Battlecruiser (1997) (38 page)

Onslow studied him calmly. ‘Yes, sir.’ It sounded like
of course.
He looked at Sherbrooke. ‘The dockyard would have found it, say what you like about them!’

Stagg snapped at the navigating officer, ‘Show me on the chart where the group will be tomorrow morning.’

Rhodes showed neither surprise nor hesitation. ‘According to the orders, sir, they will make contact with the landing vessels tomorrow at eighteen hundred.’

Stagg repeated, ‘
Tomorrow morning.
As soon after first light as possible.’

Sherbrooke followed them into the chart room, and watched Rhodes pointing out bearings and landmarks which they had studied endlessly since
Husky
had become a part of their destiny, north of Bizerte where
Reliant
’s six big guns had destroyed the last of the German defences, and south of the Tyrrhenian Sea, to the narrow approaches of Sicily itself.

Stagg straightened up, his hands on his hips like crabs.

‘If the steering gear can be repaired by first light,’ every word seemed measured, ‘and I am not at all certain that the Chief is too hopeful . . . God, he makes Job sound like a bloody optimist!’ He seemed quite composed again. ‘Could
Reliant
still make the rendezvous on time?’

Sherbrooke said, ‘With our speed, yes, sir. Otherwise . . .’

‘Very well.’ Stagg turned as if to leave. ‘Chase them up!’

‘May I ask what you intend, sir?’

‘Of course. I intend to lead my section of the invasion forces up to the allotted beaches, no matter what. If
Reliant
cannot do it, then I will shift my flag to a ship that can. Understood?’

‘You intend to fly in one of our aircraft, sir?’

‘The Americans do it all the time.’ He smiled. ‘So why not?’

When he returned to the bridge, Sherbrooke found Frazier waiting for him.

He listened in silence, and then said, ‘We shall be without escorts, sir. And no chance of calling for assistance until the invasion has started.’ He winced as a booming crash echoed through the hull, as if something was bumping along the keel. ‘I know the area is supposed to be clear of enemy submarines, or so they tell us, but any U-Boat commander would have to be stone-deaf not to pick that up!’

Sherbrooke walked out on to the flag deck. He heard Rhodes saying angrily, ‘That bloody man! Shift his flag? I’d bloody shift
him
if I had my way!’

And Frazier’s calm response. ‘I didn’t hear a word of that, Pilot.’ Then they laughed, and Frazier added, ‘Ask me again later!’

The watches changed, and those relieved crouched or lay where they could, fully dressed, and with their lifebelts loose and ready.

A great ship, drifting and helpless in the darkness. Impossible to believe. And when daylight returned, they would still be drifting, stark and vulnerable.

Sherbrooke spent most of the night on the open bridge wing, the sea air and the flung spray keeping all thought of sleep at bay. He had his unfilled pipe clenched in his teeth, remembering the brief moments he had shared with the girl named Emma.

People came and went with messages, requests and questions. He acknowledged them, and barely heard them.

Another one who dared not rest was the war correspondent, Pat Drury.

He sat in the chart room, his stomach adjusting to the uncomfortable motion.

He wrote a lot in his much-used pad.

I watch this man, this quiet hero, a man who lives only for his ship, and would just as willingly die for her.

He closed the pad.
He even gets to me.

John Frazier gripped a guardrail and watched the Chief and some of his men emerge from the hatch. He could not ever recall seeing Onslow so troubled and weary. His overalls were filthy, and there were streaks of oil on his forehead.

‘You look as if you’ve had a hard night, Chief.’

Onslow did not rise to it; he could not. ‘I’ve got everybody working on it, stokers, torpedomen, tiffies, as many as can get down there safely.’ He stared at the sea, as if he had not noticed it before. Dark blue, with the first hint of dawn on the horizon. The wind was still blowing, the ship heavy and lifeless under their feet.

He said, ‘My Chief Stoker has narrowed it down, he thinks, to the pump gear telemotor. He’s a good man, but I’m not sure of anything any more.’ He gazed at the water beyond the stern, usually so alive with
Reliant
’s wake. ‘She did this before, you know, at Jutland.’

Frazier said, ‘She was under fire then, Chief.’

Onslow stifled a yawn. ‘I’m going down again. See what we can sort out.’ He saw the question on Frazier’s face. ‘It might take another two hours just to strip it. They didn’t build this sort of gear for amateurs!’

