There was a tap at the door and Maxwell peered in at him. `You wanted me, sir?'
The gunnery officer's face was red from the wind, but his uniform was impeccable. As usual he wore a bright whistle chain around his neck, the end of which vanished into the breast pocket of his reefer, and Lindsay was reminded of the leather-lunged instructors at the gunnery school.
`Yes, Guns. Sorry to keep you from your bunk after you've been on watch. Just a couple of points.'
Maxwell removed his cap. He had a very sharp, sleek head. Like a polished bullet.
He said, `Would have been earlier, sir. Hate unpunctuality. But my relief was late.'
`Late?' That was not like Stannard.
Maxwell did not blink. `One and a half minutes, sir.'
Jupp hid a grin and slid from the cabin.
Lindsay lookedat the lieutenant thoughtfully. An odd bird even for his particular trade. Maxwell had made some error or other before the war and been allowed to leave the Navy without fuss. It would not have been difficult when the country was more concerned with cutting down the services than facing the reality of a new Germany.
He said, `Whenever we return to base I want you to do something about the armour plate on the bridge. Lowering the windows in action prevents injuries from glass splinters, but it's not enough. The watchkeepers and gunnery team must have proper protection.'
A small notebook had appeared in Maxwell's hand as if by magic. He snapped, `Right, sir.'
`The W/T office needs it also, but I'll get on to Number One about that.' It was amazing how little attention had been given to such matters, he thought. `Then there are the bridge machine guns. Old Lewis guns from World War One by the look of them." He watched the pencil scribbling briskly. `See if you can wangle some Brownings from the B.G.O.'
Maxwell eyed him wearily. `Wangle, sir?'
`Then I'll give you a chit, Guns, if it makes you happier.' Maxwell showed his teeth. `Go by the book, that's me,
sir. Follow the book and they can't-trample you down.' `It's happened before then?'
Maxwell swallowed hard. `It was nothing, sir. Bit of a mix-up back in thirty-seven. But it taught me a lesson.. Get it on paper. Go-by the book'
Lindsay smiled. `And they can't trample you down, eh?' `Sir.' Maxwell did not smile.
A man entirely devoid of humour, Lindsay decided. . He said,. `The gunnery this morning was erratic. The marines got off two shots to every one from forrard. Not good enough.'
.Maxwell said swiftly, `My assistant, Lieutenant Hunter, is R.N.R.,'sir. Keen but without proper experience.' He let the words sink in. `But I'll get on to him first thing tomorrow.'
The deck quivered, and Lindsay saw the curtains begin to sway inwards from the sealed scuttles. She was turning.
He said, `You deal -with it, Guns. It's your job.'
Maxwell's mouth tightened into a thin line. 'I did not mean to imply-' he stopped.
`Carry on then.'
As. the door closed Lindsay stood up and walked slowly into the other cabin. The small reading' light gleamed temptingly above his bunk, and Jupp had put a Thermos beside it, wedged carefully between two shoes, in case the motion got too bad. In spite of his dragging weariness Lindsay smiled at the little gesture. Jupp would make a damn good valet, he thought.
He lay down on the bunk fully clothed, and after a few seconds hesitation kicked off his sea boots.
It never stopped. Demands and questions, jobs needing attention, reports to be checked and signed. His eyelids drooped as he thought back over the day, the enemy ship's outline looming through the snow. The anguish of sudden fear, the cruel ecstasy at seeing the shell burst on her upperworks.
He listened to the seal booming against the side, the darting spray across the scuttles, and then fell into a deep sleep.
How long he slept he did not know. All he understood was that he was fighting with the blanket, kicking and gasping as the nightmare flooded around him more vividly than ever. .
He rolled on to his side, half blinded by the reading light which was shining directly into his eyes, and as the madness retreated he heard a voice, remote but insistent, which seemed to be rising from the bunk itself. -
`Officer of the watch.' It was Stannard, and Lindsay stared at the telephone as it swung back' and forth on its flex, the voice repeating `Officer of the watch' like some cracked record.
He must have knocked it off in his nightmare, in his terror to escape from the torture.
