For Valour (21 page)

Just this once, they could all wait.

He said, “She's in a darkened room, with her eyes covered. The blast was severe, although of course she won't remember it.” Then, abruptly, “Can't allow you very long with her. She's sedated. No more shocks at this stage, right?”

They eyed each other, the same rank, and so utterly different.

The room was small, square, and soulless.

A nurse was sitting beside the bed, reading a book with the aid of a very dim lamp.

The surgeon said sharply, “That won't do your vision any good.”

She closed the book, stood up, and left the room without a word. Martineau guessed it was some kind of signal.

Anna lay on her back, her hair tied with a piece of bandage, her eyes covered with a sort of mask. A sheet was pulled up to her chin, and her shoulders were bare . . . like the photograph.

The surgeon said, “A visitor, Anna.”

Martineau saw her head turn very slightly, one hand lifting towards him as she said, “Graham? It's you . . . You came.”

The surgeon took her other hand and felt the pulse.

“No excitement. That's an order.” He glanced at Martineau. “Ring the bell if you need me.”

Martineau sat on the nurse's chair and took her hand.

“Yes. It's me. I came as soon as I heard.” As she moved again he saw the bruising on her body. “It's going to be all right.” He turned over the gashed hand in his. A near thing.

“I didn't want you to see me like this.” She touched the mask, but let her hand fall again. “I saw the flash. White . . . a white flash. I always thought they were scarlet or orange . . . like fireworks.”

He saw a pulse jerk in her throat.

“My friend Caryl stayed with me all the time. Otherwise . . .” He saw that she was growing weaker, but when he gently withdrew his hand she clung to it with unexpected strength.

“No, don't go! You came. You knew.” She reached up and felt his jacket, the lapel, until she had found the medal ribbon. “You came. I can smell the ship. The sea. Straight from the ship.”

He said, “You'll be getting some leave.” He felt the fingers curling in his grasp, as if afraid of something. “It's the navy's way. You could go to Hampshire. My mother would love to take care of you. I'll call her.” He closed both his hands around hers. “Please say you will. I might even be able to get down there myself for a day or two. It would do you good.”

The door opened soundlessly and the nurse was back.

“Time, sir.” She observed him without curiosity; she had seen it all.

“Thank you.” Then he bent and kissed the girl's cheek. She did not move or speak, probably gone into another deep sleep.

Outside he found the surgeon commander.

“Thanks. That was good of you.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd ring first next time. We might have to move her.”

Martineau paused in the lobby. “I'd like to thank the other Wren officer, if that's possible.”

“She was killed. Outright, or almost. They were together when the rescue team reached them.”

Outside in the jostling street, past saluting sailors he did not even see, Martineau walked, quite alone with his thoughts.

In destroyers you soon learned the hard way not to trust in miracles. But, in his heart, he knew he had just seen one happen.

11 | Trust

It was one of those rare occasions when a ship of war was quiet and without movement. Saturday in port, and, with everyone but the duty part of the watch gone ashore as libertymen, almost deserted.

In Number Nine Mess, Leading Torpedoman Bob Forward sat at the table, and, after a quick look around at the other messes, took out the small leather box and opened it.

It was like something you read about, or saw on the news-reels, he thought. Men you were used to seeing in scruffy overalls or seagoing kit, or at most in their Number Threes for entering or leaving harbour, all decked out in their best uniforms, gold badges, properly creased trousers, tiddly bows, the lot.
Just for the three of us.
Lieutenant-Commander Fairfax, a chief petty officer from another ship he did not know. He grinned awkwardly.
And me.

He stared at the bright new Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. His head ached from the rum he had been offered after the ceremony, his shoulders from the slaps and thumps he had received from men he scarcely knew.

How his mum would have loved it. He sighed. His dad, too, if he had lived to see it.

And the Admiral, the great man himself, the one they always spoke of with awe. Searching, keen eyes as his aide read the citation, a handshake and a smile. “Well done, Forward. Proud of you.” Not one of those soft, wet handshakes either, but he had heard that the C-in-C played a lot of golf between his stints of duty.

But for Fairfax he would never have got the medal. It was hard to remember in some ways. The ship under air attack off the North African coast or wherever it was. Fire breaking out near some wounded sailors, even closer to a pile of ready-use ammunition. He had put out the fire, and had manned the abandoned Oerlikon gun himself, even though he was a torpedoman.

