She sat down on a stool and picked up a packet of cigarettes. ‘Did we?’ Then she smiled, as if at some inner memory. ‘I suppose I must have known.’
Erskine felt sick. Of this situation, of himself. Of what he had done.
As if reading his thoughts she said, ‘Why did you have to tell that story about your captain?’
Erskine started. ‘It was the truth as I saw it.’ Being suddenly on the defensive made him confused.
‘As you saw it!’ She blew out a stream of smoke. ‘I expect the Admiral was pleased with you.’
‘I wish I’d not told you about it. I thought it might explain——’
She cut him short. ‘You came because you thought it was your duty. Just as you felt you should inform the Admiral that in your opinion your captain is incapable of doing his job!’ Her wide eyes flashed with anger. ‘Result? Exit captain and enter John Erskine, the Admiral’s friend!’
Erskine jumped to his feet. He felt betrayed, as if the ground had suddenly been dragged from beneath him. ‘That’s unfair! I was asked what I thought. I told him!’
‘I’ll bet!’ She was also on her feet, and as Erskine watched she walked quickly to the window. Across the street the carpet trader still sat outside his small shop surrounded by his dusty rugs, which hung from the flaking walls like battle flags.
Erskine tried again. ‘Look, Ann, I didn’t want it to be like this. I didn’t want to talk about the ship, but about us.’ He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’ll have to go to England, and after that I don’t know what might happen.’ lie felt the moist warmth of her shoulders through the thin blouse and tried to pull her against him. He felt her stiffen, and saw the quick tilt of her head.
She slipped from his grasp and turned to face him, ‘You’ve a short memory, John. It was here in this room, remember? Down there on the floor!’
He started to step back, but her voice held him. ‘Don’t you like to face it, John? Doesn’t it fit in with your scheme of things?’
‘I can only say that I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help.’
Her lips parted in a small smile. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
Then, in an almost matter-of-fact voice, she added, ‘I’m leaving here, too.’
Erskine answered quickly, relieved to change the subject, ‘Oh, where are you going?’
‘To Malta.’
Erskine, who had been stealing a quick glance at his watch, stared at her with surprise. ‘Malta? Like hell you are!’
‘You have no control of my life any more, John. If you ever did. As you know, I’ve been some use at the hospital. I could do something over there too.’
‘They’ll never allow it!’ Erskine was surprised to find out how much the news had unsettled him.
‘They already have. The Red Cross can do any damn’ thing!’ She eyed him calmly. ‘Even your admiral couldn’t stop me!’
Erskine reached for his cap. ‘Look, Ann, I must go back to the ship. There’s a lot to do.’ He knew he had to see her again, to make it right with her. ‘I mean this, Ann. Could you come aboard tonight?’
Surprisingly she replied: ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I think I shall get drunk!’
He reached out and held her arm. It was warm and very smooth. All at once the old memories came crowding back. That evening ashore, the laughter and the friendly jibes from the others. Then being alone, here, with Ann. The quick, breathless movements, and the eager pressure of her flesh against his. He squeezed her arm. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Ann.’
She looked directly at his face. ‘Perhaps we were lovers, John. But apparently we were not in love.’ She withdrew her arm and touched it with her fingertips, her eyes distant. ‘You want to go, John, but because of your code you want to go with my blessing.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve got it, now for God’s sake leave me to think.’
He moved quickly to the door. An unnerving thought crossed his mind and he said, ‘You’ll be all right?’
Without looking up, she answered, ‘I’ll not cut my throat, if that’s what you mean!’
Then he was out in the street and almost running towards the harbour. But the freedom he had anticipated still eluded him, and the guilt which he had tried to hold at bay enclosed like a sea-fog.
He slowed his pace, his face creased in thought. He had done the only thing possible, both with Ann and with the ship. Yet just being with her again had reopened the wound, and even as he walked away from the quiet street he could feel the old yearning and desire. How had she really taken this news? Did she even care? He was still deep in thought when he reached the jetty and the jagged outline of the Saracen.
