Battlecruiser (1997) (5 page)

As he left, Frazier said, ‘Are you giving him a hard time?’

Onslow ignored it. ‘How’s the Old Man?’ Then he
grinned hugely. It seemed ridiculous to call Sherbrooke that.

Frazier hesitated. ‘He’s . . . different.’

‘How so, John? From Cavendish? Don’t keep it a secret!’

Frazier leaned back, his face relaxed, but his mind buzzing with details, lists, people to see, work to be completed before they left the Firth of Forth.

‘Something’s driving him. I can’t explain. But I could feel it.’

‘So long as it’s not revenge. When I first went to sea, I was with a skipper who’d lost his ship.
I’m out for revenge
, he told us.’

The long curtain was drawn aside; officers were making their way to the tables, pausing to collect a napkin from the rack by the entrance, watched closely by the chief steward, as if he expected one of them to steal something.

They downed their drinks, and Frazier asked, ‘And was he?’

Onslow grinned. ‘Christ, we were blown up ourselves within a week!’

Frazier sat down. It was hard to accept that the Chief had served in that other war. He must have been just a kid, like some of the midshipmen and junior ratings in this ship. He glanced over the bobbing heads and thrusting soup spoons.
Reliant
had been there, too. All those years, all those miles. It was surprising what he had learned about this ship in the eighteen months since his advanced promotion. He had even heard about the most important day for any captain: when his ship, new from the builders, had been commissioned. He had discovered that
Reliant
’s first captain’s wife had waited for that particular day to announce that she was leaving him. Just like that.

And what about Cavendish? A tragedy, Beveridge had
called it. Well, possibly. But an accident? It didn’t ring true.

And now a new captain, as screwed up as everybody who had preceded him. What was it about this ship?
I’m a fine one to talk.

He turned and saw a midshipman, his face red with cold, standing self-consciously behind his chair.

‘The Officer-of-the-Day sends his respects, sir. Signal from Operations.’ His eyes were moving along the busy plates: midshipmen did not change much in any century, where food was concerned.

Frazier prompted, ‘
And?
’

‘The admiral will be coming off at 1445, sir. An hour earlier than expected.’

‘Thank you, Mr Potter.’ A steward dragged back his chair, and Frazier stood. ‘I’ll tell the captain.’

Onslow mopped up the last of his soup with some fresh bread. You could say what you liked, he thought, but you couldn’t fault the big ships when it came to bread. They baked their own.

‘Trouble, John?’

Frazier touched his fat shoulder. In his heart, he somehow knew that by next Sunday the Chief would be back in his immaculate white overalls again.

‘I have a feeling, Chief, that the balloon is about to go up.’ He saw some of the others looking over at them, guessing. ‘Again.’

Onslow reached for another piece of bread. War
was
a bloody inconvenience.

The piercing shrill of boatswain’s calls had barely died away when Rear-Admiral Vincent Stagg appeared at the top of the long accommodation ladder, his hand to his cap in salute. Sherbrooke saw his eyes flit briefly but
searchingly across
Reliant
’s broad expanse of quarterdeck, to his flag at the masthead, and back again, taking in the rigid side-party. It was a steep climb from the launch alongside, but Stagg was not even breathless.

Their eyes met for the first time, and Sherbrooke said, ‘Welcome aboard, sir.’

Stagg nodded. ‘And the same to you, Guy. Good to have you. Capital!’

Sherbrooke remembered the eyes well. Hazel, very clear; like the man, full of energy and questions. Despite the flag officer’s thick band of gold on his sleeve, and the double row of oak leaves around his peak, Stagg seemed much the same as when they had last met, at Scapa, between convoys, about eighteen months ago. At first glance he appeared tall, taller than he actually was, but he was careful to hold his trim figure erect at all times, and his personality did the rest. He had always distinguished himself in matters of fitness, and sport of a decidedly personal nature. As a young subbie, he had proved himself to be a fierce and skilled fighter in the boxing ring, and the legacy of a broken nose still gave him a raffish, almost jaunty appearance, which had made him popular with certain newspapers and war correspondents. He had also made his name in competitions throughout the fleet, at squash, where he was rarely beaten, and fencing with both foil and sabre, where he never lost a contest. A man’s man. And, in time of war, the sort of no-nonsense leader the country had too long been denied, or so the press insisted.

