The Destroyers Read online

  A chief steward peeped around the door.

  “Admiral’s car on the jetty, sir. ” He glanced at Drummond

  and added, “I’ve had the wine sent over to it, sir.” Beaumont nodded, his mind partly elsewhere.

  “Tell the O.O.D. I will be upright away.” He thrust out his hand again. The skin was dry and very smooth. “Tomorrow then. All commanding officers. Immediately after breakfast.” Drummond forced a smile, out of depth with this impenetrable man.

  “I’d like to tell my officers if we’re going to-” Beaumont snapped, “Tell them we’re going to fight a war!”

  He tapped Drummond’s breast. “Our way! My way!” Drummond returned to the upper deck, his mind dragging on

  Beaumont’s strange mood. What in hell’s name did he imagine they had been doing all these years?

  He saw Sheridan and Wingate waiting to greet him at the brow and was glad of one thing. That, temporarily at least, Warlock would get the chance to avoid the drudgery of east coast convoys. Whatever Beaumont had to tell them, convoywork was not going to be included, that was obvious.

  The call shrilled again and Sheridan saluted, his eyes anxious.

  Drummond turned, and through the canopied guns on Lomond’s deck he saw Beaumont climbing into a resplendent staff car, a marine driver snapping to attention by its open door. Whatever Beaumont’s sort of war was going to be, it would certainly be different, he thought.

  3

  Wondering

  SHERIDAN stood with his back to the unlit wardroom fire and allowed the din of conversation and laughter to wash around him like spray. Beyond the half-drawn curtain he could hear the stewards preparing for lunch, so that the rest of the wardroom seemed extra crowded and confined. Including the captain, Warlock carried ten officers, nine of whom shared the wardroom, and nine of whom were now either standing or lounging below an unmoving ceiling of tobacco smoke.

  -How are you settling in, Number One?”

  Sheridan looked down to one of the battered leather chairs. Galbraith, the engineer, was watching him, his long legs thrust out and resting on the fender which protected the fire. He was a gaunt, untidy man, with an exact, circular bald patch, so that from behind he looked much like a monk.

  Sheridan smiled. “Pretty well, thanks. How’s your glass, Chief?”

  He did not really want to talk, not just yet, although he liked what he had seen of Galbraith. The chief was not much of a talker, and used words economically, like fuel or engine-room grease. Sheridan had been thinking about the captain. He was still aboard the leader alongside, where with the other destroyer captains he had been since breakfast. What the hell could they be discussing? Policy, changes of strategy, the cost of gin?

  Galbraith held out his glass to a passing messman.

  “Usual,- Napier. “

  His usual was apparently rum and sherry. It sounded terrible, and nobody seemed eager to test his strange fancy.

  Sheridan said, “You’ve been aboard quite some time. The longest of anyone.”

  “Aye. ” Galbraith took his refilled glass. “Down the hatch. ” He licked his lips. “Since she first commissioned in this war.” His eyes were distant. “Seen some hard days. And seen good ‘uns. “

  “The Old Man’s been in command for eighteen months.”

  Sheridan thought how ridiculous it sounded. Old Man. Drummond was only a couple of years older than himself.

  “That’s true.” Galbraith gave a slow smile. “If you’re asking me what he’s like, really like, I canna tell you. To me he’s one thing. To you, maybe something else again. I like him fine. Not just because we’re both Scots, but because he’s fair. I’ve served with a few right bastards in my time. Nice as pie one minute. Wild men, screaming for blood, the next. ” He sighed. “This skipper’s all right. But … ” He hesitated, studying Sheridan as if to make up his mind. Then he added bluntly, “But he’s stretched like a bloody wire. I hope you can help share his load. He deserves it, believe me. “

  “I expect he’s used to better things.” Sheridan saw the gunner (T) downing what must be his tenth gin. “My predecessor, Cowley, must have been on top line.”

  Galbraith stood up.

  “I’m just going to share a tot with my chief stoker. It’s his birthday. Not supposed to go boozing in their mess, but I was a petty officer myself not too long back. I’d not want to forget that.” He touched Sheridan’s sleeve, his face suddenly grim. “You and me will get on well. So listen, I’ll not repeat myself. I’ll deny I said it, if you bring it up again.”

