Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“Hands to leaving harbour. Take her out, Mr Manvers-Porteous.”

Simon stood back from the helm, watching his new sublieutenant make a thorough-going cock of things. The coxswain was at the wheel and would ensure that Sheldrake hit nothing and he was ready to take command himself if disaster was close to striking. For the moment, just a word of warning.

“Watch the cross-current, now!”

Sheldrake was making a stern board to leave her mooring in the creek and point out to the harbour mouth. There was always a current of at least three knots which would take the stern if the officer in command was unready. Manvers-Porteous did not know what to do in a ship far smaller than he was used to. He ordered an extra fifty revolutions and began to give the coxswain precise helm commands, too little and too late.

“Belay that! Coxswain, steer for the harbour mouth. Up one hundred! Mr Manvers-Porteous, stand down. I have the watch.”

Simon caught Sheldrake before onlookers could notice her to wobble out of control and brought her out properly, saluting her seniors and making speed as soon as she was offshore.

“Course for Dunkerque, as normal. Take over again, Mr Manvers-Porteous.”

Simon delayed two minutes, watched the young man dither, his confidence broken.

“Ship is still in harbour routine, Mr Manvers-Porteous!”

“Oh, yes, sir! Resume watchkeeping. Crew to stern four inch and twelve pounder.”

It was good enough as a set of commands and presumably similar to the routine on Fearless. Habit on Sheldrake was to order the Gunner to carry on.

“See me in my cabin after your watch, Mr Manvers-Porteous. First Lieutenant to my cabin.”

Polly came in and shook his head.

“He has spent the last week doing what he was told and nothing more. He has made no attempt to pull his weight.”

“He can have a week of sea-going to settle in, Polly, provided he does not provoke me too far first. At the end of that he can be told his fortune.”

“His future will involve considerable discomfort if he does not do better…”

“Exactly! I will request a transfer to the Naval Brigade for the dear boy. Officers typically spend six months on that posting, or so it is intended. One hundred and eighty days in the trenches will do the poor chap some good; if he survives, he will come out with some idea of the nature of the unprivileged world.”

Five days later Simon sat in front of Lieutenant Commander Matthews in Blackbird, requesting a replacement for his new sub.

“Bone idle, sir! He will do what he is told and looks amazed when I suggest he might seek to find occupation for himself off watch. ‘Four hours on and eight off, is it not, sir? Apart from action stations and that comes every night without fail. A chap does need his sleep, sir.’ Hopeless!”

“Neither useful nor decorative, in fact, and we all know what those are, Sturton…”

“Tits on a bull, sir. Exactly!”

“I’ll speak to SNO Dunkerque, Sturton. What do you suggest for, what’s his name?”

“Manvers-Porteous, sir. Naval Brigade. We can put him in a car here and send him up to the lines in an hour. He will be equipped and attached to his battalion inside half a day. Do you recognise the name, sir?”

“No. It’s not Naval and I can’t place any politician with that moniker. You’re the man from High Society – do you know him?”

“Never heard of him, but I’m new to Mayfair, and don’t like it much. I would not know.”

“No great influence, I would think. We can stuff him without protest from on high.”

“A replacement, sir?”

“You can have any one of four mids. Make your Higgins up – I have had unofficial ‘intimations’ that he is due to rise in the world, irrespective of any merit he might possess.”

“Very well, sir. Draw one of the mids out of the hat and send him across, please. I will give Higgins the good news.”

“Mr Higgins, cabin!”

Higgins arrived at the double, wondering what he had done and then correcting himself – it must be something he had left undone, he knew he had done nothing wrong recently. He must be in trouble, there was no other reason to pull him into the cabin.

“Mr Higgins, take the patches off your collar and put a stripe on your sleeve. You are made sublieutenant as of midday today. Manvers-Porteous is going – say nothing to him but move into his cabin after he leaves – and you are to take responsibility for the midshipman who is about to arrive and will take over your hutch. Try to make him useful. I want him to gain his certificate quick time. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

He knew the correct answer.

“Good. You will take over the forward four inch, giving the Lewises to the new boy. I want you to work with the Yeoman as well, pick up some knowledge of signalling. That done, in a month or two, you will go to Mr Rees to learn the torpedoes. You are capable of being a useful officer, Mr Higgins, and you must work to turn yourself into a destroyer man in every way.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall write the mater a letter. She will be delighted!”

“Good. Send Manvers-Porteous to me, immediately, if you please.”

Manvers-Porteous was ten minutes in arriving.

“I asked for your immediate presence, sir!”

“Well, I came as soon as I could, sir. I was just eating an early luncheon, sir, and did not want my fried eggs to get cold and congeal.”

“Your captain is slightly more important than a fried egg, Mr Manvers-Porteous! When I order you to see me, I expect you to run! Not that it matters. You are posted out, young man, with immediate effect. Report to SNO’s office in fifteen minutes, with your baggage. Your replacement will need your cabin at soonest, so run!”

“What? Where am I going, sir?”

“Out of my sight to clear your bloody cabin and get off my ship! That’s where you are going – and you have only fourteen minutes left to report before you will be called Absent Without Leave and put before a court! Run!”

He ran and clattered down the brow five minutes later, carrying his own suitcases, much to his anger, Polly having refused him the services of a rating.

A young midshipman came trotting across the quay, a case in his hand and a duffel-bag across his shoulder. He ran up the brow, stopped by the sentry and evidently received permission to leave his bags at the side while he reported. Looking quickly about, he spotted Simon on the bridge and paced rapidly across to him, coming to attention and saluting smartly.

“Midshipman Waller, George, sir. Reporting to join.”

A quick glance made the boy about sixteen, shaving and well-grown although he was a long way from reaching man size. He seemed robust and possibly bright. He was glancing around with intelligent interest.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Waller. I am Captain Sturton. Mr Parrett is First. What was your last ship?”

“No ship, sir. I have been attached to SNO’s office since I was sent out last month, sir. Wartime intake, sir. We live at Hamble, sir, on Southampton Water, the yachting centre. My father has a boatyard there and I have sailed since I could walk, sir. I have crewed since I was ten, sir.”

“Good. You sound the right sort for destroyers. Welcome aboard. Mr Parrett will show you around.”

There was a good chance that the boy would very soon be useful to them; better far than the man he had replaced.

“Mr Higgins, have you moved into Manvers-Porteous’ cabin yet?”

“Oh! Should I do so now, sir?”

“Yes. Junior man gets the box to sleep in. You have moved up in the world.”

They sailed before dusk, Waller on the bridge by the starboard Lewises.

“Mr Higgins will show you how to load and fire the guns, Waller.”