Band of Brothers

by Band of Brothers (retail) (epub)

  ‘When do I get to meet your family?’

  ‘Whenever you get some leave.’ She’d shrugged. ‘Although—I told you, as far as my mother’s concerned—’

  ‘You said there’s an uncle I’d get along with.’

  ‘Well, yes…’

  She wasn’t too enthusiastic about her mother, he remembered. Holding her. Smallish, curvy, lovely shape, with a lot of soft brown hair, wide-apart hazel eyes and a mouth that made his hair curl just to look at it. He’d seen Monkey Moncrieff looking at it last night too—and the Canadian girl watching Monkey, a certain displeasure creasing her pudgy face and Monkey quite oblivious of it. But that mouth of Rosie’s would give any man ideas—if he didn’t have them already. Rosie Ewing, née Rosalie de Bosque—

  Action alarm buzzer, harshly insistent—startling him for an instant although in the next he registered that only seconds ago the radar genius, Wheeler, had passed through, getting down there to his set before the rush began. Ben stubbed out his cigarette, reached for the log to record this—time 2045—keeping out of the way then as sailors streamed up from the for’ard messdeck, via wheelhouse and bridge to their action stations. Except in a glassy calm the fore hatch wasn’t usable at sea. These were all seamen, and all in goon-suits—guns’ crews, mostly, the stokers having their own messdeck aft. Scrambling up now was Harrison, layer of the for’ard six-pounder, singing ‘She was poo-ah but she was honest’ in a warbling mock-soprano; behind him, Merriman, Foster, ‘Percy’ Prout, Fenner, Michelson the Oerlikon gunner who’d been a Barnardo boy, orphaned in the ’14—’18 war when his mother had been killed by a bomb from a Zeppelin. She’d been pushing him in his pram at the time; his comment to Ben when he’d told him the story had been, ‘Should be gun-shy, shouldn’t I?’ Ben half grinning, watching them and thinking what a bloody marvellous lot they were. Young Carter now—his action job was lookout on the bridge, also to man the starboard Vickers GO—although when it came down to it anyone who was handy used that one. The signalman, or Barclay—even Bob Stack, at a pinch.

  Last man through and up to the bridge was ‘Tiny’ Harper. Shouting to Barclay as he pushed on aft to his six-pounder, ‘Messdeck cleared, sir, all hands closed up!’

  All hands numbering thirty, plus the three officers—four, if Binns had been on board. In the engineroom, PO Motor Mechanic Bluett, one leading MM and four stokers. Also below—at this end of the ship—were the telegraphists and the radar man—who if Stack was permitting it at this stage would be switching on his set, warming it up and testing it, then shutting down again. While on deck there’d be two seamen at each of the six-pounder mountings, one in each of the point-five turrets, Michelson with his winger Foster at the Oerlikons, and others concerned with ammunition supply, depth-charges and the smoke-making gear. The powered gun mountings were all joystick-controlled, one single control for laying, training and firing; having slid into their seats and donned telephone headsets and tin hats the gunners would have the turrets swiftly training around, barrels elevating and depressing—checking the power—then centred again, loaded, ready.

  An hour’s wait, at least. Hour and a half, more likely. But it could always happen sooner—something could. Checking again, to ascertain speed-made-good since the increase in revs.

  Barclay’s voice then: ‘Going walkabout, sir.’

  A tour of the gun positions, he’d mean. As first lieutenant, gunnery-control was one of his jobs. But that had been an Aussie turn of phrase, Ben noted. Reflecting that with a bit of effort from both himself and Bob they might get the bugger educated, by and by.

  He was OK, though. Not much of a sense of humour, in fact by Coastal Forces standards a bit formal in his manner, but—he was OK. Might be a little over-conscious of being second in command with a navigator five years his senior. Might account for some of it.

  Plunging over the swells like some great porpoise. Rolling rather more noticeably too. With the hands from below all up top now, the centre of gravity would be a foot or so higher than it had been, and this alone would make a difference.

  ‘Plot!’

  The W/T office voicepipe. A buzzer had sounded in the bridge, as well. He had only to turn his head to the pipe. ‘Plot.’

  ‘Signal in the bucket, sir!’

  ‘Let’s hear it, pilot!’

