Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to hide, to be away from it with you. I think we’ve earned it.’ He tightened his grip, as if afraid they would be interrupted. ‘All evening I’ve been watching you, Emma. Imagined us together, as it might have been. Just now, when you turned your back, I thought of your hair, loose and across your shoulders, and with only me to see it.’ He hesitated. ‘More like a bumbling midshipman than the iron captain, eh?’

  She leaned her head against his chest; he could feel her breathing, the pressure of her breast, the warmth of her.

  ‘If it was honour that held us apart, it is love which defies even that!’

  She laid her fingers on his lips as though to stop him, but he added, ‘I’m not proud of the fact, but if I could take you from your husband, or anyone else, I would.’

  There were voices outside, muffled by the door, the sound of someone singing.

  She said, ‘I’ll have to leave when they do. Can’t you come? Just to see you, to know you’re there?’

  Sherbrooke released her very gently. ‘No. I really do have something to deal with.’

  The door opened and Thorne made a great show of peering around it.

  ‘Just being discreet, old boy!’ He glanced between them, but his eyes did not focus very well. ‘Don’t want to be a spoil-sport!’

  Then he stared around, his jovial confidence deflated. ‘Point me towards the heads, will you? Won’t be a tick!’

  Alone again, they faced one another beneath the ship’s crest.

  She said, ‘Come to me again, Guy. Like we promised?’

  ‘And you take care of yourself.’

  She lifted her face.

  ‘Kiss me. As you would. As you wanted to.’

  It was impossible to know how long it lasted, but it seemed as if they had been lovers over and beyond time itself.

  Then she stood back and wiped her lipstick from his mouth with gentle fingers. ‘That would make people talk!’

  Sherbrooke heard Long’s voice from the other cabin. So he knew about it. About us.

  Long was saying, ‘Here we go, sir, nice an’ easy like!’ Then they heard Thorne’s slurred reply, and Long said, ‘The old ship’s rolling a bit tonight, sir, an’ no mistake!’

  She looked up at Sherbrooke again, torn between laughter and tears.

  Sherbrooke watched Long guiding the other captain through the door.

  ‘He’s quite incorrigible, that one.’

  She was looking through the other door, at the neatly made bunk, the reading light, and his enemy, the telephone. His world, which she could never share.

  He saw her eyes, and took her arm. ‘I know, Emma. I know.’

  After he had seen them down the brow to the waiting cars, he returned to his cabin and removed his jacket, as if he hated it. Long came and went without any comment, but left a decanter by the blotter on the desk.

  The party slowly faded to an end, and the last visitors left or were half-carried ashore. Thorne was not the only one who was upset by the ship’s ‘rolling’.

  He thought about her, even as his eyes skimmed through his notes, thinking of her here, right here, in the cabin. And in Chelsea: how it might have been.

  He sighed and massaged his eyes, and then began reading once again. Perhaps he had missed something. No captain could afford carelessness.

  He poured another drink and knew he had had too much.

  He stood up and paced around the cabin and heard Long give a discreet cough in his pantry. He slid open the hatch and said, ‘Go and turn in. You must be dog-tired. God, it must be a mess in the wardroom!’

  Long, framed in his little pantry hatch, regarded him gravely. ‘The last for a bit, probably, eh, sir?’

  Sherbrooke glanced at the desk, the pile of papers. No, he had not missed anything.

  Long disappeared, and the ship was in silence when Frazier came aft to the cabin.

  Sherbrooke did not remember any knock, or how long Frazier had been sitting there.

  Stupidly he said, ‘You’re back then?’

  Frazier glanced at the decanter and the empty glass. ‘Thought I should, sir. If you don’t need me, I’d better go to the hotel.’

  Sherbrooke nodded, then touched his mouth, where her lipstick had been. ‘What the hell is the time, anyway?’

  Frazier smiled. ‘About three, sir.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Frazier said quietly, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Wrong? Why should there be?’ He attempted to stand but it was too much for him. He was tired, strained to the limit, and quite drunk.

  He said, ‘We shall be leaving the yard.’ He pushed the signal across the desk. ‘Here, read it for yourself. It came when the admiral was going ashore.’

