Ship of Force

by Alan Evans

  * * *

  Smith did not speak as he walked rapidly down to where Marshall Marmont’s pinnace lay. Garrick strode along gloomily at his elbow. He was not an over-sensitive or imaginative man but it was clear to him that Trist had his knife into Dunbar and Smith. And now he himself was classed as a ‘disciple’. He said savagely, “Damn it to hell!”

  Smith glanced across at him. Poor old Garrick. Promoted and given a command but all of it turned sour. He halted on the quay as a door opened to show a lighted bar and a table opposite the door where a man sprawled, head on his arms that were spread on the table. His naval cap rested by his head. The door closed and it was as if an eye had opened then shut. Smith was not sure, but was that Sanders, the young Sub-Lieutenant from Sparrow?

  He hesitated, thinking about Sparrow — and Dunbar, then said to Garrick, “You go on. I want to walk around to Sparrow. You might take me off in about twenty minutes or so.” He watched Garrick stride away and then turned again to the bar, crossed to its door and entered. As he walked the length of the room, threading between the tables, he put his cap under his arm. He had seen Sanders only once but a glance now told him this sprawled Sub-Lieutenant was not Sanders, who was regular Navy. This man looked to be taller and the thin gold ring on his cuff was the wavy one of the RNVR. Opposite him and facing out on to the room sat a stiff-backed, red-faced old lady. She watched Smith approach and her gaze was truculent.

  Smith halted by the table. There were several empty glasses and two half-full, one before the officer and the other in the hand of the lady who sipped at it with little finger genteelly crooked. Smith asked, “Is this officer unwell?”

  Victoria regarded naval officers with suspicion. She considered half of them too old for their posts and the other half too young, and none of them would order her about. An order she treated as a request that she criticised but complied with. A new officer was suspect until he proved himself and that to Victoria’s satisfaction. This one was properly respectful but he had a cold eye and a stiff neck. She set her glass down and said tartly, “Don’t see that it’s any o’ your business — but no, he’s not unwell. An’ he’s not drunk either, if that’s what you mean.” Smith’s gaze drifted to the empty glasses and she saw it. “The empties are mine. That’s his first. Got halfway through it, the poor lamb, and then fell asleep. He was out on patrol for near thirty-six hours and he’s wore out.”

  Victoria’s voice was pitched in her conversational tone but it carried. The young Sub stirred and lifted his head to peer blearily around him. His eyes stopped on Smith, blinked, screwed shut then opened again and now they were aware and he climbed to his feet. It was a long climb. He was a very tall young man with a thatch of black curly hair that needed cutting and sleepy dark eyes. He said, “Curtis, sir. CMB 19.”

  Smith now recognised him as the commander of the boat that entered the Trystram lock and thought he also recognised the drawl. “Canadian?”

  “No, sir. American.”

  Smith’s eyebrows lifted. There were a number of Americans flying for the Allies before America had entered the war, and some in the Army — but in the Navy? “That’s — unusual.”

  “Yes, sir. A little.”

  “You come from a Naval family?”

  Curtis grinned. “Hell, no, sir. We’re all farming stock. But I learned to handle a boat on the lake. Wisconsin, that is. Started in the creek near as soon as I could walk and moved out on the lake soon after.” He paused, then: “A farmer turned sailor. Now that’s unusual, sir.”

  “Not altogether.” Smith was a country boy, brought up in a Norfolk village. But he did not elaborate. Instead he asked, “How long have you been in command?”

  Victoria put in deeply, proud. “They promoted him into her. Should ha’ had a medal but for that damn’ red tape again.”

  Curtis shifted awkwardly, embarrassed at the interruption. “Now Mrs Baines it wasn’t like that a-tall. Fact is, sir, I was on vacation over here when the war started an’ I just joined and got a temporary commission.”

  Smith thought it would not have been that easy, that Curtis under his country boy, innocent exterior must hide a shrewd brain and an ability to wangle. He said nothing.

  Curtis went on: “We had a forty-footer and I was midshipman in her till along about the fall of ’16 when we got shot up and the Sub-Lieutenant caught it so I sort of — inherited. Seems I ran her all right so they promoted me to command her permanent and later on they gave me 19. But anything I know about fighting a CMB I learned from Charlie…that was the Sub. He was a regular officer, a great guy.”

