Drummond had said, “This job is just that bit more crazy. It might come off. You never know.”
“It’s not that.” Slop, slop. More gin into the glasses. “It’s Captain (D). I can’t get his measure. You know him better maybe. How d’you rate him? I mean, actually in combat?”
You were not supposed to discuss a superior in this way. Equally, everyone did.
Drummond had replied, “He was with me when we went alongside the decoy ship. Seemed cool enough. But he was that eager to get after the Spaniard I had a hard time for a moment or two.”
“I’d heard he was a callous bastard.”
A small signal had sparked off an alarm. “Who from?”
Duvall had seemed momentarily off guard. “A couple of nights ago. I forget exactly when. I was ashore at that nice hotel. Met up with your number one. He had a real charmer with him. I could have done her some damage myself.” He had frowned. “Where was I?”
“The hotel. You heard something.”
It was all Drummond had been able to do to hide his bitterness. It was stupid. He kept telling himself so. It still did not help.
“Yes. Your number one got the conversation round to the Conqueror.” He had looked awkward. “You know. Beaumont. The only three survivors.”
“Yes.
“Somebody said that Beaumont was the same aboard that old battleship. Didn’t give a toss for anyone but himself. A glory boy. I don’t know what to believe.”
But all that had been back in Falmouth. Now, as Drummond sat lolling from arm to arm in his bridge chair, he could imagine Duvali on his own bridge away out ahead in the pitch darkness. Three days out of harbour, four old destroyers in the North Atlantic. It sounded like the start of a poem, he thought vaguely. He lifted his watch level with his eyes. Nearly one o’clock in the morning, and the motion so sickening that he was glad he had decided not to turn into his bunk. He heard the watchkeepers moving around the open bridge, the occasional murmur of voices over handsets and pipes as the ships played follow-myleader across an empty ocean.
At the slow, economical speed, with a deep quarter swell, Warlock was taking it badly. She had the advantage over her three consorts, however, for being last in line she had little fear of being run down from astern. All the watchkeeping officers had to do was hold on to the next ahead. Up two turns. Down two turns. It was an eye-aching job, with the Whirlpool’s narrow stern rising up in a welter of spray and propeller froth, seemingly within feet of Warlock’s stem, and at the frantic adjustment of revs, fading just as quickly into the curtain of sea and sky.
Wingate was officer of the watch, and Drummond could see his buttocks and legs protruding from beneath the chart table’s canvas hood where he was checking his calculations, enjoying a moment of privacy under the tiny electric bulb.
Hillier was on the starboard gratings, his binoculars trained above the screen. He had settled in well. Even the way his legs and body were adjusting to the slow, prolonged rolls was that of a seasoned watchkeeper.
Wingate reappeared at the side of the chair. “Quiet enough, sir. ” He darted a quick glance at the bridge lookouts. “Doc will have a few down. with seasickness tomorrow, I’m thinking.”
Drummond gripped his pipe between his teeth, counting seconds as Warlock’s stern came up yet again and the bridge tilted out and over. He could hear the structure protesting, the clatter of steel from the Oerlikon guns as they jerked on their mountings. A man slipped and fell, cursing obscenely in the darkness. Another called, “Roll on my twelve and get me off this bucket!”
Wingate grinned, his teeth white against the sky. “They don’t change, do they?”
Drummond sLook his head. “I’m relying on that!”
A bosun’s mate said something into a voice-pipe and then called, “Captain, sir. W/T have convoy information from Admiralty.”
“Very well.” He looked at Wingate. “Better go down yourself. Check it against our signals.”
Wingate nodded. “That’ll be the north-bound to Reykjavik.
Fairly fast convoy, to all accounts. Shouldn’t bother us.” He paused beside Hillier and said, “All yours again.”
Hillier moved cautiously across the gratings, feeling his way.
Drummond asked, “Got the feel of her now, Sub?”
“Getting better, I think, sir.” He gestured vaguely abeam. “It was something Pilot just said when we were working on the chart. The nearest land are the Faroes’ and they’re about two hundred miles to the east of us.”
He fell silent, and the regular ping of the Asdic echoed around the bridge as if to give weight to his words.
“Yes. This is a bad place. The start of the killing-ground. ” — They did not speak again until Wingate returned. He said, “I was right, sir. The north-bound is steering three four-zero. About forty miles ahead of us.” He sucked his pencil. “Ten knots”
“I thought it was supposed to be fast?” Drummond peered at him. “Fifteen at least, surely?”
“Signal states that convoy had a bit of bother. Attacked by two U-boats. One ship sunk, another damaged. So they’re probably slowing down to stay together.”
There was a long pause and Wingate added slowly, “The convoy commander must be a good bloke. It’s a bloody awful place to be left on your jack.”
Drummond looked away. Wingate was probably remembering. It could never be far from his thoughts. When he had been left behind. His friend frozen to his oilskin. Dying within touch of safety. But he never showed it. Time after time, as Warlock had driven through sleet and snow, he must have looked outboard. Watching. Listening. Waiting for that terrible explosion.
Drummond said, “They’ll get air-cover tomorrow if the cloud lifts.”
Wingate muttered, “Like searching for a …” He did not finish.
The bosun’s mate called, “W/T again, sir. They have Warden for you.”
Drummond slid off the chair and waited for the deck to sway upright again. Duvall was using the short-range radiotelephone, which was unusual. Probably wanted to discuss the convoy report. He reached the little steel shack below the radar platform and lurched through the door. As the light automatical ly came on again he saw the crouching figure of the Asdic operator, a man pouring cocoa into a line of chipped cups, another fumbling with a lifejacket. He jerked the handset from its case.
“This is Yoke Seven.” He waited, imagining Duvall’s beard on the other end of the sound-wave. “Come in Yoke One.”
A hissing roar of static, and a clatter of mugs from elsewhere as Warlock’s hull tilted savagely into another trough.
Then Duvall’s voice, surprisingly clear. “This is Yoke One. I will be brief. I have a strong radar echo, directly ahead of us. Eight miles. Same course and speed.”
Drummond licked his lips. The radar sets supplied to these old ships were a tremendous advance on nothing. But compared with all the latest equipment they were already well out of date. Eight miles. It was about the maximum range in this sort of weather.
Duvall added, “Too small for a straggler.” He was thinking aloud. “Too far astern for Tail-end Charlie.”
Drummond waited, feeling his stomach dragging violently as the deck fell into another abyss. “Submarine.”
“Yes.”
Drummond looked over his shoulder, seeing the Asdic operator’s eyes glowing above his screen and dials like twin marbles.
“Get the first lieutenant up here. Chop chop!” To the handset he said, “We will have to stay clear. Disregard.”
He could imagine Duvall’s agony of mind. To increase speed in the hope of stalking a possible U-boat, or to stay within the letter of his orders and keep out of trouble until otherwise instructed. To signal the Admiralty and get them to pass the information to the convoy commander, or remain mute and allow men to be slaughtered.