She had had her rest. Now it was time to pick up where she had left off.
4 Bait
SHERIDAN stepped into the day cabin and said quickly, “You wanted me, sir? Sorry I didn’t come earlier. I’ve been ashore. ” He noticed with sudden annoyance that Wingate was already in the cabin, leaning back in a chair, one leg crossed over the other.
Drummond smiled. “Not to worry, Number One. Take a seat. ” He gestured to the table. “Help yourself to a drink if you like. “
Sheridan shook his head. “Not just now.”
Wingate grinned. “Well, you will in a minute when you hear what we’ve been given!”
“Orders?” Sheridan could not keep the edge from the question.
They had been in Falmouth for two days, and had been joined by the other half of the flotilla. Although how seven more destroyers had managed to find moorings amidst the mass of escorts, trawlers, supply vessels and a collection of new landing craft was little less than a miracle. Nevertheless, while the commanding officers and base staff had been busy with comings and goings between ships and shore headquarters, the coinparties of the destroyers had taken time off to enjoy their surroundings. Not even the crowded moorings, the port’s heavy defences and the impressive troop movements ashore could spoil this almost detached existence. Green hills behind the harbour, the friendly little houses which lay comfortably on the slopes or beside the gentle Helford River, all were as remote from grey skies and barrage balloons, air-raid warnings and east coast convoys as Cornish cream differed from powdered eggs.
Sheridan had been ashore for most of the afternoon. Just walking, getting the air into his lungs and enjoying the sunshine. Orders would soon arrive, a plan, probably conceived in a dusty Admiralty bunker, would be produced to be put into effect without delay. They always said that. Sheridan thought it was because someone high-up feared that flaws in his plan might be laid bare if too much time was allowed.
And yet, like most young men in war, Sheridan was able to put it off, knowing that when the time came he would somehow manage to cope. Or, if his number carne up, that was it anyway.
The sight of Wingate lounging in the chair, grinning at him, obviously fully informed of the orders’ content, was like a petty disappointment. Like a child hearing a teacher speaking disparagingly of him behind his back, when until that time he has worshipped that same teacher.
His glance passed quickly over Wingate’s sleeve. Perhaps that was it after all. The regulars against the amateurs.
Drummond was saying, “We will be sailing at midnight. Make sure that all libertymen are accounted for by 2100. We’re going out in a group of four. Warlock, Whirlpool, Waxwing and wentnor.” He smiled gravely. “That makes us the senior ship.”
Wingate groaned. “It also means that Captain (D) will be coming aboard for the trip.”
Sheridan asked quietly, “May I enquire where we are going?”
Drummond eyed him curiously. “Pilot and I have just been going over the charts. Officially we are sailing as additional covering escort for a convoy to Gilbraltar. Officially. This is all very top-secret stuff, Number One.”
I was beginning to wonder. He controlled himself and asked, “And the rest of the flotilla?”
“Oh, they’re pushing off under the half-leader to do some exercises with the Army in the Bristol Channel. We, on the other hand, are going after live game.” Drummond paused to put a match to his pipe. “The Germans are showing great interest in all convoys making for the Med. With a possible invasion in the wind, they are trying to get every piece of
information about ships and equipment, vehicles and troop movements. In fact, anything. Convoy stragglers, damaged ships, any vessel which gets separated on the last run south, is in real danger. The intelligence people are getting worried. Over the last few weeks several ships have been sunk fairly close to neutral waters.” He spread out a chart of the Bay of Biscay. “Here, near the north-west corner of Spain. And sometimes further south, closer to Gib itself.”
Sheridan said, “And the ships in question are always alone?” Despite his resentment he could not fail to see the point of Drummond’s remarks.
“More or less. One or two had got left behind by fast convoys and were keeping inshore for safety’s sake. One was having engine trouble and ran for shelter when a storm got up.”
Wingate said, “Well, there’s no mystery then. A U-boat bagged them. Or maybe a drifting mine or two.”
