it that way.

  ‘Whaler’s coming inboard now, sir!’ That was Yorke, his eyes unusually grave, as though moved by what he had just witnessed.

  ‘Carry on, Pilot. Bring her round and increase to one-one-zero revolutions.’ He felt the instant response, like a shiver pulsing up through the bridge from the very keel.

  He heard Rhodes say, ‘Port ten . . . midships . . . Steady.’ Relaxed once more, now that the ship was moving again and gathering speed.

  Frazier must have witnessed it all, from his isolation aboard Orlando.

  What would he have done in my place?

  He trained his glasses on the listing Diligent. It would be her captain’s decision, to abandon and transfer his men to the destroyer Montagu, or to try and make it into harbour unaided. Halfway between the light cruiser and Reliant, the battered Walrus flying boat might remain afloat for weeks until another storm found it, yet another victim of the Atlantic.

  He heard Rhodes speaking on a telephone, and waited.

  Rhodes said, ‘The man who was killed was named Hardie, newly joined this ship. Lieutenant Rayner was wounded.’

  It had probably been no more than a fluke; none of the mines dropped by the unknown enemy might ever have found a contact in this convoy. Only one would have been enough to turn a triumph into disaster. He looked at his hands, but they were quite steady, which surprised him. He felt the ship slicing through the water, overhauling the passive merchantmen like a greyhound, resuming her rightful place at the head of the convoy. Where Diligent had been when she had struck the mine.

  One of the young signalmen said, ‘I was thinking just now, Yeo . . .’

  The yeoman of signals patted his blue collar. ‘Leave thinking to horses, my son. They’ve got bigger heads than you have!’ He smiled, knowing what was puzzling him. ‘Go an’ wet some tea for the watchkeepers.’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘Take over the weight, Pilot. I’m going to see the admiral.’ He paused. ‘But first, I’m going to the sickbay.’

  It was not until eight bells of the first dog watch that he finally made his way aft toward the admiral’s quarters. Every muscle and bone ached, and he felt as if he had been on his feet for days without respite.

  The flag lieutenant and Stagg’s swarthy secretary, Lieutenant Villar, were already there, but they left immediately without speaking. As if this scenario had already been rehearsed.

  Stagg said, ‘Everything on top line again?’ But his eyes seemed to ask, what took you so long?

  ‘Yes, sir. I made sure that your signals were sent off, and I received a few more details of the minelayer. It seems as though it was either the Spanish Cabo Fradera, which reported being shelled but was in fact being used by the enemy, or a German raider camouflaged to look like her, so they could slip between two convoys without being questioned.’ He saw Stagg nod sharply to his chief steward, Taffy Price, who withdrew at once. So it was going to be that sort of confrontation.

  The Walrus’s observer, the New Zealander, had looked even younger when Sherbrooke had spoken with him in the sickbay. Buck was having a gash dressed on his wrist, about which he could recall nothing.

  He had been able to give a good description of the minelayer, even down to the launching rails, and the makeshift identity painted on a large bolt of canvas. He had not seen the gun which had fired at them, but that was hardly surprising. The German gunners could not have missed.

  The Admiralty would have to decide what further action to take. One of the new escort carriers like Seeker, still being repaired in Iceland, would be ideal. But they themselves could take no further risks where this convoy was concerned.

  He said, ‘Diligent is making for Freetown. Tugs will be available for her.’

  Stagg said, ‘That’s not what I wanted to see you about.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  ‘I thought you would like to know that Lieutenant Rayner survived, and should make a full recovery.’

  Stagg gave him a hard stare. ‘I was coming to that, of course!’ He reached out restlessly and moved a paperweight to align it with the gold edging on his desk.

  ‘You took a great risk when you went alongside the Orlando. It was your decision, and it was, in many ways, a courageous one. Had the fire got out of control Orlando might have had to abandon. An ugly situation. But I backed your decision and I shall say as much.’

  Sherbrooke felt the tiredness washing over him. Or you’ll say it was your decision.

  Stagg continued, ‘But to stop Reliant in that fashion, when an escort had already struck a mine, to drop a boat and expose the whole ship to immediate danger was inexcusable.’

  ‘It was a risk. Justified, in my opinion, sir.’

  Stagg did not seem to hear. ‘My God, we wouldn’t even stop for a ship torpedoed in convoy, you know that! Don’t stop, and never look back – you of all people should know that!’

