Peter shut his eyes for a moment, decided not to remember those awful days just after the war. The thing was to forget one’s life before the cataclysm; to live as if one’s life had begun on Day Zero. The old world was gone forever and no amount of grieving was going to bring it back. The important thing was to honour the countless dead by one’s deeds in whatever time one had left.
And to never, ever give in.
The worst of the easterly gale had blown over although the rain still fell in vicious, squally bursts across Fareham Creek. Last winter had been the worst in living memory; this winter was threatening to be as bad. One storm after another thrashed in the English Channel, the first snow had fallen a foot deep across the South Downs last week and the rain which lashed against the destroyer’s upper works, was laced with ice and overnight had begun to freeze on rails and exposed metal decks. Peter had heard the phrase ‘nuclear winter’ a lot in the last year. So much dust and debris had been blasted into the atmosphere that the Sun’s rays never touched the ground in some northern latitudes. Although he was not among their number it was hardly surprising that so many men had turned to religion for solace.
HMS Talavera’s commanding officer pushed away his papers and turned to give the younger man his undivided attention. There was a paternal gravitas and a steadiness about the Old Man that always infused renewed strength into the men around him.
“How is your young lady in Malta, Peter?”
The question took the younger man unawares.
“Er. Bearing up, sir.” Peter regretted the evasive, stock answer the instant it escaped his lips. “Marija is the sort of person who always puts the brightest possible face on things. Her last letter was dated about five weeks ago and some blighter of a local censor had inked out whole sentences.” He choked down the anger bubbling to the surface. His face felt hot and he knew his eyes were probably burning with that anger. “Sorry, sir. It’s just…”
His Captain nodded, tight-lipped.
Commander David Penberthy had aged ten years in the last thirteen months. There were prominent grey streaks in his previously youthfully dark hair and his eyes, once unburdened by the responsibilities of command were often tired. The one man on board who could never allow himself to betray the fact that he was as sick at heart as his men was the Captain.
Now he hesitated, guilty for not having spoken privately to Peter Christopher in the days since his request for a transfer to the Mediterranean Fleet had been summarily rejected by some anonymous staffer at Channel Fleet HQ.
“Having your transfer papers returned must have been a hard knock?” He asked. The question might have been phrased rhetorically but it grasped the bull by the horns. “Not for Talavera, obviously,” Penberthy went on. “God knows where I’d find another hot shot EWO like you, Peter.” Talavera’s commanding officer had reluctantly counter-signed his Electronic Warfare Officer’s request for a transfer to Mediterranean Fleet in the knowledge that he was bound to lose an acknowledged expert — who was the envy of most other Captains in the Channel Fleet — sooner rather than later. Brilliant young officers like Peter Christopher were in painfully short supply. Despite the hard won lessons of the 1945 war the Royal Navy had clung to its traditions too long, undervaluing and failing to invest in the specialists and technicians it needed to fight modern wars. Men like Peter Christopher, perhaps the only man onboard Talavera who actually understood how all her advanced electronic systems worked, owned the future of naval warfare. The young EWO had virtually rebuilt the ship’s EMP — electro-magnetic pulse — damaged radar and electronics suite after the October War and had spent most of the last six months in constant transit around the fleet advising, training and in overseeing repairs, and the installation and testing of new equipment.
“That’s good of you to say so, sir,” the younger man said more stiffly than he meant.
The older man nodded, said nothing for several seconds.
“When you put in your papers I promised that I wouldn’t do anything to delay or block them,” he sighed. “Fair’s fair, and all that even though, frankly, I can’t afford to lose you. I’m sorry your papers have been returned this time, but I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry that you won’t be leaving us just yet. Don’t worry. I’m not going to give you a pep talk, Peter,” he grimaced, seizing eye contact with his EWO and holding it. “A pep talk is the last thing you need to hear from me or anybody else and that’s not why I asked you to come to my cabin. When this current storm front moves over we’ll be going alongside to fill our bunkers and provision the ship for thirty days at sea.”
Peter Christopher sat up and took notice.
“While we’re alongside we’ll be taking onboard a draft of around thirty odds and sods to make up our numbers. Fleet HQ hasn’t given me much information about the new men. Mostly general service lower rates it seems. We’ll sort the wheat from the chaff once we’ve got them assigned to their divisions. That will be your job.”
“My job, sir?”
“The priority is to identify anybody with useful technical skills. The rest can fill the holes in our sea duty men rosters but I don’t want men with any kind of background in electronic or mechanical engineering wasted on general duties regardless of their official rate or trade.”
Peter thought about this. “Won’t I be stepping on the Exec’s toes, sir?”
The Captain chuckled and shook his head.
“It was his idea. You can do the vetting and hand him the list when you’re finished. I’m planning to send the Executive Officer and the Master at Arms ashore with scavenging teams as soon as we come alongside.”
Peter digested this news and detected belatedly that there was more to come.
“When we sail Talavera will be officially designated a Leader. In the old days a full captain would have come aboard with two dozen staffers, tactical and comms supernumeraries. That won’t be happening with us. However, to reflect the new responsibilities Talavera’s wardroom will, of necessity, be assuming in a couple of days, I find myself being advanced one ring, and Mr Montgommery and you, will both be advanced half a ring. The Executive Officer will effectively become my flag captain for 9th Destroyer Squadron. Before you ask I have no idea when 9th Destroyer Squadron will be formed or what other ships will be assigned to it. Things seem to be happened in an unholy rush and I’m sure we’ll find out why soon enough. You will become the Squadron EWO responsible for the tactical co-ordination of all units in close company with Talavera. Basically, that’s the role you’ve been filling here in Fareham Creek for months now and the C-in-C has instructed me to tell you that quote ‘the promotion is well deserved’. The promotion will be substantive and take immediate effect,” he glanced at his watch, “in slightly less than forty hours. I’ve already briefed the Exec and the Chief. I will be addressing the crew as soon as we are at sea. You can put the new ring on your sleeve at any time after that, Lieutenant-Commander Christopher.”
The younger man stared dazedly into space for several seconds as David Penberthy stood to shake his hand. It still didn’t really sink in until he was stumbling back towards his own cabin. He’d just gone from a relatively green watch keeper to third in command of one of the Navy’s most modern ships and the Electronic Warfare Leader of a whole — albeit as yet unformed — Destroyer Squadron!