Killing Ground (29 page)

A tabby cat was dozing against the sun-warmed glass of a window and she paused to stroke it, to rouse a protective purr.

She murmured, “They didn't hear a thing, Stripey. May God protect both of them.”

Captain Ernle Vickers stood, arms folded, while with several other officers he studied the new arrival at Liverpool.

“Well, gentlemen, she may not win any beauty contests, but in her and others to follow I think we will turn the battle of the Atlantic in our favour.”

Howard examined the escort carrier moored on the opposite side of the dock. Her flight-deck was alive with activity, with
figures crawling around and under the neat line of Swordfish torpedo bombers which had been flown-on at sea. The Swordfish, with its fixed undercarriage and open cockpits, looked like something from the Western Front, but it was an endurable and tough aircraft, and its relative slow speed and short take-off made it ideal for depth-charging submarines, and for reconnaissance far out in the Atlantic where no air cover had been possible before.

Compared with the more majestic fleet carrier she was small—about half her bigger sister's size—but in the dock she seemed like a leviathan, squat and outwardly top-heavy.

Howard said, “So we and the Americans are going to close the gap quite soon then, sir?”

Captain Vickers took out his pipe and rubbed it against the side of his broken nose, so that flesh seemed to move across his face unhindered. He looked at him searchingly, secretly surprised that Howard looked so fresh. He had been down south and back again within three days; that was something, with wartime train hold-ups. Word had reached him that Howard was badly shaken-up by almost continuous duty in the Atlantic. If it was true, he seemed to have overcome it.

“Next week, in fact.”

Vickers looked at the resting escorts, their hulls showing rust and scrapes from too many miles, too long at sea.

“The cargoes are going to get more valuable, David. More men for the next phase of the war. Troop convoys from Canada and the USA, from New Zealand and Australia. The South Africans have been in the desert all the time, so they at least should get there safely.”

“Where,
sir?”

Vickers laughed loudly. “Anyone's guess. But it's no secret that we'll get nowhere in stalemate. You always need the infantryman with his boots firmly planted on enemy soil before you can start thinking in terms of victory. That's where we come in, where most of you have been since the first weeks of war.”

They fell into step together. Howard was quite tall, but beside the broad-shouldered ex-rugger player he felt like a boy.
Kinsale
must have a larger bunk in her sea cabin than any he had seen.

Treherne was waiting with a tubby little man in overalls, who was wearing a bowler hat.

He saluted and said, “Trouble, I'm afraid, sir.”

Vickers must have ears everywhere. “The Asdic, Mr Robbins?”

The bowler hat nodded sadly. “Big job, sir.”

Vickers regarded him coldly. “I want
Gladiator
ready to sail with the group. You've got twenty-four hours. God, that should be enough!”

“Well, I expect the union will have a moan about it, sir.”

Vickers gave a fierce grin. “Well, the
union
isn't putting to sea, is it?”

“I'll do what I can, Captain Vickers.” He added gloomily, “It's asking a lot, you know.”

Vickers winked over his shoulder at Howard. “Shouldn't have joined!”

He took Howard aside and added, “That spot of bother over the seaman who was drowned last trip.” His eyes were very steady. “Bad luck, David. But set against what your team achieved, and the sinking of another U-Boat—well, it's not worth stirring up the mud at some enquiry or other. The group has got a good name already; morale is higher than it ever was in the past, eh? Give the lieutenant a bottle and leave it at that. I'll keep out of it.”

Howard thought of Leading Seaman Fernie's anger and contempt for Bizley. “I'll do what I can, sir.”

“You do that. I'll see you in
Blackwall
this evening. Gin pendant's going up. Celebrating the kill.” He strode away, touching his oak-leaved peak with his pipe-stem as he returned a seaman's salute.

Howard shook his head. If Vickers was ever troubled he never showed it. Like the admiral, he had once said, “I want results, not excuses. And it starts right here with me!”

He walked along the side of the dock looking down at his ship, trying not to think of what might happen next.

