A Prayer for the Ship (15 page)

The one exception to the rule was Raikes, who had been so persistent, and who had kept up his stream of inquiries to such a degree, that he was permitted to sit in the room for most of the afternoon, provided he didn't make Royce too excited. It worked beautifully, and most of the time the two men were quite content to sit and lie in silence, each sharing the richness of comradeship and achievement.

At the end of the first week, their little routine was interrupted by the sweeping entrance of the matron, in a high state of excitement, an unusual occurrence for that particular pillar of strength.

“Good Heavens alive!” she boomed, her starched cuffs waving. “This place is a pigsty; it won't do at all!” She then proceeded to readjust every article in sight, until it seemed to be to her liking, although to everybody else the room looked just as usual, spotless.

Royce creaked his head round on the pillow, in the way he had now perfected.

“What's up, Matron? The Admiral coming?”

She shook her finger at him, frowning. “Now, how did you know? I only knew myself ten minutes ago!”

Royce paled. “You mean an admiral
really
is coming? To see me?”

“He certainly is.” She consulted a tiny watch on her plump wrist. “And he should be here any minute.”

Raikes stood up, his eyes shining. “Well, sir, I'm sorry to say this, but I'm desertin' you this time. Admirals aren't in my line!” And with a wicked grin he vanished.

“Phew, what's gone wrong now, I wonder,” he muttered, staring hard at the ceiling. “Surely they're not going to put me through it again.”

Vice-Admiral Sir John Marsh, Flag Officer in Charge of the base, was a small, unassuming figure, so that many persons had been shattered by his unexpectedly forthright, and often harsh, manner. And as he stepped lightly into the small room his sleeves ablaze with gold lace, his sharp eyes darting round, Royce could almost feel the energy given off by this miniature volcano. The Admiral wasted no time.

“My boy, I'm pleased to meet you,” he barked. “I expect I'll be seeing more of you later, but right now I have to get on with the war.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Royce lamely.

“However, I wanted to tell you personally, that I think you've done a grand job. A really fine piece of work.”

“But it was only a trawler, sir, I—”

“I know what happened, and I know what you did, exactly.”

“What the Admiral means,”—Royce became aware that the Admiral's languid Flag Lieutenant, a very overworked young man, was hovering at the rear—“is that some award—”

“Shut up, you fool,” snapped the other testily. “What I mean is that you have been recommended for the Distinguished Service Cross. Suit you?”

Royce stuttered. “Suit me, sir?” he gasped. “I'm so, so . . .” He struggled for words. “I just don't know how to thank you, sir.”

“I'm thanking
you,
Royce. Now I have to be off, but we shall meet again soon. Come, Roberts.”

The door swung behind them.

“Did you hear that, Matron, or am I dreaming?”

“Yes, but you don't deserve it. Look at your dressings; keep your head still!”

But before she bustled out she gave him a little hug.

So regular and efficiently planned is hospital life and routine, that even small things become highlights in the patient's life, and Royce found himself becoming more and more restless, as his strength increased, and he eagerly looked forward to any unusual happening, such as his somewhat dangerous shave, which an attractive, if inexperienced, V.A.D. gave him every other day. Or the re-making and changing of sheets, when the whole operation was completed without moving the patient. Quite an extraordinary feat. And finally, after the doctor's casual permission, the day when he was allowed to get up. Gingerly, he eased his feet into his slippers, and lurched to an upright position—at least that was what he had planned. But for the ever-vigilant sister, he would have fallen. He was quite determined, however, and step by step, he wobbled to the window, his sore limbs and bandages giving him a weird top-heavy feeling.

If the journey was painful, the reward was great. As he stood, breathing jerkily, and leaning one shoulder against the wall, he saw the whole harbour laid out like a shimmering chart before him, and once more he felt at home, reassured. For a whole hour, despite the sister's threats, he stood eagerly drinking in every detail, and studying every vessel in sight, trying to follow the many activities of the bustling harbour craft, and the ponderous cranes lining the busy jetties. He felt more determined than ever to leave the hospital in record time, especially as all the others had already been released, and had gone on leave. Raikes had seemed almost reluctant to leave him, but he too had now left. Royce smiled inwardly. Good old Raikes, thank God he was going to get a D.S.M. for his selfless bravery.

He laughed aloud when he remembered his last letter from Benjy Watson, for even though it was a little exaggerated, and rather colourful, it seemed certain that Kirby was not just a little displeased by Royce's good fortune. But the mood passed, when he remembered the others who had been less fortunate.

Emberson visited him as often as his exacting duties permitted, and kept him fully informed of the local flotillas' activities and sorties against the enemy, and whenever possible he brought him brief items of news about his own boats, or of Benjy's latest episode.

“You got the other stripe, a D.S.C., and a reputation,” he drawled, his lined young face breaking into a warm smile, “so I think you're booked for that command. Don't scoff, my lad, you wait and see.”

“Oh stop, Artie, you're driving me up the wall,” laughed Royce. “Don't you know what it's like to be cooped up in here with all this”—he waved his arm towards the harbour— “going on just under my nose.”

Emberson regarded him thoughtfully for a while. “Tell you what, Clive, come down to my boat next week; we'll have a wee party. Nothing vast, of course, your doc wouldn't like it.”

“Could I? Will they let me?”

“You leave it to me, old friend. It'd be a sort of recuperative holiday, a health-cure, in fact. After all, nothing's too good for a wounded hero!”

Royce almost danced. “If you can fix that,
I'll
pay for the party!” he laughed gaily.

He could think of nothing else, and even when they removed his head bandages, and he saw the bare patches where his scalp had been neatly repaired, he merely remarked, “It'll soon grow again.”

