Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  She saw his sudden hurt, like something physical. ‘I’m sorry. That was a bitchy thing to say.’ She looked up as a shadow fell between them.

  ‘Number Seven, Sister. Getting a bit fraught. He’s upset at leaving.’

  She was on her feet. ‘I’ll come at once.’

  The orderly said, ‘Give me a few minutes, Sister. We’re a bit short-handed on the block until the relief comes on duty.’

  Rayner stood up. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  The orderly said, ‘No, sir. I don’t think you’d understand.’

  She said sharply, ‘Of course he’d understand. He’s one of them. We’re not.’

  They walked together into an adjoining wing of the building, with the same polished floors and lines of numbered doors. The orderly Rayner had met was sitting outside one of them.

  ‘It was the jacket,’ he said. ‘I knew this would happen.’

  She said to Rayner, ‘Flight Lieutenant Bowles is being transferred to another recuperation hospital today.’ She consulted the small watch pinned to the bosom of her uniform. ‘In an hour’s time.’

  The orderly said, ‘I’ll get the duty M.O., Sister.’

  She shook her head. ‘He hates doctors, don’t you understand?’

  Rayner watched her, so small and pretty, but with a strength and compassion he was seeing for the first time.

  ‘Why are they getting rid of him?’

  She said, without emotion, ‘Because there’s nothing more they can do for him. This is the only place he knows. To him, it’s like the end of the line.’

  Something fell and shattered in the room. Rayner said, ‘Let me.’

  She opened the door, and he followed her inside. It was clean but spartan, like the rest of the place. The suitcase and the neatly pressed uniform jacket said it all.

  The officer was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a sunlit crack in the black-out curtains, so that he appeared to be crossed by a single yellow line.

  He said, ‘Good. I told them you’d put a stop to it, Andy!’ He turned his head and shoulders, and asked sharply, ‘Who’s this?’

  She said, ‘Lieutenant Rayner. A Canadian pilot.’

  He nodded, dealing with it. ‘We had a few of your bods at Biggin Hill. Not a bad bunch, considering.’

  Rayner said, ‘We try.’

  The flight lieutenant named Bowles appeared to laugh, but no sound came.

  ‘What sort of kite do you fly?’

  Rayner thought of the listing Walrus drifting away.

  ‘Walrus amphibian.’

  ‘Christ, rather you than me. Bit long in the tooth for our sort of war, I’d have thought. Give me a Spit and I’ll back it against any damned thing that flies!’

  ‘Yes, my brother was a Spitfire pilot. Well, the naval version of it.’

  There was a silence, then the other man said, ‘Was? He bought it, did he?’

  ‘Yes. Over the Med.’

  The girl stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Two pilots talking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Rayner heard the breeze against the window, and saw the sunlight probe the heavy curtains and enter the room for the first time. He had seen it before: most of them had, and the lucky ones counted their blessings. But you never got used to it.

  The eyes were blue, like his captain’s; how they had survived the fire and the surgery unblinded was a miracle. Of the face, only a grotesque mask remained. No wonder there were no mirrors in these places.

  Rayner said, ‘They tell me you’re leaving today. That’s too bad. We could have had a drink somewhere. I could tell you about a real plane, my Shagbat!’ He could feel the others tense. ‘Another time, maybe.’

  Unexpectedly, the flight lieutenant held out his hand. That, too, was horribly scarred. ‘Another time, that’s the ticket.’ He peered around the room. ‘Mustn’t forget anything . . .’

  Then he said in a different, harder tone, ‘You just watch your back, my lad. Give the buggers half a chance and you’re done for. Watch your back.’

  There were sounds in the corridor, voices; the relief had arrived.

  The flight lieutenant said, ‘So, Andy, I’m losing you again. Bad show, damn bad show, but there you are.’ He glanced at Rayner. ‘This the chap?’

  He did not wait for an answer, picking up his uniform jacket. All that was left.

  He said lightly, ‘Don’t forget me, Andy. You can’t trust sailors, you know!’

  She put her arms around his neck and held him closely for several seconds.

  ‘We’ll miss you, Jamie. Don’t lose faith. They all care, you know.’ Then she kissed him.