She had walked with him to the station at Hampton Court. They had spoken very little and had paused in the centre of the bridge as he had done to look at the swans, the fiery sunset on the palace's historic windows. A moment of peace. Probably the first each of them had known for a long, long time.

She had said quietly, “Take care of yourself when you cross London. There's bound to be a raid tonight.” She had shivered. “A bomber's moon.”

They had stood side by side staring at the ticket barrier, the rear end of the train with many of its doors open as passengers climbed aboard. Mostly servicemen, Howard had noticed. Khaki and air force blue. Cheerful grins, set against tears and clasped hands. Two redcaps stood beside the ticket inspector, running their eyes over the servicemen, always suspicious; looking for a deserter, a drunk, anything to break the monotony.

But the crowd was getting smaller, and the doors were slamming shut, while the guard unrolled his green flag and eyed the station clock.

So much to say. And there was no more time. Perhaps there never was.

She had said, “You'd better go. You've got two minutes.” She had turned suddenly and looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “What you asked, what you said …” She put her arms round him and somewhere a passenger gave a shrill wolf-whistle, finding safety in anonymity.

Howard answered, “I told you. I'm in love with you. There's been nobody else. There couldn't be now.”

She had nodded. “I shall see you very soon. I'm all right now.” She had smiled, and he was reminded instantly of the terrible dream.
“Really.”

Then they had kissed. It was not an excuse, a last opportunity; it was simply something which seemed to happen, a natural response. The same way she had taken his arm in the walled
garden.

“Come along, sir.” The ticket inspector had smiled. “If it was
me,
I'd stay!”

Howard had hurried away and got into a compartment. When he leaned out of the window the train was already gathering speed; he waved until they passed the level-crossing and the station was out of sight.

Here, in the midst of a noisy dockyard it was still so hard to believe that it had really happened. When she returned to Liverpool might it all come back to haunt her?

He thought too of her dead husband, her mother's words.
Jamie was in love. With himself.
It was still no answer to his question, or what that last quarrel had been about.

Treherne watched him from the brow. He had also noticed the difference. The missing lines at each corner of his mouth, no quick impatient gestures when things went wrong. The new doctor had told him nothing, but he could put most of it together for himself. A woman then. One of the Wrens.

Treherne saw someone hovering by the lobby door. It was Vallance, a tray still in his hand, which was unusual to say the least. Treherne had often thought that the PO steward would make a perfect valet, a gentleman's gentleman.

“Something wrong, PO?” He kept his voice low in order that the captain should be at peace for awhile longer.

“Yessir.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It's not my place, sir …”

Then it was trouble. Mess bills unpaid; wardroom silver, what there was left of it, stolen to be made into brooches by the engine-room staff.

“Spit it out.”

Vallance took a deep breath and said in a quietly outraged voice, “The gunnery officer, Mister Finlay, just piped up that he's got engaged, sir.” He screwed up his eyes to remember it as it had happened in
his
wardroom. “Mister Bizley was, sort of out of it, y'see. Sir.”

Treherne nodded. “Go on.”

Vallance said, “So Mister Bizley calls out, ‘Who would want to marry
you?'”

“My God.”

“So with that the gunnery officer snaps back, ‘At least I don't go round getting our own people killed!'” Vallance went on unhappily, “They stood shoutin' at one another, and then Mister Bizley aimed a punch at him. Guns, I—I mean Mister Finlay threw a glass of Plymouth gin over him by return.”

Treherne tried to smile. “I'm glad you noted the brand, Vallance.” But it was not a laughing matter. “Who else was there?”

“Everyone, sir, 'cept the Gunner (T).”

Treherne felt the anger boiling up like thunder. In the merchant service it was very different. He had known boatswains and several bully boy mates who would use their fists rather than make a big yawn out of it. This was not the merchant service however, and
Gladiator
needed her internal unity as much as her weaponry and engines if she was to beat the Atlantic.

