A Prayer for the Ship (16 page)

A tall seaman in a tight white jacket was laying tea, and pulled up the most comfortable chair.

Royce sat on the edge gingerly, and grimaced. “Nearly didn't make it, but it was worth the effort. I can't tell you what it's like to be back.”

“I know, I know, it's not much, but it's home.”

“Where are the others that your Subby was telling me about?”

“Don't fret, they'll be back. They've just gone over to the
Kitson
to look at this new radar gadget. All the new ships have got it in Harwich.”

The curtain was thrust aside from the door, and Benjy Watson, Jock Murray, and three other officers entered.

“Here he is!” yelled Benjy. “Who told me he had resigned?”

Royce looked from face to face, wondering what they thought of his crumpled appearance, and realizing just how much he had missed them.

“Too tough, that's me,” he grinned.

They enjoyed to the full the carefully prepared tea—goodness only knows where so much rationed stock had been filched, but it was marvellous. Then with pipes well alight, they talked and yarned until they were hoarse, and Royce felt again the creeping faintness and sudden giddy lapses, which caused him to speak quickly and nervously, as if afraid he would be forced to break off and leave.

The others knew full well what was happening, and several meaning looks were exchanged. Emberson would have sent for the taxi earlier, but his main surprise was still to come. He glanced at his watch anxiously.

“I'm very much afraid your probation is running out, Clive,” he said quietly. “You have to be back in half an hour. That was the arrangement with the old Doc.”

Royce rose unsteadily, knowing that his reserve was beginning to fail. The faces around him blurred, and he blinked to clear his vision. He had been holding a cup between his muffled hands, as a dog will hold a bone, and the effort of setting it on the table was unbearable. He vaguely noticed that the others were silent. Even Benjy looked strange, and worried.

“Thank you for having me, gentlemen.” He forced a crooked smile. “It's been just what I needed.”

It was at that moment that the Browning machine-gun on deck fired a practice burst, and although he had been forewarned, he was seemingly unprepared for its violence, and his own reaction. The wardroom, the officers, everything dissolved in front of him. All his racing brain could follow was the dreadful staccato rattle that in a split second made his sick mind lurch, and with a gasp, he threw his body to the deck.

Even as they jumped to his aid, Emberson swearing horribly at the unseen gunners, the curtain by the door jerked aside once more, and the small figure of a Wren stepped hurriedly inside.

“I'm late, I'm afraid, sir, the bus—” She broke off, her eyes widening at the scene, her face suddenly white. “What's happened? Is he all right?”

Emberson looked up. “Blast, just too late,” he said. “Quick, hold his head, and keep his shoulders off the deck!”

Royce lay on his side, only dimly aware that he was alive. Everything was dark, he heard a voice yelling, “Cox'n, make a signal:
Urgent, send ambulance!
”

Ambulance? At sea? Impossible. Weren't we in action? Yes, that was it. The guns—must keep them firing. He turned his body, but someone was holding him, stopping him. He struggled feebly, and tried to get his eyes in focus.

From far away he heard his voice protesting. It was at that instant he saw Julia looking down at him, close enough to touch, and then he felt content; the pain and urgency seemed to slowly disperse.

“Julia, my darling,” he whispered. “You shouldn't be here, it's not safe . . .” His voice trailed away.

He was only dimly conscious of the white jackets, and the stretcher, but the vision of that face, with the tear-filled eyes, made him suddenly desperate. Some hidden strength made him cry out, urgently, and as the mist closed over him, he heard that voice once more, just as it had been at the railway station, soft and sweet, “It's all right, Clive, everything's going to be fine now.”

As the ambulance tore towards the hospital, its gong sounding shrilly, he felt a great peace sweeping over him. The Cease Fire bell, that was it. Yes, everything was going to be fine now.

Royce sat by the window in his dressing-gown, the pale yellow glow of the afternoon sun lighting his face, and easing away the lines of strain. For once, he paid little heed to the activities of the harbour, and even yesterday's visit to the M.T.B., with the dreadful aftermath of delirium, and this morning's stern rebukes from both the doctor and the matron, had faded into insignificance, and all because of the letter, which he had read and re-read half a dozen times, and which now lay in his lap. When he had recovered from his drugged state of semi-collapse, he had been half fearful that the one bright spot, the one brief moment of pure happiness, had been but another dream, a figment of his tortured imagination, but the letter, hastily written on N.A.A.F.I. notepaper and handed to him by the nurse, had dispelled all his fears, and left him with a feeling of excitement, and a trembling anticipation. The letter was brief, and in her firm, neat hand Julia Harston had done her best to cram as much as she could into its construction, while apparently keeping one eye on an impatient railway clock. He started to read it again, smiling secretly to himself, and still unable to realize his good fortune.

