Medusa (22 page)

He hesitated. ‘Yes, but …' He got to his feet and went back to the desk, lifted the mike off its rest and press-buttoned a number. ‘Captain. Is the Yeoman of Signals there? Ask him to have a word with me.' He put the mike back on its rest. ‘Funny ship, this,' he said. ‘It's an antique really, but after being mothballed for several years and threatened with the knacker's yard twice, their lordships suddenly hauled it back into service, gave it a quick facelift, and then fitted it out with the latest in communications systems so that to that extent we must be the envy of the Fleet. We also have sonar equipment that's on its last legs and an Ops Room that belongs to the Ark and is on the blink …' There was a tap at the door and he said, ‘Come in, Yeo.' He turned to his desk, reached for a message pad and began to write as a thin man with a dark pointed beard pushed aside the curtain. When he had finished, he said, ‘Have that sent and make it immediate. And they're to stand by for a reply. This is Mr Steele, incidentally. Petty Officer Gordon, my Yeoman of Signals.'

The beard and I smiled at each other, and as he left Gareth said, ‘It may be a little time before we get a reply to that. Meanwhile, perhaps you'd join me for my evening meal.' And when I demurred, he said, ‘No, of course not – no trouble at all. I'll be glad of your company anyway. Occasionally I mess in the wardroom, and I have messed with the Senior Rates once, but mostly I feed alone. It's the custom, you know. So as I say, I'll be glad of your company.' He called to the steward to bring us another drink. ‘I never drink at sea, of course –' He spoke as though he had been in command for years – ‘but now that we're tied up alongside …' He gave a little shrug, as though the
fact of being tied up to a quay absolved him of some of the responsibility of command.

But as time passed I began to realise that his position weighed heavily on him, more heavily than it should, even for a man newly appointed to the command of a ship. It was as though he had something on his mind, and the only clue he gave as to what it might be was when he suddenly said, apropos of nothing, ‘You know, it's a strange thing, here I am flying the White Ensign, but tucked away against this filthy little quay, as though the Maltese didn't want to recognise the flag that's flown here for so many years. I'm out on a limb. Nobody wants to know us. Officially, that is. We're sort of pariahs. I've been here four days and not a day has passed but the authorities have dropped hints it's time we left. We have in fact flashed up the boilers so that we are ready to sail at short notice if we have to.'

He paused then, but two gins had loosened his tongue and he went on, talking fast: ‘They don't want to make a thing of it, tell us outright to go, but they've made it very clear they don't want us here. You see, wherever we are, in this ship – any RN ship – we're a bit of the UK. That's what the Union flag is telling them, and they don't like it – not now, not any more. Politically, here in Grand Harbour, we stick out like a sore thumb.' And he added with a wry smile, ‘Our visit isn't a bit like it was for the last frigate that showed the flag here.'

‘That was the first courtesy visit in seven years if I remember rightly,' I said.

‘Well, not quite. The
Brazen
was the first ship to visit Malta after the British Forces finally left the island in 1979. She had the C-in-C Fleet embarked. Prince Charles came later with ninety thousand Maltese cheering and waving flags.' He made a face, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That's what the papers said anyway. And look at us, tucked away in a corner where nobody can see us, and that bloody great Russian cruiser lording it in the centre of the harbour. That's why I had the lights rigged.'

‘I don't think La Valette would have approved of their presence here,' I said.

He smiled, ‘Ah, so you know what happened. More than four centuries ago and we still talk of St Elmo's fire.' He had read Ernie Bradford's book, knew the whole incredible story, the astonishing bravery of the Maltese when led by men like the Knights and motivated by religious faith and the fear of being captured and sent to the Turkish galleys. ‘And now they are under the hand of another Muslim ruler.'

There was a knock at the door and a thickset, bull-headed Lieutenant Commander with greying hair entered, cap under his left arm, some papers gripped in his hand. He was a good deal older than his newly-appointed captain. His name was Robin Makewate. ‘MEO,' Gareth said, explaining that it meant Marine Engineer Officer. It was a state-of-the-engines routine visit, and when he had gone, Gareth said, ‘He's forty-three, started as a stoker at the age of nineteen after studying engineering at night school. Volunteered for the job here, even though he knew he'd be serving under a much younger man.' He finished his drink, saying as he did so that it was odd being in command of a ship that was filled partly by volunteers, partly by throw-outs from the rest of the Fleet.

