by John Masters
The yeoman of signals, swaying to the motion of the cruiser, one arm braced round a steel stay, telescope fast to his eye, said, ‘No flag, sir … She’s hoisting one now … American.’
‘Looks like a bulk cargo ship to me, sir,’ Tom said. ‘A Yank taking wheat to Bergen, perhaps.’
The captain said, ‘Signal to her by lamp to report name, registry, destination, and cargo.’
The yeoman went to the signal lamp. The shutter clacked in Morse, at first rapidly then more slowly, as the merchantman asked for repeats. ‘By the time we get the answer,’ Leach muttered, ‘the range will be down to 6000 or less.’
‘All positions closed up at action stations, sir,’ the First Lieutenant said, bounding on to the bridge.
‘Guns, bring all guns to bear on her that can. Quartermaster, steer parallel to her, until she answers.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Revolutions for 8 knots … Guns, stand by to open fire if her sides drop or she makes any other hostile movement – but only on my order: When the Yanks stop being too proud to fight, it’s the Huns we want them to light into, not us.’
The ships continued on parallel courses, heading northeast. The seas were surging up over the port quarter of both vessels now, the sterns lifting, and both were rolling severely.
The yeoman said, ‘Answering, sir … Susquehanna … Philadelphia registry … Baltimore to Rotterdam … iron ore … has Letter of Assurance.’
Leach stared fixedly at the merchant ship for a full minute, then snapped, ‘Signal her to heave to. Fifteen knots. Close the range to five hundred yards.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Twenty minutes later, both ships stopped in the water, Leach said, ‘Number One, take the cutter over and check her. Take a signalman and half a dozen armed seamen as well.’
‘Aye, aye, sir! … Away cutter’s crew!’
‘Keep the guns on her, Guns. If she’s going to do anything silly, it will be in the next few minutes.’
The cruiser wallowed in the waves while the davits swung out and the cutter, its crew seated in it, was lowered into the water. The rolling was severe and the boat was twice lowered into the sea, and twice raised out by the high lurch of the cruiser before the falls could be slipped and the cutter released to float away clear, as the First Lieutenant gave the order, ‘Give way together!’ and the crew began pulling.
‘Slow ahead,’ Leach ordered. ‘Keep us circling slowly, quartermaster, at this range. I want to get a good look all round her.’
The cutter rose on the towering crests, sank out of sight, rose again, as the stiff, choppy navy stroke carried it towards the merchantman. After ten minutes it reached the other’s lee side, and through the telescope Tom saw the First Lieutenant and the armed seamen swing up the Jacob’s Ladder that had been lowered for them, while the boat crew remained in the cutter.
The cruiser swung on round. It had made a full circle now and was back in its original position, its 6-inch guns turning as the ship turned, always pointed at the merchantman.
Fifteen minutes passed and Leach muttered, ‘Why doesn’t he tell us something?’
The yeoman said, ‘They’re on the bridge, now, sir.’ A lamp started flashing, much faster than before, and the yeoman began to read aloud. ‘Name, registry, cargo verified … suspect Letter of Assurance forged.’
‘Iron ore’s unconditional contraband,’ Leach muttered, ‘but if that Letter of Assurance is genuine, we’ll be in trouble. Blast those damned Yanks!’
‘There are a lot of Germans in America, sir. German descent, I mean,’ Tom said.
Leach took a turn along the bridge and back, then – ‘Yeoman, signal the First Lieutenant – remain on board with boarding party. Proceed to Scapa, return cutter … Pilot, make out a signal to the admiral. You can reach Scapa, can’t you?’
‘Just, sir. But they may not be able to reach the flagship.’
‘I know … Show it to me before ciphering.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The cutter was already on its way back. Tom watched it through the glass, shaking his head in admiration of the crew’s boat work. They were mostly Newfoundlanders, ‘Newfies’ as the matlos called them – men who had left their Grand Banks trawlers and bleak farms on the outbreak of war and rushed to the Mother Country. They were unsurpassed small boat men and handled the heavy cutter in this sea as though it were a skiff in a flat calm. Penrith had received a score of them when she’d passed from the South Atlantic to this northern patrol work, to replace regular seamen posted to newly built ships.
