Howard swallowed the tea and watched the familiar silhouette of the Crosby Light Vessel as Gladiator made another turn and followed the Kinsale up-river to the docks.
They had already been ordered to proceed directly to Gladstone Dock and refuel. They would be told eventually when the next convoy was ready for another long haul to Canadian waters. Howard tried to shut it from his mind. Then back again. The picture refused to budge. Men in the water calling for help. Ships sinking and on fire, the roar of torpedoes in the night. He even thought of the two survivors from the U-Boat they had sent to the bottom. With disgust sometimes, because he had been glad to leave them to die. To discover how it felt.
He slid from the chair and picked up his binoculars. “I’ll take over, Number One. You’d better get up forrard for entering dock.”
Treherne hesitated and glanced at the others. Ayres was bending over the ready-use chart table, but was probably worrying about his brother, and if there was any more news. Finlay, who was the OOW, was looking at the shore, ready to remind the signalmen if there were any lights or flags which they should have seen. Tucker the yeoman was also watching, making certain that Finlay would not catch his team at a loss.
He said, “Remember, sir, we got a U-Boat.” He forced a grin. “After our chums blew it to the surface for us! That’s a bonus surely?”
Howard bent over the voicepipe. “Starboard ten. Steady. Steer for the mark, Cox’n.” He heard Sweeney’s rumbled acknowledgement. How many orders had he passed down this voicepipe? Changes of speed and helm, emergency turns, and desperate zigzags to avoid drifting merchantmen or lifeboats. No wonder the wheelhouse always seemed such a haven of peace in harbour.
He replied, “A drop in the bucket.” He tried to shake himself out of it. Like the hand on the shoulder again. “But our people did well, especially when you consider most of them were at school a short while back.” He raised his glasses to look at the birds on the top of the Liver Buildings. It was not really home, but at this moment it felt like it.
The yeoman called, “From Kinsale, sir. Captain repair on board when convenient.”
Howard nodded. “Acknowledge.” He saw the question in Treherne’s eyes and said wearily, “I’m about to get a bottle for going alongside Redwing, I expect!”
“Well, if that’s all the thanks you get for …”
Howard waved to a small tug which was heading downriver, her crew lounging on deck like a bunch of old salts. He turned to answer but Treherne had gone. Seething, no doubt, in defence of his captain.
When convenient was a way of saying he should get shaved and changed before presenting himself in front of Captain Vickers. Maybe the commodore had made an official complaint about his act of mercy. Perhaps it was merely to decide who would take the credit for sinking the German submarine!
In fact it was neither.
As soon as Gladiator had secured alongside the oiler in Gladstone Dock, Howard walked across to board the big K-Class destroyer. He felt vaguely embarrassed in his best Number Fives, the gold lace very different from the tarnished, almost brown rings on his sea-going jacket.
Men were at work everywhere, washing down the decks and superstructure to wipe away the stains of battle. Others were dragging sacks of expended cannon shells, which would end up somewhere being made into fresh ammunition. A few would find their way to the stokers’ messdeck to be fashioned into ashtrays and paperweights.
The Kinsale’s first lieutenant greeted him with a smart salute. “Bad trip, sir.” He looked at the shore. “Even this place looks good to me now!”
Howard eyed him gravely. First lieutenants as a breed knew everything, or should do. “What’s all this about, Number One?”
He shrugged. “In God’s name, sir, I really don’t know. All I do know is that an admiral, no less, is with the captain right now.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re to go down as soon as you arrive.”
Howard could feel him staring after him, probably wondering if he was seeing the next candidate for a court martial.
A white-jacketed steward opened the door for him, but looked away when Howard was about to speak.
Captain Vickers greeted him with a firm handshake and smiled. “Bloody good show, David!” But the smile did not touch his eyes.
Howard saw a tall rear-admiral standing by an open scuttle drinking coffee. He looked young for his rank, keen-eyed and alert like Vickers.
