For Valour (20 page)

“Half ahead together!” He looked again, and the sea was empty. Now came the oil; he could even smell it, rising to join the slow whirlpool of gutted fish and seaweed.

Bubbles too, huge and obscene, joining the dance with the dead fish.

Martineau looked at the colourless sky and took a deep breath. How much better to die up here than to face an end like that.

A kill, then. Their lordships would call it a probable.

He leaned over the screen and watched
Hakka
's bow wave pushing the flotsam aside. The victor.

This time.

Men were cheering, and he saw two of the signalmen shaking hands with excitement.

He said, “Make to
Harlech, Yours, I believe?
”

Fairfax called, “No contact, sir.”

Martineau saw Kidd lift the hood from his chart. He would be thinking the same. The sea was very deep hereabouts; the U-boat would not even have reached the bottom yet. Some might still be alive. He thought of the drifting lifeboats he had seen, their crews shrivelled and eyeless. But somebody must always have been the last to die, perhaps still clinging to hope.

“Resume formation. But pass the word, no slacking!”

But they were still cheering.

Suddenly he was shaking and could not control it.

Kidd brought a duffle coat and held it while he pushed his arms into it. Even that was hard to do. Shivering all over, the soaked shirt dragging at the scar on his back like a wire.

Someone murmured, “The Skipper must be half-frozen!”

Another said, “Got us out of that little lot, though, didn't he?”

Don't be ashamed of it. You should be proud.

She would know that
Hakka
was on her way back, just as she had known when she was leaving. It must be so much harder when you had to stay silent about it.

Kidd was saying, “I can take over, sir, if you want to slip down to your sea cabin.”

Martineau looked at him. “I know you can, Pilot. But I'm fine now.”

He doesn't believe me. Nor does he realize that if I went below now, I'd never have the strength to come back again.

Perhaps it was best to be like Lucky Bradshaw,
Bash on regardless,
as he was known by his officers. Don't question it. Just do it.

He glanced around the bridge as things returned slowly to normal. A fanny of pusser's kye would be up soon, a new course would be laid off. And tomorrow, the Mersey again.

He thought of her up here with Fairfax during the reception, as Raikes had called it. What had she discovered? What might it have brought back?

Someone put a mug of cocoa in his hands; it was Tonkyn. He very rarely visited the bridge; even seeing him without his white jacket was vaguely unreal.

Tonkyn almost winked. “Drop of good stuff in the cocoa, sir. Set you up like new.” He peered around the bridge, pale eyes watering in the cold air. “Well, that's one less of 'em, sir. We showed 'em!” And gave the nearest he could manage to a smile.

Martineau sipped the drink and watched the horizon tipping from side to side as if to dislodge the three ships. He could taste the rum in the thick mixture, could feel it burning through him.

Lucky Bradshaw was wrong. Tonkyn's quiet,
“We showed 'em!”
said it all.

Anna Roche sat at the small, rickety table and watched her room-mate putting the finishing touches to her make-up with more care than usual. A rare evening off, a run ashore, as it was termed in the navy even if you were a thousand miles from the sea. Outside the building she could hear the occasional rumble of heavy trucks, or the snarl of a motor cycle. She looked at her locker beside the bed, and thought of the letters she had received from home. Mostly about Tim, as if they still expected to hear it had been a mistake. That somehow he had survived.

She had written to her parents, and had tried to share it. Deep down, although she could not explain it, she felt that her mother, at least, thought her daughter should be at home, where she was needed.

She was almost glad there was another late briefing at the support group's offices tonight. Better to be a part of that than to reproach herself.

Her friend Caryl turned away from the mirror and said, “Well, what do you think?”

She was wearing her best doeskin uniform, and had somehow found time to arrange her rebellious Bergman curls. She was a pretty girl, who never seemed to worry unduly about anything.

Anna said, “Special, is he?”

“Sort of. The best yet. But I'll not do anything stupid.” She had an infectious giggle. “Not right away.” She looked over at some stockings which were hanging on a makeshift line to dry. “He has a friend—he's often on the America run. He brings stockings back with him every time—his rabbits, he calls them.”

She pulled up her pleated skirt. “See for yourself. You know what they say: a woman's legs are her best friends.” The giggle again. “But even the best of friends must part! Not yet, though.”

She rummaged through her shoulder bag. “Could you lend me a quid, Anna, 'til my ship comes in?”

Anna laughed. She would turn any man's head. You would never think she was one of the Commodore's most efficient staff officers.

“I think I can manage that.”

Caryl walked past her, suddenly serious. “
Hakka
's coming in tomorrow, or so Ops reports. You
will
see him, won't you?”

She paused and put one hand on Anna's shoulder. “He seems like a nice bloke. Been through the mill more than most, by the sound of it.”

“He's easy to talk to.”

“You nut! You really kill me!
Easy to talk to!
I saw it in your eyes when you got back from your run ashore together. So he's married, or was. As any first lieutenant will tell you, you've got to think of Number One!”

She laughed again, but the hand did not leave Anna's shoulder. “I think he'd be good for you.
To
you.”

Anna knelt down to drag her bag from under the bed. “All right, Auntie Caryl. I'll think about it.”

She straightened her back, her hand still on the bag. Then she turned her head and looked at her friend. She too was quite motionless, lips slightly parted, as if she were listening to something.

“What was it? I thought I heard . . .”

Caryl stared at her, eyes wide, as if she could not move.

Then she said, “Flak. Heavy stuff. Not from around here, though.”

She held out her arms, her voice drowned completely by the terrible scream, louder and louder until it blotted out everything else, even the power or the will to think.

