For Valour (28 page)

Or was he making excuses?

Morrison watched the hesitation with professional interest. “He's a nice chap, sir. It won't go around the fleet, I can promise that.”

Martineau reached for his jacket and winced as he pulled it across his back. It was strange how he thought about his father much more now than he had when he was alive. They had always got on well, but had never been close. Perhaps his father had resented seeing his son progressing in the service which had rejected him.

Of his first command he had once said, “A great privilege, I thought. I soon learned that responsibility went far deeper.”

Martineau said, “I'll think about it.” He guessed that Morrison had seen his discomfort. “It may go away.”

He glanced at the opened letters on the desk and wondered if Morrison had seen the paper with the lawyers' names printed at the top. Alison, or rather her father, had fired the first shot.
The protection of reputations of all parties concerned. A more flexible view from the outset, and so avoid damage to future ambitions.
They had all the right words, he thought. It was a pity some of them could not have been in
Hakka
on that last run.

And the other letter, the one which Tonkyn had brought to him personally in this cabin at breakfast. His expression had been a mixture of curiosity and suspicion; he had probably had a sniff at the envelope to test it for perfume.

My dear Graham.

A very short note, written, he guessed, before she had left on some mission at which Raikes had hinted. She could not say how long it might be. She would write to him. Call him, if possible.

It was so good to see you.

She had signed it simply,
Yours, Anna.

Perhaps Raikes saw his own promotion drawing nearer. The Admiral, the Boss as they called him, had made naval history by selecting a Wren officer as his flag lieutenant. A pretty one, too.

He said abruptly, “Anyway,” and smiled, “Roddy. I can't keep calling you ‘doctor,' it makes you sound like an antique!”

Morrison hid his relief, something at which he had become quite good.

“I feel it these days!”

Martineau thought of the letter again. How could he involve her with the mess of his own life? He had not been hurt by the lawyers' careful wording, an echo of Alison or her father. Instead he had been angry, perhaps unreasonably so.

He looked at the clock. Fairfax was right on the dot as usual; a tap at the door, and here he was. No barriers, but a new understanding, friendship.

“Postman's ashore, sir, special sea dutymen closed up, ship ready to proceed.”

Martineau picked up his cap and studied the gold oak leaves around its peak. There had been another bill from Gieves, too.

“But not the cox'n, Jamie.” He felt the doctor watching and listening, hearing the casual use of his name. The man on the bridge few ever really got to know.

“Leading Seaman Forward is acting chief quartermaster. He's the best I've got.”

Martineau took down his binoculars and nodded. The senior quartermaster, the man whose face had been covered with a piece of signal bunting, had been buried with the others.

He said, “We're not too likely to run into the
Tirpitz
between here and Plymouth, d'you think?”

They laughed and went out into the cold air.

The doctor closed his bag. He would go to the sickbay and check up on the few inmates. Real lead-swingers, a pleasant change after the pain and fear of the wounded he had treated on passage back to Scapa.

He thought of the savage wound on the Captain's back. Fairfax would never know how close he had been to having
Hakka
as his own command.

Their departure from Liverpool was noisy compared to their arrival, horns and whistles drowning everything while the bobbing cranes and gantries, chugging tank engines and bustling tug boats made it seem almost incidental. Except to those who knew. Who always knew.

Martineau stood on the port side of the bridge, watching the grey city, the cathedral and the familiar Royal Liver building sliding away. Then he glanced down at the unmanned Oerlikon gun, and thought of the letter he had written to the seaman's parents. He had been nineteen, like so many in this ship.

Responsibility.

“Port ten. Midships. Steady.” That was Kidd, watching the markers, the buoys, and any moving traffic which might ignore the rules of the road.

Martineau saw him turn and stare astern, his features not so strained as before. There were cheers now from men working on a big ship with a deck cargo of fresh timber.

He heard Leading Signalman Findlay chuckle. “Och, look at them, will you? Their patriotism measured by their pay packets!” But he waved to them nevertheless.

He leaned forward and saw the line of seamen on the forecastle, swaying slightly to the swell as
Hakka
broke through a tug's steep wash.

Responsibility.

Midshipman Seton was down there as well, beside Fairfax. Perhaps he had had a letter too, from his father. He looked very on edge; maybe Fairfax had noticed it.

He tried to think of Devonport, wondering if Raikes had succeeded in speeding up the repairs. There would be no leave, except for locals and compassionate cases, and most of the company would have to eat and sleep in the Royal Naval Barracks. They would hate that, with barrack stanchions in gaiters bawling their heads off and chasing them about.

And after that?

He saw a small coaster blowing out black smoke. Any convoy Commodore would love that one.

It would be back to the North Atlantic again. The wolf packs and the bombers, and surface vessels if the weather improved. Like the one
Hakka
and
Java
had sunk . . . and the German who had thanked him for stopping to pick them up. A handful out of two hundred or so. But it mattered.

He saw her face again as she had translated for him, and thought of the letter in his inside pocket.

My dear Graham.

Someone swore as he caught his foot on a piece of bent steel, where shell splinters had cracked around this same bridge, and Lieutenant Arliss had been killed outright only a few feet away.

He eased his shoulder under his jacket, the pain like a reminder.

He saw Tonkyn coming up through the chart room carrying his bridge coat, looking neither right nor left, as usual.

The bridge messenger glanced up from a voicepipe.

“Permission to fall out fore an' aft, sir?”

