“Good God,” he thought. “It must be an urgent message after all.”
He went cold at the thought of a possible recall to duty, but in order not to prolong the agony, he thrust his head out of the window.
“Are you looking for me?” he called.
She reached him, and stood looking up, breathing fast. He saw by her badges that she was in the signals branch, but at once his attention was taken by the girl herself. She had quite the most attractive face possible, he thought. The eyes, which were now looking anxiously into his, were of the darkest brown, which contrasted with the smoothest skin Royce had ever seen. From beneath her jaunty cap, dark curls were rebelling against naval uniform, and completed this enchanting picture.
He realized he was staring, and coloured slightly. “I’m Royce,” he explained. “Are you looking for me?”
“Yes, I wanted to ask you about Lieutenant Harston,” she said quickly, her voice soft and warm. “I was hoping you could wait for me.”
Royce tensed, taken aback. “I didn’t know he had any friends outside the flotilla here.” He felt vaguely angry. “I expect the Royston can tell you the full details.”
The rather sad little face tightened. “I’m Julia Harston, his sister,” she said quietly.
Royce was completely shattered. This unexpected turn of events made his mind whirl, and he struggled to put right the damage his hasty words had done.
“I-I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t understand,” he stammered. “You see I thought . . . I thought Harston had no relatives . . .” He coloured when he realized he had referred to her brother by his surname. “I thought a great deal of him, he taught me everything about this job, and when you came up to ask about him, well, I just felt I didn’t want to share . . .” He broke off helplessly.
She studied his face for a few seconds, and when she spoke it was with slow deliberation, as if she wanted him to feel the impact of every word.
“We have no parents. They were killed in an air-raid on London last year.” She paused, and for a split second her lower lip trembled. “Now I’m the only one left.”
Somewhere down the platform, a hundred miles away, a voice shouted: “Hurry along there! Close all doors!” And a warning whistle sounded.
Royce was torn by violent and previously unknown emotions. She stood there alone and small on the now empty platform, and he felt he wanted to jump down and hold her close to him, to comfort her, and to protect her.
The words came tumbling out of him. “Look, can I see you again? I’ll be back soon; I can come back earlier.”
“I shouldn’t think so. I’m going on draft tomorrow,” she answered simply.
A shrill whistle called urgently, and the engine gave a violent hiss of steam, and the train shuddered.
“Please, I must see you,” implored Royce, leaning right out of the window, until her face was but a foot away. “Where will you be going?”
The train jolted, and began to trundle out of the station.
Her small chin jutted defiantly. “I expect the Powers That Be can tell you the full details!”
With that she turned and walked quickly down the platform, and as the train gathered speed Royce still hung precariously from the window and watched the tiny blue figure until smoke from the ancient engine blotted out the station, and the scenery became squalid rows of small houses on the outskirts of the port.
He sank down on the worn cushions, a feeling of helplessness overcame him, and he knew for the first time the ache in his heart. All the way to town he sat restlessly staring out of the window, picking out the old landmarks, and trying to free his mind of the large brown eyes of Julia Harston. Julia: he repeated her name over and over in his mind, until it kept time with the clickerty-click of the wheels. If only he hadn’t sent the telegram to his mother saying what time he’d be arriving, he could have stopped just a little longer. When the train pulled up with a last protesting lurch, he had determined to find her, wherever she was, whatever she thought of him.
He only vaguely remembered Waterloo as he struggled across its busy concourse, the blaring loudspeakers, and hundreds of hurrying servicemen. The joyous reunions, and the brave and tearful farewells, that were commonplace in a Britain at war.
An hour later he stepped down from another slow train on to the little station on the edge of Oxshott woods that he knew so well, and, as if in welcome, the daffodils in the station-master’s garden made a colourful fanfare. The next instant, his mother’s arms were about his neck, and his father pumped his hand, while Bruce, older and fatter, but just as boisterous, lolloped about his legs. In the background, old Arthur the porter, who had been there for a lifetime, nodded and smiled.
