He disliked his immediate superior, the Gunnery Offic McGowan always seemed to be watching him, just as F had once watched him on the bridge. It was more curios than concern, he thought, and this irritated him very mu He also avoided Tregarth, the Chier Engineer, and R bins, his assistant. They were both ex-Merchant Navy lij Fox, and kept very much to themselves. He quite likl Wickersley, the Doctor, but the man’s cheerful indifferen to ceremonial and tradition marked him as a man too dangerous to befriend seriously. The latest example of the Doctor’s unreliability had caused a wave of laughter in the wardroom the previous day. He had actually come aboard with the new captain, apparently after cadging a ride in the boat, and even offering the Captain a drink in his own ship
Harbridge’s harsh voice cut into his thoughts. `Watch yer course, Quartermaster ! You’re wandering about like a ruptured duck!’
Norris swallowed hard with disgust. He heard Harbridge slam down the mouth of the wheelhouse speaking-tube and stump to the rear of the bridge, the sound of his footsteps sounding like an additional rebuke. Norris knew that he should have checked the compass and warned the helmsman himself. On the other hand, Harbridge might have warned him.
A bosun’s mate appeared in the gloom. `Fifteen minutes to go, sir.’
`Very well. Call the Starboard Watch.’ He tried to avoid listening to his own stiff, unnatural voice as he passed his orders. It was like Joyce, he thought. When she spoke to the headmaster, or met some of the awful school governors, Norris could hardly recognise her voice then. At home she changed back again, but in front of what she called `our sort’ she used her mock-B.B.C. accent.
Harbridge said suddenly, `Bloody helmsman’s half asleep again!’
`I shall deal with him later.’ Then, in an effort to break the ice, `Still, he’s not been an A.B. long.’
Harbridge sniffed loudly. `Not the only one either!’
Norris sighed and turned away. The watch was almost done. He had managed it on his own. After this he could meet Harbridge’s eyes across the table without embarrassment.
The whirr of a telephone at his elbow made him start violently. He jammed it to his ear, his eyes screwed with concentration. `Officer of the Watch.’ He waited, his heart pounding once more. Probably some fool asking for a time check.
From the other end of the ship came a frantic voice `Man overboard, sir ! Starboard side, aft!’
The handset dropped from Norris’s fingers. For severa. more seconds he could only stare at the bridge screen, hiss mind blank, his eyes refusing to recognise even the farniliaa Objects nearby. With each agonising second the monitor’s big screws pushed her further and further away from thal anonymous man who had brought Norris to the fringe oil complete panic.
Harbridge said, `What’s up, then?’
`Man overboard.’ Norris answered in a small voice, like a boy replying to his form master. Helplessly he twisted his head to stare at the swaying bridge, the great tower of steer which he suddenly did not know how to control.
`For Christ’s sake!’ Harbridge almost fell in his eagerness to reach the voice-pipe. `Stop engines!’ Then, as a bosun’s mate scurried into view : `Away seaboat’s crew!’
Man overboard!’ He then turned and stared fixedly at Norris’s white face. `You useless bastard!’ He was shakin with sudden anger, but from across the darkened bridg11 Norris had the impression that he was grinning.
Richard Chesnaye rolled on to his side in the narrow bunk and turned his back on the glare from his desk lamp He tried not to look at his watch, but knew nevertheless that he had been in the tiny sea-cabin for nearly three hours without once closing his eyes. Through the door anc beyond the charthouse he could hear the faint shuffling footsteps of the watchkeepers on the upper bridge and the, regular creak of the steering mechanism as the Quarter master endeavoured to keep the slow-moving Saracen or her course away from Malta.
Chesnaye had had to force himself to leave the bridge. I had been almost a physical effort, but he knew that wher daylight came the ship would still be less than a hundred miles from Malta, well within range of enemy aircraft a, well as all the other menaces.
