Battlecruiser (1997) (35 page)

They both laughed, and the other crewmen looked up and grinned, although they had not heard what was said.

‘Launch coming out to us!’

Rayner shaded his eyes against the reflected glare. It was the familiar green barge with the rear-admiral’s flag on either bow, the one he had shared with Sherbrooke when they had joined
Reliant
together on that cold day in Scotland.

‘His lordship’s coming aboard.’ He watched the side-party forming up just clear of the tightly-spread awnings, so that the marines’ bayonets would not poke holes through the canvas.

Buck glanced at him. ‘You don’t much like Rear-Admiral Stagg, do you, Dick?’

‘Not much. He’s dangerous.’ He groped for the description he wanted. ‘My dad used to talk about the generals in his war. All bullshit and no brains.’ He turned away, angered
and distressed without understanding why. ‘Never thought of the poor bastards they sent over the top. Well, he’s like that. If bullshit was music, he’d be the whole bloody brass band.’

Buck smiled. ‘Run ashore in Gib, that’s what we need, old son!’ He saw the mood passing. ‘Remember that other time? You ended up getting engaged! Full of surprises, that’s me!’

The silver calls trilled and the Royal Marines presented arms in a small cloud of blanco.

Stagg saluted and glanced along the deck, where various working parties had been called to face aft and stand to attention.

Then he looked keenly at Sherbrooke. ‘So you told them, did you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He knew Stagg was not listening to him.

‘Those lunatics over aboard
Marathon
were all cheering their heads off! Send for her C.O. and give him a bloody good bottle.
Security!
’ He sniffed. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t put the invasion date on the front page of
Reveille
!’

They walked into the cool shadows, and Stagg said, ‘We’ll use your quarters. I’ve got my secretary and Flags waiting for me in mine.’

Sherbrooke stood aside and watched him stride into the day cabin.

Long appeared by the pantry and asked, ‘Can I get anything, sir?’

Stagg said rudely, ‘You can get out!’

Then he turned and glared at Sherbrooke. ‘I’ve been with the admiral. He had a long screed for me from their lordships at the Admiralty, all about the Rosyth refit, and your comments on the standards of work! Really enjoyed himself, I could bloody well see that!’

‘As
Reliant
’s captain, I had no choice, sir.’

‘As far as I am concerned, the only choice was mine! How do you imagine it made me look? I’ll say this, Guy, and I’ll say it just once. I got you
Reliant
, so remember that, the next time you want to play God!’ A lock of hair had fallen across his eye but he seemed too enraged to notice it. ‘And remember, I can just as easily take her away from you and get a captain who knows the score!’

Sherbrooke said quietly, ‘Who does what he’s told, right or wrong – is that closer to it, sir?’

Stagg swept the hair from his face and jammed on his fine cap with the twin rows of oak leaves. ‘Exactly. Yes, I say
exactly!
’

Sherbrooke stood by an open scuttle for several minutes after Stagg had slammed out. Perhaps somebody in high places at the Admiralty did not much care for Stagg, or maybe another name had been suggested for the plum job in Washington.

He gazed out at the lines of troopships and landing craft, the countless khaki figures lying or walking on their crowded decks. An army on the move, an armada such as the world had not seen before.

He touched the letter folded inside his pocket, which had been brought aboard today, and which he had not yet had time to open, then he sat down and looked at her writing, no longer unfamiliar to him. In the far distance, he thought he heard Stagg laugh. Acting on cue again.

He had always known it would be like this. Maybe he had been too afraid of losing the ship.

He forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle. It should have been obvious; Stagg was the one who was afraid.

It is a lovely day here in London, and everyone feels better for the sunshine. I am writing this in the office as I wanted to reach out to you as soon as possible. Today I had some news
. . .

Later, Long peered in at him, anxious and worried.

‘I’m sorry about earlier on, sir.’

Sherbrooke looked at him. ‘Not your fault. I should have seen the storm clouds for myself.’ He turned the letter over again. ‘Brandy, Long.’ As the petty officer hurried away he added, ‘Two glasses. You can share in the celebration.’

Long’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Celebration?’ he repeated.

