Sunset (11 page)

A voice echoed up the wheelhouse voicepipe and Brooke saw Kipling lean over to acknowledge it. Old for his junior rank, but he had been a rating longer than most hopefuls. A thin, interesting fact, lined before its time. Twenty-four years old; but he had seen more than most men experienced in a lifetime.

Kipling said, ‘Able Seaman March on the wheel, sir.'

‘Very good.' Strange how close he felt now to his little team.

Each was different from the other and the way each man behaved showed too the character of the individual, despite the order and discipline which controlled every aspect of their daily life.

Each watch, except the dog watches, lasted for four hours. No helmsman was supposed to spend more than two of those hours at his trick on the wheel. It was a strain on the man, especially on the great expanses of ocean: the same course and engine revolutions mile after mile soon dulled the mind. Brooke had noticed that Kerr never insisted that any helmsman did more than an hour at a time. He had learned that what was best for the watchkeepers was usually the best for the ship. Barrington-Purvis, who shared his watches with the Gunner (T), was the very opposite. He went by the book. Two hours it said; two hours it would be, and God help the man who dozed off at the wheel.

Calvert was different again. Brooke had observed his obsession with pin-point accuracy, and the exactness of his navigation was remarkable.

Perhaps as a flier Calvert had become very aware of the need for perfection. A fraction of a degree out when he was flying back to his carrier and he might have missed her and flown on and on until his fuel had run out and there was no alternative but to ditch into the sea.

Kerr said, ‘We shall be sighting land within the hour if the visibility holds, sir.' He smiled. ‘Cape Town. No black-out, no rationing – I'll have the chef get some provisions brought on board. Fresh fruit, eh? Think of it!'

They both looked round as Kipling said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder
what would become of
us
, sir?' He waved vaguely towards where the land must lie. ‘I – I mean, suppose England is invaded while we're out here somewhere?'

Kerr tried to laugh it off but Brooke took it seriously. ‘If we're beaten, you mean? Surrender?'

Kipling thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘It's happened everywhere else, sir. Holland, France, Norway and the poor old Danes – now the Greeks and the Yugoslavs. Nobody seems able to stop 'em.'

Brooke climbed into his chair. ‘Then we'll have to make sure we
don't
surrender. Right?'

Kipling seemed satisfied. ‘I mean, sir, I wouldn't care to end my life in a bamboo hut an' eating nothing but rice.'

Kerr grinned and clapped him on the arm. ‘You'd miss the old fish and chips, is that it?'

Onslow the yeoman said, ‘I'd settle for a plate of jellied eels right now, sir.'

They all laughed. So even Onslow was being drawn out of the grief and despair that had burst out of him when they found the dead woman and child in the sea.

Brooke tilted his cap over his eyes and separated himself from the men around him.

All in all, he could have asked for no better company. He smiled and touched the protective steel plate beside him. And no better ship.

That afternoon with the sun changing Table Mountain to the colour of pink salmon,
Serpent
glided to her anchorage. The men off watch and not required for immediate duty lined the guard-rails and stared at the great slab of mountain, which was breathtaking to even the most unimaginative. They were away from the Western Ocean and the fought-over Mediterranean, and even the news from those theatres of war seemed remote and of no immediate concern.

Brooke leaned out and looked down at the deck. Skins showing signs of tanning, or in some cases angry-looking burns. Sun and speed together had no respect for the unwary.

He studied some big ships at the far end of the anchorage. One had been a cruise-liner, the other a cargo and passenger vessel
probably on the Australia and New Zealand run. Troopers.
Our
troopers now, he thought.

He watched their companion, the destroyer
Islip
, frothing round in a wide arc before going astern and dropping her own anchor. The gin pennant would soon be hoisted, and old friends would meet. A part of the family where the war could be held at bay, if only temporarily.

Onslow lowered his glasses. ‘From
Islip
, sir.
R.P.C. at twenty-hundred hours
!'

‘Reply, Yeoman.
Our pleasure
.'

