Killing Ground (27 page)

Milvain's father was a major-general so was probably away somewhere. It would not be much of a home for his mother any more.

But in a few weeks or months when the boy's replacement had been settled in, he would soon be just another missing face, and his name would rarely be mentioned. Except by Leading Seaman Fernie perhaps. When one of his mess asked, “D'you remember that posh kid, Hookey?” he would crush him.

Howard blinked his sore eyes as the morning watch clattered up ladders or slithered behind the gunshields to await the first light of another day.

Treherne came up to take over the morning watch and stood
in silence beside his chair while the various voicepipes and telephones reported that they had relieved the others.

Then very soon
Blackwall
showed herself, throwing up spray and not a little smoke as she plunged over some short, steep rollers. When it was light enough Howard studied the other ship through his glasses. The victor. All grins on the upper bridge; a team job, but she had been the one to make it all work and leave the enemy in their tomb on the seabed. Howard had filled his pipe but did not remember doing so. He gripped it with his teeth and tried to strike a match below the shelter of the glass screen. He tried several times and then stared with shock as his hand began to shake uncontrollably.

“Light, sir?” Treherne did not raise his voice. Then he took Howard's wrist in his grasp and held a match to the bowl while their eyes met through the drifting smoke.

Howard exclaimed harshly, “Christ, what's the
matter
with me?”

“Nothing.” Treherne tossed the match downwind. “I asked for that last night. You'd just about had enough. I should have seen, understood.”

Howard removed his battered cap and shook his head in the wet breeze. “I'll bet you wish you were back with your other ships, Number One?” He could feel the man's strength, the bond which linked them and perhaps always had. Like the thaw after frost; a first warmth.

Treherne bared his teeth through his beard. “Well, bananas were a lot less trouble to deal with, sir, I'll not deny that!”

Howard watched the other ships taking shape against the endless pattern of whitecaps which had come with a freshening wind.

The hunt goes on.
“I'll make out a suitable signal for the C-in-C, Gordon. He'll be pleased. Another kill so soon—it must mean something.”

Behind his back he imagined he could hear Petty Officer Tucker's ironic laughter.

Sub-Lieutenant Brian Rooke stood by the chart table and watched Treherne as he checked over his calculations. It was stuffy and dark in the chart-room because the ship was preparing for her last night at sea. The remainder of the patrol had passed without incident, and hardly an hour had gone by, or so it seemed, without a signal of congratulations being received. Another escort group had sunk two U-Boats in as many days, so if any proof had been needed about the admiral's strategy they had got it loud and clear.

Treherne said, “We shall have to stand off until first light, Pilot.” He still found it strange to hear someone else called that. “I don't reckon on the Old Man dicing with all the local traffic
en route
for Gladstone Dock.” He thought of the strain Howard had shown, the way he always seemed to force himself out of it. “Shan't be sorry to stretch my legs ashore.” He thought of Joyce waiting to welcome him. “That was quite a patrol.”

Rooke regarded him warily, as if he suspected that Treherne was about to find fault with his chartwork. “Is it always like that?”

The door of the W/T office slid open and Hyslop the PO telegraphist, a pencil behind one ear, looked across at them.

“First lieutenant, sir? I've got something for the captain.”

“What is it?”

“Big raid on Liverpool, sir.” He glanced at his pad. “Meant for the docks but the flak was too heavy apparently. They knocked down a few streets though. All incoming escorts are to land their medical officers to assist.”

Treherne kept his voice level. “Birkenhead?”

The PO looked at his pad again in case he had missed something. “No, sir.”

“I'll tell him.”

He found Howard in his usual place on the port side of the bridge, his glasses hanging loosely around his neck.

Howard did not move as Treherne read him the lengthy signal and the first lieutenant imagined he was thinking about his
father, comparing the raids which had been caused by the heavy resistance of AA batteries which covered the real targets. Instead Howard asked, “Were
our
people all right?”

