Battlecruiser (1997) (37 page)

Since Rosyth and Gibraltar, he had seen very little of ordinary Seaman Alan Mowbray. Perversely, that told him that the telephone call had been a success.

He opened the writing case and touched the matched fountain pens, and the neat rank of envelopes. Everything tasteful, tidy. Then he withdrew the photograph and studied it, his nausea momentarily forgotten.

Mowbray had been surprised when he had visited him in the sick quarters, nervous too. But not outwardly hostile.

The deck tilted again and he heard things in his cupboards falling in confusion. One of his writers could clear up the mess tomorrow.

Villar wiped his face and throat again. They must have been very close, very intimate, to share such pictures. And now his friend was dead.

He sat up with a jerk as somebody tapped on the door.

‘Yes!’

He tried to contain his surprise. It was Mowbray, carrying his cap, his eyes moving quickly around the office.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought you might be working late. I know you do. It’s just that . . .’

‘Come in.’ He closed the writing case. ‘Shut the door. I was just finishing, anyway.’ He watched the youth, making up his mind, not sure how to proceed.

Mowbray said, ‘I’m on the Middle Watch, sir.’ He looked at the clock. ‘I heard about your phone call, sir.’

Villar smiled gently. ‘You didn’t mind, did you? It was
something we both went through. I was in London. I thought we might meet.’

‘People would think . . .’

Villar said impatiently, ‘I don’t care what people think. Neither should you. What’s your station on the Middle Watch?’

Mowbray seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Damage control, sir. There’s a lot of gear to move before we’re properly ready.’

‘I can imagine.’ He made his decision. ‘You shouldn’t be using your hands for that kind of work. You have a real talent. It’s like a pianist digging for coal.’

The youth glanced at his hands. ‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Come over here.’ Villar watched the sudden apprehension. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

Mowbray stood by the desk. ‘I don’t want anyone to think it was like that, you see, sir. It was different.’

Villar reached out and took his hand. ‘How different? You and young Forbes . . . Peter, wasn’t it?’ He saw him nod wretchedly. ‘You were often together. More than just friends, I’d say?’

Mowbray murmured, ‘There was an old boat on the river. It belonged to his uncle. We used to go there. Take some food, and our sketching things.’

His eyes were distant, and his hand in Villar’s quite relaxed, unafraid.

‘And then what did you get up to?’

Mowbray looked at him steadily; resigned, submissive, it could be either.

‘You
know
what we did, sir.’

‘Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ He smiled. ‘Get it all out of the way.’ He saw the youth stagger and heard more objects falling somewhere. ‘
Christ
, what was that?’

Mowbray stooped and recovered his cap while Villar
stared around, unable to assemble his thoughts.

Mowbray said simply, ‘The engines have stopped, sir. Something must have happened.’

To make it worse the telephone buzzed, seemingly twice as loud as ever before.

Villar snatched it up, his fingers so slippery with sweat that he almost dropped the receiver. It was the new flag lieutenant.

Villar said, ‘Of
course
I’m still here!’ He nodded, still dazed. ‘Right away!’

He was just in time to see the door closing.

Lieutenant-Commander Clive Rhodes made another neat calculation on the chart and swore quietly to himself as a drop of sweat splashed down by his dividers. Even with the bridge screens lowered or wide open, the air was stifling, and the motion, even for him, uncomfortable. The north-westerly wind was as strong as before, and they had twice reduced speed so that the group could retain its formation.

He leaned on the table and glanced at his tools, freshly sharpened pencils, pads, estimates of speed, time and distance, all kept in perfect order by his yeoman, a very serious young seaman from Southampton.

In his mind’s eye, Rhodes could picture the vast armada of ships moving from both ends of the Mediterranean. The organization was enough to make your head swim. Thousands of troops, armoured vehicles, guns and supplies, all of which had to be dumped on the beaches.
Reliant
would lie off and offer support like the other big ships. For the poor bloody infantry, it was a grim prospect.

And after that? He thought of what the captain had said about putting him up for a command. He had often considered it himself, but something always seemed to get
in the way. Rumour had it that
Reliant
would be sent for a long refit soon, and Rhodes knew it was on the captain’s mind; he had a thing about this ship. He grinned through his beard.
Listen to me.
But if that happened, it would not be the same afterwards, everyone scattered, faces you had come to respect, to like, or to hate. All a part of something, the whole.