  Rayner looked away, unspeakably moved, and saw an orderly picking up the case, and what looked like a folded photograph frame.

  Outside in the corridor, there were suddenly others like the man who had just walked out, some in uniform or parts of uniform, in dressing gowns or careless mixtures of civilian clothing.

  As the flight lieutenant walked down towards the entrance some of them came forward and patted him on the back; a few of them raised a cheer, their terrible injuries momentarily forgotten. They were themselves again, young men, some very young, who had given so much. Too much.

  The door closed, and when he looked around Rayner saw that the corridor was empty, as though they had been spectres from some battlefield somewhere, saying their last farewell.

  She said, very softly, ‘You were wonderful just now. I was so proud of you. You made him feel wanted again.’

  ‘So did you. No wonder they all love you.’

  She was watching a small light flashing at the other end of the corridor. ‘I must go, if nobody answers that.’

  Like Stagg’s malevolent little red light, Rayner thought.

  But he said, ‘And I love you too, Andy. You realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘You hardly know me.’ But she did not pull away when he took her hand.

  ‘I can change that, given the chance.’

  She studied him, her eyes calm.

  ‘Yes. I want to give you that chance.’

  A voice called, ‘Sister! Number nineteen, quickly, please!’

  She reached up, and touched his mouth with those cool fingers. ‘Call me. Tomorrow, if you can.’

  He watched her hurry away, then he turned back and walked into the flight lieutenant’s empty room.

  He said aloud, ‘I won’t forget. I’ll watch my back, for both of us.’

  He found a taxi outside, from which an elderly couple, perhaps relatives, had just emerged; the driver was glad of a return fare.

  As they rattled back along the road to Rosyth, he recalled every moment separately.

  Like a first, perfect touchdown; nothing would ever be the same again.

  He thought of her with the flight lieutenant, the man with no face, and was filled with gratitude.

  11

  Hit-and-Run

  The first day at the Admiralty in London seemed endless to Sherbrooke. Most of the time he remained with Rear-Admiral Stagg, although on two occasions he was required to examine some reports in another office. He suspected it was so that Stagg could speak more freely in his absence.

  Reliant and their new escort carrier Seeker were lying at Greenock, not all that far from Clydebank where the battlecruiser’s keel had first tasted water nearly thirty years before.

  It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Scotland to London, and although Stagg said nothing on the subject, Sherbrooke had sensed that he was privately fuming about the failure to lay on a plane for him.

  They had spent all morning with Vice-Admiral James Hudson, who was the Chief-of-Staff as well as personal naval adviser to Winston Churchill. A tall, reedy man with the appearance of a much put-upon schoolmaster, he soon proved that he was the right person for the job.

  Maps were brought, minions coming and going silently, while traffic occasionally rattled the windows and suggested the other world outside. North Africa, then, no l
onger just a rumour or an empty hope. It was all true: the much vaunted Afrika Korps, Rommel’s unbeatable army, was in full retreat. Secret information had reached the reedy vice-admiral through intelligence sources that Rommel himself was to be replaced by Hitler’s order. That was, perhaps, the most significant piece of news. Rommel was the Afrika Korps. It was as simple as that. Throughout all the initial German triumphs along the North African coastline, Rommel had always been there, with his men and his armour, so that they all knew he was sharing the same dangers. British generals had often been criticized by certain outspoken M.P.s and journalists for spending too much time in Cairo and very little at the front, which was a very fluid description in any case. There were no trenches or static positions in this war. Armour, supplies, and infantry equipped to keep up with both were the key, and something which the British lacked, until Monty had arrived on the scene. General Montgomery might not have had the dash and style of his German counterpart, but he had something equally important: compassion. He had fought through the mud and horror of Flanders as a young man, and was determined that the lives of his soldiers should not be thrown away on a whim, or merely to make headlines.

  At El Alamein, at the very gates of Alexandria, with the Germans and their Italian allies already contemplating a victory march through Cairo, Montgomery made his stand. The position, with the sea on one side and the tank-devouring Qatar Depression on the other, was his choice. El Alamein was not much of a place, but now its name was written in history. The Afrika Korps had been forced into retreat, by-passing all those familiar, disputed places, Sollum, Tobruk, Benghazi, Tripoli. For the Allies, it was the long way back.

