Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Stagg said irritably, ‘I know, I know, Guy. I haven’t forgotten Repulse. Who could?’

  Essex said, ‘Fast in, fast out, at first light, sir. I can put up some fighter-bombers.’ He was apparently unrepentent at Stagg’s cold reception of his comment on the Admiralty. ‘A rapid-fire bombardment would be far more effective than high-level bombing. Might even block the harbour. That would really finish them.’

  Stagg looked across at Sherbrooke again.

  ‘Any other observations, Guy?’

  ‘E-Boats, sir. They’ve been reported in the area of Cape Bon. Our M.T.B.s have clashed with them a few times.’ He was surprised at his own calmness, as if it had already been decided. ‘But we can handle them with our secondary armament. The destroyers will take care of the rest.’

  Stagg said, ‘One destroyer, Guy. The others will look after Seeker. We’ll do this one alone. It’s what she was built for, eh?’

  It reminded him sharply of the girl whose name was carved on the stone at Portsmouth Point, the girl he had once believed he might marry, but now could remember without emotion. He recalled what he had said to her when they had walked and talked together, about the future, and how their lives might change. Of the navy, he had said, ‘It is what I do. What I am.’ Nobody had ever spoken of risk in those distant, sunlit days.

  Stagg was wearing the predatory grin, now that action seemed imminent. ‘Not a word to anybody until I hear from the C-in-C. Not even to Mr Drury.’ His grin grew wider. ‘Especially Mr Drury!’

  They all stood up, and Sherbrooke said to the carrier’s captain, ‘I’ll see you over the side.’

  Stagg shook Essex’s hand, playing the admiral again. ‘We shall make a bit of history together yet, you’ll see!’

  Sherbrooke walked out with Essex, and saw a messenger dash away to warn the quarterdeck so that Seeker’s boat would be ready and waiting. With Frazier as the commander, it was pleasant to know that he himself never had to remember such matters.

  They stood together in the hot sunlight, looking at the lines of troopships, some of which Reliant had probably escorted at some time during the war. Beyond, and dwarfing every ship, was the Rock itself. Sherbrooke had been in Reliant at Gibraltar several times in the years of peace, when life had consisted of regattas and races, contests with other warships, and mess bills to make a lieutenant weep.

  He realized that Essex was watching him. He was only a few years older than himself, with an experienced, energetic face. His hair was going grey. That wasn’t just the war. That was the Atlantic.

  ‘How do you get on with him? Stagg, I mean?’

  You should never ask a flag captain that, and Sherbrooke liked him for it.

  ‘He gets a bit carried away sometimes.’

  Essex turned as his boat cut across the blue water, the bowman stiffly upright with his boathook.

  He said quietly, ‘I’m glad to know you.’ Then he looked at him with steady, penetrating eyes. ‘And I’m damned glad Rear-Admiral Stagg’s got you in command. I think you know why.’

  They faced each other and saluted, then Essex was going down the long accommodation ladder, his eyes already looking across at his own ship.

  Frazier joined Sherbrooke in the shadow of Y Turret. ‘Go well, sir?’

  ‘I think so. Bombardment, by the sound of it. Nothing’s decided.’

  A petty officer hurried up and saluted Frazier. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the admiral will want his barge in half an hour. Going ashore, sir.’

  ‘Pipe for the lowering party to muster.’ He turned as the P.O. strode away. ‘I’ll tell the O.O.D. Don’t want to be caught out!’

  It is what I do. What I am.

  Rhodes was waiting for him, to sound him out about what charts might be needed, he thought. And the admiral’s secretary, Villars, was hovering nearby. Sherbrooke spoke to him first.

  ‘Problem, Sec?’

  Villar shrugged. ‘Rear-Admiral Stagg suggested I should take on another officer to assist me.’ He hesitated. ‘In view of what was discussed, sir.’

  ‘You’d better speak with the Bloke.’ He saw Villar’s unwillingness. ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’

  Villar smiled. ‘Well, yes, sir. A young subbie named Forbes, just out of King Alfred, I understand. Good experience for him.’