  Sheridan waited, watching the bitterness in his eyes.

  Galbraith said quietly, “Lieutenant Frank Cowley was the skipper’s best friend. But he was a bloody fool, and but for the skipper’s action that night we’d have lost more than two killed and the first lieutenant wounded. We’d have lost the whole ruddy ship!” He tapped the side of his nose. “So think on, and act accordingly. “

  He left the wardroom.

  Sheridan moved to where Lieutenant Wingate and the new doctor were in conversation by an open scuttle. If Galbraith was right in his assessment, it could not have been easy for Drummond. Carrying the ship and his first lieutenant. Because of friendship. Or something from the past perhaps.

  He nodded to Wingate. “Like me, Pilot, are you waiting to hear what’s been going on at the C.O.‘s conference?”

  Wingate grinned. “It helps. I might need a new chart.”

  The navigating officer was always friendly enough on the surface. But Sheridan could not help wondering if he resented being placed junior to him, a regular beneath a reserve officer. He might even harbour a greater grudge because of his humble beginnings. An orphan, pushed into the Navy as a boy seaman, he had done it all on his own. It was not hard to picture him in an old oil painting. A reckless privateer, one of Drake’s men at Cadiz.

  The doctor said carefully, “I must say I feel very raw amongst all you professionals.”

  Wingate said cheerfully, “Not to worry, Doc. You’re being detailed to censor the lads’ letters. You’ll soon discover they’re even more professional at things other than bloody fighting!”

  Sheridan felt Rankin at his elbow. The gunnery officer’s mouth was set in a thin line of disapproval.

  “Paint all over X gun, Number One.” He almost snatched a pink gin from a messman. “I told my artificer about it. The bloody man. Doesn’t know a breech-block from a bull’s arse!”

  Wingate chuckled. “Take it off your back, Guns. Next time I’ll get the old Warlock so close to the bastards you can drop the shells straight down on their little Kraut heads!”

  Rankin sniffed. “It’s no joke. Some people have no sense of-“

  They all turned as Noakes’ harsh voice filled the wardroom. He was on his feet, his face brick-red as he swayed in front of the midshipman.

  “What the ‘ell do you know about it, Mister Keyes?” Noakes thrust his head forward, some gin slopping over the faded carpet. “Young know-it-ails with their nappies still wet tryin’ to tell me what’s what?”

  Keyes looked terrified.

  “I’m sorry. I was only saying that I thought-“

  Noakes bellowed, “I don’t care what you think!” He peered around at the others. “Tellin’ me that the battle of Jutland was a failure! ‘Ow does ‘e bloody well know? ‘E wasn’t there, was ‘e!”

  Hillier, the New Zealander, said quietly, “But you were.”

  “Course I was!” Noakes seemed doubly irritated by the interruption.

  “Then, according to a rough calculation,” Hillier’s voice was very calm, “you must have been about the same age as young Keyes here, right?”

  Noakes blinked. “Er, yes. I suppose I was.”

  “Well then.” Hillier winked at Keyes. “I’ll bet you were moaning about all the silly old sods in high places who had got you into the battle in the first place.”

  Wingate remarked, “Good bloke, that Hillier. Never seen Bill Noakes caught out like that.”

/>   The bulkhead telephone buzzed and a messman called, “First Lieutenant, sir! Captain’s coming aboard!”

  Sheridan nodded and hurried from the wardroom, snatching his cap as he bounded up the ladder and through the quartermaster’s lobby.

  In a very short while he had learned a lot about his companions. Outwardly they could have fitted into any ship, anywhere. But in time their other, private selves would emerge, to be shared by no one beyond this long, outdated hull. Something special, upon which they would all have to depend.

  He saluted as Drummond strode over the brow. “You’ve had a long day, sir.”

  Drummond halted in his stride. From the look on his face Sheridan guessed he had not heard a word. Nor had he even noticed the salutes of the side party. His reactions had been automatic. A protective front.

