He thought suddenly of his leave. His mother had prompted, `Go on, Mike, tell us what it was like.' She had laid the table, spread out the best cups and plates. The sandwiches and home-made cakes. His sister and her boy-friend had been there too. His father and one of his friends from the bowling club at the Nag's Head at the end of the road. Tell us what it was like....
He had tried to describe the ship, the first sight of floating ice, the party at Scapa. He had started to tell them about the captain. About Lindsay who had just left his side.
His mother had remarked, `I expect he's a proper toff, eh, Mike? Not one of our sort.'
His father had eyed her reprovingly. `Now, Mother, Mike's as good as anyone now that he's-an officer.'
It had ended there, or almost. His mother had started on about the reduced rations, how hard it had been to get enough even for this welcome-home tea party. They should have more consideration for those who had to stay at home and take it.
- His father had got out his Daily Mail War Atlas. `In my opinion, we should never have trusted the Froggies. It was just the same in the last lot. No guts, the lot of 'em.'
Dancy had recalled Lindsay's face at the burial parties. His quiet voice. And all at once he had not wanted to tell them anything. To share what they could never understand because they did not really want to.
Stannard came out on the wing and screwed up his eyes to search for the aircraft. It was almost abeam, parallel with the port column of ships.
`He's flaming confident.' He looked sideways at Dancy's grim fate. `I hope he runs out of gas without noticing!'
They lapsed into silence, watching the Focke Wulf until it was hidden by a freighter and the overlapping superstructure of the leading troopship.
Dancy said uneasily, `With an escort like ours we should be all right.'
`Too right. The destroyers can cope with the subs. And the big cruiser can beat the hell. out of the captain's raider.'
`is that how you see it?'
`The raider?' Stannard shrugged, remembering with sudden clarity Lindsay's agonisedd voice on the telephone as he relived the nightmare or whatever was trying to destroy him. `Every man has to have something in a war. Something to hate or hope for. A goal, personal ambition, who knows?' He glanced round quickly to make sure the nearest lookout was out of earshot. `Sorry I couldn't give you a ring, Sub. Got a bit involved. You know how it is. Still, I expect you had some little sheila to keep the cold out, eh?'
Dancy tried to grin. `I did all right.' He did not want to think of his leave. Or how hurt he had been when Stannard had failed to call him on the phone. Just for a drink. Anything. He watched Stannard's clean-cut profile. Lucky devil. There was something about him. A sort of carefree recklessness which would appeal to women very much, Dancy decided.
The closest he had got to female company had been a friend of his sister. They had made a foursome, which had of course included his sister's boy-friend. He was not in the armed forces but employed on some reserved job, in an aircraft factory. Plenty of money, a loud laugh, and his sister appeared to adore him.
The other girl had been called Gloria. They had gone to a local dance, and Dancy had been so desperate for enjoyment that once again in his young life he had mixed his drinks. Recklessly he had invited the girl back to his home. His sister and her friend had vanished halfway through the dance so he had the sitting room marked down in his mind as a suitable place for improving his relationship with Gloria. She was young and quite pretty and had giggled nervously when he had said casually, `We'll have a tot together. Some of the real stuff I brought back with me.'
The warmth of the fire, the scent of her hair and body, the gin, all seemed to combine against him. When he had kissed her it had still appeared to be going well enough. When he had put his hand on her breast she had pushed him frantically away, jumping up with such force that the gin and glasses had scattered over the floor with a crash loud enough to wake the dead.
. It had in fact awakened Dancy's mother. He could see it all clearly in his mind as if it was happening this very instant. Feel the humiliation and embarrassment as his mother had switched on all the lights and had stood in the doorway in a dressing gown, her hair in curlers, as she had snapped, `I don't expect this sort of thing in my house! I don't know what sort of people you've been mixing with in the Navy, but I'll not stand for filth under this roof!' To make it worse, Gloria had been violently sick. Altogether it had not been a successful leave by any standards.
