PS I still sing at church and Mr Davidson plays the organ. The church is filled every Sunday now there are Canadian troops billeted all over the place.
That letter had worried Andrew. The Canadians would be looking for girls, and with their men away, women would fall for their flattery. In her last letter Flora did not mention Canadians but sounded less cheerful than before.
Dearest Andrew, I still have not been to see your Ma. The trams and buses are all to pot and the trains don't always run. It's called an exclusion zone round Ingersley so they stop you and ask where you are going and why and look at your papers so it takes hours to get anywhere. I don't like being out in the dark when there are no lights and air-raid wardens shout, 'Put that light out!' if you show even a chink. You can be fined £100. These winter days are too short. It is very cold here. It said on the wireless that the Thames is freezing over. You know how Mr Davidson likes his wireless. I'm working longer hours, 8 till 5, but it means more money and I like that. I am tired because I have to do the housework as well. It's not like me to be tired but there is a flu epidemic and I think I'm sickening. I'm off my food. I'm sure you are writing to me but maybe the letters have been washed overboard. I have only had that one from you where you said it was best if we didn't tell anyone about our secret but to wait till your next leave and have a proper wedding. I love you so much. Love from Flora.
At the bottom of the page she had drawn the weeping tree again. There was a letter from Ma too, painstakingly written. He knew it would have taken her hours.
Dear son, I pray for you. The Royal Oak was sunk in Scapa Flo. 100s drownd. I ken you'r alrite. Lady Campbell would say if enything hapened to the Cmandar. Ingersley is turning in to a Hostpital. III do even more if they ast me. I dident see Flora not getting time of nor will she but on your next leeve. Love from Mother.
Andrew read the letters through twice though his eyes were closing. He was drifting into sleep when the klaxon went. 'Action stations! Action stations!' he heard someone yell - as if it were necessary. He fell out of his hammock and in thirty seconds was piling down the steel ladder to his No.2 engine room action station. It was like the tropics. Even the steel walkways above the pipes were hot, the handrails too. He squeezed past the stokers on the top level, and descended two more ladders at speed until he was right down on the floor, the iron plates hot and greasy underfoot. He looked up and saw men above him attending, adjusting the valves, concentrating on the orders of the stoker petty officers.
The chief engineer could be seen through the treads of the ladder, and no sooner had Andrew reached the bottom than Chiefie beckoned to him while he spoke to the bridge on the voice tube. Andrew ran up to stand beside him and heard him saying, 'Sir! One of the prop shafts has seized. She'll handle badly. I'll go in myself.' He put back the speaker and turned to address the boiler room. 'We are going after a surfaced Vboat. Its wireless message back to base was intercepted. We're on its tail and it hasn't seen us yet.' He gave a wry smile. 'Let's hope he's spent all his ammo.'
V-boats carried fourteen torpedoes and a deck gun. Its deck gun could do little damage to the Rutland - it would scarcely scratch the paint on the armour-plating but torpedoes could, and V-boats made night surface attacks as a matter of tactics, coming up when the big ships were silhouetted against the sky. Tonight it was a wild, black night out there and the Rutland was charging straight ahead - no zigzagging. If she came to a stop she would be a sitting target, and if the V-boat spotted them and submerged they would be in grave danger. It was the chief engineer's absolute responsibility to keep the ship running at the fastest speed during battle conditions, so things must be serious for him to have to give the order he now did: 'Close down engine four.' He turned to Andrew and said, 'Come with me.'
Chiefie went down the ladder slowly and confidently, as if there was nothing to worry about -and a smile flashed around the crew, one after the other. He was the best chief engineer in the Royal Navy, they all believed.
Down at the bottom he said to Andrew, 'Lift the grating.' When Andrew had lifted the heavy iron cover to the propeller shaft that layover the bilges, Chiefie dropped into the square tunnel and said, 'Stand by the manhole. Hand me my tools. Torch, ring spanner and hammer!
