‘Our dance, I believe, Hugh,’ said Laura, handing her empty glass to FP, ‘or is it too fast?’
‘If you insist,’ Manley answered, downing his drink then placing the glass on the bar. ‘But Fred Astaire, I’m not.’
Laura took his hand and seconds later their bodies were pressed together while moving to the slow tempo of a foxtrot. In doing so Laura could smell the faint aroma of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his cheek against hers.
As they moved around the floor, Manley became aware of the softness of her body pressing against his, and felt his penis stiffen. He immediately attempted to move away from her. However, Laura grasped his waist, looked up and smiled coyly. ‘Don’t be a spoil sport, Hugh,’ she said, seeing a look of embarrassment on Manley’s face. ‘I bet that doesn’t happen to Fred when he dances with Ginger.’
Taken aback by Laura’s suggestive remark Manley was very relieved to feel his erection subside. ‘I, er… whereabouts in Cornwall are you from?’ Manley asked, feeling a trickle of warm sweat run down the side of his face.
‘Helston,’ Laura answered, ‘my father is a retired major and local JP.
‘And your mother?’
‘She caught flu during that terrible epidemic in 1920, and died,’ said Laura, ‘I was two at the time, Father never married again…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Manley replied. ‘Any boyfriends?’
‘Yes, there was one, now stop fishing,’ she replied, squeezing his sweaty palm. ‘And what about you, I’m sure there must be a pretty girl somewhere.’
Manley was about to reply when the music ended. As they turned to join FP and others, she looked up at him, and lowering her voice, said, ‘If you get time, phone me at the barracks at extension four five. If I’m off duty, leave a message or call again.’
‘You two looked as if you were enjoying yourselves,’ FP said, handing Laura a large gin and tonic. ‘My turn again?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Laura, dabbing her face with a small, lace handkerchief, while glancing at her wrist-watch. ‘It’s nearly 2200and I’m tired, so I’ll have to love you and leave you.’
‘I don’t suppose I could come and tuck you in?’ burbled FP, leaning against the bar and leering lecherously at Laura.
Making light of his suggestive remark, Laura threw back her head and gave a solid laugh. ‘I don’t think you’d make it up the stairs, goodnight gentlemen,’ she added, ‘l’ve enjoyed myself immensely.’ As she spoke her eyes lingered slightly longer on Manley. Flashing him a coquettish smile, she turned and left the room.
‘Now that’s what I call real good looking popsie!’ exclaimed one of the officers, lighting a cigarette, ‘you really are a lucky bounder, Manley.’
‘Yes, he certainly is,’ FP replied with more than a hint of jealousy, ‘now drink up’ he added, waving his empty glass in the air, ‘the night is young.’
For the next half hour, the drinks flowed freely. Red-faced and sweating profusely, FP proceeded to bore his guest by reminiscing about university days and past friends. He didn’t notice one of the officers give a sly wink to the others, and nod his head slightly towards the door.
‘You’ll have to excuse us, FP,’ said Geoffrey, placing his empty glass on the bar, ‘but we’ve all got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.’
‘Storing ship, and all that,’ added Henry, ‘isn’t that right, David, Harry?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Harry replied, ‘and I’m duty officer in the morning.’
‘So, cheerio, FP, and from all of us, a very happy birthday,’ said Geoffrey, as he and the others took it in turns to shake FP’s hand.
A glance at his wristwatch showed Manley it was2030. Remembering his transport back to the ship was at 2300, he wondered how he too could diplomatically extract himself away.
No sooner had the four officers left than FP downed his drink and said, ‘I wonder what happened to old Binky Brown, do you know, he still owes me a fiver.’ By this time FP was slurring his words and his shouting was attracting the attention of the other officers and their guests.
‘I’m afraid he’ll never pay you back,’ Manley answered solemnly.
‘Why is that, old boy?’ FP asked, swaying slightly while holding his glass in one hand, and a lighted cigarette in the other one.
‘He joined the army and was killed at Dunkirk,’ Manley answered solemnly, ‘along with Johnny Jackson, who I believe, was in your year.’
‘Damn, bad show,’ slurred FP. ‘I liked old Johnny, even though he once stole a popsie I had my eye on. Let’s have another Horse’s Neck,’ he added, ‘and give a toast old Johnny.’ As he finished talking, he stumbled forward and dropped his glass on the floor which shattered into several pieces.
