‘Signal to him to catch the NAAFI boat like the Old Man!’ That was Podger Barlow. The Old Man indeed, Kerr thought. Was Greenwood already forgotten?
He found the captain standing by his desk, an empty glass by his side.
‘Ready, sir?’ He waited, trying to gauge his mood. Nervous, unsure of the meeting.
Brooke straightened his jacket. ‘I’m glad you invited Leicester’s lot, Number One.’
Kerr saw his tawny eyes staring into the distance. Another memory, and obviously not a good one.
‘I’ve sent a boat for the new lieutenant, sir.’
Brooke entered the wardroom and caught the Petty Officer Steward’s mournful glance as he held out a tray with a glass of Scotch in dead-centre.
Kerr watched as his captain seemed to merge into the throng. Just the right number. He nodded his approval to the petty officer, but Kingsmill seemed to look through him.
There were whispers at the door and Kerr turned irritably as he saw someone holding a signal pad.
He hissed, ‘What the hell’s wrong now? Has our motor-boat got lost?’
But it was not a telegraphist this time; it was the petty officer who headed that department, Alan Brock. He had obviously been called from his mess and his gilt buttons were incorrectly fastened. He had probably been sleeping off his tot. But something in the man’s face made Kerr contain his irritation.
‘What is it?’
The man shifted his feet and peered past Kerr’s shoulder.
‘For the Captain, sir. Personal.’
‘Can’t it wait? He’s just . . .’
Brock said quietly, ‘His dad’s just died, sir.’ He handed Kerr the signal flimsy as if it was too delicate to hold.
Kerr glanced at it. Must have happened this morning, when Brooke had been going round the ship. His father’s ship. ‘Oh, God.’ He saw Brooke looking straight at him. Later he thought it was as if he had known.
Kerr handed him the piece of paper and said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir. At a time like this . . .’
‘Yes.’ Brooke’s eyes passed over his face without any expression. ‘Keep things going, will you. I have to get something from my quarters.’ Then he was gone.
Leicester’s first lieutenant, who had overheard, asked, ‘Shall we all push off, Dick?’
Kerr shook his head. ‘No, Bill, I don’t think it’s what he wants.’
The other man sighed. ‘Nobody else seems to have noticed, anyway.’
Kerr touched a messman’s arm as he bustled past. ‘Pass the word for the Cox’n, will you? Tell him to come straight to me.’
Someone was laughing wildly as if he could not control it, and several glasses had already been broken. Kerr looked at their faces. After what they had been through on the last few convoys it was a wonder that anything mattered. He thought of the Captain’s youthful smile when he had been talking about the Chief and his engine room. But it did matter.
On the deck above the wardroom Sub-Lieutentant Barrington-Purvis swore under his breath as rain ran off his cap and touched his neck like ice. He had heard the same wild laughter and in his imagination saw them all standing around, armed with drinks which the ship’s wardroom would pay for, and which he would miss unless the motor-boat’s crew got a move on. After taking the newcomer to the accommodation ladder they had had to move the little boat out to the ship’s boom and then clamber up themselves. The fact that they too would be soaked gave him no satisfaction at all.
He heard the quartermaster speaking with the new officer and swung away from the guard-rails, his voice sharp. ‘Hold on – I’m the O.O.D.! You don’t just barge in!’
Lieutenant Toby Calvert watched his gear being carried into the lobby, away from the streaming superstructure. God, she’s small, he thought. You could lose her on a carrier’s hangar deck.
‘Now, whoever you are . . .’
He fell silent as the newcomer turned towards him. ‘Calvert, Lieutenant, come aboard to join. As the O.O.D. you should have been told, I’d have thought?’
It was quietly said, but to Barrington-Purvis it was like a slap in the face.
‘Of course I knew!’
‘Well, then.’ Calvert stepped over the high coaming of the lobby and waited for the sub-lieutenant to follow, his wet uniform shining in the deckhead lights like black silk. He remarked with some amusement, ‘You’re rather wet, old chap.’
‘Here, I’ll show you the way!’ Barrington-Purvis tried to reassert his dignity, and did not see the quartermaster and gangway sentry exchanging grins at the lieutenant’s comment. ‘And the captain wants to see you without delay!’
