Richard Kerr,Serpent’s first lieutenant, watched curiously while the new commanding officer struggled out of the suit of white overalls he had borrowed for his engine room tour.
It was a Sunday, just over a week since Brooke had made his unorthodox arrival in the NAAFI boat, and during that time he seemed to have explored more parts of the ship, weapons and equipment, as well as going through all the books and watch bills, than the previous captain had ever done. To Kerr it appeared to be more than a sense of duty or an attempt to impress. It was like a need which drove Brooke forward without respite.
Brooke reached for his jacket and grinned. ‘Bit chilly after the Chief’s engine and boiler rooms.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘He keeps his department on top line. You could almost eat off the cat-walk!’
Like a boy again, Kerr thought, the tension suddenly gone from his face. He was curious about the captain’s limp, which became obvious whenever Brooke was thinking about something else and made no effort to conceal it. But he was still no closer to him as a man; and he wondered if it was because Brooke was aware of his disappointment at not being offered a command. Many others had been given ships of their own, ranging from old destroyers to armed yachts; even reservists were being put on their own bridges. Disappointment? Or was it a resentment which the previous captain’s sudden departure had sharpened into something worse?
Brooke could feel the intensity of the other man’s scrutiny, but was still thinking of the Chief’s pride in his engines and what they could do.
In his harsh voice he had patted a shining safety rail and exclaimed, ‘Twenty-seven thousand horsepower, sir! Old lady mebbe, but I can still give you thirty-six knots at a swing of the throttles!’ He was right to be proud. Few new ships could match that.
He glanced at the first lieutenant. Kerr was good at his job and obviously respected by all the senior rates he had met so far. Not a Number One to take any flannel from anybody. Tall, gravely good-looking with dark hair that never seemed out of place: the ship was lucky to have him. For a while longer anyway. He gave a half smile. I’m lucky to have him.
How different the ship felt. With almost a full complement again, Serpent was alive. The new navigator was expected at any time now and only a single rating was absent, one of those sent on compassionate leave. The other had returned, watched in silence by his messmates, who knew that after the bombing of his home he had nowhere else to go. Brooke could smell the heady odour of rum pervading the ship, an all-important event, especially on a Sunday in harbour with a lazy make-and-mend for everyone but the watchkeepers.
Brooke sat down. ‘Gin, Number One?’
Kerr smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
Brooke pressed a bell. It was a good sign. Kerr was loosening up a little bit. Before, he had made excuses. Maybe he had thought the new skipper was testing him, waiting to see if he drank too much or was trying to be too friendly.
Bert Kingsmill, the petty officer steward, a lugubrious, even dour-looking man, slid through the door and opened the drinks cabinet. He looked after the wardroom but his first loyalty was to his commanding officer.
Brooke returned his attention to Kerr. Greenwood, the previous skipper, had made the usual report about him, but there had been nothing special. Two words, impulsive and stubborn, stood out, but without any further explanation. In destroyers it was sometimes necessary to be one or the other. Kerr was still distant, but he would find out the reason for the comment eventually.
A small but fairly typical wardroom, Brooke thought. He had even discovered why Barlow, the Gunner (T), had given himself the nickname Podger. For some reason he had decided his real name, Vivian, was too effeminate for an active-service torpedoman. The sub-lieutenant, Barrington-Purvis, seemed good at his work, and Kerr had confirmed this, but he was obviously blessed with a monumental conceit which could make him heartily disliked. The fact that his father was an admiral did not lend him humility.
Kerr asked suddenly, ‘The new navigating officer is ex-Fleet Air Arm. A bit unusual, isn’t it?’
Brooke picked up his glass and realised that it had been smoothly refilled. Petty Officer Kingsmill must have glided in soundlessly as if he moved on wheels. I shall have to watch out. But it was good Scotch. One of the perks of command to help settle the scales.
He replied, ‘He should be joining today. He’ll tell you all about it, I imagine.’
