To Risks Unknown (13 page)

Picking up their caps they strode into the darkness and soon merged with the throng of figures which headed down towards the harbour and the waiting ships.

Sub-Lieutenant Mark Shannon stopped in a doorway and lit a cigarette. For a few moments he stood breathing deeply and inhaling while he waited for his muscles to relax and the flood of anger to disperse. He had just been to the military police post where the six stokers had been held for escort. It had been horrible and disgusting, and all the more so because of the watching soldiers. The military policemen had seemed genuinely amused by the stokers and stood grinning like apes while he had addressed the culprits.

The stokers had been battered and bleeding, their uniforms stained with drink and vomit, and one of them was so far gone that he had sunk to his knees in the middle of Shannon's speech. And all of them had been totally unrepentant. It was sickening, and so damned unfair.

He crushed out the cigarette and turned into a narrow street, his direction marked only by a lane of stars between the houses where the low roofs seemed to reach out and touch as if for mutual support.

No matter what he achieved, no matter how hard he worked, there was always the let down at the end of it. Shannon never spoke to anyone of his past life, for in truth he was genuinely ashamed of it. His upbringing in Manchester where his father, a big, shabby man, worked in one of the great cotton mills, and his mother fought an everlasting battle to keep her tiny terraced house from falling into total decay. He could not understand how his parents managed to appear so content with their existence, and his mother's persistent hopes for him to ‘settle down' and get a safe job like his father did nothing to help.

He had at least managed to avoid the mill, and after leaving school had become a shop assistant in one of the larger stores, where his dark good looks made up for his total lack of interest in the work. Day by day he watched the rich tradesmen and their wives across the counter, and the county people who came into town once a month to do their shopping, and out of his constant envy grew a burning determination to break away, to assert himself in his rightful place.

The war had been a godsend, and having volunteered for the Navy, which if nothing else would take him well away from Manchester, he settled down with a determination and a devotion which left his instructors baffled.

When serving as an ordinary seaman aboard a destroyer he had maintained a constant guard against any sort of companionship or intimacy which was offered by his companions. He said and did nothing which might show his superiors that he was one of the crowd and not of their sort, a potential officer.

In the end he had been recommended, and at the officers training establishment at Hove had again applied the same zeal as before, sharing nothing with his companions, avoiding the possible failures, and mixing only with those who could help him attain his goal. When others went ashore to relax Shannon stayed with his books and his manuals. When they avoided extra duty, he was always there, smart and willing. He had to succeed, and he did, with room to spare.

At first it had been unnerving to sit and drink with the very people he had once served and envied. But he was a good learner and was also a good listener. He even managed to overcome his northern accent, and unlike some junior officers he was ready to go on learning. For to Shannon it was only a beginning.

His last home leave had been a failure. Instead of being proud of his visible achievements his parents had been moisteyed and clinging. His father had even wanted to take him along to the Working Men's Club. He was that proud. Even to think of it made Shannon come out in a sweat.

His first appointment to a fleet destroyer based at Scapa Flow had been another let-down. Swinging around the buoy, with occasional dashes to sea as escort for a battleship or carrier. But no action, and no possible chance of further recognition.

When the call for volunteers for special service had arisen he had been the first to see it. His commanding officer, a grave and unassuming man, had studied him for some minutes and had recommended him without protest or congratulation. He was probably glad to see the back of him, Shannon often thought. Most likely jealous of the success he had had in Rosyth when there had been a cocktail party aboard. The other officers had had to be content with their wives for the most part. Shannon had knocked them sideways with two smart girls from the dockyard typing pool. He could see them looking at him now. The women with envy. The officers, well, they just looked.

He thought about the
Thistle
and felt the blood pumping through him as he relived the short action with the E-boat. Never in his life had he imagined it would be like that. It was sheer, breathtaking excitement, the noise and the vivid colours of tracers and shell-bursts making his body quiver as if from elation or some overwhelming sexual satisfaction. It made up for so much, and even helped to overcome the disgust he felt for the captain for not showing some of Scarlett's pride in the action. And Porteous, he was no better. He should never have been given a commission. He probably got it because of his father's influence. There could be no other reason. Fat, soft and stupid. How the men must laugh at him behind his back. It was humiliating, and no better than the stokers he had just left.

