Atlantic Fury (12 page)

‘How?'

‘With Cliff.' She turned to her father. ‘Mr Ross did the jacket for Cliff's book.'

‘Your daughter seemed under the impression I was a journalist.' A shadow crossed his face and he didn't smile.

‘You like it black or white?' she asked me.

‘Black,' I said and she handed me my coffee and then switched the conversation by asking Ferguson if there was any more news of the Russian trawlers.

‘Coastal Command had a Shackleton out yesterday. They didn't see anything.'

Field shifted in his seat and reached for his coffee. ‘It's just a newspaper story, Mike.'

‘Not necessarily. Visibility was bad and with the cloud base down to between four and six hundred the search was very restricted. There is no doubt whatever that they do have trawlers operating in the area.'

‘So have the French, the Belgians, the Portuguese. Anyway, what information could they hope to get? It would be different if the range was operating. If they could check the accuracy of fire of the various units.…'

‘That's not half so important, sir, as the fact that we're getting out of Laerg. It means we've developed some other method of pin-pointing the fall of shot – a long-range tracking service. Moscow would be very interested to know that.'

‘But, my dear fellow, they wouldn't need trawlers to tell them we're getting out. Any crofter in Harris …' The discussion didn't concern me and I took the opportunity to examine the room which I found much more interesting. The walls were bare; no pictures, no photographs even, nothing to give a clue to Field's past. Only that bearskin rug. I wondered where that had come from. It was old, the head marked by burns. Had he shot it or was it something they'd picked up in a junk shop? The door to the kitchen had been left half open. His Service greatcoat hung there, the two pips a reminder of the incongruity of his age and rank. Below it hung a quilted jacket rather like a parka; green once, but now faded and worn and rather dirty.

My eyes turned to the daughter then; the nose, the blue eyes – I could see the likeness. But the mouth was softer, the skin darker. I wondered who her mother had been. She was perched on the arm of Mike Ferguson's chair and she looked strikingly beautiful, her face glowing in the lamplight, the skin almost nut-coloured and soft with the bloom of youth. I felt my blood stirring as it hadn't done since I'd left the Aegean. Her glance met mine and she smiled quickly, a wide-mouthed smile that had her father's warmth, lighting up her whole face. ‘So you've got your wish; you're going to Laerg.'

‘Yes.'

It was then that Field gave me the clue to his identity. ‘Laerg,' he said, and there was a wistfulness in his voice. ‘I shall miss it. One of the plums, being Education Officer here, was that I got out to Laerg once in a while. I should have been going next Saturday …' He shrugged. ‘But I can't complain. I've had three tours.' He smiled. ‘I'm envious, you see. It's an experience, particularly the first time. And, of course, the cliffs – there's some of the finest rock climbing …'

‘It's the birds he's really interested in,' his daughter said quickly.

But she was too late. That reference to climbing. I knew who he was then, for his name had been in all the papers. Pictures of him, too. Some time in the early fifties it must have been for we were still on the Far East run and the papers had come aboard with the mail at Singapore. He'd been the leader of one of the Himalayan expeditions. I couldn't remember the details, or the name of the peak, only that he'd been brought down from somewhere near the summit just before the final assault. The official statement had simply announced that he'd been taken ill, but the newspapers had reported it in a way that made it obvious there was more to it than that. As though conscious of my thoughts, he turned away from me. ‘Any news of McGregor?' he asked Ferguson.

‘An emergency operation. I fixed Bob up with a link through to Command on the Military Line just before I left Camp. He's doing it under instruction.'

‘How horrible for him.'

He glanced up at the girl. ‘Aye, an the laddie could have been in hospital hours ago. As it is …' He shook his head. ‘Bob's not happy about it; nobody is.'

‘You think the man's going to die?' Field asked.

‘Frankly, yes. I don't think he has a hope. When Bob's finished with him, the poor devil's got ten hours or more being bucketed about oh a landing craft and then a flight to the mainland. If the Colonel had only left it to Ronnie Adams …'

‘The helicopter might have crashed.'

