'Leading Radio Operator Osgood, sir,' Campbell, the Master-at-Arms rasped: ' First request, sir: " Permission to withdraw his notice to leave the Service", sir.' Campbell shot a glance at the tall divisional officer on the opposite side of the table.' Second request, sir: " To see the captain privately."'
Trevellion met Osgood's gaze, then turned to the divisional officer:
'Lieutenant Lochead: you've seen this man?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you recommend the withdrawal of his notice? Once a man has made up his mind upon such an important issue, it's no light thing to renounce the decision.'
'I recommend that he stays in, sir. He's a good leading hand. His request is bound up with his request to see you, sir. I thought your experience would be more helpful to L/RO Osgood than mine, sir.' Lochead had matured.
'First request granted,' Trevellion said, nodding at the Master. He faced Osgood: ' You realize, Osgood, that a man can see me privately only if it's about his personal affairs. Complaints ' don't come into the category.'
'Yes, sir, I understand. I want your guidance, sir.'
Trevellion hesitated. He had already made up his mind about Osgood — a leader amongst his peers, but unstable sometimes: he might steady down if given the chance. He turned to the DO: 'Thank you, Lieutenant Lochead. I'll see L/RO Osgood in my cabin at 1500.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Requestmen was over.
Captain Trevellion returned the salutes, then turned away to climb the ladder back to his bridge. Perhaps, after the NBCD exercise, he could snatch a moment to read Rowena's letter again. If she did not write so fully, life would be bloody. It was bad enough, leaving her to cope alone during these frightening days.
So Thomas Osgood had got it off his chest — and, watching warily for any sign of cynicism in the older man's eyes, he knew then that he had come to the right fount. Captain Trevellion had listened, easing Osgood's ordeal by occasionally adding a word here, finishing a phrase there. And now it was finished, this interview which Osgood had expected to be so difficult and, perhaps, humiliating…
'I'm afraid tragedies such as yours happen every day, Osgood,' Captain Trevellion said kindly. ' But that doesn't make it any easier for you.' He smiled, an uncomplicated smile of sympathy. ' The conditions under which, up to a few years ago, we were existing in the Forces — conditions which men like you accepted loyally — too often meant a marriage breakdown. Some of the wives couldn't take it — and your Merle is one of those, I'm afraid.'
Osgood nodded his head. 'In some ways I'm glad it's over,' he said. 'But I don't know what I'll do without my kid.'
The grizzle-headed captain faced him squarely. Osgood had a strong face, stubborn, tenacious; this man would not be submerged by life's handouts. That open face with its dark brown eyes was one which could be trusted.
'You love your daughter, don't you?' the captain was asking quietly.
Osgood nodded.
Trevellion murmured: ' It's the same with me, Osgood — but I've got a different sort of problem. We all have them, you know, one way or the other. It's how we cope with disaster which makes the man.'
'Perhaps, sir. But it's bloody difficult.'
The captain nodded. 'I'm glad you're staying on — right thing. The navy takes care of its own these days.'
'Thanks for seeing me, sir. Kind of helps.'
'I haven't done much, Osgood. I'll put the welfare people on to tracing the whereabouts of Debbie.'
Osgood choked. He looked away, ashamed. The Old Man had remembered her name, then? He bloody well cared.
'Is there anything else we can do?' the Old Man asked. ' You can forget about the Bermuda episode. I'll fix that, now that hostilities are imminent: perhaps even Bermudan pub keepers will recognize on which side their bread's buttered.'
Osgood could still not face his captain. Staring blindly at the bulkhead, his head averted, he asked:
'D'you mean I've got nothing to pay now, sir… nothing?'
'Scrubbed. And, of course, Mrs Fane can forget it all too. I've written to her.'
Osgood rose from the soft chair. He picked up his cap, faced the captain, his composure restored.
'Sir.'
'What bit?'
'I'd like to make a clean break, sir. Start again.'
'What d'you mean?'
The L/RO tapped his thigh with the rim of his cap: ' I'd like to join the Fleet Air Arm.'
Lieutenant Hob Gamble was the first in the wardroom for supper on Sunday night. Now that Perdix was grounded he and Rollo felt frustrated to the tits, like unemployed passengers. He shoved back his chair, did without his coffee and retired like a hermit in his cabin. He would console himself by answering Allie's letter. He slid her envelope from his desk drawer and slumped on to his bunk. Her ragged handwriting, reflecting her warmth so accurately, was good to see. He began re-reading for the fourth time her letter which had come in this morning's maiclass="underline"
Leat Cottage Christmas Day My Beloved, Just a little note that on this lovely Christmas Day, — you're probably beating it up with the Eskimo dollybirds somewhere up in the frozen wastes… but wherever you are, my darling, this is just to tell you that all is well at Leat Cottage — your mum's here, sitting opposite me, finishing off the horrid blackout curtains she's hanging over the kitchen window tonight. Dear old Mascot is snuffling away, his head on my lap, wondering why master isn't sitting in the chair opposite — he's not the only one who's missing you, darling Hob…
Your mother is full of beans, trying hard to make it a good Christmas. She's frail, of course, but glad to be with me in the warm. We're dreading the idea of rationing.
What can I tell you, dearest, except that I miss you like hell? You said you liked sex-starved women — well, you've got one panting for you, down here in Cornwall. Hurry up and settle the Russians then fly your whirly bird down here.
I went into Plymouth and stayed the night with Peggy so that I could do some shopping (I managed to collect that tea-set you'd ordered for your mum — and she's delighted with it). It was odd to see how the worthy citizens of Plymouth are facing up to the imminence of doom. A few people were selfconsciously digging holes in their gardens — and volunteers were attacking the parks with picks and spades. The Volunteer Citizens' Force (they're already known as the VCS) are good news — two days ago they helped the police to break up a Peace Watch march around the Hoe — people are getting fed up with them. The 18B internment of those you call traitors is being accepted as good news, and call-up dodgers don't get much sympathy in spite of the Peace Watch's attempts. But the most depressing thing to me is the black-out which they are going to start next week.
Mum and I are going to collect our gas masks (sorry! Anti-Gas Respirators) on Monday in case chemical warfare is launched — it's all a horrible nightmare, Hob, isn't it? But when I wake now, it's all too true — and the bed's empty by my side.
Take care of yourself in your rotating machine, my darling husband.
I love you
ALLIE
Hob laid down the crumpled sheets of paper… should he answer it now, allow his pen to pour his thoughts out to her?
'Excuse me, sir. Captain's compliments, but he'd like to see you on the bridge.'
He nodded at the bo'sun's mate and reached for his cap.
When he reached the bridge the seas were flying over the bows, the spray lightening up the dark fo'c'sle. Icarus was pushing on, scything cleanly through the long, undulating swell. Captain Trevellion turned, then handed him the message. Its filing time was seven minutes ago, 1806. Hob began reading it, wondering why he'd been summoned: