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  Crespin said quietly, ‘Thank you for being so frank.’ He found that he meant it.

  Rear-Admiral Oldenshaw grimaced. ‘Thought I was a silly old fool, didn’t you? Imagined I’d dropped you this command because you could both be spared, wasn’t that the case? Well, you may still be right if I’m proved to be at fault. So stop worrying about the ship’s capabilities and get on with the job. It’s probably just what you need after what you’ve been through. In this kind of war you’ve got to fight with what you’ve got. Not what you’d like to have. My God, when I first went to sea as a young cadet we went straight to the China Station to fight pirates, and that was in a sailing ship! The Thistle may not be a thoroughbred but she’s proved her value already.’ He turned towards the door. ‘The main difference, however, is that this time you will be the pirate!’

  Crespin followed them up the ladder to the gangway. Wemyss had mustered a small side party and they saluted as the old admiral followed by the tall, unsmiling Wren made their way up towards the dock wall.

  Crespin saw the unspoken question in Wemyss’ eyes but said, ‘Carry on, Number One, and let me know when the two officers come aboard.’ Then he retraced his steps to the quiet of his cabin.

  The gangway sentry said, ‘Must be nice, sir. Bein’ an’ admiral an’ that?’

  Wemyss smiled faintly. ‘War is like the cinema, Pim. The best seats are high up and at the back!’

  Then he turned on his heel and walked forward towards the forecastle. He too had a lot to think about.

  2. A Mixed Bunch

  TUESDAY DAWNED CLEAR and surprisingly cold, but by the time the ship’s company had completed a hasty breakfast there was some hazy sunlight which, if nothing else, gave a hint of spring.

  Crespin stood on the deserted bridge and stared down at his command. It was hard to realize that she was the same rust-streaked vessel he had first seen in dry dock. The previous evening had been a mad whirl of activity, with the Thistle being warped from the dock to lie alongside a portion of reserved jetty to await her supplies and the rest of her fittings.

  Now she was ready. Her crowded upper deck was clean and neat with guardrails in position and lines flaked down as per instruction book. Crespin guessed that Wemyss had checked each item himself so that his captain’s eye would find no outward offence at least. And the great mountain of stores which had been waiting on the jetty had vanished as if the ship had gobbled up every item herself. Food, supplies, ammunition, liferafts and all the small ship clutter of war were now out of sight, jammed, coaxed or lashed throughout the hull until needed.

  They had taken on a full load of fuel, and there was still a tang of oil in the crisp air to mingle with that of new paint, the last of which had been slapped on in almost complete darkness.

  The tannoy speaker squeaked and then a voice called, ‘Clear lower deck! All hands lay aft!’

  Crespin stood back a little to watch as his new company appeared as if by magic. They flowed down either side to congregate in a packed mass around and above the tiny quarterdeck, while petty officers and leading hands made a quick check to ensure that nobody but the essential watchkeepers were absent.

  The final men had come aboard the previous morning. Most were strangers to one another. They had yet to be welded into a useful company. They were in working rig, blue overalls and regulation caps, but nevertheless it was possible to see that individuals were already visible amongst the jostling, chattering press of figures.

  The seasoned seamen wore dangerous-looking knives in hand-made leather sheaths and chatted very little. They knew it was far too early to make assessments. The ‘Jolly Jacks’, a breed found in all ships, were clad in overalls scrubbed and bleached until they were almost white, to give the outward impression of ‘old hands’. Here and there were small companionable groups, friends made at the barracks where the draft had been assembled. There were also other men, isolated and alone in spite of the crush around them. The men with personal and secret reasons for leaving the land. They must be watched, Crespin thought.

  Heads turned curiously as the two new sub-lieutenants appeared on deck and walked aft together. To look at they could not have been more unalike. Shannon, the senior of the two, who was to be the gunnery officer, was dark, tense-looking, and would, Crespin thought, be very attractive to women. Sub-Lieutenant Porteous, on the other hand, was fair, pink and overweight. He was appointed depth-charge control officer, but aboard this corvette his duties could be anything which was thrown his way. Crespin knew that before joining the Navy Porteous had been a new and junior barrister. He could well imagine it. Surprisingly, he had failed to get a commission on two occasions, and had spent eighteen months in an East Coast escort vessel. Both were temporary officers. Hostilities only.

