Course for home. Although distant, and the odds fairly heavily against her getting there. Doing her damn best, was all…
‘Hibbert here – sir.’
Huge figure detaching itself cautiously from the ladder. Old Man telling him, ‘Hang on, Chief,’ while leaning across to check where her head was at this moment, Edmonds putting reverse rudder on to meet and check the turn as her bow rose slowly, well-deck’s scuppers near as dammit level with the frothing surface. Edmonds intoning, ‘Course oh-eight-oh, sir.’
‘How’s she feel?’
‘Awkward, sir.’
‘Think flooding the after deep-tank’d help?’
‘Reckon it might, an’ all.’
‘So we’ll risk it, Chief. Not shipping all that much for’ard now, are we.’ He had his glasses focused on her bow, was seeing more of it than Hibbert could, Hibbert therefore not commenting, only waiting for his old friend to make his bloody mind up: aware of the dangers but also that the only way to be sure it was the right thing to do was to do it and see what happened. A mound of ocean ran in under her counter, lifting her and powering on, PollyAnna riding the tail-end of it like a goose landing clumsily in heavy surf, forepart risen at first but then – as it finished with her and ran on – falling, sagging, even the foc’sl-head awash. It was the broken sea you saw, the whiteness as it engulfed her and closed over, seemingly held her down while you wondered, Coming up out of that, or going on down? Hearing close to his ear Fisher’s involuntary, ‘Christ…’ and the Old Man’s bellowed repetition of, ‘Not all that much, are we…’ and then Hibbert’s contribution, the engineer finally expressing his view, ‘I’d say she’d go easier with that deep-tank flooded, Josh.’ By ‘go easier’, Andy interpreted to himself, meaning something more like be less likely to founder than she looks to be right now…
* * *
He told them in the saloon, ‘We’re flooding the after deep-tank.’ Amplifying that to Julia then: ‘Get the stern down deeper, level her a bit. Because’ – restraining himself from resting his palms on her shoulders for a moment as he passed behind her chair – ‘we have wind and a biggish swell astern, are now – believe it or not – on course for home.’
‘Sure of that?’
‘Hah.’ Moving on past her and Finney to pull back a vacant chair. ‘Good question.’ A wink at Finney. ‘Smart cookie, eh?’
‘Say that again.’
‘Should have said heading more or less homeward. Course to be adjusted when we get a sight of the sun or stars. Must get a clear patch some time.’ Nodding to the assistant steward: ‘Morning, Watkins. Porridge, please. Sleep well, Julia?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Crunching toast. ‘In my stateroom – did indeed. Very well. How about you?’
‘Had a couple of hours. Get a couple more during the forenoon, touch wood. Had to be up top early in case of stars.’
Tommy Shaw – who to his credit hadn’t mentioned having been proved partially right in his theory about hull damage – asked him, ‘What revs on now?’
‘For ten knots.’
‘Did you say they had flooded the after tank?’
‘Probably doing it right now. Your boss went down to see to it just before I left the bridge.’
A shrug: ‘Still plenty of movement on her.’
‘Flooding that tank won’t stop it, either.’
Julia asked, ‘Are seas still breaking over us, where poor Mr Halloran –’
‘No. Flooding over when she digs her snout in – over the whole length of that deck – but not breaking over. Swells about ten feet high running up from astern are what’s rocking us about.’ Feeling the downward lurch then: ‘There – like that.’
She asked him later, when they were to all intents and purposes – audially at any rate – on their own, ‘Would you say we’re out of danger now? I mean, apart from U-boats?’
‘Well…’
‘Whole truth and nothing but, please?’
