‘We’ll soon turn you into a hoary old man,’ Hob chuckled. ‘Anyway, if you prove to be useless, it’ll have been my fault. I told you to transfer to the only branch worth being in.”
Osgood smiled. Gamble offered him a cigarette.
Osgood shook his head. ‘I’ve given it up.’
‘Got over your problems?’ the pilot asked kindly, with no hint of inquisitiveness about the failure of Osgood’s marriage.
‘Pretty well, sir. But I’m worried at the moment.’ Hob listened to his story and, when the silence came, he said quietly: ‘My wife’s in touch with Mrs Trevellion, who is running the Icarus Dependants’
Fund. They are trying to help the widows and children. I’ll get through to her as soon as we’re allowed to break silence. They’ll go into Plymouth themselves to see whether they can trace Mrs Fane.’
Osgood nodded and then Gamble asked gently: ‘Why don’t you see the captain yourself? I can arrange something, if you like.’
Osgood hesitated, backing off. ‘He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment, sir.
I’d rather think about it.’
‘Okay, but what about joining us as aircrewman?’
‘I’d like to, sir. Thanks.’
‘First sortie, tomorrow forenoon.’
‘You’re flying again — so soon?’
‘Yeah — I’ve a sortie during the middle too: we’ve no choice in this regiment.’
Hob’s face was set and a nerve twitched in his left cheek. ‘There’ll be an inquiry on the loss of my aircraft. There may be a court-martial.’
Osgood remained silent: he was not used yet to the professionalism of the Fleet Air Arm. The buzz was already going round the messdecks that 827 had omitted to ditch the pyrotechnics…
‘So long, Osgood,’ Hob said, rising from the bunk. ‘See you tomorrow morning.’
Osgood went for’d, past the washplaces and the boiler-room bulkheads until he was on the Burma Road again and able to find his way down two decks to 4N8.
Toastie Cole was the only inmate. He looked up antagonistically.
‘Where are the others, Toastie?’
‘Gone to supper. Mick’s got the last dog on the flight deck. Full of himself, he is. Thinks he’s the only bleeding handler who can do the job proper.’
‘What the hell’s up, Toastie?’ Oz asked, as he slid on to the bench opposite the unhappy steward.
‘I hate Mick’s flaming guts.’ He spoke softly, his eyes darting towards the bunks which were now all empty.
‘Why?’
Toastie wasn’t to be drawn. Instead he swigged again at his beer can. Five empties were lined up in front of him. He twisted a glance at Osgood, his ferrety eyes blurring. He gulped the remainder of the can and his Adam’s apple wobbled in his scrawny neck. He then began to weep, his head crooked on his arms. The poor sod was shaking like a blancmange.
‘C’mon, Toastie,’ Osgood said, clapping Toastie on the shoulder, ‘it’s not as bad as all that.’
The head jerked up:
‘What the flamin’ ‘ell d’you know about it, then? Mick said you was a flamin’ creep.’
‘I’m only trying to help, Toastie. There’s nobody in the mess. I’m on your side, mate, but I can’t help much if you won’t tell me what’s eating you.’
Toastie rubbed his forearm against his red-rimmed eyes. His sobbing eased and then, staring into the corner of the mess, the words tumbled from him: ‘Every word’s true, honest, Osgood. You see Mavis, my wife…’ The wretched Toastie looked straight at Osgood and then, taking courage again, he spilled his misery. ‘She’s a whore, a greedy, dirty little bitch — but I love her, Oz, honest I do.’ He slashed back his tears with the back of his hand. ‘She’s a calculating bitch with other men, Oz. Knew it when we married. At first she gave it me hot and strong, mate, but it didn’t last. Being a Guz ship, we gets to know each other ashore, those of us who lives in Guz, that is. And one day, that bastard Kotta — Petty Officer Kotta,’ he sneered, ‘came into the pub. It wasn’t long before she was after him,’ Toastie said savagely. ‘I could feel it happening. You know how it is? The little things, bits what don’t add up. Then I rumbled that Kotta was always on opposite leave to me. And when I’d get home, she was different, cold and disinterested. I wasn’t good enough for her no more.
Laughed in my bloody face, told me I was no bloody good in bed — me!’ The man would have been laughable had he not be so pathetic. ‘And then I had it out man-to-man, like, with Kotta. Told him straight, I did. The bastard laughed — said I should be grateful for his learning her for me. He said if I was a sensible chap, he’d put in a good word for my discharge on compassionate grounds. I slapped in my notice a year ago, before this lot blew up. I want to see Mavis: she’d be different if I was at home giving her a normal life. But they’ve slapped down on everything now.’
‘Why didn’t you see someone?’ Osgood asked.
‘Scared of Kotta,’ Toastie said. ‘He’s warned me off and he’s a big bastard. And Mavis said she’d scarper if I squealed. ‘Course, I’m still getting my bit when she can’t find no one else.’ He sniffed and stabbed at the table-top with his dirty finger tips.
‘Then Foulgis joined this flamin’ ‘ooker.’ Cole’s laugh was bitter. ‘At first, he was right on net with Petty Officer Kotta. I ‘spose Kotta must have opened his big mouth and told Foulgis of his affair with a certain lady. I was laughing myself stoopid when Foulgis nicked her from Kotta. She was sampling ‘em both at one stage. I found this out after I’d seen Foulgis going ashore with Kotta.’
‘Why don’t you bugger off, Toastie,’ Osgood said quietly. ‘She’s not worth it, is she?’
‘ ‘Cos I still loves ‘er, Christ, can’t you understand that?’ He looked up desperately into Osgood’s face. ‘I’ll do anything, any flamin’ thing to get myself out of the Navy,’ he shouted. ‘Any flamin’ thing. I’ve got to get home, Oz,’ he shouted wildly. His crazy eyes were fixed across Osgood’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he whispered as his head slumped on the table. Osgood sensed someone had entered the mess behind him. Turning, he saw the brutish figure standing in the gloom by the doorway:
‘Didn’t you hear the pipe, then?’ Petty Officer Kotta was shouting. ‘For Exercise, Abandon Ship. Come on, you lot! At the rush — to your stations.’ He advanced threateningly and Toastie slunk from the mess like a thrashed whippet.
Chapter 11
Hob Gamble had had enough: half an hour in the wind at his abandon ship station, while the quarterdeck lieutenant-commander waited for his divisional chief to check the muster and to explain the drill to the new boys, had left him hungry and yearning for his bunk. It had been a long, frustrating day and he needed sleep if he was to be fit to fly at dawn the next morning. When they dismissed he went straight down to the wardroom.
The bar was unusually quiet tonight — and not only because they were at war.
Those who were enjoying a beer were split into groups, the airmen separated from the ship’s officers.
‘Beer, Hob?’
‘Thanks.’ Dunker Davies signed the chit and together they moved over to the group by the pillar. They made way for him and it was obvious what they were discussing.
‘Lay off it,’ Hob said. ‘You know what the man said.’
‘You’d think they’d ease up a bit now that we’re at war,’ someone said. ‘Like Churchill did in the last one.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Grog Peterson asked.
‘He told the Admiralty to use their discretion a bit more on court-martials.
Chaps were often worn out through no fault of their own.’
‘Can’t see that happening with our Wings,’ someone said. ‘It’s a pity Duggie has to support him.’