by Dudley Pope
He watched the compass carefully as he steered the lifeboat and after three or four minutes was fairly certain that the Swede was in fact lying stopped. She was still heading on the convoy course, but this was probably because it reduced the rolling.
Soon the ship was in sight most of the time, not just on the top of the crests. Now was the time to announce the presence of the Somers Island’s lifeboat.
‘Watkins, are you ready with that transmitter?’
‘Aye, aye, sir: just want a couple o’ chaps to hold my duffel over the set to keep the spray off.’
‘Very well. When I give the word, just transmit this: “SOS SOS SOS to Penta from lifeboat 25 degrees on your starboard quarter distance three miles.” Keep on repeating it even if she answers until I tell you to stop.’
Watkins repeated the message twice, to make sure he had it correct, and began to hoist the kite aerial. Then Yorke turned to Jenkins. ‘Are you ready, Guy Fawkes?’
The seaman grinned and tapped the bundle of flares and rockets he was holding across his knee, wrapped up in an old black oilskin coat, and then pointed at the two seamen who, with duffel coat hoods up to protect their faces, would hold a length of piping that Jenkins intended to use as a rocket launcher.
‘Fine. I want Watkins to get his message off at least twice before we start our display.’ Then, because many of the men must be wondering why he had not sent up rockets the moment the Swede was sighted, he decided to explain.
‘Transmitting an SOS and calling up that Swede by name isn’t because we want to talk to the Swede: he’ll see us anyway because of the rockets and flares. I want the Senior Officer of the escort in the Echo – and everyone else in the convoy listening on the call and distress frequency – to know we’ve sighted the Swede. That’s an insurance policy against him running us down. If he doesn’t pick us up he’ll have a lot of explaining to do. So as soon as we’ve used the SOS to tell the Echo that we’re in contact, we should have roused the Swedes anyway: they’ll be keeping a radio watch. The radio officer will warn the bridge and they should just then sight one of Jenkins’ rockets popping out five red stars.’
‘Do you want me to keep the engine running?’ Mills bellowed, deafened more than the others because he was sitting on the casing, which kept him warm at the cost of his hearing.
‘No,’ Yorke bawled, ‘not when we start transmitting – it’ll cause interference.’
Yorke looked once more at the Penta. She was definitely stopped. As the lifeboat seesawed over the crest of a wave he stood up and looked carefully. There was no sign of a surfaced U-boat.
He signalled to Mills to stop the engine, and as it gave a final gasp said: ‘Right, Watkins, start transmitting!’
The seaman disappeared into the tent of the duffel coat, and very faintly Yorke could hear the muzzled squeaking of Morse. He looked across at the Penta and beyond. If the lifeboat had been making three knots then the convoy would be about thirty miles away. Certainly no more because it would not have been making more than six knots during the last twelve hours and the lifeboat was probably making more than three.
Watkins emerged from the coat. ‘Penta’s answering, sir. Came up after my first transmission.’
‘Send it twice more. Is she transmitting full power?’
‘Yes, sir. Bustin’ my eardrums.’
Again, molelike, he burrowed back to his set as Yorke looked warningly at Jenkins.
Finally, when Watkins emerged to say he had transmitted it twice more and the Penta was now answering for the second time, Yorke said: ‘Acknowledge and say you’re standing by. Now, Jenkins, let drive with one of your five-star reds!’
The seaman pulled one of the rockets from the encircling oilskin, slid the stick part into the tube the two seamen were holding and ripped off the base which formed an abrasive striker. He wiped it briskly across the base as though striking a match and turned away. The rocket hissed and crackled for a moment and then launched itself upwards with a whoosh and a trail of sparks which showed up well against the grey of the clouds. Just as it reached the top of its trajectory it dropped a red blob, followed a few moments by another, a third, fourth and then a fifth.
‘Now a red hand flare.’
Jenkins stood up holding a wooden handle which continued into a cardboard tube like a short broomhandle. He ripped off the abrasive striker, rubbed it across the end and as it began fizzing held it out at an angle over the side. A dull red glow gave off thick reddish smoke which drifted to leeward and quickly dispersed. Then, as suddenly as it started the flare sputtered out and Jenkins tossed the wooden handle and charred cardboard tube into the sea. ‘Useless bloody things,’ he said. ‘Board of Trade approved, no doubt. Used to have better ones on Fireworks Night when I was a kid.’
