For Valour (12 page)

Martineau looked at the pale face again, seeing the sudden relief. So it was that important to him to remain in
Hakka.
It had certainly not been an easy start for him.
For any of us.

He nodded, and felt the deck sway up towards him. Too long ashore.

“Very well.” He picked up his cap from the blanket although he did not remember removing it. “Where did you learn to swim, Wishart?” He saw the youth's eyes focus on his cap, the fine new oak leaves around its peak. Seeing himself, perhaps?

Wishart's eyes were drooping, but he could still smile. “The baths, sir, at Surbiton.”

He walked to the door.
And we got a U-boat.
But at this small moment in time, that seemed almost incidental.

Plonker Pryor readjusted the blanket and exclaimed, “Well,
really!
”

But he was pleased all the same. In spite of the new doctor.

Tonkyn, the chief steward, watched his Captain as he knotted his tie and then stretched his arms.

“A shower and a change of clothes works wonders, sir.” He added as an afterthought, “I was told you sent for Forward, sir.” Quietly disapproving that a commanding officer should have a mere rating visit him in his quarters.

“Send him in.” Martineau smiled. “And some more of that coffee, if it's going. I feel better already.”

He glanced at the desk in the adjoining cabin. Signals, some dealt with, or for information only, not much mail; it would eventually catch up with them. One he recognized as a bill from Gieves, and he thought of the young seaman in the sickbay, staring at his new cap. But nothing else. What had he expected? A letter from Alison? It would have to be faced. She wanted a divorce and she would have it. Her father would see to that.

There was a tap at the door, Forward waiting to see him. He was smartly turned out in uniform, a far cry from the half-drowned creature they had dragged from the sea. Dark, hawkish features. Watchful, someone who never took things at face value.

“I just wanted to tell you, Forward. I am submitting your name for some kind of recognition. That was a brave—some people might say crazy—thing you did, but you saved his life. I've just spoken to young Wishart myself.”

Forward showed a glimmer of surprise, but contained it. “I'll bet that pleased him, sir. He wants to be an officer one day.”

Martineau rubbed his eyes. The hot shower was not enough after all.

“The way this war is going, it might be sooner than he thinks. And you can get your hook stitched up again. It will be in orders, but I thought you should know anyway.”

Forward stared at him. “Thank you, sir. It'll stay there, this time.”

Tonkyn padded in, and Forward left the cabin.

Tonkyn did not properly understand his new Captain, not yet. It might take longer with this one, he thought as he expertly refilled the cup. Most Captains would have made a bee-line for the senior officer's ship, to grab all the glory, and would certainly not bother about one young seaman who had almost got himself drowned, and another who'd dipped his hook after a fight ashore. Everybody had looked up to and admired the previous commanding officer. Tonkyn had always had a good memory; you needed it in his work with so many light-fingered skates about. But, offhand, he could not recall the other Captain doing anything for anybody. He gave a mournful smile. Except for himself.

He looked at the small pile of papers on the Captain's desk. Another big difference. The previous Skipper always had a pile of letters waiting every time they came into harbour. Women, mostly; some used to put perfume on them. For all he had cared. He usually chucked them away.

He moved soundlessly around the cabin, and snatched up a telephone as it broke the stillness.

Martineau took it from him and said, “Derby House.
Today.
” He half listened to the O.O.D.'s explanation, then replied, “Arrange it, please.”

He looked at the coffee, thinking of the tanker they had helped to save. She would be unloaded by now, her precious cargo pumped ashore. Like her officers and crew, except for three who had died in the bombing attack, she would have a brief respite. Then off again, another convoy, and more U-boats. And in Germany certain families would be getting those same telegrams, or whatever they sent over there. The bare, brutal facts. What would they think if they saw the real war at sea, the confirmation of
Hakka
's kill? A few pieces of flotsam, a lot of fuel, and some oilskin coveralls, the kind watchkeepers wore in U-boats, their only protection when cruising on the surface. Except that these coveralls had pieces of their owners still inside when
Hakka
had gone looking for evidence, the necessary confirmation required by their lordships.

He stood up, angry with himself.

“Good coffee.”

He strode from the cabin. The Captain again.

It was her third day at Liverpool when she was told that the Boss wanted her. It had all been such a rush since she had arrived at Derby House that looking back it was hard to separate the sequence of events, the names, and the faces.

Her first meeting with Commodore Dudley Raikes was something she would not forget. He was, she supposed, most people's idea of the typical naval officer, but she had been more aware of his energy than anything else, as if he could barely contain it, and she had yet to see him sitting down. He had been in a great hurry that day, and any idea she might have had that it was to impress or intimidate her was soon dispelled. He was, apparently, always like that. She had followed him around the various departments and had seen the reactions of those he spoke to; interrogated might be a better description. He always seemed to start off with
Where is . . . ?
or
Why is . . . ?
and
Why the bloody hell not?

He was treated with great respect, even fear, and she guessed it was to prevent any kind of overconfidence or lack of vigilance.

He obviously took personal fitness very seriously, and, in his perfectly tailored uniform with its single broad ring, he looked the part. Lean and hard, as if all unnecessary surplus had been honed out of him. It had made her even more conscious of her own travel-worn appearance.

First Officer Crawford had tried to smooth the way for her, saying what an asset she would be for visiting Canadian commanders.

He had retorted sharply, “I need a good and efficient staff, not hostesses!”