Eventually the day of the promised outing arrived, and as he stood by the Wardmaster's office, where that harassed individual struggled with the vast amount of paperwork required of a hospital at war, he felt rather like a small boy who, having recovered from mumps, is about to take his first glimpse of the outside world.

“I dunno what the Commander's thinking of, letting you go gallivanting off into the town like this. It'll be downright bad for morale, that it will!”

Royce looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall, and smiled ruefully. He certainly was a weird sight, with his loose, blue hospital overall, and scuffed battledress trousers. Even if his new uniform had been ready for him, he would have been unable to encase his bandaged arms in the sleeves, while his healing body would certainly have taken unkindly to any sort of stiff jacket. He was even more appalled by his face. All youth seemed to have been drained from it, and left instead a haggard, almost shrunken imitation of its former self. The eyebrows had not yet fully grown, and his forehead still bore the angry marks of the fire's caress. The crudely clipped hair was disguised and held in place by a brand-new cap, with glittering badge, which he had purchased for the occasion, and now seemed to accentuate and magnify his wild appearance.

“Well, I'm going anyway,” he said firmly. “I look dead already, and I will be if I stop here much longer.”

A taxi stood ticking over in the driveway, and the driver thrust his head out of the window. “'Ere y're, sir, Commander Emberson told me ter pick yer up and deliver yer safe to 'im.”

Royce grinned, and levered himself into the back seat, and with a roar they were off.

Whether it was the jolting of the cab, or the excitement of being out again and still alive, or whether it was just the fact that he did not fully realize the inner extent of his injuries, he could not say, but after about ten minutes he was hanging on to the side-straps, and swallowing hard, to prevent himself from being violently sick. The aged driver had been watching him in the driving mirror and suddenly stopped the cab.

“I think I'd better be taking yer back. It don't do no good to kill yerself like this.”

Royce didn't trust his voice, but shook his head vigorously, and painfully scrambled out on to the pavement. “I'll be okay, but I think I'll walk for a bit; you just follow me up, if you don't mind.”

“Lor' bless you, I don't mind, if you don't!”

So with the slim figure in the flapping blue coat striding with great concentration down the pavement, and the old taxi growling along the kerb behind, they continued the journey.

Royce felt he could breathe better, and even the giddiness was a bit easier, although every so often he would pause as if to study a shop window, while the street swam in a mist around him. In this way he was able to fool the driver, and gather strength for the next stretch.

By the time they reached the wired gate of the Coastal Forces mooring area, he was shaking from head to foot, and desperately he manoeuvred his bandaged hands across his face, now shiny with sweat. A Petty Officer wearing a Naval Police armband stepped from a small hut, and saluted, his eyes wide with obvious amazement.

“Look
here,
sir.” He sounded concerned. “It's none of my business, but I think I should telephone the P.M.O.”

“No, it is none of your damned business!” snapped Royce. “D'you think I've come this far to be held up by a lot of blasted red tape!”

The Petty Officer was unmoved. “Very well, sir, then I shall take it upon myself to escort you to Commander Emberson's boat. Fortunately, it's not far.”

Royce relented, and smiled. “Sorry, P.O., I think I must be getting a bit edgy.”

They reached the foot of the gangway without further incident, and Royce leaned against his escort, while he let his eye travel along the seemingly enormous length of the M.T.B. She was one of the new Fairmiles, and almost twice the size of those in his own flotilla. Vicious looking muzzles peeped from every direction, while the torpedo tubes visible from the jetty, pointed menacingly at the Fleet Mail Office. Her decks were suitably busy with overalled seamen, under the direction of a fresh-faced Sub-Lieutenant, smart in blue battledress and a gleaming white sweater. Very right and proper for the Senior Officer's boat he thought. Must be some of old Kirby's influence. He watched the young Sub moving purposefully about the deck, attending to his duties, and compared him with the image he had seen in the hospital mirror, half an hour or so previously. Was it possible that he had looked so full of youthful high spirits when he had first reported to Harston? About the same age too, but only in years. His inner searchings were cut short, the Sub having stepped lightly to the jetty without his noticing. Must be losing my grip, he thought fiercely.

“Lieutenant Royce?”

He straightened automatically. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank, and it sounded strange, and rather formal.

“We weren't expecting you so soon, sir. This is very nice. The C.O.'ll be tickled pink. He's got some friends to celebrate your return, as it were.”

He paused, and peered at him, his face clouding. “D'you feel all right, sir?”

Royce sucked in a lungful of salt air and nodded. “Yes, lead on, it takes a bit of getting used to, that's all.”

“I see, sir.” But he obviously didn't. “By the way, my name's Bird, with all the obvious disadvantages, and after I've finished on deck—we're just going to test our new Browning—I'll be in the wardroom drinking up the experiences of my betters!”

“Bitters, you mean!” Emberson strode forward with hands outstretched. “Clive, you crafty old devil, you made it then, and thwarted my reception committee.”

Royce held out his hand, and then they both looked at the shapeless bandages, Emberson with his hand half raised for the automatic handshake.

“Sorry, Artie, I forgot. We must bow to each other!”

The problem of getting him down the steep ladder to the wardroom had already been discussed, and two seamen stood below, guiding his feet, while the Coxswain and Emberson dealt with the top half. Royce didn't have to do a single thing for himself.

The wardroom was long for an M.T.B., and narrow, with all the usual varnished fittings, and pipes criss-crossing the deckhead. The sight of the rippling reflection of the quiet water on the rough anti-condensation paint, the gentle movement beneath his feet, and the accompanying shipboard smells and noises were a welcome indeed.