Frazier walked towards the sheltered side-deck. There were off-watch men hanging about, waiting, trying to gauge what was happening. Usually they would stay in their messes until the last minute before they were piped to work or to watchkeeping duties.

Frazier thought of his wife and wondered what she would think if she could see this side of things. He smiled tightly. What she usually said.
Oh, John, you and your old ship!

A seaman came sharply to a halt and said, ‘Captain’s compliments, sir, and would you join him on the bridge?’

He felt the wind whipping around him as he climbed the first ladder. This time tomorrow, the landing craft would be going in. The smaller ones steered like shoe-boxes, one skipper had told him, and that was in perfect conditions.

He saw the gun crews watching him as he climbed past their mountings. They had put up with most things, but this was something very different.

Sherbrooke was waiting for him as he entered the bridge, which seemed very hot and humid after the spray-dappled quarterdeck.

Frazier said, ‘Nothing, sir. Two more hours, and the Chief thinks they might reduce the possibilities. That’s about all he can offer. He’s taking it badly.’

Sherbrooke said, ‘He would.’ Then, ‘Well, we’ll have to put up with it. I’ll speak with the ship’s company later on.’ He glanced at the listless figures by the voicepipes, the revolving beam of light on the empty radar repeater. ‘In an emergency we can move the ship. But using engines alone in a vessel this size would be a disaster.’

The chart room door opened, and Frazier turned with surprise as Rear-Admiral Stagg walked to the centre of the bridge.

He looked cool and relaxed, when compared with his first appearance, freshly shaved, and wearing a pristine new uniform. Frazier thought it was like seeing a different person.

Stagg said, ‘No joy, then?’

Sherbrooke replied, ‘The Chief is working on it, sir.’

There was a thump, and Frazier saw the new flag lieutenant with two suitcases. He felt suddenly angry, sickened by what he was witnessing. It was all true. Stagg was leaving.

Stagg said, ‘Have my gear put aboard the Walrus, Flags. The rest can wait here.’ He looked directly at Sherbrooke, excluding everyone else. ‘You may require tugs. Eventually. There is nothing more I can do here.’

Several of the men on watch started with alarm as the Walrus engine coughed and then roared into life. They might not understand, or be able to reason why the officer whose flag flew over their lives was suddenly leaving them.
The fighting admiral.

Pat Drury had also appeared from somewhere, tired and unshaven, but oddly cheerful.

Stagg regarded him impassively. ‘There’s room for another passenger, Mr Drury. You will miss the main event, otherwise.’

Drury shrugged. ‘My assignment is
Reliant
, sir. I’ll stay here, if the Captain can stand it.’

Stagg looked away. ‘You can go to hell!’

Drury said, ‘I very probably will, sir. So we might meet again, in that case.’

Stagg retorted coldly, ‘I shall have a word with your superiors about you!’

Drury turned his back to conceal his sudden rage.
I’ll do the same for you, you bloody bastard!

Sherbrooke said, ‘Take over, John.’ Then he followed Stagg and his aide to the ladder.

Frazier had looked for some sign which might reveal Sherbrooke’s feelings at this moment. Stagg was entitled to take all available measures to retain his control of the group and the crowded landing craft which would be in his care. Suppose it had been Sherbrooke’s choice? He didn’t even have to ask.

Sherbrooke waited inside the hangar space forward of the catapult, while some seamen hoisted the admiral’s luggage into the Walrus. The other flying boat was standing under cover, and in the faint light he could see the red maple leaf painted below the cockpit. He knew Rayner was here too, with his friend the New Zealander.
Of one company
. So Rayner had chosen to remain in
Reliant.
The fact that it pleased him revealed more than anything how badly he had been hurt.

Stagg hesitated, seeking the right words. Something to be remembered.

‘You’ll be safe enough. I’ll see that assistance is
available as soon as possible. No submarines anyway – that’s something, eh?’ But the mood eluded him. He touched the peak of his cap in a casual salute. ‘Come and see us when this is over!’

Sherbrooke saluted.
Us?
Who did he mean?

Stagg would never request him as his flag captain again. He walked away from the hangar, and glanced up at the masthead. Stagg’s flag had vanished.

Neither would anybody else, after this.

With a crash, the catapult hurled the Walrus outboard and into the air, where it flew in a wide arc before turning into the first true sunlight.