  Now, at last, unless some unforeseen disaster could turn the tables, the Germans were slowly being forced towards the jutting peninsula of Cape Bon in Tunis, the only point from which they had any hope of evacuation to Sicily, one hundred miles across the Strait. British convoys had been decimated trying to force that same route to relieve Malta, and wrecks were strewn across the seabed for every mile of the way as a testament to their courage, when courage had not been enough.

  Vice-Admiral Hudson had stared at his big map. ‘When the day comes that every enemy soldier is dead or captured, Africa will be ours.’ He spoke without emotion, but Sherbrooke thought his quiet simplicity made it all the more moving.

  After a brief lunch in that same room, Hudson had outlined Stagg’s part in the final stages of the master plan.

  Ever since their disagreement aboard Reliant, Sherbrooke’s contact with Stagg had been limited to the necessities of duty, and when exercising at sea with Seeker. The news which had awaited them in London had changed all that, and Stagg had become his old self again to the point of geniality. He was finally getting what he wanted, not a role to merely fill in the gaps, or to act as a long-range heavy escort for ‘a bunch of squaddies’, as he had sarcastically called the convoys. He was about to take his rightful place in things, where they could hit hard at the enemy, and the revelation had made him a different man.

  Now there was to be a small reception at a flat in town, some of Stagg’s friends and other senior officers. Sherbrooke watched Stagg’s strong fingers rifling through yet another file. Emma Meheux would be there with her new boss. He examined his feelings, pleased, and yet very aware of the danger. Friends . . .

  Hudson was saying, ‘I’ll need you with me for a few days, Vincent. The P.M. will want to see you. He always does, with these pet projects.’ He almost smiled. ‘Won’t do you any harm, will it?’

  Stagg grinned. ‘Point taken, sir.’ He looked at Sherbrooke. ‘You’ll have to get back to Greenock, I’m afraid, Guy. General recall, and the reprovisioning plan we discussed on the way down.’

  Sherbrooke smiled faintly. A few grunts and nods had been about the full extent of that particular conversation.

  Stagg relented, his good humour apparently fully restored. ‘Take a couple of days, eh? Staying at the club?’ He did not wait for or expect an answer, his mind already busy with the next question for the vice-admiral. ‘And we’re to have a top war correspondent with us, sir?’

  Hudson nodded, and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Pat Drury. He’s good, I believe.’

  Stagg rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder if our young barrister knows him as well.’

  Hudson opened an envelope. He had left it until the end.

  ‘By the way, your minelayer was sighted and torpedoed by a U.S. submarine last week. It must still have had some of the cargo on board – it was blown to pieces. No survivors, I’m afraid, so we’ll not find out much else about it. The Germans have said nothing, but then they wouldn’t, would they? It’s against every clause of the Geneva Convention to lay unmoored mines where any neutral vessel might fall victim to them.’

  Stagg snorted, ‘Those rules went out the window long ago!’

  Hudson regarded him curiously. ‘Not in my book, Vincent. Otherwise, all this is a sham.’

  Again, no emotion, no anger. But it was there. He looked over at Sherbrooke and said, ‘I read the reports. The behaviour of your Walrus crew was commendable. They’re not exactly old salts, are they?’

  Stagg said, ‘I’ve put the pilot up for a D.S.C.’ He glanced at Sherbrooke. ‘Seemed only right, at the time.’

  Sherbrooke said nothing. This was the Stagg he understood best.

  Stagg said, ‘I hope you’ll be coming to our little reception, sir.’

  Hudson shook his head. ‘Meetings, I’m afraid. But give my kind regards to your wife.’

  And then, they were out of the office and hurrying down the stairs toward the entrance, with its barriers of painted sandbags.

  Stagg said bluntly, ‘Thank Christ for that! He’d put the blight on any party!’

  He shot Sherbrooke another sly glance. ‘But you’re coming. Thought you might.’ He did not elaborate. There was no need.

