A Dawn Like Thunder (13 page)

‘Up to a point, sir.' It hurt to drag his mind back to it. All he could think of was the bluff, dependable man he had last seen on one of his leaves. The Victoria Cross had been Big Andy's greatest moment. So proud that he had seemed to glow. At the Palace when the King had bestowed the bronze cross on his son he had beamed and exclaimed, ‘I couldn't be more pleased if it was mine, Your Majesty.' Ross looked away.
It should have been.
He said abruptly, ‘I think Sub-Lieutenant Napier should be withdrawn from active duties for the present.
Emma
was his first-ever operation.'
Stunt
, he would have called it. Before.

‘I disagree. He did a perfect job, despite a small technical fault. I think he should be encouraged, not made to feel like a bloody amateur.'

On their way back to Trincomalee,
Turquoise
's radio must have been busy at every available and safe moment for Pryce to have been so well informed.

Ross said, ‘I hadn't realized that our Captain Sinclair was to be in charge of the raiding party.'

‘Nobody knew outside the operations staff. The fewer the better. As I said to you before, results are all that matter in the end. The motive for such work can be hate or revenge. Equally, it can be dedication – even ambition.' He turned swiftly. ‘
Results
, remember?'

As if from miles away Ross could remember Napier's voice when he had questioned him for the first time. Of Sinclair he had said in a dull, shocked tone, ‘He was enjoying it. You should have seen him. At one point I thought he was going to have us killed!'

Pryce was saying, ‘As for Sinclair, his kind of work calls for a special kind of man. Someone who can fight the enemy on his own terms, and without mercy.' Almost offhandedly he went on, ‘His majority is coming through, by the way, another gong too.'

‘I see.'

Pryce said, ‘If the Japs had caught him . . .' He did not continue. Instead he added, ‘You can slope off, if you like. A bit tired, I expect?'

‘No, sir. I had plenty of time to rest and think on our way back.'

‘So you see, my decision was the right one. You'd have been in no shape at all if I'd told you this sad news beforehand.'

Sad? Did he even know what that meant?

‘Actually – ah, Jamie, I have a favour to ask. Things have been moving fast since this last operation. I have to fly up to Bombay to attend a Chiefs-of-Staff conference. I shall most certainly put all of them in the picture!' He did not hide his satisfaction at the thought. ‘We will be having a visit shortly from Howard Costain, one of the top war correspondents. Very highly thought of. Could be extremely useful, to us, I mean.'

‘If you don't mind, sir . . .' He might as well have remained silent.

Pryce was saying, ‘The admiral has agreed that we should have a party for him.' He stared around the office as if it were a cage. ‘Not in this apology for a naval establishment, and of course not at the base. We thought we should hold it at the Mackenzie estate. More personal, a better impression, we thought.'

Ross wondered briefly who
we
were. The admiral, perhaps?

Pryce was watching him again. ‘I shall leave you in charge during my absence. I can trust you to deal with our people and the day-to-day traffic from Operations.' He tapped one immaculate white shoe on the floor. ‘Of course, if anything urgent comes up you know how to reach me.'

Trust, but not that much.

Ross asked, ‘This Mackenzie – is he the one I've heard referred to as “The Colonel”?'

‘Right. One of the real old sons of Empire. Quit the Army years ago and went into tea – must be rolling in it. Carries a lot of weight, in Ceylon at any rate. Howard Costain will be impressed.'

Ross thought of the Wren Peter Napier had been talking about.
Half-and-half.
It made him suddenly quite angry.

Pryce said, ‘You can go and see him. The Colonel already knows what we have in mind.' It seemed to amuse him. ‘Make sure young Villiers is there too. He knows the territory, even speaks the lingo, I understand.' He became serious again, like putting on a mask. ‘I really am damned sorry about your father. And to think he served with mine. Small world, what?'

The telephone jangled and he snatched it up with a perfect display of annoyance. ‘I thought I told you . . .' He replaced it and shrugged. ‘I have to be off.' He gave Ross a searching glance. ‘Go easy on Napier. It will be easier next time.' His tone hardened. ‘Or I shall want to know why!'

