For Valour

by Douglas Reeman

She stood up and faced him again, a small pulse jumping in her throat as she pushed the loose hair from her cheek.

  “Aboard Hakka?” As if she were testing herself.

  “I’d see that nobody bothered you.”

  She regarded him gravely, the same eyes as in the photograph.

  “I know you would. I’ve never been on board Hakka before.”

  The main door opened and Raikes said, “Oh, there you are. Ready, Graham.” Even the use of his first name sounded unreal.

  But she seemed not to notice. She smiled suddenly and said, “Yes, I’d love to come to your ship,” and he saw her eyes rest briefly on the crimson ribbon with its miniature cross, as if remembering.

  Raikes said impatiently, “That’s settled, thank God!”

  But for reasons of his own, he was pleased.

  Fairfax paused at the top of the ladder to get his bearings, surprised that the destroyer’s upper bridge could seem so alien in the darkness. A place he knew so well in all conditions, and yet he felt like a stranger.

  No familiar figures in their shapeless duffle coats or oil-skins, no murmur of machinery, or ping of the Asdic, or the tap and clatter of a hundred other devices. The flag locker was covered, the slim-barrelled Oerlikons on either side of the bridge pointed blindly at the dark sky, the signal lamps were shuttered and silent.

  He turned and reached down to take her hand.

  “We made it!”

  He put his hand under her arm and guided her past the usual traps and hazards, watched her climb on to one of the gratings and saw her silhouetted against the uncertain sky. There was a bit of a moon about, showing itself occasionally through the long, ragged layers of cloud. Without her tricorn hat, and wrapped in a borrowed duffle coat, she was a girl again. He smiled. A girl you would want to know.

  She said, “I thought it would be like this. No comfort. No shelter.”

  Her hand touched the tall chair and she said, “The Captain’s chair.”

  Fairfax waited, thinking of the din they had left below in the wardroom. The people from the press bureau had not been much trouble. The importance of convoys, the courage of the merchant seamen who depended on naval protection. He had seen the chief interrogator pressing questions on the Captain, but he had not been able to hear. Martineau had seemed relieved at the interruption when he had told him that Second Officer Roche wanted to visit the bridge. He had said, “Look after her, Jamie.” Their eyes had met, and he had added apologetically, “I’d show you myself, but . . .”

  She put her hand on the chair.

  “Is this where it happened?”

  It took Fairfax by surprise.

  “The previous Captain? Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He tried to push it aside. “The Skipper always sits there. Sees everything, and it’s too uncomfortable to sleep on.”

  “Did you get along with him all right—Paul Bickford, I mean?”

  Fairfax walked to the sealed chart table and leaned on it. “I’m not sure I know how to answer that. He was killed in action, right here. And several others bought it that day.”

  She tried to control her breathing. She knew the custom, had heard of it many times. Never mention the man’s name after he’s gone. Bought it.

  So why can’t I lay the ghost? The man I loved, thought I loved. Who used me, lied to me.

  “You see, I met him in Canada some years ago. I wrote to him. And then when I came over in the Wrens, he got in touch.”

  Fairfax said, after a moment, “I didn’t know. Honestly.”

  He had been very pleasant to her since she had come aboard, and she could see why people liked him; anyone would. Even on their way up to the bridge, guiding her around some hidden obstacle, she had felt the pressure of the hand holding hers, had sensed his interest. An easy one to want to know better. And he did not know about Paul . . .

  She had been on a course at Portsmouth when he had telephoned her. He had two days’ leave, but had a meeting to attend in Southampton. He had asked her to join him at a house there; she was not to worry, there would be others around. Friends . . .

  The friends had soon made themselves scarce and he had entertained her both with pleasure and with charm. His ship, his new command, would be leaving soon. It might be some while before they met again. But it could not, must not end there.

  She walked to the side and pressed her body against the unyielding steel. And the worst of it was that she knew she had wanted him. But not like that. Like the nightmares, the degradation, the shame. Blood on the bed, and Paul exclaiming, “How was I to know? Anyway, you wanted it, and so did I!”