“You’re looking well, Clive,” said his father gruffly, and his mother merely nodded, her eyes shining.
And so, in a specially hired taxi—they had never gone in for a car—arms linked and Bruce perched on a suitcase beside the driver, Clive Royce came home. Not the callow youth in the proud uniform who had set out less than a year ago, full of worried anticipation and eager hopes, but a quieter and older person, self-confident, an officer.
The first week of his leave was made up in dashing round visiting old family friends, as much to please his parents as anything else. In the evenings, he walked contentedly through the woods, smoking his pipe, and throwing sticks for the dog, but always at the back of his mind lurked the fears of the previous week, and once in the night he sat up in bed sweating, hearing again the rattle of the machine-guns and the awful cries of the dying. When he thought of Harston, he thought of Julia, and when he thought of her, he was always filled with the same desperate longing. He had to find her, to see her again.
The second week dwindled all too quickly, and as the days passed, his mother seemed to shrink, and become more and more attentive, and although he had never told her of the horrors of battle, she was quick to understand what had changed her son.
On the last Thursday they sat round the fire in the evening, after a late dinner, Royce feeling sure he had been forced to eat half of their rations, and talked of the future, after the war, when his father glanced at his watch, and reached for the radio.
“Won’t do to miss the news, will it, dear?” he smiled. “Clive’ll feel he’s getting out of touch.”
It was all the usual information, an advance here, a retreat there, air-raids in the Midlands, air-raids on Germany. And then at the end: “During the night, our light coastal forces have been active off the Hook of Holland, and actively engaged a number of enemy E-boats. One E-boat was sunk, and several damaged. Two of our vessels sustained some damage and casualties. Next of kin have been informed.”
His mother switched it off, and said too cheerfully, her face averted, “What about the last of the sherry. I’ll go and get it for you lazy old things.” And she hurried out to the kitchen.
The two men faced each other, then his father patted his knee. “You mustn’t mind Mother, you know how she worries,” was all he said.
But the next day on that same platform, he thought of those words, as they stood in silence until the train was actually running into the station, then the good-byes were hurried, the hugs so brief, and as he was borne rapidly away from the sun-drenched little station, the picture of the two seemingly frail figures, and the rough worried-looking dog, were imprinted firmly on his mind.
After many wearisome hours of travel, consisting mainly, he thought, of changing trains every few minutes, and trying not to leave his respirator on the rack, he observed the now familiar landmarks of the low-lying Essex coast, and soon the deserted marsh flats, and the rich, fresh fields began to give way to scattered houses and cottages, and eventually the train ground to a stop in the bustling harbour station.
As he strode to the barrier, he picked out several faces from the flotilla, who either saluted or smiled, according to their rank or disposition. Petty Officer Moore, spruce and dapper in immaculate uniform and gold badges, so unlike his usual greasy overalls and w
oollen cap, was apparently loaded down with mysterious parcels from doting relatives— he came from a vast family—and seeing Royce, he nodded awkwardly, and fell in step beside him.
“Afternoon, sir,” he greeted affably, “I ’ope you ’ad a good leave?”
Without waiting for an answer, he plunged into the full story of his own achievements, which appeared to consist of mainly visiting as many pubs as possible, with his family, all of whom were employed at the docks, and as he put it, “the bleedin’ cash was flying about like peas on a pusser’s blanket!”
As they strolled along the railway jetty, they saw the boats lying once more alongside the Depot Ship. In two weeks the dockyard had done marvels. Planking patched and replaced, all the hulls repainted a very dark grey, which improved their rakish lines, and even now, their decks swarmed with overalled figures as the maintenance staff completed the work of restoring and putting final touches to their craft.
In the Royston ’s wardroom, the bar was just opening as Royce hurried in, and soon he was firmly embedded in a tight circle of old friends, and eagerly they exchanged gossip, and pumped the other officers for the latest news of operations.
