He thought of Sheridan’s efforts in the last two days. He had more than shown his ability and energy, and he could understand his bitterness at not being given a chance of command.
From the moment the bulk of hands had returned from leave the work had never stopped. Ammunition to be loaded and sorted into its correct stowage, from heavy four-inch shells to the masses of cannon and automatic weapon magazines. Stores and crates of tinned milk, jam, tobacco and paint. Rum and wire hawsers, canvas for just about everything from repairing bridge dodgers to sewing up bloated remains found drifting in abandoned lifeboats. It never failed to impress Drummond that a hull could take so much. Then the oil fuel pumped across from a nearby tanker, while Galbraith and his chief stoker watched the pulsating hoses as if able to judge the capacity to the exact pint after so much practice.
The work had ceased after dusk the previous evening, and Sheridan had asked him along to the wardroom to meet the rest of the new officers informally over a glass. He had refused, not because he had not wanted to go, but because he had known that as Sheridan had not yet had time to get to know his own wardroom companions, he, and not the captain, would feel an outsider.
In the muffled distance the tannoy squeaked to a bosun’s call and a voice said, “Special sea-dutymen close up! Hands to stations for leaving harbour in ten minutes.”
Drummond found he was waiting, almost poised in his chair. The next announcement would tell him a bit more about his first lieutenant.
The quartermaster’s voice continued, “Both watches will be required. Fo’c’slemen on the fo’c’sle, quarterdeckmen on the quarterdeck. Dress of the day, Number Threes.” The tannoy went dead.
Drummond stood up and crossed to the uncovered scuttle. Sheridan was on the ball. Normally, one watch would be sufficient to stand at harbour stations, while the other prepared to man the defences. But with so many untried men, and officers, he was taking no chances. It would help them to move as a team, and, anyway, it would be a while before they had worked down the Medway, past Sheerness into open water where trouble might be expected at any time.
The important thing was, Sheridan had used his intelligence. He had not asked. He had acted as he saw fit.
Owles entered the door and watched him gloomily.
“Off again then, sir.”
Drummond patted his pockets and glanced quickly round the cabin. Freshly washed grey sweater. Leather sea boots and binoculars. Duffel coat, the latter still bearing the paint stains from the last refit. A year back. It seemed like a lifetime.
He reached for his cap and then sat down again. It would not do to appear impatient.
He said, “Harwich in time for supper, Owles. “
If they were lucky, he thought. The calendar on his desk said it was June 13th. A Sunday. It might take a bit longer today. The Navy was strange like that. Peace or war, Sunday was always a special, confusing occasion.
There was a tap at the door and Fitzroy, the petty officer telegraphist, stepped over the coaming, a pad in his fist.
“From tower, sir. Proceed when ready. ” He grinned. “I think they mean right away, sir. There’s another destroyer hovering about. Needs our berth. ” It seemed to amuse him.
Overhead the tannoy again. “Hands to stations for leaving harbour! Stand by wires and fenders!”
The deck gave another, more insistent quiver, and Drummond pictured the engineer with his men sealed in their world of gleaming steel, dials and gauges, steam and sweat.
He looked at the clock. Four minutes to go. Sheridan was cutting it fine. He appeared at that moment, cap under his arm, his hawkish features set in an expressionless mask.
“Ready to proceed, sir.”
Drummond jammed his cap on his head and nodded.
“Fair enough.”
It was a fine day at last, the air clean and crisp. No clouds, but the sun was watery and gave little warmth as Drummond strode along the port side towards the break in the forecastle and the straight, uncovered ladders which led to the signal bridge, where the slender-barrelled Oerlikons had been mounted on either wing, cutting down the space even more. Then up further to the place where he would probably remain until they moored again.
The bridge was crowded. Lookouts and bosun’s mates, Lieutenant Wingate, the navigating officer, standing deadcentre on the compass platform speaking quietly to his yeoman. Giles Rankin, the gunnery officer, was compressed into the centre of a small group consisting of the two sub-lieutenants, Midshipman Keyes and, surprisingly, Surgeon Lieutenant Adrian Vaughan, the new doctor. He was a strange, unsmiling young man, with hair and features so pale he could almost be an albino.
