by Antony Trew
Chapter 14
Inside the wheelhouse it was dark but for the subdued glow from gyro-repeaters and the dials and indicators along the bridge console. To Fernandez the chief officer was a dark shape, sometimes identified by the faint reflections of neon light which illuminated his face.
The windows were shut to keep out the fog, and the atmosphere was pungent with the mustiness of charts and books, the stale smell of deck polish, of coffee and of human bodies, and the indefinable yet unmistakable odour of electronic instruments. The background noises in that enclosed space were always the same: the clicking of gyro-repeaters, the hum of radar sets, and the faint sounds of machinery from the engineroom, shut off though it was from the bridge.
While one part of Fernandez’s mind concentrated on keeping the ship on its course, the other was occupied with his thoughts. They were, mostly about the fog. Why was it, he asked himself, that in fog with the sense of direction gone he always had the feeling that the ship was turning slowly to port? Although the compass told him she was not, the sensation was irresistible. It happened to him whether he was in the northern or southern hemisphere. Always the ship seemed to be turning to port. Was it because the earth revolved in one direction or because of the direction in which the propeller turned, or … he gave up. It was too complicated.
Fernandez was unhappy in fog, especially in the wheelhouse where nothing could be heard if the windows were shut. He looked at them now, those in front and the others to port and starboard. But for the windows where the clearview screen spun and the two wipers clicked to and fro like giant metronomes, they were blanked off by fog. Beads of condensation kept forming on them, grew too large, collapsed and ran down, leaving spidery trails.
Somewhere out there, he thought, beyond the opaque windows, hidden by fog, were other ships: trawlers, big ships, container ships, tankers, all making for Cape Agulhas because it was the only way round the southern tip of Africa. And here he was at the wheel of this vast ship, moving blind but for its instruments, its crew – other than the handful on watch – asleep below; warm, secure, unaware of what was happening. But he had a sense of disquiet for notwithstanding the telephone conversation he’d overheard he was puzzled by the Captain’s absence from the bridge. It was unusual.
He shivered involuntarily. He always felt insecure and helpless in fog, aware that he was being carried along by forces and events over which he had no control.
At 0453 the radar display revealed that the trawler had crossed ahead of Ocean Mammoth at a range of 1·5 miles, the relative bearing shifting from starboard to port and opening steadily. Cavalho phoned in from the starboard wing to report that he’d heard the siren of a ship ahead. ‘It make one long blast, then two shorts,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Jarrett. ‘That’s the trawler. It’s crossed ahead of us. Moving away now on the port bow.’ He replaced the phone on the console. ‘She had her trawl out,’ he said to Fernandez. ‘Cavalho heard a long and two shorts.’
‘I hope trawler catch plenty fish.’
Jarrett could see the white of Fernandez’s teeth in the reflected light of the steering gyro. The quartermaster was grinning with vicarious pleasure.
‘We’ll have to let her get well clear. Don’t want to foul up that trawl.’
Fernandez, very much in agreement with the decision, nodded his head. ‘That is good, sir.’
‘Glad you approve.’ Jarrett sounded cheerful. Soon afterwards he ordered five degrees of port wheel and Ocean Mammoth began to move in a long slow turn to port. It was some time before he ordered Fernandez to steady the ship’s head on 258°.
Fernandez applied starboard wheel, checked the swing to port and steadied on the new course. ‘Two-five-eight, sir,’ he reported.
‘Steer two-five-eight,’ said Jarrett. ‘That puts us on course for the position off Cape Agulhas.’ When he’d adjusted the course-to-steer indicator to show 258°, he went out to the starboard wing to speak to Cavalho again. From far away on the port quarter came the sound of a siren. It was answered soon afterwards by a deeper, more compelling note. ‘That’s a couple of optimists trying to dodge each other,’ he said. ‘The best of British luck to them.’
Cavalho said, ‘Yes, sir. I report one already. First time now I hear the other.’
The silence which followed was broken only by the ripple and splash of the ship’s passage through the water and the subdued hum of her turbines. Before he left Jarrett heard the long blast followed by two shorts of the trawler’s siren. The sound came now from abaft Ocean Mammoth’s port beam.
