The far end of the café was lined with booths. The impassive-faced Turkish head waiter had guided them towards it with the air of a foreign ambassador, when suddenly, as Chesnaye had passed abreast of one of the booths, two soldiers had lurched upright and blocked his progress. For a moment he thought there was going to be trouble of some sort. He recognised the Australian bush hat and wondered if the soldiers took exception to his presence for some reason. Then he noticed that both men were wounded. One leaned on sticks, the other had his arm strapped across his chest. Behind them, still propped in the booth, was another soldier, whose bandaged eyes were turned towards the small group and whose hands were already reaching out in an unspoken question.
The biggest Australian, a corporal, said loudly, ‘You’ll not remember me?’ He did not wait for a reply, but turned to the girl and took her hands in his big paws without further delay. ‘I hope you have a very pleasant evening, miss. You happen to be with the best goddamned Pommie I have ever met!’
Chesnaye stared from one man to the other. ‘I don’t quite follow?’
The second soldier grinned and moved his strapped arm carefully. ‘You brought us back from Tobruk, Cap’n. But for your bloody guts we’d be lying out there in the muck right this minute!’ He held out his good hand. ‘Here, take this, I want to be able to tell my folks I shook your hand!’
The blind soldier was now on his feet. ‘We’ll be off for home soon, Captain. I didn’t see a thing after that ruddy mortar shell, but me mates told me what you did!’ His voice shook. ‘You didn’t have to take us off, did you? You just bloody well did it!’
Chesnaye turned his face away with confusion. ‘Thank you!’
The corporal waved his arm. ‘Let’s make a night of it!’
But the second soldier grinned and winked at the girl. ‘Leave ’em be, you flamin’ wombat! The Captain’s got other things to attend to!’
They were still calling out cheerfully as Chesnaye almost pushed the girl into the end booth.
The waiter lit the candle on the table and went to get some wine. When Chesnaye had recovered sufficiently to meet her gaze he was astonished to see that her eyes were brimming with tears.
‘What’s the matter, Ann?’
But she reached across the small table and gripped his sleeve hard. ‘Don’t ask me, not yet!’ Then she shook her head, smiling in spite of the tears across her cheeks. ‘I know what those men meant. You really are a wonderful person!’
* * * * *
The small sea-cabin behind the bridge seemed stuffy and humid, and after a quick glance at his desk Chesnaye unscrewed the dead-light and opened the scuttle. There was a good moon, and the black restless water came to life in its cold stare, and the horizon shone with a million tiny lights like some gay, uncaring shoreline.
He propped open the cabin door to encourage even the slightest breath of air, and half listened to Fox’s voice from the compass platform as he patiently explained the mysteries of the stars to the two midshipmen. If anything. Fox seemed to be more interested in his duties now that leaving the ship was inevitable.
Chesnaye peeled off his jacket and allowed the air to explore his skin. Feet scraped on a ladder, and he could hear the faint strains of a mouth-organ from one of the four-inch gun positions below the bridge. The patient waiting, the sadness and the calm resignation of war.
He loosened his belt and lowered himself on to the bunk. It was peaceful, even relaxing. Automatically his hand moved to touch the scar on his thigh, but instead of pain the simple action reawakened another memory like the discovery of some precious souvenir.
Without closing his eyes he could see every yard of that walk home from the café with Ann, stepping across the bars of moonlight between the sleeping houses with serious concentration. They had not spoken much, and Chesnaye was again aware of the danger of words, and was almost afraid to break the strange spell which seemed to hold them together.
They had reached the house, and Chesnaye had half expected to find some urgent message waiting to jerk him back to reality, but there was nothing. The tiny room was quiet, and she had been humming softly as she lit the one small table lamp.
‘I suppose I had better make my way to the ship?’ Chesnaye had stared ruefully around him, as if rediscovering the birthplace of his new happiness. ‘I don’t know if I can go now.’
She did not answer, but left the room to return almost immediately with two glasses of brandy. ‘The last,’ she announced gravely.
