The bell rang, and with a flourish he picked up his coffee pot and thrust open the pantry door. Something might turn up: And until it did, Jupp would make sure Lindsay would have his help, just as long as he needed it.
The wardroom stove glowed cheerfully across the legs of the Benbecula’s officers as they waited for the stewards to open the bar. The ship felt rigidly still, for she was moored to a wharf awaiting the next move to dry dock, and some of the officers glanced repeatedly through the rain-dashed scuttles as if unable to accept the fact. Murky grey buildings, motionless in the rain, instead of a tossing wilderness of angry wave crests. Tall cranes and gantrys and the masts of other ships, instead, of loneliness and complete isolation.
Dancy listened to the clink of glasses and squeak of bolts as the stewards opened their pantry hatch, and tried to think of some special, extravagant drink to mark his return to the safety of harbour. While the ship had crept through the morning drizzle and mist and tugs had snorted and puffed importantly abeam, he had watched the great sprawling mass of Liverpool opening up before him with something-like wonder. There had been little for him to do at the time so he had been able to let his ready imagination encompass everything he saw and felt. Relief, sadness, excitement, it had all been there, as it was now. Around him on. the bridge he had watched his companions, faces and voices who had become real and very close to him. Stannard at the gyro taking careful, unhurried fixes while the ship glided up channel. Ritchie and his signalmen peering through their glasses at the diamond-bright lamps which winked from the shore. Down on the forecastle he had seen Goss waving his arms as he strode amongst the busy. seamen at the wires and fenders, while from the upper bridge the pipes shrilled and twittered in salute to passing or anchored warships. Cruisers and sturdy escort vessels. Destroyers and stumpy corvettes, all showing marks of the Atlantic weather, the seasoned look of experienced and hard used warriors.
Lindsay had been sitting in his chair for most of the time. He had seemed very remote, even aloof whenever someone had attempted to make personal contact with him. But Dancy had watched him, nevertheless, and had tried to draw from him some of the strength he seemed to give. He had seen the twin towers of the Royal Liver building loom above the mist and had felt the infectious excitement and purpose of this great port. Headquarters of Western Approaches Command, it was also one of the main doors through which came the very life blood of a country at war.
Stannard crossed to his side and held his hands above the glowing stove. ‘Well, Sub, we’ve made it. All snug and safe. Until the next bloody move!’
He sounded relaxed, and Dancy envied him for it. Stannard was really important, a man who could work out a position when there was neither star nor sun to help him. When the deck was trying to stand on end while he plotted and brooded over his charts and instruments.
A steward said, ‘Orders please, gentlemen.’
Dancy and Stannard stood back to wait for the first rush to subside.
‘What do you think about the laps, Pilot?’
Stannard looked at him thoughtfully. ‘God knows. We were always told that if Malaya or Singapore were attacked the enemy would come from the south.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I guess they’ve got it in hand by now. When I think of the places I’ve been out East, it makes me puke to picture those little yellow bastards clumping all over them.’
Then he brightened and added, ‘Now, about that drink. Have it on me.’
Dancy frowned. ‘A brandy and gin.’
Stannard stared at him. ‘Mixed?’
‘Mixed.’
‘You greedy bastard!’ Stannard waved to a harassed steward. ‘I hope it chokes you!’
The door banged open and Goss marched towards the fire.
Stannard asked, ‘How about joining us, Number One?’
Goss did not seem to hear. Turning his back to the fire he barked, ‘Just pipe down a minute, will you!’
They all paused to look at him, suddenly aware of the harshness in his tone.
Goss said, ‘We’ve just had news from the Far East. The Japs are still advancing south into Malaya.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And they’ve sunk the Prince of Wales and Repulse.’ He did not seem able to believe his own voice. ‘Both of ‘em. In less than an hour!’
‘Jesus.’ Stannard stared at Dancy. ‘Those two great ships. How the hell could they wipe them out so easily?’
Goss was staring into space. ‘They had no air cover and were overwhelmed by enemy bombers.’
‘It’s getting worse.” Stannard downed his drink in one swallow. ‘I thought it would have been a fleet action at least.’ He sounded angry. ‘What’s the matter with our blokes out there? No air cover, they must be raving bloody mad!’
Goss continued, ‘There’ll be leave for three weeks. If you’ll ‘all see Lieutenant Barker about your ration cards and travel warrants after lunch we can get it sorted out without wasting any more time.’
Dancy looked at his glass. Goss’s news had left him confused and feeling vaguely cheated. They had done so much, or so it had seemed. The quick, savage gunfire in the darkness, the handful of gasping, oil-sodden survivors, it had all been part of something special. The brief announcement about the two great capital ships sunk in some far off, unknown sea had changed it in an instant. That was the real war, the swift changing balance of sea power which could and might bring down a country, a way of life for millions of people. It made his own part in things appear small and unimportant.
Stannard said quietly, ‘Drink that muck, Sub. I think I feel like getting stoned.’
Dancy touched the drink with his tongue. It tasted like paraffin.
Stannard was saying, ‘My brother’s out there in an Aussie battalion.’ He looked away. ‘To think his life depends on those stupid Pommie brasshats!’ He faced Dancy and smiled. ‘Sorry about that. You’re quite a nice Pommie, as it happens.’
Dancy watched him worriedly. ‘Thanks.’
Then he said quickly, ‘What about coming home with me, Pilot? My people would love to fuss over you. Christmas is pretty quiet but…..’ He hesitated, realising what
he had done. All his carefully built up disguise as the intrepid writer would be blown to ashes when Stannard met his parents.
Stannard eyed him gravely. ‘No can do, Sub.’ He was thinking of the girl he had met on his last leave in London. She had a small flat in Paddington. He would spend his leave with her. Have one wild party and make it
last until the leave was over. He added, ‘But thanks all the same. Maybe next time, huh?’
Dancy nodded, relieved and saddened at the same time. He could imagine what Stannard had in mind. And he thought of his own house. The Christmas decorations, his mother complaining about rations, his father telling him how the war should be waged, where the government were going wrong.
He said, ‘Maybe we could meet up somewhere? Just for a drink or something.!
‘Yeh, why not.’ Stannard grinned lazily. ‘I’ll give you a shout on the blower when I get fixed up.’ She would probably have forgotten him by now anyway. But she was a real beaut. Long auburn hair, and a body which seemed to enfold a man like silk.
pA steward called, ‘Ambulances’ave arrived to take your eople away, sir.’ He waited until Boase had extracted himself from the group by the bar. ‘The P.M.O. is comin’ aboard.’
Dancy said, ‘Let’s go and see them leave, Pilot.’
Stannard nodded. ‘I was feeling very sorry for myself just now.’ He nodded again. ‘We’ll go and cheer them up a bit, eh?’
They grabbed their caps and hurried to the promenade deck. There were plenty of the ship’s company with the same idea, Dancy noticed. A ragged cheer greeted the first of the survivors, as on stretchers or walking with white-coated attendants from the base hosital they started to move towards the gangway. Stannard muttered quietly, ‘Oh Jesus, there’s Aikman.’ Dancy turned and saw the lieutenant walking slowly along the deck, a suitcase in his hand, a sickberth petty officer following him at a discreet distance.