  Despite that, she had written to him. So why had she gone to see him again when she had heard that Hakka was in port?

  Fairfax said suddenly, “He was a very private person, except where the ship was concerned.” He shrugged. “There were women, I believe. I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt.”

  Hurt? She took a deep breath. He raped me. I must have been so dumb, so naive, I asked for it.

  Somewhere a watertight door creaked open and they heard music, a woman singing.

  Fairfax said, “W/T pick up the best programmes. That’s German. They always seem to get the good songs!”

  They both laughed, and she said, “I’m so glad about your medal, Jamie. You must be really thrilled.”

  “I have my Skipper to thank for that.” He smiled. “A good bloke, but I think you know that.”

  “We’d better go down.”

  She did not resist as he took her in his arms and kissed her. “Thanks for coming. Made it special, for all of us.” He hesitated. “You know what I mean.”

  She tugged the handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed his mouth with it, to give herself time.

  “Lipstick. Don’t want them to get the wrong idea!”

  Fairfax gripped her wrist. “So I’ve had too many drinks. But it’s not every day you get a gong, or get kissed by a lovely girl. So—so maybe I’m allowed to speak out of turn.”

  She waited, knowing that it was important to him.

  “The Skipper’s had a bad time, in more ways than one. I watch him relive it every day, see him trying to come to terms with it.”

  She put her hand on his.

  “Go on. Don’t stop now. Please.”

  “His wife cheated on him. He must have known about it when he gave the order to ram that bloody cruiser, when so many of his people were lost. He cares, you see. But I think he cares too much.”

  He guided her to the ladder. A boat was chugging abeam, drunken voices raised in song.

  How I was a goddamned fool,

  in th’ Port o’ Liverpool.

  On th’ first night when I came home from sea . . .

  Somebody’s libertymen returning. Mercifully not Hakka’s.

  Fairfax saw the quartermaster and gangway sentry stiffen as they approached, cigarettes skilfully cupped and hidden in their palms.

  But all he could think of was his own irresponsibility. Right at the time, maybe, but looking back it seemed disloyal and pathetic. She might go straight to her boss, the Commodore, and complain about his behaviour.

  The tall figure of Tonkyn, the chief steward, leaned out of the darkness.

  “The party’s spread itself, sir. Gents of the press down in the wardroom,” he made a quick gesture like someone downing a glass, “an’ some of the others have gone ashore.” He turned, ghostlike in his white jacket. “The Captain asked if you would join him in his quarters.” He melted away just as quietly.

  Fairfax said, “A real character, that one.” A memory flashed through his mind: Tonkyn destroying letters which Bickford had thrown out unopened.

  He took her arm. “Ready?” and she smiled at him.

  “Yes. I’m learning a lot tonight.”

  It was a small gathering in Martineau’s spacious day cabin. Raikes was there, and the faithful Nobby, First Officer Crawford, and the Admiral’s Chief of Staff, an urbane Captain named Tennant.

  Martineau took h
er borrowed coat and tossed it to a steward. “You’re cold.” Then, “Look after you, did he?”

  She pushed her hair from her forehead. “I don’t know how you stand it up there, day in, day out.”

  The door of the heads banged open and Captain “Lucky” Bradshaw stepped into the cabin. He had obviously been having a good time, and one of his fly buttons was unfastened.

  But he was cheerful enough, and showed his huge teeth in a grin when he saw Anna Roche.

  “Well, what d’you think of destroyers?”

  “The ladders are a bit steep, sir.”

  His grin widened. “Pity it wasn’t broad daylight.” He gazed deliberately at her legs. “The lads would have loved that!”

  Crawfie scowled.

  Martineau glanced at her hands; there was always some grease on the bridge.

  “Go through there. You can wash your hands in peace.”

  There was more laughter behind him, and under the cover of it he said, “Glad you came,” and paused, looking at her directly. “Anna. More than I’ve a right to say.”