Treherne looked at him curiously. “I think so, sir. No reports of any damage to ships and docks.”

Howard stood up and moved about the bridge, his hands touching various pieces of gear and instruments as if he had not seen them before. He asked, “What's our ETA?”

Treherne replied, “Well, five o'clock in the morning, sir. But as I said to Pilot you'll not want to …”

Howard said, “Make a signal to give our time of arrival
as calculated,
Number One. Is the raid still going on?”

“No, sir.” He looked at the sky as if he expected to see the glow of fires. He had seen The Pool like that often enough.

Howard nodded. “Get on with it then. I shall speak to the other captains. It's my responsibility.”

Treherne hurried down the ladder again. Was he still thinking of his father, or was he brooding about the boy who had been drowned?
He takes everything on his shoulders.
He recalled how Marrack had wanted his own command more than anything. Well, he was welcome to it!

Howard replaced the intercom handset and tried to think clearly. There were raids every day; people died, but others managed to soldier on. He turned away.
What she had said.
It couldn't be. Not her. She might not even have been there.

“Permission to step aboard, sir?”

Howard turned. It was Moffatt the new doctor. Wrapped in a duffle coat, his cap jammed on his head like a pie-crust to keep it from blowing away, he looked more like a proper seadog than a medical man.

“Of course, Doc.” A thought flashed through his mind. “Did Number One ask you to come, by the way?”

“No, sir. Although he did tell me about the air raid. I've got my gear all ready.”

“I'll be going ashore.” It came out too easily. “You come with
me.”

Moffatt asked quietly, “Have you got someone there, sir?”

“Why does everyone
keep asking questions?”
He saw a lookout glance round and gripped the doctor's arm. “Sorry, Doc. Not fair to pull rank. Yes, there is somebody I care about. Very much, although she doesn't know it.”

Moffatt regarded his profile thoughtfully. All bottled up. A man could take just so much. Howard's sudden confidence had touched him. He had always imagined a captain like Howard had no feelings other than for the job in hand. Not because he wanted it like that, but because it was his only way of staying outwardly sane.

Moffatt had got to know his fellow officers and many of the ship's company in his short time aboard. It was odd that nobody had let drop some hint about the captain's private life. After all, he had soon learned that there were no secrets in this
regiment,
as the sailors called it.

“Can't you take a nap, sir? Might help.”

“No. I shall more likely ask you for one of your pills to keep me on my feet.”

Bizley, who was OOW, said, “Time to make the signal to the group, sir.”

“Do it then.”

Moffatt asked, “What now?”

“We form line ahead before entering the final approach. There may be sweepers about, even a coastal convoy, although I don't know of any. But the raid may have delayed everything.”

He listened to Bizley's precise tones on the intercom. He was sullen rather than subdued, he thought. Perhaps it had been what he said; an accident. When he made his report, the chief of staff would very likely want to interview Bizley, as well as some of the whaler's crew.

He tried not to think of the young seaman. So eager, but he was dead, and a drunken lout like Bully Bishop was still alive.

As
Gladiator
and her consorts passed the Skerries and the
northern coast of Anglesey the usual mood of apprehension closed over them for the men who had relatives and friends in the city. Treherne and the coxswain made all the arrangements for local leave for those concerned, and for once there was no idle chatter about the possibilities of “a good run ashore.”

As the middle watch drew to a close and the ships headed due east towards the mouth of the Mersey the evidence of the raid hung on the air like something physical. There were few fires, but that did not mean much. Howard raised his glasses as the new yeoman of signals triggered off an acknowledgement to a guard-boat's challenge. But of course, there would
not
be many fires, Howard thought. The raid had been intended for the ships and docks; the aircraft would be carrying highexplosive bombs, not incendiaries.

He thought of that other return, such a short while ago. The cheering, people thronging the waterfront to wave at them. The girl on the signal station verandah, waving with the rest, oblivious to the rain, her hair plastered across her face.

