The craft sheered suddenly. They watched her turn towards them, saw her blunt bows — then up came her square, white bridge, pocked red where the rust slashed.
They heard the sharp, East Anglian accents as the heaving lines plopped about their heads. They looked up to see the sailors’ weather-beaten, bearded faces, grinning down at them:
‘Hold on, mates, we’ve got ‘un.’
Breydon Water was one of those ugly, functional supply boats which the off-shore oil industry had engendered. She was on passage to the platforms when, an hour ago, her skipper had picked up the warning of enemy air attacks. He had learned to ignore the air raid alerts, but had not counted upon running across a swamped landing craft of RN survivors, and now he had picked up a couple of fliers from the same aircraft carrier. In the saloon beneath the bridge, Hob and Grog were stripped off and given blankets. The warmth and hot tea revived them, but the other survivors from Furious, oil-streaked and shocked, remained uncommunicative. The bosun came in and poured them all stiff tots of rum, while a deckie brought them sizzling chunks of bacon and slices of fried bread. The Royal Marine sergeant moved up on the bench to make room for the two newcomers: ‘Lieutenant Gamble, aren’t you, sir? Our SPLOT?’ ‘Was,’ Hob smiled ruefully.
‘What’s happened to our ship?’
‘Don’t rightly know, sir.’ The sergeant wound the blanket more tightly around himself. ‘When she began listing badly to port, Old Chough — sorry, sir — the captain tried to counter it by turning out the landing craft and hanging them at short stay from the falls. We was short of hands and so we grabbed anyone we could — so I got this shower.’ He grinned at the silent, grey-faced men huddled around the mess table:
‘WAFUS, deck apes, stewards, the lot — that’s what the first lieutenant gave me, sir.’
‘Better than a boat load of Booties,’ a blanketed figure grumbled, a pale-faced man whom Hob recognized as one of the wardroom stewards.
‘Belt up, Toastie. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the Royals,’ the sergeant growled.
‘How come you’re survivors?’ Hob said.
‘The MEO must have been doing his stuff too well, sir, compensating, and all that. The ship righted herself suddenly to starboard. Bloody terrifying.’ The sergeant paused and when he spoke again his voice was low: ‘She rolled right back on top of us, sir. We was in the ALC, hanging from the davits. When she jerked back to port again, the for’d fall was torn from the disengaging gear. We was all spilled out and Marine Sharp was crushed. Dead as a dodo. We was flung into the water and being sucked into the ship’s screws. When those of us who weren’t mashed up came up for air, the air attacks were on again. Old Fury was hit again bad, sir. She couldn’t stop for us, had to go on.
The frigate was coming for us, but she had to turn away, standing-by to take off the ship’s company when they abandoned. But Old Fury steamed on, sir, still fighting until we lost sight of her.’
‘And you survivors?” Hob asked.
‘We stuck together, what was left of us. I never saw the other ALC again, sir: I reckoned she was rolled under. We got back into ours when we could. She was still just floating, so we bailed out and stuck with her.’ The sergeant grinned.
‘Takes a Bootie to look after the deck apes, sir.’
‘And then Breydon Water found you?’
‘They’ve been bloody marvellous.’
The door opened and the sturdy skipper stuck his face inside.
‘You’re in luck, gents. They want me to take you straight back: Lowestoft about supper time.’
Their clothes dried off in the engine-room. The two pilots left their flying overalls for Breydon Water’s crew, but kept their woolly pullies, trousers and soggy flying-boots. They went up on deck at 1800 to watch the long arm of Lowestoft’s breakwater sliding past, high above them.
They were met by the chaplain of the port’s mission to seamen, who made them welcome for the night in the mission’s headquarters. Hob telephoned the duty officer at the Port Admiral’s office, Devonport, to report their safe arrival and their onward routeing. Furious was apparently still afloat and expected tomorrow evening, if she was not held up by the eastbound convoys on their way up-Channel. The chaplain arranged the fares and a cash loan; the sergeant and his party of seven survivors were to catch the 0930 London train tomorrow morning, 22 April. The two pilots decided to catch the earlier express, the 0720. Grog was travelling through to Culdrose, but Hob had to report to C-in-C’s office in Devonport. He tried to telephone Allie, but there was no reply. He succeeded in getting through to her friend at Seahawk who would tell her that Hob was on his way.
After supper they all went down to the Lobster Pot in the old harbour — and never had beer tasted so good. Shortly before closing-time, the two pilots made for the door. Hob was surprised to find Toastie Cole, the steward, hovering outside in the darkness of the blackout.
‘Can I ‘ave a word with you, sir?’ Cole asked, glancing across apologetically at Grog.
Hob waited for Grog Peterson to walk on ahead.
‘Osgood’s dead, ain’t he, sir?’ Cole said.
‘Disappeared,’ Hob said softly. ‘He saved my life.’ He paused, then added: ‘Lieutenant Davies too; snagged on his way out. We haven’t wanted to talk about them.’
‘Sorry, sir. I mean …’
‘Well?’
‘I want you to know ‘
‘Get on with it.’
‘Ozzie never killed Foulgis, sir.’
Hob could hear the wind, far out, across the harbour, buffeting the ancient mole… and the everlasting murmur of the sea.
‘How do you know, Cole?’
‘I was there, sir. In the passage, behind Ozzie. I saw it all, saw the fight.’
‘What fight?’
‘Kotta, sir — and Foulgis.’
‘What happened?’
‘Foulgis went for the PO with a knife. By the side lift. Foulgis slipped and Kotta grabbed him, shoving the knife in. I saw it, sir, honest to God.’
‘Why haven’t you seen someone?’ Hob asked tersely. ‘Bloody tough on Osgood.’ He itched to grab the little runt, to wring his miserable neck. ‘Osgood’s been going through hell.’
‘Kotta shoved the body over the side, between the nets,’ Cole went on, his voice rising hysterically. ‘Oz saw that bit of it.’
‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you come clean?’
‘Would have, sir, if things went against Ozzie. Didn’t know what to do, wanted to get ‘ome first, see what’s ‘appening at ‘ome …’ The steward gasped in the darkness, then turned swiftly and ran back into the darkness towards the pub.
Chapter 27
The inspector at the exit barrier to Plymouth station scrutinized the tickets, then glanced up at the capless officer in the unorthodox uniform:
‘Not in the Fleet Air Arm, are you?’
Hob nodded.
The railwayman touched his cap. ‘Pardon me, sir-Furious is due in this evening.
Thought you’d like to know. Most of the town’s down there.’
It was 1740. A single battered taxi waited in the ranks outside: ‘The Hoe, please.’
Hob felt whacked, depressed. The driver took the through-way, skirting the worst of the damage:
‘The bastards,’ he commented. ‘What can we do, guv, against those sort of people?’ and he waved towards the Wellsian skeleton of blackened rubble. ‘If that’s communism, they can keep it.’ He-half-turned towards his passenger.