  Tonkyn was here, a tray with one glass on it. A real character, that one . . . She saw the scar on his hand, which she had not noticed before. She knew he had been wounded in that one-sided battle. But that had been different, as if it had happened to someone else. A stranger. This was real.

  She took the glass from him and said softly, “I think you have every right.”

  Lucky Bradshaw announced loudly, “Well, I must be off, gentlemen!”

  Martineau said, “I’ll see him over the side.”

  Outside on the cold deck Bradshaw said, “Good show, Graham! I wanted to cheer with all the rest when I saw that bloody great trooper coming in. You really tricked those bastards that time!” He became serious. “Pity about that westbound convoy, of course. Ran smack into the U-boats which were being homed on to you. Bloody shambles, but there you are, win one, lose one, eh?”

  He straightened his back and marched towards the gangway.

  Martineau stood by the guardrail and stared along the length of his command.

  It never leaves you.

  When he reached the cabin the others were preparing to leave.

  Raikes was obviously pleased, and so was Captain Tennant, the Chief of Staff; that would mean a good report from the Admiral.

  “Better say our farewells to the press people, I suppose?” Raikes did not sound very enthusiastic, but the others nodded.

  She hung back and waited for Martineau.

  She said, “I wanted to tell you myself. About the westbound convoy.”

  She had seen it in his face when he had returned to the cabin. Exactly as Fairfax had described. He cares too much.

  Surprisingly, he smiled at her.

  “We make a good pair.”

  Raikes called, “Come on, Anna—we’ll visit the Ops Room, show them we’re on the ball, right?” Yes, he was in a good mood.

  She said quietly, “Call me.”

  Then she reached up and touched the crimson ribbon.

  It was enough.

  10 | Hit and Run

  Commander Graham Martineau leaned on one hand and peered at himself in the small mirror, the hot water helping to take the rawness out of shaving. All those hours, days, on the open bridge made him wonder why he bothered. Perhaps he should grow a beard like Kidd and some of the others in the ship.

  He touched his skin and winced, his hand tightening on the metal wash basin as the ship dipped suddenly into a trough.

  In his mind he could see it clearly. Like a giant chart, or a gull’s eye view.

  They had been ordered to sea on New Year’s Day. He had heard one of the leading hands say, “Somebody sure loves us at the Admiralty, I don’t bloody think!”

  Further north this time, to rendezvous with an important convoy on passage to Iceland, mostly American ships, loaded with aircraft parts and army personnel for the growing garrison there. An attack by U-boats had been forecast, signals had been intercepted. A job for the support group, then. The weather had been better than usual in the great expanse of sea between the Hebrides and Iceland, but bitterly cold, with off-watch hands kept busy clearing the decks and weapons of ice.

  They had two destroyers in company, Inuit, another Tribal, and Harlech, one of the older ships built in the early Thirties, similar to those which had taken part in the first battle of Narvik, when Warburton-Lee, the Captain (D), had won his V.C. And had paid for it with his life. Older in appearance and performance than Hakka and her sister ship, Harlech had been a true Atlantic veteran long before she had joined the group, with two U-boats to her credit.

  There had been an attempted attack, but the torpedoes must have been fired at extreme range, or the U-boats’ commander may have been discouraged by the size of the escort. So they were ordered back to base. It was a strange feeling to have this great, pitiless ocean quite empty but for their two companions. No ancient merchantmen trying to keep the pace, no ship falling slowly out of line, another victim. Nothing.

  They had seen no land at all, although they had had a murky radar image of the nearest Faroe Islands when they had made their rendezvous.

  Going home, or as close to home as it could be. A time for vigilance.

  He dabbed his face with a towel and studied himself critically as he might a requestman or a defaulter at the table down aft.

