‘No.’ It always came out like that, like a door slamming. There was nothing to say. It had been finished before it had even begun.
‘Pilot’s taking over, sir. If you need anything . . .’
Sherbrooke heard thuds overhead and knew that the chief boatswain’s mate, the Buffer, would be hounding the dockyard workers every hour they were aboard to make certain they did not scratch, scrape or stain one single plank of Reliant’s immaculate quarterdeck. It was always an uphill battle.
Frazier said, ‘It was on the news this morning, sir . . . about us.’
‘I know. They made it sound like a real battle.’ He glanced at the ship’s crest. ‘She did well, though.’
He had left the bridge after Reliant and her escorts were clear of the arena where that brief but fierce engagement had been fought. Most of the German survivors picked up by Mulgrave had been transferred to the flagship. Reliant not only had better facilities for dealing with casualties, but also carried a senior medical officer, Surgeon Commander Farleigh, a formidable man who brooked no interference with his department, and was unintimidated even by Stagg.
He had greeted Sherbrooke without warmth. ‘Fifty-two, sir. A few more still in Mulgrave, but they’re not expected to make it, and can’t be moved to us.’ He had followed Sherbrooke among the tiers of bunks.
Some of Minden’s company had seemed remarkably cheerful, smoking duty-free cigarettes, only their voices marking them out from all the other survivors Reliant had picked up during three years of war.
The officers were separated from the others, one with his eyes and hands bandaged, although his head was moving as though he were trying to hear what was being said. Another, a lieutenant, attempted to rise when he recognized the rank on Sherbrooke’s sleeve.
Sherbrooke had reached out and touched his shoulder, then shook his head.
‘No. Rest. You are safe now.’
If he did not speak English, then at least he had understood the tone. He had nodded weakly.
‘Danke, Herr Kapitän. Danke sehr!’ Some of his companions had leaned closer to listen, as though uneasy, or perhaps surprised.
Sherbrooke asked abruptly, ‘Was their own captain not saved?’
He had realized that the surgeon commander was studying him. Perhaps disappointed that the captain did not fit his diagnosis.
He thinks I came down here to gloat. It made him unreasonably angry. He was deathly tired, and it was catching up with him, but he could not help himself.
Farleigh said, ‘He was killed, sir.’
‘I think I knew.’
He had walked back through the large sick bay, feeling their eyes on him. Did they know who he was? Did they care? They were out of the war. They were the lucky ones.
So this is the enemy. Perhaps it was better, safer, never to meet them face to face.
He realized that Frazier was speaking to him. Must be worse than I think. Round the bend, bomb-happy, the sailors called it. He could not imagine what psychiatric handle Surgeon Commander Farleigh would put on it.
‘I’ll be off, sir. Got a taxi coming.’ But still he hesitated. ‘Must make the most of it, as you say.’
Sherbrooke sat down again when he had gone, wondering, rather dully, what Frazier’s wife was like. What would they talk about? The fight with Minden, the ship? He smiled disparagingly. Me?
The door opened slightly and Petty Officer Long stepped into the day cabin, a tray balanced on one hand.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Perfect timing. Thanks.’
Long was arranging the glass and some ginger ale. ‘Bit early, sir, but as we’re on our own, I thought, well, where’s the harm?’
On our own. Stagg was speeding south to London again. It would be interesting, not to say illuminating, to be a fly on the wall at the Admiralty, and observe the rear-admiral reliving the hunt for, and the destruction of the cruiser Minden.
Dodger Long watched the first Horse’s Neck being sipped, appreciated.
‘Nearly forgot, sir.’ He took out an envelope: there was a vice-admiral’s flag displayed on the flap. ‘This just come aboard, sir.’ He saw the reluctance with which Sherbrooke was opening it. Long knew what it was, right enough: captains’ stewards knew everything. They had to. And he knew the captain wasn’t going to like it one little bit. They said he had hardly slept while the ship had been at sea. This was certainly not the time.
An invitation to the vice-admiral’s house. It was not a request, but a command.
Sherbrooke said, ‘How can I get out of this?’
Long sucked his teeth. ‘You can’t, sir, an’ that’s a fact. Rear-Admiral Stagg’s not ’ere, so there’s no way out, so to speak.’
