There were a few soldiers too, in their scruffy battledress, and two or three W.A.A.F.s in air force blue from one of the airstrips around Plymouth, outnumbered and yet strangely safe in this all-male bedlam. The landlord shouted something, shrugged when unable to make himself heard, and held up a much-handled board with Air Raid Warning painted on it. It was greeted by laughter and jeers by those still steady enough on their feet to notice it.
A blackout curtain billowed inward and another sailor pushed through the street door.
It was the youngster, Wishart. More at sea than ever in a dump like this. After several attempts to reach the bar he called, “Could I have a beer, please?”
The perspiring barman regarded him grimly. “’Ow much? ’Alf a pint or ’alf a gallon?”
A big three-badgeman beside Forward shouted, “You old enough to drink, sonny? What will your mother say?” That brought more laughter.
Forward nudged the big seaman with his elbow. “What does your arse do for laughs, matey?” He shoved past him. “Two pints, chum.” He nodded to the three-badgeman. “There now. Nice and easy.”
Wishart took the glass in both hands. “Thanks. I’ll buy the next round.”
Next round, Forward thought. If he got this one down he would probably have to be carried back to the liberty boat.
But in some strange way he was pleased that he had stopped the jokes at Wishart’s expense. More so because the big three-badgeman had been ready for a punch-up. Asking for it. But when their eyes had locked, he had backed off. They usually did.
Wishart was watching him gravely. “Cheers, then.”
Forward nodded. Likely the first pub he’d ever been in. He thought of the street in Battersea. It was funny. The kid was from another world, and yet . . . Wishart wiped some froth from his mouth and said doubtfully, “Maybe cider would be better.”
Forward signalled to the barman. “Not here it wouldn’t. Burn the lining out of your guts!” He put the glass down on a shelf already dripping with spilled beer. “All ready for the next bit of sea duty, then?”
Wishart smiled. “I—I think so, Bob. I was a bit scared at the time.” He seemed to consider it. “Very scared.”
“You were fine. Just do your job and keep with your mates. The Skipper can worry about the rest of it.”
Wishart tried another sip. “Poor Mister Seton took it badly.”
Forward shrugged. “Nearly shit himself, more likely!”
Wishart looked away, feeling his cheeks flaming. It was always the same. Some of them did it deliberately to embarrass him, like the big sailor who had moved away up the bar after Forward’s quiet words. He had not met anyone like him before. Tough, confident, and somehow dangerous.
He ventured, “I heard that you’re getting your hook back soon.”
Forward glanced at the clock. “Jimmy-the-One seems to think so.” He smiled, and was momentarily a different person. “Don’t worry, Ian, I’ll not let it go to my head!”
Then he froze, the noise, the laughter and the smoke blurred into one. And yet his voice was quite calm when he spoke, so calm that it almost unnerved him.
“Here, chum, what have you done with the paper?”
The man, one of the soldiers, pushed it towards him between two tight groups of drinkers.
Not much in the papers these days. Four pages for the most part and that was it. The war, you know.
It was a London edition. Yesterday’s. A photograph of two Spitfires doing something spectacular, and one of Montgomery addressing his troops somewhere. It was such a small piece, and yet it filled the paper, screamed at him, like she had that night.
Following the murder of the prostitute Grace Marlow at Chelsea as reported in Friday’s edition, police are now following new leads which they hope will identify her killer. Witnesses have come forward, said a police spokesman, and an arrest is anticipated.
It was impossible, of course. And tomorrow it would be forgotten. Thousands were being killed every day. Why should they waste their time on her? He almost spoke her name. Grace.
“Are you all right, Bob?”
He looked at his slightly built, fair-haired companion. Chalk and cheese, as his awful granny would have put it.
“Sure thing. The bloody beer, I ’spect.” He punched his arm. “Let’s catch the boat. We can share a tot.” He winked, although his mind was still reeling. “A proper drink, eh?”
Wishart was not sure what had happened, or how he had helped in some way.
He smiled into the steady rain and tilted his cap over one eye. The unknown sailor was right about one thing.
What would his mother have said?
Lieutenant Driscoll lightly touched the peak of his cap and reported, “That’s the last of our visitors, Number One.”
Together he and Fairfax stood by the companion ladder and watched the motor boat’s frothing wake until it was lost in the darkness. Fairfax said wearily, “Good party, I thought.”
“Big mess bills after that lot!”
Fairfax walked between the ranks of depth charges. A good party, but, as usual when old ships got together, it had gone on too long. Noisy, too, and as the gunnery officer had so dourly remarked, with a lot of booze to be paid for. Perhaps he should have asked some women, nurses or a few Wrens, but there had not really been enough time. He stared into the rain. That had not been the reason and he should admit it. He had just wanted to blot it all out. The stark memory of the stricken Grebe, men floundering in the blazing fuel, a soundless picture of destruction. A drifting mine. Of all the bloody luck. It happened . . . But it was not that. The voice again. Admit it. It had been the unspoken reprimand when the Captain had reminded him of their first duty, and of what had happened the other time they had tried to perform a simple act of humanity.