Stagg was moving again, his hands emphasising various points as he strode toward the lobby, which led the way to his quarters aft. A small procession seemed to flow in his wake: Howe, his flag lieutenant, a tall, harassed-looking officer with a bulging briefcase, who had been ashore to meet his master at the local R.A.F. station, and another
lieutenant with a paymaster’s white cloth between his stripes, also trying to keep up. He was Villar, the rear-admiral’s secretary. There were others too, including a chief writer and an anxious midshipman, whose sole duty appeared to be to take the admiral’s cap and gloves.

Sherbrooke sighed inwardly. He would soon know all of them. Stagg had never been one to tolerate ignorance where the men under his charge were concerned.

Stagg strode into the huge day cabin and glared around. ‘Open some scuttles! This place is like a tomb!’

He walked to a table and glanced at some letters arranged on a silver tray.

A voice said, ‘The commander is here, sir.’

Frazier entered, his cap under one arm, his eyes questioning.

‘Sir?’

‘I’ll want a full report on the replacements for men drafted to other ships, or ashore for training. I’m not happy with the way their lordships are ignoring our need for top-quality personnel.’ He looked up, his eyes bright, impatient. ‘Officers, too.’

‘Yes, sir. We’ve been lucky so far.’

Stagg turned toward a long mirror on one bulkhead. ‘This is a flagship. Luck doesn’t come into it.’

Sherbrooke was very aware of the tension, and that the others in their various postures around the big cabin were trying not to notice it.

‘Another thing.’ Stagg touched a lock of hair which had been flattened by his cap. ‘When I was coming out to the ship just now, I saw some ratings on the four-inch director platform. They were smoking.’

There was a loud click as the flag lieutenant opened his briefcase, and took out a pair of binoculars.

Frazier said, ‘It is Sunday, sir. Some of the hands have
been doing extra work because of the leave period.’

Stagg did not turn from the glass. ‘I don’t care if it’s bloody Christmas, John. I’ll not abide lower standards in this ship.’

The use of Frazier’s first name made it worse, in some way.

Stagg faced them. Even that movement revealed a restless energy. Senior officers often went to great lengths to appear absolutely aloof and remote, even in the presence of danger. Rear-Admiral Vincent Stagg was the very opposite. As if he could barely contain his vigour, like something too powerful to be controlled.

‘You will know Captain Sherbrooke, by reputation if nothing else. Together we will make this ship,
this command
, an example to others. We are entering a phase of the war which may well determine the strategy of final victory.’

The secretary was handing out sealed envelopes to his minions. Stagg waited until Frazier had returned his attention to him, and said, ‘About leave, John. Not too many compassionate cases, right? If any man is a malingerer, replace him. I’d rather have a bunch of new, eager recruits than a collection of moaning barrack stanchions.’

Frazier swallowed. ‘There were two bad air raids last night. London and Portsmouth. There are bound to be more requests for leave.’

Stagg grinned. ‘Ignore them. Carry on, if you please.’

They moved from the cabin, lastly the midshipman, who handed the admiral’s gleaming cap to a steward.

Stagg spread his arms. ‘That’s more like it.’ He looked keenly at Sherbrooke. ‘You think I was a bit hard on Frazier? That, as captain, any censure should come from you? I can see it written all over your face!’ He paused while Price, his own chief steward, placed a tray of glasses
and a decanter on the table, and then said, ‘You’re absolutely right, of course, or will be, when you’ve found your feet. You’ve been hard at it since you came aboard – yesterday, right? You’ll soon get the weight.’

He looked at the framed picture of the ship. ‘That’s why I asked for you to replace poor old Cavendish. I know you’ve been through it – I read all the reports about
Pyrrhus
, what you did to save the convoy. Against odds.
What I need
, I thought, the right man. Determination and guts. What they respect in the end, you know. Norway, Greece, Crete, and all too often in the Atlantic, we’ve both seen enough bloody waste and incompetence. Old women dressed as officers, men who learned absolutely nothing from the experiences of the Great War, or ever since, in some cases.’

Sherbrooke watched him. Who did he mean? Frazier, because he had overlooked some small flaw in the pattern when Stagg had come on board? Or Cavendish?

Stagg said sharply, ‘Scotch, right?’ He nodded to the steward. ‘The sun’s long past the yardarm!’

Then he said, ‘You went to the funeral, I hear.’

