‘He’s an odd sort of a chap,’ said the Flotilla Navigating Officer. ‘Not the type one noticed much in those days. Quiet, a bit bookish, didn’t shine at games though he was a good cross-country runner. Used to enter for them all and win ’em all.’
‘I can believe that,’ Captain (D) nodded understandingly. ‘He’s one of those gaunt, wiry types. They usually are good runners.’
Haddingham waited for Captain (D) to finish, before saying, ‘It was later that he began to be noticed, I suppose.’
‘In what way?’ Captain (D)’s head was cocked on one side.
‘He was inclined to be accident-prone. Ran into bits of trouble. Odd sorts of scrapes. For example, as a sublieutenant in destroyers he got involved in a mock duel with a midshipman in Valetta. Fought it out on the iron deck with Very pistols. Both young men rather tight. One of the Very flares landed in the sternsheets of a motorboat coming alongside the starboard gangway. The Captain’s dinner guests were in it. So was the Captain.’
Captain (D) chuckled. ‘He was not amused, I dare say. Anything else?’
‘Other incidents of that sort, you know. Usually after he’d had a few drinks. He wrecked a pin-table in a Chatham pub on one occasion. Told the publican that a notice on the machine invited payment of sixpence in return for three playing balls. He pointed out that it had jammed and failed to deliver the balls although it had got his sixpence. The gross breach of contract had, he said, compelled him to take steps to recover the sixpence.’ Haddingham laughed. ‘The pubkeeper reported him and the story got into the local press.’
Captain (D) looked mildly surprised. ‘He doesn’t strike me as that sort of man. Rather quiet, I thought. He left the service as a Lieutenant, didn’t he?’
Haddingham said, ‘Yes. He did. With about six years between his stripes. He had a frightful car smash when his ship was in Portsmouth. Coming back from a hunt ball somewhere in the country. A cabinet minister’s daughter was his passenger. Her face was badly cut up. The police said he’d been drinking. There was a hell of a row. He left the Service not long afterwards. Went into the family wine business. That was a few years before the War began.’
‘Shouldn’t have thought the family wine business was the best place.’ Captain (D) was lost in thought. ‘I suppose most of us did some rather stupid things when we were young. Bad luck though, that car accident. Both for the girl and his naval career.’
‘There were other scrapes. He was, as I’ve said, accident-prone,’ continued Haddingham. ‘But to his credit, he was popular with the lower deck. Very good with them. Always ready to help men in trouble. Never threw his rank about.’
The SOO fanned himself with a signal pad. ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’
‘I got to know him well in the training cruiser. And later on the Subs’ Course at Greenwich. He was an amusing chap, and a good friend. Never let you down. I liked him. He was a funny mix. Half quiet and reserved, half rather wild. Our paths crossed several times after that.’
The SOO said, ‘I’ve always wondered how he got command of a fleet destroyer.’
Captain (D) said, ‘I know the answer to that. Made a name for himself at Dunkirk. Got his DSC there. The V & W he commanded shot down a couple of aircraft and took off a lot of people.’
‘I see.’ The SOO looked gloomily through the open french windows down to Kilindini harbour where the long stretch of water reflected the light of the setting sun and the camouflaged hulls of warships at anchor.
Thirteen
An interested spectator of the day’s events was Brad Corrigan. Wearing white shorts from the ship’s clothing store, he spent most of the day on deck watching the comings and goings of the motorboat and skimmer, gleaning something of what was happening from scraps of conversation around him.
The American’s bloodshot eyes, the scratches on his face and upper body, were reminders of the long night in the water; apart from these he seemed in good shape. Convinced by what he had seen that night, he did not believe the submarine could have dived. For him the search made sense, he admired the thorough way in which it was being conducted, and had a burning desire to be involved. He would have liked to be in the skimmer, the outboard engine screaming its head off, its propeller throwing up plumes of white foam as it leapt and bounced over the sea.
His interest had been heightened by the low-flying Cata-linas, the sound of their engines deafening as they flew overhead. All in all he reckoned the Limeys were doing a good job. If they didn’t find the Jap it wouldn’t be for want of trying.
Some time soon, he reckoned, he’d request to see the Captain again. Ask him couldn’t he, Corrigan, maybe go along in the skimmer and lend a hand? The Captain seemed okay. A hard face, but when he smiled it changed a lot, made him look a nice guy.
There’s no one in the ship can want to find that submarine the way I do, soliloquized Corrigan. Sure I’ve got a grudge. Yeh, a real bad grudge. I saw the sons of bitches killing my buddies, didn’t I? Gunning them down like they were animals.
That adds up to one helluva good reason for wanting to get stuck into the bastards. I’ll put it to the Captain that way. Maybe he’ll understand. Give me the okay to go along. I need to get into that act real bad.
When the sun had gone and the twilight glow in the western sky had given way to night, the motorboat returned to Restless. The Gunnery Officer who’d taken it away put in the negative report that had become all too customary.
Barratt had shrugged, concealed his disappointment. ‘We’ll tackle the southern section tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It looks promising on the chart. More islands and broken coastline than we’ve had today. Now that we’ve got into the routine it should…’
The shrill voice of the starboard lookout broke into the sentence. ‘Skimmer approaching, sir. Ahead to starboard.’
It couldn’t be seen in the gathering gloom, but the high-pitched whine of its engine grew steadily louder. Moving through the water at slow speed Restless showed no lights until the Chief Bosun’s Mate directed the beam of his torch on to the sea. The skimmer came out of the darkness, manoeuvred alongside and was hoisted on board. Morrow ran up to the bridge, found the Captain on the compass platform. ‘Sorry, sir. No joy,’ he said.
‘There’s a lot to be done yet.’ Barratt spoke quietly, didn’t lower his binoculars. ‘We’re only half way.’
Morrow thought the Captain sounded despondent, almost as if he didn’t really mean what he was saying.
Barratt decided that Restless should stand out to sea that night. With revolutions for fifteen knots and radar and asdic operating, the destroyer settled down on a fifteen mile patrol line, three miles to seaward of the islands of Tambuzi and Metundo, the light on the former in sight most of the time. Some time after eight o’clock, satisfied that the ship was on station, he handed over the bridge to Geoffrey Lawson.
After a modest meal in his sea-cabin he made his first attempt at sleep in the twenty-four hours since Restless had picked up Fort Nebraska's signal. To Barratt it seemed a good deal longer. Exhausted and depressed he lay on the settee, turning constantly, the pillow moist with sweat, the humid heat too much for the fan which whirred above his head. Sleep just wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts in his head. Through it kept passing pictures of all that had happened during those twenty-four hours. Inevitably, they were accompanied by questions and uncertainties. Was he carrying out the search in the most efficient manner? Was there anything more he could and should be doing? Closer co-operation with the Catalinas? Why? In what way? They were searching as thoroughly as they could. So was Restless. The only sort of co-operation possible was the exchange of more signals. With what object? There was nothing to say. To have aircraft circling and flashing messages morning and evening was a sure way of making a nonsense of the search.