For Valour (9 page)

Martineau lifted his wrist and peered at his watch. Six-thirty; the hands had been called an hour ago. And he had heard nothing. Felt nothing.

He thought he heard Fairfax's breathing, and said, “You did the right thing. Call me when they've dropped them.” He lay back on the bunk and listened to feet thudding along the deck.
Hakka
had come to life again, like all the others around them. He heard the clatter of crockery. A steward would be coming in with his coffee at any second.

He felt his heartbeat returning to normal, remembering the dream. Always the ship charging into oblivion, and a last cry choked out of him by the icy water.

Then he was on his feet and striding through to the other cabin as if he had known the ship for months.

He switched on the light over the desk and pulled out the book of sonnets, which had obviously never been read. For a long moment he held the photograph in the yellow glare, turning it carefully to catch the detail, to hear her voice. Anna. Anna Roche, who had once been at the
U of T.
He smiled, as if she had said something.

He replaced the photograph and wondered what story lay behind her eyes. He would probably never see her again, and even if he did . . .

The door opened and Tonkyn padded into the cabin.

“I thought we should have some breakfast today, sir. I am doing some scrambled eggs an' a friend got me some bacon from the barracks. They lives real well over there, sir.”

Martineau stood up, feeling the ship move very slightly for the first time. He could not recall having a proper meal since he had first stepped aboard. And, until the dream, it had been the best sleep he could remember.

He was suddenly very hungry.

“I'd like that. Very much.”

Tonkyn's melancholy expression did not change, but he seemed satisfied.

He could hear the guardboat coughing alongside, the quartermaster and bowman exchanging greetings or insults.

He looked at the closed book. He was ready.

5 | “You're Not God!”

Lieutenant Roger Kidd straightened his back at the chart table and allowed himself a moment of private satisfaction. He should have known, they all should. Nothing in this man's navy ever went according to plan. He had been enjoying a quiet breakfast in the wardroom when Fairfax had marched in after being with the Captain.

The leisurely departure from Plymouth in company with the leader and two other destroyers was off. The guardboat and the despatches had changed all that. Instead,
Hakka
was under immediate orders for sea. The Chief had charged off to his engine room, muttering something about thoughtless idiots who had no idea about the needs of a ship and her machinery, and for a few moments more, until the pipe
“Special sea duty-men to your stations!”
there had been pandemonium. He gripped a rail as the ship tilted over steeply, spray pattering across the glass screens and stinging his face.
They should have known.
And now the weather was getting lively, too.

He glanced at the others on the bridge. Lieutenant Giles Arliss was the O.O.W., supported by the haughty sub-lieutenant, Humphrey Cavaye. Kidd hid a smile. The blind leading the blind. Arliss had made no secret of the fact that he resented standing a watch. He had been appointed for flotilla signals duties. And in any case . . .

That was as far as he had got. Fairfax had sounded unusually angry.

“We have
not
joined the flotilla yet, in case you hadn't noticed! And in this ship we don't carry passengers!”

But Kidd had to admit they had all done well. It was two hours since they had cleared Plymouth Sound, and with the
Jester
following astern had butted out into grey and worsening weather, which was nothing new in these parts.

Jester
was also part of the new flotilla, one of the J Class destroyers. She made a fine sight with her single raked funnel, and her bow slicing through the offshore swell like the thor-oughbred she was.

The bridge chair was unoccupied. The Captain had gone down to the chart room to study the next chart for himself. The task they had been allotted was an important one, an emergency. Listening to Martineau's calm voice, Kidd had been able to see it all, perhaps more clearly than any of the others.

An eastbound convoy had been attacked twice by U-boats; that was nothing unusual. But one of the ships was a giant tanker, fully loaded with fuel, and on the final approach via the south of Ireland she had been singled out for attack by a long-range bomber. The tanker had been damaged and her steering put out of action, but her cargo was apparently intact. The convoy had included a rescue tug, but she was obviously no match for such an unmanageable charge. It was always the hairy part, with the end of yet another hazardous convoy almost in sight, and warships were no different. Many were sunk when their crews believed the worst was almost over, and they were returning to base and home. A momentary lack of vigilance could bring disaster.
Like right here on this bridge.

