Killing Ground Page 11

  He thought suddenly of his ship’s company, and smiled. They would care little for the neat piles of forms and documents. First priority was mail from home. Second, leave.

  He watched his eyes as he smiled. Like a stranger. The lines around his mouth, the deep shadows beneath his eyes seemed to smooth out. He was twenty-seven. He had been feeling as old as time. Howard looked at the neat bed which Vallance or a messman would turn down for him. Another rare harbour ritual.

  Would it work this time? He stared around with sudden anxiety. His quarters, usually so spacious, seemed to have shrunk so that he felt restrained. He knew it was because of the convoys, where his quarters had been the sea and the sky with only catnaps in his hutch of a sea cabin to confine him.

  He winced as he touched his face again—his freshly shaved skin felt raw and tender. Perhaps Treherne and some of the others had the right idea in growing beards. He thought of young Ayres. They said he did not shave at all yet.

  A few familiar faces would be gone when Gladiator was committed to her next task. New ones to know and trust, or to have them trust him.

  There was a tap at the door and Marrack stepped over the coaming, his cap beneath his elbow. He looked fresh and sleek; “polished” might describe him best, Howard thought. He had come through it all very well, and had shown little concern for the hatred he had roused by his constant efforts to keep everyone on top line.

  Marrack glanced past him at the cabin, like a detective looking for clues. “All ready, sir.” He gave a brief smile. “Bar’s open.”

  With a start Howard realised it was another rarity to see all his wardroom together at once. The place was welcoming and comfortable, with the foul-weather covers removed from the red leather chairs and club fender. All the usual wardroom clutter, pictures of the King and Queen on either side of the ship’s crest, a rack of revolvers behind a locked glass door, an empty letter-rack, and beyond the barely swaying curtain which divided it from the dining section, the table, properly laid out, instead of the mugs and slopping dishes which had been common enough in the Arctic. Those officers who had been seated got to their feet, and Howard nodded to them. Another sea-change, he thought. Gilt buttons and ties, instead of filthy sweaters and scuffed boots.

  A ship at rest.

  Petty Officer Vallance held out a glass to him on a tray. It was filled almost to the top and he guessed it was a Horse’s Neck.

  Treherne spoke as he raised his own glass. “The first one—remember, sir?”

  Howard drank slowly, although he did not recall what Treherne meant.

  “Relax, gentlemen.” He perched on the club fender as Vallance and a messman refilled glasses and made notes at the little bar counter to make certain no officer conveniently forgot his mess account.

  Howard said, “I’ll tell you what’s happening—what I know, that is.”

  That brought a few grins, except from old Arthur Pym the Gunner (T). In the deckhead lights his bald pate shone like a marker buoy, and his tight-lipped mouth was set in the usual sour disapproval. He looked ancient, and beside Ayres he could have been a grandfather.

  Howard continued, “The Asdic and radar boffins are coming aboard as soon as we move alongside tomorrow forenoon, then there’s a boiler-clean.” He glanced at the Chief, unrecognisable without his white boiler-suit and grease-smudged cap. “So be ready for the signal.”

  It was a miracle how Evan Price and his engine-room crew had kept the shafts spinning in all seas under every kind of pressure. This morning, when they had made fast to a buoy, Price had come to the bridge to stare at the land, drinking it in.

  When Howard tried to thank him for his efforts Price had shrugged and had offered his lop-sided grin, something originally caused by a loose wrench when he had first gone to sea, and said, “I must be mad, sir. My dad was a miner, see? I worked to better myself, no down the pit for me, I said!”

  Together they had watched the gulls swooping over the masts, sharing their momentary freedom. Then Price had said, “Look at me now—I spend more time creeping about in the darkness than my Dad ever did!”

  Howard saw Vallance taking his empty glass away to refill it. He had barely noticed drinking it. The old wardroom devil.

  “We’ve got a list for the dockyard maties to lose themselves in for about …” He felt them tense and added, “Three weeks. So there’ll be leave for the port watch and the first part of starboard watch. Number One and the cox’n are already working on it.” He met their various gazes. “We had the usual signals from Welfare, I’m afraid. Two homes bombed—one, Stoker Marshall, lost his whole family. Such cases get preference, of course.”

