A Ship Must Die (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He looked at the girl as she poured the coffee, wondering what Claire was doing, hating what he would have to do. But he would delay it as long as possible.

  Fairfax seemed calm enough. What was he? A potential hero or a probable sacrifice?

  He said, ‘You’ll have a very small crew for the auxiliary. Just enough to keep her moving. The cruisers will be shadowing you all the way, and the first hint you’ll probably get will be a Jerry aircraft coming to take a look at you. If they order you to shut down your radio, do it. You’ll be riding on real juice, and I don’t want you blown up just to prove something. Besides, your lovely wife wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘About Captain Blake, sir.’ Fairfax watched the older man for a reaction. ‘I met his wife in Sydney. If there’s anything I can do. . . .’

  Quintin grinned. If Fairfax could worry about Blake and his bloody-minded wife when he was about to begin a mission, which to put it at its best was extremely hazardous, he was a good hand.

  ‘It’s being taken care of. The best I can do. And thanks for the offer.’

  The door from the operations room opened and a tired looking lieutenant said, ‘Transport’s here for Commander Fairfax, sir.’

  Quintin noticed that the officer did not look at Fairfax as he spoke. Perhaps he had seen too many leave the building on some hare-brained scheme, never to return.

  Fairfax walked round the desk to prevent Quintin from struggling to his feet.

  ‘So long, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘If anything happens, goes wrong, maybe you could see Sarah for me?’

  ‘Will do.’ Quintin shook his hand. ‘Do the same for me if I fall out of this bloody chair, eh?’ He forced a grin. ‘Have a good flight.’

  Once more Quintin was alone. He sipped his coffee and went over the plan for the millionth time. If there was a flaw Rietz would see it. If circumstances changed in the next few days, a lot of men would die for nothing.

  He thought of Blake again and the cruelty of life which might deny him the happiness when he almost had it in his grasp.

  The telephone jangled on his desk. He picked it up, his thoughts automatically clicking into order again.

  ‘Staff Officer Intelligence speaking.’

  The car stood like a half-drowned rock at the roadside, the roof and bodywork streaming in the downpour.

  The girl was sitting at the wheel, just as Blake had remembered her. Except for the one big difference. She was not wearing her uniform. Blake had never seen her in a dress before, and when he had waited at the airport to meet the plane from Melbourne he had been almost sick with disappointment as he had watched the hurrying passengers.

  Then he had seen her. In the simple yellow dress she was wearing now, looking at him across the busy concourse, her eyes shining with pleasure, and yet somehow unsure of herself.

  They had dropped off her case at the hotel, and then she had told him of a small restaurant on the city’s outskirts, one she had discovered during her time in Sydney.

  The restaurant was there now, separated from them by a pavement and the biggest, noisiest downpour Blake had ever encountered.

  But it did not matter. Nothing did. He put his arm round her shoulder and touched her hair, seeing a small pulse move in her throat, the quick heart-beat under her dress.

  She said, ‘We can’t sit here for ever. Shall we make a dash for it?’ Then she turned and put her arm round his neck, her breath warm on his mouth as she said, ‘I’m suddenly not hungry, are you?’

  They sat quite still, the implication as strong as being shouted aloud.

  ‘No.’ He put his hand on her neck, feeling his longing, not wanting to spoil it, to repel her by his eagerness. ‘I love you, Claire.’

  She kissed him, gently at first, and then as he came closer she pressed her mouth against his, her lips parting as if she could no longer help herself.

  Blake was dimly aware that the rain had stopped and that the car was streaming with water. Two people had stopped on the pavement to peer into the car, and one of them gave a thumbs up sign and called, ‘Good on yer, mate!’

  She pulled away, but there was no longer the shy defensiveness, the uncertainty, as she said, ‘I think we’d better go. If you’re still sure about the meal?’

  He nodded, hardly trusting himself to speak. ‘I’m certain!’

  The drive to the hotel was all like that, vague and indistinct, broken here and there by a quick word or the touch of hands. At the hotel they gave the keys of the hire car to the doorman and together they went straight to Blake’s room.

