SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

By Bob French

It wasn’t until I had reached the winding path that led down to the edge of the pond in St James Park, that I realised it was raining; not the hard wintry rain that stung your face, but a fine drizzle that felt refreshing.  As I nonchalantly kicked aside the bright coloured autumn leaves that now littered the path, I became aware of the stillness that surrounded me. Over the tops of the tall majestic white buildings of the Foreign Office and Downing Street, Big Ben’s toll suddenly shattered the dawn silence.  It was six o’clock.

          The bench was wet, but it bothered little to me as I sat down and ponder my surroundings; the annoying flocks of noisy birds that constantly harassed the tourists for food had long since left for warmer climes; leaving behind the grey Canada Geese to face the winter alone; their honking echoing eerily in the early morning mist.  I had come here in search of peace and tranquillity; to try and calm down, sort my mind out after a demanding watch at Naval Operations Center, based in the lower basement of Admiralty Building. The war was going badly.

          The chill of the morning soon penetrated my damp uniform and as a feeble attempt to keep out the cold, folded my arms.  It was then that the lone figure of a man; a naval officer, caught my attention.  He had been sitting on a bench on the other side of the pond, about fifty yards up from where I sat.

          At first I ignored him and stared down at the still surface of the pond that reflected the beautiful backdrop of the trees in their full autumn glory and thought of the Wrens under my command who had outdone themselves during the last few weeks.  They were responsible for providing intelligence to the Royal Navy warships sent to protect the merchantmen on the Arctic convoys.

          I recalled that this last one had been particularly bad, loosing eight merchantmen on the way up to Murmansk and two on the return leg.  Thankfully no Royal Navy vessels were lost, though many had sustained considerable damage from enemy ships, aircraft and submarines.

          One ship in particular, HMS Ashanti, a Tribal class destroyer had engaged, then chased off the Eiger, a German pocket battleship; sunk her escort, the Minden, a light cruiser and destroyed two submarines, but not before taking a mauling herself. Although the admiral was please with the result he, like me and the rest of the watchkeepers were please that the Tirpitz had remained in her Fjord.

          I casually glanced across at the lone figure, who had now lent forward, burying his face in his hands.  He appeared to be shaking his head, probably blaming himself for something.  I contemplated going over to him, but thought that it would be inappropriate for me, a mere sub lieutenant in the WRENs to approach a captain, even though all I wanted to do was help.

          Suddenly he stood; thrust his hands deep into his pockets and started to pace up and down. My curiosity drew me to study him and his behaviour until he stopped and stared directly ahead of himself, as though he had come to a decision; turned and walked back towards Admiralty Building. 

          I suddenly found myself panicking as he approached me; do I ignore him or should I stand up and salute.  My eyes followed him until he was opposite me, then without thinking, stood and threw him one of my best salutes.  My actions must have caught his attention because he stopped and looked across at me, then smiled and returned my salute.  It was surreal.  We both stood there looking at each other in the middle of a cold and misty empty park. I noticed that he had bright blue eyes and his hair was starting to grey at the temples, yet he looked no older than I was, then I saw the bandaged hand.  His smile was infectious, but what moved me was the sadness in his eyes. He then gave a curt nod and was gone. 

          That night as I wrote to my parents, I found my concentration was being interrupted by my thoughts of those few minutes in the park this morning; trying to relive them; to capture as many details of him as possible.  I knew he was a three ring captain and he had a chest full of medal ribbons and he wore his cap at a rakish angle like a Destroyer captain, but my tired body soon surrendered to sleep and my letter home and thoughts of my mysterious Captain quickly faded from my memory.

          The following day I was briefing the watch when the admiral came in and caught my eye.  I quickly brought the briefing to a close, leaving my ratings to get back to their duties.

          “Sorry to interrupt your briefing Miss Mason, but we’re having some drinks aboard the Colchester this evening; Trafalgar Day and all that, and thought that you and your ratings might like to attend, they’ve certainly deserved it.  Please invite Lieutenant Corrington and her watch as well. Transport will leave from the south door at twenty hundred hours sharp.” 

          I thanked the admiral, who always took care of his own, particularly when there was a run ashore.  Within minutes tired minds and fatigue bodies had disappeared and everyone was talking about this evening.

          The Colchester was an old county class Cruiser, a relic from the Great War, yet still a potent weapon.  As I entered the Ward Room, expecting something similar to the cabins on modern ships, I was pleasantly surprised to find it not only spacious but comfortable.  Mandy Corrington, a Canadian WREN who had come over in 43 with her countries contingent had only just stepped inside the Ward Room when she was grasped by her arm by a Canadian pilot and dragged off.

          A cheeky faced mess steward approached me with a tray full of drinks and leant towards me and whispered.

