A Prayer for the Ship (20 page)

He was taken aback by the bustling efficiency of this vast establishment. In every direction messengers scurried, carrying important-looking signals, while from the various offices came the clatter of typewriters and teleprinters. He examined the doors carefully. The first stated, “Staff Officer, Communications, Please Enter.” He gingerly opened it. Directly inside he saw a hatstand, upon which hung three caps, liberally covered with “scrambled egg.” Quietly, he pulled the door to, and moved further along the passage. The next door had nothing on it, so he opened it hopefully. A Wren stood facing a wall-mirror, and turned as he appeared.

“The Officers' Heads are at the end of the passage!” she announced hotly.

Mumbling apologies, Royce withdrew.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Royce turned, blushing, to face another Wren, who stood smiling at his side. She was obviously bound for the forbidden room.

“Well, yes,” he answered thankfully. “To be perfectly honest, I'm looking for Wren Harston. She's in the signals branch here.”

“That's right, she's in my watch. Just go up the stairs to the Tower, and ask the Second Officer. Her name's Mannering.”

Royce was overcome. “Thanks very much; I've never been here before.”

She gave him an old-fashioned look. “So I just gathered!”

The door swung behind her.

He started to climb the stairs, his heart heavy with excited and painful anticipation. This was to be an important moment, but his confidence had taken wings.

The S.D.O. and Signals Office presented to his anxious eyes a violent maelstrom of Wrens in white shirts and rolled sleeves, and millions of fluttering pieces of paper. The noise was overpowering, at least six of the girls were reading or repeating signals over an imposing battery of telephones, while others called mysterious numbers and references to each other. At an overladen desk, a buxom Second Officer was also using her telephone, it seemed for an argument, although she managed to drink a cup of tea at the same time. No one took any notice of him. He was invisible. He noticed that the back of the room was made of glass, and opened on to the signal “Veranda,” where several girls, well wrapped up against the weather, were manipulating a ponderous signal projector. From another small door, a rosey-faced Chief Yeoman emerged, puffing at a pipe. It was comforting to note that he at least was surprised to see another man in the room.

“Lost, sir?”

“I'm looking for—” He stopped, his glance travelling across the Chief's massive shoulder.

She had just come in from the veranda, stripping off her oilskin and cap, shaking out the dark curls, and rubbing her cheek with a mittened hand. Quite clearly, he heard her say to another girl, “There's an M.T.B. at the quay. What's she doing right up here?”

Blindly, he pushed past the astonished Yeoman, brushing a sheaf of signals from a desk, until he was right behind her.

“She's my boat. Care for a cruise?” he gulped.

She swung round, the large brown eyes wide with astonishment. “Heavens! Clive! What on earth?” Her small hands fluttered about her grubby shirt, and patted her wind-blown curls. “What a way to find a girl.”

“Only just got in. Got to leave in two hours. Can I see you somewhere?” The words tumbled out of him.

“It's awfully nice to see you again. You're looking much better; a command suits you.” She studied his face. “It's difficult. But I'll see the Two-Oh.”

Dazedly, he saw her hurry to the desk, where the telephone argument was progressing well. The Wren Officer glanced in his direction, and said to the telephone, “Hold on, Flags, but I still say you're mistaken!” and dropped the instrument heavily. It must have cracked “Flags's” eardrum.

“Don't be long, Lieutenant; you can have her for ten minutes. It's only because you're a stranger. Or are you?”

The Wrens tittered.

Julia plucked his sleeve impatiently. “Come on,” she whispered. “I'll get you out of here while you're still safe!”

Outside, a thin drizzle had started, and they found themselves walking quickly away from the building, yet in no particular direction. Royce was torn by many emotions. He was happy beyond words to find himself in her company again, but worried and uncomfortable because it was not working out as he had planned it in dreams, so many times in the past. It was like saying good-bye to someone very dear on a railway station, a scene which is enacted every day of the year. The two persons wait, saying nothing, unless it is to remark on the weather, or some such triviality, although their hearts are bursting. Then, as the train begins to move, out comes the pent-up flood, the hopes and fears. Too late, the precious time has been wasted.

Desperately, he turned. “Isn't there anywhere we can get a cup of tea or something? There's such a lot I want to say.”

“Only a canteen hut the dockyard maties use.” She pointed. “Over there.”

The drizzle was getting heavier, and thankfully they pushed open the ill-fitting door of the little Nissen hut, and glanced round its spartan interior.