  There was a clatter of feet on the ladder and Petty Officer Joicey, the coxswain, appeared at the bridge wing and saluted.

  Joicey was a regular. He was stocky, almost square, with bright red hair and a harsh Cockney accent. Wemyss had already described him as a first-class petty officer, and like himself had been aboard the corvette from the beginning, which he had originally joined as a leading seaman. But Crespin had seen for himself that Joicey was one of those petty officers who were the backbone of the Service. During the hectic days since he had stepped aboard Crespin had seen Joicey everywhere and at all times of the day and night. He never seemed tired, nor did he allow others to be.

  Good coxswains were in great demand, and one with Atlantic experience stood a better chance than most of getting quick promotion in some other ship, larger and more comfortable than Thistle. The previous captain had written a glowing recommendation to this effect. Wemyss had told Crespin why Joicey was still here doing the same job as before, but with a disordered and untested company.

  Joicey had fallen in love with a Liverpool girl. They had been married during one of the Thistle’s brief rests in harbour. All the ship’s company had been there, and the captain had helped to pay for the wedding reception out of his own pocket.

  Two convoys and several thousand miles later the Thistle had wended her way back to Liverpool. Even the twin towers of the Royal Liver building, a landmark so familiar to all returning sailors, were masked in smoke. The German bombers had done their work well. So well that when Wemyss and some of the others had gone to the graveyard with Joicey there was one great mass burial with Joicey’s young wife just a name on an alphabetical list in the padre’s hands.

  He had not faltered as far as his duties were concerned. If anything, he worked twice as hard. But Wemyss said that he was changed far beyond things as impersonal as daily routine.

  Now he stood framed against the pale sunlight and the grey ships at his back.

  He said, ‘First lieutenant’s respects, sir. Lower deck is cleared.’

  ‘Very good, Cox’n. I’ll come down.’

  Joicey followed him down the steep ladder, and then Crespin paused in the shadow of the port boat davits.

  ‘Well, what do you think of them?’

  Joicey’s eyes were blue and very bright. He stared past Crespin’s shoulder, watching an ambulance wending its way between the dockyard cranes.

  Then he replied, ‘A mixed bunch, sir. Some are born skates, in an’ out of detention barracks more than in any ship. A few are good enough ’ands. Others are as green as grass. Straight from their mothers’ arms an’ filled with ideas of death or glory!’ He sounded contemptuous.

  Crespin eyed him gravely. ‘And you? How do you feel about it?’

  Joicey’s glance moved momentarily to Crespin’s face. ‘Dropping depth-charges on U-boats is all right. But it’s slow an’ very uncertain, sir. If you’re lucky you’ll get an oil slick an’ a few bits of flotsam. If not, just a few gutted fish.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Not like when our poor bloody merchantmen get swiped by one of their tin fish. You can see them burn and fall apart well enough!’ He seemed to pull his thoughts together. ‘Me, sir? I just want to kill Germans. But this time I want to see ’em di
e!’

  Crespin walked the rest of the way in silence. He did not see the men springing to attention, nor did he notice the quick glances of curiosity and uncertainty from all sides as he climbed up on to a depth-charge rack and returned Wemyss’ formal report.

  He said, ‘Tell them to stand easy, Number One.’ But his mind still lingered on Joicey’s words, the desperate hurt in his eyes.

  Then he looked above the watching faces, past the canopied guns and the gently flapping ensign. There was a faint haze of smoke above the squat funnel, and he could feel the ship moving gently against her moorings. She was impatient to go.

  He said, ‘This is the first time I have seen you all together. It may be some time before I get another chance.’ He saw some exchanging knowing glances, and here and there a man nudged his new friend. ‘Most of you don’t even know yet what sort of thing you volunteered for. Some perhaps are unaware even why they volunteered at all. You have been kept in the dark because so far as the rest of the world is concerned this is just another corvette, one more overworked escort. And it must go on believing that.’ He had their full attention now. ‘I know that many of you came to the Thistle because you merely wanted to get away from something else, some even because they were unfitted to hold down anything they had attempted.’ His tone hardened. ‘I am not interested in your past, nor in your motives. All I ask is that you work together as a team. Doing a job is not enough. A badge on a man’s sleeve may say one thing, but until I have seen actual results of proficiency of a very high standard I will not be satisfied.’

