Polly's Angel (35 page)

‘Which shouldn't be long,' Sunny told Nurse Whitaker as she helped him to pack up his personal effects. To Sunny's joy, Martin had thoughtfully sent his shaving kit, clean underwear and various other bits and pieces to the hospital by messenger as soon as he heard what had happened to his pal. He had included a note thanking Sunny for the silk which had eased Sunny's conscience considerably. It was the first real proof that the Bo'sun had got all their shopping back on board the
Felix
before she sailed, and it had comforted him in his illness to know that at least he had not let his shipmates down.

Once in the Naval Barracks, with the companionship of other men, Sunny soon recovered his full health and although he was impatient for the
Felix
to return, he made the best of her absence. He went all over the town, made friends with some of the soldiers stationed there to guard the dockyards and thus got taken round the amazing defences which, long ago, other servicemen had tunnelled and blasted out of the limestone of the great face of the Rock. He also wrote letters to Polly, to Grace, reproaching her for giving him the measles, albeit second-hand, so to speak, and to his mother. He went up to the top of the rock where the Gibraltar apes lived and reassured himself that they were still very much there and in good health, since an old proverb said that when the apes left the Rock then the British would do likewise, and he stared out to sea, to the constantly changing face of the ocean and the various craft making their way into the enormous spread of naval dockyards below him.

But the
Felix
did not come. And one morning he was met by a seaman, also waiting for a ship, who told him that the pair of them had been drafted.

‘Drafted? Where to? Why?' Sunny said, astonished. ‘But I've gorra stay here, mate. Me ship's comin' back for me!'

‘Oh aye?' the other man said, disinterested. He was also from Liverpool and had been brought ashore with a ruptured appendix some three months previously and had almost forgotten the name of his previous frigate. ‘Well, we're to report to the
Pursuer
. She's a destroyer, so you'll know your way around.'

So Sunny got his gear together once more and went down to the dock and aboard the
Pursuer,
to find himself hailed with considerable glee by Dempsey, who had been with his present craft ever since Sunny had joined the
Felix
.

‘It's grand to see you again, Dempsey,' Sunny said, going below and taking possession of his new locker. ‘But why hasn't the
Felix
come back? Have you heard?'

Dempsey shrugged. ‘The convoy could have been slower than they thought,' he said. ‘Or she could have been sunk.'

Sunny stared, his heart sinking into his boots. ‘Not – not sunk, surely?' he said incredulously. ‘Someone would've telled me. Someone would have known!'

Dempsey looked embarrassed. He began to heave Sunny's hammock up on to its hooks and to spread out the palliasse. ‘The convoy was about ten days outside Gib when they were attacked,' he mumbled. ‘I – I don't reckon they fished anyone out, ole pal. You must have known something was up when she didn't come back for you earlier.'

But Sunny was staring at him, round-eyed. ‘Polly's brother was aboard her. He was me bezzie,' he said slowly. ‘Are you tellin' me he's drownded? Oh, Jesus, Dempsey, what'll I be telling my Polly?'

Martin had known they were going to have a sticky time as soon as he saw the Fokker-Wolf reconnaissance plane with the black crosses on its wings approaching the convoy. ‘Action stations – clear away for battle,' had been piped as soon as the skipper saw the plane, a mere dot in the bright evening sky. The plane he knew could be the forerunner of an attack which they had feared ever since the plane had appeared in the sky the previous day. Then, the first enemy ships had been seen approaching over the horizon converging fast on them. Martin knew the German destroyers had 5-inch guns, heavier than their own 4.7s, but this need not affect the outcome of a battle at sea. Luck, the ability to move fast and to change direction quickly and above all, accuracy of fire, would more drastically affect the outcome.

He climbed into his gun trainer's seat in the turret where the guns were loaded and pointed skywards, ready to fire as soon as the order was given. Settling himself comfortably, he glanced at his companions. They were standing as steadily as if this were just a practice, but like him they were ready to fire, knowing that everyone's life depended on the speed with which one's guns could retaliate.

