Then Ransome’s voice, very near, his lips against the bell-mouth. ‘This is the captain!’
Beckett dashed sweat from his eyes and steadied the spokes as the lubber’s line seemed to bend away from the gyro bearing.
‘Men wounded down ’ere, sir!’ The splinter in his thigh seemed to twist like a branding iron and he gasped, ‘’Oly shit! Sorry, sir, but I can’t tell wot’s up!’
Ransome called, ‘Help on way. Can you hold the wheel?’
‘Sir!’
‘Bring her round. Steer three-five-zero.’
Beckett nodded. Was he the only one alive?
Boyes staggered to his feet, his mind clearing, sobbing uncontrollably as he realised that he was all right but for a cut hand. Wakely was pressed against the side, his fingers interlaced over his head, moaning and gasping, but apparently unhurt.
One of the telcgraphsmen was on his knees and had turned over the messenger by the emergency telephone. He croaked, ‘Bert’s bought it, Swain.’ His control cracked, ‘Jesus, he’s got no face left!’
Beckett snapped, ‘You okay, Boyes?’
But Boyes was trying to drag Midshipman Davenport into a sitting position. It had been his blood which had soaked his shorts; in the strange light it looked black, solid.
it’s Mr Davenport!’ He felt close to tears as he tried to make him comfortable. First Aid books had told him nothing about this. Davenport must have taken a shell fragment in the back, which had thrown him across the cowering Wakely and had consequently saved his life. He was probably dead. Boyes stared at him, the familiar features twisted into a mask, like the face of someone who had suddenly aged.
Beckett said, ‘’Old on, Boyes! Stiff upper lip, ain’t that wot they say where you comes from?’
The cToor crashed open and Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack stepped over the broken table, his eyes taking it all in, his shoes skidding in blood.
He saw the man on his knees. ‘Can you manage?’
The telegraphsman hung his head like an exhausted swimmer. ‘Just about.’
Cusack nodded and turned away from the chief quartermaster’s slumped corpse; only Reeve’s bulging eyes held in a small beam of light seemed to cling on to life.
He saw Boyes and snapped, ‘Don’t lay him down.’ He ripped open Davenport’s shirt and threw it aside like a butcher’s rags, in my bag. Two shell dressings!’ He watched Boyes and added, ‘You’re doing just fine.’ They both ducked as heavier shells thundered into the sea nearby, and they heard the falling water sluice over the bridge superstructure.
Cusack tilted Davenport’s naked body forward and then pressed a heavy dressing over the wound. To Boyes he said, ‘Here, tie these tapes. My hands are too bloody.’ His eyes glinted as he looked up at Beckett’s tall figure. ‘You’re a bit damaged too, Cox’n.’ He shook his head. ‘But you’ll never break. Not you, man!’
Boyes said despairingly, ‘Can’t we lay him down now, sir? He’s still breathing.’
Cusack listened to feet clattering up a ladder, someone hacking away broken fittings brought down by the shell. He answered quietly, ‘You’re a friend of his, are you, son?’
Boyes nodded without knowing why. ‘We were at school together.’
It should have sounded stupid, Cusack thought grimly, with all hell breaking loose, and the ship liable to be straddled at any second. But it seemed to make all the sense in the world.
He said gently, ‘He’s dying. Drowning in his own blood. Stay with him. I’m needed elsewhere.’ He tossed another dressing to the injured telegraphsman. ‘Tie that on our man of steel, eh? I’ll send someone as soon as I can.’
He touched Boyes’s shoulder as he left. ‘It’ll not be long.’
Davenport opened his eyes and stared at Boyes for several seconds.
Boyes said, ‘It’s all right. I’m here. You were wounded when—’ He realised for the first time that Wakely had somehow disappeared. ‘When you were saving Richard Wakely’s life.’
‘Did I?’ His head lolled on to Boyes’s shoulder. ‘Can’t feel much. Never mind.’ He tried to laugh and blood ran down his chin.
Boyes mopped it away with a rolled signal flag. ‘Easy. You’ll soon be safe.’
‘Safe.’ Davenport tried to look at him. ‘Next time—’ He broke off and groaned. ‘You see me.’ He was starting to struggle, as if he had suddenly understood but would not accept it. ‘Sublieutenant, eh?’ He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, dear God, help me.r
It was several more seconds, while the ship tilted this way and that, and voices echoed from above and below like demented souls, before Boyes realised that Davenport had died.
Beckett called hoarsely, ‘’Ere, lend me a ‘and, young ‘un! You’re the only bloke in one piece!’
The door was wrenched open again and the Buffer, an axe gripped in his hand, stared at the scene without speaking. The great daubs of blood, the buckled plates where the shell had ricochetted around the wheelhousc before exploding as it had been designed to do inside a tank, and lastly at his friend hanging on to the spokes, one leg tied with a reddened dressing.
‘Jesus, Swain, you managin’ to ‘old on? I’ll get one of the lads from aft to relieve you!’
Beckett grinned at him fondly. ‘Fuck off, you mad bastard. Get on with yer own job fer a change!’ He gestured to Boyes, ‘Me an’ young Nelson is doin’ very well!’
The Buffer showed his monkey teeth. ‘Come round for sippers arter this lot, my son!’
Beckett retorted through his pain, ‘He ain’t old enough.’
The Buffer became serious for the first time, in my book ’e bloody is!’
Beckett said, ‘Take the wheel fer a sec, Boyes.’ He eyed him grimly. ‘You do know wot to do?’ He saw him nod. ‘I’m goin’ to fix this poor sod’s bandage before things ’ot up again.’
Boyes cleared his throat and called up the voicepipe.
‘Wheelhouse-Bridge!’
Sherwood answered immediately, his tone sharp, as if he expected the worst.
Boyes blinked tears from his eyes. ‘Relieving the wheel, sir! Ordinary Seaman Boyes!’
Behind him he heard Beckett call, ‘Only time they care is when they think you’re bloody dead!’
Sherwood gave a brittle laugh. Beckett had a very carrying voice.
He said, ‘The enemy has shifted target to the beaches. Hold her on three-five-zero until you’re told otherwise.’
Boyes watched the gyro tape until it appeared to mist over. He felt sick and faint, his whole being rebelling against the touch and stench of death.
Above all he was conscious of a great feeling of pride.
Ransome trained his glasses above the screen and saw the land looming in the early dawn light, the sea criss-crossed with the wakes of other craft while closer inshore tall columns of water showed a regular concentration of artillery fire.
‘Starboard ten.’ He craned over the screen and stared down at I he port Oerlikon mounting; it was pointing uselessly towards the quarter, the bright scar where the shell had smashed into it surprisingly sharp in the pale light. The Oerlikon gunner was squatting on the step massaging his head with both hands, seemingly oblivous to what was happening around him.
Ransome had called down to him immediately after the second shell had exploded beneath his feet in the wheelhouse, but the seaman had merely shrugged and spread his hands with disbelief. His guns were knocked out of action and yet miraculously he had been left untouched, apart from his headache.
Hargrave clambered on to the bridge, his face and arms streaked with dirt.
‘Three killed and two wounded by splinters, sir.’ He sounded out of breath.
Ransome waited as another massive salvo thundered overhead to burst somewhere inland. He could see the smoke now against the brightening skyline, like something solid which would never disperse. Fires too, with the more livid stabs and flashes from small-arms fire and mortars.