It was hopeless. This insolent newcomer, trying to play the old salt with his crumpled raincoat and jaunty beard, was unimpressed.
Calvert heard the noise from the wardroom. ‘Oh, having a party? Looks like I got here just in time.’ He spoke casually, calmly, if only to contain the sudden fury which had exploded through him like fire. Another moment, witnesses or not, and he would have laid the subbie on his back.
Barrington-Purvis saw a steward in the tiny galley, sucking gratefully on a cigarette.
‘Ogle! Take this officer’s coat!’ To Calvert he added severely, ‘Not worn in the wardroom. Cost you a round of drinks!’
Calvert slipped out of his coat and handed his cap to the steward. ‘Thanks.’
Then, with the subbie close on his heels, he stepped into the wardroom.
A tall lieutenant came towards him. ‘I’m Kerr, Number One. Most of the others here are visitors from our chummy-ship Leicester.’ Calvert saw his glance drop to the pilot’s wings above the curl on his left sleeve. Or maybe he was looking at the two wavy stripes, wondering what was happening to his navy.
In those few seconds Barrington-Purvis had managed to down a neat gin, and it seemed to work almost immediately. He was possibly the only member of the wardroom who had never realised that he could not hold his drink.
He said loudly, ‘Our first reservist, Number One!’ There was a sudden silence as he added, ‘And he has a medal too!’
Kerr was about to intervene when he saw the captain framed in the doorway. His hair was tousled, his eyes red, as if he had been sick.
Brooke walked past them and gripped Calvert’s hand, recognising his barely controlled anger.
‘Welcome aboard, Pilot.’ He smiled, with great effort. ‘I really can call you that.’ He half-turned towards Barrington-Purvis, and the smile was gone. ‘Take a closer look, Sub.’ He watched the young officer’s confusion and then snapped, ‘You don’t see the Victoria Cross too often!’
Calvert said, ‘I’m sorry about all this, sir.’
‘So am I.’ He looked at Kerr. ‘Get him settled in. I’ll speak to all of you tomorrow.’
He turned to Calvert again. The man who had tried to warn his parent aircraft carrier that he had sighted two German battle-cruisers off the Norwegian coast; who had seen his ship blasted by their great guns, her thin armour no protection from their shells. His ship, his home, his friends, dying and burning. The tiny useless aircraft toppling into the sea as she had started to capsize.
The man who had turned back towards the enemy in his slow, outdated Swordfish torpedo-bomber, and had attacked those ships until it too had been blasted out of the sky. His crew had died that day, and Brooke knew that he was thinking of them whenever anyone remarked on that little piece of crimson ribbon with its miniature cross. For Valour. It probably aroused many bitter memories, and pain for the men he had taken to their deaths.
A messman slipped away and Brooke knew it would be all over the ship in seconds. He thought of the coxswain, who had come to his cabin only minutes before this scene in the wardroom. George Pike, who had served under his father and seen him reappear in his new commanding officer.
He had stood by the desk and had taken a glass of Scotch without hesitation.
‘Just ’eard, sir. There’s no words for this kind of thing.’
Brooke had heard himself reply, ‘He’
d been ill for years. Never took care of himself. We both knew. I just wish I could have told him about the ship before . . .’
The coxswain had put down his glass. ‘Our ship, sir.’ Then he had gone.
Barrington-Purvis’s voice intruded like an irritating hornet. ‘I only meant, sir . . .’
Brooke looked at him, his eyes cold. ‘If the time comes for me to write your report, Sub, please tell me if you can think of anything worthy to mention. So far I can discover nothing in that direction.’
As the curtain fell across the doorway, Podger Barlow tweaked the sub-lieutenant’s sleeve, still wet from the upper deck.
‘You’ll have to learn to take a bottle as well as hand them out, Sub. You’ve had that coming for a long time, and I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He grinned. ‘So come and make it up. Can’t afford enemies in this ship, see?’
