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A tannoy squeaked in another passageway and announced harshly, ‘D’you hear there! D’you hear there! The film show in the canteen tonight will be Waggons West. Duty part of the watch will muster at 2015 and rig cinema.’ A pause, and then as an afterthought, ‘Men under punishment to muster on the hangar deck.’

  Rowan switched on the tap of a small bulkhead basin and waited for the usual vibrations and spitting drips to give way to piping-hot water. He was still thinking about something he had seen and heard in London. As he had waited for a train to begin the first leg of the journey back to Liverpool.

  It had not been raining in London, in fact, the sky had been clear and ice-blue.

  He had noticed that some would-be passengers, several of them servicemen, were shading their eyes to watch some tiny vapour trails high above the bomb-scarred city. So high, so fragile had they looked from the station that they had hung almost motionless on their blue field.

  Then he had heard it. Just briefly. The tap-tap-tap-tap of machine guns, almost lost in the noises around him, distant and impartial.

  One of the onlookers had shouted, ‘Got the bugger! See the bastard drop!’

  Rowan had looked at them and then back to the sky. See the bastard drop. The man had spoken of the plane. Perhaps that was what made them different. They were the aircraft, good or bad, according to country, like the men who would be fighting in the cowboy film in the canteen tonight.

  Perhaps that unknown onlooker had the right idea, Rowan thought. Better not to see your enemy’s face, recognise him as a living person like you.

  Rowan had seen it twice. The head jerking round in the cockpit to see him for the first time. The second German had even dragged off his goggles as if unable to accept that it was his and not somebody else’s turn to die. See the bastard drop.

  ‘Nice to have you back, sir.’

  Ede, one of the stewards, was peering in at him.

  ‘Good run ashore?’

  Rowan threw off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  ‘Fair.’

  He thought of the leave. Night was the best part. Their house was on the edge of Oxshott Woods. Every night he had lain on his bed below the window, despite all his mother’s pleas for him to join her and his father under the stairs.

  Each night had been the same. He had heard the wind hissing through the great trees, like surf on shingle. Like the unspoiled dream when you saw the girl walking towards you through the same surf. The perfect girl.

  But the rest had been strained. Wherever he went people had asked him about the war, without wanting an answer. Not that he would have known how to reply to their questions, which had varied from Russia to the anticipated Second Front, from clothes rationing to bombing.

  Some attitudes had confused and vaguely angered him. The war had gone badly for a long while. In the Navy alone many fine ships had gone to the bottom, while on land the army had had limited success and too much stalemate.

  But this year, 1943, there was already a fresh mood. The Germans had been driven out of North Africa, Field Marshal Rommel’s magic had been broken. Only this month, the Allies had followed it up with that first vital step with landings all along the coasts of Sicily. It would be Italy next, and then . . .

  Perhaps he should have gone with Bill Ellis to London. Not tell their parents or friends where they were going. As Bill had urged, ‘Live a bit, Tim. Just in case.’

  In the same bedroom which he had grown up from schoolboy to naval lieutenant, with not much in between, Rowan had thought of Bill’s words as he had listened to the wind across Oxshott Woods, and to old Simon’s unsteady breathing beside him on the bed. Simon, once a big black dog, now rather grey and almost blind, had never left him. It had been like being the schoolboy again.

  But then life got harder to fathom, he thought. He recalled the people in the village pub, and then thought of that special Seafire on the deck somewhere above his head. Why me?

  He looked at himself in the misty glass by the basin. Dark, unruly hair, with level brown eyes which seemed to watch him like a newcomer. Tall, slim, and very ordinary, he decided.

  Ede said helpfully, ‘Like a cuppa, sir? The rush’ll be on in a jiffy.’

  Rowan turned and looked at him, his sadness falling away as he replied, ‘A cuppa would be just fine.’

  The steward winked. ‘Never fails, sir.’ He bustled away, whistling to himself.

  In the pantry at the end of the long passageway, and which adjoined the great tin box of Growler’s wardroom, Ede found Petty Officer Grist, his lord and master, busily counting wardroom cutlery.

