A Prayer for the Ship (6 page)

“It's all right, Skipper, just take it easy; we'll have you fixed up in no time. Now just you lie quiet.”

Harston seemed to hear, but he couldn't be sure, and he glanced wildly round for assistance. For the first time he saw the large sea boots of the signalman protruding from beneath the chart table. One of them twitched faintly, and then, with a sudden heave, Collins rose from the wreckage like a huge dog, apparently unhurt, but shaking his head, and repeating slowly, “Gawd, what 'appened?”

Royce yelled madly: “Quick, Collins, relieve the Cox'n, and steer.” He twisted round to the compass which was, by a miracle, intact. “Steer north-west, and send him up with the first aid gear.” He stared at the signalman anxiously. “Can you do that?”

“Yessir, I'm okay, just a bang on the 'ead. Gawd!” And he limped down the ladder.

Harston's eyes opened, and he seemed to be trying to focus on Royce's worried face. A gloved hand patted feebly at his shoulder, and a small voice croaked, “Leave me, Number One, I've had it. Get the boat out of here.”

His chest shook to a violent fit of coughing, and Royce held him close, hugging him until it stopped.

The pale face twisted into a smile, and Royce bent his head to hear.

“You're all right, Clive, the best I've ever—” He coughed again.

Royce felt a sudden fierce grip on his arm as Harston tried to pull himself forward.

“Look after my boat, and the lads for me, will you?” Royce nodded. “Don't say it; I'll get you back,” he choked. “Tell Artie he can have my breakfast, and tell him that . . .” He quietly lowered his face on to Royce's shoulder, and he felt his body give a long shudder and go limp.

For several seconds he sat holding him, until the Coxswain appeared with two seamen. Then he turned his head away, so that they should not see his tears, and rasped, “The Captain has just died. See to the others.”

Gently he freed himself from the embrace, and stood stiffly at the rail, then he called down the engine room voice-pipe, “Everything all right down there, Moore?”

The tinny voice rattled back, “Aye, aye, sir, no damage. There were two holes forward below the waterline in the mess-decks, but I've had 'em plugged. I can still give you maximum revs, if you're wanting to get out of it, sir.”

Royce could well imagine Moore squatting down in the smoke and din of the engines, surrounded by tanks of high-octane spirit, and wondering what on earth was happening above his head, but taught by his nine years in the Navy to ask no questions.

“Very good, stand by for full speed after the Cox'n has made his report.”

Ten minutes later, Raikes reported the findings of his hurried tour. “Five dead, including the Captain.” He paused and lowered his eyes. “Three wounded, one seriously—that's Banks, port Oerlikon,” he added.

Royce then remembered the huddled gunner firing wildly into the smoke screen. Alone, wounded, and frightened, he had fired until his magazine was empty.

“As to damage,” continued Raikes, suddenly brisk. “Two shot holes below the line, now plugged. 'Bout two hundred holes in the port side, and half that on this side. Pom-poms jammed, machine-guns smashed, and motor dory in bits. Most of the gear below is buggered-up too.”

“In other words, she'll float but not fight. Right, keep the Oerlikons closed up, and try to get the wounded comfortable. Oh, and a good cup of rum all round.”

He turned to the voice-pipe. “Steer west-north-west, full ahead!”

He was aware that the Coxswain was still standing there.

“Well?”

“I just wanted you to know, sir, that I'm sorry about the Captain. He was the finest man I've ever served under.” For once he seemed at a loss for words.

Royce nodded. “Thank you, 'Swain, I know what you mean.”

Collins had resumed his place, and was sorting out his flags in an aimless and fuddled manner, and as he worked, muttering and humming to himself, Royce stood looking at the empty corner of the bridge, the dark stains on the planking, the cruel pattern of bullet holes in the thin plating that had plucked down a man, a leader, who even at the gateway of death had thought of his duty to others.

Furiously, Royce dashed his hand across his face and eyes, and stared hard across the grim, heaving waters, the reaction of the last soul-tearing hour causing him to tremble violently, and his stomach to heave until he felt faint and ice-cold.

