Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

He rewrote the paperwork and called for a boat to send the forms in immediately.

“Packer, ask Mr Malcolm to see me.”

The chief ERA appeared within minutes.

“Oiling, Chief. Puzzles me a fraction…”

“And me, sir. Captain Hayes wanted to oil on the same day, every time. Mid-week, sir, at four bells in the Forenoon. He said that was best. Got upset when I wanted to go to the oiling berth out of turn, sir. I know he didn’t like calling for full speed because it might use up too much fuel and force him to go in on a Tuesday perhaps.”

“Why? Did he ever say?”

“No, sir. Never explained. He wanted everything neat and tidy, sir, nothing out of place. I saw it in the engineroom once, years back. The Engineer Lieutenant there was a bottle hound, sir, always smelling of gin. Might be something that goes with the booze, sir, an obsession, so they call it in the books, sir. Interesting, the way people behave.”

“So it is. Hobby of yours, Chief?”

“I like to read about the way people go on, sir. These alienists are fascinating people, sir – Germans, though. Strange, the way they can explain why people behave the way they do.”

Simon nodded cautiously. Engineer officers were renowned in the Navy for being over-educated and reading far too much; it often turned them into cranks, tucked away in their little cabins and filling their brains with weird information. Still, Hayes had undoubtedly been a drunk…

“It might explain much, Chief. I have sent your papers in, by the way, and will mention them to the Commodore. Makes sense for the half-section leader to have a senior man in the engineroom, available to the other ships if needed.”

Commodore Tyrwhitt arrived on inspection at the end of the first week. It was normal for the Commodore to visit any ship with a new captain and they had brought Lancelot up to her shining best in anticipation of the descent from on high.

An hour and he had walked through every compartment and spoken to many of the hands and been satisfied with all he saw. He sat in the cabin and talked with Simon, congratulating him on his initial endeavours.

“No Lewises mounted on the bridge, Sturton?”

“Previous captain did not like them, sir. Untidy. Mr Rees is trying to lay his hands on twins to replace them.”

The Commodore knew that he should ask no more on that topic – none of his business what minor fiddles went on to improve the ship’s efficiency.

“Satisfied with your officers?”

“They seem good, sir. Canning is settling in well as First. The Chief ERA is qualified to be commissioned, sir.”

“I saw that and have recommended him. Ought to be accepted by the Admiralty.”

“Three senior hands managed to wangle postings out over the last couple of months, sir. I could use a leading hand seaman. Short on experience on the deck.”

Tyrwhitt wondered why that had not been brought to his attention by his own staff – it was the sort of indicator that suggested a ship was in bad order.

“That can be dealt with, Sturton.”

One or two hands would be transferred in and out every month in the normal way of things, no ship’s company remained unchanged. Men returned from sickness or wounds or were sent to and from training in a steady trickle – it would be simple enough to ensure that one or two experienced hands were posted to Lancelot.

A brief discussion of the progress of the war – nothing in particular was happening – and Tyrwhitt readied himself to leave.

“All well on the domestic front, Sturton?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. My new family are still happy to see me. I am definitely considering an engagement, sir – not necessarily this year. Parrett’s sister, as I mentioned.”

“Congratulations. Delay marriage till after the war, perhaps?”

“I would expect so, sir. I don’t think a destroyer captain should have a wife at home, not in wartime.”

“Agreed. Nothing to distract you from business! Sheldrake is off to the Med in two days. I presume there is a farewell organised?”

The eight of the flotilla were to go out together. They had made the arrangements for a massive binge to see them off separately from the formal farewell.

“Yes, sir. The Royal Hotel has been booked for a meal and a drink or two tonight. I expect to have a headache tomorrow, sir!”

Tyrwhitt laughed, looked regretful that he was too senior for such affairs, had to be respectable.

“No insubordination from your First, I presume?”

“I don’t know what that was all about, sir. Hard working and willing to learn. No experience of destroyers, but one would not know that. Must have been one of these personal dislikes that you see occasionally, sir. A few months and I must lose him to command of his own boat, sir. He is good!”

“My people have not heard the background to the business, Sturton. Must have been something to cause his captain to take such a down on him. As you say, could have been something like whistling first thing in the morning when the captain preferred silence. Met up with that myself, not so many years ago.”

Simon stood on the bridge, watching the hands dealing with a simulated fire on the after deck, shell damage that was threatening to reach the ready-use storage for the four inchers. Canning was at the site of the fire, in charge of the hose parties, brought the exercise to an end and returned to the bridge satisfied.

“Hoses brought into play inside less than a minute, sir. All done calmly, no great screaming and shouting of orders.”

“I saw two men fall over. One of them was tripped, I am sure, Number One. Youngster by the name of Head, I think. I still don’t know all of the men.”

Canning spoke to the Coxswain and he in turn made his investigations, quietly, came back later in the day.

“Head, sir, is Irish. Mouths off about the Irish problem and how the British are oppressors. There are others from Ireland who don’t like that.”

“Protestants, would that be?”

“Not all. There’s a lot of Irish in the Navy. More in the Army, as has always been the case. As far as can be told, most of them don’t care one way or the other. They have left Ireland behind them for the duration, are too busy fighting the war against Germany. Most of them don’t want a big mouth stirring up bad feeling aboard ship. It might be a different matter when the war is over – that I don’t know. For the moment, they are loyal to the Navy and to hell with all politics.”

“Are there others like Head?”

“Not that I know of, sir. It’s possible they fell over the side or down a hatch, of course. I won’t be asking directly, sir, but might pick up on the odd conversation over time. There is something going on, sir. I can feel the hands are keeping something back, and I don’t know what, no idea. It might be lower deck justice, sir.”

Canning hoped not but passed the word to Simon.

“A lynching, in other words, Number One.”

“Westerman has that feeling, sir. I have heard of it, never been in a ship that experienced it in extreme form. I know that one occasionally sees a hand wearing bruises with no explanation for them, and I know not to ask how or why.”

“There was one on St Vincent when I was a mid, Number One. Not so many years back, in fact! One of the older hands who molested a boy seaman. He was given a kicking that broke him. Left him bruised and battered and with his face cut about and teeth lost – they tell me that Marines’ boots when they are new have almost a razor edge to their leather soles. Whatever, he was a handsome, strutting sort of fellow and recovered from his beating ugly and with his mouth fallen in where so many teeth had gone. He went absent in Cape Town – never heard what happened to him.”