Outside, the sky and the water grew darker, and the moored ships merged together to lose their identity for the coming night.
The Terrapin, being the outboard ship, was more restless than her consorts, as if she too realized she had another, and perhaps her last captain.
2 Room to Bustle in …
THE TERRAPIN’S WARDROOM ran the whole breadth of the hull and compared even with more modern vessels was quite spacious. The fact that her proper complement of fourteen officers had been reduced to seven, excluding the captain, made it all the more so.
Standish hung his cap in the lobby and walked wearily to the letter rack, and after the usual perusal seated himself by an open scuttle and signalled to Wills, the leading steward, for his first drink of the day.
It was half an hour before noon, but already the dining table on the starboard side of the wardroom was laid with a clean cloth, and beyond the pantry hatch he could hear the subdued chatter from the messmen as they waited to serve the officers’ lunch.
The other half of the wardroom was typical enough. Battered armchairs, racks of tattered magazines and paperbacks, and a much-used bulkhead sideboard, above which hung the ship’s crest, flanked on either side by framed portraits of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. In one corner, deeply immersed in a ledger, Pigott was still at work checking the last of the supplies which had finally vanished from the upper deck to be stored and jammed throughout the hull until needed.
In another chair, bent forward over a NAAFI catalogue of sports gear, Lieutenant Thomas Hornby, the electrical officer, was equally busy making out a new list for some additional equipment, breaking off occasionally to sip at a tall glass of tomato juice. For Hornby was also the sports and entertainments officer, dual roles which seemed to keep him more involved and interested than anything to do with the ship’s well-worn wiring and electrical circuits.
Standish regarded him thoughtfully above his glass. It was odd how hard Hornby tried to keep fit. It was almost as if the whole business of arranging sports and amusements for the ship’s company were for his own benefit. Yet with little success, for the more he swam and refereed, the greater his efforts to stay in trim, the fatter he seemed to grow, and although only in his late twenties he was already well overweight, and his round pink face which defied every attempt to gain a healthy tan was shining with sweat and blotched with heat, like that of a seedy child’s.
He looked up suddenly as if feeling Standish’s eye on him.
‘When is the captain coming off, Number One?’
Standish shrugged. ‘Any minute now.’ He did not feel like talking but added, ‘He’ll want to speak to all the officers before lunch.’
Pigott said without taking his eyes from the ledger, ‘Well, my department’s buttoned up.’ He removed his glasses and polished them vigorously on his shirt. ‘What d’you make of him?’
Standish took the first sip of gin very slowly to give himself time. If Sunday had been bad, this first Monday forenoon had been far worse.
In the breathless morning air as he had watched Chief Petty Officer Corbin, the coxswain, mustering the seamen for the day’s work he had been conscious of the change which had spread throughout the ship. Few of the men had laid eyes on Dalziel as yet, but his presence had already made itself felt.
Standish took another drink and sighed. That list. Even Corbin, normally unruffled and taciturn, had been moved to say, ‘Gawd knows if we can get this lot sorted out, sir!’
The list which Dalziel’s had left for the day’s work was impressive. It started with a complete check on bosun’s stores and all the complicated tangle of mooring wires and shackles, ropes and spare canvas, and the thousand and one pieces of gear which were intended to keep one of H.M. ships free of want and unnecessary disaster. Gunnery stores and fire fighting equipment, collision mats and spare oars for the whaler, it went on and on, and as the sun grew fiercer the working parties had become more harassed and resentful as they heaved on tackles or stumbled through the bowels of the ship and into some flats and spaces which to Corbin’s knowledge had remained sealed for as long as he could remember.
He said slowly, ‘Commander Dalziel is making a clean sweep.’
Pigott regarded him bleakly. ‘About time if you ask me. Too many captains have handed this ship over in the past with a signature and little else.’
Standish waited. He was not disappointed.
Pigott added, ‘It’s always dropped in the supply officer’s lap. Every bloody time!’
Even Hornby smiled. ‘Poor sod!’ he said unfeelingly.
The stewards were getting busier with their bottles and glasses.
