A Prayer for the Ship (14 page)

As they stepped ashore at the smart, white-painted landing stage, flanked by the brass dolphins, another figure stepped forward to greet them, and following the steel-helmeted sentry, they entered the hospital grounds. The motor-boat swung away to her berth at the boats' pool, the old P.O. wondering sadly how long he was expected to make these heartbreaking journeys, backwards and forwards, with parents and wives and friends. He spat over the side of his boat, and turned his attention to the bowman.

“Your turn to wet the tea when we've tied up, Nobby!”

The waiting-room, where Mr and Mrs Royce found themselves five minutes later, was already occupied, and Mr Royce gave an inward sigh of relief, knowing that further conversation at this stage would be impossible. As they sat on the well-worn sofa, he studied the two officers sprawled in the chairs by the radiator. One, a languid Lieutenant-Commander, with a keen but tired face, was idly glancing through an ancient magazine, while the other, a stocky, hard-faced Lieutenant, was scraping out his pipe with slow deliberation. The former suddenly looked up, his clear eyes questioning. Having apparently made up his mind, he nudged his companion, and stood up.

“Good evening. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr and Mrs Royce?” His voice was a well-modulated drawl.

Mrs Royce smiled, and nodded shyly.

“Well, bless my soul.” The Lieutenant stepped up to them with outstretched hand. “I'm Murray, Jock to you both, if you will, and this is Lieutenant-Commander Emberson. We are great friends with your son.”

The ice was broken, for both names at least were familiar and often mentioned in Clive's letters.

Emberson drew up a chair. “What a shame your having to come all that way by train—it's no joke in this part of the world.”

“No, it's one helluva journey, if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am,” added Murray.

Before Mr Royce could make a similarly casual remark, he heard his wife's voice, with the merest quaver in it, and he steeled himself.

“Tell me quite truthfully,” she said quietly. “Does it seem that we—that Clive—” She faltered and stopped.

Emberson and Murray exchanged quick glances.

“Now just you stop worrying.”

His assurances were halted by the sudden entrance of the Surgeon-Commander, and both the officers stood to attention.

“I'm Commander Lloyd, and I'm very glad you got here all right,” he said gruffly. “Now just come along and see your boy and then we'll fix you up with a real unrationed dinner.”

Without speaking, they hurried down the bare corridors to the private ward.

As the Commander reached for the handle, the door was wrenched open, and he nearly collided with the sister.

“Where are you going?” he hissed. “What's happening?”

Mrs Royce felt faint, and held her husband's arm, watching the sister's face, who was clearly put off her guard.

“It's all right, these are his parents,” barked Lloyd, trying to conceal his fears.

“It's the young officer, sir,” she stammered, glancing from one to the other. “He spoke to me!”

“Good God! Did he?” and the bulky Commander pushed past her, closely followed by the others.

Mrs Royce let out a soft cry as she saw the figure in the bed, but the doctor paid no heed to either of them until he had finished his examination. Eventually he drew himself up, and let out a great sigh.

“Your son,” he said slowly, “has done the impossible. He has, in fact, turned the corner quite safely.” He turned to the door. “You may sit here for ten minutes; I'll arrange for your meal. Come with me, sister.” The door closed.

An ambulance drove noisily up the gravel approach to the hospital, and somewhere in the far distance sounded the wail of an air-raid siren, but in that small room, at that moment, there was complete peace.

When the sister returned, she found them still sitting there, and with a great smile she laid a tray of tea at the bedside.

“Thought you might like a nice cup of tea to be going on with.”

Mrs Royce's eyes shone. “Bless you for taking so much trouble. Could you please tell me what he said to you?”

The sister paused, puckering her brow.

“Well, I was just sitting there by the window, when I heard him move, so I went over. As I reached him, he opened his eyes and looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Are the others all right?' So I said, ‘Yes' or something, and he smiled at me, and sort of relaxed. You know the rest.”

“My poor Clive, his face looks so thin.”

“Don't you worry. Commander Lloyd says it's going to be just fine.”

“By the way,” Mr Royce's voice was a little unsteady. “What did happen to ‘the others'?”

The sister busied herself noisily with the cups. “There were only eight survivors, I'm afraid.”

Reluctantly, they had to go, and after an enormous meal, which they scarcely noticed, they were taken to a room in the annexe, where, for the first time since receiving the telegram, they slept.

The following morning was bright and crisp, with a keen, steady breeze sweeping the estuary into a million tiny white-caps. The sky was, for once, completely clear, a fine if rather hard blue. The vessels tugged impatiently at their cables, as if to jerk their crews awake for such a refreshing day, and already from countless galley funnels, faint wisps of smoke, and mixed aromas of frying bacon or utility sausages, blended invitingly with the more prevalent ship odours of oil and men. The preparative flag mounted the gaff of the port signal tower, two minutes to Colours, and on the newly swept and scrubbed quarter-decks, the signalmen waited to hoist their ensigns, so that another naval day could be officially started. One minute later, Royce opened his eyes, and slowly, very slowly, his brain and senses battled to find some common understanding. At first he had the impression that he was suspended in space, a feeling of unreality and disem-bodied detachment deprived him of any sort of realization. There was only a bright haze surrounding him, no feeling yet of self-possession, or in fact, the will to bring himself back to his real world, so recently a world of torment.

Out on the vast parade ground of HMS
Ganges,
an unknown boy bugler was to start the wheels turning once more, was to give Royce his cue, his reintroduction to the land of the living. The bugler raised his shining instrument, and moistened his lips. The Officer-of-the-Day roared hoarsely, “Make it so!” and as the gleaming flag mounted the mast, the strident notes rang out round the sombre buildings, causing the dozing gulls to rise in squawking protest, and echoing and ebbing until they eventually penetrated the subconscious barrier of Royce's mind.

