H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Commander Godden had seemed pleasant enough. Jovial, full of vague encouragement, yet rather distant, as if his mind was elsewhere.

  Chesnaye had returned to his own mess by a roundabout route, and met his own sort in the process of starting their Sunday meal. He had to sit on his tin chest because there were not enough chairs, but he had not minded. He had been too busy watching and listening.

  There was Beaushears, who at this moment was snoring painfully just two feet away from him, his feet whitely protruding from the end of his hammock. A tall, deceptively languid young man, with the far-seeing eyes of an adventurer, he had casually introduced the others.

  ‘This quiet one is Bob Maintland. Plays good squash, but if you’ve a sister you’d better watch him!’

  With a fork he had pointed to the cheerful gnome sitting opposite Chesnaye. ‘Meet “Eggy” Bacon. Talks first, thinks later!’

  The one addressed had merely grinned, showing a double rank of very small pointed teeth, and then turned his attention back to a tattered notebook which he was obviously studying.

  Beaushears had observed: ‘Better take the book off the table before the Master arrives. He can’t bear anything which might distract from his fascinating conversation!’ Then in his normal drawl, ‘And this is “Ticky” White, so called because he is always scratching.’

  White had been on duty on the quarterdeck when Chesnaye had arrived, and even now bore the red mark of his cap printed across his forehead. He was a pale uncertain-looking youth with jet-black hair and restless, very deepset eyes. He shrugged and nodded to Chesnaye. ‘I’m too tired to find a witty answer. A few hours with that maniac Hogarth drains me of human kindness!’

  Beaushears smiled. ‘And of course you have already met the genius of the Saracen, Keith Pickles.’

  Chesnaye saw the small midshipman jerk out of his thoughts and look across with confusion. ‘Oh, er, yes.’ Pickles seemed at a loss. ‘Hope you’ve settled in.’ He had been about to add something more when the Sub-Lieutenant had entered.

  Now, in the same gunroom, but in the unreal security of the hammock, Chesnaye tried to picture Pringle once more. He had the build and movement of a rugby player. Very big, glowing with health and surprisingly fast on his feet.

  ‘Well, all sitting down!’ Pringle had hurled himself into the big chair at the head of the table, his eyes already fixed on Chesnaye. ‘Ah, the new boy. Good. Common practice to report to me immediately upon joining ship.’ He spoke in sharp, almost breathless stacatto. ‘Still, you’re not to know. But in this ship ignorance is no excuse.’ He snatched a spoon and dug into the soup even as the messman Lukey had placed it before him. Between noisy mouthfuls he continued in the same expressionless voice: ‘Good, then let me see. What’s next.’ He lifted his pale eyebrows with theatrical concern. ‘Ah, yes!’ He turned to stare at Pickles.

  ‘Another complaint about your boat-handling from Lieutenant Hogarth!’ He shook his head so that the overhead light glistened on his cropped blond hair. ‘Tch, tch! The honour of the gunroom soiled again.’

  Chesnaye was about to grin when he realised that the others were staring stonily in front of them or busily engaged with their soup. Except Pickles. He stared at Pringle with the look of a mesmerised rabbit.

  Pringle added: ‘You really are hopeless, you know. We can’t have our new member getting the wrong idea, now can we?’ Then in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the whole matter was of no importance, ‘Now what’s it to be this time?’ He waited, and even Chesnaye was conscious of the silence. The clatter of dishes in the small pantry had ceased, and he could imagine Lukey and Betts listening to Pickles’ answer.

  Pringle threw back his head. ‘Take this plate away!’ His voice, too, was powerful.

  As Lukey flitted across the gunroom he asked: ‘Now, Pickles, you’ve not answered? D’you want to absolve your stupidity with gloves on? If so, we can settle it immediately after grub, eh?’

  Chesnaye still hardly believed what he had witnessed. A great brute like Pringle offering to take on Pickles in combat. He could have killed him with one hand and blindfolded.

  Pringle had eventually nodded with apparent satisfaction. ‘Right. Punishment Number Two. Immediately after lunch.’