He seized it and said, `Captain.'
Stannard said, `I'm. sorry, sir. I thought you were calling me.'
Lindsay fought to keep his tone even. `It's all right, Pilot. What time is it?'
`0350, sir. I'm just calling the-morning watch.' A pause. `Visibility as before. Wind's still north by east.' `Thank you.'
He lowered the phone and lay back again. God, how long had the line been open? What had he been saying? He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, remember.
Then he swung his legs from the bunk and groped for Jupp's Thermos. What would he do? Bomb-happy, some people called it. He might even have said- it once about others. He shuddered violently, pulling at the Thermos cap. Not any more.
Up on the bridge Dancy was standing beside the voice pipes and turned as Stannard replaced the telephone.
Stannard did not look at him. `Sure. Just the skipper asking about the time.'
When Dancy had turned away he bit his lip with sudden anxiety. He should not have listened. Should not have heard. It was like falling on a secret, laying bare something private or shameful.
Heavy boots thumped on the ladder as Goss mounted to take his watch. Stannard thought of that desperate, pleading voice on the telephone and thanked God he. and not Goss had heard it. Things were bad enough without. that. They needed Lindsay, whatever he was suffering. He was all they had.
He faced Goss's heavy outline and said, `Morning, Number One.'
Goss grunted and waited until Stannard had made his formal report. Then he moved to Lindsay's chair, and after a small hesitation climbed into it.
Stannard walked to the ladder. Goss's action was almost symbolic, he thought.
Throughout the ship the watch had changed, and in bunks and hammocks men slept or lay staring at the deckhead reliving the fight. Drowsy cooks tumbled cursing from their snug blankets and made their way to the waiting galley with its congealed grease and dirty cups left by the watchkeepers. Barker sprawled on his back snoring, a copy of Lilliput, and not a ledger, open on his chest to display a voluptuous nude. In the sickbay an attendant sat sleeping beside the man who had lost his foot, and in another white cot a wounded stoker was crying quietly on his pillow, even though he was asleep. In his cabin, Midshipman Kemp was wide awake, looking up into the darkness and thinking about his father. Further aft, in the chief and petty officers' mess, only a blue police light glowed across the tiered bunks. Ritchie slept soundlessly, while on a shelf beside his bunk the pictures of his dead family watched over him. Jolliffe, the coxswain, was having a bad dream, his mouth like a black hole in his heavy face. His teeth, like his slippers, were within easy reach should the alarm bells start again. In the stokers' messdeck, Stripey, the ship's cat, lay curled into a tight ball inside someone's metal cap box, his body trembling gently to the steady beat of the screws.
Indifferent to all of them, the Benbecula pushed slowly across a steep beam sea, her shape as black as the waters which were hers alone.
6
Officers and men
If the Icelandic patrol known as Uncle Item Victor had been created solely to test man's endurance it was hard to imagine a better choice. By the middle of October, a month after their clash with the German raider, Benbecula's ship's company had reached what most of them imagined was the limit. To the men at the lookout and gun positions it appeared as if the ship was steaming on one endless voyage to eternity, doomed to end her time heading into worse and worse conditions. Only the bridge watchkeepers really saw the constant changes of course
and speed as the old ship ploughed around her desolate piece of ocean.
During the whole of that time they had sighted just one ship, a battered little corvette which had been ordered to rendezvous with them to remove the wounded and the handful of survivors from Loch Glendhu. For two whole days the ships had stayed in company, hoping and praying for some easing of the weather so that the transfer could be made. Even some of Benbecula's most dedicated grumblers had fallen silent as hour by hour they had watched the little corvette lifting her bows towards the low clouds, lurching and then reeling into troughs with all but her bridge and squat funnel submerged.
Then, during a brief respite, and with Benbecula providing some shelter from the wind, the transfer had taken place.
Even then, and in spite of Fraser's men pumping out gallons of oil to settle the waves, it had nearly ended the lives of some of them. Lindsay had ordered the remaining whaler to be lowered, as a breeches buoy or any sort of tackle was out of the question. The boat had made three trips, rising and vanishing into the troughs like a child's toy, reappearing again with oars flashing like silver in the hard light as they battled towards the corvette.