  Stack… This was so to speak a way-station on that voicepipe, which led on up to the bridge, connecting all three positions. But in the light over the chart here you could read a telegraphist’s blue-pencil scrawl, and you certainly couldn’t up there. He pulled up the copper cylinder, extracted and unfolded the wad of signal-pad, scanned it quickly. Face back to the pipe, then: ‘Skipper—to us from C-in-C Portsmouth, repeated Tom, Dick and Harry—ASV search of Baie de la Seine between Cap d’Antifer and Pointe de Barfleur completed without any surface contact. Time of origin—’

  ‘Good-oh. We’re in business.’

  It looked like it. In recent minutes, though, he’d put this new fix on. ‘Skipper—present rate of progress, ETA Barfleur 045 degrees ten miles still looks like 2150. Weather’s slowing us by about a knot.’

  A moment’s silence. If you could call that racket ‘silence’… Then Stack’s comment—uncharacteristically philosophical—‘Can’t do much about it, can we?’

  Leaning back, smoking again, thinking how incredible it was that this time last night he’d been with Rosie, at the Beauport Place. Such a short interval of time, such a contrast in space, circumstance, physical contact and this remoteness… He’d met her at the hotel just after six, having borrowed a battered Hillman Minx from Aggressive’s first lieutenant, Jock Hastings, who was a Coastal Force RNVR lieutenant with a DSC but permanently beached now, hobbling around with the aid of a stick after being severely damaged in a motor launch at St Nazaire, eighteen months ago. He’d been duty officer at the base this last weekend, had only asked Ben not to use more gas than he had to, since it had become harder to get of late; this was why Ben had met Rosie at the hotel instead of at Haywards Heath. He’d telephoned her in London the day before, asked her to take a taxi, for which he’d reimburse her.

  ‘Won’t be necessary. I mean reimbursement, as you call it.’

  ‘Shortage of petrol’s the snag. I’ll get you back to the station, Sunday morning. But listen, Rosie. In case you’re there before me—the room’s booked in my name.’

  ‘Oh. Is it.’

  ‘You see—I don’t know this woman—Mrs Evans-Hart, who runs the joint—’

  ‘Is my name supposed to be Quarry?’

  ‘Well—sooner or later will be—’

  ‘Does our room have its own bath, by any chance?’ This was intended as a joke, or dig. A long time ago there’d been a night in London—a railway hotel, only one single room vacant, but the hall porter had told them, ‘Does have its own bathroom’, and Ben was alleged to have offered to sleep in the bath. He’d done no such thing, had in fact never made any such offer, although she still swore to it as an historic truth.

  He’d told her on the ’phone, ‘I don’t know. I asked for one, she only said she’d see.’

  ‘Depending on whether some VIP turns up, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, probably.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, then.’

  ‘Right. Can’t wait, Rosie—I mean it, really can’t…’

  Actually she hadn’t minded about the room, or for having to allow Mrs Evans-Hart—blue hair, too much make-up, eyes like a snake’s—to pretend to believe they were married. What really had made her cross had been when after he’d joined her there—in the room, which was fine, quite large with a dark oak four-poster and a view across the park—after they’d made love and come back to earth he’d broken the news that the evening was to be spent in a foursome with Monkey Moncrieff and some girl.

  ‘A bit much, Ben! Isn’t it?’ The glow had faded very suddenly. ‘When we finally get to spend a few hours together, for God’s sake, we’re going to spend our time making conversation, dancing with other peop
le—’

  ‘More than a few hours. Whole night. Rosie, look, I don’t like it either, but I couldn’t help it—honestly, at least I don’t know how I could have got out of it. Anyway, we don’t have to dance with them—well, once, maybe… I know it’s a bloody bore, but—Rosie darling, we don’t have to stay up late, either—’

  ‘No bathroom—’ she hadn’t seemed to mind this, until he’d told her about Monkey—‘and now—well, honestly—’

  ‘Four-poster—huh?’

  Naked, with an arm up behind her, fingering the carving of that post… Eyes swivelling to it, then back to him, beginning to laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘You. Like offering a child a treat to stop it crying.’ She put on a baby-talk voice: ‘Look at the nice four-poster…’ Then turned serious again. ‘Do these people know we’re staying here?’

  ‘Monkey knows you are. He put me on to the place, I told you.’

  ‘So they will know.’

  ‘Well—does it matter?’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps—’

  ‘He’s an old mate, Rosie. Wouldn’t go telling tales. And she’s from heaven knows where, wouldn’t know anyone who’d know you or me.’