  It was like a delicious madness. Blake knew he should have taken a separate room for her, should have made certain his wife had already left Sydney to rejoin her lover, ought to have done so many things, but for these few, precious moments he could think of nothing but the girl.

  A bottle of champagne stood glistening in a pail of ice, the hotel did not apparently run to a proper ice bucket. Nor to champagne either, for that matter. Blake had seen a Free French destroyer in the harbour, and with a vague recollection of meeting her in the Med and using the Navy’s special Old Pals’ Act, had obtained the bottle from her wardroom.

  She said breathlessly, ‘I feel wicked!’

  She came against him and said, ‘How long do we have?’

  Blake felt her tense as he loosened the strap across her tanned shoulder. ‘Only tonight, my darling.’ She nestled against him, her resistance gone before it could hurt. ‘Next time it will be what we want.’

  She put her hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him away. For an instant longer Blake imagined it was because of his actions, his clumsiness. Then she said quietly, ‘Let me.’

  She stepped out of the dress and then turned momentarily away as she threw it on to a chair. She said, ‘You do the rest. I’m shaking so much, I. . . .’

  He kissed her shoulders, and saw the pale skin where her costume had covered her from the sun. Then he turned her, holding her away, taking in every detail of her perfect breasts, her skin, the nakedness which was her way of putting the seal on their love.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him, her eyes misty as he undressed and then struggled with the champagne cork.

  Side by side on the bed they drank a glass of champagne as if it was the most normal, the purest thing in the world. Then she lay back, her arms above her head as she said, ‘No matter what happens, my darling, this is for ever.’ Once more the almost childlike doubt crossed her face. ‘Isn’t it?’

  He bent over her, his hand moving round her breasts, down over the smoothness of her body, until he could feel the fire which burned inside her.

  ‘For ever.’

  She closed her eyes tightly as he came down on to her, her strong legs encircling him, making him a prisoner and a victor.

  Then, as he pulled her up to enfold him she opened her eyes and gave a quick gasp of pain. They were one.

  Blake lay very still staring up at the ceiling, conscious of the girl’s breath against his chest, the beat of her heart. She was lying very close to him, one leg across his, her arm around his waist.

  He moved his eyes to the window and saw the edges of the curtains turning pale grey as the dawn opened up across the city.

  He felt completely spent and yet elated at the same time. They had made love at first with tenderness and then with an almost desperate abandon which neither of them had ever experienced.

  Blake moved his fingers down her spine, planting each memory of her in his mind, to hang on to, sustain him until. . . .

  She stirred drowsily. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘Soon.’

  He knew that the instant they were parted he would remember all the right words. Like so many desperate faces he had seen in this war. At railway stations, on a dockside. All the trite, usual sentences when a heart was bursting or a man or woman needed only to say I love you.

  She ran her fingers over his chest, her breath suddenly unsteady. ‘I never did take you to see Cook’s cottage at Melbourne.’ He
r hand moved more slowly, as if it and not she was sensing his returning desire. ‘Next time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pushed her gently on to her back and kissed her hard, their mouths opening as if to devour every precious moment. She writhed from side to side as he kissed her again, on her breasts, her stomach, everywhere, until they could hold nothing back.

  Then they lay motionless, listening to each other’s frantic breathing, not wishing to break the moment with words.

  They were still lying together when the telephone rang beside the bed.

  Blake put it to his ear. It was Quintin. How typical of the man to make it his own personal business.

  ‘Time to make tracks, Dick.’

  Blake pictured him in his wheel-chair, his littered office with its maps and lines of filing cabinets. It is men like him who should get the VC, he thought.

  He said, ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Good. Transport’s laid on. All you have to do is be here.’ He seemed to hesitate and then said, ‘Tell Claire that her desk is waiting for her.’

  Blake raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her face. ‘Did you hear that, Claire?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be there.’

