For Valour (19 page)

She tugged the handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed his mouth with it, to give herself time.

“Lipstick. Don't want them to get the wrong idea!”

Fairfax gripped her wrist. “So I've had too many drinks. But it's not every day you get a gong, or get kissed by a lovely girl. So—so maybe I'm allowed to speak out of turn.”

She waited, knowing that it was important to him.

“The Skipper's had a bad time, in more ways than one. I watch him relive it every day, see him trying to come to terms with it.”

She put her hand on his.

“Go on. Don't stop now. Please.”

“His wife cheated on him. He must have known about it when he gave the order to ram that bloody cruiser, when so many of his people were lost. He cares, you see. But I think he cares too much.”

He guided her to the ladder. A boat was chugging abeam, drunken voices raised in song.

How I was a goddamned fool,
in th' Port o' Liverpool.
On th' first night when I came home from sea . . .

Somebody's libertymen returning. Mercifully not
Hakka
's.

Fairfax saw the quartermaster and gangway sentry stiffen as they approached, cigarettes skilfully cupped and hidden in their palms.

But all he could think of was his own irresponsibility. Right at the time, maybe, but looking back it seemed disloyal and pathetic. She might go straight to her boss, the Commodore, and complain about his behaviour.

The tall figure of Tonkyn, the chief steward, leaned out of the darkness.

“The party's spread itself, sir. Gents of the press down in the wardroom,” he made a quick gesture like someone downing a glass, “an' some of the others have gone ashore.” He turned, ghostlike in his white jacket. “The Captain asked if you would join him in his quarters.” He melted away just as quietly.

Fairfax said, “A real character, that one.” A memory flashed through his mind: Tonkyn destroying letters which Bickford had thrown out unopened.

He took her arm. “Ready?” and she smiled at him.

“Yes. I'm learning a lot tonight.”

It was a small gathering in Martineau's spacious day cabin. Raikes was there, and the faithful Nobby, First Officer Crawford, and the Admiral's Chief of Staff, an urbane Captain named Tennant.

Martineau took her borrowed coat and tossed it to a steward. “You're cold.” Then, “Look after you, did he?”

She pushed her hair from her forehead. “I don't know how you stand it up there, day in, day out.”

The door of the heads banged open and Captain “Lucky” Bradshaw stepped into the cabin. He had obviously been having a good time, and one of his fly buttons was unfastened.

But he was cheerful enough, and showed his huge teeth in a grin when he saw Anna Roche.

“Well, what d'you think of destroyers?”

“The ladders are a bit steep, sir.”

His grin widened. “Pity it wasn't broad daylight.” He gazed deliberately at her legs. “The lads would have loved that!”

Crawfie scowled.

Martineau glanced at her hands; there was always some grease on the bridge.

“Go through there. You can wash your hands in peace.”

There was more laughter behind him, and under the cover of it he said, “Glad you came,” and paused, looking at her directly. “Anna. More than I've a right to say.”

Tonkyn was here, a tray with one glass on it.
A real character, that one . . .
She saw the scar on his hand, which she had not noticed before. She knew he had been wounded in that one-sided battle. But that had been different, as if it had happened to someone else. A stranger. This was real.

She took the glass from him and said softly, “I think you have every right.”

Lucky Bradshaw announced loudly, “Well, I must be off, gentlemen!”

Martineau said, “I'll see him over the side.”

Outside on the cold deck Bradshaw said, “Good show, Graham! I wanted to cheer with all the rest when I saw that bloody great trooper coming in. You really tricked those bastards that time!” He became serious. “Pity about that westbound convoy, of course. Ran smack into the U-boats which were being homed on to you. Bloody shambles, but there you are, win one, lose one, eh?”

He straightened his back and marched towards the gangway.

Martineau stood by the guardrail and stared along the length of his command.

It never leaves you.

When he reached the cabin the others were preparing to leave.

Raikes was obviously pleased, and so was Captain Tennant, the Chief of Staff; that would mean a good report from the Admiral.

“Better say our farewells to the press people, I suppose?” Raikes did not sound very enthusiastic, but the others nodded.

She hung back and waited for Martineau.

She said, “I wanted to tell you myself. About the westbound convoy.”

She had seen it in his face when he had returned to the cabin. Exactly as Fairfax had described.
He cares too much.

Surprisingly, he smiled at her.

“We make a good pair.”

Raikes called, “Come on, Anna—we'll visit the Ops Room, show them we're on the ball, right?” Yes, he was in a good mood.

She said quietly, “Call me.”

Then she reached up and touched the crimson ribbon.

It was enough.

10 | Hit and Run

Commander Graham Martineau leaned on one hand and peered at himself in the small mirror, the hot water helping to take the rawness out of shaving. All those hours, days, on the open bridge made him wonder why he bothered. Perhaps he should grow a beard like Kidd and some of the others in the ship.

He touched his skin and winced, his hand tightening on the metal wash basin as the ship dipped suddenly into a trough.