A command of his own, then. He glanced around the familiar chart room. No, it would not be the same.

The midshipman of the watch said, ‘Captain’s coming up, sir.’

‘Thanks, Tim. I’m about ready.’ He looked at the clock. Another alteration of course. He examined his feelings. The attack would begin on the morning after next. No recall, no turning back; it was on.

Rhodes was not married, although he had been close to it a few times. It had not fitted in with his service life, or so he had believed. Now, after seeing the Canadian two-ringer with his nurse, and the captain and the striking girl who had come to the party, he was not so certain.

He picked up his pad and walked into the bridge. His eyes moved unhurriedly across the pattern he knew so well: men at voicepipes and telephones, his assistant, Frost, peering through the screen, signalmen, messengers. They were all puny when he considered the ship that ruled their lives.

He saw Sherbrooke, and said, ‘About ready to alter course, sir.’

Sherbrooke climbed onto his chair, and felt the metal arms pressing against his ribs as the ship rolled heavily. Aboard the destroyers it must be impossible to keep dry.

He saw the correspondent Pat Drury talking quietly to one of the signalmen. Drury knew how to avoid disrupting the routine, and had a casual, almost offhand manner of
approach when talking to the ship’s company; it made a big change from some journalists he had known. He wondered if Drury’s eventual broadcast would be any better for the experience, or have any real significance in the end.

Drury said, ‘I hope I’m not intruding, Captain.’

Sherbrooke smiled. ‘I thought you’d be down aft enjoying a good sleep. I know I would!’

Drury glanced across the bridge. ‘Your steward keeps a sharp eye on me, right enough. He’ll make a good butler one day!’

Rhodes heard him and grinned privately. If Long was like many other senior stewards he had known, he would probably end up wealthy enough to employ a butler of his own.

A messenger spoke into the big voicepipe, and then turned to Frost.

‘Wheelhouse, sir. Permission to relieve the quartermaster.’

Frost grunted. ‘Very good.’

‘Wheelhouse – bridge.’

Frost touched his face as if still expecting to feel the stubble of his beard. ‘Bridge?’

‘Leading Seaman Justice on the wheel, sir. Course zero-four-five.’

Frost glanced at the ticking gyro repeater. ‘Steady as you go.’

Sherbrooke asked, ‘What is your next assignment?’

Drury thought about it. ‘A victory parade, I hope. I’ve seen all the other aspects of it – Dunkirk, Norway, Crete. And it was almost touch and go in North Africa at one time. I want to see it, smell it, and be able to write about it, so that people will never forget.’

He stepped aside as Rhodes said, ‘Time, sir.’

Sherbrooke nodded. ‘Carry on.’

Rhodes leaned over the gyro. ‘Starboard twenty!’

‘Starboard twenty, sir. Twenty of starboard wheel on.’

Rhodes watched the moving gyro tape. ‘Ease to five. Midships!’

Frost exclaimed, ‘She’s not answering, sir!’

Sherbrooke slid off the chair and rested one hand on the wheelhouse voicepipe.

‘What’s the matter, Justice? Opposite helm,
port fifteen
!’

The gyro repeater was still moving,
tick, tick, tick.

‘Not answering, sir!’

Reliant
was still turning to starboard, her rudder locked over.

Sherbrooke said, ‘Stop engines!’

Even that seemed to take an eternity, the engine room staff dulled into the same revolutions and speed, watch after watch with barely a change. The bridge gave a shiver, and the sounds of the sea and the ship intruded like strangers.

Sherbrooke pressed the red handset to his ear. ‘This is the Captain.’

‘Sinclair, sir!’

Sherbrooke saw the face in his mind, Onslow’s second in command. A very experienced engineer.

‘What is it?’

Sinclair sounded miles away. ‘Steering won’t answer, sir. I’ve sent my lads to the tiller flat. Until then, I’m not . . .’

Sherbrooke swung round as a voice yelled, ‘Ship at Green four-five, sir!’