  Smith was interested by the tall, sleepy-eyed young man but he had a duty to carry out aboard Sparrow, an unpleasant duty but one that had to be done. Still, he asked one last question. “You like the boats?”

  “Wouldn’t change, sir.” That was definite, but then Curtis added, “Except —” He stopped.

  Smith prompted, “Except?”

  Curtis’s voice was still quiet but there was a hardness to it now. “Sometimes I think I’d like to catch up with that destroyer that shot us up, when I was in a ship with a real big gun. And I could shoot the hell out of ’em.” He saw Smith staring and explained, “Just to even up for Charlie, sir.”

  Smith was silent, then: “I wouldn’t harbour thoughts of revenge. You’ll find there’s little satisfaction in it. Good night.” And to Victoria, “Good night, madam. My apologies for intruding.”

  Victoria answered dryly, “I’ll see you tomorrow at sea — if you get that far.”

  Smith hung on his heel, taken aback. “You’ll — at sea?”

  Victoria said complacently, “My tug, Lively Lady is going with you.”

  “Of course I knew Lively Lady was to be with us, but — you’ll be aboard?”

  “She’s my tug.” That seemed sufficient answer for this old lady with her hat slightly askew despite the two pins. She touched it now, settled it askew on the other side.

  Smith said, “I see.” He did not, but later he would. “Good night.”

  * * *

  He strode on, heading for where Sparrow was moored alongside the quay. Her commander had been absent from the Commodore’s briefing. Now Smith wanted an explanation from Dunbar — and a very good one.

  Smoke trailed from Sparrow’s three funnels and wisped across the quay on the wind; she was ready to slip at a minute’s notice. The quay was dark, rain-swept, pools glinting from a tiny light at the head of the brow. He halted out in the darkness to look at her. Sparrow was armed with one twelve-pounder on her bridge, five six-pounders and two torpedo-tubes. She looked long but only because she was low and narrow. A man could have crossed her deck in half a dozen long steps except that it was so scattered with guns, boats, torpedo-tubes, ventilators and hatches that you couldn’t take two long strides in any direction, let alone six. She was a little ship and fifty-eight men were crammed into her.

  Now she and her men were Smith’s.

  He strode out of the dark and up the brow. A quartermaster stood on watch at the head of it and Smith demanded, “Where’s your captain?”

  “He’s — I’ll call the coxswain, sir.” The man was rattled, caught off-guard by Smith’s sudden appearance. Guilty? Of what? Had he been dozing? Pulling at a cigarette? Or was there something else? Smith sensed the man was hiding something, or trying to. He was Scots with a thick Glaswegian brogue.

  Smith snapped, “Never mind the coxswain — and stand still!” The quartermaster had taken a quick step aft towards the wardroom hatch. “Mister Dunbar is below?”

  “Er — yes, sir.”

  Smith stepped past him, stalked aft around the six-pounder and dropped down through the hatch that led to the wardroom below. At the foot of the ladder he almost stepped on Gow, the coxswain. He was a big man with long arms and a premature stoop that Smith supposed came from living aboard thirty-knotters. His hands seemed to hang by his knees. His head was bent under the deckhead now and he stood between Smith and the curtain that served
as a door to the wardroom.

  Gow whispered huskily, inevitably Scots, “Sir, if I could just say —”

  “Later.” Smith tried to step forward but it only brought him chest to chest with the coxswain, their faces only inches apart because Gow held his ground. Smith sniffed, smelt whisky on Gow’s breath, and asked, “You’ve been drinking?”

  “Just the one I couldn’t help.” Gow’s long face was drawn longer with misery. “Sir —” Beyond him glass shattered in the wardroom and his face twitched.

  Smith said, “What the hell is going on here, cox’n?”

  “Ah’m trying to explain —”

  But Smith had had enough. He jammed a shoulder into the coxswain, rocked him off balance and aside and took a stride. Gow’s voice came behind him, still in that agonised whisper but higher. “He had some bad news about his wife and bairn. He was awfu’ fond o’ them, sir.”

  Smith was still a moment and heard a low voice pleading. It was the voice of Sanders the young Sub-Lieutenant. Then Dunbar’s came, thick but clear enough. “Get out! Get the hell out and leave me alone!”

