Killing Ground (34 page)

“Howard's my best skipper.” Vickers waited. They were both too busy to waste time on a casual interview.

“Yes. He has a fine record. I see that his brother has just completed working-up his own escort group.” He got to the point. “I've put forward the suggestion that Howard be recommended for the Distinguished Service Order, with a gong of some sort for his Number One. God, I think the whole ship's company should be decorated for the risk they took.”

Vickers had been there when the survivors had been landed; the Chinese girl had been wearing a petty officer's reefer jacket, and had brought cheers from the onlookers and ambulance men.

“That would be just fine. Howard deserves it.”

Naish gave a dry smile. “I understand that you want him to be made-up to acting-commander, so you'll have a proper brasshat as your right-hand man. A bit young, but it would look good when he gets a new ship.”

Vickers grinned broadly. “The day you prize Howard away from his precious
Gladiator
will be
the day!”

He watched the man's hands tug at another file, as if he was reluctant to spoil his news.

“Something rather awkward has turned up.” He opened the papers and Vickers saw the familiar stamp of Admiralty, and the words
Top Secret
in red.

Naish continued, “An able seaman serving in Light Coastal Forces was killed in the North Sea a little time ago. His name was Hinton, not that it matters. After he was buried, an envelope was sent to C-in-C, the Nore—he was a Chatham rating, you see. Almost like a dying confession—he'd written it himself about a year ago.”

Vickers watched his friend's discomfort, a kind of distaste as he added, “This chap made certain it would be handed to the proper authority in the event of his death.”

“That's a rum sort of thing to do, Geoffrey.”

Naish looked at him steadily. “There's an officer in Howard's ship who was awarded the DSC for courage under fire when his MGB was sunk by enemy vessels. Not that far from where this poor chap was killed, curiously enough.”

“Lieutenant Bizley.” He could pick out the face quite easily. A competent enough officer, Howard had said. But a bit too clever for his own good.

“Yes, that's the name … It's probably all a waste of time—something that might bring a lot of unhappiness to others, a slur on the name of honour. This rating alleged that Bizley made no attempt to save the wounded, and the captain was still on the bridge, badly shot up when Bizley gave the order to bale-out. There were some others still trapped below, if that wasn't bad enough.” He leaned over with the decanter. “I think we can do with another tot.”

“But if nobody knows for certain …”

Naish glanced at him angrily. “Too many people know already. The admiral at Chatham, the Admiralty, and now the Special Branch chaps at Bath.”

“So the rubber-heel squad are already involved?”

“I'm afraid so. There was another survivor who got a Mention-in-Despatches. He is being traced. If he backs up this written testimony the whole rotten business will be out in the open.”

“Unlikely, I'd have thought. The other seaman would be in the muck up to his neck!”

“I read Howard's report on the drowning, that rating who was the brother of Bizley's late commanding officer. God knows what the family will have to say about that. Maybe it was only a coincidence. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“
I
knew about that, of course.” Vickers frowned. “My ships and their morale are more important right now than anything.”

“I agree. But if Bizley lied to play the hero there is no way I can put the lid on it. The boss would have my guts for garters!”

“Shall I have a word with Howard?”

“No. This is between us for the moment. You might mention the possibility of a DSO. I think he's more than earned it.”

They both relaxed and sipped their drinks. The worst had been faced up to. The machine would take over from now on.

“Can we expect anything new in the near future?” It felt cleaner to get back to the war.

Naish pressed his fingertips together. “A lot of troop convoys. The really precious cargoes. It will be all or nothing this year, I think, both here in the Atlantic and in the Med. The allies will have to make a stab at an invasion down there—to do that they need troops from everywhere. The Germans will know that too unfortunately—so it's business as usual, only more so!”

