For Valour (34 page)

And the convoy sailed on.

Anna Roche looked at herself in the mirror and touched the shadows beneath her eyes with her fingers.

She had dressed with care, remembering that Crawfie had said how important it was, although she had not fully understood the significance at the time. She was learning fast. Like this morning when the alarm clock had gone off, right beside her pillow. She had sat bolt upright in the bed, her mind reeling, until second by second she had set her reactions in order.

In her new quarters she had a room to herself. That had taken some getting used to, and it was still not gone from her thoughts. Caryl with her outrageous jokes and stories she had always sworn were true, until she had been unable to contain her amusement. Nearly always short of money. She had asked to borrow a quid that night, when the bomb had screamed down to bury them.

The new quarters were in a small group of offices once owned by a Japanese shipping company, and commandeered for the duration. For ever, more likely, she thought. And there was constant hot water here, tons of it.

She had set the alarm early so that she could have a shower without somebody switching it off, or the supply suddenly running ice-cold. The Japs obviously took such things very seriously.

A clean shirt and collar, her bag, all she might need.

And just for a moment in the bathroom, which she had never had to share because the other girl was a watchkeeper at the signal station, she had stood quite naked, had looked at herself, like now, as if someone else was with her. She had twisted round to look at her bare shoulders; there was still bruising, but it was going. Crawfie had said acidly, “Not bad for someone who had a house fall on her!” She would never forget her kindness.

She had thought of the photograph Graham had kept, the one with bared shoulders taken when she had been a student at the University of Toronto. Her mother had described it as
rather daring.

She touched each corner of her mouth and smiled. What would her mother think now?

She looked around the room, remembering the days and hours since the ships had left Liverpool. Regular reports and signals, intelligence, supposition, guesswork. She worked hard, glad of it, driving herself until there were moments like this, when she could test her endurance. Her love.

She checked her bag, although the letter was not there but in her inside pocket. She read it often, and always heard his voice, sensitive, introspective. Not at all like the man described in the newspapers, the holder of the Victoria Cross. One of the elite, the few.

In his letter it was even more intense. How he had described their walk with the dog, their touch, their parting.

Throwing sticks for the dog. Was that too much to ask for a man who had already given so much? And his words, written, but she could hear them.

I want to sit with you. To lie with you. To stay with you.

She sighed and picked up her hat. It still felt very new.

Another glance around. Lights off. Taps tightly closed.
Don't you know there's a war on?

She was glad she had set the alarm, and that she had taken care over her appearance.

How he would want to see me.

And it was not yet four in the morning.

It was only a short walk to the headquarters bunker and Derby House, shorter still if she took the direct route. Perhaps one day . . . But she could not yet bring herself to pass the place where they had been buried together, where Caryl had died.

There were always people about, or so it seemed in this sailors' city. A lot of servicemen going on or off duty, the Jolly Jacks on shore leave for the night. Searching for the adventure and enticement which in truth rarely showed itself.

She could ignore the wolf-whistles now; there was no point in looking for a culprit anyway. Just as she could ignore the military policeman sitting astride his motor cycle, one boot on the pavement, occasionally twisting his grip to warm the engine. She knew what he was doing, what he was waiting for. The line of camouflaged ambulances would be parked up a street somewhere, awaiting his signal to move.

Going to the docks, like the day she had seen them arrive to pick up
Hakka
's dead.

And it happened nearly every day.

Up the steps and through the gloom, her shoes ringing on the bare floor. A torch to check her identity card, even though it was the same patrolman as yesterday, and the day before.

Someone always remarked on the weather; it seemed very British. Just as people always greeted each other with “good morning,” even if it was afternoon. And the way they queued. For everything. Cigarettes, pet food, soap, or simply to discover what was on the other end of the queue. It was as much a part of the war as those patient ambulances, the bombing, and the young midshipman who had killed himself, and had unknowingly destroyed their only chance of being together.

She braced herself for the harsh lights. Always the glare. Without a watch you would not know if it was day or night outside.

There were a lot of people around, even at this hour, and for the first time she felt the fear, running through her body like ice in the blood. Messengers hurried past her, not seeing her; telephones rang for mere seconds before being snatched up.

She slipped her hand inside her jacket, around her breast, to his carefully folded letter.

I am here, darling. We are together now.

Nobby was waiting in the main office, and she saw Raikes at his window, looking down at the great silent tank, so full of purpose and movement.

He turned and saw her, nodded, almost smiled.

“Good timing, Anna. Long day today, though there's nothing we can do. Except pray.”

She made herself walk to the desk where she kept her files of top-secret signals, the measure of Raikes's trust in her.

Raikes watched her, while Nobby signed something brought in by a messenger.

“Convoy's been attacked. It's all there on the table.” He saw her press one hand on the polished wood, each finger extended. Nice skin, which would brown very easily in any sort of sunshine.

“Just had reports from R.A.F. Intelligence. Two enemy cruisers have been reported at sea. On the move. Their lordships were convinced that
Scharnhorst
would make the first sortie. I think I was, too.”

A telephone buzzed impatiently but he ignored it.

“One of the cruisers is the
Dortmund.
We've had trouble with her before.”

She raised her eyes slowly. “I know, sir. And the other one is
Lübeck.
”

Nobby said, “How could you know that?”

