‘She’s going, sir,’ Cutler said. The list had increased suddenly. ‘Yes. Cease firing, Cutler.’
Cutler passed the word. The order was not immediately obeyed: the crews of the after guns had the bit between their teeth now. The Nazis were in their sights and were going to get it, right up to the end. Cutler took up the Commodore’s megaphone and yelled through it.
‘Bloody cease firing! Obey the order!’ His voice got through and there was quiet as the rattle of the guns stopped.
‘Where’s Napper, for Jeez’ sake?’
A voice came back: ‘Jammed, sir.’
‘Unjam him, then!’
VII
There was no damage to the bow: Amory had checked round. There had been no chance to retrieve the masthead lookout before the cold killed him. The U-boat had gone down, taking most of her dead with her. Kemp left the bridge feeling dead tired and somewhat sick: the slaughter had been very bloody and there could be no excuse for disobedience of orders, for the continued shooting-up of a defeated enemy who had lost the means to hit back. On the other hand, Kemp could understand only too well the blood-lust that had taken over. In the sea war you didn’t often get to close grips with the enemy, you didn’t often see the whites of their eyes as it were, but you suffered from them just the same. You suffered via your families, your home under threat from the Luftwaffe, via sons or brothers or fathers who perhaps had bought it in other actions on land or sea or in the air, you suffered via the everlasting days and weeks and months of wondering when you were going to be knocked off by a U-boat or in air or surface attack. When you got the enemy in your gunsights, then you reacted. It was only natural. Even so, disobedience of orders couldn’t ever be allowed to go by default. Kemp had some bollocking to do. But there was something else first: von Hagen. That interrupted conversation — Kemp now wanted to get the matter off his chest as soon as possible, though he knew it couldn’t be settled in five minutes. There might have to be many sessions, and he must have his mind in order before arrival in Archangel. He told off Cutler to bring the German to his cabin again, and once again to wait outside with the armed escort.
Von Hagen came in. He said, ‘One to you, I’m told.’
‘Yes. And I’m not gloating, von Hagen.’
‘You’re not the sort to do that, I know.’
Kemp stared at him as he sat down. ‘And you?’
Von Hagen shrugged. ‘I doubt if I would gloat but I can’t really say. My war hasn’t been in the field...not the battlefield, I mean.’
‘But in Norway?’
‘I don’t believe I follow...’
‘The Resistance. When you broke the enclaves, as probably you did from time to time...and caused men’s deaths. Women’s too, perhaps. What were your feelings then, von Hagen?’
‘I tried not to have them. I did my duty.’
‘And hardened your heart.’ Kemp pushed himself back in his chair. ‘Yes, I understand. Or I think I do.’
Von Hagen shook his head. ‘I think this, Captain — it is different for you, for all the British people —’
‘In what way?’
Once again von Hagen shrugged. ‘Britain is a democracy, with a kindly, gentlemanly King. You are fighters, yes, but you are not fanatics for any cause, like us Germans —’
‘I didn’t think — before the war — that you were a fanatical Nazi, von Hagen.’
‘No. I don’t think I am now either. But I am very anti-communist.’
‘Yes, I knew that. That’s your fanaticism?’
‘Yes. A fanaticism in an “anti” sense.’
Kemp got to his feet and went over to the square port, looking out over the bows thrusting into the cold sea. He kept his back turned to the German as he asked, ‘Tell me this: what are your views on Hitler?’
‘I think that is an unfair question.’ There was a rebuke in von Hagen’s tone. ‘Herr Hitler is my Fuhrer, my Chancellor. It would be unbecoming in me to criticize.’
‘Yet I still ask the question.’ Kemp swung round and met von Hagen’s eyes. ‘And I believe — reading between the lines of what you’ve just said — that in fact you have got criticisms.’
‘Have you no criticisms of Mr Churchill?’
‘Sometimes, yes. In Britain, we’re free to have them. But of course there’s no lack of trust, no lack of belief that in basis Churchill’s conducting the war properly.’
‘And you suggest — am I right — that we in Germany haven’t the same belief in Herr Hitler?’
‘Yes,’ Kemp said. He said it with a touch of defiance. He was out of his depth and he knew it, knew he wasn’t putting any-thing across effectively. What he wanted to say was that trust in Hitler was surely impossible, that no normal person could believe, for instance, that persecution of whole sections of the German community was a good thing, that a leader who was reliably said to act upon his intuition rather than upon considered advice was anything better than a charlatan...that, and a lot more. The atrocities in the occupied countries, of which von Hagen must know plenty; the waging of the war at sea against women and children — the sinking, early in hostilities, of the Athenia crossing the Atlantic with all those children aboard; so very many things that had left a blot on civilization to the horror of intelligent men and women.
Kemp didn’t say any of that: he must not antagonize von Hagen too far. But he very much wanted to know the German’s thoughts because he needed to make a fresh assessment of an old friend who had been changed by war. If he could perhaps begin to make von Hagen see things differently, get him to question the validity of his loyalty to a mass murderer who was far from sane, if he could get inside the man’s mind — then he might probe out something useful, in accordance with his orders but without the need to utter distasteful threats.
