Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Apart from that, there were the dockyard workers: men dragging their feet to obtain overtime pay, union representatives plaguing him with complaints, even threats of strike action. No wonder sailors hated them. They took all the risks, with precious little to show for it on their pay days.

  But that was not his concern. Repair the ships, turn them round as soon as possible, and make room for the next casualties.

  He sat in one of the chairs in the captain’s quarters, watching as Reliant’s commanding officer turned over each page of his report. Men like Captain Sherbrooke had no idea what dockyard managers and engineers had to contend with, he thought. A captain could say ‘jump’ and a man would jump, to another, ‘do this,’ and he would do it without question. Another world.

  He said abruptly, ‘Most of the damage is in the forrard superstructure. It’s all there in my report.’ He glanced around the cabin. It was comfortable, restful, after the noise and dirt of the yard. Hard to believe that men had died in this ship. But then, it always surprised him how the navy always managed to tidy up after a bombing or a battle.

  Sherbrooke looked at him. ‘Some of the plating is too thin. It’s an old story, but nobody ever seems to hear it.’

  The manager concealed his surprise. It was not usual for a four-ringed skipper to criticize the system.

  He said, ‘I worked on Reliant as a lad, you know. Even then, I used to hear the old gaffers saying the battlecruisers were too thinly armoured. Jutland proved them right.’ He peered around again, seeing with the eyes of the past. ‘I can remember when they brought Reliant here for a refit and reconstruction. She was in and out several times, and the story was always the same. More armour plating, but never enough. We were proved right, though. Reliant and Renown are the only two left now.’

  Sherbrooke closed the file. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Month, maybe more, maybe less. It all depends on the resources and the priorities.’ He eyed him resentfully. ‘Can’t perform miracles, you know.’

  Petty Officer Long appeared by the pantry and glanced meaningly at the clock.

  Sherbrooke looked at his visitor. ‘A drink, perhaps?’

  He smiled for the first time. ‘I wouldn’t say no, Captain.’

  Sherbrooke listened to the dockyard noises outside the hull, rivet guns and saws, drills and rattling cranes. Some of the other ships here looked as if they might never move again.

  He thought of the bombardment, the crash of a direct hit on Stagg’s bridge, the splinter holes, which he had seen for himself, like knives through butter. The guns and the waterline were protected up to a point, but high-velocity shells, dropping like those which had destroyed Montagu, were something very different. He had said as much to the rear-admiral. Stagg had been reading the newspapers with obvious pleasure. One headline said of Reliant’s swift action, The fighting admiral does it again! Stagg shows his horns!

  Stagg had said, ‘Operation Sackcloth was a success, everybody knows that now. The C-in-C followed it up. Sink, burn and destroy! Let nothing pass! That was Operation Retribution, and it worked! You can’t fight a war with promises – we fight it with what we’ve got! You of all people must know that!’

  It was hopeless. Reliant could not be spared for a long refit: Stagg was right about that, at least. Sicily would be the next obvious point at which to attack, and invade, the enemy. A month? Two at the most, before the weather changed sides again.

  The dockyard manager was enjoying his Scotch. ‘Good stuff, Captain. You do well for yourselves, and no mistake!’

  Sherbrooke smiled. ‘No drydocking, then?’

  Their eyes met. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Sherbrooke saw him to the door and they shook hands.

  If they kept out of dock, Reliant could still run a daily routine, and remain as a unit. An empty ship at the mercy of the dockyard was without life.

  Frazier could arrange local leave, and longer periods for those overdue for visiting their homes in other parts of the country. But Reliant would remain a living ship. That was what really mattered.

  Long was busy clearing up his drinks cabinet, glad that Pat Drury had left the ship. Hopefully for good, in his view.

  He asked guardedly, ‘Will you be taking some leave, sir?’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘I should think that’s unlikely. I don’t want anybody making excuses that a job can’t be done properly because the skipper’s away enjoying himself!’