But Scarlett, now there was a man. He seemed to thrive on every challenge, to be head and shoulders above anyone he had ever known.

Well, he would show all of them, and Scarlett would be the one to help him. It just needed the moment, and that was bound to come. On his way to the M.P.'s post he had seen Scarlett driving a jeep with reckless speed over the rutted road, a laughing Wren officer beside him, her teeth shining with excitement and obvious pleasure. That was the way to live. The only way. People did not respect weaklings and those who touched their caps.

A figure stepped from a deep doorway and reached out for his arm. ‘Pardon, m'sieu, but I can make the introduction to a fine and lovely girl. My daughter, m'sieu, very pure, jus' sixteen. You would like her, m'sieu?'

Shannon stared at him wildly, caught off guard. That was the one experience still lacking, but the thought of ending up with some terrible disease pushed the tantalizing picture of a young girl with dark, rounded limbs far to the back of his mind.

He snarled, ‘Get away from me, you dirty bastard! I'll call a patrol if you're not out of my sight in three seconds!'

He strode on, his breathing fast and uneven. Who did he think he was speaking to, for God's sake? Some stupid sailor? He could wait his time. Someone like Scarlett's young Wren, for instance. He quickened his pace, his mind already busy on this new possibility.

Behind him the man in the doorway shook his head sadly and continued his vigil. He would not have long to wait.

The following morning found the moored
Thistle
going about her daily routine with only a procession of defaulters as evidence of the hangover from the night before.

Wemyss watched as Joicey marched the last man away from the little table which had been erected on the quarterdeck. Fortunately there was only the one serious case. The rest were either charged with being drunk and fighting, drunk and malicious damage in one café or another, or just plain drunk. The last one had almost got away with it, and but for a last minute lapse as he climbed aboard would be none the worse for his experiences.

Joicey's face had been inscrutable as he had read out the offence, his eyes on the bared head of the offending rating.

‘Finch, Able Seaman, sir. Urinatin' on the quarterdeck.'

‘Anything to say?' Wemyss wondered how
he
would have answered.

‘Don't remember nothin', sir.'

It was strange the things that sailors got up to, he thought.

Then he saw Crespin coming towards him and drew in his stomach. The captain looked pale and strained, and if half of what he had heard was true, had good reason for it.

He saluted formally. ‘Defaulters dismissed, sir.' He bit his lip. Crespin's face was quite impassive. Like a mask.

‘I'm afraid there's a deserter, sir.'

Surprisingly, Crespin remained unmoved. ‘Probably overstayed his leave, Number One. Sleeping it off somewhere, I expect.'

Wemyss shook his head. ‘I doubt it, sir. He went ashore alone, and some of the lads saw him cadging a lift on an army lorry.'

Crespin nodded absently. ‘Well, inform the authorities. He can't go anywhere from here.' He paused. ‘Who was it, by the way?'

Wemyss watched him steadily. ‘Able Seaman Trotter, sir.'

‘Trotter? I can't place him.'

‘The man you thought you recognized in Portsmouth, sir.'

Crespin swung round. ‘Are you sure?'

Wemyss nodded. He could not recognize this mood at all.

‘Well, find him, Number One. Use the duty watch if you like, but
find
him!'

Wemyss stared helplessly at the mass of shimmering buildings along the waterfront. ‘I'll do what I can, sir.'

Crespin seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘If a man deserts he must have a reason. And until I know what it is you'll go on looking, understand?'

He turned on his heel and Wemyss watched him walk towards the bridge.

What had got into him now? he wondered. Any deserter was a damn nuisance, but more danger to himself than the ship. And in a company like this one it was only to be expected.

He saw Porteous wandering aimlessly below the boat davits and called, ‘Here, Sub, I've got just the job for
you
!'

AFTER A FEW
days of fruitless search and enquiries the hunt for Able Seaman Trotter was called off, and with the sudden arrival of fresh orders he was all but forgotten as once more the little corvette prepared for sea.

