Pride and the Anguish Page 2

  Trewin glanced slowly around him, noting the spotless decks, the neatly flaked lines and the general air of disciplined perfection. Rather like a millionaire’s yacht, he thought.

  “And what do you do, Sub?”

  Hammond tucked his telescope under his arm. “I was doing an interpreter’s course out here, so they sent me aboard as boarding officer and general dogsbody.” He smiled, so that he looked suddenly defenceless. “Shall I show you around first, Number One? Or would you rather go to your quarters?”

  Trewin started. It was strange being addressed as Number One after having a command of his own. “A quick inspection, I think.”

  They fell in step and walked along the port sidedeck. Hammond said at length, “The captain’s ashore, but left instructions that you were to stay on call for his return.” He added, “How’s England, sir?”

  Trewin glanced sideways at him. Hammond could have been asking about the North Pole. Perhaps Singapore’s impregnable fortress did that to people.

  “Fighting,” he said flatly.

  They walked on to the forecastle and stopped beside a four-inch gun. Hammond seemed cautious. “This is ‘A’ gun. We have another four-inch aft on the battery deck.” He pointed up beyond the bridge. “That’s back there.” He saw Trewin’s smile and coloured. “I’m sorry, Number One, but I’m not trying to play the ‘old soldier.’”

  Trewin nodded. “That’s all right, Sub. Keep talking. Otherwise I’ll think I’m dreaming.”

  Hammond led the way up a ladder through the quiet, orderly wheelhouse and on to the open bridge. From there Trewin could see the ship’s top or battery deck and the other gun. There were also a pair of businesslike Oerlikons behind the funnel, and a squat, unknown shape shrouded in a canopy.

  Hammond saw his gaze and said hastily, “Three point seven howitzer.” He added awkwardly, “For lobbing shells at shore positions, I believe. Though that was before my time.”

  “Before anyone’s time, I would think.” Trewin felt the heat across his neck and walked along the open deck until he could look down on her blunt stern.

  The young sub-lieutenant said, “Apart from the officers we have sixty ship’s company. Half British, half Chinese. The latter are mostly engine-room and ordinary seamen.”

  Trewin stared at him. “But what do we do?”

  “Oh, patrols.” Hammond was vague. “We sail up the east coast of Malaya. Three hundred miles. Two days up and two days down. We can get right inshore and keep an eye on things.”

  He did not explain what “things” were, nor did Trewin pursue the point. He had been told enough for a start, he decided.

  Porcupine was something out of the past. As he looked around the neat, even prim exterior he felt the same edge of alarm which had stayed with him after Dunkirk and Crete.

  They climbed down to the main deck and he saw the ship’s bell hanging from a beautifully polished dolphin. On it was inscribed: “H.M.S. Porcupine, 1937.” So she was not really old. It was just her role which had been left behind when the Germans had marched into Poland. Maybe even before that.

  He looked astern at the other gunboats. “Are they all like this?”

  Hammond shrugged. “Most of them are older, of course. Prawn and Shrike were built in World War One, Squalus and Grayling 1924, and Beaver is our sister ship.”

  Trewin turned away. Even their names were odd.

  “Now this is the wardroom, Number One.” Hammond pushed open a screen door and they stepped into a large, rectangular room immediately below the bridge. It was panelled in dark wood, and, after an M.L., luxurious.

  There was the usual small-ship clutter of furniture, magazine racks, and a stand of rifles and pistols below the vessel’s crest on one bulkhead. It was, of course, a porcupine, with the motto “Usque ad Finem” in gold lettering below.

  Trewin breathed out slowly. “Touch me not!”

  Hammond watched him. “Would you like lunch now? I’m the only one aboard and I’ve had mine.”

  Almost to himself Trewin repeated, “Touch me not!” Then he said wearily, “No thanks. I want a shower and a change out of these clothes.”

  Hammond touched a bell push and a wizened Chinese messman with a thin, goatlike beard pattered in from the pantry.

  Hammond said offhandedly, “This is Ching, our makeelearn. He can also show you your quarters. The cabin is next door, actually. He can also fix you up with better tropical rig than you can get in the U.K.”

  Trewin had a sudden picture of London. The criss-cross of searchlights, the brittle cheerfulness of a city under bombardment. “That’s very reassuring, Sub.” He looked past the unwinking Chinese messman. “Who are the other officers, by the way?”

