Killing Ground (22 page)

“Slow ahead together. Stand by to go alongside portside-to. Tell the Buffer to have all the hammocks brought up to cushion the two hulls as we come together. Yeoman, call up
Redwing
and tell them to hold on.” He thought suddenly of his ship's motto.
With a strong hand.
It was all he could offer now.

He watched the narrowing gap, saw the chaos where fittings had been flung to the deck, blood running on the steel plates as men had been crushed and broken. A ship dying.

“Stop engines.” He added to the voicepipe, “Ease her in, Cox'n. We haven't got a lot of time.” Another quick glance. Perhaps even now a U-Boat's crosswires were holding
Gladiator
and her sinking consort like victims in a web. No, this torpedo had come
a long way, otherwise either
Kinsale
or
Ganymede
would have made contact.

“Slow astern starboard.
Stop.”

Treherne stood high above the screen to watch the Buffer and his men reaching out to seize the first staggering figures from the other vessel. Sub-Lieutenant Bizley was taking charge, and he saw Lawford the doctor waiting by the guardrails with his SBA.

Treherne said urgently, “She's going under, sir!” There was a curtain of steam hissing above the sloop's thin funnel and Howard wondered if any of the stokers had managed to get out.

The last one to be pulled roughly from the tilting deck was the
Redwing's
captain, a bearded RNR officer, a bit like Treherne.

“Cast off! Slow astern starboard! Stand by with fenders!”

Howard watched the captain's despair. It was physical. Like an unhealable wound.
How I would feel if
Gladiator
went down, and I was left behind.

“Pass the word to bring him to the bridge.” Howard lowered his eye to the compass again. “Half ahead together.” When he looked again,
Redwing
was gone, leaving just the usual whirlpool, the rubbish and the oil. The commodore would likely give him a blast for stopping. “What the hell—who cares anyway!” He saw some of the sailors grinning at him and realised he had spoken aloud. He felt a sudden warmth for these men, who trusted him, and who could still find a smile somewhere even when others had died. Not unknown merchant sailors this time but men like themselves. The same uniforms and badges, the same backgrounds and grumbles.

Treherne said, “Steady on zero-five-zero, sir, revolutions one-one-zero.” He eyed Howard, the question still unasked.

Howard thought of the two Germans he had been about to take from the sea when the torpedo had suddenly appeared. He said quietly, “What Germans?” He turned as the other commanding officer was helped up the bridge ladder.

The man stared uncertainly at the interlaced gold stripes on Treherne's jacket which matched his own, and then allowed
Howard to guide him to the bridge chair by the screen, not so very different from the one he had just left.

Howard stood beside him and began to fill his pipe. There was nothing he could say to this man. The right words eluded him; the wrong ones would be an insult.

Redwing
's captain touched his arm but stared ahead at the approaching convoy. “Thanks.”

Perhaps there were no words.

Someone said, “'Ere comes the mungie! 'Bout time too!” as the sandwiches were brought through the bridge gate.

Gladiator
seemed to shake herself. Once again routine was taking over.

On a grey blustery morning HMS
Gladiator
said goodbye to the convoy and with the other escorts headed for the docks.

Howard sat on the bridge chair and stared through the smeared glass screen while Treherne handed him a cup of steaming tea. Afterwards he knew he must have fallen asleep where he sat, and that Treherne had shaken his arm to wake him.

He shivered. It was cold on the open bridge, more like winter than autumn, but he knew it was not just the weather. He felt utterly drained, and was unable to share the relief of many of his men, the luxury of returning to Liverpool when others had died.

They had lost eleven ships from the convoy, five of them tankers, left astern like drifting pyres to mark their hopeless fight. But for a completely unexpected Force Nine westerly gale which had scattered the U-Boat pack, but had helped rather than hampered the remaining merchantmen, the losses would have been twice as many. From the eleven ships there were barely more than thirty survivors.

Howard swallowed the tea and watched the familiar silhouette of the Crosby Light Vessel as
Gladiator
made another turn and followed the
Kinsale
up-river to the docks.