There was much to do before Brooke and his officers could go across to
Islip
for the party. Refuelling to be arranged, the Operations people to be seen, leave to be sorted out for as many as possible, the latest instructions to be studied. But just for a moment longer he wanted to be here alone, his eyes drinking in the majesty of the land. The telegraphs were rung off, and down in his hole the Chief would greet the
Finished with engines
with well-earned satisfaction. The wheelhouse would be empty for the first time in weeks, and an awning spread to create a peacetime atmosphere and cover the depth-charges and torpedo tubes.

For a long while Brooke stood there and realised that he could not recall feeling such a sense of peace. He had not known that he had needed it so much.

Ship and captain were at rest.

The holiday atmosphere and a sense of escape for
Serpent
's ship's company continued for the whole of her stay in Cape Town. The hospitality shown by the local community, most of whom had British connections, had its effect even on the hardest men.
Islip
's Commander Tufnell said it was even better than the welcomes he had experienced on some of his longer-routed convoys beyond Good Hope.

Surprisingly, even the news from home could not dampen the general good spirits. The continuing bombing of towns and harbours and the mounting savagery in the Atlantic seemed to fade into the distance, and lose relevance in the African sun.

Two more destroyers arrived to complete the troopships' escort, and with them came sailing orders. One last night in Cape
Town, then back to the boredom of convoy. Even at high speed it would be hard to take after this.

Calvert went to the captain's day-cabin and found Brooke going through a clip of signals.

He glanced up. ‘Drink, Pilot?'

Calvert sat down. ‘Juice of some sort, sir.'

Brooke pressed a bell. ‘Coming ashore tonight? I see you've volunteered for O.O.D. in Number One's place.'

A white-jacketed messman glided in with a glass of orange juice and left again. Calvert's refusal to take alcohol must have made an impression, Brooke thought.

Calvert said, ‘I'll have a quiet night instead, sir. I'm not much of a one for parties.' His voice implied that it was because of the past.

‘What is it? You won't drink, or you can't?'

Calvert shrugged and rubbed his chin. ‘Not sure. Afraid to find out maybe.' He was amazed he could speak so easily about it. Had it been anyone else . . .

Brooke pushed the signals across. ‘You'd better have these in case W/T hear of a flap while I'm away.' He smiled. ‘Not that we'll be involved.'

He watched Calvert's eyes scanning the flimsies, then slowing down as he exclaimed, ‘A German raider? Converted merchantman, they say?'

‘They
say
. Reported in the Indian Ocean – fired on a Dutch freighter but her skipper slipped away in the dark. Probably after supplies, otherwise . . .'

‘Living off what they can catch.' Calvert guessed that the raider would not last very long. There were too many warships operating from Ceylon for that, some cruisers among them.

Kerr peered in the door. ‘Boat alongside, sir.' He touched Calvert's arm. ‘Thanks for standing in, Pilot. I'll do the same for you sometime.'

Brooke glanced between them. No longer strangers, if not yet friends.

Calvert wandered to the wardroom and slumped down in a chair close to one of the new deckhead fans with a newspaper. He felt the ship moving very slightly, the occasional thud of feet
as the quartermaster prowled around the quarterdeck like a terrier. The news was predictable. A strategic withdrawal somewhere in North Africa: it was never a retreat. Fierce fighting in Crete. A fleet minesweeper lost; she had exploded one of the mines she had been seeking.
Next of kin have been informed
. A typical Fougasse cartoon showing a sailor sitting at a table shooting his mouth off to his girl, while beneath the table Field Marshal Hermann Goering crouched with one ear cupped in his hand.
Careless talk costs lives
was the caption.

He sighed and glanced at the little bar by the pantry hatch. On it was the usual leather cup containing the liar dice for would-be gamblers, as well as mess chits and a half-empty soda siphon.

He thought of going to his cabin. He was fortunate to have one all to himself, but only because the space for a second bunk was filled with a chart cabinet. One of the perks. At least the nightmares were less frequent. No less horrific when they burst into his mind; but he felt certain he was improving. He knew he could never forget, and he realised he did not wish to.

