Sunset (6 page)

The Chief-of-Staff added, ‘Wish we had more time, but there's never enough of that around here.' He glanced at the patientlooking Wren. ‘Bloody Scapa, eh, Brenda?'

Brooke said, ‘I'm lucky to have so many trained hands. I know it can't last, but . . .'

‘Don't be too sure.' He regarded him through the smoke. ‘There's talk of a big push about to begin. The Germans are reported to be ready to get some of their big ships out into the North Atlantic. More powerful than anything we've got, so the C-in-C is forced to keep battleships and battle-cruisers tied up here, just in case.'

‘I didn't realise we were that hard-pressed, sir.'

‘You've been too busy to notice, I expect.' He tapped his pipe-stem in time with his words. ‘In eighteen months or thereabouts we've lost fifty-three destroyers, thirty submarines and over a hundred sweepers and auxiliary vessels. We can barely keep pace.'

The Wren said, ‘Maintenance Commander on the phone, sir.'

‘Tell him to wait.' His eyes crinkled. ‘
Ask
him to wait!' He continued. ‘There is always a risk of invasion too, although after what the high-fly boys of the R.A.F. achieved last year I doubt it. At sea will be the real test, the final decisive battle.'

Brooke could sense the man's energy and his impatience. ‘When do I get my orders, sir?'

The eyes scoured him thoroughly. ‘Keen, eh? Thought you might be a bit dissatisfied with such a small command.' It was not a question.

He looked at a large wall-map and said, ‘Convoys from all over the world, food, weapons, fuel and . . .' He looked at the younger officer and added quietly, ‘And men.'

Brooke prepared himself. Another hopeless campaign? Surely not now? Pictures flashed through his mind. Burning coastlines, gasping half-drowned soldiers staggering down to the waiting boats while jubilant, screaming Stukas dived over them like hawks, churning the land into bloody craters.

The Wren said carefully, ‘Message, sir. The Admiral's on his way.' Her voice was hushed.

‘Humph – in that case . . .' The Chief-of-Staff stood up and brushed off his reefer jacket. ‘You'll get your orders this afternoon. Local leave only and no loose talk.' He dropped his voice. ‘I'm sending you to Gib.'

Brooke felt vaguely surprised, disappointed. The Med, then.

There were doors slamming, shoes clicking in one of the corridors. God was coming.

‘With talk of a German breakout I can't afford to delay.' He held out his hand. ‘Top secret.' The interview was over. Then he added, ‘Really sorry to hear about your father . . .' But his eyes were on the door.

Brooke stood aside as the procession tramped past him. He had a brief impression of the cap with a double row of oak leaves around the peak, a large rectangle of medal ribbons, a severe face and thin mouth.

Suddenly the admiral came to a halt and one gold-embellished sleeve shot out.

‘Who are you?'

‘Brooke, sir.'

There was almost a smile. Almost. ‘
Serpent
, right? Good lad!' The procession surged on.

The motor-boat was bobbing about on the choppy water with several others waiting nearby for their respective lords and
masters. Brooke returned a couple of salutes and then realised that the small Wren who had opened the Chief-of-Staff's door for him had been the same one who had met him when he had first arrived. The boat's bowman was on the jetty loosening the painter, and the coxswain, a red-faced whale of a man in his shining oilskin, stood up and saluted.

Macaskie was his name, and Geary was the bowman, a frail-looking youth who nevertheless had been punished by the last captain for fighting ashore. Face by face, Brooke concentrated on them, and came to the third crew member, the stoker. But the man's name was still lost with most of the others. He had heard, only too often, officers who commenced some order or other by saying, ‘
Here, you!
' If you expected them to respect you, you should always show respect for them.

He thought suddenly of the new navigator, Calvert. How could you ever get to know the ship's company of a carrier? His ship must have carried some thirteen hundred officers and men. He recalled Calvert's eyes when he had turned to respond to the subbie's offensive remark. Calvert had obviously known enough of them to mourn them, and to try to avenge them.

The motor-boat curved away from the jetty, flinging spray high over the cockpit.

Brooke remained on his feet, both hands gripping the safety rail, the stinging spray helping to drive off the remnants of his headache.

