An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (44 page)

Nearly simultaneously,
Warspite
fired at the Italians' leading battleship. Once more the roar, the flames, the smoke.

Fingal watched as the waterspouts rose close by the closest Italian ship. “Pretty impressive,” the captain said. “The range is twenty-six thousand yards.”

“Short by six hundred yards,” the signals yeoman said, interpreting the spotter aircraft's message.

Fingal saw the muzzles of the guns of
Warspite
's two for'ard turrets lift to increase their elevation. Then the rifles bellowed their defiance.

He lost count of the number of times the great guns spoke, but at four o'clock he saw clearly through his binoculars a column of fire arising from near the funnels of the leading Italian ship. The blaze was followed by a huge upheaval of smoke.

Captain Huston-Phelps clapped his hands. “Got the bastard.”

The yeoman announced, “Direct hit. Midships.
Giulio Cesare
. Large fire. Heavy smoke. Much steam. Possible damage to boiler room.”

“And,” the captain said, “at a range of thirteen miles. No one has had a hit on a moving target at that range before. Well done,
Warspite
.”

It was well done, Fingal acknowledged, but how many men had ceased to exist? How many were in agony, lying still or flopping like landed fish? A hit in the boiler room? The superheated steam would flay members of the engineering crew alive.

“Look at the buggers run,” the captain said.

Already the Italian battleships were turning back into the smoke.

“Orders from flagship, sir,” the yeoman said. “All destroyers to counterattack in concert with the cruisers under cover of smoke.”

“Sorry, O'Reilly,” the captain said, “but we'll be dodging fire from the whole Eyetie fleet now. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go below to your sick bay.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He wasn't sorry. He'd seen enough carnage. As Fingal made his way down the companion ladder, he paused and watched as the two Italian battleships turned tail into an ever-increasing pall of man-made smoke while shells from
Warspite
and
Malaya
were hurled into the darkness, doing what damage not even the spotter plane could see.

*   *   *

Fingal sat at the little desk in his borrowed cabin. It was 9
P.M.
and
Touareg
's men had been stood down from action stations some time ago. He'd made one last round of the sick bay and retired to make notes from the conversations he'd had with some of the ship's officers in the wardroom over dinner.

He read his entries.

July 9, 1940. 4
P.M.
Destroyer and cruiser attack in smoke. Heavy fire from enemy cruisers, but no British vessels damaged.
Warspite
's spotter plane reported: “Italian fleet in disarray.” Italian aircraft had appeared and in the confusion had mistakenly bombed their own ships instead of the British. Fortunately for the enemy not a bomb had scored a hit. Pity. Could have saved us the trouble. Eventually it was reported that the Italian fleet had got itself back into some semblance of order and was steering west and southwest at high speed for Straits of Messina.

5:35
P.M.
British fleet twenty-five miles south of coast of Calabria. No hope of catching Italians but we are under heavy aerial attack. ABC ordered course set for Malta.

Bombing stopped at 7:30
P.M.
No serious damage to fleet. One of
Warspite
's spotter planes set on fire in hangar by her own guns' muzzle flashes. Ditched overboard.

My first and, I hope my last, fleet action. I am a little proud that although scared most of the time, I was able to master my fear. I am amazed that for all the sound and fury, the number of ships and aircraft involved, that so little was achieved by either side and by how one hit from one of
Warspite
's big guns could make an Italian fleet turn tail and run.

He rose. Was it, he wondered, a British victory? Hard to say. British casualities had been minimal when you considered that
Warspite,
with her complement of more than a thousand men, could have been sunk with dreadful loss of life. Even a Tribal
-
class destroyer carried 190, but no British ships had been seriously hit. Even so, eighteen men had been killed on
Gloucester
and three men had died on
Touareg
. Nothing but a stupid waste.

