The worst of it was H. M.S. Warlock had just completed a refit. That meant many more new hands. No captain would be eager to recommend his first lieutenant for promotion at this stage.
Sheridan quickened his pace again. Before the war he had been hopeless at holding down any sort of work for long. He had wanted to go to university, perhaps to study law eventually, but he had been the family breadwinner. His father had been crippled in that other war, it had been the least he could do for him. Now all that seemed like history. He had taken to the Navy like a duck to water. Nothing else seemed ahead of him. It could go on forever. Except that 1943 had offered some small sparks of success. T “he North African campaign was at last ended, and the remains of the battered Afrika Korps had quit the desert just a month ago. After years of reverses and retreats, “strategic withdrawals,” as the journalists called them, the Army was getting a chance to hit back. There was talk of an invasion of occupied Europe. There was even a demand for it, especially from those who did not have to wear a uniform.
Through it all Sheridan had seen the Navy carrying on, from one disaster to the next. Norway and Dunkirk. Crete and Singapore. Great ships gone in the twinkling of an eye. Names which had been household words in those far-off days of peace. Hood and Royal Oak, Repulse and Courageous. Even the newer ones, like Prince of Wales and Ark Royal, had not been spared in the savage fight to keep the sea lanes open, to keep supplies and men moving.
It would have been something to get a ship of his own. To finish the war with a command to show for it, he thought. Anything would have done for a start. A stubby corvette, a trawler even. Or one of those weird paddle-steamers which had once taken passengers on day trips to Southend and were now classed as minesweepers. Anything.
“I say, sir?” A youthful voice made him turn. “I was wondering if you could help?”
It was a midshipman. Very young, out of breath, and, from the cut of his uniform, brand-new.
“Well?”
The midshipman gestured to an untidy cluster of sailors who were grouped round a large rain puddle, their hammocks and bags piled up on two ungainly trolleys. Most of them were smoking.
Sheridan said, “Tell those men to douse their cigarettes. It’s close eight o’clock. ” He waited, seeing the growing uncertainty on the boy’s face. “Colours are about to be sounded.”
Cigarettes vanished as if by magic, and Sheridan asked, “What is the problem?”
“I–I was asked, er, told to accompany these hands to the Warlock.” He straightened his back and added firmly, “A destroyer, you know, sir. I’m joining her.”
“Me, too.” Sheridan said dryly, “She’s in the next basin. Better get a move on.”
A bugle blared out again and from staffs and masts in ships and encircling depots and barracks the White Ensigns rose sedately to mark the day’s official beginning.
Sheridan ground his teeth. Bad enough being late on the first day. To arrive after colours was even worse. The midshipman fell in step beside him and added, “I’m Keyes, sir. Midshipman.”
“I’m Sheridan.” He grinned. “First lieutenant.”
“Oh!”
Behind them the new men shuffled along with their piles of baggage, watching the ships, preparing themselves like new boys for a school.
“Just starting?”
“Yes, sir. From King Alfred.”
Sheridan looked away. Another one. Nice enough youth, but knowing nothing, would have to be led by the hand.
He said, “First ship then?”
“Oh no, sir. Actually, I did nearly three months in a cruiser before going to the training depot. ” He added lamely, “Mostly at anchor though.”
They reached the side of the basin and the midshipman exclaimed, “Is that the Warlock?”
Sheridan studied him calmly. “Disappointed?”
“Well, sir.” Keyes shifted under his stare. “A destroyer, I mean, it’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”
Sheridan smiled. Any minute now. He’ll be talking about the greyhounds of the ocean. They always did.
But another voice spoke instead. A short, square chief petty officer with a coxswain’s badges on his lapels was standing on the brow, his arms folded and his face like a thundercloud. “And what are you lot then?” He had a Newcastle accent you could cut with a knife. “Bloody comedians?”
The little party of men flowed towards him, already lost. The coxswain saw Sheridan and threw up a stiff salute. “Mangin, sir.” He ignored Keyes. “Glad to ‘ave you aboard.” He glanced at the men who were stumbling down the steep brow. “An’ don’t forget yer bloody bags an’ ‘ammicks then!” The roar brought them running back again. He added calmly, “Soon ‘ave ‘em into shape. Poor little sods.”
The coxswain watched until a leading seaman had sorted the newcomers into some sort of order and then said, “Captain’s aft, sir. Expectin’ you.”
Sheridan nodded. I can imagine.
He answered, “Thanks, ‘Swain. The ship looks pretty good. Considering.”
“Aye. ” Mangin watched him curiously. “Saw your last ship over yonder. Poor old girl. They’re takin’ the ‘eart outa ‘er.”
Sheridan studied the coxswain. The mainstay of any destroyer. This one certainly had his wits about him. He already knew more about him than he did about them.
“She was a happy one.”
“This, too.” Mangin glanced aft where a crisp new ensign floated in a sluggish breeze. “An’ I’ve seen a few on ‘em. Old but dependable. ” He looked at Keyes for the first time. “Unlike some.”
Together and in single file they walked down the brow where the quartermaster and gangway sentry watched them with neither interest nor surprise. A few dockyard men were still in evidence, but the ship was feeling alive, and there was some sort of machinery throbbing quietly below, a touch of warmth from one of the vents near the after funnel.
Keyes ventured, “Where will my cabin be, er, ‘Swain?” Mangin smiled gently.
“Cabin, sir? I believe they’re fittin’ you into a cupboard down aft.”
Mangin added to Sheridan, “Not much for you to bother about yet, sir. The bulk of the ‘ands’ll be comin’ aboard this afternoon. There’s only the duty part o’ the watch ‘ere at present. ” He glared at the waiting men with their hammocks. “An’ this shower o’ course.”
‘Wardroom?”
“Some replacements, sir.” Mangin tugged his hat over his eyes. His head barely came up to Sheridan’s shoulder. “Gunnery officer an’ navigatin’ officer ‘ave been with us for some while, as ‘ave the engineer an’ gunner (T). But the subbies, the doc, this young gentleman, an’ o’ course yourself, are new arrivals, so to speak.”
They walked aft in silence. Sheridan thought how spacious she now appeared. But once filled with her new complement there would be barely enough room to think.
Excellent sea boats, easy to handle, the old V and W’s had once been the pride of the Service. Now, overloaded with modern equipment and weapons to fight a different sort of war from the one against the Kaiser’s navy, their companies had swollen accordingly. From about one hundred to nearly one hundred and forty, and with less space than ever.
Mangin said, “I’ll be off then, sir. I’ll see your gear is stowed when it comes aboard, an’. will take you round the ship after ‘Up Spirits.’”
“I think I’d better snatch a quick shave.”
Mangin grimaced. “I’d go to the captain now, sir, if I was you.”
Keyes asked, “What will I do?”
Mangin beamed. “Follow me.” The merest pause. “Sir.”
Sheridan ducked through a screen door and sighed. Here we go again.
Drummond sat at the desk in his day cabin and put his name to yet one more document. He was conscious of the ship murmuring around and above him, the busy clatter of feet along the iron deck, the squeak of tackles as more stores were cradled aboard to be sorted and checked.