They had already been ordered to proceed directly to Gladstone Dock and refuel. They would be told eventually when
the next convoy was ready for another long haul to Canadian waters. Howard tried to shut it from his mind.
Then back again.
The picture refused to budge. Men in the water calling for help. Ships sinking and on fire, the roar of torpedoes in the night. He even thought of the two survivors from the U-Boat they had sent to the bottom. With disgust sometimes, because he had been glad to leave them to die. To discover how it felt.

He slid from the chair and picked up his binoculars. “I'll take over, Number One. You'd better get up forrard for entering dock.”

Treherne hesitated and glanced at the others. Ayres was bending over the ready-use chart table, but was probably worrying about his brother, and if there was any more news. Finlay, who was the OOW, was looking at the shore, ready to remind the signalmen if there were any lights or flags which they should have seen. Tucker the yeoman was also watching, making certain that Finlay would not catch his team at a loss.

He said, “Remember, sir, we got a U-Boat.” He forced a grin. “After our chums blew it to the surface for us! That's a bonus surely?”

Howard bent over the voicepipe. “Starboard ten.
Steady.
Steer for the mark, Cox'n.” He heard Sweeney's rumbled acknowledgement. How many orders had he passed down this voicepipe? Changes of speed and helm, emergency turns, and desperate zigzags to avoid drifting merchantmen or lifeboats. No wonder the wheelhouse always seemed such a haven of peace in harbour.

He replied, “A drop in the bucket.” He tried to shake himself out of it. Like the hand on the shoulder again. “But our people did well, especially when you consider most of them were at school a short while back.” He raised his glasses to look at the birds on the top of the Liver Buildings. It was not really home, but at this moment it felt like it.

The yeoman called, “From
Kinsale,
sir.
Captain repair on board when convenient.”

Howard nodded. “Acknowledge.” He saw the question in Treherne's eyes and said wearily, “I'm about to get a bottle for
going alongside
Redwing,
I expect!”

“Well, if that's all the thanks you get for …”

Howard waved to a small tug which was heading downriver, her crew lounging on deck like a bunch of old salts. He turned to answer but Treherne had gone. Seething, no doubt, in defence of his captain.

When convenient
was a way of saying he should get shaved and changed before presenting himself in front of Captain Vickers. Maybe the commodore had made an official complaint about his act of mercy. Perhaps it was merely to decide who would take the credit for sinking the German submarine!

In fact it was neither.

As soon as
Gladiator
had secured alongside the oiler in Gladstone Dock, Howard walked across to board the big K-Class destroyer. He felt vaguely embarrassed in his best Number Fives, the gold lace very different from the tarnished, almost brown rings on his sea-going jacket.

Men were at work everywhere, washing down the decks and superstructure to wipe away the stains of battle. Others were dragging sacks of expended cannon shells, which would end up somewhere being made into fresh ammunition. A few would find their way to the stokers' messdeck to be fashioned into ashtrays and paperweights.

The
Kinsale
's first lieutenant greeted him with a smart salute. “Bad trip, sir.” He looked at the shore. “Even this place looks good to me now!”

Howard eyed him gravely. First lieutenants as a breed knew everything, or should do. “What's all this about, Number One?”

He shrugged. “In God's name, sir, I really don't know. All I
do
know is that an admiral, no less, is with the captain right now.” He glanced at his watch. “You're to go down as soon as you arrive.”

Howard could feel him staring after him, probably wondering if he was seeing the next candidate for a court martial.

A white-jacketed steward opened the door for him, but
looked away when Howard was about to speak.

Captain Vickers greeted him with a firm handshake and smiled. “Bloody good show, David!” But the smile did not touch his eyes.

Howard saw a tall rear-admiral standing by an open scuttle drinking coffee. He looked young for his rank, keen-eyed and alert like Vickers.

Vickers began, “This is Rear-Admiral Lanyon, David. It's all very difficult—” The admiral put down his cup and looked at Howard very directly.

