For Valour

by Douglas Reeman

  He was not even sure why he had gone to the old hotel where, in those almost forgotten days, you went to meet old friends from other ships when you were in port. Noise, laughter, swapping yarns, exaggerating or complaining about some ship’s master or bullyboy mate, but deep down always grateful to have a job. One you thought you would never change.

  The old hotel had been burned out; only the tall, Victorian shell was still standing, the blackened windows like dead eyes. Just another casualty of Liverpool’s bombing, but to Kidd it had been like a bridge which had been destroyed. He had seen dozens of ships sunk, and had visited towns and cities battered by the strife of war. It troubled him that he should be so moved by it.

  He could not recall what he had said to the taxi driver, only that the man had not tried to cheat him. He must have guessed he was not just another stranger, a sailor on a few hours’ leave.

  Like a different country. Birkenhead, across the water from the great sprawling city, the posh side, as they always called it in those days. Where officers of the merchant service bought houses for their eventual retirement from the sea, with still plenty to remind them of it.

  The bar was empty, but there was a lively fire burning in the grate, a rare treat in wartime.

  A small, wizened waiter appeared beside him as soon as he sat in one of the worn leather chairs.

  “We’ll be closing soon, sir.”

  Kidd sighed. “Anything to eat?”

  The waiter shook his head sadly. “The dining room’s being fixed up for Christmas.”

  Kidd heard the hammering for the first time.

  “Well, what about a drink?”

  The waiter glanced at the interwoven gold lace on Kidd’s sleeve.

  “You’ll be off the convoys then?” Kidd said nothing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Kidd considered it. A double Scotch would be just right, but ask for one and they’d probably call the police thinking you were a German spy who didn’t know about the terrible shortage of whisky. Except for senior officers, of course.

  He looked around the deserted bar. It would fill up at night, he thought, but he would be back aboard Hakka before then. There was another flap on; he could feel it. The Skipper had been with the top brass all day. Must be something. He stared at the lace on his sleeve, wondering what had moved the old waiter to change his mind.

  That was another thing. He had read somewhere that more experienced R.N.R. officers were to be offered promotion, commands of their own. Not a Tribal maybe, but your own ship. He turned it over in his mind again. Why should it disturb him?

  Had he still been in the merchant service, even with the old Roberts Line, he would have been looking for promotion. Had things not changed, he might have been a chief officer or first mate anyway.

  He thought of the song the sailors sang to air their feelings.

  If it wasn’t for the war,

  We’d be where we were before,

  Churchill, you bastard!

  They had songs for just about everything.

  But promotion now? Another half-stripe, maybe. He pictured the ship as he had seen her that morning, surrounded by other grey or dazzle-painted hulls, and yet so completely different. The same age as Captain (D)’s Zouave, a twin right down to the bunkside switches that cut your fingers, or the bridge ladder that tried to snare your sleeve in the middle of a storm.

  And yet so different. But it took a sailor to appreciate that.

  Number One could have gone, but he wanted Hakka. The kid, Wishart, who had nearly been drowned and could have easily been moved, had apparently pleaded with the Skipper to stay aboard. Trevor Morgan, the Chief, was like that too; God alone knew what Driscoll the gunnery officer thought about it. But even he was good at his job.

  He thought about Martineau, and the uncanny instinct which was more than training and the bloody side of war he had endured. Like the drifting mine, and the U-boat which he had somehow known was there. Enough to risk the tanker, and his own ship on the strength of it.

  “I remember you liked a Scotch.”

  He half lurched from the chair at the sound of a woman’s voice, then stared at her hand pressing on his shoulder as she said, “No. Sit down. Enjoy your drink.”

  He sat, still staring at her. It was impossible, like time stopping. Even the hammering had ceased.

  “Evie! I had no idea—”

  She sat down opposite him, smiling at his confusion. Small, dark, and very attractive, exactly as he had remembered her, and yet changed in some way in the two years since they had last met. Assured, more mature. Perhaps that was it.

  Evelyn Maddocks had begun her career as a nurse in Manchester, but had chosen instead the uncertain life of a stewardess with the old Roberts Line in Liverpool. That had been in the Eritrea, one of their passenger and cargo ships on the New York and South America run.

  Kidd had always done what he could to make her happy aboard, and when he had left the ship to begin his naval reserve training he had realized that his true feelings went far deeper than that. But she had married the ship’s purser, Chris Maddocks.

  He asked awkwardly, “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” She was studying his face, feature by feature. “I own the place.”

  It was always said that pursers owned most of the hotels in various seaports, using their ill-gotten gains from their years in service. Cruel, but supposedly true.

  He said, “Did Chris quit the sea?” He had been a good bit older than her. A lot older.

  She dropped her eyes. “He stayed on for one more trip. The Eritrea, same old ship.” She touched her breast as if to adjust a brooch and shrugged. “I wanted to write to you. But I didn’t know, you see. It would have been stupid, unfair.”

  He gripped the arm of the chair. “Malta convoy. Last year. I read about it. But I’d seen you and knew you were ashore. I never thought Chris would sign on again.” He reached out, but withdrew his hand, his mind blurred with events.

