A Prayer for the Ship (29 page)

She twisted in his grasp, looking back at him. “What are you going to do now?”

“Tow him. That's about all we can do at the moment.”

Carver and Page had joined the knot of seamen behind the bridge, and Royce could vaguely hear their shouted orders, as they struggled with the heavy hawser, which, like all its breed, had a mind of its own. He turned his attention back to the Rescue Launch, for as Raikes swung the M.T.B. round in a semi-circle, with the engines' roar slowly diminishing, he could plainly see her bright yellow upperworks swaying sickeningly, as the helpless boat jerked to a canvas sea-anchor, her decks awash.

The girl felt his body tense, and when he spoke to Raikes, his voice, too, was different, hard and cool. “Near as you can, Cox'n. Don't crowd her. I'm going to speak to the skipper.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The hands turned the spokes, almost gently.

Royce blew into the mouthpiece of the loud-hailer, and it whistled plaintively. “D'you hear, there? Are you still intact?”

“I think so!” The answering voice was distorted by the wind. “Thank you for leaving your party just for little old me!”

Royce could easily read the agony of worry behind that jocular greeting. He knew too well the shortcomings of such a boat, left engineless in such a sea.

“I'm going round again, then I'm passing a line to you, for the towing warp. O.K.?”

“Aye, but watch you don't get it round your screws!”

His next remarks were drowned by the roar of the M.T.B.'s engines, as Raikes swung her neatly away, to avoid being flung against the other boat's side by a white-hooded wave which reared with sudden fury.

Unconsciously, Royce had taken out his pipe, and clenched it grimly between his teeth, while he weighed up the situation. Julia moved away, and clung quietly in the corner, watching him, heedless of the spray which stung her cheek.

“Port side to! Get ready with the lines!” bellowed Royce, hoping that Carver's head was now properly clear. He found time to smile at the thought of Benjy, who, shorn of responsibility, now lay comfortably in the wardroom with Murray, singing discordantly.

There she was again. He could see the white numbers on her flat stern, rolling through a ninety degree arc.

“Stand by!”

The boat moved in fast, like an experienced boxer, then, as they stood stem to stem, barely twenty feet apart, the engines stopped, and a burly seaman sprang to the rail, gauging the distance.

“Let her go!” roared Royce, and the seaman's arm soared, sending the line snaking into the darkness. There was a faint tinkle of glass.

“Right through her blasted wheelhouse winder!” breathed Raikes admiringly. There had been a seven-pound wrench on the end of the line.

“Heave away, lads! Roundly!”

He was rewarded to see the airmen whipping in the slack of the line as fast as they could manage under such desperate conditions. It seemed an age before the eye of the hawser was reluctantly swinging across the gap, and all the time, Captain and Coxswain used every knack and every trick of engines and rudder, to stop the boats colliding.

“All fast, sir!” Carver waved his dripping cap wildly.

Slowly, painfully, they drew ahead, holding their breath as the hawser rose out of the sea, tightened, throwing off a shower of drips like a wet dog, and then settled down to take the strain. The Rescue Launch veered round, fell in behind them, and obediently allowed herself to be taken home.

Royce didn't take his eyes off her, however, until they crawled through the protective arms of the boom, and under the shelter of the wind-swept jetties of the base.

They eased their charge alongside, and as the lines snaked ashore, the M.T.B. slipped the tow, and made for her own moorings.

“Many thanks, Navy!” The “Fisherman” waved after them thankfully.

“It was a pleasure!”

Royce breathed out deeply, and stretched. “Not too bad, eh, Cox'n?”

“Not bad, sir.”

Carver and Page appeared on the bridge, grinning like schoolboys.

“What an original party you give,” Page chuckled. “Nothing like a bit of excitement. I wonder what old Kirby would have said about it?”

“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking, a few months ago we couldn't have done anything like it. Any of us. You've got to hand it to old Kirby, he's taught us a lot, and I think he's learned a bit from us.”

He watched narrowly, as the seamen picked up the buoy-ring, and hooked on. “Stop engines.”

The tide gripped the boat, and swung her firmly into line with the other moored craft.

“You're probably right,” confessed Page. “But I still say he's an awkward cuss.”

