“I’ll tell him anyway.”
The tannoy squawked. “Hands to exercise action!” Rumsey was the first up the ladder and through the small oval hatch before anyone had moved. He had never missed yet. A few minutes later Sheridan reported, “Ship at action stations, sir.”
Drummond had been listening to the staccato voices coming into the bridge from guns and magazines, from each section of his ship. Beyond them he had heard the regular ping of the Asdic, the surge and plunge of Warlock’s stem across the bustling whitecaps. Sleet and leaping wavecrests, while astern he could just make out the dull blobs of the other vessels. Beaumont was back there in one of the accompanying Hunt destroyers, ready to transfer to a motor gunboat which was to be used as a command vessel once they had joined Lomond and Ventnor. Far abeam he saw a winking green eye. Wreck buoy to mark some unfortunate encounter in the past.
“Thank you, Number One.”
They had gone to their stations quickly, considering it was only the usual exercise. They were behaving well. As they had when he had spoken to them about their part in Smash-Hit. Every captain thought his own company was different from all others. To everyone else Warlock’s people were probably very ordinary. In a street, or in their home towns, they would not even stand out. He ran his hand along the ice-cold rail below the screen. Nevertheless, this company seemed different.
He said, “Fall them out. Port watch to defence stations.”
In the sealed compartment below Drummond’s chair, Leading Seaman Rumsey stepped up on to the grating and relieved the coxswain at the wheel.
He peered at the gyro repeater and said, “Course two-twofive, ‘Swain.”
Mangin grunted. “I’m off then.”
As the men pushed away from the various action stations in response to the tannoy, groping irritably with each plunge of the deck, Rumsey said to Jevers. “There was a call about you from the boys in blue. From London. ” He watched the ticking gyro but heard Jevers’ quick intake of breath. “Something to do with the Yanks.”
Jevers scoffed, “Gorn, you’re makin’ it up!”
“No. On the level, mate. Leading Tel. Dolly Gray took the message. Ask ‘im, if you like.”
Jevers replied, “I’m not bothered. Why the ‘ell should I be anyway?”
Rumsey groped with one hand for his chocolate bar. He heard Jevers staggering down the internal ladder, his oilskin scraping against the wet metal.
He called up the voice-pipe, “Wheel relieved, sir. Leadin’ Seaman Rumsey.”
Wingate’s voice, almost lost in the slashing sleet. “Very good.”
At the foot of the ladder Jevers paused and clung to a handrail. He felt hot and ice-cold in turns, and it was all he could do to think properly. Rumsey’s casual mention of the police explained everything. That bloody Yank must have been alive. He could feel him now, as he clung to the swaying ship. The tall sergeant’s anger falling away to a choking cry of agony and disbelief as he had driven his knife into him, twisting it with all his strength until the man’s weight had pulled it clear as he fell.
He stared round the dim companion-way like a trapped animal. Even now the wires would be humming. Perhaps the skipper already knew.
A bosun’s mate lurched into him, and Jevers snarled, ” ‘Oo the ‘ell are you lookin’ at?”
The seaman stared at him. “Sorry, chum, I was just takin’ the milk for old Badger. Didn’t seem right to leave him behind this time. ” He watched as Jevers blundered away into the darkness. “Bomb-‘appy sod!” he muttered.
Back in Falmouth the town and harbour settled down for a long night of sleet and probably snow. But they were used to it, and had been since ships had first gone around the headland. To meet the Armada, to fight under Nelson at the Nile, to fish, or to carry cargo to the other side of the globe.
Some of the berths were empty now, strangely derelict under the layers of slush.
In the dock office, where in happier times Customs officials and harbour pilots shared vast quantities of tea, the duty operations officer yawned over tomorrow’s arrangements for an incoming fleet repair ship.
The telephone broke into his thoughts, and on the other end of the line he heard the O.O.D. say, “Sorry to bother you, sir. But there’s a young lady from the M.o.I. here. She’s got the right passes and everything, but …”
The operations officer said, “Put her on.”
She had a very nice voice, he thought. She said, “I was asking about the Warlock, sir. I wanted to see Commander Drummond. I thought …”
The operations officer recalled his own feelings as he had watched the strange collection of ships heading away from the land, the lump he had felt in his throat. And that was after four years of it.
He said, “Wait there. I’ll come up and see you.”
At the other end of the line she handed the telephone to a young lieutenant.
He asked, “All right, was it?”
She looked at him and replied, “I was too late. ” She walked to the window and lifted one corner of the blackout to stare at the streaming glass. “But I’ll wait.” She was oblivious to the man’s curious eyes. “I’ll be here when he comes back.”
Drummond awoke, ice-cold and shivering in his chair with someone gripping his shoulder. It was Wingate, his eyes redrimmed in the dull light, his face squinting against the unrelenting rain and sleet.
“Some nice hot tea, sir.” He gripped the voice-pipes as Warlock swayed heavily to one side, and watched Drummond take the first sip. Then he said cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, sir!”
Drummond felt the scalding tea exploring his stomach and waited for his mind to level off. How could he or anyone else sleep in this? he wondered. But he had managed it. On an open bridge, and with his oilskin coat clattering to the steady downpour.
It had been pitch-dark when he had dozed off in the chair. He looked at his watch. Six in the morning. Funny how you could forget Christmas.
“Where are we, Pilot”
Wingate gestured vaguely over the screen. “One hundred and fifty miles south-west of Land’s End, sir. Not bad, considering.”
Drummond lurched to his feet, stamping his seat boots to restore the circulation. All greys. Dull or pale. Interspersed at irregular intervals with breaking wavecrests, although mercifully the sea had eased out into long, ungainly rollers. If only the sleet would go, too.
He put the mug down and asked, “How are the others?”
“All with us, sir. The two Hunts have had difficulty with their tows. Ours are okay so far.”
He waited until Drummond had peered aft to where two shining M. L. s veered this way and that on their tow lines. It was still very dark and overcast, and he was ravenously hungry.
He said, “We should rendezvous with the others at 1100.”
“Yes.”
Drummond wondered what Selkirk was thinking as he conned his ship through the foul weather towards her final gesture. What had they told him? That Selkirk’s ship has been loaded with some thirty depth-charges, which in turn had been sealed in concrete and supported by a mesh of steel frames just abaft her forward gun support. Lomond, being slightly larger, carried an even greater amount of explosives. Primed with special army fuses, their combined effect would be devastating.
Sheridan appeared on the bridge, his cap dripping, his face raw with blown salt.
He managed to grin. “Happy Christmas, everyone!”
As time wore on the other ships and small craft took on shape and personality, and although no signals were exchanged, Victor had hoisted some kind of green garland to her foremast as a defiance to their circumstances.
Drummond thought of his sea cabin, the chance of rest. Even a shave. But it was not the time. Not yet. He munched a soggy corned-beef sandwich and drank more tea than he could remember doing before.