Battlecruiser (1997) (23 page)

Rayner said, ‘I don’t believe it. I was
there.
I saw what that bastard did to you, and was trying to do!’

She said, ‘Thank you for that. But I had no choice. I had to accept it. My job is here, and my mother might have heard about it if the police had pressed the issue.’

Rayner said, ‘I’d have killed him. If I ever see him again . . .’

She gripped his arm, as she had that night at the hotel.

‘Try to forget about it. You were there. You saved me. I should have been more careful, but it was Mary’s birthday. I should have known better.’

She opened a door, and he guessed it was some kind of staff lounge. He waited while she brought tea, he assumed from a canteen nearby.

He watched her intently, afraid it was all part of some hallucination, like the hours in
Reliant
’s sickbay after his wound had been stitched and he had been drifting in a haze of drugs. Faces had come and gone through the mist, Eddy, almost in tears and trying to make jokes at the same time, Rob Morgan, with his lilting Welsh accent, his hand resting on his bare shoulder as if to share his own great physical strength. And the captain, who had visited him several times, although Rayner thought some were probably in his imagination.

And always, in each lull between the intervals of pain, he had seen her. This girl.

‘I’m in the R.N. Sick Quarters now,’ he said.

She put her hand on the back of his. ‘I know. I found out.’

She turned as one of the canteen staff came in, carrying a vase for the flowers.

He watched her, her lashes, the fine curve of her skin, enjoying the cool pressure of her hand on his. It was real. It was happening.

She asked, without looking at him, ‘How long?’

‘I’m not sure. The ship’s been at sea again. I’m supposed to be rejoining when I’m cleared by the M.O.’

She said softly, ‘You miss your ship, don’t you? I can understand that.’

‘I missed
you
 . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Andy. How we met doesn’t count any more. I just know that I want to see you again.’ He dropped his gaze, unable to look at her. ‘And again. Please don’t laugh at me. I mean it. I’ve never been in love with anyone before.’

Her grip tightened on his hand. ‘You’re so nice. Like fresh air. Like . . . 
living.
’

He said, ‘Have you been up here long?’

‘No. I was at the big hospital at East Drayton.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Down south. They asked me to come up here when they opened this place.’ She shrugged lightly. ‘So here I am.’

‘Can we meet somewhere? Have a meal, or something?’

She withdrew her hand, smiling at him. ‘A meal? I can see you don’t know this area very well!’

She watched his emotions, so easy to read, and yet so obviously sincere that it made her want to cry. But she was past tears: she had to be.

She relented, and said, ‘Yes. I’d like that.’ She tried to lighten it. ‘But you’ll see, once you’re back aboard your precious ship you’ll soon forget all about me.’

She saw his sudden hurt, like something physical. ‘I’m sorry. That was a bitchy thing to say.’ She looked up as a shadow fell between them.

‘Number Seven, Sister. Getting a bit fraught. He’s upset at leaving.’

She was on her feet. ‘I’ll come at once.’

The orderly said, ‘Give me a few minutes, Sister. We’re a bit short-handed on the block until the relief comes on duty.’

Rayner stood up. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

The orderly said, ‘No, sir. I don’t think you’d understand.’

She said sharply, ‘Of course he’d understand. He’s one of them. We’re not.’

They walked together into an adjoining wing of the building, with the same polished floors and lines of numbered doors. The orderly Rayner had met was sitting outside one of them.

‘It was the jacket,’ he said. ‘I knew this would happen.’

She said to Rayner, ‘Flight Lieutenant Bowles is being transferred to another recuperation hospital today.’ She consulted the small watch pinned to the bosom of her uniform. ‘In an hour’s time.’

The orderly said, ‘I’ll get the duty M.O., Sister.’

She shook her head. ‘He hates doctors, don’t you understand?’

Rayner watched her, so small and pretty, but with a strength and compassion he was seeing for the first time.

‘Why are they getting rid of him?’

She said, without emotion, ‘Because there’s nothing more they can do for him. This is the only place he knows. To him, it’s like the end of the line.’

Something fell and shattered in the room. Rayner said, ‘Let me.’