  He kissed her again and then held her arms to her sides. ‘If I don’t leave now, I’m never likely to. There’ll be a car coming for me. You stay and have breakfast in bed. One of those great Aussie affairs, you know, steak, eggs and chips!’

  He slipped off the bed and dressed with feverish haste. He would not even stop to shave. Any second now and she would give way to the tears which had been lurking very near as soon as the telephone had rung. Perhaps for much longer.

  As if reading his thoughts she said softly, ‘I’m all right. Really.’

  He tried to smile. ‘I know. Like me.’

  He opened the curtains and stared across the water. A fine day, the rain clouds gone in the night and neither of them had noticed. He turned and looked at her. Like a beautiful nymph, sprawled on the bed, her nakedness making her seem innocent. He saw the glint of the champagne bottle. Only one glass each, that was all they had allowed time for.

  Blake bent over the bed and she sat upright instantly, her arm round his neck, her free hand feeling his unshaven face, his hair, his body.

  He felt her touch the ribbon on his jacket as she said, ‘No more like this, darling. Promise you’ll take care?’

  ‘It’s a promise.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘I’m off.’

  It was like a terrible and yet beautiful dream. One second he was there, looking at her body, her eyes wide as she tried to see him clearly through the early morning gloom. Now, he was standing on the well-used carpet, the door shut behind him.

  He thought he heard her call out, or perhaps it was a cry for them both.

  In the lobby he found a bleary-eyed driver waiting for him, some girls with brooms and cleaners waiting to begin a new day.

  ‘Looks like a great day, Cap’n.’ The man took his bag and fell in step beside him.

  Blake paused on the pavement and stared up at the hotel, but with all the windows he was not certain which one was hers.

  The driver slid behind the wheel and swung away from the pavement with a scowl. Another stuck-up Pom, he thought. And me just being friendly.

  Lieutenant-Commander Scovell’s eyes followed Blake around the Andromeda’s day cabin like needles.

  ‘I must say, sir, I’ve been wondering what all the flap was about. So we’re going after the enemy in earnest and the decoy ship was just a decoy after all?’

  Blake had been back aboard for two hours, each minute of which had been crammed with making and answering signals, dealing with the dockyard manager and his men, as well as trying to keep Scovell’s questions at arm’s length until the ship was at sea.

  Now it was almost that time. The brows had been hoisted away by the dockyard cranes, the last man had been checked aboard who might notice something different and shout his doubts to a chum on the pier.

  The cabin shook steadily to the engines’ pulsating beat as Weir and his men made their final tests.

  He said, ‘In earnest, Number One. If we make a mess of it, it’ll be a long chase at best. At worst, the enemy will disappear into thin air.’

  He tried not to think of Fairfax and his pretty wife. Now he was already in his strange command, probably going over all the things he would have to remember, just as he was doing.

  Scovell shrugged. ‘I’ll not be sorry to get out of it.’

  Blake regarded him thoughtfully. All Scovell could see was his own command, another step up the ladder while there still was one.

  It made life simpler to be like Scovell, he thought.

  He said, ‘I shall speak with the ship’s company later on. I’ll leave it to you to spell it out to the wardroom.’ He eyed him gravely. ‘But just the facts, Number One. I don’t want them to think it’s another useless patrol, right?’

  Scovell gave a thin smile. Then he asked, ‘Bad flight, was it, sir?’

  ‘Average. Why?’

  Scovell gathered up his file of defaulters, requestmen and his changes in the watch-bill with a kind of panache.

  ‘I noticed you’d not had time to shave, sir?’ His eyes were opaque, like the shark’s.

  ‘I’ll attend to it right away. First things first. . . .’

  Scovell glided to the door. ‘Rather like Francis Drake, sir. Still time to beat the enemy afterwards, what?’

  Blake stared at the door. It was the nearest thing to a joke he had ever heard the first lieutenant make.

  He wondered if Claire was in her office yet. Quintin had had her flown back by a later aircraft. He was obviously taking no chances.

  Around and above him the ship was becoming more restless, eager to leave. Machinery clattered from somewhere, and he heard wires and fenders being hauled along the deck overhead, the occasional sarcasm of an impatient leading hand.