Sherbrooke said quietly, ‘I’m going to get married.’ Then he smiled. ‘Eventually.’

Long almost ran into the pantry, and Sherbrooke looked for several seconds at the framed photograph of the ship at full speed, taken between the wars.

But first, my lady, Operation Husky.

It was a perfect morning, fine, sunny and warm . . . perhaps a little too perfect. Emma Meheux had joined her neighbour in the other flat for breakfast; nobody else could make powdered egg look and taste like the real thing. Small, precious moments, like watching Ellen’s cat enjoying the pieces of fish she had queued for; talking about clothes and the grim reality of coupons; the black market; the reshowing of
Gone With The Wind
at the local cinema.

When she had entered the requisitioned building by the Thames, she had felt it immediately. Like a cold wind.

The porter on duty said, ‘A visitor for you, Mrs Meheux. I put her in your office.’

When she walked through the waiting room she saw Captain Thome’s door closed, but somehow she knew he was inside. That in itself was unusual. He always seemed to be lying in wait when she arrived, no matter how early, or how late when she left.

She pushed open the door and saw a woman in uniform sitting with a magazine unopened on her lap. A Wren
officer, like those she had seen on board
Reliant.

She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Sorry about this, Mrs Meheux. There was no time to call you.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Second Officer Slade, Julie, if you like. I’m from Welfare.’

She removed her smart tricorne hat and shook her hair out; she was only in her thirties, but the hair was iron-grey. She had a strong, intelligent face, beautiful in a striking sort of way.

Emma said, ‘Welfare? Is there some news?’

The Wren sat down again. ‘This is not strictly a naval business, but Welfare covers all three services, and Major Wallis thought it right that I should see you. Do you know him?’

Emma shook her head. Another name, a different uniform. ‘Perhaps he wrote to me. So many people have tried . . .’

‘I understand. Anyway, the C-in-C, Vice-Admiral Hudson, agreed. You are a top classified and highly regarded person here, so it’s only right and proper.’

‘It’s my husband, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. There will be an official letter, of course. In fact, due to some idiotic foul-up somewhere, one was sent to your home in Bath by mistake.’

She said, ‘I think I knew. I’m . . . not sure.’

The Wren said, ‘There are many cases like this, I’m afraid. When the Japanese invaded Singapore they completely overran all lines of communication. Your husband’s unit was separated from the main force, and during the fighting he was wounded.’

‘But how do you know? Why did it take so long?’

‘Many of our troops tried to escape from Singapore, in naval vessels, native craft, even junks. Most of them failed. The nearest land not controlled by the Japanese was Java.’

She nodded, remembering the cuttings and the files she had studied, when she had tried to understand it and why it had happened.

‘But a few managed it, and were looked after mostly by Javanese fishermen, not always for patriotic reasons.’ The Wren looked at her steadily. ‘We now know that during a secret operation on one of the islands, three British soldiers were found alive, and in reasonable health, to all accounts. They have described what happened when Singapore fell. Lieutenant Meheux was wounded, but he insisted on staying behind to blow up their supplies and equipment. The diversion allowed others to escape.’

Emma was on her feet, but did not recall having risen. She touched the anti-blast tape on the window and stared at the street below, the red buses, the uniforms, the carefree movement of people in the sun, the scars of war hidden away for the moment.

She heard herself say, ‘There was an identity disc. They told me. On a ship that was torpedoed.’

‘Yes.’ The Wren had come to stand beside her, and had placed one hand on her shoulder, not a gesture of pity or sympathy, but of understanding. Strength. ‘They believe he gave it to somebody. To let people know.’ She watched her, and the hand on her shoulder told her what remained unspoken.

Emma said, ‘And it’s taken all this time. Over a year, and nobody knew. Or cared.’

She realized that the Wren officer was looking at her, her hand quite still.

‘Sorry, Julie. This has been rotten for you too, hasn’t it?’

The Wren gave a slight smile. ‘It gets to you at times like this.’

‘Do his family know yet?’ She was shocked that she could barely remember Philip’s mother.

The other woman glanced at the clock. ‘About now, I should think.’

Emma walked to her desk and stared at the letters and files, the paper war.

