Killing Ground (15 page)

The shock seemed to steady him in some way. How could he have failed to see that the men who served
Gladiator,
and all those unknown ones who faced death and fear each time they put to sea, were too precious to waste, to be tossed away for nothing?

He remembered the Oerlikon gunner's little ditty.
Here today and gone tomorrow …
He gripped the guardrail and stared at the invisible town.
“Well, not if I can bloody well help it!”

Vallance, who had padded quietly after him from the wardroom, paused and nodded to himself. The Old Man was letting off steam. Thank God for that. I've served a few, he thought, but I'll see the war out with this one.

Back in the wardroom again Vallance realised that Sub-Lieutenant Bizley was still slumped in his chair, some neat gin splashed over his trousers. The others were already sitting around the table, and there was a rare excitement at the prospect of the meal.

“Wake up, sir!” Vallance stepped back as Bizley stared at him, his eyes red-rimmed while he recovered his bearings.

“What?”
He had been deep in thought when the gin had taken charge. Dreaming of the proposed decoration, what his parents and friends would say. He lurched to his feet, but not before Vallance had made sure he had scribbled his name on a bar-chit.

At the table old Pym was saying, “'Course, in them days we didn't 'ave no big searchlights, y'see?”

Finlay peered doubtfully at the soup. “I expect
you
had oil lamps, eh?”

Treherne reached for the bread, two helpings of it, brought aboard fresh that afternoon from Greenock. He held it to his nose and sighed.
Real bread.

He saw Pym's watery eyes glaring at the gunnery officer and said easily, “Go on, T, tell us about Jutland again, when you were in the old
Iron Duke
with Jellicoe.”

Pym regarded him suspiciously and then squinted at the deckhead. “Well, as I may 'ave told you before, Lord Jellicoe was standin' right beside me when the Jerries opened fire …”

Vallance watched him and rubbed his hands while the messmen bustled around the table.

Normal again. Just one big happy family.

The naval van pulled up with a jerk after dodging a mobile crane and a whole squad of marching sailors. The driver called, “Here she is, Sunshine, the
Gladiator.”

After a momentary hesitation, the driver, a tough-looking leading seaman from the Railway Transport Office, climbed down to help his last passenger lift his gear from the back. Afterwards he wondered why he had done it; he could not recall helping anyone before.

The young seaman dragged his kitbag and hammock to the side of the jetty and stared slowly along the moored destroyer from bow to stern. She was a powerful-looking ship with fine, rakish lines, very like the ones he had studied in his magazine at school. She appeared to be littered with loose gear, while wires and pipes snaked in all directions and overalled figures groped over them, adding to the confusion with their tools and paint pots.

The driver stood beside him, arms folded, and said, “She was on the Ruski convoy run 'til recently. In the thick of it.”

He glanced at the youth and wondered. Slightly built, with wide eyes and skin like a young girl. God, he thought, he only looks about thirteen. In fact, Ordinary Seaman Andrew Milvain was eighteen, just, but certainly did not look it. In his best uniform, the jean collar still the dark colour it was issued, unlike the Jacks who scrubbed and dhobied them until they were as pale as the sky. Everything was brand-new, straight off the production belt. He thought he knew what the driver was thinking, but he had become used to that.

A seaman in belt and gaiters, a heavy pistol hanging at his hip, walked to the guardrails and called, “One for us, Hookey?”

The man nodded and said to Milvain, “Off you go, your new home then.”

The youth picked up his bag and small attaché case and the gangway sentry came down the brow to carry his hammock.

The driver made to get into the van and looked back. There was something very compelling about the new seaman. So serious; dedicated, whatever that meant.

The sentry waited for the duty quartermaster to make an appearance and said, “New hand come aboard to join, Bob.”

They both looked him up and down and the quartermaster asked, “Where from?”

“Royal Naval Barracks, Chatham.” He had a quiet voice which was almost lost in the din of hammering and squealing tackles.

The quartermaster took his draft chit and studied it. “Before that?”

“HMS
Ganges,
the training establishment where …” The two seamen grinned. “Oh, we know where
that
is, right enough.”

