GOLD from CRETE Short Stories by CS FORESTER
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GOLD FROM CRETE Short Stories by C. S. FORESTER ISBN 0 330 23662 8 © Dorothy E. Forester 1971 Cecil Scott Forester was born in Cairo in 1899 and educated at Alleyn’s School and Dulwich College, afterwards studying medicine at Guy’s Hospital. His first book, a crime novel entitled Payment Deferred (1926), was very successful and was dramatized. With his first wife he went inland voyaging in a dinghy through England, France and Germany, the log being published as The Voyage of the ‘Annie Marble’, followed by The ‘Annie Marble’ in Germany (1930). In 1936-7 he was war correspondent for The Times in Spain. Others of his novels include Brown on Resolution (1929), The Gun (1933), and The Ship (1943). In The Happy Return (1937) he introduced one of the most popular heroes of modem fiction, Captain Hornblower, who appeared also in Flying Colours (1938), and A Ship of the Line (1939), which was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize. Later stories in the same series are The Commodore (1944), Lord Hornblower (1946), Mr Midshipman Hornblower (1950), and Hornblower and the ‘Atropos’ (1953). Long Before Forty (1967) is auotobiographical. C. S. Forester died in 1966. Gold from Crete The officers of HMS Apache were sizing up the Captain D. at the same time that he was doing the same to them. A Captain D. - captain commanding destroyers - was a horrible nuisance on board if, as in this case, the ship in which he elected - or was compelled by circumstances - to hoist his distinguishing pendant was not fitted as a flotilla leader. The captain needed cabin space himself, and he brought with him a quartet of staff officers who also needed cabin space. Physically, that meant that four out of the seven officers already on board the Apache would be more uncomfortable than usual, and in a destroyer that meant a great deal. More than that; morally, the effect was still more profound. It meant that with a captain on board, even if he tried not to interfere with the working of the ship, the commander and the other officers, and the lower deck ratings as well, for the matter of that, felt themselves under the scrutiny of higher authority. The captain’s presence would introduce something of the atmosphere of a big ship, and it would undoubtedly cut short the commander’s pleasure in his independent command. So Commander Hammett and his officers eyed Captain Crowe and his staff, when they met on the scorching iron deck of the Apache in Alexandria Harbour, without any appearance of hospitality. They saw a big man, tall and a little inclined to bulk, who moved with a freedom and ease that hinted at a concealed athleticism. His face was tanned so deeply that it was impossible to guess at his complexion, but under the thick black brows there were a pair of grey eyes that twinkled irrepressibly. They knew his record, of course - much of it was to be read in the rows of coloured ribbon on his chest. There was the DSO he had won as a midshipman at Zeebrugge in 1918 - before Sub-lieutenant Chesterfield had been born - and they knew that they had only to look up the official account of that action to find exactly what Crowe had done there; but everyone knew that midshipmen do not receive DSOs for nothing. The spot of silver that twinkled on the red-and-blue ribbon told of the bar he had received for the part he had played at Narvik last year - not to many men is it given to be decorated for distinguished services twenty-two years apart and still to be hardly entering on middle age. There was the red ribbon that one or two of them recognized as the Bath, and a string of other gay colours that ended in the Victory and General Service ribbons of the last war. The introductions were brief - most of the officers had at least a nodding acquaintance with one another already. Commander Hammett presented his first lieutenant, Garland, and the other officers down to Sub-lieutenants Chesterfield and Lord Edward Mortimer, RNVR - this last was a fattish and untidy man in the late thirties whose yachting experience had miraculously brought him out of Mayfair drawing-rooms and dropped him on the hard steel deck of the Apache - and Crowe indicated his flotilla gunnery officer and navigating officer and signals officer and secretary. ‘We will proceed as soon as convenient, Commander,’ said Crowe, issuing his first order. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Hammett, as twenty generations of seamen had answered before him. But at least the age of consideration given to omens had passed; it did not occur to Hammett to ponder on the significance of the fact that Crowe’s first order had been one of action. ‘Get yourselves below and sort yourselves out,’ said Crowe to his staff, and as they disappeared he walked forward and ran lightly up to the bridge. Hammett gave his orders - Crowe was glad to note that he did so without even a side glance out of the tail of his eye at the captain at the end of the bridge - and the ship broke into activity. In response to one order, the yeoman of signals on the bridge bellowed an incomprehensible string of words down to the signal bridge. It passed through Crowe’s mind that yeomen of signals were always as incomprehensible as railway porters calling out the names of stations in England, but the signal rating below understood what was said to him, which was all that mattered. A string of coloured flags ran up the halyards, and a moment later yeoman of signals was bellowing the replies received. The flagship gave permission to proceed; the fussy tug out there by the anti-submarine net began to pull open the gate. The bow was pulled in, the warps cast off. The telegraph rang, the propeller began to turn, and the Apache trembled a little as she moved away. Everything was done as competently as possible; the simple operation was a faint indication that Crowe would not have to worry about the Apache in action, but could confine his attention to the handling of his whole flotilla of twelve destroyers, if and when he should ever succeed in gathering them all together. A movement just below him caught his attention. The antiaircraft lookouts were being relieved. At the .50-calibre gun here on the starboard side a burly seaman was taking over the earphones and the glasses. He was a huge man, but all Crowe could see of him, besides his huge bulk and the top of his cap, was his cropped red hair and a wide expanse of neck and ear, burned a solid brick-red from the Mediterranean sun. Then there were a pair of thick wrists covered with dense red hair, and two vast hands that held the glasses as they swept back and forth, back and forth, over the sky from horizon to zenith in ceaseless search for hostile planes. At that moment there were six seamen employed on that task in different parts of the deck, and so exacting was the work that a quarter of an hour every hour was all that could be asked of any man. Commander Hammett turned at that moment and caught the captain’s eye. ‘Sorry to intrude on you like this, Hammett,’ said Crowe. ‘No intrusion at all, sir. Glad to have you, of course.’ Hammett could hardly say anything else, poor devil, thought Crowe, before he went on: ‘Must be a devilish nuisance being turned out of your cabin, all the same.’ ‘Not nearly as much nuisance as to the other officers, sir,’ said Hammett. ‘When we’re at sea I never get aft to my sleeping cabin at all. Turn in always in my sea cabin.’ Perfectly true, thought Crowe. No destroyer captain would think of ever going more than one jump from the bridge at sea. ‘Nice of you to spare my feelings,’ said Crowe, with a grin. It had to be said in just the right way - Crowe could guess perfectly well at Hammett’s resentment at his presence. ‘Not at all, sir,’ said Hammett briefly. Sub-lieutenant Chesterfield gave a fresh course to the quarter-master at this moment and changed the conversation. They were clear of the minefields now and almost out of sight of the low shore. The myriad Levantine spies would have a hard time to guess whither they were bound. ‘We’ll be in visual touch with the flotilla at dawn, sir,’ said Hammett. ‘Thank you. I’ll let you know if there’s any change of plan,’ replied Crowe. He ran down the naked steel ladder to the deck, and walked aft, past the quadruple torpedo tubes and the two pairs of 4.7’s towering above him. On the blast screen a monkey sat and gibbered at him, gesticulating with withered little hands. Crowe hated monkeys; he liked dogs and could tolerate cats; he had been shipmates with pets of all species from goats to baby hippopotamuses, but monkeys were his abomination. He hated the filthy little things, their manners and their habits. He ignored this one stolidly as he walked past it to the accompaniment of screamed monkey obscenities. If he were in command of this destroyer he would have seen to it that the little beast did not remain long on board to plague him; as it was, he thought ruefully to himself, as he was in the immeasurably higher position of commanding a flotilla, he would have to endure its presence for fear of hurting the feelings of those under his command.