Kerr himself knew only a little about him. Kipling was from the navy’s Special Force in the Eastern Med, one of the cloak-and-dagger crowd who fought the war their own way and without rules. The Glory Boys, motor gunboats and schooners, anything that could carry the war into enemy-occupied territory.
He studied Kipling’s gaunt features. He could sense it even in the slight, untidy figure. Danger.
‘This way . . .’ He shook himself. What the hell would they need an officer like Kipling for, where they were going?
He felt something like an icy hand on his spine. It was madness even to consider the possibilities, and he told himself not to be stupid. But when the captain returned on board the dread was still with him.
5
A Night to Remember
To most of the Serpent’s company the two weeks that followed their departure from Gibraltar seemed unreal, an unexpected reward for their endurance in the real war, which they had left astern. Some of the old sweats like the coxswain and the Gunner (T) had served in the Gulf and even in the Far East, but for the most part the company was a young one, with a large percentage of junior rates who had been flung into the brutal realities of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean with little experience of the kinder face of war.
Southward along the coast of Africa with land only occasionally in sight, pausing at Freetown so that the Chief could top up his fuel bunkers before steering south-east towards the Cape of Good Hope.
At Freetown they had joined company with another destroyer named Islip. A much larger ship than Serpent and built in the late thirties, she was to be the senior escort of the troop convoy supposedly awaiting their arrival at Cape Town. In the meantime every day brought places, sights and experiences that made the younger sailors round-eyed with wonder. No screaming alarm bells in the middle of some freezing storm with wretched merchantmen burning and dying under torpedo attacks; no sense of helplessness and defeat when they saw the drifting remains of another slaughtered convoy, the corpses parting across the bows to offer their own sense of shame.
The Islip’s captain, Commander Ralph Tufnell, whom Brooke had met over drinks at Freetown, had been content to leave them to their own devices. A great bear of a man with a thick black beard, he had suggested, ‘Give ’em a break. If they’re like my lads they deserve it!’
A man you could work with, Brooke thought, one who would be easy to respect.
Tufnell had revealed something that had taken him completely by surprise.
‘Be a bit strange for you, I suppose. Probably the last place you’d expect to be running into your own brother.’
Seeing Brooke’s expression, he hastened to add, ‘Sorry, old chap – I thought you knew. Pretty hush-hush these days.’
That was not the only thing he had learned from Tufnell. His brother Jeremy, two years his junior but already advanced to commander, was attached to the staff in Hong Kong with other responsibilities to the admiral at Singapore. A staff job: and yet he had never mentioned it, not even to their father. He wondered if Sarah had known, if she was with him. They must have left England immediately after the funeral.
It should not matter any more. Brooke turned as Kerr, accompanied by the new subbie, Paul Kipling, came on to the bridge and Barrington-Purvis handed over the watch.
The two sub-lieutenants made an odd pair, Brooke thought: Barrington-Purvis, the admiral’s son, every inch the naval officer, and Kipling who looked anything but. The former still sported the remains of a black eye, which he had gained at a rousing Crossing the Line ceremony when Serpent had crossed the Equator off the Gulf of Guinea. Pike, the coxswain, had been King Neptune, with Sister Twiss his lovely queen, and had put all the uninitiated hands through their paces. Foam beards and rough barbers had given everyone a rumbustious crossing, and it was only later that Barrington-Purvis’s shiner had been revealed.
In all fairness to him he had not complained, although it had obviously been something very personal.
When Kerr had asked Kipling if he had ever crossed the line, he had admitted cheerfully that he had never been south of Ramsgate before he joined up.
It was difficult to know when Kipling was being serious, or even if he was capable of it. He seemed to have no secrets or guile, no ‘side’ as the Chief had described it.
He came from a large family in London. His father had been a regular soldier, a sapper in the Royal Engineers, and that he had remained until he had been reported missing, presumed killed, in France.