Petty Officer Kingsmill produced more drinks for the new arrival in what he considered to be his wardroom, and for the first lieutenant. He had overheard Podger Barlow’s gentle warning. What a laugh, he thought. The day those two made it up would be the bloody day.
He glanced over at the new officer and realised with a start that Calvert was looking directly at him. He thought for an awful moment that he had spoken out loud.
One thing was certain. Whatever this Calvert had got the V.C. for, Kingsmill could well believe him capable of it.
In his cabin by the light of the solitary desk lamp Lieutenant-Commander Esmond Brooke sat, alone with his innermost thoughts. Long after the visitors had departed for their own ship and the hands had been piped down for the night, he considered the fate or coincidence which had brought him and his father’s ship together.
He listened to the occasional thump of feet on deck as quartermaster or sentry did their rounds. He could sometimes hear the sluice of the current along Serpent’s flank so that she seemed to stir as if reawakening. Our ship, the grim-faced coxswain had called her.
He hoped his father had not suffered or been humiliated at the end. Brooke had seen so many die, always without the dignity they deserved when death had marked them down.
He reached out for the whisky bottle and stared at it with some surprise. It was empty, and yet he felt nothing.
With great care he took out his wallet and removed a small photograph: Sarah, who had promised to marry him. Instead she had married his brother. Together they would deal with all the necessary arrangements. Without fuss. He replaced the picture in his wallet and got to his feet. Without much feeling, either, he thought.
He staggered slightly and knew it was not the fault of the ship.
He sat down heavily on the bunk in the adjoining cabin without remembering how he got there, but he could not stop the other memories: when he had last seen him at the hospital. His illness had made him older, but he could still give a wink to the nurses and pull their legs with a doubtful story. Smoked too much, drank too much, but always good company. The ex-naval officer who had once commanded this ship.
His head hit the pillow and he felt like death.
Serpent’s first captain, and now perhaps her last.
With one arm outflung, he was instantly asleep.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Brooke, sir.’ The small Wren held the door open and glanced at the visitor before closing it again.
The long room was warm and strangely safe and quiet after the lively crossing in the ship’s motor-boat. Great windows looked across part of the fleet anchorage, covered with salt which had drifted up in the wind, so that sea and ships looked like a gigantic panorama on stained glass. The Chief-of-Staff was stabbing tobacco into a large briar pipe with powerful, capable fingers, and had a match going even as Brooke sat down.
A plain-faced Wren petty officer writer sat at another littered desk, hemmed in by telephones, signal folders and tea-cups awaiting collection.
‘Good to have you, Brooke.’ Puff-puff. ‘Sorry to hear about your father.’ Puff-puff ‘I’d have given you leave, but you know how it is.’
Brooke found he could relax with this tall, square-jawed captain. He had dispensed the sympathy. Now he could get on with the rest. ‘How is the ship?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Good, good.’ He was now wreathed in smoke, and Brooke wished he had brought his own pipe with him.
The Chief-of-Staff added, ‘Wish we had more time, but there’s never enough of that around here.’ He glanced at the patientlooking Wren. ‘Bloody Scapa, eh, Brenda?’
Brooke said, ‘I’m lucky to have so many trained hands. I know it can’t last, but . . .’
‘Don’t be too sure.’ He regarded him through the smoke. ‘There’s talk of a big push about to begin. The Germans are reported to be ready to get some of their big ships out into the North Atlantic. More powerful than anything we’ve got, so the C-in-C is forced to keep battleships and battle-cruisers tied up here, just in case.’
‘I didn’t realise we were that hard-pressed, sir.’
‘You’ve been too busy to notice, I expect.’ He tapped his pipe-stem in time with his words. ‘In eighteen months or thereabouts we’ve lost fifty-three destroyers, thirty submarines and over a hundred sweepers and auxiliary vessels. We can barely keep pace.’
The Wren said, ‘Maintenance Commander on the phone, sir.’
‘Tell him to wait.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Ask him to wait!’ He continued. ‘There is always a risk of invasion too, although after what the high-fly boys of the R.A.F. achieved last year I doubt it. At sea will be the real test, the final decisive battle.’
Brooke could sense the man’s energy and his impatience. ‘When do I get my orders, sir?’
