For Valour (13 page)

She said, “I'd like to do it. Very much.”

He dragged his jacket from the chair and slipped into it without effort.

He said, “Crawfie will fill you in. She's pretty genned up on the group.”

Anna licked her lips.
Crawfie.
She had learned a lot in a few minutes.

She heard herself say, “I watched
Hakka
coming in this morning, sir.”

“Yes. I saw you down there, bright and early. I think that decided me. The team. It's vital.”

He picked up his cap and regarded it impassively. Commodore was a temporary appointment. If he was forced to step down, the same cap would serve him as a Captain again. But a step up the ladder would be flag rank.

He said, “
Hakka
's Skipper is coming here shortly. Care to meet him?”

She looked at her hands. “Later, perhaps, sir.”

“Quite. A bit of a goer to all accounts. He would be, of course, to ram a bloody German cruiser! You'll meet all of them before long.”

She had been unprepared for it, and had told herself she would never make a fool of herself again. Not for any man.

But the man she had just heard described was a stranger. Not the one who had shown such concern for her at the club in Plymouth.

Raikes snatched up a telephone after a single ring and snapped, “What are you doing about it?” He waited, his eyes on the clock. “Then
do it!
” He replaced it. “Another mental pygmy!”

She heard voices and saw him indicate the other door. She went to it, and heard him say, “I shall now speak to God!”

She walked through an outer office and did not see the Wren writer look up from her typewriter, assessing her.
The new one.

She would write to her mother about it. Ask about Tim, too.

She stepped into another narrow tunnel and came face to face with him.

He stared at her and then a smile lit the austere features.

“Of all people! Here!”

She said quickly, “It was supposed to be secret. I couldn't explain.” She saw the shadows around his eyes. “We heard about the U-boat. Watched you come in.”

He hesitated, and the eyes were troubled, uncertain. “I thought . . . So many people. I'm not used to it.”

Doors were opening and slamming and she heard the urgent clatter of typewriters and teleprinters. Putting on a show for the Admiral—God, as Raikes had described him.

She thought of the moment when she had touched the crimson ribbon, and found herself hoping he would remember it too. It was stupid, and she had been warned . . . Another door slammed. That would be the loyal Nobby fleeing before the great man entered.

He said, “I'm glad you were there. Perhaps we might meet, have a drink . . .” His voice faltered. “But I'm hardly in a position to . . .”

That look again, as she put her hand on his arm and said, “I'd like that. Very much.” What she had said to Raikes. She smiled, unable to stop it.

They stood aside and a seaman carrying a tray of cups and plates pressed past them, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. The smallest glance.
All right for some,
it said.

He had removed his cap. Like the one Raikes had been examining. Not the naval commander, the hero, the
bit of a goer.
Suddenly he seemed much younger, as if the strain were momentarily at bay.

He said, “I'd better go in. I'll call you.”

He paused, expecting her to make an excuse. When she had smiled at him just now, she had been the student in the photograph again.

She said something and walked away into the tunnel. He went up to the door which had been indicated at the security gate and raised his hand to knock, but something made him look back, and he saw that she was doing the same.

She was no longer smiling, but had extended her hand as if to offer it. Then she turned and was swallowed up by the tunnel.

Nothing lasted for long in wartime.

But he thought of the youth who had been snatched from the sea, his only anxiety that he might be moved away from the ship, and of the tough seaman who had just been reinstated to leading hand, who had gone to the youngster's aid without a second thought. And Fairfax, who had risked everything in his attempt to board the helpless tanker. To prove something to himself,
or to me?
Or to the previous Captain who had been killed on that same bridge. A man who had somehow betrayed him, and the girl named Anna.

He pushed open the door.
It lasted,
given a chance.

7 | A Special Day

Fairfax stepped into the Captain's day cabin, his eyes moving quickly around as if he still expected to see it changed, before settling on Martineau at the desk.

“I came as quickly as I could, sir.”

Beyond the door the tannoy squeaked into life yet again.

“Hands to tea, shift into night clothing. Libertymen fall in!”

It was four in the afternoon, but outside it was as black as a boot.

Martineau gestured to a chair.

“Everything all right?”

“Not many volunteers for a run ashore, sir. The glass is falling again. Bitter.”

Martineau thought of his day. Meeting people, explaining, deciding. Was it only this morning when they had entered port to the cheers of hundreds of men and women?

He decided not to delay matters.

“You spoke earlier about a Christmas party, Number One? And some leave for those still outstanding?”

Fairfax nodded. He did not need to be told; it was in the air, like the frost.

