Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘It’s kind of hard to explain.’ Then, ‘I mean, it was no big deal.’

  She stroked his arm. ‘Tell me. I won’t bite.’

  He grinned, and afterwards she thought he looked embarrassed. ‘They’re giving me a medal.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ She tried to look into his face. ‘Who’s giving you this medal?’

  He touched her cheek and pushed some hair from her forehead.

  ‘Well, I guess it’s the King. That’s what it says.’

  Her voice was very low, muffled. ‘And you want me to go to London for it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  He said, ‘Well, there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘You want to seduce me?’

  ‘That goes without saying.’ He faced her, with sudden determination. ‘I want to get a ring for you.’

  ‘Do you really know if that’s what you want?’

  ‘I’ve always known it. You’re my girl. I want to take this all the way. I want to marry you, Andy.’

  ‘You mean it,’ she said. ‘Those eyes couldn’t lie to save your life!’

  She put her arms around him and hugged him, very tightly. ‘What a perfect way to propose to a girl!’

  ‘Tomorrow I have to report back to the ship. I’ll call you when I get all the info.’ He lay back as she pushed him down flat on the crumpled sheet.

  ‘That’s tomorrow.’ She climbed over and sat astride his body, her eyes never leaving his as she settled against him. ‘I can see you’re getting the message— in fact, I can feel it!’ She moved against him, while he reached up to hold her. ‘And this time I will make it last.’

  The rest was lost as they came together.

  15

  The Bond

  The first two weeks at Rosyth were anything but restful for Reliant’s ship’s company, other than the lucky ones who were on leave. Every day the dockyard workers swarmed aboard as if solely intent on destroying rather than repairing the ship, while at other times disgruntled seamen and marines stood firm against the invasion, with paint and polish to cover up the worst of it.

  For Sherbrooke, there had been no respite either. He had unexpectedly been requested to sit on a board of inquiry after a suspicious officer at the base had discovered that his stores of rum were seriously depleted. The inquiry had led almost inevitably to the formation of a court-martial. One officer and two petty officers were found to be involved. It was often said that more people were ‘busted’ over rum than anything else.

  Emma’s hoped-for visit had been postponed, but they had managed to speak on that notoriously busy line for a few minutes at a time. And then, quite suddenly, she had called him again. She was coming, but in a semi-official capacity, as Captain Thorne’s assistant.

  If he were being reasonable, he would have known that it was the right thing. Perhaps she had even arranged it herself. The facts were always there. She was a married woman, and her husband was a prisoner of war, probably existing under the worst conditions imaginable, if half the rumours were true.

  Any attachment would be seen by others as just another sordid wartime affair. The wife who couldn’t or wouldn’t wait for her man to come home. Cruel, unfair, but it would stick.

  And what of the naval officer who would take advantage of her, knowing as he did that it was dishonourable, and selfish beyond description? This way, at least, he would be able to see her without damaging her reputation. He was Reliant’s captain; there would be plenty of eyes watching for what might be regarded as a moral lapse, or something even less charitable. Under no circumstances would he allow her to be wounded by empty and stupid gossip.

  As one officer had said at the court of inquiry, to do wrong is one thing; to continue to do it is another, and, for a trusted officer, is unforgivable.

  Easy to say, when you were on that side of the table.

  Perhaps they could find a few moments to be alone together.

  And now there was the party, this very evening. Lieutenant Dick Rayner had returned from London with his Distinguished Service Cross, and a strange air of disbelief, as if it had all happened to somebody else.

  Frazier had arranged the party to celebrate Rayner’s decoration, but it was as if the whole ship was sharing it. Some Wrens from the base had been invited, as well as nurses from two hospitals, and a couple of wives. There would be some very costly mess bills afterwards.

  Sherbrooke had said, ‘Don’t you think you could have waited a few more days, John? Rear-Admiral Stagg will be back by then.’

  Frazier had given a tight little smile. ‘You know, sir, I forgot all about that!’

