A Ship Must Die (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Blake had a few who had been with Andromeda from the beginning of those two harsh years in the Med. Bob Weir, the commander (E), who had managed to keep the shafts turning no matter what had been happening on the decks above his roaring world of machinery and noise. Lieutenant Gregory Palliser, the gunnery officer, had begun in charge of B turret and had been about the only man left in one piece after the last fight.

  By and large they were a good company, and what Blake had seen of the newcomers he had also liked. There had been the usual banter between the Aussies and the Poms, but that would pass. It would have to if they wanted to stay afloat. Apart from Fairfax, there were a couple of Australian lieutenants, some petty officers and over two hundred and fifty ratings.

  Quintin had left the ship and her frantic prepartions well alone, and the admiral had contented himself with a mere handful of signals, when even his curiosity over their progress must have been at bursting point.

  During the forenoon of the tenth day Blake was standing on the upper bridge with Fairfax and the engineer commander. It was like being on a sun-scorched steel island, beneath and around which half-naked figures bustled about with mysterious crates and sacks which were being checked aboard at each brow by the supply assistants like wary customs men. Above the cruiser the tall gantrys swung and plunged with their own offerings, while hourly the piles of equipment and stores on the berth alongside grew less and less.

  Fairfax removed his cap and wiped his forehead.

  ‘Pity if it’s all a rumour, eh, sir? All this will have been an exercise of sweat and tears!’

  Blake smiled. He had been thinking much the same. No news of the missing Devonport, but none of other losses either.

  Weir said shortly, ‘I’d best get below, sir. My second’s a bright lad, but he’s not the experience at handling dockyard mateys like meself!’

  Weir was a remote man who strayed very little from his engines and boilers. He looked far older than his forty years and had the pallid features of a man just out of prison. Blake respected him greatly and trusted him absolutely. Equally, he understood his withdrawn manner, his inability to join the wardroom’s occasional parties and sometimes juvenile celebrations.

  Weir’s whole family had been wiped out in the first big air raid on Liverpool. His wife, elderly mother and two children. Perhaps, most of all, Weir’s need of Andromeda was the greatest.

  Blake watched him, knowing he should have had leave, even if he had nowhere to go. He had been at it too long, sparing himself nothing. The fact that the ship was still around them was a living proof.

  ‘All right, Chief? Satisfied with her yet?’

  Weir looked at him, his deepset eyes shadowed beneath the greasy oak leaves of his cap.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. It’s too soon. She needs a break, like the rest of us.’

  Fairfax grinned. He had never worked so hard in his life, but had loved it. The ship’s past seemed to be everywhere, as if to defy a man who needed to stop and take a breath.

  ‘Never mind, Chief. If this lot blows over you can leave the ship to us, eh, and be off home for a spot of leave!’ He looked away, hating himself for the slip he had guarded against so carefully. ‘I – I’m sorry, Chief.’

  Weir glanced at him. ‘I can see that.’ Then he was gone.

  Blake dragged out his pipe, recalling what Quintin had said about his being a pipe man. So they even had a dossier on him, down to the smallest detail.

  He said, ‘Don’t take it to heart. You’ll get used to it. There’s barely a man aboard who’s not lost a friend or a relative.’ He jammed the unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘This bloody war!’

  Fairfax watched his profile and compared Blake’s rare show of anger with his own feelings. This was what he had always wanted. He had already had two shore jobs, the last one in Sydney where he had met Sarah. But all the while he had dreamed about getting back to sea, getting into the war before it passed him by. It was what he had joined and trained for, and he had expected Blake to feel the same.

  He knew something of Blake’s background. He had entered the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth at the tender age of twelve, and came from a sea-going family which went back two hundred years. His father had been badly wounded, not during the last war, but during a riot when he had been serving in a gunboat on the China Station. Fairfax had also heard that the old man was unable to cope any more, his mind crumbled beyond repair.

  Fairfax looked at him, wondering if he was anything like his father. A good face, firm chin, blue eyes which might have seemed dreamy but for a slight hardness, as if he were finding it difficult to appear at ease.

  Sarah would like him, he thought. Not in the least stuck-up like some of them.