  He looked at the crest; it enabled him to turn away from their eyes. What a bloody awful thing to happen. One of Evan Price’s men. A stoker who had been aboard for over a year. To go through hell, half-expecting death to come bursting into the racing machinery, then to get back and be told about his family.

  And for what? He remembered the smouldering anger of the Canadian escort commander who had come aboard in Murmansk. The commodore had died of wounds shortly after making his last signal and Beothuck’s captain had assumed overall charge. He had been ashore to discuss berthing and fuelling for the escorts, and the Russians had barely been interested. When he had told them something of the losses, the sacrifice in men and ships, one had merely commented, “Then, Captain, you should send more ships!”

  The Russians had refused to allow them into their base at Polynaroe, but Howard had been expecting that. Worse, they had not permitted the landing of some of the badly wounded and disabled survivors.

  And it was still going on, exactly as they had left it. One convoy, which had been reduced to three-and-a-half knots by a gale-force head-wind, had been attacked by aircraft and destroyers from Norway because some of the escorts had been running out of fuel and were detached to head for the Faeroes to top up their bunkers. A third of that convoy had been scattered and sunk.

  You should send more ships.

  He tore his mind from the shrieking bombs and the stricken freighters lurching out of line, sinking or on fire.

  “This is confidential. After taking on new equipment and some replacements for our company, we shall join a newly formed escort group for a working-up period, yet to be decided. Questions?”

  Finlay asked, “Back to the Atlantic after that, sir?” So casually put, like a man asking about the cricket score.

  Howard smiled. Finlay, perhaps more than anyone, had actually thrived on their discomfort in the Arctic. It was the first time his department had been able to fire on and actually hit a U-Boat, and the overall gunnery against aircraft had been faultless. He was losing his gunner’s mate, who was going for warrant rank ashore, and one of his ordnance mechanics too.

  He replied, “I believe that may be so.” In minutes it would be all over the ship. A spot of leave, then back to the bloody Atlantic. Sugar and poison. He shook his head as Vallance made to refill his glass. Then he said quietly, “I don’t have to drum it into you,” his glance fell on the pink-faced midshipman, “any of you, after what you have just seen and done. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, tell them simply this: you are achieving impossibilities because each and every one of you has become a veteran, just by being there!”

  Marrack said, “Thank you, sir. I can speak for the wardroom as a whole, I think.”

  Treherne grinned through his beard. “You will anyway, Number One!”

  Marrack frowned slightly. A witness had distracted his brief. “We all appreciate what you have done, sir.” There was a murmur of approval, even from old Pym. “We’ve lost a lot of good ships, but we saved quite a lot too. For myself, I’m proud to be a part of it.”

  Nobody laughed at Marrack’s remark, and for him it had been an outburst, Howard thought. The tall lieutenant meant every word of it.

  Howard moved through them to the door where Petty Officer White, the Buffer, was waiting to do Rounds.

  Howard hesitated, then turned away
from his own quarters and ran lightly up the ladder to the lobby where Leading Seaman Bishop was leaning over the quartermaster’s desk.

  Howard could feel Bishop staring after him as he stepped out on to the deck, the breeze of the firth greeting him like an old friend. Had he been thinking that it was hopeless, wasted—marking time while awaiting the inevitable? The thought seemed to shake him bodily. All the parades and the training in peacetime, regattas and girls in low-cut dresses at wardroom parties in the Med. He had since been made to re-learn everything, no less completely than men like Marrack and Bizley. What he had been taught in those far-off days had proved utterly useless. Was that how his father’s war had been, why Mister Mills had lost control of his feelings on that and probably other Armistice Days?

  The shock seemed to steady him in some way. How could he have failed to see that the men who served Gladiator, and all those unknown ones who faced death and fear each time they put to sea, were too precious to waste, to be tossed away for nothing?

