The raft spun slightly, a tiny craft on the vast open plain of the inhospitable sea; settling into another trough, carefully tended, for the moment, by the endless waves.
“I’ve got one,” Johnny said. “There was a young virgin from Glasgow.…”
The voices of the men grew fainter as they laughed at the ridiculous words, the wind gently pushing the raft over the waves, farther away from the unmarked grave of N-for-Nancy and the men that lay entombed within her.
Chapter 24
Land rubbed the stiffness out of the back of his neck and paced the narrow confines of the tiny bridge. He glanced at the stoic form of Prometheus, beating her way through the sea, two points off the port bow of Firedancer.
Hardy had tried to edge Firedancer well off the cruiser’s starboard bow after Firedancer had switched stations with Windsor and Eskimo. He was going to place her far ahead of the position prescribed by Whittlesey, but Prometheus caught on and sent Firedancer’s pennants up the yardarm. Resume your station, Firedancer had been told, and not once, but three times.
Each time Hardy had cursed the signalman’s message and replied, simply: “Tell the bastard, ‘Acknowledged. ’” He had reluctantly ordered Land to make the necessary course alterations, rather than to perform the distasteful duty himself.
“Number One,” Hardy said, squeezing between the chief yeoman of signals and the voice tubes, “are we properly stationed for His Majesty over there?”
“We appear to be, sir,” Land said. “At least our pennant hasn’t made an appearance in the last hour.”
“We must be thankful for small miracles, mustn’t we?” Hardy said. “I am blind to port because of Prometheus, so let us hope that the enemy has the good sense to come from starboard.”
“Signal from flagship, sir,” the chief yeoman of signals reported.
“Oh, what the bloody hell is it now?” Hardy exploded. “We’re where we should be, aren’t we? Number One, have you taken her one point out of station without my permission?”
“No, sir.”
“‘Flagship to Firedancer.’” The yeoman read the Morse lamp signal. “‘Aircraft down. Sixty miles, bearing 183 degrees. Proceed to rescue. Rejoin squadron when rescue effected. End of message.’”
Hardy said: “Number One, prepare a boat party. Yeoman, reply to Prometheus, ‘Message received, acknowledged. Proceeding as instructed.’” Hardy flipped open the brass cover of the engine room voice tube. “Engine Room? Bridge here. Light off number three. Let me know when she’s ready. Stand by for increase in revolutions. Quartermaster?” he called. “Bridge here. Starboard thirty. We shall become an ambulance.”
“Bridge, Quartermaster. Starboard thirty,” the helmsman confirmed. “Wheel starboard thirty.”
Hardy made his way to the binnacle and watched the compass needle swing. Smartly done, he thought. At least he was free of Prometheus and could act on his own. He didn’t like to take orders and could barely stomach suggestions, and his irritation at being nudged in one direction or another had increased significantly since the Second Night. But he remembered his heated conversation with Land, especially when Number One had said: “I was there, too.” It was a relief that Land said it aloud. For some reason, and Hardy had thought this through and could find no logical reason for it, it was as if the burden of his actions had been shared by Land’s acknowledgment, and it did not lie all on his shoulders alone. Stupid, bloody emotions. No sense to any of it.
Now I can do something positive. I can go and pull some poor bastards out of the cold sea and give them a warm place to lay their head. He suddenly remembered his comment about Firedancer being an ambulance and he felt a twinge of shame. What’s wrong with the old girl being an ambulance? he told himself. Change of pace for her — do her a bit of good.
Do yourself some good, you mean, old bastard, he told himself. Good God, he thought. Now I’m a philosopher as well!
Turm Oberbootsmannmaat Herbert Statz had been proud of Bruno’s performance against the English vessel although he couldn’t see anything more than the crowded confines of the turret during the battle. He had heard of course; the loudspeaker within the turret kept Statz and the others informed of the action.
Statz had taken time to visit the crews of the other two guns and speak to them about the victory. He spoke to them as if Bruno alone had destroyed the English cruiser while the crews of the other turrets did little. Those who listened understood the pride that Statz felt because they felt it as well. They could feel nothing else. Sea Lion was almost too big, too fast, and too powerful to conceive of. She was a complex city that functioned perfectly, that performed beyond anyone’s expectations, and there was nothing like her on the seas. That is the reason that Statz took the time to speak to the other sailors: he wanted to share his pride, and exalt in theirs, of Sea Lion.
Statz found Bootsmannsmaat Otto Liebs calmly sitting on a shell-transfer capstan near the upper revolving shell ring, eating potted meat from a tin. He alternated between the meat and a stack of crackers poised precariously on his knee.
“How can you eat that shit, Liebs?” Statz said.
Liebs dipped a piece of cracker in the tin, scooped out some potted meat, and popped it into his mouth. “I can eat anything. I’m not so fancy as you gunners.”
Statz glanced at the racks of high-explosive shells surrounding the room. They were two decks down and encased in an armored barbette, but one lucky shot piercing this room would send the turret above them straight up into the air.
“Keep your hands off my children,” Liebs said, digging in the tin.
“Children?” Statz said.
“I’d give them all names but there are too many of them. You fellows above don’t have the sensibilities that we shell handlers do. We do the real work. My children are the real heroes.”
“What about my guns?”
“They are of no consequence,” Liebs said.
“What do the fellows in the powder rooms say, then?”
Liebs shrugged. “Who listens to them? That reminds me.” He set the tin on the deck, rose, and made his way to the shell hoist shutter casing. He turned a butterfly knob and opened an access panel. Taking a flashlight from his overall back pocket, he peered into the shell hoist trunking. Apparently satisfied with its condition, he closed and locked the panel. “Have you seen Kuhn lately?”
The question shocked Statz. “What?”
Liebs turned off the light and slid the flashlight into his back pocket. “They say Kuhn is wandering the ship at night.”
“That’s not funny,” Statz said. “He was my friend.”
“Mine as well,” Liebs said. “You forget that we had liberty together quite often. That doesn’t change things. Eich saw him near the hydraulic accumulator. Hillen said that he saw Kuhn in one of the cordite storage bays.”
“Hillen is a fool.”
“Of course he is. But he’s not the only one who says that he saw Kuhn.”
“What of it?”
Liebs shrugged again. “Nothing. Some sailors are concerned about such things. It means nothing to me.”
“All we need to be concerned with,” Statz said, “is our duty. We serve the guns and think of nothing else.”