They all turned as Rankin drawled, “Thought it might be a good idea for them to stand up here on the forebridge as we get under way, sir. Just this once. “
Drummond nodded to them. “Good morning, gentlemen. Watch everything and ask if you want to. “
He turned as a voice said, “All closed up, sir. Coxswain on the wheel.”
Wingate called, “Number One’s singled up, sir.”
Drummond walked to the forepart of the bridge and laid his binoculars behind the glass screen. The newly painted forecastle, the long barrels of the two forward guns, reached towards the stem where Sheridan was standing in the eyes of the ship. Beside him was a signalman waiting to haul down the Jack once contact with the land had been cut.
“Stand by.”
He ignored the watching officers and concentrated on the dipping and tautening mooring lines. The forecastle was a litter of wires, amongst which the seamen moved like creatures being stalked by an endless serpent. It was an illusion. He saw Leading Seaman Eaden, captain of the forecastle, striding through the apparent confusion, his gloved hands pushing a wire into a man’s fist here, or whipping off a lashing prior to letting go. Even from the high bridge it was easy to spot the new men, Drummond thought. They held wires without recognition, waiting to see what the others would do.
“Standing by, sir.”
Petty Officer Tucker, the yeoman of signals, said gruffly, “From Observer, sir. How long will you be?”
Tucker was an old hand. Short and stout, with a beard so thick it was hard to see what he was thinking.
Drummond glanced at the waiting destroyer. Brand-new, single funnel, twin mountings for her powerful armament, she was idling impatiently towards the jetty. She even had her fenders down. Drummond could see her captain, the scrambled egg on his cap as he peered at the moored Warlock.
“Tell him, about three hundred and twelve feet.”
He forgot the other ship and snapped, “Let go aft!”
He saw Sheridan acknowledge as the order was passed, the men with heavy fenders moving them nearer to the flared bows.
A bosun’s mate called, “All clear aft, sir.”
He could almost feel the other destroyer breathing on him.
He turned on the grating and looked down at the new officers. One of them had “New Zealand” on his shoulder.
“Space here, or lack of it, means we will have to go ahead on the back spring and get the stern to swing out into the stream. ” He saw them nod in unison. “Remember it. Take your time. You’ve plenty of chances, but only one ship. ” They laughed, as he knew they would.
“Slow ahead starboard.”
The bridge vibrated evenly, and a pencil rolled across the uncovered chart table. and fell to the deck.
Drummond stood up on the side of the bridge watching the spring tightening and slackening as Sheridan’s forecastle party eased it carefully around the bollards. Too much strain and you could snap a wire like a thread. Then it would flail inboard like a lethal whip.
He turned aft, watching as the outboard screw churned the sluggish water into froth. Noakes, the gunner (T), had his wires already neatly made up into coils, his men fallen into two lines for leaving harbour. He breathed out slowly as the sunlight lanced down on to a narrow sliver of water between quarterdeck and jetty which had not been there before. The stern
was starting to swing out, angling away, while the solitary spring took the ship’s slow thrust ahead like a halter.
Across the water a loud-hailer squeaked and then the other destroyer’s captain exclaimed loudly, “Thank God! You were there so long, I thought your ship was holding up the jetty!”
Drummond waved without turning his head.
The Warlock was now standing out from the jetty at about forty-five degrees, the nearest stonework hidden below the great flared forecastle.
“Stop starboard. ” He waved to Sheridan. “Let go forrard!”
The Jack had vanished, and Drummond saw that same Wren sitting on her bicycle watching them leave. A few dockyard workers were waiting to receive the other destroyer. Otherwise it was pretty quiet. Here, it was all too commonplace to comment upon, let alone show emotion for one more elderly destroyer going back to war.
“Slow astern together.”
He heard the coxswain’s reply up the brass pipe where Wingate was watchfully contemplating other shipping nearby.