  Sherbrooke summoned the face to his mind. ‘Well, tell Commander Frazier anyway. I don’t see that he’d object.’

  Rhodes waited until the secretary had gone, and then asked, ‘About charts, sir?’

  Sherbrooke smiled at him, and said, ‘I thought it might be.’

  The porter on duty looked up from his desk as he heard the girl’s shoes clicking across the bare floor.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Meheux. Working late, then? Another flap on, I’ll bet.’

  She smiled absently, thinking of the river path where she had been walking, the river dark, ever-restless, the black, shapeless barges moored with other craft, and only one small boat moving, the river police or the Home Guard. For once, she had been scarcely interested.

  She had only been back at the flat in Chelsea for an hour before receiving a message that Captain Thorne needed her to return to the department offices, ‘unless it’s impossible, of course.’

  It had been cold by the river, and she could not stop shivering, even though she was wearing the blue denim trousers and jacket she kept for fire-watching, or those rare occasions when she joined other residents in the shelter. She had told herself that it was stupid not to take cover when a raid was in progress, but she hated the thought of being trapped, unable to see or hear what was happening. Some people actually seemed to enjoy it, and went regularly to the shelters, well supplied with blankets, food and drink, making a night of it. Maybe they were lonely. At least the war had broken down a few social barriers.

  The lift was not working; they always turned off the power when the building was empty, just in case. She gripped the handrail and began to climb. She should have telephoned her father in Bath, but she could not. She was barely able to think about it, or what it might mean to her now.

  The letter had been waiting for her, with its official stamps. She was carrying it in her shoulder bag at this very moment, and could still see the carefully worded information printed in her mind, as if someone were dictating it to her.

  It was too early for optimism, and all information took such a long time to filter through to London that much of it was out of date, useless. She had tried to test her feelings, to prepare herself one way or the other. But nothing came.

  Some facts had been passed through a Swedish agency; the remainder was speculation, something to which the authorities had become hardened since the Japanese victories in Singapore, Burma, Malaya, Hong Kong, and every other colony and territory which had fallen to the Rising Sun. Lieutenant Philip Meheux of the Royal Engineers was thought to be alive and working as a prisoner, not where he was captured, but in Japan. Separated from his own unit, he had been transported from Singapore in a naval supply vessel, which had been torpedoed by an American or Dutch submarine. Philip had survived, and had been identified by his dog-tag before being put ashore in Japan, for treatment, or for forced labour, no one knew.

  Perhaps he was ill, or had been badly injured when the ship had been torpedoed. It was possible that he had since died.

  To have some hope was often worse than having no hope at all. She had thought of the moment in the off-licence when the bomb had fallen. He had held her, protecting her from something he had known was about to happen. Instinct, experience, who could tell? But she had realized that if she had been going to die on that particular evening, she would have wanted it to happen with him, and with no other man. It made her feel ashamed, disloyal, but convinced.

  She had reached the office without being aware of it, and was strangely glad that she had been recalled. Tonight she needed it, like an escape.

  Captain Roger Thorne was sitting at his desk, and looked up as she entered.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,
Emma. Sorry to drag you back. Your fault really, for making yourself indispensable!’ He laughed, studying her trousers as she walked into the pool of light by his desk. ‘All prepared, eh?’

  He waited for her to sit down, his eyes still on the trousers as if he were disappointed in some way. ‘I had a chat with the Chief-of-Staff. James is a bit cagey, but he knows he can rely on this department.’

  She tried to relax. Vice-Admiral Hudson seemed a very upright and dignified man, always courteous on the rare occasions when she had met him. He was not the sort of officer Thorne would ever call by his first name.

  ‘How are we involved, sir?’

  He sounded vague. ‘Usual thing, full details to be reported to our selected list of department heads. Restricted, of course.’ He gave what might have been a wink. ‘Very.’

  She said, ‘Well, I still have some work to do, so I’ll be in the next room if you need me.’ She knew at once that it was the wrong thing to have said.

  ‘Who wouldn’t need you, my girl?’ He changed tack, and said, ‘You know Captain Guy Sherbrooke quite well, I expect?’