  He thought of Iceland, what he might have done if he had been able to get ashore. He had called there in the past . . . his mind shied away from it. A Danish possession which had been liberated, or invaded by the allies, occupied, the Icelanders termed it; it depended on your point of view. The stark fact was that Iceland boasted a fine new airfield, constructed by a German company just before the war. Very suitable for long-range bombers, which would now become a vital key in the Atlantic war. As Commodore Raikes had put it, “They didn’t build the thing to carry boxes of codfish to the Scottish markets!”

  But there were shops a-plenty, and with British and American servicemen almost outnumbering the inhabitants they were doing well. And there was no blackout.

  He listened to somebody shouting, then ignored it.

  The restaurant had been small and very crowded; anybody out of uniform would have looked like an intruder. And yet, surprisingly, they had been able to talk, interrupted from time to time by overworked waitresses, and by two young subbies having an argument over the bill.

  He had found himself talking about things he never discussed. About his parents, his late father, the Commander, the house by the New Forest, naval life before the war, even the ship.

  Once she had reached across the minute table and touched his hand, and asked, “What about this?”

  He had attempted to pull his hand away but she had insisted. “The scar. I saw it when I came aboard Hakka. All those people getting high on your gin, not really caring, not giving a damn about the men they supposedly write about.” He had felt her eyes on him, and had wanted to seize the hand that held him. “Don’t be ashamed of it. You should be proud.”

  He had looked up at her face then, as she had said, “I am.” There had been tears in her eyes. For him, for herself, for her brother. He was still not certain.

  He had even told her about Alison, that a divorce would be the outcome.

  She had said, “You keep it all there, in the background, don’t you? As if it was somehow your fault.”

  The restaurant manager had come to the table. “Sorry to interrupt.” His glance had fallen on Martineau’s sleeve and he had added hastily, “ sir. But if you’ve finished, I’ve several customers waiting for a table.”

  He had been angry, but she had laughed. The first time he had heard her really laugh, and several people had turned to look and grin, as if sharing it.

  Outside in the cold air he had said, “Hardly the Savoy, was it?”

  She had watched him in the darkness. She would have known then that Hakka was being ordered to sea. I wanted to tell you myself.

  But sh
e had said, “I’ve never been to the Savoy, or likely to!”

  Then she had stooped and murmured, “Damn! My best stockings!”

  He had heard that you could buy all the stockings you wanted in the shops in Reykjavik.

  The small speaker crackled. “Captain on the bridge, please!”

  He snatched up his jacket and cap and hurried to the door. As he knocked down the clip on the steel he saw the scar on the back of his hand.

  Maybe it was all my fault . . .

  She was a bright, intelligent girl, and would probably be moved on somewhere else. The navy was like that.

  It might be better for both of them if that happened.

  He climbed out and up, the freezing air on his freshly shaved skin making him wince.

  A quick look around, faces, positions, the metallic edge of the horizon. Inuit on the port quarter, and the sturdy Harlech to starboard, her narrow hull like polished glass in the hard glare.

  Kidd said, “Inuit’s got a contact, sir. One-seven-zero, moving right. Requests instructions.”

  Martineau climbed on to the forward gratings and was rubbing the ice rime from the gyro compass repeater before he realized that he had forgotten both his gloves and his bridge coat.

  They had done it often enough, and rehearsed it so many times. But always with those helpless ships to consider first, to protect no matter what, or who, paid the price.

  This was different.

  Kidd said, “Asdic team closed up, sir; first lieutenant’s with them.”

  He imagined them throughout the ship. A combined effort. By the book. Maybe.

  He said, “Open R/T contact. Start the attack!”

  Then Fairfax’s voice, equally calm. “Got it, sir. Same bearing, still moving right.”

  Martineau bent over, feeling the spray sting his face. “What’s it look like, Number One?”

  “Submarine, sir. Can’t be anything else.”

  Martineau said, “Tell the Chief.”

  “Done, sir.” That was Kidd.

  “Good lad.” He bent over the gyro again and did not see the bearded navigator grin.

  He had to shut out everything else, concentrate on the speed, the change of bearing. It could have been a waterlogged wreck, drifting and dead. Fairfax knew otherwise.