by Dudley Pope
The man beside him had also been at the conference, the officer who was almost an albino, his hair cut en brosse, and so blond it was almost white, and the impression at the conference that he had no eyebrows had been correct. The face was almost gaunt, cheekbones high, lips as thin as Rizla cigarette papers. The eyes were the pale blue of glaciers and crime-novel murderers. Three gold stripes showed he was the chief officer.
Yorke knew they would not recognize him; at the convoy conference in Liverpool he had been smart and clean-shaven in mufti; now his face was bristly and dirty, his hair sodden, like a wet mop. No peaked cap, no uniform showing, only the kapok lifejacket and the dripping duffel coat.
He pretended a hearty thankfulness. ‘On behalf of myself and my men, Captain, I…’
‘What ship?’ the other officer interrupted.
Yorke ignored him. ‘I’m Second Officer Yorke, sir,’ he said to Captain Ohlson. ‘To whom am I…?’
The Swede nodded his head. ‘Ohlson, master of the Penta.’
‘And this gentleman?’
‘The chief officer, Mr Pahlen.’
Pahlen gave no sign that anyone else had spoken. ‘What ship, Yorke?’
Yorke deliberately looked at Ohlson. A provoked man often said more than he intended, and now was as good a time as any to start provoking Pahlen who, Yorke guessed, had the power in the Penta, even if not officially referred to as the master. Power or influence or something else that made Ohlson pay attention to him.
‘Excuse me, captain,’ Yorke said, with the stolid determination of a man unable to absorb more than one idea at a time: ‘My captain and my owners would want me to be sure to thank you on behalf of–’
‘Yes, yes,’ Pahlen interrupted, ‘we understand and…’
‘–my men and myself for the way you handled the rescue,’ Yorke said, as though Pahlen did not exist. ‘It’s not every day men get torpedoed, and to be rescued within twelve hours or so is either good luck or a good lookout on the part of the rescue ship, so thanks for the good lookout.’
‘Very well,’ Pahlen said abruptly, ‘now tell us your ship.’
Yorke raised his eyebrows, still looking at Captain Ohlson. ‘Captain, it beats me why your chief officer should be so concerned with the name of our ship. There’s no secret. She can only be one of three or four. But what the hell does he keep harping on it for? He sounds like the bloody Gestapo to me.’
Yorke’s eyes flickered to Pahlen in time to get his reaction to the word ‘Gestapo’ and saw that he was now eyeing Ohlson and clearly puzzled by this Englishman. Ohlson seemed to stand more erect – or was it Yorke’s imagination?
‘Mr –ah– Yorke, I much appreciate your expressions of thanks, on behalf of your owners, your captain and your men. You misunderstand Chief Officer Pahlen – he has a very direct manner. We are very concerned about our – well, our shipmates in the torpedoed vessels, and we like to know which of them we have saved.’
Yorke pretended to be mollified but said in what he thought would be Captain Hobson’s most direct manner: ‘Aye, well, you know the names of the ships hit so far; it just sounds funny to me that the chaps that rescue you are more concerned with the name of the ship than how many were drowned or killed, or whether there are any more lifeboats bobbing around out there full of men.’
‘Quite,’ Ohlson said hurriedly, ‘how many in your ship were in fact killed or drowned?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest idea,’ Yorke said with suitable bluntness, ‘I had enough trouble getting my own boat away. My point is this, that it would have been nice if you’d asked, instead of all this Gestapo sort of yapping about the name.’
‘You don’t know how many of your friends are left alive?’ Ohlson said sympathetically. ‘Well, Chief Officer Pahlen has to record this episode – that is correct, no? Episode? – in the ship’s log so we need to know the name of your ship. That is, of course, the only reason for his interest.’
‘Aye, well she was one of the “Hungry Hunters” – poorest paid, poorest victualled ships in the Merchant Navy. The Somers Island, owned by the Hunter Steamship and Trading Company. You spell that s-o-m-e-r-s-, not with a “u” and only one “m’.’’
