Pride and the Anguish (3 page)

He heard the door close and Hammond's footsteps retreating down the passageway, and then with slow deliberation Trewin pulled on his shirt and shorts and sat down heavily on the bunk. Would he always be ashamed of his scalded body? How much longer could this ridiculous thing last? When there was so much else to worry about and remember. With a frown he picked up his cap and let himself out of the cabin.

As he walked aft along the narrow sidedeck he noticed that the whole ship seemed to have come alive since he had climbed aboard just two hours earlier. It was strange to see Chinese faces beneath British caps and to hear the unfamiliar chatter of their voices.

There were British ratings, too, well tanned and healthy looking, who watched him pass and tried to catch his eye. Trewin ignored them. There would be time enough to get to know the men behind the faces, he thought. All the time in the world if Hammond's sketchy description of the
Porcupine
's duties was to be believed. Chugging up and down the Malayan coast. Back and forth, back and forth. God, he thought savagely, what they could do with all these men at home, or in the Mediterranean!

He found Hammond beside the gangway his telescope trained on a fast-moving motor boat. He said, “Here he comes.” He glanced at a tall, bearded seaman. “Man the side, Jardine!” To Trewin he added quickly, “The captain always likes to see the gangway properly manned.” He sounded nervous.

Trewin stood aside as the boatswain's mates moistened their pipes on their lips, and a small Chinese rating pulled on a pair of white gloves and stood at the foot of the ladder. Trewin felt dazed. It was more like the quarterdeck of a battleship than a minute gunboat!

He watched narrowly as the small motor boat turned in
a sharp arc and dashed smartly to the gangway. A boathook gleamed in the bright sunlight, and as the screw surged astern the boat sighed to a halt with the foot of the ladder exactly opposite the cockpit.

Trewin saw Hammond watching him expectantly and raised his hand in salute. The side party sprang to attention, and as the pipes trilled in salute the
Porcupine
's captain stepped briskly on to the deck.

Commander Greville Corbett was slight in build and incredibly neat. He was dressed from top to toe in impeccable white drill, and wore a line of bright decorations as well as a sword which he now carried against his thigh like a pointer. It was hard to guess his age, and in the shade of his oak-leaved cap his face was entirely devoid of expression. But Trewin's attention was immediately drawn to his eyes. They were blue. Not the colour of the sea or the sky, but bright and pale like two polished stones. Even now they were moving swiftly around the motionless side party as if completely independent of the neat, rigid frame which carried them.

The captain said, “You must be Lieutenant Trewin.” He did not wait for a reply, nor did he relax, but added sharply, “The forrard awning is
slack,
Hammond!” The eyes paused on the sub-lieutenant's face. “There is also a smudge on the hull below ‘A' gun.” The sword scabbard tapped the deck. “I will not have the native seamen throwing their gash over the side! Deal with it at once!”

Hammond saluted and stuttered, “Yes, sir! I told the chief bosun's mate to check the awnings earlier…”

Corbett's mouth opened and closed in crisp, precise movements. “
You
are the officer-of-the-day, not the chief bosun's mate! So try not to cover your neglect in excuses!” He watched the wretched Hammond hurry away and then remarked calmly, “Come with me, Trewin.”

Trewin followed the other man along the deck and up the ladder to the bridge. From behind he could see that Corbett's hair
was grey beneath his cap but his figure and movements were as fresh as young Hammond's.

Corbett walked swiftly through the deserted chartroom and threw open the door of his day cabin. Without speaking he unclipped his medals and laid them on a desk and then removed his sword. Then he pressed a small bell and stared unwinking at the other door.

A small Chinese man appeared as if by magic, and Trewin had the crazy idea that he spent his whole life lurking behind that door just waiting for such a summons.

Corbett removed his cap and handed it to the steward. He said, “Coffee.” Nothing else.

Trewin stared at the back of Corbett's neat head, feeling suddenly untidy and awkward in spite of his shower and fresh shirt. Then with a start he realised that Corbett's pale eyes were watching him from a bulkhead mirror.