On the navigation course he had been shaken awake by other officers one night when he had been in the grip of reliving it. It was almost a relief that in the navy you never got any sympathy.
Why don't you shut up? Remember the poor bloody watchkeepers for a change!

If we weren't like that we'd all be round the bend by now, he thought. His head lolled against the chair and he was asleep.

How long he slept in the chair he had no way of knowing.

He awoke with a terrible jerk, to the realisation that the nearest scuttle was shining like bronze as if a ship were ablaze, and he also became aware that someone had been shaking his arm.

He said hoarsely, ‘Sorry, P.O. Time for Rounds, right?' He should have remembered. The dusk at Cape Town had been preceded by this burnished light each night they had been there.

He stared at the man standing over him. It was not the duty P.O. but Evans, the leading telegraphist.

‘Sorry, sir. It's immediate, from Admiralty.'

Calvert's mind cleared. ‘German raider? Not round here, I'll
bet.' He took the signal and did not see the young sailor's bewildered expression.

His eyes skimmed over the neat pencilled printing and came to rest at the bottom. The words seemed to leap up at him.
H.M.S. HOOD SUNK BY GERMAN BATTLESHIP BISMARCK IN NORTH ATLANTIC. THREE SURVIVORS.

There was more, but the words seemed to mingle and fade without meaning. When he looked up he saw the young leading signalman wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.

‘I saw her once, sir. At the Spithead Review. Knew then I wanted to join the Andrew.' He looked away. ‘Sorry, sir.'

Calvert shook his head. ‘Don't be. I think every man and woman in Britain has lost something in that ship.'

Three survivors? It did not seem possible.
Hood
had a ship's company of some fourteen hundred officers and men. All gone, just like that? He thought of the girl on the train with her naval brooch and new wedding ring. Three survivors . . .

Calvert pressed the bell and Petty Officer Kingsmill appeared as if by magic. He glanced with disdain at the leading signalman as if he had blundered by mistake into some exclusive club.

‘Sir?'

‘Give Evans a drink. Have one yourself.'

Kingsmill stared at him as if he could not believe it, but he did what he was told. Calvert saw that the young telegraphist took a glass of port.

Kingsmill watched with interest as Calvert poured himself a large gin. Then he faced them and said quietly, ‘
Hood
's gone, P.O. Just heard.'

Kingsmill fiddled with some coasters on the bar as if he did not know what to do.

Then he said, ‘God bless the old girl.'

Calvert said, ‘I'll call the Captain. He left a number. He'll want to know.' But the wardroom was empty. It might have been part of a nightmare but for the empty glasses.

He poured himself another drink and swallowed it, feeling the fire of the gin but tasting nothing.

It took a long time to get through to the number Brooke had
left: the home of a wealthy merchant who wanted to give
Serpent
's officers a night to remember.

On the telephone Brooke sounded very near, and in his mind Calvert could see the tawny eyes as he said quite gently, ‘I know, Pilot. It just came through. Three survivors confirmed, two ratings and a midshipman . . . Are you still there?'

Calvert answered, ‘Yes, sir.' So the girl was without hope. ‘I was – I was thinking of how it must have been.'

Brooke glanced at his officers and the other guests. Even two of the black servants seemed stunned by the news.

Calvert had been drinking; perhaps he had pictured his own ship blowing up and capsizing in those bitter waters. The Chief-of-Staff's worst fears had been proved right. But at what cost? The world's two greatest warships had met and the mighty
Bismarck
had broken the line. She was probably heading out into the Atlantic convoy lanes right now. There was not a ship to stand against her. A fleet, yes, but nothing less could do it.

He heard Calvert say, ‘It's all right, sir. I've got the weight. No need for you to come off shore, sir. Not yet.'

Brooke replied, ‘I never doubted it, Pilot. I'll leave when I can.' He put down the telephone. It was like losing an emblem and a dear friend all in one.

I hope they catch the bastards!

It was surprising, he thought, that after seeing so much killing and destruction he could still harbour so much hatred.

Islip
's captain greeted him with a full glass. ‘The whole world will know tomorrow. God, what a mess.'

Brooke heard Kerr's voice, terse and angry. ‘Watch it, Sub!'