It was going to be an uphill task for any convoy Commodore, a plain seaman without political frills.
VIII
One of those who was particularly disturbed by the fact of having a Nazi aboard was an able seaman of the ship’s crew -Able Seaman Swile, a cockney with a mean face, a closed face with a slit for a mouth. That meanness could have been with him from birth or it could have become superimposed by the events in Swile’s life, which had not been an easy one. The family background was not good: his father, who had died when Swile had been two years of age, had been replaced by a stepfather who had detested him and had gone to prison for beating him black and blue and breaking an arm and a leg on different occasions. Swile had mostly played truant from school, had left as soon as he could and drifted into crime of a petty nature — and had begun flirting with the Communist Party. Swile had been in his late teens at the time Mosley’s British Union of Fascists had been at their zenith and he’d had many brushes with them. More than brushes: he’d been beaten up more effectively than ever he had been by his stepfather. Clubs had been used on him — clubs and jackboots and sometimes chains and razors. Mosley’s thugs had been responsible for getting Swile a long prison sentence for GBH, for Swile had hit back and almost murdered one of the blackshirt boys, and had ended up in Dartmoor. There had been some fascists as well, in the Moor; and the warders couldn’t be everywhere, not all the time, and Swile had been done up more than once, and had hit back, and got his sentence prolonged while the fascists mostly seemed to get away with it.
Swile had a deep and abiding hatred of Nazis, a pathological loathing of all Germans as a result. To have one of them living in cabin luxury aboard the Hardraw Falls was not good. Swile went about his work with mutinous mutters, his face more closed up than ever, and a red light in his eye.
EIGHT
I
‘Well, Petty Officer Napper. What precisely happened to you?’ Kemp had sent for Napper to report to his cabin after von Hagen had been taken below again. Napper stood before the Commodore, at attention with his uniform cap beneath his left arm.
‘Got jammed up, sir. Force o’ enemy fire, sir.’
‘A little more detail, I think.’
�
��Yessir.’ Napper stared over Kemp’s head, towards the square port. ‘Got flung across the deck, sir, and landed up in a wash-port. Nearly went overboard, sir. I ended up with one leg outboard and the other inboard, sir. If you see what I mean.’
Kemp kept a straight face. ‘Like a pair of scissors?’
‘You might say so, sir, yes.’
‘H’m. Any damage?’
Napper said, ‘It’s painful, sir, very.’
‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘I reckon I do, sir, yes.’
Kemp cursed inwardly; he wanted no more delays at sea but had had to ask the question and now that it had been answered affirmatively he couldn’t deny a man medical attention if it was obtainable. He said, ‘Very well, Napper, I’ll make a signal to Portree. In the meantime, although I realize you were hors de combat...’ He read the puzzlement in Napper’s face and went on, ‘...jammed in the washport at the time, you still had the responsibility for the close-range weapons. It was a pretty poor business, Napper — to disobey the cease fire.’
‘Yessir. Not my fault, sir.’
Kemp said patiently, ‘I’ve already referred to that. If you’d been there in person, I’d have punished you by warrant and you’d have been disrated. As it was, you should have made your presence felt in advance, if you follow me. You’ll see that nothing similar ever occurs again.’
‘Yessir.’
‘If it does, you’re for the chop. As it is, I shall speak to all the guns’ crews before dusk action stations. In the meantime...I understand it was Able Seaman Grove who was in charge aft.’
‘Yessir, it was, sir. Grove, ‘e’s a —’
‘Yes, all right, Napper. Bring him to the bridge in ten minutes’ time, charged with disobedience of orders whilst in action.’
‘Yessir.’ Napper remained at attention.
‘That’s all, Napper.’
‘Er...’ Napper cleared his throat. ‘If I might refer to it again, sir’
‘Yes, the doctor. I have it in mind, Napper. I shall let you know.’
II
Kemp had gone to town on Grove: disobedience of orders was the worst crime in action, short of deserting your gun. Kemp had quoted the Naval Discipline Act and the Articles of War and Grove had prepared himself for the worst — or not quite the worst, because the Articles of War prescribed death as the ultimate penalty to be exacted and that he didn’t expect — and had been vastly astonished to be let off with a caution, which confirmed him in his view that Kemp, notwithstanding all the brass on his sleeves and cap, was a sight more human than bloody Napper. Leaving the Commodore’s presence, however, Grove felt a strong sense of grievance that he’d been hauled up at all. Somebody didn’t seem to know there was a war on; wasn’t it a gunner’s job to kill Nazis? Why show them any humanity? Kemp should have let the guns’ crews alone. Apart from anything else, the Nazis were better off dead from gunfire than freezing in the hogwash. Grove had an inner certainty that bloody Napper had put in a bad word on his behalf and the Commodore was duty bound to act.
So sod Napper...Making his way aft from the bridge, Grove’s face widened in a big grin. He’d got a bollocking from Kemp all right, but Napper, according to the buzz, had now got bollocked-up bollocks from his fight with the washport. Ever since, the Po had been walking about the decks looking as if he’d had a nasty accident in his pants.