That wry smile again, his eyes not looking at me, not seeing anything but what was in his mind as he went on, speaking so quietly I could hardly hear him: ‘I've a total complement of well over two hundred, and of those, fifty-seven are volunteers. Why? I don't know, and I'm the Captain. They don't know, and they're the ones who volunteered. Something dangerous, that's all some of them have been told. There's one or two I picked myself. The Appointers were generous in that respect – my Navigating Officer, Peter Craig. Also the SCO – that's my Communications Officer, Lieutenant Woburn – and Tony Draycott, my Weapons Engineer Officer. I've also got a CPO who was at
Ganges
when I was there. Most of the
key people, they're volunteers, but there's others, fifty or sixty at least, who've been quietly wished on me by other ships' captains as though word had been put around that
Medusa
was a sort of personnel dustbin and I was a sucker on whom they could foist all the yobbos and troublemakers they wanted to be rid of. Oh, well …' Again the wry smile, the slight shrug. ‘Let's have some food. I'm hungry. You must be, too, listening to me.'

He called for the steward, and over the avocado and shrimp cocktail we talked of Libya and the PLO, Beirut and the effect of the Gulf War. A daily signal from Fleet Headquarters at Northwood near London plus the World News of the BBC kept him very well informed. He needed to be, I thought, tied up here like a sitting duck in a little independent country that was set in the very centre of the Mediterranean like a stepping stone to the most volatile and unreliable country in Africa. And even as I was thinking about that, full of curiosity and wondering whether I could ask him about his plans, what orders he had received, and if he was headed for Menorca next, he was called on the intercom loudspeaker. It was the Officer of the Day reporting a little crowd beginning to gather on the quay.

I got to my feet then and looked out of the nearest porthole. It was almost dark on the concrete apron, only one small light still showing at the corner of the storage shed opposite. A dozen or so figures stood silent against the corrugated metal sheeting of the shed. It was like a stage set with others drifting in from the wings in ones and twos.

‘Have you informed the First Lieutenant? They could be dockers waiting to unload. Is there a ship coming in?'

‘Not that I can see, sir, and the First Lieutenant's trying to contact the port authorities to see if they can tell him what it's all about.'

‘All right, tell him to report anything he finds out. And keep an eye on them. Let me know if their numbers noticeably increase.' He switched off, had a quick look
through the other porthole, then returned to the table, muttering to himself. ‘I don't like it.'

He didn't talk much after that. The main course was roast lamb and he ate it quickly, jumping up every few minutes to glance out of the porthole. Coffee came and we both stood at the window to drink it. The numbers had grown. It looked as though there were at least forty or fifty men down there lounging in the shadows. ‘What the hell are they waiting for?' He turned at a knock on the entrance bulkhead. ‘Well, what's the form?'

His First Lieutenant was a thin gangling man with what I suspected was a permanently worried expression. He had to duck his sharp-nosed halberd of a head to enter. He looked forty-fiveish, but perhaps he was less. His name was Randolph Mault, and his rank was the same as Gareth's. ‘I don't know,' he said slowly. ‘Looks like they're waiting for something to happen.'

‘Trouble?'

‘Could be a demonstration.'

‘Against us?'

The executive officer hesitated. ‘We know there's an anti-British – anti-West at any rate – element in Malta. We've been briefed on that. And it's supposed to be quite deliberately fostered and well organised.'

Gareth Lloyd Jones turned back to the porthole. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘That's probably why our people advised us to anchor out in the middle of the harbour. I thought at first it was because we'd be more conspicuous there, something to counteract the presence of that Russian cruiser, but it did cross my mind, when the Maltese authorities insisted on our lying alongside in this God-forsaken spot, that besides making us as inconspicuous as possible, it also made us more vulnerable to some shore-based whipped-up anti-Western feeling. Pity we didn't rig the lights right round the ship.' He stood for a moment, gazing out at the darkened quay and the figures grouped in the shadows.

