Wishart had done better than he had dared to hope. Using local control the four-inch crews had got at least two shots within fifty feet of Hornby’s raft before the right gun had jammed and brought the practice to a halt.
Undeterred, Dalziel had hurled a lifebuoy over the port rail and had yelled at the bridge, ‘Exercise man overboard drill!’
The effect had been startling. Pigott had rung down for full speed and had flung the ship into a hard turn, the deck tilting as she slewed wildly and throwing many unprepared seamen from their feet. In the boiler room a mechanic fell down a ladder, and in the main galley some fifty pieces of crockery skidded to oblivion.
Dalziel had clambered to the bridge where Pigott’s last reserve of calm had given way to near panic. He had forgotten to take a bearing on the bobbing lifebuoy, and seeing Dalziel watching him he had run to the voicepipe yelling, ‘Hard a-starboard!’
With opposite helm put on just as violently, the Terrapin’s wake was twisting across the blue water in a zigzagging maelstrom of white foam, while from below decks came more crashes and curses as yet more men were caught unprepared.
Standish had seen the makeshift target appear suddenly across the swaying bows, but as he had opened his mouth to warn Pigott, Dalziel had put a finger to his lips and had shot him a grin of complete satisfaction.
The frigate hit the raft at full speed, sending the crates flying in splinters and the released oil drums bobbing down either side to the derisive cheers of the guns crews.
‘Take over the con, Number One.’ Dalziel had scribbled a few more notes before adding to Pigott, ‘Awful.’ He had grinned wider. ‘Bloody awful!’
The supply officer had left the bridge pale-faced and staring straight in front of him, and Dalziel had added evenly, ‘He’ll remember that next time. Think before you act. Can’t abide people who panic.’
As the ship had turned for her final approach towards the sunset Dalziel had remarked, ‘Not a bad effort all round. They need a lot of polishing of course, but the material is there. A few leading hands will have to be disrated, and I’m not too happy about certain of my officers.’ He had given a small, eloquent shrug. ‘You can teach a man his job. But you cannot supply him with officer-like qualities if he is already without them. Any more than you can win the Derby with a pit pony, eh?’
Standish had heard Dalziel yelling at the ratings too on more than one occasion. And that was the odd thing about him, they took his insults, and even appeared to enjoy them. Perhaps his sudden flashes of excited rudeness were more acceptable to the ratings than the formality they would normally expect from a captain.
Dalziel seemed to have this outspoken manner for all occasions. Like that moment by the whaler’s davits when he had asked about Alison.
Before, had he considered it, Standish would have expected himself to react quite differently. To tell Dalziel or anyone else to mind his own business in no uncertain manner.
And yet, even now, looking back over the day he could still find no sort of resentment at Dalziel’s cool question.
He had always stored the bitter memory in his mind, padded it with phrases like ‘incompatible’ or ‘a marriage doomed from the start.’ But boiling it all down, Dalziel was right. She had in fact ‘run off with some other chap.’
There had been so many uncertainties connected with Alison. Naturally enough they had met when he had commissioned his own command, the submarine Electra, in which her brother was appointed sonar officer. Alison was fair and beautiful, she was tantalizing and also totally unpredictable, and Standish had been stunned when she had agreed to marry him. It was still hard to work out the actual moment of disaster, or even the threat of it. At sea things were usually clearer and more precast. If two ships followed certain courses for a set distance you knew a collision was unavoidable. If the ship’s buoyancy went beyond a slide-rule calculation she would certainly founder.
But Alison’s change of heart towards him was vague, like most of his other memories of her. Only the beginning was clear cut, with the shining faces and uniforms outside the dockyard church, the avenue of raised swords, the jokes and the mad rush to the airport, and that first overwhelming moment of passion. And of course the end was clear enough, too.
The packed suitcases outside their flat. The taxi-driver watching with obvious interest as Standish pleaded and then finally watched her drive away and out of his life.
Even then he had still imagined it might be temporary, and had gone to see her father, a rich construction engineer on the outskirts of London. He had been unsympathetic, and looking back, perhaps even pleased.