In his mind he could see it clearly. Like a giant chart, or a gull's eye view.

They had been ordered to sea on New Year's Day. He had heard one of the leading hands say, “Somebody sure loves us at the Admiralty, I don't bloody think!”

Further north this time, to rendezvous with an important convoy on passage to Iceland, mostly American ships, loaded with aircraft parts and army personnel for the growing garrison there. An attack by U-boats had been forecast, signals had been intercepted. A job for the support group, then. The weather had been better than usual in the great expanse of sea between the Hebrides and Iceland, but bitterly cold, with off-watch hands kept busy clearing the decks and weapons of ice.

They had two destroyers in company,
Inuit,
another Tribal, and
Harlech,
one of the older ships built in the early Thirties, similar to those which had taken part in the first battle of Narvik, when Warburton-Lee, the Captain (D), had won his V.C. And had paid for it with his life. Older in appearance and performance than
Hakka
and her sister ship,
Harlech
had been a true Atlantic veteran long before she had joined the group, with two U-boats to her credit.

There had been an attempted attack, but the torpedoes must have been fired at extreme range, or the U-boats' commander may have been discouraged by the size of the escort. So they were ordered back to base. It was a strange feeling to have this great, pitiless ocean quite empty but for their two companions. No ancient merchantmen trying to keep the pace, no ship falling slowly out of line, another victim. Nothing.

They had seen no land at all, although they had had a murky radar image of the nearest Faroe Islands when they had made their rendezvous.

Going home, or as close to home as it could be. A time for vigilance.

He dabbed his face with a towel and studied himself critically as he might a requestman or a defaulter at the table down aft.

He thought of Iceland, what he might have done if he had been able to get ashore. He had called there in the past . . . his mind shied away from it. A Danish possession which had been liberated, or invaded by the allies, occupied, the Icelanders termed it; it depended on your point of view. The stark fact was that Iceland boasted a fine new airfield, constructed by a German company just before the war. Very suitable for long-range bombers, which would now become a vital key in the Atlantic war. As Commodore Raikes had put it, “They didn't build the thing to carry boxes of codfish to the Scottish markets!”

But there were shops a-plenty, and with British and American servicemen almost outnumbering the inhabitants they were doing well. And there was no blackout.

He listened to somebody shouting, then ignored it.

The restaurant had been small and very crowded; anybody out of uniform would have looked like an intruder. And yet, surprisingly, they had been able to talk, interrupted from time to time by overworked waitresses, and by two young subbies having an argument over the bill.

He had found himself talking about things he never discussed. About his parents, his late father, the Commander, the house by the New Forest, naval life before the war, even the ship.

Once she had reached across the minute table and touched his hand, and asked, “What about this?”

He had attempted to pull his hand away but she had insisted. “The scar. I saw it when I came aboard
Hakka.
All those people getting high on your gin, not really caring, not giving a damn about the men they supposedly write about.” He had felt her eyes on him, and had wanted to seize the hand that held him. “Don't be ashamed of it. You should be proud.”

He had looked up at her face then, as she had said, “I am.” There had been tears in her eyes. For him, for herself, for her brother. He was still not certain.

He had even told her about Alison, that a divorce would be the outcome.

She had said, “You keep it all there, in the background, don't you? As if it was somehow your fault.”

The restaurant manager had come to the table. “Sorry to interrupt.” His glance had fallen on Martineau's sleeve and he had added hastily, “
sir.
But if you've finished, I've several customers waiting for a table.”

He had been angry, but she had laughed. The first time he had heard her really laugh, and several people had turned to look and grin, as if sharing it.

Outside in the cold air he had said, “Hardly the Savoy, was it?”

She had watched him in the darkness. She would have known then that
Hakka
was being ordered to sea.
I wanted to tell you myself.

But she had said, “I've never been to the Savoy, or likely to!”

Then she had stooped and murmured, “Damn! My best stockings!”

He had heard that you could buy all the stockings you wanted in the shops in Reykjavik.

The small speaker crackled. “Captain on the bridge, please!”

He snatched up his jacket and cap and hurried to the door. As he knocked down the clip on the steel he saw the scar on the back of his hand.

Maybe it was all my fault . . .

She was a bright, intelligent girl, and would probably be moved on somewhere else. The navy was like that.

It might be better for both of them if that happened.

He climbed out and up, the freezing air on his freshly shaved skin making him wince.

A quick look around, faces, positions, the metallic edge of the horizon.
Inuit
on the port quarter, and the sturdy
Harlech
to starboard, her narrow hull like polished glass in the hard glare.

Kidd said, “
Inuit
's got a contact, sir. One-seven-zero, moving right. Requests instructions.”

Martineau climbed on to the forward gratings and was rubbing the ice rime from the gyro compass repeater before he realized that he had forgotten both his gloves and his bridge coat.

They had done it often enough, and rehearsed it so many times. But always with those helpless ships to consider first, to protect no matter what, or who, paid the price.

This was different.

Kidd said, “Asdic team closed up, sir; first lieutenant's with them.”

