Killing Ground Read Online Free Page A

big tanker, its cargo of high-octane fuel so precious to this embattled country, had burned for three days, and her company with it. Another ship, loaded to the seams with armoured cars and tanks, had gone down in thirty seconds, her back broken by two torpedoes. It went on and on, as if there was no mercy left.
    He walked back to the desk and patted his jacket for his pipe.
    Muffled by the bulkhead the tannoy squawked, “D’you hearthere! Hands to dinner!” The quartermaster would add beneath his breath, “Officers
to lunch!”
    He sat down again and began to fill his pipe, his eyes on the photograph of his father which he had given him when their world had fallen apart. Dressed in naval uniform, a young face with the same twinkle in his eyes. He had not wanted his son to have a recent picture. This had been taken before the famous Zeebrugge raid in 1918, when unknown to him the war had only seven months left to run its bloody course. He had lost an arm and an eye, and had been rejected by the service he had loved more than life itself. He still managed to joke about it. “What about Nelson?
He
managed!” In angrier moments he had said, “Anyway, I couldn’t do much worse than the blockheads who’re running things now!”
    Howard held a match to his pipe and saw the smoke drifting up into the vents. His hand was quite steady, almost stiff, as if he was consciously holding it so, like his muscles when the alarms sounded; how would it be the next time?
    He sighed. He had promised to join Spike Colvin, his fellow captain in their sister-ship
Ganymede
alongside, for a few drinks before the next orders arrived. Howard looked at his watch. They would soon know. Convoy escort. But surely not the Atlantic again, not yet … He stood up violently, angry with himself for admitting the weakness to himself.
    He heard himself call, “Enter!” and saw the door open to reveal an unfamiliar sub-lieutenant standing beyond the coaming.
    â€œCome in—it’s Ayres, isn’t it?” He held out his hand. “Might have had to sail without you.”
    Ayres shifted his new cap from one fist to the other. “I went to Leith, you see—”
    Howard pointed to a comfortable chair. “Take a pew, Sub. Drink?”
    Ayres sat down, completely baffled by this unusual welcome. Howard was not a bit what he had anticipated. He seemed very relaxed, and far more youthful than expected.
    â€œPerhaps a gin, sir. I’m not much of—”
    Howard opened the cupboard and poured two glasses of gin. The new subbie was no drinker then. The Atlantic would change that.
    â€œI’ve put you down to share your watches with the navigator. He’s RNR, a good officer, so I expect I shall be losing him too very soon. Number One will fix you up with your action and defence stations, et cetera—have you met him yet?”
    Ayres recalled the big nose, the faint air of disapproval. The first lieutenant behaved more like a regular, straight-laced officer than the captain, who, Ayres observed, was wearing an old jumper over his shirt, and a pair of grey flannel trousers. Ayres looked at the jacket on the nearby chair, the tarnished gold two-and-a-half stripes. His mind fastened on the small blue and white ribbon on the jacket’s breast. The DSC. In destroyers you didn’t get that for nothing.
    â€œYou’ve joined the ship during a bit of upheaval, Sub.” Howard leaned back in his chair and allowed the pipesmoke to curl above him. He saw Ayres hold back a choking cough as he swallowed some of the gin, and tried to contain his disappointment. His other sub-lieutenant had joined the ship just before the refit, transferred from Light Coastal Forces after his motor gunboat had been shelled and sunk off the Hook of Holland. A withdrawn, tense young man he seemed to regard the transfer as some kind of stigma. Even the gunnery officer, an RNVR lieutenant, had only been