He rubbed his sore eyes and marvelled at the amount oa, ship’s correspondence he had read and absorbed during thc,’, night watches. Piece by piece he had built up a picture o the men and equipment which filled the ship like machinery and made it work badly or well. During his one day in Malta he had toured every quarter of the monitor, and made a point of being seen by as many people as possible. He had spoken to all his senior ratings, and some of the new ones as well. Before lunch he had visited the ward= room and had confronted his officers. He was not sure what he had been expecting, but the meeting had left him feeling more than a little uneasy. He had known that the wardroom was comprised mainly of new and untried officers, but there was something more, an air of nervous cynicism, which seemed to border on contempt. Chesnaye did not care what they thought of him. Every captain had to prove himself. But much of their casual attitude seemed directed towards the ship. The respectful but distant interview had been interspersed with `What does it matter?’ and `What can you expect in a ship like this?’ When an air-raid warning had sounded it had come as something like a relief.
Erskine had followed him around the ship, full of information and quick suggestions which he was careful not to offer as advice. Chesnaye would have felt better if Erskine had been more outspoken, even critical, but he was careful not to commit himself. It was well known that any ship could be under a cloud after her captain’s court martial, but with Erskine it seemed to go much deeper. The memory of Commander Godden kept returning like an old nightmare, and the way that he had secretly undermined the Saracen’s first captain. The monitor no longer even warranted a commander. There was this matter of the sailing orders, for instance. Chesnaye frowned as he remembered Ers’Une’s reactions.
The ship was to proceed to Alexandria, escorted part of the way by one A/S trawler. It was incredible how short of minor war vessels the Fleet had become. In Alexandria she was to take on `military stores’ in accordance with so-andso signals. When he had questioned Erskine about the stores lie had replied with a shrug : `Oh, we do any old thing ! Hump stores, petrol, bully beef, anything the Senior Officer thinks fit!’ He had spoken with such fierce bitterness that Chesnaye had looked at him with sudden anger.
`What do you mean by that?’
`Nobody cares about the Saracen, sir. She’s old, clapped out, like half the ships we’ve got here !’He had waved his arm vaguely. `Now we’re putting the Army into Greece to help out there. That’ll mean ships to support them, and more work for the rest of us.’
`We shall just have to manage.’
Erskine had given a small smile. `Yes, sir.’
`You don’t like this ship, do you?’ Chesnaye had felt the old agitation once more.
`I’m used to it. That’s about all. She’s slow, out-of-date, badly equipped and manned. Her main armament is so worn out by practice use in peacetime that the barrels are almost smooth-bores ! No wonder we dropped shells on those poor pongoes !’
Chesnaye afterwards cursed himself for allowing himself to be drawn. He was tired and worn out after his journey and the excitement of joining the ship. Otherwise he might have been more guarded. `When I first joined Saracen it was an honour to be selected. She was brand-new then, a different kind of weapon. But there were old ships in the Fleet as well, even older than she is now. The job had to be done. Any job.’ He had regarded the other man coldly. `And if our orders are to hump stores, then we will be better at it than any other ship, d’you understand?’
Erskine had stiffened, his face suddenly a mask. `I think I do, sir.’
Chesnaye rolled on to his back and stared up at the deckhead. Of course he didn’t understand. But I should have told him. Made him ! A ship was what you made of her. It had always been true. It had not changed.
He thought again of his officers. Very mixed. Two or three strong characters who could make or break an
y ship. He started once more to mentally sort them into categories. Tregarth was a good man. Not much to say. But in his round Cornish voice, coupled with a hard handshake, he, had told Chesnaye that when the time carne he could rely 1on the engine room giving its best.
That’s when Fox, the Navigator, had interrupted. `We’ve got two speeds here. Dead slow and stop!’
Fox would have to be watched. Independent, and very stubborn. McGowan, the Gunnery Officer, seemed competent enough. A dead pattern of a regular officer. Like a hundred others, he thought. Reliable, but not much imagination. Then there was Norris, the officer on watch on the other side of the door at this moment. He could go either way. If only he could relax and concentrate on his job. Chesnaye had kept away from the bridge during the Middle Watch in order to give Norris a chance to assert himself The watch was quiet enough. It might be of some use.