Sheridan answered, “I can’t agree. Once perhaps, but so close to neutral waters it’s too much of a coincidence. We’d have heard something.”
Wingate laughed. “You call Spain neutral?”
“Officially.” Drummond interrupted quickly as if he had sensed something between them. “But there is one bit of news, two if you like, which cannot be coincidence. On several of these instances a Spanish freighter has been in the vicinity. Our agents have checked her out, and know her as the Aragon. She trades the coastal routes, and has turned up as far north as jreland. She’s Spanish all right, but her present ownership is a bit vague, and nobody’s talking very much about her.”
Sheridan said, “You suggested there were two bits of news,
sir. “
“Yes.” His pipe smoke floated to the deckhead and was immediately plucked into a fan. “On every known occasion these attacks have been in perfect weather. Other ships in similar circumstances have got to Gib safely whenever it has been blowing up, or there has been a stiff sea running.”
Wingate nodded gloomily. “That does seem to rule out U-boats. These days they don’t give a damn about the weather once they’ve got a ship in their sights. And mines are out, too. Even the Spanish government would object to Jerry dropping them near their coast. ” He winked at Sheridan. “You were right again, Number One. No wonder I had such a sweat to pass my exams!”
Sheridan returned the smile. Wingate’s cheerful acceptance made him ashamed. “Guessing. “
“Guessing or not, we’re going to try and cut out that Spaniard if he shows any sign at all of interfering with our ships.”
Sheridan stared at him. “Isn’t that asking for trouble?”
“We are already at war, Number One. ” Drummond watched him calmly. “That’s trouble enough for me. But seriously, we must find out what is happening. Captain (D) informs me that a suitable `bait’ has been prepared. The rest is up to the weather, luck and”-he shrugged- “us. “
Wingate smiled. “I said you’d need a drink, Number One!”
“Do you want me to tell the wardroom about it, sir?”
“Tell them nothing. Not until we’re committed. If things go wrong, or intelligence have made a mistake,” he smiled briefly, “I almost said again, our people might as well still believe we are merely engaged as additional escort support. But the signs are good, for apart from a large forty-ship convoy from Halifax to Liverpool, and another big one from U.K. down to Freetown, there’ll be plenty to keep the U-boat packs busy and interested. Our particular `bait’ will be detached from a fast convoy of Liberty ships. That’s all I can tell you at present.” He nodded “So let’s get cracking, shall we?”
Wingate stood up and carefully folded his charts. “I’m going to lock myself in and do some work on these.”
Sheridan asked, “Will Captain Beaumont be aboard soon?”
“After sunset. And as soon as it’s dark I want you to have our pendant numbers painted out. The other three destroyers will do likewise. There are enough busybodies about without adding to the risk of recognition at a later date.”
Sheridan started. “You mean this sort of operation may become our permanent role, sir?”
Drummond faced him and replied evenly, “I said nothing of the sort.”
Sheridan picked up his cap and followed Wingate from the cabin.
Wingate said casually, “Hell of a responsibility, isn’t it?” Sheridan looked at him, realising what he meant for the first time. He had not thought of Drummond as a young man of
Wingate added, “I think this has got him rattled.” He grinned. “Poor bastard. I’m glad it’s his decision and not mine!” He strode towards his cabin whistling softly.
In his cabin Drummond had moved to an open scuttle. He stared fixedly at the sloping hill nearest to the anchorage, the tiny sheep dotted about, pale against the lush green. People, too, made aimless by distance, like ants. But if you watched carefully enough, each took on direction. And purpose. He found he was clenching his fists until it was almost painful. He had a sudden yearning, a craving to tramp through grass like that on the hillside. To rest his hands on bricks and stone walls, warm in the sunlight. To. know that somebody would be glad to see him.
The door opened behind him and Owles said, “Gib then, sir.”
Drummond did not turn. “It’s supposed to be secret. How did you know?”
Not that it mattered. Owles seemed to have unfailing in formation.
Owles considered the question. “Well, I mean, sir, it stands to reason, don’t it? Where else?”