  Smith said, “All right.” He pushed through the curtain into the wardroom. Dunbar sat on one of the couches that ran down each side, elbows spread on the table. His cap lay beside him on the couch. He was a thick-set man with a weather-beaten, tough face but now the mouth was slack and the eyes vague. He held a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other and he was pouring the last of the bottle into the glass. Sanders stood by the table and turned now to blink worriedly at Smith, his boots crunching glass that was scattered on the deck.

  Sanders said, “Sir? Good evening, sir.”

  Dunbar looked up, blearily startled, climbed to his feet and stood swaying. He shook the bottle and peered at it. “Empty. Join me in a drink, sir. ’Nother bottle, steward. Brodie!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The steward’s face showed white in the doorway. He had a bottle in his hand but Smith’s slow shake of the head sent him sliding away out of sight.

  Smith said, “Thanks. But not just now.” And: “All right, Sub. You’ll be needed on deck.”

  Sanders edged around him and away. Dunbar swayed too far and sat down again, slopping whisky and dropping the bottle. He fumbled for it as it rolled across the couch but it escaped his clawing fingers and smashed on the deck. He said wearily, “Oh, Christ!”

  Smith looked down at him and silently echoed the sentiment. He said, “I understand you’ve had bad news.”

  Dunbar took a swallow from the glass and shuddered, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Letter. Navy always sends telegrams to them but I got a letter from her mother — the wife’s mother. A letter! They’ve been dead these four days and in the grave now! But the auld witch never liked me. She wanted Jeanie to marry some feller in a bank. Influenza, she says it was. Influenza! That’s something you cure wi’ a hot dram an’ a squeeze o’ lemon, but this was some new kind o’ germ. Her and the boy. It killed them.”

  Smith said, “I’ll see you get leave. You can go —”

  But Dunbar’s head was already shaking a negative. “Not me. Not to stand at a graveside wi’ that spiteful old woman sinking her knife into me. Here!” He shoved a hand in a pocket, pulled out a crumpled envelope and tossed it on the table. “Read that!”

  Smith smoothed the creases from the sheet of notepaper. A letter written in a jagged copperplate. He read it, phrases stabbing out at him: ‘shirking responsibilities…could have got a shore job…poor girl and her baby left to fend for themselves…’ He folded the sheet carefully and handed the letter to Dunbar who crammed it in his pocket.

  Dunbar said thickly, “Her and Trist are a bloody pair. Vicious old women.” He took another swallow from the glass, shuddered and shook his head. “No, I’m not goin’ home.” He squinted up at Smith. “Don’t you worry about me. I know fine we’ve sailing orders but don’t you worry. The stuff’s not touching me. I’m ready for sea. You’re the one that needs to look out.” He peered past Smith. “That steward out o’ the way? Good. Yon Brodie’s a good man but this is just between you and me.” He muttered, “Wondered if I should — tricky, y’know, discussing a senior officer an’ all that. But I’ve heard one or two things about you, and I had a chat wi’ Garrick yesterday an’ he told me a few more things though he’s an awful close-mouthed feller. Thinks a lot o’ you.”

  Smith thought that he ought to shut him up. But he didn’t.

  Dunbar mumbled, “Where was I? Oh, aye. D’ye know Trist, sir?” And when Smith shook his head, “I do. I’ve known him too long. I’ll be honest — I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me. Not for what I’ve said and done but I think he knows I’ve rumbled him. He never does anything wrong because he never does anything he doesn’t have to. He’s got a gang around him that agree with everything he says. Now there’s a lot of shouting for ‘offensive action’ against the U-boats and he’s got to do something, or somebody has. What he’s done looks all right, giving you this ship and Wildfire and maybe more to come but we know different. I think he realises he has to take a chance and this way he’s only risking us. We’ll be put up like targets to be shot at and if it goes wrong his hands will be clean. He’ll have given you a command and a job and you’ll have mucked it.”

  He was silent a moment, then: “Thought I might whisper a word in Garrick’s ear and let him pass it on, but that’s the way Trist works.” He pulled a face. “Mister Cautious himself. That’s all. Just a friendly warning to watch your step, sir.”

  He was staring past Smith now. “Bloody funny, really. I’ve been running back and forth across this neck o’ water for near three years, fair weather and foul. Never got a scratch, spite o’ U-boats, mines, and those bloody big destroyers o’ Jerry’s. While they sit comfortable at home —” He peered up again at Smith. He did not touch the whisky but he still swallowed and he said huskily, “It’s not fair. Is it?”

