For Valour (32 page)

Raikes was unconvinced. “I agree with the Admiral.”

She watched them, and remembered what Crawfie had told her about Raikes's admiration for the Admiral. Seeing his own future, perhaps?

Like the trips she had made with him to Plymouth and Southampton, and to a top-secret staff meeting in Manchester. She had caught the glances when they had seen her with him.
His assistant.
Raikes never explained, not in her presence in any case. He never shared his thoughts with anyone.

What was he thinking now, for instance? Did he see all those little counters and flags as real ships, flesh and blood? Or could he separate one from the other?

Raikes said suddenly, “I'm going down to the Met Office. Coming?” He saw Nobby and asked almost softly, “Is there
something
you wish to add?”

Nobby grinned. He was used to every mood.

“Full security in force, sir. We had some last-minute request from the Provost people, in connection with the civil police, I understand. Something about records of travel warrants issued in special cases, for one of
Hakka
's ratings.”

Raikes exploded. “In God's name, Nobby! I hope you told the silly buggers to jump off! Security indeed!” He snatched up his cap.

It was then that she noticed that, for the first time she could recall, his hair was over his collar, and he needed a shave. It made him seem quite human.

He said sharply, “Come along, Anna, lot to do, you can powder your nose later!”

She saw Nobby smile. It was catching.

Another door opened and the noise flooded in, overwhelming, suffocating. Like her first day back from the hospital. She had wondered then if she would be able to go through with it. Like being buried alive.

But she could do it without flinching. Almost. She looked at boards and scribbled names but she saw only
Hakka,
and the scarred hand on hers.

Raikes was talking to the senior Met officer, and they were looking at a chart. Iceland, the Denmark Strait, the Norwegian coast, all the way up to North Cape. How could men stand it, day after day?

There was another figure now, very tall, with a single, thin stripe on his sleeve. Mr Holmes, the Admiral's signal boatswain, with the weathered face of someone who had stood on more ships' bridges
than most sailors have had hot dinners,
as Nobby had once said.

He had even been a boy signalman at Jutland, aboard the flagship
Iron Duke.
The Boss certainly knew how to choose his team.

He had a pad in his fist but did not bother to consult it.

He said, “R.A.F. report just in, sir. Two German cruisers were reported in Bodø, bad weather prevented any useful reconnaissance. Until today. They've both slipped out.” He observed Raikes impassively. “No intelligence information as yet.”

Raikes clenched his fist. “I wonder what their lordships will have to say about
that?
” Then, just as quickly, he was calm again. “Going north, is my guess. They came from the Baltic originally. Narvik, Tromsø, or up to
Scharnhorst
's old lair, Altenfjord, right at Russia's back door!”

Captain Tennant had quietly joined them, and acknowledged the tall signal boatswain as he departed.

“If we had more time . . .”

Raikes touched Anna's elbow. “I'll buy you a drink.” He glanced at the Chief of Staff. “Time? It just ran out.”

Martineau stood alone in his day cabin, aware of the shipboard noises above and around him without truly listening. They had taken on extra fuel, although they had used very little on the fast passage from Liverpool. But even a small amount could make that difference, the margin of endurance. There was still a tang of fuel in the air, although they had returned to their allotted moorings nearly an hour ago.

He wiped the glass scuttle with his sleeve and stared across the busy anchorage. It was unusual to see Scapa bathed in sunlight, which through the toughened glass gave an illusion of warmth.

Lying apart from the destroyers was the cruiser
Durham.
A fine-looking ship by any standards, powerful too, with twelve six-inch guns in four turrets, as well as torpedoes and smaller weapons. In addition she carried three aircraft which were launched from a catapult athwartships, invaluable for the work she was required to perform.

It was as if some superhuman power had taken over from the minds of mere men, rolling everything before it, as if nothing would or could divert the chain of events. The great convoy was already moving to its assembly point; reinforcements like the cruiser
Durham
had been transferred from their normal duties at virtually no notice. It was no longer a case of how, but when. Tomorrow,
Hakka
and her consorts would leave Scapa, with
Durham
in close company.

Thirty-seven ships of vital war materials: he had skimmed through the lists at the conference aboard
Zouave
this morning. There would be time later to study the cargo details, to memorize the names of the ships and where each one would be in the convoy.

He swung away from the scuttle and looked at the signal pad on his desk. A huge operation. He felt his jaw tighten. But the smaller pattern of events could not be forgotten.

He had heard the motor boat returning alongside. Sub-Lieutenant John Barlow had been sent ashore to collect some charts from the base while
Hakka
had been taking on fuel. Now he was back. The schoolboy in a man's guise, like so many. Too many.

Fairfax had offered to break the ice. Martineau had heard his own curt reply.

“My responsibility, Number One. It goes with the job.”

Tonkyn had made himself scarce. But he was never far away.

There was a tap at the door and Sub-Lieutenant Barlow peered in at him. He had removed his cap, so that he looked younger than ever. But he had done well, better than many he had known who were much senior.

He said, “Come in. Shut the door.”

It was all there. Anxiety, curiosity, nervousness because he expected a bottle for something.

“Sit down, if you like.” He stared at the signal pad, hating it. He should be used to it. But it mattered, and he was not.

“I've some bad news, Sub.”

Barlow swallowed hard and seemed to straighten his back. In a very level voice, he said, “It's my father, sir?” He gazed at the ship's crest on the bulkhead, his eyes distant. “He's had a weak heart for a long time now.”