It seemed to take an age before the flying boat was out of sight. Without it, the sea seemed totally empty. Hostile.

Hot coffee and toast had arrived on the bridge, and he saw two of Yorke’s young signalmen tucking in without hesitation. Admirals could come and go, but food camé first.

Even from the upper bridge, he could hear the din from the tiller flat. He sipped the coffee and thought about Stagg. He had got what he wanted, or soon would. After that, the plum job in Washington, or a vice-admiral’s flag in the Pacific.

He saw Lieutenant-Commander (E) Roger Sinclair enter the bridge and peer round like an intruder. He had been on watch when the steering had jammed, and had been working down aft ever since.

‘Sorry, sir. I was looking for the Chief.’

Frazier said, ‘Don’t look so glum. You weren’t to blame.’

The man grinned at him. ‘You don’t look too chirpy yourself!’

Eventually Sherbrooke left them and went to his small sea cabin, where he found his shaving gear and a fresh drill uniform waiting for him. Long was trying to care for him in the only way he knew.

When he had changed, he took out the photograph again and held it to the light.

On the reverse she had written,
For my Captain, with so much love.

‘Could you come, sir?’

Sherbrooke replaced the photograph and strode out to the bridge. The watch had changed. Different faces, different voices. Everything else was the same, or was it?

He saw the Chief sitting on a locker, his big hands on his knees, staring with a wildness Sherbrooke had never seen.

‘What is it, Chief?’

Rhodes had returned to the bridge, too. ‘Tell the Captain, Chief!
How it was!
’ Even he sounded excited.

Onslow said, ‘I was in the wheelhouse. Checking right through the telemotor lines, the telegraphs, every bloody thing all over again.’ He shook his head. ‘Just for the hell of it, I turned the wheel to port. The others down there were all looking at me as if I’d gone round the bend!’ He wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Maybe I had. I’m not sure of anything after today!’

Sherbrooke felt something like a chill on his spine. ‘Warn the engine room and wheelhouse. Pilot, course to steer?’

‘Wheelhouse, sir. Cox’n on the wheel!’

Onslow had managed to reach the red handset. ‘This is the Chief. Stand by.’ He looked at the deck as if he could see right down to his world of machinery and power. ‘Clear the tiller flat.
Now.
’ He nodded, sharing the other engineer’s incredulity. ‘I know,
I know.
’ He replaced the handset and sat down again.

Sherbrooke walked to the voicepipes. ‘Slow ahead both engines.’

He felt the sudden shiver through his shoes, the
companionable rattle of signals gear and loose fittings. She was moving again.
Moving.

‘Slow ahead, sir. Seven-oh revolutions.’

Rhodes said hoarsely, ‘Course to steer zero-eight-zero,’ and then, as though to himself, ‘Jesus, I don’t believe this.’

Sherbrooke looked at the compass. ‘Starboard fifteen.’ He watched the empty jackstaff in the bows of the ship; it too was moving, edging across the hardening horizon like a conductor’s baton.

He said, ‘Ease to five. Midships.
Steady.
’

‘Steady, sir! Course zero-eight-zero!’

Pat Drury exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll go to the top of our stairs! She’s answering again!’

Sherbrooke looked over at Onslow. ‘You knew, didn’t you, Chief?’

Onslow licked his lips. ‘I’d stake my purple stripes on it, sir. There was not a bloody thing wrong with the steering gear!’

Rhodes said, ‘We’ll not make the rendezvous, sir, not even at full speed.’ Then he grinned. ‘But at least we’re moving again!’

He turned, angry at the interruption as a messenger said, ‘
W/T
office, sir.’

Drury yawned. ‘Rear-Admiral Stagg won’t be too happy about this, Captain.’ He smiled. ‘Too bad, eh?’

It was a wildness, infectious, running through the ship like a shouted message. Somebody gave a cheer; even some of the older hands were peering down at the creaming bow wave as if they had never seen it in their lives.

Rhodes said, ‘Captain, sir. Important signal, restricted.’

‘Tell him to bring it up.’

Nothing could halt the proposed landings now, unless the troops were unable to pinpoint their beaches. Even then . . .

He turned as Elphick, the chief telegraphist, hurried on to the bridge. He was wearing his gold badges, as if to suit the importance of his signal.

Sherbrooke read it quickly in silence. Testing it, word by word, and then himself.