Villar grinned at him. ‘Provided the
Empire Prince
is on station, sir, we should pick her up tomorrow morning.’ He gripped the hand-basin as the deck slid away once more. ‘Though radar isn’t too hopeful. This sea is not helping it much.’
Blake stretched his arms. Another day, and now another night. The ships blundering towards each other like helpless drunks. One signal would be enough, but if Rietz was anywhere nearby it would be all that was needed to smash everything.
The weather was the one enemy they had not allowed for. Fairfax was to make another signal when he was in contact with the enemy. An ordinary follow-up to his original one about damage. A signal would be flashed instantly to
Andromeda,
the rest was mostly up to Weir. But they had to be certain where Fairfax was. An auxiliary oiler was not the most manoeuvrable of vessels. She could have drifted in the swell, been forced miles off course.
Villar said quietly, ‘You could send Masters at first light, sir. He’s done it before.’
Blake pictured the Seafox dipping and circling the yellow dinghy, the sense of gratitude and pride he had felt for its pilot. But Villar was right. The sea might ease tomorrow. Already he knew he was finding an excuse from sending two men to do the impossible.
‘I’ll think about it, Pilot.’
Andromeda
’s bows lifted and then smashed through a steep roller like a giant plough, the impact making the bridge shiver, the guns rattle on their mountings.
Down on the forward messdeck there was a chorus of shouts and curses from the off-watch hands who were still grouped round the wooden tables. A few unguarded plates and mugs scattered in fragments amongst a growing pile of sea-boots and oilskins.
Leading Seaman Musgrave had been attempting to darn a hole in his sock and threw it down with disgust.
‘Roll on my bleedin’ twelve! I’ve just about
had
this!’
Another yell broke out as the ship seemed to reel over to the thrust of the sea, and they heard it thundering along the deck overhead and cascading over the side like a waterfall.
The tannoy came on. ‘Aircraft handling party and catapult crew will be required at oh-six-thirty tomorrow.’
A seaman said, ‘Skipper must be gettin’ eager. I wouldn’t fancy flyin’ in this lot!’
The tannoy again. ‘Cooks and sweepers clear up messdecks and flats for rounds. Ordinary Seaman Corker muster at the master-at-arms’ office.’
They began to tidy up their mess, a table set in a line amongst many, where they lived, slept, slung their hammocks and endured.
‘Poor old Dicky Corker’s been up to his tricks. Up before the jaunty, eh?’ There were several unsympathetic chuckles. ‘Shouldn’t have joined if he can’t take a joke!’
Musgrave looked round his domain with approval. ‘Fair enough, lads.’
He listened to the boom of the sea against the cruiser’s hull, the way the nearest scuttle was weeping sea-water each time they shipped it green. And that was in spite of a steel dead-light well screwed down over its glass.
He thought about the double line of corpses, the rain and old Horlicks rabbitting on about God and forgiveness. It made him feel uneasy. After this he would ask for a transfer to small ships, a frigate maybe, or spin it out for a bit ashore on a petty officer’s course. He grinned. Provided, of course,
he didn’t go and get busted before they got home again.
Someone asked, ‘Who’s doin’ rounds tonight, Hookey?’
Musgrave frowned. ‘Lieutenant Blair, ‘our Micky’.’
He was the Australian quarters officer of B turret. He was quite popular with the lower deck, but they still thought him a bit odd.
Musgrave explained, ‘You know, the one ’o comes in an’ says, “ ‘Owarewealldoin’ then?” ’
A marine’s bugle shattered the calm and a petty officer bellowed, ‘Attention for rounds!’
Lieutenant Blair came through the watertight door, swaying unsteadily as the ship took another plunge.
He gave a cheerful smile and asked politely, ‘How are we all doing then?’
Commander Victor Fairfax pressed his face against the bridge windows and stared towards the oiler’s blunt bows. The
Empire Prince
appeared to be swinging to starboard, but he knew it was an illusion. The rollers had eased away into a long running sea, with great streaks of foam writhing across the ship’s path. It should still be daylight, but it was barely possible to make out the forecastle from the oiler’s high bridge. For several hours there had been a strange, peach-coloured sky, like an artist’s impression, without reality.
