“I had hoped to see Georgina.” He kept his voice down. “She didn’t seem to remember.”
Wingate made a decision. One he might regret later. “What a damned idiot I am!” He fumbled with his wallet and dragged it through his sling. “She gave me her card to hand you, and I completely forgot!” He pushed it into the boy’s hand. “Here, look for yourself. She even put her phone number for you, how about that?”
Keyes turned the card over and said quietly, “Georgina.
Georgina Dare.”
Wingate swallowed. “Yes. A nice name.”
He wished the bloody steward would come quickly. What with Keyes’ gratitude and Rankin’s owlish stare, he knew he needed another drink very badly.
Keyes looked up. “Do you have a girl, Pilot?”
Wingate sighed. “I’m not much use like this, am I. With a cracked arm?”
Rankin smiled toothily. “S ‘right, Pilot. As a gentleman, you would always take the weight on your elbows, of course!”
Wingate grinned. “Get stuffed.”
In another corner Sheridan was talking to the doctor, his back towards the others.
Vaughan was saying, “I must say that I never thought I’d see this country again.”
Sheridan swirled his half-empty glass round and round. “It’s incredible. They’re all relics. All of them.”
“Who?” It was a mild question, but behind the glasses Vaughan’s eyes were very sharp.
“Well, look for yourself, Doc.” He waved the glass towards the noisy throng. “The pilot, the chief, certainly the old man.” He looked at the crest. “The ship most of all.”
“But not you, Number One. You’ve managed to stay free of, er, becoming a relic?”
“I’ve been a part of this sort of war, too. But I think you should try and keep your own personality. Stay clear of sentiment if you can.”
“Sentiment, or do you mean just caring?”
“Don’t you start, for God’s sake!”
Vaughan gave a small smile. “I’m only a quack. I leave the heroics to my betters. And talking of which … ” He placed his glass on a table. “I have been watching that Wren. I think it’s about time I moved in, so to speak.” He eased through the nearest bodies and confronted her.
Sheridan sighed. The doctor had not touched his drink at all. He stared round the crowded wardroom. God, it would be impossible to get rid of this lot. It would be the first dog watch before they had lunch at this rate.
He wanted to be on his own. To decide what to do. He had been to Drummond’s quarters the moment the two senior officers had left the ship. An hour ago. Both of them had been pretty merry. Drummond had seemed much as usual, as far as he could tell.
Drummond had told him about plans for leave, docking and duties while the ship was having repairs carried out. Matter-offact, almost remote in his manner.
Sheridan had blurted out suddenly, “The newspaper report, sir. You see what Captain Beaumont has done, don’t you? He’s taken all the credit for himself!”
Drummond had stood up, patting his pockets as if looking for something.
“If you try to bring discredit on a senior officer, Number One, the chances are you’ll bring it more on those you care about. Waxwing’s people, all the rest who were killed. Press even harder, and nobody will believe anything. They might even start to think the whole raid was a fake. Would you like that?”
Sheridan could remember very clearly the expression on Drummond’s face at that moment. Like a man burning up inside. Being driven to the limit. Not knowing what to do.
He had said, “Well, I think it’s wrong, sir.”
Drummond had not seemed to hear. “The raid was a success. Seen in a dispassionate, cool-headed way, it was a complete success. More than anyone could have hoped. And the casualties? Considering that the numbers involved, directly and otherwise, were many, our losses were minimal.”
“You don’t believe that, sir?”
Drummond had picked up his pipe and tapped the stem on the desk.
“There was a carrier put at our disposal with, presumably, some escorts. How many’s that? Two thousand people? There were the oilers, the submarine, airmen, and probably hundreds of others who were working to make our task a success. Against those numbers, our losses must be seen as small.” He had looked round the cabin, his face strangely sad. “I think you once implied that this ship was expendable, too?” He had slumped down, the pipe unlit. “But it hardly concerns you. Now that you are applying for transfer.”
It had been like a slap in the face. A dismissal.
He had said, “I need to decide, sir. All I ask-“
Drummond had swept papers from his desk and upended some glasses as he had shouted, “All Iask is for you to leave me alone!”
Someone touched his arm. It was Galbraith, almost unrecognisable in his best uniform. He smiled.
“I’m off, Number One. Home to the wife, if she’ll have me!” He glanced at the others. “When I saw the leave list, I thought I’d not stop to waste a second. There’ll be enough work to do when I return. Putting right all the things the dockyard tiffies have done.” He held out his hand. “So long. I guess you’ll be in another ship when my leave’s up.” He walked away, nodding to Wingate and Rankin.
Sheridan clenched his fists. They had written him off already. They had never even taken to him in the first place.
He saw Noakes, the gunner (T), squat and sweating freely, swilling drinks as if his life depended on it. He was surrounded by willing listeners. Sheridan felt lost. Bitter. Even Noakes was enjoying himself.
Rankin drawled thickly, “Still here, Number One?”
“What the hell d’you mean by that?”
Several visitors fell silent and stared at him.
Wingate said sharply, “Guns is not in our orbit. Just ignore him.” He looked round to make sure the interest had gone elsewhere and added, “Anyway, I’d have thought you’d be sharing a bottle with the skipper. It’s customary, and after what you’ve just shared with him, it’s even necessary!”
“He doesn’t need me.” He thought of Drummond’s angry eyes. “Or anybody.”
Wingate shrugged. “If you say so.”
Sheridan murmured quietly, “I know that some of my ideas have been unpopular since I took over as number one. I didn’t fit in. Even you were a bit peeved by a reservist being appointed over your head, right?”
Wingate put down his glass and took Sheridan’s elbow. Outside the wardroom door he said evenly, “I can’t move my arm, as you know. It saves me from being court-martialled for punching your face through the back of your stupid neck!” He swayed slightly but regarded him calmly. “You still don’t understand, do you? You came aboard Warlock believing that you had been done out of promotion because of the enquiry into Conqueror’s loss. Victimisation, scapegoat, and what you just said about reservists. It never occurred to you at all that your last captain was letting you down as gently as he knew how, did it?”
Sheridan said coldly, “In what way?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. ” Wingate drew a deep breath. ”” I’he fact is, Number One, you’re-not bloody well good enough for command!” He hurried on before Sheridan could speak. “When that shell hit the ship, and I got thrown across the bridge like a lump of pusser’s duff, my last recognisable thought was, Please don’t let the skipper have bought it! I just knew you’d never get us out of that mess, nor any other!” He stood back, his eyes blazing. “Your last C.O. knew you weren’t able to hold down command. Sooner or later you’d have believed someone had it in for you again, God help you.”
Sheridan replied angrily, “That was quite a speech.”
“I did warn you. Now I’ll go and get drunk, if you’ll excuse me.” He paused by the door. “Your predecessor in this ship was pretty useless. Nice bloke, but not up to the job. The skipper carried him, because they were good friends. And there were other reasons. When you came aboard, I thought, Here comes a stranger, one who might be able to help share the load.” He looked at Sheridan with contempt. “God, it’s like telling the pack to carry the mule!”