Lindsay groped for his pipe, remembering London. The ruined buildings, the gaps in small terraced houses where the bombs had carved a path like some giant axe. Sandbags around stately Whitehall offices, policemen in steel helmets, the blackout, and the wail of air-raid sirens, night after night, with hardly a break.
The people had looked tired and strained, as with each new day they picked their way over rubble and firemen’s hoses to queue with resigned patience for buses which still somehow seemed torun on time.
And everywhere there were uniforms. Not just the three services, but all those of the occupied countries as well. Poles and Norwegians, Dutch and Czechs, whose alien uniforms seemed to show the extent of the enemy’s successes.
When not waiting in an Admiralty lobby or going through the latest intelligence reports in the operations room, Lindsay had found himself walking. He still did not know how far he had walked nor the full extent. The East End and dockland. Green Park and the scruffy gaiety of Piccadilly. Quiet, faceless streets south of the river, and the proud skyline of the city darkly etched against the night sky with its criss-cross of searchlights and sullen glow of burning buildings. He had been bustled into an air-raid, shelter by an indignant warden who had shouted, ‘Who do j you think you are, mate? God or something? You’ll get. your bloody head blown off if you walk about while there’s a raid on!’
He had sat on a bench seat, his back against the cold concrete, while the shelter had quaked and trembled to the exploding bombs. Beyond the steel door, where the same warden had stared at him fixedly as if to discover the reason for his behaviour, he had heard the clang of fire bells, the shrill-of a police whistle. But inside the crowded shelter he had found the same patience, the sense of oneness which had. made such a mark on his memory.
From the day he had entered the Navy as a cadet Lindsay had been trained in all matters of the sea and; above all, sea warfare. Ship-handling and seamanship, gunnery and navigation, the complex management of groups of vessels working together in every conceivable condition which past experience and history could offer.
Nobody had said anything about the other side of it. At Dunkirk and Crete, Norway and North Africa, the lessons had been hard and sharp. Terrified refugees on the roads, scattering as the Stukas had sliced through them with bombs and bullets. Soldiers queueing chest-deep in the sea to be taken off devastated beaches by the Navy, which like London buses always managed to reach them in time. But.at what a price.
The loss of his own ship, the agonising memory of the sinking transport which refused to leave him in peace, had all left their scar on Lindsay. But this last visit to London had shown him more than anything else that he knew — nothing of the other war at all. It was not-a battle to be contained in a gun or bombsight, with an enemy beyond reach or personality. It was right here. It was everywhere. No one was spared, and he knew that if these people with whom he had shared an air-raid shelter and all the others like them were to lose faith and hope the end was even closer than some imagined. It was amazing they had not given up already, he thought. Yet in the battered pubs with their shortages and watery beer he had heard plenty of laughter and optimism. Although on the face of it he could find no reason for either. The war was going badly, and the first breath of relief when it was learned that, willingly or otherwise, the Americans were now firm allies, was now giving way to an awareness that the real struggle had not even begun.
Even the newspapers found it hard to explain the daily events in Malaya. In a month the Japanese had driven almost the full length of the peninsula, smashing resistance and leaving a wake of horror and butchery which was impossible to measure.
‘ During his leave Lindsay had toyed with the idea of finding out where Eve Collins had lived. He would visit her parents. Would make and hold on to some small comfort by the contact., He had dismissed the idea almost immediately, despising himself for his own self-pity. What would he have said? That he saw the ship burn with their daughter condemned to a hideous death? That he was there, a witness who should have been able, to help but could not?
No, it was better to leave them to their own resources.After the harsh cruelty of an official telegram they would have to draw upon each other for strength. With time, even this unreality might ease and they would be able to think of her memory without pain, as countless others were having to do.
There was a tap at the door and Goss walked heavily into the cabin.
He said, ‘Eight bells, sir. Still seven absentees, but there’s been a’ train delay. They might be on that.” He opened his notebook. ‘One call from the R.N. hospital. Able Seaman NIcNiven is detained in the V.D. wing for treatment.’ He closed it with a snap. ‘I’ve detailed another A.B. to replace him as quartermaster, sir.’ He did not sound as if he cared much about McNiven’s unhappy predicament:
‘Thank you.’ Lindsay eyed him steadily. Goss looked very strained, and he could imagine his feelings about the ship’s new appearance. ‘I expect we shall be getting our orders shortly.’
Goss nodded. ‘Yes.’
It was as hard as ever to make contact with Goss.
Lindsay said, ‘We will be taking on fuel and ammunition this afternoon. We’ll work into the dog watches if necessary. If there’s an air-raid on the port we don’t want to be sitting ducks.’
In the distance he heard a man laugh, and pictured the returning hands far below his chair as they struggled out of their best uniforms, folding them carefully into kitbags and lockers until the next time. They would all be telling each other of their leaves. Their conquests and their failures. Their families and their expectations for the next leave. It was always the same.
Goss said suddenly, ‘I’ve been ashore a few times. Made it my business to find-out where we’re going next.’
Lindsay asked, ‘Discover anything?’
He sighed. It seemed to come from his very soul. ‘Snotty lot of bastards, sir.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘But I did hear we might be going south.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Could be.’ He had already noted the extra fans and ventilation shafts, and the bright dazzle paint pointed to something more than another Icelandic patrol. He realised too that he did not care where it was, except for one thing. The faint, impossible chance of meeting that raider again.
Goss said, ‘If we do.’ He moved slightly so that Lindsay could no longer see his face. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get back.’
Lindsay turned in his chair. Goss was deadly serious. As he always was. He was also more troubled than he had ever seen him.
Goss continued in the same empty tone, ‘While you were away, sir, they got the old Eriskay. Torpedoed her. Didn’t say where.’
Without asking, Lindsay knew the ship must be another of Goss’s old company.
Goss said, ‘Only three left now.’ He moved restlesslytoa scuttle, his face very lined. in the grey light. ‘They’d no right to put them where they can’t survive. It’s always the same.’ He turned, his eyes in shadow. ‘The big warships
i„round their buoys in harbour. The best destroyers stay with em just in case they might be in danger. While the poor bloody escorts which should have been on the scrapheap years ago,’ he took a deep breath, ‘and ships like the Becky are made to take the brunt of it!’ He clenched his big hands as if in pain. ‘It’s not bloody right, sir! It’s notbloody fair!’
Lindsay watched him gravely. Goss’s sudden-outburst was both vehement and moving. He knew he was hitting not only at the nameless warships but at the Service which controlled them. Perhaps indirectly at him, too.
‘I’ve seen people in London, Number One, who are in much-the same position. They’ve no choice.’ He hardened his voice. ‘Any more than we have.’