  She said quietly, “Where did you just come from, Roger?”

  “The old Grand. I didn’t know about that, either.”

  She nodded slowly, then held out the glass. “Drink this. To me, if you like.”

  He tried to swallow it but almost choked. “You’ve knocked me for six, Evie! You look marvellous!”

  “Considering.”

  “Not considering.”

  She said, “You’re based here, I suppose? I know you can’t answer, but secrets don’t last long in this neck of the woods.”

  “A destroyer, Hakka. I’m the navigator.”

  She studied him as he raised his glass again, and did not miss the deep crow’s-feet around the eyes, all the signs of strain. Big and clumsy, but she had seen his hands sketching the ships and buildings in ports he had visited. He had been a popular young officer aboard that old ship, especially with the passengers.

  She came to a decision.

  “Are you ashore for any length of time?”

  He shook his head, suddenly ashamed of the grubby cuffs of his shirt, and his untidy beard.

  “I think we’re off again soon.”

  She said, “Have lunch with me. Now. We can talk. Have some wine.”

  “What will people say, Evie?”

  “Do you care?” She tossed her head, and even that was painful. She was that same girl again. “Well, I don’t!”

  Then she stood up, suddenly and lightly.

  “Say yes. It was no accident that brought you, so why not? We can talk about those times, about Chris too if you like. I miss him very much.” She saw him glance at the clock. “And don’t worry, I’ll see you get back on time. Running a hotel has some perks!”

  It was settled.

  She led the way through to a small, private dining room. The table was already laid for two, and a bottle of wine stood in a silver cooler, clearly engraved with the old Roberts Line flag.

  “Sit here.” She brushed past him, and paused. “Is it bad, Roger? Wha
t it’s done to you?”

  He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth.

  “Not any more.”

  Everything else seemed very far away.

  First Officer Deborah Crawford, Crawfie to a very few, clenched her jaws to stifle a yawn, and did not raise her eyes to the wall clock, although she guessed it must be nearly midnight. Another day. And tomorrow was Christmas Eve. There was not much sign of festivity in this office, not even a bunch of holly, although in the bustling main operations room she had seen some paper decorations amongst the maps and statistics, and a balloon with Hitler’s face painted on it.

  She looked over at the Commodore, who was speaking on one of the telephones, his voice crisp but unnaturally patient. It was a tone she had noticed that he adopted when he was talking to a subordinate he considered stupid.

  A long day, and it had not been helped by a visit from Captain George “Lucky” Bradshaw. She had not met him more than a few times, but disliked what she had seen. Full of booming good nature and bonhomie, Christmas spirit too. You could smell it across the room.

  He had a great grin, as if his teeth were too large for his mouth, which reminded her of the big false teeth her father had made out of orange peel to amuse her when she was a child.

  The Commodore had taken the wind out of his sails by telling him that the remainder of the group would be sent on combined exercises immediately after Christmas, and when they knew that the big troopship was within reach of full air and sea protection.

  Bradshaw had snorted, “Whose idea was this? My officers are already fully experienced in these matters!”

  Raikes had replied mildly, “The Admiral’s. He was Flag Officer Submarines before he took over Western Approaches, remember? A pretty good submariner himself, to all accounts. So he’s sending a submarine of his own choice to test your people. He does not take kindly to arguments.”

  The grin had vanished.

  Raikes slammed down the telephone.

  “Call Security. Check if she’s reported in.”

  “I just called, sir. A few minutes ago.”

  “Then do it again!”

  She picked up the handset. He was worse than usual. Funny that she could never imagine working with or for anyone else. Life would be dull by comparison. Like this place, never still, or completely silent. All the doors were open to the harsh lights, as if he could not bear to be caged in. Other people took the war one step at a time, reverses one day, a triumph on another. Not the Commodore. To him the war was constant, personal.

  She said, “Duty officer says not yet, sir.”

  “I want to know the instant she arrives.”

  She watched him as he picked up the telephone again. This was another side, when she thought she knew them all. Hard, ruthless, dedicated. She recalled the telephone call she had taken two days ago, from Hakka ’s Captain. The quiet hero. She wondered what she had expected. Someone like Bradshaw? God help us.

  Martineau had probably thought she was lying, but Second Officer Roche had been away from Liverpool with some files from Raikes for the Air Officer Commanding. She was due back now. She would be tired out. Like that first time.

  The bell rattled again, and she saw Raikes cover his own telephone with his hand while he waited.

  She said quietly, “Duty officer, sir. She’s just arrived. Car broke down.”

  He removed his hand and snapped, “I don’t give a damn! Do it, and call me tomorrow!” He turned away and she saw him buttoning the top of his jacket.

  She said, “I can do it, sir. It is part of my job.”

  “And this is my department! Ships, aircraft and men working like a machine. One faulty part, one weakness, and the whole structure is endangered!”

  She said wearily, “I know.”

  Raikes walked past her and stared through the adjoining offices, the typewriters covered and silent.

  He said, “She has the makings of a good addition to the staff. The next months will be vital. I cannot afford to risk disruption caused by personal misfortunes.” He swung round on her suddenly, reading her thoughts. “And not merely because it would reflect on me, be certain of that!”

