He saw a small hatch open on the forward hold and Lieutenant Barker clambering on deck to stand shivering in the wind. He had been checking his stores again, no doubt. He did not seem to trust anybody where they were concerned. Barker had returned from leave in a very shaken state of mind. Lindsay had heard that he had some private property in England. Boarding houses or something of the sort. But when he had gone to make his usual inspection of his other source of income he had been horrified to find them commandeered by the military. Every room filled with soldiers. Paint scratched, floorboards used for firewood. The havoc had been endless. Jupp had casually mentioned it to Lindsay. It seemed to amuse him.
A destroyer on wing escort turned in a wide arc to begin another zig-zag and he watched her with silent fascination. Then he remembered that she was the Merlin and recalled her young commander waiting in the office at Scapa. That day when he had seen Lovelace. When he had met the girl in the passageway. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stared fixedly at the sloping horizon. It seemed so long ago. And it felt like yesterday.
‘Signal from commodore, sir.’ Ritchie was wide awake. ‘Alter course in succession to two-two-zero.’
‘Acknowledge.’ He heard Stannard moving swiftly to the gyro.
Ritchie steadied his telescope. ‘Execute.’
Like ponderous beasts the ships moved slowly on to their new course. A destroyer swept down between the lines, a signal lamp flashing angrily at a rust-streaked freighter which had edged badly out of station. As she dashed abeam of Benbecula her loud-hailer echoed across the churned water, ‘You have a bad list, old chap!’
Stannard snatched a megaphone and’ ran to the open wing. ‘You have a loud voice, old chap!’ He sounded angry.
Lindsay watched him thoughtfully. Like Fraser, Stannard was often quick to malign the Benbecula. But if anyone else tried it he became protective, even belligerent.
He came back breathing hard. ‘Stupid sod!’
Lindsay asked, ‘Have you heard how your brother is getting on?’
‘Not much.’ Stannard stared gloomily towards the nearest ship. ‘He is always a cheerful cuss. I think he enjoysbeing in the army.’
Lindsay could tell Stannard wanted to talk. Heseemed — on edge, different from before his leave.
‘Your people are in Perth, I believe?’
‘Yeh. My dad runs a sale and repair business of agricultural gear. He’ll be missing young Jason, I guess. He’s twenty-five almost. It was bad enough for my folks when I scarpered off to sea.’ He turned his head sharply. ‘Watch your helm, quartermaster! You’re snaking about like a whore at a christening!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The man sounded unmoved. Nobody seemed to mind Stannard’s occasional bursts of colourful language.
He continued, ‘Most of Jason’s mob come from Perth or nearby.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Nearby means a coupla hundred miles either way in Aussie.’
Lindsay thought of the news reports, the confused despatches he had read in the London papers. It sounded as if the Japs were right across the Malay Peninsula, cutting it into halves with a line of steel.
Ritchie called, ‘Signal from Merlin, sir! Aircraft bearing zero-eight-zero!’
Before anyone could move the control tannoy reported, ‘Aircraft at Red one-four-oh. Angle of sight one-oh.’.
Stannard said harshly, ‘That Merlin must have good RDF. She’s two miles on our starboard quarter.’ He shook his fist at the deekhead. ‘Why the hell don’t they give, us something better? We might just as well have a pair of bloody opera glasses!’
Lindsay strode to the port wing and levelled his glasses over the screen. It was not hard to see it now. A black splinter etched against the sky, seeming to skim just clear of the horizon line itself.
He hard Dancy at his side fumbling with his glasses.
‘Door t bother, Sub. It’ll be a Focke Wulf reconnaissance plane. Long-range job. It’ll not come within gunshot unless by accident.’
Very faint above the sea noises and muffled engines Lindsay heard the far off notes of a bugle. The cruiser was doing things in style. Within seconds the A.A. guns would be cleared away and tracking the distant aircraft. It was always good experience for the crews. He rubbed his eyes and lifted the glasses once more to watch the enemy aircraft. How small it looked and near to the sea. Both were illusions, as he knew from bitter experience. The Focke Wulfs were like great eagles, huge whenever they came near enough to be seen properly. They could cover many hundreds of miles of ocean, where there were no fighter planes to pluck them down and no guns to reach them as they circled so lazily around a convoy, their radio operators sending back the vital information. Position, course and speed. It never varied. Even now, somewhere out there in the grey Atlantic a U-boat commander would be awakening from a quick nap by one of his officers shaking his shoulder. Convoy, Kapitan. And the signals from his H.Q. would waste no time either. Attack, attack, attack.
‘Signal from commodore, sir.’ Ritchie stood in the doorway. ‘Maintain course and speed. Do not engage.’ Do not engage. Lindsay felt despair like pain. What did the bloody fool imagine they could do? Dancy said, ‘Is it bad, sir?’
‘Bad but not critical, Sub.’ He looked at him calmly. ‘We will be altering course at dusk. That may throw them off the scent. If we can keep up this speed we should soon be out of range even of that high-flying bastard!’ He had spoken with unconscious venom and realised Dancy was watching him with obvious surprise. Surprise that the cool-headed commander should possess any feelings. That he could hate. He added slowly, ‘He’ll keep up there as long as he can. Flying round and round and watching us. He may be relieved by one of his chums. It happens.’
Dancy turned towards the distant cruiser. ‘She’s got an aircraft, sir. I saw it on the catapult.’
Lindsay laughed. ‘A poor old Walrus. Better than nothing, but that bastard would have it down in flames before you could blink.’
‘Makes you, feel a bit naked, sir.’
Lindsay walked towards the wheelhouse. ‘Keep an eye, on him, Sub. I’m going to check the chart.’
Dancy stood at the end of the wing watching the aircraft. How slow it seemed. But it was very real. The r enemy. Something you could see. Not like the haphazard flash of guns in the night. The terrible leaping reflections on the ice as a ship had burned and died before his eyes. There were real Germans over there. Sitting on little stools. Drinking coffee perhaps as they peered towards the convoy. How would the ships look, he wondered? Little dark shapes, betrayed by their long white wakes and a haze of funnel smoke.. Impersonal. Remote. Dial they hate the men in the convoy? Did they feel anything at all as they listened to the plane’s operator hammering away at his morse key?
He thought suddenly of his leave. His mother had prompted, ‘Go on, Mike, tell us what it was like.’ She had laid the table, spread out the best cups and plates. The sandwiches and home-made cakes. His sister and her boy-friend had been there too. His father and one of his friends from the bowling club at the Nag’s Head at the end of the road. Tell us what it was like….
He had tried to describe the ship, the first sight of floating ice, the party at Scapa. He had started to tell them about the captain. About Lindsay who had just left his side.
His mother had remarked, ‘I expect he’s a proper toff, eh, Mike? Not one of our sort.’
His father had eyed her reprovingly. ‘Now, Mother, Mike’s as good as anyone now that he’s-an officer.’