Half an hour later the cutter was back at the davit-heads, well secured against the cruiser’s rolling. ‘Port five,’ Leach said. ‘Course north 45 west, revolutions for 13 knots … Secure from action stations. You have the ship, Johnson. I’m going to get something to eat.’
Tom was checking men’s records of service in his cabin, early the following morning, when he heard Leach call from the quarterdeck outside, ‘Ship’s boat sighted, Tom.’
Tom dropped his pen and ran forward after the captain, feeling the ship alter course as he went. The seas had not abated during the night, and here, at the eastern end of their patrol line, the Norwegian mountains could be clearly seen ahead, their snowy flanks catching the first stabbings of the sun. Ragged clouds raced fast and low overhead. The wind had backed a little, into the south-west.
The lifeboat was nearly a mile away, dead ahead now, rising and falling on the great waves. No oars were manned, but several huddled forms could be made out.
‘Sea anchor’s out,’ Leach said, binoculars to his eyes. ‘Keeping head to sea nicely … How many men can you make out, Yeoman?’
‘Six, sir … One’s standing up. He’s waving.’
‘Stop both engines! Away seaboat’s crew! … Number One … oh, he’s on the Yank, isn’t he?’
‘I’ll go, sir,’ Tom said.
‘Good man. Looks as though you’d better transfer them into the whaler.’
Tom hurried down from the bridge. The whaler was already lowered level with the deck, and ratings jumping into it. He followed, and sat in the stern sheets, staring at the approaching lifeboat. The name on the bow was Chanteclere, Liverpool. A British ship. Three of the men in it were on their feet now, their mouths wide, probably cheering, but the sounds were blown away on the wind. There was something strange about the head shape of one sitting in the stern sheets next to the man at the tiller, who must be the captain, or at least the senior officer in the lifeboat. Two more were propped up in the well, heads rolling – either unconscious or nearly so.
‘The one next to the tiller’s a woman, sir,’ Bennett cried excitedly.
On the bridge Leach manoeuvred the cruiser, now almost stopped, so that her bulk sheltered the lifeboat from the wind and the worst of the spray from the surface waves, though nothing could protect either of them from the heave and thrust of the underlying rollers. At a cable’s distance, he ordered the whaler to be slipped. Tom barked his orders and the whaler pulled towards the lifeboat. When they were close he ordered, ‘Way ’nough!’ while a seaman in the bow stood ready with a boathook.
Tom called across, ‘We’ll take you all in here!’
The man at the tiller stood up, and said, ‘Captain Woodcock, Master of the Chanteclere.’
‘Glad to meet you, captain,’ Tom said. This was no time or place for formalities; he thought; but the old merchant skipper, a small man of sixty or more, was now introducing his wife. Tom said, ‘Glad to meet you, Mrs Woodcock … Here, give the lady a hand across, Bennett.’
The woman got up, swaying easily to the motion, and barked in a strong Lancashire accent, ‘Me? Ah was dancing across the gunnels of whalers at sea afore you was born, yoong man.’ She stepped easily across, carrying a small bundle of belongings, and a tortoiseshell cat.
Then the crews got the sick men across into the whaler, followed by the rest. Finally the skipper shouted. ‘You’ll be wanting the boat sunk?’
�
��Please,’ Tom said, for that was standard procedure; abandoned lifeboats could not be allowed to drift about the seas, a menace in themselves and always liable to waste the time and attention of warship captains.
The skipper undid the bilge screw and, as the green Atlantic rushed in, stepped up on to a thwart and thence into the whaler. At once Tom called, ‘Ready? … Give way together!’
At Penrith’s side the falls hung close to the heaving sea and it was the work of a few seconds only to hook the whaler on to them. At once the watch on deck, manning the falls, hoisted the whaler with all its crew and passengers back on board. Many hands helped the merchant seamen down to the deck.
A surge of power shuddered through the cruiser and she resumed speed and course. Three minutes later Captain Leach appeared, his hand out, ‘Welcome aboard.’