  “No.” Smith watched his head droop slowly down on his folded arms, reached forward and removed the glass from the twitching fingers and stood holding it, watching Dunbar until the Lieutenant’s breathing was regular, snoring. Then he stepped out of the wardroom and found Gow waiting. “Get the steward and see to Mr Dunbar.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Brodie!” The big man shouted for the steward then sidled around Smith, opened his mouth to speak but saw the young Commander’s set face and thought better of it.

  Smith was remembering that Sparrow’s rendezvous with the bombarding force was at dawn. Dawn at the Cliffe d’Islande Bank, ten miles or so to the nor’-nor’-east of Dunkerque and at the southerly end of the mine-net barrage that ran down ten miles or so out from the Belgian coast, intended to stop the passage of U-boats from Oostende and Zeebrugge. The dawn rendezvous meant that Dunbar would have a few hours to sleep it off and be fit to take his ship to sea.

  Sanders clattered down the ladder, held out a flimsy to Smith and said breathlessly, “Signal from the Commodore, sir.”

  Smith snatched it, read it and looked up as Gow appeared with Brodie. The white-coated steward was a small man, sandy-haired and dwarfed by the coxswain. Smith read aloud, “Grimsby Lass reports RE8 down in the sea off the Nieuport Bank. Judy is searching.” He looked at Sanders and asked, “Grimsby Lass? Judy?”

  Sanders said, “They’re both drifters, sir. Some have wireless and I think Grimsby Lass is one of them.”

  Smith nodded. And the RE8, the Harry Tate, was a twoseater reconnaissance aircraft the work-horse of the Royal Flying Corps in France, but this one probably came from the Royal Naval Air Service field at St. Pol outside Dunkerque. He said, “Sparrow is ordered to search.” He saw Sanders’s stricken face as the young Sub realised what this mean that Sparrow had sailing orders and her captain was dead drunk. Smith said, “Thank you, Sub.” And to Gow, “We’re going to sea, cox’n.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Gow said heavily and followed Sanders clattering up the ladder, Smith turned on Brodie and said quietly, “I want him sober in one hour. And keep yo
ur mouth shut.”

  “Ye’ve no need to fear about that, sir.” answered Brodie. And: “Thank ye, sir.”

  Thank ye? What for? But Smith was climbing the ladder. He stood on the deck as the pipes shrilled and Sparrow came alive with the sound of running feet, shouted orders and here and there a curse. He found he gripped the crumpled flimsy in one hand and in the other was Dunbar’s glass. He hurled it to smash against the quay.

  Sanders stared at him, then said nervously, “Your boat is alongside, sir.”

  Smith turned from the quay, stepped around the after six pounder and looked over the side into the monitor’s pinnace. “Mister Garrick!”

  “Sir?” Garrick’s head was level with the deck and Smith’s feet.

  Smith said, “Go on to Marshall Marmont. Sparrow has orders to sail immediately, and I’m going along. There’s a Harry Tate down in the sea. We’ll rejoin in the morning at the rendezvous. Any questions?”

  Garrick had a number but Smith was referring to the forthcoming operation and none of Garrick’s questions related to that. He wondered what was going on, because Sanders’s face was enough to tell him there was something going on. He knew enough of Smith by now to recognise that icy calm as a mask Smith put on at moments of stress. But after a moment’s thought he only said, “No questions, sir.” Then: “Shall I send Buckley back in the pinnace, sir?” He added lamely, “In case Sparrow is short-handed.”

  Leading Seaman Buckley, who along with Garrick had served in the Pacific with Smith, would be an asset in any ship. But that was not why Garrick wanted him aboard Sparrow. Smith might need a familiar face on board, known and dependable. A man to look out for Smith if he did something reckless.

  Smith guessed this but though his lips twitched as he hid the smile, he answered gravely, “Do that. But he must be quick. There are airmen in the sea out there and I won’t wait.”

  He watched as the screw of the pinnace thrashed and she slid away into the night. He had been tempted to order Garrick to send one of his officers from Marshall Marmont to take command of Sparrow while he himself returned to the monitor. He should have done so. But then Garrick and the lieutenant taking command would have to be told the reason.