The eyes scoured him thoroughly. ‘Keen, eh? Thought you might be a bit dissatisfied with such a small command.’ It was not a question.
He looked at a large wall-map and said, ‘Convoys from all over the world, food, weapons, fuel and . . .’ He looked at the younger officer and added quietly, ‘And men.’
Brooke prepared himself. Another hopeless campaign? Surely not now? Pictures flashed through his mind. Burning coastlines, gasping half-drowned soldiers staggering down to the waiting boats while jubilant, screaming Stukas dived over them like hawks, churning the land into bloody craters.
The Wren said carefully, ‘Message, sir. The Admiral’s on his way.’ Her voice was hushed.
‘Humph – in that case . . .’ The Chief-of-Staff stood up and brushed off his reefer jacket. ‘You’ll get your orders this afternoon. Local leave only and no loose talk.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’m sending you to Gib.’
Brooke felt vaguely surprised, disappointed. The Med, then.
There were doors slamming, shoes clicking in one of the corridors. God was coming.
‘With talk of a German breakout I can’t afford to delay.’ He held out his hand. ‘Top secret.’ The interview was over. Then he added, ‘Really sorry to hear about your father . . .’ But his eyes were on the door.
Brooke stood aside as the procession tramped past him. He had a brief impression of the cap with a double row of oak leaves around the peak, a large rectangle of medal ribbons, a severe face and thin mouth.
Suddenly the admiral came to a halt and one gold-embellished sleeve shot out.
‘Who are you?’
‘Brooke, sir.’
There was almost a smile. Almost. ‘Serpent, right? Good lad!’ The procession surged on.
The motor-boat was bobbing about on the choppy water with several others waiting nearby for their respective lords and masters. Brooke returned a couple of salutes and then realised that the small Wren who had opened the Chief-of-Staff’s door for him had been the same one who had met him when he had first arrived. The boat’s bowman was on the jetty loosening the painter, and the coxswain, a red-faced whale of a man in his shining oilskin, stood up and saluted.
Macaskie was his name, and Geary was the bowman, a frail-looking youth who nevertheless had been punished by the last captain for fighting ashore. Face by face, Brooke concentrated on them,
and came to the third crew member, the stoker. But the man’s name was still lost with most of the others. He had heard, only too often, officers who commenced some order or other by saying, ‘Here, you!’ If you expected them to respect you, you should always show respect for them.
He thought suddenly of the new navigator, Calvert. How could you ever get to know the ship’s company of a carrier? His ship must have carried some thirteen hundred officers and men. He recalled Calvert’s eyes when he had turned to respond to the subbie’s offensive remark. Calvert had obviously known enough of them to mourn them, and to try to avenge them.
The motor-boat curved away from the jetty, flinging spray high over the cockpit.
Brooke remained on his feet, both hands gripping the safety rail, the stinging spray helping to drive off the remnants of his headache.
Moored ships flashed past, a cruiser, two oilers, and in the far distance some battleships. Waiting for the Germans to sneak out of their fjords in Norway and smash through the Denmark Strait into the Atlantic as their raiders had done in that other war.
There was that lingering stench again, churned up as the boat dashed over it. Oil seeping up from the great hulk of the Royal Oak. Local people maintained that it was the foul odour of decay from the corpses trapped inside.
He found Kerr waiting with the side-party as he clambered up the ladder, conscious of the familiar pain in his injured leg.
All eyes were on his face as he said, ‘Orders arriving today. Number One.’ They fell into step and walked away from the others. ‘First to Gib.’ He saw Calvert watching some seamen who were splicing wire with a skill that made it look easy.
Brooke repeated for the other man’s benefit, ‘Gib, Pilot.’ He smiled. ‘I’m still not used to it.’
‘Nor me, sir.’ Calvert made no other comment, as if he no longer cared where they were going.
Then he pointed to the far-off, hazy shapes of the great capital ships. ‘Is Hood one of those, sir?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Could be. There’s quite a show of strength building up here. Why? Heard something?’
Calvert touched his beard and thought of the young woman with her new wedding ring. ‘Just a rumour, sir.’
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