  ‘Come on then, Ginger! Wot do you think this is, a bleedin’ pleasure cruise?’

  The harsher note of a petty officer who had no doubt noticed that the skylight on the quarterdeck was open and unshuttered, which meant that the captain was just beneath their feet.

  Blake walked to the adjoining bathroom and switched on a light above the mirror. He had almost expected to see a shadow staring at him, but the face looked younger, more relaxed than he could remember.

  He frowned. That could be dangerous for what he had to do.

  A shadow covered the scuttle and he saw the funnel of a tug gliding past, ready with a helping hand when needed.

  Blake had the razor in his hands but the soap was drying on his face as his mind drifted away once more. When he touched his ribs he thought he could feel her, the way her hair had brushed over him like silk, had driven him to a frenzy.

  He gave a great sigh. The boy captain. He was certainly acting like one.

  ‘Signal from Bouncer, sir. Are you ready?’

  Blake re-crossed the bridge, the watchkeepers and special sea-dutymen parting to let him move freely.

  Bouncer was the tug at the stern, puffing out smoke and looking as aggressive as her name as she idled under the port quarter.

  Sub-Lieutenant Walker had a handset to his lips, and called, ‘Singled up to head and stern ropes and back spring, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Blake walked back over the scrubbed gratings. He had to put all else behind him. This steel tower, the bridge, was his domain. To it, and so to his brain, went every telephone line and voice-pipe. Others did the work, his was the responsibility of using it. And winning.

  Some smoke was drifting from the cruiser’s trunked funnel, but little enough.

  As he peered over the screen and looked aft along the length of his command, Blake saw the disorder of getting under way already forming into patterns. The quarterdeck party under Lieutenant Friar, the torpedo officer, and squat Mr Donkin, the gunner.

  Wires rose and fell from the jetty as Andromeda rocked slightly o
n another tug’s wash.

  A handful of dockyard workers had come from huts and sheds to watch, and Blake found himself wondering if the spy was looking, too, from his office somewhere at the end of the yard. What sort of a man would do it? He had seen Quintin just prior to being driven to the ship from Melbourne, and he had merely remarked, ‘I’ll let you know. When you’ve got rid of the raider.’

  Blake could understand a man who spied for his country. But to pass information to an enemy who was intent on killing your own people was beyond him.

  ‘Ring down stand by.’

  He looked forward where Scovell, hands on hips as usual, was watching the forecastle party fighting with coils of mooring wire, as if uncertain which would win.

  The telegraphs jangled, and in his mind’s eye Blake moved through the bowels of his command. From Couzins, the burly coxswain, sealed in his steel wheelhouse with his quartermasters, along to the boiler rooms, to the engines, the gearing and the rudder controls. Noise, the sweet smell of oil, and furnace heat which defied every fan when the revolutions mounted.

  Andromeda would go out stern-first. Once clear of the jetty and moored vessels she would make a fine sight, he thought. If he ever saw it, it would be when he left her for the last time.

  He stepped on to the port gratings. ‘Let go aft. Tell Bouncer to take the strain.’

  He saw the Toby Jug waddle to the special flags he kept for the rare occasions they needed tugs.

  ‘All clear aft, sir.’ Walker sounded keyed up.

  From his compass platform Lieutenant Villar took a couple of test fixes, his gaze lingering on the ancient tower in the dockyard, the device which in the old days had signalled the exact time to every ship in harbour so that their chronometers would be reasonably accurate. After this commission Villar intended to request a transfer to the South African Navy. A ‘friend’ had written to him about his wife. They had only been married for three months when Villar had been sent to join Andromeda, and she was ‘getting around’ already. Villar had considered it as calmly as he knew how. If it was the man he suspected, he would need crutches before long.

  ‘I’ve got the charts you asked for, sir.’

  Wright, his young yeoman, was looking up at him with something like awe. Theirs was a strange relationship. Charts and notebooks, fleet orders about the removal of a buoy here, a wreck in a channel there.