Killing Ground (23 page)

“I just heard, sir. If there's anything I can do … but then, you know that by now, I hope?”

Howard met his gaze and thought of how he had nearly broken down, but for an unknown man's simple kindness. “I may have to hold you to that one day—and yes, I've always known that.”

He looked along the ship's deserted decks. The hands were
below in the messes reading their letters, getting ready to go ashore.

Treherne watched him grimly, knowing what he was thinking.

Welcome home.

T
HE
man Howard had known all his life simply as Mister Mills placed two mugs of tea on his scrubbed table and studied the young officer opposite him. “I've laced it with some rum, David. Do you good. Besides, it's going to be a cold 'un tonight.”

Howard nodded and warmed his hands around the mug. Mister Mills was older, but did not seem to have changed all that much. The same shabby sports jacket, and the beret he always wore indoors and out, pulled tightly down over his ears like a lid. His house was as he remembered, filled with odds and ends, furniture too, which Mister Mills sold when he had the mind to. Some described him as a junk-man, but in these hard times of shortages and rationing, he had come into his own again. He bought bits and pieces from bombed buildings, found furniture for people intending to get married and to hell with the war; like his battered old van, he was a familiar sight around Hampshire.

Howard shivered and thought of the long, fast drive from Liverpool. It had been spent mostly in silence, with Rear-Admiral Lanyon apparently content to leave him to his thoughts while he went through endless clips of signals.

Of the war the rear-admiral had said very little except, “Your fight in the Atlantic is the essential one. Things must turn the corner soon.” But he was unprepared to enlarge on that flash of optimism.

He had mentioned his daughter only briefly. How she had held up after her pilot husband had been killed in Howard's convoy to Murmansk. Even through the grip of his own worries Howard had sensed, strangely, that Lanyon had not really approved of Jamie Kirke. He had called him a hero, but it had sounded like a mark of distaste.

He tried not to think of the house he had just left. The stench
of wet ash left by the AFS hoses which would cling until the place was rebuilt. Two walls, a solitary chimney-stack standing like a crude monument, all the rest a shambles of broken glass and brickwork, and a hole that covered half the site where the bomb had come screaming down.

Mister Mills had explained how it had happened. A sneak daytime raid intended for the dockyard again, but the enemy aircraft had been confronted by the whole weight of Portsmouth's defences, from the ships in harbour to land-mounted batteries. Their attack had been further snared by the new ranks of barrage balloons, which had forced the bombers to swerve aside and be caught by the onslaught of combined anti-aircraft fire, “Like a Brock's benefit,” he had described it.

Mister Mills watched him now thoughtfully. “I've salvaged some of his gear, of course. You'll be coming back here one day, eh?”

Howard heard himself reply without hesitation. “It's still my home.” The rum-laced tea was helping and he said, “Where's the grave?”

Mister Mills looked at the window, darker even earlier this evening. “Other end of the village.” He looked at his companion again, perhaps seeing his dead friend as he had once been before Zeebrugge. “It was a nice service. There were six killed that day, David.” He let out a long sigh. Remembering. “A hell of a lot in a place this size. But the pub was saved—that was one blessing, I suppose.”

“Could you tell me again, please?” He watched him pour two more mugs and wondered why he had to know.

“There was an air raid warning, nothing unusual, even in daylight. The gunfire got so loud I said, we're in for it this time, never guessing the bastards would jettison their bombs over here. So we went out to the little shelter at the back of the house, but the dog was frightened.”

Howard nodded and thought of the dog he had never seen. “She would be. Her own home was bombed earlier.”

“Just as we reached the shelter, the poor old thing broke away and ran back to the house. Like a shot he was after her, telling me to get down.” He gave a sad smile. “Well, you know what he was like.”

There was silence and Howard heard a car clattering along the lane. Mister Mills had heard the bomb coming; he was sure he had seen the blur of it a split-second before it struck.

