forgotten. So when you take your fellows into battle don’t waste them. Lead them. Don’t let them die for nothing.’
He turned sharply for the door with only a brief nod to Beaky Waring.
As the curtains fell again into position Waring remarked, ‘Well, that was all rather disappointing, wasn’t it? A bit of sour grapes, I suppose.’
Several of them chuckled.
Waring continued, ‘Tell your men as much as you think best. But no heroics. We are here to do a job in the great tradition of the Corps. That we shall do. Carry on, gentlemen.’
The chairs scraped, and they all stood up while waiting stewards and messmen darted through the curtains to prepare the tables for supper.
Jonathan turned as he heard Waring speaking with the officer commanding
Impulsive
’s marine detachment. He was a grim-faced acting-captain named Peter Whitefoord who had made a lot of notes during the meeting. Waring said, ‘You will lead in the first boats, Captain Whitefoord.’ He watched him searchingly. ‘Yours is the honour. After all,
Impulsive
’s detachment has been together longest – not all fingers and thumbs, what?’
Jonathan walked into the passageway where some of the ship’s officers were already waiting to reoccupy their wardroom. He heard Waring’s braying laugh and thought of his dismissal of the Australian’s quiet warning. Tarrier walked beside him in silence.
Jonathan glanced at him. The next hours would be theworst. He said, ‘Go round the platoon commanders, Roger.’ He saw him start at the casual use of his name. ‘Impress on each of them the importance of drinking-water. Stop them from using it all up before we get replenishment. You can tell them the order’s from the colonel, if you like.’
‘Is it, sir?’
Waring had not touched on the subject, even though there was nothing definite about the water replenishment lighters in the prepared orders.
He smiled. ‘Would I lie?’
Jonathan went to his cabin and looked around, imagining the Australian officers who had slept here. Were they still alive, or lying out there waiting for help which never came?
His M.O.A. Harry Payne had laid everything out. Revolver, extra ammunition, and two water flasks. The old campaigner. A true blue marine.
‘After midnight then, sir?’
‘How do you feel about it?’
Payne paused in his polishing and stared critically at the belt buckle. ‘Me? I s’pose I feel all right, sir. Not much I can do about it, is there?’
Jonathan folded the writing case, which Payne had put ready for a last letter home. He had nobody to write to any more.
Payne watched him gravely. ‘I’ve got a bottle of the good stuff in me kit, sir.’ He forced a grin. ‘In case it’s going to be anything like that last little lot in France.’
Jonathan smiled. Payne was pure gold, as old Jack Swan had been for David. Maybe they would end up justlike that: like dog and master, each fearful that the other would die first.
‘Nothing could be as bad as that, my friend.’ He seemed to hear the Australian colonel’s words to the debonair Lieutenant Wyke.
Don’t let them die for nothing
.
Payne glanced up at the deckhead as the engines’ regular throb slowed, and then stopped altogether. Jonathan could picture it as if he were up there on deck. The great ship already in darkness, her upperworks black against the sky. Discreet and without fuss, and with so many of
Reliant
’s company at their evening meal anxiety and emotion would be at a minimum. Through the maze of decks and watertight compartments, he thought he heard the brief lament of a bugle, but it was so muffled it could have been part of a memory.
The engines’ vibrations began again, churning out the ruler-straight wake which would carry them all to the enemy’s shore.
In that same wake, Midshipman Timothy Portal would still be falling through the black depths where he would remain forever undisturbed.
He looked at Payne and knew he was sharing his thoughts. Sixteen years
He turned sharply for the door with only a brief nod to Beaky Waring.
As the curtains fell again into position Waring remarked, ‘Well, that was all rather disappointing, wasn’t it? A bit of sour grapes, I suppose.’
Several of them chuckled.
Waring continued, ‘Tell your men as much as you think best. But no heroics. We are here to do a job in the great tradition of the Corps. That we shall do. Carry on, gentlemen.’
The chairs scraped, and they all stood up while waiting stewards and messmen darted through the curtains to prepare the tables for supper.
Jonathan turned as he heard Waring speaking with the officer commanding
Impulsive
’s marine detachment. He was a grim-faced acting-captain named Peter Whitefoord who had made a lot of notes during the meeting. Waring said, ‘You will lead in the first boats, Captain Whitefoord.’ He watched him searchingly. ‘Yours is the honour. After all,
Impulsive
’s detachment has been together longest – not all fingers and thumbs, what?’
Jonathan walked into the passageway where some of the ship’s officers were already waiting to reoccupy their wardroom. He heard Waring’s braying laugh and thought of his dismissal of the Australian’s quiet warning. Tarrier walked beside him in silence.
Jonathan glanced at him. The next hours would be theworst. He said, ‘Go round the platoon commanders, Roger.’ He saw him start at the casual use of his name. ‘Impress on each of them the importance of drinking-water. Stop them from using it all up before we get replenishment. You can tell them the order’s from the colonel, if you like.’
‘Is it, sir?’
Waring had not touched on the subject, even though there was nothing definite about the water replenishment lighters in the prepared orders.
He smiled. ‘Would I lie?’
Jonathan went to his cabin and looked around, imagining the Australian officers who had slept here. Were they still alive, or lying out there waiting for help which never came?
His M.O.A. Harry Payne had laid everything out. Revolver, extra ammunition, and two water flasks. The old campaigner. A true blue marine.
‘After midnight then, sir?’
‘How do you feel about it?’
Payne paused in his polishing and stared critically at the belt buckle. ‘Me? I s’pose I feel all right, sir. Not much I can do about it, is there?’
Jonathan folded the writing case, which Payne had put ready for a last letter home. He had nobody to write to any more.
Payne watched him gravely. ‘I’ve got a bottle of the good stuff in me kit, sir.’ He forced a grin. ‘In case it’s going to be anything like that last little lot in France.’
Jonathan smiled. Payne was pure gold, as old Jack Swan had been for David. Maybe they would end up justlike that: like dog and master, each fearful that the other would die first.
‘Nothing could be as bad as that, my friend.’ He seemed to hear the Australian colonel’s words to the debonair Lieutenant Wyke.
Don’t let them die for nothing
.
Payne glanced up at the deckhead as the engines’ regular throb slowed, and then stopped altogether. Jonathan could picture it as if he were up there on deck. The great ship already in darkness, her upperworks black against the sky. Discreet and without fuss, and with so many of
Reliant
’s company at their evening meal anxiety and emotion would be at a minimum. Through the maze of decks and watertight compartments, he thought he heard the brief lament of a bugle, but it was so muffled it could have been part of a memory.
The engines’ vibrations began again, churning out the ruler-straight wake which would carry them all to the enemy’s shore.
In that same wake, Midshipman Timothy Portal would still be falling through the black depths where he would remain forever undisturbed.
He looked at Payne and knew he was sharing his thoughts. Sixteen years
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