  Blake said, ‘We’ll take a stroll round the ship. See and be seen. I have an uneasy feeling that peace is about to be shattered.’ He looked at his companion and shrugged. ‘Just a hunch.’

  Later, as he was finishing his lunch alone in his quarters, Blake thought about Fairfax. A bit too eager, not good at hiding his feelings . . . yet. But he liked him. When they were called to give battle Fairfax would be the man to take command if the worst happened. He grimaced at his grim mood and thought suddenly of Diana. What was she doing at this moment? He tried to accept it, show it no longer hurt. But he could not, and it did.

  He heard the marine sentry in the outer flat moving his boots and knew a visitor was about to appear.

  It was Villar, the navigating officer, a tanned, tough-looking lieutenant with an Afrikaans accent you could slice with a knife. He was wearing the sword-belt of OOD.

  ‘Yes, Pilot?’

  Villar said, ‘Signal from Melbourne, sir. Commodore Stagg will arrive on board this afternoon at six bells.’

  He watched curiously as Blake said, ‘I was expecting something, but not this exactly.’ He smiled. ‘Tell the commander, would you, Pilot? Better pass the word to the marines, too. Farleigh will enjoy a visit. Bags of bull.’

  Farleigh was Andromeda’s debonair captain of marines.

  Blake added, ‘But otherwise no change. We will work ship as usual.’

  Villar marched out and Blake pushed his plate away, the meal only half eaten. It was always easy to make excuses. Too hot, too busy, or the war. But he knew better than that. He drank too much and ate too little. He would have to watch it.

  He glanced at his locked desk and pictured his folio inside. Commodore Rodney Stagg, Distinguished Service Cross, one-time prisoner-of-war in Sumatra. It might be an interesting meeting.

  His harassed writer came into the cabin. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the padre’s here to see you.’

  Blake sighed. The Reverend Wilfred Beveridge had already been on to him about the Australian members of the company. There was some confusion about Beveridge’s little forms on which he listed each man’s religious details. They only showed Church of England or Roman Catholic, and the Australians who were not of the latter faith seemed to have no intention of having their names placed on the other one either. Poor old Beveridge. Known to the ship’s company either affectionately or contemptuously as Horlicks, he was becoming a pain in the neck.

  Blake recalled him during the battle, seeing his bared head with its sparse sprouting hair as he bobbed amongst the dead and dying. Terrified like the rest of them, but displaying the same determination he would no doubt show over C of E or RC.

  ‘Ask him to come in, please.’

  Blake glanced at the decanter on Moon’s sideboard. Perhaps the interruption was just as well, with Stagg about to descend on them.

  Timed to the minute, a large staff car rolled along the main berth, its driver avoiding the scattered remnants of dockyard waste with considerable skill.

  At the top of the brow, Blake stood beside Fairfax, while nearby in a neat khaki line a marine guard waited to honour the visitor.

  Blake watched the commodore as he climbed slowly from the car. A big man, even at a distance, his white drill uniform making him appear even more so.

/>   Blake thought of his reply when Moon had told him he had laid out his new white drill for this occasion. He had declined, and was dressed now in shirt and shorts, his telescope tucked beneath one arm.

  ‘No, leave the ice-cream suit for later, Moon. It’s too damn dusty on deck.’

  Perhaps as he had said it he had sensed embarrassment. So that was it. The crimson ribbon which was pinned to the white tunic was never worn on an open-necked shirt. Embarrassment that Commodore Stagg, his new chief, would have to salute him first as was customary to wearers of the VC? Or was it because he still felt uneasy at being given the decoration at all when so many had died for it?

  Captain Farleigh gave a quiet cough and the line of marines stiffened as if a steel rod had been passed through it.

  From the tannoy system a disinterested voice echoed around the ship. ‘Attention on the upper deck!’

  Farleigh made a minute adjustment to his white helmet and snapped, ‘Carry on, Colour-Sar’nt!’

  Sergeant Macleod brought his men to the shoulder arms position and stared threateningly at the head of the brow as Commodore Stagg, followed at a respectful distance by a lieutenant, strode up towards the side.