  She sat completely still, but could feel her heart pounding against her ribs like a fist.

  ‘I’ve met him a few times, yes. Mostly in connection with the ship, and the Minden. Has something happened?’

  He watched her curiously. ‘The Chief-of-Staff confirmed that Rear-Admiral Stagg’s force is involved in an operation. If I know Vincent Stagg he’ll make a mark for himself. He’s a real goer, that one, and he has quite an eye for the ladies, I’m told, so don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

  He’s playing with me. Enjoying it.

  She said, ‘Is it dangerous, then?’

  He stood up, and walked across the office to adjust a picture above the empty fireplace.

  ‘I knew Sherbrooke in the Montrose, you know. That takes me back a bit.’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  He did not seem to hear. ‘Good officer, a bit of a quiet one, but I quite liked him.’

  He walked behind her chair and she felt his hand brush against her hair. It was not an accident. Surprisingly, it made her feel sad, rather than angry.

  She said, ‘Have you told your wife you’re working late, sir?’

  He laughed sharply. ‘She understands. A navy wife has to accept these things!’

  Faintly, they heard the dismal, undulating dirge of sirens.

  Thorne grunted, ‘The nightly hate begins!’ but her remark seemed to have had an effect. He slumped into his chair and watched her across the desk. ‘It must be hard on you, Emma, your husband being a prisoner of war. Damned difficult, not knowing what the hell is going on.’

  She felt her bag beneath her elbow. The letter: polite, concerned, cold.

  ‘They think he’s alive.’

  He stared at her. ‘Do they, by God. Now there’s something to celebrate!’

  She saw him dragging open a drawer. Not for the first time this evening, it seemed.

  ‘These glasses are clean. Have a drink with me, Emma. It’s only gin, I’m afraid, but what d’you say?’

  Like hearing somebody else, she thought. ‘Just a small one. Thank you.’

  He splashed some water into her glass, or it could have all been gin. He was saying something and beaming over his own glass. But all she saw was Sherbrooke, kneeling by the stone in Portsmouth.

  And when she felt the gin, raw across her tongue, she was tasting in memory the whisky which had been Sir Graham Edwardes’s present to her, and sitting beside that same man in her flat in Chelsea.

  Had it really happened?

  Thorne was pouring himself another generous measure.

  ‘I expect you get a lot of bright lads trying to make a pass at you. Can hardly blame them. You’re a very pretty girl, you know.’

  He glared at his telephone as a small light blinked just once, and exclaimed, ‘God damnit! Who the hell can that be?’ He almost snatched her glass, and put it with his own into the drawer.

  The door opened without a knock, and Vice-Admiral James Hudson strode into the room.

  He saw the girl and held out his hand. ‘No, please don’t get up, Mrs Meheux.’ He nodded to Thorne, his eyes taking in the half-empty water jug, and the wet marks where the glasses had been. He would smell the gin, too, she thought.

  He said, ‘Glad you got your people together, Roger. Red alert has just been sounded, too, so don’t hang about if the planes come this way.’

  He laid a thin file on the desk. ‘Operation Sackcloth. The details, such as they are.’ He waited, watching Thorne’s discomfort. ‘Raids or no raids, I want this dealt with.’

  She asked quietly, ‘When is it, sir?’

  He studied her gravely before answering. ‘It was brought forward by one day. The operation was carried out this morning.’

  Thorne had used the exchange to recover himself. ‘Satisfactory, I trust, sir?’

  ‘Signals are still coming in – security. You know the score, Roger.’

  They both looked at her as she said, ‘Was it Reliant, sir?’ and then, ‘Is she all right?’

  Hudson seemed to make up his mind. There was something in this young woman’s face, in her eyes, that made him realize this was no casual question.

  ‘She is reported safe. There was some damage, and we have reports of casualties. Next of kin will be informed as soon as possible.’

  She stood up, thinking of the cascade of broken glass, the prostitute who had given her such a searching glance when they had entered the shop. Next of kin . . .

  ‘Captain Sherbrooke, sir?’

  I need you with me.

  She should have told him earlier. Now, it might be too late for both of them.

  Hudson smiled. ‘Safe.’ So that was it. He was surprised that such simple truths could still move him. ‘In fact, for a captain who’s just fought the enemy and managed to save his own ship, I’d say he was feeling pretty good!’

  He saw the fingers of her right hand close over the plain wedding ring on her left, but sensed that she neither saw nor felt it. Then she closed her eyes briefly, and opened them.

  You see, I love him so much. And he loves me.

  But all she said was, ‘Thank you. I’m so happy that he’s safe.’

  She remembered him telling her the ship’s motto after Stagg’s pointed little comment. We will never give in.

  She excused herself and left the room.

  Nor will we.

  13

  Blood and Congratulations

  H.M.S. Reliant’s bearded navigating officer straightened up from his voicepipes and said, ‘Steady on new course, sir, one-three-zero, one-one-zero revolutions.’ He sounded unusually formal, very aware of the rear-admiral’s pale figure cross-legged in the captain’s chair.

  Sherbrooke glanced at him. ‘Very good, Pilot. Still damned dark, by the look of it.’

  Rhodes grunted. ‘Guns won’t thank us. He’ll have the sun right in his eyes when it does appear!’

  The ship seemed very quiet, even though she was thrusting through the water at half-speed. The sea was remarkably calm, and only the occasional tremble of power through the bridge deck gave a hint of her movement.

  Officers and men had changed into white clothing, which only seemed to deepen the tension aboard Reliant: Stagg had made his wishes known in this respect when they had eventually been ordered to leave Gibraltar. Sherbrooke envied the ratings in their simple rig; his own heavy white drill was already clinging to his body. It would be worse when the sun came up. Most of the junior officers were wearing only shirts and shorts, unwilling to purchase extra uniforms which they might never wear again, once this operation was over.

  He wondered why Stagg was here instead of enjoying the privacy of his own small bridge. Maybe the delays and the postponement of his plan had finally got to him. When they had at last been ordered to bring the bombardment forward by twenty-four hours, he had expected Stagg to explode. Instead, he had vented most of his anger on Howe, his fla
g lieutenant, and in confidence had snapped, ‘I’ll be rid of that jellyfish at the first chance I get, just you watch me! I don’t owe his father a bloody thing!’

  Another little insight. Howe’s father was an admiral.

  Sherbrooke glanced at the radar repeater, the revolving beam reaching out like a blind man’s stick. He saw their accompanying destroyer, Montagu, appear momentarily and vanish, leading the way, on a regular zig-zag some four miles ahead of the flagship. It still felt as though they were all alone: the carrier Seeker and the other destroyers were deployed well astern to the north-west. Beyond Montagu, there was only the land. The enemy.

  A quick bombardment, in and out, before Jerry realized what was happening. It never seemed so simple once it was staring you in the face.

  Up in his control position, Evershed, the gunnery officer, was waiting. All six guns were loaded with high-explosive shells, far more effective than armour-piercing projectiles when used against land targets.

  The enemy had been under constant attack, from the air, and from the tightening jaws of tanks and infantry pushing up from the south. German aircraft had been reduced to using the beaches for landing and take-off; landing craft had to risk being wrecked by sunken or grounded vessels whenever they tried to run supplies or evacuate survivors from broken and demoralized units.

  Evershed would be in his element, Sherbrooke thought, packed into his armoured control position with his assistants, who would sift the information as it came in. Range, rate, deflection, like a single machine, with Evershed’s hand on the trigger.

  Sherbrooke looked at Rhodes by the voicepipes, his features and uniform tinged green by the shaded lights of repeaters and dials. Men he had come to know, in so short a time; men he trusted, like Onslow, the Chief, down below the waterline in his confined world of racing machinery and roaring fans. And Farleigh, the surgeon commander, who had proved his worth many times over with survivors, no matter what uniform they wore. He would be down there now, arms folded, his S.B.A.s and first aid parties placed throughout the ship like extensions of himself, listening to the constant rattle of instruments, the tools of his trade; waiting in that glaring, white place.