  Chesnaye twisted on to his side, his eyes wide in the darkness. Punishment Number Two had entailed a cruel and systematic beating with the leather scabbard of a midshipman’s dirk.

  Pickles had bent across the table opposite Pringle before Chesnaye had realised the true meaning of the punishment. Each midshipman had taken the scabbard in turn and had given Pickles three strokes across the buttocks, a total of fifteen blows.

  When it was Chesnaye’s turn Pringle had said evenly: ‘Lay it on hard, Chesnaye. If you don’t we keep going round and round again until I am satisfied!’

  Chesnaye still felt the nausea of those blows, as if he himself had been beaten.

  Later he had tried to speak to Pickles, but even now he was out once more in his picket boat, no doubt ferrying some of the last-minute requirements before sailing.

  The monitor had her orders. The Mediterranean. It should have been the moment for which he had waited so long. Away from the land, away from home and all that it had entailed.

  He tried to exclude himself from what had happened, but he could not. He tried to tell himself that Pickles was inefficient, but inwardly he knew he was no different from any other midshipman suddenly pushed into the hard system of the Navy.

  Beyond the steel hull the water rippled and surged against the tough plating while overhead the sentries paced the quarterdeck and peered into the darkness of the harbour.

  Tomorrow was another start. It might all be different when the ship was at sea.

  He thought of Pickles’ face, and wondered.

  2

  No Survivors

  Richard Chesnaye paused at the foot of the steel bridge ladder and stood momentarily looking up at the overcast sky. Six bells of the Morning Watch had just been struck, and already he could feel the tremor of excitement which seemed to run through the deck of the moored monitor itself. He began to climb, conscious of the darkness which still shrouded the harbour and the hard chill in the air. The wind had fallen away, and below him, just visible beyond the ship’s side, he could see the flat oily current which surged into the harbour, now unbroken by whitecaps, but strong and threatening for all that.

  The ship’s bridge structure, pale grey against the dark clouds, seemed to overhang him like a cliff. As he climbed higher he saw the compartments and platforms alive with anonymous figures, busy and absorbed in the preparations for getting under way. Soon I will know all these faces, he thought.

  The strident notes of a marine’s bugle had urged the men to their stations. ‘Special Sea Dutymen close up!’ And now, like himself, the ship’s company had fanned throughout the gently pulsating hull like small parts of a giant and intricate machine.

  He reached the wide navigating bridge and slithered across the coaming into a small world of calm and orderly preparation.

  From the moment the hands had been called from their hammocks Chesnaye had been on the move. In the black confusion of dawn he had followed Sub-Lieutenant Pringle’s massive shape as he had strode the upper deck, pointing out all the various places of immediate importance to a new midshipman. There was so much to remember.

  For entering and leaving harbour Chesnaye’s place was on the navigating bridge. He had to study and assist the Officer of the Watch and generally make himself useful. At Action Stations he was also on the bridge, but would attach himself to the Signals Department and the specialists who assisted the Gunnery Officer. For, unlike normal warships, additional signalmen were required to converse with forces ashore when a bombardment was being carried out.

  In harbour, apart from his divisional duties, Chesnaye was to have charge of one of the oared whalers.

  Pringle had pointed to the sleek boat high in its davits and said offhandedly: ‘You should be able to manage that.
But if Pickles does not improve you’ll be getting his picket boat!’

  A figure loomed out of the gloom. It was Midshipman Beaushears, who also had a station on the navigating bridge.

  ‘You found your way, then, Dick?’ His languid voice was hoarse, and Chesnaye could see his breath like steam in the damp air.

  ‘What happens now?’ Chesnaye found that he was whispering.

  ‘Just keep quiet and get out of everyone’s way!’

  Chesnaye grinned and stood back from the quiet bustle of figures around him. As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom he was able to watch every piece of the open bridge, which he knew he would soon recognise in complete darkness.

