Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

Christopher marshalled his baggage, dug out from the fish hold on Hans Heine where the trunks had been tucked away. He would need the uniforms now, would be wearing something more than the scruffiest working gear. Black Prince was renowned as a ‘pukka ship’, everything taut and polished, including the officers.

“I am off, Skipper. Back to the real Navy. It might be a good thing. I can go back to England when the war is over, thanks to serving with you and your boys.”

Murchison nodded brusquely.

“Aye, ye have done well with us, Adams. Turn up at Fraserburgh any time and there will be a berth for ye as mate and a trawler of your own in short time. Ye sound like a soft Sassenach pansy but ye know how to fight and which way to travel to find trouble. Good luck to ye now and keep your trews buttoned, man!”

Murchison and the bulk of the crew, all openly listening, roared with laughter. Christopher joined them, realising it was affectionate, that they had accepted him as one of their own. He was rarely pleased, found he had a value for them. He started to heave his own trunks down to the wharf, found half a dozen hands glad to assist and putting them onto a trolley drawn by a pair of Egyptians.

“Thank you, gentlemen! If I see you after the war, drinks all round!”

He knew better than offer to tip them.

Five minutes quick marching around to the berth where Black Prince lay, using the short time to change his whole mindset. By the time he stood at the brow he was stiff backed and staring arrogantly about him, much as the old admiral’s staff officer had behaved, before his misfortunes. He turned to the officer of the day.

“Adams, reporting to join.”

“Welcome aboard, Adams.” The officer of the day nodded to his petty officer to see to the baggage. “You are to report to the Commander, in his office, old chap. I am Seton, by the way.”

Seton was openly accepting him as one of the wardroom. Pariah status had been revoked, it would seem. He was relieved, had wondered whether he might have to spend months establishing himself in the eyes of his fellow-officers.

He strode, still at march pace, to the stern and the offices, nodded to the Marine sentry stood officiously by the cabin door.

“Lieutenant Adams to see the Commander.”

He was announced and given entry.

“Maxton-Cavendish, Adams. Come in, take a seat!”

The Commander stood and offered his hand, reinforcing the message that he had returned to the ranks of the couth and civilised.

“You have had a bit of bad luck, I know, Adams. Put that behind you, as much as you can. You have done well out here and that is all we care to know now. You brought that mob of trawlers into good order and put Johnny Turk in his place! Saved a lot of potential bother for us in Egypt. Well done. You would normally have picked up more than a Mention, I know. As it stands, well, still no prospect of a career for you, as you will appreciate, but you will receive an honourable discharge when you send in your papers at war’s end – no stain on the record. Enough of that! You are to be number two to the Navigator. He is in line for promotion in the immediate future, when we return to Blighty, most likely. The intention is that you will step into his shoes, at the correct rank, provided all goes well. The Captain is ashore just now. He will see you when he comes aboard. For today, settle yourself in and get to know people. You will not be watched as such but will arrange with the Navigator when you are on duty. Off you go now!”

There was a servant waiting for him, leading him to his cabin.

“Not to be shared, sir. As you are to be Navigator soon, simplest to have proper cabin of your own, no need to move.”

He found the obligatory tip and relaxed, back to the Navy again, returned to the life he had missed, if only for the duration of hostilities. He changed out of his reporting uniform, freshened up at the small sink in the corner of the cabin and walked to find the wardroom, wondering if he would still fit in to the life. The trawlers had been ridiculously informal, slack one might say; their men had fought as well as any he had ever met or heard of. Perhaps the Navy was too blinkered by it habits and traditions; he would not say that to any of his fellows.

“Hello, old chap! You must be Adams, my assistant and very welcome! What will you drink?”

He finally relaxed – he was home again.

“Pinkers, old chap! How do you do?”

“We are settled in now, gentlemen. Time to announce our presence to the Hun. Where are their machineguns? Have you plotted their observation posts? Are there weak points in the defences? Captain Barrett, you first, taking the companies in order.”

Barrett was not sure he could answer any of those questions. He put up a creditable show, vowing to himself to discover the facts by the end of the day.

“There seems to be a small trench mortar opposite us, sir. I do not know whether there are others along the line. They fire four rounds every morning, ten minutes after dawn, regular as clockwork these three days. I have lost two men to it, sir. I had it in mind to pay a visit as soon as we are free to raid, sir.”

“Well done, Barrett, that is exactly what I wish to hear. Over the next week, we shall make this section of the lines hot for the Hun. Four raids to go out tomorrow night, simultaneously, left, right and a pair to the centre. Major Vokes will nominate who is to go first. You will all get your chance. I will accompany one of you tomorrow, the Major will go out in three or four days with the next set of raids.”

There was a general murmur that could be translated as enthusiasm.

“Parties will consist of no more than a dozen, second lieutenant with each and either captain or lieutenant but not both together. The youngsters need to be blooded – make them grow up.”

“Make their balls drop, so we always said in India!”

“In some cases, that may well be necessary, Major. I shall name no names, will certainly not say Wincanton!”

There was a shout of laughter.

Captain Puckett of C Company loyally said that the boy might surprise them yet.

“Nothing Wincanton might do would surprise me, Puckett. Though, thinking of it, him doing anything might be surprising!”

“I have some hopes for him, sir. I did not have to rebuke him once yesterday.”

“A landmark in his military career!”

More laughter and commiseration with Puckett.

“Right, gentlemen, raiding parties, organisation thereof. ‘Major O’Grady has issued an amount of equipment, I believe.”

“He has, sir – I could hardly believe my eyes. It is not some sort of Irish black joke, is it?”

“No, Captain Draper, it is not. I retain my own club from my last time in a trench.”

Richard brandished his length of steel rod.

“At two foot range in the dark, bashing on the bonce is simpler than trying to point a rifle. gentlemen! Trench knives are also handy. You have the new Mills bomb to use before entering the enemy trench or immediately after leaving. Do remember that you can lob the grenade forty yards at most and its fragments have a range of up to one hundred yards. Throw it, yell a warning to your own men and drop!”

“Could one not throw it like a cricket ball, sir?”

“Some few of us might be able to, Draper. Most soldiers are not gifted that way – and most bowlers only look to propel the ball over twenty-two yards. It would be a risk. Better to keep to the official method, I think. Remember you have a seven second delay on the fuse. If you are to toss a grenade into a bunker or dugout, you may wish to count off four seconds first, so that it cannot be thrown back. By the way, if you suspect there is ammunition in a bunker, take good cover after using your grenade!”