“Energy?” Drummond gripped the rail as the deck canted unevenly. “Is that what you object to?” He smiled. “Perhaps a war without pain would be more in your line. I know it would be in mine.”
“That’s unfair, sir. I’ve done my share.”
Drummond saw Wingate drawing away, leaving them isolated on the gratings.
He said quietly, “There are no shares, can’t you see that? We want to win this bloody war, not come in at the end as a nice, clean second! A lot of good men, and women, are depending on it. A whole lot have died already trying to make it come true.” Weariness, anger, the edge of shock made his voice suddenly bitter. “D ‘you know, Number One, your reasoning astounds me. When the Warden went off like a bat out of hell after that alleged U-boat, you thought we should have supported her, despite all the things which were, and still are, expected of us. But when I stopped to pick up survivors today, you thought it was a selfish gesture.”
Sheridan swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
Drummond groped for his pipe. “I am very pleased to know that!” He added harshly, “I wish you could have been up here to see Charles Cromwell’s face when his ship was destroyed. I knew what he was thinking. And I thought you had it in you too when you joined this ship.” He tamped the tobacco into the bowl, much of it falling unheeded to the gratings. “Transfer? If we get out of this lot, you can have it, and with my blessing!”
Sheridan stepped down, his face as shocked as if he had just been hit in the mouth.
The intercom rasped, “Aircraft! Bearing Green four-five! Angle of sight two-oh!”
Sheridan was still at the foot of the gratings, his face working as he said, “Here is your answer, sir.”
The intercom said curtly, “Disregard. These are friendly, repeat friendly aircraft.”
Drummond did not know what to do with his pipe, as first one and then another of the men around the upper deck, behind gun-shields and at ammunition hoists, below the belching funnel, or right aft by the depth-charges, began to cheer.
“I think you may be right, Number One. It is an answer, for now.”
Wingate strode across the littered deck and gripped his hand. “We made it!” He was half grinning, half choking. “Never mind for now. Never mind that some jokers in high places think we’re expendable. We did the job, and we got this far.” He squinted up as the first of the promised air-cover roared low above the mastheads, rocking its stubby wings in salute. “And that, sir, shows what can be done, given a bit of faith!”..
Lyngstad said quietly, “Light your pipe, Captain.” He put his arms round Wingate and Hillier. “We salute you, too.”
Sheridan looked at each of them. “I suppose I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry.”
Wingate eyed him calmly. “Forget it.”
Vaughan said, “Your ribs are a mite buckled, Sub.” He
seemed oblivious to the small drama, the ecstasy of survival. Hillier said, “Well, for God’s sake.”
Drummond sat in his chair and leaned back to watch the aircraft as they circled overhead. There would be a carrier somewhere over the horizon, other ships to see them safely into harbour. Rendezvous with the oilers, a check on damage. Talk with Galbraith about the fuel level. Most important, speak with the wounded from his own and the other ship. So much to do. He pictured his cabin right aft. The bunk. A long, overwhelming drink. Oblivion.
He slid from the chair, the sound of his boots on the gratings making the others forget their own emotions and reactions.
He said, “I’ll speak with all heads of departments. Tell the yeoman … ” He hesitated and looked at the discarded cap and telescope by the bloodstained flag-locker. “Tell Ordinary Signalman Murray to find some cups and fetch the bridge party
something hot.”
The spell was broken, and the others began to move outwards from him again, like spokes on a wheel.
He said, almost to himself, “Well done, old lady.” He touched the teak rail. “I never doubted you.”
He thought suddenly of Beaumont and added bitterly, “Unlike some.”
Ten days later, after a wearying and circuitous route to avoid further attempts by the enemy to seek out and destroy their depleted flotilla, the ships anchored in Seydisfjord.
Drummond had spent a large part of that time in his chair on the open bridge, leaving it only occasionally to snatch short naps in his sea cabin. During the passage he had become almost an automaton, carrying out his duties, dealing with requests and managing his ship while his mind ached-for rest and any sort of temporary release.
