Battlecruiser (1997) (36 page)

Stagg slapped the signal down on the table. ‘Lot of old women! I heard from the C-in-C myself. There’s too much involved. We can turn the invasion fleet round, even delay it, but once the balloon goes up,
we go
, weather or not!’

Frazier had heard a rumour about friction between Stagg and Sherbrooke. He could guess most of it: Rosyth, the armour plate, the rear-admiral’s determination to be in the vanguard of
Husky.
You didn’t need a crystal ball to fathom it out.

He said, ‘I’ve spoken with Pilot, sir. He’s keeping book on the weather conditions.’

Sherbrooke smiled. ‘I guessed as much.’

Captain Pirie trained his nose towards them. ‘I hear your war correspondent, Pat Drury, is coming with you again?’

Stagg interrupted, ‘If he gets a move on. I think he must have invented the pierhead jump!’

Captain Essex said thoughtfully, ‘So the ships at Gib will be leaving tomorrow. Hard to believe the waiting’s over.’

Frazier said, ‘All leave’s cancelled. The redcaps will be out now rounding up the late drinkers.’

Stagg said sharply, ‘And then we can weigh. Twelve hundred miles, and we make some more history!’

Sherbrooke said quietly, ‘Thanks, John. I’ll see you later on.’

His eyes said,
as soon as I can get away.

It was a few minutes to nine o’clock when Sherbrooke eventually made his way aft to join Frazier by Y Turret, as if the meeting had been arranged.

It had been an angry sunset, and the sky was streaked in long bars of copper. Most of the harbour was in shadow, with few boats running back and forth at this time. It was normal, harbour routine: what they had both been trained
to accept, from Dartmouth to this moment.

A few figures stood on the quarterdeck, the duty signalman, the O.O.D., quartermaster and sentry. Standing apart from the others, the Royal Marine bugler stood on the little rope mat which had been thoughtfully provided to protect the planking from his heavy boots.

Sherbrooke recalled Stagg’s threat, for that was what it had been. To undertake a long overhaul and restructuring at some later date would mean that
Reliant
would be paid off, her company scattered to different depots and barracks to await drafts to other ships and new companies. In Rosyth they could have managed some of it; the squat dockyard manager had as much as promised that he could complete such a refit in time, even before they had discovered that
Husky
had been delayed.

The O.O.D. had at last realized that the captain and second-in-command were present, and coughed nervously.

‘Sunset, sir!’

The O.O.D. called, ‘
Make it so!
’

The marine, his eyes on the White Ensign, began to sound the Last Post, as was the custom in big warships in harbour. Routine, part of their lives.

But it was more than that, much more. Sherbrooke and Frazier saluted together as the flag was lowered, and scooped up by the signalman before it could touch the deck.

‘Carry
on
!’

They walked along the deck together, and Frazier said, ‘I wouldn’t want to leave
Reliant
, sir. Not now that we’ve come this far.’

Somebody said, ‘The other captains are coming on deck, sir!’

Sherbrooke was glad of the interruption. ‘I’ll deal with it. Man the side!’ Frazier’s words were still in his mind. He could have spoken them himself.

On the morning of
Reliant
’s departure from the Bay, the weather had changed considerably. The wind had risen, and blew from the north-west, which was unusual to say the least; even Rhodes was disturbed by it. A short, choppy sea, broken by the wind, would make the going hard for the landing vessels, especially the smaller ones, and some might find it impossible to make the final rendezvous in two days’ time.

Reliant
had led the way from Gibraltar, followed directly astern by the carrier
Seeker
, with the cruiser
Assurance
bringing up the rear. The flotilla of destroyers, still depleted by the loss of
Montagu
, were deployed on either beam, an impressive sight, even to the buffs amongst the many onlookers lining the shore. It was as close to the peacetime navy as Gibraltar had seen for years, with all hands fallen in fore-and-aft in their white uniforms, and keeping perfect station on the battlecruiser. All it had needed was a band.

Once clear of the bay, the serious business of preparing for anything that might challenge them got under way.