It was barely furnished with scrubbed tables, where the workmen could eat their sandwiches, and boasted a small canteen counter, and a pot-bellied stove which glowed warmly. Two men in overalls leaned against the counter, gossiping to the blowsy woman behind it. They all looked up in surprise, as the worried-looking young officer, and an attractive Wren in a rain-soaked oilskin, burst in on their private world.

Royce guided her to a bench by the stove, all the time drinking in every little detail about her. She took off her cap and shook it, hissing, over the fire, running her fingers through her hair.

“Phew, I'm afraid I'm not looking my best. I wasn't expecting company. I expect you're sorry you came?”

“Good Heavens, you look wonderful, really fine,” he burst out.

She looked at him, the little secret smile playing round her lips. “I believe you mean it, too,” she said.

“I certainly do mean it, I—”

A harsh voice interrupted him. “If you're wantin' anything t'eat, you'll 'ave to get it at the counter. We got no posh waiters 'ere!”

The two workmen grinned.

Royce fumbled in his pocket and banged down a sixpence. “Two teas then.”

He hurried over to her, slopping most of the tea on the floor. He heard the awful woman say something about “show 'em where they get off.” He didn't realize the reason for her hostility, or care.

Julia warmed her hands on the cup, her large brown eyes thoughtful. “I would have liked to get a closer look at your boat. It's like old times to see an M.T.B. again,” she added wistfully. She brightened suddenly, and for a brief instant he saw her brother's quick change of mood in her. “Still, never mind, tell me all about yourself. How have you been getting on?”

Royce took a deep breath. The initiative had been passed to him. “Never mind about me.” He leaned forward, looking into her eyes earnestly. “It's you I'm worried about.” No, that was no good. He tried again. “I wanted to see you again, so much. You'll never know how much I've been thinking about you.”

He waited for a rebuke. None came. She was listening closely, her eyes lowered. He noticed the dark curve of her lashes.

“You see, I don't think it's right. You're right up here, and I'm stuck down at the other end of the line. I want to be able to see a lot more of you,” he ended lamely.

She smiled up at him, showing her even, white teeth. “But you hardly know me.”

He suddenly seized her hand, desperately; this was it, now or never. “Believe me when I tell you that I'd like to remedy that. I want to know you very much better, if you could put up with me.”

He was aware that she hadn't withdrawn her hand from his, nor had she raised any objection. He trembled, quite unaware that the three characters at the counter were watching closely.

“I'd like that,” she said softly, “but what shall we do about it?”

Royce's heart gave a leap. His inside felt like rubber. “Do about it?” His voice rose with excitement. “You must come back to the old flotilla!”

“Shh!” She raised her finger. “You must keep calm.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, but I'm a bit in the air. I'm not used to being with a beautiful girl.”

“That's a good one. I'm in a mess at the moment!” But she was touched by his boyish sincerity.

He dragged his eyes to his watch. “Lord, I'll have to be going,” he groaned.

Together they stood up, buttoning their coats, and with obvious reluctance went outside to the din of the dockyard.

The canteen manageress sniffed. “Didn't even drink their blessed tea!”

They were back by the signal station again, and they stood sheltering in the deep doorway.

“You didn't mind my coming here to see you?” he asked.

“I'm very glad you did. Now what have we decided?”

“Well, look, it's Christmas soon; what are you doing? Have you any leave to come? Were you going home?”

She waved her hand, embracing the harbour. “This is my home now,” she said flatly.

He could have bitten out his tongue. “I'm a fool; I didn't mean that. Could you come down south?”

“To do what?” she questioned.

He laughed vaguely. “I don't know. I don't even know if I shall be out on Ops or not. But you could stay at the White Hart or something. Could you?” His voice was imploring. “It would be wonderful.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I'd like that very much. Leave it to me.” She knew full well that if any other person had made such a suggestion it might have implied one thing only. But she knew that this anxious face was harbouring no such thoughts. Having decided that, she felt very much better, as if she had been given a new lease of life. “I must be off now. My Number One is probably having fifty fits already.”

He held her hands in his, unwilling to leave. “Think of us sometimes, won't you?”

She nodded, her eyes serious. “Look after yourself, won't you?”

He released her, and stepped back, as if to sever the bond between them. Then he started to back away, while she still stood uncertainly in the doorway, her face wet with the rain.