‘Never wanted her to marry into the Navy. Bad enough having my son running about dressed in fancy uniform. He should be working in the business which I built with my own two hands, without her being so stupid, too.’ He had regarded Standish’s angry features coolly. ‘But I’ll drag young Roger out of the bloody Navy if I have to bribe a minister to do it!’
But he left it too late. Roger had died that morning off Portland Bill with his men in a sealed and blazing inferno.
Being her brother Roger might have known Alison’s intentions but had been too loyal to both of them to speak out. Perhaps it had been too much on his mind as he had supervised his men with the new type of flare.
The marriage, like his command, had lasted just nine months. It was not much of an achievement, he told himself bitterly.
There was a scrape of feet on the steel deck and a bosun’s mate peered at him through the gloom.
‘First Lieutenant, sir, signal from the Yankee ship. The captain’s returnin’ now.’
‘Thank you, Roper. You’d better fetch the O.O.D.’
Standish walked slowly towards the illuminated gangway where the quartermaster was staring in contemplative silence at the black water alongside.
How many captains had climbed on to that brass plate with the ship’s name to greet them and remind them instantly of their responsibilities?
Well, it was to be hoped that Dalziel had been given more time to get his new command into shape before he was employed on more demanding service.
Wishart appeared in the lamplight, adjusting his cap and squinting beyond the glare towards the other anchored ship.
Standish asked, ‘All right now, Sub?’
He grinned ruefully. ‘Still sweating a bit when I think about the gunnery today.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, it could have been worse, I suppose.’
But not much, Standish thought. He said, ‘Well, keep at it. We might be able to organize a contest with some other ship when we get moving again.’
An engine spluttered in the darkness and the quartermaster yelled, ‘Boat ahoy?’
Back came the reply. ‘Terrapin!’
It was the big motor boat from the Sibuyan which had whisked Dalziel away almost before the anchor had been secured.
Dalziel’s head and shoulders came into the harsh lights above the gangway, his eyes gleaming as he nodded curtly to Wishart and his side-party before saying, ‘Come to my cabin, Number One.’
He made to walk forward and then snapped, ‘Why is the gangway sentry not armed?’ To the deck at large he added sharply, ‘In future, and until I order otherwise, I want an armed sentry here.’ He jabbed a finger at Wishart. ‘And the officer of the day will also carry a sidearm. Draw one now and write it in the log for your relief.’
In the captain’s day cabin there was a strong smell of fresh paint, and Standish noticed that the one bulkhead which still awaited a new coating looked yellow by comparison.
Dalziel threw his briefcase on a chair and said absently, ‘They’ll start on my sleeping quarters tomorrow. At least this place looks a bit more like it, eh?’ But there was little enthusiasm in his tone.
He opened his cupboard and took out a decanter and some finely cut glasses which had not been there before. He said, ‘Must have a drink. American ships are more than hospitable, but their mania for abstinence makes me somewhat dehydrated.’
Standish took the proferred
glass which was more than half filled with whisky. Dalziel had given him no choice of drink, and was already sipping his own glass with obvious impatience.
‘How did it go, sir?’ Standish tried to see beyond Dalziel’s detached expression. ‘Was the admiral aboard?’
Dalziel nodded and stared at his glass. ‘Rear-Admiral John P. Curtis. Yes, he was there. Damn nice chap too as far as I can make out.’ He moved the glass idly. ‘He is in overall command—with the Malaysian consent, of course—of all inshore patrols until these acts of aggression cease or change direction in some way.’ He smiled wryly. ‘The Americans quite rightly do not want another Viet Nam, or any situation where they become so totally involved they can’t withdraw or win an outright victory. They want the rest of the club to do their bit for a change.’ He slammed the glass on his table. ‘There was also one of our people aboard the Sibuyan. One Captain Philip Jerram, lately appointed as our supervisory overlord of Malaysian East Coast Patrols. In his care—God help them—he has twenty patrol boats and converted minesweepers to protect and watch over some two hundred miles of creeks, inlets and bloody islands, the names of which are probably not even marked on a chart!’