Kerr recalled with amusement Barrington-Purvis’s expression of shocked horror when Kipling had remarked one night in the mess, ‘All the Old Man ever did was knock out another kid when he came on leave!’ It was obvious that he had found Barrington-Purvis’s weaknesses and thoroughly enjoyed getting under the skin of his supercilious opposite number.
Kipling had found his way into the navy by a roundabout route – as he seemed to have done with almost everything. He had left school at fourteen and talked himself into a job in a busy garage on London’s North Circular Road: he made a point of calling it a garridge just to make Barrington-Purvis wince. He must have learned his trade well, and when he joined the navy (I didn’t much care for the idea of square-bashing in the army) someone had seen his possibilities and selected him for the torpedo branch, where his knowledge of engineering and wiring soon made themselves apparent. When volunteers had been desperately needed for the bomb-disposal and render-mines-safe section, Kipling had put down his name without even a blink.
He had been put to work with a lieutenant, a man he was reluctant to speak about and probably the only officer he had ever really trusted, Brooke thought, and together they had made safe a large collection of mines during the first devastating raids on London and the south coast.
One night on the middle watch he had stood beside Brooke’s tall chair on the open bridge, his lean profile framed against a ceiling of a million stars. Kerr had been checking something or other, and they were alone.
‘His luck ran out. I suppose we got a bit cocky, full of ourselves. It was just another mine.’
Brooke had been filling his pipe but had stopped to listen.
‘He came to the door of this house where the mine was through the roof. He couldn’t get through, but he could have run off an’ saved himself.’
Brooke guessed he had gone over it many times. Like Calvert, like Onslow and some of the others.
‘He yelled, “The bloody thing’s live! Run for it!” I never even heard it explode. I was dug out three days later.’
‘And he was killed?’
‘Never even found a bloody button!’ He flinched. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I can understand how you felt.’
‘Feel, sir. Feel.’
Brooke had learned quite a lot that night while the ship had run south towards Sierra Leone. Kipling had been offered a temporary commission and in a few months had been crammed with the basic rudiments of navigation, gunnery and seamanship. He said in his matter-of-fact, detached manner, ‘O.L.Q.s, officer-like qualities as they called them at King Alfred – well, I never did get the hang of them.’
He had served in the Levant and amongst the Greek islands, in armed launches and schooners, preying on the enemy’s coastal convoys, which chose the sea rather than face the merciless attacks by partisans on land. Kipling and his companions had soon become an even greater danger.
In just days he had settled down on board, even in the wardroom. A balance, like now with Kerr. Chalk and cheese.
Kipling’s orders stated that he was to remain in Serpent and perform normal watchkeeping and divisional duties until instructions came to the contrary. He had brought some of his ‘toys’ aboard with him, watched over anxiously by Barlow the Gunner (T) until they had been safely stowed to his own satisfaction. Kipling had admitted, ‘I don’t know why, sir. If Hong Kong is attacked I might be ordered to blow up harbour installations.’
Brooke had not commented. It was possible but unlikely, according to those
who knew best. The Japanese were busy fighting the Chinese Nationalists, as they had been for years. Their lines of communications were far too stretched to risk a war. And what would be the point? The C-in-C in the Far East would be better informed and better prepared than anyone.
Kerr said, ‘The troopers we’re to escort, sir. Do we know how many?’
‘Not yet, Number One. Even Islip’s skipper’s in the dark.’
A voice echoed up the wheelhouse voicepipe and Brooke saw Kipling lean over to acknowledge it. Old for his junior rank, but he had been a rating longer than most hopefuls. A thin, interesting fact, lined before its time. Twenty-four years old; but he had seen more than most men experienced in a lifetime.
Kipling said, ‘Able Seaman March on the wheel, sir.’
‘Very good.’ Strange how close he felt now to his little team.
Each was different from the other and the way each man behaved showed too the character of the individual, despite the order and discipline which controlled every aspect of their daily life.
