Lion Resurgent (12 page)

And all because the Navy broke out in 1942 and you didn’t.
Sir Humphrey sighed again as the thought ran through his mind. Life would be so much easier when the divisions caused by the Occupation were a part of history.

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing, Derek. Nothing at all. What is done is done and that’s the end of the matter. Tell me, on another matter entirely, how’s your garden doing?”

Across the desk, Featherstone went dead white. “Not gardening leave, Humpty please, not that.”

Cabinet War Room, 10 Downing Street, London.

“That went very well Prime Minister.” Admiral Charles Gillespie was happier than he’d been for many years. Six cruisers when he’d been prepared to settle for two. Trading the Darings for the extra ships was no great loss, they were worn out and probably the most disliked ships in the fleet.

“Don’t count on the carriers yet. We may have an election before they get to the order phase, and then you’ll have to fight the whole battle over again. But, your cruisers should be safe, and we’ve started the process of cutting the Treasury down to size. Now, we have the room secured, how is the situation developing?”

“It certainly looks like war, David.” General Pitcairn Howard spoke gravely. “The Cousins are convinced the Argies are going to have a go at the Chileans as soon as the weather clears, in as much as it ever does down there. Our Friends in Northumberland Avenue agree with them. The troop movements and ship deployments are quite definitive. The Cousins have shared their data with Chile and the Chilean Army is digging in all along the Andean frontier. If it comes to war, it’ll be bloody. However, it may not come to that. SAC’s taking a hand. We understand they’ll be doing B-70 overflights of the whole area over the next few days. Just a gentle warning.”

“Nothing gentle about it.” Gillespie wasn’t too fond of SAC’s casual disregard for other people’s aspirations to control their own airspace. “Pretty bloody direct, if you ask me.”

“As long as it works, that’s good enough.”

“For Chile, perhaps. For us? I don’t think so.” Newton looked surprised. “Why?”

“Look at it from the Argentine point of view. They’re setting up to invade Chile. Grab some choice bits of it perhaps; annex the whole lot possibly. They’ll be getting their people psyched up for a war, then SAC scares them off. They can’t admit that, so they’ll substitute something else.” Gillespie went over to the map on the wall and tapped it with his finger. “Here, for example.”

“The Falklands. Who the hell think’s they’re worth a war for?”

“A country that’s falling apart, that’s who. The truth is that the whole Falklands business was pretty ripe when one looks at it objectively. Argentina got muscled out and they never accepted it. They still maintain their claim to the Islands. The local people don’t want to know, they’re British and they want to stay that way.”

“That settles it then.”

“Not according to Argentina. They don’t recognize any claimed rights of the local population. And remember, anybody who disagrees with them ‘disappears.’ In a nutshell, if the Argies get warned off Chile, they’re quite likely to go for the Falklands and they’ve got enough justification to keep SAC from turning the country into a radioactive car park. Anyway, the Americans made it clear at the Pescadores that they’ll accept fighting over a few islands as long as it stays contained. So we need to have a contingency plan.” Howard snapped his fingers idly. “It’ll be one hell of an operation.”

Gillespie was staring at the map. “If we have to forward base out of Ascension, then it’ll be an operation unequalled by any amphibious force, ever. An assault on defensive positions at the end of an eight thousand mile supply line. I don’t think anybody’s ever considered pulling something like that before.”

“Which is why the Argies might think we’ll just have to fold if they present us with a fait accomplice.” Newton was thoughtful. “Can we do it?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

HMS
Furious,
Portsmouth Harbor, U.K.

“How was the honeymoon, Jerry?”

Mullback grinned guiltily at the whistles as he entered the air group Mess. However, he was saved from making a response by the sound of a bell being rung. The Mess President looked around the gathering of naval pilots with displeasure. “There will be no discussion of Ladies, Politics or Religion in the Mess. Sub-Lieutenant Craig will stand the Mess a round of port.”

There was an eruption of cheering and the officers converged on the bar. Almost immediately the bell rang again. “And Lieutenant Commander Mullback will stand the mess another to take that smug grin off his face!”