  Frazier made himself look at the signal. ‘I’ll not be sorry to leave, sir. Get back to sea.’ Then he exclaimed, ‘It’s three weeks earlier than expected. I never thought those idle sods would get the new plating fitted in time!’

  Sherbrooke stared at him, and remembered what she had said about Frazier’s pretty wife. Got his hands full there. He replied, ‘Because they’re not going to do it! Take too long. Can’t spare the time. You know the bloody excuses – you should do, by now!’

  Frazier persisted, ‘I don’t understand, sir. They agreed to the report. It was all arranged.’

  ‘It was overruled apparently, John. At Rear-Admiral Stagg’s insistence.’

  Frazier ran his fingers through his hair. It made him look about twenty.

  ‘I suppose he must know what he’s doing?’

  Sherbrooke stood up very carefully. ‘Well, I don’t, and neither, I suspect, do you!’

  Petty Officer Long appeared as if by magic, wide awake, and still in a spotless white jacket.

  ‘Time for a doss-down, sir?’

  Frazier took one arm and Long the other. If Long had not still been around, he would have had to manage somehow.

  They must have looked like three tipsy libertymen returning from a very wet run ashore.

  Frazier said, ‘I must make a shore call, Long. I’ll be staying aboard tonight.’ He grinned. ‘What’s left of it!’

  He paused at the door and saw Long swing Sherbrooke’s legs up on to the bunk. He did not switch off the light. He had heard about that custom from somebody.

  He had never seen the captain the worse for drink before, and was surprised that he was moved by it in some way.

  Long let out a deep breath. ‘You’ll have a head on you in the morning, Captain!’ He smiled. He was human, anyway. The nice little party who’d been with him would see him all right.

  He glanced around the cabin and said quietly, ‘Off again, old girl. No peace for the wicked, is there?’

  There was a little brandy left in the decanter and he carried it with him to the pantry.

  It went with the job.

  Rear-Admiral Vincent Stagg sipped some coffee and grimaced. ‘Muck! Don’t they teach people anything these days?’

  Sherbrooke glanced around the big cabin. It looked as if it had been hit by a whirlwind: uniforms on hangers waiting to be stowed away, golf clubs and a case of wine, and almost every chair was covered with files and signal folders. He had seen the admiral’s secretary hurrying back to his office, his arms filled with other material relating to the ship’s readiness, or lack of it.

  Stagg looked at him curiously. ‘You’ve done well while I’ve been away, Guy. Knew you would.’ He wrinkled his broken nose. ‘Whole ship stinks of paint, most of it still wet, by the look of it. You’ll have to have a quiet word with Frazier. Too much harbour time, that’s their problem. Practically gone native!’

  ‘It’s been a rush, sir. I’m still not happy about . . .’ He stopped as Stagg’s chief steward appeared in response to the bell on the desk.

  ‘Sir?’ Price sounded wary.

  Stagg said, ‘More coffee. I’d have something stronger, but the sun’s hardly over the yardarm yet!’ He laughed shortly. ‘Not even for me!’
He glanced down at some papers. ‘I hear the party went off all right. For that Canadian chap, what’s-his-name?’

  ‘Rayner, sir.’

  Sherbrooke watched him: he was on edge about something. The rest was bluff.

  ‘I’m told the admiral was pleased. Good show. And what about replacements for the men killed in the Med? Your job, I know all about that, but I’d like to know.’

  ‘Still two to come, sir.’ He waited while Stagg searched for his cigar case. ‘Did you find another flag lieutenant when you were in London?’

  Stagg shrugged. ‘More or less. He’ll be joining us later. Good record, and the right background. We’ll have to see.’

  Price came and went; the coffee remained untouched.

  ‘You’ll hear soon enough, Guy, but it’s right at the top of the secret list. It’s to be Sicily, no surprise to us, of course, but the brains of Whitehall intend to provide a few diversions to keep the enemy guessing. It will be hard, no matter how it goes. But it must work. Everything will depend on this first step and the navy’s role will be paramount. Nothing new in that, but I want every man jack to know it!’

