Free For Valour by Douglas Reeman Page A

successfully, the next year would see cargoes even more precious, and ships big and fast enough to carry them. Men, with all the weapons and equipment they would need for what had once been considered a propagandist’s dream. Invasion.
    He sipped the gin; it could have been anything. The sleeping officer had vanished, spirited away. The other two were preparing to pay up and leave. So, back to the ship. They had probably been talking about the Grebe, and their Captain’s inhumanity. My ship, and I am a stranger.
    From the opposite end of the room the servant sighed and looked at the clock. Not much longer. The sirens would probably sound, although the raids were not so savage any more, not surprising with all the extra anti-aircraft batteries and the flak from the harbour. He peered beneath the counter of his bar, seeing the bottle of gin disguised in a carrier bag, and the steel helmet he kept for emergencies. The gin was a perk, and why not? They made the bloody stuff just down the road.
    He heard the door rattle and the hall porter speaking with somebody. Not another one. At this hour.
    But it was a woman this time. A Wren officer, her raincoat collar turned up, her shoulders dappled with heavy drops.
    The porter said helpfully, “The Tribal that came in today, Ted. Hakka or some such name, eh?”
    The servant looked at the girl, for that was all she was. Pretty too, he thought, somebody’s bit of stuff, most likely.
    â€œ Hakka, you say, miss? We’re not supposed to know them things.”
    She swung round as Martineau got to his feet, unable to conceal her surprise, a sudden anxiety.
    Martineau said, “I’m Hakka ’s commanding officer.” He held out his hand, aware of the others staring at them, and the expression on the girl’s face. “Here, sit down for a bit. Is something wrong? How can I help?” The words flooded out and he cursed the amount of gin he had swallowed. But it was not that. His mind had never been steadier. Aware.
    She sat down abruptly and said, “I’m making a fool of myself.” She shook her head and he saw her hair catch the harsh light above the table as it curled beneath her neat tricorn hat.
    In the photograph the hair had been long and had looked much darker. It was chestnut, the colour of autumn. And her voice, very low and barely under control, unexpected. North American.
    The waiter put down another gin but she said, “No. I’m all right. Really. I have to go. There’s a car waiting. I—just thought—”
    He said quietly, “You thought I was somebody else.”
    She nodded, and some rain fell from her hat and marked her face like tears.
    â€œI’ve been away—quite a long time—I’ve just come back from a course. I heard Hakka was in Plymouth.” She clenched one fist on the table. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I should have known. I’d written, you see.” She looked up sharply, the eyes very direct. “But just now when I came in, you knew me.”
    He said, “There was a photograph. It was in a book of sonnets—I found it when I assumed command last week.” Absurd. How could it be only a week?
    â€œNo letters?”
    â€œI’m afraid not.”
    She looked at the gin and then picked it up. “I should have known. But I’ve been so busy.” She was miles away now. Seeking explanations, asking questions, trying to accept something. The man she had cared about enough to correspond with, and to give a photograph of herself.
    Then she smiled; it only made her look more despairing.
    â€œSorry, sir. I’ll leave now.”
    She began to rise but he took her wrist.
    He said, “I’m Graham Martineau, by the way.”
    Like everyone else’s, her eyes moved to the ribbon. “I should have realized, but I was too full of my own troubles.” She half turned as voices filtered from the entrance. “My name’s Roche.