But in her mind's eye she saw the tall chair on its open bridge.

She answered softly, “He
always
knew.”

“Action stations! Action stations!”

The insane scream of alarm bells, the thud of watertight doors and hatches. Something you always expected, and yet were never prepared for. The men off watch, some trying to sleep and others afraid to, ran without conscious thought, snatching protective clothing, glancing around for a particular friend, or back at their empty messes as if for the last time. Ian Wishart was up each ladder as if he had always done it, fastening his duffle coat, his mind empty of all but the need to
get there,
no matter what.

He caught glimpses of other hurrying figures, strangers in their fur-lined coats, faces intent, each to his own station. Gun crews, and damage control parties, spare hands, cooks and stewards making their various ways aft to assist the medical section, and the doctor with his array of instruments.

And beyond them all, the sea, dark and menacing, broken here and there by pale fangs of leaping breakers, the aftermath of a gale which had risen the previous night and caused havoc amongst the convoy. No collisions, but three of the ships had lost contact with the main columns, in a maddening game of follow-my-leader which had taken the hard-worked escorts a whole day to round up.

One of the other fleet destroyers, the
Levant,
which had been with the carrier's escort, had developed serious gyro compass failure, and the Commodore had reluctantly ordered her to make her own way back to Iceland. The fact that
Levant
was one of the navy's latest and largest destroyers did nothing for morale.

Wishart hurried past the Oerlikon guns and pushed into the sealed wheelhouse. The steel shutters were clamped down, and the only lights came from the compass and plot table. They were all here, as if he was the only one who had been away. Big Bill Spicer on the wheel, feet slightly apart, hands loosely on the spokes, or so they appeared, the lower part of his face very red in the compass glow. A messenger, boatswain's mate, telegraphsmen, and Bob Forward, who gave him a curt nod as he took his position by the table.

Spicer said across his broad shoulder, “Enemy ships reported to the east of us.” Matter-of-fact, like someone remarking on the weather.

Wishart listened to the steady beat of engines: about half-speed, everything quivering slightly, the ship now fully awake. It had been dark outside; apart from the wave crests there was nothing. And yet it was about eleven in the forenoon. He adjusted his mind automatically.
Six bells.

He heard thuds overhead, the officers on the bridge, the signalmen and lookouts. He frowned with concentration. And the Captain. He had called Wishart over. He tried to think more clearly. That was yesterday, after a sharp alteration of course for some reason, and a rapid exchange of signals between Captain (D) and the cruiser
Durham.
Ships zigzagging, the
Levant
rolling in a heavy sea, her gyro and all that it entailed out of action, and yet the Captain had found time to speak to him. Like that moment in the sickbay, after his rescue from the sea.

“After this convoy, Wishart, you will be leaving
Hakka.
I expect you're surprised. But the signal came through. You'll be getting drafted to
King Alfred.
” He had been called away to deal with another signal from Captain (D) in
Zouave.
Wishart had been stunned, and he still could not grasp it. All he had dared to hope for. What he had planned to write to his parents in Surbiton when,
if,
he was finally recommended for the officers' training course. In the blink of an eye, and it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.

He glanced at the deckhead, dripping with condensation from the heated pipes, and the swaying bodies packed into this metal box. The Captain was up there now, waiting to act. Enemy ships. What did it mean? Again he tried to think. He knew from the charts that the route to Murmansk had been prepared long in advance. A cruiser squadron was on the move, and the convoy itself had a full escort and the carrier. One of
Dancer
's aircraft must have sighted the enemy. There were no reports from the radar.

And there was the group.
Us.
He looked around the wheel-house, watching Spicer's hands moving the spokes this way and that, his big frame seeming to rise and fall with the ship while the rest of them remained motionless, like cut-outs.

In his heart he knew they would be called to fight. Not the group, not the escort carrier, but
us.

Once, he had heard his father discussing his war with one of his friends, a neighbour, who had been with him at the Menin Gate. Wishart was not supposed to hear, but it had been after an Armistice service, and the two men were still wearing their medals and poppies.

His father had said, “We stopped asking how. We only asked when.”

Wishart looked at his companions, men he had come to know. Good, bad, tough, or “all for it,” as he had heard Forward say of some of the hotheads. Here they
meant
something, and he knew that they had helped to change him in some way. Not discipline or training, and loyalty did not even describe it.

“Wheelhouse?”

Spicer said something into the bell-mouthed tube and then jerked his head.

“Up on the bridge, Wishart! Pilot wants you, so chop, chop with it!”

Wishart felt the ice inside him. Like seeing Seton's eyes watching him that day.

He made for the screened door, his fingers dragging at the clip.

Then he heard Forward's voice, close, personal, casual. “Watch it, Wings. Keep your nut down. You still owe me that drink, remember?”

Wishart did not remember, but it made all the difference. With something like a sob he seized the ladder and was up it before he realized what Forward had meant.

The light was stronger, the clouds ragged and low-lying, moving fast across the masthead and radar aerials, spray lifting occasionally over the maindeck and the crouching shapes of the torpedo tubes.

He saw the Captain with Cavaye and the new officer, Tyler; Kidd must be in the chart room. Lookouts and signalmen stood out more clearly against the dark sea, and it seemed strangely quiet up here, so that the rattling of signal halyards and bridge fittings intruded above the muted throb of engines.