A small, wizened R.N.R. Lieutenant, bearing the purple stripe of an Engineer, and known to all affectionately as “Fixer” Martin, because of his magical powers with the M.T.B.s’ engines, looked sadly at his empty glass, and shook his head.
“I’m afraid you poor boys have a shock in store.” He sighed deeply, and continued: “Have any of you fly-by-nights heard of a Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby, Royal Navy?”
He made “Royal Navy” sound like an illuminated address.
“Good Lord, yes,” answered Benjy Watson, who looked rather haggard after a violent leave spent chiefly in the West End of London. “He’s the Captain of the old destroyer Wycliffe, a bit of a bastard to all accounts. Why?”
Martin smiled crookedly. “ Was the Captain of Wycliffe. ” He paused. “You will be delighted to learn that this straight-laced, regimental, self-opinionated lump of peacetime navy is now Senior Officer of the flotilla!”
He was not disappointed by the gasps of amazement.
“And as our plump friend here says, he is one big bastard!”
“But look here, old man,” drawled Emberson, “we’ve always had an R.N.V.R. chappie, that was the whole point. I mean, with all due respect to our regular brothers, we don’t want a fellow who’s thinking of his career all the time. Dash it all, Fixer, you must be mistaken.”
Deith, the quietest of the flotilla’s commanders, pondered thoughtfully, and signalled the steward to fill Fixer’s glass. As he wrote out a chit for another round of gins, he smiled. “Well, thank you so much for cheering us all up, you old pirate. He may not be as bad as all that—why, he might even get to like us.”
Martin laughed outright. “I heard him talking to the Operations Officer, by accident of course, and he said, quote: ‘Coastal Forces are an important arm to the Service.’ Wait,” he warned, as a cheer was raised. “He then said, quote: ‘It’s too important to be run by a lot of irresponsible yachtsmen and week-end sailors.’ Unquote! What! no more cheers?”
“Hm, and I see that there’s a conference in the forenoon at two bells tomorrow. I imagine that’s so we can get acquainted,” said Emberson, rubbing his chin. “Steward! Same again, and we’ll drink to a short war!”
A blue, choking haze of tobacco smoke swirled and eddied around the operations room, as the flotilla officers made themselves comfortable for the conference, and as Royce glanced about him he saw everywhere the visible signs that the fortnight’s leave had performed wonders, and a new life had been pumped into the fresh, eager faces. He felt a quick pang inside when he remembered that no longer would he sit with his ear cocked for Harston’s quick and witty observations, and the careful and patient explanations of these conferences, and he wondered sadly what his new C.O. would be like. It was strange that he had not yet met the replacement, as he had already seen several new faces who had taken the places of the wounded and the dead. Except for his own boat, the flotilla was again up to full strength, with two new Vosper boats in the place of those which had become tombs for their crews. Even Jock Murray’s 3007 was back, complete with a new bow, and as the slow-speaking Scot had said, “It was the neatest bit of plastic surgery you could wish for!”
A hush fell, as two figures strode on to the raised platform.
“All right, gentlemen,” said Commander Wright cheerfully, “carry on smoking, and I’ll bring you up to date.”
But all attention was rivetted on the other officer who sat down briskly behind his superior. Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby was all that you would expect a regular naval man to look. His uniform neat, a gleaming white shirt, its starched cuffs protruding sharply from beneath the sleeves bearing the two-and-a-half gold symbols of authority. He was so true to pattern that it was difficult to determine the man himself. He was rather short and stocky, with a pink, round face. His hair, which was cut short to regulation length, was brushed straight back, but it had no definite colour, and even his features were very ordinary. But the eyes, they were a different matter—Like two pieces of pale blue glass—and as he sat erect and self-contained, with his small hands folded in his lap, he looked for all the world like a smug Siamese cat, or so Royce thought.