Sherbrooke stood up and walked to the scuttle again. It was still raining. He should have expected this. Stagg had probably arranged it himself. Meet the captain who had been sunk by Minden, and had evened the score . . . He would not put any manipulative stunt past Stagg.
Long was right, of course. A captain’s duties did not begin and end with the ship. He stared at the handwritten summons.
There was no way out.
Long saw him glance at the empty tumbler, and then visibly change his mind. The new captain, no matter what he had gone through, had the makings, he thought. From Petty Officer Long, there was no higher accolade.
The vice-admiral was waiting to meet Sherbrooke the moment he stepped from the staff car which had collected him from the dockyard. He was a stocky, bright-eyed little man with a weathered complexion and a youthful face, another veteran brought back from retirement, but with more vigour than many younger men Sherbrooke had known, and an impressive rectangle of medal ribbons.
He took Sherbrooke by the arm and led him through a pair of tall doors. He wasted no time.
‘Sorry to drag you over here, Sherbrooke. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to bring a ship into a dockyard after a fight – unlike some, eh?’
He was shown to a chair. He had the pleasing impression that the apology was genuine.
‘Fact is, I’ve got an important visitor on my hands. Sir Graham Edwardes.’ He put his head on one side like some quizzical bird. ‘I can see it on your face. You thought he was long out of it!’
Sherbrooke smiled, suddenly liking the small vice-admiral. The man in question, ‘long out of it’, might even have been dead, but his name would never be forgotten: Edwardes of the Dover Strait, a hero in every schoolboy’s eyes for his exploits in the Channel and the North Sea, at the Dogger Bank and Jutland.
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘Well, he has an important job now, with the Admiralty’s blessing. He goes round the country, spreading the word on behalf of the Royal Navy, persuading people to put their savings into funds for building warships, adopting the ships, too. It’s all good for morale, or whatever they like to call it.’ He grimaced. ‘And now he’s here. He was expecting to see Rear-Admiral Stagg, but apparently nobody informed him that the First Sea Lord has called Stagg down to London. Right hand not knowing what the left is doing – you know the score!’
‘How can I help?’
‘Reliant is a famous ship, and she’s just destroyed a German cruiser. It’s the stuff people want to hear, to share. They don’t have the opportunity all that often.’
‘Propaganda?’
‘If you like, yes. We’re the Silent Service too bloody often if you ask me!’
A steward in a perfectly pressed white jacket entered and waited, eyes discreetly averted, a tray in his hands.
The vice-admiral said, ‘My usual, Wilson. Horse’s Neck for you, eh, Sherbrooke?’
He remarked, ‘Not much is secret here, sir.’
The vice-admiral called after the steward, ‘Large ones!’ Then he said, ‘Dinner later. I just wanted to put you in the picture beforehand. Tomorrow you’ll be interviewed by two tame journalists, and there will be some photos. You know how it’s done.’
Sherbrooke did not know. No wonder they had wanted Stagg. He seemed to thriv
e on this sort of thing.
The drinks arrived and the vice-admiral said, ‘Sir Graham likes a dry ship, so I thought we’d get in first!’
He seemed to notice Sherbrooke’s uncertainty. ‘It’s all been cleared, and your Rear-Admiral Stagg will have been told by now. Cheers!’
Sherbrooke thought of Long’s obvious concern, the relief when he had declined that second drink. Afraid he might let the side down, or perhaps the ship.
The steward’s head appeared round the door. ‘In the drawing room, sir.’
The vice-admiral glanced ruefully at his empty glass. ‘Ah, well, let’s get on with it. Don’t be fooled, he’s still pretty sharp!’
The drawing room, like the rest of the house Sherbrooke had seen, was large, gloomy and indefinably damp. There were several paintings of famous sea-battles, much of the detail lost in the grime of years. There were three people waiting, one of them Sir Graham Edwardes, straight-backed and severe in a very dark suit. Sherbrooke had seen so many photographs of him over the years, all in uniform, that his appearance in civilian clothing was something of a shock. He looked so old. There was a younger man, vaguely scruffy, no doubt one of the tame journalists, and the third was a woman. Sherbrooke had a quick impression of very dark eyes, and hair pulled back severely to reveal her ears. Younger, much younger than himself. She returned his handshake, and Sir Graham introduced her as, ‘Mrs Meheux, my assistant. A real treasure.’
