Killing Ground (37 page)

The enemy attacks on escort vessels were not coincidental; other ships had been mauled both by submarines and aircraft, with several new crosses on the plot to give grim evidence of this new phase of war.

The duty operations officer sauntered over to their table and nodded. “Take a break. I have a feeling things will hot up shortly. The boss is here already, usually a bad omen.”

The tiny room where the officers could have tea or relax with a smoke was almost humid—the summer had been a long one.

Evelyn brought two cups of tea and one spoon. “All there are left.” She sat down untidily and thrust out her legs like a man.

Celia thought of the way he had held her, how she had realised he had wanted her so desperately. She did not know, could not tell …

She looked up, startled, as the other Wren said, “Auntie time, old chap. Isn't it about the right moment to spill the beans? If you don't, you'll drive yourself crazy. You've lost weight—something you never needed, not like
me!”
She became serious again. “What does
he
think?”

Perhaps she was right. That it might help to talk. “He loves me.” It sounded so empty that she said,
“Really
loves me. God knows, I'm bad luck—I told him that too.” She stood up suddenly and walked across the room. “I'm afraid. I want him to love me.”

“And you think that you might not be able to give it in return? That he'll be hurt, get tired of waiting, something like that?”

She sat down again and gave a small smile. “Very like that.”

“I think I know you pretty well, Celia. I know you're not the type to leap into bed with anyone you take a fancy to, and from what you've told me he certainly doesn't sound the type either. Otherwise you'd never have opened up to him about what happened with Jamie.”

Celia sighed. “I do seem to tell you rather a lot, don't I?”

“Not much else to do up here.” She watched her warily. “I have a cousin who's got a cottage up in the Lake District. I could easily fix it, next time you can both snatch some leave.”

Celia stared at her. “What, a secret place, you mean? Just like that? A little black nightie and some perfume?”

Evelyn smiled. “Has he ever suggested anything of the kind?”

Celia said nothing. Howard had told her about the girl he had once known, and, she suspected, had loved. He had just received his first command and had gone straight into the thick of it when, she guessed, he had won his DSC. The girl had not waited for him, and Celia wondered how it had affected him. She had been shocked when they had last met in that same shabby restaurant before he had sailed again for Iceland. He had seemed empty, utterly drained; even the news of his proposed DSO had had no effect.

“I would give myself to him tomorrow if I thought it would help. Give him something to—to hold on to.” She hesitated, remembering what he had said.
Can't you see, girl? I'm in love with you!
“I wouldn't want to with anyone else.”

Evelyn said kindly, in her brisk, no-nonsense manner, “Sounds suspiciously like love to me, Celia.”

She barely heard, remembering the flecks of grey in his
hair, the lines at his mouth; the way he clung to her hand, like a lifeline.

“What shall I say? What must I do?”

They returned to the desk and she saw the chief of staff's assistant in deep conference with the other heads of department.

A Wren petty officer with a coder's badge on her sleeve bent down by their desk.

“The eastbound's in a spot of bother, ma'am. Their escort carrier has engine trouble and will return to Halifax. The westbound has another carrier, the
Seeker—
she will supply air cover from tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Evelyn leafed expertly through her file and then handed the relevant flimsy to a messenger. Between her teeth she said, “The carrier breakdown has delayed our eastbound.” She squinted at the plot. Almost too casually she added, “The thirty-second escort group has been redirected. Two hundred miles. Should be all right according to the Met report.”

Celia watched the little counters appear for the first time: Captain Vickers's
Kinsale,
and then some twenty miles distant, the half-leader,
H-38.
There was a gap this time. Poor
Ganymede.

And so it went on. Signals in and out, senior officers speaking to their various subordinates. The Wrens up and down the ladders, moving ships, marking some losses in a coastal convoy, with the RAF Coastal Command people listening to the latest Met reports, the availability of their new long-range aircraft from Northern Ireland, Iceland and Newfoundland.

The duty operations officer, an RNVR lieutenant-commander, said, “One of the additional escorts has made a distress signal, sir.”