“Well, let's go and finish the party,” said Royce sadly. “I think I see our other guests coming over in a motor-boat. Number One, make to
Royston: Mission Completed.
” In his heart he knew he was only trying to spin out the time, to put off the moment of her departure. “Come below, Julia. You must be frozen.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit of it. I'll bet the others will be terribly jealous.”

Below, in the snug atmosphere of the wardroom, Royce suddenly wanted to be rid of his friends, of everyone else but Julia, but he grinned ruefully, and submitted to the mounting noise of enjoyment.

Julia's face was fresh and alive from her boisterous sea trip, and she hung back from the door, a finger on her lips. “I'm not coming in like this,” she whispered. “I'm going to put a new face on, and get rid of your sea-going robes.” She faltered, and turned back to him, her face suddenly serious, and Royce stepped into the passage, his face inquiring.

“I think you were superb,” she said, her eyes warm. “I shall always remember you like that. It helps me to understand, to realize what you are going through, when you are out there—”

“I was just trying to make an impression on you.” He grinned awkwardly. “After all, I did promise you a trip, when I came up to Rosyth.”

She wrinkled her nose prettily. “Don't try to fool me. Now you go and fix me a nice drink, because I expect I shall suddenly start to feel a bit weak, in a minute.”

He stared after her. I feel a bit weak now, he thought.

They sat for the rest of the time, side by side, hardly speaking, yet each fully conscious of the other, and only dimly aware of the din and clamour.

Murray was trying grimly to stand on his head in one corner, and drink a pint of beer at the same time, until Benjy took the opportunity to empty a soda syphon down his leg, to the hilarious delight of the two Wren officers.

Leach and the small girl, now looking completely dazed, were dancing slowly and dreamily in the middle of the ward-room, although the gramophone had long since ceased to play. Of Carver and the Waaf there was no sign.

Page lurched happily over to them, and sat heavily on the table. He grinned vacantly at Julia. “Some party, eh?” He helped himself to another drink, and nodded drowsily. Then, with a jerk, he looked at her again. “By the way, are you coming to see the boy here get his gong next week?”

“Gong?” she queried, looking strangely at Royce. “Tell me about it.”

Heedless of Royce's frown, he chattered on. “Well, he's going to get his medal officially from the top brass, that's what,” he confided.

She looked at Royce seriously. “Is that true?”

“Yes, I forgot to mention it,” he mumbled uncomfortably.

She let her eyes fall to the small ribbon on his chest. “I'd very much like to be there,” she said quietly. “But I don't think I can manage it so soon after my leave.”

“Between you and me, it terrifies me,” he confessed. “And I'd put it out of my mind for a bit, thanks to you.”

“Write to me about it, won't you?”

“About everything, Julia. It's been so wonderful, having you here.”

They sat looking at each other, and only came back to reality when a red-faced Petty Officer thrust his head into the doorway.

“Anyone for the shore, please?” he boomed. “I'm collecting all guests, and this is the last boat.”

“Give him a drink, quick!” hissed Royce, banging Page to life with his elbow. He stood up heavily, the joy draining out of him. “I'll help you get your things.”

He watched her putting on her borrowed duffle coat, and tying the silk scarf over her head, heedless of the other girls, who were laughing and chattering gleefully. Carver had appeared, a trifle sheepishly, with the tall Waaf, and he noted that his collar was smeared with lipstick. They let the others go ahead, both dreading the moment of parting.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Eleven o'clock. I shall get back to Rosyth in time for the forenoon watch the day after.”

The keen night air seemed hostile. He put his hands on her waist, and pulled her to him. “I do so wish you'd reconsider, Julia. Please believe me when I tell you that there'll never be anyone else. Ever. I know I've only known you such a short time, and I know too that you could get any man, just by raising your little finger. But I want you, so very much.”

For a moment she stood still in his arms, then, with a sudden force, she put her arms round his neck, pulling herself closer, her eyes bright. “That was what I was saving to tell you,” she murmured. “I know now what I want.” He felt her body tremble, and her hands gripped his neck fiercely. “I do love you, Clive, I love you so much.”