Anger, defiance, the madness of a fight, it had been a little of everything. He grinned. In a funny way it had lost him his leading-rate; he had confronted the one who had deserted his station when the fire had broken out, a fire which might have cost them the ship. They had met ashore, and he had half-killed the other man. It had been worth losing his hook just to do it. His attempt to rescue young Wishart after he had taken a dive from the tanker had brought it all back, and a medal to boot.

They always said that the previous Skipper would have put him up for a gong. How little they knew.

Not like the new Skipper. He had to admit that, although he disliked officers for the most part. Martineau had seemed genuinely pleased. “Glad for you, and glad for the ship too!”

Forward was not used to it. He pulled out his ditty-box and regarded it thoughtfully. Most regular sailors had them, made with their own hands, and the more little drawers and secret compartments the better.

He unlocked it and took out another package, which again he opened with great care.

It was a watch, complete with expanding strap, and his initials stamped on it. He could see Wishart's face when he had received it, eager, pleased, anxious. That had really knocked him for six. Nobody ever gave him anything like that. He had been confused, embarrassed that he could not cope with it.

“What's this, then? Think I can't afford one of my own?”

Wishart had said quietly, “My parents wanted you to have it. It's not new, but it's a Hamilton, a good one. My dad knows about watches. You can't get decent ones over the counter in wartime.”

He shook his head. Another world. If only the kid realized. It was to be hoped it didn't all rub off when he got that first wavy stripe on his sleeve.

Wishart's father was a bank manager or something. Nice house, he imagined, probably a car as well. The only cars in Forward's street belonged to a bookmaker and a grocer who was in the nick for black-marketing rationed goods.

I don't know how I ever got mixed up with his sort in the first place.

And when he became one of the pigs down aft, he might become another snooty Cavaye, or Driscoll, who was all mouth and trousers at the best of times.

But he was a good kid. Took all the knocks from his mess-mates about his posh accent, and his good manners even when eating the stodge slopped out from
Hakka
's galley.

He placed the medal inside the ditty-box and was about to close it when he saw her photograph. It still turned his guts over, remembering how she had once been, and all his secret hopes.

He locked the box, angry with himself, and knowing why. Because he felt no guilt? She was gone, that was it; somebody else, not Grace.

He heard voices from the upper messdeck, water sloshing as some of the duty watch took a moment to dhoby their underwear before the ship became too crowded again.

Deliberately he unbuttoned his left cuff and fastened the watch into place, then held it to his ear. A good sound, like the clocks all going at once in the old shop off Lavender Hill near his home.

He saw Wishart at the foot of the ladder and winked.

“How about this, Wings? Thought I should give it an airing, but if that old fart Mister bloody Malt says anything I'll probably dip my hook again!” He added casually, “Might want to pick your brains later on when I write a note to your people to thank them. But now, what about a run ashore?”

He looked away. It had been worth it just to see the kid's face.

Commodore Dudley Raikes marched into his office and handed his cap to a steward.

“Went off very well, I thought. It'll give those press wallahs something to write about.”

He glanced at the clock.

“Bit early for me, gentlemen, but if you'd care for a gin, please carry on.”

Captain Lucky Bradshaw said, “It's
exactly
the right time for me, sir.” He gestured to the steward. “Large pinkers, right?”

Martineau walked to the solitary window and stared along the road. From here he could see the fallen bricks and smashed rooftops. There had been fire, too, caused by a gas leak, they had told him. And she had been pinned under it. It was incredible that the rescue workers had got to her in time.

He said, “The same, please.”

Now that it was over he needed to be alone for a while, or as alone as it was possible to be. The handshakes, the excitement, the unusual turnout and ceremony were rare these days. Fairfax had seemed overwhelmed by it.

Raikes was saying, “As you know, although it is supposed to be a secret, another support group is due to join us shortly. At present they are enjoying the full attention of my umpires at Larne. For tactical training exercises.” He gave a wintry smile. “I gather you do not always approve of such methods, Captain Bradshaw?”

“You have to trust your instinct. Get the enemy's measure. That's my view, sir.” He reached out for the tray as the steward reappeared. Martineau had noticed the formality between them, dislike perhaps. He knew that Bradshaw had once been Raikes's superior, until Lucky's downfall under the Admiralty axe.

Raikes said, “The pace is mounting. It will, I promise you, get hotter. Russia, like it or not, is a valuable ally, but under great pressure all along the eastern front. Should Russia collapse, all of the enemy's hitting power will be directed at
us,
in the Mediterranean where we are at last making encouraging progress, and in the Atlantic, where we are still losing more ships than we can spare.”

Martineau said, “Russian convoys again, sir.”