Sherbrooke walked out on to the flag deck and looked along his command. The awnings had gone, and a slightly frayed ensign replaced the one flown in harbour; the anti-aircraft and short-range weapons were manned, and the whole ship at Defence Stations.

He saw one of the Walrus flying boats on the catapult, mechanics crawling over it like predators. There was an officer with them, and when he removed his cap to scratch his fair hair, Sherbrooke knew it was Rayner. Something made him squint up at the lofty bridge.

Sherbrooke raised his hand, and turned away to join the bridge team. He knew their strength now, too. Yorke, the capable yeoman of signals who had emerged as quite a wit with a dry sense of humour. His signalmen, seasoned hands
and mere boys as well; the boatswain’s mate by the bridge tannoy speaker; a messenger with the inevitable tray of tea. Lieutenant Friar, the second gunnery officer, had the watch, and Drake, whose pink face defied sun and wind alike, was assisting him. The chain of command: up to the invisible radar, down through the WIT office and the wheelhouse.

He heard Yorke murmur, ‘Here comes our front-line reporter, Jack. Now we can get on with the war!’

Pat Drury, as untidy as ever, clambered into the bridge and grinned.

‘Sorry I was a bit late off shore last night, Captain. Got involved with another chap I used to work with in Fleet Street.’

Sherbrooke raised his binoculars and watched the nearest destroyer as the diamond-bright signal lamp began to stammer.

‘Thought you’d missed the boat?’ He turned. ‘What’s
Marathon
got to say, Yeo?’ To Drury, he added, ‘I think the weather’s going to get worse. Just what we don’t need.’

Yorke lowered his telescope. ‘From
Marathon
, sir.
Permission to exercise guns.
’

‘Granted.’ He half listened to the rapid clatter of the lamp. You had to be good to keep up with Yorke’s team.

Drury said, ‘Will it make that much difference?’

‘To the landing craft, yes, it might.’ Most of the soldiers would be keyed up to the limit anyway, without having to stagger ashore seasick and then be expected to fight, but there was no point in saying as much to Drury. He probably knew already. And most of the landing craft were commanded by young, temporary officers, like Drake and all the other Wavy Navy officers who had been ‘forced up under glass’, as Rhodes had put it. They were all inexperienced, simply because an invasion of this
magnitude had never been attempted before.

‘Could you spare a few minutes, Captain?’ Drury glanced at the chart room. ‘In there, maybe?’

Sherbrooke nodded to the O.O.W., a stiff-backed and very formal lieutenant, a true product of the Whale Island gunnery school.

It seemed peaceful and remote after the bridge with its busy watchkeepers.

‘Close the door.’ He smiled as the destroyer shattered the silence with the staccato rattle of anti-aircraft weapons. ‘It’ll be quieter.’

Drury closed it, regarding him with interest. He had always made a point of remaining cynical, and was rarely impressed or manipulated into forming the wrong conclusions. Soldiers and sailors of all ranks, none was above a bit of bullshit. But Sherbrooke intrigued him. He had seen him wave to one of his officers, the pilot who had received the D.S.C.; had watched him shift his attention in the space of an instant to the destroyer which was now pooping off the taxpayers’ money. And he was still able to detach himself from it.
Like now.

A pair of parallel rulers rolled suddenly across the chart table and clattered to the deck. Drury saw Sherbrooke’s eyes move to it, aware of the motion, hearing the metallic creak of the entire bridge structure, seeing all those landing craft in his mind. Whatever anybody else had told him, Drury knew that they could not reverse this undertaking.

He realized that the blue eyes were watching him.

He said, ‘I was in London, Captain. I was briefed there before they flew me out.’

‘They must trust you a great deal.’

Drury wondered why he felt so awkward. It was unusual for him.

He said, ‘Some more than others, apparently.’ He opened
his jacket and took out an envelope. ‘For you.’

There was utter silence.

He said, ‘Before you open it, I must say something. She asked me to give it
to you
, and not to tell anybody.’

She.
Sherbrooke opened the thick, official envelope with the Admiralty fouled anchor on it.

It was a photograph. It must have been taken in the office, her office, where no cameras were ever allowed.

‘Thank you . . . very much. Did you take it?’

‘Of course. Then I got the press lab to make a print for you. This job does have some perks!’