Of the battle there was no sign; in fact, as far as he could ascertain, there was no other vessel at sea, and a great peace had replaced the flaming crescendo which had nearly engulfed them. Far across the dim horizon the sky broke, and displayed the silver fangs of the dawn, which were reflected and magnified by the twin sheets of white foam cascading from each side of the sharp bow, as it lifted and pointed towards home. Beneath his feet he felt the thud of hammers as the Coxswain's party shored up the splintered planks, and sorted out the usable gear from the debris and confusion. The sounds of their activity, and the smell of cocoa from the galley steadied his nerves, and he felt himself stretching, and exercising his taut muscles for the first time. Wearily he raised his glasses, and as he swept the bleak area on the port side he tensed as into the lenses flitted a small, white feather, surmounted by a fast-moving hull, and even as he watched, the shape shortened, turning towards him, moving fast.

Already his hand groped for the button which caused the alarm's clamour to call its urgent message throughout the boat, and brought the men running once again to their stations, except that this time there were only the two Oerlikons, with little ammunition, the huge torpedoes that lay in their tubes like useless passengers, and of course, they were quite alone.

“It's one of the gunboats, sir!” Collins's keen eyes had recognized the speeding shape, even at that considerable distance.

And a gunboat it was, flashing a challenge, which Collins promptly answered. She tore down in a wide arc to run parallel with them, but fifty yards away.

“Reduce speed, and keep station on me,” boomed the loud-hailer, and Royce caught a glimpse in the grey light of the Senior Officer of their escort surveying their damage through his glasses.

As Royce made no comment—his own loud-hailer was in several pieces—the sharp voice crackled again: “The rest of your flotilla are coming up astern. You are the last one to be accounted for.”

Royce waved heavily, and ordered the Coxswain to reduce speed. The Senior Officer had set him wondering. “The last one to be accounted for.” What did that mean? That all but Paskins's boat were safe? But what of the casualties? At that thought, a fresh pang of grief shot through him, as he saw starkly in his mind's eye Harston groping weakly across the deck where he himself now stood, and he remembered anew his helplessness as he felt the last spark of life die, the vital, ever-boyish spirit vanish in a split second.

It was all so unreal, so nightmarish, that he shook himself violently, without realizing that this nightmare would live with him forever.

He suddenly observed that all the terrible scars of battle were now visible on the gallant little ship's upper deck, and the horizon had taken on a hard, grey line, as a new day broke, slowly at first, as if reluctant to display the night's tragedy, then with the full, bright glare of a watery sun, it was upon them. And with it came the little band of brothers, limping painfully out of the early morning mist, one behind the other, closely bunched, seeking comfort and protection in what, at any other time, would be a dangerous formation.

Emberson's boat led, and as she drew near, an intricate pattern of holes could be seen down the side, and the barrel of one Oerlikon was missing. From the bridge, a bright yellow scarf waved like a defiant banner. Next, Benjy Watson's 2007 came into view, towing another boat stern first, and making very heavy going of it, as the reluctant charge, which was Jock Murray's 3007, yawed awkwardly from side to side. Watson stood high on the bridge screen, watching the tow-rope with red-rimmed eyes, and constantly barking changes of speed to his Number One, who sat on the chart table, having his hand bandaged. Murray's boat was a mess, blackened by fire, riddled with shot. She was down by the head, the pumps clanking monotonously to stop the sea which poured hungrily through the torn planks. The Captain slumped moodily by the compass, breathing heavily, and cursing the slow passage. Half his crew lay dead below, and his Number One had been blinded.

Still the procession came on M.T.B. 1815, commanded by Lieutenant Deith, the suave, dark ex-car-salesman from Kensington, was steering a very erratic course; her rudder gone, she was using just the engines. She too, had plenty of debris, human and otherwise, to show as evidence of defeat.

Lieutenant Cameron's 2015, the flotilla's newest addition, was least damaged—except for a torn upper deck—and hovered in the rear, keeping a watchful eye on her companions.

And that was all; two boats missing: Paskins's and 1917, Lieutenant Ronnie Patterson, the youngest of the captains.

By this time, Emberson had drawn close alongside and was waving happily with a megaphone.

“Get John up here, will you!” he yelled. “I knew you'd turn up all right.”