  Stagg would be going to London. The fighting admiral would be in great demand.

  Frazier tapped on the open door and entered. He looked tired, strained, as if contact with the land was a burden rather than a blessing.

  ‘Postman’s been aboard, sir.’ He put a letter and an official-looking envelope on the desk.

  Sherbrooke picked up the letter. He knew Frazier was watching him, waiting without being obvious about it until he opened the other envelope.

  Sherbrooke read the document slowly and exclaimed, ‘Bloody good show, John. Rayner’s gong has come through. He’s to go to London.’ He looked up, pleased more than he could say. ‘He’ll get it from HM the K in person!’

  Frazier said, ‘I’m glad.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Because you put him up for it, sir.’ Again, the smallest pause. ‘I think you should have got something.’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘Forget it, John. We get our share.’

  Frazier looked at the clock. ‘I have to see some requestmen. All the usual, I expect. My wife is coming up for a few days. But I’ll be available at any time, sir . . . you know that.’

  He said gently, ‘Yes. I know.’

  Long said, ‘Admiral’s secretary to see you, sir.’

  Frazier left, and Lieutenant Villar strode briskly into the cabin.

  ‘I just wanted to know if there’s anything you might need, sir. I shall be going to London with Rear-Admiral Stagg.’ He did not conceal his surprise. Stagg rarely took anybody with him.

  ‘I’m glad you’re quite recovered. It was very bad down there.’

  Villar gazed past him, apparently at the ship’s crest. ‘Yes, sir. Still can’t remember much about it.’ He indicated a large folder held under his arm. ‘I’ve gathered some of Sub-Lieutenant Forbes’s gear together. I’ll have it sent to his parents. He was only standing a few feet from me when it happened. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  And if Stagg had been there, as he should have been, he too might be dead.

  Villar was saying, ‘I’ll be glad to get away for a few days, sir. I spend more time in an office here than I would in barracks ashore!’

  Long followed the lieutenant out and closed the door ostentatiously behind them, leaving Sherbrooke alone.

  He slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Her handwriting was very unfamiliar.

  Dear Guy, I am taking some time off. They tell me I’m due for it.

  He could hear her voice in her writing, and sensed that she had been nervous when she had written this. She was probably regretting it now.

  I can come and see you if you think that might be easier. Things have happened. I had some news about my husband. She never spoke of him by name. I have been reading a lot about you lately. What you did. He could almost feel the hesitation. I’m so proud of you, I really am. I would love to see you again. Soon.

  There was a sharp tap at the door. ‘Captain of the dockyard, sir!’

  Sherbrooke folded the letter with care and put it inside his jacket. She was coming. He tried to examine his feelings. Her husband was alive, otherwise she would have said that he was dead. It would make all the difference. It must.

  Long opened the outer door, and the tannoy intruded noisily, ‘Leave for the starboard watch from 1600 to 2230, Chief and Petty Officers until midnight. Duty part of the Port Watch will muster for fire drill at 1430.’

  Sherbrooke stood up to meet his visitor, and felt his hand brush the steel bulkhead. A living ship. And Emma had written to him. If either of them had wanted to, there was now no turning
back.

  Lieutenant James Villar lit a cigarette and thought of his forthcoming trip to London. Until a new flag lieutenant was appointed, he would be doubly important to the admiral. There were endless possibilities in this.

  He looked at the folder and then touched it, preparing himself, searching for the risks, considering what could go wrong.

  He did not mix much with the other wardroom officers, and he knew they regarded him as a spy in their midst. He accepted that, and actually enjoyed it. Where Stagg was concerned, Villar kept his ears and eyes wide open, and his mouth shut. That had been poor Howe’s problem. Too high an opinion of himself, always making suggestions and offering advice. An admiral’s son, maybe, and from an illustrious naval family, but he hadn’t a clue about men like Stagg. He smiled. Howe had not even realized that one of the reasons Stagg disliked him was because he was several inches taller than himself. Absurd? Not with men like Stagg.

