For Valour (3 page)

It had not been easy, but Wishart was as quick to learn as he was to observe, and this was what he had wanted. Like many of the boys in his class at school, he had been dreading that the war might end before he could join up.

He had got used to the rough, often crude humour from other recruits no older than himself, had learned to put up with the jibes at what they called his posh accent. He had been attending a local grammar school when his papers had at last been accepted, but the way some of his companions pulled his leg about it, anyone would have thought he had been at Eton or Harrow.

But it was behind him now. The square-bashing, the intricacies of gun drill with some elderly six-inch pieces from the Great War, the seamanship and the boatwork, bends and hitches, taking a ship's wheel, albeit a working model, for the first time.

He looked around the compartment again. And he was listed as a potential candidate for a commission, Hostilities Only of course. That was for ever, as far as he could see.

His senior instructor, an old Chief Petty Officer brought back from retirement, had explained the importance of the rigorous training.

“Wherever you go, my son, no matter what ship you land yourself in, you will be grateful to this place.” He had offered a rare grin. “It is, I agree, a fucking awful place to be in at the time!”

Wishart smiled. He had even blushed about that.

The train gave a great lurch and two small cases fell from the luggage rack overhead.

Someone shouted, “Bloody cow! One more jerk like that an' I'll have to piss out 'er the winder!”

The fat stoker grunted, “You'll follow it if you does!”

Wishart picked up one of the cases and tried to stand up, but the man next to him was suddenly awake, and said, “That's mine!” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Give it to me.” He looked at Wishart for the first time, that single glance taking in the new uniform and dark collar, and the youthful face above it.

He said, “Sorry,” and folded his hands across the little case, closing his eyes again.

Wishart studied him, still startled by the edge in his voice. He recalled seeing him being stopped by the naval patrol at the ticket barrier, where the redcaps and R.A.F. provost allegedly hunted for deserters and enemy agents. He had heard one disgruntled seaman say, “Couldn't catch a bloody cold, that lot!”

An interesting face, hawkish—it might be described in the
Rover
or the
Hotspur,
Wishart's two favourite magazines. Intelligent, too. A slight accent, a Londoner perhaps. He could even smile at his own speculation. Before joining
St Vincent,
he had never been further than Brighton for family holidays.

The other man said suddenly, “What ship?”

Wishart thought of all the posters and warnings about careless talk, and the cartoon of Hitler and Goering kneeling under a table where a loud-mouthed sailor was spilling secrets of the next convoy to his tarty girlfriend. But he answered readily, “HMS
Hakka.
” He saw the eyes open again. “A Tribal Class. I was told that—”

The man dug him with his elbow. “Me too. Name's Bob Forward. Very apt.” He did not explain. “Leading Seaman.” Then he looked briefly at the broken threads on his sleeve, which Wishart had already noticed. “
Ex
-leading seaman.”

Wishart nodded, and tried to contain the rumbling of his stomach. Forward studied him.

“Not eaten lately?” He unclipped the case and took out a bar of chocolate. “Here, have a bit of nutty.”

Wishart took it gratefully and did not see Forward gripping the lid of the case, nor that he was staring at the bundle of letters and papers which had slid to one side of it. The photograph was looking directly at him, and even in the poor light he could see her smile, provoking, mocking. The compartment was quiet, and for an instant he thought they were all watching him. But he was mistaken, as if he had been temporarily rendered deaf.
God help me!

Like the moment, the second she had realized that he knew. That it was over. Mercifully that same deafness had acted like a shock-absorber, otherwise . . .

And she had still been staring at him. Despite the terrible wounds, the blood.

He said in the same abrupt tone, “I'm in Nine Mess. Suit you?”

“I expect I shall be detailed . . .”

Forward looked at his hands. As if expecting them to be shaking, or that he would still see the blood. Like the moment when the naval patrol had stopped him. Afterwards he had almost laughed aloud. How could they know anything? How could anybody?

He said, “I'll fix it, OK?”

Wishart nodded. He was no longer just a recruit.

Graham Martineau stooped almost to the sill of the window to look at a rectangle of sky above the opposite rooftop. It was cloudless, what he could see of it, another fine, crisp day, although the street below was still in darkness. He moved back to the table, hearing the floor creak underfoot. The owners of the hotel, whoever they were, must have been delighted to hand it over to the navy for the duration. Even the sparse items of furniture seemed to lean towards you as you passed.