‘It might. But I doubt it. The worst the down-draughts have done to a helicopter so far is slam it on the deck so hard the rotor blades were shivered and split for about a yard from the tips. Anyway, it's for the pilot to assess the risk. That was Braddock's view, and for once I agreed with him. Not that either of them asked my views. They were too busy hammering away at each other.'

‘When was this?'

‘Just before dinner.'

‘And you think Standing was wrong to cancel the flight?'

Mike Ferguson hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, I do; considering what was at stake – a man's life.'

Field sighed. ‘Every man makes his decisions in the light of his own experience, Mike. Did you know that Colonel Standing once saw a helicopter crash? It caught fire and the chaps inside it were burned alive, right before his eyes. It makes a difference, you see.'

‘And he told you about it?' Ferguson smiled. ‘You've become a sort of father confessor to us all, haven't you.' There was affection as well as admiration in his voice.

‘To some, yes. Not all.'

‘Meaning Braddock?'

‘Perhaps.' He leaned forward and poked at the fire. ‘Man is a complex mechanism, each individual a solitary unit afraid of loneliness. That's something you'll discover as the years pass. Most of them seek escape from loneliness by membership of a group. The herd instinct is very strong in all of us. But there are always a few rogues – some of them men of real stature, others forced by circumstances to live solitary lives.' I thought he was speaking from experience then. The gentle voice sounded tired, weighed with weariness.

‘They needn't be solitary if they're happily married,' his daughter said. And she added, ‘I saw Laura this morning. She looked almost haggard.'

‘Laura could never look haggard.' Her father smiled.

‘Well, strained then. She knows what's going on. Ever since Major Braddock was posted up here …'

‘Braddock's only doing his job.' Field glanced at me. ‘I'm afraid Mr Ross must find this very boring.' It was a signal to close the ranks in the face of the outside world, and after that the talk was general. We left just before ten, and Ferguson drove fast, anxious to contact Laerg and get news of the LCT.

He was reluctant to talk about Field at first, but when he realised I'd already guessed his background, he admitted I was right. ‘That business … it pretty well broke him up at the time. His whole life was climbing.'

‘What did he do – afterwards?'

‘Took to drink. That's why there's no liquor in the house.' And after a moment, he added, ‘Maybe you can't understand it. But I can. I know how he must have felt – and it's not something you can control. It just takes charge …' We were on the hill above Leverburgh then and he slammed into lower gear. ‘Damned shame. To escape it all he came up here, back to the islands where he was born. Then the Army arrived and that gave him the opportunity to do something useful again. He's all right now as long as Marjorie keeps an eye on him.'

I asked him then why she was so worried about newspaper men bothering him after all this time.

‘Oh, it's his wife,' he said. ‘He's quite a story – wartime hero, then all through the Karakoram and up into Mongolia. Now she's found out he's buried himself in the Army and she's threatening to put the Press on to him again if he doesn't go back to her. She's a bitch and no good to him – or to Marjorie.'

I thought he was referring to the girl's mother. But he said, ‘No, this is his second wife I'm talking about. The first was an islander like himself. From Pabbay, I think, though he met her out in Egypt. She was a nurse in the hospital where he was sent after getting himself shot up in a Long Range Desert Group foray. Unfortunately she was killed in a plane crash. If she'd lived it might have been different. They were very happy, I believe.' And after that he was silent and we drove down into the camp.

Back in my room I found a note waiting for me. The trip to Laerg was off.
Owing to bad weather L8610 will not be sailing on the morning tide
. It was scribbled on a sheet of paper torn from a notebook and was signed Fred Flint. I had seen a light in Cliff Morgan's quarters as we drove in and I walked across.

He was seated at the keyboard and didn't look up as I entered. He had the earphones clamped to his head and his mind was concentrated on another world. I sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. He didn't notice me until he looked up to change the tuning. He started to speak, but then held up his hand, listening. After a moment he pushed up one earphone. ‘You've heard the news, have you?'

‘Captain Flint left a note in my quarters. Eight-six-one-o won't be sailing.'

‘I wasn't referring to that. I thought as you were with Ferguson … He's calling him now.'

