Porteous nodded gravely. ‘I’ll try, Number One.’
‘You do that!’ Wemyss grinned, both at Porteous’s serious face and at his own words. Pompous bastard, he thought. Must be getting stoned. He added, ‘In most other ships you could probably sink out of sight until you knew all the answers. In the Thistle it’s more difficult. And if Commander Scarlett has any say in the matter it’ll get more difficult rather than easier.’
A tattered Arab sidled between the tables and stopped by Wemyss’ massive shoulder. With a furtive glance at the nearest waiter he whipped out a bundle of grimy photographs and hissed, ‘Here, Captain, you like good time? You want pretty ladies?’
Wemyss took the top photograph and then pushed it across to Porteous without a word.
Porteous studied it for a full minute. ‘Well, really!’
Wemyss grinned. ‘Obscene, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not the obscenity that annoys me, Number One. It’s the very impossibility of it!’
Wemyss threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘If only your father could see you now! He’d be proud of you!’
Porteous smiled shyly. ‘I think I’m ready for the brandy now, if you don’t mind,’ he said.
Crespin lay back in one of the battered wardroom chairs with his feet propped on another, his shirt open to catch the churned air from a deckhead fan. The ship was very quiet, with only the lap of water and the creak of fenders against the wrecked freighter to break the silence. If he opened the wardroom door he would hear the occasional shuffle of feet from the quartermaster at the gangway, or the muffled sounds of music from the messdeck where the duty hands listened to the nostalgic voice of Vera Lynn, wrote their letters home, and more to the point, awaited the return of the libertymen who would no doubt need to be lifted into their hammocks after a night ashore.
But he kept the door closed because he wanted privacy. He had stayed in his small cabin alone until Shannon had called on him to report that six of the Thistle’s stokers had broken up a café in the town and were being held very firmly by the military police. It had been a good excuse to send Shannon ashore to get it sorted out, and another to quit the cabin, the sides of which seemed to be crushing in on him like a trap.
He reached out for his glass and knocked it on to the carpet. Breathing hard he leaned over and retrieved it, the effort making him sweat more freely than ever, and poured himself another glass of neat gin. The water jug was empty and the bitters were out of reach on the sideboard, and he was too tired to ring for the steward. Too tired, and probably too full of gin to make the effort, he decided.
He wondered vaguely what Wemyss and the others were finding to amuse themselves. Probably the same as himself. Wemyss had obviously wanted to take him ashore with him, if only to break the tension which had built up between them. But it was not Wemyss’ fault. There was no single, sensible reason which could be put into words, even if he wanted to.
A man slipped and fell heavily on the deck overhead and he heard Dunbar’s voice, harsh and unfeeling. ‘’Ere, give me that bottle, you drunken bastard!’ There was a brief scuffle and the sound of a splash alongside. Then Dunbar again. ‘’Ad a good run ashore, ’ave you? Gome back full to the gills and poxed up to the eyebrows, I shouldn’t wonder!’ There was some sort of mumbled protest. ‘Well, get forrard on the double and turn in afore I put you on the first lieutenant’s report!’ The culprit’s unsteady feet shuffled away and Dunbar followed him with, ‘An’ get yer ’air cut!’
The petty officer was probably seething at being kept aboard while his mates enjoyed themselves, Crespin thought.
He looked around the deserted wardroom, the litter of magazines, tattered and out of date, the coloured picture of King George, its glass cracked after some Atlantic gale, and all the companionable homeliness of a small ship, where men were thrown together and had to make the best of it.
What stories this place could tell. And what of the officers who had sat as he was doing with the ship resting in harbour? Some promoted, some killed, but all part of the ship’s history.
He took another long drink. It was sour and burned his stomach lining like fire.
His thoughts were getting jumbled again. Now he did not know whether it was the Pantelleria raid or its aftermath which was making him take refuge in the bottle. It was all mixed up in a vague panorama which came and went like the picture in a radar screen.