At Falmouth lay the one hope, the huge salvage tug
Goliath,
the only vessel near enough with the capability and the experience to do it. Kidd did not need to consult his soiled chart again: Falmouth was somewhere up there, beyond the starboard bow. Thirty miles since they had put to sea, and two hours. Not bad at all.

A boatswain's mate coughed significantly and Kidd turned as the Captain's head and shoulders appeared through the gate.

Martineau climbed on to the gratings, and studied the other destroyer.

“Taking it well, Pilot. But we'll have to reduce revs once we've got
Goliath
in company.” He was thinking aloud. “The tanker will be drifting in this little lot. The south-westerly wind is strengthening, and that other tug will be hard put to keep her under command.” He looked up as spray drifted over the bridge.

Like someone measuring an enemy's strength, Kidd thought. Looking for a trick.

“She'll clear the Scillies with any luck. Swansea Bay is the best bet. There's more shelter there and they're used to handling lame ducks.” He smiled briefly. “Should be, after three years of it.”

He put one hand on the chair as the deck lifted and then dipped again.

“If the weather worsens the job will get harder.” He shrugged. “But of course if it was a perfect day, the enemy would arrive in force. The sea may be an ally this time.”

Sub-Lieutenant Cavaye said, “Time to alter course, sir.” But not for Arliss's benefit, Kidd thought. It was merely to show the Captain that he was on the ball.

He realized that Martineau was watching him, his eyes very clear. Like the sea itself.

“What d'you know about
Goliath,
Pilot?”

So casually asked, but Kidd was a seaman to his fingertips.

“She can manage fifteen knots with a following wind and all the stops pulled, sir.” He tilted his head as more spray bounced off his cap. “But in this I'd give her ten.”

Martineau nodded, and felt in the pocket of his duffle coat. “It will be dark early. Very early. We must make contact before that. Otherwise it will be too late.”

Kidd waited. No
ifs
or
buts.
Or
they should have thought of this earlier.
There was nobody else.

“St Anthony Beacon at two-nine-zero, sir!”

Fairfax had appeared on the bridge, his tanned face reddened by the wind.

He said, “You did it again, Pilot! I thought we were lost!”

Martineau had heard them talking, friends, long before he had stepped aboard. He steadied his binoculars and waited for the bows to climb again, wondering how the new hands were managing in their as yet unfamiliar quarters.
Like mine.

He stiffened and said, “And there she is, gentlemen!”

He ignored the clatter of the signal lamp, the bright winking eye of the great tug's acknowledgement. Huge indeed, one of the largest ocean-going tugs in service, and always in demand. In tonnage she was not much less than
Hakka,
but she seemed to stand out of the leaping waves like a rock.

He tugged his cap more firmly over his hair and stood on the top grating so that the
Goliath
's master would be sure to see him, and would know who was making the signal.

He called, “Ready, Bunts?”

“Aye, sir.” But it was Onslow, the chief yeoman, as he had somehow known it would be, even though the ship was at defence stations.

“To
Goliath
from
Hakka. Time is the enemy. At thirteen knots we will do it.
” He knew that Kidd was beside him, watching for an irate signal, or an outright refusal. There was none.
“Follow father.”
He raised one arm towards the massive tug and said, almost to himself, “Lucky thirteen. This time.”

Fairfax and the bearded navigator both heard it. Neither understood.

Onslow called, “From
Goliath,
sir.
Remember what happened to David!
”

Martineau heard the sudden laughter, even from those who had not comprehended the signal.

“Take station ahead, Pilot. Then alter course as plotted.” He peered aft as a downdraught brought the acrid tang of smoke from the big forward funnel. “
Jester
's Skipper has his orders, he can take over the sweep astern.”

Arliss sounded surprised. “U-boats, sir?”

But Martineau was bending over the chart again.

Kidd brushed past him and murmured, “What d'you expect? This is Western Approaches, remember?”

With one elbow wedged against the table to lessen the violent motion, Martineau checked the pencilled calculations and compared them with his own. There was always hope, but there was a lot of that scattered across the bottom of the Atlantic. A valuable cargo of fuel; for Spitfires or tanks, it was not their concern. Every drop was vital. But all he could think of were the men who would be out there now, with nothing to cling to but the hope of rescue.
Like me. And the thirteen who were with me that day.

