Atlantic Fury (9 page)

‘Sea and mountains and rock,' I said; ‘that's what I like to paint.'

‘Good. A sketch or two of the evacuation – a painting perhaps; the DRA would like that, particularly if there are some birds in it.' I pointed out that the birds wouldn't be back for another three months. ‘Well, there's such a thing as artists' licence. The General likes birds.' He hesitated. Finally he nodded. ‘All right. Have a word with Ferguson. He'll fix it with the Movements Officer and arrange with one of the landing craft skippers to take you out. You'll have about two days there, maybe three.'

‘It'll be something just to see the island,' I said.

‘So long as you don't get in Captain Pinney's way. They're under considerable pressure. Where are you staying?' And when I told him I was camping at Rodil, he said, ‘We can do better than that. I'll tell Ferguson to allocate you a room from the night. We've always plenty of space in the winter months.'

I thanked him and followed Cliff Morgan out of the stuffy little office into the cold, driving rain. I was feeling in a daze. First Iain, and now Laerg … Laerg within reach at last. ‘I didn't think it would be as easy as that,' I murmured.

‘Well, they're not worried about security, you see. The place is a write-off and that makes it easier than when they were lobbing missiles into the water beside it. But you wouldn't have got there if you hadn't been an artist.' And he added, ‘You never know where you are with Standing. And now that Braddock's here …'

He left it at that. ‘What about Braddock?' I asked.

‘Oh, he's all right, whatever anybody else may say. By God he's woken this place up since he arrived. Yes indeed, and he'll have a drink with you, which is more than Standing will.'

The bar was deserted when we reached the Mess. But as we stood there drinking our gin-and-tonic, the officers drifted in one by one. Major Rafferty, the Quartermaster, a big beefy man with a florid face and a Scots accent; the Movements Officer, Fred Flint – short and round with a button nose and the face of a pug, all bulging eyes and a way of dropping his aitches and watching with a glint of humour to see if it startled you; the Doc, also a captain, but younger, with the air of a man nothing can surprise any more; several lieutenants, much younger still; and finally Field – Lieutenant Field who was old enough to be their father. He had a strange hatchet face, grey hair and a mouth that drooped at the corners. His eyes were deep-socketed, tired – blue eyes that had a nervous blink and didn't look straight at you, but beyond, as though searching for some lost horizon. ‘… our Education Officer,' the ebullient Captain Flint added as he introduced us. ‘Now what y'aving, Professor?'

‘Oh, that's very thoughtful of you, Flinty. Let me see now. The usual, I think – a gin-and-tonic without the gin.' He smiled and the smile lit up his whole face so that it suddenly had a quality of great warmth. It was a striking face; moreover, it was a face that seemed vaguely familiar. But not in battledress; in some other rig. ‘I take it the LCTs are all at sea since Movements can take time off for a lunchtime drink.'

‘All at sea is just about right, Professor. Stratton's missed his tide and dropped his hook under the lee outside Loch Carnan. It'll be five hours at least before he can get her into the beaching position in the Ford, another three before the boys can start off-loading. Major B will like that – I don't think.'

‘Braddock won't know anything about it. He's flown to Laerg.'

‘Oh yes he will. I just met the Colonel. He's cancelled the flight. And he's turned Four-four-Double-o round fully loaded and sent her steaming back to Laerg to pick up a casualty. Proper box-up if you ask me.'

‘Well, why not switch Stratton's ship to Leverburgh?' Major Rafferty suggested. ‘Damn it, man, with Kelvedon turned back, the quay will be empty.'

‘Tim, my boy, you're a genius. I never thought of that.' The quick grin faded. ‘I did mention it, but Stratton told me to go to hell. His men needed sleep, and so does he. If Major B wants Eight-six-one-o at Leverburgh, then he'll have to give the order himself. I bet he gets the same answer, too. Those boys are just about out on their feet, and Stratton's his own master. He's not at the beck and call of anybody here – the Colonel or anybody else. I only hope,' he added, ‘that Kelvedon gets there in time.' He looked down at his glass and then at Field. ‘Did you know this bloke McGregor?' And when the other nodded, he said, ‘Poor beggar. First blood to the new drive.' His voice sounded angry. ‘And if you ask me it won't be the last. When they're tired they get careless. I told Command it needed more time when they were planning this flipping operation. But they wouldn't listen. I'm only the bloke that loads the ships. I wouldn't know.' Ferguson came in then, the freckles on his face showing up like spots in the electric light, a strained look about the eyes. ‘You look shagged, my boy. I prescribe a night out with the fattest trollop you can find between the Butt of Lewis and Barra Head.'

