For Valour (27 page)

It affected every part of the ship, even the wardroom where Lieutenant Arliss had never really been accepted, nor had he appeared to want it.

Martineau listened without interruption, seeing it, sharing it. It would mean a refit, during which time the promised Bofors guns would be mounted. New faces too, so that the ones like Wishart would suddenly become the “old hands.” For a time, anyway.

Java,
the ship which had suddenly changed from being the bait, or the target, had changed the odds with her torpedoes. Only one had found its mark, but the mark had been vital. The destroyer had exploded, and at full speed she had gone straight down. And ten German sailors had lived to tell of it.

He said, “They did well, Jamie.” He touched his arm. “You especially.”

“W/T have a signal, sir.” That was Onslow, composed, unchanged by the battle or so it seemed.

“Haul it up.” Fairfax looked at his Captain again. “The dead, sir?”

“We'll take them home. It's the least we can do.”

The signal was curt and to the point. Decoded, it read,
“
Hakka
and
Java
will return to base. In company
.
”

Martineau had taken out the pipe and was delving into his coat for some tobacco.

Fairfax said, “I'll pass the word, sir. Pilot can lay off the new course.”

“I'll speak to them, Jamie. Just give me a moment and then switch on for me.”

Fairfax turned away and stared at
Java
's blurred outline.

He had seen the Captain filling the pipe he had given him. Like putting everything else behind him. And then he had realized that he was unable to do it; his hand, the one with the crooked scar on it, would not stop shaking. It had been like stealing a secret.

“Fire away, Jamie!”

Fairfax switched on the speaker, and saw men turning to peer up at the bridge. And it mattered.

He looked at Martineau and was surprised to see the pipe clenched in his teeth while he moved to the handset.

“This is the Captain.”

A solitary gull swooped down and around the radar lantern, very white against the dark backdrop of mist and spray. The spirit of some old Jack, or so the story claimed.

Martineau stared down, seeing the wounds, feeling them.

But all he said was, “I am very proud of you!”

He switched off the speaker, but as
Hakka
turned once more towards the south, his words still seemed to hang in the air.

Like reaching out. Like trust.

Commodore Dudley Raikes folded his arms and stared across the room at the floor-to-ceiling map and at the cluster of coloured markers which were being moved by a Wren with her long rake.

Captain Tennant, the Chief of Staff, was with him, as well as the duty officer.

Tennant said, “Sounds good. So far.”

Raikes smiled briefly. “The convoy is right on schedule. Two air attacks, both driven off by
Dancer
's fighters—one shot down. One merchantman damaged, but still able to proceed.” He nodded his sleek head. “It's working. I just hope the Russkies are grateful!”

The duty officer said quietly, “Two escorts sunk. No more information as yet, sir.”

Tennant watched the scene in the Operations Room, like a vast, complicated mime, silent beyond the glass window. He turned to Raikes, and tried not to feel envious of a man who could appear so neat and in control at three in the morning.

But he said, “And
Hakka
's back in Scapa tomorrow. She'll have to go for a dockyard job.”

Raikes shook his head. “Not for long, I'll see to that. A good time to have her new armament fitted.”

“And what about Martineau? You can't ignore the fact that he disobeyed Captain (D)'s order to rejoin the group.”

“Well, the group was not required, was it? It might be for the return run from Russia, but that's another story. He was in charge. He chose to stand by
Java.
She would have been sunk otherwise. And they bagged a big Jerry destroyer in the process. Martineau'll get no knocks from me.” He added softly, “Or anyone else, I'd suggest.”

“I shall tell the Boss.” He smiled. “If he'll stop long enough to listen!”

Raikes pressed his fingers together. “The support group system is working. We shall need more group commanders to make it improve still further.”

“Like Martineau?” He watched the Commodore curiously. He knew that Raikes disliked Captain Lucky Bradshaw. Something from the past? Something personal? He had heard that Raikes had once served under Bradshaw, until his sudden departure from the navy. Memories were long in the Royal Navy, and Raikes had his eye on something better and higher than Commodore.

Raikes said suddenly, “I'm going south shortly to meet some important people, from Admiralty. It won't do us any harm at all, I would think.”

