H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Chesnaye said calmly, ‘I don’t see that we have any choice, Number One.’

  Erskine tightened his jaw. ‘We’ll be close inshore for two or three days, sir. It could be fatal.’

  Chesnaye shrugged lightly. ‘It could.’

  They all fell silent, so that the throb of engines intruded into the cramped cabin and they could hear the scrape of feet from the bridge and the creak of the steering gear.

  A lonely, darkened ship, Chesnaye thought. Steering beneath an arch of bright stars which reflected so clearly on the flat sea.

  He shifted irritably. ‘Lay off the new course, Pilot. We’ll close Tobruk tomorrow at dusk.’ He eyed the Navigating Officer bleakly. ‘Make a double check on recognition signals. I don’t want a salvo from our own troops!’

  Fox nodded. He at least did not appear surprised at Chesnaye’s decision.

  Erskine repeated, ‘It’s a bad risk, sir.’

  ‘It’s a bad piece of organisation, John. The men who should be in the desert are in Greece at this moment!’

  Erskine looked at him with surprise. ‘But, sir, surely that is entirely different? That risk is justified!’

  Chesnaye heard an intake of breath from McGowan, but remained surprisingly calm. He tapped the sheaf of signals. ‘The British forces in Greece are already falling back, John.’ He remembered the smug confidence on Beaushears’ face and felt suddenly sorry for Erskine and all those others who had never known the bitterness of defeat and betrayal. ‘In a matter of weeks there’ll be another Dunkirk in Greece.’ He had almost said Gallipoli. The signals had briefly reported the quick change of strength, the savage enemy advance through Greece and Yugoslavia. The British Army was falling back so rapidly that already tons of arms and equipment had fallen into German hands.

  Chesnaye shuddered when he imagined the waiting ships, unprotected by air cover, which were expected to ferry the surviving forces to the island of Crete. And what then? How could they be expected even to hold that? What in God’s name were the hare-brained strategists in Whitehall thinking when they ordered such a hopeless gesture? He could feel the old anger beginning to boil inside him.

  ‘You have heard my decision.’ He spoke to the group at large, but his words were directed at Erskine. ‘In times like these morale is of the utmost importance. The men at Tobruk do not question their orders. It is our duty,’ he faltered, ‘no, our honour, to give them every support!’

  Erskine stood up, his eyes dull. ‘You can rely on the ship, sir.’

  Chesnaye scraped his pipe, his features towards the chart. ‘Good. For a small moment I was beginning to wonder!’

  Wickersley stepped forward, darting a quick glance from Erskine to the seated captain. ‘Perhaps I could be of some use to the army medical chaps, sir?’

  His bright, eager voice seemed to break the tension, and Chesnaye looked up at him with a small, curious smile. ‘Yes, Doc. We can take aboard as many wounded as we can, and then you can get some practice in!’

  Tregarth laughed throatily. ‘Better them than me!’

  The officers collected their notebooks and caps and shuffled towards the door.

  Erskine was the last to leave. ‘If we fail, sir, you could lose the ship!’ His eyes were hidden by shadow. ‘It’s happened to others.’

  Chesnaye regarded him slowly. ‘If I ran for home without trying, John, I should lose something more!’

  Long after Erskine had departed Chesnaye sat staring emptily at the soiled chart. Everything was repeating itself. Only time had moved on. Like Tobruk, he had been bypassed and overlooked, but now the stage was set. He had committed himself, the ship and two hundred men to uncertainty, even disaster.

  The ship wallowed heavily as the wheel was put over. Fox was already setting her on her new course. How did Saracen feel about it? he wondered. Right from birth she had never been offered a fair and balanced fight. Now he was doing this to her. Another uneven struggle. Another gesture.

  Fox slid open the door and peered into the yellow lamplight. ‘On course, sir. One-nine-five.’

  Fox was looking at the pile of signals, and Chesnaye could imagine what was running through his mind. There was nothing to say that the Saracen’s stores were to be run into Tobruk. Not in so many words. Chesnaye was to use his discretion. He was to weigh up the situation as he found it. By which time, of course, it would be too late for alternatives. It was a heartless position for a man who commanded a ship too slow to run away.