‘Aye, that'd do me fine.'

‘What's the matter? Caught between the upper and the nether millstone again?'

‘If by that you mean what I think you mean, then the answer is Yes and it'll cost you a Scotch for stating the obvious. The Colonel ordered Major B to turn back.'

‘We know that. And he's bust the schedule wide open by converting Four-four-Double-o into a hospital ship.'

‘This is going to put everyone in a good temper for the rest of the day.' Major Rafferty downed his drink and set his tankard on the bar top. ‘That poor laddie, Doc – how is he?'

‘He's still alive.' The M.O. ordered another Scotch.

‘What are his chances?'

The dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Now? Nil, I should say. If they'd got him out by air …' He shrugged. ‘But I told the Colonel that. So did Bob Fairweather. McGregor had the whole of that crushing weight on top of him for almost an hour before they were able to release him.'

There was a hushed silence. ‘Oh, well,' Flint said, ‘let's have some lunch.' He stubbed out his cigarette and hitched up his trousers. ‘And after lunch,' he added, ‘I'm going to have a ziz. Four o'clock this morning, two the night before and stone the bloody crows it looks like four again tomorrow morning.' He glanced at me, his eyes popping with that irrepressible glint of Cockney humour. ‘Four o'clock suit you – Captain Stratton driving and an iron bathtub slamming into a head sea fit to knock your block off?'

‘For Laerg?' I asked.

‘That's right – where the Jumblies live. The Colonel mentioned it to me just now. I'll fix it with Stratton; he'll give you the ride of your life … that is if our weather genius 'ere doesn't frighten him so as he loses his nerve.'

‘Water Transport take the shipping forecasts,' Cliff said. ‘They don't trust me.'

‘It isn't that, Cliff. It's just that Stratton believes in continuity – likes his forecasts all the time from the same source. But shipping forecasts – hell! What I've seen of the shipping forecasts up here, they only tell you what you've got sitting on top of you, never what you're going to get – which for my money is the only thing worth a damn.' He turned to me. ‘What's your view? I gather you've put in a good deal of sea time?'

It was said of politeness to include me in the conversation, and as I stood there, sipping my drink and listening to their talk, I was conscious that this was a tight-knit, closed little world, a community not unlike a ship's company. They accepted me, as they accepted Cliff Morgan – not as one of themselves, but as an interesting specimen of the outside world, to be tolerated and treated kindly. I was even more conscious of this at lunch, which was a good meal pleasantly served by a bright little Hebridean waitress. The atmosphere was a strange mixture of democracy and paternal difference; and the youngsters calling me ‘sir' to remind me how the years had flown. ‘What do you think of modern art, sir?' Picasso, Moore, Annigoni – a reproduction of Annigoni's picture of the Queen hung on the Mess wall; they knew the most publicised names and seemed eager for artistic information, so that for the moment they gave me the illusion of being a visiting genius, and I hoped to God I didn't sound pompous as I tried to answer their queries.

And then Braddock came in and the table fell suddenly silent. He sat down without a word to anyone, and I could see by the way his head was tucked down into his shoulders that he was in a blazing temper.

‘Too bad you didn't make it,' Major Rafferty murmured.

The black brows came down in a frown. ‘Too bad, you say?' His tone was clipped and angry. ‘If Adams had had any sense he'd have unplugged his radio. We'd have made it all right.'

‘Have you seen the Colonel?'

‘He'd gone up to his house by the time we landed. Anyway, no point. He'd made his decision.' He started in on his soup. But after a moment he glanced at the Movements Officer. ‘Flint. What's the ETA for that landing craft?'

‘At Laerg? Eight-thirty-nine o'clock. Maybe later. She's bucking a head sea. And that's presuming they don't have any more trouble with that oil pump.'