He pattered across the carpet, laying a place for tea on the table.
Drummond sighed, thinking of the next hours and days. Vigilance and waiting for the right moment. Commander Duvall must either have upset Beaumont on passage from Harwich or was now considered too valuable to use for flushing out a Spanish spy-ship, or whatever she was. Beaumont obviously considered it a good risk. Otherwise he would have stayed clear.
Owles asked, “Will the other gentleman be bedding down in here with Cap’n (D), sir?”
Drummond turned. “Other gentleman?”
Owles regarded him passively. “I thought you knew, sir. He’ll be from the Ministry of Information, an important gent, I expect, sir. “
Drummond stared at him. God, that’s all we need now. A bloody war-correspondent along for the ride. To get a bit of material for one of those sickening programmes. I’m speaking
to you tonight from the front line. Or, Within yards of where I am sitting, the enemy are about to launch an attack. It always sounded as if the speaker was totally alone at the time.
He replied, “Well, I know now! Yes, put him down here. Keep him from getting in my way.”
Owles pattered back to his pantry, considering the captain’s sudden anger.
He liked Drummond, although he considered him too serious for one so young. And available. He thought of his sister in Rochester. Pity she couldn’t get her hands on the captain, he thought. But she had two blokes already. A petty officer off the Waxwing, and a Canadian sergeant who was based over in Wales. Christ help her if those two ever got leaf on the same day!
On deck, Sheridan sought out the chief boatswain’s mate to tell him about detailing hands for painting over the ship’s numbers. He saw the coxswain blinking in the late sunlight and trying to appear interested in what a seaman was asking him. Mangin took things easy in harbour and rarely went ashore, unless night leave was granted. He was wearing his usual off duty rig, old jacket, patched trousers and carpet slippers. As the seaman turned away, Sheridan saw that it was the quartermaster, Jevers. The one whose wife had gone off with a Yank.
Mangin sighed. “Th’ usual, sir. Askin’ about mail. Never gets one from ‘er, poor sod.” He dismissed it from his mind. “Lookin’ for the Buffer, sir? I’ll get ‘im for you. Got ‘is ‘ead down in the P.O.s’ mess, if I know Arthur Vickery.”
Sheridan leaned on the guardrail and stared down at the current swirling against the side. They knew everything. Security was a joke.
The seaman, Jevers, walked slowly towards the break in the forecastle and the main messdeck. At first it had been difficult, even frightening. Now, he could stand back and watch it all happening. Like being 3 spectator at a well-acted play.
Poor old Tommy Mangin, the coxswain. He shivered with that same fierce excitement. What would he say if he knew? Really knew. That his wife Janice was not having a fine old time with her Yank, but buried under a house in Hackney in East London. Even that memory had a new perfection. The roar of the exploding bombs, the crumbling walls changing shape in leaping shadows as incendiaries took hold and explored the
wood and blazing curtains. And her mouth wide open like a black hole. She had been screaming, but he had heard nothing. Felt nothing, but the sickening crunch as he had brought the brick down on her skull. Over and over again. If she was finally discovered she would have been buried by now, with all the rest of those charred bodies. Merely another incident. One more air-raid. He would have heard by now if anyone had connected her remains with his bloody Janice. He screwed up his fists and tried not to speak her name. The rotten, stinking cow!
Leading Seaman Rumsey, the chief quartermaster, clattered down a ladder from the forecastle deck, a towel and swimming trunks over his arm.
He saw fevers and asked, “All right, mate?”
Jevers nodded, watching his own expression as be replied dully, “Yes, thanks, Harry. Just been to see if there’s any mail come aboard,”
He saw the way Rumsey’s eyes clouded over as he spoke. He turned away. It never failed. He was as safe as the crown jewels.