  Crespin could sense a different reaction around him. Some looked openly worried, others resentful and defiant. It could not be helped. This was no picnic, and it was as well to start off on the right foot. It was rarely the popular way to begin.

  ‘I will keep you informed as much as I can of what is happening. If you have any worries then speak to your officers or heads of departments. For believe me when I say this is not just another overworked escort. We are sailing to do a hard and dangerous job. A lot of things we are called to do you may not like. I don’t suppose I will either. But it has to be done, and done correctly, if we are to see England again.’

  Along the jetty he could see a line of seamen leaning on the guardrails of a smart destroyer, watching the little corvette and no doubt wondering what her captain could find to make a speech about.

  He added slowly, ‘We leave harbour in one hour. Nobody will set foot off this ship again until we have reached our first destination.’

  From the corner of his eye he saw a black Humber staff car moving slowly past the ship, a smart Wren driver guiding it carefully over the dockyard railway lines. In the back was a small, shadowy figure, and he guessed it was the little admiral taking a last look at his pipe-dream.

  He glanced along the upturned faces once more. Soon the men would emerge from behind these masks. He said curtly, ‘Carry on, Number One. Dismiss the hands and get them to work. We will proceed to sea as ordered.’ That was all.

  The men sprang to attention, and as he walked between them Crespin could feel the warmth of their bodies, as if the whole crew was one living, breathing being.

  At the back of the crowd he stopped beside a tall, gangling seaman. ‘What is your name?’

  The man stared at him with something like fear. ‘Trotter, sir.’

  Crespin eyed him calmly. ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere. Have we served together?’

  ‘No, sir, never!’

  Crespin nodded and walked quickly towards the bridge. The man’s reply was too quick, too eager. Perhaps he had been conscious of the general hostility around him and wanted to show that the new captain had no ally amongst the lower deck. And yet … there was something vaguely familiar about him.

  He almost collided with the Thistle’s chief engineer. Chief Engineroom Artificer Magot, known by his subordinates as ‘The Maggot’, affectionately or otherwise as the situation dictated, was very thin and stooped. He was also one of the dirtiest men Crespin had ever seen which, strangely enough, was rare in his branch. But when he had taken Crespin on a tour of his gleaming domain below decks he soon gave proof of tremendous reliability and something akin to love for his engine. At best Thistle could muster sixteen and a half knots. Yet Magot seemed to look on his charge with no less pride than the chief engineer of the Queen Mary.

  ‘You wanted me, Chief?’

  Magot wiped a greasy paw on his boiler suit and blinked his eyes several times. He seemed to dislike the bright light, and Crespin imagined that he hardly ever came on deck unless absolutely necessary.

  ‘Well, sir, I just wanted to say that the engine’s never run sweeter. I dunno what they told you about this ship, sir, but whatever anyone says, the old engine’s as good as new.’ Magot’s conversation was normally carried on by lip-reading. Trying to speak above the roar of his machinery was quite impossible. Now his voice was so quiet that Crespin had to lean forward to hear him.

  He said, ‘Thank you, Chief. Was that all?’

  Magot nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Just wanted you to know, sir.’

  Crespin smiled in spite of his crowded thoughts. ‘I appreciate that.’

  As Crespin walked towards the bridge a round-faced stoker thrust his head through the hatch at Magot’s feet. ‘Told ’im, ’ave you, Chief?’ He was grinning.

  Magot rubbed his chin, leaving another smear. ‘Too early to say yet. He seems all right, but once they gets to sea you gets a changed man. Then it’s full ahead for this an’ full astern for that, or “Give me more speed, Chief!”’ He sighed. ‘No appreciation, that’s the trouble!’

  The stoker shook his head. ‘Shame, annit!’