Martin settled his anti-flash helmet and tightened the wrist-straps of his gloves. If there was a flash-back from one of the rounds then helmet and gloves, with vaseline liberally smeared on his face, could save him from nasty burns. The gun captain reminded them that they should keep the gun firing once they started, making sure that the ammo was handy.

The order had been given that no one was to leave his position and now Martin settled back in his seat and gripped the training wheel, watching as the two white pointers drew into line. They were on B-gun, and Martin could see through the opening in the gun-shield that the enemy were fast approaching, and that they were approaching, what was more, in force. It was easy to tell oneself that it was the wallowing merchantmen that the slim, deadly destroyers would be aiming for, but it did not take a great deal of intelligence to realise that the merchant fleet would be a good deal easier to attack if the enemy could first sink their defenders.

There was a commotion on deck; Martin could visualise what was happening as the officers watched the approaching destroyers through their binoculars, calculating the moment when they would come within range of the
Felix
's guns. He risked a quick glance round and saw the crew of B-gun, shells at the ready for the reload. Martin was aware of a sickly sinking sensation in his stomach and a sweat breaking out on his forehead. As always of late, just before they went into battle, he saw Monica in his mind's eye, pretty in a summer dress, her adoring eyes fixed on his, anxious only to please him. He had not been fair to her, he had acknowledged it some time ago. He had tried to turn a little Liverpudlian girl with a head full of nothing but lovemaking and pretty clothes into the sort of woman he had wanted to marry. And when, in despair, she had stopped trying to please him and begun to rebel, he had been angry, hurt . . . but he had not gone about convincing her that he loved her, that their marriage, which had been at least half-play for her, could be real, earnest. And now they were going into battle and he might be killed, might never have the chance to tell her that he did love her, did value her, and was determined to make their marriage work. Why, he might never be able to give her the silk, which was so beautiful, which her clever fingers could make into a dance dress of such beauty that the fellers would vie for her attention – but other fellers would not matter, because she would know, by then, that it was Martin she loved.

He swallowed hard and despite his thoughts the sick feeling began to recede. It would be all right, he would have another chance, get back to Liverpool and see his poor, pretty little wife, show her how he felt about her, talk to her of serious matters. Get her a nice little house somewhere, where they might be together without her parents only a thin wall away so that even their lovemaking was circumscribed.

Fire! The order had been given, Martin's work had started. As he heard the first salvo, heard the clatter of spent shells on the deck and the snap of the closing interceptor, fear receded, thoughts of home became something which might take his whole concentration from the job in hand. Outside, the din of battle was enormous, and in the slight lull between broadsides, Martin risked a peep through the opening in his gun-shield. The light was fading from the sky and the dusk made the bursts of fire from other shipping seem even more brilliant. Screeching shells, whether from friend or enemy he could not tell, were falling all around and the pom-poms on deck, their noses turned to the sky, blended their clatter with the flash and thunder of their own guns.

Martin lined up his pointers and B-gun belched forth fire once more. In the pause, Martin could hear the sobbing breath of the men passing the shells up from the magazine and knew, amazingly, a moment of calm and confidence. They knew their jobs, they all did, so how could they fail to come out of this, to be the victors?

As night came down, the battle continued to rage and the sea grew rougher so that the ships, which had drawn close, were buffeted apart. The guns had blazed constantly until the ammunition in the magazines ran out and only then, when they were more or less defenceless, did the
Felix
, battered but still relatively uninjured, draw back a little from the fight. It was at that moment the explosion came. Martin, in his gun turret still, for they were still at action stations and would be until the battle was resolved, heard a tremendous bang and saw a sheet of flame appear before his eyes, the heat of it so strong that he was flung back, scorched.

He must have lost consciousness for a few moments for the next thing he knew he was out on the open deck, being supported by one of A-gun's crew, a Scots lad called Hamish.