Tennant could see his mind moving on, the time ticking away.

Raikes said, “Second Officer Roche reported back to duty yesterday.”

“But I thought she was still on sick leave, after that bombing—I mean, she got knocked about a bit.”

Raikes gave a thin smile. “She insisted. She's got what it takes.” He patted his stomach. “Guts.”

“I see.”

Raikes glanced at the telephones. He didn't
see
at all. But that was the Admiral's problem.

He said, “I shall take her with me. Things will be quiet in the group until Bradshaw gets back. My staff will be busy working up the new flotilla.” He nodded, satisfied. “Going well.”

Tennant had seen and spoken to the soft-voiced Canadian Wren officer several times. It was interesting. Raikes and a Wren? It had to be something else.

A telephone buzzed and Raikes snatched it up. “Yes. Why the hell not? I shall tell them!” He slammed it down and said, “
Hakka
will be in Scapa tomorrow morning. Then she's returning here. A fleet tug is taking
Java
to the dockyard. There will have to be an inquiry. However . . .”

The Chief of Staff departed with the duty officer. It was half past three.

Raikes picked up another telephone and sat patiently, tapping one foot while he waited for an answer.

“Ah, Crawfie. Sorry to get you up. Flap on? Certainly not. Everything's in hand. Now, about Anna Roche . . .”

He looked across at the great map and its coloured markers, and smiled. Like a game of chess, he thought. The right moves counted, nothing else.

14 | The Only Way

HMS
Hakka
's return to Liverpool was both dramatic and moving, and so different from her first arrival, when she had joined the Western Approaches Command. On this cold, clear forenoon while the destroyer manoeuvred slowly and carefully into her prescribed berth, even the old sweats and the hard men were affected by the stillness and the silence of the busy, overcrowded port.

It was Sunday, although that meant little to Liverpool, which had become the main artery of the Atlantic lifeline, but gantries were still, and derricks aboard a newly arrived freighter were motionless.

Here they were used to seeing battered ships, merchant-men and escorts alike, and yet in the eyes of the ship where Fairfax waited with the forecastle party, watching the narrowing arrowhead of choppy water which separated them from the land, he could sense the difference. He saw men leaving other ships as if to some invisible signal, ready to take
Hakka
's first lines when they snaked ashore. No waving, none of the usual banter, more as if they were sharing some privilege. And the same jetty was crowded with blue figures, like that first time, although most of them were officially off duty. They, too, were unmoving, except here and there where a sailor's collar lifted to the cold breeze, or a white handkerchief was used to dab an eye, and not because of the keenness of the air.

Fairfax knew what she had looked like, how she still must look after her brief sojourn alongside the destroyers' depot ship
Tyne
at Scapa. The ambulances waiting on the ramp, the injured being carried ashore on stretchers, the coxswain still protesting, in spite of his splinter wound . . . The Captain had been down there to see them taken ashore. He had seen him reach out to take a man's hand, or stoop to speak to another too weak to move, and had watched him smile and hold the coxswain's clenched fist as if to assure him that
Hakka
would never return to active duty without him at the wheel.

And before that, when
Hakka
had stopped engines for the first time, on her way to Scapa, for three men they would not be taking home.

Fairfax had felt it then, perhaps more than ever. What it was costing Martineau.
Take the weight, Number One.
And he had left the bridge and had walked aft to where the makeshift burial party had been assembled.

Three men. The young Oerlikon gunner who had been beheaded, a stoker who had died of his wounds, and one of the Germans who had been rescued only to die of shock and exposure shortly afterwards.

Of the young seaman gunner Martineau had said, “His family will have enough anguish without discovering how he died.”

Fairfax had noticed that he did not use a prayer book. Perhaps he had done it too many times. Three bodies,
two of ours, one of theirs.
For many the worst part had been the sudden stopping of engines. Like a missing heartbeat. Men on watch gripped their weapons more tightly, some peered out at the dark waters as if they expected to see periscopes on every hand. A few simply prayed.

The others they had brought home. They were laid out now, stitched in canvas and covered by flags, the blackened splinter holes and the broken remains of the whaler telling only a fragment of the story.

