Read Online A Prayer for the Ship by Douglas Reeman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Reeman
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jutted defiantly. âI expect the Powers That Be can tell you the full details!â
With that she turned and walked quickly down the platform, and as the train gathered speed Royce still hung precariously from the window and watched the tiny blue figure until smoke from the ancient engine blotted out the station, and the scenery became squalid rows of small houses on the outskirts of the port.
He sank down on the worn cushions, a feeling of helplessness overcame him, and he knew for the first time the ache in his heart. All the way to town he sat restlessly staring out of the window, picking out the old landmarks, and trying to free his mind of the large brown eyes of Julia Harston. Julia: he repeated her name over and over in his mind, until it kept time with the clickerty-click of the wheels. If only he hadnât sent the telegram to his mother saying what time heâd be arriving, he could have stopped just a little longer. When the train pulled up with a last protesting lurch, he had determined to find her, wherever she was, whatever she thought of him.
He only vaguely remembered Waterloo as he struggled across its busy concourse, the blaring loudspeakers, and hundreds of hurrying servicemen. The joyous reunions, and the brave and tearful farewells, that were commonplace in a Britain at war.
An hour later he stepped down from another slow train on to the little station on the edge of Oxshott woods that he knew so well, and, as if in welcome, the daffodils in the station-masterâs garden made a colourful fanfare. The next instant, his motherâs arms were about his neck, and his father pumped his hand, while Bruce, older and fatter, but just as boisterous, lolloped about his legs. In the background, old Arthur the porter, who had been there for a lifetime, nodded and smiled.
âYouâre looking well, Clive,â said his father gruffly, and his mother merely nodded, her eyes shining.
And so, in a specially hired taxiâthey had never gone in for a carâarms linked and Bruce perched on a suitcase beside the driver, Clive Royce came home. Not the callow youth in the proud uniform who had set out less than a year ago, full of worried anticipation and eager hopes, but a quieter and older person, self-confident, an officer.
The first week of his leave was made up in dashing round visiting old family friends, as much to please his parents as anything else. In the evenings, he walked contentedly through the woods, smoking his pipe, and throwing sticks for the dog, but always at the back of his mind lurked the fears of the previous week, and once in the night he sat up in bed sweating, hearing again the rattle of the machine-guns and the awful cries of the dying. When he thought of Harston, he thought of Julia, and when he thought of her, he was always filled with the same desperate longing. He had to find her, to see her again.
The second week dwindled all too quickly, and as the days passed, his mother seemed to shrink, and become more and more attentive, and although he had never told her of the horrors of battle, she was quick to understand what had changed her son.
On the last Thursday they sat round the fire in the evening, after a late dinner, Royce feeling sure he had been forced to eat half of their rations, and talked of the future, after the war, when his father glanced at his watch, and reached for the radio.
âWonât do to miss the news, will it, dear?â he smiled. âCliveâll feel heâs getting out of touch.â
It was all the usual information, an advance here, a retreat there, air-raids in the Midlands, air-raids on Germany. And then at the end: âDuring the night, our light coastal forces have been active off the Hook of Holland, and actively engaged a number of enemy E-boats. One E-boat was sunk, and several damaged. Two of our vessels sustained some damage and casualties. Next of kin have been informed.â
His mother switched it off, and
With that she turned and walked quickly down the platform, and as the train gathered speed Royce still hung precariously from the window and watched the tiny blue figure until smoke from the ancient engine blotted out the station, and the scenery became squalid rows of small houses on the outskirts of the port.
He sank down on the worn cushions, a feeling of helplessness overcame him, and he knew for the first time the ache in his heart. All the way to town he sat restlessly staring out of the window, picking out the old landmarks, and trying to free his mind of the large brown eyes of Julia Harston. Julia: he repeated her name over and over in his mind, until it kept time with the clickerty-click of the wheels. If only he hadnât sent the telegram to his mother saying what time heâd be arriving, he could have stopped just a little longer. When the train pulled up with a last protesting lurch, he had determined to find her, wherever she was, whatever she thought of him.
He only vaguely remembered Waterloo as he struggled across its busy concourse, the blaring loudspeakers, and hundreds of hurrying servicemen. The joyous reunions, and the brave and tearful farewells, that were commonplace in a Britain at war.
An hour later he stepped down from another slow train on to the little station on the edge of Oxshott woods that he knew so well, and, as if in welcome, the daffodils in the station-masterâs garden made a colourful fanfare. The next instant, his motherâs arms were about his neck, and his father pumped his hand, while Bruce, older and fatter, but just as boisterous, lolloped about his legs. In the background, old Arthur the porter, who had been there for a lifetime, nodded and smiled.
âYouâre looking well, Clive,â said his father gruffly, and his mother merely nodded, her eyes shining.
And so, in a specially hired taxiâthey had never gone in for a carâarms linked and Bruce perched on a suitcase beside the driver, Clive Royce came home. Not the callow youth in the proud uniform who had set out less than a year ago, full of worried anticipation and eager hopes, but a quieter and older person, self-confident, an officer.
The first week of his leave was made up in dashing round visiting old family friends, as much to please his parents as anything else. In the evenings, he walked contentedly through the woods, smoking his pipe, and throwing sticks for the dog, but always at the back of his mind lurked the fears of the previous week, and once in the night he sat up in bed sweating, hearing again the rattle of the machine-guns and the awful cries of the dying. When he thought of Harston, he thought of Julia, and when he thought of her, he was always filled with the same desperate longing. He had to find her, to see her again.
The second week dwindled all too quickly, and as the days passed, his mother seemed to shrink, and become more and more attentive, and although he had never told her of the horrors of battle, she was quick to understand what had changed her son.
On the last Thursday they sat round the fire in the evening, after a late dinner, Royce feeling sure he had been forced to eat half of their rations, and talked of the future, after the war, when his father glanced at his watch, and reached for the radio.
âWonât do to miss the news, will it, dear?â he smiled. âCliveâll feel heâs getting out of touch.â
It was all the usual information, an advance here, a retreat there, air-raids in the Midlands, air-raids on Germany. And then at the end: âDuring the night, our light coastal forces have been active off the Hook of Holland, and actively engaged a number of enemy E-boats. One E-boat was sunk, and several damaged. Two of our vessels sustained some damage and casualties. Next of kin have been informed.â
His mother switched it off, and
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