the young doctors today. I saw youâsitting there like a bogus psychiatrist, analysing away for all you were worth at the probable effect of the speech on the minds of the wounded warriors without, and never giving it a chance to let it register on yourself.â He paused and went on quietly.
âIt was beautifully done, Johnny. No, thatâs the wrong wordâ there was nothing premeditated about it. But donât you see? As black a picture as man could paint: points out that this is just a complicated way of committing suicide: no silver lining, no promises, even Alex thrown in as a casual afterthought. Builds âem up, then lets âem down. No inducements, no hope, no appealâand yet the appeal was tremendous . . . What was it, Johnny?â
âI donât know.â Nicholls was troubled. He lifted his head abruptly, then smiled faintly. âMaybe there was no appeal. Listen.â Noiselessly, he slid the door back, flicked off the lights. The rumble of Rileyâs harsh voice, low and intense, was unmistakable.
ââjust a lot of bloody clap-trap. Alex? The Med? Not on yourâ life, mate. Youâll never see it. Youâll never even see Scapa again. Captain Richard Vallery, DSO! Know what the old bastard wants, boys? Another bar to his DSO. Maybe even a VC. Well, by Christâs, heâs not going to have it! Not at my expense. Not if I canâwell help it. âI know you wonât let me down,ââ he mimicked, his voice high-pitched. âWhining old bastard!â He paused a moment, then rushed on.
âThe Tirpitz ! Christ Almighty! The Tirpitz ! Weâre going to stop itâus! This bloody toy ship! Bait, he says, bait!â His voice rose. âI tell you, mates, nobody gives a damn about us. Direct for the North Cape! Theyâre throwing us to the bloody wolves! And that old bastard up toââ
âShaddap!â It was Petersen who spoke, his voice a whisper, low and fierce. His hand stretched out, and Brooks and Nicholls in the surgery winced as they heard Rileyâs wristbones crack under the tremendous pressure of the giantâs hand. âOften I wonder about you, Riley,â Petersen went on slowly. âBut not now, not any more. You make me sick!â He flung Rileyâs hand down and turned away.
Riley rubbed his wrist in agony, and turned to Burgess.
âFor Godâs sake, whatâs the matter with him? What the hell . . .â He broke off abruptly. Burgess was looking at him steadily, kept looking for a long time. Slowly, deliberately, he eased himself down in bed, pulled the blankets up to his neck and turned his back on Riley.
Brooks rose quickly to his feet, closed the door and pressed the light switch.
âAct I, Scene I. Cut! Lights!â he murmured. âSee what I mean, Johnny?â
Yes, sir,â Nicholls nodded slowly. âAt least, I think so.â
âMind you, my boy, it wonât last. At least, not at that intensity.â He grinned. But maybe itâll take us the length of Murmansk. You never know.â
âI hope so, sir. Thanks for the show.â Nicholls reached up for his duffel-coat. âWell, I suppose Iâd better make my way aft.â
âOff you go, then. And, ohâJohnnyââ
âSir?â
âThat scarlet-fever notice-board of yours. On your way aft you might consign it to the deep. I donât think weâll be needing it any more.â Nicholls grinned and closed the door softly behind him.
1. Rescue ships, whose duties were solely what their name implies, were a feature of many of the earlier convoys. The Zafaaran was lost in one of the warâs worst convoys. The Stockport was torpedoed. She was lost with all hands, including all those survivors rescued from other sunken ships.
FOUR
Monday Night
Dusk Action Stations dragged out its interminable hour and was gone. That night, as on a hundred other nights, it was
Learning to Kill: Stories