  An Admiralty car was waiting at the kerbside for them, and as they climbed into it a platoon of soldiers marched past. Sherbrooke saw that they were from the Free Polish Army. London was like that, full of uniforms, every colour, every nationality, every service. What must it be like for them, fighting for a homeland which was already occupied, and dominated by the enemy?

  Stagg was lighting a cigar, while the Admiralty driver watched him covertly in the mirror.

  ‘Poles, eh?’ He puffed contentedly. ‘A right lot of bastards where women are concerned!’

  They drove off, and Sherbrooke noticed that no words were exchanged between Stagg and the driver. Maybe I’m being naive. Stagg had quite a reputation with women himself, or had, when they had been lieutenants together.

  Stagg remarked, ‘I kept the flat on. Useful if I’m in town. Can’t stand the hotels these days, full of shagged-out officers and moaning Americans.’ He laughed shortly. ‘It was my wife’s idea. One of her better ones.’

  Familiar scenes were rolling past the smooth-running Humber, like old, pre-war postcards. Trafalgar Square, with pigeons everywhere; uniforms and more uniforms, soldiers with their girls, sailors watching a busker outside a theatre; Hyde Park Corner and the first evidence of bombing, a house completely gutted, a mere shell, with an A.F.S. water tank outside where nannies had once pushed their prams.

  Stagg said, ‘Thank God, this part of London doesn’t change much!’

  They approached and passed the Dorchester, aloof behind its own barricade of sandbags. A capital at war.

  The car swooped into a side street and Stagg said, ‘Some have arrived early, I see.’ He chuckled. ‘That’ll give ’em a chance to talk about me behind my back!’ It seemed to amuse him.

  They walked into a spacious entrance hall, with a uniformed porter who almost saluted when he saw them.

  The flat was on the first floor, and Sherbrooke could feel his muscles tensing even before the door was opened. Voices, people he would not know. When would he get over it? When he had come out of hospital it had been like this, not wanting to see or speak to anybody, but knowing all the time it was hi
s last chance, not to forget what had happened to him, but simply to survive it.

  At first glance, the flat looked as huge as Reliant’s wardroom, and it seemed to be full of men and women, some in uniform, some not. There was obviously plenty to drink, and there would be food, too. Stagg had a lot of pull somewhere.

  He recognized a couple of faces, and saw one bending to speak to an attractive Wren officer. That’s Sherbrooke, Reliant’s captain. Or perhaps, the poor chap who lost his ship. Only eight picked up, you know.

  He should accept it. It would never leave him.

  Stagg had charged into the fray like his namesake, his arms waving, his grin like a beacon.

  And then Sherbrooke saw her. She was standing with a tall naval officer, a captain: that must be Roger Thome, her boss.

  Thome strode over and thrust out his hand. ‘You look well! Don’t suppose you remember me. I was your horrible first lieutenant in the old Montrose!’ He turned and grinned at the girl beside him. ‘Just a stroppy young subbie he was then! Look at him now, eh?’

  Sherbrooke said carefully, ‘Yes, I remember Montrose. Just before I joined Reliant in the Med.’

  Thorne made an extravagant gesture. ‘This is my assistant, Mrs Emma Meheux, of D.O.I.’ He frowned. ‘But you’ve met, haven’t you? I forgot!’

  She held out her hand, and smiled. Her eyes said, no, you didn’t forget.

  ‘It’s very good to see you again, Captain. We’ve been hearing some very nice things about you.’

  ‘Probably lies,’ he said. He watched her mouth, and the small pulse beating in her throat. She was ill at ease, perhaps unhappy at this arranged meeting.

  Thome said, ‘Damned long ship, this one. I’ll get some service over here,’ and left them alone.

  Sherbrooke said, ‘I’ve thought about you a lot, Emma. Wondered about you.’

  She reached out impulsively and gripped his hand. ‘How was it . . . really?’

  ‘It could have been worse. Much worse.’

  She smiled, but it did not change the expression in her eyes. ‘You’d say that anyway.’

  ‘And you?’

  She shook her head with a little shrug, and he saw the long hair down her back. ‘No news.’ She was looking past him. ‘How long will you be in London?’