H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Chesnaye turned towards him, so that with sudden terror Norris thought he had been thinking aloud. ‘Ring off main engines!’ He brushed past Norris and walked into his sea-cabin.

  Norris was quivering with excitement, his past fears momentarily forgotten. ‘Did you see that?’ He waited impatiently as Fox stopped rolling a chart and peered across at the gleaming white buildings and tall minarets. ‘Did you see the Captain’s face?’

  Fox cleared his throat and picked up the chart. For a moment he looked hard at Norris’s flushed features. ‘Nice place, Alex. Think I’ll take a run ashore tomorrow!’ Then he was gone.

  Satisfied, the Saracen swung at her anchor while the cable and side parties dismissed and hurried below to escape the sun. On the maindeck Mr. Joslin, the Gunner, was supervising the rigging of an awning, while McGowan and Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie watched over the boats as they were dropped in the water alongside.

  From the flagdeck the signalmen eyed the shore and the flagship, but in the wheelhouse the wheel and telegraphs stood unattended and already forgotten.

  Norris still paced the empty upper bridge, ignoring the sun on his neck as he tried to fathom out the enormity of his knowledge. He felt a new man. The ship was safe in harbour, and there was the strength of other ships and men nearby. Already he had forgotten that but for the Captain the Saracen would be lying even more quietly on the bed of the Mediterranean, while on some distant airfield the Stuka pilots would be celebrating, instead of mourning their dead comrades.

  Norris thought of his wife. ‘You’re as good as they are!’ He grinned. For once she had been right.

  * * * * *

  Chesnaye followed the flagship’s captain down the quarterdeck ladder and into the cool shade below. His stomach felt uneasy, and he wished now he had made time to take a good meal before leaving the Saracen prior to attending for his interview with the man whose flag flew high on the Aureus’s tapering masthead.

  The two captains passed down a narrow passageway, the sides of which were so well painted that they shone like polished glass. Chesnaye darted a quick glance at his opposite number and wondered how he got on with Vice-Admiral Sir Mark Beaushears. Captain Colquhoun had met him at the gangway, his tanned face set in an automatic smile of welcome. He was pleasant enough, but Chesnaye had the impression that he was a much-harassed man. It could not be pleasant to have a flag officer for ever breathing down your shoulder, he thought.

  Chesnaye noted the smart marine sentry outside the the Admiral’s quarters, and waited with mounting curiosity and apprehension as Colquhoun tucked his cap beneath his arm and stepped over the coaming. Chesnaye followed him, aware of the soft carpet beneath his shoes and the air of quiet well-being the stateroom seemed to exude.

  There were two men present. A tall, languid flag-lieutenant rose slowly to his feet, glanced at Chesnaye and then turned to watch his superior.

  Vice-Admiral Sir Mark Beaushears was only a year older then Chesnaye, but time and ambition had been hard on his outward appearance. He still appeared cool and relaxed, but his tall figure was markedly stooped, and his once-athletic body was marred by a definite paunch. His hair had receded, too, so that the high forehead gave him a new expression of watchful deliberation, and he appeared to be summing up Chesnaye from the moment he stepped into the cabin. Only his eyes were the same, Chesnaye thought. Veiled, giving nothing away.

  Beaushears waved his hand to a chair in front of the well-turned desk. Again Chesnaye had the distinct impression that everything had been carefully planned beforehand and the chair had been placed in position like a stage prop.

  He sat down and folded his hands in his lap. He ticked off each item in his mind. No handshake. Only the briefest hint of a smile.

  Beaushears said evenly: ‘It’s been a long time. I watched you dropping anchor earlier and wondered if you had changed much.’

  Chesnaye waited for him to dismiss the other officers. Colquhoun was looking stiff and uneasy, and the young flag-lieutenant faintly amused. He is going to keep them here, he thought. As a sort of barrier. He is afraid of old acquaintanceships and memories.

  This new knowledge did nothing to comfort him, but instead made him vaguely angry. In a formal tone he began: ‘I have submitted my report about the voyage from Malta. I was very sorry I was unable to help that convoy.’ He toyed with the idea of mentioning the bombers Saracen had shot down, but he knew Beaushears was well aware of the facts. Let him bring it up first, he thought with irritation.