The captain said, “Well, if you are to be my first lieutenant, Trewin, you must certainly start by clamping down on slackness.” Then he turned, his tanned features relaxed and composed. “I have just been with the admiral. I can't watch things here
all
the time.”

Coffee was brought and poured in complete silence, then as the messman departed Corbett sat behind the desk and opened a folder of signals. He said, “I'll just get up to date. You sit and enjoy the coffee.”

Trewin sat. For a moment longer he watched Corbett's inclined head as he leafed slowly through the pile of signals, then he turned his attention to the cabin, as if to glean some other impressions of this extraordinary man.

It was a very spacious cabin indeed. High up on the superstructure it somehow managed to stay cool and shaded, and both furniture and fittings were in perfect order. There was a bookcase near Trewin's chair full of expensive, leather-bound books. Most of them seemed to be concerned with the lives of famous admirals, Rodney, Nelson and many more, and there
were several outdated ones on astral navigation.

On the desk he could see a framed photograph of an unsmiling woman with fair hair and another of a small boy holding a rubber duck. The woman looked much younger than Corbett, Trewin decided. Without his cap Corbett seemed less jaunty, and he put his age at about forty-five. Yet he was only a commander? That was odd. Especially when at home every regular officer was being promoted at a fantastic speed as more and more half-trained reservists poured into the Navy to man the growing ranks of ships and to fill the gaps left by an equally growing casualty list.

Corbett closed the folder with a snap. “Damn fools!” He picked up his coffee and added offhandedly, “You'll find things a bit different out here, Trewin.” His eyes fastened on Trewin's shoulder-straps. “You'll have to work twice as hard to catch up. This is a crack squadron. I intend it should stay so.”

He seemed to dismiss the subject and leaned back in his chair. Then he said, “I understand you were a journalist before you joined up?”

Trewin thought of the dingy East End newspaper office with its staff of five reporters. “That's right, sir.” What else could he say? It had been just one more milestone on his search for himself.

“Yet you were born in Dorset?” Corbett put his head on one side. “So why did you go to work in London?”

Trewin stared at him. “I felt like it, sir.”

“Quite so.” Corbett pursed his lips. “You may wonder why I attach so much importance to the backgrounds of my officers, eh? Well, as I said, this is a crack squadron. And now that we can expect a slow stream of reserve officers it is necessary to investigate certain matters.” He gave what might have been a smile. “Before this war you could gauge an officer by his attainment and rank. Nothing more was necessary.” He shrugged. “Now we cannot be so sure.” He ignored Trewin's growing anger and continued coolly, “And you are married.”

“She's dead, sir!” Trewin felt the throb of pain as he said the words. “In an air raid.” He looked away from the pale eyes. “It's not as quiet as this in London!”

Corbett shuffled some papers. “And it is our duty to see that it remains quiet, as you put it.” He added, “I am sorry about your wife.” Had Trewin been watching he would have seen Corbett's eyes stray to the framed photograph with something like sadness.

Then he said in a crisper tone, “But still, you were in the R.N.V.R. before the war began, and you have had some experience of combat, it seems. So if you work hard at your duties I see no reason why you should not make a success of your appointment.”

Trewin watched him dully. Then he replied quietly, “There are sixty men aboard this ship, sir. And there are three hundred miles of coastline to patrol. I think I can manage that well enough.”

Corbett eyed him for several seconds as if making up his mind about something. “I never take things on trust, Trewin. Time will tell me what I want to know about every man aboard this ship, do you understand?”

Trewin stood up. “Is that all, sir?”

Corbett seemed to ponder. “For the present. We sail tomorrow morning at 0700. By then I hope you will have made yourself familiar with my standing orders and with the heads of departments. Tomorrow you will take the ship to sea.” He smiled slightly. “Just to get the feel of things.” He waited until Trewin had reached the door. “One thing, Trewin. When I come aboard in the afternoon I do not want the gangway smelling of whisky. We have a crew which half consists of
native
seamen. Just remember that in future!” He stared down at his desk. “You may go now.”

Trewin did not remember reaching his cabin, but found himself standing in front of that same mirror his eyes blazing with anger. He said aloud, “The pompous, bloody bastard!” Then
deliberately he opened his drawer and took out the bottle.