Stannard raised his glasses and studied the ammunition ship for several seconds. `Check her bearing again, Sub. I think she's off station.'
He heard Dancy return to the wheelhouse and sighed. I must be losing my touch, he thought. He had never believed in coincidence, love at first sight, we were meant for each other, and all the other sentiments he had heard voiced in so many ports of call.
But it had happened to him. Just like that. There was no future for either of them. It was hopeless. Best forgotten. Equally he knew he was involved completely. No matter which way it ended.
He had had a couple of drinks at the railway hotel before getting a taxi to the flat. It was all exactly as he had remembered. As he had nursed it in his aching mind throughout the patrols and the freezing watches, the sights of death and pitiful survival.
But another girl had opened the door. When he had identified himself she had said calmly, `Oh, she left some weeks back.'
Stannard had been dumbfounded. No message. Nothing. Not even a goodbye.
The girl had said, `But if you like to come back in an hour I'll be free.' She had smiled, and in that instant Stannard had realised his dream had been something more than he had bargained for. `We're kept pretty busy you know.' She had reached out to touch his shoulder strap. `But. for a nice lieutenant like you I'll break all the other appointments, okay?'
He had left without a word, his mind a complete blank.
As he had reached the stairway she had called after him, `What d'you expect? Betty Grable.or something, you stuck-up bleeder!'
And then, a few days later, as he had been walking aimlessly down a London street searching for a bar he had visited some years before, an air-raid had started. Within minutes, or so it had seemed, bombs had begun to rain down, the far end of the street had been filled with dust, smoke and crashing debris. With vague, scurrying figures he had run into a shelter, amazed that he had seemed to be the only one who did not know where to go or what to do.
The All Clear had sounded thirty minutes later. It hadg been a hit-and-run raid, a warden had said in an authoritative tone. `Lost 'is bleedin' way more likely!' a disgruntled postman had suggested.
But when Stannard had emerged from the shelter it was almost dark, and as the other strangers had melted away in the gloom it had begun to pelt with rain.
It was then that he had noticed her. She had been standing under the doorway of a bombed shop clutching a paper bag against her body and staring at the rain in dismay. Without hesitation he had taken off his greatcoat and slungitacross her shoulders before she could protest.
`Going far? Well, I'll walk you there, if you like. We'll be company for each other if there's another raid.'
And that was how it had all begun. She lived at a small house in Fulham, close to Putney Bridge. At the door she had looked at his dripping uniform and had said quietly, `Would you like to come in for a minute? I owe you that at least.'
Her name was Jane Hillier, and she was married to a captain in the Royal Armoured Corps.
As Stannard had given her his jacket to hang by the fire he had seen her husband's picture on the sideboard. A nice looking chap standing with some other soldiers in front of a tank.
.'I'd offer you a meal but I'm afraid I've only got some Spam until the shops open tomorrow.'
She was dark and slim, and very attractive. She had opened the rain-splashed parcel and taken out a small, brightly coloured hat.
`I was being extravagant. I wanted everything to be just right.'
/>
Stannard had glanced at the photograph but she had said quickly, `No, he's all right. It's not that. But he'll not be coming home. Not yet anyway. He's in the Western Desert. I've not seen him for two years.'
Stannard had walked to his suitcase. `I've got something better than Spam. I was bringing it for...'
Then she had smiled. For the first time. `So we were both let down?'
Try as he might, Stannard could not remember the exact moment, the word or the sign which had brought them together.
As he leaned against the screen watching the distant aircraft while it reappeared around the port quarter all he could recall was her body, naked in his arms, her fierce passion as she had given herself, pulling him to her as if there were only minutes left before the world ended. Outside the room the sirens had sounded and somewhere more houses had been bombed to fragments. Once, as Stannard had lain awake staring up into the darkness he had felt her crying against his shoulder, very softly, like a child. But she had been asleep, and he had wondered if, like himself, she was thinking of that other man, the face in the photograph, somewhere in the desert with his tank.