She sat down and crossed her legs, and Sherbrooke saw the other man turn to stare openly at them. As expected, he was a journalist, from the Ministry of Information.
‘I’m glad you agreed to step into the breach, Captain Sherman . . .’
He turned, frowning, as the girl corrected quietly, ‘Sherbrooke, Sir Graham. Captain Sherbrooke.’
Surprisingly, Edwardes laughed. ‘Of course. Been working too hard, that’s my trouble, what?’
The vice-admiral said gently, ‘Please excuse me, Sir Graham. My other guests are arriving.’
Sherbrooke could still taste the brandy on his tongue. Whatever it was, it was better than his own stock in Reliant.
It seemed warmer in the room; the giant, old-fashioned radiators must have suddenly come to life. He saw the girl loosen her heavy coat, which she had not removed, as though she had intended to leave soon, and light glinted from a brooch fashioned like a regimental badge on the blouse underneath. The Royal Engineers.
So Mrs Meheux was married to a sapper. She looked no more than twenty-five, and he wondered if her husband was like Frazier, fretting over separation, fearful of growing apart.
Sir Graham Edwardes said, ‘Good show about the Minden, Sherbrooke. A top gunnery ship, I believe. Those Jerries certainly know how to design gunsights and rangefinders – that I do understand!’
Sherbrooke tried to relax. It was a wonder that Edwardes had not referred to the enemy as The Hun.
He said, ‘Her captain stood no chance, in my opinion, Sir Graham. He was outgunned, and too far from support.’
Edwardes pressed his fingertips together and commented, ‘Rather like you when you last met up with him, eh?’
The little admiral was right. This one was pretty sharp.
Sherbrooke said, ‘I had destroyers too, sir. It’s often a matter of coincidence, luck, if you like. I had flown off our Walrus to look for some downed airmen. The pilot found Minden’s seaplane instead. After that, I knew. It was that convoy or nothing.’
Edwardes smiled. Strangely, it made him look older. ‘Being a bit modest, I’d say.’
Sherbrooke saw that the journalist was making notes, his foot tapping as if to some soundless music.
He glanced at the girl again. She was trying not to yawn, and he had seen her peering at her watch. All in a day’s work.
He said abruptly, ‘German intelligence is good, Sir Graham. They knew about the convoy and its importance, and they had homed a whole U-Boat pack to intercept it, hence the emergency route around Scotland.’
‘Well, that’s it, surely?’ He was smiling again, like a patient schoolmaster with an inept pupil. ‘We got ’em through, and that’s what counts!’
Sherbrooke said, ‘Seven escorts were sunk, Sir Graham.’
Edwardes said, ‘We’re getting away from the bones of the matter. You destroyed one of Hitler’s last big cruisers. If you hadn’t, Minden would have been amongst those troopers like a fox in a chicken-run. It would have been bloody murder!’ He glanced at the journalist. ‘Got that?’ He came sharply to his feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment. Got to pump the bilges!’
Sherbrooke watched the girl, but she showed no sign of having heard. An older version of Stagg, then. Had he said it to shock, or to embarrass her?
The journalist murmured, ‘For the record, Captain Sherbrooke, I’ll just ask a couple of questions.’
Sherbrooke said evenly, ‘Fire away.’
‘I’ve genned up on most of it, of course. Your last ship was sunk while you were defending a Russian convoy, and there were only eight of you saved. It must have been a terrible experience.’
Sherbrooke sat very still, but saw the girl twisting the wedding ring around her finger. Eager to leave.
‘Yes. It was.’ He seemed to hear the voices again. Calling out, pleading, then dying finally, in silence, while the cold tightened its grip. He shut his mind against them and said, ‘Our sailors face that risk every day of their lives.’
The journalist hurried on, as though closing the chapter on it. ‘Then you were given the Reliant, a much bigger ship. Were you . . . um . . . in awe of it?’
Sherbrooke said, ‘I suppose so. She’s a fine ship, almost the last of her class. I feel I’ve known her all my life. And I’ve served in her before, like a lot of others. To me, she is the navy.’