Watkins’ left hand was waving from under the duffel coat. A seaman leaned over to hear what he wanted to say and passed on the message to Yorke: ‘The Penta says she saw the rocket, sir and…’ he turned back, listened to Watkins and then added, ‘and the flare, sir.’
And, thought Yorke, thanks to the radio Johnny Gower would now know for certain: the lifeboat was in effect insured. Even if this lifeboat transmitter did not have the range to reach the Echo, certainly the Penta’s powerful transmitter would be heard on board the frigate. Johnny would have heard the Penta answering the SOS, and then he would have heard she had sighted the rocket and the flare. Hundreds of miles away Admiralty wireless operators at radio direction-finding sets would probably have picked up the Penta’s signals too and by now would be working out her position. They would be puzzled because they would not have heard the lifeboat’s message. They were always alert, but particularly for one of the new wartime prefixes which were used when appropriate instead of SOS. There was RRR, for example, warning of a ship being attacked by a surface raider, or SSS, which reported an attack by a submarine.
Again Watkins’ arm was waving from under the coat and a seaman bent down to listen, passing back the message word by word as Watkins read the Morse: ‘The Penta, sir …says…she’s…putting cargo net…over…portside…will… turn…to…port…to make a lee…we should…come…up to her…that’s all, sir.’
‘Very well, acknowledge and say our engine will prevent us using the wireless set any more.’
Mills, his hearing partly restored, looked inquiringly and as soon as Yorke saw Watkins emerge from the coat and start putting the lid on his suitcase transmitter, he gave the engineer the signal. Mills wound at the starting handle and the hot engine fired almost immediately. As Mills pushed forward the stubby gear lever Yorke felt the tiny propeller start to bite and the boat began responding to the tiller. The seamen stowed their oars along the thwarts with no sign of reluctance.
Yorke stood up, still holding the tiller, and shouted to his men. ‘Cargo net makes it much easier but you’ve got to be quick. The net will be hanging down the port side, probably amidships, and I’ll nose up to it and try to get alongside. Our starboard side. Once alongside you can just step off and grab the net and climb up. Remember to take your turn. Don’t all crowd to the starboard side or you’ll capsize the boat.
‘Now, make sure those revolvers and grenades are secure and out of sight. Don’t leave grenades in the duffel coat pockets and then hand the duffels over to the Swedes to take away and dry. Remember, we’re survivors from the Somers Island and the fellows in the Penta are our friends and rescuers. Be grateful. And watch out for the booze. They’ll probably want to pour schnapps into you. If any man gets drunk, he’ll answer to me. Booze loosens tongues.
‘Any careless talk and we’ll have wasted our time, even if we escape with our lives. But if the Swedes are up to any nonsense and suspect any one of us is a menace to this insider business, then we’ll be quietly dropped over the side. The fact the Echo heard those transmissions won’t save you: the Swedes need only report that the lifeboat capsized a
nd everyone was drowned as they tried to get us on board. So watch it, my lads; there’ll be booze aplenty when we’re back on board the Marynal, that I promise you, and I’ll be signing the chits.’
He suddenly felt frightened: until he heard himself speaking the words he had not consciously thought of the Swedes having a perfect alibi for drowning them: certainly the lifeboat capsizing alongside would be an excellent excuse…
It took nearly an hour to get up to the Penta, the lifeboat being like a tiny crab making its way over rippled sand towards some distant objective: the slide down from a crest meant a wearying plunge into the trough and an even more wearisome climb to the top of the next crest. The wind and sea were fine on the lifeboat’s port bow, a direction which ensured the boat’s bow sliced the top from each wave and flung the spray over the men crouching in the boat.
Mills sat four-square on the engine casing, grinning cheerfully to himself and occasionally blowing the salt water from his lips and wiping his brow with the back of an oily hand. Yorke wondered whether the unique situation where the engineer found himself in complete control of his engine and almost touching it, yet out in the fresh air (very fresh and plenty of it, with spray as well) was not so exhilarating and remote from the normal heat of the engine room that Mills hardly noticed he was soaking wet and cold.