  And the war seemed very far away. After the surrender of German and Italian forces in North Africa, it had been a question of clearing up. Vehicles, equipment, guns and ammunition, and thousands of prisoners. The victory was complete.

  When Stagg returned from London, there might be real news. The next move, and where.

  They would be into June soon. It was easy to criticize, but Sherbrooke knew from first-hand experience that vacillation in war did not encourage success. To plan and begin such a large-scale operation as an invasion would be an awesome task, but every week that passed gave the enemy time to recover from defeat on one front, and to build up massive resistance and power on another. It seemed madness to delay until the weather worsened.

  No matter where an invasion was launched, it would be left mainly to British, Canadian and American forces to execute. No such large-scale invasion had ever been undertaken before.

  Sherbrooke was restless, even nervous, as the hour for the party approached. Frazier would let him know when it was timely for his captain to visit the wardroom, when the first skylarking was over, and when to leave, before the real bedlam began.

  There would be several senior officers in attendance, and it was well known that the admiral commanding Rosyth and the coast of Scotland was extremely keen on parties.

  He reflected on what they had all achieved together in Reliant. She was a happy ship, most would agree. There were the usual bad apples, persistent defaulters, the hard men, found in any ship. There were some who had been afraid when Reliant’s main armament had thundered out at the enemy, and others who had been able to contain it, conceal it, until the next time.

  He thought about the wardroom, the junior officers like Drake the ex-barrister and Frost, the assistant navigator, and Steele, the lieutenant of marines, who entertained his gun crews with a tin whistle. Howe, the flag lieutenant who had been blasted into nothing, and the young subbie who had died close by, killed by a single splinter. It was as good a crowd of men and youngsters as you could hope to find in any big ship. He still shut it from his mind. He must not make comparisons. That was in the past. Gone.

  His steward peered in at him. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Shore telephone call.’ He scowled. ‘In the lobby, I’m afraid. Some dockyard matey has severed a line!’

  ‘Who is it, do you know?’

  Long’s face was expressionless. ‘A lady, sir. I didn’t get the name, wot with all the din!’

  Sherbrooke walked quickly to the lobby where two workmen were finally clearing up their rubbish for the day.

  One of them was whistling loudly until Long said bluntly, ‘Unlucky to whistle on board a warship.’

  The man grinned. ‘To sailors, maybe!’

  Long saw Sherbrooke pick up the telephone and hissed, ‘Well, shut your gob while the Captain is speaking an’ clear off!’

  They went.

  She said, ‘It’s me. I’m in the admiral’s house. I hope it’s all right, about my boss, I mean.’

  He smiled. ‘Just get here as soon as you can. It seems so long.’

  ‘I know.’

  Somewhere in the far distance he heard a bugle, and realized that the dockyard was silent, the workers making their way home. The manager who had been in charge of Reliant’s repairs, and who had once worked on her as a boy, was no doubt telling his wife all about it, what it was like to wor
k alongside stuck-up naval officers who never lifted a finger themselves. If the relationship between sailors and dockyards ever changed, it would ruin everything.

  He said, ‘Any more news, Emma?’

  ‘No.’

  She was probably sick to death of being asked that question.

  ‘I must go, Guy.’ She was speaking very closely into the telephone. ‘They’re leaving now.’ She was about to hang up when something made her add, ‘I must be alone with you. To talk. To be together. That’s not so wrong, is it?’

  He did not get a chance to answer.

  Long was waiting for him. ‘All ready, sir? I’m glad for Mr Rayner, nice chap . . .’ He realized what he had said and almost blushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what I meant was . . .’

  Sherbrooke touched his white sleeve. ‘You were right. He is a nice chap!’

  Long watched him leave. Not too dusty yourself, he thought.

  Then he picked up his tray and made his way to the wardroom to give a hand. It was going to be a long evening.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I think the admiral is about to leave.’

  Lieutenant-Commander Rhodes, who was the O.O.D., grinned broadly. ‘Again.’

  Sherbrooke nodded. ‘I’ll be ready, Pilot. Have you managed to get a drink?’