Each watch, except the dog watches, lasted for four hours. No helmsman was supposed to spend more than two of those hours at his trick on the wheel. It was a strain on the man, especially on the great expanses of ocean: the same course and engine revolutions mile after mile soon dulled the mind. Brooke had noticed that Kerr never insisted that any helmsman did more than an hour at a time. He had learned that what was best for the watchkeepers was usually the best for the ship. Barrington-Purvis, who shared his watches with the Gunner (T), was the very opposite. He went by the book. Two hours it said; two hours it would be, and God help the man who dozed off at the wheel.
Calvert was different again. Brooke had observed his obsession with pin-point accuracy, and the exactness of his navigation was remarkable.
Perhaps as a flier Calvert had become very aware of the need for perfection. A fraction of a degree out when he was flying back to his carrier and he might have missed her and flown on and on until his fuel had run out and there was no alternative but to ditch into the sea.
Kerr said, ‘We shall be sighting land within the hour if the visibility holds, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Cape Town. No black-out, no rationing – I’ll have the chef get some provisions brought on board. Fresh fruit, eh? Think of it!’
They both looked round as Kipling said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what would become of us, sir?’ He waved vaguely towards where the land must lie. ‘I – I mean, suppose England is invaded while we’re out here somewhere?’
Kerr tried to laugh it off but Brooke took it seriously. ‘If we’re beaten, you mean? Surrender?’
Kipling thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s happened everywhere else, sir. Holland, France, Norway and the poor old Danes – now the Greeks and the Yugoslavs. Nobody seems able to stop ’em.’
Brooke climbed into his chair. ‘Then we’ll have to make sure we don’t surrender. Right?’
Kipling seemed satisfied. ‘I mean, sir, I wouldn’t care to end my life in a bamboo hut an’ eating nothing but rice.’
Kerr grinned and clapped him on the arm. ‘You’d miss the old fish and chips, is that it?’
Onslow the yeoman said, ‘I’d settle for a plate of jellied eels right now, sir.’
They all laughed. So even Onslow was being drawn out of the grief and despair that had burst out of him when they found the dead woman and child in the sea.
Brooke tilted his cap over his eyes and separated himself from the men around him.
All in all, he could have asked for no better company. He smiled and touched the protective steel plate beside him. And no better ship.
That afternoon with the sun changing Table Mountain to the colour of pink salmon, Serpent glided to her anchorage. The men off watch and not required for immediate duty lined the guard-rails and stared at the great slab of mountain, which was breathtaking to even the most unimaginative. They were away from the Western Ocean and the fought-over Mediterranean, and even the news from those theatres of war seemed remote and of no immediate concern.
Brooke leaned out and looked down at the deck. Skins showing signs of tanning, or in some cases angry-looking burns. Sun and speed together had no respect for the unwary.
He studied some big ships at the far end of the anchorage. One had been a cruise-liner, the other a cargo and passenger vessel probably on the Australia and New Zealand run. Troopers. Our troopers now, he thought.
He watched their companion, the destroyer Islip, frothing round in a wide arc before going astern and dropping her own anchor. The gin pennant would soon be hoisted, and old friends would meet. A part of the family where the war could be held at bay, if only temporarily.
Onslow lowered his glasses. ‘From Islip, sir. R.P.C. at twenty-hundred hours!’
‘Reply, Yeoman. Our pleasure.’
There was much to do before Brooke and his officers could go across to Islip for the party. Refuelling to be arranged, the Operations people to be seen, leave to be sorted out for as many as possible, the latest instructions to be studied. But just for a moment longer he wanted to be here alone, his eyes drinking in the majesty of the land. The telegraphs were rung off, and down in his hole the Chief would greet the Finished with engines with well-earned satisfaction. The wheelhouse would be empty for the first time in weeks, and an awning spread to create a peacetime atmosphere and cover the depth-charges and torpedo tubes.
For a long while Brooke stood there and realised that he could not recall feeling such a sense of peace. He had not known that he had needed it so much.
Ship and captain were at rest.