  Drummond asked, “What time is it, for God’s sake?” He did not wait for an answer but said, “The flotilla is being reorganised, given a different role. Before that we are to work together, but be independent of other groups.”

  Sheridan asked, “Will it be a bit like the new anti-submarine groups we’ve been hearing about, sir?”

  He watched Drummond’s grave features, remembering the engineer’s remarks. Stretched like a bloody wire. It was all there in those brief seconds. Strain, apprehension, doubt.

  Drummond said, “Something like it. I’m still not quite clear myself. “

  Owles appeared in the lobby door.

  “I’ve got your lunch ready, sir. “

  “Later.” Drummond looked suddenly desperate. Trapped. “Later. “

  Sheridan said, “We hoped you might drop in for a gin, sir. ” He waited, feeling the other man’s tension. “You know how it is. First time all together.”

  “Yes.” Drummond looked along the iron deck towards the bridge. “I don’t get too many chances.”

  As he stepped over the coaming, Sheridan whispered to the quartermaster, “Fetch the chief from the P.O. s’ mess.”

  In the wardroom everyone fell silent as Drummond walked through the door and said, “Relax, gentlemen. I’ve been asked in for a drink. “

  Owles appeared as if by magic. “Here you are, sir. Horse’s neck. Just how you like it.”

  He raised the glass. “Cheers.”

  Then he looked at their varied expressions, seeing the unspoken questions, and the carefree excitement of those who still did not know.

  Sheridan said quietly, “All present, sir.” He had seen Galbraith ease his lanky figure around the door.

  “I’ve not been able to speak with the new arrivals. Except for Number One, that is. So I bid you welcome now. And hope you’ll settle down without too much hardship.”

  He saw Keyes watching him with fascinated attention. And the dull-eyed sub-lieutenant, Tyson, whose brother had just been reported missing in Burma. Rankin, straight-backed, as if on parade, his narrow face completely blank. He was probably on another plane entirely. When he got his orders he obeyed them. He had made life very simple for himself. And Wingate, outwardly relaxed, eyes slitted against the reflected glare from an open scuttle. But his mind would be preparing, calculating. How many miles, which charts, when did they have to get there?

  He thought suddenly of the conference. It had been more like a speech. Even the commodore had remained silent after his introduction and summary of the present strategy, the war at sea.

  Beaumont had begun quietly, in an almost matter-of-fact way. Touching on some of the commodore’s comments, sharpening them and leaving little to doubt. The war in the desert was over. The battle for Europe would soon begin. This year, early next year at the very latest. It would have to succeed. The enemy had had too long to dig in, to learn what to expect.

  Help to Russia would be stepped up. Supplies, arms and vehicles. That meant more Arctic convoys. Drummond had felt the mention of them move round the gathering like a threat, a dread. He had watched the faces of the other commanding officers. Gauging, trying to see one step ahead of Beaumont’s words. Like his own officers were doing to him now.

  The flotilla was to work as a team again, not in a hotchpotch of escorts and patrols. That had got their interest all right. Beaumont’s voice had become sharper, incisive as he had outlined his plans. It had sounded as if each ship was to be put on trial, to prove if her ability was up to this new scheme. It still sounded like that. And yet Beaumont had held them in the palm of his hand. Serious one moment, excited and passionate the next, he had overcome almost every doubt.

  One man had voiced the only open opposition.

  Ventnor’s captain, Lieutenant-Commander Selkirk, a tough reservist, who in peacetime had been first officer in a freighter running back and forth to Argentina, had asked, “What if we find this new role too demanding, sir? I mean, these old ships are better than most for routine work, but to compete with brand-new fleet destroyers seems, if I may say so, a bit optimistic. “

  Beaumont had regarded him coldly. “A ship is only as good as her captain. I am empowered to make changes if anyone fails to measure up! ” The chill had gone, to be replaced instantly by that other Beaumont. Eager, persuasive. “But let’s talk of success, eh?”

  If charm was a weapon, the battle at the conference was over before it had got off the ground. He had finished by wishing them luck, after talking almost without a break for four hours.