Rhodes muttered, ‘Christ, it must be
Mastiff.
’

Sherbrooke said, ‘
Emergency.
Full speed astern!’ He heard the distant clang of bells and strode to the bridge wing, his glasses already raised. Then he saw the other ship. The destroyer appeared to be turning inwards, her
bow wave like a great white moustache against the darkness. In fact, she was still on course.
Reliant
was the one which was swinging round, as if intent on ramming her.

‘Shall I clear lower deck, sir?’

Sherbrooke re-entered the bridge and stood by the voicepipes, his eyes on the compass.

‘No time, Pilot.
No time.
’ He gripped the voicepipes and listened to the mounting clatter and scrape of the bridge structure, as from her keel to this point
Reliant
shook like a mad thing, all four screws thrashing astern.

Sherbrooke saw the destroyer’s dark outline appear to change direction. Another minute or so, and
Reliant
would have sliced her in half.

Sherbrooke said, ‘Stop engines. Make a signal to
Seeker
, repeated to the whole group.
Keep clear of me
–
I am manoeuvring with difficulty.
’

‘I’ll do that, sir!’ It was Yorke, naked to the waist and barefooted; he must have run all the way from his mess. What had brought him? A sound, a movement, or was it his signalman’s instinct?

‘Admiral’s on here, sir!’

Sherbrooke glanced at the dark water. ‘Good lookout for other ships. With luck, radar will earn its keep tonight!’

Somebody gave a short, frightened laugh.

‘Captain, sir?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Not under command, sir. No steering. Engine room thinks the rudder is jammed.’

There was such a long pause that he thought Stagg had forgotten him.

‘How long?’

‘The engine room has people aft right now, sir. I can’t ask them to enter the tiller flat without stopping the engines.’

‘
Ask?
Bloody well tell them!’ Stagg seemed to control himself with a great effort. ‘I’ll come up. Inform
Seeker.
’

‘I have, sir.’

Stagg was thinking aloud. ‘
It must be fixed!
There’s no room for delays, or for the people who cause them, either.’

It sounded like a threat, but Sherbrooke knew what was really troubling Stagg. He had commanded three ships himself; he knew as well as any captain what the risks were. All he could see was his overall control of the landing forces slipping away.

Stagg said sharply, ‘Well, carry on. Fast as you can.’

Sherbrooke realized that Drury was still loitering by his chair.

‘Rough, was it?’

Sherbrooke felt his mouth crease into a smile. ‘He’s not pleased.’

Drury listened to muffled orders being shouted beneath the bridge, the slap of running feet. Men dazed by the realization that
Reliant
was stopped, and rolling slowly like any abandoned hulk, her power and strength suddenly gone.

Stagg slammed into the bridge, his eyes red-rimmed with anger.

‘What the
hell
is going on?’

Sherbrooke saw his new flag lieutenant hovering in the background, his appearance marred by the collar of his pyjama jacket, which protruded over his uniform.

‘The Chief’s down aft, sir. We should know soon.’

Stagg strode about, brushing against wary watchkeepers without apparently noticing them. ‘Soon? Soon? What the hell does that mean?’ He grasped Sherbrooke’s arm and said, ‘What was it? The bloody dockyard, or some oversight
on board this ship?
’

‘From
Seeker
, sir.
Request instructions.
’

Sherbrooke said, ‘Nothing they can do for us, sir. I would suggest they continue as before. The landing ships will be depending on it.’ He watched the emotions and the arguments. ‘We cannot break radio silence at this stage.’

‘I
know that
, dammit!’ Stagg ran a finger around his collar as if it was choking him. ‘Very well. Tell
Seeker
to assume command.’

Sherbrooke pictured the carrier’s captain. Had he expected something like this?

They all turned as the Chief appeared in the bridge. His cap was awry, and his uniform streaked in grease, and there was a bandage on his wrist.

‘Sorry it took so long, sir.’ He sighed as the ship dipped heavily, not from the wind this time, but from the surging wash of a destroyer as she gathered speed to take station on
Seeker.

Stagg snapped, ‘Well, get on with it!’

Onslow regarded him more with sadness than anger.

‘The rams that control the tiller and rudder head are locked solid.’ He held his greasy fingers together to demonstrate. ‘I’ve got my best tiffies working on it, but for the life of me I can’t think what caused it. It wasn’t damaged by the shell fire . . .’

Stagg held up his hand. ‘Did you check it yourself?’