Medusa

He paused then, but two gins had loosened his tongue and he went on, talking fast: ‘They don’t want to make a thing of it, tell us outright to go, but they’ve made it very clear they don’t want us here. You see, wherever we are, in this ship — any RN ship — we’re a bit of the UK. That’s what the Union flag is telling them, and they don’t like it — not now, not any more. Politically, here in Grand Harbour, we stick out like a sore thumb.’ And he added with a wry smile, ‘Our visit isn’t a bit like it was for the last frigate that showed the flag here.’

‘That was the first courtesy visit in seven years if I remember rightly,’ I said.

‘Well, not quite. The Brazen was the first ship to visit Malta after the British Forces finally left the island in 1979. She had the C-in-C Fleet embarked. Prince Charles came later with ninety thousand Maltese cheering and waving flags.’ He made a face, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That’s what the papers said anyway. And look at us, tucked away in a corner where nobody can see us, and that bloody great Russian cruiser lording it in the centre of the harbour. That’s why I had the lights rigged.’

‘I don’t think La Valette would have approved of their presence here,’ I said.

He smiled, ‘Ah, so you know what happened. More than four centuries ago and we still talk of St Elmo’s fire.’ He had read Ernie Bradford’s book, knew the whole incredible story, the astonishing bravery of the Maltese when led by men like the Knights and motivated by religious faith and the fear of being captured and sent to the Turkish galleys. ‘And now they are under the hand of another Muslim ruler.’

There was a knock at the door and a thickset, bull-headed Lieutenant Commander with greying hair entered, cap under his left arm, some papers gripped in his hand. He was a good deal older than his newly-appointed captain. His name was Robin Makewate. ‘MEO,’ Gareth said, explaining that it meant Marine Engineer Officer. It was a state-of-the-engines routine visit, and when he had gone, Gareth said, ‘He’s forty-three, started as a stoker at the age of nineteen after studying engineering at night school. Volunteered for the job here, even though he knew he’d be serving under a much younger man.’ He finished his drink, saying as he did so that it was odd being in command of a ship that was filled partly by volunteers, partly by throw-outs from the rest of the Fleet.

That wry smile again, his eyes not looking at me, not seeing anything but what was in his mind as he went on, speaking so quietly I could hardly hear him: ‘I’ve a total complement of well over two hundred, and of those, fifty-seven are volunteers. Why? I don’t know, and I’m the Captain. They don’t know, and they’re the ones who volunteered. Something dangerous, that’s all some of them have been told. There’s one or two I picked myself. The Appointers were generous in that respect — my Navigating Officer, Peter Craig. Also the SCO — that’s my Communications Officer, Lieutenant Woburn — and Tony Draycott, my Weapons Engineer Officer. I’ve also got a CPO who was at Ganges when I was there. Most of the key people, they’re volunteers, but there’s others, fifty or sixty at least, who’ve been quietly wished on me by other ships’ captains as though word had been put around that Medusa was a sort of personnel dustbin and I was a sucker on whom they could foist all the yobbos and troublemakers they wanted to be rid of. Oh, well …’ Again the wry smile, the slight shrug. ‘Let’s have some food. I’m hungry. You must be, too, listening to me.’

He called for the steward, and over the avocado and shrimp cocktail we talked of Libya and the PLO, Beirut and the effect of the Gulf War. A daily signal from Fleet Headquarters at Northwood near London plus the World News of the BBC kept him very well informed. He needed to be, I thought, tied up here like a sitting duck in a little independent country that was set in the very centre of the Mediterranean like a stepping stone to the most volatile and unreliable country in Africa. And even as I was thinking about that, full of curiosity and wondering whether I could ask him about his plans, what orders he had received, and if he was headed for Menorca next, he was called on the intercom loudspeaker. It was the Officer of the Day reporting a little crowd beginning to gather on the quay.

I got to my feet then and looked out of the nearest porthole. It was almost dark on the concrete apron, only one small light still showing at the corner of the storage shed opposite. A dozen or so figures stood silent against the corrugated metal sheeting of the shed. It was like a stage set with others drifting in from the wings in ones and twos.

‘Have you informed the First Lieutenant? They could be dockers waiting to unload. Is there a ship coming in?’

‘Not that I can see, sir, and the First Lieutenant’s trying to contact the port authorities to see if they can tell him what it’s all about.’