The chief officer stood in the entrance to the chartroom and in its dim light watched the electrician busy at the junction box on the after bulkhead.
‘Any joy, Jackson?’ he enquired.
The electrician started, almost dropped the screwdriver he was using. ‘Gave me quite a turn you did, sir. Didn’t hear you come in.’
Jarrett pointed to his feet. ‘Plimsolls, Jackson. They don’t disturb those asleep below. Like not using the steam whistle. Found anything yet?’
Jackson nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in the junction box. The supply to the auto-switch comes through it.’
‘What’s the trouble then?’
‘The leads have been clipped off short and the terminal panel removed.’
‘Christ! Who’d do a thing like that?’
‘Anyone, I’d say. We’ve been swarming with shore workmen for weeks.’
‘But what would they want it for?’
‘Don’t ask me, sir. They’ll scrounge anything, that lot. Probably to use at home.’
‘How long will it take to fix?’
‘I’ll have to dismantle the junction box to get at the leads and extend them. First I’ll have to get a new panel, leads and fuses from stores. Thirty – forty minutes I’d say.’
‘Thank the Lord for radar.’
Jackson shook his head gloomily. ‘I thought the deck officers tested the sirens before leaving harbour.’
‘You’re right. It’s the second mate’s job. He used to get Middleton to do it. I expect it was overlooked.’
‘Not like Mr Foley to forget.’ The electrician straightened his back, put his tools in a corner and went down the stairway to Deck One.
Fernandez looked at the shadowy figure of the chief officer bent over the radar and wondered what a man with his knowledge and training thought about fog. Was he worried, did he feel insecure? His thoughts were interrupted by Jarrett. ‘That’s all we’re short of. The silly sod to starboard has altered course for Cape Agulhas. Now we’re on converging courses. Damn his eyes. If he’d stayed on his southerly course we’d have been well clear.’
He looked into the display again. ‘He’s coming up from the direction of Struys Bay. Another trawler. Making for Cape Town to land his catch, I suppose.’
Fernandez was used to the chief officer’s running commentaries and liked them. They helped pass the time on watch and on occasions like this kept him in the picture. Not that he had to be kept in the picture, but it wasn’t very pleasant on the wheel in thick fog, blind, not knowing what was going on, just standing there keeping the ship’s head on a compass course. He believed the chief officer liked having someone to talk to, particularly when things were happening. Before Price’s accident Jarrett used to have the cadet on watch with him. There was plenty of talk then.
‘You think he’s finished trawling, sir?’ Fernandez knew when to make conversation. The chief officer liked a lead now and then.
‘Yes, he’s doing twelve/thirteen knots. Must have recovered his gear.’
There was a long silence after that broken at last by Jarrett’s, ‘Bloody hell! He is on a collision course. The sod must have radar, and we must be the biggest ship echo he’s ever seen. Surely to God he can keep clear.’
He looked ahead through the wiper-windows. ‘Still thick as a wall.’ He hesitated and Fernandez heard the nervous tap of his finger nails on the console. ‘Right. There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to give
way. Come round to starboard again and pass astern of him. The sooner the better. Starboard very easy, Fernandez. Bring her round slowly to three-two-zero.’
Fernandez put on five degrees of wheel and the long slow turn began.
When the ship’s head was steady on the new course Jarrett altered the figures on the course-to-steer indicator to 320° and noted the time – 0512. Having checked the reading on the gyro-repeater he went to the chartroom.
Later he came back into the wheelhouse, picked up a phone and dialled the radio officer’s cabin. There was a short delay before a sleepy voice answered, ‘Feeny here.’
‘Chief officer here. Sorry, Sparks, but we’ve got problems. The Decca Navigator’s gone on the blink. Can’t get anything from it. No signal at all. Can you come up?’
‘Jesus, Mate. What a time to call a man.’
‘Come on. You’ve had plenty of kip. We’re in fog. Make it snappy.’
There was a pause. Jarrett could hear the radio officer’s heavy breathing.
‘Fog. Haven’t heard a whistle.’
