“I should imagine it’s very thrilling at sea,” Beatrice said.
“Thrilling?” Hardy said. Beatrice could tell that the idea seemed incredible to him, but then he gave the notion some thought. “Thrilling, yes.” He warmed up to it. “Yes, you’re right. Thrilling it is. Well said, old girl.”
Beatrice smiled, turning her head so that Hardy could not see her face. It was the first time that he had felt relaxed enough in her presence to use a term of endearment. Some women might have been offended by the phrase; some women who clung to their youth with all of the resolve of a drowning man clinging to a rope. But Beatrice saw those two words for what they were: the first sign that Hardy forgot that it was necessary to cloak himself in formality.
“Yes,” Hardy continued. “Storms in the North Atlantic are thrilling enough, I can tell you that. By God, Bea, once or twice I thought the old girl would go topsy-turvy. Frightened me—as close to being frightened to death that anyone can be.” The glove remained motionless in his hand and the words came easily. “Land, my Number One; damned fine fellow. Oh, excuse me.” He had caught the mild profanity but in his excitement to talk about the sea, let it slip again. “Damned fine fellow to be sure—we rode seventy-two hours on the bridge during one storm. Took two of us, mind you. Old Firedancer creaked and groaned her way up one wave and down another. Threatened to broach a half-dozen times, but we wouldn’t let her. Swept away everything topside that wasn’t secured.” He stopped, laughing at himself in embarrassment. “Sailors’ stories. Shouldn’t have gone on like that. Bored you silly.”
“No,” Beatrice said, smiling. “Not at all, George.” His name came out of its own volition, and now she was surprised to feel her face redden, self-conscious at the slip. She glanced to see if Hardy was aware that she had called him by his Christian name, but if he was, he was doing a superb job of hiding it. She quickly tossed out a question, anxious to mask her discomfort. “Will you try for another ship? That is, would you like to command something a bit larger?” She winced at the stupidity of the question, realizing that she had probably offended him, or his beloved Firedancer, and she remembered how close captains were to their ships. But he took the question in stride, as if he had never before considered it.
“Hmmm,” Hardy said. “You mean such as a cruiser?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. She felt more at ease although she hadn’t the least idea what a cruiser was.
“Oh, I’ve seen them out there,” Hardy said, nodding. He was becoming reacquainted with his ambitions. “Fine lot. Heavy chaps. Fine lines, all of them. Had my eyes on Belfast once. Of course, when I came out of Dartmouth, nothing would suit me but a battleship. Oh, I’d have a battle cruiser if one were offered, being young and foolish, but I thought myself cut out for a battleship. My due, you understand. That was the boy in me—all stuff and nonsense. I saw some other lads, classmates of mine, come up quickly.” It was thwarted ambitions that emerged—bitter disappointments at being found wanting, the insult of others given prize commands while you stood, unnoticed, in the background. His voice lost some of the levity and he spoke with a sense of failure. “It hurt, Bea. I can tell you that. I mean, I’m no scholar and I thought Dartmouth and I would part company in a bad way more than once, but what I lack in brains I more than make up for in bravado and hard work. I’m the sort of fellow that won’t be easily denied his victory.”
“It must have been miserable,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, yes,” Hardy acknowledged, the pain evident in his eyes. “Rough go a number of times. I think that’s where old Firedancer and I have come to form a partnership—ship and captain, I mean. We understand each other. Sounds a bit daft, I know, but it’s like those old fire horses. Tired and out of sorts and barely able to make it from one side of their stall to the next, but let that fire bell sound, and twenty years comes off the old beasts. Don’t stand in their way, is all I’m saying. Well, that Firedancer and me. Let us hear Action Stations… .” he stopped talking, and smiled ruefully. “Never talked that much in one go.”
“Now, George,” Beatrice said, deciding that she would be brazen about the use of his first name. It was how she felt about him. “You must feel free to speak to me about anything, at any time. I like to hear you talk.”
He said nothing in return, but his face flushed and Beatrice hoped that she had not embarrassed him.