‘Good, thank you. Now, we are very short of accommodation and I counted fourteen of you in the boat. How many officers?’
‘Me, the 4th engineer, the cadet.’ Suddenly he realized he wanted Watkins with him and took a chance that the Swedes would not stark examining papers because although none of the men was carrying anything that would give away the fact that he was from the Marynal, Watkins was not in the right uniform. ‘And the third radio operator. The rest are seamen.’
‘Four officers – you’ll have to share one cabin. The seamen I shall put aft; there is a large cabin there. They’ll have to sleep on mattresses on the deck, but there are tables. And of course it will be only for a few hours.’
‘It’d be easier for you, sir, if we all stayed together, wouldn’t it? I’d like to be with my lads to keep an eye on them. They’re a bit wild. You know what seamen are.’
Was it relief in Ohlson’s eyes? He said, almost too quickly, ‘Very well, that suits me – because of the shortage of accommodation, you understand.’
‘But I don’t follow what you mean about “only for a few hours”, sir,’ Yorke said, trying to look as obtuse as possible. ‘We won’t be in Freetown for a month!’
‘Oh, quite,’ Ohlson said. ‘But as soon as we rejoin the convoy this evening – once our engineers have repaired this fault that keeps on troubling us – you will be transferred to another ship. Your men will want to be among English-speaking shipmates.’
‘Oh, don’t you bother about that, sir: as far as I’m concerned you’ve got a dozen extra hands – watchkeepers, rust-chippers, painters, riggers; whatever work you want done, just tell me, and I’ll make sure the men do it!’
‘Most kind,’ Ohlson said, ‘but it is not possible. The commodore will give instructions tonight. The vice-commodore, rather.’
No one was going to give him the chance of being provoking; the Swedish captain was too polite. So far his comments and explanations made sense: the Penta was a Swedish merchant ship with engine trouble which would be rejoining an Allied convoy by nightfall: there was nothing that gave the lie to that…
Chapter Nineteen
As Yorke clattered down the iron ladder to the large cabin in the poop he thought that the officer who had escorted him there and slammed the door shut once he had passed through had in fact then locked it. As he did not want the Swedes to guess that he had any suspicions about anything, he continued going down, deliberately not trying the handle, just in case the officer was waiting outside and watching.
His men were already making themselves comfortable: each had a mattress, which had obviously just been issued by the Swedes, and there was a pile of trousers, jerseys, wool shirts and socks which they had also provided. Most of the seamen had already stripped off their wet clothes and towelled themselves down and were now picking through the pile to find clothes that fitted. There was a good-natured babble as they exchanged shirts or jerseys which proved too large or too small, and the pile of wet clothes was mounting and smelling of damp wool.
Reynolds, already rigged out in grey flannel trousers and a garish woollen shirt in what some Swedish weaver obviously thought was a Scottish tartan, met Yorke at the bottom of the ladder.
‘I’ve put a set of dry clothes to one side for you, sir. Jenkins is sitting in the head – it’s through that door there, lavatory, handbasin and shower, including hot water – cleaning the revolvers and wiping off the grenades. None of the grenades got really wet and he reckons the fuses will be all right.’
‘Who put Jenkins in the head?’ Yorke asked out of curiosity.
‘I did, sir. The guns and grenades needed wiping off and we couldn’t risk the Sw
edes coming down and finding us all sitting round doing it, but the one place where a man can reasonably lock himself in is the head, so Jenkins volunteered. The Swedes have given us some tins of food and loaves of bread (they’re preparing a hot meal) and Jenkins took a tin of margarine to give the guns a wipe over. Is that all right, sir?’ the cadet asked anxiously.
‘Splendid, Reynolds. You’ve done just the right thing.’ He looked round the cabin. ‘Where’s Mr Mills?’