  Hammond seemed relieved to change the subject. “There’s Lieutenant Mallory, the navigating officer. He’s an Australian.” He looked uncomfortable again. “He’s a reservist. Used to be in the Merchant Service.” He hurried on. “And Mr. Tweedie, the gunner. He’s been in the Navy since he was a boy.”

  Trewin thought, I can imagine! He said, “Thank you for the tour. I’ll take myself to my cabin now.”

  When Ching had closed the door behind him Trewin stood for several minutes by the square, shuttered scuttle staring out unseeingly at the anchored gunboats. He thought he heard the mournful hoot of the trooper’s siren and imagined her butting back to England and reality.

  Then he sat down on the neat bunk and looked at the small, comfortable cabin. His clothes had been unpacked and his bathrobe hung behind the door as if he had always been here. Almost savagely he threw off his clothes and glared at himself in a bulkhead mirror.

  “Welcome to the flagship!” He heard the hiss of a shower adjoining the cabin and imagined the aged Ching waiting to tend his needs. His mouth turned upward in a rueful smile. “Touch me not! That was all I needed!”

  TREWIN RETURNED from his shower and stood breathing deeply below the deckhead fan. He saw with amazement that during his absence Ching had re-entered his cabin and had laid out a shirt and shorts on the bunk, with his white shoes standing on the small carpet beneath at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  He towelled his unruly hair vigorously and felt some of the strain leaving his body. Dropping the towel on the deck he jerked open a drawer and carefully unwrapped an untouched bottle of whisky. He had procured it aboard the troopship and had intended to save this luxury for commissioning his new command. He smiled grimly and poured a generous helping into a glass on the neat chest of drawers. It was unlikely that he would get a command of his own again for a long, long time, he thought. Maybe never. So he would just drink to himself.

  The whisky tasted like fire on his empty stomach but he downed the glass in one swallow.

  There was a tap at the door, and without thinking Trewin said, “Come in.”

  Sub-Lieutenant Hammond stepped over the coaming and stopped dead, his face colouring as he saw his new first lieutenant standing naked below the fan, a glass gripped in one hand.

  Trewin had been so used to the crowded informality of a small M.L. that for a few seconds he was unaware of the young officer’s embarrassment. Then he grinned and turned to gather up his bathrobe. As he slipped it over his shoulders he caught sight of Hammond’s face in the bulkhead mirror and felt his stomach contract with something like shame.

  Hammond blurted out, “My God, Number One! Your back!” He shrugged helplessly. “What on earth happened?”

  Trewin turned away. “Forget it!” Angrily he poured another drink, feeling Hammond’s eyes following every movement. “Well? What did you want to tell me?”

  Hammond pulled himself together. “Just had a signal. The captain’s coming offshore. He’ll be aboard in ten minutes.” He ran his fingers through his fair hair. “He’ll want to see you at the gangway.”

  “All right.” Trewin held his breath as the neat spirit explored his stomach and wished that Hammond would go away. Just one moment off guard, just one stupid bit of carelessness, and he was right back where he
was before the shower.

  He heard the door close and Hammond’s footsteps retreating down the passageway, and then with slow deliberation Trewin pulled on his shirt and shorts and sat down heavily on the bunk. Would he always be ashamed of his scalded body? How much longer could this ridiculous thing last? When there was so much else to worry about and remember. With a frown he picked up his cap and let himself out of the cabin.

  As he walked aft along the narrow sidedeck he noticed that the whole ship seemed to have come alive since he had climbed aboard just two hours earlier. It was strange to see Chinese faces beneath British caps and to hear the unfamiliar chatter of their voices.

  There were British ratings, too, well tanned and healthy looking, who watched him pass and tried to catch his eye. Trewin ignored them. There would be time enough to get to know the men behind the faces, he thought. All the time in the world if Hammond’s sketchy description of the Porcupine’s duties was to be believed. Chugging up and down the Malayan coast. Back and forth, back and forth. God, he thought savagely, what they could do with all these men at home, or in the Mediterranean!

  He found Hammond beside the gangway his telescope trained on a fast-moving motor boat. He said, “Here he comes.” He glanced at a tall, bearded seaman. “Man the side, Jardine!” To Trewin he added quickly, “The captain always likes to see the gangway properly manned.” He sounded nervous.