The next day he had collected his things from his hotel and had stayed at the little house near Putney Bridge until the end of his leave.
She had said, `I'm not sorry for what we did. You know that, don't you?'
As he had stood by that same front door a lorry packed with soldiers had rattled past the house, and Stannard had heard the wolf-whistles and cheerful yells of admiration with something like hatred.
`It wasn't just because you, we were lonely. You must know that, too.' The seconds had ticked away. Where were the words when you needed them? `I don't know how, Jane. But we'll sort this out. I must see you again. Must.'
On the crowded train he had tried to rationalise his feelings. Collect his arguments. It was over. An episode, inevitable in this bloody war. He had wanted her. She had been starved of love for two years. That was all there was to it.
When Lindsay had told him of the convoy and the long haul around the Cape to Ceylon he had tried again. Time and distance would end it. But in his heart he knew he would have to see her again, if only to be sure.
Feet moved on the gratings and Lindsay said, `We've had a signal from Admiralty, Pilot. Four plus U-boats in our vicinity. You'd better put your plotting team to work.' He watched Stannard's strained face. `You bothered about something?'
Stannard looked at him. `I'm okay, sir.' He forced a grin. `Just thinking that I, could have stayed with my dad selling tractors instead of all this!'
Lindsay watched him, leave. He's like the rest of them. Like me: Sick and tired of being on the defensive. Worn out by retreat and vague plans for hitting back at an invisible enemy.
`Signal from commodore, sir.' Ritchie grimaced. `To Benbecula. Make less smoke.'
`Acknowledge, Yeoman.'
Lindsay glanced up at the tall funnel, garish in its new paint. No more smoke than usual. No more than anyone could expect from a ship which should by rights be ending her days quietly somewhere in the sun. Where war meant only a fight for better freight or cheaper running costs.
Maybe the commodore had seen in the curt Admiralty signal some small hint o£. what he was up against. Not pins and paper flags on a map. Not a glib daily communiq ie for the press and the civilians who were taking it as best they could. Out here it was very real. A killing ground where there were no rules and no standards. A place where the horizon never seemed to get any nearer, where the only quick escape was straight down, to the bottom.
He saw two destroyers wheeling in a flurry of spray and foam to take station on the port quarter, to :begin yet another sweep, listening for the unseen attacker, preparing to strike and kill if the opportunity offered itself.
He glanced at his watch. There was still plenty of time. The hunters, and the hunted knew, their various skills, just as they understood how easily their roles could be changed.
`I'm going below, Pilot. Call me if you hear anything.'
Stannard.watched him climb down the bridge ladder. Then he turned and stared at the hard horizon. The little house so close to Putney Bridge suddenly seemed very far away. A memory, which somehow he must hold on to. No matter'what.
It was at dusk when the first torpedoes streaked into the convoy. During the afternoon there had been numerous reports of U-boats in the vicinity, and later still a destroyer, the Merlin; had made a contact.
Aboard the Benbecula at the rear of the convoy the hands had been sent to action stations, but with nothing to do but wait had stared into the gathering gloom, listening to the thundering roar of depth-charges. They had seen tall columns of water bursting skyward even as the destroyer had swung round for another run-in across the hidden submarine. She had soon been joined by the other wing escort, and again the charges had thundered down, the explosions booming against the Benbecula's lower hull as if she too was under attack.
In the engine room Fraser had seen several of his men pausing at their work to look up at the oil-streaked sides, imagining perhaps that a torpedo was already speeding towards them.
On the bridge it was all remote and vaguely disconnected with attack or defence. The three lines of ships plodded on towards a darkening horizon while the other destroyers tore back and forth like nervous dogs around a valuable flock of sheep.
Merlin had reported she had lost contact. There had been some oil sighted but no one paid' much.attentioh to that. The U-boat might have been damaged. It could have been a ruse to allow her commander to take evasive action. Either way, Merlin's swift attack had given the convoy more time.
