‘Nothing seems to interest him these days, Pilot. Sometimes I get the impression that his mind is a million miles away. Difficult to get through to him.’
Dodds closed the book on the chart-table — Africa Pilot, Vol III, the Admiralty Sailing Directions — and replaced it on the bookshelf. He turned back to the First Lieutenant. ‘How does news get out of Changi, Number One?’
‘Haven’t a clue. I suppose the POWs operate some sort of grapevine. Can’t see the Japanese bothering to notify next-of-kin.’
‘No I can’t,’ agreed the Navigating Officer. ‘How long had they been married?’
‘About six months I think — that is, when Singapore fell. He never saw her after that.’ The First Lieutenant changed the subject. ‘Hot and muggy. We could do with another thunderstorm.’
The Navigating Officer was drawing the new course line on the chart. Over his shoulder he said, ‘That one this afternoon certainly cooled things down.’
At the point of alteration of course he drew a small circle, noting against it the time, 2049.
There was no moon to relieve the darkness but in the corridors between the clouds the southern sky was bright with stars. From the engineroom skylight came distant sounds, the rhythmic hum of turbines, the purr of ventilating fans and the dissonances of auxiliary machinery. To those on the bridge closer sounds were the splash and rustle of water along the sides, the metronomic ping from the asdic’s loudspeaker, and the occasional murmur of voices from the men on watch.
Barratt stood at the bridge screen looking into the night, his thoughts in another place, another time, another world: Singapore, the year before, on the terrace at Raffles. A night in some ways not unlike this, he thought; hot, humid, bright with stars, the muted strains of a dance band somewhere in the distance. The slight fair girl sitting beside him, eager and joyous with youth, a bubbling laugh never far away. ‘D’you really want to make an honest woman of me, John? Are you sure? With this War and everything?’
‘Yes. Absolutely sure. The War’s all the more reason. We won’t see much of each other, probably. Well — not for some time anyway. Better make the most of it now.’
She laughed. ‘You’ve only known me for three weeks. You’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-one. It’s completely mad.’ ‘Good to be mad,’ he said. ‘Your youth, my rugged old age. What a combination.’ That had sounded frivolous, so he’d added, ‘I love you, Caroline.’ He’d leant towards her, takemher hand and squeezed it. He’d wanted very much to kiss her, but disliked displays of emotion in public. Rather prudish about that, he was.
She’d pushed him away. Laughing, watching him closely, she’d said, ‘I’m told you were a bit wild when you were young. You got into awful scrapes, they say.’
‘Who’s they?’
She’d looked guilty. ‘Oh, somebody who was in the Navy with you in those days.’
‘Well, I think I’d describe it as having been a bit high-spirited. Not wild really. Anyway, don’t let’s discuss my past. Let’s do something about our present.’
It was then that she’d looked at him in a calculating way. ‘Were you ever married?’
‘No. Got near to it once and — well — that came to nothing. I was leading a pretty busy life and — you know — just didn’t get round to it. Then the War came.’
All that seemed to have happened a long time ago. Without memories, what was there left? Won’t see much of each other, probably. He’d not realized how prophetic that was to be. The thought evoked a long-drawn sigh of wretchedness. The signal from the Admiralty said she’d died of fever. What sort of fever? Malaria, enteric, yellow? Not that it made any difference. She was dead. He’d never see her again. Dead in Changi Gaol. What a foul place for anyone to die, let alone a girl like Caroline. Surrounded by those God-awful people with their cold-eyed militaristic dogma that permitted the most ferocious atrocities.
As so often when thinking of her death he had to tussle with confused emotions: feelings of guilt — but for him she might not have been there — of futility because he could do nothing about what had happened — nothing but fulminate and hate. In each hour of every night and day his mind was scourged by thoughts of Caroline. Thoughts of the indignities, the humiliations she must have endured; her loneliness and terror as the fever possessed her; the dreadful, suffering hours as she lay dying, surrounded by Japanese prison guards.
There was nobody with whom he could share his grief, nothing to look forward to, little point in going on with life; yet it was there and had to be lived, and at least the War might provide an opportunity for revenge. That his thoughts were entirely negative, he well knew. But he could not make them otherwise, they couldn’t be reasoned away, and that knowledge made things worse.
The discordant rasp of a buzzer sounding on the bridge brought him back to reality. Its urgent summons was followed by the voice of Lawson, the officer-of-the-watch, who was also the destroyer’s Gunnery Officer. ‘Bridge — W/T office.’ A pause, then, ‘Repeat that.’ Another pause, then, ‘Just, my course is — good. The bridge messenger will collect it.’ Lawson came over to Barratt at the bridge screen. ‘Captain, sir. W/T office reports an SSSS from a US merchant ship, Fort Nebraska. She gave her position at 2100 as twenty-two miles east-north-east of Porto do Ibo. The message ended with the words my course is — no more after that, sir. Messenger’s gone to collect it.’
Barratt came suddenly alive. ‘U-boat attack. Transmission interrupted. Poor devils. Steer twenty degrees to port. Revolutions for twenty knots. I’ll look at the chart. Tell the Pilot I want him up here double quick.’
Lawson was repeating the orders to the wheelhouse when the messenger arrived on the bridge with Fort Nebraska's signal.
The rhythmic hum of the turbines, the vibrations of the hull, the tumble and hiss of water along the sides increased in pitch as Barratt made his way to the bridge chart-table. He lifted the screen, switched on a light. First he plotted Fort Nebraska's position, then advanced Restless's for the five minutes since 2100. Drawing a line between them, he rolled the parallel rulers on to the compass rose, read off the course to steer — 290° — and measured the distance with dividers — 123 miles. He switched off the light, replaced the screen, moved towards the compass platform. ‘Steer 290 degrees,’ he called to Lawson.
The Navigating Officer arrived on the bridge. Barratt handed him the Fort Nebraska signal. ‘Submarine attack, Pilot. I make the course to her position 290 degrees, distance 123 miles. Haven’t allowed for current. Plot the scenario in the chartroom and give me a course to steer. Double quick.
After that draft a signal to SOO Kilindini reporting our receipt of the four S. Give her position and ours, and conclude with, ‘Proceeding to Fort Nebraska position. My course 290°, speed twenty knots. Got that, Pilot? Good. SOO will already have had the four S from the Fleet W/T office — and other ships at sea.’
‘Our speed only twenty knots, sir?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Barratt. ‘That’s all our fuel remaining will permit. Don’t forget we chased around looking for U-boats after that attack on the southbound convoy. Then the Catalina saga. You should know that, my boy. Now get on with it.’
With a breathless, ‘Yes, sir,’ Dodds made for the chart-room.
Barratt called to Lawson, ‘Number One on the bridge. Double quick.’
Double quick was Barratt’s variation on the theme of ‘at the double’. Midshipman Tripp had dubbed it The Old Man’s Signature Tune. The First Lieutenant disapproved. All orders were expected to be carried out at the double. It was not a Custom of the Service to emphasize the obvious. For Barratt, however, they suggested a greater sense of urgency. On this occasion they brought Sandy Hamilton to the bridge in just under sixty seconds. He was dripping, bare-footed and naked but for white shorts and a uniform cap. ‘Sorry about my rig, sir,’ he apologized. ‘I was in the shower.’