  He remembered the Oerlikon gunner’s little ditty. Here today and gone tomorrow … He gripped the guardrail and stared at the invisible town. “Well, not if I can bloody well help it!”

  Vallance, who had padded quietly after him from the wardroom, paused and nodded to himself. The Old Man was letting off steam. Thank God for that. I’ve served a few, he thought, but I’ll see the war out with this one.

  Back in the wardroom again Vallance realised that Sub-Lieutenant Bizley was still slumped in his chair, some neat gin splashed over his trousers. The others were already sitting around the table, and there was a rare excitement at the prospect of the meal.

  “Wake up, sir!” Vallance stepped back as Bizley stared at him, his eyes red-rimmed while he recovered his bearings.

  “What?” He had been deep in thought when the gin had taken charge. Dreaming of the proposed decoration, what his parents and friends would say. He lurched to his feet, but not before Vallance had made sure he had scribbled his name on a bar-chit.

  At the table old Pym was saying, “’Course, in them days we didn’t ’ave no big searchlights, y’see?”

  Finlay peered doubtfully at the soup. “I expect you had oil lamps, eh?”

  Treherne reached for the bread, two helpings of it, brought aboard fresh that afternoon from Greenock. He held it to his nose and sighed. Real bread.

  He saw Pym’s watery eyes glaring at the gunnery officer and said easily, “Go on, T, tell us about Jutland again, when you were in the old Iron Duke with Jellicoe.”

  Pym regarded him suspiciously and then squinted at the deckhead. “Well, as I may ’ave told you before, Lord Jellicoe was standin’ right beside me when the Jerries opened fire …”

  Vallance watched him and rubbed his hands while the messmen bustled around the table.

  Normal again. Just one big happy family.

  The naval van pulled up with a jerk after dodging a mobile crane and a whole squad of marching sailors. The driver called, “Here she is, Sunshine, the Gladiator.”

  After a momentary hesitation, the driver, a tough-looking leading seaman from the Railway Transport Office, climbed down to help his last passenger lift his gear from the back. Afterwards he wondered why he had done it; he could not recall helping anyone before.

  The young seaman dragged his kitbag and hammock to the side of the jetty and stared slowly along the moored destroyer from bow to stern. She was a powerful-looking ship with fine, rakish lines, very like the ones he had studied in his magazine at school. She appeared to be littered with loose gear, while wires and pipes snaked in all directions and overalled figures groped over them, adding to the confusion with their tools and paint pots.

  The driver stood beside him, arms folded, and said, “She was on the Ruski convoy run ’til recently. In the thick of it.”

  He glanced at the youth and wondered. Slightly built, with wide eyes and skin like a young girl. God, he thought, he only looks about thirteen. In fact, Ordinary Seaman Andrew Milvain was eighteen, just, but certainly did not look it. In his best uniform, the jean collar still the dark colour it was issued, unlike the Jacks who scrubbed and dhobied them until they were as pale as the sky. Everything was brand-new, straight off the production belt. He thought he knew what the driver was thinking, but he had become used to that.

  A seaman in belt and gaiters, a heavy pistol hanging at his hip, walked to the guardrails and called, “One for us, Hookey?”

  The man nodded and said to Milvain, “Off you go, your new home then.”

  The youth picked up his bag and small attaché case and the gangway sentry came down the brow to carry his hammock.

  The driver made to get into the van and looked back. There was something very compelling about the new seaman. So serious; dedicated, whatever that meant.

  The sentry waited for the duty quartermaster to make an appearance and said, “New hand come aboard to join, Bob.”

  They both looked him up and down and the quartermaster asked, “Where from?”

  “Royal Naval Barracks, Chatham.” He had a quiet voice which was almost lost in the din of hammering and squealing tackles.

  The quartermaster took his draft chit and studied it. “Before that?”

  “HMS Ganges, the training establishment where …” The two seamen grinned. “Oh, we know where that is, right enough.”

  The sentry added, “Where they make mothers’ boys into old salts in three months, eh?”

  The quartermaster glanced forward. “I’ll tell the Cox’n. You carry the load ’til I get back.”