  ‘We will begin to reammunition tomorrow, sir.’

  Stagg was not listening. ‘I was reading the dockyard report.’ He gave him a searching glance. ‘And your comments about it. I must be frank, I thought they were well out of line. Not what I would have expected, from you, anyway.’

  So that was it. Sherbrooke said, ‘I thought . . . I still believe that the refit and repairs were skimped. Our last engagement showed what kind of damage we might expect. Frankly, sir, I think it puts the ship at risk.’

  ‘Do you?’ He smiled. ‘This from the man who goes hell-for-leather against a German cruiser, and then practically stops the ship to pick up three men. Now that I would call a risk!’

  ‘Justified, sir.’

  Stagg stood up, and ignored the papers which fell from his lap.

  ‘Reliant is a good appointment for you, Guy. What you needed, maybe more than you realized. I’ve seen what the other business did to you. I understood, but you know as well as I do that where I am concerned, the rap stops here. You command my flagship, and I know I’m not all that easy to serve under. That can’t concern us. The next months, weeks even, are vital, and I don’t just mean to the progress of the war. Later on, perhaps, Reliant can go into dock for a proper overhaul, but not now!’

  ‘Is there something else, sir?’

  Stagg sat down and stared at the papers around his feet.

  ‘Between us, Guy, I’m not even sure myself!’ He grinned suddenly, as he did when he was speaking with some dumbfounded sailor on his unofficial rounds. ‘I may not be staying in Reliant for much longer. It depends . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it depends – let’s leave it at that.’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘Another flag officer is taking over?’

  Stagg looked away. ‘I doubt it. Reliant will probably get her well-deserved refit, and the extra armour plate we’re always being promised. After that, who can say?’

  Sherbrooke waited, surprised that he could remain so calm. The big push, and then Reliant was to be written off, left to perform less important duties.

  Stagg continued, ‘There will be a post in Washington, an important one, in view of the situation with the Americans in the Far East. I was astonished, of course, when I was suggested for it. Proud too, I must say.’

  Sherbrooke thought of all the faces at Rayner’s party: the Chief, not only the oldest member of Reliant’s company, but one who probably knew her better than anyone. Frazier, who had turned down a command of his own, perhaps out of the same loyalty, and Evershed, the gunnery officer, who had not rested or taken a day’s leave while the ship had been here at Rosyth until B Turret was fully operational again, and every circuit had been double-checked. Rhodes, the navigating officer, like a rock, and highly skilled; one who could handle this great ship like a schooner. So many faces he had come to know: men who all had one thing in common. The ship.

  And what of dead men’s shoes? Cavendish, who had killed himself, no matter what the recorded verdict claimed. He had given so much to Reliant in the most dangerous days of the war, and had been betrayed by the woman he had loved.

  Stagg said, ‘You have your own future to think about, Guy. You can’t keep running only to stay in the same place, eh?’

  ‘Then there will be no change in sailing orders, sir?’

  ‘None. This is our big chance. I’ll not see it screwed up.’ He gave his famous grin. ‘By anybody!’

  Sherbrooke picked up his cap. When he looked at Stagg again, there was no trace of uneasiness. The fighting admiral.

  Stagg said, ‘We are going to Scapa, where we shall join Seeker and our destroyers.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve been promised a replacement for Montagu. It all takes too long!’ And then, dismissing it, as if he had just thought of something more pressing, ‘The cruiser Assurance is to be part of the group. Her skipper, Jock Pirie, is an old chum of mine. Things are looking up.’

  As he left the cabin, Villar passed him with barely a glance.

  Stagg said to him, ‘Did you arrange that shore telephone for me? Good show!’

  Sherbrooke closed the door. A call to whom, he wondered. Stagg’s watchful wife or the elegant Jane, or someone else entirely?

  It did not matter. It must not. There was too much at stake.

  He turned away from his own quarters and went out on deck, where the afternoon sunshine was very bright, but without warmth.

  The beardless Lieutenant Frost, who was the O.O.D., straightened up as he saw the captain walking across the quarterdeck below the guns of Y Turret. For a moment he thought he had missed something, that the captain had spoken to him.