“Everything go O.K., Jerry?” The question from Alasdair Baillie was quiet. He’d been best man at the wedding and confirming that the arrangements for the honeymoon had gone through smoothly marked the end of his responsibilities.

“Thanks Jock; everything went fine.” That had been an understatement. The arrangements had been perfect, even down to the fly-over by four Buccaneers from
Furious
and the small detachment of the ship’s Royal Marines who’d ‘dealt with’ some photographers who’d been unduly intrusive. They’d had a photo-opportunity for the legitimate cameramen of course, one made memorable by Sam’s enthusiastic rendition of ‘All the nice girls love a sailor.’ That, it was rumored, had caused a peak in recruiting the following week and earned Mullback brownie points at the Admiralty. “Sam says, anything she can arrange for you, just let her know.”

“Perhaps one of her colleagues?” Baillie sounded unduly hopeful.

Mullback punched him on the arm. “You? Maeve would flay you alive when she found out and you know it. What’s been happening round here anyway?”

“Many changes, Jerry. Strange and worrying omens have been seen. Ravens circling the foremast, seagulls gathering over the destroyer pens. And
Glorious’s
cat has died.”

Mullback looked at his friend sharply. “Are you serious?” He knew Baillie was superstitious, but this had a note of seriousness about it.

“About the cat? I am. The poor wee thing died last week, nobody quite knows how or why. It’s got the Glories quite upset. And here’s another thing for you. The fighter OCU has moved down here; they’re flying out of Yeovilton for a while. There’s rumors a flight of them will be joining us and the rest going to
Glorious.”

“Us carrying deck park?” Carrying aircraft on the flight deck was anathema to the Royal Navy. They believed that the airgroup should be kept securely in the carrier’s hangar when it wasn’t flying missions. But, with the old carriers carrying such a limited number of aircraft, even an extra four fighters would be useful. That would be about as many as the
Furious
could carry without obstructing the deck. Even then, it would be tight.

“That’s right, old chum. You know what the dockies are doing right now? Fitting the two of us with outriggers so we can have that deck park. And you should see them working on
Courageous.
Like one of those old silent movies running double time.”

“What’s up? Any word?”

“The official line is that the financial year is ending and the Navy has unspent funds. If they’re still unspent when the year does end, we’ll not only lose them but our budget for next year will be reduced by that amount. So, there’s a drive on to spend the money and catch up on any overdue damage and defects repairs in one stroke. We’re pretty much getting whatever we want.”

“I suppose that could be it.”

“Yeah, right. With all three carriers in port at the same time? And take a look over to Gosport. The trots are empty.
Dreadnought
pulled out three days ago and
Bellerophon
followed her last night. Something’s up, Jerry. I’ve had whispers from the other ships; the same thing is happening all over the Navy. The fleet’s like a swan, everything smooth and serene on the surface but paddling like mad underneath. There isn’t a dry dock without a ship in it having a scrape and clean.”

Mullback looked over the water to where
Hood
was anchored. It was late evening and the last of the tourists would have left her by now. “I guess if we see her being recommissioned we’ll know something is really serious.”

“Doubt it. They’ve taken her screws off and the engine rooms have been opened up for tourists to gawp at. Now, if they commission the one behind her. . . “

Mullback laughed. The ‘one behind her’ was HMS
Victory.
“You’re right there Jock. If they recommission her, we’ll know times are desperate.”

“I’ve got a feeling they already are, Jerry; we just haven’t found out yet. You grab all the time with Sam you can, we’ll cover for you.” Baillie put on an effort to leer lecherously. “In exchange for copies of her better pictures, of course. . . “

HMS
Hotspur,
Alongside, Vickers Fitting Out Basin, Barrow

“She’s a big one, that’s for sure.” Able Seaman Johnson and his companions looked up at the ship towering over him.

“Makes the old
Acorn
look tiny, she does.” Leading Seaman Goldsteam was trying to spot his traditional station, starboard look-out, but the sleek superstructure didn’t seem to have watch positions.

“Look at those guns. Six-inchers just like the cruisers. Not a four-inch pop-gun.” Able Seaman Tunney was equally impressed, although he was trying not to show it. The rest of the draft from the old
Acorn
was spreading along the dockside to inspect their new home. Morale had been grim on the train up from Portsmouth. It always was when a crew were drafted from a decommissioning ship and had yet to reach their new home. Now, as their ship was before them, it was climbing again.

