A Prayer for the Ship (24 page)

Royce looked glassily at him, trying to think of an answer, trying, too, to fight off the fear that he was letting the strain of command crush his will power. He felt so very, very tired.

There was a tap on the door, and Paynton stepped in. “Signal from Senior Officer, sir
. All First Lieutenants to exercise hands at Fire Fighting at eight bells.
”

“Very good,” smiled Royce. “Acknowledge.”

Carver fell back into his chair, like a deflated balloon, his face crimson. “Well, damn me!” he exploded. “I mean to say, that really is a bit too much, sir! Doesn't he think we need a bit of rest?”

Leach stood up, yawning. “Well, I'm for forty winks. Don't let the Fire Brigade make too much noise, will you, Number One?”

“Oh hell! What shall I do?” Carver was desperate.

“When I was a First Lieutenant, I used to ask that very question,” grinned Royce, feeling slightly better. “Call me if you need inspiration.”

Carver flung his slippers across the wardroom at the departing Midshipman, who turned and eyed him sadly.

“Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat,”
he quoted solemnly.

“Come again?” gurgled Carver.

“A rough translation is, ‘Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first send mad!'” And he ducked quickly away round the door.

As Royce lay back in his bunk, he smiled contentedly to himself. With a crew like this he had to be all right. They were too precious to be sacrificed without a battle. He closed his eyes.

R
OYCE SAT COMFORTABLY
at the wardroom table, a cup of tea at his elbow, methodically checking and re-reading the impressive piles of ship's correspondence, and demand-notes. He leaned back, and started to fill his pipe, noticing as he did so, the bowed head of Leach on the opposite side of the table, apparently engrossed in correcting the Admiralty Fleet Orders.

Outside the warm shell of the low cabin, he could hear the steady swish of icy rain against the wooden hull, and the squelchy thud of the Quartermaster's measured tread above his head. Every so often, a powerful squall would rake the harbour reaches, lashing the sheltering vessels, and he would hear the mooring wires groan a protest, as the boat jerked back sharply. He tried to shelve the problem that had been gnawing at his mind since they had returned to base. He glanced again at the bulkhead calendar. Ten days to Christmas. That was it. Julia's present. The great problem. It had to be something special, but what? He frowned.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“Er, no, Mid, I was just thinking about Christmas,” he said, truthfully.

Leach dropped his scissors and glue brush. “Yes, it'll be my first in the Navy,” he said excitedly. “Will we have a party?”

“We will indeed. We'll ask everyone if necessary. Just to please you. Commander Wright has stated that the flotilla will be in harbour for Christmas. Unless there's a flap on, of course.”

Carver entered, and hurried to the stove. “God, it's parky on deck.” He shivered. “Just got the last of the stores stowed away. I've sent the hands to tea.”

Royce nodded, “Ah, Mid, I want you to go to the Cox'n, and ask him about getting some turkeys for the lads. See if he's got it in hand.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Look, Number One,” he said, when Leach had left them, “I want your help rather badly.”

“Oh sure,” answered Carver airily. “Anything you name. Except Fire Fighting, of course!”

“Ass! No, this is rather serious.”

He paused, searching for words, while Carver studied him, his face expressionless.

“My, er, Christmas guest. Well, she, that is—Oh damn it! What I mean is, I want to give her a decent present, and really I haven't a clue about these matters.”

The other man eyed him shrewdly. “And as a loose-living sort of character, I might be able to advise you, eh?” he laughed.

“Good heavens, I didn't mean that! But you did say you'd had quite a bit of experience in this field.”

“You haven't anything in mind, I suppose?”

Royce coloured slightly. “Well, I did think of a nightdress. You know, something special,” he mumbled.

“Leave it to me. I know a chap in London who can get just the thing. Black Market of course, but as money is no object,” he lowered one eyelid dramatically, “I dare say it will be something special all right!”

“You don't think that she'll get the wrong idea, do you?” Royce was anxious, and no longer cared if it showed. “I mean, you know how it is.”

“Well, I think I know how it is. But you shouldn't have to worry too much. Much better a present like that, than a set of knitting needles or something!”

“Phew, what a relief! You really are a pal. When can you go?”

“I'll 'phone the bloke tomorrow morning, and fix it up. I've no doubt he'll post it to me. We've done quite a bit of business in the past.” He smiled wickedly.