Sternfirst, the Warlock thrashed past the new destroyer, between two moored storeships and a dredger, her small wash stirring up waste and shavings, leaking oil and flotsam which were part of any dockyard.
“Stop together.”
Below his feet he heard the jangle of telegraphs, then, “Both engines stopped, sir. “
Drummond took a quick look around. Two small harbour launches. A cruiser moored further downstream. The latter would need a salute, but he had already seen Vickery, the chief bosun’s mate, and his acolytes standing in line ready to pipe their respects.
It was all like a pattern. His mind recorded everything, discarding normality, noting only possible flaws.
He saw Keyes staring up at him, eyes filling his face. It must be a big moment for him. The greatest thing in his life. Eighteen years old. Not in a barracks or a classroom with some greyhaired instructor. At sea. On the bridge of a destroyer.
Impulsively he said, “Up here, Mr. Keyes.” He saw the indecision and added, “Chop, chop! We’ll be astride the sandbars in a moment!”
The boy stood beside him, his hands in tight fists, as if expecting a blow or a reprimand.
“Right Mr Keyes ” Drummond pointed over the screen, seeing Wingate grinning from beside the voice-pipes. “Take her out. Slow ahead. Starboard ten. Steady her, and then leave it to the coxswain. He can follow the buoys without constant wheel orders.”
There was a stunned silence. Then Keyes whispered, “Slow ahead together. “
Nothing happened.
Wingate tapped the voice-pipe with some brass dividers. “In here, Mid!”
Keyes tried again. He was shaking, his face was like chalk. He said, “Slow ahead together.”
Drummond felt the immediate response, remembering his first time. The ship charging away under him. Running wild.
He said quietly, “That can-shaped buoy, Mr. Keyes, do you see it?” He saw him nod jerkily. “Keep it to starboard as we leave the dockyard boundary. “
22
Keyes seemed to recover. “Starboard ten!” He groped across to the gyro repeater. “Midships! Er-steady!”
Mangin’s voice came up the pipe. “Steady, sir. Course zero-four-five. “
Drummond looked away, hiding a smile. Mangin had ignored the orders and had taken over control as soon as he had recognised the midshipman’s voice.
The cruiser’s craggy bulk moved ponderously toward them, a marine bugler at the guardrails beside the officer of the day.
Drummond nodded, and a bosun’s mate pressed down the tannoy switch.
“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard and salute!”
Warlock pushed her way slowly towards the watery sunlight, her men fallen in on forecastle and quarterdeck in swaying blue lines, the officers with hands lifted in salute. High above the forebridge, on the little catwalk which ran around the glass radar lantern, known as the “jampot,” the saluting party raised their silver calls, and across the narrow strip between cruiser and destroyer echoed the shrill mark of respect. It in turn was returned by the blare of a lordly bugle.
Drummond said, “Very well, Mr. Keyes. Now that you have got us safely out of harbour,you may rejoin the others. You’ll get more practice later on.”
Wingate said softly, “You made his day, sir. “
The navigator was a dark-faced, gipsy-looking man. There was something theatrical about him. About his black leather coat he always wore at sea, his sheepskin-lined boots. Even his cap seemed different from everyone else’s. Perhaps he was enjoying his commission to its full. Either way, he was a very good navigator.
Strangely enough, Rankin, the ex-car salesman, was far more of the regular officer in appearance than any of them. He had a sleek, glossy head with an exact centre parting. Narrow, haughty features, and a drawl which could have come straight from Bertie Wooster. He must have sold very expensive cars to have learned so much, Drummond thought.
Rankin was saying airily, “Tour of the ship, inspection of forecastle and main galley, then you can carry on about your allotted duties.” His sharp nose came round with a jerk. “Got it?”
They shuffled to the rear of the bridge, suitably impressed.
Drummond sat down on his tall wooden chair which was bolted to the port side of the bridge.
“Fall out harbour stations, if you please. Port Watch to defence stations.”
Sheridan clambered into the bridge and saluted formally. “All secured forrard, sir. “
“Very good. ” He leaned back in his chair and groped for his pipe. “They did quite well, I thought.”