They sat on the old sofa, their glasses untouched, their eyes unseeing on the opposite wall and the shuttered window. Ghesnaye felt lost, even desperate. Tomorrow the carpet trader would be squatting in the dust outside, while he would be cherishing a memory and sinking back into the endless and futureless routine.
She nestled her head against his shoulder and kicked off her sandals. For a moment she said nothing, then: ‘It’s been wonderful. It really has.’
‘I know. I never believed it possible.’
‘It’s always possible. With the right person.’ She twisted slightly so that he could feel her breath on his cheek. ‘I’m so afraid.’
He encircled her shoulders in one quick movement, his eyes searching. ‘Of what? Tell me, Ann!’
Her mouth quivered in a half-smile. ‘Of smashing something. Of losing the only thing which really matters now.’
Chesnaye held her very tightly and smoothed the hair from her cheek. He could feel her quivering with each movement, and felt the forgotten pain returning to his heart.
‘I don’t want you to go, Dick. Not now. Not ever.’ She had lowered her head against his chest as if unable to meet his eyes. ‘There is so little time. We cannot waste it!’ With sudden vehemence she said, ‘You understand, don’t you?’
A glass rolled unnoticed as Chesnaye pulled her to him. He could feel the desperate urgency of her kiss, and felt himself swimming in an uncontrolled desire.
With a jerk she freed herself and moved behind the sofa. Then with slow deliberation she pulled the dress over her head and threw her small shadows of underwear into the corner of the room. She walked across the room and knelt against Chesnaye’s knees. He was still staring at her, wanting her, yet unwilling to break the spell.
‘You see, you can’t go now?’ She looked up at him, her eyes misty.
Chesnaye could still feel the intensity of their love and the perfection of her body.
Afterwards, in an even smaller room, he had lain pressed beside her in the narrow bed below an open window. In the filtered moonlight he propped himself on one elbow to look down at her relaxed body and the deep shadows below her breasts and across the silky smoothness of her thighs. It was at that moment she had reached out and touched the scar which he had carried through the years. Her eyes were still closed, but he could see the quick movement of her breasts as the contact reawakened desire.
Down, down . . . that other world which excluded all else but the love of two persons. Once she cried out, but their mouths found each other to stifle the delicious pain, and her hands locked behind his back to complete their bond.
When the first faint light of dawn cut through the narrow street Ghesnaye prised himself away and knelt beside the bed to look at her face. It was relaxed and still, like a painting, and he wanted more than anything to hold her just once more.
He passed through the other room and paused to pick her clothes from the floor and switch off the lamp which had been left unnoticed. Down the hill, through the gates guarded by drowsy sentries, and out on to the long wide jetty which had hardly changed since Roman soldiers had mounted a similar watch. The fresh, early scent from the sea, the querulous gulls nodding and grumbling on the dockside sheds as the solitary figure passed. Then the Saracen and the startled Quartermaster springing to life at the head of the gangway.
The decks felt damp and friendly, and in the pale light the tired ship looked almost beautiful.
He thrust his hands behind his head and stared up at the deckhead. How qui
ckly those seven days had passed, and how wretched had been the parting. Saracen had been required to slip and proceed to sea under cover of darkness. On that last day he had spent only an hour with Ann Curzon, an hour of brimming happiness verging on despair.
To leave her was bad enough, without the growing suspense of the convoy. It seemed as if she should still be in her little room above the harbour and not at this moment lying in some over-crowded cabin aboard a darkened, hurrying ship.
Chesnaye was beginning to fret again, and with an impatient movement swung himself off the bunk. Slinging his jacket across his bare shoulders like a cape, he walked quietly on to the bridge his unlit pipe in his mouth.
The two midshipmen were just going below, their lesson completed. ‘Learnt anything?’ They both stopped startled as they recognised their captain half dressed and dishevelled.
Danebury said seriously, ‘It’s all very difficult, sir.’
Fox was standing by the compass, his hair ruffling slightly in the weak breeze. ‘Too many classroom ideas in their heads, sir.’
‘You’ll soon put that right, eh, Pilot?’ Chesnaye grinned. ‘The Navy’s never been very keen on matchbox navigation!’
‘Their loss, sir!’ Fox was unperturbed.