It was barely possible to believe that just a few hours ago he had been looking at the photograph, and contemplating breakfast. A better dream, but a dream nonetheless . . .

He shook himself angrily. Even if they made a perfect rendezvous, there would be next to no time to grapple with the helpless tanker and get some way on her.

Kidd had merely confirmed what he already knew about the area. The tide would be bad enough, but if the wind rose any more
Goliath
's master would never dare to risk his ship in a senseless collision.

He made up his mind and pushed himself away from the chart table, and covered it with its waterproof hood.

“We could try something which will give us a bit more time.” He had their attention, the wind and the tumbling grey waves momentarily forgotten. “We have the speed, the agility.” He knew Fairfax understood that it was for him alone. “It's a risk, of course.”

Fairfax said without hesitation, “A boarding party, sir? Be ready for
Goliath
's first attempt.” Surprisingly, he smiled. “I'd ask for volunteers.” He seemed to take Martineau's silence for doubt, and added firmly, “I can do it!”

Martineau touched his sleeve. Lightly, the way the girl had touched the ribbon.

“I'd not ask anyone else.”

Martineau crossed the bridge, the steep motion testing his stomach like a taunt.

“I shall want signals made to
Jester
and separately to
Goliath.
”

Onslow was busy with his pad. “Admiralty, sir?” Martineau faced him and smiled. “Not at this stage, I think.”

Kidd said in a fierce whisper, “What the hell are you thinking about, Jamie? You know the bloody risks in that sort of caper!”

But Fairfax was watching the Captain, recalling how the strain had dropped away after he had made his decision. Young again, like the man who had married an unfaithful wife. In wartime, what did that mean? Or was it the one he had been with at the officers' club?

He turned, startled out of his thoughts, as the Captain said, “Twelve men should do it. Don't expect too much help from the tanker's crew. They've been through enough already.”

There it was again. Sharing it, or blaming himself for something.

The hand on his sleeve once more. “No heroics, Number One.”

Fairfax looked at the sea. He had never been afraid, or so he had told himself often enough. It was all part of it. Destroyers, the madness and the exhilaration when it was at its worst.

But this was different. He said, “Right, sir.” It was too late anyway.

Fairfax gripped the handrail of the bridge ladder and waited for the deck to surge up beneath him. Down here, below the bridge and forward funnel every sound seemed louder, more violent, the sea closer to the deck itself.

The party of volunteers was wedged together as if for comfort, maybe wondering what insane impulse had made them come forward. In the navy they always said that a volunteer was someone who had misunderstood the question in the first place, or a bloody fool. The old hands said, never volunteer for any damned thing. But they did.

He looked up as another signal flashed from the flag deck. He turned and stared steadily at the crippled tanker. For hours, or so it felt, they had watched it loom out of the drifting spray which occasionally floated above it like smoke. Now the tanker filled their horizon, huge, low in the water, and motionless. Or so it appeared.

Fairfax had gone through the last approach, step by step. The other tug was still hooked on, but acted as little more than a sea-anchor. At least they were clear of the Scillies with their treacherous rocks, the deathbed of many ships from as far back as the first sailing traders. But the whole area was pockmarked with isolated shoals and unexpected shallows, enough to break the back of any ship. Kidd had described it without dramatics. You respected it, or you paid for it.

Fairfax heard Arthur Malt, the Gunner (T), offering advice to the assembled men.

“One 'and for the King an' one for yerself. No time for soddin' about. Remember that, Wishart, if you want to better yourself!”

Fairfax glanced at the young seaman. He was not required on the bridge to help the navigator. The ship was at defence stations, half the company standing to, the others ready to use muscle and blood when it was needed if the first attempt failed.

Malt was reliable but unimaginative. Even in his shining oilskin he was completely square, his cap jammed flat on his head like a lid, as if to contain the temper that was his weakness, especially with new hands like Wishart. Mothers' boys, he called them.

Ossie Pike,
Hakka
's chief boatswain's mate and her most experienced seaman, edged closer and growled, “I 'ope they're not all dead over there!” The Buffer, as he was always known aboard ship, had wanted to go across when the time came. Fairfax had said, “Suppose something happened to me? Who would run the ship then?” It had seemed to quieten him for the moment.