‘They killed him, didn’t they? Because of what he tried to do.’

‘Yes.’ She picked up her hat. ‘The survivors witnessed most of it.’

She wanted to put her arms around her, to offer some kind of comfort, but Emma Meheux had strength in her own way, and was now freed of something which had been hanging over her, like so many others the Wren had visited. It would be difficult to face the next part, but not impossible. It would do no good to tell her that her husband had been beheaded by the victorious enemy.

She asked suddenly, ‘Is there anyone? Somebody you can contact? If not I’ll hang around. We could have a drink, or something.’

‘I shall be all right, Julie, but thank you. Yes, there is someone.’

‘I’m glad.’ She held out her hand. ‘Call me if you need anything.’ Then she was gone.

How long she sat at the desk Emma had no idea. The telephone remained silent, and Captain Thorne did not trouble her.

She touched her eyes with her fingertips, remembering her lipstick on his mouth.
Yes, there is someone.
It was so easy to say.

Then she pulled out her writing paper and unfastened the cap of her pen.

Dear Guy
 . . . She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist as a tear fell on to the paper. She screwed it up and began again. He must not be distracted now, of all times.

My dearest Guy, It is a lovely day here in London.

She looked up as the door opened very slowly and Captain Thome stood just outside it, his face anxious, and suddenly very old.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Emma? If you like, I could arrange a long leave, perhaps a transfer to Bath, near your family?’

He was trying, but it saddened her to see him like this. The Groper she could cope with.

‘I’m all right, sir.’ She looked at the letter. ‘I want to stay here. To know what’s happening. So that he’ll always remember that I’m with him . . .’

But the office was empty. It was not over. It was only just beginning.

If only . . . She shook her head again, and wrote,
Today I had some news.

She glanced down at the ring on her finger, then very deliberately removed it.

Commander John Frazier strode aft, and paused by the quartermaster’s lobby to look at the Rock, the glittering lights in the town and reflected across the darkening water, where ships’ boats were cutting long phosphorescent wakes like comets’ tails. Did they know how lucky they were here, he wondered. They only saw the war at a distance, in the burned or listing ships creeping into the harbour for refuge, or in the eager faces of young servicemen searching for souvenirs, or merely a good time. Did they ever ask themselves what had happened to all those soldiers, sailors and airmen?

He paused by the table and the open log book.

The quartermaster watched him warily. Frazier was all right, a lot better than most, but you could never afford to be slack where he was concerned.

He said, ‘All libertymen ashore, sir. Duty boats’ crews have just fallen in.’

Frazier acknowledged it. He kept thinking of the captain, how he had asked him to his cabin for a gin, and then had told him about the girl he had met when Alison had been so bloody rude.

He glanced aft. ‘Are they at dinner yet, d’you know?’

The quartermaster shook his head. ‘No, sir. I saw Chiefy Price take another bottle from the pantry.’

A quartermaster, the ship’s gatekeeper, knew everything. He had to.

Frazier sighed, and went down to the cabin flat. Where he had taken the girl who was married to a P.O.W. He had never dreamed . . .

Price opened the door for him, and called over his shoulder, ‘Commander, sir!’

There were four of them, Stagg, looking unusually flushed, Captain Essex of the carrier
Seeker
, Sherbrooke, and the newcomer to the group, Captain Jock Pirie of the eight-inch gun cruiser
Assurance.
The latter was known, affectionately or otherwise, by his ship’s company as Punch, because of the huge nose that dominated his face and made all his other features seem incidental.

Frazier tried to adjust to it. The beautifully laid table, fit for a royal review, the officers in their ice-cream suits, the wine and the polished silver. Petty Officer Long was here, too.
Lending a hand
, as he would call it.

And they had all heard the news this morning. They had been expecting it, cursing each dragging delay, which to the average Jack seemed like sheer bloody-mindedness.

Husky
was on, about to become a fact. They even knew the date: the tenth of July. Just like that.

Stagg looked at him cheerfully. ‘Come for a tot, Commander?’

Frazier answered, ‘Signal, sir. Thought you should see it.’ As Stagg seized it, he looked at Sherbrooke, and
said, ‘Weather report. It’s not too good.’