Sunset (4 page)

He said, ‘I'm joining a destroyer. The
Serpent.
I'm a navigator – now.'

Boots stirred and scraped in the corridor as the train shook itself awake. Calvert had forced his way through that same corridor during the night to reach the toilet. Men and women of all three services had crouched on their kit or suitcases; some were even propped against one another in search of comfort. Cattle travelled better, he thought.

She asked him, ‘Do you know the
Hood
?'

He found that he was smiling and wanted to record it somewhere. ‘Of course. I thought everyone did. Biggest warship in the world, or was once. I've seen her a few times.' What was
Hood
doing here? The great battle-cruiser had been at Gibraltar when he had last heard.

He said, ‘Lucky chap.' He did not realise he had spoken aloud.

She studied him and found herself speculating. Late twenties but looked older because of his fair beard. She had seen him touch it several times as if he were not used to it yet. Her husband had told her young officers grew them to make themselves look more like old seadogs. But not this one, she decided. In profile when he tried to look through the window he had an air of hardened experience, the cause of which she could only guess at. Watchful: not a man capable of relaxing much.

‘I wonder what it will be like,' she said.

He looked at her. ‘Much like Edinburgh, I expect. Raining and cold. As you go further north only two things happen. It gets more dismal, and there are fewer trees.'

They both laughed and one of the army officers almost choked in the middle of a long snore.

He added, ‘I've a bit further to go yet.' He allowed his mind to examine it.
Scapa.
He had last been there when his ship was leaving for the ill-fated Norwegian campaign. He thought of all the missing faces. Maybe they would blur in time; he would accept that they were dead. No more landings on the big carrier's deck in all kinds of weather. No more wild parties and then more
take-offs on patrol above those incredibly beautiful coasts and fjords. He shivered. Beautiful, and so bloody cruel.

He touched his beard, his eyes in shadow. He might be able to shave it off soon, but some scars would remain. People would stare at him. Ask questions. On and on . . .

He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle regularity of the wheels.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
There was a faint hissing sound too, probably sleet, quite common in April up here. He wondered about his new ship and the men he would share her with. No room to hide your feelings from others. But a ship: a different sort of life.

The navigation course and the intricacies of ship-handling and pilotage had seemed unexpectedly simple after being a flier.

He would never fly again. Once he had believed he would rather die than accept such a verdict. Now he knew he
could
not fly. Ever.

The train slowed even more and he heard a hoarse voice calling along the corridor,
‘Inverness! Inverness!'

There was the usual tension amongst some of the servicemen who did not have the right travel documents or tickets, who were stealing some leave to see a loved one, who were ‘on the run'. Out there the enemy would be waiting, the military police in their red caps, the R.A.F., and the naval patrols in white belts and gaiters. There would be some on board the train who were simply too afraid to go back.

He said abruptly, ‘I'll get you a porter –'

She stood up and held on to the luggage rack as the train jerked to a violent halt. Doors were already banging open, people were running and shouting; the bitter air filled the compartment like an icy wind.

He heard her say, ‘Thank you, but no.' She watched him pull her case down. ‘I've someone meeting me.'

Whatever was happening on the platform it had become quiet. The corridors were deserted, the sprawling gunners were gone as if they had been imaginary.

She was staring at him. In the grey light she looked uncertain, troubled. Wanting to go and yet unwilling to leave.

‘Thank you for talking to me.' She held out one hand and
waited for him to take it. ‘And good luck, Lieutenant Calvert.' She said it so seriously that it made her seem suddenly vulnerable.

Calvert reached for his cap. Good luck? That had run out on that terrible day off Narvik. Ten months ago. Was that really all it was?

He said, ‘I shall try and . . .' But the compartment was empty.

He smiled and reached for his cases. She had not even told him her name.

Then he stepped down on to the wet platform, very aware of the cold in his bones. He seemed to feel it more than ever now.

A petty officer in a white webbing belt sauntered out of the gloom and offered what might have been a salute.

