Killing Ground (28 page)

“Hold her!”
Moffatt took her arm, seeing the blood, imagining
what it must have been like, and thinking too of the German survivors who had been so grateful to him, and to some of the seamen who had brought them rum and cigarettes. The same men who had been trying to kill each other. It made no sense. “She'll sleep now.”

Moffatt turned as two nurses came through the door. They both looked worn out but the older one managed to say, “Thank God, the Navy's here!” To Moffatt she added, “We'll take care of her. We can get her cleaned up in a moment.”

They all looked at Howard as he asked, “Does her father know yet?”

The older nurse said sharply, “We
have
been a bit busy here!”

Howard nodded. “Can I use a telephone, please?”

Moffatt watched the other nurse as she took Howard to the door and pointed along the corridor. “Just tell them I said it was OK!”

Moffatt said, “I have been instructed to stay and give you a hand, Sister. I've brought my bag of tricks with me.”

“What was all
that
about, Doctor?”

Moffatt looked at the girl's upturned face. “I'm not sure. But I think it was some kind of miracle.”

A
FTER
a slow journey from Waterloo, stopping at every station, the train finally came to a halt at Hampton Court, the end of the line. Howard recalled very clearly the instructions he had received over the telephone when he had called to ask about Celia Lanyon. It had been her mother, and Howard was still uncertain whether the welcome had been genuine or if the admiral's lady had been unable to think of a way of putting him off. As he left the station and began to walk across the bridge over the Thames he was conscious of his uncertainty, which even the ageless view of Hampton Court Palace could not dispel.

He had travelled down from London after staying at the naval club, membership of which the Guvnor had insisted on for both his sons.
You never know when you might need a bed.
He had been right about that too. Most of the hotels seemed to be either full of Americans or prosperous-looking business men to whom the war had obviously been kind.

He paused in the dead centre of the bridge and stared along the river. It was easy to put the war aside when you took in this view, he thought. The pleasure boats were covered with awnings for the duration, and anything larger or more powerful than little punts and motor-cruisers had been commandeered long since by the Navy. But there were swans drifting by the banks, and only a few far-off barrage balloons marred the picture of tranquillity. He leaned on the warm stone balustrade and felt the sun on his neck.

He had written too many letters in the past to parents and wives when a loved one had been killed or lost at sea, but only when you came face to face with it did you understand the true shock of war.

He had visited Ordinary Seaman Milvain's family the
previous day after telephoning Celia's home number. He knew that if he had done the visit first he would probably never have made the phone call to the house, which, if he remembered the directions correctly, he would be seeing for himself in about fifteen minutes.

Milvain's house had been very different from this riverside with its ancient trees and weathered buildings. It had been in a quiet, expensive street in the centre of Mayfair which had miraculously escaped any really serious bombing. One of the tall, elegant houses had been destroyed, but the site had been tidied up, leaving a neat gap in the street like missing teeth.

Howard had been unable to pay his visit before the news had arrived there in the usual fashion:
Missing and must be presumed dead.
God, it was common enough, but not easy to see for yourself.

In the high-ceilinged drawing room with the curtains half-closed Milvain's mother had listened in silence while he had tried to describe what had happened. She was a severe-looking woman, worn down by her latest loss, and not yet recovered from her other son's death. From a highly polished table the two silver-framed photographs had regarded Howard as he told her of young Milvain's disappearance. His photograph had shown him as a very new recruit at HMS
Ganges,
a young open face, lacking the later intensity he was to gain at sea. The other was of a serious-eyed two-ringer, the one who had been Bizley's CO.

The only relief had been Milvain's sister, Sarah, a lively, bright-eyed girl who had confided that she hoped to be accepted for the Wrens. Howard noticed the hurt look her mother had given, the bitterness in her tone when she had finally spoken. “It was to rescue some Germans, you say, Commander Howard?”

In that quiet room, London's traffic muffled by the curtains and the deserted street, Howard imagined he heard Bizley's voice, as if he had been there with him.
“It wasn't my fault, sir!”

Howard had tried not to think of a memorial he had seen while attending a naval funeral. How long ago? It seemed like
a hundred years.

When you stand there, think of us and say, for our tomorrow you gave your today.
The Guvnor's war.

Milvain's father, a major-general, was up north; it was not explained what he was doing or how he had accepted the terrible news. Howard was ashamed, but he had been glad to leave the house in Mayfair, especially after Milvain's mother said in the same flat voice, “He was just a
young boy.
Surely he should not have been given a man's job to do?”

He had recalled a signalman on
Winsby
's bridge, cut down by machine-gun bullets from a Stuka dive-bomber. They had been going to the assistance of the crew of the East Dudgeon Light Vessel, which the aircraft had been attacking; still a mercifully rare occurrence despite the war's new height of savagery. The signalman had fallen at Howard's feet, his eyes losing focus even as he cried,
“Why me?”
His last words on earth.

Howard could share Milvain's mother's grief, and understand her sense of loss; nevertheless her words had seemed to follow him up the street like an accusation.

He paused now and looked along the tow-path, at Hampton Court Palace drowsing in the sunlight. He was out of breath already. Too many days and nights on an open bridge, too many vivid dreams when he finally got an opportunity to sleep.

Two sailors passed him and saluted smartly. Probably on leave, he thought as he returned the salute. Sailors would be rare around here unless they were free from the sea for awhile. He saw one of them glance quickly at his DSC ribbon; sensed the comradeship you usually felt when you saw the familiar uniform, so out of place inland.

He strode on, trying to recall what the girl's mother had said about their real house being used as a recuperation hospital for officers somewhere. He wondered if she had told him to put him in his place, to imply, without describing it, that their home was rather grand.

For some reason he recalled the way Celia had described his
brother. The future admiral. He smiled grimly. It was equally possible to see Lilian, his brother's wife, as
the admiral's lady.

