Free A Ship Must Die (1981) by Douglas Reeman Page A

line on the chart.
    Villar looked up, his eyes glinting in the reflected lights. ‘She’s heading our way, sir, with
Fremantle
in pursuit.’ He tapped his teeth with a pencil. ‘Weather’s worsening to the nor’-west of us and the glass is still falling. We might make first contact ourselves if we can increase speed.’
    Blake felt the familiar pain against his ribs, the excitement which always lay hidden but ready to move him.
    ‘I’d like to speak with the Chief. Let me have another look at your calculations, Pilot, then we’ll alter course to intercept. A lot will depend on the weather. A full-blown storm would make things difficult.’
    He looked up from the chart and saw Fairfax watching him.
    The commander said softly, ‘All the same, sir, with
Fremantle
in pursuit the German isn’t going to hang about. He’ll be making good all the speed he can, probably hoping the weather will close down and separate them.’
    They both looked at the pencilled lines on the chart.
    Then Fairfax said, ‘Whereas,
we
will be ready and waiting.’
    The navigator’s yeoman held out a telephone. ‘Engineroom, sir.’
    Blake put the instrument to his ear, picturing Weir downthere with his roaring machinery and jungle heat.
    ‘Chief? Captain. I think we have a German raider. Can you give me full revs when I call for them?’
    ‘Aye, sir. Just give me another thirty minutes.’
    Blake handed the telephone to the young seaman who was like Villar’s shadow.
    A vast ocean, and two ships heading towards an unplanned rendezvous.
Fremantle
with her eight-inch guns and two aircraft would be a formidable opponent, and after
Devonport
’s loss Stagg would have no use for carelessness.
    Thinking aloud he said, ‘I’d like to see our airman. We may be able to fly off the Seafox at first light.’
    Villar grimaced. ‘Pity we don’t still have the old Shagbat, sir. I’d not fancy ditching in our little kite, not if the sea gets any worse!’
    Moon’s doleful face peered around the chartroom door.
    ‘Coffee an’ sandwiches, sir.’
    Their eyes met. All those other times. The racket of gunfire, the dazzling panorama of burning ships and exploding ammunition. Moon had always been there. Now as then, he would know his mood. The sandwiches would seem like something special. Tea at the Ritz.
    ‘Thank you. I’ll come now.’
    He looked at the two officers. One Australian, one South African. Chalk and cheese, yet they seemed to sum up what it was all about.
    ‘Call me if you hear anything. Alter course when you’re ready.’
    He still hesitated, wanting to stay but knowing they could cope. Knowing too they would see his presence as lack of trust. Later that could prove fatal.
    As soon as Blake had left Villar snapped to his yeoman, ‘Go and get some coffee. Nice and strong, eh, Shiner?’
    Alone and separated by the chart table, Villar said calmly, ‘How do you feel about the ship, sir?’ His voice seemed to hang on the last word as if he disliked calling anyone sir.
    Fairfax replied, ‘I think I can manage, Pilot!’
    Villar spread his hands. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m a bit tactless sometimes.’
    ‘You’d never guess.’
    Villar grinned unabashed. ‘The skipper’s nearly over the edge, you know that, don’t you?’
    Fairfax was about to shut him up here and now when he recalled his own words about Stagg.
    He said evenly, ‘I know what he’s been through, if that’s what you mean.’
    Villar sighed. ‘His wife went off with another chap. Just before we left for the Med. I’ve met her. Right tear-away, if you ask me.’ He saw the warning in Fairfax’s eyes and added briskly, ‘The captain’s worth fifty of her sort. He held this ship together when everyone said we were finished.’ For the first time his voice shook with something like emotion. ‘He drove us, he carried us, he
led
us.’ His mouth curled in contempt. ‘Those war correspondents, what did they know? The boy captain, they called him! Boy?
He’s a bloody