He walked to the rear of the bridge which, compared to a man-of-war’s, was spacious. The quartermaster stood on his grating behind the polished wheel, his eyes lifted to the gyrorepeater. There was a lookout on either side of the wheelhouse, a petty officer making notes in the deck-log.
The
Empire Prince
was so well loaded she seemed almost indifferent to the angry water around her. A rich prize for any raider.
He glanced at the faces of the men on watch and tried to memorize the others around the ship. It was strange to be serving with men he did not know. Few of them knew each other, and he guessed it was the usual arrangement for a special mission, or an ‘early suicide’ as Lieutenant Williams, his temporary second in command, had described it. Williams
was the real expert, an RNR officer, he had served most of his peacetime life in oil tankers. He was a laconic, nuggety Welshman from Cardiff with few illusions left about the reliability of the top brass.
Williams entered the bridge, banging his sodden cap against his thigh, his eyes nevertheless taking in the compass, the ship’s head and the general alertness of the watchkeepers.
He nodded to Fairfax. ‘I suggest you get your head down, sir. You’ll be busy in the morning, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Fairfax replied, ‘I feel okay.’
‘Mebbee.’ Williams jammed the battered cap on his head and took out his pipe and pouch. ‘But you know I’m right, all the same.’ He glanced at the interwoven gold lace on his sleeve. ‘I understand ships, sir, but I’m not much of a man of action. I’m a survivor, if you like.’
Fairfax watched him as the blue tobacco smoke went jerkily upwards into the fans.
‘Why did you volunteer for
this
, then?’
Williams grinned. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood the question, sir.’
‘Well, I’m glad you are here.’ He peered aft towards the squat funnel and the remaining superstructure. Between it and the bridge the masts and derricks with their complicated array of rubber fuel hoses looked like some kind of obscene creeper. ‘I’m more used to being able to shoot back!’
Williams smiled. Fairfax seemed all right. Not one of those hell for leather madmen who were usually the first to crack wide open when they were most needed.
He said, ‘What d’you reckon our chances, sir?’
Fairfax walked to the chart table. ‘
Andromeda
will be about here.’ He tapped the pencilled lines. ‘Pity about
Fremantle
. We could do with a bit more muscle.’
Williams shrugged as if it was no concern of his at all. ‘Well, we have our orders. No heroics, no matter what. Surely a cruiser can cope with a bloody armed merchantman, sir?’
Fairfax looked at him grimly. What was the point in telling him what Blake had suggested, that there were two raiders, not one? They were committed, and any more anxiety was
pointless. He saw the stubborn lines around Williams’ mouth. Any more than there was a point in Williams’ remark about no heroics. They both knew that if it came to the crunch they would have a go at the bastard.
He said, ‘I think
Andromeda
will cope.’ He looked at the camp-bed by the chart space. ‘I’ll do as you say. Call me if. . . .’
Williams nodded. ‘I know, sir,
if.
’
Fairfax lay down and turned on his side, his back to the wheelhouse. He listened to the muted beat of engines, the occasional flurry of blown spray across the windows.
Tomorrow. Nothing might happen at all. He thought of Sarah, could almost feel her pressed against him.
Fairfax had had quite a few girls before he had settled down with Sarah. Even after their marriage he had played around once or twice when his ship had been away from her home port. It had been a part of his life, something everyone treated as normal.
He closed his eyes tightly.
Not any more.
They both knew that now.
He slipped suddenly into a deep sleep, one arm out-thrust and moving in time with the ship’s motion.
Hours later, Lieutenant Williams was refilling his pipe and thinking of sending for his relief. The sea was calmer but some rain had begun to fall. It was drumming over the wheelhouse like busy fingers, insistent and somehow menacing.
Williams was unperturbed. He knew about the storm, and he had a good idea that the rain was in its path. If it was, it would get worse before long, and so would the sea. But the
Empire Prince
was a well-found ship. Pity they couldn’t be bothered to built them in peacetime, he thought.
The starboard door slammed back and an oilskinned figure lurched into the wheelhouse, streaming with rain and spray as if he had come from the sea itself.
A petty officer yelled, ‘Shut that door, you half-wit! You’ll light up the whole ruddy ocean!’
Williams regarded the intruder coldly. It was a lookout from the bridge wing.
‘Well? This had better be good!’