The assistant to the chief of staff folded his arms while the others around him poised themselves as they had done so many times.

Captain Naish stared hard at the plot. “Make a signal to the thirty-second group—Captain Vickers will act on this. He must be the closest.” He waited for the telephones to click into action.
“How bad is it?”

“One torpedo, sir. Down by the bows. Requires assistance.”

“With this convoy coming through I can't spare any other escorts, Tim. The half-leader will be the most available—ask Vickers to detach
Gladiator.
She was the last to refuel.”

A door opened and without looking the girl knew it was the boss.

He asked, “Which escort?”

“The corvette
Tacitus,
sir. Lieutenant-Commander Marrack.”

“Keep me informed.” The door closed again.

The two Wren officers looked at each other and Celia said quietly, “Why can't they send someone else?”

Evelyn watched her unhappily, not understanding.

She said, “He's often spoken of Marrack.
They
were friends too.” She pushed her knuckles into her mouth and then said in a small voice, “Don't you see? After
Ganymede
and everything else …” She could not go on.

“I
do
see.” Evelyn stared at the plot but saw only the little marker, where a solitary escort lay at the mercy of the sea and the enemy.
Gladiator
would be on her way by now, and should reach the torpedoed vessel by dawn. Marrack's ship must have helped escort the carrier to safety and been trying to return to the convoy. She glanced at the two RAF officers. But there
should
be long-range air cover, even at that distance, when daylight found them.

Beside her Celia took the latest pad of signals from a messenger and waited for her vision to clear.

To herself she whispered, Oh,
David, I do love you so.

The duty officer rapped out more figures and the ladders began to move again. “To commodore.
There are now twenty-plus U-Boats in your vicinity.”

Naish patted his pockets but had forgotten his cigarettes. He pictured his tall friend directing his killer-group to the east-bound convoy:
D'you Ken John Peel?
It was very apt. His glance fell on the latest female addition to the ops room. Rear-Admiral
Lanyon's daughter. She would be a real catch for some lucky chap. But she looked strained and pale, and he suddenly remembered a rumour he had picked up at the club. As she stared at the small isolated counter,
H-38,
Captain Naish knew that it was no longer just a rumour.

Howard slid open the chart-room door and stared at Treherne and Rooke, who were busy with their calculations. It was all but dark beyond the ship, with thick cloud and the hint of rain. He should never have allowed himself to lie down in his sea cabin; it was always worse this way, the sudden shrill of the telephone, all his instincts forcing sleep and escape into the background.

“No further signals, Number One?”

“None, sir.” Treherne watched him, saw the battle Howard was already fighting.

Howard looked at Rooke. “Well,
come on,
man, I'm not a bloody mind-reader!”

Rooke pointed with his dividers. “Twenty-five degrees west, fifty-five north, sir.”

“I'm going up top.” Howard fastened his duffle coat, the one he had once offered to Treherne. “By the time I get there I want the course-to-steer, and the ETA. I shall have a word with the Chief.”

He pulled the door behind him and for just a few moments stood with his back against the damp steel while he calmed his breathing.

On the other side of the door Treherne said quietly, “Take it off your back, Pilot. He didn't mean to bite your head off.
Tacitus
's skipper used to be Number One here. A pal of his.” He smiled sadly. “One of the family, so to speak.”

Rooke sighed. “In that case …”

Treherne made for the door. “In that case,
get it right!”

On the upper bridge Howard replaced the engine-room telephone and listened to the regular beat of engines.

He heard Rooke and Treherne speaking by the ready-use
chart table, transferring the calculations which the navigator had just completed.

Rooke said, “Course-to-steer is two-four-five, sir.”

Howard glanced at Treherne's shaggy silhouette. “Bring her round. Revs for twenty knots. With the sea fairly calm, we shouldn't shake about too much, but better warn the watch below.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” They would be having their supper when
Gladiator
worked up to that sort of speed, big, sickening swoops across the unbroken swell. It was to be hoped the PO chef had not produced anything too greasy.