Sub-Lieutenant Caley, the torpedo and anti-submarine officer, entered the wardroom, jammed his thickset body in a chair and snapped, ‘Glasserbeer!’ Then he snatched up an old newspaper and scrutinized it until the tankard was placed beside him.
Standish noticed that Caley’s eyes did not move when he studied the newspaper. It was merely his defence. His shield. Although from what, other than his own sense of inferiority, it was hard to tell.
Standish had gathered little information about his brother officers, but he knew it was Caley’s first ship with a commission. He had worked his way through the lower deck, a professional at his job, until at long last he had gained the first coveted stripe of gold lace. At least that was how it should have been. But Caley was different. Standish had rarely heard him speak, unless it was to complain to the stewards about food or service, or to throw some caustic comment whenever Brian Wishart, the ship’s sub-lieutenant and junior officer, chose to voice an opinion. But he drank a good deal, and usually from his own glass tankard. Never ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ to the stewards, but just his usual surly ‘Glasserbeer!’
Standish had seen this in his early service when lower deck promotions had been a small and awkward minority in every wardroom. In Terrapin, however, but for himself, young Wishart and Irvine, the navigating officer, all the others were from the lower deck. In fact, the only man aboard he had seen getting on with Caley had been Petty Officer Squires, the head of his own T.A.S. department. Perhaps Caley regretted leaving the firm companionship of the P.O.’s mess, or maybe … he broke his train of thought as Lieutenant Irvine stepped over the coaming and stood for several seconds gazing around the wardroom.
Irvine was very fair, with the finely cut good looks which always made him stand out in a crowd, as if in his own personal spotlight. He was twenty-seven, a competent navigator, and very self-assured. Standish disliked him, without knowing why.
He made himself ask, ‘Everything all right, Pilot?’ Irvine was O.O.D.
‘Fair enough, thanks.’ Irvine had a gentle drawl and a lazy way of looking slightly away from the person he was addressing. He added, ‘The Old Man’s still ashore.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Large pink Plymouth, Wills!’
Wills nodded. ‘Yessir, right away, sir.’
It was strange how the men seemed to jump at Irvine’s smallest demand. The lieutenant came of a naval family and had a good pedigree. He was an Etonian and used his background like a riding crop, with just enough force to get his own way.
He perched on a stool and studied his glass thoughtfully.
‘Bit late to get this hulk into shape, I’d have thought?’ He smiled. ‘Still, I suppose the old Terrapin’s going to be blessed with one more has-been to end her unnotable career.’
Standish said, ‘You must admit that things have got a bit run down.’
‘Really?’ Irvine looked away. ‘Just the ship for some of the wrecks we seem to gather aboard, I’d imagine.’
The door banged back and Lieutenant Quarrie, the engineering officer and the oldest member of the ship’s company, walked stiffly to the letter rack and then said, ‘Horse’s neck, Wills.’ He looked coldly at Irvine and stalked to a chair at the opposite end of the wardroom.
Quarrie was another odd one, Standish reflected. He was in his forties and could have been out of the Navy before this. H
e was sturdy and firm jawed, with the sallow skin and scarred hands of his trade to mark him apart from his companions and make him strangely alien. But the strangest thing of all about Quarrie was that he had apparently joined the ship when she had first commissioned as a brand new frigate and he had been a young, barely trained stoker. What had gone since and between that first meeting nobody knew, but somehow Quarrie had kept contact with his first ship. As she had grown older he had climbed up the slow ladder of promotion from boiler room to his own footplate, until at last he had come back to her. Perhaps this final meeting was to be the end for both of them.
Standish signalled for another gin, suddenly cold as Irvine’s casual remarks came back to him.
Suppose this worn frigate was indeed a dumping ground for useless or unwanted men? He found himself gripping the arms of his chair, running over the other officers, probing at their roles and backgrounds. It was just possible, he thought despairingly. All except Irvine, who had too much influence, and Wishart, who was too junior, each of the rest could have been sent to the Terrapin as the last springboard into oblivion.
He swallowed the gin and relaxed slightly as the others became involved in some new topic of conversation.