  ‘I do, sir. I saw men die because nobody came until it was too late.’

  ‘That was an entirely different situation!’

  ‘Perhaps. But if it hadn’t been for Rayner, we would never have known, until it was too late. Perhaps there were only a few mines laid, or maybe there were hundreds
, none of which might have crossed the convoy’s route. But one did!’

  ‘There is no need to raise your voice!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. When I was given Reliant, I was not merely surprised, I was grateful. It makes you like that. I wanted this command more than I can put into words. It seemed like an old friend, something reaching out for me.’

  He was suddenly angry with Stagg, but more with himself for trying to explain what it had meant to him, what it had cost him. It was private, and should have been shared with no one.

  ‘I stopped for Rayner and his crew because we owed him that much.’

  He thought of the drifting Walrus, as he had last seen it from the bridge, with its one dead crewman for company. Like the airman Rayner had described, frozen in his little dinghy. So many faces of war.

  Stagg pushed the paperweight aside, bored with it. ‘I always knew you were the sentimental type, Guy.’

  Sherbrooke closed his fingers slowly and tightly into a fist. First names again . . .

  ‘I think we could open the bar an inch or so, eh?’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘I’d better not, sir.’

  Stagg pressed the small bell button and Price appeared like a genie.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He smiled broadly. ‘But remember what I said, eh? Just between us.’

  The door closed behind Sherbrooke. He had made an enemy, or perhaps the enemy had always been there, waiting. Like the mine.

  It was midnight when Sherbrooke returned to the sickbay. Everything seemed startlingly white and sterile here, almost peaceful, with a sickberth attendant dozing in a chair, head nodding in time with Reliant’s easy motion.

  He had been right round the ship. I must be getting like John Frazier. Unable to stop, to let go.

  He halted by the one cot with a light on beside it. How different from the bruised and bloodied figure he had visited before going aft to Stagg.

  Surgeon Commander Farleigh had described the wound in his usual meticulous, sparing fashion. Clean enough; caught just in time. But it had missed an artery by an inch or less, and Rayner had lost a great deal of blood. There were savage bruises on his body too, from the impact when the Walrus had made its last efforts to ditch, although, like Buck, he would probably not remember how they had happened.

  He realized that Rayner’s eyes were open, gazing at him, trying to penetrate the fog of drugs, the only barrier against the pain.

  He said hoarsely, ‘You came earlier. They told me.’

  Sherbrooke touched his bare shoulder. The skin was hot, as though he had fever.

  ‘I’m glad they told you. They told me you’ll be fine.’

  He saw the sudden concern, anxiety, returning, perhaps with memory.

  ‘I heard about Jim. I feel terrible about that. I should have known.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. You may have saved a lot of lives.’ He glanced around. In his mind, he saw the German survivors sitting on their beds in this cool, antiseptic place.

  ‘You might even have saved Reliant from damage, or worse. It’s worth remembering. You were in charge, so you always tend to blame yourself. I know. I’ve been there.’

  ‘I won’t get sent to another ship, will I, sir?’

  ‘No, of course not. We should get some new aircraft now – a little more quickly, thanks to you!’ He stood up. Rayner was drifting again, and his own fatigue was intense. ‘One more thing, and then I’ll leave you to sleep.’ He saw Rayner struggling to remain alert, to listen, and understand him. ‘That Mention-in-Despatches. I don’t think you’ll be getting it.’ He leaned a little further over the cot, so that Rayner could see his fingers on the blue and white ribbon on his own jacket. ‘I think one of these would be more suitable.’

  Rayner stared at him, unable to grasp it.

  Sherbrooke stepped back into the shadows, remembering Stagg’s final words to him. Just between us.

  A messenger murmured, ‘Captain? You’re wanted on the bridge.’

  Sherbrooke looked down at Rayner’s face, now relaxed in sleep.

  It had been worth it.

  10

  Survivors

  The uniformed doorman examined the girl’s official identity card and letter of introduction, and said, ‘If you’ll wait in the office, miss . . . er, Mrs Meheux, Captain Thorne will not keep you waiting too long.’

  As she walked through the other door he glanced at her approvingly.

  Very nice. Some people have all the luck.

  She sat down on a chair and looked around the office, like so many places commandeered for wartime use.

  On the door a small sign stated, Director of Naval Information – Restricted. It was afternoon, and she had walked here from her old office in Grand Buildings, Trafalgar Square, where she had been concluding Sir Graham Edwardes’ affairs before handing over to another woman who had seemed totally disinterested in the work, or what it might offer.