He said, “They were killed together. I was knocked out myself. When I came to, old Tom the gamekeeper and a special constable were bending over me, and everything seemed to be on fire. I was a bit concussed,
they
said.” He added with his old contempt, “What the hell do they know?”

Killed together. He thought of the girl with green eyes. She would blame herself for that too.

Mister Mills went on, “Your brother and his wife were here for the funeral—even the two Eye-tie gardeners came along.” He looked at Howard with sudden interest. “That young Wren girl was here as well. Real upset, she was.”

The bombs had devastated one complete side of the little lane. The victims shared a grave together, as they had shared their lives in this quiet corner of England.

Mister Mills cocked his head as another car slowed to a halt outside. The rear-admiral had even organised that for him. Mister Mills offered, “You can stay here if you like.” He tried to shrug it off. “It's a bit quiet now.”

Howard shook his head. “I've things to do, but thanks—for everything you did for the Guvnor. I'll not forget. Ever.”

Mister Mills shuffled after him to the garden with its sagging gate. He touched it and said half to himself, “Must fix it. One day.”

Howard waved to the khaki staff car. “I'll be in Portsmouth if you need me. And then …”

Mister Mills nodded.
And then.
How many times had he pondered over it in his own war? “Back to the Atlantic, David?”

“Yes.”

They shook hands in silence. Two wars apart, but linked by what they had both lost.

As the big Humber swung on to the main road, Howard turned and gazed at the shabby little figure staring after him.

The driver remarked, “God, that's a bad mess, sir.”

Howard said, “It's my home.”

The car wavered and the man said awkwardly, “I'm sorry, sir, nobody told me.”

Howard stared at the blur of passing fields and hedges, the trees stark and bare of leaves. Another winter drawing near. More convoys. Then what?

Later, as Howard sat in a corner of the large barracks wardroom where he had been booked in by the rear-admiral's flag-lieutenant, he stared at the fire and tried to put together all he had seen and heard.

He toyed with the idea of phoning the girl and wondered if her father had already warned her off, or even if she needed to be dissuaded.

There was a great gust of singing and several of the more senior officers got up and departed with obvious irritation.

Howard glanced across to the activity at the long bar and saw some half-dozen sub-lieutenants, each with pilot's wings displayed above their wavy stripes, and guessed they must just have “passed out” and were about to join their various squadrons. If they lived long enough, their role might be crucial in the months ahead.

He half-listened to their roar of voices as they kept time to the mess piano, the tune that of “The Dying Lancer,” and thought suddenly of the girl's dead husband.

Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,

The connecting rod out of my brain,

The cam box from under my backbone,

And assemble the engine again!

Howard stood up and strode to the door. He did not even see one of the bright new subbies nudge a companion.
Look at him. Another one who's bomb-happy!

All three telephone boxes were occupied and he hesitated, wondering what she might say. If she would pretend she wasn't there and have someone else put him off. In the meantime the next verse had struck up, louder than ever.

When the court of enquiry assembles,

Please tell them the reason I died,

Was because I forgot twice iota,

Was the minimum angle of glide!

A plump paymaster-commander eased himself from one of the phone boxes and growled, “They'll soon change their bloody tune when—”

Howard did not hear him finish, and the confined box seemed suddenly private and safe.

It took the best part of ten minutes while he checked the various numbers and extensions and endured the usual questioning and clicks from service telephone operators. And then, all of a sudden, he was through.

He asked carefully, “Could I speak to Second Officer Lanyon, please.”

He waited for the rebuff, the curt disclaimer; all the while he could feel his heart pounding faster.
I must be really mad. Round the bend.

“Putting you through, sir.”

She sounded cool and distant. “Hello, who is that?”

He replied, “David Howard, you remember when I—” He stopped, already lost.

She asked, “Where are you?” She had changed, her voice very low. “Have you been to the house?”

He nodded, as if he expected her to see him. “Yes. I'm at RNB. Just for a day or so.” The words were tumbling out as if he feared
they would be cut off. “Your father arranged it. I—I didn't know what had happened 'til he told me.”