It was pitch black down there. Andrew shone his own torch on to Chiefie's hand as he reached for the tools that should enable him to tighten the joint where the bearings had loosened. Andrew crouched and watched him crawling, inching his way along in the blackness, the flashing torchlight ahead of him all that gave away his movements as he swept every inch of the prop shaft with the beam. The second engineer and the third, along with four petty officers, would be working flat out to keep up the pressure on the remaining boilers. And over the noise of the engines, the throbbing of the three remaining prop shafts and the roaring of the burners, they could now hear the ship's guns firing and feel her shuddering right down through to the bilges. Her medium and light guns from all along the ship were being brought to bear on the lone V-boat raider whose captain would not risk submerging. He could do seventeen and a half knots on the surface against only eight submerged, running on batteries.
The chief was hammering. Andrew could hear his confident striking of metal upon metal. Then, and it happened without warning of any kind, the Rutland was struck, right in the centre of the engine room area. It was not a torpedo - a torpedo hitting them there would have wiped them out. hey had been rammed - probably by a badly handled merchant ship that was in the way. The Rutland lurched violently. Men were thrown against the engines or over the steel scaffolding walkways. The mid-ships was pitched into blackness. The sound of bodies hitting valves, pipes rupturing, escaping steam was terrifying.
Andrew had automatically obeyed the Commander's instructions from their sailing trips when the yacht was being hurled around in a storm: 'Take no chances. You don't want to be hurt. Hang on to something even if you are only taking a couple of steps.'
Men were shouting; someone screeched, 'Emergency lights!' and the huge glass face of the lights came on as the ship steadied again. Andrew was still holding on to the deck grating.
He could hear the other engines working. Two petty officers were lying, twisted, on the deck behind him - fallen to their deaths from above. Half a dozen men only were left standing; the others lay sprawled along and over the steel separating partitions, bleeding, dazed and groaning.
Andrew was the most senior man left. He must act quickly. He yelled out his orders to the six able-bodied men. The fourth engine was still out of action but the pressure must be restored and quickly.
The damage-control lieutenant dived into the compartment, shouting, 'What's the situation on number four? Chief still down there?'
'I'm going into the shaft, sir,' Andrew shouted back. He turned back to the shaft and with a quick appreciation of the new danger saw water…water where no water should be rising in the prop shaft.
The lieutenant came flying down the ladders, crossed the walkways and down to where Andrew stood. He looked into the tunnel where water was seeping in, saw the water level and said, 'Five minutes. Then the watertight doors to the engine area will close automatically.'
Andrew knew this. His hands were sweating and his heart was pumping like the devil. He must move as fast as possible. While the lieutenant held back the grating, Andrew lowered himself into the cold water of the tunnel and crawled along, knee deep in a filthy mix of freezing water and fuel oil, calling, 'Are you all right, sir?'
There was no reply, but he saw Chiefie's flashlight bobbing ahead. Andrew flashed his own torch and saw at once what the trouble was. The impact had sprung one of the plates. The framework was collapsed under the sheared joint of the prop shaft. Painfully, and aware all the time of the rising water level, Andrew forced his way forward, bent double, dreading to find the chief sliced in half. He discovered him lying awkwardly but alive, half under the prop shaft, gritting his teeth, trying not to moan in pain.
Relief and fear flooded through Andrew, who d
ared not show either. 'You'll be OK, sir. I'll get you out.'
'Get out yourself. The water's rising,' the chief groaned.
Andrew shone his light and saw that Chiefie's arm, high up at the shoulder
was trapped between the protruding handle of the spanner and the buckled frame. He said, 'Hang on! Keep your head up!' for the water was already up to the chief's shoulder. Another couple of inches and it would cover his face.
Andrew had to keep calm for Chiefie's sake while he scrabbled for the hammer in the black water. It was not there. It must be under his body. He reached over and lifted the chief's head. 'Don't close your eyes! I'll free you.' Then, knowing how little time he had, he backed down the tunnel, through the foul stinking water, to the grating, where he yelled, 'Wrench, crowbar, hammer!'
