The Cruel Sea (1951) (54 page)

‘It was damned lucky that someone noticed them on the radar,’ said Allingham.

‘Yes,’ said Vincent non-committally.

Scott-Brown looked at him. ‘Was that you?’

Vincent said: ‘I was officer-of-the-watch, yes.’

‘Nice work,’ said Allingham. ‘How many of them were picked up?’

‘Ten, I think. Ten or eleven.’

Allingham whistled. ‘Not so hot.’

‘What’s the medal he’s wearing?’ asked Scott-Brown.

‘The D.S.C.,’ said Holt, the midshipman, readily. ‘And the First Lieutenant’s got a mention.’

‘I wonder what they were for.’

Johnson looked up from his book. ‘They sank a submarine, coming back from Gibraltar. About a year ago. Took a lot of prisoners, too.’

Scott-Brown smiled. ‘You’ve got an accurate memory, Chief.’

‘She was a good ship,
Compass Rose
,’ answered Johnson seriously. ‘One of the best.’

‘Jolly bad luck losing all those chaps,’ said Holt. His young voice and ‘London’ accent were a curious contrast with Johnson’s rough north country tone. ‘I wonder what it’s really like, being torpedoed.’

‘Don’t you bother with it,’ said Raikes succinctly. ‘They say it’s not worth finding out.’

‘I’m not in the least inquisitive myself,’ commented Scott-Brown.

‘Me neither,’ said Allingham. ‘I just want to see Australia again.’

‘What a curious thing to want,’ said Holt innocently.

Allingham looked at him for a moment, and then said: ‘Young fellow, you want to buck your ideas up a bit. Didn’t they teach you about Australia at that slap-up school of yours?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Holt. ‘Convicts and rabbits.’

‘Now see here—’ began Allingham energetically.

‘I think,’ said Scott-Brown, intervening, ‘that your leg is being pulled, in the best Etonian manner.’

‘Oh . . .’ Allingham finally achieved a smile. ‘Isn’t there some system of flogging midshipmen in the British Navy?’

Johnson looked up again. ‘It went out a long time ago.’

‘I’m an old-fashioned sort of joker,’ said Allingham. ‘I’m thinking of bringing it in again.’

In the Captain’s cabin, Ericson was saying: ‘They’re not a bad lot at all, Number One. They’ve had a good deal of experience, anyway – about two hundred per cent more than
Compass Rose
started with, I should say.’

Lockhart smiled. ‘Don’t rub it in, sir.’

‘I remember you and Ferraby coming into that dockside hut, looking like a couple of white mice . . . You know, it’s funny to have an Australian in the ship again. Reminds me of Bennett.’

‘Yes,’ said Lockhart. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’

It was Holt who normally made the twice-a-week journey into Glasgow, to collect their secret signals from Operations and to see to the other odd jobs which attended the progress of
Saltash
towards her readiness for sea. After a couple of weeks, however, Lockhart found himself growing restless, as if he had spent long enough on board at one stretch and needed to move outside the atmosphere of routine and detail which was his particular and unending share of that progress. For a fortnight he had been wrestling with stores lists, alterations lists, accommodation lists, and the various complicated schemes which would keep
Saltash
in running order at sea and in harbour: he was finding it dry work, and he felt that he needed a break. He was also curious to learn what was going on in the outside world, the world that lay beyond the mouth of the Clyde which was still their closest contact with the sea: he had been away from the Atlantic for nearly four months, and the personal interest, the feeling almost of responsibility for the whole ocean, which had retreated under the deep hurt of
Compass Rose,
was now returning. It was time to be drawn into the swim again, time to find out what was going on and how the battle was faring; particularly so as they would be returning to that battle, with their brand-new contribution, in a matter of a few weeks.

At breakfast one morning, therefore, Lockhart said to Holt: ‘I’ll do the Glasgow trip today, Mid. I want some fresh air.’

Scott-Brown looked at him over the top of his newspaper. ‘That’s the one thing you won’t find in Glasgow.’