Moored ships flashed past, a cruiser, two oilers, and in the far distance some battleships. Waiting for the Germans to sneak out of their fjords in Norway and smash through the Denmark Strait into the Atlantic as their raiders had done in that other war.

There was that lingering stench again, churned up as the boat dashed over it. Oil seeping up from the great hulk of the
Royal Oak
. Local people maintained that it was the foul odour of decay from the corpses trapped inside.

He found Kerr waiting with the side-party as he clambered up the ladder, conscious of the familiar pain in his injured leg.

All eyes were on his face as he said, ‘Orders arriving today. Number One.' They fell into step and walked away from the
others. ‘First to Gib.' He saw Calvert watching some seamen who were splicing wire with a skill that made it look easy.

Brooke repeated for the other man's benefit, ‘Gib, Pilot.' He smiled. ‘I'm still not used to it.'

‘Nor me, sir.' Calvert made no other comment, as if he no longer cared where they were going.

Then he pointed to the far-off, hazy shapes of the great capital ships. ‘Is
Hood
one of those, sir?'

Brooke shrugged. ‘Could be. There's quite a show of strength building up here. Why? Heard something?'

Calvert touched his beard and thought of the young woman with her new wedding ring. ‘Just a rumour, sir.'

Brooke looked away. I'll bet, he thought.

‘Local liberty tonight, Number One. No overnight leave, not even for the P.O.s. Right?'

He hesitated and glanced up at the small turret-like bridge. Where he would spend his days and nights once they were at sea.

He said, ‘I'll have some mail to be sent over, Number One.'

He felt the same private anguish. He should telephone from the shore. Express sympathy. Explain. But Sarah would most likely take the call. He still could not bear to hear her voice or imagine her being held as he had once held her.

Abruptly he said, ‘Bring the orders to me as soon as they arrive.'

Cusack, the Chief, clumped past, then paused to rest his gloved hands on the guard-rails when, right on time, the guard-boat sped towards the ship, the bowman rigid with his boat-hook as if it were a Fleet Review.

Cusack watched the satchel being signed for.
Orders
.

Very quietly he said, ‘Here we go again, old girl. Back to bloody war!'

Kerr had the satchel in his hands, and said, ‘Pilot, after I've given this little lot to the Skipper I'll help you sort out your charts, if you like.'

There was no reply, and when he turned he saw that Calvert was staring fixedly into the distance, his blue-grey eyes the colour of the Flow itself in the weak sunlight.

Kerr shaded his own to see what it was that held the other lieutenant as if he were mesmerised.

Then he saw it: a tiny black speck which seemed to be flying very slowly above the water. He had heard there was a carrier at Scapa, so it was probably one of hers.

A chill ran through him. Of course. It was probably an old Swordfish torpedo-bomber, a
Stringbag,
as they were affectionately called by the men who flew them.

Kerr glanced back at his companion and then walked away quietly into the quartermaster's lobby. Not for anything could he watch the emotion on Calvert's face, nor share the anguish he had seen there.

As he ran down the wardroom ladder he thought of the new captain. He had been the only one amongst them who had understood.

He was both moved and humbled by this discovery.

The
Serpent
's chief and petty officers' mess, like its members, stood somewhere between the overcrowded forecastle's upper and lower decks, and the aloof distance of the wardroom down aft.

The fourteen members of the mess, as in any warship, represented the backbone of the whole company, and their skills ranged from seamanship to gunnery, engine room to the W/T and signals departments and much more beside. The good-conduct stripes worn by the petty officers to display their years of service, or
years of undiscovered crime
as the sceptics would have it, in this one small mess added up to almost a hundred years of naval experience. It was a comfortable, welcoming place, decorated with framed photographs of past events, darts matches, a whalers' race at Malta in happier times, and a small bar displayed souvenirs from various ports of call, lifted during some lively run ashore.

Presided over by George Pike, the coxswain, and assisted by McVie, the P.O. Supply Assistant, the mess was run with a discipline which was as rigid as any wardroom.