Unfit for submarine service. It could have meant just that. He found himself going over it all again, as he had after leaving Dalziel’s cabin the night before.
He had of course heard of it happening to others in submarines. No outward flaw, just something, something which made it impossible to act and think as before once the hatch was slammed shut and the depth gauges started to creep round.
The months in hospital, the pain and the anxiety of waiting had done nothing to help. The surgeons had been proud of their work. New skin on his hands, and their showpiece, two completely new eyelids. Even now when he looked in a mirror he imagined they were paler, less real than the rest of his face. They had done a good job in him, but his inner hurt was something else again.
So maybe the Terrapin was the end of the line for him also. And all the soothing words would come to nothing. To have commanded a submarine was to have been alive. To rate first lieutenant of this clapped-out frigate might easily be the thin edge.
It had been unnerving the way Dalziel had hit upon his weakness with little to go on but his bare record. He had even been right about Mitford. Deep down Standish had known Mitford to be killing himself with drink, but he seemed unable to stop it. He too had been due for the axe, and it was almost as if he had been unable to face life outside the only world he knew. Another failure. And now there was Dalziel, a different being entirely, and perhaps, in spite of everything, the one man who could give them all a new chance.
The quartermaster thrust his head around the screen door.
‘First Lieutenant, sir? Captain’s comin’ offshore now.’
Standish nodded and got to his feet. To Irvine he said, ‘Get your people to man the side.’
Irvine shrugged. ‘If you insist, Number One.’ He grinned. ‘We get a little chat now, do we?’
Standish regarded him calmly, trying not to dislike him. ‘He will tell you want he wants you to know.’
On deck it was hotter than ever, and as Standish stood with the side-party he could feel the sweat running down his spine and gathering above the waistband of his shorts. He watched the motor boat curving fussily towards the gangway, the bowman ready with boathook poised, and for once, properly dressed.
Dalziel ran lightly up the short ladder, his fingers on the oak-leaved peak of his cap as he returned their salutes, his deepset eyes already exploring the upper deck before the pipes had ceased their shrill greeting.
He said warmly, ‘Much better, Number One! Capital!’ Then he glanced at Irvine. ‘Forrard awning’s a bit slack. Get the duty part of the watch to cope, eh?’
Irvine saluted limply. ‘Now, sir?’
Dalziel eyed him coolly. ‘I do mean now. Whenever I give an order it means now, right?’
As Irvine walked away, his handsome features set in a tight frown, Dalziel said lightly, ‘He seems capable enough.’ He looked at some wet paint and touched it with one finger. ‘Still, early days yet.’
There was a scrape of feet on the ladder and Sub-Lieutenant Wishart climbed up from the motor boat. He handed a briefcase to the captain and then stood waiting in silence. Normally he was a cheerful, if naive youngster, but now he looked positively crestfallen.
Dalziel opened the briefcase and ruffled the contents vaguely. ‘Found this young chap, ashore, Number One.’ He nodded towards the duty board. ‘Says there he’s still aboard. Odd, eh?’
Wishart said uncomfortably, ‘I was sent with a message to the Officer’s Club, sir.’
‘I see.’ Dalziel seemed to dismiss the matter. Then he said abruptly, ‘If a rating had been looking for you aboard, depending on your knowledge or lack of it, you would not have been found. A man might have dropped dead searching for you, could have lost faith in his officers and his country, and all the while you’d have been in the Club!’ He regarded the luckless Wishart sadly. ‘Bad show. Damn bad show. I shall be watching you, Sub, watching and praying for some improvement.’
He touched Standish’s elbow. ‘Now let’s meet the others, eh?’ He tapped the briefcase. ‘Tell them all the good news.’
Then he turned. ‘That will include you, Sub, so take your damn chin off the deck and jump about, will you!’
The young officer almost ran the last few paces to the hatch, and Dalziel said cheerfully, ‘These new Dartmouth types. What a shower of children they really are.’
Once below he said suddenly, ‘We will slip from the supply ship in six hours, Number One.’ He smiled, the eagerness bright in his eyes as he added, ‘Get to sea, find a bit of room to bustle in, as someone once said, eh?’
