He turned as Sheridan asked, “Will there be any leave for the ship’s company?”
“I’m afraid not, Number One. I’ll tell them about this business tomorrow. Then they can write their letters, and the port admiral will put them under lock and key until it’s over.”
There was a discreet cough, followed by a tap on the door, and Petty Officer Ives, the new yeoman of signals, showed himself around the curtain.
Ives was a lean, stern-faced man, with the quick movements of a terrier. He had transferred from a light cruiser at his own request, and Wingate’s description of his being “very pusser” and like greased lightning with his work, had already proved correct. But it was hard not to look for Tucker’s bluff outline, his shaggy beard and ready laugh on the bridge.
Ives snapped, “Signal, sir. Thought you’d want it immediately.”
He did not relax or even glance at the watching officers. His hair was trimmed so short and so high above the ears that when he was wearing his cap he could have been completely bald.
Drummond could feel them all looking at him.
There was to be a top-level conference at the temporary H. Q. building in an hour’s time. The last one when they would see each other as faces, before the balloon went up. The final line was the only one he revealed to the others.
He said quietly, “The flotilla will proceed to sea tomorrow at 1800.”
Keyes’ voice broke the stillness. “But, sir, we will be away for Christmas!”
Surprisingly, most of them grinned at his horrified face.
Drummond said, “Never mind. We’ll make up for it later on.”
Sheridan asked, “Will you stay and have a drink with us, sir?”
“No. I have to go ashore.” He smiled. “But thanks. Have one for me. ” He left the wardroom.
Vaughan crossed to Sheridan’s side and held out a glass.
“Here, you should be congratulated.”
“What the hell for?” Sheridan was still thinking of Drummond’s eyes. Like a man under sentence.
Vaughan smiled. “I was talking to my Wren. About this andthat.”
“I can imagine!”
“Seriously, old chap. She told me that the skipper has recommended you for command.” He stood back, enjoying Sheridan’s astonishment. “So here’s looking at you, eh?”
Sheridan drew a deep breath. “Well I’m damned.”
“Most probably.”
Drummond had reached the brow, and pulled up his greatcoat collar as more sleet probed across the darkened deck towards the jetty. Rankin, who was O.O.D., had somehow managed to beat him to the gangway, and stood with the quartermaster to see him over the side.
Another officer was waiting with him. North of the Victor, who had just crossed the deck from his own ship which was on the outboard side.
He said, “I’ll walk with you, sir?”
He was a serious-looking man, very slim and contained. In peacetime he had been a solicitor as well as gaining recognition as a first-class yachtsman. He had even found time to join the volunteer reserve, and to get married to a stunning-looking girl called Elinor.
Drummond nodded. “Glad of your company, Roger.” They walked through the clinging sleet, hands in pockets, heads down.
North said suddenly, “Pity about Christmas. Still, I’ve not had one at home since the war.” He laughed, the vapour spurting from his mouth like steam. “God, this is going to be quite a show!”
Drummond replied, “It is. How did your officers take the news?”
The other man chuckled. “Reluctantly. My number one is convinced he’s going to get the Victoria Cross””.” He added quietly, “Just so long as it’s not a marble one.”
In due course they arrived at that same dreary-looking building. It was still like a mortuary. Armed sentries, sandbags and bustling personnel did not seem able to change it.
They were ushered into a crowded room. Drummond flicked down his collar and shook his cap on the floor. They were all here. Not the planners or strategists. The ones who were going to fight.
Then from across the room he saw Beaumont. He was staring at him, his pink features set in concentration.
He nodded curtly, “Ah, Keith. Take a pew: We’re all here now, I think.”
His eyes did not leave Drummond for an instant. A question, a warning? It could have been both.
Beaumont said loudly, “Sorry about the weather, chaps. Even I couldn’t fix anything up there!”
Drummond sat back in his chair. The main act was beginning at last.
The following evening, anyone who was foolish enough to brave the worsening weather, or still employed in the dock area would have seen the ill-assorted flotilla getting under way.
With Warlock, followed by Victor, in the lead, the motley collection of motor launches, two small Hunt class destroyers and a heavy salvage tug slipped from their moorings and pushed into a diagonal downpour of grey sleet.
Drummond buttoned his oilskin more tightly around his throat. Beneath its collar he had already wrapped a clean towel. It was wringing wet before they cleared the harbour precinct and turned south-west towards the Lizard.
Sheridan lurched across the heaving bridge and reported that he had checked the blackout and been round all parts of the ship himself.
He said, “We will be meeeting the others tomorrow then?”
“Yes. The M.T.B.s are coming round from Bristol where they’ve been exercising for their part in things.”
Sheridan watched him narrowly, seeing Drummond’s face shining in the sleet and falling spray.
“I’m sorry for the blokes in the M.L.s, sir. They’ll be bobbing about like corks before much longer.”
Drummond lifted himself on his chair to watch the bows wallowing deeply in a trough, almost as far as the bullring. Around B gun the oilskinned seamen were crouching like pieces of black statuary. He had already thought about the small craft. Crammed with commando and marines, they might find it easier once they were in deeper water where the troughs were further apart. He hoped so, for all their sakes. Men keyed up to fightingpitch were one thing. But to arrive at their objective bruised and demoralised by heavy seas would lessen their chances even more.
The weather was foul everywhere. The met reports had gloomily prophesied that the heavy snow which was now falling in the North Sea and English Channel would reach the Bay by tomorrow.
He tried to push his apprehension aside. They had been wrong plenty of times in the past.
“We will exercise action stations in fifteen minutes, Number One. Make a signal to Victor to that effect.”
After which it will be in deadly earnest, he thought.
Ives snapped, “At once, sir!” It sounded as if he were c icking his heels.
Down on the messdecks the off-duty watch sat or crouched in their seagoing gear, knowing the alarm bells would soon be sounding.
Leading Seaman Rumsey, the chief quartermaster, went methodically through his own arrangements. Tin of fags, well wrapped in a bit of oilskin. Matches. Bar of nutty. He grinned lazily. And a lifebelt.
From the opposite mess, Leading Telegraphist “Dolly” Gray called, “You’ll be going up to the wheelhouse, won’t you, Harry?”
Rumsey glared. “Where did you expect? To the bloody wardroom?”
The telegraphist grinned. “Keep your hair on, mate! It was just that there was a message about your Q.M., Jevers. Has he been up to something?”
Rumsey pricked up his ears. “Why?”
“Oh, maybe nothing to it, but the harbour police were making enquiries about him. On behalf of the London coppers and the American provost marshal. ” He shrugged and tightened his belt. “We didn’t tell them much, of course. Signals department was restricted until this lot’s over.”
Rumsey stood up, gauging the distance to the vertical steel ladder to the deck above.