‘Tell me about yourself.’
Blake thought about Diana. When would she hear what had happened? Would she care? he wondered.
He said, ‘I live with my father. On the Surrey-Hampshire border. It’s an old house. Too big now, but there are some people billeted in the village who look after it and take care of the grounds. Most of them are dug up anyway. Dig for Victory. You know.’
He realized that his head had fallen forward, as if a string had been cut. Curiously, it frightened him more than the acceptance of dying.
She took a strip of her own shirt and laid it across his shoulders. Her touch felt cool and clean. The illusion of defeat. Of giving in.
Blake continued with sudden determination, ‘My father’s not well. He was badly injured years ago in China. But I miss him. Seeing him sitting in his garden or pottering round the glasshouses.’
She said, ‘He sounds right.’ She leaned closer, as if to exclude the others. ‘What’ll you do when the war’s over?’
He looked at her and saw the pleading in her eyes.
He replied, ‘Well, I’ve been promoted ahead of my proper seniority so many times I’ll probably be busted down to ordinary seaman when this lot’s over!’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
His head was throbbing badly, so that his brain felt as if it was bursting from his skull.
She was looking down at the crimson ribbon on the breast of her tunic.
‘What about her? Your wife?’
He tried to chuckle but it wouldn’t come. ‘I forgot. You intelligence people know everything!’
She gripped his arm. ‘Oh, God, here it comes again!’
The shark glided closer, one eye blank and staring, before it dipped down and under the dinghy.
The American said, ‘Let me take a shot at it, sir.’
Blake shook his head. ‘Might overturn us.’ He was rationing his words. Like fresh, precious, cool water.
Maybe there was a search going on for them right now. He recalled what Quintin had said about the convoys, the need to prevent individual vessels from sailing without escort. That ruled out the chance of being sighted by any ship. He peered up at the empty sky, his eyes stinging from the glare.
And the rubber dinghy was drifting well away from land, and further still from the direct air routes. A tiny yellow dot. Their world. It made everything else seem futile and unimportant.
Her head lolled against his chest and he ran his fingers through her hair, feeling its softness through the blown salt.
He had not spoken to anyone about his father for a long time. The Mediterranean had kept him too busy. Too dedicated.
Sometimes his aunt, who looked after the old man in return for living in part of the house, sent him a letter with one of her own. Blake had often wondered what his father had been thinking about as he had carefully scrawled each line to a son he never seemed to recognize. They must have meant a lot to him to take such trouble. The letters were like those from a small child, important only to the writer, but otherwise meaningless.
Blake peered down at her face. She was sleeping but he had not the heart to wake her.
The little dinghy drifted on. Billy, the young American, lay crouched against the side, his makeshift fishing-line tied to his wrist, while Quintin endured his own suffering in silence. He was probably thinking about his wife in Melbourne and his son who was so like Billy and whom he would never see again.
Blake watched the sea and the occasional movement of the shark. Through his dulled and aching mind the realization seemed to force its way like a probe. He had brought them to this. Now, buried in his own self-pity and fear, he was letting go, allowing them to die without raising a finger.
Quintin was badly injured, and anyway had been too long on the beach to understand. The girl and the young American had never been made to survive against odds. It was his job and his alone.
Blake threw back his head, his lips cracking as he shouted hoarsely, ‘A hero, are you? Then bloody well act like one!’
He felt her jerk awake against his shoulder and knew the others were staring at him apprehensively.
He said, ‘Sorry.’ He tried to lick his lips. ‘How many seabirds can you think of, Billy?’
The youth blinked. ‘Er, I – I’m not sure, that is. . . .’
The girl clutched Blake’s arm. ‘Let me. Skua, osprey, gannet. . . .’
Quintin struggled up on his elbow. ‘I can do better than that. . . .’
The little yellow dot was still there when sunset mercifully came to hide it.
7
To Die with Dignity
USING THE YOUNG American sailor’s shoulder as a support, Blake rose unsteadily to his feet and stared around. It was barely dawn, but it was already bright enough to reveal a clear sky, which within hours would be a furnace once more.