He went suddenly hot, and he found himself clenching his fists. I must, he told himself, I'm not going without holding her just once. He squared his shoulders and marched back to her. She opened her mouth in an unspoken question. Taking her elbows in his hands, he gently pulled her towards him.

“Good-bye for now, Julia.” His voice was shaky. “God bless you.”

And with that, he bent and kissed her quickly on the mouth. For one brief instant he felt the smoothness of her skin, and tasted a new compelling warmth. Then he turned and blundered away. He then realized that she had not spoken a word. Fearfully, he looked back, but she was still there, her face shadowed by the doorway. She waved to him slowly, then she was gone.

He found himself climbing aboard, without realizing he'd made the journey back through the yard. Vacantly, he returned Carver's salute, and walked blindly to the bridge. He wanted desperately to be left alone.

Carver pattered after him, pouring out details in a steady stream: fuel on board, boat ready for sea, war correspondents in wardroom swigging gin, etc., etc.

He forced his mind to cope. “Everybody on board, then? Right, make to Tower:
Request permission to proceed—
then start engines.”

Thankfully, he leaned against the chart table, his back to the signalman, who was busy flashing. She didn't stop me, she didn't tell me I'm a fool, he repeated. “Julia,” he said deliberately. He glanced round quickly, but no one had noticed his weakness.

“From Tower:
Affirmative,
sir.”

The little ship slid carefully from her moorings, and with her decks glinting in the rain, and a growing white froth at her rakish stem, she steered down the channel.

“Signal from Tower,” reported the signalman, surprise in his voice.

“They say:
Happy Christmas,
sir.”

“What on earth do they mean? It's only November,” muttered Raikes, as he spun the spokes of the wheel.

But Royce plunged across the bridge, swinging up his glasses. In an instant he had found, and focused, on the signals veranda. The small, gleaming figure stood by the searchlight, waving.

With his glasses raised, Royce waved, until the Tower was hidden finally by a towering cruiser. He swung round, and even the seamen fumbling with the wires on deck seemed to him to be perfect. “A very nice trip, Cox'n.”

Raikes sucked his teeth, and studied the line of buoys. “All right for some, sir,” he grinned.

T
HE RETURN TRIP
was successful, in that it was quite uneventful, for Royce at any rate. The crew still talked with misgivings about the first part of the trial run, the stiffened airmen, and the charging menace of the merchantmen in the fog, but Royce knew that it would change to a casual boast when they were ashore, in suitable company, and eventually it would warrant no comment at all. They would fall into the pattern and shape of the Navy at war, provided they were allowed to live long enough.

He was thankful to be rid of the war correspondents, for to him they seemed somehow shallow and patronizing, with their ready flow of first-hand experiences, apparently from every battle-front but this one. They were ever ready to give full vent to such sentiments as, “you chaps are doing a magnificent job” and “nothing'll be too good for the boys in blue, when this lot's over.” Of the merchant navy, too, “the heroes of the little silver badge.” The last one made poor Raikes hurry from the bridge, pleading a stomach upset.

Royce had the impression that so many of these people, whose sole job it was to present the war news to the bewildered general public at home, did little to understand it themselves. He knew that this was a completely unfair assessment; it was just unfortunate that he had been blessed with such encounters as these. In addition, he wanted to be able to combine the running of his new ship with thinking about Julia, and whereas at any other time, a new face and a different viewpoint were more than welcome, these two great obsessions excluded all other possibilities.

He watched with anxious anticipation as the seamen hooked on to their buoy astern of the
Royston,
keeping the engines ready to roar to the rescue should one of them develop a case of stage fright, and drop the lines in the water. The manoeuvre was successful, and thankfully, he shook hands with the “gentlemen of the Press,” and saw them scramble into an immaculate pinnace which had been sent to collect them. Perhaps it was unfortunate that the cruise had been a blank, from their point of view, but no doubt imagination would rally to their support.

Within a quarter of an hour, he found himself aboard
Royston,
along with all the other C.O.s of the flotilla, assembled in the Operations Room. He was glad to see the old faces again, and to welcome the new. It was like doing something useful after being on the shelf. As he entered, Kirby, who stood by the wall charts, cleared his throat noisily.

“Ah, Royce, you're late. Your E.T.A. was thirty minutes ago. Was it not a straightforward run?”

The tired young faces turned towards him. He felt absurdly like a schoolboy, arriving after class had started.

“Had to drop my passengers, sir,” he said shortly.

“Well, well, first things first, I suppose.” He turned his back, and stared at the charts, while Royce sank gratefully into a vacant chair.

“What ho, chum, how's the wee boat behaving?”

He glanced sideways into the wrinkled grin of Jock Murray. “Fine, but I know now what a nitwit I must have been when I first started!”

“Who says you're not now?” Benjy hissed over his shoulder, grinning hugely.

“When you're settled, gentlemen?” Kirby's voice was sour. He waited till they had given him what he considered to be suitably intelligent expressions, then continued. Royce thought he was looking much older.

“I think you're all fully conversant with this chart.” They noticed with interest that it showed the approaches of Ostend, with a riot of colours depicting minefields, patrol areas, and other local data. He really had their attention now.

“Intelligence reports that the fast minelayers which have been playing havoc in the Channel, and across all the local shipping lanes, are now based here. Tactics, as we know, are to dash out at high speed by night, get rid of the mines, and hurry back before dawn. What we didn't know was how they cleared our destroyer patrols.”

He paused, and dabbed his mouth with an immaculate handkerchief. “We know now. Certain information is being wirelessed by agents here, in England, direct to France, concerning local convoys. Immediately the enemy receives this information, he dispatches minelaying aircraft to the Thames Estuary, or Southampton Approaches, or the south-west corner, ‘E-Boat Alley' as some of our newspapers deign to call it, or sometimes all three at once. Immediately, all commands concentrate the sweepers, plus escorts, to keep the ports open, while the patrols are needed to cover the convoys from attack while all this is going on.”

He surveyed them with a cold stare. “It is at that moment, gentlemen, that the real menace slips from Ostend, and does its work.”

They exchanged meaning glances.

“As the sea-distances are so small, yet our patrol areas so large, it is obvious, therefore, that we must destroy them as they leave the base. No other vessel can do it. No other vessel has the speed to get in and out before the enemy's air cover can be used. The task is ours.”

A babble of murmurs broke out, and Kirby raised his hand.

“If you please, I suggest you would do better to address your comments to me. Now.” He sat down.

Benjy scrambled to his feet, his jovial face slightly perplexed. “How do we know when they are out, sir? I mean, they aren't going to drop us a wire, are they?”

There was a chuckle.

Kirby studied him pityingly. “We will patrol in pairs, off this area, on every convoy departure night. Intelligence is giving us every support.”

There was a loud groan, and Murray rose hastily. “Would it not be better to get them when they're well clear? We could perhaps bag all of them.”

“It would not.”

It was quite obvious that Kirby was running true to form. He was tight on all other information. It was his party, and that was all there was to it.

As they leaned against the bar, sipping their gins, they discussed the matter at some length. One thought was uppermost in their minds, “Just so long as it doesn't mess up Christmas!”

The following day, while Carver exercised all hands, Royce sat in his cabin composing a letter to Julia. He was so full of the prospect of seeing her again, and in the foreseeable future, that he found it difficult to put into words such details as the weather, the food, and the state of his health. Eventually, he took the plunge, and told her exactly how he had felt as he waved her good-bye, and almost guiltily he popped it into an envelope and dashed on deck to catch the postman. As the duty boat chugged away, he sighed: the letter was on its way; he had made a start.

He leaned for a while against the port tube, and listened to Raikes patiently instructing five seamen in the use of a scrambling net. “It's like this. You sling it down over the side, and then you send two of the strongest lads down on it. One at each end. They 'elp to keep the net steady, an' they can yank the survivors outer the water. Any questions?”

A spindly youth, named Cleavely, whom Royce knew already, as he had been earmarked as a potential officer, stepped forward. “But if they're badly injured, you're not supposed to handle them like that, surely?” His voice was shocked.

“Either you gets 'em up, or you leaves 'em!” Raikes was final.

“It seems a bit antiquated to me. Why not rig a davit, or something?”

“'Cause you'll be too busy, I shouldn't wonder,” answered the Coxswain mildly.

Royce walked away, smiling. Raikes always had been one for understatement.

But altogether, as he made his tour, he found the hands very willing to learn their new trade, and were obviously much awed by the other battle-scarred boats which lay around them.

An M.T.B. swung away from the sweeping arms of the loading jetties, and crept carefully out into the stream, feeling its strength, then having made up her mind, she gathered way and headed for the
Royston.
As she turned her wet, shiny sides towards him, he read her large, white numbers quite clearly. It was Watson's boat. With her huge engines purring magnificently, she cruised gently past, too close as usual, her sweeping fo'c'sle barely five feet clear. Benjy's red face, rising from a peculiar yellow flying suit and red scarf, was a tonic, and made up for the day's lack of sunshine.