  Trewin stood aside as the boatswain’s mates moistened their pipes on their lips, and a small Chinese rating pulled on a pair of white gloves and stood at the foot of the ladder. Trewin felt dazed. It was more like the quarterdeck of a battleship than a minute gunboat!

  He watched narrowly as the small motor boat turned in a sharp arc and dashed smartly to the gangway. A boathook gleamed in the bright sunlight, and as the screw surged astern the boat sighed to a halt with the foot of the ladder exactly opposite the cockpit.

  Trewin saw Hammond watching him expectantly and raised his hand in salute. The side party sprang to attention, and as the pipes trilled in salute the Porcupine’s captain stepped briskly on to the deck.

  Commander Greville Corbett was slight in build and incredibly neat. He was dressed from top to toe in impeccable white drill, and wore a line of bright decorations as well as a sword which he now carried against his thigh like a pointer. It was hard to guess his age, and in the shade of his oak-leaved cap his face was entirely devoid of expression. But Trewin’s attention was immediately drawn to his eyes. They were blue. Not the colour of the sea or the sky, but bright and pale like two polished stones. Even now they were moving swiftly around the motionless side party as if completely independent of the neat, rigid frame which carried them.

  The captain said, “You must be Lieutenant Trewin.” He did not wait for a reply, nor did he relax, but added sharply, “The forrard awning is slack, Hammond!” The eyes paused on the sub-lieutenant’s face. “There is also a smudge on the hull below ‘A’ gun.” The sword scabbard tapped the deck. “I will not have the native seamen throwing their gash over the side! Deal with it at once!”

  Hammond saluted and stuttered, “Yes, sir! I told the chief bosun’s mate to check the awnings earlier…”

  Corbett’s mouth opened and closed in crisp, precise movements. “You are the officer-of-the-day, not the chief bosun’s mate! So try not to cover your neglect in excuses!” He watched the wretched Hammond hurry away and then remarked calmly, “Come with me, Trewin.”

  Trewin followed the other man along the deck and up the ladder to the bridge. From behind he could see that Corbett’s hair was grey beneath his cap but his figure and movements were as fresh as young Hammond’s.

  Corbett walked swiftly through the deserted chartroom and threw open the door of his day cabin. Without speaking he unclipped his medals and laid them on a desk and then removed his sword. Then he pressed a small bell and stared unwinking at the other door.

  A small Chinese man appeared as if by magic, and Trewin had the crazy idea that he spent his whole life lurking behind that door just waiting for such a summons.

  Corbett removed his cap and handed it to the steward. He said, “Coffee.” Nothing else.

  Trewin stared at the back of Corbett’s neat head, feeling suddenly untidy and awkward in spite of his shower and fresh shirt. Then with a start he realised that Corbett’s pale eyes were watching him from a bulkhead mirror.

  The captain said, “Well, if you are to be my first lieutenant, Trewin, you must certainly start by clamping down on slackness.” Then he turned, his tanned features relaxed and composed. “I have just been with the admiral. I can’t watch things here all the time.”

  Coffee was brought and poured in complete silence, then as the messman departed Corbett sat behind the desk and opened a folder of signals. He said, “I’ll just get up to date. You sit and enjoy the coffee.”

  Trewin sat. For a moment longer he watched Corbett’s inclined head as he leafed slowly through the pile of signals, then he turned his attention to the cabin, as if to glean some other impressions of this extraordinary man.

  It was a very spacious cabin indeed. High up on the superstructure it somehow managed to stay cool and shaded, and both furniture and fittings were in perfect order. There was a bookcase near Trewin’s chair full of expensive, leather-bound books. Most of them seemed to be concerned with the lives of famous admirals, Rodney, Nelson and many more, and there were several outdated ones on astral navigation.

  On the desk he could see a framed photograph of an unsmiling woman with fair hair and another of a small boy holding a rubber duck. The woman looked much younger than Corbett, Trewin decided. Without his cap Corbett seemed less jaunty, and he put his age at about forty-five. Yet he was only a commander? That was odd. Especially when at home every regular officer was being promoted at a fantastic speed as more and more half-trained reservists poured into the Navy to man the growing ranks of ships and to fill the gaps left by an equally growing casualty list.