He had had to endure the tense and demanding moment of a mass sea burial. It was never an easy thing to do, especially when so many of the pathetic bundles had been men he had known. Some a long while. Others only as faces or mannerisms. It was hard not to look for Tucker on the bridge, plucking at his beard, or putting right some junior signalman. Others who had been Alf, and Ginger, Billy or Ned, had taken their turn below a grey sky, gone deep down into the same darkness which Keyes had often contemplated during his times on watch.
He had received several lengthy signals from the Admiralty, and had wondered what Beaumont would think about them. His old enemy, the Moltke, had not come further north after all, but had re-entered the Baltic. She had, it appeared, been more severely damaged by bombing than anyone in intelligence had realised. Her brief cruise up to the Norwegian port had merely been a trial run, to readjust her and her company in readiness for the future. More to the point, and this was the part which must have affected Beaumont, the Moltke’s unexpected movements had been partly responsible for the raid’s success. Every available destroyer not required by Group North had been sent down to ensure that the British would not interfere with the big ship’s safety.
Another signal from Admiral Brooks had been congratulatory but brief. Like everyone else in the know, he was saying very little. The people in Britain had been told only that a daring raid had been executed against shore installations in occupied Norway. One newspaper said, “In the tradition of Nelson. “Another, “In the spirit of Drake. ” Either way, it made encouraging reading for a population worn down by war.
To a special few, however, the routine statement on the B.B.C. meant something else entirely.
“The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of His Majesty’s Ships Waxwing, Whiplash and Whirlpool, which were sunk during a gallant action against the enemy. Next of kin have been informed.
Once at anchor in Seydisfjord, the work of tidying-up got under way. The wounded were ferried ashore, temporary replacements were borrowed from the naval base at Reykjavik for the next passage, which was to be Rosyth in Scotland, when all immediate repairs had been completed.
The replacements had come aboard looking with awe at the splinter holes and fire-blackened plating. The Warlock’s company had put aside some of their own feelings, if only to show the newcomers that there was nothing to it. Drummond had seen it before. The swagger, the reckless way that men who had fought for their lives could put on a show. If only for a short while. Later the pain would return. Old faces would emerge in memory. Losses would be seen more clearly than at the moment of death.
Drummond sat in his day cabin listening to Owles running his bath, knowing that if he paused in his pile of letters and signals he would not be able to go on. He had to write to every family whose son, brother or father had died. He looked around the quiet cabin. In this ship. It did not seem possible.
Through a scuttle he saw the repair ship almost alongside, and through the sheeting, incessant rain which had greeted their arrival, and had not stopped since, he saw a seaman carrying a basket carefully towards the gangway. He smiled, despite his inner feelings. Badger was returning to his ship. Unofficially, as usual.
There was a tap at the door, and Wingate entered the cabin with a batch of decoded signals.
“Orders for sailing, sir. Rosyth it is. Definite. It’ll mean a long refit, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Drummond nodded. “You should have gone to the hospital, Pilot. “
“Not me, sir. This sling assures me of a hero’s welcome. No, I’ve got this far, and it only takes one hand to draw lines on a chart. ” He grinned.
He placed the papers on the desk. “Top one says that Captain (D) is flying direct to U.K.” He hesitated. “With the journalists and cameraman.” He held out a small note. “This was sent aboard, sir.”
It just said, “I was thinking of you. Will see you when you get there. Sarah. “
“Thank you, Pilot.” Ile re-read the little note. “Very much.”
Wingate sighed. “It’ll mean that you will be in command of the flotilla, sir.”
He leaned forward and seized the desk with his good hand. For a moment Drummond thought he had been taken ill, but when he saw Wingate’s face he knew the real reason.
Wingate said tightly, “What’s left of it.” His eyes were blurred with emotion. “God bless ‘em, eh, sir?”
