To Risks Unknown (19 page)

He saw Cameron clearly. It's better to be hated….

Wemyss watched him without expression. You poor bastard, he thought. You're breaking apart, but you'll never admit it. Then he cleared his throat and began his report.

THE
THISTLE
'S RETURN
to Sousse lacked both the stealth and the deception of her departure eight days earlier, and as she crept cautiously towards the same jetty in the sweltering afternoon sunlight it seemed to the weary seamen on her upper deck as if the whole town had turned out to watch.

Crespin stood at the port wing and watched as the mooring lines sagged, tautened and then took the strain and cradled the ship against the jetty wall.

‘Ring off main engine.' His voice sounded heavy with fatigue, and as he ran his eye around the bridge and forecastle he found himself marvelling at this safe return. There were splinter and bullet holes wherever he looked, and below on the main messdeck the sides of the hull were so punctured there was as much sunlight through them as came through the scuttles. And yet they had made it. In spite of bad weather and the holes along her waterline which at times had almost gained on the desperate efforts of the pumps, they had returned to base as ordered.

On the morning after the raid the bombers had found them. Three Ju. 88s in tight formation had swept out of the clouds, dodging between shell-bursts and tracer, intent only on the
Thistle
's destruction. For thirty minutes the battle had raged without pause, the guns glowing hot as the seamen poured burst after burst into their attackers. But the corvette made a small target and the visibility was poor. But for these points, and the fact that the enemy needed every available aircraft elsewhere above the invasion beaches, the ship would have died there and then. There had been two very near misses, the last shaking the hull so badly that several plates had started and two stokers of the damage control party had been cut to pieces by flying splinters. One of the bombers had been hit, too, and had been last seen heading for land with a greasy trail of smoke to lessen the chance of her ever getting there. The others had followed. They had dropped their bombs and had had enough.

Surprisingly, there were no more attacks, nor did they see another aircraft until almost within sight of a friendly coast. And then it had been a Catalina, its lamp flashing a welcome and the wings almost brushing the masthead as it dived down to get a better look at the lonely victor.

Crespin sighed and pushed himself bodily from the rail. He could see the bearded engineer, Moriarty, and a large party of men already hurrying to the brow, while along the jetty a line of khaki ambulances waited patiently to clear the ship of her dead and wounded.

And the people. It did not look like the same place. They must have been in hiding before, he thought dully, for now the sea road and the town beyond were thronged as if for a public holiday. Shops and cafés were open again, and even the old scars of battle could not hide the fact that Sousse was returning to life.

Then he saw Scarlett. He was pushing through the cordon of soldiers, waving a greeting here, pausing by a man on a stretcher there to murmur a few words and flash his famous smile before striking on towards the brow.

Wemyss saluted. ‘Ship secured, sir.' He was swaying on his feet. Worn out like the rest of them.

Crespin said, ‘Very well. Go and see Moriarty and give him all the help you can. Thank God the hull's all right. I don't imagine the resources around here are exactly up to Portsmouth.' As Wemyss turned to go he added quietly, ‘And thanks, Number One.'

Wemyss looked at him, caught off guard. ‘Sir?'

‘You did damn well. You all did.'

Wemyss' lined features creased into a smile. ‘Thank
you
, sir.' He looked at the squat funnel, which like so much of the ship was etched with bright-rimmed holes through which little trails of escaping smoke moved unhurriedly skyward. ‘She did pretty good, too, I thought.' There was genuine affection in his tone.

Crespin heard Scarlett's resonant voice below the bridge. ‘All right, are you, my boy? Good show!
Damn
good show!'

He said, ‘And make sure the last of the wounded get away, will you? I imagine I'll be tied up for a bit.'

Wemyss nodded and stepped aside as Scarlett heaved himself on to the bridge.

Crespin said, ‘Mission completed, sir.' He should have been on the gangway to greet Scarlett, but his mind refused to care. He was half-asleep on his feet and his eyelids felt as if they were gummed together.

Scarlett returned his salute and gave a huge grin. ‘Bloody good show, Crespin!' He waved at Wemyss who was trying to slip quietly away. ‘Glad you made it, Number One!' Then to Crespin he added, ‘What's the bill?'