‘Come on, old boy,’ said Manley, taking hold of FP’s arm. ‘I think you’ve had enough, and besides, I too have to be on duty early tomorrow.’
‘Just one for the road, old boy,’ FP insisted, stumbling against Manley.
‘If you have any more to drink you’ll fall onto the road,’ Manley replied.
Manley placed his arm around FPs waist and under the gaze of an amused audience, gently ushered FP out of the room. After making their way along the corridor they arrived at the entrance hall. Ignoring the grins of two officers, they reached the lift.
‘Which floor are you one, FP?’ Manley asked as he drew back the gated entrance.
‘Two, cabin six, key’s in my left jacket pocket,’ FP muttered, ‘and do hurry, old boy, as I think I’m going to be sick.’
A few minutes later they arrived outside FP’s cabin door. Manley found the key and opened the door in time for FP to stagger inside the darkened room and disappear into the bathroom. Making sure the blackout curtains were drawn across the small window, Manley switched on the lights.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouted, looking into the bathroom and seeing FP kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting violently.
‘I am now,’ groaned FP, resting his sweaty head on the toilet brim. ‘Help me up will you?’
Ten minutes later Manley managed to remove most of FP’s clothes and help him into a small bed.
‘Sorry to be such an ass, old boy,’ mumbled FP, before he fell asleep.
Manley left the light on and quietly left the room. The time was 2345. He hurried down the corridor and took the lift to the ground floor. A few minutes later climbed into the tilly and returned to Helix. It was only when he was safely ensconced in his bunk that he remembered Laura asking him to telephone her and felt his penis stiffening again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By 0845 the next morning, under the supervision of PO Steward Sandy Powel, his stewards had cleared away the breakfast accoutrements in the wardroom, leaving the long oak table shiny and bare. Powel, a tall, pasty-faced man with deep set, dark eyes, was in charge of the ship’s first aid team. The rest of his team, included Leading Writer Jack Jones, a small, thin, ex-shipping clerk, Stores Assistant Terry Benson, a curly haired, well-built youth, who before the war, was brickie’s labour, and Leading Steward Dick Turpin, a tall, muscular, six feet plus ex-scrum half for London Welsh.
The nervous anticipation that permeated the wardroom air was palpable. A few officers stood around, holding cups of tea, others sat in leather armchairs, reading newspapers or talking in subdued voices.
‘I wonder what the old man wants,’ Midshipman Morgan muttered to Electrical Officer Tim Sherwood, standing close by, sipping tea. ‘My guess it’s the Atlantic again. What do you think, sir?’
‘You’re probably right,’ Sherwood replied. He finished his drink, and was about to place the cup and saucer on a table, when the door suddenly opened. All faces turned and watched as Penrose strode in followed by Manley. Those officers sat down immediately stood up. The remainder stopped whatever they were doing and waited pensively. Penrose stood in front of them, his hands firmly on his hips. Glancing at PO Powel, he said, ‘Close the door and make sure we’re not disturbed, PO, and if you hear anythin
g, remember, it’s top secret.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Powell answered, doing his best to hide a sly grin.
Penrose turned, and looking at the faces he had come to recognise as well as his own, said, ‘Please relax and smoke if you must.’ A few officers remained standing and lit up while others sat down and finished their tea. A few seconds later Penrose continued speaking. ‘The reason I have asked to see you is as follows.’ For the next twenty minutes he explained the details of their next mission. He then paused and said, ‘Any questions so far?’
Gunnery Officer Lieutenant Ted Powers raised a hand, and asked, ‘What’s the latest news from Tobruk, sir?’ Powers was a twenty-three-year-old, RNVR officer, whose pale features and clear blue eyes gave him a perpetually youthful look.
‘Good question, Guns,’ Penrose replied. ‘Reports from Ultra say British, and Australian forces, in conjunction with the Free French and South African and Polish brigades, are defending the Gazala Line, just outside Tobruk. If that is breached, then your guess is as good as mine.’
‘You mean Rommel will be able to take Tobruk, sir?’ added Sub Lieutenant Jewitt, a tall, fair-haired, gangly RNR deck officer from Dundee.
‘It would seem so,’ Penrose answered calmly.
