Brooke looked away. I’ll bet, he thought.
‘Local liberty tonight, Number One. No overnight leave, not even for the P.O.s. Right?’
He hesitated and glanced up at the small turret-like bridge. Where he would spend his days and nights once they were at sea.
He said, ‘I’ll have some mail to be sent over, Number One.’
He felt the same private anguish. He should telephone from the shore. Express sympathy. Explain. But Sarah would most likely take the call. He still could not bear to hear her voice or imagine her being held as he had once held her.
Abruptly he said, ‘Bring the orders to me as soon as they arrive.’
Cusack, the Chief, clumped past, then paused to rest his gloved hands on the guard-rails when, right on time, the guard-boat sped towards the ship, the bowman rigid with his boat-hook as if it were a Fleet Review.
Cusack watched the satchel being signed for. Orders.
Very quietly he said, ‘Here we go again, old girl. Back to bloody war!’
Kerr had the satchel in his hands, and said, ‘Pilot, after I’ve given this little lot to the Skipper I’ll help you sort out your charts, if you like.’
There was no reply, and when he turned he saw that Calvert was staring fixedly into the distance, his blue-grey eyes the colour of the Flow itself in the weak sunlight.
Kerr shaded his own to see what it was that held the other lieutenant as if he were mesmerised.
Then he saw it: a tiny black speck which seemed to be flying very slowly above the water. He had heard there was a carrier at Scapa, so it was probably one of hers.
A chill ran through him. Of course. It was probably an old Swordfish torpedo-bomber, a Stringbag, as they were affectionately called by the men who flew them.
Kerr glanced back at his companion and then walked away quietly into the quartermaster’s lobby. Not for anything could he watch the emotion on Calvert’s face, nor share the anguish he had seen there.
As he ran down the wardroom ladder he thought of the new captain. He had been the only one amongst them who had understood.
He was both moved and humbled by this discovery.
3
Of One Company
The Serpent’s chief and petty officers’ mess, like its members, stood somewhere between the overcrowded forecastle’s upper and lower decks, and the aloof distance of the wardroom down aft.
The fourteen members of the mess, as in any warship, represented the backbone of the whole company, and their skills ranged from seamanship to gunnery, engine room to the W/T and signals departments and much more beside. The good-conduct stripes worn by the petty officers to display their years of service, or years of undiscovered crime as the sceptics would have it, in this one small mess added up to almost a hundred years of naval experience. It was a comfortable, welcoming place, decorated with framed photographs of past events, darts matches, a whalers’ race at Malta in happier times, and a small bar displayed souvenirs from various ports of call, lifted during some lively run ashore.
Presided over by George Pike, the coxswain, and assisted by McVie, the P.O. Supply Assistant, the mess was run with a discipline which was as rigid as any wardroom.
It was evening now, the deadlights sealed across the scuttles, the ship blacked out, a shadow on the uneasy Flow. A game of darts was in progress and two other men were writing letters, the last chance before they got under way. One, Roy Onslow, the yeoman of signals, was the only member of the mess who still wore a rating’s square rig but had the crossed anchors of a full petty officer. He had been due to be up-rated when the last captain had quit the ship so suddenly for a grander appointment. Lean and tanned although he had not served in a warm climate for over a year, Onslow was typical of his trade. He ran the signals department on the bridge in all weathers – and an open bridge at that, which had no respect for a man’s skin or complexion – and guided his young signalmen, one of whom was only just out of training. He could be relied on to read a lamp or a hoist of bunting before anyone else. A yeoman of signals was also privileged more than most to study and observe his officers on watch or at action stations. Their doubts and their uncertainties he would keep to himself. Onslow was proud of the trust.
The Petty Officer Sick Berth Attendant, named Twiss and known behind his back as ‘Sister’ Twiss, was watching the darts match without much interest.
He asked, ‘Where are we going to, Swain?’
Pike put down his book and regarded him impassively. ‘Gib.’
‘Then what?’
Pike sighed. ‘Well, you of all people should know that. All them vaccination checks we’ve had, an’ real doctors to watch over ’em too.’
