On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) (13 page)

arrival to coincide with darkness. His future plans depended on the existence of the captured German ships remaining
a secret. The men had been warned about loose talk and how their very lives depended on anonymity.

The two E
-boats parted company with the ‘Nishga’ at a secret base on the east coast of the Isle of Man where their crews were transferred to the ‘Nishga’ for the short trip across to the mainland.

*     *     *

The dry dock rang with sound of hammering, echoing and clanging off the high walls, jarring the nerves of the men still aboard. A bored bosun’s mate stood by the quartermaster’s desk flicking lethargically through the pages of a tattered magazine he had found on his rounds.

Wyatt
, who was acting quartermaster for the leave period, looked over his shoulder “Where you get that from Blur?”

“
Wardroom… I didn’t know officers went in for this sort of thing,” he pointed at a scantily clad female form.

Wyatt leant on the desk
, “It’s a great leveller, we’re all the same when it comes to that sort of thing,” he waved at the page, “But you were right to lift it, I don’t agree with them looking at things like that, it might give them ideas… We don’t want them reproducing, there’s enough of the bastards as it is.”

“
You don’t like pig’s much do you, Earpy?”

Wyatt rubbed his tired eyes
, “Arh! Don’t talk to me about pigs, lazy lot of bastards. You’ve seen ‘em. When we’re in ‘arbour they ‘ave even less to do than when we’re at bloody sea. Worse than the bloody dockyard maties,” he pointed at some dockyard workers who had been standing at the end of the gangway for over an hour, “and they get more time off then the Unknown Warrior.”

*     *     *

“What’s so interesting about that particular merchantman, sir? asked Midshipman Hogg. “Troopship isn’t she?”

They were both working on the bridg
e, Hogg updating the Admiralty charts and Grant attempting to get to grips with the intricacies of the Watch and Quarters Bill. The latter had lit a cigarette and was leaning on the bridge screen, studying the troopship with great interest.

“
She’s the ‘Empire Trooper.”

“
Doesn’t the Empire bit of her name mean she’s an ex-German?”

“
That’s right,” said Grant, peering intently through his binoculars. “As far as I know all, well, nearly all, captured enemy ships carry an ‘Empire’ prefix. She was the ‘Cap Norte’ before. When I was serving aboard the ‘Belfast’ we captured her as she was returning to Germany from South America.”

“
When was that exactly?”

“
Oh… October last year. She was trying to get back to Germany disguised as a neutral.”

“
Did you get prize money,” asked Hogg, his eyes lighting up.

“
They say we will, someday,” smiled Grant, “and, if we do, it will be enough for the first payment on a yacht of my own after the war.”

“
Is that how you intend to pay the bills when it’s all over, go back to yacht minding?”

“
Haven’t really decided yet, but something like that. Preferable something that doesn’t involve blowing things up anyway.”

*     *     *

Barr had, unusually, taken the first five-day leave period, normally he would have let his Number One have that privilege, while he stayed on to see that the start of the refit was trouble free, but he had complete trust in Grant’s abilities and was happy to leave the ship in his hands. This coupled with the fact that he had several vital appointments to keep in London allowed him, with a reasonably clear conscience, to board the Suffolk bound train...

As the soot-stained trees slipped hypnotically by his window
, he dozed. The clickerty-clack of the wheels became a Bren gun firing and the rhythmic sway of the train carriage became the ‘Nishga’ in the Norwegian Sea. The hiss of steam and the squeal of the train’s brakes translated into a diving aircraft that woke him as the train jerked to a stop at Ipswich. He’d slept through the entire journey. It had grown dark. He straightened his cap and tie in the cracked carriage window before pulling his holdall down from the string luggage rack.

The ticket collector had a shaded hurricane lamp propped in the corner
, its orange glow illuminating his plump Pickwickian face as he clipped the ticket.

Barr
stood in the station concourse feeling like a truant from school. Nothing to do for four whole days. He smiled as he walked to the taxi rank. Nothing to do… it wouldn’t last; his wife would make sure of that.

*     *     *

The mess radio was playing a Carol Gibbins’ number.

“
Deep voice for a bird,” commented Stubbs.

Wilson
laughed, “I always used to think Carol was a girl’s name.”

“
Course it is… ain’t it?” asked Wyatt.

“
Well ‘is name’s Carol and he’s a bloke,” said Wilson, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the speaker on the bulkhead.

“
You can be called Carol if you’re a bloke?” said Wyatt, his voice rising in disbelief.

“
Not in my fucking book you can’t.” growled O’Neill from his slung hammock.

“
What about Gene Kelly?”

“
He’s a dancer, enough said?”

The nightingale sang
no more in Berkley Square as the clattering of the metal ladder drowned out the music. It was Goddard.

“
How’d you get on,” asked Wilson, as he arrived at the bottom of the mess ladder.

“
They failed me again.”

“
What!” exclaimed Wyatt, “after all that revising you did while we were watch keeping on the gangway!”

Wilson grimaced to hide a smile.
“I told yer, you should have been revising from yer seamanship manual and not those girlie magazines. You carry on like this, you’ll never make Able Seaman, you’ll go blind from all that revising.”

Goddard said nothing, a picture of gloom.

“Well, what was it you got wrong?” asked O’Neill, “When I tested you the other day, you was all about.”

“
Yeah,” ribbed Wyatt, “All about like shit in a hurricane fan.”