  The sentry grimaced. “The chiefs and POs are givin’ the gunner’s mate a sendoff. I’ll bet there’s enough booze there to float this ruddy ship!”

  The other man nodded. “I’m sort of bankin’ on it!”

  The sentry watched a Wren riding her bicycle along the jetty, her skirt blowing halfway up her thigh.

  He called after them, “Don’t let Mister snotty-nose Bizley catch you!” Then he stared after the Wren. Rather be on her than on the middle watch, he thought.

  Laird, the duty quartermaster, led the way through and around many obstacles. “Half the lads are already on leave. I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time.”

  Milvain asked politely, “That officer—Bizley, wasn’t it?”

  Laird heard the laughter and clinking glasses from the chief and petty officers’ mess and licked his lips. He dragged his mind back to the question. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s fairly new to the ship, a real little shit, but nothing we can’t handle.” He turned to see the youth blush. “Why?”

  “My brother had an officer of that name. In Coastal Forces.”

  A note of warning sounded in Laird’s mind. “Your brother—the skipper, was he?” He saw the sudden lift of the youth’s chin, a brightness in his eyes. Had, he thought. He said casually, “What do they call you, then?”

  Milvain thought of his mother sobbing over him at the railway station, the other sailors watching curiously while they waited for their various transport.

  He replied, “Andy, usually.”

  Laird said, “Well, Andy, I’m sorry I put my foot in it. It happens. You’ll see soon enough.”

  The coxswain, massive and sweating, appeared in the doorway and beamed, “What are all we, then?”

  The quartermaster handed him the draft chit. God, he thought, the coxswain reeked of rum. The whole mess did. He said abruptly, “His brother was Mister Bizley’s skipper.”

  The coxswain looked at the new arrival, Laird’s remark slowly penetrating the fog of the sendoff for the gunner’s mate.

  “Ganges boy, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not ‘sir’ ’ere, my son. Cox’n will do very nicely.”

  It was all coming back. Bizley’s bravery when his motor gunboat had gone down, his efforts to rescue the survivors. Maybe even a medal …

  “First ship?” He nodded slowly, picturing the various messes, the leading hands who ruled them like barons. “I’ll stick
you in Nine Mess. Bruce Fernie is the boss there.” He stared down at him. Officer material most likely, he thought. Ah well. All eyes and innocence. Bet he had to watch out for his virginity at the bloody Ganges.

  He belched. “I’ll make out a card for you. Just wait ’ere, my son.” He scowled at the quartermaster, “You can ’ave a wet, if that’s what you’re after!”

  Milvain stood by the door and watched the petty officers laughing and drinking, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. He looked around him, seeing the scars beneath the new paint. Russian convoys. He shivered and thought suddenly of his dead brother. He might have been proud of him.

  A youngish-looking man in a raincoat, and without any sort of cap, ran up one ladder and paused to glance at him as he moved his attaché case out of the way. “Just joined?”

  Milvain nodded and remembered what the burly coxswain had told him. “Yes, Petty Officer. From Chatham.”

  “Welcome aboard.”

  The coxswain reappeared with a card for the new rating, then froze as he saw the youth chatting away.

  He said awkwardly, “’Ere’s yer card.”

  Silence fell in the mess as the newcomer went inside. Milvain heard him say, “Just one then, I’m catching a train south as soon as I can.”

  Milvain asked quietly, “What does he do—er, Cox’n?”

  Sweeney breathed out heavily. “That was the captain, my son. Gawd, wot are things comin’ to in this regiment!”

  He watched Milvain climb down the ladder, looking around, trying to find himself in his new world. A grin spread slowly across his battered face. Wait till I tell the others about this. What does he do? But it was also a side to the commanding officer he had not seen before.

  Back in the crowded mess he saw the Old Man chatting with the departing gunner’s mate. Should he tell him about Milvain’s brother? He decided against it. Wait and see, that was best.

  Howard looked across at him. “They’re getting younger, ’Swain.”

  From one corner of his eye Sweeney saw the duty quartermaster slip out of the other door in case the Old Man should see him here.