Shaded lights guided them through the entrance where the stench of charred wood reached everywhere. Torches glinted on the forecastle and he saw the first heaving line snake across, the eye of a wire hawser bobbing after it like some endless snake.

“Stop port!”
Howard leaned out and saw some men standing by the guardrails staring into the first grey light of dawn. “Slow astern port!” More wires, the sudden squeak of fenders as the hull came alongside the cats.

The engines quivered into silence and other sounds intruded. Ambulance and fire-engine gongs, the rumble of falling bricks as a bulldozer began to clear a road beyond the docks.

The officer-of-the-guard stepped aboard just as Howard climbed down from the bridge and saluted despite the early hour. Howard saw Moffatt hurrying after him and asked, “Many casualties?”

The lieutenant was looking at the two German prisoners,
one being carried on a stretcher. He replied, “They're still coming in. Not really sure. Safe enough here though. I've never seen so much flak.”

Howard heard the coxswain bawling names selected for local leave and said, “But none of
our
people?”

“Only up at the temporary planning room. Some Wrens were killed. Four, I believe.” He was still staring at the Germans, doubtless the first he had seen of the enemy, like most of them. He realised Howard was waiting and added, “One was an officer. Poor girl had only recently transferred from down south.”

Moffatt was listening and said, “I've told my SBA to wait with the Jerries. The first lieutenant has sent for the provost people.” He watched Howard's face. Like a man at the foot of the gallows. He snapped, “Where did they take them—the Wrens, I mean?”

“Brought them down here, with the wounded ones. The sickbay is over …”

Moffatt retorted, “I
know
where it is.” To Howard he added, “I'll go.”

Howard walked past the quartermaster and sentry and down the brow, which had not even been properly secured yet. He did not see the curious faces, the orderly bustle of ambulances and helmeted police, their uniforms covered with dust.

“And where are
you
going, then?” It was a surgeon-lieutenant, a white coat slung over one arm.

“I'm
Gladiator
's commanding officer.” He saw the man flinch as if he had sworn at him. “I want to know about the Wren officer, so
don't waste my time!”

The lieutenant glanced at Moffatt who gave him a quick nod, then said, “One was killed, outright I should think; her friend was badly shocked, but she should be OK.”

Howard pushed past another white coat and opened the door. There were two girls lying on beds covered with blankets, their eyes closed, probably drugged.

The young second officer was sitting on a wooden bench, her head lowered, her coat and hair covered with flakes of plaster
and paint.

When she looked up Howard almost cried out, as if she were also badly hurt. Her shirt was soaked in blood, her hands and wrists too.

She stared at him for a long moment, her green eyes very bright in the hard glare of sickbay lighting. Then she began to shake, her whole body quivering, yet she made no sound. Moffatt watched, holding the door with his shoulder as the captain raised her to her feet and then very carefully pulled her against him.

“Celia, it's me. Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right now.” Useless, mindless words.

Then she looked up at him again, and there were tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks.

She spoke in a small halting voice, like a child trying to explain something she did not understand. “We were just sitting there. Jane had told me about the signal, about you and your group. The submarine.” She frowned, trying to remember. “The teleprinters were making such a din. We knew about the raid, but there was going to be a flap on. The work was nearly done anyway.” She began to shake more violently. “I—I think we both heard it coming. There was no sound afterwards. I suppose I was deaf or something. Then the emergency lighting came on and I tried to help poor Jane. She had no legs, and she was staring at me. I tried to help, but she was dead.”

“Over here, my dear.” Moffatt waited for Howard to guide her to another bed where she collapsed like a broken puppet.

Howard sat beside her, conscious of her bloodied fingers, which were entwined with his so tightly that he could barely feel them.

She looked at Moffatt for the first time, her eyes moving to the scarlet cloth between his two wavy stripes. “Doctor.” One word.

“Yes, that's me.” Together they raised her and removed her jacket. The sight of it must have brought back the horror of her friend's death.