He watched him turn over the photograph to read what she had written on the reverse. It was just an ordinary press glossy. But Sherbrooke was holding it as if it was beyond value. So this was the private man. Not the one they had written about.
I wrote about.
The man Drury had seen for himself in action, and during the aftermath with his men.

Sherbrooke said, ‘You take a good picture,’ and placed it carefully back in the envelope.

Drury was about to remark that she was a good subject, and that he hoped they might find happiness, when so many had lost it. But that kind of sentiment was not for this moment, nor was it for this man.

‘Can you tell me what we’re heading into, Captain?’

Sherbrooke seemed detached, absent in spirit. ‘A bombardment. Covering fire for the troops once they get ashore. That sort of thing.’

He heard the wind sigh against the superstructure, and saw the signalmen pulling down their chinstays to stop their caps from flying over the side. In for a blow. Bad timing.

But when he spoke again, he revealed nothing of his thoughts. ‘The first few hours will tell.’

Someone was hovering outside the door.

Sherbrooke said, ‘Anything else?’

Drury wondered how he would describe this private moment, but no facile words came to his mind. Instead he said, ‘I’m glad I’m coming with you,’ and found that he meant it.

And so, H.M.S.
Reliant
went back to war.

Paymaster Lieutenant James Villar leaned back in his office chair and opened his white tunic. With most watertight doors shut and deadlights and ventilators sealed off, the ship was like an oven. He wiped his throat and chest with a damp handkerchief and felt his stomach contract painfully as
Reliant
dipped steeply in a swell. It was unusual for him to feel like this, but then, the weather was not helping.

If he let his mind dwell on it, he knew he would throw up. Look outboard, keep your eyes on the horizon, the old hands always said, and you would never be seasick. Down here in his office, there was no horizon, and it would be as black as pitch on deck in any case.

He glanced at the clock and swallowed hard. It was an hour before midnight, but he did not feel like turning in, nor did he want to go to the wardroom where a few of the off-duty watchkeepers would be dozing, fully dressed, and waiting to be roused for their next tour of duty.

Reliant
had been closed up at Defence Stations since leaving Gibraltar, four hours on, four hours off, with only a brief respite during the two-hour dog watches. Despite the hardship of watchkeeping with so little time for anything else, the men seemed to prefer it. Villar had never been able to understand this. He kept to fairly regular hours,
in harbour or at sea, and was left alone to plan most of his routine. And this office was his retreat, unlike his cabin, which was so full of extra filing cabinets that he often felt he was in one of them.

He pulled out his key ring, and after some hesitation opened a drawer in his desk. A
retreat
, something which most of the young officers who shared the wardroom would never appreciate. They were juvenile and immature, no matter how they might see themselves.

He lifted out his leather writing case. It still had a fine, rich smell, and was pleasant to touch. He smiled. It had been expensive as well, but Villar had always liked nice things.

He considered the invisible ships, heading toward their chosen area of battle. Tomorrow they would catch up with the landing vessels he had seen at Gibraltar. After that, it was anybody’s guess.

He had been surprised, rather than pleased, that he had not collapsed into complete terror when the enemy shell had exploded against the admiral’s bridge. In his memory, the experience was recorded only as a kind of numbness, a shock, with only distorted pictures to illustrate it. The young subbie gasping for air, the telegraphist who had fallen and been crushed when the side had caved in on them. The flag lieutenant had simply vanished.

He smiled again. The new flag lieutenant was not much better, but Stagg seemed to approve of him so far. He was, after all, a few inches shorter than the admiral.

He had seen very little of Stagg during the visit to London. He had been to a few shops listed in Stagg’s diary, and had collected some clothing from Gieves, and several cases of wine from Berry Brothers & Rudd in St. James’s Street.

And then
 . . . He shook his head as if someone had
questioned it. It had not been an impulse; he had planned it. He had telephoned Mowbray’s home in Guildford. Mowbray himself had not been there, or so his mother had said. She had had a strong, cultured voice, not quite what Villar had expected, and had been vaguely suspicious until he had explained that he was one of her son’s officers, who had shared his experience, when others had died.