The Death of Hope by Andrew Wareham (inspirational books for women txt) 📕

The shells comein strips which the loader feeds in. They fire automatically once in. Eight ata time. If the loader could get them in fast enough, I should imagine you couldfire thirty or forty rounds a minute.”

“That will demand a big ready-use locker,sir, and a magazine all of its own.”

“It will, too. Both have been provided,and extra men. Messing them will not be easy, I should imagine. Give your newFirst something to do! Pick up your rounds at Dunkerque, I would expect; theywill come from French factories, which I do not like! Always a risk, relying onforeigners! You can expect somewhat longer patrols this winter, Sturton, goingout for three or four days at a time. Trying to keep more ships out as apolicy. Anti-submarine work, keeping them down all day, every day and hoping toexhaust them. Might make mistakes if they’re tired.”

So would the destroyermen, Simon thought,making no comment.

“Depot ship may be busy, sir. We will losemen to sickness and accident. You know what our messdecks are like. Putyoungsters into them for days unbroken, sleeping in wet bunks and hammocks, andthey will likely become ill; the older men may fare no better. There will be aneed for replacement hands, sir. It will be as well for the new bodies to begiven an amount of training before they come aboard.”

“You think that should take place on thedepot ship? Might make sense. Give me a few days with that one. I’ll put it tomy staff, see if they can come up with anything. It has been proposed that youshould have an extra sublieutenant to act as spare hand. Might be able to giveyour officers an extra few hours of sleep once or twice when you were out.”

Simon was not entirely convinced.

“No cabin space. They would have to hotbunk, like the submarines do. Not entirely popular, sir.”

“Four men to three bunks – you could notexpect the First to surrender his cabin. They might not enjoy sharing the sameblankets, I will admit… The horrors of war, Sturton! Do you want anotherofficer?”

“A new sub with sea time on the boats as amidshipman? Could be immediately useful, sir. As an alternative, one of thewartime specials, a boy with yachting experience or from the trawlers, couldlearn the trade quickly and provide an immediate replacement for losses in thehalf-flotilla.”

Tyrwhitt was only partly in favour of theproposal.

“Got two or three of that sort hangingabout the place, Sturton. Not sure what to do with them. I’m more inclined toput them aboard the minesweeping squadron. One of them has a North Countryaccent you could cut with a knife! Not what you want in a wardroom! Anotherspeaks well, within reason, but is the son of a fellow on the coast here whoowns half a dozen small drifters, coastal fishery. The boy left school veryearly and has been five years on his father’s boats, a skipper this last twoyears – on a boat with a man and two boys as the whole of the crew! The thirdis more likely, sounds the right sort, been crewing on his father’s yacht foryears. Do you want to talk to them, before I set them aboard?”

Simon was lent the use of an office andthe three were lined up, sent in one after the other.

Eccles had a strong Lancashire accent, wasshort and wiry, had been eight years on trawlers out of Fleetwood. He had beena foundling, he said, scrabbling for a living around the dock. He had come tothe master’s attention when he had dived into the harbour to rescue hisdaughter’s puppy which had fallen in – he had had no choice, the little girlwas crying so. He had progressed rapidly from boy to deckhand to mate and thenskipper, almost in successive years. When the war had come, the master hadarranged for him to become a midshipman on a reserve trawler. He had been madesublieutenant within six months and was now at a loose end.

Simon was impressed with the young man –he had no idea of his age, thought he might be rising twenty – and put a tickagainst his name.

“Destroyer duty for you, Mr Eccles. Packyour duffle and be ready for your movement order.”

“Thank’ee, sir. What ship?”

“Lightning, most likely. One of myhalf-flotilla certainly.”

Travis, in command of Lightning, was lessconcerned with social niceties than most, possibly because of his boxingprowess.

Paton-Rees came in next and left withinfive minutes. The boy was a languid and superior sort of chap, was sure hewould like to go to sea, had terribly enjoyed his father’s yacht, had taken thewheel once or twice himself. He had spent his days as a midshipman ashore,assigned to the dockyard at Chatham where he had been very useful, busy all daywith running for the Admiral. He had been made sublieutenant quickly in recognitionof his talents, was now looking to get some time in at sea in order to be madeup again.

“Scapa Flow might be best for you, MrPaton-Rees. I am afraid there is no space for you in my half-flotilla.”

Mudgely came in, turning sideways to passthrough the door. He was massive, well over six feet and disproportionatelybroad at the shoulder, barrel-chested and very little belly. Simon glanced atthe brief notes he had been given, saw that he was eighteen, might well nothave finished growing. He was light on his feet, not at all ponderous.

“Take a seat, Mr Mudgely.”

He noticed the man to settle slowly, readyfor a chair to break underneath him.

“You have been skipper of a drifter thislast three years, it says.”

“Yes, sir. One of my father’s boats. I couldnot settle to the classroom, sir and wanted to be doing. As soon as I couldread and write, my father let me go out on the drifters. I volunteered inAugust of last year and was made a midshipman and given one of the hired craftin the harbour here, running between shore and the anchored boats. Last month Iwas told I was a sublieutenant and must go aboard a ship. I would like adestroyer, sir.”

“You have one, Mr Mudgely. Report aboardLancelot at soonest. I will look for you to get