  Overhead, the tannoy speaker reminded him of his duties.

  ‘Out pipes! Hands carry on with your work!’

  Sherbrooke grasped the guardrail and looked down at the oily, littered water between the ship’s side and the pier.

  In fact, he had spoken aloud, although he had not realized it.

  ‘I’ll not leave you, my lady. Depend on it.’

  The thick wire back-spring tightened suddenly and grated around the quarterdeck bollards.

  Sherbrooke looked toward the White Ensign, hanging limp and still from its staff. Stagg’s flag, too, was motionless. There was not a breath of wind, and yet Reliant had moved.

  The bond was here. As strong as ever.

  16

  Storm Warning

  Despite the number of officers present, Reliant’s wardroom seemed unnaturally quiet. There were no stewards in attendance, and the pantry hatch and all doors were closed, with a Royal Marine guard in the outer lobby to ensure that this gathering remained undisturbed.

  Frazier said, ‘All present, sir.’ He sounded clipped, formal. By ‘all’, he meant the battlecruiser’s senior officers and heads of departments, those who fed, armed and drove this great ship, or cared for the injuries of her company if the worst should happen.

  Sherbrooke remained standing by a small table and looked at them, waiting for them to settle down. Even the ship seemed quiet, only the fans purring softly to give any sense of her movement.

  The action with the German cruiser Minden, the near-miss with the disguised minelayer, and even the nerve-jarring bombardment of the old French naval dockyard at Ferryville outside Bizerte, the culmination of Operation Sackcloth, had been mentally shelved, if not forgotten. After a too-brief work-up with the rest of the group, they had headed south once more, and but for the curtains drawn across the polished scuttles to hold back the glaring sunlight, the impressive natural fortress of Gibraltar would be the backdrop, the setting for the next stage of naval operations.

  Sherbrooke had never seen such an armada of ships, nor so many types and classes: escorts and storeships, tank landing craft, and the larger vessels which carried their own flotillas of box-like boats for ferrying infantry to beaches held by the enemy. In the Eastern Mediterranean the deployment would
be the same, from Alexandria to Malta and the captured bases along the North African coastline, the forces of invasion were poised to attack, and as ready as they could ever hope to be.

  Secrecy was a matter of conjecture; success was the only goal. There was no alternative.

  And in every ship at this moment, the other commanding officers would be doing the same, telling their people what was required of them.

  Stagg was ashore with the admiral, and Sherbrooke was surprised that he should feel so relieved at his absence. Stagg, after all, was a past master at this kind of thing, and would have added the right flavour, in a style which they had all come to know.

  He said, ‘Gentlemen, knowing the navy, I feel quite certain that you are all aware of my reason for calling you together. In fact, you probably knew before I did myself.’

  He gazed at them, the men who ran and controlled the affairs of his ship. Onslow, the Chief, massive in his chair, Farleigh, the tight-lipped surgeon commander, and Rhodes. Evershed, gunnery officer, Palliser, the major of marines, looking more like a soldier than ever in his lightweight khaki uniform. Bearcroft, the supply officer, who would know to the ounce how much corned beef would be needed to supply every gun position with sandwiches; and of course, the Bloke, John Frazier. All of them wore white drill, and looked like strangers after the scuffed sea boots and duffle coats of the North Atlantic.

  ‘I have a signal here from Admiral Cunningham, the Commander-in-Chief, which he has made to all ships and naval units taking part in this great operation.’ He saw Rhodes lean forward slightly, his strong fingers interlaced, intent on his words, no doubt remembering Cunningham’s signal of congratulations, not to any name or single person, but to the ship. ‘We are to embark on the most momentous enterprise of the war – striking for the first time at the enemy on his own territory.’ He smiled, and felt the tightness in his jaw. ‘For us, gentlemen, this will be Operation Husky. The invasion of Sicily.’

  Perhaps when Nelson’s ships had paused here before the savage battle of the Nile, there had been cheering, or some other outward demonstration of loyalty and trust. Today, there were only a few quick glances, and the Chief uttered a heavy sigh, either of relief or because of the demands Reliant’s participation would make on his departments in boiler and engine rooms.