Hakka
would be going into dock, however briefly, and her promised Bofors guns would also be fitted. Men who had lost their clothing and other gear would have to be re-equipped by Naval Stores, new men fitted into the watch bill and daily routine. Fairfax got no sympathy there.
It's Jimmy-the-One's job, anyway!
But he was going to miss big Bill Spicer until he pulled some strings to get him back to his ship.

He looked up at the bridge and saw Martineau silhouetted against an unusually clear sky. No bridge coat or duffle. The destroyer Captain.

Fairfax said, “Now!” His leading hand reached back and then hurled the heaving line across the oily water, and he smiled grimly as three sailors reached out to catch it.

The starboard screw was thrashing astern, and although he could not see it Fairfax imagined the other lines being flung from aft.

Next, the wires, while more men dragged the rope fenders to absorb the first shock of contact.

He felt the deck shudder, the screws motionless, and saw the shadow of the flag as it broke smartly from the jackstaff.

It was Slade, the baby-faced bunting tosser. He had grown up quickly, he thought.

The leading seaman muttered, “Company, sir.”

He saw the cars moving slowly through the usual water-front clutter, big camouflaged Humbers, fortunately none of them displaying an admiral's flag.

“Fall out, fo'c'sle party! Secure!”

He walked aft and was surprised at the sudden appearance of men wearing perfectly blancoed belts and gaiters. A miracle when you considered the state of their messdecks.

Ossie Pike, the Buffer, tossed him a formal salute. “Escort for the prisoners.” He had seen the staff cars too. “Must do it proper!” But even he could not manage his usual sparkle.

The Admiral at Scapa had insisted that the Germans be brought to Liverpool. The Boss would wish to take part in the interrogation; it was something he did with U-boat survivors, when there were any.

He saw men lining the guardrails of the other ships, watching in silence. Some of them found jobs to do when they saw the gold lace spilling out of the leading car.

Fairfax recognized Raikes, the Commodore, and another four-ringed Captain, a clutch of other officers and some dockyard experts, all turning now to watch the ship finally moored alongside, the brow already being shackled into place.
What a time for a visit. Hakka
was a mess. It always fell at the first lieutenant's door . . . He smiled suddenly, aware for the first time of the strain he had been under.

Hardly an unbroken bottle in the wardroom, either, except what they had managed to scrounge off
Tyne.

He heard Martineau's feet on the bridge ladder and turned as he said, “They must take us as they find us, Jamie!” Then he hesitated. “I thought they said . . .”

Fairfax saw the girl getting out of the car, answering something one of the others had asked her, but looking directly at the ship. Up at the bridge where the holes were still stark against the paintwork, maybe remembering that time he had taken her up there, how she had touched the chair, and had spoken of the previous commanding officer.

From what he had heard, she was lucky to be alive after the bombing.

Martineau was looking at the corpses.

“She shouldn't see this, Number One.”

Fairfax answered simply, “She wants to share it, sir.”

Their eyes met, then Martineau said, “Man the side.”

They came up the brow in order of rank, Raikes responding to the trilling calls, his eyes hard as he glanced along the ship, at the dead, the assembled prisoners, and finally the crisp new ensign which Onslow had got from somewhere.

She came last, stepping lightly over the brass name plate, and saluting the flag as smartly, as easily as any Royal Marine.

But her eyes were on Martineau. She took his hand and whispered, “I'm so glad.
So glad.
”

Raikes said, “Couldn't keep her in hospital! Not like some I know!”

Everyone laughed politely.

Then Raikes said, “The Admiral will want to see you, Graham. As soon as you've cleaned up.” His eyes took in the faded gold lace and tarnished cap badge, and the darn on one sleeve, without apparent emotion. The other visitors were moving closer. “Two of the press bureau are with me. Do 'em good to see a real fighting ship.”

Lieutenant Driscoll saluted. “Escort for the prisoners has arrived, sir.”

Raikes said to him, “Your gun crews did well, I'm told,” and Driscoll's pale eyes shone with pleasure.

“Thank you, sir!”

“Quick march, there!” Ted Crabb, the chief gunner's mate, gestured to the Germans. “Move yerselves!”

They walked to the brow, some carrying items of clothing, one a parcel which someone had given him. Authority, it seemed, sounded the same in any language.