  Corbett closed the folder with a snap. “Damn fools!” He picked up his coffee and added offhandedly, “You’ll find things a bit different out here, Trewin.” His eyes fastened on Trewin’s shoulder-straps. “You’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up. This is a crack squadron. I intend it should stay so.”

  He seemed to dismiss the subject and leaned back in his chair. Then he said, “I understand you were a journalist before you joined up?”

  Trewin thought of the dingy East End newspaper office with its staff of five reporters. “That’s right, sir.” What else could he say? It had been just one more milestone on his search for himself.

  “Yet you were born in Dorset?” Corbett put his head on one side. “So why did you go to work in London?”

  Trewin stared at him. “I felt like it, sir.”

  “Quite so.” Corbett pursed his lips. “You may wonder why I attach so much importance to the backgrounds of my officers, eh? Well, as I said, this is a crack squadron. And now that we can expect a slow stream of reserve officers it is necessary to investigate certain matters.” He gave what might have been a smile. “Before this war you could gauge an officer by his attainment and rank. Nothing more was necessary.” He shrugged. “Now we cannot be so sure.” He ignored Trewin’s growing anger and continued coolly, “And you are married.”

  “She’s dead, sir!” Trewin felt the throb of pain as he said the words. “In an air raid.” He looked away from the pale eyes. “It’s not as quiet as this in London!”

  Corbett shuffled some papers. “And it is our duty to see that it remains quiet, as you put it.” He added, “I am sorry about your wife.” Had Trewin been watching he would have seen Corbett’s eyes stray to the framed photograph with something like sadness.

  Then he said in a crisper tone, “But still, you were in the R.N.V.R. before the war began, and you have had some experience of combat, it seems. So if you work hard at your duties I see no reason why you should not make a success of your appointment.”

  Trewin watched him dull
y. Then he replied quietly, “There are sixty men aboard this ship, sir. And there are three hundred miles of coastline to patrol. I think I can manage that well enough.”

  Corbett eyed him for several seconds as if making up his mind about something. “I never take things on trust, Trewin. Time will tell me what I want to know about every man aboard this ship, do you understand?”

  Trewin stood up. “Is that all, sir?”

  Corbett seemed to ponder. “For the present. We sail tomorrow morning at 0700. By then I hope you will have made yourself familiar with my standing orders and with the heads of departments. Tomorrow you will take the ship to sea.” He smiled slightly. “Just to get the feel of things.” He waited until Trewin had reached the door. “One thing, Trewin. When I come aboard in the afternoon I do not want the gangway smelling of whisky. We have a crew which half consists of native seamen. Just remember that in future!” He stared down at his desk. “You may go now.”

  Trewin did not remember reaching his cabin, but found himself standing in front of that same mirror his eyes blazing with anger. He said aloud, “The pompous, bloody bastard!” Then deliberately he opened his drawer and took out the bottle.

  2 | Toy Fleet

  LIEUTENANT RALPH TREWIN climbed on to the open bridge and glanced upwards at the masthead pendant. It hung quite limp, and although it was still early morning he guessed it was going to be another scorching day. He crossed the bridge and stared over the screen at the ship’s broad forecastle. A faint cloud of vapour hung above the capstan, and he could see the anchor party moving busily around the cable and young Hammond right in the bows beside the jackstaff. It was all the usual excitement of getting a ship under way, he thought. It never left you, no matter what ship it happened to be. He swallowed hard, feeling the taste of coffee and the remains of a hasty breakfast.

  There had been only one other officer at the wardroom table. Mr. Archibald Tweedie, the warrant gunner. He was a thickset, even squat little man with a brick-red complexion which had defied all the efforts of the sun to produce a tan. To Trewin he seemed typical. A hardcore gunner who had worked his way up through every rank on the lower deck to finally attain the thin gold stripe of his trade. Trewin knew from early experience that such men usually resented the quick commissions of the wartime reservists. He could sympathise to begin with, but as time wore on he found such attitudes tiresome and irritating. Tweedie, it seemed, was no exception. He had been formal and withdrawn throughout breakfast, and had spent most of the time reading a pile of newly arrived letters which lay beside his plate. Trewin had seen that the big, spidery handwriting which covered each sheet of paper made up very few words, yet Tweedie read each page as slowly as if he were studying the Bible.