CHAPTER ONE
The engines had stopped half an hour ago while he was strapping
up his bed-roll, and the ending of the comforting throb and
shudder had brought a sudden astonishing silence. He had stuck
a finger in his ear, cracked his jaw, shaken his head. The ship
had died. A heart-beat stilled. Then feet thudded along the
steel deck above, water lapped and swirled, someone came
clattering hurriedly down a companionway calling indistinct
orders, a metal door slammed and killed the voice. He humped
the bed-roll onto the narrow bunk which Weathersby had
vacated at first light. One thing he was glad about the trip
ending was no more Weathersby. He hadn’t liked him from the
moment they had picked him up, halfway down the coast, at
Penang . Pasty-faced, small, veined hands, issue-glasses, nervous,
dull. He had hardly ever spoken on the rest of the voyage, lost
in Forever Amber, until last night when he had left the wardroom
with a whispered ‘Goodnight, going to pack…’ and
they’d all sighed with relief. Someone said he was like an albatross – but they at least had dignity.
Rooke reached up, took his washing-bag and drew the string
tight. Above his head ropes hissed and rasped and, as the ship
swung gently against the dock, nudging it softly like a flirt, a
column of sunlight sprang through the porthole, raking the
bulkhead with glittering ripples of reflected water, probing across
the rusting bolts and hasty welding of the steel plates; an oval
spotlight in a provincial pantomime looking for the Demon King.
He stuffed the wash-bag, his diary and a full tin of State
Express cigarettes into his hold-all, buttoned it firmly and slung
it over a shoulder. The ship lurched suddenly as it struck the
wooden dockside, and juddered to a final stop. Slowly he traced
his finger across the stencilled name faded into the canvas bedroll.
How new it had aU looked six years ago in the Army &
Navy Stores in Victoria. Now soiled and rain-stained, the
leather straps scuffed , buckles dulled ; a loyal, welcoming companion
from Arromanches to Cox’s Bazar. The once bold
figures of his rank, name and number fading into the worn buff
canvas. Capt. B. A. Rooke. 269237.