  Drummond continued, “We will be leaving Harwich in two days. In the remaining time I want all of you to get as much work done as you can. Get to know the new hands, change them around if you think they are badly placed. Ask Number One first, of course. I don’t want him nagging me.”

  Several of them laughed.

  He saw the curtain across the dining space quiver, and guessed the stewards would already have a new “buzz” on way to the messdecks. Going to Russia. To the Med. To blazes.

  Wingate asked, “Can I ask where, sir?”

  “First to Falmouth.” He saw the surprised glances. “After that, well, you’ll know soon enough.” He smiled gravely. “When I do.”

  Wingate whistled softly. “It’ll make a gap in the old Harwich Force. “

  Drummond looked away. “Replacements are already coming. Four new destroyers from Rosyth. Two American escorts, and some Free-French corvettes. I think they’ll manage.”

  But he knew what Wingate meant. The old crowd. Familiar ships and faces. Pain at seeing one of them trying to get back, listing and pitted with splinter holes. The companies lining the rails to cheer like madmen when one returned after sinking a submarine. Remembering those who never came back at all.

  But perhaps it was all to the good. Too long on the same job meant weakness when it was least expected. Familiarity brought disaster. He thought of Frank falling. Of Helen’s accusing eyes. Why him?

  He suddenly felt tired without knowing why. He wanted to go to his cabin. To think. To try and see behind Beaumont’s words. It was obvious he had a lot of pull in high places. Nick Brooks, for instance. But what could a flotilla of veteran destroyers do that it was not already doing?

  The flotilla would slip through the Channel in two separate units. Lomond was remaining here to complete certain repairs, but Beaumont intended to sail with the rest of his brood in Warden, the half-leader. Her captain, Hector Duvall, a bearded and fruity-voiced commander, would love that. To have his new Captain (D) as passenger, tutor and possible executioner all in one package.

  Hillier said cheerfully, “Well, my folks will certainly hear

  about me now! With a man like Beaumont in command we

  should soon make a name for ourselves!”

  Galbraith said dryly, “I hope it’s a name I like.” Drummond glanced at Sheridan. “I’ll leave you to it.” He

  nodded to the others. “We’ll all know each other better before

  long. “

  He paused by the door. “Thanks for the drink, Number One. “

  As the door closed behind him the conversation swelled out louder than before.

  W
ingate asked, “What d’you reckon Number One? The Med or Western Approaches?”

  Sheridan shook his head. “Neither. That’s what I think. Beaumont’s got other ideas.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “I don’t even know him.” Sheridan eyed him thoughtfully. “But they say he’s a hero, so I suppose that’ll have to do.”

  ,Drummond stirred in his bridge chair and thrust both hands deeper into his duffel-coat pockets. It was almost midnight, and the breeze across the bridge screen contained a chill, despite the day’s sunlight.

  Around and below his chair Warlock’s life went on, measured, routine. Figures eased themselves into gun-mountings and look-out positions, voices murmured through pipes and handsets. One more watch taking over.

  It had been an uneventfull if tense run down the Channel, he thought. No moon, but the sky was very clear, so perhaps the E-boats had taken their business up the east coast instead. The W/T office had brought him all the latest news from that other war. Families who were now crouching beneath their stairs or in comfortless air-raid shelters, would be listening to the drone of bombers, the sporadic clatter of anti-aircraft guns. Tomorrow they would emerge, examine what was left in the battered streets, and then go off to their jobs. It was like some huge pretence, and yet if it were stripped of its pathetic bravery a whole nation would collapse. It was strange really. The women were probably so worried about their sons and husbands in uniform to care too much for their own real danger. Yet theirs was often the greater sacrifice. There was an air-raid on across the East End of London right now.

  Drummond turned his head to starboard, as if he expected to see something. But it was dark and very peaceful. Just the steady throb of engines, the sluice along the hull from a regular offshore swell.

  He heard Sheridan taking over from Rankin, the brief exchange of information. Course, speed, weather. Any cocoa left in the wardroom?

  The figures thinned out and settled into their allotted positions for the next four hours.