Royce swallowed hard and gripped the rail with desperation. “I can't,” he faltered. “He was killed last night.”

He wanted to say so much, but what was there to add to this bald statement, that now sounded so cold and indifferent?

Emberson's smile of welcome vanished, and he seemed turned to stone.

“I see.” He nodded slowly. “I see.” And he added something which sounded to Royce like, “my friend.”

He pulled off his cap, and lowered his head, his hair ruffling in the cold breeze. He stood like that for some seconds, but it seemed a frozen eternity. Then with a brisk jerk he replaced his cap, and squared his shoulders.

“You and I'll have a talk later,” he called. “I'm glad you're safe.”

With a roar of engines he swerved away to lead the line again.

Royce never forgot the voyage back, every little detail and each crisis forcing him to strain himself to the utmost of his ability, and by the time they were challenged by the destroyer patrol sent out to guide them to safety, he was near mental and physical collapse.

In silence they landed their dead at the railway jetty and handed over the boats to the waiting dockyard men. Then, bundled together in a harbour lighter, they made their way back to the
Royston,
unaware of the curious and anxious faces that lined the rails, feeling nothing but a deep despair of pain and defeat.

T
HE HARD
,
BRIGHT GLARE
of a spring morning sent a powerful shaft of light sweeping across Royce's tiny cabin as the steward deftly unscrewed the deadlight, and laid down a large cup of tea at the side of the bunk. The bunched figure wrapped in the blankets lay quite still, like the others that the steward had been busily tending, and even the scattered array of salt-stained clothing, sea boots, and other gear bore a marked similarity. Gently but firmly, in a manner born of long practice, he found a shoulder, and shook it. The figure groaned, and stirred slightly.

“Morning, sir, pusser's tea for one!” he chirped brightly, and then stood back to await results. Like the rest of
Royston
's ship's company, he knew quite well about the last battle of the M.T.B. flotilla, and of the losses sustained. He knew, too, that this young officer had refused help and rest after his ordeal, until he had made sure that his crew were safe in their hammocks. And even then, he had forced himself to write letters to the relatives of the dead, and telephone the hospital to inquire of the wounded. As he had handed in his report to the Operations Officer, he had been told that fourteen days' leave would be granted to all the boats' crews, as from the following morning. This morning.

Royce blinked, and heaved himself on to one elbow. Dazzled by the bright sunlight, he squinted at the steward.

“Thanks. What's the time?” His voice sounded thick.

Swiftly the steward moved into the attack. “Now don't you worry about a thing, sir,” he said quickly. “It's eight o'clock now, and it's a lovely morning to be starting your leave. I've pressed your best uniform, and Stripey Muddock has done four shirts real smashing for you. Oh, and I've looked up the trains to London just as you asked. Breakfast is Spam, but Cookie has doctored some powdered eggs, special. I'll bring it in to you.”

Royce didn't remember asking about trains, and suspected he was being pampered, but the door closed before he could muster a comment, so he rolled off the bunk, and sipped the sweet tea.

Later, as he munched his breakfast, he thought about leave, and wondered if his parents would see any difference in him, or whether his mother would persist in treating him like a schoolboy. The thought of the Surrey woods, now green and fresh, the feel of springy turf under his feet, and the excited barks of old Bruce as he lumbered about in the bushes, sent a queer thrill through him, and a warm excitement made him determined to close his mind tightly on the previous 48 hours.

As he dressed slowly and carefully, his ear picked out the usual shipboard noises which he had come to know so well. The measured tread of the Quartermaster above his head, the clanking of a winch, the appealing mew of the gulls, and the twitter of the pipes throughout the ship, as the hands were invited to muster on the fo'c'sle to perform a task.

In bustled the little steward, and surveyed his charge carefully, then nodded. “Very smart, if I may say so, sir, and just in time for the nine-ten to London. Gets in at about eleven thirty, and there are plenty of trains out from Waterloo for your manor.”

Royce thanked him, and picked up his case and respirator.

“Tell the Quartermaster to hold the post-boat. I've just got to call in to the wardroom.”

The handshakes were firm, and the good wishes genuine, as he parted from his friends, all of whom were looking forward to their leave, as a starving man sees his first meal. Emberson followed him on deck, and together they looked down into the duty boat, hooked on at the main gangway, the Coxswain obviously impatient to be off.