The scene in the makeshift cemetery, with his men looking clean and strange in their best uniforms. The coffin covered with a Union Jack, the firing party with Shannon in charge, and his own words as he read the burial service. But what did it all mean?
Then the decoded signal which he had read very slowly in his cabin. Maybe that had been the one thing to throw him off balance. The final attack on Pantelleria with a full naval bombardment and air attack had been carried out, Operation Corkscrew as Scarlett had described it, and after a brief parley with the Italian commander the garrison had surrendered. The Italian acceptance of defeat had finished with the words, ‘due to lack of water’. It should have made it all worthwhile, should have blotted out the rest of the picture and made every death necessary and unavoidable.
But when Scarlett had made a brief visit to the ship to inform him that she would not be needed for a day or so, that last belief had been shattered.
He could see him now sitting calmly in the chair where his feet now lay, his head on one side as he stared at Crespin with something like amusement.
‘Oh yes, the water. Well, of course, that was just to save face, old boy. Actually there was plenty of drinking water on the island in other storage places, and they could have held out much longer if they’d got the stomach for it!’
‘Are you saying it was a waste of time, sir?’ He could remember exactly the bitterness in his voice.
‘A waste? Certainly not!’ Scarlett had been very emphatic. ‘But the Eye-tie admiral in command knew damn well what would happen to him later if he pushed on with his defence, especially as his country is bound to come on to our side as soon as we invade it in force.’ He had paused. ‘No, our little raid gave him the excuse. Surrender with honour and all that clap-trap, and after the final bombardment he was able to come out like a true gentleman.’
Crespin closed his eyes and tried to work out how many had died because of the required gesture. Half of Barnaby’s men, the able seaman on the bridge, that bomber crew and, he swallowed hard, God alone knew how many on the fishing boat.
But it certainly did not worry Scarlett, so why should it bother him in this way? After all, he had been trained to carry out orders without question, had been taught to accept that it is better to lose men obeying wrong instructions than to save lives against the wishes of superiors.
Perhaps after all he resented serving under a temporary officer, just as Scarlett had implied on their first meeting. That would be an acceptable reason for the way he felt, but he knew instantly it was not so.
When he had watched helplessly as his own men had been shot and burned alive by the unknown launch he had called curses of such depth and depravity that he had imagined he would hate his enemies and would kill with no more thought of humanity in war. He had been wrong about that, too. The enemy was faceless, and was better left so. The only real hatred he stored in his heart was for that one man who butchered his small crew so thoroughly, and he was probably dead himself by now.
The door was jerked open and he saw Petty Officer Dunbar watching him anxiously, his cap beneath his arm.
Crespin asked, ‘Well, what is it, P.O.?’ He made another effort. He hardly recognized his own voice and his words were slurred together like some music hall drunk. ‘Are the libertymen coming aboard?’
Dunbar’s eyes moved swiftly from the empty bottle to his face. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Commander Scarlett is comin’ aboard.’
Crespin lurched to his feet, almost knocking over the chair. This was the last straw. There was to be no respite from Scarlett even now.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror, wild-eyed and dishevelled, his unruly hair tumbled across his forehead, his shirt patchy with sweat.
He was glad he had been drinking so heavily now. He would tell Scarlett exactly what he thought of him and to hell with the consequences.
Dunbar said cautiously, ‘’E’s got a lady with ’im, sir.’ He jerked his head towards the deck. ‘’E’s got the quartermaster ’elping ’er over the old freighter right now, sir.’ He sounded vaguely outraged.
Crespin stared at him. ‘Lady? Freighter?’ He was not making sense, and the realization made him suddenly furious.
There was a scuffle of feet on the ladder and the sound of a woman laughing. Scarlett too, booming and full of high spirits.
Dunbar sucked his teeth. ‘I could get an officer off the guard-boat, sir, if you don’t feel up to …’
‘What’s all this?’ Scarlett’s voice made Crespin’s head ring. ‘Who’s not up to anything?’