He was not alone in this somewhat discouraging opinion. Benjy leaned over his shoulder, his warm breath smelling faintly of gin.
“Don’t you feel sorry for the feller? The Pekinese in the pigsty!”
He shut up quickly, as the cold eyes flickered in his direction for the briefest instant.
Commander Wright rambled on, apparently unaware that anything was amiss, and Royce realized that the speech of introduction was coming to a close.
“And now, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your new S.N.O., who will tell you about the next operational patrol.”
With that, he withdrew, a trifle too hastily.
Kirby rose slowly, and walked to the middle of the platform—exactly the middle—and stood with his hands behind his back, like the guest conductor at a promenade concert. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and clear, but unexpectedly high, and he got straight down to business.
“In a few moments we’ll go over the plan of action for tomorrow night, but first I want to bring a few points, merely matters of personal discipline, to your notice.”
He paused, and a twinge of uneasiness ran through his audience.
“Firstly, some of you appear to imagine that uniform is unnecessary in Coastal Forces. Those of you who feel this way will most certainly be crossing swords with me in the near future. From now on, aboard the Depot Ship, and at any time in harbour, number fives will be worn, without the trimmings. No fancy scarves, or funny hats, and not battle dress. If you are personally neat and smart, you will set a good example to your men.”
Emberson stood up quickly, his face half amused and half angry.
“But, sir, you can’t treat the men here as if it was barrack routine,” he drawled. “Why, it can be dangerous in this job, and a little laxity in some ways helps a lot.”
For the first time a gust of laughter ran round the officers. Kirby was unmoved and quite expressionless.
“My orders stand,” he snapped, “and I’ll trouble you to keep your personal opinions to yourself.”
Emberson cursed under his breath, and sank down to his seat.
“That scuttled you,” grinned Benjy. “First round to the Little Admiral!”
Kirby then proceeded to list the orders and regulations which would in future be enforced in every boat of the flotilla, which seemed to cover every eventuality from the colour schemes of the hulls, to the lengths of beards worn by the crews.
He finished up his offensive in the same unemotional, crisp tones, pausing only to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve.
“Remember,” he ended, “you have not been outstanding in the past. I intend to see that this is the best flotilla on the East C
oast, and if you all co-operate, my task will be easier. If not,” he shrugged, “some of you will have to be transferred.”
Royce only vaguely heard the details of the patrol for the following night. His head was whirling with indignation; he felt hurt, not for himself, but for his friends, who now sat silently listening, while the clear, flat voice continued to rattle off the facts and figures, as if they were a crowd of backward schoolboys.
“One final point. I shall be taking over 1991, with Royce as my Number One, so all my personal orders will be passed through him. That is all, gentlemen, I trust you will see to your duties.”
They rose and moved for the door, but the voice had not quite finished.
“Sub-Lieutenant Royce report to me.”
Royce was left in the empty room facing his superior, and a feeling of resentment filled him, but he took the proffered hand, which was cold and soft.
“Well, Number One,” said Kirby cheerfully. “Took it well, didn’t they?”
“They’re wonderful chaps, sir,” mumbled Royce hotly. “They’ve been through hell, and I wouldn’t wish to be with a finer lot.”
Kirby’s face hardened.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. In the meantime, I want a list of all defects from the Engineer over the last six months, and the results of all practice gunnery shoots over the same period. On my desk tomorrow morning.”
He turned on his heel and strode off. Royce felt as if the whole private, happy atmosphere of his little kingdom had been suddenly shattered by this interloper. When he reached the wardroom he found that the others were of the same opinion.
“Strewth!” roared Benjy. “If I tell my boys to put number threes on, there’ll be a ruddy riot!”
Emberson smiled quietly. “Not to worry. I think I can say without offending any greybeards present, that I am now the oldest inhabitant here, and I can further pronounce that within a few months this chap will be as good as gold. After all, be patient—he is R.N.!”
A Prayer for the Ship Page 6