He glanced at the half-empty cup of coffee and decided against it. He could not recall when he had last eaten a proper meal. He had risen even earlier than usual, his mind clearing reluctantly while he sorted through what he had to do. The uniform laid out across two chairs: his other self. His defence. Notes and intelligence folder arranged and packed, like the rest of his kit. Ready to go.

He had gone down to breakfast and had found one other officer at a table, the
Daily Mirror
propped up in front of his plate. The headlines were glaring: MONTY ADVANCING. AFRIKA KORPS ON THE RUN. Was it really possible? After so many reverses, it was unwise to believe in anything.

He had had too many gins the night before, hoping for one good night's sleep, to prepare himself. It should have worked; there had been only a few drunks in the street, and then the voice of authority, moving them on. Not like London . . . sirens, the drone of aircraft, the sickening vibration of falling bombs. It never failed to surprise, even to move him, that civilians managed to put up with it, going about their work, trying to lead normal lives in a world which was threatening to destroy them. He had seen the great gaps where houses had stood, the walled-up shops, the air raid shelters, men and women sleeping as best they could, curled up on the platforms of some miserable Underground station. At sea it was different. Or so they all believed.

The dream had come then. More intense than last time, vivid and stark, with faces he could recognize. And
Firebrand
's bows rising up in front of him like a ram, the vague outline of the cruiser reaching out in both directions like some jagged grey cliff. In the dream there were always guns firing, soundless and terrible. Sometimes he tried to see it as it had been, how his poor, reeling ship must have looked to the enemy in those last insane minutes. The German Captain had attempted to avoid the collision, probably astonished that his blanket of heavy shells had not smashed the destroyer into oblivion even before she had worked her way into range. He could not imagine how
Firebrand
had appeared to the handful of merchant vessels as they struggled to disperse and take advantage of his desperate gesture.

They had fired all their remaining torpedoes, otherwise . . . That one word.
Otherwise.
In his heart he knew it would have made no difference.

At one moment the ship had been out of command when a shell had exploded on the port wing of the bridge, killing most of the men in the wheelhouse, and then an unknown voice had called up the pipe, “Steady as she goes, sir!” Then, seconds before the surging, nauseating impact and the thunder of tearing steel, he had heard a terrifying scream. Like the ship herself. A last defiance.

The rest was blurred. Icy water. Voices calling out and then fading. And then boats, hands hauling him to safety. As they had done themselves so many times.

Hospital, a different routine, and an undemonstrative, reserved sympathy. They would all have cracked otherwise.

The madness did not stop there. He had not even realized he had been wounded. He had seen it again this morning when he had crossed the room to find his shirt. The rickety wardrobe had curtsied towards him, its door swinging open. In the mirror the scar looked absolutely straight, from his right shoulder to his left hip, a splinter which would have ended his life then and there had it struck him an inch more either way.

Alison had not even asked about the wound. Nor had she come to see him in hospital. He thought it was just as well.

He buttoned the reefer jacket and stared at his reflection. Thirty-three, but he looked older. Mature, Alison had once said. He forced a smile. Bloody bushed, more likely.

He glanced at his watch; it had somehow survived the one-sided battle and the destruction of his command. It was about the only thing which had.

It was time. The Commodore at Harwich was sending a car for him, but, thank God, they were leaving him alone to make the first, vital step. Not like it had been in London, the Ministry of Information people, the hand-picked journalists and war correspondents . . .

He found he was clenching his fists.
Seeing what a hero looked like.
He calmed himself with an effort, patted his pockets. All new uniforms: like someone else's. He had already heard somebody take his cases downstairs. The car was waiting.

The ship was waiting.
A new life. He felt the fresh shirt scrape the scar, like a reminder.
A new life for me, anyway.

A last, slow look around the room. How many like him had waited and fretted here? He thought of the hospital, of Alison, and of the man who had been his friend, and an inner voice seemed to plead,
stay away from it, leave it behind—others will look to you now.

He walked out of the room without another glance.

Down the stairs, hearing the buzz of voices from the dining room; more people up and about now. As they would have been since the first pipe aboard
Hakka. What will he be like? Will he be as good as the old Skipper?

He stared at the Wren chatting with the porter at the desk. Martineau was tall, but she was almost his equal. She was wearing driving gloves, and swung round as he approached.