Chesnaye wandered around the bridge, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the distorted moonglow. The ship had little motion, and it did not need much imagination to conjure up a picture of Ann standing by the screen, her body poised like a statue. He touched the screen, smooth and unmarked from the repair yard.
In Malta they could pick up the threads again. They must.
She had wanted to walk with him to the harbour gates, but he had persuaded her against it.
‘You’ll soon be the Captain again!’ She had held him at arm’s length, her eyes bright and wistful. ‘You’re my life now, Dick. I need you so much.’
He had pulled her close so that she should not see the pain on his face. ‘And I you.’
‘I know. Just being together has been wonderful. But it’s not enough. Not now. Not ever.’
A step grated behind him and he heard Fox handing over the watch. Midnight already. A shiver ran through him as be thought of what tomorrow would bring.
Sharply he said, ‘Have you got the signal about the convoy decoded yet, Pilot?’
Fox sounded wary. ‘In the charthouse, sir. The First Lieutenant has been working on the order of advance so that we can adjust the plot. There won’t be much time after tomorrow, sir.’
‘Right. I’ll take a look.’
Back into the stuffiness, where the fresh charts and notebooks were lined up like surgical instruments. A new list of ships and their positions in convoy was pinned alongside the chart table. Quickly Chesnaye scanned the list. There was still a chance that Ann’s ship might not have sailed for some reason. His gaze faltered. Third ship in the starboard column, Cape Cod, it had sailed. His finger was resting on the vessel’s name, and Fox remarked casually, ‘That one’ll be just about on our beam if the Admiral sticks to his sailing orders.’
Chesnaye wondered briefly if Erskine knew the girl would be aboard that ship. If so he must have had bitter thoughts when he was decoding the signal.
Fox yawned. ‘I’m going to turn in unless you need me for anything?’
‘Nothing at the moment, Pilot.’ Chesnaye sounded far away.
‘We might get through without a scratch, sir.’ Fox was watching him closely. ‘I’m not too worried.’
Chesnaye gave a small smile. ‘Well, you keep that way.’ Bombers, submarines, even E-boats, might already be groping through the darkness.
Fox turned to leave. ‘Radio room reports all quiet, sir. Might be a good sign.’
‘When the jungle falls silent, Pilot, that’s the time to watch out!’
Chesnaye walked back under the stars and watched the tug Goliath as she pushed her black bulk across the moon’s silver path. If only a storm would blow up. Anything would be better than this. He could easily imagine a U-boat commander watching the Saracen’s shape in his cross-wires, or even the torpedoes skimming through the water at this very moment.
On one of the Oerlikon platforms a gunner laughed, and Chesnaye heard the rattle of cocoa mugs. Every man is my responsibility, he thought. But tomorrow I shall be helpless and have the agony of an onlooker. He gripped the screen and strained his eyes into the darkness. Oh, Ann, take care! I shall be so near to you tomorrow, yet so helpless!
In the deserted wardroom Fox paused to pick up a tattered copy of Men Only before going to his cabin. Then he saw the Doctor dozing in one of the deep armchairs, a cup of cold coffee still by his elbow.
‘Aren’t you going to bed, Doc?’
Wickersley rubbed his eyes. ‘I suppose so. What’s it like up top?’
Fox looked round the wardroom. ‘Quiet. I think the Skipper’s worrying about tomorrow. But the way I see it this ship’ll be the safest in the convoy. The bastards will be after the fat loaded merchantmen!’
Wickersley levered himself upright and peered at his watch. ‘I think he’s worried about losing something other than the ship,’ he said quietly.
Fox watched him go and then gave a shrug. With his magazine under his arm he groped his way down the passage to his cabin. Poor, trusting merchant ships, he thought. In peacetime it was either depression or cut-throat competition. In war it was sheer bloody murder.
He was wondering what Wickersley had meant when he fell suddenly asleep, the magazine on his chest like a dead warrior’s scroll.
* * * * *
Chesnaye awoke with a start, aware that someone had touched his arm.
McGowan was waiting at a respectful distance. ‘Convoy sighted, sir!’ He watched as Chesnaye licked his dry lips and got slowly from his chair. ‘Wing escort has just made the recognition signal.’