“Well,” he said hesitantly. The glove came up, but he simply let it fall back down. He stopped. “There she is.”
Firedancer was smaller than Beatrice had expected and her hull and superstructure were liberally streaked with rust. Knifelike was a word that came immediately to Beatrice when she saw her, and Firedancer was that all right. Bows on she was thin and her stem looked as if it was capable of slicing through the water at a fantastic rate. Her guns were all neatly arranged fore and aft, and they looked formidable enough although Beatrice didn’t know what they were for or even if they were powerful. She saw the truth in Hardy’s remarks. Firedancer lay alongside the quay, peppered with scars and imperfections and looking as if she were two years past a good rest and refitting.
But then another thought struck Beatrice, as if the ship herself had interceded to correct a mistaken idea. Firedancer was a terrier, Beatrice now realized, all teeth and heart. She would go after anything she was set on, regardless of the size, and attack it with all the violence that she could muster.
Beatrice felt foolish at the notion of Firedancer as a living thing, and told herself never to mention it to Captain Hardy. Who knew how he saw his ship? He might be offended if she likened Firedancer to a feisty little creature. She felt that the ship was eyeing her, however, to see if she was worthy of further attention. They came, in a moment, to a mutual understanding; ashore George Hardy would belong to Beatrice Schiffer; he could be her love always because Beatrice knew that it was love. When Hardy came aboard Firedancer, however—and the ship made this perfectly clear by the stoic manner in which she studied the lady at Hardy’s side—Captain George Hardy, RN, and HMS Firedancer would be, forever, man and lover. This relationship was created through experience, occasion, trust, loss, fright, terror, death, regret, and victory. They were like a very civil wife and mistress, meeting over tea, agreeing on how the shared relationship should be with the man that they both cared for; each unwilling to give up the whole life of the man, and satisfied to live in a part of that life. It was all very polite.
Beatrice turned to Hardy, straightened his tie, and brushed an imaginary spot of lint from his dark blue uniform jacket. “George,” she said, her voice soft and caring. “I shall never interfere with your duties. I know them to be what makes you the man that you are.” She was on the verge of saying ‘the man that I love,’ but she could not bring herself to say so. Not that she didn’t feel it, because she did. She did not say it because she knew that there was a rhythm to things and it was not yet the right time to tell Hardy how she felt. Now, it was not even important that he felt the same way, although she suspected that he did. She would wait for the right moment, and that moment would make itself known to her.
“But you must promise me that you shall always come back to me,” Beatrice said, daring to go as far as she could. “I should be quite miserable if something happened to you.”
Beatrice watched as Hardy’s jaw tensed and she knew that he was struggling with his emotions. These were uncharted waters for Captain Hardy and she wanted him to come along at his own speed. “Why, old girl,” he said. “There’s no reason to talk like that. I’ve come back each and every time.” He nodded at Firedancer. “Just look at her. She’s resilient, all right. She’ll bring me home. Through shot and shell as they say.”
“Very well then,” Beatrice said. She looked down the quay to the destroyer. In her mind she made a covenant with Firedancer: We shall share him, you and I, but you are to return him to me. She straightened Hardy’s tie again, although the action was unnecessary. She just wanted to touch him. “We’ll have many such partings,” s
he said. “Having you come home to me is all I ever want from you. You’ve promised me that, George. I shan’t ask any more of you.”
“You mustn’t trouble yourself, Bea,” Hardy said. He kissed her on the forehead. “Knowing that you’ll be waiting for me is all the incentive I need.” He smiled at her. “Give my best to Topper, will you? Now, you must let me get aboard Firedancer.”
“I will, dear,” Beatrice said. “Go along. I shall wait here a moment.”
Hardy nodded, turned, and walked along the quay to the gangway. He received a salute from the sailor on duty, then made his way to the ship’s deck, saluted the Union Jack and the officer of the deck, and looked back at Beatrice. He doffed his cap, waved it once to the tiny figure gathering with the other wives and sweethearts, and disappeared amidships.
It was a moment before Beatrice, tears streaming down her cheeks, could speak. “Godspeed, George Hardy,” she said. And then she added. “God bless Firedancer, and all who sail on her.”