“I thought so too, sir.” Sheridan sounded pleased. Then he added, “That new destroyer, the Observer. Quite a ship. It would be something to command her.”
Drummond threw his match into the little tin which was tacked to his chair. Across the screen he could see small houses dotted about on the shoreline, the clouds of gulls diving and circling above some invisible fishing boat in the narrows. He watched the pipe smoke plucked away over the bridge and motionless lookouts.
He rarely thought about the thing which was obviously uppermost in Sheridan’s mind. Perhaps because he had been so long in different ships under such varying conditions. Twentynine next month, and yet how full his life had been. To the Naval College at the age of twelve and on into his own specialised world. A battleship, a cruiser, two destroyers, a sloop, and others he had almost forgotten. He would well appreciate how Keyes must feel, even though his new life was so spartan because of the war. To Drummond, those early days had been quite different. Ships at anchor, awnings spread, bands playing. The harbours and bays made bright by glittering scuttles and fairy lights. The show of Britain’s naval might only thinly hidden behind cocktail parties and regattas, visitors in beautiful gowns, bare shoulders and bold glances.
He said slowly, “I suppose so.”
Drummond touched the worn teak rail below the screen. Why this ship? What was so special about her? Sheridan’s remark made him vaguely uneasy. It was stupid, and he knew it. He was a regular officer. A professional. Provided he lived to see it, promotion must inevitably come. Other ships, greater responsibility.
Feet clattered over the gratings and Owles said, “Brought the remains of the coffee, sir.”
From port, to starboard, very low down, three Spitfires streaked through the sunlight with their familiar whistling drone.
Perhaps because Warlock was born in his own time, he thought vaguely. When he had entered the Naval College she had already been nine years old. Her record of service was quite amazing. All those miles, pounding away, year in, year out. She had been born too late to fight the Kaiser’s fleet, and had steamed on the sidelines merely to watch as it entered harbour to surrender. 1919 found her at Odessa, helping to evacuate the terrified aristocrats fleeing in the face of the Russian Revolution. The China Station, to guard British possessions, watching helplessly as the Japs bombed the Chinese settlements. To Spain for the Civil War,
where she had worked in perfect unison with another destroyer to carry off trapped neutrals from that savage encounter. The other destroyer had been German. She had been sunk by the R.A.F. a few months back.
When this war had exploded across Europe, Warlock had been well past her prime, but with her sixty-odd consorts she did her best whenever the occasion offered itself. Lifting off exhausted soldiers from abandoned beaches. East coast convoys and E-boat Alley, the Atlantic, North Russia.
He ran his fingers along the smooth wood. And she could still give thirty-four knots. With a following wind, as Frank used to say,
Sheridan asked suddenly, “The Captain (D) Beaumont. Have you ever met him?”
“I served with him once, as a matter of fact.” He turned and saw the astonishment on his dark features. “The Andrew’s a small world. Years ago, it was. I was a snotty in the battleship Agincourt. He was the gunnery officer, if I remember rightly. ” He leaned sideways to the voice-pipe. “Who’s on the wheel now?”
“Chief quartermaster, sir. “
He could picture Rumsey’s lazy grin.
“Good. Watch the next leg. There are some practice targets moored to starboard.”
He looked at Sheridan. “What was I saying?”
“Beaumont. ” He seemed unsure of how to continue. “I’ve heard plenty about him, of course. All those write-ups in the paper. A lot of people said he should have got the V. C. for what he did. “
Drummond examined his pipe. For what he did. He would not tell Sheridan it had been bothering him, too, although for other reasons.
He could only remember Beaumont as a sarcastic bully. The new hero image just did not seem to fit. Maybe he had changed? And what exactly had he done on that dreadful day? It was about eight months ago now. He could recall the horror at hearing of Conqueror’s destruction, the pity at the pictures of the three blanketed survivors being landed in a Scottish port. It must have been terrifying to have that great ship blasted away beneath you. To be left in angry seas, bitterly cold, without hope. Three out of thirteen hundred. But what, apart from survive, had Beaumont done?
The Destroyers Page 3