  It was impressive, and apparently fairly unusual in the dockyard as several workmen paused to watch. The marines presented arms, the boatswain’s mates’ calls shrilled in salute and Blake stepped forward to greet his visitor.

  Commodore Rodney Stagg was impressive. Broad-shouldered, heavy-jawed, with dark brows which almost met above a pair of piercing eyes. The perfect white drill could not disguise his girth and the white collar made Stagg’s sunburned jowl even more evident.

  Stagg shook hands and nodded to Fairfax. ‘You made it then, Commander.’

  His accent was barely Australian, Blake thought, and it sounded slightly unreal, like an actor with an unrehearsed role.

  To Blake he said, ‘Busy ship.’ He stuck out his jaw and gave a swift grin. ‘Guessed I wouldn’t catch you slacking, eh?’

  Blake said, ‘Would you care to step aft, sir? It’s cooler.’

  Stagg raised his voice and replied, ‘The heat doesn’t bother me. But I might stop your men from working if I remain here. And we don’t want that, do we?’ It was partly jovial, partly something else.

  Blake led the way to the after companion while Fairfax ordered the side-party to fall out.

  In the day cabin Stagg appeared too large to move about. His cap almost brushed against the deckhead fans as he prowled restlessly around the cabin, peering at framed photographs, the painting and just about everything else.

  Moon appeared in the opposite door and took his cap from him. Surprisingly, Stagg had thick, iron-grey hair, all bunched to the top of his head like a copse.

  ‘Would you like a gin, sir?’

  Stagg grinned. He had strong teeth, again big and powerful.

  ‘Why not?’ He breathed deeply. ‘God, the smell of a ship. It’s worth ten of anything. A good ship, she’s right.’

  Moon asked dolefully, ‘What will you take, sir?’

  ‘Brandy an’ ice.’ He chuckled at some secret joke. ‘Works wonders.’

  Blake took his pink gin and regarded Stagg over his glass.

  ‘Here’s to us, sir.’

  Stagg downed his drink with a nod. ‘This raider.’ He leaned forward in the chair, his gilt buttons tugging in protest. ‘Our raider. What d’you think about her, er, Richard?’

  ‘I’ve studied the reports, sir, the past sinkings and cruises of other commerce raiders, but I don’t see –’

  Stagg waved his empty glass at Moon. ‘Of course you don’t see. This one’s quite different. A wily bastard.’ He rubbed his hands together noisily. ‘I knew Pete Costello well, he commanded Devonport, by the way. Nice enough chap, but too careless, too easy.’

  Blake’s mind hung on the words knew and commanded. Stagg had obviously written off the other cruiser from the start.

  ‘There are quite a few like that, these days.’ Stagg’s eyes momentarily lost their sharpness. ‘It was all quite different before. In Malaya and Singapore when the war separated the so-called gentlemen from those with guts! Oh yes, it was all different. Nothing was too good for the servicemen when those soft bastards thought their precious skins were in danger, when before they wouldn’t let a poor Aussie soldier or sailor into an hotel for a glass, did you know that?’ He did not wait for reply. ‘But people soon forget. Now the Yanks are in it, though not from choice,’ he wagged his glass at Blake, ‘as I’m always telling ’em. Jerry’s taking a few reverses for a change, and even the bloody Russians have got their fingers out at last.’

  Blake sat back carefully. Stagg’s brisk, savage summings-up left no space for argument.

  ‘Pete Costello must have been swanning along on that dreary patrol line, thinking of his pension, if I knew anything about him. Well, his widow will get it now!’

  Blake said, ‘I can see you really believe in this raider, sir.’

  The eyes fixed and held him like twin gunsights. Searching for anything which might hint at disbelief or amusement.

  Stagg nodded. ‘I can go one better. I know who it is.’

  He sat quite still watching Blake’s reactions. ‘Thought that would make you sit up, er, Richard.’

  Blake tried to remember how many brandies Stagg had consumed. He seemed to drag at his glass as if his great frame needed it like energy.

  He said, ‘I think it’s amazing, sir.’

  Stagg stood up carefully as if to test the strength of the deck. ‘Thought it would get you. Both the First Naval Member and the Chief of Staff think I’m halfway round the bend.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Must be off now. Just thought I’d meet you in person before we work together.’

