Free Battlecruiser (1997) by Douglas Reeman

different with the last captain, Cavendish. Very approachable, ready to listen, and he had hinted more than once at a chance of promotion for Evershed. But even Cavendish had not truly understood that he had not wanted to end up in command of some gunnery school, or in chargeof advanced instruction. Classrooms and diagrams.
Not with my own ship
. . .
    And Cavendish had changed, towards the end. Evershed was not an imaginative man, but he was intelligent enough to appreciate it and to know when the change had occurred. Either just before, or immediately after the German cruisers had attacked the Russian convoy, and Sherbrooke’s
Pyrrhus
had broken formation to engage them unaided.
Reliant
had had steam up and had been ready, awaiting the signal that would have told them that
Scharnhorst
, or even the mighty
Tirpitz
, imprisoned so long behind her booms and nets deep inside a Norwegian fjord, was coming out to challenge them. But
Reliant
had not moved. He had seen Cavendish leaving Stagg’s quarters, and the captain’s expression had held something he would never forget. Anger, astonishment; if anything, it had seemed like grief.
    He looked at the chart room clock and stifled a yawn. Three days would be long enough. Tomorrow . . . he grimaced,
today
, Stagg would be ordered to break off the hunt. The German cruiser was probably back in her fjord, her company peacefully asleep.
Lucky devils
. . .
    Another hour and a half, and the watch would change, and Rhodes would take over. Nothing ever seemed to get to Rhodes.
    He turned and snapped, ‘What is it?’
    The boatswain’s mate stared in at him, his face carefully blank.
    ‘I think Mr Drake would like to speak to you, sir.’
    Evershed glared. ‘I’m out of sight for two minutes and . . .’ He saw the sudden uncertainty. ‘What is it, man?’
    The seaman followed him across the bridge. Everything was exactly as before, except that a rating was collecting mugs for another round of tea.
    ‘
Well?
’
    Lieutenant Drake turned away from the radar repeater. ‘I just lost
Mulgrave
, sir.’ He sounded quite calm, possibly wary, like the opening words of a cross-examination of some unknown witness.
    Evershed leaned over the repeater and watched the steadily revolving beam. The escorting destroyers appeared and faded again, in perfect formation.
    He said, ‘Well,
Mulgrave
’s there now, right?’
    ‘I thought you should be told, sir.’
    So poised. Evershed had noticed more than once the perfect cut of Drake’s uniforms; he had a greatcoat which would have looked well on an admiral.
Privileged
 . . .
    He said sharply, ‘You have to learn about these things.’ He did not care if the other watchkeepers were listening. Drake had to realize that he was not God’s gift to the Royal Navy, and nor would he . . .
    ‘
Christ!
’ A leading signalman could not contain it. ‘She’s gone again!’
    Evershed pushed him aside and stared with disbelief as the pale green images on the screen faded, and then merged like spectres in some wild dance. He said, ‘Get the senior radar mechanic up here,
chop-chop
!’ He was about to turn on Drake again when the radar repeater gave a quick flicker and went dead. Nothing.
    But all Evershed could see was the great battlecruiser hurtling at almost full speed into the fog. Completely blind; and at any minute the slightest alteration of course could bring her into collision with one of the escorts.
    ‘
Half ahead!
’ He caught Drake’s arm. ‘No, let me do it!’ He leaned over the voicepipe’s bell mouth and said, ‘Half ahead both!’
    It seemed an age before the wheelhouse acknowledged, although it was only seconds. The quartermaster, staring for so long at the gently ticking gyro repeater, his fingersmoving the polished wheel without conscious thought, sounded remarkably normal.
    ‘Half ahead both, sir!’ The clatter of telegraphs echoed faintly up the tube. ‘Revolutions one-one-zero!’
    Evershed pressed his face