He stepped over the coaming, gleaming white in freshly laundered shirt and shorts, his face shining as if from a cold shower. But Crespin was staring at his companion. She was a Wren officer, also in white, with a single blue stripe on her shoulder. She had jet black hair pulled back severely into a bun, and was young and extremely attractive, although she was staring at Crespin with something like amazement.
Scarlett’s smile was still broad, but appeared fixed and unmoving. He said, ‘Well, Penny, this is John Crespin, the, er, captain.’
Crespin reached out to take her proffered hand and all but fell headlong over the chair. He saw her mouth twitch slightly in a suppressed smile and felt even angrier at their intrusion. More than that, he felt ridiculous.
Scarlett sat down carefully. ‘Third Officer Forbes has flown in from Alexandria. She’s been working for our people there and has now been seconded to us.’ He shot the girl a quick grin and she returned it readily. Like a conspirator, Crespin thought.
He replied, ‘I didn’t know you were coming, sir.’
The girl said quietly, ‘I said it was unfair to barge in like this.’
Scarlett glanced at Crespin and asked, ‘Why not throw out a bit of hospitality?’ He sat back comfortably. ‘We’ll celebrate, eh?’
Celebrate? What the hell was he talking about? Then Crespin’s eye fell on Scarlett’s shoulder straps. Was he that drunk? No. There were four stripes there now!
Scarlett let his smile fade and nodded gravely. ‘Yes, Crespin, a little promotion for services rendered.’
Crespin moved to the hatch and pressed the pantry bell. It took Barker, the steward, several minutes to appear, buttoning on his white jacket and wiping crumbs from his mouth, and in that time Crespin made a last effort to pull himself together. Behind him he heard Scarlett and the Wren conversing together in low tones, and when the girl laughed he felt himself flushing, guessing that they were probably discussing him.
Well, let them he thought savagely. Scarlett’s war was going very well. His promotion was proof of that, and his attractive companion was probably another sort of reward which went with it.
Scarlett said, ‘We shall be moving again soon. Things are happening in high places, and with any sort of luck we should be having another crack at the enemy before we’re much older.’
Crespin watched Barker padding round the carpet pouring drinks and no doubt soaking up this information for his own uses.
The girl was studying him gravely. She had brown eyes, very large, and beautifully shaped hands.
She said, ‘We saw some of your men in town, Captain. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.’
Crespin knew it was a peace offering, but his mind was still hanging on Scarlett’s words. More work. Another raid perhaps? He said at length, ‘They’ve earned it.’
Scarlett beamed. ‘There you are, Penny, what did I tell you? He’s a true example of the straight-laced professional! Understatement and no flannel, that’s him!’
There was a violent thud followed by a string of obscene curses and the sounds of feet across the steel deck overhead. The libertymen were returning.
Scarlett stood up. ‘Better be off, old chap. Just wanted to share the good news.’ He became serious. ‘We must get together. Have a little party. Good for you, you know.’ He winked at the girl. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Penny?’
She watched Crespin gravely. ‘Thank you for the drinks, Captain.’ She held out her hand and this time Crespin did not stagger. She added, ‘I expect we will meet again soon.’
Scarlett guided her through the door where Dunbar was still hovering with a giant flashlamp. By the ladder he paused and said softly, ‘I know this isn’t the time, old chap, but do try and get a grip on yourself.’ The grin came back. ‘Not quite the thing, eh?’
Then he was gone.
Slowly and deliberately Crespin walked back to the chair and almost fell into it.
Barker asked timidly, ‘Anything more for you, sir?’
Crespin replied slowly, ‘A clean glass, if you please.’ Then as the steward padded away he said vehemently, ‘Damn him to bloody hell!’ Then he stood up, and as Barker returned with a fresh glass he brushed past him and walked unsteadily to his cabin.