  It was almost square in shape, with a raised compass platform dead in the centre. The front and sides were lined with voice-pipes which seemed to keep up an incessant chatter, and on either wing of the bridge was mounted a massive searchlight. Behind him the bridge opened into a dimly lighted charthouse where he could see Lieutenant Travis, the Navigator, leaning across a glass-topped table, a pair of brass dividers in his hands, his small beard almost skimming the chart itself.

  Overhead, black and solid like an additional bridge, the great steel mass of the Upper Control Top was supported by all three legs of the tripod mast. From there Chesnaye knew that when Saracen’s turn came to fight the gunnery staff would plot and record every shot, every hit and miss, despite what carnage might be spread below them.

  Commander Godden’s bulky shape moved to the forepart of the bridge. He stood on one of the newly scrubbed gratings and rested his hands on the bridge screen. His head and chest rose easily above the thin strip of canvas dodger which still glinted with a thin layer of frost, and he looked ponderously solid, like the ship beneath his straddled legs.

  Without warning a sliver of grey light lanced across the harbour, a pathetic attempt to force the night to relinquish its hold. The ship’s shape seemed to harden and faces took on personality and meaning.

  Chesnaye ventured a glance over the screen. Below him, like its counterpart on the other side of the bridge, the signal platform was stark against the fast-moving water. He could see the watchful signalman and the neat racks of gaily coloured bunting. A tall Yeoman of Signals was peering through his telescope towards the dockyard.

  It was surprising how much bigger the ship seemed from up here. The paleness of the freshly scrubbed decks seemed to sweep away far into the distance, so that he felt strangely secure. He watched the white blobs of the seamen’s bare feet and wondered how they managed to ignore the bitter cold, and saw too the last boat being swung inboard by the big power hoist. The buoy-jumpers had been picked from the lurching buoy under the monitor’s bows, the cable unshackled, and now only a thin wire remained reeved through the weed-encrusted ring. The last link with the land.

  Far ahead beyond the tapering muzzles of the two great guns he could faintly make out the bustling activity of the cable party, and the stringy shape of Lieutenant Hogarth, who was silhouetted against the guard-rail, his pale face turned upwards towards the bridge.

  A bell jangled with sudden urgency, and a seaman reported, ‘Engine room standing by, sir!’

  Godden nodded absently. ‘Very good.’

  Flat, disinterested voices, yet Chesnaye could feel the excitement running through him like wine.

  Godden peered at his watch. ‘Tell the Bosun to pipe all hands for leaving harbour.’ A small pause. ‘Mister Beaushears. My respects to the Captain. Tell him it is ten minutes off the time to slip.’

  Chesnaye watched his companion slip away and be swallowed up in the grey steel.

  Another voice said, ‘All dutymen closed up for leaving harbour, sir.’

  Godden shrugged and said testily, ‘I should bloody well hope so!’

  Chesnaye could feel the freshening quiver of the gratings under his feet, and turned to watch a thickening plume of smoke thrust itself over the rim of the funnel. A brief gust of wind plucked the smoke downwards so that he coughed and dabbed at his streaming eyes. Oil or coal, funnel smoke still tasted foul, he thought.

  There was a brief rustle of excitement and then silence, Without looking Chesnaye knew that the Captain had arrived. Cautiously he watched the small figure move to the front of the bridge and place himself squarely in the centre.

  ‘Ship ready to proceed, sir.’ Godden’s voice sounded different.

  ‘Very well. Sound off.’

  Chesnaye heard no order passed, but below him a bugle shrilled across the dark harbour, and he could hear the slap of bare feet as the men fell into ranks for leaving harbour.

  ‘Signal from tower, sir!’ The Yeoman’s harsh voice lifted easily across the screen. ‘Proceed!’

  Godden coughed quietly. ‘I have already signalled the two tugs, sir. They are standing by.’

  Royston-Jones craned his head, first to peer at the two bulky shapes which idled in the froth of their own paddles, and then to stare at his commander.

  ‘Tugs?’ His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to reach even Chesnaye. ‘Since when have I required tugs?’

  Godden said at length: ‘Strong tide this morning, sir. And very poor light.’ He seemed to dry up.

