Heart of War (18 page)

Major Capling said, ‘The adjutant tells me you want to be posted to France, Rowland.'

‘Yes, sir. It's two months since …'

Capling raised a hand, ‘I know. Don't think I have not studied your record of service – frequently … You're not really a good pilot, Rowland, but you are an excellent instructor. I don't know why, but it's true. Your own technique and knowledge are improving as you teach others, and soon I hope to post you to France. The date will depend on when I get another instructor posted to me.'

And the cricket season, Guy thought to himself: Major Capling was a keen cricketer and liked the Shoreham Flying
School to field a side capable of giving a good game to anything short of a first-class county side; and of course he was aware that Guy had bowled for Kent while still a schoolboy.

Capling said, ‘You should be out of here in six weeks. That's all.'

Guy saluted, turned about and marched out, the adjutant on his heels. The door to the C.O.'s office closed. The adjutant said, ‘That's not long. You'll have enough time in France, believe me. So enjoy the fleshpots while you may.'

‘Fleshpots? Shoreham?' Guy snorted. He went out, glancing at the roster on the green baize-covered board outside the office. He had a student in fifteen minutes. Just time for a cup of tea in the mess, and then … up in an Armstrong-Whitworth F.K.3, up into the windy sky, and over the grey, tossing sea, where, on a clearer day than this, you could see France.

The attempt to save married men from conscription hadn't lasted long, Cate thought. The first conscription law, embodying that principle, had been passed only in January, and here it was barely five months later, and every man from eighteen to forty-one now made liable, married or not. Swanwick had been right when he said, about the first bill – ‘It won't work, you'll see. The best men will go, as they would have done anyway, and the others will get married and thumb their noses at the tribunals.'

He glanced through the rest of the paper: the Germans had admitted that it was one of their U-boats that had sunk the
Sussex
, and promised to punish the captain … by making him stand in the corner for an hour, probably. The Americans were going to accept the apology, though … At the trial of Casement it had been brought out that Germany had sent Russian rifles and ammunition to the Irish rebels. He wondered whether Margaret had been using one during the siege of the Dublin Post Office. At the courts martial of the rebel leaders it had been established that she was present, but had escaped after being wounded. He wondered where she was now, and whether her wound had healed.

A beautiful day, and the guns from France had been quiet during the night. He'd better spend the morning with Frank Cawthon, one of his tenant farmers, and tell Mrs Abell to serve lunch early because in the afternoon he had to attend a meeting of the Mid-Scarrow War Problems Committee, when the Mayor of Hedlington and representatives of the surrounding villages met to discuss and, if possible, solve problems common to all of them, and in some degree or other, caused by the war … shortage of labour of all kinds; village girls emigrating to what was, to them, the big city, often to end up as homeless vagrants and prostitutes; military deserters keeping themselves alive by robbery; maintenance and support of illegitimate babies, whose fathers were often now dead; falsification of medical certificates to avoid conscription. All these problems, and many more, would become acute once this new bill came into full effect, probably in a month or six weeks' time.

Tom Rowland pushed aside the pile of sailors' service records on his table and looked at his watch. Seven-twenty in the evening, still broad daylight in these high latitudes. The Commander-in-Chief's signal, ‘All ships prepare for sea,' had been hoisted at 5.40, nearly two hours ago. Steam should be up in another half hour, and then the Engineer Commander, Warner, would make sure that the boilers were maintained at constant pressure, and wait. They'd all wait … wait for another sweep of the North Sea, or another signal ordering all ships to return to normal harbour readiness.

He sat back looking through the open scuttle without really seeing what he was seeing … the battleships of the 4th Battle Squadron anchored in line in the centre of the Flow –
Iron Duke
, wearing Admiral Jellicoe's flag as fleet flagship;
Benbow, Superb, Canada; Belleroption, Temeraire, Vanguard
. If he turned his head and looked through the open door of his cabin on the quarterdeck he would see the other five ships of the 4th Light Cruiser Squadron, to which
Penrith
belonged … And if he got up and went out on deck, he would see the whole Flow full of the dark shapes, in ordered lines, the slate-coloured water lapping the steel walls of the Grand Fleet …
King George V, Ajax, Centurion, Erin; Orion, Monarch, Conqueror, Thunderer; Colossus, Collingwood, Neptune, St Vincent; Marlborough, Revenge, Hercules, Agincourt
– all battle ships;
Invincible, Inflexible, Indomitable
– battle cruisers, faster but less heavily armed and armoured …
Minotaur, Hampshire, Cochrane, Shannon
– armoured cruisers … and there were four more battleships, six battle cruisers, four armoured cruisers, and twelve light cruisers with the Battle Cruiser Force down at Rosyth and Cromarty, ready to take their places with the Fleet at sea
when ordered out; and all this took no account of eighty destroyers. Here was the greatest force of sea power ever assembled, the heart and soul of England's ability to wage war, to survive … but still a deadly bore to be part of, when the Germans would not come out. You sat … waited for signals … practised deployments into varying battle formations to suit varying circumstances … steamed back to Scapa … and looked at the barren rocks, the seagulls, the cormorants, watched the rain slash down on the decks, listened to the hands singing in the mess decks, music hall ditties, sentimental ballads …

He picked up the newspaper, a week old, that lay on the back of his table. It was folded at the page for women, and showed drawings of new summer fashions. He had been studying them before he turned to the sailors' service records, and now looked again, pencil in hand. It was amazing how messy this design was – he drew a new line, and another, trying to imagine that the actual lines printed on the paper had been erased: now it was cleaner and more feminine. Women were fussy, heaven knew, but they shouldn't be allowed to wear fussy clothes. The designer of this had probably been a woman. The material should be … what? He knew nothing about materials. He tore out the section of paper which he had been working on, tore it into tiny strips and dropped them into his waste paper basket.