  Rhodes looked around at the shining faces, the stewards pushing manfully through the crowd with their trays. ‘Just about, sir. Good party, I thought.’

  Sherbrooke turned as he saw her coming through the door, her eyes seeking his, sharing it, feeling it. She glanced quickly at her boss, Thorne, and then hurried to join him.

  ‘I hate it, being here and not able to be with you.’ She studied him, feature by feature. ‘But I’m so glad I came. To see you as the captain.’ And then, very quietly, ‘My captain.’ She shook her head, so that the long plait of hair shone in the bright overhead lights like a silk rope. ‘No, don’t say anything. I’m just being stupid. I blame myself . . . have done, ever since that day you went to the Admiralty. You were in Chelsea with me all night and I acted like a prude . . . a fool. And I’m paying for it now.’ She looked at him again in her direct way. ‘We both are.’

  Frazier appeared from the other side of the wardroom, and said, ‘Went well, sir.’

  Sherbrooke looked at the young woman who had come with him, and was standing with her arm through his. Alison, Frazier’s wife. She was almost doll-like, and very pretty, well dressed, and apparently very much at home in this noisy, mostly male gathering. She was not quite what Sherbrooke had been expecting, although he was not sure why. Perhaps because he only saw Frazier as the thorough, efficient second-in-command, a slightly withdrawn, self-contained man who needed time to make up his mind about everyone he met.

  She said, ‘A few thick heads tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder!’ She looked at Emma, and said, ‘You must see a lot of this kind of thing. I used to more than I do now, of course. With a young family to think of, and in wartime, you can never afford to relax too much.’

  Frazier said quietly, ‘One daughter, actually. It’s hardly a brood.’

  Sherbrooke saw the sharp exchange of glances. She said, ‘Well, that’s not my fault, is it?’ She looked at Emma again. ‘Do you have any family?’

  Emma replied, ‘No.’

  Frazier’s wife put one hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, I forgot. Stupid of me. Your husband is a prisoner of war.’

  Frazier took her arm. ‘I want you to meet the Chief, Alison. He knows more about the ship than anybody!’

  When they were again alone, Emma said, ‘It seems everybody knows.’ Then the shadow left her face. ‘Your Commander Frazier certainly has his hands full there!’

  The admiral and his guests were taking their leave. It would soon be over, and she would be going away with her chaperone. He could see Captain Thorne towering over two small Wren officers, his face creased with smiles as he launched into yet another dubious story.

  Sherbrooke asked, ‘What’s he like? With you, I mean.’

  ‘No trouble, really.’ She touched his sleeve, and did not remove her hand. ‘He means well, I suppose. There’s nothing quite so damning, is there?’

  She gazed past him, her eyes suddenly saddened. ‘They look right together, don’t they?’

  Lieutenant Dick Rayner was standing with the nurse he had brought as his guest, as though completely alone with her. Sherbrooke had realized that what was between them was far deeper and stronger than mere friendship, seeing the way they looked at each other, the unspoken messages passing between them.

  At one point in the evening, the admiral had made a short speech, something almost unknown for him.

  He had spoken only briefly of Rayner’s Distinguished Service Cross, which he had, indeed, received from the King himself in London.

  Sherbrooke had seen Emma turn to look at him, and at the blue and white ribbon on his left breast. It had been impossible to guess what she was thinking for those few seconds. But, for Rayner, he had felt only envy.

  The admiral had been saying, ‘This was not some spectacular mission of the sort to which we have become accustomed recently. Perhaps for that very reason, it was all the more inspiring to the rest of us.’

  Sherbrooke had watched the nurse with the short, fair hair grip Rayner’s arm; had noticed the new ring on her finger, felt her emotion as the admiral had summed it up in his old-fashioned manner. ‘For gallantry, skill and devotion to duty against a determined enemy, and although wounded himself, his concern for his crew remained paramount.’ He had given a smile. ‘Well done, sir!’

  Sherbrooke looked now at the hand resting on his gold stripes. People would see, gossip, form conclusions.

  He said, ‘I have to deal with the admiral. I’ll be as fast as I can.’