  ‘Lost something, P.O.?’ Ede kept his face averted as he reached for a clean teapot. He knew damn well that the petty officer steward occasionally stole some of the better pieces of cutlery to pass to his oppo in the engineroom, an artificer who had a good racket going for him. He carved and welded forks and spoons into nice little brooches of anchors and aircraft before selling them to the sailors for their girl friends.

  Grist looked at him suspiciously. ‘Just checkin’.’ He saw the teapot. ‘One of ’em’s back aboard then?’

  ‘Mr Rowan.’ Ede swilled hot water round the pot. ‘Nice bloke. For an officer.’

  Grist nodded. ‘’E ’ad a rough time a year or so back. I was in the same ship. ’Is plane caught fire. ’E came down in the drink. Bad do, it was.’

  Ede frowned, remembering how Rowan moved his shoulders sometimes. The way he sat for long periods in his cabin. Saying nothing. Staring into space.

  Grist bared his teeth in a grim smile. ‘Tell you somethin’ to cheer your Mr Rowan up, I don’t bloody think. We are shippin’ an admiral aboard for the next trip, so you’ll ’ave to watch it, my boy.’

  Ede looked at the cutlery. So will you, mate. He said, ‘That’s good. They never send admirals anywhere dangerous!’

  In his spacious day cabin Captain Bruce Buchan sat in a red leather armchair and waited for his steward to close the door behind him. The chair was almost the only article he had brought with him when he had assumed command of Growler, and it gave him some small pleasure when he noticed how its homely polished glow was always at odds with the plain paintwork and steel furniture around him.

  Across a small table from him his wife was stirring a cup of tea, her eyes lost in thought.

  Buchan had turned forty, and was prematurely grey, so that as he sat very upright in his red chair, his thickset body clothed in his best uniform, he had the appearance of an old master mariner of earlier days.

  He often thought about his age. Others he knew who had entered the Navy as tender twelve-year-olds just before that other war seemed to carry their age better. Some were very senior, one a full admiral. Others, because of misfortune, or because of being out of the Service for some while between the wars, were holding down exciting appointments in various parts of the world. It was no consolation to realise that quite a few were dead, too.

  His wife said quietly, ‘Off again then, Bruce.’

  Buchan regarded her tenderly. She had aged more than she should since he had last seen her.

  He said, ‘I’ve got a good bunch, Ellen. Most of ’em are pretty green, but I’ve had a lot worse.’

  She dropped her eyes. ‘And better.’

  He stared. It was unusual for her to show such bitterness. Perhaps she blamed him?

  He saw her glance up at the picture on the opposite bulkhead. The Camilla, a light cruiser, at full speed. His last command before Growler. Even in the photograph you could easily see the commodore’s broad pendant standing out like a sheet of metal as she tore through the water. Commodore of Destroyers.

  Buchan heard himself say wearily, ‘Things may have changed, dear.’ He did not really believe it.

  His commodore had been Lionel Chadwick, a ball of fire, as everyone agreed. They had been together at Dartmouth, competitors in regattas and reviews in almost every port and naval base you could think of. Not friends ever. But the Royal Navy was a family, and ships and men always crossed one a
nother’s paths repeatedly. Never far away.

  He looked at the closed signal log on his desk. His petty officer was a very neat man. Everything in its place, peace or war.

  He had received the lengthy signal a week ago. Orders, instructions about new personnel, and of course the bit about receiving the flag of a rear admiral to assume overall control of a new Air Support Group. Two escort carriers, sloops, everything.

  It should have been a proud moment, especially for one such as Buchan who had been forced to quit the Navy during the depression and find his living away from the one calling he understood.

  But Rear Admiral Lionel Chadwick, C.B. and D.S.O., would never allow it to rest. Buchan could see his face at the court of enquiry as if it were yesterday instead of eighteen months ago. Fresh and clear-eyed, a ball of fire.

  He could even hear his crisp voice, see the line of grave-faced officers along the table with its baize cloth.

