Sunset

by Douglas Reeman

  As he walked to his chair he looked around, then aft to the gaff where the ensign made a bright display against the heavy clouds.

  It was suddenly a clean and decent place.

  12

  Destiny

  After the overwhelming heat of Hong Kong harbour as Serpent’s motor-boat had dashed towards the moored flagship, the atmosphere between the cruiser’s decks seemed cool and peaceful.

  Serpent had entered harbour the previous afternoon and had managed to get alongside the dockyard wall before dark. Brooke had received a brief message to report on board Dumbarton as soon as was convenient: that was an improvement on the last time. He had nevertheless been kept waiting for some ten minutes after being piped aboard.

  The commodore’s secretary, a nervous-looking paymaster lieutenant-commander, had ushered him below, where he had been given a seat. Dumbarton was certainly an experience, he thought wryly. The gleaming passageway with white paint so glossy he could almost have shaved in it; framed photographs of the ship in other livery, white hull and buff funnels, or steaming along what looked like the coast of Africa. Portraits of previous captains: grinning boats’ crews after a victory at some regatta. Crossing the Line, a ship’s boy dressed in captain’s uniform, doing Rounds on Christmas Day. The story of the ship herself.

  Brooke had noticed that the anchor cable, which was shackled to the mooring-buoy, had been painted white, and he wondered when the old Dumbarton had last put to sea. He had also observed that the ship’s anti-aircraft armament consisted of outdated four-inch guns and no automatic weapons at all. He recalled the screaming Stuka dive-bombers: they would have this ship on the seabed in minutes.

  Most of her class, the Danaës, had already been converted into anti-aircraft light cruisers, invaluable for convoy work. How had Dumbarton slipped through the net? And would Serpent escape conversion like her remaining sisters? He could not contemplate her as a minelayer.

  He had spoken briefly to Islip’s captain, who had had steam up when Serpent had been waiting to go alongside. Islip was off to Singapore to keep an eye on a naval stores vessel.

  There would be no warships in Hong Kong at all at this rate. All they had were Dumbarton and the Dutch cruiser Ariadne, a cut-down destroyer similar to Serpent but missing her third funnel, a few M.T.B.s and the local gunboats.

  The secretary was back. ‘If you will come this way.’

  The big door at the end of the passage and at the sternmost section of the ship was decorated with a painted commodore’s broad-pendant. It had a red ball in the upper canton of its cross to show that the officer who flew it was ‘of the second class’.

  The door was opened by a P.O. steward. Brooke tried not to stare. The man was wearing white gloves.

  Commodore Cedric Stallybrass was on his feet, his little button-eyes sunk in crinkles of flesh as he held out one hand in welcome.

  The other man was a full captain, whom he vaguely recognised.

  The commodore said, ‘This is our Chief-of-Staff, Captain Albert Granville.’

  The captain was very tall, with wavy gun-metal hair and a strong high-bridged nose. Brooke thought he looked very like an actor, playing the part he was presenting now.

  They all sat down while the steward and a Chinese messman arranged drinks on a brass-topped table. Another souvenir from along the way.

  Granville said, ‘Found your latest report very interesting. Disquieting, too.’

  The commodore waved one finger. ‘Easy, Bertie! Give the fellow time to draw breath!’

  Brooke had the peculiar feeling that even that chiding remark had been rehearsed beforehand.

  Granville picked up his glass and examined it gravely. Brooke could almost hear the line, ‘Alas, poor Yorick . . .’ Instead he said, ‘If your ship had not been on a mercy mission you would not, of course, have become involved at all. The torpedo? That is something else entirely. I can only assume that it was meant for the coaster. It was foul weather so the submarine commander might have been mistaken, though perhaps it was another vessel altogether.’

  Brooke found that he could relax. This was not going to be like the sinking fishing boat and its murdered crew. Too many people had seen the torpedo, and you could not prevent Jack from yarning about it.

  He said, ‘A torpedo has no conscience, sir. It is impartial.’

  Granville’s eyebrows rose. ‘I know something of your service, Brooke. You have seen war at close hand. Maybe too close. We have an important but thankless task here. We have to uphold the peace as best we can and not provoke a confrontation.’