  ‘Very well, Pilot. Thank you.’ Chesnaye looked up sharply, aware of the despair which had crept into his voice.

  But Fox grinned, unperturbed by his captain’s tired and strained features. ‘It’s a damned sight harder than running bananas, sir!’

  * * * * *

  ‘Steady on course. Closing at two thousand yards.’

  Erksine nodded. ‘Very good.’ Fox’s voice was calm and unruffled, like a cricket commentator’s, he thought. He wiped a drip of spray from his night-glasses and swung them once more across the screen. The monitor’s fo’c’sle was like a pale wedge on the dark rippling water as the Saracen crawled at reduced speed towards the shoreline. Voices were hushed, and he was conscious of the metallic creaks around him and the distant ping of the echo-sounder. Across the bows lay the shore. With macabre regularity the night sky rippled with dull red and yellow flashes, like distant lightning, he thought. With each threatening glow he could see the undulating shoulders of the land mass below, where men and guns crouched and waited.

  The ship trembled, and he heard a man curse as an ammunition belt jangled sharply against the steel plates. The monitor’s crew was at Action Stations, and had been for several hours. During the Dog Watches they had first sighted the faint purple smudge along the horizon. As the daylight had faded, and the stars had picked out the clear sky, the ship had felt her way slowly and purposefully towards the coast, every man waiting for discovery and the touch of battle. Nothing happened, and the slow minutes dragged into hours. The same pace. The same sounds. But there was a new smell in the cool air. The scent of land. The smell of dust and smoke.

  ‘Starboard ten. Steady. Steer one-seven-five.’ A hushed order, and an uneasy movement of feet on the gratings.

  Erskine tried to relax his taut stomach muscles. His whole body felt cramped and strained. Why was this time so different? he wondered.

  He heard Chesnaye say evenly, ‘Looks like a fair bit of activity in the desert tonight!’

  Just words, thought Erskine. He’s worried. He could find no consolation in the fact.

  It was amazing the way things changed in war, even for individuals. In Alexandria Erskine had reported to the flagship to discuss some arrangements concerning the coming voyage. Quite by chance, it seemed, he had met the Vice-Admiral himself. Beaushears had insisted that he take drinks with him in his quarters, and, flattered, Erskine had accepted. Now, in the darkness, it all looked different. As he relived those friendly, casual moments it almost seemed as if Beaushears had been questioning him, as if the meeting had not been by chance at all. He had not asked direct questions about Chesnaye, yet he was rarely absent from the conversation. Beaushears had shattered Erskine’s normal reserve and caution by announcing casually, ‘You’ll know in a few days’ time, but I’d like to be the first to tell you the good news.’ Beaushears had smiled, and waited for a few more seconds. ‘I think you’ll be getting a very pleasant surprise shortly. I happen to know that you are earmarked for a command in the very near future.’ He had watched the surprise changing to pleasure on Erskine’s face. ‘A destroyer, as a matter of fact.’

  There had been more drinks, which, added to the heat, had made Erskine dazed and openly overjoyed. He could not believe it was happening to him, after the confusion and slurs of Saracen’s behaviour and the threat to his own career.

  Beaushears had chatted amiably and at great length. ‘We need your sort, Erskine. The Navy has got mixed up, slack. We have to put up with every sort of misfit imaginable, but, then, I don’t have
to tell you that, eh?’ They had both laughed, although Erskine was only half listening.

  Beaushears had continued: ‘I wouldn’t like to see your career damaged in any way because of a superior officer’s ambition or pigheadedness. It would not be right. I can be blunt with you. I know your record and your family. There was a time when we didn’t mention such things, but things have changed. One man’s behaviour reflects on all those around him. Either way, as local commander I want to know what is happening in the ships under my control. Incidents, actions by my captains, can give me a clear-cut picture of the over-all efficiency, if you see what I mean?’

  He had questioned Erskine about the Saracen’s inability to help the stricken convoy, even about the man lost overboard. Beaushears had ended by saying offhandedly, ‘I daresay you might have acted differently were you in command, eh?’