She reached out for his briefcase. It had been a present from his mother and was real leather; he had wondered how she had managed it amid the austerity of war.

“I'll take it, sir.” She let her arm drop. “Leading Wren Tattersall, Commodore's driver.”

He felt the cold air on his skin, heard the porter call after him, “Good luck, sir!”

She held the door for him and he slid into the seat, the smell of damp leather somehow refreshing after the seediness of the room.

“I'll take you to Parkestone Quay, sir. They're expecting you.” She let in the clutch expertly and the big Humber glided away from the hotel.

The waiting was over, and there were many who would envy him this day.

For something to say, or perhaps to compose himself, he remarked, “Tattersall? I had a signalman of that name in my last ship.”

Just the merest blink of the eyes meeting his in the driving mirror.

“Yes, sir, my brother. He was killed that day.”

Martineau said nothing. It was always happening in the navy; it would happen again. But somehow he knew the Wren had asked for this duty on this particular morning. To see for herself. To know why.

He leaned back in the seat, the contact broken, and watched the passing scene.

He thought how pleased the surgeon had been who had dealt with the wound.

A very nice job if I say so myself, old chap!

Maybe he was finally coming to terms with it.

He turned suddenly, taken off guard by a poignant little vignette on this ordinary stretch of road which led to the sea. Because it was so unexpected it seemed a more brutal intrusion than the mindless onslaught of torpedo or bomb.

A postgirl standing by a garden gate, obviously worried or embarrassed. A young woman in an apron with a dog staring up at her. A few passers-by, unsure what to do. The young woman was holding a telegram.
The
telegram.

The Wren's eyes met his in the mirror.

“Nearly there, sir. Another ten minutes.” Then she returned her attention to the road again, and said, “It'll take time, won't it.”

She had spoken for all of them.

2 | Letting Go

Chief Petty Officer William Spicer rocked back slightly on his heels, the top of his cap almost brushing some deckhead pipes in the quartermaster's lobby. As
Hakka
's coxswain he was well aware of today's importance, and half his mind was keeping tabs on the destroyer's harbour routine. He was an impressive figure by any standards, massively built, with heavy red features which seemed to defy sun and storm alike. His uniform was a perfect fit, the lapel badges of crossed torpedoes and ship's wheel shining in the reflected light, leaving no one in doubt as to his status. To many the coxswain was the most important man in any destroyer; to most, he
was
the ship. Responsible to the first lieutenant for the daily routine, and matters of discipline, destroyers carrying no master-at-arms as did larger ships, he could also recommend any rating he thought fit for promotion or some better station on board. He took the wheel when the ship was entering or leaving harbour, and was answerable only to the Captain at action stations or when manoeuvring at speed, when experience was often the margin between success and a court-martial. Spicer had been in
Hakka
since she had first commissioned, and none knew the ship better.

He watched the first lieutenant's glance moving over the last list of names, their messes, duties and parts of ship, noticing the shadows beneath his eyes. Right up to the last he had expected to be given this command, but the new painted line around the funnel had made it very clear.
Hakka
was to be the half-leader in a new flotilla or group, with a full-blown commander on the bridge. He kept his face immobile as Fairfax looked up at him. One with a Victoria Cross at that.

Fairfax said, “Seems fine, Swain. Two men adrift, though?”

Spicer grunted. “The police have been on about Able Seaman Downey. Detained in hospital. A punch-up in some pub, I gather, sir. Awaiting escort.” He paused, seeing his words fit into the pattern. Poor old Jimmy-the-One was feeling it. A right good piss-up in the wardroom last night, according to George Tonkyn, the chief steward. To welcome a new signals officer who was required for flotilla duties, they said, but more likely to help Jimmy-the-One get over his disappointment.

He added, “Ordinary Seaman Abbott is still adrift, sir. Done a runner, I reckon.”

The quartermaster who had been standing just outside the door, very aware of the two men who controlled his daily life, switched on the tannoy and moistened his silver call on his tongue before sending the shrill call around the ship.

“Stand easy!”

Fairfax said, “I'll get on to the Commodore's office about that.”

Spicer smiled gently. “All done, sir. Abbott'll be no loss to anyone!”

Fairfax walked out into the hard light as working parties broke off and scampered below for a mug of tea or a quick cigarette.

The ship looked good. People like Spicer ensured that it stayed that way.