Sister Twiss scowled. Serpent carried no doctor and he ran the sick-bay without difficulty, even when the ship had been crammed with survivors choking on oil fuel after being torpedoed, or burned almost beyond recognition.
He said, ‘Some of those doctors! No better than medical students, most likely! The blunter the bloody needle the more they enjoy it, seems to me.’
Vicary, the torpedo gunner’s mate, said, ‘Ceylon, that’s my bet. Fast convoy. Make a change to get cracking instead of rolling about the ocean like a tart in a trance!’
They looked at one another as the deck gave a tiny quiver. The gnome-like Chief was down there doing something. A generator or a pump, or some last-minute job on his work-bench. A sign of departure.
The coxswain took out his private bottle of rum and stared at it gravely. Supper had been cleared away, the duty part of the watch had been mustered. It would soon be time for Rounds. So why had he done it?
Jimmy the One would be doing Rounds this evening. He admired Kerr for several reasons; he was firm but fair when it came to the defaulters’ table or to the men who wanted leave for one crazy reason or other. As coxswain, Pike was the first lieutenant’s right arm, but he needed an officer who would back him to the hilt. He had expected Kerr to be relieved and sent to another ship. He was good and would be an asset to any sort of vessel. Pike was glad he was staying in Serpent: they were a small team, a family, and to have a new Jimmy the One as well as a fresh skipper – he shook his head.
Aloud he said, ‘I remember when the Skipper’s father was in command, and when Serpent commissioned for the first time . . .’
There were several groans and Andy Laird, the chief stoker, shouted, ‘Swing the bloody lamp, somebody!’
Pike grinned. He had asked for that.
A messenger peeped into the mess. It was rare to see all these chief and petty officers together.
Pike asked, ‘Well, what is it, my son?’
The youth stammered, ‘First Lieutenant wants the yeoman of signals down aft.’
Somebody said, ‘Off you trot, Yeo – maybe it’s a signal for you to send! Tell us where we all going to end up!’
Onslow laid his pen very carefully on his uncompleted letter and reached for his cap. ‘Some hopes of that, John.’
The tannoy droned, ‘Men under punishment and stoppage of leave to muster! Night boat’s crew to report to the quartermaster’s lobby!’
Fox, the chief boatswain’s mate, stood up and bared his teeth. He would be doing Rounds with the first lieutenant and there would be a nice nip of something strong from the wardroom bar if he played his cards right.
Pike glanced at him. When he grinned he did look exactly like a fox, he thought.
They all stared at the door as Onslow re-entered the mess. Even the darts players froze and watched in silence as the yeoman of signals moved to the table and seemed to collapse against it. Nobody spoke or moved until Pike asked quietly, ‘What is it, Yeo?’
Onslow seemed to see his unfinished letter for the first time. He exclaimed, ‘Can’t be! Must be a mistake!’ He lowered his face and added brokenly, ‘Cathy and the kid, they said.’
Pike was a heavy man but could move like a cat if need be. He had uncorked the bottle of hoarded rum and poured a full glass for the stricken yeoman. Not once did he
take his eyes from him, nor did he spill a drop.
‘Get this down you, Yeo.’ Onslow’s home was in London. He could guess the rest. The kid had been what – two years old? The skipper had allowed her to be christened on board, with the old ship’s bell used as a font.
Onslow looked at the letter with his pen still resting across it. ‘Must finish it . . .’ He broke off and lowered his face across his arm. ‘It was the whole street. They couldn’t have felt anything, could they?’
Laird the chief stoker gripped his shoulder. ‘’Course not!’ But a glance at Pike said everything. The wartime myth that nobody suffered when they were torn apart. Especially kids.
The tannoy said sharply, ‘Will the chief bosun’s mate lay aft immediately.’
Fox groped for his cap. He had forgotten all about Rounds. The face of war had once again invaded their private world.
Pike asked quietly, ‘Did you see the Old Man?’
