Battlecruiser (1997) (15 page)

Much to everyone’s surprise,
Reliant
’s repairs were completed at the promised time, although it took another day to work the ship out of dock and to a new mooring. Re-ammunitioning and the replenishment of stores began at once. That was the day on which Rear-Admiral Stagg chose to return, and from the moment he strode aboard, it was evident that he was in a foul mood. The talks at the Admiralty and with the chiefs of staff had solved nothing, as far as Stagg was concerned.

‘And all because of that bloody carrier,
Seeker
! She’s still stuck up there in Iceland – one damned delay after another. It might be weeks before she’s ready to join us! And their lordships are so shit-scared after the
Minden
affair that they want
my
flagship to escort another major troop convoy they’ve approved for next month. Australian and New Zealand divisions this time. Coming from Ceylon via the Cape. They’ve got raiders on the brain!’

Sherbrooke watched him, seeing the anger, the resentment.

‘I can understand their point, sir. If anything happened in those waters . . .’

Stagg snapped, ‘God damnit, Guy, you’re as bad as they are! I want a separate force, an active group – something that would have some significance at this stage of
the war! The First Sea Lord made it plain that it’s this year or not at all for an invasion. I don’t intend to be used as a convoy escort. Any clapped-out battleship could manage that!’

He glared at his flag lieutenant as he rearranged the files of signals on his desk. ‘
And
I read your report about the bloody radar. Nothing wrong with it, they said, eh? They should have been there, eh?’

Sherbrooke did not understand it, either. A fluke, an unexplained temporary fault: after all, radar was still in its infancy.

The stark fact remained, that had they been using their radar at full strength,
Minden
might have detected
Reliant
’s position with their own form of r.d.f.
Minden
had not been in her expected position, nor had she been on the estimated course. But for Rayner’s sighting of the Arado seaplane and their sudden loss of radar transmission, the enemy might easily have fired the first destructive broadside. He recalled the answers he had given the untidy journalist. Luck, coincidence: that was often true. But this had been different. Like fate.

It was ridiculous, of course. He was tired, and Stagg’s mood of intolerance had done nothing to help.

Stagg was saying sharply, ‘But once we get
Seeker
in the group, things will be different, believe me!’

Sherbrooke considered the long haul south. Gibraltar, the South Atlantic, probably to relieve other heavy escorts at Cape Town. Away from the ice, the dark, angry seas.

Stagg said, ‘Oh, and this just came in. That chap you met, Sir Graham Edwardes.’ He took time to pick up a signal. ‘Two days after his visit to
Reliant
the poor old chap popped off, slipped his cable. Heart attack, apparently.’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘Must be the effect you have on people.’

Sherbrooke saw the flag lieutenant’s eyes moving between them. He had been aboard during the event: Stagg never seemed to take him anywhere of importance.

He recalled the vice-admiral’s warning that evening.
He’s still pretty sharp.
And now he was dead.

Stagg said, ‘You’ve been working your pants off since you took command. You haven’t had a break – I’ll lay odds on it.’ His humour was returning. ‘You know, Guy, I’m going to be pretty tied up, and as you made such an impression with your interviews and everything else in my absence, I think
you
should go south in my place. A sort of tribute.’

Sherbrooke stared at him. ‘A memorial service?’

Stagg almost winked. ‘Their lordships expect it. Always like a good piss-up. And I’d certainly appreciate your doing it for me.’

Sherbrooke heard feet marching across the quarterdeck, the ship asserting herself after the invasion of dockyard intruders.

The flag lieutenant said gently, ‘It’s at Portsmouth, sir.’

Stagg snapped, ‘Don’t fuss, Flags.’ To Sherbrooke, he added, ‘I shall see that the R.A.F. fly you most of the way. Least I can do, eh?’

Sherbrooke hesitated. ‘When will this be, sir?’

Stagg was tiring of it. ‘Thursday next. No problem. Fix it up, Flags. Then tell my secretary to come in.’

Sherbrooke walked to the door. It was true that, apart from Iceland and the dockyard, he had barely stepped ashore since taking command. Frazier could take care of things; he had done it before. He seemed to hear her voice again, at the wardroom reception.
He’s very fond of you, isn’t he?
He had never seen Frazier in that light before. A perfectionist at his work, but always slightly withdrawn, on occasions quite remote, except for that brief moment
on the bridge.
Perhaps we’re all learning something.