“Lieutenant-Commander Howard is a good officer, so I'll come straight to the point. I was asked to come and see you myself, by my daughter actually. I understand that she came to visit you.”

Howard did not know what to say. He had never heard of Lanyon, and his daughter did not make any sense. Lanyon continued, “You knew her as Kirke, her married name.”

Howard stared at him. That was why they had not known her at Portsmouth; she was using her maiden name.

“So when I heard your ETA at Liverpool I drove up.” He tried to smile, like Vickers, but it would not come. “As ordered!”

“What is it, sir? Has something happened?” The hand on the shoulder. He should have known.

Lanyon said quietly, “There was an air raid five days ago. I'm afraid your father was killed. A direct hit on the house.”

Howard walked to an open scuttle and stared out blindly. It was not happening. For an instant he had imagined something was wrong with the girl, then in the same split-second he had thought of his brother. Even though he was on a course, things like that did happen.
But not the Guvnor…

He heard himself ask, “Was it—I mean did he …” He could not go on.

Lanyon said, “My daughter could tell you. She went there afterwards, to find out. It was all over in an instant, I understand. He could have felt nothing. It's not much help, but it's better to
know he didn't suffer.”

Captain Vickers asked, “Drink, David?” He eyed him with concern. “I'm damn sorry, I really am.”

Howard shook his head. Needing to be alone; not knowing what to do. “No, I must get back aboard. We're alongside the oiler.”

Vickers said, “Let your Number One take charge. Do him bloody good!”

The admiral looked at the clock. “I'm to see the C-in-C very shortly.” He glanced at Howard. “I'll run you down to Hampshire in my car when you're ready. Suit you?”

Howard nodded.
Suit you?
How he had put it to Bizley about his DSC.

“What about my ship, sir?”

“We'll manage.” The admiral held out his hand for his oak-leaved cap. “There'll be things you'll want to do, I expect. Your brother's been a tower of strength.”

“I'll see you over the side, sir.” Vickers looked at Howard. “You stay here, David. Long as you like, right?”

The cabin was suddenly empty and quiet, with only the murmur of a generator and muffled shipboard noises to remind him where he was.

All those miles and all those ships and men. And now this. The Guvnor. He buried his face in his hands to stifle his emotion. What a thing to come home to. Except, like the coxswain and Stoker Marshall, he no longer had a home.

There was a discreet tap at the door and the captain's steward padded into the cabin, a glass, filled almost to the brim, balanced on his tray.

He said, “My old chum, Percy Vallance, told me just how you like it, sir, so I fixed you a big 'un.” He watched him take the glass. “Sorry about your spot of news, sir.”

“Do they know aboard my ship already?” He pictured them in his mind. Curiosity and sympathy.
See how the Old Man can handle this one.

The steward shrugged. “Well, you know the
Andrew,
sir, nothing secret for long in this regiment. It happened to me last year. It's something you don't forget.”

Howard stared at him. Just an ordinary man, who was serving as a steward probably because he could get nothing better. And yet one who had taken it on himself to go over to
Gladiator
and ask his chum how his skipper liked his Horse's Neck.

“Bombing, was it?”

The steward looked into the far distance. “No, sir. My dad was a merchant seaman. Found dead with some of his mates in an open boat after they was tin-fished in the Atlantic. I've thought of him a few times these last weeks, I can tell you.”

Howard thought of that other drifting boat and its silent crew; Ayres overcoming his fear and horror; the girl's photograph found with one of the ragged corpses.

“Thank you for telling me.” He put down the glass, surprised that it was empty. “I needed that.”

The steward smiled, knowing that Howard was not referring to the drink. He followed him to the door and said in parting, “Well, sir, as
I
see it, it's what it's all about.”

The
Kinsale's
first lieutenant saw him to the brow and saluted again. “Sorry about your news, sir.”

Howard returned his salute.
Nothing secret for long in this regiment.

He found Treherne waiting for him but before he could speak said, “I'm going south for a couple of days, Number One. Look after her for me, and make certain the lads get as much shore leave as you can manage.”