  Frazier came back, without his wife. ‘All right, Mrs Meheux?’

  ‘Fine. It was good of you to arrange it.’ The admiral had gone, and there was an outbreak of raucous cheering and laughter. She could see Thorne peering round, his audience of Wrens departed.

  Frazier said, ‘The Captain asked me to take you aft to his quarters.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘My wife is there. Freshening up.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Frazier watched her looking around the wardroom as if to remember every aspect of it, every moment. Evershed, gesturing and stabbing the air with his hands, explaining the intricacies of muzzle-velocity in feet per second to a civilian who appeared to be past understanding anything. The Chief, glaring at strangers using the Club, and his chair. Drake, the pink-faced ex-barrister, and another lieutenant he had not immediately recognized. It was Frost, beardless and looking strangely furtive, enduring all the comments and the insults.

  Frazier said, ‘I was sorry just now . . . about my wife’s comment on your husband. It was not intended.’

  She looked at him, and thought what a nice man he was. Someone you could talk to, eventually.

  Of course it was intended. ‘Will you lead the way?’

  She glanced around her. How still the ship was, a few figures moving in the shadows, the incessant clatter of glasses and plates from the officers’ galley.

  A sentry, leaning on a tiny desk, a revolver hanging from his belt, brought his heels together and said, ‘All quiet, sir.’ But his eyes were on her.

  Frazier smiled. ‘Thank you, Mason. There’s a tot for you in the lobby.’

  She sensed their familiarity, stronger than rank or status.

  Frazier called back, ‘And hide that trashy magazine before the Captain sees it!’

  The deserted, white-painted passageways; the ship’s crest; a photograph, certainly not a new one, of a football team, an unknown captain sitting in their midst.

  ‘You’ve been aboard for some time, Commander?’

  ‘Longer than most. I was with Captain Cavendish. You need to know, really know a ship this size.’

  ‘What does your wife think about it?’

  He glanced at her curiously. ‘Alison? Well, she wants me to take
promotion.’ He laughed, but there was no life in it. ‘A good shore job, with stewards running about after me like slaves!’

  ‘Not for you?’

  He paused and she saw the polished plate. Captain. ‘I’d loathe it.’

  They found Frazier’s wife in the cabin, sitting, legs crossed, examining her make-up in a mirror. She did not look at them, but said over her shoulder, ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten, John. The admiral asked us to join his party. Are you ready?’

  Frazier said, ‘I’m waiting for the Captain.’

  She gave a small shrug. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what they’d do without you!’

  Emma saw Frazier’s discomfort, and said, ‘Are you staying long up here, Mrs Frazier?’

  She smiled and made a little mouth into the mirror. ‘A few more days, then back to the south.’ She closed the compact with a snap. ‘Civilization.’

  The door opened and Sherbrooke stepped over the coaming and tossed his cap onto a chair. It fell on the deck but he did not seem to notice.

  Alison Frazier said, ‘We’re all going to the admiral’s house, Guy. Are you coming?’ Her glance shifted to Emma, only for a moment, but it said everything.

  Sherbrooke seemed to drag himself back from somewhere.

  ‘No. I can’t.’ He looked at Frazier. ‘Make excuses. I’ve something to deal with.’

  Emma stood up and walked to another chair to give herself time. Even the use of his name was offensive. But she would not show her resentment. She picked up the cap and held it, remembering the dust and smoke, the great cascade of broken glass in the off-licence, the dead eyes staring from the floor.

  Frazier seemed at a loss. ‘I’m not all that keen, sir. I’ve sunk enough gin to float the Queen Mary as it is!’ He tried to grin. ‘All in the name of duty, of course!’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘I’ll catch you up. Tell the O.O.D. for me.’

  The door closed behind them, and he took her hands in his. ‘Your faithful escort will be here before you know it, but I just wanted to see you alone. It’s been bloody difficult, hasn’t it?’

  She waited, thinking of the closed door. The woman’s amused, backward glance, and Frazier’s discomfort. They could think what they liked. They would, anyway.