‘Fact is, there still are problems – that hold’s still flooded, obviously – but we’re coping – the Old Man is – and, OK, it’s by no means an ideal situation, if she was badly handled, could be quite nasty. As it is, weather’s improving, Old Man’s got it all in hand, and – long as nothing else goes wrong –’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, nothing, really, just –’
‘Andy –’
He took a breath, shook his head. ‘If the damage was to spread, for instance. Whatever it is – just rivets loosened, or – see, this is a different motion now, on the face of it less violent – but – not knowing what new stresses might be set up, such as water-pressure in there cracking the bulkhead into number one or three.’ Looking into the lively, obviously concerned but seemingly unfrightened eyes: maybe for his benefit determinedly not showing fright, or maybe just her own natural, built-in self-control. Either way, to be admired… Telling her, ‘You want the whole truth and nothing but – and that’s it. More or less enough, I’d have thought.’
‘We just keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Put it that way, if you like. What I was going to ask you, though – d’you live right in Newcastle?’
‘Just outside. Short bus ride or brisk walk. Why?’
‘May I visit you there some time?’
A silence – not of the ship around them, but between them. Flickery light-brown eyes questioning, and lips not moving but for a second or two with that almost imperceptible tremble, as if in search of words – such as yes, no, better not, or something scornful like what for? Another second – then quietly, ‘I think I’d like that.’
‘You would?’
‘Think I would. Forget it until we’re on terra firma somewhere?’
* * *
All-over cloud again meant no meridian altitude, which Andy’d hoped he might have got if it had been really breaking up. The cloud was high and grey instead of low and black, but it still wasn’t letting any sun through. He’d had his bread-and-cheese lunch early so as to take advantage of any such clearance and still be on time in relieving the Old Man, consequently was up there at ten minutes to the hour, explaining, ‘Had false hopes of a mer. alt., sir.’ Looking around – nodding to Helmsman Bakewell – ‘Force four, about?’
‘Four gusting five. We’ve revs on for twelve knots. Came up just gone eleven. It’s noted in the log.’ Glancing skyward again: ‘Stars tonight, maybe. All well, below?’
‘Much as usual, sir.’
‘Miss Carr happy with her quarters?’
‘And grateful for having had the loan of yours, sir.’
A grunt: nodding towards the foc’sl-head, the heavy rise and fall, protracted virtual immersion and slow recovery about twice a minute; and even then the fore-deck still awash, foam flying ahead down-wind. Old Man growling over the racket of her jolting, slamming progress, ‘Taking these revs well enough. Needs watching, though.’
That ‘needs watching’ was a give-away, belying the calm tone. It wasn’t news that the flooded forepart needed watching, or conceivable that watching it was going to save her if or when she gave up the struggle, allowed it to drag her down.
* * *
There were no stars visible at dusk, no moon either – at this stage the moon was keeping daylight hours – but around 0300 – 29th now – the cloud began to break up and at 0650 in the starboard wing, with Gorst noting down the times for him, he got a planet and two stars, which when he’d worked them out put PollyAnna sixty-five miles SSE of the extended dead-reckoning position. The Old Man’s instruction to Fisher had been that if Holt got even a half-decent observed position he should reshape the course – to clear Bloody Foreland and Malin Head by a safe margin – and course was therefore altered from 080 to 068 without disturbing him. Position then, at 0700/29th, 51 degrees 12 minutes north, 28 degrees 21 west; distance to cross longitude 20 west, supposed limit of U-boat operations, 330 miles. At 9.8 knots, which was what she’d been making since that last increase, say thirty-four hours, arrival in the U-boat zone ther
efore tomorrow evening.
* * *
Tuesday, 0700/30th – good stars again, and as daylight hardened you could see she was comparatively dry for’ard. Wind and swell had been decreasing during the middle watch, the frightening swooping motion easing significantly, and although when he’d gone down at four the well-deck for’ard had still been intermittently awash, hatch-covers had been mostly clear of it. Now – better still: and the stars for which he’d come up at six-thirty had confirmed that despite her handicap she’d been making-good ten and a half knots.
The Old Man was lingering at the chart, tapping a pencil against tobacco-stained front teeth. He looked better for having had a few hours’ rest – and had better feelings, probably, about his ship’s chances. Threat still present, obviously: you couldn’t expect those bulkheads to hold out for ever, and there wasn’t a soul on board who didn’t know it, but at least the weather was giving her some chance now.