The First Lieutenant had moved nearer so that he could
also see down on to the quay. ‘What time is the shore party due back, do you know?' he asked.

Gareth shook his head. ‘No time was specified on the invite.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Soon, I would think. And I told them to be sure they remained sober. Do you think they'll be sober when they return?'

‘It's not just a wine company, you know. It's also a distillery. They produce a local brandy, also a sort of gin. I found one of their brochures in the wardroom bar. Apparently we've shipped some cases of their wine, or maybe it was a present – I'm not sure.'

Gareth turned abruptly from the window. ‘Very well.' His voice was suddenly different, sharp and incisive. ‘Have young Kent go over to the company's office – my apologies to the Director, but something has cropped up and the shore party is to return to the ship immediately.' He produced a key from his pocket and passed it across. ‘Tell him to take the car we hired yesterday. It's parked behind the shed there. And he'd better take somebody with him.' He glanced out of the window. ‘And tell him to get a hustle on. I have a feeling all they're waiting for now is someone to give them a lead.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.' The First Lieutenant turned and ducked quickly out.

‘I'd better leave,' I said, but Gareth didn't seem to hear me, standing very still at the porthole, watching. ‘If you'd be good enough to have one of your people signal to
Thunderflash
…'

He turned then. ‘No, no. You wait here till we get an answer from Menorca. Shouldn't be long now.' And he added, ‘I'm going up to the bridge – care to join me?'

We went up a flight of steps just outside his cabin. The bridge was dark and empty, only the glow of various instruments and a solitary figure, a senior petty officer, who came in from the head of the ladder leading down to the sidedeck. ‘Lieutenant Kent's just leaving now, sir.'

‘Who's he taking with him?'

‘'Fraid I don't know, sir.'

‘Hastings.' It was the First Lieutenant. He had just come on to the bridge. I recognised the rather high voice.

‘Good choice.' Gareth Lloyd Jones nodded and turned to me with a quick smile. ‘He's our PT instructor. Keeps us on our toes and the flab under control. That's the theory of it, anyway.'

He went out through the bridge wing door on the port side and I followed him. From the head of the ladder we watched as the officer who had met me on arrival went quickly down the gangway, followed by a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking seaman. As they reached the quay there was movement among the shadows, voices sounding in the night, Maltese voices plainly audible above the continuous thrum of the ship. Suddenly a solitary voice was raised above the rest and the movement became purposeful, the shadowy figures coalescing into two groups and moving to block the way round the end of the storage shed.

‘Have the ten-inch signal lamp manned and put out a call for the photographer.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.' But before the petty officer could move Mault had reached for the bridge phone. He had been followed now by several other officers. ‘I've closed the duty watch up, sir,' one of them reported.

‘Good.' The acknowledgement was barely audible and Gareth didn't turn his head, his hands gripped on the rail, his body leaning intently forward as he watched the two figures advancing in step and without hesitation towards the group that now stood in a huddle blocking the exit at the eastern end of the shed. For a moment everything seemed to go quiet, the Maltese all standing very still, so that the only movement was the two uniformed figures advancing across the quay. I thought I could hear the sound of their marching feet, and then they had reached the group blocking the exit and were forced to stop. The young
lieutenant might have made it. He was standing there, talking to them quietly, but whatever it was he was saying could not be heard by the group at the other end of the shed. They were starting to move, a little uncertainly, but their intention was clear. They were headed for the foot of the gangway to cut the two Navy men off.

‘Shall I recall them?' It was the First Lieutenant and he had a microphone for the upper-deck broadcast system ready in his hand.

Lloyd Jones's hesitation was only fractional, but then one of the Maltese shouted something and in the instant the whole quay was in an uproar, the figures moving like a shadowy tide to engulf the dark blue uniforms. ‘Lieutenant Kent to report back to the ship.' Mault's metallic, magnified voice seemed to fill the night. ‘Both of you at the double.'