'You bloody creeper… 'spose you'll pay Niv's part of the damages, won't you?' He flung the words at Oz. ' I'd tell 'em to stuff it up their arse.'
'Shut up and mop up the puke,' Bums said.' Then get to hell out of our mess.'»
'Do it yerself…' and Foulgis began lurching towards the ladder. Burns thumped him hard across the jaw. As Foulgis slithered and fell, Rod heard footsteps on the ladder behind him.
''Ere,' rasped a familiar voice.' What's going on?'
Burns swung round, wiping bits of skin from his knuckles. The Fleet Master-at-Arms stood before him. His clear blue eyes were pitiless, steady and very, very daunting.
9
Pascoe Trevellion sat in his command chair and stared towards the horizon where the silhouette of the American frigate was merging with the rain squalls. For the first time since joining Icarus nine days ago he was beginning to feel part of her: not merely her official' driver', as he had felt when conning Icarus out of Bermuda dockyard for the first time, but her captain. His ship's company, had been assessing him for over nine days and had certainly not deprived him of incidents upon which they could base their shrewd judgement: ' command' must be one of the loneliest jobs in the world.
This Saturday morning he had taken a decision which could not please everyone. Things would have been different if he could have more confidence in his First Lieutenant. Jewkes was too affable: and, too frequently, Trevellion sensed he was resented. And, watching the Force steaming across the horizon, Trevellion mulled over the events of the past week…
Jewkes did not rate with the Chief, the WEO or most of the other two-and-a-halves. He had lost no time in hinting how much Trevellion's predecessor had been liked; how the chap had entered into things, looked the other way more often than not and made sure that his blind eye did not go unremarked. Trevellion found it hard to dismiss from his mind his doubts on Jewkes' total loyalty, ever since the first day.
'Two minutes to the zig, sir. Thirty degrees to port.' Lieutenant Samuel Gubbay was officer of the watch; he was also the Senior Watchkeeper, so Trevellion could rely on him — Gubbay was a fine officer, brought up the hard way, an ex-GI with Whale Island behind him. These men, a dying breed, stood out from the rest these days and confirmed Trevellion's definite views on discipline — just as the perpetual balls-ups during these last days underlined that Icarus, at the moment, was anything but the sort of frigate for which the Second Sea Lord yearned. Trevellion was sure of one thing: if a loafer was allowed to get away with it, the resulting cancer destroyed a ship's morale more swiftly than any other disease. Icarus' better characters seemed to be landing in trouble, which was worrying though not surprising: there was a limit to forbearance and frustration.
Osgood had been indirectly involved with the fracas in the Royal Marines' mess — but there was no charge against him. He had appeared at the defaulters' table only as a witness to last night's stupidity in the Royal Marines' mess, resulting in Corporal Burns being charged with striking a junior rating. It could not have come at a more awkward moment, so soon after Fane's death.
The Hamilton police were unlikely to allow that case to lapse. Trevellion had known that something was in the wind when Number One and the Master-at-Arms came to him discreetly on Wednesday: would it be within the rules if the ship had a whip-round? And could the canteen funds be used to help out Osgood who now had to pay the total bill? The obvious hint had been dropped that the two men had reacted as anyone worth his salt would have done. The status of the Royal Navy was a sensitive matter at this moment.
'New course, sir, zero-five-five,' Gubbay reported.' Next alteration to starboard in seventeen minutes.'
'Very good,'
…The pay announcement had left the navy unmoved. Under previous governments the Forces had been led to believe that efforts would be made to achieve parity with civilians. But only the nurses, the sailors, soldiers and airmen, because of their innate loyalty and the restraint imposed by the Services' Acts, could be safely ignored by the politicians. To volunteer for being shot in the back in Ulster, disintegrating in a fireball at Mach 1.5, or being overwhelmed by an implosion at depth in a submarine, need a fundamental appeal to a young man's spirit — not his pocket. The ideal of patriotism, not necessarily only for one's own country, was as true and essential today as ever it was — perhaps more so, to combat the sinister evils arrayed against us; and the natural urge of belonging to an elite band of comrades, so proudly demonstrated by the genuine coalminer, was a basic instinct of man.
To be proud of himself and the service in which he was giving his life man needs a positive sense of status. To most British citizens, 'status' nowadays means money. To evince public esteem, the sailor, soldier and airman had to be slotted high in the snakes-and-ladder status game — on which, as defenders of the realm and its people, they deserved to be.
Trevellion, during his two years at MoD, knew how the navy's bosses spent most of their time waging war against the bureaucrats instead of the potential enemy. He had seen the Defence Chief, an Admiral of the Fleet, grey with anxiety and fatigue, after a heavy week battling for funds and the research technology without which the Royal Navy must deteriorate into a coastal force, unable even to defend the British Isles from landings from the sea. ' Over-stretch' (the current jargon for working with too few men under war-time conditions, but without the shooting) finally sapped a man's determination to stay in. Trevellion was convinced that the Serviceman felt he was regarded as a sucker to be working such hours for so little cash; that he belonged to a forgotten service; that he was meat for the sacrifice when the shooting started.…
Trevellion pulled himself together, slid from his chair, checked the position on the chart. Number One would be up at any minute to take him down to the wardroom where the chiefs and petty officers would be gathering. It was the loss of the Foxer on Wednesday, 12 December, which had finally crystallized Trevellion's thoughts. The WHO'S inquiry had been entirely negative. So many incidents, trifling and serious, had happened in the short time he had taken command. No one, not even a senior rate, had come forward with an explanation for the loss of the decoy and Trevellion had spent a sleepless night analysing each incident and every lapse. He knew he was blessed with intelligence, and Rowena had often told him she was shocked by his ruthlessness when he wanted to achieve a goal he knew to be — right. His conclusions, at the end of the long night, had not been pleasant. He had recorded his opinions — and his intended remedies — in writing and locked the record in his safe. Very soon, talking frankly with his senior men, he would know whether they diagnosed the same ills, and afterwards he would talk to his officers. He had decided not to share his thoughts with Number One but to have him present, in his capacity as second-in-command, at the chief's meeting. Then he sensed Jewkes standing behind him.
'The chief and petty officers are mustered in the wardroom, sir.'
Trevellion returned the salute and walked briskly from his bridge.
They stood up when Captain Trevellion entered. He took the chair at the head of the table and, in silence, allowed his glance to pass round the gathering, meeting each of his senior men squarely in the eye.
'Please sit down, gentlemen.'
The meeting was soon relaxed, the petty officers fully aware of their captain's request that, for the benefit of Icarus and the navy, the views for which he was asking must be frank. As Trevellion had asked, the Master-at-Arms had obtained the views of the senior leading hands. Their opinions would have been carefully considered: their recommendations would be for the good of the Service. Trevellion was prepared to be hurt, if the process he had instigated was to be of any value.