‘He’s helping Jenkins with the grenades. They fascinate him. Says he’s going to use that small bin there for lobbing practice. Like clock golf, he says; you get twelve throws. The man who lobs the highest number of grenades into the bin gets the prize. Seems dangerous to me, but…’
‘Clock grenades are forbidden, Reynolds. Cards or uckers are all right, but any game your grandmother would not play is strictly forbidden.’
Reynolds’ face was so serious that Yorke held back a grin. A quiet word with Mills would be sufficient to stop a new game developing – one which deserved to be called Swedish Roulette.
The Swedish officer would have gone by now and Yorke told Reynolds: ‘Go up and see if the door is locked. Just turn the handle once; don’t rattle it. You’ll probably find it is.’
He walked over to the table on which stood the pile of clothing Reynolds had put out for him, and Watkins helped him off with his lifejacket and the duffel coat. ‘I’ll take the grenades to Jenkins,’ the signalman said. ‘And your gun, too, sir: let him give it a wipe over.’
Yorke stripped off his clothes, shivering violently, and towelled himself vigorously. He was just wondering how long Jenkins would need the head to use as an armoury, so that he could have a hot shower, when Reynolds returned, disconcerted and obviously unsure how to report to a naked naval officer.
‘It’s locked all right, sir. Who did that? Supposing we’re torpedoed – we’d be trapped!’
‘A grenade hung on the handle would probably open it for us, but don’t worry: obviously the Swedes don’t want us wandering around on deck, which means that they probably have something to hide…’
As Yorke mulled over the first piece of real evidence he had against the Swedes, tiny as it was and even then perhaps an accident, he pulled on dry underclothing, a thick tartan shirt – he recognized the lumberjack style – grey flannel trousers and heavy woollen socks. Several boxes of what were obviously tennis shoes had not yet been opened; the seamen were sitting round rubbing their feet, now clad in thick socks, warming them before trying on shoes. Yorke looked through the boxes for his size, remembering the Continental number system, and pulled out a box just as Cadet Reynolds knelt down to help him find the right pair.
Now he was rigged in dry clothes and no longer shivering, although his unshaven face felt like a toothbrush, Yorke wondered how to get his duffel coat dry. He was looking around at the array of piping which ran round the cabin like continuous Pan pipes when he saw three or four coats already wrapped round them at the forward end of the cabin.
Reynolds saw where he was looking. ‘They’re all steam pipes, sir: Mills thinks it’s part of the ship’s heating system for when she’s up in the Baltic in the winter. I’ll hang your duffel up.’
Yorke saw a chair at the far end of the long table which offered a little isolation and went over and sat at it. Beneath his feet he could feel the deck trembling slightly: below, two great thick propeller shafts, each probably the diameter of a man’s chest, were turning slowly; occasionally as the ship gave a bigger pitch than usual and brought them nearer the surface, the propellers speeded up slightly, slowing as the stern sank down again and put them back in deeper water.
He waved towards Reynolds. ‘Ask Mr Mills if he can spare a moment, please.’
The fourth engineer arrived with a broad grin on his face, smelling of margarine, his hands greasy and holding a grenade in one and a margarine-stained cloth in the other.
‘Ha, Mr Yorke, how did things go on the bridge?’
‘We’re not welcome guests,’ Yorke said. ‘In fact we’re locked in at the moment, though we’re not supposed to know it.’
‘One of these would make a good key,’ Mills said, waving the grenade. ‘Just show me the door.’
‘There’s no rush: we just act stupid for the time being. Now, what do you reckon the ship’s engines are doing at the moment?’
‘Both are just turning over at enough revolutions to keep the ship head to wind, I’d say.’
‘Does there seem to be anything wrong with either of them?’
‘No! I was commenting to that chap Jenkins not above five minutes ago that they were running very sweetly.’
‘The reason this ship gives for dropping out of the convoy every day is that she has engine trouble.’
Mills shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose she might have originally, but she hasn’t now. Keeping big diesels like these turning over at low revolutions brings out any roughness, and you can hear for yourself, they’re running like sewing machines.’