  Blake had a momentary impulse to ask him who the supposed raider was. But he suspected the visit had been more of an interview than anything, a test which had not quite finished.

  Stagg said vaguely, ‘Matter of fact, I was against your staying on in command. Like it or not, and I daresay you enjoy it, being a hero has its drawbacks. This ship has quite a reputation, even out here. Our superiors in all their wisdom want to hold on to the magic until this raider is run to ground. They probably imagine an ordinary, run-of-the-mill colonial is a bit slow on the uptake.’ He searched Blake’s face and then chuckled. ‘Forget it. We’ll get along. Just so long as we catch that bastard.’

  Blake dropped his gaze. He had been so full of his own problems he had forgotten about Stagg. Taken prisoner when his command was set on fire and beached near the Sunda Strait. Immediately after the fall of Singapore, that was it. Blake had imagined Stagg’s ship had been sunk by the Japs. So it must have been a German raider, one of the earlier ones which had worked out of Japanese waters before the hammer fell on Malaya.

  Blake said quietly, ‘You’re obviously very certain about him.’

  Stagg’s eyes were distant. ‘I’ll not forget. Ever. He sunk my ship. Then handed me over to the Japs. No, I’ll not forgive that one.’ He gripped Blake’s arm fiercely. ‘All those days and weeks I sweated it out and thought about this chance. Now it’s coming, and I intend to get my revenge on that murdering bastard!’

  There was a timid tap at the door and the Australian lieutenant who had accompanied Stagg aboard said nervously, ‘It’s time to leave, sir. Your next appointment is in half an hour.’

  Stagg said harshly, ‘Wait in the car.’ To Blake he added, ‘He’s scared stiff of me.’ The grin came back suddenly. ‘Can’t think why, can you?’

  Blake saw the commodore over the side and watched the car roll away in a cloud of dust.

  Fairfax joined him by the guardrail and saluted. ‘Signal, sir. We’re to take on ammunition tomorrow.’ He turned to follow Blake’s gaze. ‘All right, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Blake walked aft again, his face deep in thought. Nor, I suspect, was he.

  ‘I think we’ve just about earned a drink.’ Blake plucked his shirt away from his ribs. It was like a wet rag.
Something which Weir and the dockyard staff needed to be done had meant the ventilation fans were switched off. Just for half an hour, the taciturn engineer had assured him. But in minutes the motionless cruiser had become a sweltering oven.

  Commander Fairfax, like Blake, looked damp and uncomfortable, and the pile of papers which were strewn between them on the cabin table stuck to his hands whenever he made to examine some particular item.

  Three days since Stagg’s brief visit, and now, to everyone’s astonishment, the work had been all but completed. A holding job, as the dockyard manager had said. Nothing but a lengthy refit would put Andromeda properly to rights after her battering.

  It was early evening, with many of the ship’s company ashore. On the beaches or exploring the coastline, anywhere to get them away from the noisy discomfort of the dockyard.

  Fairfax eyed Blake curiously. He knew how hard he had been working and could not understand how he kept going. Every day Blake had held an informal meeting with his heads of departments. Fairfax had never known anything like it. He had expected curt formality, perhaps even arrogance. Blake had earned his reputation, nobody would have been very surprised if he had been a bit rough on those slow to learn his ways. Perhaps that was what had made Andromeda into a legend? Or was it the other way round? he wondered.

  He said, ‘I could certainly use a glass, sir.’

  Blake rang Moon’s bell and forced his mind away from engine defects, shortages and mistakes. From the irritating fact that no new flying boat had been received to fill the space left by the old Walrus, which had been shot down by one of the enemy cruisers. People made fun of the old ‘Shagbats’ and asked how a designer who could create a creature as beautiful as the Spitfire could invent such an ungainly abortion. But the flying boat had useful eyes, and could endure the toughest landing before being winched aboard. Now, Andromeda had only her fragile Seafox, a seaplane which had been obsolete for a year. He had mentioned it to Stagg in one of his reports. Stagg had sent the report back, his comment, Make do, scrawled across the page like a shout.