‘Mr Calvert, sir?' As he turned over a docket in his hands he added, ‘The Rail Transport Officer has fixed up breakfast for you. I'll take you across.' He squinted at the printed travel warrant. ‘Then on the next train to Thurso, right?'

Calvert nodded. ‘Scapa.'

The P.O.'s weathered face split into a grin. ‘Says it all, dunnit, sir?'

Calvert gripped the man's arm without knowing it. The sudden companionship had reached out to him like a forgotten friend.

He was back.

Richard Kerr,
Serpent
's first lieutenant, watched curiously while the new commanding officer struggled out of the suit of white overalls he had borrowed for his engine room tour.

It was a Sunday, just over a week since Brooke had made his unorthodox arrival in the NAAFI boat, and during that time he seemed to have explored more parts of the ship, weapons and equipment, as well as going through all the books and watch bills, than the previous captain had ever done. To Kerr it appeared to be more than a sense of duty or an attempt to impress. It was like a need which drove Brooke forward without respite.

Brooke reached for his jacket and grinned. ‘Bit chilly after the Chief's engine and boiler rooms.' He shook his head admiringly. ‘He keeps his department on top line. You could almost eat off the cat-walk!'

Like a boy again, Kerr thought, the tension suddenly gone from his face. He was curious about the captain's limp, which became obvious whenever Brooke was thinking about something else and made no effort to conceal it. But he was still no closer to him as a man; and he wondered if it was because Brooke was aware of his disappointment at not being offered a command. Many others had been given ships of their own, ranging from old destroyers to armed yachts; even reservists were being put on their own bridges. Disappointment? Or was it a resentment which the previous captain's sudden departure had sharpened into something worse?

Brooke could feel the intensity of the other man's scrutiny, but was still thinking of the Chief's pride in his engines and what they could do.

In his harsh voice he had patted a shining safety rail and exclaimed, ‘Twenty-seven thousand horsepower, sir! Old lady mebbe, but I can still give you thirty-six knots at a swing of the throttles!' He was right to be proud. Few new ships could match that.

He glanced at the first lieutenant. Kerr was good at his job and obviously respected by all the senior rates he had met so far. Not a Number One to take any flannel from anybody. Tall, gravely good-looking with dark hair that never seemed out of place: the ship was lucky to have him. For a while longer anyway. He gave a half smile.
I'm lucky to have him
.

How different the ship felt. With almost a full complement again,
Serpent
was alive. The new navigator was expected at any time now and only a single rating was absent, one of those sent on compassionate leave. The other had returned, watched in silence by his messmates, who knew that after the bombing of his home he had nowhere else to go. Brooke could smell the heady odour of rum pervading the ship, an all-important event, especially on a Sunday in harbour with a lazy make-and-mend for everyone but the watchkeepers.

Brooke sat down. ‘Gin, Number One?'

Kerr smiled. ‘I'd like that.'

Brooke pressed a bell. It was a good sign. Kerr was loosening up a little bit. Before, he had made excuses. Maybe he had thought the new skipper was testing him, waiting to see if he drank too much or was trying to be too friendly.

Bert Kingsmill, the petty officer steward, a lugubrious, even dour-looking man, slid through the door and opened the drinks cabinet. He looked after the wardroom but his first loyalty was to his commanding officer.

Brooke returned his attention to Kerr. Greenwood, the previous skipper, had made the usual report about him, but there had been nothing special. Two words,
impulsive
and
stubborn
, stood out, but without any further explanation. In destroyers it was sometimes necessary to be one or the other. Kerr was still
distant, but he would find out the reason for the comment eventually.

A small but fairly typical wardroom, Brooke thought. He had even discovered why Barlow, the Gunner (T), had given himself the nickname Podger. For some reason he had decided his real name, Vivian, was too effeminate for an active-service torpedoman. The sub-lieutenant, Barrington-Purvis, seemed good at his work, and Kerr had confirmed this, but he was obviously blessed with a monumental conceit which could make him heartily disliked. The fact that his father was an admiral did not lend him humility.

Kerr asked suddenly, ‘The new navigating officer is ex-Fleet Air Arm. A bit unusual, isn't it?'