Lindsay sat on his tall chair and watched the ships on either bow. They were already losing their identity as darkness closed in. They were moving faster now, making a good fourteen knots in response to the commodore's signals.
Dancy said, `It looks as if we may have given them the slip this time, sir.' He sounded very tired.
Lindsay shrugged. `If the escorts can keep them down, yes. But if they surface they can make a fair speed, too.' He looked at Dancy. What with having the forenoon watch and being called to his action station on the bridge soon, afterwards he was showing the strain.
Stannard snatched up a handset as its shrill cry shattered the stillness in the enclosed bridge.
He swung towards Lindsay, his voice urgent. `Mast-'; head reports torpedoes approaching on the port quarter, sir!'
Lindsay jumped from his chair. `Full astern!'
When he reached the bridge wing he saw the pale white lines cutting across the dull water, his brain recording their bearing and speed even as he noted the urgent flash of signal lamps, the muffled squawk of the R/T speaker as the alarm ran like wildfire along the lines of ships.
`Stop engines!'
He craned over the screen, straining his eyes to watch the nearest track as it sped straight for Benbecula's port bow. Nothing happened. The nearest torpedo must have missed the ship by less than twenty feet.
`Resume course and revs, Pilot!'
He waited a few more seconds, half expecting to see another torpedo coming out of the gloom. Slamming the - engines astern for just those few minutes must have thrown the enemy's sights-off balance.
There was a single, muffled explosion which seemed to come from miles away, like thunder on a range of hills. As he ran through the bridge to the starboard wing he saw a searing column of fire; bright red against the clouds, a billowing wall of smoke completely hiding the victim from view.
Lindsay crouched over the gyro repeater on the bridge wing and took a quick bearing. The torpedo must have run diagonally right through the convoy, hitting a freighter just astern of the commodore's ship. There were no more explosions, and he guessed the U-boat commander had fired at extreme range, fanning his torpedoes in the hopes of getting a lucky hit.
Depth-charges boomed and echoed across the water, and over the R/T Lindsay heard an unemotional voice say, `Have contact. Am attacking.'
The freighter astern o
f the torpedoed ship was already swinging wildly out of line, the side of her tall hull glowing scarlet in the flames of her burning consort, the fires reflecting in her scuttles and ports so that her cabins appeared to be lit from within.
A destroyer was charging down the lines of ships, and faintly above the grumble of depth-charges and engine room fans Lindsay heard her loud-hailer bellowing, `Keep closed up, Pole Star! Do not heave to!'
Stannard said thickly, `God, look at her!'
The stricken freighter was beginning to heel over, and in the leaping flames and sparks it was possible to see the deck cargo starting to tear adrift and go crashing through the tilting steel bulwarks as if they were matchwood. Army lorries lurched drunkenly overboard, and from aft another column of fire burst out of a sealed hold, the flames licking along the upper deck and setting several lifeboats ablaze.
The destroyer swept down Benbecula's side, her- wash surging against the hull plates like a great wave breaking on a jetty. Just briefly before she vanished astern Lindsay saw her gun mountings swinging round and the crouching seamen on her quarterdeck beside the depth-charge racks.
Dancy called, `Pole Star's stopping, sir.'
Someone else said hoarsely, `He's going to try and pick up survivors!'
Lindsay gripped the screen and watched the sinking freighter swinging helplessly abeam in the heaving water. The other ship, Pole Star, obviously intended to ignore the escort's order, and already he could see a boat jerking down its falls, so clear, in the reflected fires it could have been midday.
`Starboard ten.' For a few seconds nobody moved or spoke.
Then Jolliffe said, `Starboard ten, sir. Ten o' starboard wheel on.'
Lindsay watched the bows swinging very slowly towards the burning ship. `Midships.' The bows were still edging round until the motionless Pole Star suddenly appeared in direct line with the stem.
`Steady.' Lindsay hurried out on to the wing again.' Over his shoulder he snapped, `Yeoman, make to Pole Star. Resume course and speed. Do not stop.'
Rendezvous-South Atlantic Page 22
