An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (7 page)

His gaze was attracted to the ship's aft fifteen-inch turrets, designated X and Y. The measurement referred to the diameter of the rifles' bore. The barrels were nearly fifty-five feet long. The pinnace was close enough so he could make out the tompions, plugs that were kept in the guns' muzzles to keep salt water out. On each was embossed the ship's emblem, the green woodpecker or “spight.” The first HMS
Warspite
had actually been
Warspight
and had been Sir Walter Raleigh's at Cadiz in 1596.

This modern
Warspite,
the seventh to bear the proud name, would be his home for God only knew how long.

The cox'n answered a hailed challenge from the deck above and brought the pinnace alongside a boarding platform. Fingal craned to look up at the battlewagon's towering cliff of a side. It seemed a very long way up. His job was to get out of the pinnace without falling overboard—and it did happen—and scale the stairs. Fingal realised that he'd now have to remember and use the arcane language of sailors. It was called an accommodation ladder even though it was a staircase. At the top he'd stand at attention, salute the bridge, salute the officer of the day, and report himself. After that, naval routine would take over.

Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly smiled, thanked the pinnace's coxs'n, and stepped onto the platform. One of the ABs followed, carrying Fingal's suitcase.

As he climbed, he slipped a hand into his duffle coat pocket. His pipe and tobacco pouch were still there, but when he thrust his hand lower, he found something beneath that he'd not noticed before. He hesitated on a stair, pulled out an envelope, and read,
To my darling Fingal,
in Deirdre's neat handwriting. She must have slipped it there during their last embrace in the hotel lobby. He'd open it the minute he was alone, but the officer waiting on deck for the new arrival would not be pleased if Fingal spent any longer coming aboard. He started to climb, sad but accepting that, for the duration at least, love must take second place to war.

*   *   *

How in the hell would he ever find his way around this floating maze? The young seaman who'd brought Fingal's suitcase from the pinnace had been detailed by the officer of the day to “Take this medical officer and his luggage to his cabin and then to the PMO. He'll be in the sick bay.”

Principal medical officer—PMO. O'Reilly had to remind himself of the term as they walked away along the quarterdeck from the stern through a doorway. O'Reilly corrected himself—hatch. “Upper deck,” said the young man. “There's another deck, the foc's'le deck, above this and a couple of gunnery control towers above that again. Going for'ard there's the funnel, then the command bridge.” They went past watertight hatches along a corridor.

Over all hung a pervasive, ever-present stink of fuel oil. And the sounds: the humming of intake fans supplying air to the machinery spaces, a metallic ringing of hammers, the soughing of the wind through rigging, the splashing of bilge water being discharged and, neverendingly, although her motion was not nearly as lively as that of the pinnace, the great ship rose and fell as the seas rumbled under her keel.

His guide, a stocky, bowlegged young man who Fingal now knew was AB Alfie Henson from Harrogate in Yorkshire, seemed to have overcome his initial shyness and was providing a running commentary. The younger man's tone was slightly patronising. He reckons I'm a naval innocent from the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, Fingal thought. They were amateurs, and mostly had been yachtsmen in civvy life or a few needed professionals like doctors, lawyers, and chaplains. In 1939, they'd only have had ten weeks' basic training at HMS
King Alfred,
a shore base in Sussex. When Fingal had enquired of Henson about his service, he had replied, “Five years I've been in the Andrew…' He'd paused to see if the naval slang had been understood. Not one to let the patient, or in this case a junior rating, get the upper hand, O'Reilly said, “The Grey Funnel Line?” the other irreverent title used for the Royal Navy.

“Right, sir.” A little more deference. “I joined the navy as a lad. I was fifteen.” He grinned to reveal a missing lower incisor. “I do like it, sir. I want to make a career of it.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

They went down a staircase—companionway. The old lingo was returning to him, along with a cascade of memories from nine years before. “We're on the main deck, now, sir. Port side. This big bugger amidships is the barbette of X turret.” Henson pointed at an arc of a steel cylinder that clearly continued beneath the deck on which they stood and on above the deckhead overhead. “And this, over to port,” he walked to a bulkhead, along which was a row of doors spaced at regular intervals, “officers' berths. You're a lucky bugger for a junior officer.”

