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

hundred yards. Strachan,who had gone ahead of him, knowing the ship to be absent its senior lieutenant,had spotted him and had the side party waiting, all as it should be. Being latein the day, he had chosen not to muster the crew in divisions to greet the newcaptain. That could better be done in the morning, would cause far lessdisruption to routine.

Simon stopped for a few seconds to viewthe ship, far larger than a destroyer.

Two six-inch guns in single turrets on thecentre line forward, one stepped above the other. Six four inch aft of thebridge, single turrets on either beam. All quick firing. A single high anglegun immediately abaft the bridge, he could not see exactly what it was - small,a three pounder, perhaps. Machine guns to the bridge wings; bigger thanLewises, so most likely to be Vickers Guns, requiring two men apiece, apermanent crew rather than being available to any spare hand. There were lumps atthe stern which he thought might be depth bombs. Four torpedo tubes set betweenthe forward four inch and the high angle gun.

The deck was cluttered, he thought,additional gun and depth bombs simply squeezed in, not allowed for in the originaldesign.

Good lines otherwise, a fast twenty-eight knotship, possibly pushing a little more if the Engineer was good.

He stepped out again, reached the brow anda sentry dockside, presenting arms smartly. Unusual for a seaman, that. Mosthands knew how to load and fire a rifle but were strangers to drill. Notimpossible that the man had a record as a defaulter. If he had been sent offfor thirty days in the naval prison he might have spent many hours on theparade ground, at the double with a rifle and pack, the drill shouted into himfrom dawn till dusk. Men sentenced to thirty days – the least they could besent off to serve in the glasshouse – were treated especially harshly in thehope that they would not wish to come back again. It worked, sometimes.

“Thank you!”

The seaman blinked at the courtesy, almostsmiled in return.

‘Not a bad man, whatever his record maybe.’

He trotted up, pipes sounding as soon ashis hat became visible above the deck. He still thrilled to that sharp squawk,the spine-tingling salute to the captain boarding his ship.

Strachan was stood at the salute, a lineof officers at his side. Far more than on a destroyer.

Complement with wartime additions andadditional signalmen as a destroyer leader must be around the three hundredmark, he suspected.

What had he got?

Strachan was at a disadvantage, unable tointroduce the officers by name, knowing none of them yet.

Eight seamen lieutenants, salt horse, allof them, no specialisation. A Paymaster lieutenant stood next, his mainfunction to assist in the administration of a large flotilla, something Simon hadlittle knowledge of. A Navigator, which was always handy. Gunnery Officer,useful, demanded by the heavier guns; a junior Guns as well, no doubt to takethe torpedo tubes and depth bombs. A Doctor, distinguished by his tabs, and valuableto the whole flotilla. Three engineers, one a lieutenant commander, the otherslieutenants. Two sublieutenants towards the end of the line, a pair of midshipmenmaking up the complement.

Higgins was towards the end of the line oflieutenants, smiling broadly. The DSC on his chest marked him out, none of theothers visibly decorated. Simon nodded to him, to his pleasure, the grinwidening even further.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I am sorry todisturb you at this time of the day. I thought it better to come aboard as soonas possible. We may expect to be busy in the early future. I will speak to you individuallytomorrow. Mr Strachan, with me please.”

Strachan led him aft to his cabin. He wasamazed at the luxury available, compared to Lancelot or Sheldrake. There was aseparate sleeping cabin and a shower room and toilet facility that was bigenough to turn around in. His working and dining cabin was a good twelve feeton a side, space for desk and several chairs. It had a pair of bookshelves.

“How big is the wardroom, Strachan?”

“Seventeen of us can fit in, sir, withspace to sit down. Small cabins but adequate. The subs and mids share agunroom, proper navy fashion, sir. Big enough for the four, possibly givingthem a bit more space than the officers have. The hands are jam-packed intogether, sir. Wartime additions to the complement together with the extrabodies needed for signals have pushed her up to three hundred and twelve.Peacetime would have been about two-eighty. The Doctor wants at least one moreorderly, sir, and Guns wants a chief petty officer.”

“Tight. Have you spoken to the Coxswainyet?”

“Young for the job, sir. I doubt he ismuch more than thirty. If he joined as a seaman boy, that could still give himmore than fifteen years at sea after his training. He looks right, sir.”

Strachan had a sufficiency of experienceto be able to weigh men up.

“Good enough. I do not know how long we have,Number One. Assume that we may be at sea within two days. Try to have us readyin that time, anyway. Have you heard why the ship is missing both captain andpremier?”

“Nothing yet, sir. Have you eaten yettoday, sir?”

As Strachan knew, he had not, far too busyon the slow run back to Harwich and bustling since making harbour. It was oneof the First’s duties to keep an eye on his captain’s well-being.

“Not since dinner last night, in fact. Nowyou mention it, I’m bloody starving!”

Packer’s voice came from the sleepingcabin where he was busy.

“Beg pardon, sir. In hand, sir. Spoke tothe Cook PO when I got aboard, sir. He’s putting something together now.”

“Thank you, Packer! You do me well!”

Strachan nodded; he would ensure that theblind eye applied to Packer, knowing that he would bend regulations on occasionin service to his captain. Having accompanied him through two ships, he was nowa servant for life, would be discharged to a pension and cottage on thePerceval estate if he became old before Simon retired, would leave the servicewith his master otherwise. As such, he remained a seaman but was to be treatedas more of a civilian, a naval compromise that none aboard could see