He saw two officers on a nearby destroyer watching
Hakka
through binoculars. A new Captain always excited comment. He bit his lip. Especially if it was somebody else's.

He had already been aft to the Captain's quarters, which were spacious compared with most destroyers. He had expected another grim reminder of the man who had lived there when he was spared from the small sleeping cabin on the bridge, but it was as if he had never been. Fresh paint, a different rug by the desk, no photographs. No memories.

A seaman was walking towards him, pointing out something on the X and Y gun mountings, and his companion was shading his eyes to follow the gesture. The seaman was Forward, broken from leading hand for becoming involved in a brawl in Malta. The case could be reviewed soon; he would tell the coxswain to look into it. Forward had been a good leading hand, a skilled torpedoman, too valuable to waste in a ship like
Hakka.
There were some twenty new names and faces to be accounted for, to measure, to trust or otherwise. Like her officers,
Hakka
carried them all.
All two hundred of us.

Spicer folded his lists with elaborate care. “Soon, then, sir?”

Fairfax nodded. “Any minute, I should think.”

“The yeoman has got it in hand, sir.”

They both glanced up at the bridge; one of the signalmen would be stationed there to watch for any approaching boat.

But Fairfax was thinking of the new yeoman of signals, a chief petty officer like the coxswain, and with about the same amount of service. He had volunteered for
Hakka,
although on the face of it he had a soft number as the Commodore's own yeoman, a barrack-stanchion, the lower deck called them.

During his morning inspection Fairfax had seen him staring at the sprawling naval training establishment HMS
Ganges
at Shotley Point, watching the first cutters heading out for boat-pulling drill, or to study the warships their young crews would one day be joining. You could almost feel their eagerness.

Fairfax wondered how long that eagerness would last once they saw their first disaster at sea. Like the youngster Forward was showing around. He had even managed to wangle him into his own mess, so the coxswain had obviously approved.

Spicer cocked his head as the tannoy squealed again, “Out pipes, hands carry on with your work!”

He knew about the new yeoman, whose name was Onslow, but it was something private. You never abused privilege by discussing a messmate, even with a reasonably decent officer like Fairfax.

Onslow had had a young son at
Ganges,
no more than a boy.

It had been nobody's fault, but then it never was in the Andrew. He must think about it every time he saw the great mast which dominated the training establishment; it was a local landmark. All the boys were expected to climb it, just as men had once done when it had been stepped in a ship of the line. The boy had fallen, bounced from the safety net, and broken his neck.

Macnair, the yeoman of signals who had been killed during the air attack, had been a man full of yarns and experience almost worshipped by his young signalmen, his “bunting tossers,” unless they fell short of his high standards. Onslow knew his job backwards, would need to, being on the Commodore's staff. But it was hard to see him settling into the boisterous bonhomie of the Chief and petty officers' mess.

He saw the first lieutenant staring towards the shore, to Parkestone Quay, the small boats milling about, the patrol vessel
Grebe
going astern, preparing to leave harbour, hands fallen in on quarterdeck and forecastle. She was commanded by a lieutenant. Making another comparison, maybe?

The officer of the day was consulting his watch. Soon time to pipe
Up Spirits,
when the air would be thick with the heady aroma of rum. The ship's company was a young one for the most part, only half of them old enough to draw a tot, and a tot was currency on the lower deck. To pay for dhobying, and again to bribe the boiler room staff into allowing the clean clothing to be hung there to dry. For favours asked, for favours granted. A way of saying “thank you.”

Fairfax rubbed his eyes and regretted the amount of gin he had consumed. For the new signals officer, they said. One fragment remained, along with the headache. When asked about the Captain, the signals lieutenant had said, “The V.C. didn't do
him
much good. I heard his wife walked out on him for his Number One!”

Someone else had called, “Better watch your step, Jamie!”

A ship without a Captain. A Captain without a ship.

The pipe again.
“Up Spirits!”
With the usual muttered rejoinder from the older hands, “And stand fast, the Holy Ghost!”

The telephone buzzed by the lobby door and the quartermaster called, “Yeoman of signals, sir!”

Fairfax took the handset. “First lieutenant, Yeo.”

He would get used to the voice in time, but in his mind he could still see Macnair. Calm, unruffled, utterly dependable.

“Commodore's launch shoving off from the quay, sir. No broad-pendant hoisted.”

“Thank you, Yeo. Good work.” There was no response.