“I say, you chaps, stop dithering about down there. Fall in on the flight deck immediately.” Sub-Lieutenant Hargreaves’ voice echoed from the ship. In response, the draft picked up their sea bags and scurried up the gangplank that led to the rotodyne deck. To eyes accustomed to a tiny A-class destroyer that had never heard the beat of wings, the flight deck was a vast expanse, more than 60 feet across.

“Look at that Taffy.” Johnson jogged his friend’s elbow. “Two rotodynes.”

“Aye, and what’s the odds we’ll have to sleep in them.” Tunney grumbled. His pessimistic approach to everything had long ago earned him the nick-name ‘Tragic,’ but life on the cramped
Acorn
had led to her crew having few expectations of comfort.

“Quieten down you men.” Hargreaves walked along the ranks of the draft, checking off each man on the roster to make sure that they were all present and accounted for. “Welcome to HMS
Hotspur,
the latest and finest addition to the fleet. We’re still completing and won’t commission for another six months, but that doesn’t mean we’ll have an easy time of it. The ship may be incomplete, but we have much work to do on board and we’ll have to do it while the yard men are still installing equipment. So we’ll need patience and tact as well as hard work. The mess decks are amongst those that still require additional work. . . “

“Told you we’d be sleeping in the hangar.” ‘Tragic’ Tunney whispered lugubriously.

“. . . but that doesn’t mean we’ll be sleeping in the hangar Able Seaman Tunney.” Hargreaves carried on as smoothly as if he’d never heard the remark. “As the first draft of the crew, your accommodation is complete and ready for you to occupy. Leading Seaman Goldsteam? Take the following seven men and proceed to this compartment.”

Hargreaves handed the Leading Seaman a compartment address and a list of seven names. Goldsteam was surprised to see Tunney, Johnson and five other seamen listed. All men on his watch and ones he got along well with. Hargreaves left him studying the list and picked out another Leading Seaman to receive a second list and compartment address. From the look on his face, he was pleased by the selection. It occurred to Goldsteam that somebody had been watching the draft on its way up and made out the lists according to the relationships between the men.

“Grab your kit, boys. Let’s find our new home.” Goldsteam lead the way into the hangar and down a deck. He could smell the distinctive “new ship” smell, a combination of fresh paint, raw metal and other odors that would, all too soon, be lost under the press of a crew living on board a warship. The ship was obviously incomplete. Cabling was hanging loose and there were timber structures every so often. He read the address again. The allocated compartment was forward but on this deck. Well, that didn’t seem too bad. He made his way forward and quickly found the allocated compartment. The hatch was open and he looked inside.

“This can’t be right.” For once he matched Tunney for pessimism. His party pressed forward and then stopped dead. The compartment had eight bunks, each with its own locker and an overhead light. They were fitted with curtains so that a man inside could draw them and give himself a little privacy - or darkness to sleep in when the life of the ship meant that sleep had to come at unusual hours. There were chairs in the compartment, simple ones it was true, but chairs none the less. There was even a table that could be folded up against the bulkhead.

“This must be for the awficers. Ain’t for the likes of us.” Able Seaman Oswald, known as ‘Orrible’ Oswald after an incident in a Portsmouth public house that had gained
Acorn
fame around the fleet, looked at the palace and shook his head.

“Hurry up and unload your kit men.” Hargreaves appeared behind them, checking that his men had found their compartment and were stowing their kit safely. “This is your little home from home now. I’ve doubt if you’ve eaten properly on the way up here so I’ve arranged for the messdeck to be open for the next hour. We have cafeteria-style messdecks here, so head along and get yourselves a good feed. It’s straight down there.”

Goldsteam watched the officer disappear through a watertight hatch on his way to another compartment. He’d misjudged the man. At first he’d thought he was an ineffectual fop but the way the men had been split up into groups that all got along well and then making sure hot meals were available for the hungry seamen proved that there was a good man beneath the pose. “Right lads, pick out your bunks, I’m claiming the lower one at the rear.”