‘Some twit has fiddled with the auto-siren circuit. Jackson’s trying to fix it.’
‘Blimey, you are in trouble then.’
‘We certainly are. Now get off your backside and come and join in the fun.’
‘Okay.’ There was the sound of an exaggerated sustained yawn. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Cor, the things I do for England.’
‘For the Swiss, Sparks. Strictly for the Swiss.’
Jarrett replaced the phone and went out to the starboard wing. Halfway along the bridge he stopped and listened. The sound of distant sirens came from the port side; one, very deep, answering another with a high frequency. He reached the end of the bridge and spoke to Cavalho. ‘There’s another trawler on our starboard bow. We’ve altered course so that he can pass ahead. Heard him?’
‘No, sir. If I hear I report.’
‘Okay. I wasn’t getting at you. I’ve been listening myself. Heard nothing to starboard. Probably one of these sensible blokes who can’t be bothered. He’s got radar, we’ve got radar. So why steam about the ocean making a bloody awful noise.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cavalho said respectfully, adding for good measure, ‘I’m sure.’
Jarrett made for the wheelhouse. He was tense, nervous; it was wet and cold out on the bridge and he was glad to leave it. He switched on the direction finder in the chartroom and took a bearing of the radio beacon on Cape Agulhas. Next he switched on the echo-sounder and read off the depth recorded – 34 fathoms. He had compared the reading with the depth on the chart, plotted the DF bearing, ringed the estimated position and noted against it the time – 0515 – when Feeny arrived, a jersey over his pyjamas, eyes puffed with sleep.
‘Hullo, Sparks,’ said Jarrett. ‘Sorry to bother you but this is no time to be without the Decca Nav.’
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Don’t ask me. That’s your job. Dead. No response. Kaput. Savvy?’
‘Right. I get the point. Just leave me to it, Mate.’
‘I intend to. We’re in thick fog and I’m bloody busy.’ As he left he heard Feeny muttering something about why does it have to happen now.
Not long afterwards the radio officer came into the wheelhouse. ‘I’ve had a look at it. Haven’t a clue yet what the bother is. I’m going down for some bits and pieces – and the manual.’
‘The Lord forgive you,’ said Jarrett. ‘Talk about plumbers.’ He looked at his watch. It was 0519.
The chief officer straightened up from the display hood. ‘We’ve passed astern of him now. Better get back on course for Agulhas.’ He ordered easy port wheel and before long the ship’s head began its slow turn to port. It was some time before he told Fernandez to steady on 250°.
When Fernandez had reported the ship steady on the new course, Jarrett set the figures on the course-to-steer indicator, went through to the chartroom and recorded the alteration and time – 0527 – in the deck logbook.
‘How goes it, Sparks?’ he asked Feeny who was working on the Decca Navigator immediately to the right of the chart-table.
‘Tell you later, Mate.’ Feeny was abrupt, rattled, clearly in no mood to communicate.
As Jarrett left he heard the radio officer addressing no one in particular to the effect that he couldn’t take bloody electronics anyway, particularly in the early hours of a sodding foggy day.
The eastern sky was growing lighter in spite of the fog which continued dense and impenetrable; so dense that no more than a hundred or so of the nine hundred feet of maindeck forward of the bridge were visible through its swirls.
‘Maybe this fog will disperse when the sun gets up,’ suggested Jarrett.
Fernandez said, ‘When the wind comes the fog will go. We have no wind, sir.’
‘You’re right. Only a light whiff from the nor’west.’ Jarrett picked up a phone and spoke to Cavalho. ‘Heard that trawler yet?’
‘No, sir. If I hear I tell you.’
‘Good. Thought you might have dozed off.’
‘I not doze, sir.’ Cavalho sounded resentful.
Jarrett moved along the console, restless, worried, full of tension now. He looked into the AC radar and switched through the ranges. ‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed. ‘Now this lot’s on the blink. What’s going on with our electronics?’ He turned his attention to the TM set, fiddled with the controls, but the display remained blank. ‘My God. This one too. I can’t believe it. Had to happen now.’
‘What’s the trouble, sir?’ Fernandez was apprehensive.