Lockhart smiled. ‘I want a change, anyway.’

‘Sir?’ said Holt. Lockhart turned to him inquiringly. ‘Sir, there’s a commissioned lovely in Operations—’

‘There’s a
what?
’

‘A Wren officer, sir.’

‘I prefer that version . . . What about her?’

‘They say she’s the prettiest girl in the Wrens. She’s got everyone at Operations tied up in knots.’

‘I don’t think it’s a Wren who’s responsible for that . . . What about her, anyway?’

‘I just thought I’d mention it, sir.’

Lockhart inclined his head gravely. ‘Thank you . . . Where can one see this paragon?’

‘In the Ops Room itself, sir. She practically runs the place.’

‘What were you doing in Ops Room, when the signal section is miles away, and on a different floor?’

The midshipman smiled engagingly. ‘Just keeping in touch, sir.’

Scott-Brown looked at him. ‘How old are you, Midshipman?’

‘Nearly eighteen.’

‘I can’t help feeling that you’ve got plenty of time ahead of you for this sort of thing.’

‘Don’t rush it,’ said Raikes. ‘Leave a little for when you come of age.’

‘In Australia,’ said Allingham, ‘he’d be married by now.’

‘I dare say he would be in England, if there were any justice.’ That was Scott-Brown again, precise and authoritative as usual. ‘But there are people who can evade their responsibilities almost indefinitely.’

‘One law for the rich,’ said Raikes.

‘I’m not rich,’ interrupted Holt.

‘You are doubtless well-endowed,’ said Lockhart. ‘It’s better really.’

‘Certainly,’ said Scott-Brown. ‘Some say that those are the only true riches.’

Lockhart nodded. ‘A lot of women think so.’

‘Particularly the rather older ones, of independent means already.’

‘This conversation is beyond me,’ said Holt.

‘Then there’s hope for you yet.’ Lockhart stretched. ‘Well, I shall be seeing your pretty Wren, as it happens, because I’m going to Ops Room to find out who’s winning the war.’

‘H’m,’ said Scott-Brown.

‘H’m,’ said Holt, on a more meaning note still.

‘Cough your fill,’ said Lockhart, preparing to leave. ‘I’ve got a good deal of leeway to make up.’

A barrage of coughing from the entire wardroom followed him down the passage to his cabin.

On this bleak March morning, the grey town was infinitely drab. Spring must come to Glasgow some time, thought Lockhart, as he made his slow way down Argyll Street, through the crowds of apathetic shoppers, and the depressed hangdog men waiting for the pubs to open; but it’s not happening yet, it simply hasn’t got anything to work on . . . He remembered the weeks he had spent in Glasgow, more than three years ago, when he and Ferraby were sharing a hotel room, and, in their time off from
Compass Rose,
had walked round the town doing their best to feel that they were gay young blades giving the place a treat. Glasgow had not suited that part, any more than it now suited the idea and the promise of spring; today it had the same dour unimpressionable aspect, the same futureless air, as he remembered from 1939. Presumably something had been happening in the meantime: babies must have been born, love must have been made, money must have been lost and won; but it did not show on the grimy wet pavements, nor in the desolate, half-empty shops, and all the inward-looking pallid faces he passed in the streets denied it utterly.

One is on one’s own here, he thought, staring momentarily into the window of a cheap jeweller’s shop, where tray upon tray of wedding rings waited for the customers that never came, the sparks that were never kindled. If a man did not carry, within his breast, the urgency, the flicker of risky life, the touch of wilful self-conceit that turned a body into a person, then he would never catch it anywhere in these ten square miles.

But perhaps it was the war . . . At the Naval Headquarters he collected a bundle of signals and some sealed envelopes, and then went down two floors and walked along a dark echoing corridor until he came to a room labelled ‘Staff Officer, Operations’. He knocked and opened the door.