  ‘Yes, a great pity. Still, if, as you say, you were unavoidably detained, there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

  Chesnaye stiffened in his chair, his fingers laced together with painful fierceness. What did he mean?

  Aloud he said, ‘I did my best, sir.’

  Beaushears leaned back in his chair. ‘You lost a man overboard too?’

  ‘It’s all in the report.’ Chesnaye could feel the colour rising to his cheeks. ‘It was the only decision.’

  ‘Yes.’ Beaushears pressed a small button. ‘The sun is well over the yardarm. A drink will do us good.’ Almost casually he said, ‘I thought for one small moment that you were going to overshoot the anchorage when you came into harbour.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘She’s not a fleet destroyer, y’know!’

  The flag-lieutenant showed his perfect teeth. Like a cat, Chesnaye thought.

  A petty officer steward brought in a tray and glasses and busied himself pouring iced pink gins. No one was asked what he wanted, and Chesnaye had the idea that was the way the flagship was run under Beaushears. The gin was, however, a small but welcome distraction.

  He drank deeply and signalled with sudden recklessness to the steward. ‘Another!’ He saw the man dart a brief glance at Beaushears and then pour the drink. Chesnaye smiled grimly to himself. A good master/servant atmosphere.

  Beaushears cleared his throat impatiently. ‘Well, now that you are here you’d better be put in the picture.’ He turned to the lieutenant. ‘Over to you, Harmsworth.’

  The flag-lieutenant tapped a bulky envelope with his finger. ‘It’s all in here, Captain. You will be attached to this squadron until further notice.’

  Chesnaye noticed the slight emphasis. Saracen was to be with but not of Beaushears’ squadron.

  Harmsworth continued in the same bored tones: ‘You will find all the relevant information concerning the military situation in Libya up-to-date as far as it goes. You will start loading supplies and stores in the forenoon tomorrow. The Maintenance Commander has all the details ashore and will arrange for lighterage, etcetera. Your first destination will be west of Tobruk. The Army is getting in a bit of a flap down there.’

  Chesnay looked at Beaushears. ‘Will Tobruk be held?’

  Beaushears shrugged. ‘Unlikely, I should think. The enemy will probably bypass it and take it at leisure. We shall then have to evacuate the marooned troops with whatever we have available.’ He gestured towards the open scuttle. ‘Jerry has got his eye fixed on Alexandria. After all, he’s less than three hundred miles away at this moment!’

  Chesnaye twisted uneasily in his chair. My God, is it really as bad as that? He said, ‘Can’t they stop him?’

  Beaushears glanced at his slim gold watch. ‘They have a plan. But they intend to fall back and re-group. Present a fixed front outside the Alexandria perimeter. The Staff chaps say that with the sea on one side and the Qattara Depression on the other the Army will be able to make a good show. It will make up in some ways for lack of air cover.’

  Chesnaye remembered the mass of shipping in the harbour. ‘And what of our support, sir?’

  Harmsworth interrupted smoothly. ‘Mostly for Greece. We’re really giving a bit of weight in that direction!’ He seemed pleased, as if personally responsible.

  Chesnaye felt light-headed and suddenly reckless. He had been made to feel like a small boy by Beaushears in front of the others. He had expected it would be like that. He had thought about this meeting from the moment Fox ha
d dropped his bombshell as the Saracen crossed the anchorage.

  Beaushears had always been aloof and cool, even as a midshipman. Now he was something more, and although he acted in a detached and formal manner, Chesnaye thought he could detect a deeper meaning to his behaviour. His remarks had been double-edged, as if he had implied that Chesnaye could have done more.

  Chesnaye felt the sweat forming on his forehead. Perhaps he had even suggested that the Saracen had deliberately held back from the convoy? That he had been afraid for the ship and himself! Even losing the man overboard could be misconstrued as an unwillingness to stop, even cowardice! He felt the glass shaking in his hand.

  ‘I think Greece is a waste of time!’ Chesnaye’s voice was not loud, but from the other officers’ expressions he got the impression he had just shouted an obscenity.

  Beaushears controlled his features and said calmly, ‘Please go on.’