The hands were singing
Ah belong to Glescie
, Glasgow's unofficial anthem:

Ah belong to Glescie, dear auld Glescie town
,

Wha's the matter wi' Glescie, for it's gannin' roon and roon?

Ah'm only a puir little working chap, as anyone here can see
,

But when I get a drap on a Saturday night, why then Glescie belongs to me!

But the singing was not from below decks. He slid out of the chair – it was screwed to the deck so it could not be pushed back – put on his cap with the single line of gold braid denoting his rank of Commander, and went out on the quarterdeck. At once he saw a motor launch approaching from the direction of the Stromness jetty. The daily steamer that linked the Flow with Thurso on the mainland was at the jetty, black smoke drifting away on the light wind. The
launch was one of the fleet's liberty boats, and it was the men in the liberty boat who were singing. Four of them would be for
Penrith
, Tom thought – remembering who was due back from seven days' leave today. They'd made it just in time for the sweep, exercise, rehearsal, whatever it turned out to be. He glanced at the Officer of the Watch and saw that it was Sub-Lieutenant Lydiard, his telescope under his arm. He had only joined a month ago from
Lion
, where he'd been a midshipman. A petty officer and a couple of quartermasters were waiting at the head of the gangway. There might be some trouble when the returning liberty men, who sounded quite drunk, reached that point; but they could handle it. He returned to his cabin.

Liberty … he had just had a week, and would be due again in October if nothing interfered. He had thought of arranging matters so that he could spend this last leave with Ordinary Seaman Charlie Bennett, but it had come up unexpectedly and there had not been time. Between now and October, surely it could be fixed. The mental picture of Bennett came before his eyes – curly blond hair, rounded jawline, soft skin, grey eyes, deep dimple in his chin, the long pale eyelashes. His voice was clear and soft, too, though he spoke in the guttural Northumbrian accent called Geordie. Charlie was due for liberty at about the same time. It could be done … it must be done. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He sometimes thought he would go insane, under the strain of wanting this man, as a lover, and having to treat him as nothing more than a cog in the running of H.M.S.
Penrith
. Four more months …

The singing was loud and clear now. The liberty men must be at the head of the gangway. The senior quartermaster would be checking their names against the liberty roll. The singing disintegrated into shouting, angry, drunken yelling. He heard Lydiard's high, clear upper-class voice, ‘Stop that nonsense!' So the men were thinking of taking a swing at the sideboys or the quartermasters … and Lydiard must have been close. Tom leaped up and out of the cabin in one motion, and saw what he had feared – Lydiard was there, between a quartermaster and a sideboy, a foot or two from the four reeling sailors.

‘Mr Lydiard!' Tom shouted.

Lydiard turned, saluting – ‘Sir?'

‘I wish to speak to you,
at once!
'

‘Aye, aye, sir!' The sub-lieutenant, tall, twenty years old with dark brown hair and a thin intense face, doubled across the quarterdeck and stood to attention. Tom spoke in a fierce undertone – ‘Mr Lydiard, do you realize that those liberty men are drunk?'

‘Yes, sir, that's why I thought I'd better help the …'

Tom cut in, ‘Didn't they teach you anything in
Lion?
What will happen if one of them hits a quartermaster?'

‘Four or five days in the cells, sir.'

‘Right. And what will happen if he hits
you?'

The young officer was silent, the telescope rigid under his arm.

Tom said, ‘Court martial … dismissed the service … four or five
years
in gaol … When there is any chance of trouble with men who've had too much to drink, officers WILL keep clear. The Master at Arms and Regulating Officers are quite capable of handling any trouble of that sort … much more capable than you are. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Get back to duty … there!' He pointed at the stern, under the gently fluttering White Ensign; and watched till Lydiard had marched himself there, and begun an easy stroll back and forth across the quarterdeck, telescope under one arm, seemingly oblivious of the commotion at the head of the gangway, where the liberty men, now silent, were being hustled forward along the deck.

Tom returned to his cabin, sat down once more, and pulled the pile of service records towards him.

Hardly any time seemed to have passed before he heard the voice at his open cabin door – ‘Sir … signal hoisted by the Commander-in-chief: Fleet will leave harbour at nine-thirty p.m. by the DT 3 method. The signal was hoisted at eight-seven.' Tom glanced at his watch; it was now eight-eight. Lydiard and the duty signalman had wasted no time.

He said, ‘Has the Captain been told?'

‘Yes, sir. I called him on the quarterdeck Navy phone. He's coming up.'

Tom went out, and found his Captain already there, together with Lieutenant Commander the Honourable William Mainprice-King, the First Lieutenant; and Lieutenant de Saumarez, the navigating officer.

‘DT 3,' Captain Leach said, ‘that's south of the Skerries – twelve knots till the fleet's all clear – then east-south-east, seventeen knots.'