The junior officers were all R.N.V.R., except Midshipman Gayler and the two warrant officers. They would behave and react according to the example set by their superiors. How I behave.
Of course, it was a disappointment to be relegated to a kind of store-ship. There was no hiding the bitterness and hurt he felt in his own heart. But, as Erskine had rightly pointed out, the line would be stretched even thinner, and there was no saying what might happen in ‘the next months, even weeks.
The Fleet had scored a tremendous victory over the Italians off Cape Matapan only a fortnight earlier, when in a brilliant night action they had routed and decimated a force of powerful, modern cruisers without the loss of a single man.
But the land battle was something else. After a breathtaking advance along the North African coast they were now being forced to fall back. It was said that even Tobruk, the one hard-fought port of any true importance, was in danger of being retaken.
The Army, too, had problems, it seemed. With more and more troops and aircraft being withdrawn from the desert to help the beleaguered Greeks, and the Germans arriving daily to support the disgraced Italians, it would get a damned sight worse unless some sort of miracle happened.
Chesnaye thought of his officers’ attentive faces and felt vaguely angry. They were amused, even scornful, he thought.
He sat up suddenly and stared round the little cabin. How many captains ‘have sat here wondering about their officers? How many reputations have been formed or lost? Like Royston-Jones planning to hurl his untried ship into a battle already decided, or his most recent predecessor, out of touch but determined, who had ended his command in failure and disgrace.
He felt cold all over, and was conscious of the numbness in his leg. `Not me,’ he whispered. `Not me!’
Outside a telephone buzzed impatiently. He peered at his watch. Ten minutes to eight bells. There was the sound of running feet, muffled shouts and the sudden jangle of engine-room telegraphs. With a shudder the engines’ steady vibrations stopped, and as Chesnaye jumped to the deck and tugged on his leather wellingtons his mind began to click into place. He had wondered how he would react when the time came. It had been a long while since he had been tried. But the time was now. Perhaps they had overtaken the little trawler escort in the darkness and were about to run her down. He realised that his breathing was faster and his hand was shaking as he groped urgently for the door.
It was all over in minutes. He was grateful_ that he had been awake and that the darkness hid the anxiety on his face. He heard himself say : `Resume course and speed. Secure the seaboat.’
And as Lieutenant Norris started again to stutter what” had happened he barked : `Make a signal to escorting trawler. Tell them to make a sweep astern for the missing man immediately!’ Then to the bridge at large, `Who was he, by the way?’
Harbridge answered. ‘O’Leary, sir. One of the boatlowerers. He was skylarkin’ on watch and slipped on the, guard-rail!’
`I see.’ Chesnaye had a brief picture of a cheerful seaman suddenly thrown into nothingness. From a safe, well-worn, deck to a nightmare of black water and cruel stars. `He] should be wearing a lifebelt and safety-light. The trawler might spot him.’
Erskine was suddenly at his side, his face made boyish b his dishevelled hair. `Are you not waiting, sir ?’
Chesnaye shut out the intruding picture of the terrified drowning seaman, who could probably still see the moni tar’s fading shape above the water-crests. God ! `We are, not. I will not endanger the ship for one man.’ He forced) himself to look at Erskine’s shocked face. `I am far more concerned about the apparent lack of control and discipline. I shall want a full report from the Officer of the Watch tomorrow morning.’ He turned slightly. `And, Norris ?’
`Sir?’ Small voice. Shaken. Unsure.
`Never stop the ship unless absolutely necessary. This area is alive with submarines and heaven knows what else. There are risks and risks.’
Harbridge said sullenly, `Another minute an’ I could’ve had the seaboat lowered, sir!’
‘Then you can thank your stars you did not find that minute, Mr. Harbridge. I would have ensured it to be your last order !’
He forced himself to look across the screen as a dark shape with a towering white bow wave steamed down the Saracen’s beam. The trawler’s signal lamp flashed briefly, and then she was gone. Below his feet Chesnaye felt the deck vibrating again. The monitor stopped her yawing and began to gather way.