  Little phrases stood out in his mind like gunfire. Did his best. Under the circumstances could not carry the blame. However. That last word, however, buried all the rest.

  The loss of the Camilla, the severe damage to the ship with which she had collided, the deaths of several seamen were not laid directly at Buchan’s door. But Chadwick’s evidence, his however, made certain that he would never rise to higher command.

  The months which had passed had been a nightmare. A meaningless office job in a minesweeping depot, something he knew nothing about. Command of a small training base for salvage teams. There his instructors had known far more than he, and had probably regarded him as one more misfit, left behind by a war for which he had never been prepared.

  And then out of the blue had come Growler. He had, it appeared, some friends left at the Admiralty who had not forgotten him after all. It was typical of Buchan not to accept that he had been appointed because he knew his job, and there were too few of his sort for far too many appointments.

  It had been like starting again. Over to America to see his ship being completed. A lively, exciting America after the dull ritual of nightly air raids, shortages and an enemy which stood just a few miles across the English Channel

  The ship might be ugly, difficult to handle in confined spaces because of her single screw and vast hull which took any sort of wind like a sail, but she was alive, and needed.

  Buchan was ‘old navy’ through and through, but he was intelligent enough to realise that he had to accept a compromise. The young, untidy hostilities-only officers and ratings who flew and maintained the ship’s aircraft were like nothing he had known before. Youthful and scruffy they might be, but he had been proud to watch them taking off around the clock to patrol the crawling convoys. As regular as a good bus service, his chief engineer had remarked.

  His wife said huskily, ‘That man will never give you any peace.’

  Buchan smiled sadly. She never referred to Chadwick by name.

  She added, ‘It was not your fault, Bruce. It was proved at the enquiry. But for that man it would never –’

  He stood up. ‘I was in command. It was my decision. Maybe it was the wrong one. Sometimes I’m not sure any more.’

  He heard an order being piped over the tannoy. The squeal of a winch somewhere on the flight deck. The carpet under his brightly polished shoes gave a little tremble. One of the Chief’s generators. Part of the chain. His ship.

  Buchan glanced at the brass clock. Edgar Jolly, the commander, would be along soon. To discuss arrangements for tomorrow. Sailing orders. Anything else which might cross his mind. He quite liked Jolly, his second in command. Dark, handsome, eager. It was to be hoped that having an admiral aboard would not affect him too much. He frowned. Better tell him to inspect the quarters which were being allocated and repainted for the new arrival.

  Admirals, even junior ones, took up a lot of room with their fads and fancies.

  She said, ‘I’d better leave now, Bruce.’ She always knew.

  ‘Yes, dear.’ He watched her. Her uncertainty. The acceptance that she could not share this part of him. ‘I’ll be home soon. You see.’

  She laid her head on his chest and he held her against him. She felt rather frail, but had that fresh smell of flowers. What he remembered when he had first met her at Cowes. A young lieutenant. A pretty girl in a blue dress and big floppy hat.

  ‘Take care, Bruce.’

  There was a discreet tap at the door. It was over.

  The staff car hissed along a stretch of shining road, the windscreen wipers barely able to cope with the steady rain.

  Rear Admiral Lionel Chadwick pressed his foot harder on the accelerator pedal and ignored the stiff anxiety of the marine driver beside him. He loved anything fast which he could control. Cars, horses, yachts, planes. He grinned as a man on a bicycle swerved away and almost fell into a ditch. And of course women.

  His little party of aides had gone on ahead, which suited him very well. Only Godsal, his elegant flag lieutenant, was with him, trying to appear relaxed in the back seat while his admiral drove north to Liverpool like a man possessed.

  It was difficult for Chadwick to describe his own feelings. Elation, excitement, even a sense of mischief perhaps. It was like part of a great game. If you survived each move, you planned the next, and so on. Only the timid stood fast, or went under.

  He grinned again. Poor old Bruce Buchan. I’ll bet he choked when he saw the signal.

  One of Chadwick’s friends, and he had a great many, had suggested he was making a mistake in accepting his new appointment so readily. Something at the Admiralty would be vacant shortly. Chadwick had the sort of friends who knew such things, who could decide if they wanted to accept or refuse jobs. Who understood ‘the game’.