Standish watched him thoughtfully. By the sound of it Dalziel’s visit to the flagship had not been a success.
Dalziel jumped to his feet and seized the decanter. ‘God, they say there’s no justice in this world and now I’m half inclined to believe it.’ He refilled the glasses, some of the whisky spilling unheeded on the deck. ‘Jerram and I are old colleagues. Oh yes, I can see that he and I are going to get on like a house on fire, I don’t think!’
‘Well, sir, were you told of our next assignment?’ It was obviously necessary to draw Dalziel from his thoughts if he was to learn anything of what had happened.
Dalziel frowned. ‘Along the coast we have all these half-trained, gibbering Malays. To the south and east we have the heavy units of the Seventh Fleet, just in case.’ He fixed Standish with a flat stare. ‘And on offshore patrols from here to the Thailand border we will have Terrapin!’ He looked down at the littered table. ‘It’s so bloody unfair, and I told him so!’
Standish studied Dalziel from another, more personal viewpoint. Without effort he could imagine him bouncing into the American admiral’s quarters, full of schemes and ideas, and having his enthusiasm knocked from under him, maybe by this Captain Jerram.
He asked quietly, ‘What did the admiral say?’
Dalziel looked up and gave a wry smile. ‘He told me not to “Split my stack!” A most descriptive phrase for the way I was feeling just then.’
‘It boils down to our being given another picket job, sir.’ Standish put down his glass and looked round for some water. ‘Like the others she has had in the past. I’m sorry about this, and I can guess how you feel …’
Dalziel stared at him. ‘Guess? How can you possibly begin to understand what it means to me?’ He paced twice across the worn carpet. ‘They’re not going to push my ship into some damn backwater just to keep me quiet, not again!’ He calmed himself with obvious effort. ‘The trouble with Jerram is that he’s like so many in the Navy today. No imagination. No get-up-and-go! The Service seems to be driving out all the characters nowadays. Just leaving us with computers and a few white-faced pansies who squat on their arses in Whitehall!’ He paused and stared down at Standish. ‘Well, they’re not going to push me around, d’you hear?’
Standish said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He had never seen anyone else work himself into a rage in such short time. Unless it had always been there, behind the grin and the unruffled self-confidence.
Dalziel was saying bitterly, ‘The same old attitudes all over again. Be nice to the Reds and look the other way. Everything will be all right and they’ll leave us in peace. God in heaven, the communist world is honest enough. They’ve told us plainly what they want to do, and still we seem to wait for a miracle. Believe me, if you want to win friends and influence people you don’t do it by showing them you’re as weak as gnat’s water, do you?’
He lowered himself into his chair and sighed. ‘Still, we’re not beaten yet. Not by a damn long chalk.’ He picked up the decanter. ‘This was given to me by the Shah of Persia as a gift to remember him by. Strange chap, but quite decent in his own way.’
Standish watched the level in the decanter drop another two inches.
‘Have we got our sailing orders yet, sir?’
‘No. The Sibuyan is weighing at dawn tomorrow, and then Jerram is coming aboard to look over my ship.’ He could not disguise the contempt in his voice. ‘Probably not been in one for months.’
Standish stood up and felt the cabin swaying. ‘I think I’d better turn in, sir. It’s been a long day.’
‘It has indeed.’ Dalziel regarded him emptily. ‘But when I’ve done with this ship she’ll make everyone sit up and take notice.’
Standish stared at a framed picture which had appeared on one of the newly painted bulkheads. It showed a destroyer at full speed, her guns lifted skywards as if on manoeuvres. Underneath is stated, ‘H.M.S. Harrier. Mediterranean 1968.’
The whisky, which he rarely drank, was making his stomach contract, and he knew that if he did not get away from the enclosed cabin and its stench of paint he would be violently sick. But the picture, the name Harrier, seemed to hold him, to open up some lost memory which he could not place.
Dalziel said, ‘My last ship. But I expect you knew that, eh?’