He heard Rooke say carefully, “Estimated time of arrival will be six o'clock onwards, sir. Daylight if the visibility's good.”

“Right.” Howard could sense Rooke's resentment, but it did not seem to matter. Once he would have apologised instantly for unfairly berating a subordinate. Those days had gone somewhere out here in the Atlantic. Tomorrow there might be air cover, or there might not. Two large convoys passing, vital supplies, and more troops to extend the victories in Italy, and elsewhere.

But at this moment there were only two ships he cared about, and Marrack would be desperate. His first command. What he had always wanted. Even the corvette's reported position was too vague for complete accuracy. There was never enough time when hell burst in on you.

He watched the sea creaming away from either bow, the spray starting to drift over the bridge or beat against the glass screen. Lucky they had been the last to take on fuel from a fleet tanker; otherwise, someone else would be heading for that tiny pencilled cross down to southwest-by-south. The telephone in his sea cabin had torn him from another terrible dream. He had been helplessly watching her being raped by the man in the flying-suit; holding her down and laughing, laughing.

Treherne rejoined him. “No more from W/T, sir. Keeping the air clear for the strategists.” He said it without bitterness, but
Howard could feel the hurt he was sharing with him.

Treherne said unexpectedly, “Had a bit of good news when we were in last, sir. My girl's husband got himself killed.” He chuckled in the darkness. “He was pissed apparently, and got run over by an armoured car!”

They both laughed like schoolboys, and then Howard stared at him, knowing they were both going quite mad; there was no other explanation. “Are you going to get married now?”

“Not sure, sir. My old lady walked out on me. I shall have to look into the legal thing when I get a chance.” He added sharply, “If that bastard had laid a hand on her again, I would have done him in myself!”

Howard thought of what he had said to the girl in the restaurant. “It must be catching.”

He leaned his head on his arms and felt the desire to sleep clouding his mind. But he knew that if he did, the terrible dream would be waiting to mock and torment him.

Instead he said, “See if you can rustle up something hot to drink. It's going to be a long night.”

Howard buttoned up the collar of his oilskin as the rain slashed diagonally across the open bridge. It was heavy and surprisingly cold, a reminder, if anyone should need it, that autumn and winter came early to the Western Ocean. The lookouts were changed yet again to prevent them becoming dulled by the regular plunging motion, when they might miss something. The monotonous ping of the Asdic, the occasional shuffle of feet from the crew of B-gun below the bridge, all told of nervous readiness. If there was a battle going on in one or other of the big convoys, it was too far away to concern them. Everybody in
Gladiator's
company would also be aware that they were drawing further and further from aid with each swing of the propellers.

Howard peered through the screen and saw the sea surging alongside. Beyond the curling bow-wave there was just the merest glimpse of the nearest troughs, riding past like heaving
black oil.

Treherne was beside him again, trying to make sure he had forgotten nothing.

Howard said, “We shall stay at defence stations, Number One, but I want both watches on deck, the hull sealed like a sardine tin. I've told Guns that he is excused watch-keeping—I want his control position manned and ready in case we need a starshell or something more lethal. He also knows that the short-range weapons will remain closed-up.” He mopped his face with a towel, but that was already sodden. “This will play hell with visibility.”

“I've warned radar and Asdic, sir.” Treherne hesitated, unwilling to say it. “We must expect the worst to have happened, sir.”

“Yes.” He sounded very quiet, his voice almost lost in the surge and spray of the old enemy. “I realise that. But Marrack won't use his W/T any more. If there's still a U-Boat about, and we have to face that, it might pick up his signals.”

He heard the midshipman burst into a fit of nervous coughing. It often happened, and had got worse since the loss of
Ganymede
and
Mediator.
He had spoken to Moffatt about it, and the doctor had said angrily, “I'll have a word if you like, sir. Some fool at the hospital must have been deaf and blind to send a kid like him back to sea so soon after losing his ship—he's a nervous wreck.”