“
Yeah well! I don’t think it was fair really.”

“
What’d ‘e do ask you a question on seamanship?” said Wilson.

Goddard ignored his mentor,
“Jimmy the One asked me if you was at anchor, how many times you would pipe the side for a visiting Admiral.”

“
Twice,” answered O’Neill. “And you knew that the other day when I asked you,” he added, accusingly.

“
Yeah… Well I said, ‘Four’. He said, ‘Wrong! The answer is two… What made you think it were four?’ “

“
I said, ‘I thought it was a trick question, sir. It’s four times if you count when he leaves as well. You pipe once as he approaches the ship, again when he comes up over the side and the same again when he leaves, that’s four.”

“
He’s right enough there,” agreed O’Neill.

“
Yeah, well Jimmy the One didn’t think so. He says ‘Quick Goddard, but not quick enough.’ He thought I was being clever, he failed me!”

*     *     *

Barr sat in his favourite armchair smoking and watching his son playing.

“
This is your ship, Dad,” said the boy pointing to the largest, it’s my best one, the one you bought for me for last Christmas, remember.”

“
I remember, that’s a battleship though, son, the ‘Nishga’s’ a destroyer.”

“
I know that, Dad, but my only destroyer’s in refit.”

Barr smiled at his son, only eight years old and already he wanted to go to sea. But then, he
’d been that age, perhaps a little older, when he’d first shown an interest. His son was attacking his tiny fleet with an aeroplane in each hand imitating the bombers they watched at the cinema the night before. He pushed the ships round on the lino-covered floor with one foot.

“
See this, Dad; they’re all turning out of the way.”

“
They’d have to turn the same way though otherwise they be colliding with each other and they’d have to turn together and to port so as to bring all their guns...” his voice tailed off. He knelt down beside his son and started to rearrange the toy ships on the floor, “Can I borrow one of your aircraft a minute, son.”

The boy handed it over and watched for a few minutes while his father, squinting from the smoke spiralling from his cigarette, moved toys enthusiastically around the living room floor. The boy
soon lost interest and wandered off, flying his other aeroplane, peering into the tiny cockpit. He heard his father call to his mother for a note pad and a pencil.

*     *     *

On Saturday, port watch returned from leave and the starboard watch clattered down the gangway to begin theirs.

Grant left the ship just after eleven
, delayed by a meeting with Barr concerning the progress of the refit.

After
a long train journey south punctuated by long and frequent mid-station stops, Grant found himself with forty minutes to spare before catching his connection for the coast.

He wandered over to a tired l
ooking cafeteria and, putting his half empty hold-all under a window table, bought a cup of steaming tea from the chain smoking be-turbaned woman behind the counter. He sat drinking and smoking, watching people hurrying pass the grimy window.

He had a good view
of Platform Number One, from which his train was due to leave. He watched as a train arrived, small clouds billowing across the platform, shouts of steam spouting noisily from beneath the engine. Doors banged and soon people began to move in and out of the steam, appearing and disappearing like ghosts in a cemetery mist. An initial trickle of passengers soon turned into a continuous stream, flooding through the gates past the portly ticket collector.

Leaning on the oilcloth covered table,
chin in hand, he stared numbly through the window seeing the bustle, but not really registering it in his thought-filled mind. He had been kept busy over the last few days despite the fact that boiler cleaning had more to do with the Chief than him. He had worked on the complicated watch bills for all three vessels. The extra men had arrived on the Monday after they had docked; most of them were raw recruits. ‘Hostilities Only’ as the Navy called them, straight from the training ships.

Abruptly he was yanked back to the present w
here a figure had appeared at his side. He leant back in the bentwood chair and looked up. A woman in her twenties looked back down at him,

“
Is this chair taken,” she asked. Completely unnoticed by Grant the place had filled with people from the train, all desperate for a cup of tea after the long journey north.”

The woman was very pretty, her brown hair curling
down from a jaunty black hat worn at a fetching angle. Her smiling face moved abruptly to one side to be replaced by another that Grant recognised instantly.

He jumped to his feet
“Benjamin, old chap! What a lovely surprise! How are things on the,” he whispered, “‘Belfast’ and who’s this!”

“
The girl laughed, “This… is Ben’s sister Charlotte.”

“
Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude, it was such a complete surprise.”

“
Don’t mind her, Robert; she’s used to bad-manners with me for a brother.”

“
That’s the truth,” added Charlotte, “Look you sit here, Ben, then you two can swap salty sea-lies while I get the teas.”

Sub Lieutenant Benjamin Crosswall-Brown
slumped down into the chair opposite his friend, with the air of a man used to taking orders from the opposite sex.

“
So how are you, old man, still on destroyers?”

“
Sort of, I’ve been on detached duty for a while; on five days leave at the moment.”

“
So am I! Only I’ve only got four days, Charlotte just met me off the train, she intends to shepherd me quickly onto the next, south bound. I think she fancies herself as my chaperone; protecting me from the flesh pots of London.”

“
She’ll have her work cut out if she does. I remember you on the ‘Belfast’,” he dropped his voice, leaning forward over the table. “Are you still…?”

“
No, old chap.” whispered Crosswall-Brown inches from Grant's ear, “Not from today, drafted to Harwich… M.T.B.s.”

“
You have always been a lucky sod, just the job… How was everyone on the 'Belfast'?”