Currently Petty Officer Napper’s misfortune was causing concern on the bridge: Kemp had a word with Cutler.
‘Bit of a hypochondriac, isn’t he, Cutler?’
‘You can say that again, sir.’
‘I don’t want to say it again. I’ve just said it.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Cutler said cheerfully. ‘I’m just a goddam Yank. But Petty Officer Napper — you were asking. Always got something the matter, but this time I guess he’s real sore where it matters. Or could matter to his old lady.’
Kemp blew out a long breath, irritated that he should have to concern himself and ultimately the convoy with anyone’s sex life, which didn’t exist at sea. He said, ‘Oh, very well, make a signal to Portree, then...ask for their medico to advise by lamp.’
‘Yes, sir. He’ll want some technical information to go on, won’t he?’
‘I suppose so. Oh, damn it, Cutler — balls caught in a wash-port, it’s simple enough! If you want to put it in a more medical form, have a word with Corrigan — I understand he was a medical student.’
III
By now the main body of the PQ convoy was beginning its approach to the North Cape and the bitter weather that would meet the ships as they turned easterly between Spitzbergen and Norway’s far north to enter the Barents Sea and then the White Sea for Archangel. Already the decks were icing up and to move about them was little short of suicidal; even the lifelines were strings of ice along which the heavily gloved hands of the seamen slid without hindrance. The fo’c’sle gear was frozen solid, the cables and slips set in ice deposited as the sea and spray froze almost on impact. Before arrival, the crews would be set to chip away the ice in a probably forlorn attempt to beat the weather and free the anchors. Currently only the guns were usable, kept free of ice by their crews working constantly to maintain their defence against anything Hitler might decide to throw at them. There was a curious feeling throughout all the ships, both escort and merchantmen: true, there had already been casualties — two more ships lost, and the Commodore still out of contact which might mean anything...but the full weight of the enemy appeared to have been held off and that in itself was worrying: the general feeling was that something was being stored up — either that, or Hitler had missed the bus, which wasn’t likely. There was also a lack of information from the Operations Room at the Admiralty; that could only mean that the Admiralty was as much in the dark as were the ships at sea. There was normally some indication coming through as to the likely movements of the U-boat packs or the surface vessels, the latter only too eager to attack the convoys eastward of the North Cape when they thought they were safe on the last leg into Murmansk or Archangel. Hitler’s naval arm was a long one, as was his air arm.
Rear-Admiral Fellowes was concerned about the Commodore. For the tenth time that early morning he walked into the after part of Nottingham’s bridge and scanned the sea astern. It stood empty, bleak; once again there was a hint of snow to come. Fellowes lowered his binoculars and spoke to his Flag Captain. ‘The pick-up,’ he said. ‘Something gone wrong I shouldn’t wonder. Or the German was simply late.’
‘The Hardraw Falls herself —’
‘Yes, she could have met trouble, of course. I don’t like it.’
‘Nothing we can do, sir.’
‘No. Just steam on. That’s what I don’t like...leaving Kemp to it. Damn it, I can’t even slow the convoy! Any day now, Archangel’s going to ice up.’
‘It was always on the cards we might have to enter Murmansk, sir.’
Fellowes nodded but didn’t comment. At the moment the orders were for Archangel and he had to make it in time for the homeward convoy to get out of the port before the ice blocked the entry channel. For some reason the Russians were set on Archangel; and Fellowes saw the German agent as the obvious explanation for that.
IV
‘Portree calling, sir.’ Corrigan read off the lamp flashing from the destroyer’s bridge. ‘From the surgeon lieutenant, sir: “Please indicate if there is blood in urine.”’
‘Damn!’ Kemp said. ‘Cutler, send down for Petty Officer Napper. Or better still, go yourself and ask him.’
Cutler gave a cough and a sideways nod. ‘How about Corrigan, sir?’
‘Corrigan? Oh — yes. Good idea! Corrigan, you have a medical background. Get your relief up and go and check the details with Petty Officer Napper.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Corrigan went to the voice-pipe connecting with the naval mess and blew down it. The relief signalman came to the bridge and Corrigan left on his errand of mercy. When he returned he reported that Napper had found no trace of blood.<
br />
‘Thank you, Corrigan. Make that to Portree.’
Corrigan did so; another signal was flashed across within a few minutes: ‘Watch and report size of affected part. Medical attention should not be necessary if swelling does not increase.’
‘Right,’ Kemp said. ‘See that Napper is informed of that, Cutler. It’ll be up to him to report immediately if — er —’
‘If his balls reach balloon size, sir.’
‘There’s no need to be crude,’ Kemp said. The message went down to Petty Officer Napper, who scowled and said the bloody quack should try suffering a similar disability and see how he liked it. There ought to be some sort of treatment to ease the pain, but was the quack going to be bothered? Oh, no! Sit on his arse...Napper couldn’t do even that comfortably since what the quack so delicately called the affected part was so bloody big he couldn’t avoid sitting bang on it, which meant he’d have to stand till doomsday. Muttering to himself, Napper ferreted about in his medical stockpile and found a tube of lanolin ointment.
Convoy North (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 9