Crespin studied him calmly. ‘The ship lost five killed and ten wounded. The marines have brought back thirty of their wounded.' He paused, seeing Scarlett nodding with concern or polite interest. ‘They also left seventy-five killed and missing behind.'

Scarlett rubbed his hands. ‘Better than I'd dared to hope. Pity about Cameron, of course, but it's all part of the game.'

Crespin looked past him. Part of the game. It was no game. ‘There's a good deal of damage to the ship. Mostly splinter holes, although we did get a direct hit from a tank gun on the port side.'

Scarlett nodded. ‘So I saw, Crespin. So I saw indeed.' He was suddenly serious. ‘I've already formed what I intend to say in my report, and I'm having an official photographer come down to get some pictures of the ship.' He saw the astonishment on Crespin's face and added brightly, ‘No time for being coy or hiding the old light, what? It always helps to push a bit in this game, you know. Then when you make a real boob you've got something for you in the balance.' He laughed loudly and waved to some marines who were marching down the brow, their steps dragging, their eyes glazed with strain.

Crespin said, ‘I take it then that you're satisfied, sir?'

‘Satisfied? I certainly am!' Scarlett rested his hand on Crespin's shoulder. ‘I know how you must feel, how we
all
feel about seeing good men die. But look at it this way. If every single man had been killed and the ship sunk it would have been worthwhile. You have to weigh up the odds. Learn to use a force small enough to tie down a far greater number of the enemy. And small enough to be no crippling loss if the balance goes against it.' He patted his shoulder. ‘But I'm being morbid. This is your day, and I'm pleased.'

He looked over the screen and continued briskly, ‘Mostly superficial damage, by the look of it. Moriarty can fix it, or I'll know the reason why! We have to learn to improvise in this unit. Improvise and make do. If you think Sousse is crude, then just you wait until we really get going!' He tapped the side of his hooked nose. ‘But that'd be telling, eh?'

Crespin let the words wash over him like spray. It seemed as if Scarlett would never stop, never go away.

Scarlett said, ‘I shall be leaving for Malta tomorrow. With the Sicily invasion going so well we can't stand still, you know. Plans to make, possibilities to explore and all that sort of thing.'

‘And my orders, sir?'

Scarlett seemed to consider the question. ‘Get your ship repaired and restocked with everything you need. You'll not get a dockyard refit here so don't try and make a big thing of it. Patch up and splash on some fresh paint and she'll be as good as new.' He laughed. ‘But I don't have to teach you these tricks, do I?'

Crespin did not answer directly. He was thinking of the blazing tanks, the seaman being dragged by his leg along the pier and Porteous with the dead girl. So many vivid pictures. Then he said, ‘A month at the least, I should think.'

‘What? You're playing games with me again, Crespin, because I'm a rotten old amateur, eh?' Scarlett's face seemed to be swimming in a mist. ‘No, I'm afraid I can't have that, old chap.
Three
weeks at the most. I've already told Moriarty what I want, so don't try and get round him, there's a good chap!'

‘She's not built for this sort of thing, sir. For that reason she needs extra care, otherwise something will go just when we need her most.'

Scarlett studied him sadly. ‘There you go again. You must try to remember that your command is not a way of life, it's steel and guns, a
weapon
! And you must ensure that is how it stays.' He consulted his watch. ‘Must be off now. Lot to do.' He grinned. ‘Almost forgot. I'm recommending you for a bar to your D.S.G. I'll make out a list for you to sign of other possible decorations for your chaps. Oh, and that Sub of yours, Shannon, I'm suggesting that his second stripe is brought forward. It all helps to keep 'em happy, you know!' He swung round on the ladder and ran quickly to the deck.

Crespin gave him a few minutes and then walked slowly towards the ladder. He had hardly left the bridge for eight days and his legs felt unwilling to make the effort.