Calmly said, but Brooke saw the shadow fall like a curtain. Kerr asked, ‘What about sailing orders, sir?’ The first lieutenant again. On duty.
‘Tomorrow, I expect.’ He saw Kerr’s eyes shift to the silver-framed picture of the ship which now adorned the cabin desk. No doubt he was still blaming himself for not knowing or bothering to discover that his captain’s father had been Serpent’s first C.O. The coxswain had known. It probably irked Kerr that he himself had not.
Brooke said, ‘Warn the gangway staff that the new officer will be arriving just as soon as you get the signal.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Our shore telephone has been disconnected – for some more important newcomer, I have no doubt.’
Kerr hesitated. ‘Will you care to drop into the wardroom this evening, sir? A bit less formal.’
‘Thank you, Number One.’ He looked at the nearest polished scuttle, the sudden bars of heavy rain against the thick glass: Scapa showing its other face.
He added, ‘Probably the last time for a while.’
Kerr watched him, suddenly alert. Rumours were rife throughout the ship. Leave was over: the ship was as ready for sea as she would ever be, so where to? The pale grey paint suggested a warm climate, as did the new fans. Ceylon was the favourite amongst the messdeck bookmakers. Some said it was the Med, where, after losing so many destroyers in the Greek disaster and enemy attacks showing no sign of lessening, even a small replacement would be welcome.
But not the bloody Atlantic again. Not yet. Slow, overloaded convoys which reduced the speed of all to only a few knots made the escorts’ work even more uncomfortable. Serpent had been built for speed, one of the Grand Fleet’s greyhounds, not to be flung about through forty-five degrees with the sea flooding over the open bridge like a mill-race. On one such convoy the seas had been so rough that the captain and the officer-of-the-watch had been unable to leave the bridge, while the other officers had been marooned aft until the weather had abated.
It was good to be getting away from the brutal power of the Western Ocean, if only to be spared the losses and the new strategy of Hitler’s U-boat command. With the fall of Scandinavia, the Low Countries and France, the enemy now held a coastline that stretched from Norway’s North Cape to the Bay of Biscay: nearly five thousand miles, each one of which afforded a threat to those desperately needed convoys and their tightly-stretched defenders.
As George Pike, the burly coxswain, had remarked, ‘Let some other bugger take the strain! Palm trees an’ dancin’ girls’ll do me!’
Some hopes, Kerr thought.
The tannoy squeaked and then muttered through the ship like someone speaking underwater.
‘D’you hear there! Hands to dinner!’
Kerr saw the captain smile, thinking probably of the unspoken part of the pipe. Officers to lunch!
Kerr left the captain’s quarters and made his way to the wardroom. His companions sat by the fire on the club fender, or in the well-worn chairs.
Kerr relaxed slightly. Perhaps they all needed a change, a new horizon. He signalled to the messman. ‘Pink gin, please!’ He thought of the man he had just left, alone in his cabin. Maybe Brooke needed it too.
Kerr took the glass and signed a mess-chit, then glanced through the streaming scuttle.
Anything would be better than Scapa.
It was dark very early on this particular Sunday, and although the rain had eased the Flow was choppy with serried ranks of white horses, and the ship’s upperworks shone like glass.
In the wardroom Petty Officer Kingsmill watched gloomily while his assistants put finishing touches to the array of glasses, and the selection of small snacks which they had produced for the occasion. Some officers were coming over from another destroyer to help make it more of a party for the new captain. Kingsmill was proud of his various skills, but never showed it. As always, his frowning features suggested he was paying for all the food and drink personally.
Kerr glanced at the bulkhead clock and wondered what Brooke would make of his small wardroom when he saw them en masse instead of on duty.
A face appeared in the doorway. ‘Beg pardon, sir! Leicester’s boat is coming alongside!’
Kerr said, ‘Off you trot, Sub, and greet our guests. You are the duty boy, I believe?’