Sub-lieutenant Victor Tyson was walking along the other side of the ship, aft towards the quarterdeck. He was twenty-two., but already had the set lines around his eyes and mouth of a much older man. Apart from a general appearance of ill-humour, there was little to mark him out of the ordinary. His uniform, on the other hand, was always perfect, and his cap, minus grommet, was worn with a floppy, devil-may-care indifference which was quite at odds with the wearer. In fact, someone had jokingly remarked after the passing-out parade at the officers’ training establishment, “I say, who is that uniform which is wearing some sort of man!” It had been meant in fun. Tyson had been almost sick with fury and humiliation.
He had just come from the forecastle after checking the cable which held them to the forward buoy. Some seamen had been lounging in their swimming trunks, spread about like a lot of louts at Southend on a factory outing. He had put them squarely in their place, and he had enjoyed it.
He heard splashing alongside and paused to watch the swimmers who were flailing about close to the ship and a safety-boat nearby. He stiffened as he saw Midshipman Keyes bursting to the surface, shaking water from his hair before hurling a rubber ball to some of the other swimmers. It made Tyson feel sick. Keyes did not know he was born. Spoiled all his life, and came from a well-to-do family, from what he could discover, and yet he had no more idea of acting like an officer than the bloody gunner (T). At least Noakes knew about discipline, even if he was incapable of putting two words together in proper English.
Tyson leaned on the guardrail. “Mr. Keyes!”
Keyes turned and trod water, his eyes red-rimmed from salt as he peered up at Tyson’s silhouette.
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir! I’m officer of the day, remember?”
The other swimmers idled away, apparently very engrossed in the rubber ball.
Tyson shouted, “The swimming party is for the ratings, in case you did not know it?”
Keyes stared at him blankly. “I thought it was all right … “
It made Tyson angrier. This stupid innocence. He wanted to drag Keyes across the deck and kick his naked body until he did understand.
“Well, it’s not!”
“You the O.O.D.?”
Tyson swung round, fuming at this new interruption. Then he stared at the lieutenant-commander whom he vaguely recognised as an operations officer from the base.
“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.”
“I was beginning to wonder.” The officer’s eyes were without mercy. “I thought for a moment I had stumbled into an ENSA show!”
Tyson could not speak. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, blinding him, choking him, as if his collar had shrunk in size.
The staff officer added curtly, “When I come aboard I expect
the O.O.D. to find me, not the other way about!”
“Clear the water! Swimmers return inboard!” It was all he
could think of.
But when he looked again he saw that the swimmers, including Keyes, had vanished.
Only Leading Seaman Rumsey remained, and he was squat ting on the safety-boat’s stemhead.
He looked up at Tyson’s crimson face and remarked calmly, (` ‘Ot, annit, sir?”
Tyson retreated.
Down in the day cabin the staff officer shook hands with Drummond and grinned.
“That’s a right little bastard you’ve got up there, Keith.” He became serious again. “Now, this is the final briefing.” Drummond nodded, unable to keep his eyes off the thick envelope which the other man seemed to be taking an age to unfasten.
Bastard or not, when the crunch came it would be Tyson and all the rest of Warlock’s company who would have to face up to it, he thought bitterly.
Drummond sat well back in his tall chair and wedged his sea boots between the voice-pipes. Warlock was pushing along at an economical cruising speed of twelve knots, and her narrow hull was finding the going uncomfortable in a beam sea. It was evening, with barely a breath of wind to ease the oppressive heat which seemed to cling to the steel plates and bridge fittings, and to Drummond it felt as if they had been steaming in this same, slow way for an eternity. In fact, it was three days since they had left Falmouth in company with their consorts, three long days of working clear of coastal patrols and convoy routes, heading west and then south towards the fringe of Biscay. The first two days had been like a circus, with Captain Beaumont up on the bridge for most of the time, making signals to the group, getting each captain to change position, abeam, astern, and on one nightmare occasion having all four ships criss-crossing through each other’s wakes like gun-carriages of the King’s Horse Artillery.
Now, the other three ships were somewhere out of sight off the starboard bow. He hoped that the radar would not choose this moment to break down and sever their only contact.
The Destroyers Page 7