“How will you know her size?” queried Royce suddenly. “I don't know myself.”

“Not to worry. It doesn't matter a lot, and I got quite a good look at her. Of course, I may want her to come over for a fitting!”

“You blighter, that'll cost you a large pink gin,” shouted Royce. “But thanks, anyway, and I give you full control of my purse.”

Leach came back, shivering. “Raikes said you'd already got the turkeys fixed up with the N.A.A.F.I. manager,” he said peevishly. “I got all wet for nothing!”

“Oh, er, yes, Mid, I forgot. Captain's privilege, you know.”

He and Carver exchanged a quick glance of mutual understanding. The manoeuvre had been completed with success.

Ordinary Seaman Jenkins poked his head round the door, the light reflecting from his gleaming oilskin. “Air-raid warning's just gorn ashore, sir,” he croaked, his eyes darting round the warm comfort of the wardroom. “Wind's rising from the nor'-east, an' the rain's getting worse,” he added gloomily.

Royce desperately wanted to say “have a drink to warm your inside,” but custom and discipline prevailed. “Very good. Tell the Cox'n to close up the gunners as soon as it's a Red warning.”

It was customary for the flotilla to assist the town's anti-aircraft guns when the enemy came too near to the port.

Shortly after the Quartermaster's announcement,
Royston
signalled:
Air-Raid Red,
and Carver mustered his guns' crews around the dripping weapons. Away across the town could be heard the rumble of ack-ack fire, and on the dark, storm-wracked mantle of the horizon, they saw the red flashes of their exploding shells. Tiny pin-pricks of light.

Then steadily, above all other sounds, above the slap of water, the moan of the wind, and the pattering of rain, rose the uneven beat of powerful engines. The too-familiar, Berrum-Berrum-Berrum, that night after night heralded the approach of death and destruction to men, women, and children. It was peculiar to think that thousands of feet above them, on this bitter evening, dozens of human beings squatted on little stools, and peered at complicated instruments, solely intent upon this one devilish purpose.

There was a dull roar from the town, and a bright flash, followed by an echoing rumble of falling masonry. The first bomb had fallen. Another and then another, and dimly across the dark anchorage they heard the clamour of fire bells. Slowly the bombers faded away, out of reach of the probing guns, and the
Royston
signalled:
Stand Down.

“Too high for us, anyway,” mused Royce, as he squinted upwards against the driving rain. “I think the party's over for tonight. They were probably on their way back home, and had a few bombs to get rid of.”

As the hands clattered thankfully back to the warmth of the mess-decks, the three officers stood watching the flickering fires ashore.

“Not much of a raid, anyway,” muttered Leach, “The A.R.P. seem to have it all under control.”

“Yes, I think I'll take the First Lieutenant ashore for a pint,” said Royce suddenly. “We're not wanted tonight, and it'll do us good to stretch our legs.”

“Hmm, yes, and I could make an important 'phone call, I suppose,” answered Carver drily.

“What, leave me out here at the buoy alone?” squeaked Leach.

“Never mind, Daddy won't be long . . .”

As Carver remarked, as they sped swiftly across the dark waters of the harbour in the motor dory, Leach was really tickled pink at the idea of playing Captain for a while.

While the confident Carver made his way to a telephone box, to make the all-important arrangements, Royce wandered around the squalid, little streets which backed the dockyard in an uneven semi-circle. In one, there was an unusual disturbance, as firemen, air-raid wardens, and police hacked and pulled at the shattered remains of one small house, the front of which lay scattered across the roadway. In the poor light of shaded hand-lamps and torches, he saw the pathetic, broken furniture, stripped wallpaper, and a picture hanging at a peculiar angle, whilst the air was thick with the smell of recently extinguished fires. Even as he watched, he saw two uniformed figures carry a small, limp bundle into the lamplight, and as they laid it carefully down on the pavement, he saw the old lady's silver hair moving faintly in the breeze. It was, he knew, the only movement she would ever make again. He turned away bitterly, and strode back to the yard gates, where Carver was just leaving the booth.

“All set,” he grinned. “He'll send the loot as soon as he can. But in any case, he promises to have it for you in time for Christmas.”

Royce shook himself, and felt suddenly cold, “Thanks a lot. Let's go and get that drink.