It was a reasonable assumption. All newly commissioned medical officers were granted the rank of acting surgeon lieutenant. Fingal wasn't acting and he had four years' seniority.

Henson opened the door. “They've given you one with a bit of daylight, like, not like the other buggers inboard where the sun never shines.”

Fingal looked into a small, Spartan, grey-painted room with a corticene “sole,” as the flooring of a ship was called. The space held a cot, a chair and metal table, and a wardrobe, all bolted to the sole. On the far side of the room, a circular porthole of salt-streaked glass let in a faint light. AB Henson put the two suitcases on the bed as Fingal shrugged out of his duffle coat and hung it in the wardrobe. He wanted to open Deirdre's envelope. “Wait outside for a minute, will you, Henson?” Fingal noticed Henson glancing at the ring on Fingal's now-visible uniform jacket sleeve. Regulars' rings were solid, Royal Naval Reserve officers' insignia were like thin chains, and Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve had wavy stripes on their cuffs. Hence “Wavy Navy.”

“Here,” Henson said, “you're not Wavy Navy. The principal medical officer, Doctor Wilcoxson, he's Royal Navy, but the two junior pills and the dentist are all Volunteer Reserve.”

Fingal laughed. He really would have to brush up on his navalese. “Pills” and “sawbones” were slang reserved for junior MOs. “I'm a pill myself, Henson, but I've a second stripe to keep that one company. Just haven't had time to put it up yet.”

“So? You've been in the navy, sir?”

“Merchant service for three years. Year on the old
Tiger
in '30.” Fingal reached into the duffle's pocket. “Now, Henson, give me a couple of minutes, please.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The AB left and closed the door.

Fingal ripped the envelope open. It contained a green silk scarf, a trace of her perfume—Je Reviens—and a single page of notepaper. He read.
You gave me this scarf for my birthday and I loved it then. Please wear it when the weather is cold and let my love in the scarf keep you warm until you come back to me. Yours eternally, Deirdre.

He took a deep breath, waited for the prickling in his eyes to stop, took a deep breath, put the letter and scarf under the pillow on the cot, and went and opened the door. “Next stop sick bay, I think,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Right, sir.” Henson led the way. “You were on
Tiger,
and I did a year on
Hood,
sir.” He smiled his missing-tooth grin. “You and me's—if you don't mind me saying so, sir, seeing we're both old battlecruiser hands—nearly old shipmates. I hope you'll soon feel at home on
Warspite
. She's a happy ship.”

“Thank you, Henson,” Fingal said, remembering how lonely he'd felt back on the pinnace when he'd noticed the Belfast-built corvette. “I'm starting to feel that already.”

“I hope so, sir. The owner—”

“You mean the skipper?”

“Aye. Captain Victor Crutchley, VC. He's a proper gent.”

“I've heard,” said Fingal, “and you sound content.”

“I am.” He frowned. “But there are one or two right sods.”

Fingal reckoned it would be surprising if there weren't, with more than a thousand men on board. A shrill piping noise filled the air. It was coming from loudspeakers of the SRE address system. A tinny voice said, “Liberty men close up. Liberty men close up at port fore and aft accommodation ladders. The drifters will be leaving at four thirty.” The message was repeated.

“Jammy buggers,” said Henson. “I'd not mind a run ashore myself even if we only get four hours, but my turn's coming.”

O'Reilly nodded sympathetically.

Henson pointed up. “There are six-inch guns on the upper deck immediately above here, sir, and the same to starboard.” Fingal heard the pride in the man's voice. “I'm the loader on six-inch gun four, starboard side.”

“A responsible job.” Fingal became aware of cooking smells. His mouth watered.

“Main galley and main kitchen's in there,” Henson said, pointing inboard. “The wardroom galley for officers is farther aft on the deck above and the wardroom, where you'll be dining—”

Soon, I hope, thought Fingal.

“—is just ahead of X turret on the upper deck.”

Fingal's tummy rumbled.