The sentry added, “Where they make mothers' boys into old salts in three months, eh?”

The quartermaster glanced forward. “I'll tell the Cox'n. You carry the load 'til I get back.”

The sentry grimaced. “The chiefs and POs are givin' the gunner's mate a sendoff. I'll bet there's enough booze there to float this ruddy ship!”

The other man nodded. “I'm sort of bankin' on it!”

The sentry watched a Wren riding her bicycle along the jetty, her skirt blowing halfway up her thigh.

He called after them, “Don't let Mister snotty-nose Bizley catch you!” Then he stared after the Wren. Rather be on her than on the middle watch, he thought.

Laird, the duty quartermaster, led the way through and around many obstacles. “Half the lads are already on leave. I'm afraid you've come at a bad time.”

Milvain asked politely, “That officer—Bizley, wasn't it?”

Laird heard the laughter and clinking glasses from the chief
and petty officers' mess and licked his lips. He dragged his mind back to the question. “Oh, don't worry about
him.
He's fairly new to the ship, a real little shit, but nothing we can't handle.” He turned to see the youth blush. “Why?”

“My brother had an officer of that name. In Coastal Forces.”

A note of warning sounded in Laird's mind. “Your brother—the skipper, was he?” He saw the sudden lift of the youth's chin, a brightness in his eyes.
Had,
he thought. He said casually, “What do they call you, then?”

Milvain thought of his mother sobbing over him at the railway station, the other sailors watching curiously while they waited for their various transport.

He replied, “Andy, usually.”

Laird said, “Well, Andy, I'm sorry I put my foot in it. It happens. You'll see soon enough.”

The coxswain, massive and sweating, appeared in the doorway and beamed, “What are all we, then?”

The quartermaster handed him the draft chit. God, he thought, the coxswain reeked of rum. The whole mess did. He said abruptly, “His brother was Mister Bizley's skipper.”

The coxswain looked at the new arrival, Laird's remark slowly penetrating the fog of the sendoff for the gunner's mate.

“Ganges
boy, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not ‘sir' 'ere, my son. Cox'n will do very nicely.”

It was all coming back. Bizley's bravery when his motor gunboat had gone down, his efforts to rescue the survivors. Maybe even a medal …

“First ship?” He nodded slowly, picturing the various messes, the leading hands who ruled them like barons. “I'll stick you in Nine Mess. Bruce Fernie is the boss there.” He stared down at him. Officer material most likely, he thought.
Ah well.
All eyes and innocence. Bet he had to watch out for his virginity at the bloody
Ganges.

He belched. “I'll make out a card for you. Just wait 'ere, my
son.” He scowled at the quartermaster,
“You
can 'ave a wet, if that's what you're after!”

Milvain stood by the door and watched the petty officers laughing and drinking, as if they hadn't a care in the world. He looked around him, seeing the scars beneath the new paint. Russian convoys. He shivered and thought suddenly of his dead brother. He might have been proud of him.

A youngish-looking man in a raincoat, and without any sort of cap, ran up one ladder and paused to glance at him as he moved his attaché case out of the way. “Just joined?”

Milvain nodded and remembered what the burly coxswain had told him. “Yes, Petty Officer. From Chatham.”

“Welcome aboard.”

The coxswain reappeared with a card for the new rating, then froze as he saw the youth chatting away.

He said awkwardly, “'Ere's yer card.”

Silence fell in the mess as the newcomer went inside. Milvain heard him say, “Just one then, I'm catching a train south as soon as I can.”

Milvain asked quietly, “What does
he
do—er, Cox'n?”

Sweeney breathed out heavily. “That was the captain, my son. Gawd, wot are things comin' to in this regiment!”

He watched Milvain climb down the ladder, looking around, trying to find himself in his new world. A grin spread slowly across his battered face. Wait till I tell the others about this.
What does he do?
But it was also a side to the commanding officer he had not seen before.

Back in the crowded mess he saw the Old Man chatting with the departing gunner's mate. Should he tell him about Milvain's brother? He decided against it. Wait and see, that was best.