She opened the door, and he followed her inside. It was clean but spartan, like the rest of the place. The suitcase and the neatly pressed uniform jacket said it all.

The officer was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a sunlit crack in the black-out curtains, so that he appeared to be crossed by a single yellow line.

He said, ‘Good. I told them you’d put a stop to it, Andy!’ He turned his head and shoulders, and asked sharply, ‘Who’s this?’

She said, ‘Lieutenant Rayner. A Canadian pilot.’

He nodded, dealing with it. ‘We had a few of your bods at Biggin Hill. Not a bad bunch, considering.’

Rayner said, ‘We try.’

The flight lieutenant named Bowles appeared to laugh, but no sound came.

‘What sort of kite do you fly?’

Rayner thought of the listing Walrus drifting away.

‘Walrus amphibian.’

‘Christ, rather you than me. Bit long in the tooth for our sort of war, I’d have thought. Give me a Spit and I’ll back it against any damned thing that flies!’

‘Yes, my brother was a Spitfire pilot. Well, the naval version of it.’

There was a silence, then the other man said, ‘Was? He bought it, did he?’

‘Yes. Over the Med.’

The girl stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Two pilots talking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Rayner heard the breeze against the window, and saw the sunlight probe the heavy curtains and enter the room for the first time. He had seen it before: most of them had, and the lucky ones counted their blessings. But you never got used to it.

The eyes were blue, like his captain’s; how they had survived the fire and the surgery unblinded was a miracle. Of the face, only a grotesque mask remained. No wonder there were no mirrors in these places.

Rayner said, ‘They tell me you’re leaving today. That’s too bad. We could have had a drink somewhere. I could tell you about a real plane, my Shagbat!’ He could feel the others tense. ‘Another time, maybe.’

Unexpectedly, the flight lieutenant held out his hand. That, too, was horribly scarred. ‘Another time, that’s the ticket.’ He peered around the room. ‘Mustn’t forget anything . . .’

Then he said in a different, harder tone, ‘You just watch
your back, my lad. Give the buggers half a chance and you’re done for.
Watch your back.
’

There were sounds in the corridor, voices; the relief had arrived.

The flight lieutenant said, ‘So, Andy, I’m losing you again. Bad show, damn bad show, but there you are.’ He glanced at Rayner. ‘This the chap?’

He did not wait for an answer, picking up his uniform jacket. All that was left.

He said lightly, ‘Don’t forget me, Andy. You can’t trust sailors, you know!’

She put her arms around his neck and held him closely for several seconds.

‘We’ll miss you, Jamie. Don’t lose faith. They all care, you know.’ Then she kissed him.

Rayner looked away, unspeakably moved, and saw an orderly picking up the case, and what looked like a folded photograph frame.

Outside in the corridor, there were suddenly others like the man who had just walked out, some in uniform or parts of uniform, in dressing gowns or careless mixtures of civilian clothing.

As the flight lieutenant walked down towards the entrance some of them came forward and patted him on the back; a few of them raised a cheer, their terrible injuries momentarily forgotten. They were themselves again, young men, some very young, who had given so much. Too much.

The door closed, and when he looked around Rayner saw that the corridor was empty, as though they had been spectres from some battlefield somewhere, saying their last farewell.

She said, very softly, ‘You were wonderful just now. I was so proud of you. You made him feel wanted again.’

‘So did you. No wonder they all love you.’

She was watching a small light flashing at the other end of the corridor. ‘I must go, if nobody answers that.’

Like Stagg’s malevolent little red light, Rayner thought.

But he said, ‘And I love you too, Andy. You realize that, don’t you?’

‘You hardly know me.’ But she did not pull away when he took her hand.

‘I can change that, given the chance.’

She studied him, her eyes calm.

‘Yes. I want to give you that chance.’

A voice called, ‘Sister! Number nineteen, quickly, please!’

She reached up, and touched his mouth with those cool fingers. ‘Call me. Tomorrow, if you can.’

He watched her hurry away, then he turned back and walked into the flight lieutenant’s empty room.

He said aloud, ‘I won’t forget. I’ll watch my back, for both of us.’

He found a taxi outside, from which an elderly couple, perhaps relatives, had just emerged; the driver was glad of a return fare.