She explained fully how Emberson had made a long distance telephone call to her, and had in fact told her how Royce had been on the danger list, and had been asking for her in his moments of semi-consciousness, and he thought she might well be able to improve and encourage his recovery. A hurried explanation to an understanding Second Officer, a quick sub by one of the other girls at the signal station, a fast train south, and she had arrived in time to see his suffering, and to understand the pain and shock which he had endured so bravely. He found himself feeling rather pleased at that piece, for he knew in his own mind that if he looked ghastly when he had left the hospital, he must have been a gibbering wreck when she had made her entrance. Altogether a bad impression to make under the circumstances. Reading this, he felt considerably better. She continued by telling him that she had had to hurry off back to Rosyth, but not before the hospital had informed her, rather coldly, that the patient was “as well as could be expected, in view of his escapades.” He grinned. That was more or less what the matron had said to him. It was the end of the letter he really liked.

I'm so very sorry about the way I treated you when we last met, but I now know that we both understand. If you still want to see me, I shall be very happy, and I shall look forward to hearing from you. Please look after yourself, and give my thanks to Commander Emberson, who has told me so much about you.

Yours sincerely, Julia.

That was the piece that made him glow. And she had signed herself simply Julia. It was only a written word, on the cheap paper, but to him it was a breath of true intimacy. Once it had been only a dream, something to think about during the wearying hours of watchkeeping, but in a flash, or so it seemed, there had been a series of breathtaking and terrifying changes in his life, and the dream had changed to something real, and the future had been given life and hope. All the same, he mused, it would have to be handled extremely carefully, for up to now, the initiative had been in the hands of others, and if he wasn't going to make another mess of it, he would have to give the matter a great deal of thought. The first thing was to get his service life rearranged, and straightened out, and that meant he would have to get well clear from the hospital. He immediately got down to the latter problem, with his usual keen and methodical way, and the doctors and nurses, overworked though they were, were quick to notice his sudden interest in his treatment, and a new impatience at any delay or setback.

Within two weeks, he had discarded most of his outward signs of injury, and took pleasure in striding about the hospital grounds, and occasionally walking down to the base to see Emberson, and on one otherwise dismal morning, he carefully put on his new uniform, said his farewells to the hospital staff, and headed for home, for three weeks' leave.

As usual, he enjoyed his leave to the full, and was pleased to be able to make his parents happy by being home again, but this time there was a difference. Within himself he was a changed person. At first he ignored it, and tried to overlook something which might be only fancy, but as the days of enforced idleness wore on, he began to realize that Lieutenant Clive Royce, D.S.C., was a completely different being from the worried, but easy-going young officer who had once muddled and struggled through the early intricacies of life in an M.T.B. The harder he thought about it, the more baffling it became. He could not even place the exact time of the change. After all, he told himself repeatedly, he had not had an easy war so far, so it wasn't that—it was something far deeper.

He had written twice to Julia in Scotland, telling her of his progress, and now he hoped to be able to visit her as soon as possible. And he told her of his strange feeling, and fears. Her letters were, as always, witty yet soothing; friendly, but not showing a great deal of sympathy for his broodings. At first he felt rather hurt by her apparent sharpness, but as he strolled through the woods, ignoring the constant drizzle that seemed fated for his leave, reading her words over and over again, trying to find hidden meanings in every one, he realized that her approach was the right one. The past was history, but others would be looking to him from now on, relying upon his experience for their very existence. He knew then how he had changed. By responsibility to others. It was as if a curtain had been lifted, the way was now clear, and when the buff envelope was handed to him by his mother, four days before his leave was due to end, he felt in some way relieved.

“I have to report back to the
Royston,
” he announced simply. “I don't quite understand it. I have to appear before a Board.”

His parents quietly helped him pack his newly bought kit, when Royce suddenly jerked up as if he had been shot. “Good God!” he burst out. “Surely they don't think I'm round the bend!”

So often, he had seen officers classified as unsuitable for Coastal Forces, and even for any seagoing duties; men who had once been hardened fighters, and seemingly indispensable, had suddenly become shattered wrecks, grey-faced ghosts, who shied from any decision, and jumped at every sound. Such was the price of danger.