Just yards away in one corner of the large operations room, Second Officer Celia Lanyon was being shown over the layout by another Wren officer. Her name was Evelyn Major, a rather plain girl who had been a teacher at a fashionable girls' school in Sussex. She even referred to her Wren ratings as “chaps” when she spoke to them, and Celia could well imagine her waving a lacrosse stick and calling “Play up, you chaps!” But she certainly took her job at naval operations very seriously. Celia stared at
the busy girls on the moving ladders, others sorting the great clips of signals that continually came and went to the hundreds of ships out on the Atlantic at any given time. Her glance lingered on an RAF squadron leader and the other girl said quietly, “He's married. Anyway he's only a Met officer.” She flushed and exclaimed, “What a twit I am—your husband was a flier, wasn't he?”

Celia walked to another table where the little pointers were marked with the various warship names, anything from a battle-cruiser to a lowly Asdic trawler. She touched the one now shown to be in port.
Gladiator.

Evelyn did not miss it. “You know her captain, don't you?” She smiled. “Dishy.”

Celia stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he's such a nice bloke, a lot of my chaps get hot pants when he calls in for something. We heard he came to see you when Jane bought it.”

Celia relaxed slightly. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was better so. Too much grief could tear you apart.

“Yes, he did.” She lifted her chin with something like her old defiance. “As a matter of fact he telephoned me when the ship got in. To see if I was back from leave.” She hesitated, knowing what Evelyn might think. “We're going out to dinner this evening.”

“You know you've been put into my quarters to share the place?” She saw her nod and wondered if she should continue. “It's hard to be alone up here. I don't mind of course, can't see the point really. But should you want …” She looked embarrassed. “Well, I can always clear off for the night.”

“It's not like that.”

“Look, I know what you've been through, but I think you're exactly what he needs. There was some talk …”

“Talk? What about?”

“You must have seen it with the Fleet Air Arm boys. Full of bluster and dash, but shit-scared underneath. Round-the-bend, because there's nobody who cares enough to listen.”

“Afternoon, ladies!” Captain Vickers strode past, towering over both of them and leaving a tang of Scotch in his wake.

It gave Celia time to recover herself. She asked, “Commander Howard, you mean? Tell me—I must know.”

The girl called Evelyn touched her sleeve. “He's nearly cracked up more than once. Just take a glance at the wall-chart. Every one of those crosses is a ship on the bottom. Can you imagine what it's like out there, month in month out? Holding on, existing while others are being slaughtered?”

Celia stared at the solitary name
Ohio Star.
He had been so casual about it on the telephone, and then she had seen the news report in the paper. Not just obscure names any more. Not this time. Names she knew, names he had mentioned. His most of all.

“Thank you for telling me. I've been too busy feeling sorry for myself. And yes, I do want to share your billet.”

“If you feel it coming on again, my girl, just spill it all to your Auntie Evelyn!” She glared at a small Wren who was staring at her uncertainly. “What is it, old chap?”

“We thought you should know, ma'am. The C-in-C has just left Hoylake golf course and is on his way.”

“Thanks.” She grinned at Celia. “You'd better escape while you can. See you here tomorrow.
Sharp.”
She watched Celia walk away, then pause momentarily to glance up at the huge wall-chart, her lips slightly parted as if she were seeing something evil.

Second Officer Major said briskly, “Come on, chaps, no time for slacking, eh?”

But the mood eluded her, and all she could think about was those two lonely people. Together.

At such short notice the small restaurant, in what had once been one of the port's famous hotels, was not quite what Howard would have liked. One wing of the hotel had been burned out in an incendiary raid, and the empty, blackened windows greeted new arrivals like melancholy eyes. Once it thrived on the
great ships which plied the Atlantic between England and the Americas, but now, like so many of the servicemen who stayed or visited there, neither the hotel nor life as it had been lived in those pre-war days, would ever be the same again.

But the food was good, the fish especially fresh and well-cooked, although it was hard not to think of the trawler-men who still plied the sea, with far worse now than the weather to worry about.