Not far from the waterfront, in a position which afforded a good view of the harbour during daylight hours, was a small restaurant. Most of the metal-topped tables were deserted at this late hour, and the owner, a massive, shaven-headed Turk, was standing with his back to the kitchen door wearing a look of patient resignation.
Joicey, Magot and Leading Signalman Griffin sat around their table in contemplative silence, for they were so full of red wine and vast portions of rich curry that any attempt at conversation took considerable effort.
It had, on the whole, been a good ‘run ashore’, for each of the three men had been too long in the Service to waste time in the irritating preliminaries of sightseeing. As Magot had pointed out more than once, ‘All these wog places is the bloody same, so let’s have a good blowout and be done with it.’
The Thistle’s chief engineer certainly looked satisfied. Even in his shoregoing clothes he carried the mark of his trade, for his white cap cover bore one defiant streak of grease and his shirt looked as if it might have been hung on a steam pipe to dry.
He said suddenly, ‘There was times when I thought we wouldn’t get our run ashore at all.’
Griffin grimaced and poured some more wine. ‘When that depth-charge went up I thought the old girl was going right over.’
Magot scowled. ‘You thought! You should’a been in the bloody engine room! It was like being hit with a bleeding sledgehammer!’
Joicey smiled quietly as he rolled his glass between his fingers. Magot was looking old, he thought. Poor old bugger, he should have been well out of the Navy by now, but because of the war he had been recalled almost before he had got the feel of retirement.
He asked, ‘What d’you make of the skipper, Griff?’
The signalman shrugged. ‘Search me. One minute he’s a ball of fire and the next he’s as broody as a nun in the family way. But he sure knows how to handle a ship. I’ll give him that.’
Joicey’s eyes were dreamy. Without effort he could hear Crespin’s orders in the voice-pipe, could sense his own hold over the ship as he spun the polished spokes of the wheel and waited for the steel sides to cave in on him. Once as the ship had rolled over to the exploding charge he had actually seen water pouring out of the voice-pipe’s bell mouth, as if the Thistle was already plunging to the bottom. But always Crespin’s voice had been there, crisp and definite, with no inkling of doubt or fear. Yet every man was afraid, Joicey knew that well enough. Fear was the spur, not senseless bravery and empty patriotism. Out of fear came hatred, and from it the strength to hit back at the bastards, and keep on hitting.
He made himself relax slightly, for he had found his fingers about to crush the glass like a paper bag.
He said abruptly, ‘’E’s a good ’un. Not like that big ’eaded twit Scarlett.’ He
grimaced. ‘’E’s just the sort to drop you right in it!’
Griffin grinned. ‘All officers are awkward, ’Swain. They’re put on this earth to make things difficult for the likes of us.’ He drained his glass, ‘Still, it could be worse.’
Magot grunted. ‘I don’t care for that young Shannon. A cold little bastard that one.’
Joicey nodded. ‘Too right. ’E’s even jealous of poor Mr. Porteous.’
‘Then he must be daft!’ Magot’s eyes were glazed. ‘The day they let bloody civvies sew on a bit of gold braid was a bad one for the Andrew.’
Joicey smiled. ‘An’ what was you before you joined? A bleedin’ rabbit?’
Magot stared at him. ‘I’ve been in this regiment so long now I forget what I was, and that’s the truth of it.’
Three Australian soldiers who had been sitting at the other occupied table rose in unison and marched steadfastly towards the street door. The Turkish proprietor made as if to stop them and then fell back into his original torpor.
Griffin said, ‘Those Aussies didn’t pay. Why didn’t that big bastard say something to ’em?’
Magot showed his uneven teeth. ‘Would you? Did you see the size of them squaddies? They’d take him apart if he tried.’
Joicey was fumbling with his money. ‘Proper thing, too. A few weeks ago that bastard was serving Jerries in ’ere! If I ’ad my way ’e’d be in the cage with the rest of ’em!’
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