“Have you by any chance noticed, Number One, how the Jerries have been stepping up their raids in this area?” he asked, as they crunched blindly over some broken glass.

“Well, I had got the idea that it's been worse since the time I came here,” confessed Carver thoughtfully. “Any reason, d'you suppose?”

“The way I see it is, that we've been doing so well over the other side in the last few months, and Jerry's determined to cut us off at the roots, so to speak: the dockyard, oil tanks, and I suppose they'll also be after the poor old
Royston!
”

They pushed open the doors of the White Hart, and Carver paused. “So long as they don't get any more accurate, I don't care!”

Royce thought of the little figure, with the silver hair. It was likely that a lot of people would be better off if the bombers had found their real objectives.

The hit-and-run raids on the East Coast by day and night, did little to slow up the mounting offensive by Coastal Forces against enemy shipping, however, and even four days before Christmas, after a long patrol, which necessitated the flotilla's refuelling at Harwich, with a taut Kirby in the lead, they had sent a German destroyer to the bottom. The flotilla's biggest warship kill so far. While the other officers celebrated the victory aboard the
Royston,
Royce paced impatiently up and down his cabin, six paces either way, as he waited for Carver's return from shore. Disaster was staring him in the face. The promised gift for Julia had not arrived from London, and Carver had dashed ashore to get to the bottom of the delay. After an age had passed, he heard the splutter of a motor-boat alongside, and he forced himself to sit staring at the door.

Carver's face, however, was cheerful. “He gave me a terrific line about the hold-up. Said it was his partner's fault. But he promises definitely it'll be here tomorrow evening.”

Royce sighed deeply. “Thank the Lord for that!”

“He's not a bad chap, really; he won't let me down. Never has yet, anyway.”

“Hmm, it would appear that you're a pretty fast lot!” said Royce gravely.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I had thought seriously of writing a book about my experiences. Complete with photographs, of course. ‘How to be Happy Though Married' might make a good title!”

As they were not intending to put to sea during the Christmas period, unless “so required by a given emergency,” all the youthful captains got down to cleaning and decorating their boats, in order that the entertaining of guests might be all the more satisfactory. As Royce, followed anxiously by Leach, poked and pried into mess-deck and engine room alike, he felt satisfied that his own boat had never looked better. Brass gleamed, and grey paint shone brightly, while the gay contrast of paper chains and coloured home-made lanterns brought gaiety and humanity to both the crew's quarters and the wardroom. He laughed aloud, when he saw an open cookery book, displaying a sizzling turkey, lying in the galley. He turned to Petty Officer Raikes, who was hovering in the rear.

“D'you know, I've never seen such a thing in a galley before, Cox'n.”

“An' neither 'ave I, sir. We must be makin' naval history!”

In the wardroom he congratulated his exhausted First Lieutenant, who lay limply in his chair.

“Thank you,” he groaned. “I feel as if I'd done the perishing boat on my own.”

“That'll be the day,” muttered Leach.

“I thought we'd get all the routine over tomorrow, Christmas Eve,” interrupted Royce hastily. “We'll do the whole thing ourselves. We'll even have a pukka Divisions, on the fo'c'sle, if it's fine, and on the mess-deck, if it's wet. Then Christmas, we'll have a very gentle routine, Number One, with heaps of food for the lads. How does it strike you?”

“Fine,” answered Carver, brightening. “I'll get the gramo-phone working again, and we'll get a couple of hymn records from the Base Padre. By the way, sir, what time does your guest arrive?”

“Oh, er, about twelve hundred. She'll go to the hotel first, and then I'll bring her straight aboard for a drink. See that the Gin Pennant is flying. We might as well have a few characters here for her to see.”

“And to give you a little support?” queried Carver innocently.

“Hah, a fat lot of support that'd be!”

“And what about Christmas Day, are we having any guests then?” Leach was already making mental calculations.

“Oh sure, the flotilla and
Royston
will hold Open House all day, I believe. So you'll be all right, Mid. She can come.”

The boy blushed to his eyebrows, and Royce thought, I'm a fine one to talk.

That evening they arranged their cards around the ward-room. From other ships, from parents, distant relatives, and friends. It was a pointed fact that Leading Seaman Denton, and Campbell the Telegraphist, were the only married men out of the whole ship's company, and as Royce carefully pinned Julia's neat card over the boat's photograph, he reflected that he would like to be the third.