Howard watched the girl, who sat directly opposite him, and wished they were quite alone. But the place was almost full, mostly naval officers with their female companions. It was fairly easy to distinguish between the wives and the lovers, and he wondered if Treherne ever came here.

She said, “I
am
enjoying myself.” She studied his face gravely. “It was good of you to ask me.” Then she smiled and he felt his heart leap. “Oh, come on, David—we're behaving like school children! I was so nervous when you rang I almost made some stupid excuse not to come.”

He laughed. “I was feeling like a junior midshipman!”

She asked, “What about now?”

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. He saw a few heads turn at nearby tables, but for once, did not care.

“I've thought about you a hell of a lot, Celia.” He saw her eyes widen at the easy use of her name. “Kept me going when …” He shrugged. “Well, when things got a bit grim.”

“It
was
bad, wasn't it?” She could hear her new friend's voice.
Because nobody cares enough to listen.
“Tell me. I want to be part of it, try to help.”

His voice was almost distant. “You need a break from it some-times—but you can never have it. Every month you give to the Atlantic is more experience, more understanding of the enemy you hardly ever see … It gets to you, and sometimes you want to give up.” He raised his eyes and looked directly into hers. “I expect you've seen the plot, the wall-charts, and all the other exhibits here. But they're ships you see being moved all over
the place, ships with men, flesh and blood, who have to take everything the enemy can pitch at them. The skipper of the ammunition ship, for instance.”

She glanced down as his fingers tightened around hers and knew he was back there, reliving it.

He said, “Tough as old boots. Just a handful of his men and his pretty Chinese wife floating on a mountain of explosives! But he'll be back at sea soon, you'll see.”

She said, “If I had known, if I had only understood how bad it was. You might have all been killed.”

He smiled. “As it turned out, the blessed ship went down all on her own. I doubt if the convoy knew anything about it when it passed safely through.”

An elderly waiter came to the table. “Will you try the sweet, sir?” His tired eyes moved between them and he wondered if he should offer them the room with the double bed and the coal fire, for an hour or so.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. But I should like some coffee.”

The waiter sniffed. “It's not
proper
coffee, like the old days, miss.”

As he shuffled away she said, “I wonder what they think
we
get?”

She realised that he was still holding her hand and when she looked at him she was startled to see the bright intensity in his eyes. “What is it? Tell me.”

He replied quietly, “We're friends, Celia, and I want it to be something much more than that.”

He expected her to pull away but she said steadily, “I'm still here, David.”

“When you came to see me—that first time, remember? I knew you were so unhappy, and my father said that you blamed yourself for what had happened. I don't see you could be blamed for anything like that. I was there, I saw it. It's something you have to harden your soul to, otherwise I, for one,
would be useless.”

The coffee came and they did not see it.

Then she said, “There was a big scene on the last night when I was with him.”

Her lip quivered and Howard said, “Don't talk about it if it troubles you so much. Nothing is worth that.”

She faced him in her direct way and said, “Well, I think it is. You see, I have always been a bit—sheltered, isn't that what they say of girls who won't play games? I went to an expensive school where about the only men I ever saw were a clergyman and the gardeners.” She shook her head with something like disbelief. “How I ever got the nerve to apply for the WRNS I'll never know. Dormitories packed with young girls all trying to outdo each other with their so-called adventures. A lot of them knew my father was a rear-admiral—well, he was a captain then—and they used to pull my leg about it. Was it just a game to me, they used to ask. I was never more serious about anything. I got my commission and went on attachment to the Fleet Air Arm … that was where I met Jamie. He seemed to be so full of life—nothing ever appeared to trouble him. I knew he had an eye for the girls—I think everyone knew. More than an eye in a few cases. Because I didn't ‘join in,' and maybe because I was an admiral's daughter … I seemed to attract him. It was a kind of madness.
I
was envied for once, admired even for the way I handled it. I don't know if it would ever have worked out. He got very depressed when they told him he was to be grounded. Flying was his life, I should have realised that sooner. Flying, and all the adoration that went with it.”