Land stood back to allow Hardy access to Firedancer ’s tiny bridge. Number One had been running static engineering tests with Courtney. They had just finished up a moment ago, in time to see Hardy part company with his lady friend. He watched as the captain tried to appear busy, nosing about the bridge as if the action guaranteed that all that transpired on the quay had done so unobserved. Finally Hardy’s eyes picked out a deficiency.
“Number One? Number One, what are those Lewis gun mounts still doing there?” Hardy said. “I ordered them cut off a year ago. Why hasn’t it been done?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Land said. Hardy had ordered no such thing.
“Don’t know? Don’t know? Well, by God, you’d better find out.” Several of the seamen present on the bridge slid as far away as they could. “Can’t leave this ship for a moment, Number One. Not a moment. And here,” Hardy moved quickly to the binnacle. “Look at this. Filthy. Have it cleaned. Bloody shame if we got lost because I couldn’t see through the grime covering this thing.”
“Indeed it would, sir,” Land said calmly, catching a yeoman’s eye. The exchange was simple enough—have someone see to it. “By the way, sir,” Land said. “The engines are in top form. Number Two hasn’t given us a bit of problem. I think we could run her out a bit without a worry.” Land waited for the explosion, but Hardy was lost in thought.
“What? Fine, fine. We’ll run her out and toss Courtney over the side if the bloody thing fouls.” Hardy looked around surreptitiously and nodded at Land to join him at the windscreen. “Now, see here, Number One,” Hardy said. “I need a bit of discretion on your part.”
“Discretion, sir?” Land asked. He couldn’t resist the urge to torment Hardy.
“Yes!” Hardy said, biting the word off. He dropped his voice and said: “The truth of the matter is, I’ve been keeping company with a young lady.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes. Quite a respectable lady. We’ve …” Hardy arranged the words carefully. “We’ve reached a sort of understanding.”
“Why, that’s splendid, sir,” Land said, generating what he felt was sufficient emotion to deceive Hardy into thinking the situation was a total surprise. It was not. First the men knew that Old Georgie was escorting a lady about town, and then the officers learned from the men that apparently their captain was quite smitten with Miss Schiffer; that was her name, and she owned a dry-goods store or some such establishment, with her brother Topper, a right fine fellow. Old Georgie and Miss Schiffer were seen at the cinema and once at the play, and Hardy had looked uncomfortable at both places, but he was most solicitous of Miss Schiffer. Maybe it wasn’t a dry-goods store, the W/T finally conceded, but that wasn’t important.
The important thing was the Captain’s Lady Lottery. It started in the gunnery division, from someone at B turret everyone agreed, and swept above decks, getting down to the black gang who felt somewhat irritated that they hadn’t been in on it in the beginning. The officers knew about it but declined to let the men know that they knew about it because it would appear unseemly if they were involved.
That is why they created The Hardy Steeplechase. It worked much the same as the lottery, but instead of wagering on the day that Old Georgie would pop the question, it rather pessimistically suggested that Hardy’s lady would toss him after a proscribed number of jumps—each jump being a certain number of days into the relationship. The first jump was called The Hat, after the famous bowler that Hardy donned when Firedancer went into action. That was just one week. A sub-lieutenant and an ensign quickly chose the second jump, The Dartmouth Tumble, and Courtney down in engineering, after wrapping himself in a cloak of calm deliberation, finally chose the third jump, Their Lordships Two-Step—named after the manner in which their Lordships of the Admiralty cagily avoided giving Hardy command of a destroyer squadron. The whole romantic interlude was calculated by the crew of Firedancer to last no more than a month, with the jumps strategically placed, but those who settled on early dates regretted their lack of faith in Hardy.
Land, who had known Hardy for some time, smiled when he was asked his opinion of the captain’s domestic turn and what jump he thought that Hardy would be bumped off. He never spoke of it, and a simple glance from him would change the subject in the Ward Room, but he knew something that the others did not. George Hardy was deeply in love. He saw it when Hardy lost his train of thought in mid-statement and regained it only when his brow wrinkled over his own confusion. Land saw it as Hardy stood on the bridge, his stance strong and unyielding, but with a natural ease that came from contentment.