  She stuck out one leg and regarded it critically. This was her last good pair of stockings, and yet the girls she had shared rooms with had never seemed short of a supply. The Americans could be very generous, she gathered.

  She smiled to herself. That had all changed. This new position was described as promotion, but what was more important to her was the small flat that went with the job. It was in Chelsea, off the King’s Road, where lodgings were even harder to obtain than good stockings. She could not see the river because of surrounding houses, but it was pleasant simply to know that it was there.

  She loosened her blouse. The change in the weather was amazing, and she had walked here without a coat. The sky was overcast, with low cloud, so that the barrage balloons were invisible, but it was April. Another spring of war. Where had the time gone?

  She had written to her father, about the new job, about London, and concerning the most recent letter she had received from the War Office. She allowed her mind to explore its subject. Philip . . . There was still no news of him, and it seemed that the only sources of information were the Swiss Red Cross and other neutral agencies. Lieutenant Philip Meheux, Royal Engineers, had last been seen with his unit, or what had been left of it, on the day Singapore had fallen. He had not been reported killed or captured, and there had not even been a rumour of it. He was simply missing. The War Office had told her that there was still hope, but she wondered if anyone in her situation really believed that.

  In her previous work with the hero of the Great War, she had searched through all the records released on Singapore: many, she knew, would remain classified. She had learned about the navy’s part in that hopeless attempt at defence, and the tragedy of those two great ships, Repulse and Prince of Wales. With their destruction, the balance of naval power had shifted. Singapore had been as good as lost from that moment.

  She had been thinking of Singapore when she had visited Rosyth. Reliant was Repulse’s sister ship, but she could not remember if she had merely read that, or if Guy Sherbrooke had told her. She could not forget her visit to the Portsmouth cathedral, and afterwards, when she and Sherbrooke had walked together to see the memorial stone marking only one of so many terrible air raids.

  She knew very well that her father would write back from Bath with the usual words of consolation, giving her news about the place she had grown up in, where she and Philip had been to school, and where they had become friends. What might have happened, but for the war? Even the wedding had been a rush, another urgent part of the call to arms. Philip in uniform, the ceremony and the brief stay in that hotel, the confetti falling from her suitcase where some well-wisher had planted it so that everybody should know they were newlyweds.

  Three days, two nights, and he had gone. She thought of Sherbrooke again, how he had described the girl who had died with his father. It was something they had in common. She sensed that, like herself, he had not truly known her, perhaps had not even truly loved her with the love of maturity.

  She did not know where Reliant was now, or even if he still remembered that day when they had met
Stagg’s wife. She had been shocked at her own cheek, the way she had dragged him away from the other woman on some pretext or other. But she knew he had been glad of it, relieved; and in his face in those moments afterwards she had seen something very youthful, a shadow of the boy he had been.

  A man came through the other door, and said, ‘He’ll see you now.’

  Pompous, she thought. Why was it that, behind the scenes, the armed forces seemed to be run by civilians? She stood up, straightening her skirt. Civil servants. Like me.

  It was a spacious office, and she guessed that had the curtains been fully opened she would be able to see the Thames from the windows.

  Captain Roger Thorne stood up to greet her, his eyes never leaving hers as she walked toward him from the door. He was a tall man, his hair almost grey, his face keen, intelligent, most people’s idea of the perfect naval officer. His voice was deep and resonant, and she thought he must have been very good-looking in his youth. Thorne was obviously another retired officer brought back to serve, when he had probably long ago given up hope of ever wearing a uniform again.

  ‘Do be seated, Mrs Meheux. You were early – I like that. Punctuality is like duty, a must, for me, anyway.’

  She relaxed somewhat. There was a framed print of Nelson on one wall, a map of the world on another. There was also a fine model of a four-funnelled warship, which she guessed had once been part of his life.

  ‘This department is growing, finding its place in affairs. When the Allies launch their invasion into Europe our contribution will be even more important. I’ve read all the reports about your work as Graham Edwardes’s assistant. You did a great job. From what I knew of the old devil, he could be a difficult chap to serve.’

  There was a pause, and she answered, ‘He wanted more than anything to present the navy and its achievements in wartime in a manner that ordinary people could understand, and identify with.’

  He walked to the window. ‘I sometimes think we tell people too much.’

  ‘They have a lot to contend with, too, sir.’