  Erskine had been confused, and tried to reassemble his thoughts. He still could not recall exactly if he had given the Vice-Admiral the impression that he disapproved of Chesnaye’s actions or whether Beaushears had put the words into his mouth. In any case, he was glad to leave the flagship, to get back to his cabin and think about the piece of news Beaushears had given him. A command at last. The waiting and marking time were over. Soon the Saracen and all she represented would be a thing of the past. Like the disinterested wardroom and the endless, futile tasks the ship was called to perform.

  A new ship would mean another change, too. He would have to return to England, and a new life which must exclude Ann. He stirred uneasily at the thought. Perhaps she would understand. Maybe she had guessed that their lightning affair would not last. In spite of his insistence, he could not console himself, or remove the vague feeling of guilt. Inwardly he knew that it had been his indecision and not duty which had stopped him going ashore to tell her the news.

  ‘Ah, there is is!’ He heard Chesnaye’s voice very close.

  A faint blue lamp stabbed across the water.

  ‘Make the reply, Yeoman!’ Chesnaye turned in his chair. ‘The M.L. is here to guide us in.’ He sounded fully awake and relaxed, although Erskine knew how rarely he slept.

  The motor launch’s low shape cut across the bows and then straightened on course, a faint sternlamp glittering to guide the monitor’s helmsman. From inland came the muted rumble of artillery, followed by tiny white peardrops in the sky. Very lights. Erskine shivered. This operation had to be all right. If anything went badly this time, Beaushears would be quick to change his mind about his appointment.

  He heard Fox grunt with alarm as a bulky freighter loomed out of the darkness and seemed to hang over the monitor’s port rail.

  But Chesnaye said calmly: ‘A wreck. That M.L. skipper certainly knows his harbour in the dark!’

  Sure enough, the little launch glided between scattered wrecks, leading the cumbersome monitor like a dog with a blind man.

  Chesnaye peered at the luminous dial of his watch. ‘Right, John. Get forrard and prepare to let go. We’ll be up to the anchorage in two minutes or so.’ His teeth shone in the darkness. ‘Probably find we’re in the middle of a blasted sand-dune when the sun comes up!’

  Erskine grunted and heaved himself over the side of the bridge. He’s actually enjoying himself, he thought. Still doesn’t realise what it’s all about.

  He reached the fo’c’sle breathless and nervous, and two minutes later the Saracen’s anchor crashed into the sand and shingle of Tobruk harbour.

  * * * * *

  Within half an hour of dropping the anchor Saracen was required to move again. Guided by briefly flashing handlamps and her own power boats, she sidled blindly and warily nearer the shattered remains of a crumbling stone jetty. Another listing wreck barred her passage, and with more hushed and urgent orders she moved alongside the broken ship and was secured for final unloading. Using the wreck as a quay, and aided by three battered landing craft as well as her own boats, the monitor began to unload.

  Hours passed and the labour continued without pause. From nowhere, and with hardly a word being spoken, came a horde of unshaven, tattered soldiers, who handled the drums and cases with the practised ease of men who have become accustomed to anything. Occasionally their faces showed themselves in the cold glare of a drifting flare, but otherwise they remained a busy, desperate collection of shadows.

  Lieutenant Norris was stationed aboard the wrecked ship with a working party of some thirty seamen. At first he tried to assist, even speed, the unloading, but his orders seemed superfluous, and he himself inevitably got entangled with a knot of scurrying figures.

  Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie was with him, as well as the young midshipman Danebury. That suited Norris, they were both his juniors, and both were amateurs like himself.

  Once he tried to start a conversation with an army lieutenant who appeared briefly on the wreck’s listing foredeck. Norris said with elaborate coolness: ‘Hell of a job getting here. Gets harder all the time!’

  The soldier had stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Hard? You must be bloody well joking! Christ, I’d give my right arm to live your cushy life!’ He had vanished before Norris could recover his dignity.

  Out of curiosity he climbed a rusting ladder and found the comparatively undamaged charthouse. He lit a cigarette and was just settling himself on a small swivel chair when Bouverie clattered up the ladder and joined him.

  Norris peered at him through the gloom. ‘Everything all right, Sub?’ He disliked Bouverie’s casual manner, his complete ease with his betters. In his other life he had always feared men of Bouverie’s calibre, their acceptance of things he was denied, the vague references to a world he could never join.