Discipline and routine were taking over again. It was just as well, he thought. Being a Portsmouth ship, many of Serpent’s company came from London and the south. It was grim when you considered it. Pike had moved from Bethnal Green, where he had been born, to a little house in Portsmouth so that his wife would be spared the bombing. His big fists tightened on the table. Last year and as recently as four months ago, Old Portsmouth had been laid in ruins after continuous and relentless air raids. The old George Inn where Nelson had stayed, the fine Guildhall and many other landmarks were destroyed, and only the desperate courage of the fire-fighters had managed to save the cathedral, which, with its plaques and memorials, was a history of the Royal Navy itself. Nowhere was safe any more. But his wife had come through it, his ‘old girl’ as he called her. Hundreds and hundreds of others had not, and many still lay in the ruins of some three thousand devastated houses.
‘Yes.’ Onslow’s voice was faraway. ‘He was very nice to me. So was Jimmy the One. I bloody near broke down, Swain.’
‘Stand by for Rounds!’
Petty Officer Fox pulled back the curtain while Kerr hung back in the lobby. To the mess at large he said, ‘Carry on!’ but his eyes were on the yeoman of signals. Then he said compassionately, ‘The Captain will try and get you some leave, Yeo. It’s not impossible.’
Onslow raised his chin and afterwards Pike thought it was an act of pure courage. Onslow said, ‘They’re all I’ve got, sir. Had.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with my mates.’
They heard the Rounds moving away to the main messdeck, and Pike said, ‘If there’s anything . . .’
Onslow stood up. ‘Thanks, Swain, but no.’ He looked past the untouched rum without seeing it. ‘I’ll go and check the signals.’
Then he picked up the letter and folded it with great care. As he left the mess the others watched without speaking. Some of them had shared the misery he was enduring, but there were no words: there never had been. At least up there on the deserted bridge amongst his flags and signal lamps he would be safe. For a while.
Pike sat down heavily. ‘Another casualty.’
Andy Laird, the chief stoker, glanced meaningly at the rum. ‘What about us, then?’
Pike forced a grin and poured another glass. ‘Sod it!’
A dart hit the board and somebody had switched on the wireless speaker: some dreary girl crooner doing her bit for the war effort.
But it worked. The face of war had departed.
Lieutenant Richard Kerr tapped on the door marked Captain and waited for a steward to open it.
With the deadlights clipped shut and the fans turned down the cabin seemed almost humid, and Kerr was surprised to see Calvert, the new navigator, sitting at the same table as the captain, both without their jackets.
Brooke was smoking his pipe while Calvert was leafing through some of the intelligence pack the guard-boat had brought out to the ship.
Kerr said, ‘Rounds completed, sir.’ He was surprised and rather angry with himself for feeling a spark of resentment – or was it plain jealousy that Calvert should be here and not him? He thought of the yeoman’s face when Brooke had broken the news about the signal. Simply said, with no ponderous offerings of hope or promises he could not keep.
Kerr could not imagine the previous captain, James Greenwood, showing the same sincerity. He knew it was Brooke’s manner that had prevented the yeoman from breaking down completely.
Brooke glanced up at him and Kerr realised he was coming to know those quick, searching appraisals.
He asked, ‘All settled down?’
Kerr smiled. ‘A few comedians as usual, sir. Ideas of where we are bound this time. Most think the Med.’
Brooke waved him to a chair and pushed a bottle of gin and some bitters across to him. ‘Help yourself.’
Kerr poured a measure and watched the pink bitters tinge the glass like a stain. He noticed that the navigator was drinking what looked like barley-water. Something to do with his past and the experience which had marked him for life. It was common enough for some officers to prepare themselves for a bad convoy or the prospect of action with several large drinks. Usually they did not live very long, and neither did the men who were relying on their judgment under fire.
Kerr swallowed the pink gin and said, ‘All libertymen are aboard, sir – not even Eggy Bacon’s adrift.’ He saw Brooke’s quick puzzled frown. ‘Sorry, sir. Leading Seaman Bacon, the chief quartermaster.’