‘No radar. That’s the trouble.’
The quartermaster felt very insecure then. Something in the chief officer’s manner told him that he, too, was worried.
‘Very bad, sir. Can be many ships around Agulhas.’
‘You’re bloody right there can.’ Jarrett pounced on a phone and dialled the engineroom.
Benson answered. ‘Two-E here.’
‘Radar’s on the blink, Ben,’ said Jarrett. ‘Better go to standby. But remain on present revs.’
‘Right. What time?’
‘Now – now, 0529.’
‘0529 it is.’
Jarrett put down the phone and pressed the ‘standby’ button on the ER control panel. A neon light glowed in response. That’s one essential done, he said to himself as he went into the chart-room. I’ll log that. Now for another.
‘More problems, Sparks.’ The radio officer’s back was towards him. ‘Both radar sets are on the blink.’
Feeny spun round, his mouth wide open. ‘For God’s sake! What’s it now? Turned up the brilliance too much? Burnt the bleeding tubes?’
‘Watch it, Sparks,’ warned Jarrett. His voice had hardened. He didn’t like flippant criticism, particularly when he was on edge. He gave the radio officer a long hard look. ‘Both units are U/S. You’d better get cracking. We’re not far off Cape Agulhas and there’s traffic around. We can’t afford to be blind.’
Feeny stared back aggressively. ‘What d’you want? Decca Nav or radar? I can’t do both.’
‘For Christ’s sake, radar of course. We’re in bloody fog and there’s traffic about. Fix the radar first – either set – then the Navigator.’
Feeny tightened his lips, shook his head, turned his back on the chief officer and went into the wheelhouse. Jarrett followed.
The radio officer got to work on both sets, checking through the controls first then, having removed the inspection panels, he examined the complicated circuits by torchlight.
He stood up, scratched his tousled hair and began thinking aloud, rather pointedly neither speaking to Jarrett directly, nor looking at him, yet keeping him informed. ‘It’ll take time,’ he mumbled. ‘Got to check through these circuits, that’s for sure. Nothing coming through from the transceivers to the displays. Could be the inter-switching unit. Might well be. I’ll have a look there first. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll check out the circuits.’
Feeny went through to the
chartroom and began to examine the inter-switch unit which was on the after bulkhead.
In the wheelhouse Jarrett stood at the wiper-windows looking ahead, tapping uncertainly on the console. Increasingly he felt himself to be losing touch with reality, he and the ship lost in a limbo of wet and clinging fog, all points of reference gone, the swiftly flowing stream of events beyond his control. A gnawing doubt nagged at the pit of his stomach. It was almost as if a fire were burning there.
Chapter 15
A phone rang on the console. Jarrett picked it up. It was Cavalho. ‘I hear noise like motor car hooter, sir. Ahead to starboard. Three, maybe four shorts. Far away.’
‘Probably a fishing boat, Cavalho.’
‘You see on radar, sir?’
‘Radar’s packed up,’ said Jarrett. ‘Didn’t see anything there when last I looked. Keep a sharp lookout. We need your eyes and ears now if ever we did.’ He put down the phone and made for the chartroom. There was no sign of the radio operator but Foley was at the chart-table, his back towards him. The second officer had evidently not heard him come in, and for some moments Jarrett watched in silence.
Wearing a navy polo neck, blue denims and white plimsolls, Foley was in the act of sliding parallel rulers over the chart. When he realized he was not alone he stopped, switched round and looked at the chief officer with startled eyes.
Jarrett’s stare was belligerent. ‘What do you think you’re doing here … in my watch?’
Foley pushed the parallel rulers aside. ‘Something funny’s going on. This course I mean …’ His voice was hoarse. ‘The Decca Nav’s dead. There’s no siren sounding? What the … what’s happening?’
‘And I dare say you sabotaged the Decca,’ Jarrett snapped back. For a moment it looked as if he was about to use violence. ‘What are you doing creeping around here when you’re supposed to be off watch? Why didn’t you report to me when you came on the bridge?’ He darted an angry, suspicious glance round the chart-room. ‘Where’s Feeny?’