One of those men was Chris Simpkins, and Elly would be sitting in Alex about to learn that she was a widow and her boys in England were fatherless. In the shock of hearing of Simpkins's death last night, Fingal had blurted out to the captain something about comforting Elly. Now he wondered. After all, he hadn't been Chris's MO and had only met Elly once. Did Fingal have any responsibility to see her at all? He shook his head. He'd not decide now but think on it during the journey back to Alex. Perhaps it might be better to let that hare sit. She'd have a wide circle of old friends and was there much Fingal could add? Probably not.

Besides, he was supposed to be leaving on a troopship for England soon. He fingered Deirdre's green scarf, tucked into the pocket of his shorts. But would any of that still be on? Might he find he was being posted to
Touareg
permanently instead? Already the fleet was one MO short. Fingal had watched them commit his body to the sea this morning. There, never mind a new posting, there but by the grace of God go any of us, including officially noncombatant MOs like Peter Fenwick. He picked up his diary and closed it with a snap.

40

Vast Sorrow Was There

Fingal sat at his desk on
Warspite
and looked around the little cabin. It had been his home for nearly eight months, but tomorrow, glory be, he'd be taking a train to Port Said to join a convoy that would be Liverpool-bound on its return trip. One of the troopships had brought out his replacement, a new MO who would join
Warspite
tomorrow.

When he'd left
Touareg
four days ago, the first thing he'd done after reporting back on board was to seek out Richard Wilcoxson.

“Fingal, you're back. Well done.” The man had jumped up from his desk and extended his hand, just as he had done last November at their first meeting. “By all reports you did an excellent job.” And Fingal had warmed to the older man's praise. “It's all confirmed, nothing has changed. You start the course at Haslar Hospital early October and I want you back on
Warspite
once you've completed your training.”

And there'd been a letter from Deirdre, full of inconsequential gossip and underscored with love and longing. He'd devoured it and immediately written back telling her the wonderful news that the wedding was definitely on and that soon they would be together. He had hers tucked into the breast pocket of his white shirt to read again when he went ashore later this morning. He planned to visit the base hospital and see the two major cases he'd operated on eight days ago on
Touareg
.

His war diary lay on the desk and he idly flipped it open. Someone had once described war as long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. As usual he had some time to kill before the pinnace took him to shore. He would reread the last entries before putting it into his half-packed suitcase.

July 9th, 5:30
P.M.
Still on
Touareg
. Battle seems to be over. Fleet twenty-five miles off coast of Calabria. Too close to Italian aerodromes. ABC has ordered course set for south of Malta.

July 11th. We're been cruising these waters for two days. ABC had to get to high-level conference in Cairo so
Warspite
and her destroyers are now headed for Alex. Rest of fleet to Malta to escort convoy. Italian bombing barely ceased during daylight.
Touareg
skipper said the planes came from bases in Libya. Our flotilla attacked thirty-four times. More than 400 bombs were dropped, but not a single ship seriously hit.

July 12th. Worst attack so far. Cruisers
Liverpool
and
Sydney
have joined us. I took the name
Liverpool
to be an omen that I might soon be headed there on my way to Portsmouth. Several casualties in
Liverpool
from a near-miss. Does that mean I'm not going to get away?

Fingal could laugh now he knew he'd be going home tomorrow, but when he'd made the entry he'd been as superstitious as an old Roman consulting the augurs, hoping for favourable omens. He read on.

I was sure
Warspite
had had it. From the deck of
Touareg
I could see her disappearing behind the splashes. Counted twenty-four bombs to port, twelve to starboard, all within two hundred yards of her. The whole lot missed. She's a lucky ship.

Berthed in Alex July 13th. Happy to be back in home port.

He picked up his pen and made a final entry:

July 16. And happy to be back on
Warspite
. All quiet in Alex—for now.

He was glad he had taken the trouble to keep the diary up to date. The roar of the guns, the blasts of the bombs, the deaths and burials of the
Touareg
men—it had all conspired, through some trick of his mind that he didn't understand, to obliterate the memories even though the Italians had been happy to provide
aides memoires
by bombing the dockyard and anchorage on a regular basis. He closed the book, put it in the suitcase, grabbed his cap, and left the room.