“Well, so long, Clive,” he said quietly. “Have a good leave and forget everything else. I'm following you in about an hour.”

Royce watched the lonely figure at the guard-rails until the motor-boat turned the railway jetty, and the
Royston
was hidden from view.

He made a smart figure in his best doeskin jacket, the gold wavy stripe gleaming on the sleeve, as he strode briskly up the ramp to the station. A naval patrolman hurried from the R.T.O.'s office, and saluted.

“Beg pardon, sir. Sub-Lieutenant Royce is it?”

When the officer nodded, he continued: “Dockyard gate 'ave just 'phoned through to say there's a Wren trying to get through to see you. I don't know no more, the line's gone dead again, but I expect it's some message from the Signal Tower.”

Royce paused, one eye on the clock. “Hm, I guess it'll wait till I get back. I don't want to wait an hour for another train.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I'll tell them you've gone if they get through again.”

Royce settled himself in an empty compartment, and proceeded to fill his pipe with duty-free tobacco. Ten minutes to wait, and then the war and the Navy would be left behind.

His line of thought was interrupted by a screech of brakes in the station forecourt, where he saw a grey dockyard van jerk to a halt, and immediately a small figure in blue jumped out, and hurried up the platform, apparently peering in each window, to the obvious delight of the sailors in some of the compartments.

“Good God,” he thought. “It must be an urgent message after all.”

He went cold at the thought of a possible recall to duty, but in order not to prolong the agony, he thrust his head out of the window.

“Are you looking for me?” he called.

She reached him, and stood looking up, breathing fast. He saw by her badges that she was in the signals branch, but at once his attention was taken by the girl herself. She had quite the most attractive face possible, he thought. The eyes, which were now looking anxiously into his, were of the darkest brown, which contrasted with the smoothest skin Royce had ever seen. From beneath her jaunty cap, dark curls were rebelling against naval uniform, and completed this enchanting picture.

He realized he was staring, and coloured slightly. “I'm Royce,” he explained. “Are you looking for me?”

“Yes, I wanted to ask you about Lieutenant Harston,” she said quickly, her voice soft and warm. “I was hoping you could wait for me.”

Royce tensed, taken aback. “I didn't know he had any friends outside the flotilla here.” He felt vaguely angry. “I expect the
Royston
can tell you the full details.”

The rather sad little face tightened. “I'm Julia Harston, his sister,” she said quietly.

Royce was completely shattered. This unexpected turn of events made his mind whirl, and he struggled to put right the damage his hasty words had done.

“I-I'm terribly sorry, I didn't understand,” he stammered. “You see I thought . . . I thought Harston had no relatives . . .” He coloured when he realized he had referred to her brother by his surname. “I thought a great deal of him, he taught me everything about this job, and when you came up to ask about him, well, I just felt I didn't want to share . . .” He broke off helplessly.

She studied his face for a few seconds, and when she spoke it was with slow deliberation, as if she wanted him to feel the impact of every word.

“We have no parents. They were killed in an air-raid on London last year.” She paused, and for a split second her lower lip trembled. “Now I'm the only one left.”

Somewhere down the platform, a hundred miles away, a voice shouted: “Hurry along there! Close all doors!” And a warning whistle sounded.

Royce was torn by violent and previously unknown emotions. She stood there alone and small on the now empty platform, and he felt he wanted to jump down and hold her close to him, to comfort her, and to protect her.

The words came tumbling out of him. “Look, can I see you again? I'll be back soon; I can come back earlier.”

“I shouldn't think so. I'm going on draft tomorrow,” she answered simply.

A shrill whistle called urgently, and the engine gave a violent hiss of steam, and the train shuddered.

“Please, I must see you,” implored Royce, leaning right out of the window, until her face was but a foot away. “Where will you be going?”

The train jolted, and began to trundle out of the station.

Her small chin jutted defiantly. “I expect the Powers That Be can tell you the full details!”

With that she turned and walked quickly down the platform, and as the train gathered speed Royce still hung precariously from the window and watched the tiny blue figure until smoke from the ancient engine blotted out the station, and the scenery became squalid rows of small houses on the outskirts of the port.

He sank down on the worn cushions, a feeling of helplessness overcame him, and he knew for the first time the ache in his heart. All the way to town he sat restlessly staring out of the window, picking out the old landmarks, and trying to free his mind of the large brown eyes of Julia Harston. Julia: he repeated her name over and over in his mind, until it kept time with the clickerty-click of the wheels. If only he hadn't sent the telegram to his mother saying what time he'd be arriving, he could have stopped just a little longer. When the train pulled up with a last protesting lurch, he had determined to find her, wherever she was, whatever she thought of him.

He only vaguely remembered Waterloo as he struggled across its busy concourse, the blaring loudspeakers, and hundreds of hurrying servicemen. The joyous reunions, and the brave and tearful farewells, that were commonplace in a Britain at war.

An hour later he stepped down from another slow train on to the little station on the edge of Oxshott woods that he knew so well, and, as if in welcome, the daffodils in the station-master's garden made a colourful fanfare. The next instant, his mother's arms were about his neck, and his father pumped his hand, while Bruce, older and fatter, but just as boisterous, lolloped about his legs. In the background, old Arthur the porter, who had been there for a lifetime, nodded and smiled.

“You're looking well, Clive,” said his father gruffly, and his mother merely nodded, her eyes shining.

And so, in a specially hired taxi—they had never gone in for a car—arms linked and Bruce perched on a suitcase beside the driver, Clive Royce came home. Not the callow youth in the proud uniform who had set out less than a year ago, full of worried anticipation and eager hopes, but a quieter and older person, self-confident, an officer.

The first week of his leave was made up in dashing round visiting old family friends, as much to please his parents as anything else. In the evenings, he walked contentedly through the woods, smoking his pipe, and throwing sticks for the dog, but always at the back of his mind lurked the fears of the previous week, and once in the night he sat up in bed sweating, hearing again the rattle of the machine-guns and the awful cries of the dying. When he thought of Harston, he thought of Julia, and when he thought of her, he was always filled with the same desperate longing. He had to find her, to see her again.

The second week dwindled all too quickly, and as the days passed, his mother seemed to shrink, and become more and more attentive, and although he had never told her of the horrors of battle, she was quick to understand what had changed her son.

On the last Thursday they sat round the fire in the evening, after a late dinner, Royce feeling sure he had been forced to eat half of their rations, and talked of the future, after the war, when his father glanced at his watch, and reached for the radio.

“Won't do to miss the news, will it, dear?” he smiled. “Clive'll feel he's getting out of touch.”

It was all the usual information, an advance here, a retreat there, air-raids in the Midlands, air-raids on Germany. And then at the end: “During the night, our light coastal forces have been active off the Hook of Holland, and actively engaged a number of enemy E-boats. One E-boat was sunk, and several damaged. Two of our vessels sustained some damage and casualties. Next of kin have been informed.”

His mother switched it off, and said too cheerfully, her face averted, “What about the last of the sherry. I'll go and get it for you lazy old things.” And she hurried out to the kitchen.

The two men faced each other, then his father patted his knee. “You mustn't mind Mother, you know how she worries,” was all he said.

But the next day on that same platform, he thought of those words, as they stood in silence until the train was actually running into the station, then the good-byes were hurried, the hugs so brief, and as he was borne rapidly away from the sun-drenched little station, the picture of the two seemingly frail figures, and the rough worried-looking dog, were imprinted firmly on his mind.

After many wearisome hours of travel, consisting mainly, he thought, of changing trains every few minutes, and trying not to leave his respirator on the rack, he observed the now familiar landmarks of the low-lying Essex coast, and soon the deserted marsh flats, and the rich, fresh fields began to give way to scattered houses and cottages, and eventually the train ground to a stop in the bustling harbour station.

As he strode to the barrier, he picked out several faces from the flotilla, who either saluted or smiled, according to their rank or disposition. Petty Officer Moore, spruce and dapper in immaculate uniform and gold badges, so unlike his usual greasy overalls and woollen cap, was apparently loaded down with mysterious parcels from doting relatives— he came from a vast family—and seeing Royce, he nodded awkwardly, and fell in step beside him.