Howard looked across at him. “They're getting younger, 'Swain.”

From one corner of his eye Sweeney saw the duty quartermaster slip out of the other door in case the Old Man should see him here.

He nodded heavily, “You're off 'ome then, sir?”

Howard studied him gravely, wondering how Sweeney would manage. There must be hundreds like him, thousands, like Stoker Marshall. Nothing left, and nothing to look forward to. He glanced at the mess clock. “I'm off then.” He thought of Hampshire. The Guvnor's garden. It would be good to see him again. But the ship seemed to hold him. Howard shook himself and said, “I've left a phone number in case …” He walked from the mess and went aft to retrieve his cap from the lobby. Time to go.

The quartermaster was just about to tell the sentry all about the party when Sub-Lieutenant Bizley strode aft, his cap at the rakish angle he seemed to favour.

“Somebody came aboard just now!” It was a statement. “I should have been told. I'm OOD in case you'd forgotten!” He jabbed a finger at the sentry and snapped, “Tighten your pistol belt, man! I'll not have you making this ship look sloppy, so don't you forget that, either!”

The QM hastily intervened for his friend's sake. “It was another replacement, sir. Name of Milvain.” He watched him warily, like a cat weighing up a dangerous hound. He had not anticipated Bizley's reaction.

“What name?” He felt his mind reeling. It couldn't be. Even in the Navy it was too much of a coincidence.

Sure of his ground now, the quartermaster said, “Your last CO was his brother.”

They both stared after Bizley as he hurried away. He was almost running.

“Well, well, well, what tin of worms have
I
discovered, then?”

They grinned at one another like conspirators, while the gangway sentry gave up his attempt to tighten the offending belt.

The Buffer appeared by the after torpedo tubes and lurched towards them, his face flushed from the sendoff in his mess. “Where's the officer of the day?”

The quartermaster replied innocently, “Not sure, Buffer.”

“Jesus!
The skipper's goin' over the side at any minute!”

At that moment Bizley made an appearance, but Knocker White was too full of rum to notice the corresponding smell of gin from the duty officer.

Howard came up, still wearing his plain, unmarked raincoat, and stood to look along the littered deck, wondering what Marrack would have to say about it.

He carried just a small grip; he would change into some old clothing when he reached home. The heaviest things in it were tins of duty-free cigarettes for the Guvnor. He could not manage a pipe with only one hand.

The three figures at the brow froze to attention, and the quartermaster moistened his silver call with his tongue even as a taxi came to a halt on the jetty.

Aloud Howard said, “Take good care of her.” Then with his fingers to his cap in salute he hurried down the brow, the twitter of the call still hanging in the dusty air.

Only once did he look back and upwards to the high, open bridge where he had stood for so many hours and days.

It was behind him now. But it would never leave him.

T
HE
passenger seat of the small army fifteen hundred-weight lorry felt like iron, but Howard barely noticed it as he stared out at the rich green countryside. Beside him a young lance-corporal, from Yorkshire by the sound of it, seemed eager to get as much speed as he could from the much-used vehicle.

Howard had not realised just how tired he was after the lengthy journey from Scotland. On the final leg of the trip from Waterloo he had fallen into a deep sleep and had been awakened by a porter tapping his knee to tell him that the train had reached the end of the line. It had been Portsmouth Harbour station which had been so much a part of his life even from childhood: the old wooden platform, through which you could see the water underfoot at high-tide, and the imposing masts and yards of Nelson's old flagship
Victory
rising above the dockyard wall outside the station. He could recall walking through the yard shortly after the start of 1941, when there had been a devastating air raid on the city and anchorage. The continuous attack had lasted all night, and when a smoky dawn had laid bare the terrible destruction it had seemed a miracle that anything had survived. Over three thousand people were made homeless and famous buildings like the Guildhall and the George Inn were laid in ruins. Hundreds were killed and injured in that single raid, but the thing so engraved on Howard's mind was seeing the
Victory
's fat black and buff hull unscathed amidst devastation, with shattered vessels all around her.