Vickers began, “This is Rear-Admiral Lanyon, David. It’s all very difficult—” The admiral put down his cup and looked at Howard very directly.
“Lieutenant-Commander Howard is a good officer, so I’ll come straight to the point. I was asked to come and see you myself, by my daughter actually. I understand that she came to visit you.”
Howard did not know what to say. He had never heard of Lanyon, and his daughter did not make any sense. Lanyon continued, “You knew her as Kirke, her married name.”
Howard stared at him. That was why they had not known her at Portsmouth; she was using her maiden name.
“So when I heard your ETA at Liverpool I drove up.” He tried to smile, like Vickers, but it would not come. “As ordered!”
“What is it, sir? Has something happened?” The hand on the shoulder. He should have known.
Lanyon said quietly, “There was an air raid five days ago. I’m afraid your father was killed. A direct hit on the house.”
Howard walked to an open scuttle and stared out blindly. It was not happening. For an instant he had imagined something was wrong with the girl, then in the same split-second he had thought of his brother. Even though he was on a course, things like that did happen. But not the Guvnor…
He heard himself ask, “Was it—I mean did he …” He could not go on.
Lanyon said, “My daughter could tell you. She went there afterwards, to find out. It was all over in an instant, I understand. He could have felt nothing. It’s not much help, but it’s better to know he didn’t suffer.”
Captain Vickers asked, “Drink, David?” He eyed him with concern. “I’m damn sorry, I really am.”
Howard shook his head. Needing to be alone; not knowing what to do. “No, I must get back aboard. We’re alongside the oiler.”
Vickers said, “Let your Number One take charge. Do him bloody good!”
The admiral looked at the clock. “I’m to see the C-in-C very shortly.” He glanced at Howard. “I’ll run you down to Hampshire in my car when you’re ready. Suit you?”
Howard nodded. Suit you? How he had put it to Bizley about his DSC.
“What about my ship, sir?”
“We’ll manage.” The admiral held out his hand for his oak-leaved cap. “There’ll be things you’ll want to do, I expect. Your brother’s been a tower of strength.”
“I’ll see you over the side, sir.” Vickers looked at Howard. “You stay here, David. Long as you like, right?”
The cabin was suddenly empty and quiet, with only the murmur of a generator and muffled shipboard noises to remind him where he was.
All those miles and all those ships and men. And now this. The Guvnor. He buried his face in his hands to stifle his emotion. What a thing to come home to. Except, like the coxswain and Stoker Marshall, he no longer had a home.
There was a discreet tap at the door and the captain’s steward padded into the cabin, a glass, filled almost to the brim, balanced on his tray.
He said, “My old chum, Percy Vallance, told me just how you like it, sir, so I fixed you a big ’un.” He watched him take the glass. “Sorry about your spot of news, sir.”
“Do they know aboard my ship already?” He pictured them in his mind. Curiosity and sympathy. See how the Old Man can handle this one.
The steward shrugged. “Well, you know the Andrew, sir, nothing secret for long in this regiment. It happened to me last year. It’s something you don’t forget.”
Howard stared at him. Just an ordinary man, who was serving as a steward probably because he could get nothing better.
And yet one who had taken it on himself to go over to Gladiator and ask his chum how his skipper liked his Horse’s Neck.
“Bombing, was it?”
The steward looked into the far distance. “No, sir. My dad was a merchant seaman. Found dead with some of his mates in an open boat after they was tin-fished in the Atlantic. I’ve thought of him a few times these last weeks, I can tell you.”
Howard thought of that other drifting boat and its silent crew; Ayres overcoming his fear and horror; the girl’s photograph found with one of the ragged corpses.
“Thank you for telling me.” He put down the glass, surprised that it was empty. “I needed that.”
The steward smiled, knowing that Howard was not referring to the drink. He followed him to the door and said in parting, “Well, sir, as I see it, it’s what it’s all about.”