  ‘Going like a bomb.’ Bouverie squatted on a table and craned his neck to look through the shattered windows towards the Saracen’s dark outline. ‘The Skipper seems to know what he’s up to. I wouldn’t care to con a ship alongside in pitch darkness!’

  Norris forced a yawn. ‘When you’ve had a bit more experience you’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Bouverie’s voice gave nothing away. ‘I would have thought otherwise.’

  ‘What’s the snotty doing?’ Norris curbed his annoyance with an effort. He knew Bouverie was laughing at him again.

  ‘Oh, just keeping an eye on things. He’s got a good P.O. with him. He’ll be better without us breathing down his neck.’

  ‘Damned snotties!’ Norris drew heavily on the cigarette so that his face glowed red in the darkness. ‘Think they know it all!’

  ‘He seems a nice enough lad to me. A bit quiet, but then he was at school only a few months ago.’

  Norris grunted irritably. ‘How some of these people get commissions I’ll never know.’

  ‘I’ve wondered about some.’ Bouverie changed the subject as Norris peered at him more closely. ‘Dawn’ll be up soon. Things might get lively then.’

  ‘Now don’t get windy, Sub!’ Norris sounded angry. ‘It’ll be the Captain’s fault if anything goes wrong!’

  ‘I’m not windy, as you put it. Not yet, anyway. I’ve not had a lot of experience of the Andrew as yet, but if I have to learn there’s no captain I’d rather have as a teacher.’

  ‘He choked you off a while back!’ Norris felt that the conversation was getting out of hand. This knowledge only made him angrier. ‘I suppose you think because you’ve had a soft upbringing he’ll take you under his wing!’

  Bouverie smiled. ‘You really are being rather offensive, you know! Why the enormous chip on the shoulder?’

  Norris choked. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, just that you seem to think the whole damned world owes you something. I’d have thought you’d have settled down very well in the Navy.’

  ‘I will!’ Norris was confused. ‘I mean, I have! I didn’t ask to be sent to this old relic. In fact, I think someone had it in for me. Some of these regulars can never forgive the fact that we can earn a better living outside!’

  ‘Teaching, for instance?’

 
‘Damn you!’ Norris was standing. ‘Yes, teaching, if you put it like that!’

  Bouverie nodded solemnly. ‘A very rewarding task, I should imagine. A kind of challenge.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like!’ Norris was completely lost now. ‘You’ve had an easy life, and now that you’ve found your way here you seem to expect the rest of us to carry you!’

  Bouverie laughed quietly. ‘As a lowly sub what choice do I have?’

  There was a scrape of feet, and Norris swung round to face Danebury, the midshipman. ‘Well? What are you skulking up here for?’

  Danebury was a slight, fragile-looking youth, with pale eyes and a wide, girlish mouth. Strangely enough, he was well liked by the ship’s company, who seemed to think that he needed protecting rather than respecting.

  ‘All the petrol is clear, sir.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The hands are starting on the ammunition now.’

  ‘Well, what d’you expect me to do? Give you a bloody medal?’ Norris was shouting. ‘Get down to the foredeck and try to set an example!’

  The boy fled, and Norris felt a little better.

  Bouverie stood up and brushed at his jacket. ‘You really are a little bastard, Norris!’

  He turned to go, and Norris yelled: ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Stand still when I’m addressing you!’

  ‘There are no witnesses, Norris, so forget it!’ Bouverie’s drawling voice had gained a sudden edge. ‘I’ve watched you for weeks. You don’t seem to know what you want to get from life, and really it’s rather sad. I don’t know why you worry so much about your station in life, when in fact you don’t seem to belong anywhere!’

  Then he was gone, and for several minutes Norris could only choke and gasp for breath. He felt halfway to tears, yet his anger refused to be quenched. How dare that bloody ex-barrister, with his casual references to Eton, his maddeningly offhand treatment of superior officers, speak to him as he had just done? When we get out of this place I’ll wipe that smirk off his stupid face!

  He was still muttering to himself when hours later the first greyness of dawn touched the desert, and in their distant emplacements the German gunners rubbed the too-brief sleep from their eyes and turned their attention to the battered harbour.