As he reached the deck he saw the hands already at work dragging the shore power lines inboard, along with all the clutter of welding gear and nameless pieces of steel plate. They looked dirty and unshaven, but worked as a team in a way he had not seen before. As he passed amongst them some looked up and grinned self-consciously, others merely stared at him with a mixture of awe and pride. The fear and the uncertainty were behind them, the future too remote to contemplate. They were safe in harbour, and every other sailor and bloody civvie in the port had come to see them. It was as simple as that. And to most of them, who had expected to be killed or taken prisoner, Crespin represented far more than the commanding officer of their battered little ship. He
was
the ship, her strength and her cunning rolled into one.

Crespin realized none of those things, but in spite of his troubled thoughts he was deeply moved by what he saw.

He climbed down another ladder and saw Barker, the steward, clearing the mess of soiled bandages and dressings from the wardroom, with every scuttle open to drive away the stench and pain of death. In his own small cabin he could not completely escape. There were two splinter-holes above his desk and blood on the carpet where a wounded stoker had been laid to die.

There was a tap on the door even as he rested his head on his hands. ‘Well?' He could hardly get the word out.

It was Shannon. ‘There's an officer of the Military Police here, sir. He's had a telephone call from Captain Scarlett.'

Crespin forced his brain back to work. It did not make any sense. ‘Phone call? But he was with me a few minutes ago.'

Shannon stared at him. ‘Nearly
half an hour
, sir.'

Crespin looked away. Half an hour. He must have been asleep on this chair without knowing it. ‘What does he want?'

‘It seems that our deserter, Able Seaman Trotter, is holed up in some house on the other side of town, sir.' Shannon seemed irritated. ‘I told the Provost officer that he should have dealt with it, but it seems that Captain Scarlett thought
you'd
want to handle the matter.'

Crespin groped for his cap. Scarlett obviously considered that an arrest effected by the military might cast blight on the
Thistle
's impressive return.

‘All right, I'll come up.' He saw Shannon's eyes exploring the cabin and added, ‘By the way, you're being promoted. It's not official, but you can take it for granted.'

Shannon was visibly shaken. ‘Thank you, sir. I—I mean, thank you very much!'

Crespin eyed him emptily. That was odd. Shannon's voice had taken on a distinct northern accent. It was strange he had not noticed it before.

He could not bring himself to like Shannon very much, but he had certainly shown himself capable of keeping his head in action.

He said, ‘Well, let's get it over with.'

The M.P. lieutenant had small, gimlet eyes and an aggressive black moustache. He carried a leather cane under one arm, and threw up a salute which would have done credit to the Guards.

Crespin wondered what sort of a picture he made by comparison. Red-eyed, in a sweat-stained shirt with a face still stiff from salt-spray and smoke.

He said, ‘Are you sure it's our deserter?'

The M.P. replied primly, ‘No, sir. But Captain Scarlett has been informed that it is. And acting on information received I have placed two of my men in a position near the house to await instructions.' He even sounded like a policeman.

He moved his boots noisily. ‘I have a jeep on the jetty, sir.'

Crespin saw Porteous hovering by one of the working parties and beckoned him across. ‘We're going for the deserter, Sub. He is in your division, I believe?'

Porteous nodded vacantly. ‘Yes, sir.'

When they reached the gangway Wemyss said quickly, ‘Would you like me to detail a proper escort, sir!' He shifted under Crespin's gaze. ‘You could do with some rest.'

He was really implying it was odd to say the least for a captain to go looking for a mere deserter.

Crespin replied calmly, ‘I'm just going for the ride, Number One. I've one or two items on my mind and this might help to clear them.'

He climbed on to the brow, and as the pipes twittered in salute he turned and looked along the exposed side of his ship. She had certainly been lucky. The wounds were bad, but by some miracle nothing vital had been touched. He thought of Scarlett's description. A weapon. Not a way of life. It was strange how deeply he could still feel those words. As if he had been insulted personally.

By the jeep the M.P. stopped to check his revolver, and Crespin said coldly, ‘You won't need that, Lieutenant!'

‘You can't be too sure with these chaps, sir.' The M.P. was frowning severely.

‘In this war you can't be sure of any bloody thing.' Crespin climbed into the jeep and lapsed into silence.