Chesnaye nodded vaguely and walked stiffly to the rear of the bridge. The sun was blazing hot, and seemed to strike up at him with every step. It almost brought physical pain to look seawards, to the tiny grey shape which had just lifted above the horizon. He steadied his glasses. The indistinct black crucifix of the newcomer’s superstructure and the white slash of bow wave below. A powerful destroyer tearing ahead of the convoy, searching and listening for any lurking U-boat. A pinpoint of diamond-bright light flickered over the miles of shining water.
The Yeoman raised his telescope, his lips moving as his signalman wrote down each letter. He said a moment later: ‘Signal from escort, sir. Convoy will take up station as ordered.’
‘Very well.’ What else was there to say? Others would call the tune. The convoy could only wait.
Like cautious and newly trained beasts the fourteen escorted merchantmen ponderously obeyed the impatient signal lamps and the jaunty hoists of bunting. It took half an hour to satisfy the flagship. Eventually there were two parallel lines of six supply ships, each line a mile apart. In the centre of the convoy the two most vulnerable vessels, an ammunition ship and a well-loaded oiler steamed ahead and astern of the Saracen to be given maximum protection by the monitor’s anti-aircraft guns.
Far out on either beam of the columns four destroyers and two elderly sloops slowly fanned into their positions for the final drive towards Malta. Then at reduced speed the convoy settled down and awaited the Admiral’s ultimate inspection. From right astern the cruiser Aureus steamed briskly through the length of the procession, her high bridge glittering with trained binoculars, her yards alive with soaring signal flags. She was a sleek-looking ship. A product of the early thirties, she was a craft to be proud of. Even her dazzle paint could not hide the outlines of power and speed. Her four twin turrets, as well as her secondary armament, were already manned and cocked skywards.
Chesnaye watched her pass, but lowered his glasses as Beaushears’ sun-reddened face leapt into the lenses. Even at that distance he could see the searching, irritable expression beneath the multi-oak-leaved cap, and was not surprised to see the big signal lamp begin to stutter almost immediately
.
The Yeoman said: ‘From Flag, sir. Keep correct distance from Corinth Star.’
Chesnaye nodded. ‘Thank you, Laidlaw.’ Then to Fox, ‘Fall back two inches from the ammunition ship, Pilot!’
Fox grinned. ‘Aye, aye, sir!’
The flagship continued on its lordly way, and finally reduced speed with an impressive display of white froth when in position ahead of the convoy.
Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie sighed. ‘Do you ever have the feeling you are being watched?’
A telephone buzzed, and Fox said, ‘Screening squadron on station, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Chesnaye eased himself from the chair and walked quickly to the chart table which had been clipped in position on the bridge. Beaushears’ four cruisers were steaming somewhere below the horizon, ready to give support and to head off any intrepid intrusions by enemy warships.
Chesnaye took a quick glance astern. Only occasionally visible beyond the rusty bulk of a Greek freighter he could see the squat outline of the rescue tug. She at least would probably escape any enemy attention.
McGowan hurried past on his way to the Director, a sheaf of papers under his arm. ‘I’ve just been round the A.A. guns, sir. All cleared away and manned.’
‘Good. You can use the crew of the fifteen-inch turret to relieve the gunners at regular intervals. I don’t want them dropping off to sleep in this heat.’
McGowan tried not to look pained. ‘I’ve attended to that, sir.’
Chesnaye walked back to the front of the bridge, but to the starboard side. Bouverie stepped aside to leave room for him, but watched curiously as his captain began to study the nearest freighter with apparent care.
The Cape Cod was a fairly new ship, her hull low in the water, and the wide upper decks also crammed with heavy crates and additional stores for the besieged island.
Bouverie said. ‘She looks overloaded, sir. Wouldn’t like to be in her if she gets a packet!’
‘Be so good as to attend to your duties, Sub!’ Chesnaye did not even notice the harshness in his own voice or the look of surprise on Bouverie’s face. From the compass platform Fox glanced down at them and sensed the sudden tension.
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 30