Stagg said, ‘Meant to tell you, Guy. I saw Jane Cavendish in London. Took her out to lunch. She’s looking well, considering.’

Out to lunch. Petty Officer Long had told him that the first shore telephone call had been at six in the morning.

Sherbrooke heard himself say, ‘I’m glad she’s all right.’ It might have been a coincidence.

Stagg said indifferently, ‘Oh, she’ll get over it.’

Sherbrooke left the day cabin without risking another word. So it was true, and all he could think of was Cavendish sitting in his beloved car, with its engine running in a sealed garage.

She’ll get over it.
But he had not.

Further forward in
Reliant
’s great hull were many of the ship’s offices, where everything was arranged from issues of rum and tinned coffee powder to protective clothing and station cards to give identities to new arrivals.

In one of these offices, Paymaster Lieutenant James Villar, the admiral’s secretary, sat at his desk, his legs crossed, while he endeavoured to complete a crossword puzzle. He was a late entry into the Royal Navy, with a background so unremarkable that he sometimes found it necessary to embroider it. He was thirty years old, senior when compared to most of
Reliant
’s wardroom, and had a dark, almost swarthy face with restless, penetrating eyes which missed very little. As officers and ratings came and went, to take courses for advancement, for promotion, or to fill gaps left by men who had died or deserted, he had watched them all. It was not merely a hobby; it was a dedicated pursuit. Officers of his branch, of the supply and secretariat section, distinguished by the white cloth between their gold stripes, were considered by the others to be necessary evils, and that was as far as it went. The
executive officers, the gunnery types, and the fliers saw themselves on another planet.

But Villar was the admiral’s secretary, and he considered that that placed him in a different sphere entirely.

Everyone had a story somewhere inside him, and Villar would often make it his business to uncover it.

He turned his head slightly as something squeaked, a damp leather wiping one of the thick glass scuttles.

Villar tapped his teeth with his pencil. There was probably a story there, he thought, although he doubted that he would ever take the trouble to discover it.

The rating who was cleaning the glass turned and looked at him.

‘Anything else, sir?’

Villar regarded him severely. ‘That cabinet. Better being in here than out on that cold deck, right?’

Ordinary Seaman Alan Mowbray was young, and looked no more than a boy, although Villar knew he was almost nineteen. Even in his working overalls, he always looked smart, his hair neatly combed and clean. How he had ended up in a battlecruiser was beyond Villar. He had been listed as a former officer candidate who had been rejected, ‘dipped’, somewhere along the way. Villar had often wondered why. Mowbray had qualities equal to many of those officers Villar met every day in the wardroom, a pleasant manner, and he was quietly well-spoken. Perhaps he had simply lacked the ambition of his classmates.

He watched him polishing the cabinet. He had delicate, almost feminine hands, but he seemed to have fitted into the crowded, roughly ruled world of the messdecks. Otherwise, Villar would have heard about it.

He said suddenly, ‘What did you do before you joined up, Mowbray, if anything?’

The youth looked at him. ‘I was a student, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘An art student.’

‘I see. And were you very disappointed when you lost your chance of a commission?’

He considered it. ‘It was something that happened, sir. I’m not sure what I really wanted.’ He continued his polishing.

‘Were you any good? As an artist, I mean?’

The duster stopped again. ‘I think so, sir.’ He looked up, frowning, vulnerable. ‘I still do some work when I can get the time.’

Villar was losing interest in the conversation. ‘You’ll have to show me one of your masterpieces some day.’

He looked round as someone rapped on the door.

‘Yes?’

It was a total stranger, a sub-lieutenant so new that the single wavy stripe on his sleeve looked like pure gold.

‘I was looking for the Commander, sir. I’ve just come aboard to join. Sub-Lieutenant Peter Forbes . . .’

‘Wrong place. I’m the admiral’s secretary.’ The phone rang by his elbow, shattering the sudden silence.

Villar snatched it up. It was Howe, the flag lieutenant.

‘The Boss wants you down aft, chop-chop!’