*   *   *

“Hello, Fingal,” said a familiar voice.

He turned on the steps of the hospital, having just satisfied himself that both of his patients were doing well. John Collins, his squash partner of last month, stood smiling behind him. “Hello, John. What brings you here?” He had given up on the notion of paying a courtesy call to Elly Simpkins, deciding it was better they simply remained ships that had passed on a warm and fragrant night in Alexandria. Now, presented with this very real reminder of her loss, Fingal felt guilty.

“My boss in signals has been in with a nasty case of piles. I brought him some grapes. Thought they might cheer him up. You?”

“Couple of patients to see. I'd been sent to
Touareg
because their MO had been killed before Calabria.”

John glanced down. “So I heard.” He shook his head. “Bad about Chris Simpkins too.”

“Yes, very bad. Have you seen Elly?”

“Mmmm, several times. It came as a hell of a shock when the God wallah appeared and broke the news—a week ago today in fact. But she seems to have pulled herself together and is handling it well,” John said. “Perhaps ‘well' isn't the best word. Let's just say she's bearing up. Grateful for her friends.” He pursed his lips before saying, “I hesitate to ask, Fingal, I'm sure you do enough comforting in your trade, but she knows you were on
Touareg
at the time. ‘If you see Finn,' she said to me, ‘see if he'll pop in. I only met him once, but he made me laugh.'”

Bloody nearly did a damn sight more. He looked down. Damn it, he'd time enough before he had to be back on board. It would be the right thing to do. That was all. “It's only about a mile to Saad Zaghloul Square from here. Do you think she's home?”

John looked at his watch and nodded. “She and Michelle had an early lunch at the club but she'll be home by now. Decent of you, old boy,” John said. “I have a car if you'd like. I can't come in but I'll drop you there.”

“Thank you,” Fingal said.

*   *   *

The lift with its wrought-iron cage stopped on the third floor of 16B Saad Zaghloul Square. Fingal opened the concertina gate, crossed the landing, and pushed the doorbell. He heard it jingling and expected the manservant Hanif to answer.

The door opened. “Finn. Oh, Finn. You came.” Elly Simpkins was certainly not wearing widow's weeds. Her low V-necked, knee-length frock was a fashionable floral print, her hair was neatly coiffed, and he couldn't help but notice the scarlet nail polish that matched her lipstick. “Thank you so very much. Do come in. You know your way.”

She closed the door behind him and followed as he walked along the hall, through the bead curtain, and into the big living/dining room. The air smelt of tobacco smoke and he noticed an ashtray on the coffee table. It was overflowing with half-smoked butts. The curtains and the French windows were open and he could hear the traffic.

He removed his cap and put it on an armchair, and as he waited for her to take a seat he saw how carefully she had put on her eye makeup but hadn't quite succeeded in hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

“I'll make us some coffee,” she said. “Hanif's at the bazaar. He'll be gone for ages.”

“It's all right,” Fingal said.

“A drink then?” She nodded at the Welsh dresser where the bottles sat.

“No, thank you, Elly. I just popped in to offer my condolences. John Collins said you'd asked for me. I'm dreadfully sorry about what happened…”

“Yes,” she said, and her voice was level. “It came as quite a shock, although God only knows why. There is a war on.” She shook her head and her laugh was brittle. “I went into a tailspin for days, lay about in my dressing gown chain-smoking.” She sat on the sofa and Fingal took the chair opposite.

“I can imagine,” he said.

“But yesterday I woke up and I couldn't face it, couldn't face myself. So I told myself to pull my finger out, washed my face, went and had a hairdo and manicure, and treated myself to this new dress, new shoes”—he noticed her high heels—“and some deliciously sheer stockings.” She picked up a packet of Player's from the tabletop, took one out, and lit up, greedily inhaling the smoke then coughing. “I really should try to stop smoking,” she said.