She said quietly, “I know. It was the least we could do. We heard about the convoy, what you went through.” The line clicked but there was no interruption. Maybe you did not break into a call, even one which mentioned naval operations, if the one concerned was a rear-admiral's daughter. She said quickly, “There's a pub, this side of Gosport—
The Volunteer.”
When he said nothing she said, “It's quiet, not used much by our people or HMS
Collingwood.”

He said, “I shall be there within an hour.” He could not believe what was happening. “I'll find a friendly driver. I just want to tell you …”

A man's voice interrupted patiently, “You've been disconnected, sir.”

“But I was just speaking to …”

“Sorry, sir.” Then what might have been a chuckle. “It's the war, you know.”

Howard slammed down the telephone and hurried from the box. He almost knocked over a lieutenant who was about to leave the wardroom. They stared at one another and the lieutenant grinned.

“Sinclair, sir.” The grin widened. “I was a CW candidate in your ship, the
Winsby—
you won't remember me.”

Howard's mind was still reeling, but suddenly a young, eager face formed in his memory. One of the many. He said, “You wanted to go into submarines when you were commissioned, right?”

The lieutenant stared.
“Right,
sir! Matter of fact, I've a boat coming to collect me right now to take me back to the base at
Dolphin.
What about letting me show you off to my friends, sir?”

Howard's mind was suddenly clear again. “HMS
Dolphin—
then you probably know a pub called
The Volunteer?”

“Yes, I know it, sir. Bit too quiet for me though.” His eyes sharpened as he sensed the urgency of the question. “I can get
you there easy enough. I'm duty-boy at
Dolphin
at the moment, just came over with a message for the commodore here.”

Howard took his arm. “Then lead on. I'll have that drink later, if I may!”

He turned to collect his cap from the table outside the wardroom and the young lieutenant who was serving in submarines, and who had once been a nervous CW candidate in Howard's first command, thought he heard him say just one word.
Fate.

Howard pushed through the door and parted the heavy blackout curtains, which smelled of tobacco and dust. It was a cosy enough little pub, but after the darkness outside even the dim lighting seemed too bright. There was a fire in the grate where two farm labourers were sipping their pints, a large dog snoozing between them.

There were a few servicemen in the adjoining bar, but thankfully nobody he knew. He had never felt less like talking just for the sake of it. As the lieutenant named Sinclair had described it,
The Volunteer
was pretty quiet. It was hardly surprising, he thought. Sea-going sailors liked something a bit more lively after the strain of watch-keeping and staying alive, while shore-based ones preferred the plentiful if unimaginative food of the various barracks and establishments.

“Evenin', sir.” The landlord wiped an imaginary stain off the bar with his cloth while he watched the newcomer, his eyes moving professionally from Howard's two-and-a-half stripes to his DSC ribbon when he removed his raincoat.

“Horse's Neck, please.” He smiled to break the tension he felt. “If you can still manage it?”

The man grinned. “Ah, but if you'd asked for Scotch, that'd be different. I'd have called the police or the Home Guard in case you were a Nazi parachutist! Not had any Scotch for a year!”

Howard took his glass to a corner table while the landlord switched on the nine o'clock news.

Howard hardly listened. In any case he had heard the same
sort of thing so many times it made little sense any more: “During the night our bombers raided targets over the Ruhr and the U-Boat bases at Lorient. Seven of our aircraft failed to return.” He saw the landlord staring at the little wireless, his face grim. Maybe he had someone who flew the hazardous raids deep into enemy territory. The newsreader's well-modulated voice shifted its attention to the Russian front.
Stalemate.
The news was little better from the North African theatre, and he thought momentarily of Ayres and his missing brother.

A breeze fanned the curtain, and she was suddenly here. She glanced quickly around, as he had done, probably for the same reason. She sat down opposite him and removed her tricorn hat to shake out her hair. All the time she watched him, searching his face feature by feature.