‘Why is it always me?’ Barrington-Purvis put down his glass and strode out of the wardroom.
Kerr said to the two warrant officers, ‘I’ll wait until our guests get settled, then I’ll call the captain . . .’ He broke off as he saw a youth with a telegraphist’s badge on his sleeve peering into the cheerful-looking wardroom, and doubtless making comparisons with his own tightly-packed messdeck.
‘Signal, Evans?’
‘Aye, sir. From H.Q., sir. The new officer is waiting at the pontoons to be picked up.’
Kerr grinned. ‘Tell Mr Barrington-Purvis. It will make his day!’ The others laughed. It had started raining again.
Moments later they heard the next pipe. ‘D’you hear there! Away motor-boat’s crew!’
It would be a lively crossing in Serpent’s little motor-boat, the ‘skimming-dish’ as it was called.
The other officers came in to the wardroom and immediately relaxed. They all knew each other, and had worked many of the same convoys on some of the really bad runs.
Barrington-Purvis burst in, his shirt-front patterned with rain.
He was fuming. ‘H.Q. won’t send a boat, Number One. It’s up to us again!’
‘Take it off your back, Sub.’ Kerr saw the Leicester’s first lieutenant grinning at him. If you didn’t carry a midshipman to chase up, a subbie was the next best creature.
‘Signal to him to catch the NAAFI boat like the Old Man!’ That was Podger Barlow. The Old Man indeed, Kerr thought. Was Greenwood already forgotten?
He found the captain standing by his desk, an empty glass by his side.
‘Ready, sir?’ He waited, trying to gauge his mood. Nervous, unsure of the meeting.
Brooke straightened his jacket. ‘I’m glad you invited Leicester’s lot, Number One.’
Kerr saw his tawny eyes staring into the distance. Another memory, and obviously not a good one.
‘I’ve sent a boat for the new lieutenant, sir.’
Brooke entered the wardroom and caught the Petty Officer Steward’s mournful glance as he held out a tray with a glass of Scotch in dead-centre.
Kerr watched as his captain seemed to merge into the throng. Just the right number. He nodded his approval to the petty officer, but Kingsmill seemed to look through him.
There were whispers at the door and Kerr turned irritably as he saw someone holding a signal pad.
He hissed, ‘What the hell’s wrong now? Has our motor-boat got lost?’
But it was not a telegraphist this time; it was the petty officer who headed that department, Alan Brock. He had obviously been called from his mess and his gilt buttons were incorrectly fastened. He had probably been sleeping off his tot. But something in the man’s face made Kerr contain his irritation.
‘What is it?’
The man shifted his feet and peered past Kerr’s shoulder.
‘For the Captain, sir. Personal.’
‘Can’t it wait? He’s just . . .’
Brock said quietly, ‘His dad’s just died, sir.’ He handed Kerr the signal flimsy as if it was too delicate to hold.
Kerr glanced at it. Must have happened this morning, when Brooke had been going round the ship. His father’s ship. ‘Oh, God.’ He saw Brooke looking straight at him. Later he thought it was as if he had known.
Kerr handed him the piece of paper and said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir. At a time like this . . .’
‘Yes.’ Brooke’s eyes passed over his face without any expression. ‘Keep things going, will you. I have to get something from my quarters.’ Then he was gone.
Leicester’s first lieutenant, who had overheard, asked, ‘Shall we all push off, Dick?’
Kerr shook his head. ‘No, Bill, I don’t think it’s what he wants.’
The other man sighed. ‘Nobody else seems to have noticed, anyway.’
Kerr touched a messman’s arm as he bustled past. ‘Pass the word for the Cox’n, will you? Tell him to come straight to me.’
Someone was laughing wildly as if he could not control it, and several glasses had already been broken. Kerr looked at their faces. After what they had been through on the last few convoys it was a wonder that anything mattered. He thought of the Captain’s youthful smile when he had been talking about the Chief and his engine room. But it did matter.
