Then she had smiled. For the first time. ‘So we were both let down?’
Try as he might, Stannard could not remember the exact moment, the word or the sign which had brought them together.
As he leaned against the screen watching the distant aircraft while it reappeared around the port quarter all he could recall was her body, naked in his arms, her fierce passion as she had given herself, pulling him to her as if there were only minutes left before the world ended. Outside the room the sirens had sounded and somewhere more houses had been bombed to fragments. Once, as Stannard had lain awake staring up into the darkness he had felt her crying against his shoulder, very softly, like a child. But she had been asleep, and he had wondered if, like himself, she was thinking of that other man, the face in the photograph, somewhere in the desert with his tank.
The next day he had collected his things from his hotel and had stayed at the little house near Putney Bridge until the end of his leave.
She had said, ‘I’m not sorry for what we did. You know that, don’t you?’
As he had stood by that same front door a lorry packed with soldiers had rattled past the house, and Stannard had heard the wolf-whistles and cheerful yells of admiration with something like hatred.
‘It wasn’t just because you, we were lonely. You must know that, too.’ The seconds had ticked away. Where were the words when you needed them? ‘I don’t know how, Jane. But we’ll sort this out. I must see you again. Must.’
On the crowded train he had tried to rationalise his feelings. Collect his arguments. It was over. An episode, inevitable in this bloody war. He had wanted her. She had been starved of love for two years. That was all there was to it.
When Lindsay had told him of the convoy and the long haul around the Cape to Ceylon he had tried again. Time and distance would end it. But in his heart he knew he would have to see her again, if only to be sure.
Feet moved on the gratings and Lindsay said, ‘We’ve had a signal from Admiralty, Pilot. Four plus U-boats in our vicinity. You’d better put your plotting team to work.’ He watched Stannard’s strained face. ‘You bothered about something?’
Stannard looked at him. ‘I’m okay, sir.’ He forced a grin. ‘Just thinking that I, could have stayed with my dad selling tractors instead of all this!’
Lindsay watched him, leave. He’s like the rest of them. Like me: Sick and tired of being on the defensive. Worn out by retreat and vague plans for hitting back at an invisible enemy.
‘Signal from commodore, sir.’ Ritchie grimaced. ‘To Benbecula. Make less smoke.’
‘Acknowledge, Yeoman.’
Lindsay glanced up at the tall funnel, garish in its new paint. No more smoke than usual. No more than anyone could expect from a ship which should by rights be ending her days quietly somewhere in the sun. Where war meant only a fight for better freight or cheaper running costs.
Maybe the commodore had seen in the curt Admiralty signal some small hint o£. what he was up against. Not pins and paper flags on a map. Not a glib daily communiq ie for the press and the civilians who were taking it as best they could. Out here it was very real. A killing ground where there were no rules and no standards. A place where the horizon never seemed to get any nearer, where the only quick escape was straight down, to the bottom.
He saw two destroyers wheeling in a flurry of spray and foam to take station on the port quarter, to: begin yet another sweep, listening for the unseen attacker, preparing to strike and kill if the opportunity offered itself.
He glanced at his watch. There was still plenty of time. The hunters, and the hunted knew, their various skills, just as they understood how easily their roles could be changed.
‘I’m going below, Pilot. Call me if you hear anything.’
Stannard.watched him climb down the bridge ladder. Then he turned and stared at the hard horizon. The little house so close to Putney Bridge suddenly seemed very far away. A memory, which somehow he must hold on to. No matter’what.
It was at dusk when the first torpedoes streaked into the convoy. During the afternoon there had been numerous reports of U-boats in the vicinity, and later still a destroyer, the Merlin; had made a contact.
Aboard the Benbecula at the rear of the convoy the hands had been sent to action stations, but with nothing to do but wait had stared into the gathering gloom, listening to the thundering roar of depth-charges. They had seen tall columns of water bursting skyward even as the destroyer had swung round for another run-in across the hidden submarine. She had soon been joined by the other wing escort, and again the charges had thundered down, the explosions booming against the Benbecula’s lower hull as if she too was under attack.
In the engine room Fraser had seen several of his men pausing at their work to look up at the oil-streaked sides, imagining perhaps that a torpedo was already speeding towards them.
On the bridge it was all remote and vaguely disconnected with attack or defence. The three lines of ships plodded on towards a darkening horizon while the other destroyers tore back and forth like nervous dogs around a valuable flock of sheep.
Merlin had reported she had lost contact. There had been some oil sighted but no one paid’ much.attentioh to that. The U-boat might have been damaged. It could have been a ruse to allow her commander to take evasive action. Either way, Merlin’s swift attack had given the convoy more time.
Lindsay sat on his tall chair and watched the ships on either bow. They were already losing their identity as darkness closed in. They were moving faster now, making a good fourteen knots in response to the commodore’s signals.
Dancy said, ‘It looks as if we may have given them the slip this time, sir.’ He sounded very tired.
Lindsay shrugged. ‘If the escorts can keep them down, yes. But if they surface they can make a fair speed, too.’ He looked at Dancy. What with having the forenoon watch and being called to his action station on the bridge soon, afterwards he was showing the strain.
Stannard snatched up a handset as its shrill cry shattered the stillness in the enclosed bridge.
He swung towards Lindsay, his voice urgent. ‘Mast-‘; head reports torpedoes approaching on the port quarter, sir!’
Lindsay jumped from his chair. ‘Full astern!’
When he reached the bridge wing he saw the pale white lines cutting across the dull water, his brain recording their bearing and speed even as he noted the urgent flash of signal lamps, the muffled squawk of the R/T speaker as the alarm ran like wildfire along the lines of ships.
‘Stop engines!’
He craned over the screen, straining his eyes to watch the nearest track as it sped straight for Benbecula’s port bow. Nothing happened. The nearest torpedo must have missed the ship by less than twenty feet.
‘Resume course and revs, Pilot!’
He waited a few more seconds, half expecting to see another torpedo coming out of the gloom. Slamming the — engines astern for just those few minutes must have thrown the enemy’s sights-off balance.
There was a single, muffled explosion which seemed to come from miles away, like thunder on a range of hills. As he ran through the bridge to the starboard wing he saw a searing column of fire; bright red against the clouds, a billowing wall of smoke completely hiding the victim from view.
Lindsay crouched over the gyro repeater on the bridge wing and took a quick bearing. The torpedo must have run diagonally right through the convoy, hitting a freighter just astern of the commodore’s ship. There were no more explosions, and he guessed the U-boat commander had fired at extreme range, fanning his torpedoes in the hopes of getting a lucky hit.
Depth-charges boomed and echoed across the water, and over the R/T Lindsay heard an unemotional voice say, ‘Have contact. Am attacking.’