As they rattled back along the road to Rosyth, he recalled every moment separately.

Like a first, perfect touchdown; nothing would ever be the same again.

He thought of her with the flight lieutenant, the man with no face, and was filled with gratitude.

The first day at the Admiralty in London seemed endless to Sherbrooke. Most of the time he remained with Rear-Admiral Stagg, although on two occasions he was required to examine some reports in another office. He suspected it was so that Stagg could speak more freely in his absence.

Reliant
and their new escort carrier
Seeker
were lying at Greenock, not all that far from Clydebank where the battlecruiser’s keel had first tasted water nearly thirty years before.

It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Scotland to London, and although Stagg said nothing on the subject, Sherbrooke had sensed that he was privately fuming about the failure to lay on a plane for him.

They had spent all morning with Vice-Admiral James Hudson, who was the Chief-of-Staff as well as personal naval adviser to Winston Churchill. A tall, reedy man with the appearance of a much put-upon schoolmaster, he soon proved that he was the right person for the job.

Maps were brought, minions coming and going silently, while traffic occasionally rattled the windows and suggested the other world outside. North Africa, then, no longer just a rumour or an empty hope. It was all true: the much vaunted Afrika Korps, Rommel’s unbeatable army, was in full retreat. Secret information had reached the
reedy vice-admiral through intelligence sources that Rommel himself was to be replaced by Hitler’s order. That was, perhaps, the most significant piece of news. Rommel
was
the Afrika Korps. It was as simple as that. Throughout all the initial German triumphs along the North African coastline, Rommel had always been there, with his men and his armour, so that they all knew he was sharing the same dangers. British generals had often been criticized by certain outspoken M.P.s and journalists for spending too much time in Cairo and very little at the front, which was a very fluid description in any case. There were no trenches or static positions in this war. Armour, supplies, and infantry equipped to keep up with both were the key, and something which the British lacked, until Monty had arrived on the scene. General Montgomery might not have had the dash and style of his German counterpart, but he had something equally important: compassion. He had fought through the mud and horror of Flanders as a young man, and was determined that the lives of his soldiers should not be thrown away on a whim, or merely to make headlines.

At El Alamein, at the very gates of Alexandria, with the Germans and their Italian allies already contemplating a victory march through Cairo, Montgomery made his stand. The position, with the sea on one side and the tank-devouring Qatar Depression on the other, was his choice. El Alamein was not much of a place, but now its name was written in history. The Afrika Korps had been forced into retreat, by-passing all those familiar, disputed places, Sollum, Tobruk, Benghazi, Tripoli. For the Allies, it was the long way back.

Now, at last, unless some unforeseen disaster could turn the tables, the Germans were slowly being forced towards the jutting peninsula of Cape Bon in Tunis, the only point
from which they had any hope of evacuation to Sicily, one hundred miles across the Strait. British convoys had been decimated trying to force that same route to relieve Malta, and wrecks were strewn across the seabed for every mile of the way as a testament to their courage, when courage had not been enough.

Vice-Admiral Hudson had stared at his big map. ‘When the day comes that every enemy soldier is dead or captured, Africa will be ours.’ He spoke without emotion, but Sherbrooke thought his quiet simplicity made it all the more moving.

After a brief lunch in that same room, Hudson had outlined Stagg’s part in the final stages of the master plan.

Ever since their disagreement aboard
Reliant
, Sherbrooke’s contact with Stagg had been limited to the necessities of duty, and when exercising at sea with
Seeker.
The news which had awaited them in London had changed all that, and Stagg had become his old self again to the point of geniality. He was finally getting what he wanted, not a role to merely fill in the gaps, or to act as a long-range heavy escort for ‘a bunch of squaddies’, as he had sarcastically called the convoys. He was about to take his rightful place in things, where they could hit hard at the enemy, and the revelation had made him a different man.

Now there was to be a small reception at a flat in town, some of Stagg’s friends and other senior officers. Sherbrooke watched Stagg’s strong fingers rifling through yet another file. Emma Meheux would be there with her new boss. He examined his feelings, pleased, and yet very aware of the danger.
Friends
. . .