          “The younger officers are over to your left mama.” I nodded my thanks and took a glass of something dark from his tray.  Before I could take a sip, an elderly Commodore extended his arm, inviting me into his circle and after the briefest of introduction, which got lost in the noise of the chatter and laughter surrounding me, he continued to reminisce about his time in battleships.        

          I took a sip of the warm liquid and felt the Pusser’s Rum slide down my throat and burn my stomach and secretly cursed myself for not eating at lunchtime. I then felt someone gently taking my elbow and steering me away from the circle of elderly admirals and Flag Officers. 

               “Do come and join us.  We’d rather you celebrate Trafalgar Day with those who are here to remember it, rather than those who took part in it.”  I smiled at the fresh faced young Midshipman, who must have been the same age as my younger brother, as we entered a circle of officers who were more my age and seemed much livelier.

               After he introduced the officers in the circle he extended his hand.

          “And my name is Timothy by the way.”  I took his warm hand and felt his insecurity and was pleased that I wasn’t the only one who felt nervous in such surroundings.  We chatted and laughed until I felt my elbow being eased away again.

               It was as I was joining the new circle that I looked across to my left and there, looking at me through the crowd, was the young captain I had seen in the park that morning. I smiled at him and he nodded, but then he had vanished as bodies moved across him like huge Atlantic waves that surged and moved, breaking our eye contact. 

          The circle was loud and quiet jolly as the three Navy flyers and an Army captain tried to recall who did what at the Battle of Trafalgar.  When the jokes started to get rude, I nodded my thanks and turned away.

          Before I had moved a few passes, a huge bearded RNR captain took my hand.

          “Hay lassie, we canna have you wandering around the Ward Room with an empty glass.”  Before I could object, he had swung me around into his circle of friends and another warm glass of rum was thrust into my hand.

          “Jock Mackintosh of the Ajax.” His huge hand covered mine and I felt the roughness of his style of living in it.

          “You dinna want to ken this bunch o’ pirates un blaggards young lady.”  His comment brought a robust cheer from the men in his circle.  As they quickly introduced themselves, I was surprised to see that not only were they were all captains but they all looked so young.  Then my eyes settled on my mysterious captain from the park. 

          He smiled and extended his hand and I felt its warmth and strength as I took it.

          “Jammie Buckingham of the Ashanti.  So glad you could come Lieutenant….?”

          I suddenly felt like a young schoolgirl on her first date; my mind went blank and felt my heart leap as I took in his blue eyes; his young boyish face and his smile.  The noise in the room seemed to fade into a muffled drone and I felt that we were the only two in the room.  I suddenly realised that I was staring at him.

          “Um, sorry Sir; sub Lieutenant Mason. Operations, Western Approaches at the Admiralty, Sir.” My duty station instantly brought a cheer from the group and I felt several of the officers slapping my back.  I heard the big Scot saying that they considered us as guardian angels, always watching over us, and I felt for the first time that my watch were appreciated.

          Jammie excused himself; gently took my elbow and nodded me towards the bar.

          “Do you fancy a real drink Miss Mason?  I somehow feel sure that the officers of your mess don’t go around drinking Pusser’s?” He spoke quietly with no real accent and it made me feel comfortable.

          “I’d murder a cup of tea if that’s alright Sir.”  He turned and smiled at me and I felt my heart leap again.

          “I think in such surroundings, we can dispense with the formalities.  You can call me Jammie, as long as I can call you…..?” He tilted his head as though demanding an answer.

          “Jennifer.” He nodded as though storing my name secretly away in his tormented mind.

          “Right then Jennifer, one cup of tea it is?”

          It was when he slid the tea across the bar towards me that I noticed his hand and recalled that when we had met in the park it had been bandaged.  There was a ugly red scar where he must have been hit by shrapnel and without thinking I took it gently in my hand.

          He seemed to stop and study my face. Then he spoke quietly and caringly so that only I could hear him.

          “It’s alright, I’m afraid such things go with the job.” I could see the pain in his eyes as though he was reliving the carnage and death on board his destroyer and instantly I wanted to hold him, cradle him from the dangers he selfishly faced daily in those bitter arctic waters.

          “You should really take care of yourself you know.” then felt myself blush as I looked up into his eyes and saw the happiness in them for the first time.

          “I shall try my best next time…for you.” He tilted his head and smiled.  I wanted to hold him close to me, never let him go and knew from the expression on his face he felt the same way.  It was then that I realised that I was still cradling his hand and went to remove it when he gently placed his hand upon mine and quietly said.

          “I promise Jennifer, just for you.”

          As we stood their staring at each other, the tall bearded Scott interrupted us, shattering our private moment.

          “Come on Jammie lad, it’s not every day you get a second bar to your Distinguished Service Cross.  Our hands remained in contact until, like a ship slipping her moorings, they gently drifted apart and he was gone, but I knew that I would see him again and prayed that it wouldn’t be too long.  

Copyright Bob French