Sherbrooke tried to relax. This was more like the man he had known as a lieutenant, full of surprises, perhaps secretly hoping you might be disconcerted by his private knowledge, or its source.

He tasted the Scotch, like fire on his tongue, and noticed that Stagg had not touched his. Another test, perhaps? To see if his new captain was bomb-happy, still back there with his old ship and her silent company?

He said, ‘I was in London, too, sir.’

Stagg grinned. ‘Well, I had better things to do that day.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be ashore again tonight. I expect they’ll ask you to the wardroom. To size you up. See what they’re in for.’

It was no assumption. Stagg already knew, had probably ordered it.

‘The ship seems in good hands, sir.’

Stagg swallowed some whisky, frowning slightly as if he detected some inferiority.

‘Can’t always tell by the ship’s books – but then you know that, of course.’

The door closed, as if to some secret signal. They were alone.

Stagg said, ‘The fact is, Guy, I shall be getting more scope for this command. That’s why I was up at the Admiralty. Doesn’t do any harm to show them what we’re doing to fight this war.’

He turned to the mirror again, his eyes almost cold as he examined his reflection, as if it were some subordinate who did not quite measure up. Like Frazier.

He said over his shoulder, ‘And don’t worry about Cavendish – what happened, I mean. Dead men’s shoes. As far as this ship is concerned, it’s just so much history.’

Sherbrooke realized that the reflected eyes were fixed upon him.

‘It crossed my mind, sir.’

Stagg did not smile. ‘Just make certain the shoes don’t pinch, right?’

Sherbrooke put down the glass, to give himself time. They had been lieutenants together; they had both been captains.

Today we are as different as two languages.

There was a painting of Beatty beside one of the doors, a battlecruiser, like some great phantom ship, in the background: Sir David Beatty, who had commanded the battlecruisers at Jutland, a generation and another war ago. The battlecruiser had been a new concept, a dream, and a legend: at Jutland, it had become a nightmare, when these
great ships, with too little armour, had been blasted apart by superior German shells and gunnery.

He looked at Stagg as he turned away from the mirror. Was that how he saw himself? Another Beatty?

Stagg asked suddenly, ‘You never married, did you, Guy?’

‘No, sir.’ He found he could answer without anger, without the terrible grief he had once suffered. But Stagg knew that also, that she had been killed in an air raid, while
Pyrrhus
had been on one of her runs to North Russia.

Stagg nodded, as though privately satisfied. ‘A new beginning, then.’ He glanced at the picture of his flagship. ‘She’ll not let you down.’

Sherbrooke was reminded suddenly of the churchyard in Esher, close to Sandown Park racecourse. And the tall girl in black.
No sense in brooding
. . .

No better epitaph.

It seemed to take an age to drag his mind back to reality, to the present.
Now.
And yet Sherbrooke had come to know from bitter experience that it was only a matter of seconds. Almost without thinking he had rolled over on the narrow bunk, his feet planted on the deck, his ear and mind adjusting, taking stock. He glanced at the small clock. It was just after six in the morning, halfway through the morning watch. Surprisingly, he had been able to sleep, for a while anyway, the small bunkside reading light left on as a precaution. A link with routine, a barrier against the nightmare which could strike without mercy if he dropped his guard.

Perhaps he was mistaken, and it would never return.

He pulled on his sea-boots, and glanced around at the small sea-cabin which had been his home for most of the time since
Reliant
had weighed anchor on a cold, misty morning, slipping silently from the Firth of Forth to join her destroyer escort without fuss or ceremony. That had been five days ago, steering north into these familiar, hostile waters. Sherbrooke stood up and waited for the deck to tell him the motion, as it would have done immediately in
Pyrrhus.
It was there all right, but slow and steady, in time with the sea, like deep breathing. He leaned on the small wash basin and studied his face in the
mirror. He had shaved before turning in, a habit he had developed somewhere along the way, when the real edge of war had shown itself. It did not do the watchkeepers any good to see their captain unshaven and bleary-eyed when he first appeared on the bridge. Like that morning when they had weighed anchor: the forecastle party, shining black like beetles in their oilskins, and seemingly miles away from his lofty position on the upper bridge. Two tugs hovering nearby in case the new captain made a cock-up of it. At least Rear-Admiral Stagg had stayed away during the manoeuvre, although his presence was very real, nevertheless.