  ‘The Japanese commander did not know of our presence until the last moment, sir. Lights were off, and the Asdic set was temporarily out of use. The South China Sea is not like the Atlantic or the North Sea. You’d never see a torpedo in those waters until it was too late. My men witnessed the one torpedo passing down the starboard side, the phosphorescence was so bright.’

  The commodore smiled. ‘We do not know it was a Japanese boat, Brooke. That is what I mean. We can never jump to conclusions which we cannot hope to prove. Perhaps it was Japanese, and maybe the coaster was sunk mistakenly. But to fire deliberately at a British man-of-war would be unthinkable.’ He sounded outraged. Granville nodded in agreement. ‘Which is why we must not become involved. His Majesty’s Government has quite enough on its plate without that.’

  They looked to one another like conspirators. Granville said, ‘I think I am at liberty to tell you, Brooke, that the Admiralty, at the bidding of the First Sea Lord and with the authority of Winston Churchill himself, intends to reinforce the China Squadron with newer ships, and of capital importance. That suit?’

  The commodore signalled to his steward. ‘Long ship, this one, Billings!’

  They were trying to make it easy for him, advising him to forget it. It was not his responsibility, or anyone else’s for that matter.

  Granville asked casually, ‘You were in the Med during the Spanish Civil War?’ But it was a statement. He already knew.

  Brooke replied, ‘For a while, sir.’

  ‘Got knocked about too. Bad show. But now you’ve got a ship of your own despite all the set-backs you’ve had. Not new, but a good command for someone in your position. A lot of officers have been given advanced promotion – far beyond their ability, some of them, in my opinion. But you, Brooke – you’re in the race again. The others will be dipped down to their proper seniority when the war’s over. Do your best, as I’m sure you always will, and there’s no telling where you’ll end up.’

  The commodore nodded ponderously. ‘No more than you deserve.’

  Brooke glanced at the empty glass in his hand and was surprised it was so steady, and that someone had refilled it.

  A good command for someone in your position. If they had threatened him physically, it could not have been clearer. He was to make no ripples, cause no friction. Just show the flag. If not, he would lose Serpent and be sent home on some pretext or other. Kerr would get the ship and a half-stripe to go with her.

  He thought the glass might shatter in his fingers. They could do it, too. A confidential report to Their Lordships. Under too much pressure. Combat-fatigue. Anything. He had seen it happen to others.

  He tried to think clearly. But all that remained in his mind was the pride in his father’s voice when he had given him the photograph.

  The commodore glanced at his watch. ‘And don’t bother about the Asdic. I shall get the maintenance commander on to it right away.’

  Captain Granville said, ‘There’s a new brigadier or something out from England to join our chief-of-staffs’ committee. Another Whitehall johnnie who’s yet to get his knees brown, eh?’

  He groped around as if seeking a prompt for his next line. Instead he asked abruptly, ‘Did the coaster’s Chinese skipper say anything before he died? You have an interpreter now, I understand.’

  ‘He said that the S.S. Kiang Chen was carrying building-stone, sir.’ In his mind he saw the little interpreter f
acing him over the corpse draped in the White Ensign. A few words in his low singsong voice, a bow, and the waiting seamen tipping up the grating for the lonely journey to the bottom.

  All-time darkness . . .

  ‘No wonder the cargo shifted, eh, Bertie? Charles Yeung took it very well, I thought.’

  Granville said to Brooke, ‘You know him, I believe?’

  ‘A little, sir.’

  ‘Best to keep it like that, what?’

  Brooke stood up carefully, almost fearfully, but his leg did not fail him.

  Yes, keep it like that. Take his favours, eat and drink his generosity. But friendship? Not the done thing, old chap.

  They walked to the quarterdeck together, the beautifully laid planking so clean he could have eaten from it.

  Granville saluted and stepped on to the accommodation ladder. The commodore looked down at the immaculate launch waiting below, the crew with raised boat-hooks and a chief petty officer in charge.