Brooke smiled and again the lines of strain seemed to smooth away. ‘Don’t apologise, Number One. It takes a while, but I’ll get to know every man-jack, given time.’ He became serious just as quickly. ‘We should get plenty of that.’ He glanced at the pile of papers and instructions, the signatures and the Top Secret stickers. ‘Fact is, we’re eventually meeting a fast convoy when we’ve left Gibraltar.’ He thought of the Chief-of-Staff’s emphasis on convoys and the ships needed to carry the most precious cargo of all: men. ‘To Singapore, then on to Hong Kong.’ He saw Kerr’s sudden interest and added, ‘Fast troopers apparently, but Intelligence will fill in the gaps at Gib.’
‘Are they expecting trouble, sir?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘They say it’s unlikely. But there are some valuable and experienced troops out there who would be better employed at home or in the Western Desert. These will be a holding force, a show of strength rather than anything more definite.’ He reached out and turned over one of the papers. ‘The Admiralty seem to believe that the Germans are going to try and break out into the Atlantic with some of their big chaps, ships like the Bismarck, the floating fortress as they call her. It might explain the urgency – getting us and the convoy safely clear of the usual convoy routes.’
‘If a battleship did break out . . .’ Kerr hesitated as the captain’s eyes settled on his.
Brooke answered quietly, ‘It would be a massacre.’
‘Why us, sir?’
‘Serpent’s fast, and will have no difficulty in keeping up with converted liners or whatever they are. There will be others with us.’ He held a match to his pipe and was surprised that his hand was so steady. Perhaps he should have told Kerr the truth about the choice. Somehow the word expendable seemed to linger at the back of his mind.
He looked around the quiet cabin with sudden resentment. When he had been taken back into the navy in spite of his earlier discharge for ill-health and personal injury, one thing had haunted him: that in the two and a half years since he had been put on the beach, he would have been left behind both in experience and strategy. He need not have worried. The greatest navy in the world had still been controlled by minds obsessed with the line of battle, and most senior officers had been originally in the gunnery branch. As his father had scornfully commented when they had discussed it, ‘All mouth and gaiters!’
Battleships and cruisers had taken precedence over carriers while the aircraft and the torpedo were considered something not quite decent. Little destroyers like this one had been well built, and had they been properly maintained, held in reserve even when the first
rumbles of aggression had come from Germany, the navy would never have been so desperate for convoy escorts when they were most needed.
Instead they had taken over fifty lease-lend destroyers from the U.S. navy, elderly vessels which were totally unsuitable for anything but calm seas. Because of their four funnels they were nicknamed ‘Uncle Sam’s four-pipers’, and were notorious for rolling so much they could do it on wet grass. The fleet was certainly paying for it now, and with U-boat sinkings outstripping every shipbuilding programme, Brooke had sometimes wondered how they had managed to survive so long.
Calvert looked up from his pile of papers and the list of new charts he would be needing.
‘I think the Japs will attack Singapore, sir. They have nothing to lose and they’re hell-bent on controlling the whole of the Far East while we’re occupied everywhere else.’
Kerr said incredulously, ‘They were our allies in the last war!’
Calvert went back to his work. ‘So were the Italians.’
Brooke smiled. ‘At least it would bring the Yanks in . . . maybe.’
He glanced at the framed photograph his father had given him. Tell me how she looks, eh? Almost the last words he had spoken to him, and he could still hear them clearly.
Brooke had always been close to his father, especially when they had kicked him out of the service. His father had shared a similar fate in the twenties when lieutenant-commanders had been two-a-penny, and discharged officers, lost without their naval environment, had wandered from one job to another, becoming secretaries of golf clubs, publicans, chicken farmers – the list had been endless. Brooke could barely remember his mother: she had died immediately after the Great War in one of the sweeping ’flu epidemics. But unlike many service wives she had always had money, quite a lot of it. Brooke’s father had held on to the old house on the Thames and had turned it into a country hotel for the sort of people who wanted to fish and shoot, and, remarkably, in a time of recession and unemployment with discharged soldiers and sailors filling the dole and soup queues, it had worked. Soon after the outbreak of war the buildings and grounds had been taken over by the army, and an anti-aircraft battery and other personnel had transformed the place into a military camp. It had broken the old man. No more boats to offer river trips for fishing and sightseeing; no petrol either. The world had turned its back on leisure and hope.
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