  There was a tap at the office door.

  ‘Enter!’ He leaned back, letting the cigarette smoke filter straight up into the vent.

  It was the young seaman, Mowbray, looking strangely different in his best uniform, and not the usual working gear.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’

  Villar nodded. ‘Shut the door. Sit down if you like.’

  Mowbray did not sit down, but stood gazing around the office as if it were completely new to him, although he had worked here for Villar, and had been united here with his friend.

  ‘Going on leave, I understand. Guildford – that’s in Surrey, isn’t it?’

  The young face seemed to return with difficulty to reality.

  ‘Yes, sir. Seven days.’

  ‘Good. I was concerned about you after we broke off the action.’

  It sounded good, he decided. Authentic: the old campaigner.

  Mowbray smiled faintly. ‘It was kind of you to visit me in sickbay, sir. I – I was surprised. You see, I never . . .’

  Villar watched the smoke. ‘It was quite understandable. You’d never been in combat before. Then losing your friend like that . . .’ He watched each word going home. What that robot Evershed would call the fall of shot. ‘Matter of fact, I’ve just been collecting some of his personal belongings. I was recovering some of the files I had given him to study. For his new duties. However . . .’

  He saw Mowbray’s eyes on the folder, well used and stained in crayon. It had been in the bottom of the subbie’s suitcase.

  He pulled one of the tapes loose, feeling the eyes watching each move. Fascinated. Afraid.

  ‘You once told me you were an artist. But, of course, some people say things just to impress.’ He opened the file. ‘These drawings are good. Some would judge them excellent.’ He looked at him calmly. ‘If a trifle explicit for some tastes.’

  ‘He was a good artist, sir.’ His shoulders seemed to sag. ‘Very good.’

  ‘I can see that. This one of you, for instance – rather daring, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘We often modelled for each other, sir. It was the only way to . . .’

  Villar leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’m not judging or probing, but you must see, Mowbray, that others might, if these fell into the wrong hands. Forbes was young, but he was an officer. This sort of . . . involvement . . . is not accepted or tolerated in the service. Even you must realize that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Villar felt his muscles relax slightly. ‘And you were involved, weren’t you?’

  ‘We were friends.’ There was no defiance, no sort of challenge.

  ‘And there is a photograph of you, Mowbray, one he used to finish the drawing, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked up suddenly, his eyes brilliant, pleading. ‘If his family found out, even thought there was any kind of . . .’ He could not continue.

  Villar smiled. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this, Mowbray. But I shall see that these pictures are placed somewhere secure.’ He placed the photograph on one side. ‘This one I will keep.’

  Mowbray left the office. What could he do? Who could he turn to? Nobody would believe him. His eyes filled with tears of anger and despair. And Peter would be disgraced, even in death.

  He heard voices, someone laughing, and saw Glander, the master-at-arms, talking to a group of seamen and a petty officer, all of whom were wearing white belts and webbing gaiters. Then he remembered hearing about it on the messdeck. A man who had deserted the ship when they had been in Greenock had been found and arrested, and was being held to await an escort.

  He could see it, in his shocked and troubled mind. Being dragged back on board in handcuffs, being humiliated and hated by everyone.

  Glander said, ‘What’s up, my son? You look like a bloke who’s lost a quid and found a tanner!’

  The others grinned. They didn’t give a damn. They had been in action and some men had been killed; two had lost their legs. He had watched them being carried ashore at Gibraltar on the way back. And it was as if nothing had happened, as if death could never touch them. It was their way. Mowbray walked past them and straightened his uniform, ready for the inspection of libertymen.

  So why not me? None of it was my fault. I did it for Peter, and now he’s dead.

  He knew what Villar expected, what he was really like. He had known when they had first met. There was always a Villar around, officer or not.

  Glander saw him walk away. ‘We’ll have to watch that one, Ted.’