A starshell seemed to burst before his eyes, blinding him, and there was a great roaring in his ears, and the next instant they were clinging to each other, and she was kissing him hard. As she broke away from him, he tasted the salt from her cheek, the spray or tears, he couldn't say.

“No, don't hold me again, Clive, I must go,” she cried. “But if you want me, I'll come to you again, somehow.”

Blindly, they ran out on to the deck. A fat harbour launch, crammed with noisy passengers, was bumping alongside, while her coxswain leaned impatiently over the rail.

She was half-laughing and half-crying, and Royce was in a dream. She stepped down on to the crowded boat, and immediately the ropes were cast off, and a widening gulf of water grew between them. He shouted wildly, following the boat the full length of the M.T.B., to the delight of the passengers.

“I'll try to get to the station tomorrow!”

But he couldn't be sure if she had heard him, although she waved until the boat was swallowed up in the blackness. He was sure of only one thing. He was the happiest, luckiest man alive.

W
HEN A COUNTRY DECIDES TO GO TO WAR
, it is not just the people who, willingly or unwillingly, take on a new and uncertain guise, and as in the case of England, draw together in some sort of uniform and hopeful tolerance of enforced discipline, its very way of life alters. From Buckingham Palace to the humblest home with its blackout curtains and pathetic backyard air-raid shelter, from the schoolhouse which has become a casualty station, to the church hall which has changed overnight to a Home Guard headquarters. Or the Southend paddle steamer now sweeping mines, alongside the millionaire's yacht marshalling a convoy in Weymouth Bay. All these, and more, become part of the pattern.

What had once been the rambling clearing house for fish, brought in by the trawler and drifter fleets of the east coast, had suddenly suffered such a transformation. It was a high-roofed building, over a hundred yards in length, with a smooth concrete floor, and two of its walls open to the elements and the wharf fronts. The comfortable peacetime untidiness had been changed to one of ordered neatness, with whitewashed bricks, loading bays for lorries, carefully marked with coloured signs and helpful arrows. At the far end, where the girls of the port used to tear with gory relish at the vast piles of herrings, a mountain of ammunition boxes awaited disposal, while in a dark corner on trestles, a headless torpedo, liberally smeared in golden grease, was nearing the end of its long journey.

Normally, the “Shed,” as it was known by the naval population, was a turbulent centre of activity, a constant whirlpool of men and material which swept from office to shipyard, and from ship to sea. Today was different. It was one of those special days, which every so often the Navy earmarks, and puts aside for a suitably special occasion. One moment the Navy's private world is full of bustle and noise, with sweating men in shabby clothes working desperately, always with time against them, and then, quite suddenly, all that is changed. Here, at this moment, all those same men are drawn up in neat lines, smartly dressed in their best uniforms, the blue ranks forming three sides of a square. A silvery sun is forcing its way through the unsettled banks of cloud, to settle briefly on the set faces, and to reflect but momentarily on the gold badges, and the gleaming bayonets of a Marine guard. They have come together just for this short while, knowing full well that in a few hours they will be back at their work again, cursing the Service, and the war. There are all sorts of sailors present, ranging from the base personnel, to the hardened veterans of the destroyers and mine-sweepers, whose shore-time can be counted in hours. The bulk of the men, however, are the crews of the Light Coastal Forces, lined up with their officers, and quietly waiting to witness the nation's appreciation of their valour. For although but a few medals are to be presented, every man here knows, be he Captain or signalman, gunner or cook, stoker or Lieutenant, that he can share in their winning, and feel a just pride in the deed which has gained the small piece of gleaming metal.

Royce and the others stood in a self-conscious line, abreast of the dais, he with his heart in his mouth. He tried to focus his eyes ahead, on the slender mast of a distant frigate, but each time he found himself glancing furtively at the sea of seemingly unfamiliar faces around him, or at the single squad of Wrens, as if to gain their moral support.

Vice-Admiral Sir John Marsh, as Flag Officer, was representing the King for the purposes of the presentation, and he stood small and erect on the dais, his head thrust slightly forward, the pale eyes darting piercingly and searchingly over the faces before him. He was in the process of winding up a brief but carefully worded speech.

