A Prayer for the Ship (7 page)

“Afternoon, sir,” he greeted affably, “I 'ope you 'ad a good leave?”

Without waiting for an answer, he plunged into the full story of his own achievements, which appeared to consist of mainly visiting as many pubs as possible, with his family, all of whom were employed at the docks, and as he put it, “the bleedin' cash was flying about like peas on a pusser's blanket!”

As they strolled along the railway jetty, they saw the boats lying once more alongside the Depot Ship. In two weeks the dockyard had done marvels. Planking patched and replaced, all the hulls repainted a very dark grey, which improved their rakish lines, and even now, their decks swarmed with overalled figures as the maintenance staff completed the work of restoring and putting final touches to their craft.

In the
Royston
's wardroom, the bar was just opening as Royce hurried in, and soon he was firmly embedded in a tight circle of old friends, and eagerly they exchanged gossip, and pumped the other officers for the latest news of operations.

A small, wizened R.N.R. Lieutenant, bearing the purple stripe of an Engineer, and known to all affectionately as “Fixer” Martin, because of his magical powers with the M.T.B.s' engines, looked sadly at his empty glass, and shook his head.

“I'm afraid you poor boys have a shock in store.” He sighed deeply, and continued: “Have any of you fly-by-nights heard of a Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby, Royal Navy?”

He made “Royal Navy” sound like an illuminated address.

“Good Lord, yes,” answered Benjy Watson, who looked rather haggard after a violent leave spent chiefly in the West End of London. “He's the Captain of the old destroyer
Wycliffe,
a bit of a bastard to all accounts. Why?”

Martin smiled crookedly. “
Was
the Captain of
Wycliffe.
” He paused. “You will be delighted to learn that this straight-laced, regimental, self-opinionated lump of peacetime navy is now Senior Officer of the flotilla!”

He was not disappointed by the gasps of amazement.

“And as our plump friend here says, he is one big bastard!”

“But look here, old man,” drawled Emberson, “we've always had an R.N.V.R. chappie, that was the whole point. I mean, with all due respect to our regular brothers, we don't want a fellow who's thinking of his career all the time. Dash it all, Fixer, you must be mistaken.”

Deith, the quietest of the flotilla's commanders, pondered thoughtfully, and signalled the steward to fill Fixer's glass. As he wrote out a chit for another round of gins, he smiled. “Well, thank you so much for cheering us all up, you old pirate. He may not be as bad as all that—why, he might even get to like us.”

Martin laughed outright. “I heard him talking to the Operations Officer, by accident of course, and he said, quote: ‘Coastal Forces are an important arm to the Service.' Wait,” he warned, as a cheer was raised. “He then said, quote: ‘It's too important to be run by a lot of irresponsible yachtsmen and week-end sailors.' Unquote! What! no more cheers?”

“Hm, and I see that there's a conference in the forenoon at two bells tomorrow. I imagine that's so we can get acquainted,” said Emberson, rubbing his chin. “Steward! Same again, and we'll drink to a short war!”

A blue, choking haze of tobacco smoke swirled and eddied around the operations room, as the flotilla officers made themselves comfortable for the conference, and as Royce glanced about him he saw everywhere the visible signs that the fortnight's leave had performed wonders, and a new life had been pumped into the fresh, eager faces. He felt a quick pang inside when he remembered that no longer would he sit with his ear cocked for Harston's quick and witty observations, and the careful and patient explanations of these conferences, and he wondered sadly what his new C.O. would be like. It was strange that he had not yet met the replacement, as he had already seen several new faces who had taken the places of the wounded and the dead. Except for his own boat, the flotilla was again up to full strength, with two new Vosper boats in the place of those which had become tombs for their crews. Even Jock Murray's 3007 was back, complete with a new bow, and as the slow-speaking Scot had said, “It was the neatest bit of plastic surgery you could wish for!”

A hush fell, as two figures strode on to the raised platform.

“All right, gentlemen,” said Commander Wright cheerfully, “carry on smoking, and I'll bring you up to date.”

But all attention was rivetted on the other officer who sat down briskly behind his superior. Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby was all that you would expect a regular naval man to look. His uniform neat, a gleaming white shirt, its starched cuffs protruding sharply from beneath the sleeves bearing the two-and-a-half gold symbols of authority. He was so true to pattern that it was difficult to determine the man himself. He was rather short and stocky, with a pink, round face. His hair, which was cut short to regulation length, was brushed straight back, but it had no definite colour, and even his features were very ordinary. But the eyes, they were a different matter—Like two pieces of pale blue glass—and as he sat erect and self-contained, with his small hands folded in his lap, he looked for all the world like a smug Siamese cat, or so Royce thought.

He was not alone in this somewhat discouraging opinion. Benjy leaned over his shoulder, his warm breath smelling faintly of gin.

“Don't you feel sorry for the feller? The Pekinese in the pigsty!”

He shut up quickly, as the cold eyes flickered in his direction for the briefest instant.

Commander Wright rambled on, apparently unaware that anything was amiss, and Royce realized that the speech of introduction was coming to a close.

“And now, gentlemen, I'll leave you to your new S.N.O., who will tell you about the next operational patrol.”

With that, he withdrew, a trifle too hastily.

Kirby rose slowly, and walked to the middle of the platform—exactly the middle—and stood with his hands behind his back, like the guest conductor at a promenade concert. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and clear, but unexpectedly high, and he got straight down to business.

“In a few moments we'll go over the plan of action for tomorrow night, but first I want to bring a few points, merely matters of personal discipline, to your notice.”

He paused, and a twinge of uneasiness ran through his audience.

