“Yarmouth ran herself aground in St Paul’s Bay,” he was informed. ‘Local fishermen and boats from the USS Charles F. Adams rescued approximately half her crew. Several of the most seriously wounded survivors have been airlifted to the USS Independence for treatment in her sick bay.”
Peter Christopher drew what comfort he could from this; he had ordered Yarmouth’s captain — a full commander to his ‘acting-commander’ and by any standard a man who was actually his superior — to draw the enemy’s fire knowing he was almost certainly signing both their death sentences.
“Be content that Talavera and Yarmouth acquitted themselves in accordance with the finest traditions of the Service, Peter,” the older man assured him.
The timbre of the First Sea Lord’s voice changed, forewarning Peter of sombre news to come.
“There has been no official announcement as yet,” Sir David Luce prefaced sombrely. “However, it is my sad duty to have to inform you that your father died from wounds sustained defending his headquarters in the Citadel at Mdina at around thirteen-fifty hours yesterday afternoon. His loss is an immeasurable loss to the Service and to the nation. I am sorry it was not possible for me to give you this sad news face to face.”
Peter stared into space.
It did not sink in for several seconds.
“I am given to believe,” the older man continued, “that your father’s last words concerned the great pride he felt in you and your achievements in life and in the Service.” He paused, let this hang in the air. “I know it will be of little comfort now but I think it is important for you to know that at the time of his death your father was aware that Talavera’s actions had already turned the battle for Malta decisively in favour of British forces.”
Peter knew he ought to feel something, anything. Instead there was only a void, a numb absence of emotions.
“Thirteen-fifty hours or thereabouts was about when the Talavera went down, sir,” he said blankly. The coldness spread through his soul in those moments. Not like a curse, more like a fog that blunted the hard edges of his psyche, killing anger and regret, curbing any urge towards retribution or the assignation of blame.
Peter Christopher did not recollect the First Sea Lord making his excuses and the line going dead. He held the handset to his ear for so long after the call had finished that his right arm went numb.
There was a knocking at the cabin door.
Chief Petty Officer Spider McCann stuck his gnarled head into the stateroom.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the older man grimaced. “The Yanks were getting worried. You didn’t answer their knocking. They didn’t want to trouble you,” HMS Talavera’s former Master at Arms shrugged apologetically, “so they asked me to check if you were okay, like…”
Peter stared at him, blinking blindly as if he had just awoken from a hypnotic trance.
Habit, duty and reality snapped back into cruel sharp focus.
He dropped the handset back into its cradle and got to his feet, straightening his sleeves, carelessly running a hand through his tousled fair hair. His palm brushed recently inserted sutures.
“Thank you, Mr McCann,” he sniffed, seeking and finding the strength to act the part that his men had every right to expect him to play. He looked the old seaman in the eye. “I have just learned that my father died of his wounds at about the same time Talavera went down yesterday afternoon.”
The Master at Arms had pushed the door fully open.
He stiffened to attention.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. He was a fine man, sir,” he said soberly. “Sir Julian was the finest captain I ever sailed with,” he added, and then with a suggestion of a frown, added, “well, until that shindig at Lampedusa. If you’ll excuse my impertinence, sir.”
Peter Christopher had never been one to easily accept a compliment.
It was when his mentor and the destroyer’s commanding officer, Captain David Penberthy, had been cut down in the first minutes of the vicious inshore fire fight to subdue the defenders of the island of Lampedusa in January that he had first assumed command of HMS Talavera.
Involuntarily he ran a hand through his hair again.
He felt naked without his cap.
“My place is on deck,” he decided. “Lead on, Mr McCann.”
Kalkara Creek was lit by a battery of blazing arc lamps that instantly destroyed the night vision of anybody so unwise as to look into the burning orbs of near and distant light. The fishing village on the hillside around the Creek was similarly illuminated as, to Peter’s surprise, were several areas of Valletta across the cold waters of the Grand Harbour. A lot of people had been buried in the rubble of collapsed buildings; the rescuers would not rest until the last bodies had been recovered.
He tried not to think about Marija.
A small tug was industriously nudging the sharp, elegant prow of the USS Berkeley onto the forward emergency destroyer buoy. The ship seemed to be ridiculously close inshore, surrounded by small boats, their dark silhouettes dancing on waters reflecting the shore lights.
“I told you to get into the first boat?” Peter reminded Alan Hannay. His newly acquired Supply Officer and Purser had been his father’s marvellously efficient and ever-present Flag Lieutenant until he had induced Peter to request his services to fill a vacancy in Talavera’s Wardroom after the Lampedusa action. His father had thought highly of the Alan; who in turn had been devoted to him.
“There are chaps in a much worse state than me, sir.”
Peter looked around to see check who was in earshot.
He lowered his voice.
“My father was killed in the fighting at the Citadel yesterday,” he confided. “Probably best to keep that under your hat until there is a proper public announcement.”
“Oh, I see.” Alan Hannay’s voice was crushed, a murmur of regret that was in no way fabricated. “God, I don’t…”
Peter patted the other man’s arm
“Chin up,” he whispered. “The chaps will be watching us, Alan. Especially as Miles is a little the worse for wear at the moment.”
Miles Weiss, HMS Talavera’s executive officer, was one of the stretcher cases waiting to transfer to RNH Bighi; badly concussed the USS Berkeley’s surgeon speculated, he was unable to stand unaided and any attempt to move prompted disabling nausea.
“Yes, sir. Oh, this is a bloody business…”
Peter took the other man’s elbow, made eye contact.
Alan Hannay nodded, straightened, set his face against the world.
“People are looking to us,” he said quietly.
“That’s the ticket.”
The two men limped and stumbled into the pool of brilliant light below the bridge of the guided missile destroyer where the stretcher cases were being readied with infinite, almost tender care to be slowly lowered into the waiting boats. Many of the wounded were attended by two or more American seaman, several held saline or plasma infusion bags aloft while the USS Berkeley’s surgeon moved from man to man, checking, fussing as if he was caring for his own children.
Peter Christopher patted hands, shoulders, leaned down painfully to murmur reassuring words. He yearned to step into the shadows, to shed a tear for the dead. But that, like vengeance, was a thing that would have to wait for another time and another place.
Chapter 21
The two redcaps who had driven Rachel through the chaos of the night from the Citadel into and out of great banks of choking acrid smoke, down burning streets and past a dozen roadblocks manned by trigger-happy Maltese Local Defence Volunteers and exhausted British soldiers, seamen and airmen, had escorted her — since it was apparent she was no longer under arrest — directly into the shabby office at the end of the old, rusting seaplane hangar.