Standish turned and looked at him. There was an edge to Dalziel’s voice, like the tone he had used when speaking about Captain Jerram.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I was in hospital for a long time. It must have been something else.’
Dalziel smiled thinly. ‘I was very attached to Harrier. Unfortunately she was cut in half by the carrier Implacable in the Med. Sixty-five men were lost.’ His voice sounded slurred. ‘Not my fault of course, I but still miss her just the same. A good ship. Damn fine command.’
Standish picked up his cap. It was strange how important events seemed to be held at bay by some mental barrier. All those months in hospital, the comings and goings of staff officers gathering information for the court of enquiry in hushed voices, the pain and the empty void of waiting for news of Alison. And all the while, in another place, Dalziel had had his battles, too. There had been combined fleet manoeuvres in the Eastern Mediterranean, more to impress the Russians than anything else it was said, and the destroyer had been rammed by the carrier while both ships had been turning to take up stations for the night. The rights and wrongs had been lost in the same mist which made it hard to remember Alison’s brother and the events which had led to that morning off Portland.
But one thing was clear. Only too clear. Dalziel was one more unwanted officer. Like himself. Filling a space until the time came to discard them along with the tired old ship which held them.
He heard Dalziel say, ‘Tomorrow we will try another exercise or two. I’m not too happy about Caley’s T.A.S. party. Not happy at all.’
Standish closed the door and staggered the last few paces to his own cabin and fell spread-eagled across the bunk.
In the next cabin he could hear an occasional click, followed by a metallic rattle, and knew that Hornby was doing his nightly practice. Driving golf balls into a tin cup across four feet of carpet.
Around him a discordant vibration also told him that someone in the officers’ bathroom was trying to run a shower. The water system always sounded like a freight train shunting in a badly maintained siding, and normally it was considered something of a joke. Like the air-conditioning. Like the ship.
Standish buried his face in the pillow and closed his eyes fiercely.
And like all of us, he thought desperately.
4 The Boarding Party
WHEN THE TERRAPIN’S company were roused from their bunks and hammocks the following morning they found that the American vessel had already weighed anchor and was standing well out to sea. By the time work of washing down decks
had commenced the Sibuyan had left the headlands far astern and her hull was almost lost in a curling bank of morning haze.
Standish had heard her anchor cable clanking through the hawsepipe as he had shaved himself for the coming day, and had wondered what the visit by Captain Jerram would bring for the ship, and for him personally.
As the first rays of yellow sunlight penetrated the deep inlet he saw through the open scuttle that it was not quite as deserted as he had imagined. Apart from a few gnat-like native fishing boats he could also see two low-lying M.L.s, each painted in the pale grey of the Malaysia Navy. So Jerram was presumably aboard one of them, waiting his moment to make a suitable appearance.
Breakfast and morning colours passed without event, and then as the hands mustered once again beneath the awnings a small motor dory shoved off from one of the M.L.s and headed purposefully towards the frigate.
Dalziel must have been watching from his day cabin, for within seconds of the side-party mustering at the gangway he too was there, his face set in a tight, expressionless mask.
Standish was not sure what sort of man he had expected in Captain Philip Jerram, but the one who climbed up the ship’s side and returned the salutes with grave formality was not a bit like anything he had imagined.
He was small and square, with a tendency to plumpness beneath his well cut white uniform, and his face, tanned and criss-crossed with tiny compressed wrinkles, was more that of a sober business man than a naval officer. His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant, and he had a slow, ponderous manner of speaking which made Standish alter his comparison again to that of a high churchman or influential vicar.
Jerram made a cursory inspection of the upper deck, pausing only to watch the hands being detailed off for the forenoon’s work before saying, ‘There seems quite a good deal to be done and ample hands to do it. They could learn a lot from my Malays. They may not have much education, but they do understand that a clean ship is an efficient one. And an efficient ship is a happy one.’
Standish glanced quickly at Dalziel. His face was like stone. But he replied calmly enough, ‘Early days yet, sir.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 6