The Master shook the hand slowly. ‘Mr Woodcock, captain. You know the name of my ship. We were sunk by a Hun raider.’
Leach said, ‘Were you, by God? Are you feeling strong enough to come to the charthouse with me for a few minutes?’
‘I am that.’
‘Bo’sun, see that Mrs Woodcock is taken to my cabin and made comfortable. And the men to the messdeck … these two to the sick bay … Tom, you come with us.’
In the charthouse behind the bridge Leach put one hand on the charts spread on the big table. Lieutenant de Saumarez was already there, standing to one side. Leach said, ‘Show us where we are now, Pilot.’
De Saumarez made a small pencilled cross on the chart – ‘Here, sir.’
‘Where were you when you were set adrift, skipper?’
Mr Woodcock bent over the chart, his stubby forefinger moving – ‘’Twas the day before yesterday … eleven in the morning. We hadn’t taken the noon sight … there, within twenty miles.’
‘The Chanteclere was sunk there?’
‘Yes. They gave us time to launch our two boats … we lost touch with the other one during the first night. It was heavy weather.’
‘It was. We had a rough time even in this tub. Can you describe the raider?’
‘Single funnel, about six thousand tons, general cargo derricks, wells fore and aft, midships bridge structure, black hull, white upperworks, rusty … some timber lashed on the foredeck, name Oslofjord, Stavanger … That was false, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘The wells are hidden by dropsides. Behind them there’s a 4.7, or about that, in each well … We were passing each other, close, and she just dropped her sides and opened fire at once, without warning, and put a shell in our engine room first shot.’
‘Did you have wireless?’
‘The Gemmell and Hudson Line give their ships wireless? Too tight-fisted for that by a long chalk, captain.’
‘So there’s been no report about this … unless someone picked up your other boat?’
The master shook his head slowly, ‘I’m afraid that’s not likely. The Good Lord may have saved them, but I doubt it. We were very lucky to get through that first night. God’s hand was on us, captain.’
‘Yes. Which way did the raider go when she left you?’
‘She boarded us after three shots, when we were stopped. They opened the sea cocks. Their skipper didn’t want to waste any ammunition, the officer who boarded us told me … Then we were ordered to leave, with nothing but our clothes, and a chart. Each lifeboat already had a compass stowed on board … We watched my ship sink – she went down stern first … while the raider headed north-west. She was doing about twelve knots. But just before we lost sight of her, I think she changed course to south-west … the wind was blowing the smoke so hard, I couldn’t tell for sure.’
‘Work that out, Pilot,’ Leach said.
De Saumarez, poring over the chart, began manipulating his slide rule and in a few minutes drew a circle on the chart, ‘He can’t be far outside this, sir. It’s a pretty big area, though.’
‘Nearly to the Shetlands. And he might have doubled back, and be quite close,’ Leach said thoughtfully ‘Prepare a signal to the admiral with all the information we have. Tom, take the ship for a bit. We’ll head west at twenty-three knots for three hours, or until we get instructions from Flag.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘I’m going to move into my sea cabin, so the skipper and his wife can have mine.’
Orders from the Rear Admiral commanding the 10th Cruiser Squadron, which was the force carrying out the northern blockade, came two hours later, as Penrith plunged westward at near her full speed; and Warner reported that at this speed, she’d have to head for Scapa after another thirty-six hours. The orders instructed Penrith, the only real warship of the squadron, together with the next ship to the westward in the patrol line, which was the armed merchant cruiser Almanzor, once of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company, to search southward from their present positions until dusk of the following day. Two destroyers from Scapa had been ordered to proceed to the north-westward with all dispatch. If the raider was in the search area there was a good chance of one of the four ships intercepting her during the next thirty-six hours.
Tom and Leach shared control of the ship, with officers of the watch also on the bridge, in rotation. The crew were not kept at action stations, but Leach doubled the look-outs. Seas broke heavily over the cruiser without cease, bursting like bombs against a cliff in giant bursts of spray on the starboard bow, hurling tons of salt water at the forward turret, and soaking everyone on the bridge. She was taking a beating, shuddering under the ceaseless blows, shaking her screws in the air, vibrating wildly. They saw nothing all day. Or through the long night, when all guns were manned except those on the lower deck, which could not be, for they were often under water.