Despite all that, she had managed to settle in. Her roommate was the signal traffic officer, a second officer like herself, named Caryl, who had been with Western Approaches for ten months.
It feels more like ten years!
She was a pretty, long-legged girl of about Anna's age, with very fair skin and short, bouncy curls, which she confided she had modelled on the style introduced by Ingrid Bergman in her first starring role.

Of Raikes she had said, “Believe me, Anna, his bite
is
worse than his bark!”

She was good at her job. You went under very soon here if you weren't.

Commodore Special Support Groups was an imposing title, and she imagined Raikes was not the sort of officer who would tolerate any slackness from a subordinate which might endanger his own position. You had only to study the giant wall charts to grasp the enormity of the command. Convoys coming and going, escorts being ordered immediately back to sea when at any other time they would be allowed a breathing space for men and ships alike. You had to concentrate on your own duties, and not be diverted by the harrowing signals, ships lost or sinking, help desperately needed, when there was little enough to offer. As Raikes had explained in his curt manner, “With Nelson it was always a lack of frigates. With us, it's a lack of destroyers, ships fast and well-armed enough to go after the buggers! For months and months the cast-iron rule was, the speed of the convoy is the speed of the slowest ship in it. Rather like some of the brains in government, eh?” He had hurried on, pausing to stab his finger on a signal pad. “Who did
this?
Find out and
see me!
” A man who took care over his appearance, who never looked as if he had just been called from his bed. Even his hair, which was completely grey, was neither long nor short, as if it never needed to be cut.

She had been there this morning when
Hakka
had come in, and once again had felt the excitement and pride all around her. Hundreds of Wrens, seamen and dockyard workers cheering their hearts out. It was difficult not to feel emotional about it, and she had found herself waving her hat with all the rest.

And so strange to see
Hakka
after all this time. A ship she had never laid eyes on, but one which had almost broken her heart.

Hakka
was to be a part of one of the new support groups. Eventually these ships would go elsewhere, but the Atlantic was the key, perhaps to the whole future of the war.

She stopped outside the office and adjusted her hat.
I'm ready for you this time.

“Here you are.” Raikes gestured to a chair. “I'm just about finished with Nobby.”

Nobby was a paymaster-lieutenant who acted as the Commodore's secretary, obviously a demanding job. But she was still taken aback by Raikes's appearance. His cap was on his briefcase and his jacket slung on the back of a chair. Like another person. She glanced at the big desk, and the shelves that lined one wall. There were no photographs; like the room, there was no sense of permanence.

Raikes watched his secretary clipping some signals together. “I've heard good things about you.” He looked at her directly. He had a clean-cut face, with lines at the corners of his mouth, caused either by strain or by some past humour, both of which he kept well under control.

He took the papers from the other man and stared at them. His eyes were pale, tawny. Like a tiger, she thought.

He said, “Set it up, Nobby. I'll sign it.” He shook his head. “
No,
you do it, those fools won't know the difference!”

He turned to her again.

“We've got yet another fact-finding mission up from London. As if I don't have enough bumf to wade through.” He was watching her, so still that it was quite out of character. “Your German and French are good, I'm told?” He did not wait for an answer. “What we need, or will before much longer.” He reached out suddenly and adjusted a paperweight on the desk. There were, she noticed, no ashtrays. No weaknesses.

He came to a decision.

“The Atlantic war is in hand. Many of the past mistakes have been ironed out. At a cost. There was a strong belief at Admiralty that escort and support groups were interchangeable. They are not. The corvettes and sloops which make up the majority of escorts are too slow to catch a U-boat once it is surfaced. And too slow to be moved with haste when a particular convoy is in danger of attack by wolf packs, as Dönitz calls them. Destroyers are kept hanging about with convoys crawling along at ten knots or less. This is where our new support groups will come into the picture. There is the Gap, that stretch of ocean which is at present beyond the reach of air cover. New bases and long-range bombers will settle that.”

Anna tried to relax, but it was impossible. In a few terse sentences this remote man had brought the panorama of sea warfare to life. Not mere flags and counters on a chart but ships, and submarines, hunters and hunted. And men.

“There are big plans in the offing.” He was moving again, his shadow leaning across the bare walls like a spectre. “We shall be needing the most valuable cargo of all if we are to hold any hope of hitting back.” He gazed at her. “Invading!”

“Troopships, sir?”

He nodded. “Fast and safe. Where groups like ours will be of paramount importance.”

She wanted to push some hair from her forehead but she was afraid to break the spell. How different it sounded from the world she had abandoned when she left Canada to join the W.R.N.S.
Poor little Britain. Starved out and grateful for the food parcels and warm clothing.
Survival had been in doubt. Invasion had never been contemplated.

“I want you on my team.” His hand rose as if to deal with any protest or gratitude. “It will be hard work, and I know I'm not easy to serve. If you can't keep up, you'll go back to general service, no shame in that.”

The door opened slightly. It was Nobby returning, and she realized she had not even noticed him leave the room.

“Yes?”

“The Admiral, sir. You told me to inform you . . .”

“Later!” He waited for the door to close and asked casually, “Not engaged to be married, or anything? I'd surely have heard.”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Surprised.” He walked past her and adjusted some books. Somehow she had known that he was not going to touch her, not like one of the staff officers at Larne, who always leaned on your shoulder when he was
trying to help,
or made a handshake last just a little longer than necessary.