Decision-time, therefore: a nod to his own thoughts, and a clearing of the throat… ‘We’ll make for the Clyde, Holt. Londonderry’s nearer, but – Clyde facilities, dry-dock essentially… Last night I was thinking Londonderry, but – hundred miles more, is all. They’ll tranship the ore – or rail it.’ A glance round: ‘Get Fisher, will you.’
Leaving the forefront to Gorst, Fisher came back with Andy, and the Old Man told him about making for the Clyde.
‘All for it, sir.’
‘Three days – if she holds up and the bloody U-boats leave her in peace. See here – I’d guess our convoy’ll have held on north of Rockall, then around the Butt into North Minch. If that’s the case, U-boats might’ve been drawn up there too.’
‘Leaving the run through to North Passage clear for us.’
A sniff. ‘Be nice, wouldn’t it. But –’ Pencil-tip on their track, 065, a 3-degree alteration resulting from the 0700 star-sights, to where it intersected longitude 20 west. ‘Midnight – any time then, might have ’em at us. And two boats is too few – even if we got ’em both safe in the water. Call it fifteen men to a boat, still leaves twenty – say four rafts.’ Jerk of the grey head: ‘Dry down there now – we’ll take a chance it stays dry, use hatchboards from number two. Alternate ones, not adjacent – and planks across the gaps before lashing-down again. Or whatever they got. Rafts with rope strops all round for swimmers, and coir between ’em when they’re launched. Rafts and boats too – always best to stay in company. All right, Second? Collins and Postlethwaite and however many hands they need – I want it done and the rafts secured on deck before sundown. Two for’ard and two aft – eh?’
Fisher was also to allocate men to boats and rafts. Miss Carr to a boat, of course, with young Finney to look after her. Better have an abandon-ship drill then, all hands to know where to go and what to do.
‘Another thing’s lifejackets. Eight slabs of cork in a canvas weskit – same as they give us last time, and same applies – jump in from a height, fair chance it’ll break your neck. So tell ’em – jump with it under your arm and dog-paddle while you put it on. Got to be jumpers, see, with rafts – rafts over the side, lads jump in and swim to ’em. Which side the rafts go over depending where the damage is.’
‘Otherwise lee side.’
A glance at Fisher, shrugging at such a statement of the obvious.
* * *
Late in the forenoon Andy met Julia on the railed walkway outside her cabin, starboard side. He’d been checking the state of the flag-locker and its contents and the halyards there, after the spell of bad weather, was on his way down for an early pre-watch snack. Julia was out there in her duffel-coat with its hood up, enjoying the brilliant seascape and some lungfuls of fresh though knife-like air. PollyAnna pitching a little, rolling a little: heavy, waterlogged, nothing you could be sure of yet. But the sun was getting through now and again and she’d had her face raised to it.
‘Isn’t this marvellous, Andy?’
‘Think so?’
‘Certainly do – after how it’s been. I was wondering if I’d ever see that thing again!’
‘Might never have, too.’ Pausing beside her: and not putting an arm around her. ‘You’ve been aware of that, I suspect.’
‘Well – I’m not a complete idiot –’
‘Ask me – I know, I said it before – you’re a bloody marvel.’
‘Mark and I will be in number two boat, we’re told.’
‘If the worst came to the worst –’
‘Where’ll you be?’
‘On a raft, for sure. Won’t come to that, though. Heck, only three days to go –’
‘I’m not worrying unduly. We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we – more or less. It’s kind of you to worry for me, but –’
‘Kind?’ He moved the edge of the hood aside by a few inches so he could look in there and see her better. ‘It’s not just kindness!’
A frown: small shake of the shrouded head. ‘Mark is quite a sensitive soul, Andy.’