Ross walked past the rating at the telephone. Watching him to see if the V.C. made a man different when it came to something as inevitable as grief.

He heard voices outside the door, and saw Peter Napier smiling broadly while he used his hands to describe something. He was speaking with the same Wren. It was hard to imagine him as the same shocked, gasping figure who had been dragged aboard
Turquoise
after the attack.

He was saying, ‘You've not forgotten? We've got a date, remember?'

She looked up and saw Ross in the doorway. He was aware of her quick intake of breath, as though the unexpected sight of him left her off balance, even nervous.

Peter exclaimed, ‘I was just saying . . .'

Ross walked past. ‘I know. A piece of cake.'

Why should it matter? What did anything matter now? But it did.

The reading room, as it was called, was almost next door to the wardroom. There were not many books, and those there were had been well thumbed. There were also magazines and newspapers, some so old that they were hardly relevant any more, but at least it was quiet. From the solitary window you could see the ocean, but little else.

Ross sat in one of the chairs and stared at the pink gin by his elbow.
Not too many of those, my lad, or you'll be the next one.
He did not look round as the door opened and Lieutenant Charles Villiers came into the room.

Villiers said, ‘If you want me to shove off, please say so. I thought you might want to talk.'

Ross smiled. Even after another change of clothing and a tepid bath he still felt jaded, on edge.

‘Thanks. I'm getting used to it.' He was reminded suddenly, painfully, of Villiers' parents and sister. ‘I guess I always took the old man for granted. Worked his guts out for us. Then my mother died of the flu. It didn't stop him. He remarried – it was never the same, but he needed somebody to stand by him, to encourage him when things were rough.' He grinned in spite of the grief. Maybe his pride in Big Andy was a more fitting memorial. ‘Not bad for a stoker, eh? The last time I talked to him, he'd just bought another salvage tug.
Never hire anything, Jamie, the cash might run out, then where are you?
' He could almost hear him saying it.

Villiers remarked, ‘You're a Scot, but you don't sound like one.'

Ross said dryly, ‘What, no curly walking stick and a haggis, like Harry Lauder?' He saw Villiers withdrawing
into himself, and added more gently, ‘We moved south once my dad had got his Scapa contract. Falmouth. I feel at home there, I suppose. What about you?'

Villiers looked at his hands. ‘Singapore and Malaya, a rare trip or two to England. I called it home, but this last time I felt a stranger there.' He seemed to make up his mind. ‘I must tell you.' He shook his head so that the fair hair fell across his forehead. ‘No, I
want
to tell you. I saw that girl again. Caryl.'

Ross noticed the way his tongue seemed to linger over her name. ‘Thought you might.'

Villiers said levelly, ‘She's Captain Sinclair's wife. She wants to get a divorce.' Then he looked him straight in the eye. ‘You see, Jamie, I love her. I think she loves me.'

Ross considered it. A very pleasant, honest young man, who had probably wanted for nothing all his life. Until now. The agony of losing his family in such a horrifying way had made everything else unimportant, incidental. He no longer even considered it a risk. He said, ‘Sinclair is rejoining the . . .' he smiled ‘. . . the
cohort
quite soon. He's to be promoted to major and he's getting another gong, or so I am informed. So watch your step.'

Villiers stood up and walked to the window. ‘There's something wrong with the man. She's afraid of him.'

Ross watched his anxiety; it was like something physical. Also, he remembered Napier's haphazard account of what had happened after the chariots had laid their charges. He could have been mistaken about several things, but one thought lingered to disturb him. Sinclair had been changed by his experiences. Or had he always been like that?

Villiers touched his breast pocket. ‘I had a letter from her. The first to get here.' He saw the sudden warning in Ross's grey eyes and said almost apologetically, ‘It's all
right. She typed the envelope. Nobody could have recognized where it came from.' He stared out at the ocean, the bright horizon between the swaying trees like some huge dam, recalling that last morning when he had awakened in her arms, the sensation of something wonderful, unthinkable: disbelief, too, that it could have happened. They had loved again, had tried to hold the urgency at bay, and make only the moment real.

He smiled to himself. The hotel manager had not asked to see her identity card before she had left. The first Charles Villiers would have approved.