Owles was looking in the other door, and asked softly, “Some brandy, sir?”
“Yes.” Drummond reached over and gripped Wingate’s wrist. “Yes. God bless the lot of them.”
14
A Spot of “Leaf”
“ALL secure fore and aft, sir!”
Drummond leaned over the screen and studied the mooring wires as the dockyard workers snugged them over the big iron bollards. Ahead and astern the other destroyers were also making fast to the various berths, and waiting in little groups and peering up at the ships were the other dockyard men, specialists in repairs, experts who would decide if a ship required immediate isolation in a dried-out basin, or could manage with only superficial patching-up. In Rosyth dockyard they were very used to this type of work.
Drummond rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist. The run from Iceland had been uneventful and strangely sad. It would have been better if they had endured bad weather, or warned of stalking U-boats. Anything was better than having time to brood on what they had suffered together.
They had had plenty of company. Aircraft, both carrier-borne and land-based, had rarely left them unattended. Several times they had made contact with a force of three cruisers. It was all part of the service, to get them home.
Whoever had made these arrangements, and Drummond guessed Admiral Brooks had had a large hand in it, had been right in his assumption that such help was needed. Drummond knew that their strength and morale had never been at lower ebb. It was often so when returning from an operation of any size.
Especially one which nobody had really expected to survive. Only when they had steamed in line ahead into the Firth of Forth and passed slowly beneath the great span of bridge on their way to Rosyth dockyard had they realised that things were different yet again.
Several tugs and harbour craft had puffed alongside, their crews waving and cheering. A small launch with a crew of Wrens had come so close that Drummond had had to sound his siren to warn them of the danger of Warlock’s whirling screws and their great undertow. But the Wrens had been cheering like the rest. Waving their caps and laughing. One had been crying and smiling all at once. It had been both moving and confusing.
“Ring off main engines.”
Drummond stepped down from the gratings and removed his cap. He was still unused to the bright gold oak leaves around its peak. It was like playing a part, he thought. Totally at odds with its newsness against all the stained steel and jagged splinter holes’.
Wingate said, “It’s beginning to rain, sir.”
“So I see.” Drummond smiled at him. “And I don’t care, do you?”
Below, on the iron deck, a brow was being made fast to the shore. A postman waited with his sack of mail, peering up at the bridge and tattered ensign. All along the jetty and pier men ambled up and down, calling out to the busy seamen, or merely pausing every so often to study the damage. The true scars of war.
Nosing amidst the confusion of railway lines, puddles and rusty bits of forgotten ships Drummond saw a shining staff car. It would all be starting again now. Explanations, question, advice, worst of all, sympathy.
Feet pounded up a ladder, and Rankin burst on to the quiet bridge.
He held out a newspaper and said breathlessly, “Got this from a chap on the jetty, sir. Thought you’d want to see it right away. “
Drummond unfolded it and held it by the chart table. He could feel the soft rain on his head and neck, but was aware only of the paper’s great headlines. The print was large, as was the picture of a smiling Beaumont in the centre of the page.
“The Hero of -the Conqueror evens the score! After a relentless battle with everything which the enemy could hurl against him, Captain Dudley Beaumont, sole officer survivor of the battleship Conqueror, showed what the Royal Navy could do. In one of the most dramatic and heartening actions, much of which is still secret, Beaumont threw his small force of destroyers against a heavily defended German base on the coast of Norway. Regardless of danger, indifferent to the awesome odds against survival, he was able to complete this daring raid deep into enemy territory with absolute success. Under his skilful control and leadership, the destroyers taking part in the raid were able to wipe out many shore installations, shipping and several enemy aircraft for good measure. Our ships sustained some damage and casualties in the operation. But as Captain Beaumont told our correspondent at an Admiralty briefing, `Theirs was a great sacrifice. Mine the honour of being privileged to lead such men.’ “
Wingate said quietly, “Well, I’ll go to the top of our stairs!” Rankin exploded, “It’s not right, sir! ” He stared round at the untidy bridge. “Not bloody true either!”