“More guns in that turret,” Henson said. “I hope to be a leading rate soon. If I can, I want to go to the Whale Island gunnery school, HMS
Excellent,
at Portsmouth. Specialise in gunnery.” There was not only affection. The lad was bubbling with enthusiasm.

“Can I help—” Fingal cut himself short. He wasn't in a Dublin tenement trying to find work for an unemployed cooper. It was none of his business. “Sorry, Henson. I'm sure your divisional officer will be able to advise you.”

“You're right, sir. He's a decent enough bloke, Mister Wallace.” He paused at another stair. “Down here, sir.” Henson led the way down an amidships companionway into a lobby. The aft bulkhead was curved like the one astern near Fingal's cabin. Another big gun barbette, he assumed.

“That's A turret,” said Henson. He pointed to the ship's port side. “Dispensary's in there if we need medicine and—” He walked to starboard and stopped at a door. “—sick bay and all medical spaces are through there, sir.” He pointed for'ard. “Next space ahead of the sick bay is the chief petty officers' mess.” He frowned and curled his lip.

“You don't like CPOs, Henson?”

Henson shrugged. “Most of them are decent blokes, but there's one, Gunnery Chief Petty Officer Watson?” Henson's eyes narrowed and he shook his head rapidly. “That bugger's a right bastard.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Fingal said, his curiosity piqued.

“I shouldn't be going on about it.” Henson knocked on a door in a bulkhead. He saluted. “I'll be off then, sir.”

Fingal returned the salute. “Thank you and good luck with your gunn—”

The door was opened by a sick berth attendant to whom Fingal said, “Surgeon Lieutenant O'Reilly to see the principal medical officer.”

A soft, very English voice from behind the SBA said, “Lieutenant O'Reilly? Surgeon Commander Wilcoxson. Do come in and let me show you the shop.”

7

Move from Hence to There

“It is very good to have the pair of you back, Kinky, Archie,” O'Reilly said from his usual place at the head of the table. He sipped a nearly finished after-lunch tawny port. Seeing it was a Saturday and he was not on call he saw no reason not to have a tot. He'd have preferred Jameson, but Kitty in her usual tactful, but irresistible way had hinted some months ago that perhaps he should not be starting on the hard stuff until the evenings. He lifted his glass to her where she sat on his right talking to Barry and Archie, who faced each other at the dining room table. He was rewarded by her smile.

Kinky sat on his left looking rested and a little tanned after three weeks away. “It did be a very pleasant drive home in Archie's motorcar from Newcastle yesterday. We went over on the Strangford-to-Portaferry ferryboat and up along the coast by Ballywalter and Millisle and Groomsport, so.”

“It is a pretty run,” he said. “On a good day you get a great view of the Copeland Islands.”

“And it was a very good day, bye,” she said. “We had a lovely lunch in Donaghadee overlooking the harbour. But Doctor O'Reilly, sir, after you spending all that money on us at the Slieve Donard hotel, there was no need for this homecoming luncheon.” She lowered her voice. “And if you don't mind me remarking, Kitty does be a very fine cook, if I do say so myself. There was a time I'm sorry to tell you that I misjudged the lady.”

“That's water under the bridge, and,” said O'Reilly, “I consider myself a very lucky man,” he lowered his voice, “because she's nearly as good a cook as a certain Kinky Auchinleck.”

“Go away with you, sir,” she said, but her grin was huge.

“And having lunch here simply makes sense. Didn't you go round your quarters like a bee on a hot brick the week before the wedding, tidying, organizing, cleaning, packing all the clothes and such you'd not need on your honeymoon, taking them round to Archie's?”

“I did.”

“And didn't we agree that you'd come here today and that we'd all help you pack up all the heavy things? So why would you not come here for lunch?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Donal Donnelly's coming round with a van so we can get them round to your new home.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I'm grateful.” There was an impish quality to her smile. “Whatever would people have said, though, if I'd taken everything round there before the wedding and moved in with Archie? I'd never have been able to hold my head up. Thank you for letting all my things rest here, sir, but the sooner they are out the better now.” She turned to Barry. “Doctor Laverty, I will be back here first thing on Monday to give my old home—” She sighed. “—to give my old home a final dust and a polish and then you can move in.”