  But Chadwick had laughed at him. Behind a desk? Signing stupid signals and memoranda about clothing issue to Wren cooks? Not bloody likely!

  He glanced briefly at the wings on his sleeve. He had not flown a naval aircraft for many years, although he had owned a private one since he was in his twenties. He might get a chance to show some of his new command a thing or two.

  He stamped on the brakes and said briskly, ‘I’ll get out. Take over.’

  Chadwick stood beside the car letting the drizzle fall across his upturned face and immaculate uniform. He was quite tall, but had the broad shoulders of an athlete which made him appear heavier than he was. His dark hair was brushed straight back, not a strand out of place. He had long side-burns which by comparison were almost white against his tanned skin. A woman in Plymouth had commented on them one night.

  ‘Easier to see in the dark,’ he had said as he had reached for the bedside lamp.

  Godsal, the flag lieutenant, was watching him through the wet glass. His admiral never seemed to tire. Was never short of ideas on almost everything. Sometimes he got impatient and snapped, ‘Oh you sort it out, man! God help you if you foul it up!’

  He studied Chadwick’s upturned face, the wide mouth and steady grey eyes. If only half the things he had heard about him were true, he would have to be on his toes.

  A friend had said, ‘Stick with him and you’ll really get somewhere. But he’ll work the arse off you if he can.’

  The nearside door slammed and the marine driver let in the clutch very smoothly, breathing out as he did so.

  Chadwick grinned at him. ‘I’ll bet that got you going, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The marine kept his eyes on the road. He liked his job driving a staff car. If he told the admiral what he really thought, he would not hold the job more than ten seconds.

  Chadwick knew exactly what the man was thinking and grinned more broadly. That’s what they all needed to fight and win a war. A damn good jolt.

  He thought of his new appointment, an Air Support Group, an excellent idea already being bogged down by conventional, suburban thinking.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. He would change all that.

  2

  Replacements

  THE GROWLER’S READY Room was on t
he gallery deck, as was every other department vital to the running of the ship and her aircraft. It was the big, cheerless space where the pilots, observers and air gunners sat around in the slingback seats which were supposed to relax you while you waited for the signal. The order to ‘scramble’.

  Apart from a desk, a couple of blackboards and a locked cabinet, there was little to betray its importance. To the officers who sat or lounged in it this morning, chatting and smoking, flipping through magazines and newspapers, items such as the gramophone and dartboard were of far greater importance.

  Rowan had his fingers laced behind his head as he stared up at the deckhead. It was the forenoon, and in the steel box it was already like a Turkish bath. He had slept badly on his first night back. Not because of his dreams, but also because of his friend, Bill Ellis. He had returned aboard late. Noisily drunk, and persistently apologetic about it as he had reeled about the cabin trying to free himself of his trousers and cannoning into the unyielding metal furniture. That had brought more anger and curses. From Bill, and from those in adjoining cabins who had threatened to ‘fill him in’ if he did not pipe down.

  Rowan twisted his head and looked at his friend. Ellis was huge and blond, like a great bear. A rugby forward of some renown before joining the Navy, he was a good man to have beside you in an argument. When he was in his full flying gear it was surprising that he could move in the cockpit of his beloved Seafire.

  Rowan smiled. Despite his power and size, Ellis was a gentle type for most of the time. He was sitting back in his chair, wearing his dark glasses, which most pilots donned before going out on to an unlit deck at night. Except that this was a bright July forenoon, Growler was still in Gladstone Dock, and Ellis’s mouth had fallen wide open. He was sleeping off his leave while there was still time.

  He shifted his glance to the others. All of them he knew. Some over the weeks. A few on and off for several years. One of the latter was Lieutenant Dymock Kitto. He had flown a lot before the war. Stunt pilot, trips round the bay at a quid a time, part-time mercenary in China. He had got plenty into his life. Very swarthy, with a cleft chin which was like blue steel within an hour of shaving.