Most of the seamen were asleep after an enormous hot meal brought down by a trio of cheery Swedish cooks and stewards when Yorke felt the ship begin to vibrate and a moment later heard the rumble of the propeller shaft increasing to something approaching a whine. The gentle but deep pitching became sharper and quicker as the ship increased speed, but there was little rolling: she was staying on the same course, for the time being anyway.
Yorke stood up from his mattress and scrabbled about in his trouser pocket for his pencil and little notebook. It had dried out now though the paper was crinkled. He looked at his watch and wrote: ‘1415 – increased speed.’ Mills was awake and looking up at him. ‘What do you reckon we’re doing?’ Yorke asked.
‘Going up to near full speed. Fifteen or sixteen knots.’
‘“Estimate 15-16 knots,”’ Yorke added to his note. ‘Course unchanged.’
Two hours later they heard the Penta’s engines slow down and once again the ship resumed the gentle pitching, only this time there was a slight roll, too. Either she had come round to starboard a few degrees to bring the wind and sea more on to her port bow, or the weather was changing. Again Yorke made another entry in his notebook. The facts themselves might be relevant or they might not, but he knew his memory was bad and if he survived this present nonsense without finding the answer to the ‘insider’, the notebook entries might help put an idea into someone else’s head. Or be needed as evidence at his court martial.
Watkins sat up on his mattress and groaned. ‘Four thirty – time for a cuppa. But no chance of char in a ship like this. Or if there was it’d taste like a Whale Island gunnery instructor’s love song, weak and salty.’
The signalman’s movement showed that by now most of the men were awake, lying on their mattresses because there was nothing else to do. For months they had stood regular watches at sea or painted gun shields, stripped and greased guns in port, and kept their mess deck clean. Now they were passengers; dunnage, even, as Jenkins grumbled. The Swedish cooks had brought down three packs of cards, but, Jenkins added, the ‘square heads’ weren’t up to uckers yet.
Yorke spent the next half an hour trying to think what he should be doing now while on board the Penta and ended up deciding that apart from breaking open the lock at the top of the ladder and searching the ship with a revolver in his hand, for the moment there was nothing he could do. He had to investigate but not raise suspicions; and he had to do something which would put an end to further attacks (on this convoy, anyway) while trying to avoid causing a diplomatic incident. Britain needed the ball-bearings made in Sweden of the special hardened steel; needed them so desperately – no engine of any sort could run without them – that high-speed boats like MTBs went to fetch them. No diplomatic incidents: Uncle had been most emphatic about that.
His orders had come from Downing Street and were (as one could expect from t
he Prime Minister) brief but explicit: if you have absolute proof, act; but relying on guesses and outward appearances would lead to a diplomatic incident and Sweden cutting off the supply of bearings, which Britain could not afford. ‘Proof, proof, proof!’ the old man had said, slapping his desk and then lighting a cigar, offering one to Uncle and cursing because he could not find his matches. Yorke could hear those three words, even third hand, because Uncle’s description had been vivid and ended up with the warning: ‘No medals if you’re right but if you’re wrong expect a court martial, excommunication, castration and a rude commemorative rhyme scribbled on the wall in one of the men’s toilets in the House of Commons. And a Parliamentary debate in secret session, of course.’
‘That might be fun,’ Yorke had said, ‘providing I’m allowed a seat in the Distinguished Villains gallery.’
‘You’ll be chained to the railings in the Members’ car park,’ Uncle had said grimly, ‘and then hanged, drawn and quartered while the Naval Estimates are being debated.’
In Uncle’s office at the Citadel it had sounded funny enough; the very remoteness of it even happening added to the humour. Now it was here; the diplomatic incident was only as far away as Omelette and Cornflower the names by which he found himself thinking of Ohlson and Pahlen. What was going on out there? In half an hour it would be dark and by now the Penta had probably caught up with the convoy – the slowing down three miles astern, the slow creep up into position – and yes, Mills had noticed it too: a further slowing down, very slight but noticeable to an engineer or someone like himself whose nerves were on edge. Mills walked over to him.