“And so,” he barked, his voice echoing round the iron girders of the roof, “we have come to the bitterest part of the struggle, when all, each and every one of us, has to make the all-important decision.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Across the harbour came the clank of a winch, and somewhere overhead an aeroplane droned lazily. “We must decide, here and now, to work harder, longer, and if necessary, to give the last drop of blood to the common end. Many of us have fallen, and will fall on the way, but that is the way to victory.” He stopped, and cleared his throat.

Royce's eye fell on Benjy, standing at the head of his crew, a tight-lipped, grim-faced Benjy, looking old before his time.

The Admiral turned to his Staff Captain, who held a sheaf of papers in a leather folder. Royce steeled himself. This was the moment. The other two Lieutenants who were with him were first, they were both Motor Gunboat Captains. Royce found himself listening with awe, as the Admiral read the citations. Surely these two youthful figures could not have achieved so much. He saw the Flag Lieutenant step forward and hand the little box to the Admiral. There was a great hush, as if the world was holding its breath, and then he pinned the small silver cross on the first officer's jacket, and shook him by the hand. Royce chilled as the second man stepped up. One side of his face was like a wax mask, smooth and dead. The one remaining eye stared steadily ahead, as the cross was pinned to his chest, but as the Admiral began to speak to him in a low voice, the lieutenant lowered his head, and his body shook violently with a paroxysm of violent sobs. Royce turned his face away, as the two sick-bay attendants led the officer gently from the building. Such was the price.

“Lieutenant Clive Royce,” the sharp voice broke into his thoughts, and clenching his teeth he marched quickly to confront the Admiral. The pale eyes regarded him coldly, as the Staff Captain read loudly from his papers, but Royce was only dimly aware of the context. He was still thinking of that other Lieutenant. It might have been him. “Did, in the face of extreme danger, under the aforementioned circumstances, and without regard for his personal safety, carry out the destruction of the enemy, in a manner over and above the line of duty.” The voice had stopped, and he felt, rather than saw, the Admiral affix the decoration.

“Well, my boy, I said we should meet again, eh?” The eyes were now smiling, the lined face relaxed. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It was all a dream. He saluted and marched to the side, where, with real pleasure, he watched as Raikes received his hard-earned D.S.M.

The base padre said a few words. The Marine band struck up “Hearts of Oak,” and with an almost eager haste the blue ranks wheeled round and marched out into the salt air. Back to the war.

Royce and Raikes walked slowly along the main jetty, towards the landing-stage, each immersed in his own thoughts.

“Didn't take long, did it?” said Royce at length.

Raikes thought for a bit, his eyes dreamily watching the gulls dancing over the water, swooping and screaming at the flotsam. “I dunno, sir. I aged about ten years in there!”

Royce slapped him across the shoulder, brought back to reality by Raikes's simple forthrightness, which had done so much to draw them together. “Bit of luck the Admiral doesn't know about our Christmas escapade,” he laughed. “I don't suppose he'd approve of Wrens in M.T.B.s!”

Raikes whistled shrilly and waved in the direction of the idling motor dory. “I shouldn't bank on him not knowing!” he answered wryly. “That's 'ow you become an Admiral, knowing them things!”

“Starboard twenty.”

“Starboard twenty, sir. Twenty of starboard wheel on.”

“Steady.”

“Steady, sir, course south thirty east.”

“Steer south forty east.”

There is a pause, and the steering chain rasps and rattles, as the Quartermaster, his eyes straining to watch the dancing compass card, floating under its feeble lamp, eases the wheel over spoke by spoke. When he speaks, his teeth are clenched because of the cold, and because the dawn is still a whole night away.

“Course south forty east, sir.” The whisker of the lubber's line has halted opposite the required point.

“Very good.” Carver's tone is one of strain. He levels his glasses ahead, searching the invisible horizon.

Jenkins, on the wheel, curses quietly, as a feather of white spray jumps the screen and plunges itself wetly beneath a gap in his muffler. He is thinking about his mother, and her fish shop in Brighton. They'll just be closing now, and the air will be filled with vinegar and hot fat. He smiles secretly, and licks his lips.

“Watch your helm.” Carver is worried and angry. Somewhere ahead is the Motor Gunboat flotilla they have been sent to contact. Somewhere astern, Kirby will be fuming impatiently.