* * * * *
Chesnaye left his littered desk and walked slowly to the open scuttle. The sun was already low and threw a dark shadow of the monitor’s superstructure across the harbour’s placid water. He loosened his jacket and peered down at a small harbour launch which was carrying a noisy party of libertymen from one of the anchored destroyers. He had always liked to watch the life of a busy port, but now it did not seem to matter. Behind him the desk waited with its pile of reports, requisitions and stores demands. The hundred and one things which every captain was expected to deal with the moment his ship nestled alongside. Normally Chesnaye enjoyed this task. From his aloof over-all position of command it brought him in regular contact with all the small details which made the ship a working machine. Even the pathetic signals about unfaithful wives, bombed-out homes and relatives killed in action helped to preserve his sense of humanity and understanding of the men who served him. Mere faces had become personalities, and abilities no longer had to be judged by record papers or the badges on a rating’s sleeve.
Now that was soon to be finished. As a fresh wave of despair passed over him he began to move quickly and aimlessly about the wide, shabby stateroom, with its heavy furniture and frayed carpet. When Chesnaye had returned from his brief visit to the flagship he had thrown himself into the waiting correspondence as if by doing so he could blot out the misery which Beaushears had so coldly thrown at him. Now Paymaster Sub-Lieutenant Philpott and the Chief Writer had departed, and he was unable to keep his wretchedness at bay. The interview with the Admiral had been much as he had expected. After being kept waiting for the best part of an hour he had been ushered into Beaushears’ quarters by the same elegant flag-lieutenant. But this time Beaushears had seen him alone, his face stiff and yet somehow eager as he slammed home one point after another.
‘I warned you, Chesnaye.’ Beaushears had started to pace, as if he had been working himself into a rage for some time. ‘But you still think you know best! I’ve had a dozen reports to do concerning this minelayer business, and I’m about sick of it!’
Chesnaye had kept his voice under control with effort. ‘My orders gave me a certain latitude, sir. I landed my stores and the Army were very grateful.’
Beaushears waved his hand impatiently. ‘I’ve received a signal about that and the bombardment you took upon yourself to supply!’ He seemed beside himself. ‘Naturally the Army were pleased! What do they know about our situation? We’re snowed under with work, and, in case you’re interested, we’re even shorter of ships and men than we were before!’
Chesnaye spoke carefully: ‘The Greek campaign was a waste of time. I implied as much when I was here before!’ He could feel his reserves of patience draining away. Days and nights on the bridge without sleep were taking their toll. In any case, Beaushears had obviously made up his mind without much goading. ‘I understand we lost twenty-three ships in one day, and two hospital ships to boot. I’m not surprised the Admiralty are worried!’
Beaushears had stopped his pacing and had stared at him with sudden calm. ‘Look, Chesnaye, you seem to misunderstand why you are here! I didn’t call you to this ship to ask your opinions of world strategy or how to run my squadron. You were given a task, straightforward and uncomplicated. Not to mince words, you made a complete muck of it. If it hadn’t been for that
stupid bombardment you would have been clear away and in a position to stop the minelayer. It’s the convoy all over again. You just cannot bring yourself to understand that your job is not to decide policy but to obey orders, in this instance my orders!’
Outside the curtained doorway Chesnaye had heard the distant laughter of the flagship’s officers as they gathered for their pre-lunch gins in the wardroom. Always after Sunday Divisions the occasion seemed gayer and more exuberant, like a first-night of a dramatic society where the players have brought off a performance without muffing their lines.
It had painfully reminded him of the day he had joined the Saracen for the first time in Portsmouth. A callow youth, nervous, but hiding behind a mask of impassive calm, as he was before Beaushears. At that far-off time the monitor’s officers had also been recovering from Divisions. In his mind’s eye Chesnaye recalled the scene like a picture from an old book. The heavy epaulettes and frock-coats, but otherwise the same Navy. The thought and realisation made him angry again. Of course, that was the fault with the Navy, with the whole fighting machine. The men who were the professionals were in fact only amateurs. They ignored experience, and carried on with their same outworn ideas.