How easily it had come out, and he knew that he had meant it.
The girl said, quite suddenly, ‘I have to go now. Tell Sir Graham, John. I’ll see him as arranged.’
Sherbrooke stood up. ‘I’ll walk with you, and make sure about the car.’
She looked up at him, her eyes very steady. ‘I can manage, Captain, but thank you. It was good of you to alter your arrangements for us.’ A cool, firm handshake. ‘I can appreciate what it cost you. You’re full of surprises.’ She saw him begin to smile and added, ‘No . . . I mean it. I didn’t really want to come. Like you, I’m rather tired. But I’m glad I did. I don’t really know very much about ships, you see.’
Sherbrooke glanced at the brooch. ‘He’s a sapper.’
She gazed at him, as though searching for something. ‘Yes.’
There were voices outside, and she said, ‘You’re not married.’
‘I see you’ve done your homework, too.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I just listen. I hear things. It goes with the job. It was rude of me. I’m sorry.’
The vice-admiral entered the room, his bright eyes everywhere. To Sir Graham he said, ‘We can finish this over dinner. You’ve got the picture now. Should work out well.’
They all walked into the entrance hall. It retained some of its former beauty, despite the blackout shutters, and a clutter of stirrup pumps and the attendant buckets of water and sand in case of incendiary bombs.
The girl was speaking with a Royal Marine driver, giving him directions, and Sherbrooke imagined her going to meet her husband. In some hotel, he thought, or maybe he was stationed nearby. Greeting each other, forgetting everything while the moment lasted . . .
As if she sensed that he was watching her, she looked round at him.
‘Enjoy your dinner, Captain.’
She turned to follow the driver, and he said abruptly, ‘Will you be coming aboard tomorrow, Mrs Meheux?’
Edwardes, observing her hesitation, chuckled. ‘If it’s allowed, you might find it interesting.’
The little vice-admiral beamed, rubbing his hands briskly, glad it was almost over.
‘I’ll deal with that, Sir Graham.’
She said, ‘Yes. I should like t
hat, Captain.’
Edwardes called after her, ‘Better wear some trousers, Emma. There are a lot of ladders to climb in a battlecruiser, and you know what sailors are like!’
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes curiously remote. ‘I can manage, Sir Graham.’
Then she was gone, and Sherbrooke heard the car growling away into the darkness and the rain.
The vice-admiral was saying, ‘I’ve arranged a few drinks with the other guests, Sir Graham. Can I tempt you this time?’
Edwardes said something, and strode away to confer with the shabby journalist. The vice-admiral murmured to Sherbrooke, ‘Not too bad, was it?’
He thought of the girl in the staff car, returning to a life he barely understood.
‘I gather Mrs Meheux is married to someone in the Royal Engineers. Lucky chap.’
The vice-admiral cleared his throat. ‘Not too sure about that. He was at Singapore when the Japs marched in.’
‘Prisoner of war?’
‘Missing. Not a bloody word from anybody. There are a lot like that, of course. It must be hard – on her, I mean.’
Sherbrooke heard a gust of laughter, and the clink of glasses.
The vice-admiral grunted. ‘Just think of it as another bloody convoy. Something to get through in one piece!’
He smiled, scarcely listening, glad that he had come despite the questions, the obvious insincerity of it all. It was absurd, and he knew it, but he would think of her when he eventually got back to the ship. Emma . . .
The noise and greetings washed over him, and he summoned yet another smile when he heard someone loudly welcoming ‘a real hero’. But it was Edwardes of the Dover Strait who was gravely acknowledging the salutation.
The same steward asked, ‘What can I get for you, sir?’ He dropped his voice and said confidentially, ‘My brother, sir, ’e’s a leadin’ ’and. ’E’s in Reliant!’
Sherbrooke saw Edwardes staring at them.
He thought of all the others . . . the young woman not far away in Edinburgh, with her baby and a photo of her husband, who had wanted the baptism in the ship’s bell . . . of Rayner’s unknown airman, floating alone in his dinghy in those freezing waters . . . of the wounded German who had thanked him. Of so many. Too many.
Battlecruiser (1997) Page 10