The Kinsale’s first lieutenant saw him to the brow and saluted again. “Sorry about your news, sir.”
Howard returned his salute. Nothing secret for long in this regiment.
He found Treherne waiting for him but before he could speak said, “I’m going south for a couple of days, Number One. Look after her for me, and make certain the lads get as much shore leave as you can manage.”
“I just heard, sir. If there’s anything I can do … but then, you know that by now, I hope?”
Howard met his gaze and thought of how he had nearly broken down, but for an unknown man’s simple kindness. “I may have to hold you to that one day—and yes, I’ve always known that.”
He looked along the ship’s deserted decks. The hands were below in the messes reading their letters, getting ready to go ashore.
Treherne watched him grimly, knowing what he was thinking.
Welcome home.
10 | Every Time You Say Goodbye
THE man Howard had known all his life simply as Mister Mills placed two mugs of tea on his scrubbed table and studied the young officer opposite him. “I’ve laced it with some rum, David. Do you good. Besides, it’s going to be a cold ’un tonight.”
Howard nodded and warmed his hands around the mug. Mister Mills was older, but did not seem to have changed all that much. The same shabby sports jacket, and the beret he always wore indoors and out, pulled tightly down over his ears like a lid. His house was as he remembered, filled with odds and ends, furniture too, which Mister Mills sold when he had the mind to. Some described him as a junk-man, but in these hard times of shortages and rationing, he had come into his own again. He bought bits and pieces from bombed buildings, found furniture for people intending to get married and to hell with the war; like his battered old van, he was a familiar sight around Hampshire.
Howard shivered and thought of the long, fast drive from Liverpool. It had been spent mostly in silence, with Rear-Admiral Lanyon apparently content to leave him to his thoughts while he went through endless clips of signals.
Of the war the rear-admiral had said very little except, “Your fight in the Atlantic is the essential one. Things must turn the corner soon.” But he was unprepared to enlarge on that flash of optimism.
He had mentioned his daughter only briefly. How she had held up after her pilot husband had been killed in Howard’s convoy to Murmansk. Even through the grip of his own worries Howard had sensed, strangely, that Lanyon had not really approved of Jamie Kirke. He had called him a hero, but it had sounded like a mark of distaste.
He tried not to think of the house he had just left. The stench of wet ash left by the AFS hoses which would cling until the place was rebuilt. Two walls, a solitary chimney-stack standing like a crude monument, all the rest a shambles of broken glass and brickwork, and a hole that covered half the site where the bomb had come screaming down.
Mister Mills had explained how it had happened. A sneak daytime raid intended for the dockyard again, but the enemy aircraft had been confronted by the whole weight of Portsmouth’s defences, from the ships in harbour to land-mounted batteries. Their attack had been further snared by the new ranks of barrage balloons, which had forced the bombers to swerve aside and be caught by the onslaught of combined anti-aircraft fire, “Like a Brock’s benefit,” he had described it.
Mister Mills watched him now thoughtfully. “I’ve salvaged some of his gear, of course. You’ll be coming back here one day, eh?”
Howard heard himself reply without hesitation. “It’s still my home.” The rum-laced tea was helping and he said, “Where’s the grave?”
Mister Mills looked at the window, darker even earlier this evening. “Other end of the village.” He looked at his companion again, perhaps seeing his dead friend as he had once been before Zeebrugge. “It was a nice service. There were six killed that day, David.” He let out a long sigh. Remembering. “A hell of a lot in a place this size. But the pub was saved—that was one blessing, I suppose.”
“Could you tell me again, please?” He watched him pour two more mugs and wondered why he had to know.
“There was an air raid warning, nothing unusual, even in daylight. The gunfire got so loud I said, we’re in for it this time, never guessing the bastards would jettison their bombs over here. So we went out to the little shelter at the back of the house, but the dog was frightened.”
Howard nodded and thought of the dog he had never seen. “She would be. Her own home was bombed earlier.”