Tied up as she had been to the listing wreck in Sousse harbour she had somehow faded into the backwater of preparations for invasion and battle, and it was with something like relief that Crespin studied his brief instructions and destination. While the Allies continued to mass men and shipping for what would certainly be the largest amphibious operation ever undertaken, the invasion of Sicily, the orders for
Thistle
seemed to indicate that she, at least, was to be pointed in the opposite direction.

Crespin could not ask Scarlett for further information as he had flown out of Sousse two days earlier, accompanied as always by Third Officer Forbes, who was now officially known as his Operations Officer, although on the
Thistle
's lower deck her real role on things was viewed with a more earthy appreciation and no little envy.

So beneath a cloudless sky the
Thistle
left harbour and sailed east, her destination Benghazi some thousand miles deeper into the Mediterranean.

Benghazi had never been much of a place, and after months and months of bitter fighting with the tide of desert war swaying back and forth across and around it like an iron juggernaut it would be even less hospitable than Sousse. But the four days it took the ship to reach there had a marked effect on her company. The placid sea, a sky empty of prowling aircraft and a busy daily routine did more to pull the men together and build up a new camaraderie than Crespin had dared to hope.

The ship had a kind of jaunty independence which transmitted itself to her company, and her imposed isolation strengthened rather than dampened the spirits of even the most pessimistic men aboard. The stark memories of Pantelleria faded with the ship's wake, and some men probably believed that the top brass no longer knew what to do with the
Thistle
and that she would play out her existence, detached and unreachable, until the end of the war.

Within an hour of the anchor splashing into the clear water below the town nearly everyone aboard knew that any such belief was an illusion. Crespin went ashore in the motor boat to find Scarlett, and after searching amidst the ruined buildings for someone in authority was driven at high speed in a Bren carrier by a giant Australian corporal who punctuated his savage gear changes with questions about the war, the next supply convoy, women, and the possibilities of taking on the
Thistle
at cricket, while Crespin clung to the hot metal side of the vehicle, half blinded by dust and almost too shaken to reply.

On the outskirts of the town the Australian slewed the Bren carrier to a halt and pointed towards two large canvas tents.

‘There you are, Cap'n! That's where your fellah hangs out.' He grinned and mopped his face. ‘We've had him here before, of course. The lads call this outfit Scarlett's Circus!'

It was certainly a strange place to find part of the Royal Navy, Crespin thought. Around the two tents were scattered vehicles of every size and make, British, Italian and German. The only thing they had in common was that they were all wrecks, salvage from battlegrounds which had been towed to this point on the map to resemble one great junk yard.

A few half-naked seamen were busy with acetylene burners on some of the wrecks, and others were checking over piles of salvaged weapons and freshly cut slabs of armour plate as if they were building their own arsenal, while a fierce, red-bearded R.N.R. lieutenant strode from one party to the next issuing orders and looking over the finds with the zeal of a scrap-dealer.

He saw Crespin watching him and hurried across, darting a suspicious glance at the Australian before saying, ‘Glad to see you, sir. I'm Moriarty, engineer officer of this outfit, God help me!'

Crespin smiled. ‘I was just wondering what you were doing.'

Moriarty nodded soberly. ‘You may well ask. Commander, pardon me, I mean
Captain
Scarlett is no easy man to work for. But to give him his due he doesn't spare himself either.' He pushed his cap to the back of his head. ‘I've been up here for weeks, and the Army has been helping quite a bit to collect all this stuff from the desert.' He waved vaguely towards the sea. ‘Scarlett has got his private fleet here, too. An old Greek schooner with an engine straight out of the ark, a caique, an armed motor launch which had been abandoned on a sandbar after being shot up by the Luftwaffe, and which
I
had to put together with my own hands, and an armed yacht.' He sighed. ‘The latter is the best of the bunch. It belonged to a French colonial official and was taken over by the Italians. Then Jerry commandeered it from his gallant ally and converted it to a patrol boat, and
we
captured it when Rommel did a bunk.'