The guns were still firing. Colossal vibrations racked the boiler room as the tools were handed down by the second lieutenant, who said 'Is Chiefie alive?
'Aye,' Andrew called back without wasting breath on formalities of rank. He inched forward again while the waters rose inexorably. Three minutes was all they had before the watertight doors would seal them both alive in this dark, stinking tomb.
Overhead the guns blasted; the icy water was up to the chief's chin and slithering like an oily, stinking stream over his trapped shoulder and the handles of the spanner. Andrew's progress was slow but steady. He could only move with knees bent and his back doubled. He was there. He had to get it right. There would be no second chance if he muffed this.
He felt for the handles of the ring spanner, dragged the wrench into place, fixed it over one handle, levered it against the second handle and tightened it. Then, with his face only inches from the water, he put both hands over the wrench's shaft and turned it fast until it locked. He braced his body. His back was hard up against the metal plate. In that tiny space and working underwater, he pushed the crowbar between the wrench and the buckled frame and tried to lever all his weight against it. The water was touching the tip of his chin. Sweat broke out on his face. His hands were icy cold and going numb but he held his breath and put every last ounce of strength into the effort. There was no movement for a few seconds, then, with painful slowness, he felt it shift. He eased off for a second and, putting his head back, took in as much of the foul air as he could, then, with a strength that could only have come from God, he would later believe, he found some extra power and the damned handle moved. It moved. It was over.
The chief's body slumped lower as the ship juddered again under the barrage of its firing guns. His face was under the water. Andrew pulled off the wrench, eased the chief's shoulder free and pulled on the arm that had dropped. The foul air was choking him but the body was sliding towards him. He lifted Chiefie's head clear of the oily water, gave it a hard shake, heard him cough and splutter - and then at speed dragged him the last few yards to the iron grating and the hands that were reaching down for them, pulling them to safety barely five seconds before the heavy steel door with its rubber and canvas flanges slid into place, sealing the shaft.
He lay gasping as the chief was carried to the lieutenant surgeon. And it was then that they heard it - the guns roaring overhead, followed by a shout that went round the ship's company like greased lightning: 'We got it! We sank the bastard! Bloody marvellous!'
An hour later, after the urgent cases had been attended to, Andrew was seen by the lieutenant surgeon, who gave him a dose of a powerful expectorant that he said would bring up anything on his lungs. They stripped him and washed him clean of the oil and bandaged his hands. Then he was dismissed and sent back to his mess without a sight of the chief.
Though it was probably a couple of hours, it seemed that no sooner had he climbed into his hammock than one of the petty officers came into the mess to order him to go at once to the master-at-arms, who would take him to the captain.
'Aye aye, sir!' Andrew almost fell out of his hammock. His mind raced back over events. He ran to the heads and splashed cold water on his face with reddened fingertips that protruded from the bandages. Had anything gone wrong? The chief was going to recover, wasn't he?
He dressed as fast as he could, put on oilskins and fought his way back up to the bridge, clinging to the ropes of the storm rigging under a screaming wind with needles of ice stabbing into his face. It was pitch black. Giant seas were curling and breaking over the armour-plated decks that heaved under his boots.
The master-at-arms shouted above the storm, 'On the wardroom flat, Leading Stoker.' This was aft of the ship, below the quarter-deck. Andrew went back down the ladder.He discarded his oilskins and waited in line until his name was called. Flanked by the master-at-arms, he marched smartly ten paces forward, placed his cap under his arm and snapped to attention in front of the captain, his bandaged hands held rigidly down, heedless of the pain as the master-at-arms ordered, 'Stand at ease!'
'Stand easy.' Captain Sir Gordon Campbell said when the master-at-arms stepped back. 'You acted with courage and initiative in the boiler room, Leading Stoker. Your divisional officer has recommended your accelerated advance. You are being advanced immediately to acting petty officer.'