He imagined them throughout the ship. A combined effort. By the book.
Maybe.

He said, “Open R/T contact. Start the attack!”

Then Fairfax's voice, equally calm. “Got it, sir. Same bearing, still moving right.”

Martineau bent over, feeling the spray sting his face. “What's it look like, Number One?”

“Submarine, sir. Can't be anything else.”

Martineau said, “Tell the Chief.”

“Done, sir.” That was Kidd.

“Good lad.” He bent over the gyro again and did not see the bearded navigator grin.

He had to shut out everything else, concentrate on the speed, the change of bearing. It could have been a waterlogged wreck, drifting and dead. Fairfax knew otherwise.

The U-boat had probably detected their presence.
You must assume that.
All those other times, with slow, overworked escorts which could barely keep pace with a submerged submarine, let alone one on the surface. An escort could get only so near before contact was lost. Charges would be dropped, but it took an age for that same escort to turn around to try and recover the scent with her Asdic. That's when you lost it. And the enemy was using a new device to create a false echo when the hunt got too near, something to throw the Asdic operators off while the sub changed course and probably depth. Good Asdic operators were able to detect even that, so something new would soon be on the market.

“Signal
Inuit.
Affirmative.” He did not even look up as the yeoman's lamp shuttered off the brief order.

Someone said, “Watch 'er go!”

Inuit
made an impressive sight as her bow wave suddenly rose higher, spray drifting over her forward guns as she altered course very slightly to starboard.

Kidd said, “Black flag's hoisted. She's going in.”

Faster and faster, until Fairfax called, “Still moving right. Increasing speed.”

“Signal
Harlech, Stand by to engage.
Tell Guns to open fire immediately if the sub breaks surface.” It had happened, and a U-boat had still got away, because gun crews had been caught napping.

Inuit
had turned again, almost on to her original course. Martineau saw the charges splash from her stern, while the others were fired from either beam. They would have lost contact by now. With luck they were right over the bloody thing. He felt the explosions, crashing against the lower hull before flinging up great columns of water, higher and higher so that they seemed to hang there, frozen, before cascading down again as
Inuit
's helm went hard over and she started to turn as she reloaded her throwers. Martineau could imagine what it felt like to the Chief and his stokers. How must it be in the cramped confines of a submarine?

“Target's turning away.”

Harlech
's chance now. He saw the smoke thickening from her twin funnels; probably due for a boiler clean. She deserved it.

He raised his glasses. And so like
Firebrand.
He found he was able to make a comparison. How long had it been?

The U-boat was heading away, but even in this light there was no time for her commander to surface and use his maximum speed to try and escape.

From one corner of his eye he saw
Harlech
thrusting past, the black flag streaming out like a sheet of metal.

It was like hearing someone speak.
The U-boat was heading away.

He called, “Hard a-port! Full ahead together!”

He felt the immediate response, the groan of bridge plating as the rudder went over. You could never catch Bill Spicer out with an emergency order.

He heard the Oerlikon gunner below the bridge swearing, his boots skidding from the mounting as the hull swayed over until
Hakka
's reflection was visible on the sea alongside.

“Midships! Starboard twenty! Ease to five!”

He tensed, his skin ice-cold against his sodden shirt, and yet the lookout's voice was almost laconic.

“Torpedoes running to starboard, sir!”

“Lost contact, sir.” Gibbons, one of their best Asdic operators.

Martineau said, “Resume course and speed.” He should have known. Heading away. To use the stern tubes. He should have known . . .

Kidd said, “Nice one, sir!” The grin was there again. “
Harlech
's still on to him!”

Martineau moved to the opposite side, watching the other destroyer. He could imagine the bell sounding at the depth charge positions as her Asdic pinged a continuous echo.

More explosions, the columns of jagged water crumbling in a sudden gust of wind.

“Nothing, sir!”

“Bloody hell!”

Driscoll's voice broke the spell.

“Action starboard!
U-boat surfacing!
”

“Steer two-one-zero.” Martineau raised his glasses, a seaman ducking down to clear his field of vision.

It was not something you saw every day. Dark grey, covered with slime. On its way back to Germany, perhaps after a long and fruitful patrol.

In a moment she would be completely surfaced, and men would emerge, to surrender, and to receive treatment they so often denied to others.

And the bows were still turning. He snapped, “We're going in! Tell Barlow,
full pattern!
” What a job for a subbie not long out of school.

The submarine seemed to lie like a breakwater at a forty-five-degree angle from the bow.

This time he did hear the bell ring, and saw the starboard charge fly into the air, while the stern charges rumbled from their rack.

“Open fire!”

Only the forward guns could be trained to bear, and backed up by two Oerlikons they smashed shot after shot into the motionless hull.

Martineau swallowed hard as the first charges exploded. The U-boat was
not
motionless. She was still edging round when the charges burst alongside to add their din to the crash of exploding shells. Half a minute more and either
Hakka
or
Inuit
would have been in their sights. At this range they could not have missed.