He squinted, closed his dry lips, and tried to move, and as the stab of pain lanced his back, he became, in that split second, fully aware of everything but his surroundings. At first, he was filled with fear, and then curiosity, as he painfully twisted his head towards the source of the light, where, sitting by the window with her head nodding, he saw a nurse. So he had made it. The very effort of trying to marshal his thoughts made him weak, but silently he struggled back over a period of blankness, until he saw with sudden clarity the enemy ship. It was so real that it seemed to shut out the light, to fill the room. He felt his body go clammy; it was the first time he had really noticed the presence of his limbs, and he tried to move his legs. He could not. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, holding his breath and contracting his stomach muscles with the effort. Little red and green dots jumped lightly before his eyes, and he lay back gasping, while in the back of his head a hammer began to pound mercilessly. So this was it; someone had rescued him, but for what? To be a helpless cripple? He shut his eyes tightly, and bit his lip to prevent a whimper of self-pity. Even his arms refused to rise above the sheets, and a surge of sudden panic made him fling his head from side to side on the pillow, each movement making the pain worse, until eventually he heard himself cry out, a sort of gurgle. Instantly, there was a patter of footsteps, and a cool hand pressed gently but firmly across his brow, and with it came a peculiar feeling of security. He stared up at the concerned grey eyes, and was dimly aware of a smell of soap, and the squeak of starch in the white uniform. He opened his lips, which felt like old leather, and tried again.

“Where am I?” He halted, frightened. Surely that wasn't his voice? It was too high, too cracked.

He cleared his throat, and felt the taste of petrol. Instantly, as if sparked by an explosion in his mind, the terrible memories came flooding back, tumbling over themselves, in wild and horrible confusion. Crackling flames, gunfire, and rushing water tore round within his brain, like a symphony from hell, with a background of screams, some of which were his own.

How long this paroxysm lasted he didn't know; he only became dimly aware of strong hands holding him, and soothing voices, soft, yet persistent.

He lay limp and quiet, his mind dead once more, until one of the voices penetrated and held him in its grasp. “Now come on, old fellow, wakey wakey, it's high time you sat up and took a little nourishment!”

Frantically Royce gathered himself together, and found himself looking into the heavy, confident face of the surgeon. “Sorry, sir, everything went a bit rocky,” he stammered. “But I feel a lot better now.” As he said that, he really did feel a surge of life pulsate through him, and he tried to smile.

“Well now, since you've decided to stay with us, you'd better hear what's wrong with you.” He raised one hand hastily, as Royce flinched. “Now don't get worried, I promise you that you'll be all right and about again in a few weeks. Provided you're a good boy of course. Just the odd burn, and a scratch or two; you've been very lucky. Comparatively speaking that is,” he added with a broad smile.

The surgeon's matter-of-fact manner began to have the desired effect. All the perfectly normal service catch-phrases and casual slang made Royce feel more at ease, and he found himself thinking of things and happenings outside his own personal torment.

“Tell me, sir,” his voice was quiet and tense. “How did I get here? Are the others safe?”

The big figure settled itself comfortably on the edge of the bed, and slowly and carefully the surgeon retold the story of Raikes's gallant rescue, of the destroyer's arrival on the scene just at the right moment, and lastly he came to the piece that he could personally vouch for, the survivors' arrival at the hospital.

Royce listened with amazement. It seemed impossible now that he had ever been involved in such happenings, let alone been the principal character. The other man's voice stopped, but Royce knew that he must have omitted much, just to spare him. He smiled grimly. “And there were only eight of us left, you say? Are they getting on all right now?”

“Fine! Why you're the only one who's caused any panic so far, so you just think about getting better, and going on some leave! Besides, we need your bed!”

Royce lay back, and for the first time he felt relaxed, his worst fears had been dispelled. He had been tested, and he had made it.

In his opinion, the next three hours of his new-found life were the most difficult, when with his parents sitting by his side, he tried desperately to make light of all his experiences, and to prevent his mother from taking complete control from the sister, who smiled at some of her suggestions, which made Royce blush with embarrassment. Eventually they had to go, and he felt suddenly tired and weak, as his mother lingered by the bed, watching him anxiously.

“The doctor says you'll be able to come home soon,” she said. “So look after yourself, my dear, and don't worry about not being able to write to us. We'll send you some things to replace the ones you have lost.”

Royce looked down at his heavily bandaged hands. The thought of not being able to do all the usual little jobs, writing, shaving, filling a pipe, or even opening a door, had not occurred to him.

Mr Royce saw the look of dismay on his son's face. “We'll be off now, Clive. It was grand to see you again. Your mother and I are proud of you.”

“Proud? I did what I had to do, Dad.” His voice, too, was getting weaker.

“Now you get some rest; we're off to get that train, and start getting the house ready for you.”

As they stood looking back from the open door, he cleared his throat. “Yes, proud, that's what I said. We saw two of your officers this morning. They told us everything. Cheerio, son.”

The sister immediately took charge again, straightening the blankets, and making him comfortable, in the manner of nurses the world over, muttering dark threats, and grumbling at her patient. Unfortunately, it was not difficult for anyone to see she adored her latest patient, as the surgeon pointed out.

The days which followed were difficult for Royce, cut off from the life he knew and trusted, and constantly forced to endure the pain and discomfort of his injuries, and their treatment. He was not allowed any visitors, for fear that too much conversation would weaken him, but the letters and messages of good wishes and congratulations which had poured in from the
Royston
moved him beyond words.