One desk was empty: at the other was a girl. She was telephoning as Lockhart came in, and for a full half-minute, as she listened, her eyes rested on his face. He was very glad to have the enjoyment of them for so long, without interruption: they were large eyes, with long lashes, and they were the principal feature in a face of extraordinary distinction. This was not ‘the prettiest girl in the Wrens’, as the midshipman had phrased it – anyone could have
that
title. She was lovely: there were those eyes, and an oval face with high cheekbones and dark hair swept upwards, and a pale and flawless skin. What have you
not
got, wondered Lockhart, as he came nearer, and saw that the eyes were grey and that her hands were slim and beautifully kept. He looked down and away, not yet prepared to hold her glance indefinitely. There was a card on her desk, with ‘Second Officer Hallam’ printed on it, and underneath, ‘S.O.O.2’. ‘S.O.O.2’, he thought, without the least surprise: second staff officer in charge of operations: she must be good. But what else could she be, looking like that, lovely, intelligent, her trim tailored uniform as becoming as any ball dress ever made? I’m building this up, he thought, a trifle wildly, but by God I’m not inventing it . . . She said: ‘Send it to me, please,’ into the telephone, put down the receiver, made a note on a pad in front of her, and looked up again. Then she said: ‘Yes?’

Lockhart swallowed. ‘If it’s not illegal,’ he began uncertainly, ‘I wanted to have a look at the plot, and see what’s going on in the Western Approaches.’

‘Oh.’ She did not bother to look doubtful: she was simply cool and unimpressed. Probably she got a lot of people coming in here, on any damned silly excuse . . . ‘I don’t think I can let you do that,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s a security ban on the whole thing.’

Her voice was low, the words musically pronounced as if each one were worth saying and not swallowing.

‘I know that,’ answered Lockhart. ‘But you see . . . I was in it for the last three years, and now I’ve been ashore for nearly four months, commissioning a new ship, and I wanted to catch up with what’s been happening.’

He might have resented having to give this long explanation, if she had not been so clearly the kind of person who was entitled to an explanation for everything. Her grey eyes now rested firmly on his, without any hesitation. Somewhere behind all this there’s a woman, thought Lockhart: there must be. But she isn’t on view today. Not for me, anyway.

After a moment she said: ‘Which ship are you?’

‘Saltash.’

‘Oh yes, the new frigate.’ She smiled momentarily: the movement gave to her mouth an opening softness which made Lockhart tremble. It’s because I haven’t seen a girl like this for so long, he thought: and then, hell! there’s got to be
some
explanation. After a moment he heard her continue: ‘Haven’t you got a young man called Gavin Holt on board?’

‘Yes, indeed. Our midshipman. He practically sent his love to you.’

‘I practically return it . . .’ But that might be too close an approach, Lockhart realised immediately: in a minute she wasn’t going to like him at all. However, she went on amiably enough: ‘Who’s your captain? Or is it you?’

‘No. Commander Ericson.’

‘Oh yes. He’s rather a star, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

Her eyes went down to the rings on his sleeve. ‘Are you the First Lieutenant, then?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

She frowned, for a swift moment. ‘Isn’t that a bit unusual? Why not a command of your own?’

‘I wanted to stay with Ericson,’ answered Lockhart, somewhat rebelliously.

The eyebrows moved again, a fractional and intolerable lifting. ‘Scared of it?’

Lockhart flushed suddenly. Now we throw it all away, he thought. ‘If I were scared of having a command,’ he said, ‘I’m damned if I’d tell
you
about it.’

After a moment’s silence, the smile began to break in her face again, and now it reached her eyes, which were frankly drawing his.

‘Sorry,’ she said. The voice was soft, and a little laughing.
‘Really
sorry . . . Look – if you worked in this building, with a lot of peculiar young men all scheming for a rise in rank without a rise in the amount of work they’re doing, you’d become a bit suspicious yourself.’

‘It isn’t like that,’ said Lockhart inadequately.

‘I’m sure. Because I’ve just remembered who you are.’ There was a genuine, an exquisite contrition in her face now. ‘You and he were in
Compass Rose
together, weren’t you?’