Brooke picked up his glass and realised that it had been smoothly refilled. Petty Officer Kingsmill must have glided in soundlessly as if he moved on wheels.
I shall have to watch out
. But it was good Scotch. One of the perks of command to help settle the scales.

He replied, ‘He should be joining today. He'll tell you all about it, I imagine.'

Calmly said, but Brooke saw the shadow fall like a curtain. Kerr asked, ‘What about sailing orders, sir?' The first lieutenant again.
On duty
.

‘Tomorrow, I expect.' He saw Kerr's eyes shift to the silver-framed picture of the ship which now adorned the cabin desk. No doubt he was still blaming himself for not knowing or bothering to discover that his captain's father had been
Serpent
's first C.O. The coxswain had known. It probably irked Kerr that he himself had not.

Brooke said, ‘Warn the gangway staff that the new officer will be arriving just as soon as you get the signal.' He gave a wry smile. ‘Our shore telephone has been disconnected – for some more important newcomer, I have no doubt.'

Kerr hesitated. ‘Will you care to drop into the wardroom this evening, sir? A bit less formal.'

‘Thank you, Number One.' He looked at the nearest polished scuttle, the sudden bars of heavy rain against the thick glass: Scapa showing its other face.

He added, ‘Probably the last time for a while.'

Kerr watched him, suddenly alert. Rumours were rife throughout the ship. Leave was over: the ship was as ready for sea as she would ever be, so where to? The pale grey paint suggested a warm climate, as did the new fans. Ceylon was the favourite amongst the messdeck bookmakers. Some said it was the Med, where, after losing so many destroyers in the Greek disaster and enemy attacks showing no sign of lessening, even a small replacement would be welcome.

But not the bloody Atlantic again. Not yet. Slow, overloaded convoys which reduced the speed of all to only a few knots made the escorts' work even more uncomfortable.
Serpent
had been built for speed, one of the Grand Fleet's greyhounds, not to be flung about through forty-five degrees with the sea flooding over the open bridge like a mill-race. On one such convoy the seas had been so rough that the captain and the officer-of-the-watch had been unable to leave the bridge, while the other officers had been marooned aft until the weather had abated.

It was good to be getting away from the brutal power of the Western Ocean, if only to be spared the losses and the new strategy of Hitler's U-boat command. With the fall of Scandinavia, the Low Countries and France, the enemy now held a coastline that stretched from Norway's North Cape to the Bay of Biscay: nearly five thousand miles, each one of which afforded a threat to those desperately needed convoys and their tightly-stretched defenders.

As George Pike, the burly coxswain, had remarked, ‘Let some other bugger take the strain! Palm trees an' dancin' girls'll do me!'

Some hopes, Kerr thought.

The tannoy squeaked and then muttered through the ship like someone speaking underwater.

‘D'you hear there! Hands to dinner!'

Kerr saw the captain smile, thinking probably of the unspoken part of the pipe.
Officers to lunch!

Kerr left the captain's quarters and made his way to the wardroom. His companions sat by the fire on the club fender, or in the well-worn chairs.

Kerr relaxed slightly. Perhaps they all needed a change, a new horizon. He signalled to the messman. ‘Pink gin, please!' He thought of the man he had just left, alone in his cabin. Maybe Brooke needed it too.

Kerr took the glass and signed a mess-chit, then glanced through the streaming scuttle.

Anything would be better than Scapa.

It was dark very early on this particular Sunday, and although the rain had eased the Flow was choppy with serried ranks of white horses, and the ship's upperworks shone like glass.

In the wardroom Petty Officer Kingsmill watched gloomily while his assistants put finishing touches to the array of glasses, and the selection of small snacks which they had produced for the occasion. Some officers were coming over from another destroyer to help make it more of a party for the new captain. Kingsmill was proud of his various skills, but never showed it. As always, his frowning features suggested he was paying for all the food and drink personally.

Kerr glanced at the bulkhead clock and wondered what Brooke would make of his small wardroom when he saw them
en masse
instead of on duty.