  ‘It still stinks.’

  ‘I ever mention you’re the most beautiful thing in creation?’

  ‘You and your old mates. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t ask the other one along. The Australian.’ Her eyes widened: ‘Or is he coming? Because if he is, you bastard—’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Laughing down at her. ‘I swear it. Rosie, darling—’

  ‘I warn you, if he does show up—’

  ‘He won’t. The base is bloody miles away—one reason for coming here. Promise you, he will not. OK?’

  Just his wife did…

  Their table, where they’d had supper, was in a wide corridor, one of a line of tables against one wall, and the dancing was in what had no doubt been the drawing-room, at one time—double doors farther along, opposite the bar. The staircase came before that, leading up from a wider area that was an extension of the foyer. Inner hall, they’d probably have called it. The hall and front door were round to the right, around that corner. And past the bar and the foot of the stairs was the dining-room proper. Joan might have come out of there, or from the bar: there’d been a lot of people on the move, she was one of them and it was Monkey, facing that way, who saw her.

  ‘Christ.’ Interrupting his girlfriend, whatever rubbish she’d been talking… ‘Ben—see what I’m seeing?’

  He’d craned round, seen them just as they went out of sight into the dance room. His immediate reaction had been one of alarm: Joan was here—as beautiful as ever, there’d been no mistaking her—nor her impact on him, an instant flare-up of memories to which he was not now—as he told himself just as instantly—entitled… And that had been Mike Furneaux taking her in to dance.

  Therefore, (a) Bob Stack must also be here, (b) it wouldn’t be possible not to become involved—even for the two parties to amalgamate, if Bob had his way—and (c) Rosie was going to be really spitting mad.

  The band, he remembered, had been playing ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.’

  He’d glanced rather anxiously at Rosie, then back at Monkey, and begun to say something like, ‘Let’s stay clear of ’em if we can’, and Monkey had snarled, ‘Taking it just like that?’

  Rosie had asked them what was going on. The Canadian girl also wanted an explanation. Ben began, ‘My CO’s wife—’

  ‘Christ—he is here?’

  ‘Damn well is not.’ Monkey was looking that way again, but obviously Joan and Mike would have been dancing by then. Shaking his bullet head: ‘Ben—Bob is in the base. I know. I asked him if he’d join us tonight, bring her ladyship along, and he said she’s away, he wasn’t even going to bother going home after he got back from Portsmouth.’

  ‘So he’s had a nice surprise, she’s back sooner than he expected. He’ll be in the bar, or—’

  ‘If he was here at all he’d have brought her to join us.’

  ‘What we’ve missed.’ Rosie’s wide eyes on Ben. She was wearing a long black skirt and a turquoise blouse, pearl necklace. ‘And when you were so certain—’

  ‘News to me, I swear it. Anyway, Monkey here reckons—’

  He’d checked: staring at the Canadian, getting the implication. ‘You think she’s here with Mike?’

  ‘You saw, didn’t you?’

  ‘Bob must be here—’

  ‘Want to bet? Mike will have picked on this dump for the same reasons we have!’

  Ben ignored that. Adding, ‘—or he’ll be coming. That’s it—coming on late, so he got Mike—or someone—to bring her along.’

  The Canadian girl said through her teeth, ‘I’d like to dance.’

  ‘Sure. Let’s.’ Monkey got up. A nod to Ben: ‘You going to ask them, or shall I?’

  ‘Dance, Rosie?’

  ‘If he does show up, I’m going straight to bed.’

  A shout, on the bridge: it cut into his reflection that from the point of view of his own relationship with Rosie you could say it was a mercy the poor bugger had not shown up.

  Shouts, plural, though. It had sounded like at least two, overlapping. He put his good ear to the pipe, heard Barclay’s voice and something about starshell. The skipper, then: ‘Near enough due south. Flare, I’d say, more like.’ Nearing the voicepipe then: ‘Well—could be either… Pilot—what’s due south of us?’

  ‘Baie de la Seine, sir. Coast’s about thirty miles, on that bearing.’

  ‘Fading now… Gone. Alan—all yours, I’ll be in the plot.’

  He came thumping down. ‘Let’s have a decko.’ Dazzled by the light, blinking… ‘You smoke too bloody much.’ Stooping over the chart, simultaneously fumbling a cigarette out of Ben’s tin without looking at it. Wet-fingered, too. 'Here, is us. Right. So on a due south bearing… No. Hardly. Only thinking—if the Albacores made another sortie—Southwick might have asked for it without telling us—’

  ‘Not likely, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Straightening, holding his storm-lighter to the cigarette, blue eyes slitted through the brightness. ‘Could’ve been starshell, too. I’d guess less than—say, ten miles south.’ Nicotine-stained finger on the chart. ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘One hour out of Le Havre, on the direct route.’ Measuring it with the dividers. ‘Could be. If they’d sailed around eight-thirty, say, not six-thirty, and come straight over?’

  ‘Then in another hour, the bastards’ll be—’

  ‘Past Barfleur. Off the hump here.’

  ‘And Mike’s—’

  ‘Getting close to the end of his sprint.’ Ben glanced at the time again. ‘Ought to be ten miles off at—well, by 2130 say.’

  In about twenty minutes, the MTBs would be reducing speed and continuing inshore with silenced engines.

  Stack nodded. ‘No obvious problems, then.’

  ‘No… But no certainty the flare’s what we’re guessing it could be. No certainty at all—uh?’

  It could have been dropped by an Albacore, could as well have come from a Dornier. Could have been dropped on a fishing-boat, or a surfaced U-boat, or on precisely nothing. Might equally have been starshell fired by the Heilbronne’s escort, some nervy Boche with spots before the eyes.

  Stack, deep in thought, was gazing at the chart as at a crystal ball, while Ben updated their position by QH.

  ‘Plot!’ Barclay again. ‘Another one, same bearing, sir.’

  ‘I’m coming up.’ Stack crushed his cigarette in the tin’s lid. ‘Look—we’ll be in our run-in position—here—in thirty minutes, say—’

  ‘Thirty-five, more like.’

  ‘All right. Thirty-five.’ A glance at the time: nine-fifteen: he nodded. ‘I’ll reduce to 1500 revs now, and hold on for another—say, another forty-five minutes from now. Then cut to silenced outers.’

  Ben nodded. Reading it as old Bob’s toes curling at the thought of being left ou
t in the deep field, missing all the fun.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Flashing ahead sir!’

  Mark Newbolt yelled acknowledgement, having seen it and also read it—a dim blue light calling from his next-ahead, Heddingly, MTB 564, the letter ‘R’ ordering ‘Down 200 revs’. The lamp had repeated it, was doing so again, and Newbolt, goon-suited like all the others and on his seat behind the torpedo-sight in the bridge’s starboard for’ard corner, had his hands on the throttle levers, easing them towards closure, feeling and hearing the difference as the power came off her but then realizing—seeing, by naked eye, having had to drop his glasses on their strap—that 564 was already a damn sight too close ahead, must have been slowing even before the flashing had begun. Shutting the throttles all the way, therefore, then shifting to the telegraphs and pushing both levers—two levers controlling the three engines—back to ‘slow ahead’. So many levers, he recalled someone remarking, it was like playing a bloody organ. Throttles, telegraphs, torpedo-firing levers, all in this small space in front of him—and right above them, the torpedo sight. No light, of course, you did it all by feel, familiarity. In the next split second, though, he saw that 564 was flashing not ‘R’s now but ‘O’s—three long dashes, meaning ‘Stop’. The coxswain had seen it too—bawling, ‘Stop engines, sir!’

  He’d done it. Still too close for comfort, though. ‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’

  In order not to run up Heddingly’s arse. Sheering out—into black water, the alternately swelling and subsiding immensity that surrounded them. Into a trough now—a gargantuan belly-flop, jarring impact like hitting rock. She still had way on but was losing it very quickly now with the engines cut, her hull embraced by the heaving near-solidity of sea, passing within a matter of seconds from very little drag to so much of it that it was like applying brakes. Wind and sea taking over meanwhile, the engines’ former night-filling roar only a long echo in his skull, more of a mutter than a roar now. The turmoil of white water around 564 was broadening on the beam as his own boat swung on round. Whatever might be the reason for this sudden stop, it would be necessary very shortly to put on enough power to maintain steerage way, hold her at an angle to the swells where they’d be less likely to turn her on her beam ends. Inert you were at the sea’s mercy—and the wind’s entirely, being flat-bottomed.