The letter had brought it all back, made the distance less of an obstacle. He said, ‘I tried to explain to Rear-Admiral Dyer, you see . . .'

‘You
what?
'

For a moment Villiers imagined he had gone too far.

Ross said quietly, ‘Send for more drinks.' Then he grinned. ‘I'll say this for you, Charles, you're determined enough.' He held up his hand. ‘Next time, tell
me
, all right? Ossie Dyer seems very good at his job, but I don't think romance figures much in his strategy!'

They both laughed, the last barriers down. An onlooker, had there been one, would have assumed them to have been friends for a long time.

Ross moved to the window. This peaceful collection of bungalows and store-rooms even looked like part of the Navy now, he thought. A White Ensign flapped listlessly from a new mast, which had been encircled by neat, white-painted stones. He felt the warm sill and recalled the age-old joke in the service.
If it moves, salute it; if it doesn't, paint it white!

He thought of Villiers, his obvious sincerity. If Sinclair ever got wind of it . . . He shook his head. He must not. There would be another meeting with the Intelligence
people soon; perhaps after that he might be off somewhere else. He recalled Pryce's summing up, but which one suited Trevor Sinclair? Courage or madness, hatred of the enemy or a genuine desire to kill?

War made some men, but it destroyed many, many more.

Villiers re-entered the room, a steward following him with a tray of glasses. ‘Feel better already!'

Ross was glad he had come in to join him. He could see it in Villiers' open face: he and the girl had been lovers. Not the usual wartime affair, but lovers in the fullest sense.

When the steward had gone, Ross said quietly, ‘If ever you want to get out of this and go back to general service or something, just let me know. I'll see what I can do.'

Villiers was suddenly very serious. ‘No, Jamie. I volunteered. It's something I have to do if I'm to live with myself after it's all over. I owe it to them.'

Ross did not need to ask who. He raised his glass. ‘Thanks for telling me.'

Villiers said, ‘I think you knew anyway.'

Outside a tannoy squawked loudly, although the whole place was small enough for a man's voice to penetrate.

‘D'you hear there? Duty fire party to muster! Liberty-men will be piped in one hour!'

Voices filled the wardroom, and there was an immediate clatter of glasses.

Alone with their thoughts, Ross and Villiers finished their drinks.

Somehow, each of them felt he had found a new beginning.

Petty Officer Mike Tucker strode out of the hot sunshine and into the shade of the bungalows. A small board had appeared on the scorched grass in the past few days marked
Quarterdeck
, and he had tossed a solemn salute as he had passed. They could make a naval establishment out of anything these days, he thought. He paused and removed his cap to take advantage of any sea breeze. The strangeness of promotion had completely worn off, much to his surprise. Now he
was
a petty officer.

Three days had passed since the submarine had brought Ross and the others back from Operation
Emma
in the Malacca Strait. Now it was November, although here nothing ever seemed to change. The first excitement and the usual awareness of risk had all but worn off. Apart from checking the chariots on board the depot-ship, and carrying out exercises that seemed so tame after the real thing, nobody appeared to have a clue what to do with them.

He thought of the letter which had arrived from home. His mother never gave away much of her true feelings, her hopes or fears; her letters were very much like her, patient understatements. This last one had been slightly different, though. Young Madge had really done it. Not that it was at all surprising: even that had been evident in his mother's letter. Madge had got herself in the family way. Some Yank, who had immediately been posted elsewhere.

There was other news as well. A pub his father had often used had been bombed flat. She had not written the name; perhaps she had imagined a dedicated censor would have crossed it out, or redirected the letter. A few names were mentioned, and faces sprang to mind, some of which he would never see again. Her main concern, as always, was her son Mike
in foreign parts
, something she had never got used to, let alone accepted, despite his being a regular.

He thought of that first meeting with Ross within hours of his return. It had been easier than either of them had expected to talk of Big Andy's death, perhaps because they knew each other better than they had realized. A firm
handshake, and Tucker's honest expression of sympathy, then Ross had said simply, ‘He's always been there, you see. Even though we didn't meet all that often, he was there, a part of things.'