On the deck above the wardroom Sub-Lieutentant Barrington-Purvis swore under his breath as rain ran off his cap and touched his neck like ice. He had heard the same wild laughter and in his imagination saw them all standing around, armed with drinks which the ship’s wardroom would pay for, and which he would miss unless the motor-boat’s crew got a move on. After taking the newcomer to the accommodation ladder they had had to move the little boat out to the ship’s boom and then clamber up themselves. The fact that they too would be soaked gave him no satisfaction at all.
He heard the quartermaster speaking with the new officer and swung away from the guard-rails, his voice sharp. ‘Hold on – I’m the O.O.D.! You don’t just barge in!’
Lieutenant Toby Calvert watched his gear being carried into the lobby, away from the streaming superstructure. God, she’s small, he thought. You could lose her on a carrier’s hangar deck.
‘Now, whoever you are . . .’
He fell silent as the newcomer turned towards him. ‘Calvert, Lieutenant, come aboard to join. As the O.O.D. you should have been told, I’d have thought?’
It was quietly said, but to Barrington-Purvis it was like a slap in the face.
‘Of course I knew!’
‘Well, then.’ Calvert stepped over the high coaming of the lobby and waited for the sub-lieutenant to follow, his wet uniform shining in the deckhead lights like black silk. He remarked with some amusement, ‘You’re rather wet, old chap.’
‘Here, I’ll show you the way!’ Barrington-Purvis tried to reassert his dignity, and did not see the quartermaster and gangway sentry exchanging grins at the lieutenant’s comment. ‘And the captain wants to see you without delay!’
It was hopeless. This insolent newcomer, trying to play the old salt with his crumpled raincoat and jaunty beard, was unimpressed.
Calvert heard the noise from the wardroom. ‘Oh, having a party? Looks like I got here just in time.’ He spoke casually, calmly, if only to contain the sudden fury which had exploded through him like fire. Another moment, witnesses or not, and he would have laid the subbie on his back.
Barrington-Purvis saw a steward in the tiny galley, sucking gratefully on a cigarette.
‘Ogle! Take this officer’s coat!’ To Calvert he added severely, ‘Not worn in the wardroom. Cost you a round of drinks!’
Calvert slipped out of his coat and handed his cap to the steward. ‘Thanks.’
Then, with the subbie close on his heels, he stepped into the wardroom.
A tall lieutenant came towards him. ‘I’m Kerr, Number One. Most of the others here are visitors from our chummy-ship Leicester.’ Calvert saw his glance drop to the pilot’s wings above the curl on his left sleeve. Or maybe he was looking at the two wavy stripes, wondering what was happening to his navy.
In those few seconds Barrington-Purvis had managed to down a neat gin, and it seemed to work almost immediately. He was possibly the only member of the wardroom who had never realised that he could not hold his drink.
He said loudly, ‘Our first reservist, Number One!’ There was a sudden silence as he added, ‘And he has a medal too!’
Kerr was about to intervene when he saw the captain framed in the doorway. His hair was tousled, his eyes red, as if he had been sick.
Brooke walked past them and gripped Calvert’s hand, recognising his barely controlled anger.
‘Welcome aboard, Pilot.’ He smiled, with great effort. ‘I really can call you that.’ He half-turned towards Barrington-Purvis, and the smile was gone. ‘Take a closer look, Sub.’ He watched the young officer’s confusion and then snapped, ‘You don’t see the Victoria Cross too often!’
Calvert said, ‘I’m sorry about all this, sir.’
‘So am I.’ He looked at Kerr. ‘Get him settled in. I’ll speak to all of you tomorrow.’
He turned to Calvert again. The man who had tried to warn his parent aircraft carrier that he had sighted two German battle-cruisers off the Norwegian coast; who had seen his ship blasted by their great guns, her thin armour no protection from their shells. His ship, his home, his friends, dying and burning. The tiny useless aircraft toppling into the sea as she had started to capsize.