Coldly he had replied, ‘The Saracen’s first task is to supply support for land forces—’
Beaushears’ interruption had been loud and final. ‘Not any more! She’s little more than a store-ship as far as I’m concerned! With the enemy putting on the pressure throughout the Mediterranean it now seems even that role is unsuitable!’ Beaushears had forced himself to sit down. ‘Your orders will explain what you have to do. Saracen will sail when repairs are completed, probably within seven days, and proceed to Malta. The island is near collapse be cause of lack of supplies, and we are going to push a fast convoy from here in the hope that some of the ships get there. Force “H” will be faking a dummy run from Gibraltar to divide enemy forces, and everything will be done to get the ships through. Saracen will sail early, and our convoy should overtake you a day or so before you reach Malta. You can supply extra anti-aircraft cover, and my squadron will screen the convoy from surface attack.’ Beaushears had dropped his eyes. ‘At Malta Saracen can continue to supply A.A. cover for the harbour and act as a base ship for personnel, etcetera. If she avoids being sunk she might still be of some use.’
Chesnaye could still feel the shock of those words. ‘You mean she’ll not be required for sea again, sir? Not wanted?’
‘That is exactly what I mean. You have two hundred trained ratings aboard. Most of them will be needed for other ships as replacements. Your second-in-command has been offered a ship of his own, and most of your other officers will no doubt be willing to leave as early as they can.’
Chesnaye had a mental picture of the Saracen tied alongside the bombed shambles of Malta’s dockyard as the island received one air raid after another. Destroyers and cruisers had already fallen to the attacks. The old monitor would survive for an even shorter period.
In a strangled voice he had asked, ‘Will I be retained in command?’
Beaushears had regarded him directly for the first time. ‘That will be up to your new flag officer. But I have stated in my report that I consider the maintenance of a full captain aboard to be unnecessary. The ship will be a floating gun battery. Any junior officer should be able to do that job! No, Chesnaye, your place is at home. Go back to training men for the Navy. Your ideas are out of touch. Perhaps later,’ he had shrugged indifferently, ‘but now we have an immediate job to do.’
It had taken every ounce of Chesnaye’s control to stop from openly pleading. Looking back, it seemed as if that was what Beaushears had expected. There had been a long silence, and then Beaushears had said, ‘You would have said the same if the roles were reversed.’
Chesnaye had stood up, his face pale. ‘Your seniority gives you the right to express that opinion, sir. It still gives me the right to repudiate it!’
Chesnaye glanced at his watch. The interview had only taken place a few hours ago. The wounded troops had been landed just that morning. It all seemed so long past that Chesnaye felt confused. He needed sleep, and he had not found the time to eat, yet he knew that he could not give in or leave himself open to his despair. In a moment or two his steward would be fussing around him and getting his uniform ready for the wardroom party. The thought almost made him give in to the flood of emotion which pressed so hard on his reason.
No wonder Erskine had wanted a party. He had already known the outcome of the interview with Beaushears. To think that Beaushears could use his position to destroy him through a subordinate officer. It did not matter what Erskine had said. There was no open accusation of negligence, so, as usual, the Admiral had it all on his side.
Chesnaye thought of the pseudo-training establishments with their painted stones and pompous instructors. In a fit of anger he told himself he should have stayed in New Zealand, and then he looked again at the shabby stateroom and seemed to see beyond and through the length of the ship herself
Sailing day was still a week away. Anything might happen before that. But even as he tried to restore his belief he knew that he was deluding himself.
If he had been given command of any other ship this would never have happened. But he did not want another command. The Saracen was not just a ship, nor had she ever been.
He was staring at the open scuttle when the steward entered and began to lay out his uniform.