Drummond folded the newspaper. There was more. A whole lot more, with special pictures on the inner pages. Mostly of Beaumont, and one with what looked like a burning ship in the background. It was incredible. Unnerving.
“Must be like this when you come down from heaven to see what they’ve written on your gravestone.” Wingate watched the staff car as it ground to a halt by the brow. “Will you deny any of it, sir?” He seemed dazed. “I mean, you should be the one…”
Drummond said, “Some of it is window dressing, of course. “
But the words seemed to stick in his throat. He kept seeing the flames and smoke, hearing the amazed voices around him when it had been learned that Beaumont was staying outside the fjord.
“Chief Operations Officer and Captain of the Dockyard are coming aboard, sir. “
“Very well. I’ll come down and meet them. Tell Owles to get some drinks ready. “
At the brow he found Sheridan waiting with a hastily mustered side party. As they raised their hands in salute to the
distinguished looking visitors Drummond looked at Sheridan’s expression. Just for an instant he thought he saw something like triumph. What did I tell you?
The senior captain strode forward and gripped his hand.
“Welcome, Commander Drummond! To you and your ships! The whole country is proud of you!”
The operations officer added quietly, “Captain Beaumont has spoken well of your part. Your efforts played no small part in the final success, I gather.” It sounded like a question.
“Thank you, sir.” Drummond gestured towards the lobby door. “If you will come below. Out of the rain.” He beckoned to Sheridan. “Send a quick R.P.C. to the other commanding officers.” He glanced at the two captains. “If you have no objection?”
“I should think not indeed. Brave chaps, the whole lot of them. From what Captain Beaumont has already said, I think they followed his ideas very well. “
Galbraith had been on his way aft from the engine room hatch. He was even dirtier than usual. He heard the captain’s last words and exclaimed, “Some might even have been ahead of his ideas, sir!”
The operations officer studied him coldly. “What was that?”
“Carry on, Chief.” Drummond shook his head. “Later. “
To the others he said quietly, “My en
gineer officer has had very little rest. “
Some of the offended look disappeared from the captain’s face. “Oh yes. I quite understand.”
Oh no you don’t. He said, “Now, if you will follow me, gentlemen. “
In the wardroom the air was thick with noise, excitement and smoke. Apart from Warlock’s officers, there were a few dockyard officials, a visiting lieutenant or two from H. Q., and one hazel-eyed Wren second officer from the signals department on the admiral’s staff. Against the scuttles the rain was sheeting down, blotting out the other ships nearby, the dockyard, everything.
Wingate tossed back a neat gin and let it burn his mouth before swallowing it completely.
He said to Rankin, “Drink up, Guns. Helps you to forget.”
He listened to the base electrical officer who was pumping Tyson for information.
Tyson said stiffly, “It was touch and go for a bit, I can tell you. The Jerries were pretty mad after they found out what we were doing. Threw everything at us but the kitchen sink.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I’ve seen some sights, I can tell you. “
The electrical officer, who had only been to sea once in his life, nodded gravely. “I can imagine.”
Rankin said, “Jesus!”
Wingate turned slightly to call for a steward and saw Keyes just inside the door. They had been almost too busy to speak beyond matters of routine during the long haul from Seydisfjord, but Wingate knew the reason for Keyes’ disappointment. There had been no letter waiting for him when the ship had returned to Iceland. Nothing from Georgina. Naturally.
He watched the midshipman narrowly. Keyes had changed without anyone noticing. But then they had been rather busy. He felt the same prick behind his eyes as he had when he had almost broken down in the skipper’s cabin. It must have been a million times worse for Keyes.
Keyes looked older. Leaner.
He called him over. “Here, Allan. Come and join the drunks!”
Keyes pushed past the chattering visitors. “I couldn’t decide. I thought I might stay in the cabin.”
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