Sunday
August 18, 1940
Corporal Cecil Thomas was a professional soldier. He’d be forty-seven years of age in a few months, and he’d experienced his fair share of good and bad fortune during his lifetime. He’d signed up for the British Army in 1909 at just sixteen years of age. The son of an illiterate blacksmith from Coventry, there’d been little work about upon leaving school, and he’d joined up simply because there seemed nothing better to do.
His father had died of influenza during the winter of 1913, and from that very next payday he’d religiously sent half of everything he earned back to his widowed mother and six younger brothers and sisters. In twenty-eight years of army service, he’d never failed to send a portion of his wages on, even during the time spent on the fields of France during the Great War of 1914-18.
Thomas had been an infantryman in his younger years. He’d fought at Cambrai, Ypres and all three battles of the Somme and survived all of it. Even by 1940 standards, he wasn’t a well-educated man, but he was loyal, hard-working and attentive, and those three attributes often made up for any lack of wit or cunning in an honest man. These were qualities that had been clearly recognised in Thomas, and were the reasons for which he’d been given the assignment as Max Thorne’s orderly.
It was a job that was his pleasure to perform. The newly-promoted air vice marshal was a generally quiet man, and domestically-speaking was also remarkably self-sufficient for an officer. Thorne asked little of Thomas most of the time, and requests that were made were always taken care of immediately and efficiently — Thomas saw to that.
He was the CO’s orderly, a posting that required total loyalty and trust; one of the reasons he hadn’t reported Thorne’s alcoholic episodes in the Officer’s Mess after the first night he’d found him there… nor after the many that had followed. The other main reason was that Thomas couldn’t think of whom he should report it to anyway. Thorne was the ranking officer at Hindsight, and he had no idea who below the CO would be the most appropriate person to speak to: he didn’t know any of the other officers well enough to decide who would be the best option. Thomas eventually let the matter drop in the hope that it would just ‘go away… something that was of course not to be.
A great despondency had settled over the entirety of Proserpine and the anchorage. The remaining Hindsight survivors — both those who’d flown to safety on aircraft and those who’d weathered the maelstrom on the ground — were shell-shocked and stunned at the losses they’d suffered. The personnel at the main naval base were also subdued and solemn, as much out of silent relief they’d been spared the savagery of the attack that had shattered their neighbouring units. All were also aware of how fortunate they’d been that the two jet fighters had been available: without their vast technical superiority, the two dozen Mustangs couldn’t have prevented the destruction from being far worse, even had they arrived early enough to intercept the entirety of the attack.
Short-term accommodation had been hastily arranged for all the displaced officers and other ranks within the barracks of Proserpine, as all of the billets at Hindsight had been destroyed during the raid itself or in the spreading fires that followed. The gesture had also been extended to the use of the various messes, and it hadn’t only been Max Thorne who’d required a drink or two dozen that first night to settle their nerves.
Cecil Thomas was enjoying an off-duty smoke in the Proserpine Ratings’ Mess that evening as Commander Eileen Donelson appeared at the open doorway. The mess was a large structure of slatted wood planks and heavy roof beams, with enough internal volume to require wooden pillars as support for the high ceiling at regular intervals. Décor was all but non-existent, save of course for the de rigueur picture of the King above the Bar, and the tables and chairs, while numerous, were of the simplest construction and an odd assortment in their style and construction.
The bar and a plain fireplace occupied the centre of one long wall, and the only entrance, a pair of plain double doors at which Donelson now stood, sat at one end of the opposite wall. The one exception to the generally austere nature of the large room was a small, low stage at the far end on the same side as the bar. A set of rather worn old instruments sat forlornly on that stage, an upright piano and battered set of drums among them.
Along with the thousands of sailors that regularly filed through as their ships came and went, there was also a core of regular personnel posted permanently to HMS Proserpine involved with the operation and upkeep of the base itself. Among those men were enough with reasonable levels of talent to form a swing band for their own entertainment on special occasions. Few officers at Scapa Flow were imprudent enough to enquire as to the where the instruments had originally come from, and those who did were quickly shown the error of their way by their peers, as the band also regularly played for other messes, including the officers’.
There were no more than two dozen naval ratings and junior NCOs present that day, yet Donelson didn’t step beyond the threshold of the entrance: she was as aware and respectful as any career soldier of the sanctity of Mess regulations. She was an officer — her Realtime naval rank had been recognised immediately by Whitehall — and officers weren’t permitted to enter an OR’s or Sergeant’s Mess without an express invitation. All of the men present took note of the female officer at the door, and none who did missed the fact that she was also quite attractive. Fortunately, none were stupid enough or thoughtless enough to make any remark on her appearance that she could actually hear.
The NCO on duty left the bar and approached her. They spoke for a moment before Eileen stepped back outside to wait patiently as the petty officer walked over and passed the message given to Corporal Thomas. He appeared apprehensive as he stood and walked toward the door, and Eileen had a feeling she knew why.
“In addition to your duties as CO’s orderly, I believe it’s been your job to keep tabs on the bar stocks at the Hindsight Officers’ Mess, corporal… would that be correct?” She asked the moment Thomas had joined her outside, the coolness of evening quite brisk as a light layer of mist floated below a clear and darkening sky.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right. I kept records on what was brought across from the Proserpine Q-Store from week to week. Wasn’t a hard job really: yourself and the other Hindsight officers never drank much, even when you were off duty.” He shrugged. “All gone in the fire now though, of course… more’s the pity…” but his tone made it seem as if the fact were more of a bonus than something to be regretted.
“Yes,” Eileen agreed dubiously, falling back on her ability for perfect recall. “Yes, it seems stocks hardly dropped at all since we’ve arrived, considering the numbers of healthy young fellows on base — particularly healthy young officers.” She almost smiled ruefully, honestly acknowledging that she was herself one of those ‘healthy young officers’ who’d had more than her share on occasion. “Stocks of everything that is, except for the rum… isn’t that right?” She added finally.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am,” Thomas dodged desperately, fear in his expression now. He glanced nervously to either side, as if worried someone else might be listening. “I can’t say that I noticed stocks of anything being used up at any greater rate than any of the others…”
“Bollocks!” Eileen snapped softly, the use of language surprising Thomas somewhat: ladies weren’t supposed to use words like that. “That’s complete bollocks! Squadron Leader Trumbull remarked two days ago that the mess had almost run out, and that surprised me, because I was the Duty Officer when the last delivery of alcohol for the mess turned up three weeks ago, and I know I signed in six quarts of rum that day. I have a photographic memory, corporal, and I remember it quite clearly, yet when I checked the stocks after hearing that remark I found just one bottle left.”