* * * * *
The Saracen’s wardroom had been cleared of unnecessary furniture and fittings for the party, but was nevertheless crammed to overflowing with noisy, perspiring visitors. Mostly officers and officials from the Base, with a sprinkling from other wardrooms of nearby ships. Older, more senior, officers looked unnaturally gay in their mess-jackets, whilst the reservists stood or slumped in white drill which was already crumpled and stained in the close, smoke-thickened atmosphere. There were women, too. Mostly nurses, with a handful of Wren officers, the wives of government officials and a few others who had merely arrived with their escorts.
Wickersley leaned back in a canvas chair, one arm resting on the side of the long makeshift bar, behind which the stewards ladled ice into pink gins and refilled glasses as fast as they were able. He glanced at his companions and swallowed some more gin. From his short experience of the Navy these parties all seemed the same. All you needed was a ship. There was always an unlimited number of people waiting to be invited. Mostly shore-based people who never turned their backs on a chance of getting hold of some duty-free booze. Wickersley laughed at the idea and groped vaguely for another glass.
Must be getting tight already, he thought. It was always the same. You drank too much to stave off the boredom of speaking to people you did not know and would not see again, and then you were too far gone to care. With one ear he could hear Fox speaking to Tregarth, the Chief Engineer. They had both been drinking steadily, their faces set and fixed with the grim determination of men who do not intend to give away their exact state of intoxication.
‘Lot of bloody rot, Chief!’ Fox sounded angry. ‘It’s as good as paying off the old ship!’
Tregarth grunted, ‘Wouldn’t last five minutes in the Union Castle!’
Wickersley wondered what would not last five minutes but he knew what Tregarth was angry about. Just before the first guests had arrived the Captain had met all the officers in the wardroom and told them of the new arrangements. Wickersley had watched him fixedly, looking for some sign of the man’s inner feelings.
Only when Bouverie had said unexpectedly, ‘Well, I think it’s a damned shame, sir!’ had Chesnaye dropped his guard. He had regarded the ex-barrister for several seconds and then, ‘It is, Sub.’ Wickersley thought that was the end of it, but something seemed to be driving Chesnaye on, as if he could no longer bear the strain of his secret. ‘As a matter of fact I love this ship. To some of you that may seem strange.’ He looked round the flag-decorated wardroom, his eyes suddenly wretched. ‘Given a chanc
e we would have done something worth while together.’
Wickersley still wondered about the use of ‘we’. Did he mean the whole ship’s company, or just ship and captain?
Anyway, it was all decided. Wickersley tasted the neat gin on his tongue and ran his finger around his tight collar. But he knew what Chesnaye felt. From the moment Wickersley had opened his letters from home he had understood, perhaps for the first time, what loneliness meant, and Chesnaye certainly knew that.
Wickersley’s wife had written a neat, concise letter. She always wrote like that, just as she lived. Neat, well thought out, nothing wasted.
He felt the anger surging through his drink-clouded mind. She had told him in the shortest possible style that she had left him. Just like that. There was no hint of who the other man was, except that ‘he is a friend of yours’. So that was that.
‘Jesus!’ Wickersley banged down the glass and the others stared at him. Even Norris, who had been watching an elderly officer dancing pressed against a slim nurse, looked surprised.
Fox said: ‘What’s eating you, Doc? Been at the pills again?’
Wickersley shrugged and signalled to a steward. ‘Something like that!’ What was the point of spreading it around? It could not help him now. He caught sight of Erskine approaching their small group with his hand resting lightly on the elbow of a tall, very attractive girl.
Erskine stood looking down at the others, his face smiling but unsure. ‘This is Ann Curzon.’ He made the introductions as they got to their feet. ‘They’re the core of the wardroom!’
In spite of his anger and misery Wickersley’s keen senses told him that the atmosphere was strained. Fox was looking at Erskine as if he was a complete stranger, and the girl seemed too bright, too casual, like someone playing a part, he thought.
Rudely Wickersley interrupted the stilted conversation, ‘Well, Ann, how about having a drink with the poor old doctor?’
She smiled, and it was then that he noticed the slight redness around her eyes. That bastard Erskine, he thought vaguely.
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 28