Then with a defiant toot on her siren the corvette had turned away, her signal lamp fading as she pushed into yet another squall which must have been waiting in the wings for the right moment.
Alone once more they settled down to their patrol, or tried to. But it was a bitter world, an existence and nothing more. The weather was getting much colder as winter tightened its grip, and each dawn found the superstructure and gun barrels gleaming with ice, the signal halliards thick and glittering like a frozen waterfall. If watchkeeping was bad, below decks was little better. Nothing ever seemed to get dry, and in spite of the steam pipes the men endured damp clothes and-bedding while they waited their turn to go on deck again and face the sea.
Once they rode out a Force Eleven storm, their greatest threat so far. Winds of almost a hundred knots screamed down from Greenland, building the waves into towering, jagged crests, some of which sweptas high as the promenade deck, buckling the guardrails before thundering back over the side. Patches of distorted foam flew above the bridge and froze instantly on guns 'and rigging, so' that the watch below were called slipping and cursing to clear it before the weight of ice could become an additional hazard.
The ship seemed to have shrunk in size, and it was hard to find escape. Tempers became frayed, fights erupted without warning or real cause, and Lindsay saw several resentful faces across the defaulters' table to show the measure of their misery.
Much of the hatred was, of course, directed at him. He had tried to keep them busy, if only to prevent the despair from spreading over the whole ship.
Fraser had been a tower of strength. Like scavengers, he and some of his artificers had explored the bowels of the ship, even the lower orlop, and with blow torches had cut away plates from unused store rooms. They had skilfully reshaped them before welding them in the flats and spaces damaged by the enemy shells. He had even created his own `blacksmith's shop' as he liked to call it, where his men were able to cut and repair much of the damaged plating and frames which otherwise would have waited for the dockyard's attention. For to Fraser the enforced isolation seemed to act as a test of his personal, resources and ability, but when Lindsay thanked him he had said offhandedly, `Hell, sir, I'm only trying to hold the old cow in one piece until I get a transfer!'
The outbreaks of anger and conflict were not confined to the lower deck. In the wardroom Maxwell had a standing shouting-match with Goss, while Fraser never lost a chance to goad Barker whenever he began to recount stories of his cruising days.
There had been one incident which lingered on long after it had happened. Like the rest of the ship, the wardroom was feeling particularly glum about the latest news of their relief. Another A.M.C. should have relieved them on the sixteenth of the month. Due to unforeseen circumstances, later discovered to be the ship had run into a pier, the relief was to be delayed a further week. Another seven days after what they had' already endured was not much to those who arranged such details. To most of the ship's company, however, it felt like the final blow. Some had been counting the days, ticking off the hours, willing the time to pass. As a stoker had said, `After this, even bleedin' Scapa'll suit me!'
In the wardroom it had been much the same. At dinner, as the table tilted sickeningly from side to side, the crockery rattling in the fiddles, the little spark had touched off a major and disturbing incident.
One of the sub-lieutenants, a pleasant faced youngster called Cordeaux, had been talking quietly to Dancy about gunnery. He was quarters officer of Number Two gun, which had still to be fired in anger,. and because of the icy conditions had had little opportunity to watch its crew at drill. Dancy had turned to de Chair who was sitting beside him moodily staring at some greasy tinned sausages on his rattling plate.
`You're better at gunnery, Mark.' Dancy had nudged Cordeaux. `The marines always are!'
de Chair had emerged from his brooding thoughts, and in his lazy drawl had begun to outline the very points which had baffled Cordeaux.
Maxwell had been sitting at the head of the table and had said sharply, 'By God, I'm just about sick of hearing how bloody marvellous the marines are at gunnery!' He had jabbed his fork towards the startled Cordeaux. `And you, Mister, can shut up talking shop at the table! I know you're green, but I'd have thought good manners not too hard to imitate!'
Cordeaux had dropped his eyes, his face scarlet.