Blake swayed awkwardly as the dinghy’s rubber bottom buckled under his feet. It reminded him of a circus, when he had been a small boy. The painted clown, struggling with such seriousness to remain upright while his friends tried to pull a sheet from under him.
It had been a bad night, made worse by the American youth’s obvious suffering. Blake suspected he had been wiping his face with sea water and had been tempted to swallow some to ease his thirst.
All the previous afternoon Blake had kept them at it, asking mindless questions, awarding marks, telling jokes. Anything to keep them from falling into what they probably imagined was a harmless sleep.
It was strange, he thought vaguely. From the air, or from the deck of any size of ship, the sea would be like a mill-pond. Here, in it rather than on it, it seemed to have energy just for them, the need to disturb and tease away their attempts to rest.
If only it would rain. Any bloody thing.
He looked down at the others, feeling their despair like something physical.
She asked huskily, ‘Still nothing?’
He watched her tongue move painfully across her lips, the way her borrowed tunic had fallen open to her waist without her noticing or caring.
He heard a voice answer, ‘Empty. Might see something when the sun gets higher.’ It did not sound like him. A hoarse, rusty murmur.
Quintin did not open his eyes. ‘I’ll be home late then.’
He spoke so clearly that Blake guessed he was either dreaming or quietly going out of his mind.
Blake sat down carefully. ‘Get the water, Billy. One now and another –’
The girl looked at her bare legs as if seeing them for the first time. ‘It’s the last! There’ll be no more after this.’
The American cradled the container between his knees as if it was pure gold. ‘I was saying to my pal. A nice cool Coke. That’s when it happened.’ He doubled over, his voice choking in sobs. ‘The bastards! They didn’t need to kill all of them!’
His voice trailed away, the strength leaving him as quickly as it had shown itself.
Blake leaned against the dinghy and said wearily, ‘You have mine, Claire, I’m not thirsty.’
She held the cup to his mouth, her hand remarkably firm. ‘Don’t pull rank. It’s forbidden here.’ She watched him as he sipped the water. ‘Anyway. You promised. We’ll keep together.’
He studied her, as if to implant each part of her in his memory. ‘You’re quite a girl, Claire. Did you know that?’
She turned away and passed the cup to be refilled for Quintin. It took two of them to help him, as any extra effort brought the pain from his wound like a hot iron.
She said quietly, ‘You’re not so bad yourself, sir.’
The sun surged over the horizon, reaching out in either direction, laying bare its emptiness. The first breath of sunlight brought vapour from the swaying dinghy and their bodies and made the surrounding water twist in haze.
Billy croaked, ‘Shark’s still here. ‘N’other one back there, too.’
Blake watched him narrowly but the youth did not seem to notice that his pistol holster had been remov
ed during the night. Blake knew what could happen even seconds before a man died. To be armed and not be allowed to fire at that stalking shadow would be enough to turn anyone’s mind.
It was unnerving how long periods of time seemed to vanish, while other moments which you imagined had been hours were really a second’s thought or memory.
Blake cradled the girl’s shoulders in his arm and tried to keep their combined shadow across Quintin’s reddened face. It was beginning. The slowing down, like an engine which has had its fuel line cut.
He could no longer gauge the dinghy’s motion properly and was being flung about like a drunken libertyman. The girl was very still, and when he looked down he saw her bare skin through the gap in the white tunic. It looked smooth and soft, and her breathing seemed regular again, as if she too realized there was no more room for pretence or hope.
Blake closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on pictures. His father in his worn panama hat peering at his tomatoes. Andromeda’s gangway at Alexandria when he had returned aboard with his advanced promotion confirmed. The tanned, grinning faces of his men, the unrehearsed cheer, sharing it with him as they had shared all the other part of it. In his reeling mind the gangway changed abruptly to that of his first appointment as midshipman. The towering side of a battleship, a horsy-looking lieutenant glaring at him and rasping, ‘Blake, is it, sir? Damme, Mr Blake, you’ll never be an admiral, that’s the only thing you can be certain of!’