The seaman gulped air and wiped his reddened face. ‘I – I’m not sure, sir.’
Fairfax hurried across the bridge, his hair tangled over his forehead.
‘What’s happened?’
The seaman was beginning to regret his impulse. He said, ‘I thought I heard an aircraft, sir.’
Fairfax said sharply, ‘
All lights out!
’
The wheelhouse was suddenly pitch black, except for the luminous glow of the gyro-compass and the helmsman’s eyes, like two white marbles.
‘Open the door.’
Fairfax groped out on to the slippery plating, his ears useless against the roar and hiss of the sea, the jubilant sluice of water along the oiler’s fat flank.
Williams said dryly, ‘Aircraft, you say? We’re nowhere near any air cover and out of range of everything but the bloody birds!’
Fairfax gripped his arm. ‘Listen!
Now!
’
There it was. A faint, indistinct drone, lost almost at once in the ocean’s noises.
Williams stared at him in the darkness. ‘By God, they’ve found us.’
They strained their ears for a few more moments but there was nothing.
In silence they re-entered the wheelhouse and snapped on the lights.
Fairfax said slowly, ‘I think a drink all round is indicated, and one for the lookout.’
LIEUTENANT JEREMY MASTERS
groped his way cautiously across the upper bridge, each hand seeking a firm hold before letting go with the other. Water surged everywhere, gurgling noisily through the scuppers or splashing over the huddled Oerlikon gunners on either wing.
It was dawn, but when he peered over the screen all he could see was the foam boiling along the side or rising over the guard-rails as if to knock some unwary seaman from his feet. Beyond the tossing spray the sea was as black as a boot.
He saw Blake’s shape in the familiar bridge chair, shining faintly as the rain and spray bounced across his oilskin. Masters measured the distance, took a deep breath and hurled himself towards the forward gratings.
The Toby Jug, massively black and unusually cheerful, called, ‘That’s right, sir, one ‘and for the King but keep one for yerself!’
Blake half turned and said, ‘Look at it. You can’t fly in this.’
Masters sensed his anxiety, his frustration, as the ship plunged and reared over the dark water.
‘I could have a go, sir.’
‘No.’
What was the point in discussing it? The Seafox’s range of four hundred odd miles left no room for error. Masters and his observer could fly on and on into oblivion and discover nothing.
A small figure hovered by the chair, trying to guard a steaming jug from the mixture of salt and rain.
‘Cocoa, sir?’
Blake nodded. He felt stretched out like piano wire. Almost
at breaking point. Damn the weather. Where was the change of luck they needed so desperately?
He noticed that the slightly-built seaman was Digby, the one who had discovered the grisly remains on the islet.
Blake sipped the cocoa, it was scalding, in spite of the long haul from the galley. It seemed to cling to his stomach lining like an extra skin.
He asked, ‘All right, Digby?’
The youth stared at him, astonished that anyone remembered his name, especially the captain, and at a time like this.
‘Y-yes, I mean, aye, aye, sir.’
He took a quick glance past the captain, knowing he would always remember the moment. When he had shared this high, unprotected place with Blake. Out there, beyond the streaming arrow-head of the forecastle, was the whole ocean. Unlike some of his tough and seasoned messmates, Digby knew there was no land within safe distance. The nearest was straight down, twelve thousand fathoms beneath
Andromeda
’s keel.
Masters was saying, ‘You’re certain it’ll be today, sir?’
Blake turned angrily. ‘I’m not bloody sure of anything!’ He touched the airman’s jacket impetuously. ‘Sorry. Unforgivable.’
Masters grinned. ‘We all take you for granted, sir. That’s the best of being a ‘temporary gentleman’!’ He ducked as more spray came inboard. ‘Nobody expects
anything
of me!’
Villar clawed his way across the bridge. ‘Signal, sir! From Naval Operations, immediate.
Empire Prince
has made her arranged signal. My team is plotting the position now, but as far as I can gather she’s about two hundred and seventy-five miles south-south-west of us.’
Masters said under his breath, ‘Just as well I didn’t fly-off.’
Blake thrust past him and lifted the hood above the chart table.
Empire Prince
in the original plan would have done well. But in this mounting sea things could change.
He said, ‘Alter course to intercept, Pilot. Warn the engineroom.’