  She heard his secretary coughing loudly; it was the signal.

  Afterwards, although she had no idea how long it was, she thought it had been like a badly rehearsed drama. Raikes very calm, so calm that it was unnatural. And herself, not knowing what to do with her hands, and the loyal Nobby hovering clumsily in the other doorway.

  Only the girl seemed composed, her chestnut hair shining in the hard light, her eyes steady as she looked at them, first at Raikes and then at Crawford.

  Raikes said, “You’d better sit down,” and seemed, uncharacteristically, to falter. “Anna, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  She remained standing, shoulders braced, dark eyes unwavering.

  Raikes continued in the same flat tone, “I made a signal to the R.A.F. H.Q., but you’d already left, so you see . . .”

  “It’s my brother, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. His unit was moved to Cornwall. They were on some kind of exercise. There was a minefield . . .”

  She clenched her fists and stared at the floor. “Oh, my God, poor Tim!” She wanted to cry, to scream, anything, but nothing would come. Except the picture of his face when she had last seen him. When he had volunteered for the army, because the R.C.N. would not accept him. He had wanted to go, and she knew it was because of her, because she was leaving for England in her new uniform.

  She knew that the other woman was standing close behind her. Expecting her to faint. To break down.

  She heard herself ask, “Do you know if he suffered?”

  “It was instantaneous. There were three of them, all from the same unit.”

  She thought of her parents, and her sister, who had married a Yank and moved to Boston where he worked.

  Raikes said, “Your family will have been informed by now. I heard because the local naval station is commanded by someone I know quite well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Because of me. And to die for nothing. In an accident. For nothing.

  She clenched her fists again and felt the nails breaking the skin.

  Raikes was saying, “You will be excused duties until we can decide . . .” The far door opened and a petty officer with a telegraphist’s insignia on his sleeve stopped abruptly as he sensed what he had interrupted. “I said I was not to be disturbed!”

  The telegraphist stammered, “Sorry, sir.” But he was staring at Anna. “It was the signal you were expecting, y’ see, sir, an’ I didn’t think.” He began to back away, but Raikes snapped his fingers.

  “As you are here!”

  Like someone grasping at a lifeline; like those men she had heard about . . .

  “Signal from Hakka, sir. Have assumed position George Zebra.”

  Raikes took the clipboard and looked at it. So brief. But it told him everything.

  He looked around, taken off guard as the girl said quietly, “Hakka?”

  First Officer Crawford touched her arm. “Her Captain called you to explain. But you’d gone by then.” She found she did not care about the Commodore’s views on it; he probably knew in any case. Another revelation.

  Anna looked at her hands and said, “I’d like to see the big chart in Operations . . .” But instead, she sat down and cried.

  Raikes made up his mind. “I have to go to the Met Office, find out what’s happening out there. Take this officer to her quarters.” He seemed to hesitate. “There’s some fine malt whisky in my office. Get it, Nobby.” He looked at the head bowed in grief, the older woman holding her like a protective lioness. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

  Nobby corrected gently, “Today, sir.”

  He knew he would never be able to see his superior in quite the same light again.

  The motion was sickening.

  Graham Martineau felt his stomach muscles tighten yet again as the ship b
eneath him seemed to pause, the bridge shaking to the vibration of the shafts, before sliding over into another trough.

  The Atlantic. Not at its worst, but bad enough by any standards.

  Conditions had deteriorated almost as soon as Hakka and her three consorts had cleared Liverpool, with the seas mounting and a wind across the quarter which made even the simplest task a test of endurance.

  He felt the arm of the chair pressing into his ribs, then the steel back nudging him sharply. It was something you accepted in destroyers, but you never got used to it. The towel around his neck was sodden, and when he eased his body forward to peer at the radar repeater he could feel the rawness against his skin.

  There would be quite a few of Hakka ’s company suffering from seasickness, not that they would get much sympathy. As a young cadet aboard a training cruiser Martineau himself had known the first pangs of it, even though the sea had been relatively calm at the time.

  Nelson was seasick whenever he went to sea, and still got the job done! So bloody well get on with it!

  Dark shapes moved around the open bridge, and he heard the occasional mutter of voicepipes.

  Driscoll had just taken over, and said in his clipped tones, “Port Watch at defence stations, sir!”

  Hakka was working watch-and-watch. Four hours on, four off. It was unlikely that the men who had just clambered to their positions throughout the ship had been able to dry or rest themselves during their time below.

  The forenoon watch, again. Eight in the morning, but visibility was virtually unchanged: shades of grey, with glassy black walls to betray the next trough. Jester was abeam somewhere, the others following astern. But for the murky blips on the radar repeater they could have been quite alone on this vast desert of an ocean.

  People ashore could never visualize its power, its brutal majesty, and the smallness of a ship as it challenged wind and weather. On the chart, a pin’s head represented the maximum distance that any lookout could cover.

  He looked at the repeater again. The unseen eye, without doubt the greatest step forward, the margin perhaps between survival and defeat, that sailors had ever known.