“Is that what you think?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. My captain at the time was the senior officer of the escort. He was obeying orders. You know he killed himself after the enquiry, don’t you?”
“Yes. He was stupid to do so, in my opinion.”
Sheridan stared at him as if he had struck him in the face.
“He was a damned good captain, sir!”
Drummond strode to the desk and leaned on it, both hands gripping the edge until the pain steadied him.
“We are not here to discuss either Conqueror or your last ship! Warlock is my command, and what she does, how well she does it, is my concern! And I hope it will now be yours, too!” He was talking loudly but could not help it. “You have been appointed as Number One because I need a first lieutenant, not because this ship is only good enough for you. She’s a fine destroyer and her record will stand beside those more modern creations which swing round their buoys in Scapa waiting for the enemy to come out of hiding!”
Sheridan’s eyes followed him as he strode restlessly to the opposite side.
“Don’t show any contempt for this or any other old destroyer in front of me. In February last year, when Scharnhorst and Gneisenau and the cruiser Prinz Eugen broke through the English Channel and made a laughing stock of our intelligence system, it was a bloody handful of these old V and W’s which were sent to stop them! The new ones were up at Scapa, like they were when Conqueror went down. So don’t lecture me about anything so petty as your chances of a command!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Sheridan stood up. “I really am.”
“Sit down, Number One.” Drummond looked away. “My fault entirely. Rank has its privileges, but insulting your opinions is not one of them. Not in my book.”
They studied each other for several seconds.
Then Drummond said, “I came aboard early. If I’d been sensible I’d have stayed in that draughty hotel until now. Then you’d have been aboard first.” He smiled gravely. “And you would not think, as you do now, that your new captain is halfway round the bend.”
Sheridan grinned.
“Like the rest of us, sir.”
Drummond pressed a button and waited for Owles to peer through the door.
“Drinks, sir? Right away, sir. ” He saw Sheridan. “New first lieutenant, sir? Hope you had a nice trip down, sir?”
He was gone before Sheridan could reply.
Drummond smiled. “Don’t bother. His is a different world.” He looked at the bulkhead clock. It was nine o’clock. He said, “Early for drinks, but after yesterday I think I need one. ” He studied Sheridan’s stubbled chin. “And I’m certain you do.”
Later, after Owles had brought glasses and a decanter, Drummond added, “Our orders have arrived. We will proceed to Harwich, day after tomorrow. There’s to be some sort of conference on the flotilla’s future.”
Sheridan watched as he poured the drinks.
“Harwich. I’ve been there several times. I expect your flotilla has got a new Captain (D) since I was last visiting the place?”
Drummond held out the glass very carefully.
“Actually, Number One, there has been a new Captain (D) appointed more recently than that. Last week, to be exact.”
Sheridan hesitated, knowing there was more.
“Thought you should know. He is Captain Dudley Beaumont.” He saw uncertainty giving way to dismay as he added, “The only officer to survive from the Conqueror. “He raised his glass. “Cheers.”
2
Scrapyard Flotilla
Drummond leaned back in the desk chair and carefully filled his favourite pipe before slipping it into his reefer pocket. Only one scuttle was still uncovered by its deadlight, for, like the rest of the ship, all unnecessary openings were sealed, watertight doors clipped home in readiness for leaving harbour. It was doubly necessary to be careful with a company partly made up of men who had never been to sea before.
The deck trembled to the engines’ steady beat as Galbraith carried out his usual tests. No need to worry there. A scraping thud announced that the brow had been swayed ashore, that the very last man, the postman, was safely gathered into the hull. He glanced again at Sheridan’s neat message pad. Only two men adrift, both of whom he knew. One had been granted immediate compassionate leave, his home having been bombed three nights ago. The other had merely failed to arrive. Probably drunk somewhere, or fast asleep on the wrong train. It would all be sorted out later.
He thought of Sheridan’s efforts in the last two days. He had more than shown his ability and energy, and he could understand his bitterness at not being given a chance of command.
From the moment the bulk of hands had returned from leave the work had never stopped. Ammunition to be loaded and sorted into its correct stowage, from heavy four-inch shells to the masses of cannon and automatic weapon magazines. Stores and crates of tinned milk, jam, tobacco and paint. Rum and wire hawsers, canvas for just about everything from repairing bridge dodgers to sewing up bloated remains found drifting in abandoned lifeboats. It never failed to impress Drummond that a hull could take so much. Then the oil fuel pumped across from a nearby tanker, while Galbraith and his chief stoker watched the pulsating hoses as if able to judge the capacity to the exact pint after so much practice.
The work had ceased after dusk the previous evening, and Sheridan had asked him along to the wardroom to meet the rest of the new officers informally over a glass. He had refused, not because he had not wanted to go, but because he had known that as Sheridan had not yet had time to get to know his own wardroom companions, he, and not the captain, would feel an outsider.
In the muffled distance the tannoy squeaked to a bosun’s call and a voice said, “Special sea-dutymen close up! Hands to stations for leaving harbour in ten minutes.”
Drummond found he was waiting, almost poised in his chair. The next announcement would tell him a bit more about his first lieutenant.
The quartermaster’s voice continued, “Both watches will be required. Fo’c’slemen on the fo’c’sle, quarterdeckmen on the quarterdeck. Dress of the day, Number Threes.” The tannoy went dead.
Drummond stood up and crossed to the uncovered scuttle. Sheridan was on the ball. Normally, one watch would be sufficient to stand at harbour stations, while the other prepared to man the defences. But with so many untried men, and officers, he was taking no chances. It would help them to move as a team, and, anyway, it would be a while before they had worked down the Medway, past Sheerness into open water where trouble might be expected at any time.
The important thing was, Sheridan had used his intelligence. He had not asked. He had acted as he saw fit.
Owles entered the door and watched him gloomily.
“Off again then, sir.”
Drummond patted his pockets and glanced quickly round the cabin. Freshly washed grey sweater. Leather sea boots and binoculars. Duffel coat, the latter still bearing the paint stains from the last refit. A year back. It seemed like a lifetime.
He reached for his cap and then sat down again. It would not do to appear impatient.
He said, “Harwich in time for supper, Owles.”
If they were lucky, he thought. The calendar on his desk said it was June 13th. A Sunday. It might take a bit longer today. The Navy was strange like that. Peace or war, Sunday was always a special, confusing occasion.
There was a tap at the door and Fitzroy, the petty officer telegraphist, stepped over the coaming, a pad in his fist.
“From tower, sir. Proceed when ready. ” He grinned. “I think they mean right away, sir. There’s another destroyer hovering about. Needs our berth. ” It seemed to amuse him.