Paynton hums happily amid his flags and lamps, while Leach is invisible, save for his buttocks, as he pores over the chart. Thinking of his girl, thinks Carver, allowing his mouth to soften.

The bridge is like a small stage in a vast, empty, and darkened theatre, where the players are waiting for a final rehearsal. Except that here there is no time to rehearse.

Above the spiralling mast, the clouds are solid black things, slashed with silver valleys, as a baffled moon tries to show them the way. As it sheds its beams briefly, the sea too is revealed, a powerful, menacing desert of heaving jet dunes, with the occasional white crust torn free by the biting wind. This is the North Sea.

There is a sharp clink from the Bofors mounting, and a scuffle of feet. Someone laughs, and Denton's throaty voice quells them with threats.

“Bridge?” A tinny voice floats questioningly up a voice-pipe.

“Bridge,” snaps Carver, wondering what it must be like, bouncing about in the engine room, between those thundering giants.

“Permission to send Stoker Barker to the mess-deck to bandage 'is 'ead, sir? 'E's bumped it on number one pump.”

“I suppose that makes a difference from, say, number two pump?” Carver's voice is heavy with sarcasm.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Skip it. Yes, send him up.”

God, I'm tired, he thinks. That girl'll kill me. There is a soft snore from the chart table, and Carver kicks savagely at the Midshipman's curved stern.

“Wake up, Colin! You lazy bastard!”

The watch is proceeding as normal.

Below in his cabin, Royce lay lazily and dreamily in his bunk, his mind and body unwilling to return to the ways of duty. He squinted down his fully-clothed body to his large sea-boots, which stuck into each corner of the bunk, to stop him rolling on to the deck. From a hook on the door, his dressing-gown hung out at an angle of 45 degrees, as if on a bracket, and then swung back eerily to another improbable position. Royce watched it idly for a while, and then returned to Julia's letter, which he rested on his chest, to catch the light from his bunk lamp. He sighed contentedly, and started to read it again:

“. . . and so the transfer has been arranged. I shall be moving down to Harwich, almost at once, to attend an advanced signal course there. I don't even mind that. Any excuse to be near you again.”

He smiled, and felt the strong stirring within him. He turned over the page, drinking in her round, neat writing.

“I shall come and see you as soon as I can, to let you know the arrangements at Harwich. As I said before, we all saw your picture in the paper the other day, getting your medal. I was very proud, and cried a little bit. Must close now, as I am certainly not going to miss getting transport to the station, to come to you again.”

It was signed, simply,
“with love, Julia.”
Royce stretched contentedly. It was still like a miracle. He wanted to have some little thing of hers to touch and hold, just to prove he was not dreaming. He glanced round the disordered cabin. She was here in this place, just a week ago, he marvelled. He could still picture her, still sense her perfume, her nearness.

“Captain, sir?”

He swallowed hard, and rolled over to the voice-pipe.

“Yes?”

“Gunboats ahead. 'Bout half a mile.”

“Very good. Get the Cox'n on the wheel. I'm coming right up.”

He swung his legs to the deck, and slipped his glasses round his neck. At the door he paused. Her vision was still there and, smiling inwardly, he climbed the ladder to the main deck.

He nodded to the others, and followed his usual painstaking routine. Compass, chart, weather, speed. Right. He turned his attention to the dark shapes, revealed only by their creaming bow-waves, which were looming on the port bow.

“Made the challenge?”

“Yes, sir. Their Senior Officer is coming alongside to get the gen.”

Even as they waited, one of the gunboats swung out of line, and sidled alongside, her engines idling. Royce could see the white blobs on her bridge, and shining oilskins.

“Ahoy there! This is S.N.O. here. Give me the message, and we'll get cracking!”

Royce raised his megaphone. The loud-hailer would be a bit too much, in the enemy's back garden as it were.

“Lieutenant-Commander Kirby's compliments, and he says for you to go straight in now, without waiting for any further confirmation. As you know, the story is that the two enemy transports are coming up the coast fast, with one escort ship. A Hans-Lody class destroyer.” He paused; the salt was making his throat like sandpaper.