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

what do you make of all this?’
    Walker shifted his feet. It was the first time he had ever been alone with the captain.
    He said quietly, ‘I think we’ll catch the raider, sir. Trouble is. . . .’ He fell silent as Blake turned to look at him.
    Blake said, ‘No, go on. Tell me.’
    ‘I think we need a carrier, sir. It’s too big an area for us and
Fremantle.
The German might be anywhere, go anywhere.’
    Blake nodded. ‘True. But to have any success a raider has to cross and re-cross our main trade routes. In the past, the raiders have cut the sea into a grid, each square a rendezvous for meeting a supply vessel or for marking down a convoy for shadowing or attack. The grid is used by their people in Berlin too, rather like pushing model ships about a big chart in the War Room.’
    Rather like us, he thought with sudden bitterness. Moved and used.
    ‘Anyway, Sub, every carrier is pure gold at the moment. Cruisers are the best bet, with the range and the hitting power. What we need now is a bit of real luck. Then we shall see.’
    Walker, who had been in the ship for seven months, and had survived the last battle without a scratch, said, ‘I’d not want to leave this ship. If she were mine.’
    Blake looked at him, moved by his sincerity. ‘I know. I was of two minds in Williamstown. If you must leave a special ship it’s best to break quickly and cleanly. But when my chance came to stay with her I didn’t hesitate.’ He knew Walker was staring at him but added simply, ‘When you get a command, you’ll know. You may serve in a dozen ships, but there’s always
one
which stands out.’ He reached out and touched the quivering steel.
    ‘Able Seaman Evans requests permission to be relieved on the wheel, sir.’
    ‘Very well.’ Walker did not want to break the spell while the watch continued around them.
    He said, ‘My dad was in the last war, sir. At Gallipoli. He often talks about it, puts on his medals on Anzac Day.’ He smiled affectionately. ‘I’ll bet he’d like to be here right now.’
    Blake looked away, thinking of his own father. His mother had died shortly after that same war, in the terrible influenza epidemic which had swept the country like a plague. A nation worn down by sacrifice, bad food and despair.
    He could see his father as he had once been. A quiet, grave-eyed man. A fine seaman, as Quintin had described him. Now he was just a husk, a mindless being for most of the time, nodding in his chair or pottering in a garden he no longer recognized. There were worse ways of dying than in a fighting ship, Blake thought. His father had been dying for years.
    Scovell came back into the bridge muttering to himself.
    Blake faced the sea again, excluding the watch, keeping within himself.
    He heard Scovell say, ‘God Almighty, you’re a degree off course, Sub! Wandering all over the ocean like a drunken duck! What did they teach you in your Maori encampment or wherever you come from, eh?’
    Walker replied brightly, ‘Lots of things, sir! How to do a war-dance. . . .’
    ‘All right, Sub,’ Scovell interupted heavily, ‘I can manage without the humour at this hour, thank you!’
    Blake smiled. Walker would do all right. More to the point, Scovell was man enough to know it.
    As sunlight spilled over the horizon and brought life and colour to the ship and the sea around her, the gongs jangled like mad things and the tannoy bellowed, ‘Hands to exercise action!’
    The bridge shook with feet stampeding up ladders and through doors. Hatches clanged shut, clips rammed home, while voice-pipes and telephones kept up their insane chorus.
    ‘A and B turrets closed up, sir!’
    ‘Damage control parties closed up, sir!’
    ‘Short-range weapons closed up, sir!’
    From end to end, from range-finder to the depths of the deepest magazine, until Fairfax reported smartly, ‘Ship at action stations, sir.’
    Blake glanced at his watch. Better. A
little
better anyway.
    ‘Very well. Fall out. Port