He felt himself grinning at the stupid recollection and then blinked his eyes open as Billy rolled over, struggling to rise to his knees as he gasped, ‘Jesus!’ He almost fell again. ‘Help me!’ He stared wildly at Blake and the girl. ‘Don’t you hear?’
Blake tried to swallow but his throat was like dust. He gripped the life-line and pulled himself round. Billy had gone raving mad. He would have to do something.
Then he heard it. A low, humming throb at first, then as his senses returned he recognized what had brought the American out of his torpor.
The girl had her hand to her mouth. ‘He’s coming back!’
Blake looked at her, unable to speak. To think they had expected to die, been prepared as well as anybody could. But with dignity, if there was such a thing.
His eyes watered with sudden fury. The engine was that of a small aircraft.
It could only be a seaplane right out here. Stagg’s Fremantle was hundreds of miles away and the westbound convoy barely clear of Australian waters. It could be nothing else but the raider. He had been wrong even about that. There was no mercy here, not even indifference. The aircraft was coming back to make sure, as it had with the Catalina.
Frantically Blake groped for the American’s pistol. Just a few shots from the plane would destroy the dinghy. There would be nothing between them and the sharks.
She saw his anguish and said haltingly, ‘Don’t leave me to die like that.’ She put her hand on the pistol. ‘Use it. Please!’
Quintin muttered thickly, ‘Might miss us. Fly right past.’
Blake shaded his eyes and peered at the blue water. It rose and fell in great layers, like a moving range of hills. From a small vessel the raft might be invisible, but from the air. . . . His heart stood still as sunlight lanced across the aircraft’s cockpit and changed its propeller into a solid silver disc.
He felt the girl gripping his arm.
‘Hold me!’
Louder and louder, until the engine’s roar seemed to stun them, smother them.
Blake tried to form his words carefully. Each syllable was agony.
‘It’s all right, Claire.’ He put his arm round her, steadying her as she turned towards the rising sound. ‘Look!’ He pointed at the opposite horizon, his arm waving about as he tried to hold it towards the tiny smudge of smoke, motionless in the sunlight. ‘It’s ours. It’s Andromeda.’ He felt her disbelief through her rigid shoulders and added quietly, ‘God knows how she did it, but she found us.’
The Seafox swept overhead and seconds later a Very light exploded in a vivid green pear-drop high in the sky.
Blake thought he saw Lieutenant Masters waving down to the little yellow dinghy, but his eyes were too misty to be certain of anything.
Commander Victor Fairfax gripped the arms of the captain’s chair and leaned forward to peer through the salt-smeared screen.
Lifting, then slicing down as the sea parted across her sharp stem, Andromeda seemed to be enjoying the unexpected freedom of speed.
Behind and below him the ship was going about its affairs, to outward appearance everything as usual. It was eight o’clock in the evening and the starboard watch had just closed up at defence stations. On the messdecks they would be clearing up for rounds, listening to the radio, writing letters or just passing the time.
Lieutenant-Commander Scovell stepped up on to the gratings, his face expressionless as he said, ‘First watchmen closed up, sir.’ He turned as two sheets of spray as high as B turret burst on either side of the forecastle.
Fairfax knew the first lieutenant disliked him for some reason, and guessed he was watching his every move.
He asked, ‘Did you pass the word to the lookouts?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Scovell glanced at the sky. It was less glaring already. Soon there would be a cool breeze, darkness, while the ship continued to hurl herself through the sea. Scovell added, ‘Nothing from W/T yet.’
He moved away to supervise his watch, leaving Fairfax with his thoughts and his anxieties.
Fairfax made to lift his binoculars but let them fall to his chest. What was the point? The bridge was shuddering and jerking like mad, and he heard Villar cursing quietly as some of his instruments rolled off the chart table.