  Chesnaye shrugged. ‘Have you forgotten the Dardanelles fiasco?’ He saw Colquhoun and Harmsworth exchanging awkward glances, but he no longer cared. The fact was that behind Beaushears’ manner, his ability to offend without the slightest trace of personal embarrassment, was something which had stayed with him over the years. He had probably wanted to meet Chesnaye, but for quite a different reason. He had no doubt expected a changed Chesnaye. Humble, even ashamed, of the circumstances which had parted him from the Navy and now given him command of the oldest ship in the Fleet. Then there was Helen . . . Chesnaye checked his racing thought. ‘Anyone can see we can’t hold Greece, let alone use it as a springboard into Europe! If it’s another proud gesture, then it’s going to be a damned costly one!’

  Beaushears eyed him coldly. ‘I think otherwise, Chesnaye. However, it is hardly your concern. You are here to command your ship in the best way you know.’ He was watching Chesnaye with sudden intentness. ‘She’s not much of a catch, but we can’t be choosers. I need every vessel I can lay my hands on!’ Carefully he added: ‘When you reach the Libyan destination you may find that the enemy has overrun our people already. You’ll get no support from Tobruk, which is the nearest strongpoint. You will be on your own.’

  Chesnaye looked at the carpet. For a split second he had a picture of the bullet-scarred pinnacle and Keith Pickles dead in his arms. ‘It won’t be the first time!’ He looked up to see that the shot had gone home. Beaushears face was no longer calm. He looked almost guilty.

  Harmsworth said hurriedly, ‘Another gin, sir?’

  Chesnaye took the drink and touched his glass with the tip of his tongue. If they expect me to crawl they are going to get a surprise, he thought.

  Beaushears had composed himself again. In a flat voice he said, ‘In your assignment you may have to sacrifice your ship!’

  Chesnaye started as if struck in the face. Lose Saracen? He felt the cabin closing in on him. ‘What do you mean?’

  Beaushears stood up, the sunlight reflecting on his thick gold lace. Without waiting further he attacked. ‘She’s an old ship! Useful at the moment, but expendable! If you are pinned down, and the enemy catch you inshore, you must sink the Saracen before they get their hands on the supplies!’ His voice grew louder and sharper. ‘This is a mobile, fast-moving war! Tanks and armoured columns, and not like the Dardanelles at all! No front line, poor communications, with each day making the maps obsolete!’ He turned suddenly, his eyes flashing. ‘Both sides need fuel and supplies like life-blood!’

  Chesnaye imagined the Saracen going down under his own hand, and felt the pain in his heart like fire. ‘I’ll manage!’ His voice was thick and unsteady.

  ‘You must!’ He eyed Chesnaye slowly, his face calm again. ‘I know you of old. Sentimental and unrealistic.’ He waved his hand. ‘Don’t bother to argue. I wasn’t going to say this, but you opened the batting! The Navy’s changed. You either keep up with events or you go to the wall! We’ve got amateurs, failures, has-beens and every sort of man who’s ever breathed. There’s no room for sentiment any more!’

  ‘So I see, sir.’ Chesnaye rose to his feet.

  Beaushears forced a tight smile. ‘Keep out of trouble, Chesnaye. Don’t try to act as if your ship is a battlecruiser! Just do your job, and use discretion.’

  Chesnaye turned to leave. Before he could stop himself he had asked, ‘How is Helen?’

  Beaushears dropped a hand to his desk as if to steady himself. He looked towards the scuttle, his face hidden. ‘Lady Helen is well, thank you.’

  Chesnaye felt the gin raw and hot in his throat. So he had been right. After all these years Beaushears was still jealous. It was incredible. He was successful, he had even stolen the girl Chesnaye had loved, yet he was still dissatisfied.

  Harmsworth looked confused, the fierce exchange of words between his admiral and the tall, grave-eyed captain had been beyond his experience. He said, ‘I—I’ll see you over the side, sir.’

  Chesnaye regarded him coldly. ‘Captain Colquhoun can do that, thank you!’

  On the sun-dried quarterdeck he looked down at the Saracen’s pinnace as it moved in towards the gangway. Beside the Admiral’s barge and the cruiser’s other smart boats it looked outdated and worn, but he noted with quiet satisfaction that the boat’s crew were smart and alert, boathooks poised and ready. He felt a pang in his throat as he saw, too, the small midshipman who stood in the sternsheets shading his eyes as he looked for his captain.

