Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

One badly wounded man had looked up at Boyes when he had carried fresh dressings from the sick-bay.

His face had been scorched away, with only his bulging, pleading eyes left to stare at Boyes. For that brief moment Boyes had felt no fear. He had wanted to help the dying man without knowing how. The Gunner (T) had dragged a bloodstained cloth over the man’s face and had barked, ‘Can’t do nothin’ more for this one.’ But even he had been moved by it.

Boyes glanced down at his uniform. Next time he would find a way of buying a proper, made-to-measure jumper and bell-bottoms like the real sailors wore. He turned his cap over in his hands after making sure that he was the only one awake. He had rid himself of the regulation cap tally with the plain HMS embroidered in the centre. He held it so that it caught the afternoon sunlight even through the dirty, net-covered window. In real gold wire, he had bought it from Rob Roy’s leading supply assistant, whom the others called Jack Dusty for some reason.

He felt a shiver run through him. HM Minesweeper. Pride, a sense of daring, it was neither. Or was it?

The corridor door jerked open even as the train gave a sudden lurch and began to move from the station.

Boyes glanced round and saw a girl in khaki peering in, a second girl close behind her.

She said, ‘No seats here either. God, my feet are killing me!’

She glanced along the sleeping sailors. ‘Looks as if they’ve all died!’

Boyes stood up, clinging to the luggage rack as the train tilted to the first set of points.

‘Take mine.’

The girl in the A.T.S. uniform eyed him suspiciously, then said, ‘A proper little gent, eh?’ She gave a tired grin and slipped into his seat. ‘I’d give you a medal if I had one.’

Boyes struggled out into the corridor where men clung to the safety rail across each window, or sat hunched on their suitcases. The lavatory door at the end of the corridor was wedged open and Boyes could see some soldiers squatting around the toilet, shuffling cards with grim determination.

‘She wasn’t kidding either. Poor Sheila has been on the move for days.’

Boyes faced the other A.T.S. girl for the first time. She was wearing battledress blouse and skirt, her cap tugged down over some dark, curling hair. She was pretty, with an amused smile on her lips, and had nice hands, both of which she was using to grip the rail as the train gathered speed.

‘Had a good look, sailor?’

Boyes felt his face flushing uncontrollably. ‘Sorry, I—’

Her eyes lifted to his cap and she gave a silent whistle. ‘Mine-sweeping – is that what you do?’

He nodded, his skin still burning. ‘Yes.’ He wanted to sound matter-of-fact, casual even. ‘It’s just a job.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I can imagine.’

She had very nice eyes. Not blue, more like violet. She was older than he was, he decided. By a year or two. But who wasn’t?

She asked directly, ‘You going back?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Some leave.’

‘Lucky you. I’ve just had mine.’

She had an accent he could not place. He asked carefully, ‘Where do you come from?’

‘Well, Woolwich actually.’ She watched him challengingly. ‘Where did you think, then?’

’Sorry —’

She gripped his arm. ‘Don’t keep apologising. It’s the way I talk. Like you – we’re different, OK?’

Boyes was losing his way fast. ‘Your family – what do they do ?’

She watched him again. He was just someone to pass the time with. They would never meet again. And yet she knew he was not like anyone she had met. Not because he had given Sheila his seat, or because of his careful, posh accent. She shied away from it. Not again. It was too soon.

‘My dad’s on the docks. Makes good money with the war on, and that. Most of it goes against the wall, but that’s life, right?’

‘Can I ask, where are you going?’

She shrugged. ‘In the park, near Kingston. Know it?’

He nodded. ‘My home’s in Surbiton. Quite close.’

She said, ‘I belong to an ack-ack battery there. God, I wish I was in the bloody Wrens. I’d give anything to see the sea every day instead of a lot of randy gunners and the deer!’ She laughed. ‘Did I shock you?’

‘N – no. Of course not.’ He stared through the window. It was not possible. They were almost there.

He stammered, ‘I’m Gerald Boyes. Maybe we shall—’

She touched his arm, then dropped her eyes. ‘I’m Connie.’ She peered past him and said, ‘I must wake her up. We’re getting off here too.’

The next moments were lost in confusion as the train came to a halt and disgorged a living tide of uniforms on to the platform.

She said quickly, ‘I’ve only been here a month. I was in North London before. I suppose you know your way around in these parts?’

The other girl exclaimed, ‘Where’s my bloody cap?’

The girl called Connie laughed and pointed to her respirator haversack. ‘In there, you goof!’

Sheila said, ‘I see they’ve sent the old Chewy to fetch us.’

She stood discreetly away as Boyes said, ‘Here, this is my address. If you ever want—’

She stuck the piece of paper in her blouse pocket. ‘You’re a real card, you are!’ But her eyes were suddenly warm, vulnerable. ‘Maybe. We’ll see, eh?’

The two girls hurried away towards a camouflaged lorry where some others in A.T.S. uniforms were already sorting out their bags and parcels from home.

Boyes walked slowly down the slope from the platform. Apart from all the uniforms it had not changed much. Shabbier, but so was everywhere else.

He would walk the rest of the way to his home, steeling himself as he went up St Mark’s Hill, just as he had that morning on his way to school when he had been dreaming of being accepted for early entry into the navy.

He had known that church on the hill for most of his life, and had sung in the choir there because of his mother’s insistence.

But that morning it had been quite different. When he had passed the last houses he had looked for the church tower and steeple, a landmark thereabouts. There had been nothing but the steeple left standing; a German bomb had wiped the rest away. It had felt like an invasion, like being assaulted by something obscene. He shivered, as he had done when the Fawn had finally dived to the bottom.

Then he gripped his case and walked into the sunlight. He turned once to stare after the lorry but it had already swung out on to the main road, and he thought he could hear the girls singing some army song.

A real gifl. And she had liked him.

He caught sight of himself in a shop window and tipped his cap to a more jaunty angle.

Home is the sailor.

Lieutenant Philip Sherwood paused on the steps of the club and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. He breathed deeply like a farmer returning to the land; even in wartime it was still London. Bombed, battered and rationed, with traffic groping up St James’s Street towards Piccadilly, the night sky already criss-crossed by early searchlights, nothing seemed able to take away its personality.

He half-smiled. Like the old club he had just left, where he had dined alone in the high panelled room with its portraits of stern-faced bankers and businessmen.

His father had put his name down for membership years back when he had left school for Cambridge. His grandfather had been a member there too.

Just now he had asked an elderly servant if the club had ever been bombed.

The man, in his Pickwick-style brass-buttoned tailcoat, had given a wry smile while he had glanced at some equally old members who were sleeping in their chairs, faces hidden by their newspapers.