  Magot took a swipe at the grinning stoker. ‘I’ll give you shame, you useless bastard! Get below and check them valves like I told you!’

  Magot took a last glance at the water lapping alongside and then climbed over the hatch coaming. As far as he was concerned they could have the sea. His nostrils dilated as the smell of oil enfolded him like a cloak.

  Engines now, you knew where you were with them.

  Crespin walked slowly on to the port wing of the bridge and stared for several seconds at the seamen milling around the forecastle deck. It looked a terrible tangle, but there was a good leading hand in charge, and if Sub-Lieutenant Shannon was in any doubt what to do he should be safe in his hands.

  There was a sort of nervous expectancy pervading the whole ship. A few moments before everyone aboard must have been aware of the surrounding ships, the age-old stone of the dockyard, a sense of permanence.

  Then the pipe: ‘Special sea dutymen close up! Hands to stations for leaving harbour!’ had changed all that.

  The gangway had vanished, and goaded by the leading seamen and Petty Officer Dunbar, the chief bosun’s mate, the men had at last sorted themselves into some kind of order. Mooring wires were slackened off, and between the hull and the high jetty was a widening strip of oily water.

  Wemyss had already reported: ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’ He was standing beside the voice-pipes, his heavy features quite expressionless, and probably wondering what his new captain would make of getting under way in a strange ship.

  Crespin had to admit to a sensation of apprehension. The Thistle had but one screw, and there was a stiffening north-west wind to push the ship playfully back alongside the jetty whenever inclined. A dockyard tug had already inquired if he needed assistance, but had hauled off immediately in response to Crespin’s curt ‘Negative!’ Nevertheless, the tug still hovered nearby, almost guiltily, and half concealed behind a massive cruiser, staying close by just in case.

  Crespin glanced at Leading Signalman Griffin who was standing beside him and staring unwinkingly at the dockyard tower. Griffin had two good-conduct badges and was one of those signalmen who had seen and done everything. Being stationed on the bridge he was privileged to eavesdrop on his officers, to hear their doubts and petty differences as well as their confidences, but true to his kind h
e kept his opinions to himself.

  Crespin said, ‘Signal the tower. Request permission to proceed.’

  He turned his back and walked to the forepart of the bridge as Griffin’s lamp began to clatter. A diamond-bright light answered immediately, and Griffin reported, ‘Affirmative, sir.’

  Crespin breathed out slowly. They must all be up there watching. Oldenshaw, his unsmiling Wren, and God knows who else.

  ‘Ring down stand by.’ He ran his fingers along the toughened glass screen and felt the deck beneath his feet begin to vibrate with renewed insistence.

  He caught Wemyss’ eye and remarked quietly, ‘Well, Number One, here we go!’

  Wemyss showed his teeth. ‘I’m not sorry, sir. A bit of sunshine’ll be very welcome.’

  Crespin looked away. ‘Let go aft!’

  The order was repeated, and from the quarterdeck came a sudden flurry of activity as wires were slacked off, while on the jetty two bored dockyard workmen released the great spliced eyes from their bollards and dropped them in the water.

  Crespin saw Sub-Lieutenant Porteous, flushed and obviously over-anxious, cup his hands and yell, ‘All clear aft, sir!’

  Wemyss sprang across the bridge like a tiger. ‘Not yet! Wait until you’ve got ’em both aboard! They’ll wrap around the screw if you don’t watch out!’ He came back breathing heavily and lapsed into silence.

  Crespin nodded. Wemyss was more anxious than he thought.

  ‘Slow ahead.’ Crespin craned forward and watched narrowly as the jetty began to sidle past. The long wire spring which ran from the forecastle to a bollard almost level with the quarterdeck lifted and tightened until it was like a steel bar. Unable to go any further ahead because of the restraining wire, the bows moved inwards towards the jetty. To his relief he saw Petty Officer Dunbar and a handful of men already waiting with heavy fenders at the point of impact, so that when the hull snubbed against the jetty the stern automatically began to swing outwards into the stream. Wider and wider, until the ship stood out from the wall at an angle of forty-five degrees. Even the eager wind was unable to stop the Thistle from swinging clear.