‘I think it was a torpedo, it hit us below the waterline and blew up our magazine – good thing it was empty,' he said, managing to give a short crack of laughter despite the conditions, the dark, the flames, the list of the deck which made Martin think for a moment that he was climbing some great hill. ‘You got a chunk of metal on the head, we all thought you were a goner, and then, just as I was about to get the hell out o' there, I heard you groan and begin to come round. We should be okay, though we're a good way from the rest of the fleet . . . They're dropping boats, but the sea's very rough . . . You'll not have heard the pipe to abandon ship.'

It was now that Martin realised for the first time that it was quiet; they could hear, distantly, the sound of battle, but their own firearms were silent and apart from the roar of the waves and the hiss of the wind, the
Felix
might have been on her own in the great ocean. He looked around him; men were lining up, an officer was going from group to group, checking that they all wore life jackets, that they knew what to do.

He and Hamish joined one of the queues, and then suddenly it was as though Martin came completely back to life. That was it! They were in the
Felix,
heading for home albeit by a roundabout route, and he was taking Monica home a present of silk – creamcoloured silk covered with bronze poppies. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen or imagined, his pal Sunny had chose it, and he would get it back to Monica if it was the last thing he did. He looked round wildly. A nearby companionway led down into the bowels of the ship – to his fo'c'sle, in fact. It looked very like the descent into hell, but . . .

‘Come back . . . Martin, you fool, you can't go down there!'

‘I've got to go, there's a present I bought for me wife . . .'

And he had gone, was fighting his way down the steps into that strange darkness which smelt of gunpowder and charred wood and worse. It was like a vision of hell, and God alone knew how he found his own locker, wrenched it open, seized from it the soft thickness of the material and began to blunder outagain, the stuff in his arms. But after only a few paces he realised he would need both his hands free for the clamber back to the deck, up the companionway, so with difficulty he heaved his life jacket away from his chest, pushed the material down the front of it, and struggled on, with water now above his knees. And presently, he heard a rushing and a crash behind him and felt the ship tilt more violently yet, and when he battled his way back along the narrow corridor and reached the companionway water, sizzling like frying sausages and churning and tearing apart anything in its path, roared to meet him. Martin seized the bannisters and for a moment imagined that he would be all right, that he could fight his way out on to the deck once more.

Then another, larger wave roared down upon him, snatching his hands from the rail as though he were a year-old child, and threw him back even as another huge explosion caused the ship to open up like an oyster to the knife. Martin caught a muddled glimpse of a dark sky blazing with stars, flames shooting skywards, and then it was just water, water, everywhere he looked. Heavy, salty, and icy cold it threw him down, overwhelmed him. Snuffed out the stars.

‘If you ask me, I'm the only person in this war who's spending it writing bleedin' letters,' Polly said crossly, sitting at the kitchen table with her writing materials set out all around her. She pushed the pad away and stared mournfully across at her father, counting coupons on the opposite side of the table. ‘First, I just wrote to me brothers, then it was to Tad, then to Sunny, now it's Grace as well . . . Oh, it isn't fair! If I were in the WRNs people would have to write to
me
, which would be more like it, so it would. Besides, I'd be doing interesting things, which would make letters far easier to write. Still, Grace writes pretty regular, and her letters are really interesting. She's met a lovely feller . . . and Daddy, d'you know she writes to Sunny? Isn't that the nicest t'ing, now? She's ever so kind, is our Grace.'

Deirdre, knitting socks beside the kitchen fire, smiled encouragingly across at her daughter. ‘Your letters are lovely, and give a deal of pleasure,' she said. ‘It's a hard life aboard ship, we know it, so Martin and Sunny are thrilled to bits when your letters arrive. But I didn't know Grace wrote to Sunny; did she tell you in that last letter?'

Polly nodded so vigorously that her short yellow curls danced on her forehead. ‘Yes, she did so. She said she'd gone and given Sunny the measles, or good as, anyway, so he wrote and told her he was in hospital and she wrote and said how sorry she was. Well, she was sorry, because she'd been cuddling the little kid who was sickening for measles too, only Grace thinks she had it when she was six or seven. She said all the Carbery kids did, or at least she thought so.'