  Beyond it, Serpent’s small and functional ‘skimming-dish’ with the lump-like Macaskie at the tiller made a stark contrast. Like everything here, Brooke thought.

  The commodore touched his cap. ‘See you at the Repulse Bay Hotel on Tuesday, Bertie. Should be a good evening!’

  The powerful launch roared into life before speeding amongst the lighters and junks towards the Kowloon side.

  Stallybrass was peering across the littered water towards the sleek destroyer alongside the wall.

  ‘Fine little ship. Wouldn’t want to lose her. Or you.’

  They saluted one another before Brooke went down the long, varnished ladder.

  Between his teeth he said angrily, ‘Nor will you!’

  Lieutenant Richard Kerr glanced up from the wardroom table where he was leafing through the latest Admiralty Fleet Orders, a coffee cup in one hand.

  He stared with surprise, and then apologized. ‘Sorry, Pilot! I didn’t recognize you for a minute!’

  Calvert walked to a mirror by an open scuttle and rubbed his smooth chin doubtfully.

  ‘It got so prickly in the heat,’ he said. He studied the cluster of small scars down one side of his face. Maybe he should have waited. Against his tanned skin they seemed pale, more noticeable.

  Kerr sensed his uncertainty and said kindly, ‘You look fine, Pilot.’ When Calvert turned to gauge his sincerity he added, ‘Really you do. They’ll heal much better and faster, too. You look almost human at last.’

  Calvert forced a smile. ‘It’s stupid, I know. A reminder, I suppose.’ He glanced around. ‘Skipper aboard?’

  Kerr shook his head. ‘Gone for a walk. He saw the Commodore and Chief-of-Staff apparently.’

  ‘What did they say, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He thought of Brooke’s tawny eyes, his restlessness. ‘I think he was pretty cheesed off with it, whatever they said.’

  Calvert stared at his reflection again. A new face. Someone else.

  Kerr said, ‘If you want to shove off ashore, then do it. I’m duty boy, and I’ve got to see another joker from the dockyard.’ He glanced at the pantry hatch, which was tightly sealed. The gossip-gate to the messdecks. ‘Did hear a rumour we might be getting radar. Keep it to yourself. But you know what that would mean.’

  ‘Back to the Atlantic. The real war.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kerr looked at the litter of paper. ‘You know, I could get to like this place quite a lot. Your predecessor in Serpent . . .’ He paused, hardly able to believe it. So short a time ago, and he had momentarily forgotten the other navigator’s name. The navy’s way. Faces came and left: a few months and you were forgotten. Only those around you and the ship that held you all were real.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I forgot what I was going to say.’

  ‘You must have it bad!’ He did not see Kerr’s surprise at his casual remark. He said, ‘I think I will go ashore. Everybody else is.’

  They chorused, ‘Except the Chief!’

  Calvert picked up his cap. ‘I’ll probably get as far as the first bar. That’ll do me!’

  He walked to the companion ladder and up to the quartermaster’s lobby, and saw the bright rectangle of blue sky through the screen door. The heat haze was making the waterfront buildings shiver like a Fantasia ballet.

  The duty quartermaster called out, ‘Shore telephone call, sir.’

  ‘Who for, Monk?’

  ‘Well, she wants the commanding officer, sir, but he’s ashore.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  It was as if she was right here beside him, her soft voice exactly how he remembered it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Yeung, but he’s in Victoria somewhere.’

  A pause. ‘I wanted to speak with him. I knew the ship was returned. Is he all right, please?’

  Calvert thought of Kerr’s remark. ‘I think he needs cheering up, Miss.’

  A longer pause. ‘Cheering-up? I do not understand.’

  He could picture her frowning. ‘In his work there’s always something to worry about.’

  How could he tell her that they had been narrowly missed by a torpedo, when one of her father’s ships had been destroyed and her crew killed for no apparent reason?

  ‘Will you leave a message? Lieutenant Kerr will make sure he gets it when he returns.’

  ‘No.’ She must have thought it was too abrupt. ‘That is Lieutenant Calvert, yes? I thought I knew your voice.’

  He imagined her in that great house, the harbour laid out below the windows like a tapestry.