The holiday atmosphere and a sense of escape for Serpent’s ship’s company continued for the whole of her stay in Cape Town. The hospitality shown by the local community, most of whom had British connections, had its effect even on the hardest men. Islip’s Commander Tufnell said it was even better than the welcomes he had experienced on some of his longer-routed convoys beyond Good Hope.
Surprisingly, even the news from home could not dampen the general good spirits. The continuing bombing of towns and harbours and the mounting savagery in the Atlantic seemed to fade into the distance, and lose relevance in the African sun.
Two more destroyers arrived to complete the troopships’ escort, and with them came sailing orders. One last night in Cape Town, then back to the boredom of convoy. Even at high speed it would be hard to take after this.
Calvert went to the captain’s day-cabin and found Brooke going through a clip of signals.
He glanced up. ‘Drink, Pilot?’
Calvert sat down. ‘Juice of some sort, sir.’
Brooke pressed a bell. ‘Coming ashore tonight? I see you’ve volunteered for O.O.D. in Number One’s place.’
A white-jacketed messman glided in with a glass of orange juice and left again. Calvert’s refusal to take alcohol must have made an impression, Brooke thought.
Calvert said, ‘I’ll have a quiet night instead, sir. I’m not much of a one for parties.’ His voice implied that it was because of the past.
‘What is it? You won’t drink, or you can’t?’
Calvert shrugged and rubbed his chin. ‘Not sure. Afraid to find out maybe.’ He was amazed he could speak so easily about it. Had it been anyone else . . .
Brooke pushed the signals across. ‘You’d better have these in case W/T hear of a flap while I’m away.’ He smiled. ‘Not that we’ll be involved.’
He watched Calvert’s eyes scanning the flimsies, then slowing down as he exclaimed, ‘A German raider? Converted merchantman, they say?’
‘They say. Reported in the Indian Ocean – fired on a Dutch freighter but her skipper slipped away in the dark. Probably after supplies, otherwise . . .’
‘Living off what they can catch.’ Calvert guessed that the raider would not last very long. There were too many warships operating from Ceylon for that, some cruisers among them.
Kerr peered in the door. ‘Boat alongside, sir.’ He touched Calvert’s arm. ‘Thanks for
standing in, Pilot. I’ll do the same for you sometime.’
Brooke glanced between them. No longer strangers, if not yet friends.
Calvert wandered to the wardroom and slumped down in a chair close to one of the new deckhead fans with a newspaper. He felt the ship moving very slightly, the occasional thud of feet as the quartermaster prowled around the quarterdeck like a terrier. The news was predictable. A strategic withdrawal somewhere in North Africa: it was never a retreat. Fierce fighting in Crete. A fleet minesweeper lost; she had exploded one of the mines she had been seeking. Next of kin have been informed. A typical Fougasse cartoon showing a sailor sitting at a table shooting his mouth off to his girl, while beneath the table Field Marshal Hermann Goering crouched with one ear cupped in his hand. Careless talk costs lives was the caption.
He sighed and glanced at the little bar by the pantry hatch. On it was the usual leather cup containing the liar dice for would-be gamblers, as well as mess chits and a half-empty soda siphon.
He thought of going to his cabin. He was fortunate to have one all to himself, but only because the space for a second bunk was filled with a chart cabinet. One of the perks. At least the nightmares were less frequent. No less horrific when they burst into his mind; but he felt certain he was improving. He knew he could never forget, and he realised he did not wish to.
On the navigation course he had been shaken awake by other officers one night when he had been in the grip of reliving it. It was almost a relief that in the navy you never got any sympathy. Why don’t you shut up? Remember the poor bloody watchkeepers for a change!
If we weren’t like that we’d all be round the bend by now, he thought. His head lolled against the chair and he was asleep.
How long he slept in the chair he had no way of knowing.
He awoke with a terrible jerk, to the realisation that the nearest scuttle was shining like bronze as if a ship were ablaze, and he also became aware that someone had been shaking his arm.
He said hoarsely, ‘Sorry, P.O. Time for Rounds, right?’ He should have remembered. The dusk at Cape Town had been preceded by this burnished light each night they had been there.
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