Martineau said, “I'm afraid not.” He walked over to him and gripped his arm. “There was an air raid. Two nights ago. The house was destroyed.” He gripped the arm more tightly, wanting to help, to share it, when he knew he could not. “Nobody survived.”

The young sub-lieutenant turned and looked at him, his face frozen with disbelief.

“My sister, too?”

He said, “It was a direct hit. They couldn't have known anything.”

He felt sickened by those words. They always said that.
Of course they knew.
Like Anna, when she had heard the bomb's terrible scream.

Barlow did not resist when he pushed him into a chair. “Two nights ago, sir?” The disbelief was still there. “I was going to try and phone them, to find out if Dad was any better.” He shook his head. “And poor Jane . . .”

“Is there anyone?”

Barlow said, “My brother. He's a doctor, at the local hospital. He'll know what to do.”

Martineau moved away. He had sensed the bitterness. Something else hidden behind the schoolboy's face.

He said, “We are under orders, Sub, but that you know. Otherwise I'd send you on compassionate leave this instant.”

Barlow was looking at him again, but was almost too blind to see him.

He murmured, “I want to stay, sir. With the ship. With you. I'm a part of it here!”

Martineau heard a slight movement from the pantry.

“Would you care for a drink, Sub? Just the two of us. While you get your bearings.”

He shook his head. “I'll be all right, sir.”

But two glasses had appeared through the hatch nonetheless.

Martineau handed one to Barlow and said, “Just for a minute or two.”

He sipped the drink; it could have been anything. “I'm glad you said that, John. We're going on a hard run this time.” He watched his words breaking through the pain, the loss. People he did not even know, and yet they were right here in the cabin, all three of them. He added quietly, “
Hakka
's going to need the best we can give her.”

Barlow drank the neat Scotch without even spluttering. Then he stood up, and visibly braced himself.

“Thank you, sir.” It was all he said. It was everything.

Martineau sat for a while looking at the closed door. So many things required his attention, and there were people waiting to see him.

In all respects ready for sea.
It must be fixed in every Captain's mind. He thought of the secret report Bradshaw had shown him concerning the two missing corvettes, and that brave fragment of a signal. An epitaph.

Two cruisers were on the move. In his mind he saw the big operations room at Liverpool. She would be there, would know about the German cruisers which had been in Bodø. He confronted it, as young Barlow was facing his own anguish.

It was too important to allow personal doubts to intervene. It always was, now, and the one after this, and so on.

Fairfax opened the door.

“Go all right, sir?”

Martineau looked at him. “It was hell, Jamie. Bloody hell.”

Then he walked to the ship's crest and touched it. As she had his medal ribbon when they had first met.

“But he's determined to stay aboard. I'm glad. He's good at his work.”

Fairfax relaxed very slightly. It was not the reason at all. It was because he cared about Barlow,
about all of us.

He said, “I thought you should know, sir, that Bill Spicer, our stubborn coxswain, has reported back for duty. Cursing like Long John Silver, and half awash with neaters, which for once I chose to ignore,
and
he's got a proper discharge certificate from the sawbones. I don't know how he did it, but it will make
my
life a lot easier!”

Tonkyn, stooped behind his hatch, listened gravely, and heard them laugh together.

He glanced at the whisky bottle. Still quite a lot left. He smiled.
Fair shares for all, I say.
He took out a clean glass.

In
Hakka
's Number Nine Mess, starboard side, forward, the occupants were sitting around the table, waiting for the midday meal. When it was piped it was always, “D'you hear there? Hands to dinner!” And there was always the rejoinder from the messdecks, “And the officers to
lunch!
” Like most jokes on the lower deck, they were always word-perfect and never stale.

The mess was looking more like its original self again. New pin-ups adorned the dockyard paintwork, and neatly lashed hammocks packed the nettings which had been blasted into splinters.

Wishart sat on a bench, jammed between two other seamen, while Forward was in his usual place beside the mess locker.

Wishart had written another letter to his parents, and with luck it would go ashore tonight. He hated the idea of somebody reading and censoring his letters, and wondered if that was why Bob Forward never wrote to the girl he had seen in the photograph. He even kept that hidden. Maybe it was over, or maybe she was somebody else's girl? Like now, it was never easy to guess what Forward was thinking. The dark, deepset eyes gave nothing away, except for rare flashes, like the time he had caught him when he had almost collapsed after finding Seton's corpse.
Watching him from a corner.
Wishart shivered. And times when, without making a show of it, he had stood up for him when sneering remarks had become insulting or hostile. That never happened now, thanks to Bob Forward. It was said that he would become chief quartermaster because of his proficiency during the battle. The coxswain was back; they had all heard the din in the chief and petty officers' mess. Jimmy-the-One had been up there with them. No secrets in a destroyer. He glanced around. In
Hakka.

Like the subbie, Barlow. His mother, father and young sister had been killed in an air raid somewhere in London. They all knew, but nobody would mention it. It was like that here.

And now they were going on a really big convoy operation. To Russia. Nobody had said so, yet everybody knew. What would the censor say if he had put that in the letter?

Up on deck the rum was being issued to the senior hands of messes. Down here they were all waiting expectantly. Lieutenant, as he was now, Cavaye was O.O.D. and would be supervising the issue as if it was coming out of his own pocket.