The rest of them sat facing aft, many with the hoods of their duffel coats over their heads and seeming like rows of cowled monks undergoing some dire penance, the quilted kapok lifejackets they were wearing over the duffel coats giving them a faintly Chinese appearance. Chinese Franciscans accounting to the cardinal for their misdeeds.
Now the Penta was just moving, making a slow turn to port so that she would lie broadside to the wind and waves but without moving ahead. As she swung Yorke could see the cargo net already hanging down the port side, like a square fish net. The net would be made of thick rope, strong enough so that when used for cargo the net could lift a couple of tons or more.
‘Do you think they’ll try something, sir?’
The questioner was Cadet Reynolds, and the shine in his eyes showed more excitement than fear at the prospect. Yorke had intended his earlier warning to put the men on their guard, and he could see the nearest were listening for his answer.
‘The chances are fifty-fifty, I should think.’
‘What are they likely to do?’
‘They might try to capsize the boat as we go alongside. Either make up our painter and then go ahead so that each wave slams the boat alongside her until it smashes up, or just go ahead as we come alongside and leave the quarter wave to swamp us.’
‘There’s not much we can do about any of that, is there, sir?’ Reynolds commented ruefully.
‘Not much, but we can take some precautions. You have a deck knife? Right, I want you up in the bow. As soon as we get alongside the net, don’t pass the painter up to them: instead get a turn through the mesh to hold us just long enough to jump on to the net. As soon as each man is on the net he must climb like a mountain goat to make way for the next one. Don’t grab and hang on – the next roll of the ship will dip you into the water, and you could be crushed by the boat. Leap, grab and climb! Now, you get forward with your knife and as you go make sure everyone understands the instructions. If you see they’re trying to tow us, cut the painter, we can take a sheer away – I’m not stopping the engine until the last moment.’
There was nothing else that he could think of. Keeping the engine running until he was sure there would be no monkey business meant that Mills could shut it off or leave it to run until the fuel gives out. Anything else for the men? Nothing until they are on board the Penta: the lifejackets, like padded waistcoats, will stop the grenades falling out of duffel-coat pockets. They would also stop anyone getting one out, or extricating a revolver… And everyone in the boat was wearing a standard Ministry of Transport lifejacket.
He looked up to find the Penta very close: he had kept her in the corner of his eye as a grey mass ahead but while his mind raced on, trying out all the permutations of what might happen, he had not been examining her. Only a year or two old judging by the smoothness of the hull plating, built with a cruiser stern, a low squat funnel, the bridge section streamlined, and all the accommodation below it, instead of having the seamen berthed in the fo’c’sle, as they were in the Marynal. Swedish flag, no gun on the poop, topmasts removed, both lifeboats on this side fitted with engines so presumably the two the other side had them too. No framework of piping for fitting tropical awnings so the Penta probably had not been to the tropics before, although she would need some awnings this trip or else those blond Swedes would go bright red with bad sunburn. Two officers were standing out on the wing of the bridge watching the lifeboat approaching, with a dozen or so seamen standing on deck along the top edge of the cargo net.
He signalled to Mills to throttle back a little as the lifeboat came into the lee of the Penta, which was making a great wind shadow with the sea calmer as though they had suddenly arrived behind a breakwater.
There were now three Swedish officers out on the wing of the bridge, and Yorke thought he recognized the captain and the near albino he had seen at the convoy conference. Now the lifeboat was level with the Penta’s stern, heading in at forty-five degrees for the patch of the cargo net almost amidships abaft the bridge. Anyone out on the wing could look right down into the boat.
What had begun with Clare telephoning him at the Citadel, had finally led to this, to a Swedish ship hove-to 800 miles out in the Atlantic astern of a convoy and Lt Yorke, RN, about to try to board her with a motley crowd of ‘survivors’ who had grenades stuffed in their pockets just as schoolboys might have apples after a scrumping raid on a neighbour’s orchard.
They were almost alongside the net now: Mills was obeying the signal to throttle back even more, Yorke had the tiller over to port to keep the lifeboat’s bow nosing to starboard, nuzzling into the Penta’s side, the men along the starboard side were standing up, reaching over to the net as the boat leapt up and plunged down the ship’s side, lifting on a crest, dropping in a trough. A moment later half a dozen men were on the net and climbing, with more following as soon as there was no chance of their hands being stamped on.
