Day Read Free Page A

again, then you have to start with him.
    The skipper is the one who stood behind you and a touch to starboard, stood and waited for you to know it in all that crowd, to see if you had a sense of him, had instincts. When you turned he was solemn, arms folded, staring at you, the peak of his cap leaned forward so you caught no more than a glimmer from his inspection: he was keeping mum about it, but already seeming close to satisfied. ‘You married?’ Not making fun of you with this, not intending disrespect, letting it seem that you were pals in a way and you’d had other times together and this was the end of an old conversation, the last thing to check.
    He angled his head for an instant and then you could see his eyes, what you were certain must be proper pilot’s eyes – you hadn’t a clue about anything, but they really ought to be like this: their interest too far forward and an odd temperature at their back. Later, you’d see the same in other men and you would think of the skipper, whether you wanted to or not.
    You realised he was waiting for an answer and you choked out, ‘No, sir. I’m not,’ as if you were a boy, had never touched a woman.
    And, then again, you weren’t married and you had touched only yourself and then fretted about it and you were almost infin-itely younger than you thought.
    Infinitely: a word you’d learn soon – once infinity started to drive up and breathe against you. Infinity is fond of wars, they give it a way to come in.
    â€˜No, sir. I’m not.’
    â€˜Decided I’d ask. Better to have all bachelors. Simpler. That’s my plan.’ And he takes off his cap and he reaches forward and, before you can intend this, you are bare-headed also and shaking his hand. There’s the grumble and shout of so many others round you, nudges as men pass, and you drop the grip, but are together now. He examines your face and stops you moving and you watch something hard turn in the light, light grey of his look and you feel that he’ll do what he has to, whatever that might be, and it seems he’s caught this in you, too, and is content. You will both do everything required.
    â€˜Position?’ He’s almost grinning.
    â€˜I can take mid-upper, if I have to.’
    â€˜But you’d rather not? Rather be out in the tail turret on your own.’
    â€˜You get a nicer view.’ And they kill you. You’re the one they’re most likely to kill – that’s why it’s been what you’ve wanted, from the very first time you heard. ‘I like a nice view.’ From the very first time you heard.
    â€˜Thought so.’ Said in a way that had warmth about it, when that was nothing you required – you only needed to get what you wanted, were asking to get what you wanted. And he gave it. ‘I thought I had the right man.’ And now he did grin. ‘I’m Peter Gibbs.’ He rubbed at his hair, letting you see that its colour annoyed him when he thought of it. ‘Or Sandy. For obvious reasons.’
    You had to raise your voice above a swell of noise and this had been known to make it unreliable, although at that moment you didn’t care. ‘Day, Alfred.’ Surprising yourself by saluting properly, absolutely the way they wanted, the way a well-disciplined dog might if it could. You stretched up into it, you added lustre to the service, you believed in the rank and believed in the man and believed in yourself, even yourself. After which you were embarrassed, naturally. Saluting with your cap off – how big a bloody fool could you be.
    But the skipper was easy about it as you covered your head, felt a sweat – and he was grinning again: for you, not at you. An officer’s accent, only not like an officer. ‘I do want a tight ship, Sergeant.’ This something he’s considered which he tells you to make it true. ‘But I don’t think we’ll