Raikes stared at him. “Exactly. Every kind of supply you can think of. From tanks and first-line aircraft right down to food, medical supplies, even the boots to march in.”

Bradshaw grunted, “They'd not help us if the role was reversed.”

Raikes said calmly, “Perhaps. But whatever we may think, it is a time for all-out effort. The Admiral has stated, and I agree, that we can no longer tolerate half-measures. We need destroyers, and we will get them.” The brief smile again. “Eventually. Until then, every commanding officer must keep his ship ready to respond to any emergency. If a ship is in need of a boiler clean, or repainting, let it wait if the other need is greater. If he drives his command until a shaft seizes up, let him carry on with the remaining one.” He looked directly at Martineau. “
Hakka
is to be fitted with Bofors guns—the multiple pompoms have proved unreliable. It would normally take the dockyard six weeks to make the change. It will be done in two.”

Bradshaw said uneasily, “But can we be certain, sir?”

Raikes glanced once more at the clock. “I have explained to our engineering people that if it is not so, some of them will be replaced by those who
can
do it. The prospect of some sea-time for a change is often a great incentive!”

He turned sharply. “Yes?”

It was a Wren officer, with one stripe on her uniform jacket. She stared around, almost terrified, before stammering, “Sorry, sir, wrong door!”

Raikes folded his arms. “Takes time, I suppose.”

Martineau said, “The big German ships,
Tirpitz
and
Scharnhorst . . .
they may try more attacks when we increase these Arctic convoys.” He could hear his own voice, level, unemotional. But all he could think of was that bitter sea, the cold grinding away a man's strength, his will to survive.

Raikes replied, “They will continue to tie up all our capital ships in that area. Like a common mine, they are a menace merely by being there. Hitler will not risk
Tirpitz,
I think. Not after
Bismarck.
But
Scharnhorst
and some of their cruisers, that's something else, as we have already seen to our cost.”

The other door opened gently. It was Nobby, Raikes's secretary. Martineau noticed that he had gained a half-stripe between his other two.

He said, “Congratulations.”

Nobby regarded him gravely.

“We try, sir.” Then, to Bradshaw, “The Admiral will see you now, sir.”

The door closed and Raikes said, “The Admiral will love that, stinking of gin at this hour!”

Martineau relaxed slightly. He was beginning to understand the Commodore. He after all had encouraged Lucky to have a drink, or two.

“Wanted to have a word anyway, Graham, before I visit the Plot Room.” He moved some papers on his desk. “You know all about Anna Roche, of course. I understand you saw her at the hospital?” He held up one neat hand. “Not probing. But they're shifting her to one of our hospitals in Manchester. Not all that far away.”

“She's not being transferred, sir?”

“Not at this stage. She's good. A quick thinker, but I expect you know that.”

Martineau waited. He had called the hospital again but had been unable to speak to her. The voice on the telephone had been curt. “She has to rest. She has been through rather a lot.” He had thought of the two S.B.A.s with the torn and bloodied uniform which he had believed was hers. They had probably broken the news to her about the friend who had died beside her.

“When do you think
Hakka
's new guns will be fitted, sir?”

Raikes was not surprised by the change of tack. If anything, he was expecting it.

“Just as soon as we know about the next operation. I shall inform you.” He waited until Martineau had almost reached the door, and then asked, “What do you really think about the Russian convoys?”

His timing was perfect, exact, like the man.

“In my view, the Germans will not risk their big ships on the summer convoys. With the ice edge so far north they'd be too far from base if they were called to action.” It was like hearing his father all over again, the old destroyer hand.
You can't just sit and wait for them to come out when they want to. Give them the bait, and go in after the buggers!
“The ice edge is low now, sir, south of Bear Island. While winter holds, it's our best chance, I think.”

He turned and stared at the window again, but saw nothing.

What are you saying?

Raikes rubbed his chin. “It is true that most of our convoys to Russia have been attacked and crippled by U-boats and bombers. Sinkings by surface craft have been few, three to be precise, over the past two years.” His eyes gleamed in the hard light. “This may be the chance to spring the trap.” He reached out and shook Martineau's hand. “Good. Good. We'll see you Captain (D) yet!”

Martineau left the office and walked along the corridor.
Hakka
was at a state of readiness again, fuelled, ammunitioned and stored. They would be off again soon; Raikes could not have made it much plainer. The support group was ready, another on its way. Raikes was doing well, and it was obvious that Lucky Bradshaw hated him for it.

“Commander Martineau?” It was First Officer Crawford. She stood half in and half out of her office, and another Wren officer was sitting by the desk, talking on a telephone and making notes at the same time.