Engineer Lieutenant Derek Logan raised a hand. ‘From what I’ve heard, Admiral Vian’s 15th Squadron is pretty big, surely this is too big an escort for four merchant ships.’
‘I agree with you, Derek,’ said Penrose. ‘It does seem rather odd.’
‘Och, if you’ll excuse my pessimism, sir,’ added Lieutenant Jewitt, ‘the whole thing seems like using a hammer to crack an egg.’
‘And, as Vian’s squadron has passed though the Straits, I bet the enemy spies across in Algeciras will have alerted every U-boat in the area,’ added Sub Lieutenant Ray Milton, a small, broad-shouldered RNVR deck officer. ‘As well as the Luftwaffe.’
‘Quite so, gentlemen,’ Penrose replied guardedly, ‘so we’ll have to be on our toes. Meanwhile, when storing ship is finished, officers not needed and the ship’s company will be given seven days leave. Now I suggest we have some coffee.’
The news of leave was received with feelings of relief and the tension in the atmosphere suddenly disappeared. Conversation over coffee became more animated and louder than usual.
‘Och, it’s all right for the Sassenachs,’ grunted Jock Jewitt, looking guardedly first at fellow Scott, Surgeon Lieutenant Latta, and then at Lieutenant Logan. ‘It’ll take us the best part of a day to get to Scotland, and another to get back. It hardly seems worthwhile going.’
‘Talking about leave, I wonder when young Baker will be back,’ said Lieutenant Logan.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Latta added, finishing his drink, ‘the poor chap won’t be going on leave again for some time.’
‘Secure. Hands to tea. Shift into night clothing,’ had just been piped at 1600, when a taxi arrived at the bottom of the ship’s gangway and Lieutenant Baker climbed out. Over his uniform he wore a naval Burberry and carried a gas mask satchel and canvas holdall. For a few seconds he stood still, then glanced nervously up at OOD Sub Lieutenant Milton and PO Sharky Ward, waiting at the top of the brow. Baker took a deep, weary breath, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, slowly walked up the gangway.
‘Hello, David,’ Milton said, returning Baker’s salute. In doing so he noticed a dark bruise under Baker’s left cheek. ‘How are you?’
‘Tired and pissed off,’ Baker replied. ‘I suppose the old man wants to see me?’
‘Yes, he does,’ said Milton, ‘but first, I suggest you stow your gear and have a wash and brush up.’
Oblivious to the curious glances of the duty QM and a small working party, Baker made his way down a stairway to his cabin. On his way he met Manley. ‘What the devil happened, David?’ Manley asked. ‘You look terrible. Where did you get that bruise on your face?’
‘It’s a long story, Number One,’ Baker answered, carefully touching the side of his cheek. ‘I’ll tell you later when I’ve seen the captain. I expect he’s none too pleased.’
‘Yes, you could say that,’ Manley replied with a wry smile.
‘Any idea when we’ll be sailing?’ Baker asked.
‘I’m sure he’ll tell you when he sees you,’ said Manley, ‘now I’d better get along. Defaulters in half an hour.’
Ten minutes later, Baker, feeling his throat suddenly go dry, he knocked on the captain’s door and was told to enter.
‘And about bloody time, too,’ grunted Penrose, looking up from behind his desk. Before him lay a buff-coloured letter. ‘You look terrible,’ Penrose added, noticing Baker’s pale features and bruised cheekbone, ‘I think you should sit down. Coffee?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Baker replied and sat down in an armchair.
Penrose pressed a small red button his desk and a few five minutes later, Steward Morris, having listened to their conversation from behind the galley door, duly arrived, carrying two mugs of steaming hot coffee. He placed one on Penrose’s desk and handed the other one to Baker.
‘Kindly leave, Morris,’ said Penrose. ‘Close the door and make sure we’re not disturbed.’
‘Now,’ said Penrose, ‘I have received an official letter from Chief Constable Smithers of Wallasey, giving me the details of what happened, but I’d like to hear your version.’
Baker took a nervous sip of coffee, then, holding the mug, sat forward and began by telling Penrose about receiving Susan’s “Dear John” letter. As he spoke, Penrose noticed the painful expression in Baker’s eyes, and the slight catch in his voice. Raising a sympathetic hand, Penrose said, ‘Now, take your time and try and relax.’