“Oh no!” he groaned. “They couldn't do that to me now. I must make them see that I'm all right now!”

It was a miserable journey back to the base, and seemed to take twice as long as usual, and even the first glimpse of the
Royston
's ungainly bulk was now an anti-climax.

He hurried into the wardroom to pump his friends for information, only to find that the flotilla was at sea, covering a convoy, so there was nothing else to do but walk straight to the Commander's office, and get it over.

Commander Wright looked up with surprise, as a thin-lipped Royce was shown in. “Good heavens, man, you're back early,” he roared jovially. “It's damn good to see you again. Oh, and congratulations, me boy.”

Royce stood stiffly. “I'd like to know if I may, sir,” he faltered. “The Board tomorrow morning, can I appeal against it?”

“Appeal against it? Appeal against it?” Wright bellowed so loud that the Writer in the next office shuddered. “What the devil d'you mean, sir? After all this trouble, don't you want a command? Damn and blast my breeches, explain yourself, sir!”

Poor Royce was past any explanation. “Command?” he said weakly.

“Yes, don't you know anything about it?”

“No, sir. I thought it was the Old Crock's Rush they were giving me, you know, the Axe.”

Wright lay back in his chair, and laughed till his eyes were wet, looking rather like a newly boiled lobster. “Oh, Royce, you'll be the death of me!” he wheezed. “Here's me, pulling every damn string under the Old Pal's Act to get you fixed up with a command—and to be serious for a moment, we need experienced M.T.B. men badly—and you come in here nattering about being bomb-happy!”

He pulled a bottle and two glasses from a side drawer. “Here, me boy, let's drink to it. I've done all I can, you just give Captain Marney the right idea tomorrow, and you'll be all set.”

Royce sat dazed in the chair, and scarcely noticed the neat gin, yet another phase was unfolding, seemingly beyond his control. A command, well.

As he left the office, walking on air, he could still hear Wright laughing.

C
APTAIN
R
EGINALD
M
ARNEY
, D.S.O., Officer-in-Charge Coastal Forces at the base, paced impatiently up and down the spotless interior of his stateroom-cum-office. A Writer, and the
Royston
's Yeoman of Signals stood discreetly at one end, motionless, but for their eyes, which followed the great man back and forth on his journey.

Captain Marney was an imposing man in his late forties, his face brown and lined by years of service from Iceland to Shanghai, and his short hair greying rapidly under the weight of his many responsibilities. “Well, that about covers it for this morning.” His voice was clipped. “Make another signal to F.O.I.C., Yeoman, repeated Staff Officer Operations and all Commanding Officers.”

He paused, and let his keen blue eyes drift through the well-polished scuttle, and finally rest on an M.T.B. which was manoeuvring alongside the Gun Wharf. Young fool, he thought, too much rudder. The M.T.B. appeared to stop rather suddenly, as it bounced off the rubber fenders of the jetty, and the Captain felt vaguely satisfied that his observations had not been mistaken. He cleared his throat, and the Yeoman licked the point of his pencil.

“
During the next month, maximum effort is to be made against all enemy coastal shipping, in order to withdraw as many of the German Forces as possible from our own convoy routes. It will be appreciated if Base and Operations Staffs will co-operate with Commanding Officers to the best of their ability during the next decisive period.
Send that off Restricted, as usual,” he ended.

He had been dictating letters and signals for two hours, as was his usual custom each morning. As the other two turned to leave, he added, “And, Yeoman, make a signal to M.T.B. 7784, er:
Suggest change of rudder at the right time may prevent change of command at the wrong time.
”

He smiled drily. These Wavy Navy chaps . . . ah well, it was all new to them. He sighed heavily.

His Chief Writer, a ferrety little man called Slade, entered stealthily. “Commander Wright and Commander Thirsk, for the Board, sir.”

“Very well, Slade, table, chairs, etc. The usual.” He was a man of few words.

The “Board” assembled every so often, to arrange replacements for commanding officers, to fill the vacancies caused by death, promotion, new boats, and the many other nerve-racking problems of supply and demand. At this moment, with ships being lost left and right, the demand was very great, and the supply was getting less and less experienced.

When Royce eventually sat down facing the grim-faced trio, he felt the first qualms of possible defeat, but he steeled himself, and took consolation from Wright's nod of encouragement.

Captain C-F came quickly to facts. “Read your history, Royce. Quite like it, but I want you to tell me the story again. Right from when you first reported here.”

