Drummond tried to relax. It was like a carefully rehearsed lecture. A sales talk.
He had not set eyes on Beaumont since the raid, but had heard of him quite a lot. In the newspapers he had been shown making a speech at a warship week, when people paid their hard-earned savings towards building another ship for the Navy. At factories on war work, his cheerful, confident face had been seen from Tyneside to Cardiff. The man of action taking time to encourage the many thousands who worked behind the scenes and without much praise.
Once, ae had been in an Edinburgh cinema when the inevitable had happened. Beaumont had been shown on one of the newsreels, pointing at some vague strips of film, showing how it was done. One minute excited, the next grave and sad for those who had died in battle.
Sarah had squeezed his hand in the darkness and had whispered, “Let’s get out of here. He makes me feel sick.”
He said, “I had wondered about the Tirpitz, Sir. I’m glad it went off well. I’m afraid I’d never make a submariner. I like to see where I’m going.”
“Quite so.” Brooks lit another cigarette. “I keep out of the limelight. Have to. But I don’t miss much. Can’t afford to in this business. ” He eyed him calmly. “I’ve heard a few things about you and Captain Beaumont. Things I’m not too happy about.”
“It’s not come from me, sir.” Drummond felt immediately on guard. “I have not even seen Captain Beaumont since the attack.”
“I know. But there’s more to it than that. In war, there are many different threads you must weave to complete a victory. Bombing and convoys, tanks and infantry, and all the lines of supply it takes to keep them coming. But no less important, Drummond, is confidence. A belief, an absolute faith in final victory. It’s no good telling a man who has to struggle to work every day on train or bus, regardless of air-raids and the fact his house has just been bombed flat, that all is well. He must be made to believe it. To hold on when everything looks at its blackest.”
“I thought that was more for the propaganda people than us, sir.”
Brooks shook his head. “The enemy has propaganda, Drummond. The Allies have sources of information. Quite different.” He winked. “But you are correct in seeing the importance of close contact between the few who fight and the greater mass which has to suffer if the country is to survive.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“No. You are a seagoing officer. Not ‘a politician. You see, Drummond, when the Conqueror went down, it was not merely another ship going to the bottom. You know that. She was a symbol, like the old Hood, the Royal Oak. The country had come to rely on them, even though most people had never laid eyes on any of them. Conqueror’s destruction came at a bad time. Heavy losses in our convoys, severe shortages at home, almost nightly bombing in our cities, some of which will never recover. In the field, too, our troops were faring badly for the most part. Conqueror might well have been the stone to tip the scales. Instead, she offered us a living symbol. Someone who could endure the very worst and still fight back. A man of war. Somebody we could all recognise, in whom we could see something of ourselves.”
“Captain Beaumont?”
“Just so.”
There was a long silence and then the admiral said, “When we decided to create a little flotilla under the auspices of Special Operations, I, for one, had no idea of its capability, its chances of success. That, I must admit, is why I selected older, less valuable vessels for the task. Also, from my experience, the older, harder-worked ships inevitably produce the best and most determined companies and captains. They haveto be to survive. You don’t get much drive by swinging round a buoy in Scapa Flow,”
“I think we all realised that, sir.”
“I am sure. I am equally positive that you would not wish to upset the apple-cart at a time when this damned war has taken a turn in our favour.”
“If you mean the raid, sir …”
“Well, you said it.” Brooks searched for a fresh pack of cigarettes. “I have heard that some of your people are feeling bitter about the manner in which the raid was carried out. Not about the manner in which you and your ships were asked to perform a miracle.”
Drummond eyed him steadily. “I can’t speak for anybody else, sir. But I did think that the attack should have been executed as originally planned. If the enemy had been bringing up heavy units, including the Moltke, and some fleet destroyers, we’d have been done for anyway. Surprise was all we had.”
“You are being too modest.” Brooks frowned. “You are suggesting that as Captain (D), Beaumont should have sent the whole flotilla into the fjord, regardless of any threat which might have been coming from elsewhere.”
He paused, watching Drummond’s grave features. “That is what you would have done in his place?”
“Yes.”
In his mind it was suddenly very clear. The destroyer slewing round and going aground, the heavy fall of shells from the hidden shore battery. Ventnor’s side steaming from a massive explosion, the Norwegians dashing along the hillside above burning German vehicles.
He added simply, “My three ships could have been knocked out without getting to the major targets at all.”
Brooks tapped his knee as he perched on the corner of a table. His face was grave and thoughtful.
He said slowly, “It’s water under the bridge as far as that’s concerned.” His face relaxed slightly. “I have to tell you that the Distinguished Service Order is being awarded to you for your part. Others will be recognised, too.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t seem too impressed?” Brooks eyed him curiously. “Are you afraid of becoming a hero?”
“Of becoming something I’m not, sir.” He thought of the Whirlpool vanishing in one blinding explosion. “I was as scared as the rest of them.”
“That I can believe. I was not always a crabby old admiral, you know. Another war, and I was much like you. Only the methods change.”
“Is that what you wanted me for, sir?”
“Of course not. I wanted to hear it from you, naturally. But also I needed to know how you feel about another operation.”
Drummond tensed. “We’ll not be going back to general service, then, sir?”
“Is that an answer?” He showed his teeth. “In a way, I suppose it is. But you see, I cannot merely order you to perform another of our little miracles. It will be a hard one, it could easily be a complete failure.”
“In your opinion, sir.” He was torn between his emotions like a piece of flotsam. He kept seeing her face, knowing what she meant to him. She was his future now. Everything. “Is it a plan which has a real value?”