Then de Chair had turned slowly and said, `He was speaking to me, Guns. As it happens, I do not believe that something concerning our job is a blight on the dinner table.' He had eyed him calmly. `More useful than some of your topics, I'd have imagined. Your mind hardly ever seems to move beyond certain sexual activities, all of which put me off my dinner!'
Nobody spoke.
Then Maxwell had smiled. `We are edgy tonight! Are you a bit peeved because the captain hasn't put you in for a medal because of your superb gunnery? Bloody luck is more like it!'
de Chair had stood up very slowly, his neat figure swaying easily with the deck. `Perhaps-. But at least I have so far confined my gunnery to killing Germans.'
Maxwell's face had been suddenly drained of colour. `What the hell d'you mean?'
The marine had moved towards the door. `Just stay off my back, Guns, or by God you'll regret it!' The words had hung in the air long after de Chair had left.
Maxwell had said haltingly, `Can't imagine what the bloody man is talking about.'
But nobody had looked at him.
Barker had not been present on that occasion, but had received news of the flare-up within the hour. One of the stewards had served in the ship in peacetime and had been well trained by Barker in such matters. In fact, when he had been the ship's purser Barker had evolved an almost foolproof intelligence service. The ship's hairdresser had hoarded vital information about the rich female passengers, the. senior stewards had hovered at tables and around the gaming room just long enough to catch a word here, a tip there. There were others too, and all the information went straight ' to Barker.
With the hopeless mixture of hostilities only ratings, regulars and ex-merchant seamen he had found it harder to rebuild his network, but he was starting. He disliked the regular, naval officers, mainly because they made him feel inferior, or so he believed. For that reason he was glad to obtain the news of a clash between de Chair and Maxwell. 'Of Lindsay he knew nothing as yet. Very controlled, and from what he had heard, extremely competent. Nobody's fool, and with a sharp edge to his voice when he needed it. Midshipman Kemp, at the bottom of the scale, was the son of a senior officer. Kemp, in Barker's view, was worth watching. Any connection with a senior officer was always useful. The midshipman himself was not. Rather shy, not exactly effeminate, but you could never be sure. He had discarded Emerson, the warrant engineer. A pensioner, he was old, fat and dull. He.dropped his aitches, referred to his far off wife as `me old
woman', and was generally distasteful.
But Maxwell now, here was something. Goss had hinted that the lieutenant had been under a cloud before the war, but Barker had always imagined it to be connected with some minor breach. Slight discrepancy in mess funds, or found in bed with his C.O.'s wife. Nothing too damning. But from what the steward had heard and seen it now appeared very likely that Maxwell had been involved in a serious accident.
He would, however, treat de Chair with- an even greater respect from now on, even if he was a regular. de Chair was exactly like some of the passengers whom Barker had served in the better days of cruising. Outwardly easy-going, deceptively relaxed, but with -all the toughness of arrogance and breeding just below the surface. Not a man to trifle with.
.It was a pity about Jupp, he had thought on more than one occasion. As chief steward and a personal watchdog over the captain, Jupp should have been the mainspring of the whole network. Barker had served with him twice before, and knew better than to try and force the man to betray his trust. It could be dangerous to push him. You could never be entirely sure how much a senior steward knew about his purser. Barker owned a boarding house in Southampton and another in Liverpool. People might suggest it impossible to acquire such property on his pay alone. They would have been right, too.
The only officer in the ship with whom Barker shared some of his confidences was Goss. Not because he particularly liked him, in fact, he usually made him feel vaguely uneasy. Goss had somehow never bothered to rise with his rank, not, that is, in Barker's view. Beneath warm, star-filled skies in the Pacific, with all the magic of a ship's orchestra, the gay dresses and white dinner jackets, Barker had always felt in his element. But once or twice at the chief officer's table in the dining room he had squirmed with embarrassment at Goss's obvious lack of refinement. Big, self-made, meticulous in matters of duty, Goss seemed unable to put on a show for the passengers at his table. Barker had seen the quick smiles exchanged between them as Goss had told some ponderous story about raising an anchor in a gale, or the time he had fought four drunken stokers in a Sydney bar and knocked them senseless. He was a difficult man to know, harder still to befriend.
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