  ‘I am aware of that, thank you. The Coxswain is on the wheel. He knows what to do without a whole bombardment of orders and alterations of course!’

  Chesnaye bit his lip. Another bad start.

  The Captain adjusted the glasses about his neck. ‘Stand by!’ He lifted the glasses to peer astern at the dockyard, which seemed to swing around a motionless ship. Irritably he added: ‘One of the quarterdeck party is out of the rig of the day, Commander! Take his name, and deal with it!’

  Chesnaye was almost fretting with suppressed excitement. How could this man bother his head with such trivial matters at a time like this? A petty officer scurried away in search of the culprit caught accidentally in the Captain’s vision.

  ‘Slow ahead together!’ The bells jangled, and the bridge began to vibrate. ‘Slip!’

  There was a hoarse bark of orders from the fo’c’sle, and Chesnaye heard the rasp of wire as the last mooring flew through the buoy-ring and was hauled aboard by the madly running seamen.

  Faintly but audibly Hogarth’s voice came from the bows, ‘All gone forrard, sir!’

  Caught in the current, the wide-hulled monitor slewed untidily in the fast water, her stern already pointing towards Gosport, her bows swinging fast across the harbour entrance.

  A messenger standing near Chesnaye sucked his teeth. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Royston-Jones lowered his head to one of the voice-pipes. ‘Watch her head, Coxswain!’

  Chesnaye knew that the coxswain of a ship was always entrusted with handling the wheel at the most important and difficult moments. Without orders he was usually left to steer his ship straight for the harbour entrance, and thus avoid the delay of repeating and passing orders.

  Godden shifted uneasily. ‘Still paying off, sir.’

  The Captain grunted. ‘Half ahead port!’

  The additional power sent a wake of white froth streaming after their unwieldy charge, no doubt followed with moments the blunt bows swung back towards the narrow harbour mouth.

  ‘Slow ahead together!’ Royston-Jones’ right foot was tapping very quietly on the grating. ‘Make a signal to our escorts to take up station in thirty minutes.’

  Somewhere astern two destroyers would already be slinking after their unwieldy charge, no doubt followed with some ribald comment from their consorts.

  Godden watched the pale walls of Fort Blockhouse sliding past. They looked near enough to touch, and he glanced quickly at the Captain’s impassive face. It was as if he were steering close inshore deliberately. Any other warship of comparable tonnage would have scraped one of those vicious little black rocks by now. Godden watched the fast-rising tide as it surged through the glinting line of teeth below the fort.

  ‘Fo’c’sle secured for sea, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Fall out the h
ands, and stand by to exercise Action Stations. I want every man checked at his station.’

  ‘That has been done, sir.’ It was the Commander’s responsibility, and Godden’s voice was defiant.

  ‘Well, do it again!’ The Captain hoisted himself into the tall wooden chair which was bolted in the forepart of the bridge. ‘And Commander, don’t forget to signal to your tugs.’ There was the briefest pause. ‘Otherwise they might follow me to Gibraltar!’

  * * * * *

  The third day out from Portsmouth found the Saracen almost across the Bay of Biscay, with the westerly tip of Spain some hundred miles on the port bow. Crossing the Bay had been uncomfortable if not actually rough. With a following sea and a stiff wind, which veered from one northern point to another, the ungainly monitor made heavy going across the endless shoulders of white rollers, when even her ninety-foot beam seemed incapable of preventing a motion so violent that at times it felt as if the ship would never right herself. The following rollers would build up beneath the rounded stern so that the quarterdeck lifted until it appeared to be level with the corkscrewing bridge, then with a violent yawing heave the whole hull would lift its flat bottom stern first over the crest and sink heavily into the next glass-sided trough. Seamen dragged themselves round the upper deck checking and re-lashing the jerking equipment and boats, while the men off watch lay wretchedly in their hammocks, eyes closed so as not to see the oilskins and loose clothing as they swung away from bulkheads, hovered for endless seconds and then canted back through another impossible angle.