Finlay was a fine gunnery officer, but nobody was worth that much. As for bloody Bizley, the
hero,
he knew what he would like to do with him.

The quartermaster, his eyes popping from what he had seen and heard, whispered, “Cap'n's comin' aboard, sir.”

“Thanks, Laird.”

He met him at the top of the brow and saluted.

Howard glanced along the deck, deserted now but for a couple of electricians and a man with a teapot.

“Trouble, eh?”

Treherne stared at him. “I was just going to deal with it.”

Howard gestured to the dockside. The wardroom scuttles were open. “I'd have thought they could hear the row in Birkenhead!” Surprisingly he reached out and touched his sleeve. “Not your fault, Number One. It's been coming, and like you, I had hoped it would sort itself out.” He nodded to Vallance.
“Bring me a drink aft, will you?”

“How was London, sir?” Vallance was so relieved to see him he could not restrain himself. “Still showin' the flag, sir?”

Howard thought of the great open spaces outside Waterloo Station where there had once been many streets of little back-to-back houses; a market too, where even in wartime you could get almost anything from a tin of fruit to a puppy. All gone. Wiped out, not even the rubble left, only the kerb stones which marked where people had once played and lived, brought up kids, just so this would happen to them.

“Several flags, I should think.” He turned and looked at Treherne. “I'll not throw away all that we've learned and endured because of childish behaviour from those who should know better. I'll see both of them. Informally, for the moment anyway, Guns first.”

It was not a happy few minutes which he gave to Finlay.

“I have seen you on my own so that I can speak my mind.” He did not ask the lieutenant to sit down. Very deliberately he took a swallow of Vallance's Horse's Neck, in his special glass. That had been another thing to fan his anger. Vallance had been embarrassed, ashamed even, when others in his position would have hidden their grins until later.

“You have become a very good gunnery officer in this ship. You can be proud of the way you have pulled your department together. Amateurs for the most part, and you have turned them into gunners. That is all I need from you, except your loyalty, see?”

Finlay exclaimed, “It's not that, sir—he got under my skin …”

“And you forgot that you are one of my senior officers. Your childish behaviour comes back to
my
door, or don't you care any more?”

“Care, sir?”

“Well, you
are
applying for a transfer, I believe?”

Finlay's accent had become suddenly more pronounced. “It's nothing definite, sir.”

Howard did not raise his voice; he did not have to. “And you call that loyalty, do you? It's not what most people would term it. I know it's been hard for everyone, not just you—and it will get tougher, I shouldn't wonder. So if you're not prepared to show the responsibility you received with your commission, then by God I'll see you
are
replaced, and you can forget the transfer! I would make certain that you never trod the deck of any ship where you would abuse that responsibility! Now
get out!”

Treherne entered and looked at him admiringly. “I could see the steam under the door, sir!”

Howard ran his fingers through his hair.
“And
I forgot to congratulate him on his engagement.”

Treherne watched him, waiting to see the strain returning.

“I have to ask before you speak to Bizley—and I know it's a liberty—but what's she like?”

Howard eyed him severely and then smiled. “I love her.” So simply said.

“Told her, sir?”

“Yes.” He looked at the empty glass and said, “Tell Vallance.” He let out a great sigh. “Then send in
Mister
Bizley. It's high time he was told a few home truths.”

Lieutenant Treherne clattered up a bridge ladder and paused to stare across the spray-dappled screen. Two days out from Liverpool, with the ocean reaching away like a shark-blue desert. No land in sight, no ships either. In spite of all Vickers's threats and persuasion the work-force had not completed the repairs on time, and there had been other delays while
Gladiator
had been refloated and prepared for sea.

Thirty-six hours behind schedule they had steamed down St George's Channel and then west into the Atlantic, the Irish coastline a mere purple blur lost in distance.

Treherne had been right round the ship, checking all the departments against the new watchbills and duty rotas he and the coxswain had prepared to make allowances for promotions
and replacements.