Standish opened the wardroom door and stood aside, baffled. He saw Dalziel’s smile vanish as if switched off to suit the importance of the occasion, and as the other officers shuffled to their feet he followed the captain inside.
It took only a few minutes to introduce the officers by name and in order of seniority, but Standish was conscious the whole time of Dalziel’s crisp formality, the brevity of his comments which accompanied each handshake.
In theory Dalziel, like any other captain, was a guest in the wardroom, but as the introductions were completed he showed no sign of following this tradition. At least not yet.
He tossed his cap on a chair and said, ‘You may be seated. I’ll not keep you long, and afterwards, with Number One’s permission, I’d like to stand you all a drink while we have a more informal gossip, eh?’
Every pair of eyes followed his hands as he opened the briefcase and took out a stiff manilla folder and laid it carefully on a table beside his chair.
He said, ‘We will proceed to sea in six hours. Our first destination is Kuala Papan on the east coast of the Malaysian Peninsular.’ He turned sharply and looked at Irvine. ‘Know it?’
‘Yes, sir. About two hundred and sixty miles.’ Irvine’s mouth moved slightly in a smile. ‘It’s an inlet …’
Dalziel interrupted, ‘Yes, that is what Kuala means in Malay, Pilot, I’d have thought you’d know that.’ He smiled calmly. ‘It is actually two hundred and sixty-five miles from here.’ The grin widened. ‘Still, you weren’t to know I was going to ask, eh?’
Irvine dropped his eyes, two small spots of colour showing on his cheeks. He said, ‘Thank you for telling me, sir.’
Dalziel ignored him. ‘I’ll not bore you with a long appraisal of the Far East situation, gentlemen. My orders are to proceed to Kuala Papan and report to Rear-Admiral Curtis.’ He saw their mystified expressions and continued, ‘He happens to be an American. As you all know, there have been increasing incidents lately involving acts of terrorism and sabotage throughout the Peninsular, spreading as far north as Thailand, and south to Indonesia. We are, after all, only five hundred miles from Viet Nam, and as expected the communists have no intention of stopping short in that unhappy country.
’ He opened a much-thumbed chart and held it across his body. ‘We have watched it happening over the years. Viet Nam, Laos, it goes on like some creeping, rotten disease, and now there are reports of communist infiltrators actually crossing the Gulf of Thailand to enter Malaysia and founding secret camps in Thailand as well.’ He refolded the chart deftly. ‘Their end purpose is only too clear, as you will no doubt agree.’
No-one spoke, and when Standish glanced around the other faces his immediate impression was one of cautious confusion. Except for Irvine, who was still smouldering, the rest were obviously unable to picture their ship set against the wider background of power politics and the tougher events of the cold war. Like Standish, such things were usually seen in newspapers, the figments of journalists’ fears or imagination.
Dalziel said at length, ‘The Americans have carried the can for the lot of us out here far too long. You cannot expect the U.S. taxpayer to go on footing the bill for the containing of communist aggression while the rest of us sit on our backsides and criticize, right?’
Pigott cleared his throat uncomfortably.
‘Yes?’ Dalziel eyed him impassively. ‘You have a question?’
Pigott shifted under the combined stares. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t see where we come in. The Reds have been pushing for years. And it looks me as if they are bound to take over the whole area if the Americans lose interest and our government keeps to its policy of withdrawal.’
‘Quite right!’ Dalziel smiled. ‘Hit it right on the button! But it does seem as if a little daylight has at last penetrated the dusty minds of Whitehall. The job of checking and policing this vast area is to be shared, not dominated by one solitary power. The Malaysian government is fully aware of what will happen if it is allowed to go on like this. Already there has been plenty of real trouble stirred up by these agitators. Killings and riots, their main weapon being to fan up hatred between the local Chinese and Malays themselves. Much in fact as the Japs did when they invaded here twenty-eight years ago. Divide and conquer, their basic principle. If it’s not political then it’s religion, but they’ll use something to force the issue into open war as in Viet Nam.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 3