They listened in silence, studying the younger man's face, understanding the full impact of his words. When he finished, they sent him out of the room, to wait in maddening solitude. Not for long, and he studied their faces, especially that of the Captain.

“I think you'll be pleased to know that we're satisfied, and I am quite sure you'll do your best to make up in resourcefulness and courage what you lack in training.”

He paused while Royce mumbled his thanks.

“Don't thank me, Royce. Remember it's a great task you have before you. You must realize that you will be quite alone in your small way, just as I am here. There will be many difficulties which you must face without a pause, and without consultation with others. Your men will be mostly new to the trade, much more amateur than you ever were. And the reason I have selected you for the task, quite apart from your technical qualifications, which are obvious, is because you have not lost your sense of humanity, you have not allowed yourself to become hard. Remember, to become too hard, even in war, is to become too brittle.”

“I'll try to live up to that, sir.”

“Well, good luck. Now off you go, and get that well-needed drink. Commander Wright will give you all the details this afternoon.”

As the door closed behind him, the three regular officers relaxed, and looked at each other.

Commander Thirsk, a ruddy-faced destroyer Captain, shook his head. “Poor little beggars! In peacetime it'd have been years before we heard what that young man has just heard. Now they're expected to take a command when they can hardly salute properly.”

“Don't forget, Harry, it was harder to get killed then,” said Captain Marney soberly.

The somehow derelict-looking end of the port installations, known as the repair yards, was as usual a wild, carelessly distributed tangle of discarded machine parts, and uneven piles of rusting sheets of armour plate, while here and there, panting diesel generators chugged and roared, as they pumped power along the snaking cables, which wriggled away in every direction. Along the slipways, running with a potent mixture of green sea-slime and oil, various small ships of war were suffering the many indignities of repair and destruction heaped upon them by the dockyard workers, who, in boiler suits and cast-off clothing, ambled from one job to the other in a manner, which to the uninitiated, appeared to have neither planning nor reason.

It was difficult to connect the stripped or slimy hulls, which loomed uncomfortably on the trestles, their intimate parts strewn around the ramps in wild profusion, with the graceful grey shapes which rode at their moorings in the harbour. They were apparently lost, doomed to lie for ever amid chaos. The maintenance staff, however, took all despair and criticism in their stride, and in the manner of all dockyards, went their own peculiar way, and completed most of the work to schedule.

One particular boat caught Royce's eye as he and Commander Wright strode through the winding cobbled fair-way, their chins tucked into greatcoat collars, to stop the penetrating north wind from undoing the good work of an excellent breakfast. She lay on the second slipway, her paint stripped from her sides, the mahogany planks sharp and bright, like a naked wound. Various wires and power cables trailed over her sides, and a small army of men hammered and scraped, sawed and painted, with workmanlike indifference. A lifebuoy lay on the ground by her side, the flaked gilt lettering still showing boldly, M.T.B. 1993, Emberson's old boat. The two men stopped for a while in silence, as if paying homage.

“Getting a well-deserved spruce up,” muttered Wright at length. “Should have had it long ago.”

A harassed-looking Lieutenant, in dirty flannel trousers and battledress blouse, stepped out from behind a pile of oil-drums, his greasy hands clutching impressive bundles of official forms and lists. Wright returned a fumbled salute cheerily.

“Hallo there, Page, how's the jolly old refit progressing?”

Page grimaced. “Up the wall! That's what I'll be before long. I don't know when she's more trouble, in the water or out!”

As they left him, Wright glanced keenly at Royce who trudged purposefully at his side, his eyes peering ahead.

“That's what you'll be like after today, my lad. The grandeur of command. Oh, my hat!”

Royce nodded, but hadn't really heard, his mind, brain, and soul were captivated and controlled by one thought, one swelling desire, to get to his new boat as soon as possible. He and Wright had pored over her facts and details, dimensions and builder's claims, until the early hours of this morning, and even then he had tossed and turned in bed, running over every last piece of available information about H.M.M.T.B. 9779. This was his greatest moment, or very soon would be, and he prayed silently that he would be equal to it. He had been vacantly munching his breakfast, when Wright had strolled in, and announced casually that the boat, fresh from the builder's yard, and her hurried trials, had just arrived at the repair yard, to have her final armament fitted. She was ready for him.

The crew had been drafted aboard her at Dover, the nominal list and other eagerly perused details lay in his greatcoat pocket within easy reach, and as he unwittingly quickened his pace, he felt like the new boy joining his first boarding-school.

“Here, slow down a bit!” puffed Wright. “She won't disappear before you get there!”