He saw a man in Home Guard battledress reading a newspaper's glaring headlines, his eyes very intent through some ancient steel-rimmed glasses. Howard wondered if the news had been confirmed. Another setback at this stage would be disastrous.

The headline seemed to shout at him.
Rommel quits North Africa, Germans on the run.

It was difficult to accept it, let alone take it as gospel truth. He had heard all about it at Liverpool while he had been fretting and waiting to see Celia before she was sent on sick leave.

Hitler had recalled the Desert Fox and left the final retreat of the Afrika Korps to General von Arnim. Nothing could stop the Eighth Army now. For once, the Germans were pinned in a corner of Tunisia, with only the sea at their backs. Without Rommel's inspiration, the general who had been admired by friend and foe alike, it seemed only a matter of days before the remaining troops surrendered, while others were forced to run the gauntlet of Allied submarines and aircraft.

While the U-Boat had gone to the bottom, and Milvain had been taken by the Atlantic as part payment, all this had been happening. Months, years of it, and it had suddenly burst out like a flower on a fast camera lens.

He stopped, breathing hard while he looked up at the imposing house which stood behind an equally old wall. It was hardly any sort of demotion, he decided.

Maybe he should go, now. Catch the next train up to Waterloo before he made a bigger fool of himself …

“You must be Commander Howard?”

He saw a tall, slender woman shading her eyes with a rough garden glove, while she held a basket of assorted tools in the other hand.

She put down the basket and tugged off a glove. “I'm Margaret Lanyon. How do you do?” She shook his hand warmly. “Come
around the side gate and through the garden, will you? We don't use the front entrance much. The Americans camped in Bushy Park keep coming over to ask if the house is open to the public! If it wasn't for their lordships of Admiralty I could make quite a killing as a guide!”

Inside the pleasant, walled garden she paused and studied him, and he thought he could see her daughter somewhere in the scrutiny.

“I cannot thank you enough for what you did.” She smiled. “May I call you David? I get quite enough spit and polish down at Pompey!”

“I wish I had been there sooner.”

She walked slowly amongst some roses and peered at the buds. “Early this year.” Then she said, “You saved her sanity, I really believe that. Her friend, poor Jane—well, it must have been terrible, for those other girls too. Jane was good for my daughter in her funny way. My husband thought she was a bit flighty, but I told him not to be so stuffy. They are young; there just happens to be a war on, but you can't expect people to toss their youth away because of it. They give enough as it is. Now she's dead. Celia insisted on going to the funeral. I went with her … it was quite awful, but I expect you know a lot about that aspect?”

Howard smiled and thought of Milvain's mother. “A bit.” No, she was not like anyone he had expected.

“I just wanted to say something before you meet her. Be gentle with her. She's all we've got, you know.” She lightened it by adding, “I think George wanted a son so much that Celia joined the Wrens just to please
him!”

Howard faced her. “I promise.” He thought he heard footsteps on flagstones and said quickly, “May I ask you something?” He saw her nod and thought she already knew the question.

“Was she very much in love with her late husband?”

She did not answer directly. “She told me what happened, that you saw him crash into the sea. I was shocked that she called on you, to ask you about it. And then your poor father—” She
seemed to shake herself mentally, before continuing, “Jamie was in love. With himself. That is all I
can
say.” Then she said, “Here she is! The one you really came to see.”

Howard turned and saw her looking at him, not in that direct fashion he had been expecting, but with an expression of shyness. She was dressed in a plain jumper and skirt, and afterwards Howard could not remember even the colour of them. It was as if everything was faded out, with only her face and eyes clear and distinct.

He took her hands in his and said, “Celia, you look wonderful.”

She studied his face; remembering what, he wondered. That first sight of him in the sickbay, or did it spark off the horror when the emergency lighting had brutally laid bare her friend's injuries?

“How long have you got?”

He smiled. First things first. “I was just telling your mother …” But when he glanced round they had the walled garden to themselves. “We shook up our Asdic dome a bit. The ship has to be docked so the boffins can have a look at it.” He saw her eyes cloud as he added, “I have to start back tonight, I'm afraid.”

She turned and slipped her hand through his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “All that way, just to see me. I had secretly hoped you might. Pity Daddy is at work. He was very touched when you phoned him about me.” He felt the pressure on his arm. “So was I, afterwards. I must have made a terrible scene.”

He could feel her body trembling and knew that if he tried to comfort her it would get worse.

She said, “Dear Jane. At the funeral they all looked at me. As if to ask, why Jane and not her?”

She was crying now; Howard felt her forcing out her words, controlling the sobs which were making her shake so violently. She said, “I'm bad luck; you know that, don't you?”

“No.” He felt her turn and stare up at him but kept his eyes on
the flowers, the blue sky above the old wall which must have been here when England had waited for Napoleon to invade, and long before that. “I
don't
know.” He could feel her slipping away. He ought to have known it was hopeless. It had been her mother's way of warning him what to expect.

Then he felt her fingers reach up and touch one of his sideburns, heard her say in barely a whisper, “It's a little bit grey, David.” She sounded suddenly angry, bitter. “What are they
doing
to you?”

He thought of Treherne grasping his wrist to light his pipe when he had been incapable of it. How many times had he nearly split apart? And the next time—then what?

He replied, “Never mind that.” He turned and held her at arms' length. “Can't you see, girl? I'm in love with you.”

He waited, but she stood quite motionless in his grip, as if she had not heard him properly.

Then she asked quietly, “Bad luck and everything? No reservations, just like that?”

Her mother appeared at the top of some stone steps that led from the rear of the house.

“I just heard the news, you two! The Germans have surrendered in North Africa!” She closed the door quietly and re-entered the house.