“Just as we reached the shelter, the poor old thing broke away and ran back to the house. Like a shot he was after her, telling me to get down.” He gave a sad smile. “Well, you know what he was like.”
There was silence and Howard heard a car clattering along the lane. Mister Mills had heard the bomb coming; he was sure he had seen the blur of it a split-second before it struck.
He said, “They were killed together. I was knocked out myself. When I came to, old Tom the gamekeeper and a special constable were bending over me, and everything seemed to be on fire. I was a bit concussed, they said.” He added with his old contempt, “What the hell do they know?”
Killed together. He thought of the girl with green eyes. She would blame herself for that too.
Mister Mills went on, “Your brother and his wife were here for the funeral—even the two Eye-tie gardeners came along.” He looked at Howard with sudden interest. “That young Wren girl was here as well. Real upset, she was.”
The bombs had devastated one complete side of the little lane. The victims shared a grave together, as they had shared their lives in this quiet corner of England.
Mister Mills cocked his head as another car slowed to a halt outside. The rear-admiral had even organised that for him. Mister Mills offered, “You can stay here if you like.” He tried to shrug it off. “It’s a bit quiet now.”
Howard shook his head. “I’ve things to do, but thanks—for everything you did for the Guvnor. I’ll not forget. Ever.”
Mister Mills shuffled after him to the garden with its sagging gate. He touched it and said half to himself, “Must fix it. One day.”
Howard waved to the khaki staff car. “I’ll be in Portsmouth if you need me. And then …”
Mister Mills nodded. And then. How many times had he pondered over it in his own war? “Back to the Atlantic, David?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands in silence. Two wars apart, but linked by what they had both lost.
As the big Humber swung on to the main road, Howard turned and gazed at the shabby little figure staring after him.
The driver remarked, “God, that’s a bad mess, sir.”
Howard said, “It’s my home.”
The car wavered and the man said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, sir, nobody told me.”
Howard stared at the blur of passing fields and hedges, the trees stark and bare of leaves. Another winter drawing near. More convoys. Then what?
Later, as Howard sat in a corner of the large barracks wardroom where he had been booked in by the rear-admiral’s flag-lieutenant, he stared at the fire and tried to put together all he had seen and heard.
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br /> He toyed with the idea of phoning the girl and wondered if her father had already warned her off, or even if she needed to be dissuaded.
There was a great gust of singing and several of the more senior officers got up and departed with obvious irritation.
Howard glanced across to the activity at the long bar and saw some half-dozen sub-lieutenants, each with pilot’s wings displayed above their wavy stripes, and guessed they must just have “passed out” and were about to join their various squadrons. If they lived long enough, their role might be crucial in the months ahead.
He half-listened to their roar of voices as they kept time to the mess piano, the tune that of “The Dying Lancer,” and thought suddenly of the girl’s dead husband.
Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain,
The cam box from under my backbone,
And assemble the engine again!
Howard stood up and strode to the door. He did not even see one of the bright new subbies nudge a companion. Look at him. Another one who’s bomb-happy!
All three telephone boxes were occupied and he hesitated, wondering what she might say. If she would pretend she wasn’t there and have someone else put him off. In the meantime the next verse had struck up, louder than ever.
When the court of enquiry assembles,
Please tell them the reason I died,
Was because I forgot twice iota,
Was the minimum angle of glide!
A plump paymaster-commander eased himself from one of the phone boxes and growled, “They’ll soon change their bloody tune when—”
Howard did not hear him finish, and the confined box seemed suddenly private and safe.
It took the best part of ten minutes while he checked the various numbers and extensions and endured the usual questioning and clicks from service telephone operators. And then, all of a sudden, he was through.
He asked carefully, “Could I speak to Second Officer Lanyon, please.”
He waited for the rebuff, the curt disclaimer; all the while he could feel his heart pounding faster. I must be really mad. Round the bend.
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