‘Who?'

‘Four-four-Double-o – Captain Kelvedon. He's in trouble. I picked him up on Voice about half an hour ago asking for Major Braddock. He's got himself stuck on a falling tide. Went in to pick up McGregor … Ah, here we are. Listen!' He switched in the loudspeaker and a metallic voice broke into the room. It was Ferguson, ‘…
ask him, but I'm quite sure he wouldn't agree to Adams attempting it in these conditions. I don't think Adams would go, anyway
.'

‘
The Doc here says there isn't much time …
'

‘That's Kelvedon,' Cliff whispered.

‘…
and I can't get out of here for another five hours at least. We're grounded hard
.'

‘
What happened
?'

‘
It was the wind partly. We had it westerly, bang on the nose most of the way across. Then it suddenly backed. I'd never have attempted it, but Fairweather told me the man wouldn't live if they tried to bring him off in a dory. It was dark as hell and quite a sea running, but I thought I could edge in close enough to drop the ramp with the kedge well out astern. Maybe it was badly laid. And that sandbank. I think it must have been building up without our realising it. The sea slewed us round and we touched the edge of it. Two hours after high water. When we came to winch off we found we were stuck fast
.'

‘
I see. And what about McGregor
?'

‘
He's back in his bed in the hospital hut. But Fairweather doesn't think he'll last long. The only hope is to get him out by helicopter
.'

‘
Okay. I'll tell the Colonel. What about you, now? Do you want me to have the Navy stand by
?'

‘
Oh Lord, no. We're pounding a bit and it's not very comfortable. But the wind's veered now. Seems all over the bloody place. But if it stays where it is, north of west, we'll get off all right on the flood
.'

‘
Fine. Call me again if there's anything fresh to report. Good luck
.' And then he was calling Laerg. ‘
Are you there, Laerg? Base calling Laerg
.'

‘
Laerg here
,' a Scots voice answered. ‘
Go ahead, Base
.'

‘
Captain Ferguson here. Keep your set manned throughout the night. I may want to contact Captain Fairweather later
.'

‘
Very good, sir
.'

‘
Is Captain Pinney there
?'

There was a pause and then a new voice answered, ‘
Pinney here
.'

‘
How does the landing craft look from the shore, John
?'

‘
Slewed off about twenty degrees and grounded on that ridge of sand. Nowhere near the ramp
.'

‘
And the sea
?'

‘
Moderate. Wind's getting round into the northwest, so the beach is sheltered, but there's still a biggish swell coming in. The old can's grinding a bit, but she'll be all right. It's this poor devil McGregor I'm worrying about. Just nothing but bad luck
.' The voice sounded tired. ‘
Do what you can, will you? Have a talk with Major Braddock
.'

‘
He's down at Leverburgh trying to get the quay cleared
.'

‘
Well, send a car down for him, see if he can persuade the Colonel. This boy's going to die if somebody doesn't take a chance
.'

‘
Okay, John. Leave it with me
.'

Cliff Morgan switched off and the room was suddenly dead as he reached automatically for a cigarette. He lit it, gulping a mouthful of smoke deep into his lungs, breathing it out through his nostrils. ‘Not good, is it? And the wind playing tricks like that …' He noticed his old cigarette still burning in the ashtray at his elbow and stubbed it out. ‘I don't like it when I feel like this. The number of times I've sat talking to some poor beggar riding the night sky with a load of trouble, or tapping out a message with the radio shack turning somersaults around him. I've been right too often, you see. There was that trawler,
Grampian Maid
. Nobody else could raise her and I was relaying messages until black ice turned her turtle. And a Boeing up over the Arctic – ice again and I was with him up to the moment when his message ceased abruptly. I'm not like an ordinary “ham”, you see. I've got something to give them – the weather. Ships, aircraft, they live by the weather, and if you know as much about it as I do …' He sighed and scratched himself under the arm, his hand burrowing inside his shirt. It was an unconscious reflective gesture. ‘You'd better go and get some sleep. And have your things packed ready.' He was leaning forward, tuning the dials of the radio again.