The man who had turned back towards the enemy in his slow, outdated Swordfish torpedo-bomber, and had attacked those ships until it too had been blasted out of the sky. His crew had died that day, and Brooke knew that he was thinking of them whenever anyone remarked on that little piece of crimson ribbon with its miniature cross. For Valour. It probably aroused many bitter memories, and pain for the men he had taken to their deaths.
A messman slipped away and Brooke knew it would be all over the ship in seconds. He thought of the coxswain, who had come to his cabin only minutes before this scene in the wardroom. George Pike, who had served under his father and seen him reappear in his new commanding officer.
He had stood by the desk and had taken a glass of Scotch without hesitation.
‘Just ’eard, sir. There’s no words for this kind of thing.’
Brooke had heard himself reply, ‘He’d been ill for years. Never took care of himself. We both knew. I just wish I could have told him about the ship before . . .’
The coxswain had put down his glass. ‘Our ship, sir.’ Then he had gone.
Barrington-Purvis’s voice intruded like an irritating hornet. ‘I only meant, sir . . .’
Brooke looked at him, his eyes cold. ‘If the time comes for me to write your report, Sub, please tell me if you can think of anything worthy to mention. So far I can discover nothing in that direction.’
As the curtain fell across the doorway, Podger Barlow tweaked the sub-lieutenant’s sleeve, still wet from the upper deck.
‘You’ll have to learn to take a bottle as well as hand them out, Sub. You’ve had that coming for a long time, and I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He grinned. ‘So come and make it up. Can’t afford enemies in this ship, see?’
Petty Officer Kingsmill produced more drinks for the new arrival in what he considered to be his wardroom, and for the first lieutenant. He had overheard Podger Barlow’s gentle warning. What a laugh, he thought. The day those two made it up would be the bloody day.
He glanced over at the new officer and realised with a start that Calvert was looking directly at him. He thought for an awful moment that he had spoken out loud.
One thing was certain. Whatever this Calvert had got the V.C. for, Kingsmill could well believe him capable of it.
In his cabin by the light of the solitary desk lamp Lieutenant-Commander Esmond Brooke sat, alone with his innermost thoughts. Long after the visitors had departed for their own ship and the hands had been piped down for the night, he considered the fate or coincidence which had brought him and his father’s ship together.
He listened to the occasional thump of feet on deck as quartermaster or sentry did their rounds. He could sometimes hear the sluice of the current along Serpent’s flank so that she seemed to stir as if reawakening. Our ship, the grim-faced coxswain had called her.
He hoped his father had not suffered or been humiliated at the end. Brooke had seen so many die, always without the dignity they deserved when death had marked them down.
He reached out for the whisky bottle and stared at it with some surprise. It was empty, and yet he felt nothing.
With great care he took out his wallet and removed a small photograph: Sarah, who had promised to marry him. Instead she had married his brother. Together they would deal with all the necessary arrangements. Without fuss. He replaced the picture in his wallet and got to his feet. Without much feeling, either, he thought.
He staggered slightly and knew it was not the fault of the ship.
He sat down heavily on the bunk in the adjoining cabin without remembering how he got there, but he could not stop the other memories: when he had last seen him at the hospital. His illness had made him older, but he could still give a wink to the nurses and pull their legs with a doubtful story. Smoked too much, drank too much, but always good company. The ex-naval officer who had once commanded this ship.
His head hit the pillow and he felt like death.
Serpent’s first captain, and now perhaps her last.
With one arm outflung, he was instantly asleep.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Brooke, sir.’ The small Wren held the door open and glanced at the visitor before closing it again.
The long room was warm and strangely safe and quiet after the lively crossing in the ship’s motor-boat. Great windows looked across part of the fleet anchorage, covered with salt which had drifted up in the wind, so that sea and ships looked like a gigantic panorama on stained glass. The Chief-of-Staff was stabbing tobacco into a large briar pipe with powerful, capable fingers, and had a match going even as Brooke sat down.
