Alan Evans - Ship of Force

Smith said, “Thanks. But not just now.” And: “All right, Sub. You’ll be needed on deck.”

Sanders edged around him and away. Dunbar swayed too far and sat down again, slopping whisky and dropping the bottle. He fumbled for it as it rolled across the couch but it escaped his clawing fingers and smashed on the deck. He said wearily, “Oh, Christ!”

Smith looked down at him and silently echoed the sentiment. He said, “I understand you’ve had bad news.”

Dunbar took a swallow from the glass and shuddered, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Letter. Navy always sends telegrams to them but I got a letter from her mother — the wife’s mother. A letter! They’ve been dead these four days and in the grave now! But the auld witch never liked me. She wanted Jeanie to marry some feller in a bank. Influenza, she says it was. Influenza! That’s something you cure wi’ a hot dram an’ a squeeze o’ lemon, but this was some new kind o’ germ. Her and the boy. It killed them.”

Smith said, “I’ll see you get leave. You can go —”

But Dunbar’s head was already shaking a negative. “Not me. Not to stand at a graveside wi’ that spiteful old woman sinking her knife into me. Here!” He shoved a hand in a pocket, pulled out a crumpled envelope and tossed it on the table. “Read that!”

Smith smoothed the creases from the sheet of notepaper. A letter written in a jagged copperplate. He read it, phrases stabbing out at him: ‘shirking responsibilities…could have got a shore job…poor girl and her baby left to fend for themselves…’ He folded the sheet carefully and handed the letter to Dunbar who crammed it in his pocket.

Dunbar said thickly, “Her and Trist are a bloody pair. Vicious old women.” He took another swallow from the glass, shuddered and shook his head. “No, I’m not goin’ home.” He squinted up at Smith. “Don’t you worry about me. I know fine we’ve sailing orders but don’t you worry. The stuff’s not touching me. I’m ready for sea. You’re the one that needs to look out.” He peered past Smith. “That steward out o’ the way? Good. Yon Brodie’s a good man but this is just between you and me.” He muttered, “Wondered if I should — tricky, y’know, discussing a senior officer an’ all that. But I’ve heard one or two things about you, and I had a chat wi’ Garrick yesterday an’ he told me a few more things though he’s an awful close-mouthed feller. Thinks a lot o’ you.”

Smith thought that he ought to shut him up. But he didn’t.

Dunbar mumbled, “Where was I? Oh, aye. D’ye know Trist, sir?” And when Smith shook his head, “I do. I’ve known him too long. I’ll be honest — I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me. Not for what I’ve said and done but I think he knows I’ve rumbled him. He never does anything wrong because he never does anything he doesn’t have to. He’s got a gang around him that agree with everything he says. Now there’s a lot of shouting for ‘offensive action’ against the U-boats and he’s got to do something, or somebody has. What he’s done looks all right, giving you this ship and Wildfire and maybe more to come but we know different. I think he realises he has to take a chance and this way he’s only risking us . We’ll be put up like targets to be shot at and if it goes wrong his hands will be clean. He’ll have given you a command and a job and you’ll have mucked it.”

He was silent a moment, then: “Thought I might whisper a word in Garrick’s ear and let him pass it on, but that’s the way Trist works.” He pulled a face. “Mister Cautious himself. That’s all. Just a friendly warning to watch your step, sir.”

He was staring past Smith now. “Bloody funny, really. I’ve been running back and forth across this neck o’ water for near three years, fair weather and foul. Never got a scratch, spite o’ U-boats, mines, and those bloody big destroyers o’ Jerry’s. While they sit comfortable at home —” He peered up again at Smith. He did not touch the whisky but he still swallowed and he said huskily, “It’s not fair. Is it?”

“No.” Smith watched his head droop slowly down on his folded arms, reached forward and removed the glass from the twitching fingers and stood holding it, watching Dunbar until the Lieutenant’s breathing was regular, snoring. Then he stepped out of the wardroom and found Gow waiting. “Get the steward and see to Mr Dunbar.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Brodie !” The big man shouted for the steward then sidled around Smith, opened his mouth to speak but saw the young Commander’s set face and thought better of it.

Smith was remembering that Sparrow ’s rendezvous with the bombarding force was at dawn. Dawn at the Cliffe d’Islande Bank, ten miles or so to the nor’-nor’-east of Dunkerque and at the southerly end of the mine-net barrage that ran down ten miles or so out from the Belgian coast, intended to stop the passage of U-boats from Oostende and Zeebrugge. The dawn rendezvous meant that Dunbar would have a few hours to sleep it off and be fit to take his ship to sea.

Sanders clattered down the ladder, held out a flimsy to Smith and said breathlessly, “Signal from the Commodore, sir.”

Smith snatched it, read it and looked up as Gow appeared with Brodie. The white-coated steward was a small man, sandy-haired and dwarfed by the coxswain. Smith read aloud, “ Grimsby Lass reports RE8 down in the sea off the Nieuport Bank. Judy is searching.” He looked at Sanders and asked, “ Grimsby Lass? Judy ?”

Sanders said, “They’re both drifters, sir. Some have wireless and I think Grimsby Lass is one of them.”

Smith nodded. And the RE8, the Harry Tate, was a twoseater reconnaissance aircraft the work-horse of the Royal Flying Corps in France, but this one probably came from the Royal Naval Air Service field at St. Pol outside Dunkerque. He said, “ Sparrow is ordered to search.” He saw Sanders’s stricken face as the young Sub realised what this mean that Sparrow had sailing orders and her captain was dead drunk. Smith said, “Thank you, Sub.” And to Gow, “We’re going to sea, cox’n.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Gow said heavily and followed Sanders clattering up the ladder, Smith turned on Brodie and said quietly, “I want him sober in one hour. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Ye’ve no need to fear about that, sir.” answered Brodie. And: “Thank ye, sir.”

Thank ye? What for? But Smith was climbing the ladder. He stood on the deck as the pipes shrilled and Sparrow came alive with the sound of running feet, shouted orders and here and there a curse. He found he gripped the crumpled flimsy in one hand and in the other was Dunbar’s glass. He hurled it to smash against the quay.

Sanders stared at him, then said nervously, “Your boat is alongside, sir.”

Smith turned from the quay, stepped around the after six pounder and looked over the side into the monitor’s pinnace. “Mister Garrick!”

“Sir?” Garrick’s head was level with the deck and Smith’s feet.

Smith said, “Go on to Marshall Marmont. Sparrow has orders to sail immediately, and I’m going along. There’s a Harry Tate down in the sea. We’ll rejoin in the morning at the rendezvous. Any questions?”

Garrick had a number but Smith was referring to the forthcoming operation and none of Garrick’s questions related to that. He wondered what was going on, because Sanders’s face was enough to tell him there was something going on. He knew enough of Smith by now to recognise that icy calm as a mask Smith put on at moments of stress. But after a moment’s thought he only said, “No questions, sir.” Then: “Shall I send Buckley back in the pinnace, sir?” He added lamely, “In case Sparrow is short-handed.”