“Bill Selkirk came to see me, sir. He had heard rumours, too.”
“Yes. He would. ” He sighed. “He loves that old tub of his. But…”
Drummond asked, “What about Warlock, sir? And Vic tor?”
“You will be going, too, of course. But in a more conventional role. There will be troops and commando taking part. Air cover. The lot.”
“Can you give me any idea when, sir?”
“Around Christmas, I should think. Long dark nights. Foulweather. Be easier for you in the long run.”
It was about two months away.
As if reading his thoughts Kimber added, “I’ll want you and Victor to go round to the west coast. To Greenock. You can exercise from there, up through the Minches. The Army have several special training camps on the islands. Your orders will fill you in. It’s kid stuff to you, but it should help your new men, the, er, replacements, to settle into the team.”
Drummond nodded. “It’ll keep everyone’s mind off it, too.”
“I’ll see Selkirk myself. It will come better from me. I’m not involved. It will give him someone to blame, if that’s what he wants.” He hesitated. “Of course, I’d rather he remained in command.”
Drummond eyed him gravely. “Don’t worry. He will.”
“As for Lomond.” Kimber looked away. “Captain (D) will be in command of her, I imagine. As it’s his show, so to speak.”
He glanced at his watch and Drummond knew it was time to leave.
A Wren officer, not Vaughan’s, caught up with him. “Commander Drummond?”
He looked at her. She was pretty, but strained. “Yes.”
“We’ve just had a signal phoned to us from Chatham. It was for you. We were going to send it to the ship, but I knew, we all knew you were in the building … ” Her voice trailed away and she blushed.
Drummond asked, “What was it about?”
She said, “I’m awfully sorry, sir. It’s about a friend of yours. Lieutenant Frank Cowley died last night in the hospital at Canterbury. His widow wanted you to know.”
Drummond looked away, his mind shocked. Poor Frank. All these months. Lying there, or trying to learn to walk on artificial legs. Probably reading about the flotilla, the Warlock, and all the rest of them, or hearing about them on the wireless.
Aloud he said, “I should have gone to see him.”
The Wren replied quietly, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. Like this.”
He touched her arm. Wishing she were Sarah, so that he could tell her about Frank.
He said, “No. You did right. You made it seem more human. Thank you.”
Drummond walked towards the entrance doors, knowing the Wren was still staring after him.
That night he was sitting in his cabin drinking and thinking of all the things which had happened since he had been given the old Warlock. The ship moved restlessly at her moorings, pushed by a mounting wind. She was very quiet, as most of her company were ashore on local leave. Tomorrow forenoon, off to sea again. But tonight he would be alone. And think.
Feet banged on the ladder and Selkirk thrust aside the door curtain and said gruffly, “Can I share a drink with you?” He seemed dazed. “I’ve seen Kimber. He told me.”
Drummond said, “Sit down, man. ” He poured some brandy into a glass. “Here.”
Selkirk stared over the glass, his eyes misty. “They’re going to make her into a bomb. A floating bomb.” He tossed back the drink and added savagely, “In God’s name, how can they do that to a ship!”
“I’m sorry. You know that. ” He watched the man’s anguish. Despair. He asked, “Will you be staying?”
Selkirk stood up violently. “You bet. You never know. There might be a chance of saving her.” The spark died just as quickly and he said brokenly, “Poor old girl. What a bloody thing to happen!” And he slammed out of the cabin.
Drummond sat down heavily. A ship condemned. Elsewhere a man had died.
Sheridan appeared in the doorway, his shoulders glistening with rain.
Drummond pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Number One.”
The other man sat, watching curiously as Drummond poured him a large drink.
He said, “It’s blowing up a bit, sir. Be a rough passage tomorrow for any weak stomach.”
Drummond did not seem to hear. He said softly, “Your predecessor has just died.”
He had telephoned the hospital himself after leaving Naval H.Q. The doctor on the other end of the line had been evasive until he had told him that Frank had been his friend.
The doctor had said awkwardly, “I am afraid that Lieutenant Cowley killed himself. There was nothing we could do.”
Sheridan replied, “I’m sorry, sir. I did not know him, of course, but I have heard that you were both very close.”
Drummond said, “We are going on another operation shortly.” He did not look at him. “I just want you to know that I’d like you to be with me. I’ve treated you harshly, often unjustly. Perhaps it was because of Frank. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
Sheridan stared at him. He knew well enough that most of the trouble between himself and Drummond had been of his own making. He recalled Wingate’s words. Not fit for a command. And now the death of a man he had not known had changed everything. Cowley’s presence had remained in the ship, like an invisible barrier. Now it was gone. He was accepted. He saw the strain returning to Drummond’s eyes and cursed himself. More than that, he was needed, just as Galbraith had implied all those long weeks ago.
He said, “I don’t think I’d be any good as a commanding officer anyway!”
Drummond looked at him and then poured another drink. “If you can say that, there’s hope for you yet.”
Vice-Admiral Brooks entered his map room by a small side door and nodded amiably to his chief of staff. The room was packed with officers, hardly one of whom was of lesser rank than captain, or its equivalent in the Army and R.A.F. Brooks held up a wizened hand.
“Smoke if you wish, gentlemen. And at the same time pray that the air-conditioning does not fail. It would be a grevious loss to our cause if all the top Service brains died from tobacco smoke.”
It brought a wave of chuckles. Brooks was always a popular speaker, and the fact he was well aware of it helped considerably.
He said, “First, I would like to thank all of those present who have worked so hard with my department over the past weeks to make this plan a possibility.” The wizened hand gestured to a large table, discreetly covered by a cloth. “The possibility is about to become reality.”
He paused long enough to allow an aide to light his cigarette, and for the assembled staff officers to settle themselves in their uncomfortable folding chairs. Inside the bunker it was damply warm, and it could have been any time of the day. In fact, it was evening, and up above in London there was an air-raid commencing over the south bank of the Thames, and several streets blazing to mark the fall of incendiaries. November was always a bad month for air-raids. Cloud cover, the natural misery of cold and short rations. It was no joke spending the night in an air-raid shelter with a blanket and a Thermos of weak tea, Brooks thought.
Beyond the air-raid he could visualise the other theatres of war. Italy, where the first stirring advances had slowed into a stalemate of snow and slush. And a German army, which even in retreat was still hitting back, and hard. On the Russian front it was the same tale. Vehicles and men in a white panorama of chilling, agonising endurance. The Allied victories in North Africa and Sicily, the Pacific and the great naval feats against the Tirpitz and the Norwegian fjords had become part of the past. Something in favour, but still the past. Next year. In the next few months the Allies would move against northern Europe. Every officer in the room knew it, almost to the date, and the millions beyond the steel doors were equally certain that there was no other way to a complete and final victory.