It was all the more painful because he had always been able to share his thoughts, even his doubts, with his previous Captain. Martineau was reachable in matters of ship’s routine, or the advancement or otherwise of individuals, but there was always the shutter, like that moment on the bridge, after which he became remote.
The ship seemed strangely quiet now. The libertymen were all offshore, a few barely able to pass Driscoll’s eagle eye as they lurched aboard from the busy M.F.V.s that ferried seagoing personnel around the harbour. No defaulters, and even at the party there had been only a few breakages when two of the guests had decided to become fighting bulls, using chairs for horns. His opposite number in Zouave had arrived late, but had been the last to leave. Fairfax tried to clear his head. Zouave ’s Number One had gone to collect a parcel from the naval club. While they had been privately discussing their respective Captains he had mentioned seeing Martineau at the club, with a Wren officer. It was not disloyalty; first lieutenants looked upon such a trust as self-preservation.
But the Wren, who was she? Martineau’s wife had walked out on him. It was rarely that simple. Suppose Martineau’s behaviour with another woman had prompted it?
He had asked his opposite number what the Wren had looked like.
He had replied thickly, “Didn’t see her face. Young, though.” He had regarded his empty glass sadly. “But still, you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you poke the fire, do you?”
But all in all, it had been a good party.
Now they could go back to war.
Second Officer Anna Roche sat on the edge of the iron bedstead and studied the neat array of kit laid out and waiting for tomorrow.
She had closed the adjoining door but could still hear the monotonous drip of the tap there. This was a temporary place, where nobody stopped long enough to get it fixed. She glanced around the room. It had been a hostel for serious anglers before the war, and there had still been a few stuffed and mounted fish in glass cases when she had first been billeted here, most of them since shattered during an air raid. Someone had told her that most of the prized trophies had proved to be made of plaster.
Tomorrow, then. Transport to the station, travel warrant an
d ration card, something to read on the train. She grimaced. Trains. She shivered and buttoned the thick pyjama jacket up to her throat; it was ugly but practical. If you had to run to the deep shelter in the night, you could not afford to be fussy.
She looked at the uniform on the chair, her best, with the two blue stripes and CANADA stitched on each shoulder. It still made people stare and ask her questions, which she found amusing considering the whole of England seemed to be full of foreign uniforms. It had taken a lot of getting used to. She smiled wryly. Even for a girl who thought she knew it all.
She loosened her hair and flicked it over her collar, remembering how he had looked at it, then she stood up and walked to the wall mirror. Even that was cracked. She had grown up after crossing the Pond, or thought she had. But it was still there. The hurt, the disbelief, and something utterly alien. Shame.
Suppose he had still been in the ship, and that he had been there in the naval club when she had barged in. Looking for what? Revenge, reconciliation? She touched her breast, and felt the sudden urgency in her heart. Over. It was over. He was dead. Missing him, blaming him, hating him, it was pointless now.
It would be Christmas soon. In Toronto the decorations would be up, peace or war. Friends calling, but fewer now with many of the men overseas and in uniform of one kind or another. Even her kid brother Tim was over here somewhere. Turned down for the navy, he was in an infantry regiment and the last she had heard he was under training, and probably fretting at being away from the action.
What would Liverpool be like? Some of the others tried to make light of it; some had called it a dump. Best seen over the stern of a fast-moving ship!
She thought of the course she had just attended, at an antisubmarine establishment called HMS Osprey, stuck out like a miniature Gibraltar on Portland Bill.
Now it was time for the real thing. The Battle of the Atlantic was vital, and deadly for those who fought it. She would be part of a team, under a senior officer who had apparently given the go-ahead for her appointment. She was twenty-four years old. Ancient, compared to the last intake of Wrens she had seen.
She heard a door slam, feet on the stairway. Second Officer Naomi Fitzherbert had been down to the basement, where a bath had been installed in the middle of nowhere. They were about the same age, but that was as far as it went. Naomi was of “a good family,” as they called it over here, and her father was a lord, with little money apparently, but a lord nonetheless.
She was the sort of girl with whom Anna would never have believed she could share a room, let alone actually become fond of. She could be outrageously rude, offhand even with certain senior officers who might have imagined a chance for themselves. She would miss her more than anyone.
The door banged open and her room-mate strode barefooted across the cracked linoleum floor.
“Would you bloody well credit it! The hot water’s off again! They couldn’t organize a bottle-party in a brewery, this bloody bunch!” She paused, the towel barely covering her full breasts. “You’ll be well out of it!”
She often walked about their quarters in this fashion, and Anna had once believed she might be one of those, like a girl they had whispered about at her school, and another with less concern at university.
She looked now at Anna’s kit and said, “I hope it suits you, girl,” then sat heavily on the opposite bed and searched in her bag before pulling out a pack of duty-frees.
They watched the smoke twisting into the bedside lamp.
Then Naomi asked, “How was it?”
She was on her feet, her fingers entwined as she moved about the room.
“I should have known. I wrote to him. He would have written back. Said something. ” She faced her friend, her eyes desperate again. “If I hadn’t been in such a rush, getting back from Portland . . .”
