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

photograph in his cabin down aft. Seven thousand tons, evenly proportioned. Her four twin turrets pointing ahead and astern, the other, smaller guns positioned around her superstructure like guardians. The big, stream-lined funnel above a central boiler room, the bridge, everything which made a ship, a cruiser. And her people, all five hundred and fifty of them, officers, seamen, stokers, marines, scattered throughout
Andromeda
’s hull, some, like himself, just being awakened, although very few would be greeted with a cup of tea.
    What were they thinking about? he wondered. Of distant homes, loved ones, lost ones. Some longed to return to their wives and their girlfriends, others dreaded the prospect.
    He put on his cap, slung his glasses around his neck and stepped out of the cabin.
    Vague figures loomed past him or stood respectfully aside as if to become invisible.
    The morning watch had settled down, the keen air over the bridge soon took care of sleep, dreams of bunks or snug hammocks.
    Scovell had the watch and was lounging in one corner of the bridge, while his young assistant, Sub-Lieutenant Walker, a New Zealander, stood apart by the ready-use chart table.
    ‘Morning, Number One.’ Blake crossed to his chair and climbed into it. The smooth wooden arms felt cold. In a matter of hours they would be like furnace bars.
    Scovell moved towards him, his hair ruffling in the air which hissed over the forward screen.
    Blake peered ahead, then down at A and B turrets, the six-inch guns overlapping in pairs. It was still very dark beyond the slender barrels, but he could see the white painted anchor cables on the forecastle, the blob of a seaman walking aft with a bucket.
    Scovell said, ‘Nothing to report, sir.’
    Blake nodded and put his unlit pipe between his teeth. By
nothing to report
, the first lieutenant meant there was nothing which
he
could not handle. Scovell was excellent at his job but difficult to work with. Intolerant over carelessness and even small breaches of discipline, and yet willing to spend hours with a junior watchkeeper until he was satisfied with his performance. The perfect first lieutenant. On paper, that is.
    ‘How are they all settling down together, Number One?’
    Scovell levelled his glasses above the screen and then let them fall to his chest again.
    ‘All right, sir. I’ve a few defaulters, but the commander will deal with them.’ He sounded bored with it. ‘A fight or two, some disagreements over messing, the usual hard-cases finding out they’re not so tough as they imagined.’
    A voice said quietly, ‘Radar wants permission to shut down, sir.’
    Scovell swung on the man. ‘What the
hell? Again?
’
    To Blake he added in a controlled tone, ‘May I go and see the senior operator, sir? He’s reliable.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘Which is more than can be said for the equipment!’
    Blake replied, ‘Carry on. I’ll be here until we exercise action at six bells.’
    He could almost feel the resentment behind him. But he had kept it up every day since leaving harbour. Action stations, fire drill, damage control, man overboard, the whole book. They could moan as much as they liked, but he knew that they were no way near ready to meet an enemy on level footing yet.
    He leaned back in the chair, feeling the gentle pressure of one arm against his ribs and then the other as the ship swayed slightly from side to side. He saw spray flying like spindrift from the sharp stem and imagined the water parting across her bows as she sliced forward.
    A good ship, everyone said. And a lucky one. So, resentment or not, he would see that where possible luck would continue.
    He heard the sub-lieutenant’s shoes moving on the gratings and said, ‘Come here, Sub.’
    Walker moved up beside him. A slim, dark-haired youth of nineteen, he would be a good example for the unruly midshipmen under his care, Blake thought.
    Walker came from Wellington, the “windy city”, he called it.
    ‘Well, Sub,