But Villar barely heard him. He was looking at the newly appointed subbie and the rating, who was on his knees by the cabinet.

Forbes was saying, ‘Alan, it’s you! I didn’t know you were in
Reliant!
You should have told me . . . written or something!’

The boy stood up, twisting the duster in his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Peter . . . I mean, sir. I couldn’t . . .’

Villar said softly into the telephone, ‘I’m on my way, Flags!’ But he was still observing them covertly, saw them reach out and touch hands; sensed the pain and the dismay
at this encounter. And something more.

He put down the telephone loudly. ‘I’m going that way, Sub. I’ll show you,’ and to the young seaman, ‘You carry on here. This won’t take long. Might need you.’

He saw their quick exchange of glances and was satisfied. There was, indeed, a story.

And while Petty Officer Long packed the captain’s case for his trip south, and considered the change he had seen in him, and as Lieutenant Dick Rayner of Toronto dubiously agreed to the proposal of a run ashore with Eddy Buck,
Reliant
carried them all. Twelve hundred officers and men, from Rear-Admiral Stagg to the lowliest rating, they were as strong only as the ship which ruled their lives.

The taxi must have been built long before the war. Every time the driver changed gear, it sounded as though it might be the last. The night was pitch dark, and the shades on the headlights, conforming with the air raid precautions, made it impossible to see where they were going. Rayner wiped the window with his sleeve and peered at a darkened house as it loomed above the road.

‘Where the hell is this place, Eddy?’

Buck said hopefully, ‘I think we’re nearly there, Dick.’

Rayner grimaced in the darkness. ‘Yeah? Well, I think we’re lost!’

It had all sounded straightforward, but then most things suggested by Buck usually did. It was the Malcolm Hotel, ‘just a few miles up the Queensferry Road’. There would be music and dancing. Mostly men from the local army camp, and of course girls, from as far away as Dunfermline, which Buck had made sound like Las Vegas.

The driver, withdrawn to the point of surliness, had made it clear from the start: pay in advance, and double fare for the return trip to Rosyth. Buck had dismissed it,
saying, ‘You can always get a lift back with somebody, army or R.A.F., easy.’ It was only later that he admitted he had only been to this hotel once before, and that had been in broad daylight.

Rayner said, ‘We should have stayed aboard, or gone across to that cruiser for a drink. It would have been more fun than this.’

At least it wasn’t raining, for a change. A sort of wet mist clung to the windscreen; not that it mattered, Rayner thought, there was nothing to see, anyway.

He had been intending to write home when Buck had badgered him into going ashore for a run. He had wanted to tell his parents about his experience, even though he knew there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of it getting past the censor. He only knew that he wanted to confide in them, to share the fact that he had killed two Germans, two airmen like himself. Not to make excuses, or justify his action. War wasn’t like that . . .

Buck said, ‘Ahah. I recognize
that
, Dick. Not long now!’

Rayner grinned. ‘You and your goddamned short cuts!’

It was funny when you thought about it. Two young men from the opposite ends of the earth groping around in Scotland for some momentary release from machines and routine, boredom, and sudden danger.

He would write to them about that.

He heard the driver muttering something, and then Buck saying, ‘Some fool parked on the corner. Bloody dangerous, with no lights.’

Rayner said, ‘Well, it’s not exactly busy around here, is it?’

They groped past the car, which was pointing the other way. Somebody who could still get gas, he thought, in spite of the severe rationing.

He reached out and jabbed the driver’s arm. ‘Stop the taxi!’

The driver applied the brakes. ‘What d’you see, man?’

It was the same feeling, ice cold and alert, an instinct.

Buck said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Can’t you wait till we get there?’

But Rayner was out of the taxi, his shoes slipping on loose stones as he crossed the road toward the darkened car.

It all happened in a second, even though his mind recorded every small fragment, like touching down to land, twisting to avoid an unexpected burst of flak. He wrenched open the door and saw the man staring at him, his eyes wild in the safety light; he was lashing out with his fist but Rayner scarcely felt the blow. Instead, he saw the girl, bent back in the passenger’s seat, her skirt dragged up over her legs, one shoulder bare where her dress had been ripped.