She sat down beside her and felt the arm around her shoulders. “I heard about Hakka coming in. It was all a bit hush-hush. Otherwise . . .”
Naomi shrugged and inhaled, and it brought on a fit of coughing. “You’d have gone to the club anyway, if I know you, girl.”
Anna nodded, unable to find the words. Naomi was the only one who had known the whole story; she was like a rock when it came to secrets. Now the whole base probably knew, if anyone cared that much any more.
Liverpool would be a new beginning.
“What’s he like?” She stared at her. “Him. The V.C.”
She thought about it, the stares, the old man in the white coat, the hall porter with the knowing smile.
“He was nice. I would have been annoyed, if I’d been him.”
Her friend grinned. “You kill me, you really do sometimes! You’re a very attractive girl, and there’ll always be men trying to impress you, touch you up—you’ve met a few of them!” It was not working. Maybe she could no longer shock her, shake her out of it long enough to seize another chance.
Anna said softly, “When I realized who he was, I was surprised. I think that’s what I felt. He guessed what had happened, and he was trying to help.” Deep in her own thoughts, she did not notice her friend’s sudden sadness. She was going. In the navy you had to expect it. You shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke.
But Naomi would miss her more than she cared to admit. She would go back to being the Hon Fitz as she was called, but not to her face.
Anna was still thinking of their brief exchange, her own astonishment when she had found herself touching the medal ribbon. And the photograph; what had he done with it?
She said, “Anyway, he was really nice about it. I think he’s had a bad time.” Then she looked up. “Don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake twice! I’m not that stupid!”
They both stared at the shuttered window as the siren wailed again. The All Clear.
Naomi exclaimed, “Well, that’s a bloody change!” She watched Anna climb into bed, and sighed a little, wistfully.
Never say goodbye.
Martineau rolled over in the bunk, entangled in a blanket, fighting to come out of the dream. He was sweating and his heart was pounding like a drum, and his legs were over the side of the bunk feeling for his shoes before he realized that there had been no alarm. The bunkside telephone was buzzing in its leather case, as if an insect was trapped there.
He had to clear his throat. “Captain.”
Fairfax. Who else had he expected? He peered at the nearest scuttles, but the deadlights were still screwed in place; the ship was motionless. Nothing had changed.
Fairfax said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. The guardboat is coming over with some despatches.”
Martineau lifted his wrist and peered at his watch. Six-thirty; the hands had been called an hour ago. And he had heard nothing. Felt nothing.
He thought he heard Fairfax’s breathing, and said, “You did the right thing. Call me when they’ve dropped them.” He lay back on the bunk and listened to feet thudding along the deck. Hakka had come to life again, like all the others around them. He heard the clatter of crockery. A steward would be coming in with his coffee at any second.
He felt his heartbeat returning to normal, remembering the dream. Always the ship charging into oblivion, and a last cry choked out of him by the icy water.
Then he was on his feet and striding through to the other cabin as if he had known the ship for months.
He switched on the light over the desk and pulled out the book of sonnets, which had obviously never been read. For a long moment he held the photograph in the yellow glare, turning it carefully to catch the detail, to hear her voice. Anna. Anna Roche, who had once been at the U of T. He smiled, as if she had said something.
He replaced the photograph and wondered what story lay behind her eyes. He would probably never see her again, and even if he did . . .
The door opened and Tonkyn padded into the cabin.
“I thought we should have some breakfast today, sir. I am doing some scrambled eggs an’ a friend got me some bacon from the barracks. They liv
es real well over there, sir.”
Martineau stood up, feeling the ship move very slightly for the first time. He could not recall having a proper meal since he had first stepped aboard. And, until the dream, it had been the best sleep he could remember.
He was suddenly very hungry.
“I’d like that. Very much.”
Tonkyn’s melancholy expression did not change, but he seemed satisfied.
He could hear the guardboat coughing alongside, the quartermaster and bowman exchanging greetings or insults.
He looked at the closed book. He was ready.
5 | “You’re Not God!”
Lieutenant Roger Kidd straightened his back at the chart table and allowed himself a moment of private satisfaction. He should have known, they all should. Nothing in this man’s navy ever went according to plan. He had been enjoying a quiet breakfast in the wardroom when Fairfax had marched in after being with the Captain.
The leisurely departure from Plymouth in company with the leader and two other destroyers was off. The guardboat and the despatches had changed all that. Instead, Hakka was under immediate orders for sea. The Chief had charged off to his engine room, muttering something about thoughtless idiots who had no idea about the needs of a ship and her machinery, and for a few moments more, until the pipe “Special sea duty-men to your stations!” there had been pandemonium. He gripped a rail as the ship tilted over steeply, spray pattering across the glass screens and stinging his face. They should have known. And now the weather was getting lively, too.
He glanced at the others on the bridge. Lieutenant Giles Arliss was the O.O.W., supported by the haughty sub-lieutenant, Humphrey Cavaye. Kidd hid a smile. The blind leading the blind. Arliss had made no secret of the fact that he resented standing a watch. He had been appointed for flotilla signals duties. And in any case . . .
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