Wingate eyed him calmly. “Forget it.”
Vaughan said, “Your ribs are a mite buckled, Sub.” He seemed oblivious to the small drama, the ecstasy of survival. Hillier said, “Well, for God’s sake.”
Drummond sat in his chair and leaned back to watch the aircraft as they circled overhead. There would be a carrier somewhere over the horizon, other ships to see them safely into harbour. Rendezvous with the oilers, a check on damage. Talk with Galbraith about the fuel level. Most important, speak with the wounded from his own and the other ship. So much to do. He pictured his cabin right aft. The bunk. A long, overwhelming drink. Oblivion.
He slid from the chair, the sound of his boots on the gratings making the others forget their own emotions and reactions.
He said, “I’ll speak with all heads of departments. Tell the yeoman … ” He hesitated and looked at the discarded cap and telescope by the bloodstained flag-locker. “Tell Ordinary Signalman Murray to find some cups and fetch the bridge party something hot.”
The spell was broken, and the others began to move outwards from him again, like spokes on a wheel.
He said, almost to himself, “Well done, old lady.” He touched the teak rail. “I never doubted you.”
He thought suddenly of Beaumont and added bitterly, “Unlike some.”
Ten days later, after a wearying and circuitous route to avoid further attempts by the enemy to seek out and destroy their depleted flotilla, the ships anchored in Seydisfjord.
Drummond had spent a large part of that time in his chair on the open bridge, leaving it only occasionally to snatch short naps in his sea cabin. During the passage he had become almost an automaton, carrying out his duties, dealing with requests and managing his ship while his mind ached-for rest and any sort of temporary release.
He had had to endure the tense and demanding moment of a mass sea burial. It was never an easy thing to do, especially when so many of the pathetic bundles had been men he had known. Some a long while. Others only as faces or mannerisms. It was hard not to look for Tucker on the bridge, plucking at his beard, or putting right some junior signalman. Others who had been Alf, and Ginger, Billy or Ned, had taken their turn below a grey sky, gone deep down into the same darkness which Keyes had often contemplated during his times on watch.
He had received several lengthy signals from the Admiralty, and had wondered what Beaumont would think about them. His old enemy, the Moltke, had not come further north after all, but had re-entered the Baltic. She had, it appeared, been more severely damaged by bombing than anyone in intelligence had realised. Her brief cruise up to the Norwegian port had merely been a trial run, to readjust her and her company in readiness for the future. More to the point, and this was the part which must have affected Beaumont, the Moltke’s unexpected movements had been partly responsible for the raid’s success. Every available destroyer not required by Group North had been sent down to ensure that the British would not interfere with the big ship’s safety.
Another signal from Admiral Brooks had been congratulatory but brief. Like everyone else in the know, he was saying very little. The people in Britain had been told only that a daring raid had been executed against shore installations in occupied Norway. One newspaper said, “In the tradition of Nelson. “Another, “In the spirit of Drake. ” Either way, it made encouraging reading for a population worn down by war.
To a special few, however, the routine statement on the B.B.C. meant something else entirely.
“The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of His Majesty’s Ships Waxwing, Whiplash and Whirlpool, which were sunk during a gallant action against the enemy. Next of kin have been informed.
Once at anchor in Seydisfjord, the work of tidying-up got under way. The wounded were ferried ashore, temporary replacements were borrowed from the naval base at Reykjavik for the next passage, which was to be Rosyth in Scotland, when all immediate repairs had been completed.
The replacements had come aboard looking with awe at the splinter holes and fire-blackened plating. The Warlock’s company had put aside some of their own feelings, if only to show the newcomers that there was nothing to it. Drummond had seen it before. The swagger, the reckless way that men who had fought for their lives could put on a show. If only for a short while. Later the pain would return. Old faces would emerge in memory. Losses would be seen more clearly than at the moment of death.
Drummond sat in his day cabin listening to Owles running his bath, knowing that if he paused in his pile of letters and signals he would not be able to go on. He had to write to every family whose son, brother or father had died. He looked around the quiet cabin. In this ship. It did not seem possible.
Through a scuttle he saw the repair ship almost alongside, and through the sheeting, incessant rain which had greeted their arrival, and had not stopped since, he saw a seaman carrying a basket carefully towards the gangway. He smiled, despite his inner feelings. Badger was returning to his ship. Unofficially, as usual.
There was a tap at the door, and Wingate entered the cabin with a batch of decoded signals.
“Orders for sailing, sir. Rosyth it is. Definite. It’ll mean a long refit, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Drummond nodded. “You should have gone to the hospital, Pilot.”
“Not me, sir. This sling assures me of a hero’s welcome. No, I’ve got this far, and it only takes one hand to draw lines on a chart. ” He grinned.
He placed the papers on the desk. “Top one says that Captain (D) is flying direct to U.K.” He hesitated. “With the journalists and cameraman.” He held out a small note. “This was sent aboard, sir.”
It just said, “I was thinking of you. Will see you when you get there. Sarah.”
“Thank you, Pilot.” Ile re-read the little note. “Very much.”
Wingate sighed. “It’ll mean that you will be in command of the flotilla, sir.”
He leaned forward and seized the desk with his good hand. For a moment Drummond thought he had been taken ill, but when he saw Wingate’s face he knew the real reason.
Wingate said tightly, “What’s left of it.” His eyes were blurred with emotion. “God bless ‘em, eh, sir?”
Owles was looking in the other door, and asked softly, “Some brandy, sir?”
“Yes.” Drummond reached over and gripped Wingate’s wrist. “Yes. God bless the lot of them.”
14
A Spot of “Leaf”
“All secure fore and aft, sir!”
Drummond leaned over the screen and studied the mooring wires as the dockyard workers snugged them over the big iron bollards. Ahead and astern the other destroyers were also making fast to the various berths, and waiting in little groups and peering up at the ships were the other dockyard men, specialists in repairs, experts who would decide if a ship required immediate isolation in a dried-out basin, or could manage with only superficial patching-up. In Rosyth dockyard they were very used to this type of work.
Drummond rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist. The run from Iceland had been uneventful and strangely sad. It would have been better if they had endured bad weather, or warned of stalking U-boats. Anything was better than having time to brood on what they had suffered together.
They had had plenty of company. Aircraft, both carrier-borne and land-based, had rarely left them unattended. Several times they had made contact with a force of three cruisers. It was all part of the service, to get them home.
Whoever had made these arrangements, and Drummond guessed Admiral Brooks had had a large hand in it, had been right in his assumption that such help was needed. Drummond knew that their strength and morale had never been at lower ebb. It was often so when returning from an operation of any size.