A plain-faced Wren petty officer writer sat at another littered desk, hemmed in by telephones, signal folders and tea-cups awaiting collection.
‘Good to have you, Brooke.’ Puff-puff. ‘Sorry to hear about your father.’ Puff-puff ‘I’d have given you leave, but you know how it is.’
Brooke found he could relax with this tall, square-jawed captain. He had dispensed the sympathy. Now he could get on with the rest. ‘How is the ship?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Good, good.’ He was now wreathed in smoke, and Brooke wished he had brought his own pipe with him.
The Chief-of-Staff added, ‘Wish we had more time, but there’s never enough of that around here.’ He glanced at the patientlooking Wren. ‘Bloody Scapa, eh, Brenda?’
Brooke said, ‘I’m lucky to have so many trained hands. I know it can’t last, but . . .’
‘Don’t be too sure.’ He regarded him through the smoke. ‘There’s talk of a big push about to begin. The Germans are reported to be ready to get some of their big ships out into the North Atlantic. More powerful than anything we’ve got, so the C-in-C is forced to keep battleships and battle-cruisers tied up here, just in case.’
‘I didn’t realise we were that hard-pressed, sir.’
‘You’ve been too busy to notice, I expect.’ He tapped his pipe-stem in time with his words. ‘In eighteen months or thereabouts we’ve lost fifty-three destroyers, thirty submarines and over a hundred sweepers and auxiliary vessels. We can barely keep pace.’
The Wren said, ‘Maintenance Commander on the phone, sir.’
‘Tell him to wait.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Ask him to wait!’ He continued. ‘There is always a risk of invasion too, although after what the high-fly boys of the R.A.F. achieved last year I doubt it. At sea will be the real test, the final decisive battle.’
Brooke could sense the man’s energy and his impatience. ‘When do I get my orders, sir?’
The eyes scoured him thoroughly. ‘Keen, eh? Thought you might be a bit dissatisfied with such a small command.’ It was not a question.
He looked at a large wall-map and said, ‘Convoys from all over the world, food, weapons, fuel and . . .’ He looked at the younger officer and added quietly, ‘And men.’
Brooke prepared himself. Another hopeless campaign? Surely not now? Pictures flashed through his mind. Burning coastlines, gasping half-drowned soldiers staggering down to the waiting boats while jubilant, screaming Stukas dived over them like hawks, churning the land into bloody craters.
The Wren said carefully, ‘Message, sir. The Admiral’s on his way.’ Her voice was hushed.
‘Humph – in that case . . .’ The Chief-of-Staff stood up and brushed off his reefer jacket. ‘You’ll get your orders this afternoon. Local leave only and no loose talk.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’m sending you to Gib.’
Brooke felt vaguely surprised, disappointed. The Med, then.
There were doors slamming, shoes clicking in one of the corridors. God was coming.
‘With talk of a German breakout I can’t afford to delay.’ He held out his hand. ‘Top secret.’ The interview was over. Then he added, ‘Really sorry to hear about your father . . .’ But his eyes were on the door.
Brooke stood aside as the procession tramped past him. He had a brief impression of the cap with a double row of oak leaves around the peak, a large rectangle of medal ribbons, a severe face and thin mouth.
Suddenly the admiral came to a halt and one gold-embellished sleeve shot out.
‘Who are you?’
‘Brooke, sir.’
There was almost a smile. Almost. ‘Serpent, right? Good lad!’ The procession surged on.
The motor-boat was bobbing about on the choppy water with several others waiting nearby for their respective lords and masters. Brooke returned a couple of salutes and then realised that the small Wren who had opened the Chief-of-Staff’s door for him had been the same one who had met him when he had first arrived. The boat’s bowman was on the jetty loosening the painter, and the coxswain, a red-faced whale of a man in his shining oilskin, stood up and saluted.
