He was seated at the keyboard and didn’t look up as I entered. He had the earphones clamped to his head and his mind was concentrated on another world. I sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. He didn’t notice me until he looked up to change the tuning. He started to speak, but then held up his hand, listening. After a moment he pushed up one earphone. ‘You’ve heard the news, have you?’
‘Captain Flint left a note in my quarters. Eight-six-one-o won’t be sailing.’
‘I wasn’t referring to that. I thought as you were with Ferguson … He’s calling him now.’
‘Who?’
‘Four-four-Double-o — Captain Kelvedon. He’s in trouble. I picked him up on Voice about half an hour ago asking for Major Braddock. He’s got himself stuck on a falling tide. Went in to pick up McGregor. Ah, here we are. Listen!’ He switched in the loudspeaker and a metallic voice broke into the room. It was Ferguson. ‘… ask him, but ‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t agree to Adams attempting it in these conditions. I don’t think Adams would go, anyway.’
‘The Doc here says there isn’t much time….’
‘That’s Kelvedon,’ Cliff whispered.
‘… and I can’t get out of here for another five hours at least. We’re grounded hard.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was the wind partly. We had it westerly, bang on the nose most of the way across. Then it suddenly backed. ‘I’d never have attempted it, but Fairweather told me the man wouldn’t live if they tried to bring him off in a dory. It was dark as hell and quite a sea running, but I thought I could edge in close enough to drop the ramp with the kedge well out astern. Maybe it was badly laid. And that sandbank. I think it must have been building up without our realising it. The seas slewed us round and we touched the edge of it. Two hours after high water. When we came to winch off we found we were stuck fast.’
‘I see. And what about McGregor?’
‘He’s back in his bed in the hospital hut. But Fairweather doesn’t think he’ll last long. The only hope is to get him out by helicopter.’
‘Okay. ‘I’ll tell the Colonel. What about you, now? Do you want me to have the Navy stand by?’
‘Oh Lord, no. We’re pounding a bit and it’s not very comfortable. But the wind’s veered now. Seems all over the bloody place. But if it stays where it is, north of west, we’ll get off all right on the flood.’
‘Fine. Call me again if there’s anything fresh to report.
Good luck.’ And then he was calling Learg. ‘Are you there, Laerg? Base calling Laerg.’
‘Laerg here,’ a Scots voice answered. ‘Go ahead, Base.’
‘Captain Ferguson here. Keep your set manned throughout the night. I may want to contact Captain Fairweather later.’
‘ Very good, sir.’
‘Is Captain Pinney there?’ There was a pause and then a new voice answered, ‘Pinney here.’
‘How does the landing craft look from the shore, John?’
‘Slewed off about twenty degrees and grounded on that ridge of sand. Nowhere near the ramp.’
‘And the sea?’
‘Moderate. Wind’s getting round into the north-west, so the beach is sheltered, but there’s still a biggish swell coming in. The old can’s grinding a bit, but she’ll be all right. It’s this poor devil McGregor ‘I’m worrying about. Just nothing but bad luck.’ The voice sounded tired.
‘Do what you can, will you? Have a talk with Major Braddock.’
‘He’s down at Leverburgh trying to get the quay cleared.’
‘Well, send a car down for him, see if he can persuade the Colonel. This boy’s going to die if somebody doesn’t take a chance.’
‘Okay, John. Leave it with me.’ Cliff Morgan switched off and the room was suddenly dead as he reached automatically for a cigarette. He lit it, gulping a mouthful of smoke deep into his lungs, breathing it out through his nostrils. ‘Not good, is it? And the wind playing tricks like that …’ He noticed his old cigarette still burning in the ashtray at his elbow and stubbed it out. ‘I don’t like it when I feel like this. The number of times I’ve sat talking to some poor beggar riding the night sky with a load of trouble, or tapping out a message with the radio shack turning somersaults around him. I’ve been right too often, you see. There was that trawler, Grampian Maid. Nobody else could raise her and I was relaying messages until black ice turned her turtle. And a Boeing up over the Arctic — ice again and I was with him up to the moment when his message ceased abruptly. I’m not like an ordinary ‘ham’, you see. I’ve got something to give them — the weather. Ships, aircraft, they live by the weather, and if you know as much about it as I do….’ He sighed and scratched himself under the arm, his hand burrowing inside his shirt. It was an unconscious reflective gesture. ‘You’d better go and get some sleep. And have your things packed ready.’ He was leaning forward, tuning the dials of the radio again.
‘You think the LCT will sail?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Anything could happen…’ He shifted in his seat, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the set as his fingers moved with the touch of a pianist, filling the room with the crackle of static. And behind the static a man’s voice, the words indecipherable. ‘There they are again. Two trawlers south-east of Iceland.’ He clamped both earphones tight to his head, leaning forward, his whole being concentrated in the tips of his fingers as they hovered over the dials. He’d left the loudspeaker on and a Scots voice came faintly, a voice so broad it might have been talking in a foreign tongue: ‘A’ dinna ken w-what it means ony mair thin ye du yersel’, man. Two hoors ago the wind was fra the north. Noo it’s roond into the sou’ east an’ blowing a bluidy gale.’ And another voice barely audible through the crackle: ‘Aye, an’ the glass ganging down agin.’
‘Did ye hear that noo? A bluidy great wave reecht o’er the bows, and the fish still coming in.’
‘ Ye’re on top of a shoal, are ye, Doug?’
‘Aye, blast it. But this is no’ the time to be trawling whativer the bluidy fish. It’s a hell of a night. You hove-to the noo, Jock?’
‘Aye, hove-to and wishing to God I were in me bed with the wife and a wee dram inside o’ me. Ha’ ye got the forecast?’
‘Bluidy lot o’ good the forecast was…’ The static overlaid the voices then and I couldn’t decipher the rest.
After a moment Cliff Morgan pulled his earphones off. ‘ Arctic Ranger talking to Laird of Brora. It’s bad up there and I don’t know quite what it means yet. There’s no clear pattern, you see.’ He was staring down at his notebook, drawing without thinking deep concentric rings. ‘You go to bed,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep whilst you can.’ He ran his hand up over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He looked tired.
‘Are you going to stay up all night?’ I asked.
‘Probably. Maybe when they’ve stopped getting in the nets I’ll be able to contact their radio operators — get some facts out of them. A pair of skippers blethering at each other. Doesn’t tell you anything. I don’t want to know how they feel with all hell let loose. I want to know what the barometer reads and how it compares with the reading three, four hours ago, what the weight of the wind is and whether the temperature is rising or falling.’ He leaned back. ‘Leave me to it, will you now. I want to see if I can raise some vessel further west. If not, I’ll have a talk with the weather ships, see what they’ve got to say.’