Captain Vallery suggests Brooks is one of these.
I agree."
"I see, gentlemen, I see," Starr said heavily.
Two spots of colour burned high up on his cheekbones. "The convoy has sailed from Halifax, and my hands are tied.
But you make a great mistake, gentlemen, a great mistake, in pointing pistols at the head of the Admiralty.
We have long memories in Whitehall.
We shall-ah-discuss the matter at length on your return.
Good-day, gentlemen, good-day."
Shivering in the sudden chill, Brooks clumped down the ladder to the upper deck and turned for'ard past the galley into the Sick Bay.
Johnson, the Leading Sick Bay Attendant, looked out from the dispensary.
"How are our sick and suffering, Johnson?" Brooks inquired. "Bearing up manfully?" Johnson surveyed the eight beds and their occupants morosely.
"Just a lot of bloody chancers, sir.
Half of them are a damned sight fitter than I am.
Look at Stoker Riley there, him with the broken finger and whacking great pile of Reader's Digests.
Going through all the medical articles, he is, and roaring out for sulpha, penicillin and all the latest antibiotics.
Can't pronounce half of them.
Thinks he's dying."
"A grievous loss," the Surgeon-Commander murmured. He shook his head. "What Commander Dodson sees in him I don't know...What's the latest from hospital?"
The expression drained out of Johnson's face.
"They're just off the blower, sir," he said woodenly. "Five minutes ago.
Ordinary Seaman Ralston died at three o'clock."
Brooks nodded heavily.
Sending that broken boy to hospital had only been a gesture anyway.
Just for a moment he felt tired, beaten.
"Old Socrates," they called him, and he was beginning to feel his age these days, and a bit more besides. Maybe a good night's sleep would help, but he doubted it.
He sighed. "Don't feel too good about all this, Johnson, do you?"
"Eighteen, sir.
Exactly eighteen." Johnson's voice was low, bitter." I've just been talking to Burgess, that's him in the next bed.
Says Ralston steps out across the bathroom coaming, a towel over his arm.
A mob rushes past, then this bloody great ape of a bootneck comes tearing up and bashes him over the skull with his rifle.
Never knew what hit him, sir, and he never knew why."
Brooks smiled faintly. "That's what they call-ah-seditious talk, Johnson," he said mildly.
"Sorry, sir.
Suppose I shouldn't, it's just that I------"
"Never mind, Johnson.
I asked for it.
Can't stop anyone from thinking.
Only, don't think out loud.
It's, it's prejudicial to naval discipline... I think your friend Riley wants you.
Better get him a dictionary."
He turned and pushed his way through the surgery curtains.
A dark head, all that could be seen behind the dentist's chair, twisted round.
Johnny Nicholls, Acting Surgeon Lieutenant, rose quickly to his feet, a pile of report cards dangling from his left hand.
"Hallo, sir.
Have a pew."
Brooks grinned. "An excellent thing, Lieutenant Nicholls, truly gratifying, to meet these days a junior officer who knows his place.
Thank you, thank you."
He climbed into the chair and sank back with a groan, fiddling with the neck-rest.
"If you'll just adjust the foot-rest, my boy... so.
Ah, thank you."