“Thank you, sir.”
The Prime Minister turned to Margaret Thatcher.
“How do things look from Supply, Margaret?”
“Things are in hand, Prime Minister.” She motioned to General Sir Richard Amyatt Hull, who’d been Chief of the Imperial General Staff at the time of cataclysm but since been re-designated Chief of Staff of the Army, a title that more accurately described his remit. “As we speak General Hull’s boys are moving into place to secure vital transportation and dock hubs. I have issued General Hull with authority under the War Emergency Act to use whatever force is required to secure and safeguard supplies at docks and in transit. The main strategic depots are already secured and fully ready to receive replenishment.”
Edward Heath sighed. In the mayhem after the October War — he hated people referring to the abomination as ‘the cataclysm’ — Soviet agents had murdered at will, attempted to disrupt surviving communications, bombed refineries and set fire to irreplaceable fuel stocks. Inevitably, many of those responsible for these outrages would resurface again in the coming weeks.
The evil of war was without end.
“Looters will be shot on sight,” General Sir Richard Amyatt Hull said with a transparently heavy heart. Such policies went against the grain, no matter what the situation. “Anybody who interferes with the free movement of strategic supplies will be detained by the Internal Security Division.” His lips twisted in distaste at the mention of the loathed appendage to his Army. “I admit that there has been some disquiet in the Service but the British Army will do its duty, sir.”
“These are harsh times,” the Prime Minister agreed.
Chapter 10
The Royal Fleet Auxiliary Sycamore had come alongside shortly after dawn. Despite her fresh coat of grey paint and a superficial attempt to chip off the worst rust patches on her superstructure, the RFA Sycamore still looked exactly what she was: a thirty year old collier long overdue for the scrap yard. In fact she’d probably been recovered from a scrap yard; and hastily crewed by merchant seaman who’d found themselves, overnight, in the Royal Navy.
Peter Christopher joined Commander Hugo Montgommery, the destroyer’s executive officer at the bridge rail to observe the activity on the gun deck immediately below. Big wooden pallets were swinging down into Sycamore’s after hold and coming up loaded with crates containing four unfuzed reloads for Talavera’s 4.5 inch Mark III main battery. As each crate was manhandled to the deck and the eighty plus pound, four feet long ‘fixed’ rounds were fed down scuttles to the magazines below the water line. It was hard, warm work on a frigid November morning when the rain drizzled constantly and now and then, squalled hard from the south west.
The Executive Officer kept glancing at the Sycamore as if he was afraid her rust would somehow infect his ship. High above their heads the four ton double bedstead of the Type 965 airborne early warning radar turned. Talavera had been swinging around her anchors in harbour for nearly three months and the Captain wanted everybody on the ball. Forget about peacetime sea keeping duties. They had four hours to ammunition the ship and they’d already used up two of them. Hugo Montgommery had sent work parties over to the Sycamore to speed the process. Many of the draft who’d come onboard yesterday in Portsmouth were standing around idly because there’d be no time to do more than allot them to their new messes before Talavera sailed. First they’d been scheduled to sail on Friday morning, then on Thursday afternoon, suddenly the order had come to complete bunkering and to rendezvous with RFA Sycamore at Portland. The Captain was still being coy about Talavera’s mission once it cleared Portland.
“Guns says our rusty friend,” Hugo Montgommery scowled at the ancient merchantman’s rusty flanks constantly threatening to rub up against his ship’s immaculate plates, “only brought us three Sea Cat reloads?”
Peter Christopher had been astonished to discover there were any Sea Cat reloads. The rule of thumb was that the more complex the weapon system, the more dire the ongoing re-supply situation was likely to be after the year old catastrophic dislocation of the entire British industrial base. New production missiles and torpedoes, any kind of sophisticated modern electronics spares were like gold dust whereas World War II technology like reloads for the main battery, or shells for the 20-millimetre Oerlikon cannons and ammunition for small arms were plentiful. Oddly, Sycamore had also brought out more Squid rounds for the stern mounted mortar than the destroyer had magazine and ready locker space to accommodate.
“Sorry, Peter,” the Executive Officer growled, turning away from the rail. “What was it you were saying about the new draft?”
“We sailed before we got their papers, sir.”
Hugo Montgommery swore. Fifty percent of his attention was still riveted on the ship alongside grinding against the destroyer’s rubber, cork and hemp fenders.
“The Chief and the Paymaster are trying to sort out the ship’s records, but…” Peter shrugged. “Most of them are so green or so stupid they didn’t even demand movement papers before they shipped out of the depot. The only proof we’ve got that any of them are who they say they are is their dog tags and several of them have lost those.”
Hugo Montgommery swung around, momentarily forgetting the slow gyrations of the two ships’ hulls in the chop behind the Portland breakwaters.
“They sent us fucking deserters?”
The younger man hadn’t planned to put it quite that bluntly but he nodded, nonetheless.
“I’d say that what we’ve got is a draft straight out of the defaulters’ barracks at Lee-on-Solent, sir.”
“Marvellous! And now the useless beggars are standing on my deck picking their fucking noses!” The older man shook his head like a terrier emerging from a rabbit sett. “Does the Captain know yet?”
“Er, I thought you’d like to break the news, sir.”
Hugo Montgommery cursed again.
“You have the watch, Peter,” he decided, straightening to his full height and checking his cap was square on his cropped head.
“I have the watch, sir.”
Peter Christopher watched the Executive Officer stalk off the bridge in high dudgeon. He gazed down at the laboured activity on the fo’c’sle, then he did a quick methodical turn around the open bridge, taking a long hard look aft to identify who was on deck and what was going on, checking critically for any indication anything was amiss. Then he repeated the scrutiny forward. Both twin 4.5 inch turrets were traversed to starboard to give maximum access to the shell scuttles. There were bodies everywhere, unloading the pallets swinging between the ships, passing shells along sweating human chains. He identified the cap of his friend Lieutenant Miles Weiss, the Gunnery Officer.
He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Guns!” He shouted. “Guns!”
Miles Weiss’s pale face turned up to look at the bridge twenty feet away. He waved acknowledgement.
“There are too many wires and ropes lying about forward of A turret!” Peter shouted. “And tell off any loafers to report to the Master at Arms for employment!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the other man yelled, waved and started bellowing orders. From where he was standing behind B turret his field of vision was limited, and sensibly, his attention was directed at the handling of the reloads coming across the destroyer’s deck rather than forward of A turret.
Peter stepped across to the nearest bridge intercom.
He opened the panel, snatched up the handset.
“Master at Arms to the bridge. Master at Arms to the bridge.”