George Hardy was in love.
“Yes,” Hardy agreed with Land’s comment. “Yes. I think it quite splendid as well.”
A yeoman of signals cleared his throat behind them. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, holding out an envelope. “But this just came straight over from base.”
Land took it without Hardy having to tell him to do so, and dismissed the yeoman. He opened the envelope and read the single sheet of paper. “It appears as if our running out has been advanced a bit, sir,” Land said, handing the message to Hardy. “They’ve got us on escort duty again, Convoy D-4. Some Yanks are planning a landing drill at Lyme Bay. It’s to be called Operation Sunset.”
“Well, easy enough,” Hardy said. “Good way to get those engines warmed up.” He read the message. “Nine LSTs,” he said, “and the Huston, a Hunt Class. Shouldn’t be too difficult to handle, should it, Number One?”
“No, sir,” Land said. “I doubt we’d see any mischief in Lyme Bay.”
Chapter 18
Tour-la-Ville, Cherbourg, France
“We will go hunting,” Reubold said in response to Kapitanleutnant Mueller’s question. Mad Mueller, irrational, quick-tempered; he was built like a boxer: compact and resolute, his fists battered and scarred. Not all of his fights were successful, but all of them were fought with joyful enthusiasm. Kapitanleutnant Fritz, silent, thoughtful, sat next to him in the classroom of the former museum, once a château, now the headquarters of Flotilla 11. Kapitanleutnant Draheim nudged Fritz for a cigarette, and Fritz grudgingly handed one over. Fritz was notoriously tight—the other officers constantly badgered him for cigarettes, socks, anything that they knew he was loath to give out, just to see him boil silently. Draheim, “Musikmaat,” was a fellow who could scare up a piano, guitar, and once a trombone; and seemed capable of playing each with remarkable skill. He liked American jazz the best, he explained to those who gathered to hear him play. It was the music of colored people, he admitted, but exciting and original. He’d seen Negroes playing in a small club in Paris, before the war, and from the moment he saw sweat glistening off their broad foreheads and heard the wild, sensational music pulsating with decadence, he was captured by it.
What’s wrong with good German music? Kapitanleutnant Peters had demanded one night, in the midst of one of Draheim’s impromptu concerts. Peters was an ardent Nazi and a burden to the other officers of Flotilla 11. His father was some hig
h official in the Party, at least Peters claimed that he was, and the others reluctantly were forced to agree that someone with power shielded Peters from official sanctions. He was a competent enough boat handler and his crew seemed reasonably happy, but Peters came down with a variety of mysterious illnesses just before every patrol. Then it fell to Oberleutnant zur see Waymann, Peters’s executive officer, to take S-492 out. The crew of Peters’s boat said little about their commanding officer’s strange malady, chalking it up to good luck instead. Waymann was calm and very serious for such a young man, and he sat in the back of the classroom at Reubold’s invitation, over the objections of Peters.
“What will the others think?” Peters had pleaded with Reubold, the specter of shame standing just behind him.
“It’s best that you don’t know what the others think,” Reubold had replied.
“That’s more to my liking,” Mueller said. “Eagles hunt to live.” He looked around for confirmation. “Eh, fellows?”
“Or live to hunt,” Fritz said, shaking his head to Kapitanleutnant Mittendorf’s silent plea for a cigarette. Mittendorf the Dwarf—short, profane, obviously a man who felt bravado made up for stature. The crew of S-756 loved him, although it was common to see Mittendorf viciously dressing down a matrose, most of whom towered over him.
“Either,” Reubold said, “is sufficient to explain what we must do. You will go back to the pens, inspect your boats, double-check the foils and struts, and sight your guns. Take every measure,” he said, the words hard with warning, “to ensure that the doorknockers are firmly secured to the Trinity mounts.” He used his anger sparingly, but he would not hesitate to humiliate anyone whose mistakes could cost lives. The others glanced at Mueller.
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