Another youngster. His name was Buckley, ordinary seaman. Fairfax had told him about it. Buckley's mother had been killed in an air raid, another case for compassionate leave. When he had arrived home he had found his father consoling himself with another woman. A wound which even Morrison's friend could never heal.

He smiled. “Carry on, Buckley.”

He saw the young seaman blink, surprised that the Captain should remember his name.

Responsibility.

James Fairfax stepped into the wardroom, carefully avoiding the shining paintwork and varnished fittings. His day-to-day uniform already bore several stains to mark the speed of the repairs after only two weeks in Devonport dockyard. The noise had been incessant, with hardly a space unoccupied or unused by dockyard mateys. Rivet guns and welding torches, hammers and drills; at times it had sounded worse than the action which had put
Hakka
in dock.

Commodore Raikes had obviously had the influence to get things moving. Fairfax had endured several visits to yards for repairs in the past. It usually took a ship months to recover, or so it seemed.

The wardroom carpet was new; the curtain which divided “the eats from the seats,” as Malt the Gunner (T) had put it, was also new. Some of the furniture was the same, patched and cleaned, but comfortingly familiar.

It was good to feel the ship moving slightly at her moorings. She was still connected to the dockyard by wires and power cables, pipes, and brows for hauling the heavier stores on board.

He had been right round
Hakka,
and she was alive again, although in the daylight you could still see the scars beneath the paint and the new plating, and the dents along the hull where shell fragments had made their mark.

Even the Chief was happy with his engines, although he was known for his mistrust of dockyards.
Screw it down or lock it up, or they'll pinch the stuff!

The promised Bofors had been mounted, and trained seamen gunners had been drafted into the ship's watch and quarter bills. Driscoll was as pleased as punch with his new toys. They would be useful in convoy work; each had a crew of four, and could fire up to one hundred and twenty rounds a minute. Accurately, it was claimed.

Fairfax sat down and the pantry hatch opened instantly.

“Pink Plymouth, please.” He looked at the new pictures of the King and Queen on either side of the ship's crest. But nothing could wipe out the memory, not completely, not yet anyway. The wounded lying here waiting to be treated, the dead covered over, their blood staining the carpet;
Hakka
had seen it all before, and she had survived.

He glanced at the clock. That was new, too. The Captain had left the ship the previous day, probably worried sick about handing over to him at a time like this, although he had not shown it.

“You'll be all right, Jamie. I've left a number where I can be reached. Call me any time if you get worried.”

It was something to do with his back, and that was all Fairfax knew. He knew that the doctor had examined a wound Martineau had received when he had rammed the German cruiser; he had seen the pain in his eyes sometimes, after hours on the bridge, but had not understood the reason for it. Morrison was like a clam; he probably knew more about Martineau than any of them.

Day by day, the dockyard workers grew fewer, and more of
Hakka
's own company were released from the R.N. Barracks nearby.

There had even been word that the coxswain would be rejoining the ship sooner than expected. He grinned to himself and sipped the gin. The team . . .

And then there was Midshipman Seton. He was obviously unwell, although he had denied it when Fairfax had questioned him. He had slipped up on a couple of his duties, and even the Buffer had remarked, “Got somethin' on his mind, sir.” The doctor was ashore, and had mentioned casually that he was going to beg some extra gear from the hospital. Under the
Old Pals' Act,
he called it. When he returned he would see Seton and examine him.

There had been no mention of a replacement for Lieutenant Arliss, but that could mean anything. As a compensation Sub-Lieutenant Cavaye's promotion had come through, and he had put up his second ring. Fairfax thought privately that he would be more insufferable than ever now. Cavaye was O.O.D., and although it was very cold on deck Fairfax guessed he would not be wearing anything which might conceal his new status.

He heard Kidd's voice, telling Wishart to fetch something from the shed he used as a store at the side of the jetty.

He strode in, and paused to inhale the paint-filled air.

“God, it's like a Maltese brothel in here!” He signalled to the steward. “Same as the first lieutenant, please.” He sat down heavily and stared at his scuffed seaboots.

“Be glad to get out of this dump, and that's the truth.” He seemed tense, and waited until the steward had put down the glass and returned to his hiding place. “Back to Liverpool, d'you think?”

“Bound to. Regroup the rest of the troops, and then we'll be off again.”

Kidd did not seem to hear him. “You see, I was wondering.” He stared at his glass; it was empty. Then he grinned through his beard, more shy than embarrassed, Fairfax thought afterwards. “The fact is, Jamie, I'd like you to be my best man.”

Fairfax stared at him. “You wily old bugger! I knew you were up to something!” He leaned over and seized his big hand. “Well done, Roger! Sorry for her, though, whoever she is!”

Young Wishart heard their laughter as he straightened his cap and headed for the brow.

Lieutenant Cavaye snapped, “And where do you think you're going, Wishart? Leaving the ship without permission is akin to desertion, didn't you know that?”

Wishart swung round.

“The navigating officer has sent me to collect a box from the store, sir.”

He was hurt and annoyed by Cavaye's unnecessary outburst, although others had told him it was the nearest he ever got to making a joke.

But all he could think of was his friend, Bob Forward. He had met him coming offshore, earlier than he would have expected in a place like Devonport.
Guz,
they all called it.

He had intended to ask him something about watch bills for his notebook. They had told him it would be useful to keep details of daily routine, for the time when he would be sent to
King Alfred
to train as an officer.