‘But you’re just – close friends – companions –’
‘We’ve been through a bit together. As you know. And as I say, he’s – well, he may think it’s something more than that.’ Brown eyes quiet, serious. ‘I’m very fond of him – and he’s been marvellous; I can tell you there were times I couldn’t have done without him. What I’m saying is I certainly wouldn’t want him hurt.’
* * *
PollyAnna crossed 20 degrees west longitude that evening. Sunset had been at eight minutes past five and he’d had another good set of stars. The rafts had been completed and lashed down on the hatch-covers of numbers three and four holds, two on each, and Fisher had presided over lifeboat drill in mid-afternoon. Julia had taken part, mustering with Finney and others abreast their boat; Andy had been on watch, but was told by Fisher that if/when it was for real he was to take charge of the two rafts for’ard, getting them over the side and the men down on to them.
Wednesday, now. The Old Man recorded in the log when Andy took over from him at midday: Jan 31 noon position 54 05’ N., 15 30’ W. Sea moderate, wind W. force 3, vis. poor. Except for the restricted visibility, conditions would be favourable for U-boats, too; and PollyAnna was now entering water more likely to have U-boats in it than those she’d been in for the past eighteen hours. Lookouts had been doubled and the two boats turned out – davits turned out, boats still bowsed in against the griping spars, but even that would save a few minutes in the process of lowering them, minutes having importance in terms of lives and deaths, getting away or not getting away. Julia understood it all, and on the day after the drill – first day of February, days and nights tending to run together now – when the skipper invited her to visit the bridge at midday and questioned her on the subject, she’d impressed him, apparently. He’d shown her the chart as well, with the new noon position marked on it by that time; Andy meanwhile in the wheelhouse, quartermaster Parlance altering course to due east, Malin Head at that stage bearing about 115 degrees, distance fifty-five miles and Bloody Foreland only thirty miles away, but in this damp haze not a shadow of land visible, not even through Fisher’s telescope from monkey island. Skipper telling Julia as they came back from the chart, ‘Five hours to dusk now, see. Be off Malin Head by then – in what they’re calling the War Channel – kept clear of mines by sweepers out of Londonderry. It’s U-boats been laying mines – them and aircraft too, so they tell us.’
Parlance growling, ‘Course oh-nine-oh’; Andy grunting acknowledgement, glasses up to probe the haze – which was thickening, might by evening qualify as fog – in which U-boats wouldn’t be able to see much either. The skipper had pointed this out to Julia, adding, ‘No reason any of ’em’d be sitting off Malin Head waiting for us, mind. Or between there and the Mull. You’ve only to keep your fingers crossed one more night and day, Miss Carr.’
She said afterwards – at supper, after Andy’s taking of evening stars – ‘He’s a nice man, isn’t he? Does look tired, though.’
‘Keeping regular watche
s and tabs on everything else between whiles. No chicken, either.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Pushing sixty. Fifty-nine, I think.’
‘And how old did you say your father is?’
‘He’s – forty-six.’
‘Just a nipper. Second in command of a cruiser, you said?’
‘Of an AMC. Armed merchant cruiser. Like the Kilindini in our convoy. He’s RNR – a commander.’
‘You sound proud of him.’
‘Do I… Well, dare say I am. He’s a great guy. Only thing gets between us is he’d like me to have switched to RNR like him.’
‘You won’t though – will you?’
‘No.’ Smiling at her: liking that assumption. ‘No, I won’t.’
* * *
Off Malin Head at sunset they altered to starboard to 100 degrees, and when Andy took over at midnight were approaching Rathlin Island. The supposedly mine-free War Channel here wasn’t much more than a mile wide, and the haze had thickened into fog; anything you sighted would be close enough to spit at. The natural and proper thing, conforming to Rule of the Road, was to stick to the channel’s southern edge, the Rathlin side; stay as close to it as one could be without risk of straying into unswept water. Any westbound traffic should similarly be holding to starboard, the channel’s northern side.
Might not, though. Not having been warned by the routeing officer of any rogue straggler coming this way, might be tempted to cut the corner.
Westbound, Warbound Page 27