He had been at the game too long not to recognize the symptoms, and he rested his hand on Royce's arm. “Take a piece more of advice from an old hand, if you think it's worth anything. Remember one really important thing, and that is, the crew are much more worried about you, and what you're going to be like. And they are, for the most part, real amateurs, green as grass; you'll have to be really patient, and work for them, show them the way. And that goes for the officers too.”

Royce smiled gratefully. “Thanks, sir, I was beginning to get in a flap, but what you said has helped more than you'll ever know.”

At that moment they turned the corner of the giant edifice of the machine shops, and the whole northern sweep of the headland came into view, and they shuddered at the vicious punch of the wind. Below them, pointing out into the stream like a rugged stone monument, was the loading-wharf, along which trundled vans and cranes, trucks and wheelbarrows, packed with the essential materials for keeping a ship at sea, from rope fenders to toilet paper.

Most of the vessels were store ships, or tenders to larger vessels lying out at the deep anchorages, but Royce had eyes for only one craft, which shone in her new grey paint, gleaming and confident of her powerful beauty. She seemed aware of the bright splash of colour she made among the bustling shapes of the hard-worked launches and lighters, a slender, graceful creature, a living thing.

Royce stopped dead in his tracks, causing Wright to stagger backwards.

“Good God, what's up?”

“Oh, sorry, sir, I was a bit swamped by all this. She's a beauty!”

As they drew nearer, and lower down the sloping road, Royce began to realize how vast his new command was, compared to the rest of the flotilla. Like the boats he had seen at Harwich, she was one of the latest, powerful additions to the Mosquito Fleet, and to him at that moment she looked enormous. He forced his mind over the details again. She was nearly 115 feet long, and her engines generated over four thousand horsepower, giving her well over thirty knots. Although she only carried two torpedoes like her smaller sisters, she positively bristled with guns, ranging from a Bofors on the fo'c'sle, to heavy Brownings aft, while around the bridge pointed the familiar, slender snouts of two Oerlikons. A very tough customer, if properly handled. That thought made his mind turn to the crew, which, apart from the officers, consisted almost completely of Hostilities Only ratings. A sobering thought.

Of the officers, apart from their names, and brief service records, he knew nothing. Sub-Lieutenant John Carver, a twenty-one-year-old ex-professional photographer, was to be his Number One. He had been eleven months in the service, three months in an Atlantic destroyer, the rest under training of one sort or another. The other officer was an eighteen-year-old Midshipman, Colin Leach, who, nine months before, had still been at college.

They halted a discreet distance from the gangway, where a young seaman lounged, an enormous revolver hanging from his belt.

Royce smiled grimly. I'll have to do a “Kirby” on him, he thought.

“Well, Royce, this is as far as I go. I think it's important for a new C.O. to have this moment all to himself. Cheerio!” And before Royce could protest, he was gone.

He flicked open the collar of his coat, took a deep breath, and walked slowly towards the boat.

Several things happened at once. First, the sentry jerked to attention, and caught the lanyard of the revolver in the gangway rail, causing him to wriggle awkwardly, and preventing him from saluting at all. Royce gave him a suitably cold stare. The next thing was the sudden appearance of an officer in immaculate uniform and white muffler at the guard-rail.

He saluted stiffly as Royce climbed to the deck, feeling like an ancient mariner. This must be Carver. A tall, striking young man, with a long, handsome face and fair hair, whose general appearance was only marred by rather protruding eyes, which gave him a haughty, if not actually arrogant look.

Returning the salute, Royce shook him by the hand, his eyes darting quickly round the decks. Clean and neat, but then, of course, it was a new boat. Too early to judge yet.

“So sorry we haven't finished loading stores,” Carver's voice was surprisingly low and pleasant. “I'm afraid I've succeeded in upsetting the gentleman in the bowler hat over there.”

Royce glanced at the gentleman in question, who squatted grimly on his lorry by the boat's side, smoking his pipe.

“He said his tea-break came first or something. The war could, er, ‘bloody well wait!'”

Whether this was true or not, the joke was extremely well timed, and Royce decided to allow himself to be drawn slightly from his protective wall of authority. He grinned, and clapped the other on the shoulder.

“He's setting us a good example. Let's go below and have a cup, that is if you've managed to get all that installed yet?”

The wardroom was long and slender like that on Emberson's boat, but there the similarity ended. The newly varnished furniture, and clean white paint, gave it an unlived-in atmosphere, bordering on discomfort.