Lieutenant McGowan appeared at the bridge ladder. His loud, cutting greeting, `Morning Watchkeepers greet you all!’ faded away as he assessed the grimness of the little group around the Captain.
Chesnaye nodded curtly. `Carry on!’ Then he walked slowly to the sea-cabin and closed the door behind him.
McGowan spread his hands and peered at Norris. `What happened for God’s sake?’
Norris half sobbed : `Man overboard. The Captain left him to drown!’
Harbridge said, `I can see we’re going to get on fine, I don’t think !’
The watch changed, and McGowan stood looking at Erskine, who had still not moved. `Try to keep a sense of proportion, John.’ McGowan resisted the temptation to peer astern-for the searching trawler. `It’s hard luck, but we’ll have to get over it.’
Erskine was staring at the closed door, his fists clenched. `I’ve met some in my time. But, by God, this one is a callous bastard !’
Beyond the door the man who had so easily smashed the calm of the Middle Watch sat on the edge of his bunk, his hands clasped across his stomach as he fought back the wave of nausea which threatened to engulf him.
Ten minutes earlier he had been wondering what opportunity would offer itself to enable him to start the new pattern. Now he had made that start, but the cost was tearing him in two.
Lieutenant Roger Fox stood back from the chart table to allow the Captain more light. He waited in silence as Chesnaye pored over the worn chart and watched as he traced the faint pencilled lines of the ship’s course, the neat cross bearings, times and distances which he knew were faultless.
Chesnaye straightened his back and stared thoughtfully across the open bridge to the straight silver line of the horizon. The first morning at sea was clear and bright, and the sun already hot across the steel plating and newly scrubbed gratings. The Forenoon Watch had just taken over, and he saw that Fox still had a trace of egg at the corner of his thin mouth.
`Another six and a half days to Alexandria.’ Chesnaye was thinking aloud. He had been unable to sleep, and the hoped-for freshness of the new day still eluded him. `It’s a long way, Pilot.’
‘Hmm. Six knots is about the best she can manage nowadays.’ Fox shrugged. `Poor old cow!’
Chesnaye eyed him sharply. `You’ve not been used to slow passages?’
The Navigator grinned. `Hell no, sir. Running fresh fruit to catch the market was a quick man’s game!’
Chesnaye walked on to the bridge and immediately felt the sun across his shoulders. A round-faced sub-lieutenant was standing in the front of the bridge, his glasses trained straight across the bows. Chesnaye knew from the young man’s s
tiff and alert stance that he was only bluffing and was very conscious of his captain’s presence.
`Good morning, Sub. You are Bouverie, I take it?’
The officer lowered his glasses and saluted. `Yes, sir.’
Chesnaye saw that upon closer inspection he was older than he had. first appeared. That was the trouble with these Reserve officers. You could never judge age by rank. Bouverie’s boyish features were only a first impression. His eyes, squinting against the reflected glare, were steady and shrewd. His voice, too, was controlled and almost offhand.
Bouverie reported as an afterthought, `Course oh-ninefive, sir.’
`Quite so.’
Chesnaye stepped on to the gratings and peered across the screen. On the port bow he could see the small trawler pushing through the flat water without effort, her spindly funnel trailing a fine wisp of greasy smoke.
Bouverie said quietly, `They picked up the body of our chap, sir.’
Chesnaye stiffened. He had already been told about the dead seaman, but he was conscious of the casual way Bouverie was introducing the subject.
`Yes, I know.’
`No lifebelt, sir.’ A small pause. `Hell of a way to die.’ `It always is.’
Chesnaye walked to the tall wooden chair in the corner of the bridge. Ignoring Bouverie’s curious glance, he ran his hand across the well-worn arms, remembering in an instant the small hunched figure of Royston-Jones with his cap tilted across his birdlike face. The same chair. Like the small sea-cabin, a place for thought and contemplation.
`I gather this is your first ship, sir?’ Bouverie spoke respectfully, but as if expecting an answer.
Chesnaye ignored the question. `How long have you been in the Service, Sub?’
`One year, almost to a day, sir.’
`And before that?’
‘I am a barrister, sir.’
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