L
IEUTENANT
R
ALPH
T
REWIN
climbed on to the open bridge and glanced upwards at the masthead pendant. It hung quite limp, and although it was still early morning he guessed it was going to be another scorching day. He crossed the bridge and stared over the screen at the ship's broad forecastle. A faint cloud of vapour hung above the capstan, and he could see the anchor party moving busily around the cable and young Hammond right in the bows beside the jackstaff. It was all the usual excitement of getting a ship under way, he thought. It never left you, no matter what ship it happened to be. He swallowed hard, feeling the taste of coffee and the remains of a hasty breakfast.

There had been only one other officer at the wardroom table. Mr. Archibald Tweedie, the warrant gunner. He was a thickset, even squat little man with a brick-red complexion which had defied all the efforts of the sun to produce a tan. To Trewin he seemed typical. A hardcore gunner who had worked his way up through every rank on the lower deck to finally attain the thin gold stripe of his trade. Trewin knew from early experience that such men usually resented the quick commissions of the wartime reservists. He could sympathise to begin with, but as time wore on he found such attitudes tiresome and irritating. Tweedie, it seemed, was no exception. He had been formal and withdrawn throughout breakfast, and had spent most of the time reading a pile of newly arrived letters which lay beside his plate. Trewin had seen that the big, spidery handwriting which covered each sheet of paper made up very few words, yet Tweedie read each page as slowly as if he were studying the Bible.

Hammond had told Trewin earlier that the gunner was paying for a new bungalow in Southsea to which he had hoped to retire. The war had stopped all that, and Tweedie had been sent to the Far East immediately after the first shots had been fired.
Now apparently he relied on his wife's letters to keep him informed, not about her wellbeing, but of all the recent progress to bungalow and garden.

He had a tight, tapered mouth, and Trewin guessed that he probably suffered from stomach trouble. When the ship was in harbour and he was not required for duty, Tweedie just disappeared. Nobody knew where he went, and no one, it seemed, cared very much either.

Trewin forgot the morose gunner as a voice-pipe intoned, “Steam on capstan, sir!”

He recognised the voice as belonging to the chief E.R.A., Nimmo, whom he had met the previous evening when exploring the engine room.
Porcupine
did not warrant a commissioned engineer, but Nimmo's square, competent face left Trewin in no doubt that the ship's power department was in excellent hands.

“Very good, Chief.” He looked round the bridge as a loudspeaker blared, “Special sea dutymen to your stations! Stand by for leaving harbour!”

He loosened his shirt, feeling suddenly tense. All at once it was new and different again. He heard the clatter of running feet on ladders and sidedecks and saw the white-clad seamen scampering below the bridge as if their lives depended on it. Others appeared on the bridge, and below in the wheelhouse he heard C.P.O. Unwin, the coxswain, testing the wheel and speaking severely to one of the telegraphsmen.

There was a step behind him and Trewin turned to face a tall, lanky lieutenant who was carrying a folded chart under one arm. His shoulder-straps showed that he was a reservist, and before Trewin could speak he said easily, “I'm Ted Mallory, navigating officer.” He held out his free hand and raised one eyebrow. “How are you doing?”

Trewin grinned. Mallory was the sort of man you either took to immediately or disliked on sight. He had dark, steady eyes and deep lines around his mouth which gave him a sort of permanent derisive smile. He was very tanned and his cheeks were covered
with tiny pockmarks, mementoes from some childhood acne.

“Glad to meet you.” Trewin looked across at one of the anchored gunboats. She too had steam up, and he could see the white caps of her officers along the bridge screen. “We're sailing in company then?”

Mallory clipped the chart on to the bridge table and laid his ruler and dividers on top. “Sure. We often do.” He smiled. “A proper toy fleet, this is!” He glanced at his watch and became very serious. “I was ashore till this morning, otherwise I'd have had a quiet word.” He screwed up his eyes and added, “You seem a nice bloke, so I'd better warn you.” He waved his hand across the bridge. “You may not know it, but the screws on this gunboat are in tunnels right inside the hull.”