Lindsay continued, ‘We will patrol the south-western approaches to Iceland, to extend when required into the Denmark Strait.’ He had to steel himself to say the words. In his mind’s eye he could see the raging desert of tossing whitecaps and dark-sided rollers; of shrieking gales, and ice. The Denmark Strait..
Stannard was the first to break the stunned silence. ‘Jesus, sir, they sure believe in pitching us into the deep end!’
Goss muttered, ‘We’ve had no time. No time to get things ready.’ His voice trailed away.
Lindsay looked round their faces again, knowing it would be like this. He lifted his glass. ‘To the ship, gentlemen.’ As they drained their glasses without a word he added, ‘And remember this. Our people will be looking to you after today. As I will. So let’s not have too much despondency about, eh?
He let his eye fall on Fraser. ‘I’d suggest a party tonight.’
He turned as a figure stepped into the wardroom. It was Kemp, the midshipman, the only officer he had not met. Kemp had been acting O.O.D. during the meeting, and his face was pink with cold from the upper deck.
Kemp said, ‘Signal from H.Q., sir.’ He proffered a soggy sheet of pad. ‘Would you report there at 1600, sir.’
Lindsay glanced at the signal; aware ‘of all the eyes watching his face.
‘Affirmative.’ As the boy turned: to go he added, ‘You’ll be allocated to dealing.with ship’s correspondence on top of your other duties.
Kemp stared around the other officers and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Lindsay said, ‘We’re sailing at 0800 tomorrow. Iceland patrol, if you’re interested.’
As the boy hurried away Lindsay noticed that one of the stewards had also gone. The news would be all over the ship by now, and., perhaps it was better so. It would help prepare them for the formalities of getting under way.
He put down his glass. It was time to leave them to sort themselves out.
He said, ‘There will be no shore leave, so inform your departments accordingly. Arrange for mail to be dropped tonight. After that,’ he forced a smile, ‘we are in business.’ He nodded to Goss. ‘Thank you. Carry on, please.’
Despite the rain and chill wind he made himself walk around the boat deck, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed against the weather. Part of the deck still bore the faded marks where handball had once been played in the Pacific sunlight. He walked past the hooded Oerlikons and climbed slowly up to the bridge. It would be strange to con a ship with the helmsman right there with you, he thought vaguely. It was a spacious bridge, the brass telegraphs and binnacle, the polished wheel deserted, as if waiting for the place to come alive again. Once the time came it would never be quiet, nor empty.
On either side of the wheelhouse the open bridge wings stretched out over the side, and he walked to the port gratings, his shoes squelching in rain puddles as he peered across at the murky shoreline.
A petty officer was leaning over the wing, the rain bouncing off his oilskin and cap like hail as he stared at the water far below.
He swung round and saluted as Lindsay crossed to his side and said, ‘Ritchie, sir. Yeoman of signals.’
He had a round, homely face, and Lindsay knew from experience that a yeoman of signals was just about one of the most important members of any bridge, no matter what ship.
‘You’ve heard the news, Yeo?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’ Ritchie seemed oblivious’ of the rain. ‘I’m not bothered.’
There was something strange about him. Remote.
Lindsay asked quietly, ‘Had any leave lately?’
Ritchie looked away. ‘Last month, sir.’ When he faced Lindsay again there were tears running unheeded with the rain. ‘Bloody street was gone, sir!’ The words were torn from him. ‘Nothing left.’
Lindsay stared at him. Helpless. ‘Did you have…’
‘Wife an’ two kids, sir.’ He brushed his face with his sleeve. ‘All gone.’ He recovered himself and said, ‘Sorry about that, sir.’
‘Yes.’
He remembered one of the children stirring in the lifeboat on the last night before the corvette found them. Dreaming perhaps. Like Ritchie’s kids when the bomb had come down.
Ritchie said suddenly, ‘You’d better get under cover, sir.’ A smile creased his face. ‘You’ll be wanted on the bridge, not in the sickbay.’
Lindsay touched his arm. ‘Yes.’ As he turned to go he added, ‘If you want leave I’ll see if I can arrange it.’
Ritchie was looking skyward towards a slow-moving Walrus flying boat, his face like a mask.
‘Thank you, sir, but no. You’ll need a good signals department, I’m thinkin’.’ He hesitated. ”Sides, I’d like the chance to get, back at those bastards!’
Later when Lindsay went ashore to see the Chief of Staff and to receive his patrol intelligence he remembered Ritchie’s words and wondered if he too might be influenced by what had happened.
The Chief of Staff, a serious faced, urbane captain, was brief and to the point.
‘Things are bad, Lindsay, very bad. There is talk of more German raiders breaking out, probably from French ports. However,’ he glanced up at the great wall chart with all its coloured ribbons and flags, ‘it is not unlikely they might try the longer way round.’
‘The Denmark Strait.’
‘Correct.’ The captain eyed him distantly. ‘I want no heroics. Any sighting report can be used right here in Scapa.’
Again he looked at the chart, and Lindsay saw the great clusters of crosses, each mark representing a ship sunk by enemy action. There must be hundreds, he thought.
The captain said, ‘I know something of your experiences, and I’m sorry you’ve not been offered a command more fitting to your rank and knowledge. However,’ there was that word again, ‘in war we accept orders without question.’
A quick handshake, a fat envelope from a tired looking lieutenant, and it was over.
The staff car was waiting to take him back to the jetty, but there was a different Wren behind the wheel. She was pale and thin, and spent most of the journey sneezing into a handkerchief. When he asked her, she had never even heard of Wren Collins.
Between sniffs she complained, ‘I’ve only just arrived at the base, sir. It’s not fair really. Most of my friends have got draft chits to Ceylon.’
Lindsay thought of Ritchie and all those others like him. ‘Yes,’ he replied coldly. ‘It really is too bad.’
On the way to the ship in the motor boat he thought of the next day and the days after that. How they would manage.
A motor fishing boat packed with libertymen on her way to Lyness wallowed past in the gloom and he heard the sailors singing above the din of rain and wind.
‘Roll on the Nelson, the Rodney, Renown, this onefunnelled bastard is getting me down.’
He watched them in the rain and recalled the Chief of Staff’s warning. No heroics.
But if these men could sing like that, there was still some spark of hope. For all of them.
3
Raider
Lindsay sat in his cabin, his legs thrust out in front of him, and peered at his watch. Half an hour to go. He made himself reach out for another cup of black coffee, sipping it slowly to clear his thoughts.,
The ship around and below him was not so quiet as before. From the moment the hands had been called until the muffled pipe over the tannoy system, ‘Special seadutymen to your stations!’, there had been a feeling of nervous expectancy. As there always seemed to be when l about to leave harbour. You never got used to’it.