  The Regulating Petty Officer, always known as the Crusher, grinned broadly.

  ‘What, you, Master? I thought your weakness was women!’

  They both roared with laughter. They had seen it all.

  They lay side by side on the bed, their small, private world confined to a circle of light from a solitary lamp. The girl was propped on one elbow, her hand on his shoulder, her fair hair almost silver in the lamplight.

  There was a great sense of peace between them, and a new awareness, which their nudity only enhanced. Only beyond the circle of light was the other part of the story, the embrace, the lingering disbelief that it was happening to them. A pillow knocked onto the floor, his uniform jacket tossed carelessly onto a chair, her stockings across his shirt.

  The flat was above a dentist’s surgery and waiting room, comfortably furnished, and yet vaguely old-fashioned in some way. There was a photograph of an R.A.F. officer in the next room. .

  As she had closed and locked the door behind them, he had asked, ‘A flier?’ Something to say, more than any curiosity or suspicion.

  She had replied, ‘No. He’s a wingless wonder at some bomber station down in Kent. His wife owns this place. She adores him. Even though he can’t keep his hands off all the little Waafs!’

  Then she had said, ‘Just hold me, will you. I can’t believe it, can you?’

  The food and the wine he had bribed out of the wardroom pantry were still in the other room, untouched. The rest was still pounding through him like a receding madness. He had held her on the bed, torturing himself while he had explored her, before lifting her against his body.

  Neither could withstand the ferocity of desire. She had wrapped her arms round his neck and had kissed him hard, and harder still.

  ‘I can’t wait!’ She had been gasping. ‘Can’t wait!’

  He knew he must have hurt her, and she had cried out when he had entered her, their bodies one, until, completely spent, they had lain together, unmoving, each unwilling to part from the other. He saw her looking down at him, her left breast slightly reddened where he had kissed and sucked it.

  She said, ‘I wanted it to last forever . . . but I couldn’t wait. I wanted you to go on and on, to take me any way you wanted.’ She smiled, as though remembering something. ‘You’re quite a man, you know.’

  She leaned over him, and he knew she was looking at the scar in his groin where the splinter had pierced him. She caressed it, and said, ‘I’d kill anyone who did this to you.’

  He smiled. The curve of her back, the shadow b
etween her breasts, the secret hair where he had found and taken her. ‘I couldn’t wait, either.’

  Then he said, ‘My jacket. I have to get it.’

  ‘No.’ She slid from the bed and walked into the shadows. He did not see her hesitate as she folded the jacket over her bare arm, and touched the pilot’s wings.

  She must have come to this place several times, with somebody . . . or maybe visiting the dentist who was married to the wingless wonder. She would have picked up that expression from some of her patients.

  She gave him the jacket and knelt on the bed beside him.

  ‘Secrets?’

  ‘No.’ He pulled out the small, flat case and gave it to her. ‘You might not even like it, Andy.’

  She looked over it at him, touched by the simplicity, the honesty of this man who was so refreshing after some of the line-shooters she had met.

  She took it out of the box: it was a silver necklace, designed like overlapping leaves. He watched her holding it to the light, finding and opening the clasp.

  He said, ‘I got it in Gibraltar. The guy said it was Spanish silver. But if it’s not your kind of thing . . .’

  She held it out, her eyes shining. ‘I love it, silly! Put it on for me.’

  He fastened it at the nape of her neck and kissed her on one shoulder.

  He said, ‘I bet they won’t let you wear that on duty!’

  She faced him again, the necklace fitting closely below her throat.

  She said, ‘That was a lovely thing to do. You certainly know how to make a girl happy.’

  He rested his head against her. ‘I just wanted you to have something. So you could look at it sometimes, and remember me.’

  She gripped his shoulder, afraid he would see the tears.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked away. ‘You spoke of London. Is it important?’

  He thought of the way he had planned it. What he would say, how she would respond. Did it never happen according to plan?