‘Which means embarking a stretcher case from a dory in the dark.'

‘Unless Kelvedon beaches her. The wind's westerly. Shelter Bay shouldn't be too—'

‘He's not to beach her – do you understand? Stratton might do it. He's an old hand up here, but Kelvedon's new and if he gets his craft …' He gave a quick shrug. ‘I'll have a word with him.' His eyes, shifting along the table, met mine for a moment. There was a hardness, an urgency about him. Maybe it was telepathy – I had always been able to sense his mood; I had the feeling that there was something he desperately wanted, something quite unconnected with the injured man. I was remembering the scene in the Met. Office, his determination to make that flight. And then from the files of my memory a sentence sprang:
It's the breath of life to you, isn't it, Donald? But I tell ye, man, it's death to me. That I know – deep down. Death, do ye hear, and I'll not be going there for you or anybody else
. So long ago now, but I could hear his voice still. He'd been talking of Laerg – just after that trawler had brought me back. Had he forgotten? For some reason I'd never been able to fathom, he'd been afraid of the place, as though it bore him some personal animosity; and yet at the same time he'd been fascinated – a fascination that was born of his instinctive, almost primitive fear of it. And now he was desperate to get there, had had himself posted up here to the Hebrides for that purpose; why?

The table had fallen silent, an awkward stillness. One by one the officers rose, put their napkins in the pigeon-holes on the side-table and went out into the lounge for coffee. I rose with Cliff Morgan, conscious that Braddock was watching me. ‘Mr Ross.' Strange that he could call me that. His dark eyes held no glimmer of a smile, his voice no trace of the old Highland accent. ‘We'll have our talk – later.'

I nodded and went out. Surely to God I couldn't be mistaken. Field handed me my coffee. ‘Sugar?' I shook my head. The radio was playing softly – some jazzed-up singer mouthing of love. ‘You met my daughter, Marjorie, I think.' I nodded, my mind still on Braddock. ‘I thought perhaps you'd care to drop in this evening. We're not far, just beyond the church at Rodil; one of the old black houses. As a painter it might interest you. About nine o'clock. Would that suit you?'

It was kind of him, almost as though he'd known what it was like to lie alone in a small tent on the shores of a loch with a gale tearing at the nylon canopy. I felt I was very near to remembering that face then, but still the connection evaded me. In a newspaper, or a magazine, perhaps. I thanked him and added, ‘But I believe I'm staying the night in the quarters here.'

He turned to Ferguson. ‘Will you be along tonight, Mike? Marjorie's expecting you.'

‘Yes, of course – my lords and masters permitting.'

‘Then bring Mr Ross with you.'

It wasn't the sort of face you could forget, just like an axehead, keen and sharp in the features and broadening out to the head. I was still thinking about this when Cliff Morgan said he was going over to his quarters and suggested I might like to see his radio equipment.

Outside, the rain had stopped and the overcast had lifted. ‘That's the warm front – it's passed over us, you see.' The wind was still as strong, west now and colder. ‘Whatever Braddock says, Colonel Standing was right to recall Adams. This is no weather for a helicopter landing on Laerg.' The quarters were only a step from the Mess. He led me down a long passage and stopped at Room Number 23. As he unlocked the door, he said, ‘I don't sleep here, except when I'm calling Canada or some place that means staying up half the night. I've billeted myself out with a widow and her daughter in one of the crofts in Northton. Very irregular, but I like my comfort, you see.' He smiled and pushed open the door. There was a bed thrust close against one wall, a bureau and wardrobe huddled in a corner; all the rest of the room was taken up with his equipment. ‘Since I published that book I've been able to buy all the things I couldn't afford before. It's been produced in the States and translated into German, Italian and Swedish. Now I have everything I need; very complete it is now.' He switched on, seated himself at the keyboard with his earphones. ‘It's the weather I'm interested in. But you know that, of course. Now I want to find one or two ships who can tell me what it's like out to the west and north of here.' His hands, delicate as a pianist's, were fingering the dials, deftly tuning. The tall cabinet full of valves began to hum gently. And then his right hand thumbed the key and the soft buzz of his call sign sounded in the room. He was lost to me now, silent in a world of his own.