Coronel again, Tom thought … these bloody ships are badly designed … but there was no German fleet anywhere at sea.
As dawn broke over the same endless tossing, heaving sea, Leach said, ‘All right, Tom. Time you had a kip … we’ll get plenty of warning now.’
Tom saluted and went below to his cabin, flung himself on his bunk, without taking off even his sea boots, and instantly fell asleep.
He awoke two hours later, refreshed, feeling less tired than he had since the patrol began. The scuttle and its steel deadlight were screwed down, so he switched on the electric light. He ought to go up … but in daylight the Old Man could leave the bridge to the officer of the watch … he ought to get a bite of breakfast … but he wasn’t hungry.
He kicked off his sea boots, opened his duffel coat, and lay back again on the bunk, his hands clasped behind his head. After a while he found himself thinking of Dick Yeoman. He could see his face now, and his sturdy boy’s body, by the mantelpiece in the flat that evening … the same evening they’d seen Russell Wharton, and Guy had said that he was one of … them … us? Yeoman had changed now to Bennett, and Tom felt an erection growing inside his trousers. It was no use pretending otherwise – it was caused by thinking of Bennett, a sailor in his own ship, his messenger, the man who’d dogged his feet on duty for thirteen or fourteen months now and, gradually, slowly, taken possession of his mind. He clenched his teeth and pressed his fingernails fiercely into the palms. A low groan escaped him.
Ordinary Seaman Bennett came in, a message in one hand, and said, ‘Commander, sir …’ He stopped, looking into Tom’s eyes, the eyes meeting. His lips parted. He had a new black eye, the colour just coming. His hand went out slowly, with the message. The back of his hand just brushed the outside of Tom’s trousers. Tom whispered, ‘Where did you get the black eye?’ his voice shaking, his heart pounding.
Bennett said, ‘The fellows rag me because of my eyelashes. Dusty Miller called me a nance. I punched his nose, he gave me one in the eye … Sometimes I don’t think life’s worth living.’ His voice was as low as Tom’s, and throbbing, his eyes damp. His hand rested on Tom’s trousers.
Tom whispered, ‘Go away, Charlie … for God’s sake.’
At twelve noon, Tom and the captain both being on the
bridge, Penrith steaming south at eighteen knots, the sea much abated, visibility less than three miles on account of driving rain and low cloud, the navyphone in front of the captain boomed. ‘Signal from Almanzor, sir – suspicious vessel in sight, investigating.’
Almost immediately the yeoman of signals said suddenly, ‘Gunfire, sir!’
‘Where?’ Leach said. ‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘Listen, sir!’ The yeoman swung his head this way and that. The wind whistled through the signal halyards, seas rolled noisily down the steel length of the ship, metal clanged against metal.
‘I hear it, sir,’ the officer of the watch said. ‘Several guns firing – from green four five, I think.’
Leach said, ‘I’ve got it now … more a thudding than a real sound. It’s coming down wind so we might hear it from thirty miles or more … Course north 130 west, Skyring … Chief, give her all you can. We hear firing.’
From the engine room Tom heard Warner’s tinny voice, ‘You’ll get it, sir.’
The yeoman said, ‘Signal from Almanzor, sir … Am engaging enemy raider, course north … and his position.’
‘Give it to the Navigating Officer, and tell him to plot it.’
Tom stood back in the leeward corner of the bridge. He did not want to see anyone, or be seen. He had buried his head as far back into the hood of the duffel coat as it would go. The events of the morning kept running through his head like a film in one of those moving picture houses, but the projecting machine was running the same pictures backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards … He had crossed a boundary – the frontier he had come so close to with Dick Yeoman, when Charlie Arbuthnot had called from the Admiralty. He and Bennett were caught in the same web. They were both miserable – the one mocked by the lower deck, the other sneered at by such as Warner and Brandt. They had no one to turn to for understanding and affection, except each other. But Bennett was an OD and he himself a commander. They were jammed into a warship with hundreds of others – no privacy, no place … and no sympathy.