One, a petty officer, his uniform still stiff with salt water and from being force-dried in
Hakka
's boiler room, suddenly stopped dead, and looked quickly over the group on the quarterdeck. His eyes fastened on Martineau.

Before anyone could stop him he marched across the deck, and then halted, as if uncertain what had made him do it. Then he saluted, his hand to his cap, his eyes intense as he spoke, his voice surprisingly steady after his ordeal, and the destruction of his ship and most of her company.

Then he swung around and marched after the others. For a moment there was no sound, and then Martineau heard her say quietly, “He thanks you. For stopping to pick them up.”

Martineau looked at her, seeing the pain and the emotion in her dark eyes. Everyone else seemed to fade into the distance; even the ship was unreal.

Raikes broke the silence.

“I said your German would come in handy!”

The Chief of Staff intervened. “I have your orders, Graham. Devonport dockyard, the only place with a spare berth. Two or three weeks should do it. Plenty to do, new ratings, supplies, that sort of thing. All in hand. The Boss gave it priority.”

Martineau heard the waiting ambulances revving their engines.
Eleven burials. Relatives informed. Travel warrants arranged.

He felt her hand on his sleeve. It might have been accidental, but he knew it was not.

She said, “I must see you.”

He looked at her, barely able to accept that she at least was real.

“You held me together, Anna.”

“I could say the same about you.” Then she smiled, and it was like seeing a cloud clearing away. “I'm so glad I was here to see you come in. Like that first time. It was
meant.
”

Raikes said airily, “You chaps can take a look round, but no photographs.”

Martineau looked at the deck by the whaler's davits, but all the corpses had gone, and the flags had been put away.

He said, “I have no right . . .”

She touched his arm again. “You have every right!” Someone called her and she turned away.

Fairfax had heard the exchange, and was moved by it.

“When you have a moment, sir?” It was the Buffer.

“Now will do.” He straightened his cap, the first lieutenant again.

Surgeon Lieutenant Roderick Morrison said, “Right, sir, that's me finished.”

Martineau picked up his shirt and after a slight hesitation pulled it over his head. Strange that his day cabin still looked unlived in. Only the sleeping cabin had been used, for one of the wounded who had been taken off the ship at Scapa.

The sickbay was undamaged, apart from jars and bottles shattered by the gunfire. He wondered if Morrison understood how much he hated hospitals, and anything which reminded him of them.

He said, “How is it, Doc?” and was surprised by the edge in his voice. Morrison had examined his back, the wound which had healed so well. Or so they had thought at the time.

Morrison said, “It was a bad one, deep but clean. Good surgery if I may say so, not like some of the knife-and-fork jobs I've seen lately. But . . .” He walked to the desk and touched it with his fingers. “Under normal circumstances I'd say it was sensible to do nothing. Let it bide its time.” He turned, and his face was grave. “But nobody in his right senses could have expected you to do what you have done since your discharge from hospital. A new command, a different assignment, to say nothing of working with people you did not know. It was asking far too much. Of anyone. Of you.”

Martineau faced the bulkhead mirror and slowly knotted his tie, if only to give himself time.

He said, “It was painful, lower down, when we went to assist the tanker.” He tried to smile. “I shouldn't have wasted your time.”

Morrison looked at the deckhead as calls trilled again and feet scampered along the upper deck. He could hear the murmur of machinery, the scrape of mooring wires, a man's sudden, uninhibited laugh. A good sound, he thought, for a ship which had been in the thick of it. A ship on the move again, so soon.

He said, “While we're in Devonport, you could take some time to go over to Portsmouth. Shouldn't be too difficult.” He paused, feeling his way. “With your rank, sir.”

Martineau watched him in the mirror. A round, homely face, more like a country vet than a doctor.

“Go on.”

“Actually, the naval hospital at Haslar. The P.M.O. is a friend of mine.” He saw Martineau's eyes fall on his two wavy stripes and added cheerfully, “We met at school, sir.”

More voices from that other, impatient world. At any moment now Fairfax would be coming to make his report. The ship was ready to proceed. He thought of the high steel chair on the bridge, where he had first felt the pain.