Spicer said, “What about the rum, sir?”

“Carry on. No ceremonial, Swain. Man the side and inform the wardroom. I'll tell the O.O.D. myself, right?”

Spicer's eyes glinted beneath the peak of his cap. “Right, sir!”

Fairfax walked unhurriedly to the accommodation ladder. He saw two seamen on their knees scrubbing a grating. Their brushes moved in unison, but both were watching the oncoming launch.

Spicer hid a smile. Who would be a bloody officer?

As the thought crossed his mind, he called out, “Forward, over here, my son.” He studied him thoughtfully. “I've listed you as quartermaster.” Then, “Everything settled at home? I was sorry about your father.”

Forward said, “A heart attack.” Then he nodded deliberately. “Q.M. will suit me fine, Cox'n. Might pick up my hook again a bit faster, eh?”

Spicer shrugged. “We'll see. Keep your nose clean an' stay out of trouble.” He turned to his young companion. “Wishart. You're assisting the navigator's yeoman. Report to him after you've had your grub, got it?” He strode away, the ship's routine unrolling before him like a carpet.

They make a funny pair, he thought. I'll have to watch Forward. A bloody good hand in a tight corner. But all the same . . .

He saw the big launch swing round in a welter of spray, the bowman standing very erect as if at a peacetime review.

“Attention on the upper deck! All hands face aft!”

He heard the squeak of fenders and drew his heels together as the cap with the bright oak leaves appeared over the top of the ladder.

“Pipe!”

The calls squealed. Fairfax stepped forward and saluted.

“Welcome aboard, sir.”

The Captain's quarters aboard
Hakka
seemed luxurious after all the other destroyers in which Martineau had served or had visited during his career, and consisted of a day cabin containing a study and dining space and a sleeping cabin and bathroom. Also, unlike the others, his new quarters were situated in the after superstructure, next to the sickbay and somewhere beneath X gun position. In destroyers like
Firebrand
the officers' cabins and wardroom were built right aft, between decks, and in heavy weather it was not unknown for them to be marooned in their quarters, unable to make their way forward to the bridge without the very real risk of being washed overboard. In such cases the Captain and whoever was on watch at the time had to manage on their own.

Martineau heard Tonkyn, the chief steward, murmuring something to one of the messmen in the sleeping cabin. He had met Tonkyn during and then again after his tour of the ship. He shook his head.
Was that only today?

Tonkyn was one of those indispensable characters you could not imagine doing anything else. Tall and slightly stooped, with a permanently melancholy expression, he was probably the oldest man in the company, and had retired from the navy a year before the war and opened a small boardinghouse in Devon. Now it seemed he had never been away.

Martineau walked across the cabin and looked at the ship's crest on the bulkhead, an exotic phoenix emerging from flames with Chinese characters in the background. And below,
Hakka
's motto,
Is anything impossible?

The last Captain's personal effects had long since been removed, and there was nothing here to give any clue.
The man who never was.
Even the Commodore had referred to him only as “your predecessor.” The navy's way: no comparisons, no looking back. But he had seen it in their faces today as he had been introduced to the officers. Their lives might depend on him. It was only to be expected.

It was a mixed wardroom, half of whom were reservists, Hostilities Only; even the gunnery officer, Lieutenant Driscoll, was R.N.V.R. But people no longer made the old
Really Not Very Reliable
joke about them. The volunteers had become the professionals.

Lieutenant Kidd, the navigating officer, was another reservist but of a different breed. A merchant navy officer in peacetime, he now wore the interwoven gold lace of the Royal Naval Reserve. He was a bear of a man with a shaggy beard and a powerful voice to match it. The engineer officer, the Chief, was Lieutenant (E) Trevor Morgan, from Cardiff. Like so many ship's engineers he was softly spoken, in spite of his daily confrontation with the din of machinery. Down there in engine and boiler rooms lip reading was not just a skill, it was a necessity. Merely talking to Morgan was enough. You could feel the man's pride, his eagerness to describe or explain any aspect of his separate world. With forty-four thousand shaft-horsepower under his gloved hands, it was just as well.

Two sub-lieutenants and one midshipman, the latter, surprisingly, a regular, and the new signals lieutenant named Arliss completed the wardroom, except for Mr Arthur Malt, the Gunner (T), a square, unsmiling warrant officer who had come up the hard way from being the lowest of the low, a boy seaman.