Martineau said, “It's off, I'm afraid. Orders have been brought forward. We are required to leave in two days' time, in company with
Jester, Java,
and
Kinsale.
You can look at the details later. I just wanted you to know that I'm as surprised as you are.” He smiled suddenly. “Not much of a Christmas, though!” He thought of the one man who stood out in his mind. The Commodore, Dudley Raikes, who let nothing slip past him. Where many senior officers he had known would have accepted first impressions, Raikes left nothing open to chance. Even a casual conversation was more like a cross-examination than something to pass the time.

Raikes had been very aware of the risks.

“It will be something of an experiment, the success of which will carry more weight with Admiralty than a ton of written proposals. Four destroyers will meet and replace the other escorts for the last leg of the passage. St John's to Liverpool. Stopping for nothing.”

Martineau said, “We're to escort several thousand troops, Canadians for the most part.” He saw the words hit their mark, Fairfax thinking of the hundred and one items a first lieutenant would have to deal with. He had met the other destroyer Captains; one he already knew, the others would come to terms with it, the new faces, the unexpected change of orders. As Roger Kidd,
Hakka
's bearded navigator, had remarked, nothing ever went according to plan.

Fairfax's open features did not conceal his surprise, even a touch of resentment.

Martineau said it for him. “Captain (D) is remaining here with the other ships in case of contrary reports on enemy movements.” Lucky Bradshaw would at least have his Christmas in harbour. He thought of Raikes again, his contained and undramatic enthusiasm for the new support groups. He had leaned forward to brush a speck of something from his impeccable jacket as he had continued, “These fast troop movements will be the springboard for invasion. Just think of it! Last year it was gloom and disaster everywhere. Singapore and Hong Kong snatched from us, ships and men lost when sensible planning might have prevented much of it. And now we're on the turn. North Africa, the Atlantic—where next? I was saying as much to a new member of my staff, Second Officer Roche. Bright girl—I believe you know her?”

So casually said. But there was nothing aimless about Raikes.

Martineau had replied, “We did meet briefly.” He had seen the quick scrutiny, the apparent satisfaction. But it would not end there.

Raikes had parted with, “Good show about that U-boat. I'm glad you're with the group.”

Fairfax said ruefully, “The new doc has come aboard, sir. I've got
him
settled in, at least.”

Martineau gestured to the cabinet.

“A gin, I think.”

He could almost feel Fairfax watching him as he opened the cabinet and took out the glasses, carefully arranged some time earlier by the sad-faced Tonkyn.

They drank in silence, the shipboard noises subdued, muffled.

The weather reports were not good. He would speak to the ship's company and explain the importance of this unexpected mission. Not planned especially to ruin their Christmas in harbour, when the whole of Liverpool would be trying to celebrate after three years of war. And not because their Skipper had a thirst for glory, no matter what. His grip tightened on the glass.
If only they knew.

He thought of the girl who had touched the crimson ribbon, and had looked at him as if she expected to see something different because of it. And what of Alison? How would she be passing her Christmas? He could almost hear her laugh.

Fairfax stood up. “If you'll excuse me, sir. I have to check the men under punishment.” He forced a grin. “Three.”

As he turned to leave Martineau asked, “Can we get a shore telephone line?”

“Being half-leader hath its privileges, sir. I'll tell the O.O.D.”

Alone in his cabin again Martineau stared at the neat file of orders, his mind already probing at the speed and size of the ship and her cargo.
Ocean Monarch,
twenty thousand tons at least, a familiar name in the now unreal days of peace. Kidd would probably know her, as he had the giant tug
Goliath.
Fast, stopping for nothing, and the escorts would be expected to place themselves between the big passenger liner and any torpedo, should a U-boat manage to break through the screen.

Zigzagging when necessary, the ships would also be in danger of collision. It was foremost in everyone's thoughts since the light cruiser
Curaçao
had been rammed and cut in half by the liner
Queen Mary
just two months back off Bloody Foreland while attempting a similar fast passage.

What must they have thought in those final seconds when the great bows had reared over them before smashing them into the depths?

He was in the quartermaster's lobby without really noticing he had left the cabin. Apart from one shaded light by the temporary telephone, and the dim blue police lamp outside by the brow, it was in darkness. He saw someone cover the red glow of a cigarette, and another figure move outside on to the open deck.

It seemed to take an eternity to get through. Clicks and bursts of static, hardly surprising when he considered all the electronic equipment he had seen there that afternoon.

A voice said sharply, “Operations?” A woman, probably the senior Wren he recalled shaking hands with.

It was. “This is First Officer Crawford, and I am afraid you cannot speak with any of my staff. In fact it is irregular . . .” She hesitated. “Who is that, by the way?”

“Commander Martineau. I was hoping to speak with Second Officer Roche.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible. And in any case . . .”

He said, “I told her I was going to call. I shall not be able to now.”

For a moment he thought she had hung up.

Then she said, “I shall tell her you called, Commander Martineau.”

He replaced the handset. At Derby House they would know all about the change of orders. Security would take care of everything else.

Perhaps Anna had told them she did not wish to speak to him. It might even damage her relationship with the Commodore.

And what, after all, had he expected? That she would drop everything just to be with him, to listen to his problems, all on the strength of a surprise encounter? She had been hurt enough. She probably realized it now.

He saw that Fairfax was in the lobby.

“Surgeon Lieutenant Morrison is waiting to see you, sir.” He hesitated. “I can put him off until tomorrow.”

“No. I'll see him now.” He had even forgotten the new doctor's name.

Fairfax was still there.

“I'm a good listener, sir, if it helps.”

Martineau touched his arm. “Thanks. I'll remember that.” Fairfax would probably go aft and tell the others that their
iron Captain
was cracking up, bomb-happy. At the same instant he somehow knew he would not.

It was little enough, but at that moment it was all he had.

Lieutenant Roger Kidd walked uncertainly into the bar and looked around with surprise. He had not even noticed the name of this small hotel when he had climbed out of the taxi. After the noise and bustle of Liverpool, the place seemed an unexpected haven. He should have known. All sailors knew.
You never go back.
Ship or place, it would never be as you remembered.

He was not even sure why he had gone to the old hotel where, in those almost forgotten days, you went to meet old friends from other ships when you were in port. Noise, laughter, swapping yarns, exaggerating or complaining about some ship's master or bullyboy mate, but deep down always grateful to have a job. One you thought you would never change.

The old hotel had been burned out; only the tall, Victorian shell was still standing, the blackened windows like dead eyes. Just another casualty of Liverpool's bombing, but to Kidd it had been like a bridge which had been destroyed. He had seen dozens of ships sunk, and had visited towns and cities battered by the strife of war. It troubled him that he should be so moved by it.

He could not recall what he had said to the taxi driver, only that the man had not tried to cheat him. He must have guessed he was not just another stranger, a sailor on a few hours' leave.

Like a different country. Birkenhead, across the water from the great sprawling city, the posh side, as they always called it in those days. Where officers of the merchant service bought houses for their eventual retirement from the sea, with still plenty to remind them of it.

The bar was empty, but there was a lively fire burning in the grate, a rare treat in wartime.

A small, wizened waiter appeared beside him as soon as he sat in one of the worn leather chairs.

“We'll be closing soon, sir.”

Kidd sighed. “Anything to eat?”

The waiter shook his head sadly. “The dining room's being fixed up for Christmas.”

Kidd heard the hammering for the first time.

“Well, what about a drink?”

The waiter glanced at the interwoven gold lace on Kidd's sleeve.

“You'll be off the convoys then?” Kidd said nothing. “I'll see what I can do.”

Kidd considered it. A double Scotch would be just right, but ask for one and they'd probably call the police thinking you were a German spy who didn't know about the terrible shortage of whisky. Except for senior officers, of course.

He looked around the deserted bar. It would fill up at night, he thought, but he would be back aboard
Hakka
before then. There was another flap on; he could feel it. The Skipper had been with the top brass all day. Must be something. He stared at the lace on his sleeve, wondering what had moved the old waiter to change his mind.

That was another thing. He had read somewhere that more experienced R.N.R. officers were to be offered promotion, commands of their own. Not a Tribal maybe, but your own ship. He turned it over in his mind again. Why should it disturb him?

Had he still been in the merchant service, even with the old Roberts Line, he would have been looking for promotion. Had things not changed, he might have been a chief officer or first mate anyway.

He thought of the song the sailors sang to air their feelings.

If it wasn't for the war,
We'd be where we were before,
Churchill, you bastard!

They had songs for just about everything.

But promotion now? Another half-stripe, maybe. He pictured the ship as he had seen her that morning, surrounded by other grey or dazzle-painted hulls, and yet so completely different. The same age as Captain (D)'s
Zouave,
a twin right down to the bunkside switches that cut your fingers, or the bridge ladder that tried to snare your sleeve in the middle of a storm.

And yet so different. But it took a sailor to appreciate that.

Number One could have gone, but he wanted
Hakka.
The kid, Wishart, who had nearly been drowned and could have easily been moved, had apparently pleaded with the Skipper to stay aboard. Trevor Morgan, the Chief, was like that too; God alone knew what Driscoll the gunnery officer thought about it. But even he was good at his job.

He thought about Martineau, and the uncanny instinct which was more than training and the bloody side of war he had endured. Like the drifting mine, and the U-boat which he had somehow known was there. Enough to risk the tanker, and his own ship on the strength of it.

“I remember you liked a Scotch.”

He half lurched from the chair at the sound of a woman's voice, then stared at her hand pressing on his shoulder as she said, “No. Sit down. Enjoy your drink.”

He sat, still staring at her. It was impossible, like time stopping. Even the hammering had ceased.