  Damn Beaushears, he thought savagely. I did not want it this way, but if he expects me to grovel—he jerked from his thoughts as the flagship’s captain held out his hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Chesnaye. I hope we meet again soon.’ He eyed Chesnaye with sudden warmth. ‘A remarkable interview.’

  Chesnaye grinned, feeling the recklessness once more.

  Coiquhoun looked up at the Vice-Admiral’s flag, now limp in the dipping sun. ‘I don’t think that fool Harmsworth will sleep for a week!’

  The two men separated, the pipes trilled, and then Chesnaye was in his pinnace, with Saracen’s outline ahead of him like a challenge.

  4

  Tobruk

  The air in the small sea-cabin abaft the Saracen’s bridge was already thick and stifling, and the blue tobacco smoke hung in an unmoving cloud above the heads of the waiting officers. The door opened and Lieutenant McGowan forced himself round its edge and eased his shoulders against the steel bulkhead. Chesnaye sat on his bunk, his legs out straight beneath the littered table.

  By his side Erskine was squatting on a chair, his eyes thoughtful as he checked each cramped figure. ‘All present, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ Chesnaye eyed the others impassively, his features a mask for his inner thoughts. The head of every department was present, even Tregarth, his face pasty and moist from the engine room’s humid breath, and Chesnaye could tell from their expressions that they were wondering at this unexpected summons.

  He waited a while longer until McGowan had lighted a cigarette, and then tapped the chart which lay across the table. ‘A change of plans, gentlemen.’ Their eyes followed his hand across the straggling Libyan coastline. ‘The enemy have pushed on rather faster than expected, and our proposed landing area has been overrun.’ He had already explained this to Erskine before the others had arrived, and even now sensed the man’s opposition to his words. ‘Tobruk, on the other hand, has been bypassed by the Afrika Korps, so our people there will need everything they can get. Every sort of supply will have to be carried by sea. For that reason I intend to unload our stores there!’

  It all sounded so cold, so easy, that he wanted to laugh. He remembered Beaushears’ face when he had described the mission. He had known the impossibility of the task. He must have known.

  Tregarth said imperturbably, ‘Well, at least Tobruk’s a tiny bit nearer!’

  Erskine added half to himself, ‘It’s a damned long way back!’

  Chesnaye scraped a match along a box and puffed at his pipe. It gave him time to think about the new developments. It had taken nearly two days to load these military sto
res in Alexandria. The Commander-in-Chief had made it clear that with Tobruk under constant pressure it was almost impossible to get into the port except with the cover of darkness. Now the place was bypassed, and no one seemed to know exactly where the nearest enemy units were. Saracen would be a sitting target the moment she was uncovered by daylight, and with her decks covered by drums of petrol and cases of ammunition.

  It had taken three more days to make the trip from Alexandria, keeping well clear of the coast and skirting local convoy routes. By some miracle they had managed to avoid detection, and had only once sighted an enemy aircraft in the far distance. The aircrew must have been looking in the wrong direction, he thought.

  But now—he looked up as Fox said thoughtfully: ‘Is it really essential for us to go in, sir? I mean, according to the signals received, the Army is being supplied by smaller, faster ships than ours. A quick turn-round, and off to sea seems to be the order of the day.’

  Chesnaye fought back the desire to yawn. The stuffy atmosphere and quiet watchfulness of his officers added to his feeling of complete weariness. Fox was right, of course. Beaushears had said, ‘Use your discretion.’ A trite, well-used phrase which had spelled disaster to many a captain. If you were right, others took the credit. But if you made the wrong decision you took the consequences alone.

  Erskine seemed to make up his mind. ‘I think it is a bad risk, sir.’

  The others shifted uncomfortably. Fox, hard-faced and watchful, McGowan biting his lip and eyeing his friend with obvious agreement.

  Chesnaye looked at Tregarth. Nothing there. The Chief would do as he was expected. In the engine room only the machinery meant anything to him. Above, in the clean open world of sea and sky, other decisions might be called for, but they did not affect him.

  Wickersley, the Doctor, looked fresh-faced and bright, the only man present who never stood a watch or missed his sleep. He would be busy enough soon if things turned out badly.