It was evening now, the deadlights sealed across the scuttles, the ship blacked out, a shadow on the uneasy Flow. A game of darts was in progress and two other men were writing letters, the last chance before they got under way. One, Roy Onslow, the yeoman of signals, was the only member of the mess who still wore a rating's square rig but had the crossed anchors of a full
petty officer. He had been due to be up-rated when the last captain had quit the ship so suddenly for a grander appointment. Lean and tanned although he had not served in a warm climate for over a year, Onslow was typical of his trade. He ran the signals department on the bridge in all weathers – and an open bridge at that, which had no respect for a man's skin or complexion – and guided his young signalmen, one of whom was only just out of training. He could be relied on to read a lamp or a hoist of bunting before anyone else. A yeoman of signals was also privileged more than most to study and observe his officers on watch or at action stations. Their doubts and their uncertainties he would keep to himself. Onslow was proud of the trust.

The Petty Officer Sick Berth Attendant, named Twiss and known behind his back as ‘Sister' Twiss, was watching the darts match without much interest.

He asked, ‘Where are we going to, Swain?'

Pike put down his book and regarded him impassively. ‘Gib.'

‘Then what?'

Pike sighed. ‘Well, you of all people should know that. All them vaccination checks we've had, an'
real
doctors to watch over 'em too.'

Sister Twiss scowled.
Serpent
carried no doctor and he ran the sick-bay without difficulty, even when the ship had been crammed with survivors choking on oil fuel after being torpedoed, or burned almost beyond recognition.

He said, ‘Some of those doctors! No better than medical students, most likely! The blunter the bloody needle the more they enjoy it, seems to me.'

Vicary, the torpedo gunner's mate, said, ‘Ceylon, that's my bet. Fast convoy. Make a change to get cracking instead of rolling about the ocean like a tart in a trance!'

They looked at one another as the deck gave a tiny quiver. The gnome-like Chief was down there doing something. A generator or a pump, or some last-minute job on his work-bench. A sign of departure.

The coxswain took out his private bottle of rum and stared at it gravely. Supper had been cleared away, the duty part of the
watch had been mustered. It would soon be time for Rounds. So why had he done it?

Jimmy the One would be doing Rounds this evening. He admired Kerr for several reasons; he was firm but fair when it came to the defaulters' table or to the men who wanted leave for one crazy reason or other. As coxswain, Pike was the first lieutenant's right arm, but he needed an officer who would back him to the hilt. He had expected Kerr to be relieved and sent to another ship. He was good and would be an asset to any sort of vessel. Pike was glad he was staying in
Serpent
: they were a small team, a family, and to have a new Jimmy the One as well as a fresh skipper – he shook his head.

Aloud he said, ‘I remember when the Skipper's father was in command, and when
Serpent
commissioned for the first time . . .'

There were several groans and Andy Laird, the chief stoker, shouted, ‘Swing the bloody lamp, somebody!'

Pike grinned. He had asked for that.

A messenger peeped into the mess. It was rare to see all these chief and petty officers together.

Pike asked, ‘Well, what is it, my son?'

The youth stammered, ‘First Lieutenant wants the yeoman of signals down aft.'

Somebody said, ‘Off you trot, Yeo – maybe it's a signal for you to send! Tell us where we all going to end up!'

Onslow laid his pen very carefully on his uncompleted letter and reached for his cap. ‘Some hopes of that, John.'

The tannoy droned, ‘Men under punishment and stoppage of leave to muster! Night boat's crew to report to the quartermaster's lobby!'

Fox, the chief boatswain's mate, stood up and bared his teeth. He would be doing Rounds with the first lieutenant and there would be a nice nip of something strong from the wardroom bar if he played his cards right.

Pike glanced at him. When he grinned he did look exactly like a fox, he thought.

They all stared at the door as Onslow re-entered the mess. Even the darts players froze and watched in silence as the yeoman of signals moved to the table and seemed to collapse against it.
Nobody spoke or moved until Pike asked quietly, ‘What is it, Yeo?'

Onslow seemed to see his unfinished letter for the first time. He exclaimed, ‘Can't be! Must be a mistake!' He lowered his face and added brokenly, ‘Cathy and the kid, they said.'