  She said, ‘I will find him.’ The line went dead.

  The quartermaster said cheerfully, ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the dockyard bus, sir.’

  Calvert shrugged. ‘Should have given the phone call to Number One!’

  The quartermaster walked out into the sunshine and stood at the salute beside the sentry as Calvert walked down the brow. He waved several ancient-looking rickshaws aside and kept carefully within the shadows of the buildings. At least there were no clouds and no waterfall of rain in the offing.

  Was it the girl who was getting the Skipper down, or the thought of having to leave her? Not that there would be anything between them. He stared at a shop window, at the reflection of an unknown flier who, in turn, was acting another role.

  And why not? When Calvert had been flying day trips and instructing young men and women with too much money for their own good, he had had his chances. He had explored a few of them, too. But nothing had lasted. Brooke was different. Anyone should be able to see that.

  Horns hooted, and someone shouted, ‘What side of the bloody road do you think you’re on?’

  Calvert walked on. A drink, one of those gin slings, and a pipe of tobacco. After that . . .

  ‘Lieutenant Calvert! Please, not so fast!’

  He swung round, startled by the use of his name. It was a young girl, all in white, with the single blue stripe of a junior Wren officer on her shoulder. She too had come to a halt, her body heaving with exertion and dismay.

  Beyond her, a khaki car with some sort of badge painted on it was half on the pavement, one door still hanging open and watched with a mixture of rage and amusement by the other drivers.

  ‘I thought, I – thought . . .’ Then she recovered herself. ‘It is you. But the beard – you see . . .’

  He said quietly, ‘I missed the bus just now. But for that, I wouldn’t have seen you.’ He reached out and took both of her hands in his. It was impossible. It was sheer lunacy. ‘It must be fate.’

  She searched his face. ‘I – I wrote to you. I had no idea where you were. It was a terrible cheek . . .’

  He could not take his eyes from hers. ‘I wrote to you, too. You may be able to read it one day.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘That was a terrible cheek, too.’

  She said, ‘Only arrived here two days ago. Even then I never dreamed . . .’

  The car moved slightly and a tall uniformed figure stepped out into the sunshine. Calvert could te
ll he was pretty senior, but not a soldier. He was a Royal Marine.

  The man said patiently, ‘When you’re ready, Sue, I have work to do.’ He smiled at Calvert’s astonishment. ‘Otherwise, old chap, I’d let her go with you.’ He got back into the car.

  Calvert said quickly, ‘I must see you, Sue.’

  ‘You remembered my name . . .’

  The girl on the train. Her husband Bob had gone down in the Hood . . . He touched his face and was still surprised that the beard was gone.

  She said, ‘That was Brigadier Sexton. I’m his secretary.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe this is happening!’

  She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. ‘You can call me here.’ She was retreating slowly towards the car, her eyes misty as she called, ‘It can’t be happening!’

  There was a big khaki lorry pushing slowly through the crowds.

  A red-faced soldier leaned from the car and said loudly, ‘Very nice, too, Miss, but can you move the car so I can pass?’

  Calvert followed her to the car and held the door for her. Two Chinese clapped their hands, and someone gave a weary cheer.

  Calvert heard none of it. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The brigadier touched his neat moustache with one knuckle.

  ‘I do understand, Lieutenant. I’m not that bloody old!’

  Calvert watched the car jolt from the pavement and carry on towards the harbour. He saw her look back at him; she might have waved.

  Would he ever have recognised her, and why had she seen through his disguise? A dark, dingy train. Rain slashing the windows.

  She was younger than he had remembered. Very young. She must have been newly commissioned as a third officer in the W.R.N.S. when she had been married. Her hair was dark and curly, but shorter than he had believed. Her eyes? He was still not certain.

  He walked almost unseeingly up a narrow passageway to where some old men were looking at one another’s caged birds and listening to their song.

  And now she was here. He leaned suddenly against the wall and rubbed his eyes with his hand. They were stinging, and he was unable to stop it.

  A woman emerged from a dark doorway and touched his sleeve. She could have been almost any age, and still had an almost mask-like beauty.