“'Ow do, chum?” he bellowed. “Coming up to the White Hart tonight?”

“Rather. Haven't been up there for ages.”

The M.T.B. coasted round, the seamen professionally standing by with wires and fenders, and Benjy raised his megaphone. “Don't look so envious. We can't all have good crews!”

Royce shook his fist, laughing. It was good to be back.

The White Hart was crowded that night, and already the air was thick and friendly when Royce, Watson, Deith, and Murray strolled in. They somehow found an empty table and sat surveying the scene, and their glasses.

“Who's going out first on this crazy patrol stunt?” asked Murray absently.

“Guess,” smiled Deith. “The Guvnor himself, of course, just to be sure that it's quite safe for us!”

Royce put down his empty tankard, and darted a quick glance at them. “D'you think I can book a room here? Round about Christmas, for a friend, I mean.”

There was an ominous silence, then Murray leaned across with an air of assumed confidence. “Is it a wee bit of fun you're contemplating, me boy?”

Royce grinned uncomfortably. “No, it's nothing like that, you'll be sorry to hear. As a matter of fact I met a girl, but then you know her. What the devil am I trying to explain it to you for?” he exploded.

“Come, come, it's a Christmas wedding we'll be having!” Benjy was jubilant. “Drinks all round!”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, you're like that Cox'n of mine. You can't tell him anything about personal matters without getting a peculiar look!”

It turned out, however, that the hotel boasted six rooms to be exact, and the landlord, after studying Royce carefully, said he would keep one vacant until further notice. That wasn't too difficult for him, as he rarely had any paying guests at all, but somehow he made it sound like a gracious favour. As he said later to his wife, it was most unusual for a sailor to book a room for one. Ah, well, things were changing all the time.

By the time Royce got back to his table, he found Benjy in earnest conversation with two well-painted, and somewhat middle-aged ladies, who were sipping large gins, and giggling loudly, flashing their eyes round the bar, as if to announce their new conquest to all and sundry.

“Blimey, dear, you are the bleedin' limit, you are!” cooed the first, whose make-up appeared to have been applied with a paint brush. “What d'you take us for?”

Benjy shot a broad wink at the others, and patted her plump knee. “Ah, here he is. I was just telling them you've been trying to find two bridesmaids for your wedding!”

Deith grinned wickedly. “One of 'em was Miss Chatham of 1918 too!”

“Saucy little bugger, ain't he?” sniffed the second lady, who was definitely swaying a little.

But, like all women of their type, they took the rough humour like a kitten takes cream.

As they rolled happily back to the pier, Royce was still being ragged unmercifully, and was almost thankful to feel his own deck under his feet once more. He would have to protect his Julia from all that, he decided. She might get the wrong impression.

Early morning showed a trio of corvettes, and three Asdic trawlers, slipping their moorings, and making their way to the boom-gate. The local escort group were on the move, quite unaware that Intelligence had forecast their routine task as being the mainspring of the trap. Somewhere out across the grey, mist-shrouded horizon, perhaps even now, the fast minelayers were loading their deadly eggs in readiness. Royce watched them go, listening to the slap of their wakes against his boat, and then resumed his breakfast. We shall see, he mused.

The morning was uneventful, except that an air of eager readiness hung over the flotilla. All the boats were fully ammunitioned, stored, and had fuel tanks well topped up. Only essential work took any of the men ashore, and then only within the dockyard.

Royce and Carver stood side by side on the tiny quarter-deck, smoking their pipes, and watching the sea-gulls, swooping and screaming as the cook emptied his gash-bucket over the side.

“What sort of photography did you do before you joined, Number One?”

“Oh, all sorts: free lance, dress models, anything really. If I could have done some of this stuff,” he waved towards the ships, “I'd have made a packet.”

“I suppose you met plenty of women on that work?” Royce was casual.

“Oh Lord, yes, I've had my moments!” He laughed bitterly.

“Nice, were they?”

Carver turned towards him, his eyes glinting. “Some of them. But if I may say so, none of them compared at all favourably with your Wren, from what I could see through my glasses!”

Royce looked astounded, and coughed hastily. “Oh, er, yes.”

Carver grinned unhelpfully. “The sun is over the yardarm, sir, allow me to buy you a gin!”