More men slid across the thwarts from the port side and made the jump to the net and by then the first men were near the top. In what seemed only moments the lifeboat was almost empty. Four, three, two seamen…and now himself, Mills and Reynolds left. He signalled Mills to stop the engine and go up the net and was startled by the sudden silence as the noise died but was equally suddenly replaced by the whine of wind and the sucking and sloshing of the sea between the lifeboat and the ship.
Finally Cadet Reynolds at the bow was looking aft to Yorke at the stern. Yorke scrambled forward, shouting at the boy to get onto the net, and began untying the painter, but Reynolds stayed on the net and, instead of climbing up to safety, helped Yorke. He had tied a couple of half hitches using a bight of the rope, and the end caught in the net. Finally Reynolds handed Yorke the deck knife and Yorke sawed through the rope, climbing on to the net a few moments before cutting the last strands. Almost at once a wave caught the lifeboat’s bow and gave her a sheer away from the ship. Yorke began to scramble upwards, cursing the bulk of lifejacket and duffel coat. When he paused halfway and looked down at the boat, it was already twenty yards away and, with its grey paint, almost indistinguishable among the grey waves.
He scrambled over the bulwark and on to the Penta’s deck and for a few moments felt dizzy because suddenly the merchant ship seemed as stable as a rock compared with the tossing lifeboat. He found himself automatically balancing against violent pitching and rolling which no longer existed. Already several of his men had been led away and a young Swedish officer was waiting for him to recover before speaking.
‘You are in command of the boat, sir?’
Yorke nodded. ‘Second Of
ficer Yorke.’ He held out his hand and as the Swede shook it diffidently said with the kind of hearty manner that the British were always portrayed as using by those who did not know them: ‘Were we glad to see you come in sight!’
The Swede, unsmiling and without any expression in his voice, said: ‘You will come to the bridge.’ He sounded, Yorke thought, like a ‘Speak your weight’ machine at one of the railway stations.
‘My men…?’
‘They will be given hot food and dry clothing. Come.’
Kom. It was an order, not an invitation; but Scandinavians tended to be abrupt when they were nervous. The English was good; he could not really remember a Scandinavian accent in English well enough to distinguish it from good English spoken by the Dutch – or Germans, for that matter.
His shoes squelched, and for the first time in twelve hours he remembered that they were full of water. The movement of walking made the sodden material of his trousers chafe on his knees. ‘Get yer knees brarn!’ was the ultimate scornful remark in the tropics to a newly-arrived sailor trying to throw his weight about. Legs in general and knees in particular were always the last parts of the body to get tanned. What the devil brought that to mind? The handrails of the Penta were painted a functional grey; there was none of the fancy ropework, the Turk’s heads, sewn and scrubbed canvas, that distinguished the Marynal. The ship had all the warmth of a frigid woman.
The bridge and accommodation of the Penta was like a small block of flats: once through a door there was little feeling of a ship – panelling in light-wood veneers, modern prints framed in bare wood. Stairs led upwards and Yorke followed the young officer. The stairs had carpets, and his shoes were leaving wet footprints all the way to the wheelhouse. Every piece of nonferrous metal was chromed. It looked smart and hygienic. Not one square millimetre of polished brass, not even the clock (with its inner circle for the contacts of the zigzag buzzer) or the boss of the wheel. The wheel itself was a circle of stainless steel with four spokes, not the varnished and carved wheel of the Marynal. The quartermaster did not lift his eyes from the compass; his round hat was on square and he looked ready for an inspection. Yorke followed the officer to the chartroom. The officer stopped on the threshold and yelped (although obviously he had intended to bark): ‘Second Officer Yorke, sir,’ and left. Yorke went in to find himself facing two men whom he recognized at once. The nearest was Captain Ohlson, once again hatless, his blond hair brilliantined flat on his head, the skull cap of omelette which had been so noticeable at the convoy conference, the nose large and the ears sticking out like jug handles. Four gold stripes on the sleeve of his jacket showed he was the captain.