The captain could feel his temper heading toward a spike, but this was not the place to do it, not on a war patrol, so he led the officer back behind closed doors, to his cabin.
“We have to have more than one spare Harry, so what’s the story?” The officer before him was a good man, conscientious and not likely to have forgotten to stock up on departments essential stores before a war patrol.
“The SOPs state four sir, but we haven’t ever had that many aboard. When this thing, the war kicked off, I personally went to the stores but they had none in stock. The system has been one of a one for one exchange, you take the defective one in and they indent for a replacement which arrives before you are next due out.”
The captain finished the sentence for him.
“Or the cruise is delayed until it does arrive.” The captain was acquainted with national defence run by bean counters, and he now felt the urge to shout at someone except the persons who deserved to be on the receiving end were not on the firing line, they were sleeping safely at home. So instead of giving voice to his anger he took a deep breath instead, because a solution may lie elsewhere.
“Is there anything else aboard that we could use, spare processors for other ships systems?”
The sonar officer has already thought of that and had his PO working on it.
“Yes captain, but there won’t be anything as fast as this.” He held up the defective part for emphasis. “No promises as to how well it will work, except to predict a somewhat reduced service, sir.”
A signaller encoded a situation report ready for a burst transmission to the closest satellite, and the vessel came up toward the stormy surface in readiness for its passive sweeps prior to sending.
For the third time that hour, mortar rounds landed nearby to a Royal Artillery Subaltern and the small party from his own unit and the Light Infantry. Debris rained down upon them as they huddled inside a warehouse loft near the marshalling yards, as the mortars once again targeted locations that could harbour artillery-spotting teams.
As the last fragment of concrete fell the young officer raised his head cautiously, and then nudged an even younger man to his left.
“I told you I was right Lance Bombardier, there was only four rounds that time… they are rationing their ammunition!”
The NCO was not as enthusiastic about the revelation, spitting dust from his mouth and grumbling.
“Well I am chuffed-to-friggin’- NAAFI-breaks for yer boss… but how do you know they didn’t just work out that they can as easily make me shit meself with four rounds, as they can with ten.”
The officer smiled good-naturedly.
“Do the batteries have enough power to send that, or should we save it for later, when someone fetches new ones?”
“I think sir, that calling in targets takes priority… I’m sure someone within earshot can count back there.”
They were on their last battery, and for the past three hours had left the radio off until they had something to call in. One of the Light Infantrymen had gone back for fresh ones two hours before, but he had not returned, somewhere along the way a sniper had probably taken him out.
A large section of the roof was now sagging inward, providing illumination that had not existed when they first moved in. It allowed the young NCO to see the edge of a painting where its dust cover had slipped. Apparently this loft was some storage area for a nearby college, and former students work was cached here. He pulled away the dust cover in order to view the artwork, liking the rich colours but knowing little about the finer points, the council housing estate he was brought up on didn’t go in much for the arts.
“Like it?” He looked over his shoulder at his boss, who’d noticed his interest.
“It would add colour to the wall of my married pad, sir.”
The officer canted his head to see it the better and wrinkled his nose critically.
“If you want colour then buy floral wallpaper, if you want art then don’t buy any of his… or her, work.”
The junior NCO looked back at it, wondering what his boss could see that he couldn’t.
“Oh I don’t know, it looks alright?”
“Look at the chimney stack at top left, and the trees on the right..… the shadows go in different directions… and the stream is tumbling downhill on the right, toward the centre of the picture, yet on the other side the waters are flowing over the weir, and also flowing to the pictures centre… same stream.”
Disappointed, the NCO pulled a face.
“I hadn’t noticed that… you know a bit about painting then, boss?”
“I thought I did once, I even had an exhibition.”
“So why aren’t you out in the Pacific painting naked bints, drinking and shagging yourself to fame and an early grave then… pardon me for saying so sir, but I’d rather be doin’ that then getting’ me arse shot off here?”
“Well a critic for a broadsheets arts section summed up the exhibition in one line… Jules Reed's work has an honesty about it, it proclaims to all who gaze on it… I can’t paint!” When the chuckles subsided he shrugged philosophically. “So I joined the army… not the Guards, that’s what the Reed’s usually do, I thought I’d join the artillery and sit safely twenty miles behind the fighting.” That was also the cause of some mirth.
“So how did that choice go down at home, if you don’t mind me asking sir?”
Jules grinned.
“My father said it probably beat proper soldiering, for a living.”
The rifleman with the task of watching their six hissed a warning, and silence fell instantly. He lay peering cautiously through a hole in the wall, not letting sunlight fall on him as he watched the alleyway that led to the buildings rear doors. The rifleman took aim at the top of a helmet whose wearer was moving steadily closer to their building, moving cautiously from the direction of friendly lines, but that didn’t mean he was a friend. Two more helmets came into view, and he was looking down on the trio with a critical eye as he assessed their tactical movement. As one came to a turn or a junction he bellied down, removed his helmet a peeped around the corner keeping his head to the ground, not a place a waiting enemy would be aiming for. Another would then aim his weapon around the corner, showing as little flesh as possible, just two hands, an arm and half a face, dominating the space whilst the other two crossed and one returned the favour at the other side as he joined them.
By the time they had come twenty-five metres the Rifleman grudgingly allowed that they knew what they were doing. They were now close enough for him to note the shape of the helmets and pattern of the helmet covers.
The subaltern had crawled up beside him, peering out from the other side of the hole.
“We got any yanks working with us sir?”
2Lt Reed thought for a moment. “1CG’s got a couple of companies worth, maybe they’ve come up and rejoined the brigade?
Jules Reed signalled for the other two members of 2LI to go down the three floors and challenge their visitors, whilst the rest kept a sharp eye out.
Five minutes later a bemused Rifleman came back. “We got a Yank para sarn’t major wearing a Brit RSMs insignia on his smock and a pair of 82nd Pee Eff… whatchamacallits.”
Arnie Moore had left both his troopers downstairs because he wasn’t intending on stopping overlong, and 2Lt Reed watched the big American appear and squint as his eyes became accustomed to the surroundings
“Mr Reed sir… Sarn’t Major Arnie Moore. Colonel Reed sends his compliments, along with your own COs, and strongly suggests that you rapidly un-ass this AO ‘cos since your last transmission it seems bad things are about to happen sir, and they haven’t been able to reach you by radio.”