Fairfax stared wretchedly at the horizon. It was beautiful now that the real heat had gone for the day. The horizon was shark blue, like a darker barrier to the rest of the ocean. Above, the sky was tinged with orange where it met the sea’s edge. It should have been one of the best evenings in his life.
He tried to think back clearly, see what he had done, calmly, like a spectator. Andromeda had been under way, standing clear of the mainland with a solitary patrol boat to see her clear, when they had received the signal about the missing aircraft. Signals had crackled through the atmosphere, some sort of a search had been ordered, but Fairfax knew from his orders and intelligence pack that there were few big aircraft spare for proper coverage. The eastbound convoy around the Cape would soon be due and the westbound one would need air cover too if the raider was still on the rampage.
Andromeda was ordered back to her temporary home at Williamstown. She had no part in the missing aircraft and would be needed for another patrol as soon as she was in position.
Quite suddenly Fairfax had made up his mind, although looking back it seemed as if it had been done for him. He had sent for Scovell and the engineer commander and had told them what he knew.
‘I intend to alter course and look for that Catalina. It may be afloat and only damaged. They’ll need help. There’s nobody else.’
Scovell had said in his precise manner, ‘Local patrols will be alerted. A flying-boat on the surface, even allowing for drift, should be visible.’
It had sounded like a challenge. As if Scovell was stating his own position before things went wrong.
Fairfax pounded his hand on the rail below the screen. Well, things had gone wrong all right. At maximum revolutions the ship had swung round and headed north-east away from her proper course. For two days they had kept it up with only rare reductions of speed while Weir and his men had checked or repaired some new strain or fault in their machinery.
Weir had been just as Blake had said. Like a rock. He had never complained, and when he had last spoken with him on the telephone Weir had said curtly, ‘It’s no a matter of choice, sir. You did the right thing, in my view.’
Fairfax removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Weir’s view would not be the one laid out on the court martial table.
He thought
of Sarah, how she would take it. Fair enough at first. But later, would she see his ruined career in the same light? If it had not been Blake, Andromeda would have maintained her proper course and speed. Fairfax knew it and everyone aboard would be thinking it.
Shoes scraped on the gratings and he saw Villar watching the sea as it swept down the port side like a white-topped sluice.
‘What do you think, Pilot?’ Fairfax knew he should not involve the navigating officer but could not just sit there. Waiting, having the anxiety gnawing at his insides like hooks.
Villar regarded him calmly. ‘When I was with the Union Castle we lost a hand overboard. One of the ship’s orchestra, as a matter of fact. Blew all his cash playing poker and got himself pissed.’ The South African looked at him without any pity in his eyes. ‘Trouble was, he wasn’t missed until the next morning. One of the first class passengers wanted the idiot to play for his birthday!’
Fairfax turned away. Villar was a hard man. An excellent navigator, and he guessed he would be good to be with in a tight corner. But you would never know him.
Villar added, ‘The Old Man turned the ship round for that drunken bum. Found him, too.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody fine, eh?’
Fairfax said quietly, ‘You are telling me there’s a chance?’
‘There’s always a chance, sir.’ Villar paused as he made to leave the gratings. ‘They’ll say you did right. You see, sir.’
Fairfax turned in the chair and beckoned to Sub-Lieucenant Walker.
‘Get Lieutenant Masters up here, will you, Sub?’
He returned to his thoughts. The Catalina must have crashed. He was wasting time as well as risking his own neck.
Villar came back, his face grim. ‘Signal from W/T office, sir. To Fremantle repeated Andromeda.’ He peered at a signal pad. ‘Most immediate. Unidentified vessel reported in position latitude thirty-six degrees south longitude sixty east. Sighted by whaling supply vessel Tarquin. No further information.’
Fairfax slid from his chair, his mind cringing. ‘Take over, Number One.’ Then he led the way to the chartroom where Villar’s yeoman was already plotting the latest sighting on his chart.
A Ship Must Die (1981) Page 11
