Burns knew that his mess, down a deck, snug and out of the way, was popular. Icarus' detachment of nine Royal Marines were a happy lot. Burns was in a good billet: his CO, Captain Richard Stoddart, was absent for another three weeks, lent temporarily to HMS Gloucester, the latest of the Type 42 destroyers. Stoddart was a good boss; younger than Burns, he was intelligent enough to realize that his corporal thrived on using his own initiative. Happily leaving Burns in charge of the detachment, Stoddart was attempting, in three weeks, to set Gloucester's Royals on the right lines.
'Evening all…'
The visitors were scrambling down the ladder. Behind them was Charlie Owen, the Lynx's SMR (Senior Maintenance Rating), who was borne on Icarus' books when the flight was carried. Charlie and Burns shared common interests, both with responsibilities above the ordinary; both were 'outsiders' in Icarus' ship's company.
'Oz here yet?' Foulgis was asking. 'Where's he been since Perdix got back from Glorious?' He accepted the can held out to him and wrenched the tag open. Rod Burns listened to the hum of conversation, but he longed for a bit of peace, as he had done ever since that sad Monday…
Oz had taken Fane's death badly, keeping his lone vigil in the chill of the night, sheltering in the lee of the hangar, waiting for the Lynx's return. They had left him to himself; not until he was convinced that Perdix was empty, did he go below — and then, straight to his middle watch on the teleprinters.
Oz's messmates had blamed lack of sleep and shock for the withdrawal into himself. Niv had been killed, Mick was insinuating, for doing more than was expected of him. ' It's murder, I say,' and the Irishman, in the centre of the shocked circle, had relished the silence — until Oz had told him to shut his gob.
The next day, Wednesday, the government pay announcement was on the notice boards; an hour later, the captain made his broadcast; then Lieutenant-Commander Farge gave his sitrep on the initial proposals announced by the government, the details being announced by MoD later in the week. The first impression was much better than hoped for; the new government did at least realize the priorities. Then yesterday, Thursday, the Foxer had been lost.
Someone had slipped up in the Foxer drilclass="underline" a relay had inadvertently not been switched off and the expensive decoy had cut itself adrift, to plunge to the bottom of the Atlantic. There had been an inquiry, but no one had come forward to accept the blame. It was lucky that a prowling Russian AGI had not got the buzz: our countermeasures against their homing torpedoes would have been compromised at one swoop. Burns swigged at his beer — this cat-and-mouse intelligence war had no end. The next war will be won by the side who knows most about the enemy's weapons and then acts quickly on that knowledge — hence the presence of the AGIS whenever NATO concentrated its forces — and also the tightening of our own security measures…. Rod Burns shook his head: it had been a bad week so far for Icarus and her new captain.
Burns was keeping an open mind about the Old Man. Captain Trevellion was a close one as yet — seemed to be biding his time. A different sort to his predecessor, he seemed buttoned-up, watching things, never needled, however bad the mistakes — and he had had every excuse to lose his cool this week as the Force zigzagged across the Atlantic towards Gibraltar.
'Cheers, Oz — here's your can.'
The L/RO had joined them, unnoticed and morose. He un-peeled his can, took a long swig. He belched.
'Better, Oz?' Mick grinned.' Plenty more.'
And so the evening began. The loud-mouthed steward, a wretched whining runt, held the stage, belly-acheing as usual. He was going outside — the navy would be well rid of him, though he himself thought he was indispensible. Mick lapped up the gems which any of the stewards relayed from the wardroom, but most men treated the gossip with sardonic amusement. And now, inevitably, they were beefing about the pay deal… Foulgis, as usual, provided all the answers, stirring it over the recent pay announcement. Burns noted with distaste that Foulgis was continually topping up the young steward with beer and stoking the fires of discontent.
'It's not just pay; we count for nothing in civvy street.' Oz had at last spoken. Foulgis looked up:
'What they pay us, Oz, is what they think of us.'
'It goes deeper than that,' Oz said. ' They don't seem to care no more. We're always being told we're the same as everyone else.' Oz thumped the mess table angrily: ' But the navy is bloody different.'
'We'll be special enough when the Russians conic,' Burns said.' But then it'll be too late.'
'It's the smug way they talk about things that gets on my wick,' Oz said. 'I told you the navy's different to the other services; we know that. We live at sea for months on end; our way of life's different, so how can they compare us? But look at the poor bloody RAF — seven squadrons to defend the whole of Britain… Seven squadrons. It'll be the same as '39.' He laughed bitterly:' Pathetic…'
'You can't blame the politicians for everything,' Burns said. ' They haven't the guts to tell us the truth.'
'Like this ship,' Mick Foulgis said. ' We're like mushrooms: we're kept in the dark and we're fed on shit.'
'Come off it, Mick,' Charlie Owen interrupted. ' What about the sitreps? They try to tell us what's going on.'
Mick was pouring the steward another beer. ' It's not my fault I'm uneducated,' he said scornfully: ' I'm fighting a losing battle with my postal City and Guilds. The stuff's too technical, they just let you get on with it.'
'Where does it go wrong then, Mick?' Oz asked unemotionally. ' You beef a hell of a lot but how d'you put things right?'
Then Charlie chipped in:
'No real communication is encouraged, Oz, between junior rates and the officers.' He looked across at Foulgis. 'At least not in this ship.'
'Course it bloody ain't. The navy's still run on class distinction.'
'Rubbish…' Oz pushed out his fist for another can. ' Bloody rubbish, Mick, and you know it.'
'Yeah? What about when we get into Lisbon? The wardroom'll be quite happy to let us fester down here, while they're having their cock and arse parties on the flight deck.'
The young steward was weaving unsteadily on his feet. ' Yush — you're quite right, Mick — if you ask me — ' He lurched suddenly, his face green about the gills.
'Bucket!' Burns shouted.
He was too late: the wretched steward had doubled up and was spewing across Foulgis's shoes. The stench was revolting.
'Mop it up,' Burns growled.' It's your fault, Foulgis.'
Mick was grinning. 'He's only a lad. Not like you, Bootie, trained to be men… we're just kids, we matelots.'
'What you getting at, Mick?'
Burns felt his anger getting the better of him. He Mood up, carefully set down his beer. Foulgis was opening another can and was leering up out of the corner of his eyes.
'The officer of the day came into the mess during our last night in Bermuda,' Mick said. 'Pulled out the television aerial; ordered us to turn in because it was 2300. "We're at sea tomorrow, lads," he told us. " And you'll be up all night".' Foulgis laughed bitterly: 'We're treated like children.' He spat.out the words: ' Petty rules: that's why I'm going outside…'
'Bloody good thing,' Oz added. 'You're always pissed; you keep us awake half the night.'
'And some of you scabbed to the divisional officer,' Foulgis shouted. ' I know — you asked him to run me in — ' He was yelling, his piggy eyes ugly. 'The DO hasn't the guts, you'll see.'
'You're pissed now,' Oz said.