Baker took a good gulp of coffee then placed the mug on Penrose’s desk and continued. ‘I travelled to Wallasey and booked in at the Victoria Hotel in New Brighton, not far from the road where she lived. By that time, it was just after 1900. At first, I thought of confronting her. Instead, I went to the hotel bar. The place was half empty but I saw her and this chap sitting at a table, holding hands.’ Baker stopped talking and feeling his hand shake, picked up the mug and finished his drink, then went on. ‘When she saw me, she let go of his hand and asked me what I was doing here. I must have said something rude as the fellow she was with stood up. He was over six feet and well built. He pushed me in the chest and told me to bugger off. That was when I lost my temper and hit him on the nose. Blood poured down his face. He retaliated by punching me on the face, hence the bruise on my cheekbone. I remember hearing Susan and a few other women screaming. We grappled with one another. That was when we both fell on the floor and he hit his head.’
For a few seconds Baker stopped talking then staring at the desk, went on. ‘The manager must have called the police as two constables arrived. The fellow, whose name I later learned was Geoffrey Wainwright, lay on the floor unconscious. I was taken away and spent the night in a cell. In the morning I was charged with inflicting grievous bodily harm and that a letter would be sent to you saying when I would be sent before the judge to be tried. He also said a solicitor would be appointed to defend me.’
‘Did you see your young lady again?’ Penrose asked.
With a tired sigh, Baker replied, ‘No, sir, I didn’t.’
‘Were you in uniform?
‘Yes, sir, I was,’ Baker answered lowering his eyes.
‘Hmm… pity,’ said Penrose, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘What you’ve told me fits in with what the letter says, except to say Mr Wainwright is in hospital, suffering from concussion, and the date for your trial is on Wednesday 10th June, that’s in just over three weeks’ time.’
‘I see, sir,’ Baker answered. With an air of contrition Baker added, ‘I’m so sorry about that, sir, I suppose I’ll have to face a court-martial also?’
‘Not so fast,’ Penrose said, leaning forward and placing both hands flat on his leather-bound blotting pad. ‘You see, by that time we’ll be at sea, and as you have carried out your
duties with great competence, I intend that you will sail with us.’
‘But how, sir?’ Baker hastily replied, ‘surely you’ll be breaking the law?’
With a hint of a smile playing around his mouth, Penrose replied, ‘Maybe so, but without going into go details, I’ll point in my reply to the chief constable, the ship will be sailing soon and the contingencies of war must take priority over the law.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Baker answered, ‘I imagined I’d be dismissed from the ship, or worse.’
Penrose stood up, and noticing the relieved expression on Baker’s face, said, ‘Now, I suggest you report to the first lieutenant for duty.’
Shortly after 1700, Manley decided to telephone Laura and left the ship. From the quarterdeck, Duty PO Jack Frost and QM Jock Forbes, watched as Manley entered a telephone booth situated some distance along the cobbled jetty.
With a curious expression in his eyes, Frost glanced at Forbes, and said, ‘I wonder why he didn’t use the ship to shore line.’
‘Phoning some party, I expect,’ Forbes replied, ‘and wanted a bit of privacy.’
‘And a bit of the other,’ Frost replied with a mischievous grin.
Inside, the telephone booth was warm and damp. Hoping Laura was off duty, Manley got through to barracks and asked for extension five. A few seconds later Laura answered. ‘Third Officer Trevethic speaking, who is this?’
Manley immediately recognised her slight Cornish burr and smiled. ‘It’s Hugh Manley,’ he replied. ‘If you remember, you did ask me to phone you.’
‘Hugh,’ she cried, ‘of course I remember. I was wondering when or if you would ring. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ he quickly replied, ‘I could meet you this evening, if that’s convenient’
‘Yes,’ Laura answered quickly, ‘I’m off duty so I’ll meet you, say, 1930 outside the dockyard. Look for a dark green MG. Will you be able to make it?’
‘Yes, that’ll be fine,’ Manley answered. Just then, the pips went, followed by the tinkling sound of the pennies dropping intro the phone box, then the line went dead. Manley left the phone booth and walked jauntily along the jetty. ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it’, he said, smiling as he returned the salutes of PO Frost and QM Forbes, before making his way his to his cabin.
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