Macaskie was his name, and Geary was the bowman, a frail-looking youth who nevertheless had been punished by the last captain for fighting ashore. Face by face, Brooke concentrated on them, and came to the third crew member, the stoker. But the man’s name was still lost with most of the others. He had heard, only too often, officers who commenced some order or other by saying, ‘Here, you!’ If you expected them to respect you, you should always show respect for them.
He thought suddenly of the new navigator, Calvert. How could you ever get to know the ship’s company of a carrier? His ship must have carried some thirteen hundred officers and men. He recalled Calvert’s eyes when he had turned to respond to the subbie’s offensive remark. Calvert had obviously known enough of them to mourn them, and to try to avenge them.
The motor-boat curved away from the jetty, flinging spray high over the cockpit.
Brooke remained on his feet, both hands gripping the safety rail, the stinging spray helping to drive off the remnants of his headache.
Moored ships flashed past, a cruiser, two oilers, and in the far distance some battleships. Waiting for the Germans to sneak out of their fjords in Norway and smash through the Denmark Strait into the Atlantic as their raiders had done in that other war.
There was that lingering stench again, churned up as the boat dashed over it. Oil seeping up from the great hulk of the Royal Oak. Local people maintained that it was the foul odour of decay from the corpses trapped inside.
He found Kerr waiting with the side-party as he clambered up the ladder, conscious of the familiar pain in his injured leg.
All eyes were on his face as he said, ‘Orders arriving today. Number One.’ They fell into step and walked away from the others. ‘First to Gib.’ He saw Calvert watching some seamen who were splicing wire with a skill that made it look easy.
Brooke repeated for the other man’s benefit, ‘Gib, Pilot.’ He smiled. ‘I’m still not used to it.’
‘Nor me, sir.’ Calvert made no other comment, as if he no longer cared where they were going.
Then he pointed to the far-off, hazy shapes of the great capital ships. ‘Is Hood one of those, sir?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Could be. There’s quite a show of strength building up here. Why? Heard something?’
Calvert touched his beard and thought of the young woman with her new wedding ring. ‘Just a rumour, sir.’
Brooke looked away. I’ll bet, he thought.
‘Local liberty tonight, Number One. No overnight leave, not even for the P.O.s. Right?’
He hesitated and glanced up at the small turret-like bridge. Where he would spend his days and nights once they were at sea.
He said, ‘I’ll have some mail to be sent over, Number One.’
He felt the same private anguish. He should telephone from the shore. Express sympathy. Explain. But Sarah would most likely take the call. He still could not bear to hear her voice or imagine her being held as he had once held her.
Abruptly he said, ‘Bring the orders to me as soon as they arrive.’
Cusack, the Chief, clumped past, then paused to rest his gloved hands on the guard-rails when, right on time, the guard-boat sped towards the ship, the bowman rigid with his boat-hook as if it were a Fleet Review.
Cusack watched the satchel being signed for. Orders.
Very quietly he said, ‘Here we go again, old girl. Back to bloody war!’
Kerr had the satchel in his hands, and said, ‘Pilot, after I’ve given this little lot to the Skipper I’ll help you sort out your charts, if you like.’
There was no reply, and when he turned he saw that Calvert was staring fixedly into the distance, his blue-grey eyes the colour of the Flow itself in the weak sunlight.
Kerr shaded his own to see what it was that held the other lieutenant as if he were mesmerised.
Then he saw it: a tiny black speck which seemed to be flying very slowly above the water. He had heard there was a carrier at Scapa, so it was probably one of hers.
A chill ran through him. Of course. It was probably an old Swordfish torpedo-bomber, a Stringbag, as they were affectionately called by the men who flew them.
Kerr glanced back at his companion and then walked away quietly into the quartermaster’s lobby. Not for anything could he watch the emotion on Calvert’s face, nor share the anguish he had seen there.
As he ran down the wardroom ladder he thought of the new captain. He had been the only one amongst them who had understood.
He was both moved and humbled by this discovery.