Andrew could not hold back the smile that came to his cold, cracked lips. As soon as confirmation came through he'd put aside the square rig - the bell-bottoms and round cap - to wear the fore and aft peaked cap. He'd be moved up to the petty officers' mess at once and his midday tot of rum would be neat, not two to one with water. Relief and pride brought a flush to his face. 'Thank you, sir,' he said.
The captain, who would have been briefed on wounds, looked at Andrew's bandaged hands and said, 'I'll be proud to shake your hand when the bandages are off. For the moment I salute you as a brave man.' Andrew did not even feel the pain in his hands. He could not stop the smile that came spreading across his face as the captain smiled back and said, 'The Royal Navy is looking for men who can make decisions. As soon as your promotion is approved you will be given the rank of upper yardman.'
Andrew smiled broadly now. He was on his way up. He was not stopping at petty officer level then. Upper yardman was the route to becoming a fully commissioned officer, moving from there to acting sub-lieutenant through sub-lieutenant to lieutenant and lieutenant-commander. Ma and Flora would be proud of him.
Sir Gordon Campbell said, 'The officer training course in peacetime lasts six months. I believe it is uch shorter now. You could be sent to Portsmouth. I'm not certain what the arrangements will be.'
'Thank you, sir,' Andrew repeated, still unable to erase the grin. 'I take it we are heading for port somewhere?'
Sir Gordon clasped his left hand on Andrew's shoulder. 'Well done, Andrew,' he said. 'We’ll reach Invergordon in about ten days' time, barring trouble. Your orders will come through as soon as I hear from the Admiralty. Don't bank on having more than twenty-four hours' leave before you are sent on the course.'
Flora, wearing navy-blue overalls and with her shoulder-length red hair tied up under a turban, stood at the bench where she worked a lathe, cutting a groove in brass shell cases. It was Monday afternoon. The girls' faces were beaded with sweat and the noise was so bad that Flora had stuffed her ears with cotton wool. She was overwhelmed with tiredness. The pain in her back got worse every day. She had made an appointment with the medical people at the end of her shift. Her stomach churned as the smell of hot metal assailed her. She looked at the clock. Four o'clock. Only another half-hour.
Over the noise of the lathes, Betty, the girl opposite, caught her attention. 'Come on, Flora! Sing!' she yelled, for the wireless was turned up full blast. It was said to improve production.
Despite the ear plugs Flora could hear it all, even the bad language of the men who called out 'How about a kiss, darling?' and worse. Some of the women, bold as brass, would make replies that could make the men blush. Still only sixteen, she had got the job by declaring herself to be eighteen, and to make herself look older wore a theatrical shade of Tangee lipstick that tasted of marigolds and made her white face eve
n paler than normal. However, Mr Davidson couldn't see it and the only person it offended was the widow woman next door, whose eyebrows lifted to heaven at the sight of Mr Davidson taking Flora's arm to church or choir practice.
Betty yelled again, 'Flora! You've got a good voice. Sing!' They were all singing now to Music While You Work, and Flora smiled, pulled the cotton plug from her right ear and joined in: 'We're going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line ., Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear ... ?' Last night in church she had sung 'I know that My Redeemer Liveth'. It struck her as incongruous, and now she laughed with the others when next they broke into 'Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run ...' It was true that music made you work faster. Four songs later, the rafters nearly lifting in the roar of voices, it was time to down tools.
Slowly she edged her way between the crowded, noisy benches to the cloakroom where, night and morning for the last few weeks, she had been sick, bringing up a gush of the brown, acid contents of her stomach. She went slowly, for if she walked too fast a hot streak of pain shot down her left leg. She scrubbed her hands and nails until every black speck was gone, but the inevitable could not be postponed, and she took a few deep breaths before awkwardly climbing the stairs to the room they called the clinic. She was the only worker there and, relieved, waited to be called; leaning against the wall of the dusty room, looking at the posters that urged her to Buy War Bonds and Dig for Victory. She was waiting to be told. But she already knew. She had missed four periods.
The Weeping Tree Page 14
