He gripped the mug more tightly. At least she had not got completely away with it. Her captain might remember this day as he dropped his own men over the side with a prayer or some jolly Nazi song. He realised Jupp was still watching him, his hooded eyes worried.
The chief steward said, ‘The lads took it right well, I thought, sir.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Yes.’
He recalled the great blackened areas on A deck where the shells had exploded. Buckled frames, and plates like wet cardboard. A ventilator, so riddled with splinters it had looked like one huge pepper pot. The damage was bad, but had Benbecula been a destroyer those two big five-point-nine shells would have broken her back like a carrot. He had visited the sickbay, giving the usual words, seeing the grateful smiles from the wounded men who were not too drugged to understand him. Their immediate shock had given way to a kind of pride. They were probably dreaming of that first leave, the glances of admiration and pity for their wounds. Except the one without a foot. He had been a promising tennis player before the war.
The telephone buzzed. It was Stannard.
‘Middle watch at defence stations, sir. Time to alter course in seven minutes.’
The next leg of the patrol. It would be a beam sea, uncomfortable, as they were cruising at a mere seven knots.
‘I’ll come up, Pilot.’ He hesitated. ‘No, you take her. Call me if you want anything:’ He dropped the handset. Stannard was competent, and it did no good to have a captain breathing down their necks all the e time. Let them learn while there was still time.
There was a tap at the door and Maxwell peered in at him. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
The gunnery officer’s face was red from the wind, but his uniform was impeccable. As usual he wore a bright whistle chain around his neck, the end of which vanished into the breast pocket of his reefer, and Lindsay was reminded of the leather-lunged instructors at the gunnery school.
‘Yes, Guns. Sorry to keep you from your bunk after you’ve been on watch. Just a couple of points.’
Maxwell removed his cap. He had a very sharp, sleek head. Like a polished bullet.
He said, ‘Would have been earlier, sir. Hate unpunctuality. But my relief was late.’
‘Late?’ That was not like Stannard.
Maxwell did not blink. ‘One and a half minutes, sir.’
Jupp hid a grin and slid from the cabin.
Lindsay lookedat the lieutenant thoughtfully. An odd bird even for his particular trade. Maxwell had made some error or other before the war and been allowed to leave the Navy without fuss. It would not have been difficult when the country was more concerned with cutting down the services than facing the reality of a new Germany.
He said, ‘Whenever we return to base I want you to do something about the armour plate on the bridge. Lowering the windows in action prevents injuries from glass splinters, but it’s not enough. The watchkeepers and gunnery team must have proper protection.’
A small notebook had appeared in Maxwell’s hand as if by magic. He snapped, ‘Right, sir.’
‘The W/T office needs it also, but I’ll get on to Number One about that.’ It was amazing how little attention had been given to such matters, he thought. ‘Then there are the bridge machine guns. Old Lewis guns from World War One by the look of them.” He watched the pencil scribbling briskly. ‘See if you can wangle some Brownings from the B.G.O.’
Maxwell eyed him wearily. ‘Wangle, sir?’
‘Then I’ll give you a chit, Guns, if it makes you happier.’ Maxwell showed his teeth. ‘Go by the book, that’s me, sir. Follow the book and they can’t-trample you down.’ ‘It’s happened before then?’
Maxwell swallowed hard. ‘It was nothing, sir. Bit of a mix-up back in thirty-seven. But it taught me a lesson.. Get it on paper. Go-by the book’
Lindsay smiled. ‘And they can’t trample you down, eh?’ ‘Sir.’ Maxwell did not smile.
A man entirely devoid of humour, Lindsay decided. He said, ‘The gunnery this morning was erratic. The marines got off two shots to every one from forrard. Not good enough.’ Maxwell said swiftly, ‘My assistant, Lieutenant Hunter, is R.N.R.,‘sir. Keen but without proper experience.’ He let the words sink in. ‘But I’ll get on to him first thing tomorrow.’
The deck quivered, and Lindsay saw the curtains begin to sway inwards from the sealed scuttles. She was turning.
He said, ‘You deal — with it, Guns. It’s your job.’
Maxwell’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I did not mean to imply-‘ he stopped.
‘Carry on then.’
As. the door closed Lindsay stood up and walked slowly into the other cabin. The small reading’ light gleamed temptingly above his bunk, and Jupp had put a Thermos beside it, wedged carefully between two shoes, in case the motion got too bad. In spite of his dragging weariness Lindsay smiled at the little gesture. Jupp would make a damn good valet, he thought.
He lay down on the bunk fully clothed, and after a few seconds hesitation kicked off his sea boots.
It never stopped. Demands and questions, jobs needing attention, reports to be checked and signed. His eyelids drooped as he thought back over the day, the enemy ship’s outline looming through the snow. The anguish of sudden fear, the cruel ecstasy at seeing the shell burst on her upperworks.
He listened to the seal booming against the side, the darting spray across the scuttles, and then fell into a deep sleep.
How long he slept he did not know. All he understood was that he was fighting with the blanket, kicking and gasping as the nightmare flooded around him more vividly than ever.
He rolled on to his side, half blinded by the reading light which was shining directly into his eyes, and as the madness retreated he heard a voice, remote but insistent, which seemed to be rising from the bunk itself. -
‘Officer of the watch.’ It was Stannard, and Lindsay stared at the telephone as it swung back’ and forth on its flex, the voice repeating ‘Officer of the watch’ like some cracked record.
He must have knocked it off in his nightmare, in his terror to escape from the torture.
He seized it and said, ‘Captain.’
Stannard said, ‘I’m. sorry, sir. I thought you were calling me.’
Lindsay fought to keep his tone even. ‘It’s all right, Pilot. What time is it?’
‘0350, sir. I’m just calling the-morning watch.’ A pause. ‘Visibility as before. Wind’s still north by east.’ ‘Thank you.’
He lowered the phone and lay back again. God, how long had the line been open? What had he been saying? He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, remember.
Then he swung his legs from the bunk and groped for Jupp’s Thermos. What would he do? Bomb-happy, some people called it. He might even have said- it once about others. He shuddered violently, pulling at the Thermos cap. Not any more.
Up on the bridge Dancy was standing beside the voice pipes and turned as Stannard replaced the telephone.
Stannard did not look at him. ‘Sure. Just the skipper asking about the time.’
When Dancy had turned away he bit his lip with sudden anxiety. He should not have listened. Should not have heard. It was like falling on a secret, laying bare something private or shameful.
Heavy boots thumped on the ladder as Goss mounted to take his watch. Stannard thought of that desperate, pleading voice on the telephone and thanked God he. and not Goss had heard it. Things were bad enough without. that. They needed Lindsay, whatever he was suffering. He was all they had.