“Firstly, some of you appear to imagine that uniform is unnecessary in Coastal Forces. Those of you who feel this way will most certainly be crossing swords with me in the near future. From now on, aboard the Depot Ship, and at any time in harbour, number fives will be worn, without the trimmings. No fancy scarves, or funny hats, and not battle dress. If you are personally neat and smart, you will set a good example to your men.”

Emberson stood up quickly, his face half amused and half angry.

“But, sir, you can't treat the men here as if it was barrack routine,” he drawled. “Why, it can be dangerous in this job, and a little laxity in some ways helps a lot.”

For the first time a gust of laughter ran round the officers. Kirby was unmoved and quite expressionless.

“My orders stand,” he snapped, “and I'll trouble you to keep your personal opinions to yourself.”

Emberson cursed under his breath, and sank down to his seat.

“That scuttled you,” grinned Benjy. “First round to the Little Admiral!”

Kirby then proceeded to list the orders and regulations which would in future be enforced in every boat of the flotilla, which seemed to cover every eventuality from the colour schemes of the hulls, to the lengths of beards worn by the crews.

He finished up his offensive in the same unemotional, crisp tones, pausing only to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve.

“Remember,” he ended, “you have not been outstanding in the past. I intend to see that this is the best flotilla on the East Coast, and if you all co-operate, my task will be easier. If not,” he shrugged, “some of you will have to be transferred.”

Royce only vaguely heard the details of the patrol for the following night. His head was whirling with indignation; he felt hurt, not for himself, but for his friends, who now sat silently listening, while the clear, flat voice continued to rattle off the facts and figures, as if they were a crowd of backward schoolboys.

“One final point. I shall be taking over 1991, with Royce as my Number One, so all my personal orders will be passed through him. That is all, gentlemen, I trust you will see to your duties.”

They rose and moved for the door, but the voice had not quite finished.

“Sub-Lieutenant Royce report to me.”

Royce was left in the empty room facing his superior, and a feeling of resentment filled him, but he took the proffered hand, which was cold and soft.

“Well, Number One,” said Kirby cheerfully. “Took it well, didn't they?”

“They're wonderful chaps, sir,” mumbled Royce hotly. “They've been through hell, and I wouldn't wish to be with a finer lot.”

Kirby's face hardened.

“Let's hope you don't have to. In the meantime, I want a list of all defects from the Engineer over the last six months, and the results of all practice gunnery shoots over the same period. On my desk tomorrow morning.”

He turned on his heel and strode off. Royce felt as if the whole private, happy atmosphere of his little kingdom had been suddenly shattered by this interloper. When he reached the wardroom he found that the others were of the same opinion.

“Strewth!” roared Benjy. “If I tell my boys to put number threes on, there'll be a ruddy riot!”

Emberson smiled quietly. “Not to worry. I think I can say without offending any greybeards present, that I am now the oldest inhabitant here, and I can further pronounce that within a few months this chap will be as good as gold. After all, be patient—he
is
R.N.!”

“Oh yes,” nodded Murray from the corner of the bar, “I've heard of them. They look after the Navy in peacetime!”

A howl of laughter went up, and the ice was broken.

The following afternoon, however, Royce stood uneasily on the bridge of the M.T.B. awaiting his new Commander, and having slaved for 24 hours to get the boat ready, he was in no mood for laughing. The boat gleamed from stem to stern, the smell of new paint pervaded everywhere, and all visible signs of the last action had been wiped away, like an unpleasant drawing from a blackboard. When he had first mounted the bridge, he had not been thinking about Kirby and his regulations, but wondering how he would react to going into action again, and whether his nerve might have gone, like so many who had been labelled “bomb-happy.” In the warm sunshine the bridge looked quiet and peaceful, and the fresh steel plates gleamed dully in their grey paint, while the brass of the binnacle and voice-pipes shone cheerfully in welcome. It was difficult to imagine this place as the roaring, shell-torn hell that it had been just a couple of weeks ago. He had checked the charts, the stores, and ammunition. The guns had been tested and the torpedoes stripped and prepared, until he was quite satisfied. He had even done the returns that Kirby had wanted for some purpose or other, and he was feeling the strain now of waiting to see his superior's reactions to his efforts. He had not long to wait. Kirby, in a spotless new duffle coat and white scarf, swung over the side and marched up to him, and even as he returned his salute, his eyes darted everywhere, taking in every small detail.

“Quite good, Number One,” he conceded at length. “We proceed to sea at 1630 as ordered. Make a signal to that effect. Although it's a more or less routine patrol off the Dutch coast, we might be lucky, and in any case it'll get the cobwebs blown away.”

The Coxswain mounted the bridge to report all hands aboard for sea, and Royce was pleased to see that he had made a special effort to smarten his appearance. His cap, usually worn after the style of Admiral Beatty, perched carefully on the unruly, carroty hair, and his sweater was almost white.

“I understand that you, at least, are a regular?” questioned Kirby. “That is a good thing indeed.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the Coxswain, cautiously, “and I bin in this boat for two years, since she was built.”

“I see.”

And as Raikes turned to leave, “See that I'm piped aboard on every occasion in future, and I don't want to see the men lounging on the guard-rails. Keep them busy. A busy ship is an efficient one. I shall be watching you, Cox'n.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Raikes, in apparent amazement.

Good, thought Royce, even the R.N. aren't used to this sort of thing.

In due course the time of departure drew near, and with special care Royce watched as the hands singled up the wire springs, ready to slip. Around him the other boats were busy, and Royce felt a glow of affection as he watched the familiar figures scurrying to and fro. On the bridge, Kirby stepped from one side to the other, swinging up his glasses and examining his flotilla from every angle.

Collins, the signalman, lowered his glass. “Signal from tower, sir:
Preparative, five minutes.
”