Wingate said cheerfully, “Not to worry, Doc. You’re being detailed to censor the lads’ letters. You’ll soon discover they’re even more professional at things other than bloody fighting!”
Sheridan felt Rankin at his elbow. The gunnery officer’s mouth was set in a thin line of disapproval.
“Paint all over X gun, Number One.” He almost snatched a pink gin from a messman. “I told my artificer about it. The bloody man. Doesn’t know a breech-block from a bull’s arse!”
Wingate chuckled. “Take it off your back, Guns. Next time I’ll get the old Warlock so close to the bastards you can drop the shells straight down on their little Kraut heads!”
Rankin sniffed. “It’s no joke. Some people have no sense of-“
They all turned as Noakes’ harsh voice filled the wardroom. He was on his feet, his face brick-red as he swayed in front of the midshipman.
“What the ‘ell do you know about it, Mister Keyes?” Noakes thrust his head forward, some gin slopping over the faded carpet. “Young know-it-ails with their nappies still wet tryin’ to tell me what’s what?”
Keyes looked terrified.
“I’m sorry. I was only saying that I thought-“
Noakes bellowed, “I don’t care what you think!” He peered around at the others. “Tellin’ me that the battle of Jutland was a failure! ‘Ow does ‘e bloody well know? ‘E wasn’t there, was ‘e!”
Hillier, the New Zealander, said quietly, “But you were.”
“Course I was!” Noakes seemed doubly irritated by the interruption.
“Then, according to a rough calculation,” Hillier’s voice was very calm, “you must have been about the same age as young Keyes here, right?”
Noakes blinked. “Er, yes. I suppose I was.”
“Well then.” Hillier winked at Keyes. “I’ll bet you were moaning about all the silly old sods in high places who had got you into the battle in the first place.”
Wingate remarked, “Good bloke, that Hillier. Never seen Bill Noakes caught out like that.”
The bulkhead telephone buzzed and a messman called, “First Lieutenant, sir! Captain’s coming aboard!”
Sheridan nodded and hurried from the wardroom, snatching his cap as he bounded up the ladder and through the quartermaster’s lobby.
In a very short while he had learned a lot about his companions. Outwardly they could have fitted into any ship, anywhere. But in time their other, private selves would emerge, to be shared by no one beyond this long, outdated hull. Something special, upon which they would all have to depend.
He saluted as Drummond strode over the brow. “You’ve had a long day, sir.”
Drummond halted in his stride. From the look on his face Sheridan guessed he had not heard a word. Nor had he even noticed the salutes of the side party. His reactions had been automatic. A protective front.
Drummond asked, “What time is it, for God’s sake?” He did not wait for an answer but said, “The flotilla is being reorganised, given a different role. Before that we are to work together, but be independent of other groups.”
Sheridan asked, “Will it be a bit like the new anti-submarine groups we’ve been hearing about, sir?”
He watched Drummond’s grave features, remembering the engineer’s remarks. Stretched like a bloody wire. It was all there in those brief seconds. Strain, apprehension, doubt.
Drummond said, “Something like it. I’m still not quite clear myself.”
Owles appeared in the lobby door.
“I’ve got your lunch ready, sir.”
“Later.” Drummond looked suddenly desperate. Trapped. “Later.”
Sheridan said, “We hoped you might drop in for a gin, sir. ” He waited, feeling the other man’s tension. “You know how it is. First time all together.”
“Yes.” Drummond looked along the iron deck towards the bridge. “I don’t get too many chances.”
As he stepped over the coaming, Sheridan whispered to the quartermaster, “Fetch the chief from the P.O. s’ mess.”
In the wardroom everyone fell silent as Drummond walked through the door and said, “Relax, gentlemen. I’ve been asked in for a drink.”
Owles appeared as if by magic. “Here you are, sir. Horse’s neck. Just how you like it.”
He raised the glass. “Cheers.”
Then he looked at their varied expressions, seeing the unspoken questions, and the carefree excitement of those who still did not know.
Sheridan said quietly, “All present, sir.” He had seen Galbraith ease his lanky figure around the door.
“I’ve not been able to speak with the new arrivals. Except for Number One, that is. So I bid you welcome now. And hope you’ll settle down without too much hardship.”
He saw Keyes watching him with fascinated attention. And the dull-eyed sub-lieutenant, Tyson, whose brother had just been reported missing in Burma. Rankin, straight-backed, as if on parade, his narrow face completely blank. He was probably on another plane entirely. When he got his orders he obeyed them. He had made life very simple for himself. And Wingate, outwardly relaxed, eyes slitted against the reflected glare from an open scuttle. But his mind would be preparing, calculating. How many miles, which charts, when did they have to get there?
He thought suddenly of the conference. It had been more like a speech. Even the commodore had remained silent after his introduction and summary of the present strategy, the war at sea.
Beaumont had begun quietly, in an almost matter-of-fact way. Touching on some of the commodore’s comments, sharpening them and leaving little to doubt. The war in the desert was over. The battle for Europe would soon begin. This year, early next year at the very latest. It would have to succeed. The enemy had had too long to dig in, to learn what to expect.
Help to Russia would be stepped up. Supplies, arms and vehicles. That meant more Arctic convoys. Drummond had felt the mention of them move round the gathering like a threat, a dread. He had watched the faces of the other commanding officers. Gauging, trying to see one step ahead of Beaumont’s words. Like his own officers were doing to him now.
The flotilla was to work as a team again, not in a hotchpotch of escorts and patrols. That had got their interest all right. Beaumont’s voice had become sharper, incisive as he had outlined his plans. It had sounded as if each ship was to be put on trial, to prove if her ability was up to this new scheme. It still sounded like that. And yet Beaumont had held them in the palm of his hand. Serious one moment, excited and passionate the next, he had overcome almost every doubt.
One man had voiced the only open opposition.
Ventnor’s captain, Lieutenant-Commander Selkirk, a tough reservist, who in peacetime had been first officer in a freighter running back and forth to Argentina, had asked, “What if we find this new role too demanding, sir? I mean, these old ships are better than most for routine work, but to compete with brand-new fleet destroyers seems, if I may say so, a bit optimistic.”
Beaumont had regarded him coldly. “A ship is only as good as her captain. I am empowered to make changes if anyone fails to measure up! ” The chill had gone, to be replaced instantly by that other Beaumont. Eager, persuasive. “But let’s talk of success, eh?”
If charm was a weapon, the battle at the conference was over before it had got off the ground. He had finished by wishing them luck, after talking almost without a break for four hours.
Drummond continued, “We will be leaving Harwich in two days. In the remaining time I want all of you to get as much work done as you can. Get to know the new hands, change them around if you think they are badly placed. Ask Number One first, of course. I don’t want him nagging me.”
Several of them laughed.
He saw the curtain across the dining space quiver, and guessed the stewards would already have a new “buzz” on way to the messdecks. Going to Russia. To the Med. To blazes.