The first explosion was muffled, jarring the room, and the house where they all lived a stone's throw from the H.Q. buildings, and for a second Anna believed that it was past. The second bomb seemed to explode right underneath, lifting the floor, cutting off lights as walls collapsed, and more debris was hurled in confusion.

She tried to move, but she was pinned down, covered, choking, her lungs unable to respond. She thought she heard a scream and knew it was her own, and felt stark terror as the overwhelming pressure increased.

Then she sensed a small movement, slow at first, until a hand touched her face and tried to brush away the grit and plaster.

She could hear nothing; the blast had done that. As if the whole world had stopped. Just that small, warm hand, patting her gently, never moving away. She wanted to cry, to call out, but nothing came. She was not alone, and she needed Caryl to know what it meant.

But when she tried to kiss the hand the pain came, and then there was even deeper darkness.

Lieutenant Roger Kidd stared at his greatcoat and cap, which she had hung by the door, and had to tell himself he was not dreaming. Like that first moment when she had come down the stairs, one hand on the banister, and had stopped and looked down, as if she had known he was there.

He had held her for a long time; all the rest was a confused background. People calling out greetings or making their departures, the clatter of glasses from the bar, the smell of something from the hotel kitchen, which he had not yet seen.

He had said, “You knew I'd come, Evie. After what we said.”

She had leaned back in his arms to study his face, like that last time.

“I hoped. I prayed you would.”

As if to some signal they had moved to the parlour, his arm around her small waist, her hand clinging to his as if she was afraid he might let go.

“How long?” Just two words. How much they meant in wartime.

“Tonight. Maybe longer. Some things need doing.”

He recalled the last-minute signals when they had begun their final approach.
To take different berths as instructed.
There had been a raid, not like the earlier ones Liverpool had suffered, but a hit-and-run attack. Some fleet oilers had been in port, and one of them had been hit; you could smell the stench and see the hovering black cloud long before they had begun their approach.

It had taken every fire-tender and hundreds of servicemen and civilians to bring the fire under control. Had it spread many other ships would have been set alight, or sunk.

Theirs was a sombre arrival this time, no cheers, no celebrations. The successful action against the U-boat, another kill for the group, seemed like part of something else.

“Tonight.” She had been smiling. “And there'll be others. So many you'll regret you ever found me again!”

He thought of Fairfax, still aboard
Hakka,
in charge while the Skipper was ashore. And Martineau's face when Jamie had told him about the raid, and that some bombs had straddled the living quarters at H.Q.

They had tied up alongside a light cruiser, and Fairfax had gone aboard to enquire about a shore telephone. The cruiser had one installed, like most of the larger visitors to Liverpool.

Fairfax had told him the rest. How the Skipper had used the telephone and then called for the motor boat. He had not even stopped long enough to change out of his scuffed, seagoing clothing.

“Make your report, Number One. Tell the Commodore or anyone else who's got nothing better to do than ask questions that I'm at the hospital.”

Nothing else, but there did not need to be. Fairfax had already told Kidd that he had shown the girl named Anna Roche around the bridge. Their world.

Evie had come back into the room and was studying him.

“I'm still pinching myself, just to be sure it's true. You're real.” She half listened as someone dropped a glass. “Not too busy on Mondays. All their cash has run out by now!”

They sat together, almost like strangers.

He said, “There was another raid. We heard about it when we came in.”

“Not as bad as some, over that side, at least.”

“I was worried all the same. Thinking about you, Evie. About us.” She opened her mouth to speak but he said with sudden intensity, “I knew I was in love with you, Evie, despite dear old Chris, God rest his soul. But today was the first time I saw what love could do, an' that's a fact.”

A bell tinkled and she stood up.

“I'm wanted. The laundry, I expect.” She gestured to the sideboard. “Help yourself. I won't be long.” She touched his face very gently. “Then we can have that meal I promised you.”

She moved to the door, but would not look at him. “But it might have to wait a while longer.”

The surgeon commander, not the most patient of men at any time, regarded his unexpected visitor impassively.

He said bluntly, “My petty officer told me of your arrival. You are not related to the injured Wren officer, I take it?”

Injured. Just that word alone, when he had arrived here unannounced. Even as he had been looking for directions, the right door, someone to ask, he had seen two S.B.A.s putting clothing in a rubber bag. Clothing? Hardly that. Rags, soaked in blood, the twin blue stripes on the jacket sleeves hitting him like a fist.

Injured.

“Not related. I know her. She is Canadian. Her young brother was killed recently.” It was like watching the fall of shot. You could never be certain.

The surgeon said, “Well, then . . .” His eyes rested briefly on the gold lace on Martineau's jacket; one piece had been torn loose, and there were stains in a dozen places. He must have come straight from his ship. Some of his own fatigue eased, and he said, “You must be
Hakka
's Captain.” And when Martineau nodded, “Good. Good show!”

“Is it bad?”

The surgeon pursed his lips. “Could have been much worse. Three were killed in the same attack.” He marked off the points on his fingers. “Shock, concussion, some bad bruising, but not too severe when you consider that half the building fell on her.” He saw his petty officer S.B.A. trying to catch his attention and decided to ignore him. Others would be waiting; they were always waiting. Men from the ships, survivors picked up in convoy only to be torpedoed again before reaching safety. Burned, broken, limbless. And the rest. The skivers, men trying to work their ticket and fake a case for discharge. Plus the usual procession of fools who took the risk of having a good time with the Maggie Mays of this port, and caught the boat up as a reward.