‘Petty Officer Napper...’
‘Yessir?’
‘Contact’s been lost for now. But keep the guns at full readiness and the hands alert.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The corners of Napper’s mouth turned down; Kemp hadn’t noticed a bloody thing! Napper saw Leading Signalman Corrigan standing by with his Aldis lamp. Talk about useless...surely to God even a makee-learn quack ought to know about pillows! It really made a man sick, the way nobody cared. As soon as he got the opportunity he would write a long letter home, unburdening himself on the wife. He always felt better after a good moan.
IV
‘Gunfire,’ Kemp said, and brought up his binoculars to cover the port quarter. There had been a heavy rumble: big guns in action. Kemp said, ‘Only one answer, Cutler.’
‘The escort, sir? The main convoy escort?’
Kemp nodded briefly. ‘We can’t be far off the convoy. The escort’s engaging the heavy German ships. Giving the convoy a chance...like Kennedy in the Rawalpindi, only with more hope of success.’
‘Takes guts,’ Cutler said.
‘It’s what they’re there for.’
‘Sure, but that doesn’t —’
‘I don’t deny the guts, Cutler.’
Kemp’s tone had been sharp; the American glanced up at the Commodore’s set face and made a diagnosis: Kemp was feeling he wasn’t doing what he himself was there for, which was taking charge of the merchant ships in convoy, acting as the rallying point. It wasn’t his fault but he was blaming himself. Cutler had an idea Kemp ought to turn away, turn right away around the North Cape and head for Iceland or home waters in order to preserve von Hagen from the Nazis. He could always be negotiated as between the British and the Russians at a more propitious time, a case perhaps of better late than never.
Taking a chance even though he knew what the answer would be, Cutler put the point to the Commodore. Kemp reacted badly.
‘I’ll do no such thing, Cutler. Bugger von Hagen — my job’s to overtake the convoy and get ‘em into Archangel! If we’re right about the escort’s movements, if they’ve detached to take the German fire, the merchant ships are on their own now.’
‘I guess so, sir,’ Cutler said, but wondered what difference it would make whether or not the Hardraw Falls caught up. Kemp seemed to sense what was in his assistant’s mind and said something about the absolute necessity for leadership, of one man to make the decisions and give the orders. Meanwhile the heavy rumbles were continuing, a massive volume of sound that went on and on, menacing, a harbinger of what might be about to come to the Hardraw Falls. In every part of the ship men were listening, speculating, wondering what their own chances might be. One shell, if it took the ship anywhere near the holds, would finish off every man aboard as the HE went up in a shattering blast. They felt on the very verge of hell: any man who was blasted overboard instead of being killed outright would freeze within a minute. In the engine-room Sparrow was now straining everything in the interest of maximum speed, just hoping that nothing would give. The gunfire was reverberating even through the engine spaces: it couldn’t be all that far off. The moment the Nazis had them in their sights, they would have had it. Sparrow hoped Kemp and Theakston knew what they were doing: he knew all about the German, von Hagen, or anyway as much as the galley wireless had revealed, which Sparrow realized was not likely to be the full story and doubtless inaccurate at that. But the Nazi agent must obviously be of value to the British war effort or they wouldn’t have diverted the Hardraw Falls to pick him up...and come to, that, why hadn’t that submarine simply carried him on to a UK port? There was something extra in the air and it was to do with von Hagen.
On deck Petty Officer Napper was having similar thoughts, vengefully: if only they could ditch von Hagen, who was acting the perishing Jonah in Napper’s view. If it hadn’t been for him, they would have been with the convoy; and there was a degree of safety in numbers. At the very least they would have been just one target among many, while as it was they would stand out like a curate in a nudist colony. Napper reckoned that any minute now all the gun-power of the German fleet was going to be deployed against him.
‘What d’you reckon, eh?’
Napper whirled about, startled. The bosun had crept up on him unawares. Napper told him what he reckoned. ‘Big stuff, not a hope.’
‘I don’t know so much. If they know that Nazi’s aboard us, I don’t reckon they’ll sink us.’
‘Not right off, no — maybe. On the other hand, they might. Just to make bloody certain the Nazi don’t give anything away. That’s the important thing, to them. Stands to reason, does that.’
‘If anything does,’ Tawney agreed.
Napper cocked an eye. ‘Meaning?’
‘Proper shower, they are not much reason about them. The Nazis.’
‘Efficient, though. Not so many bloody cock-ups as the buggers in Whitehall — or the barrack stanchions sitting on their arses in Pompey.’ Napper was still aggrieved, more so than ever in fact, about his draft chit to sea. A former barrack stanchion himself, he was, like the man who suddenly finds religion, completely anti in his views of his erstwhile mates.
V
‘Ship, sir, bearing red one eight five. Can’t identify yet, sir.’
‘Right.’ Kemp’s binoculars came up on the bearing. All he found was a blur. ‘See anything, Cutler?’
‘Just an outline, sir, distant.’
A moment later the escorting destroyer was seen to be altering course towards the bearing, heeling over sharply and increasing speed. ‘Portree’s picked it up,’ Cutler said.
Kemp nodded. He was about to advise Theakston to turn away and increase the distance when there was a brilliant orange flash from the unidentified vessel and seconds later a rush of air across the bridge indicated the effectiveness of what was presumably German gunfire. Hard on the heels of the firing, a signal lamp was seen to be flashing from the unknown warship.
ELEVEN
I
‘Well?’ Kemp was impatient, feeling a surge of blood through his body: he had already made a good guess at what the signal would be.
Corrigan said, ‘He’s calling Portree, sir —’
‘Can you read it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Corrigan paused. ‘Portree’s being told to heave to.’ There was another pause. ‘Colonel von Hagen’s to be made available, sir.’
‘Or we’ll be blown out of the water, I suppose!’
‘Sort of, sir.’ Corrigan added, ‘He’s giving us five minutes, sir.’
‘I see. For now, we ignore the signal.’ Kemp brought up his binoculars again: now he could see the outline of the German, a heavy cruiser, no doubt the Regensburg, the Gottingen or the Koblenz. She was coming in fast, but as Kemp watched she slowed. So far there had been no reaction from the Portree but a moment later the destroyer began calling the Commodore.
‘Asking for orders, sir,’ Corrigan reported.
‘Make: “Hold off for the time being and maintain speed.”‘ Kemp paced the bridge, watched by Cutler and Captain Theakston. Corrigan, the signal made, waited for further orders. Kemp, he knew, was in a massive dilemma: you didn’t surrender without a fight. But there was the German agent, and in that respect the Commodore would obviously have certain orders, though Corrigan didn’t know what they might be. They might not, in fact, cover a situation such as this.
And Kemp knew they did not. He had to make his own decision for good or ill. And he had to make it fast, though he doubted if the German cruiser would open fire at the end of the five minutes. They wouldn’t want to blast von Hagen out of existence. He would keep them hanging on, uncertain of the British reaction. Kemp turned in his pacing to find himself confronted by the ship’s master. Theakston’s face was set into formidable lines and he began without preamble.
‘I don’t know what you propose doing, Commodore, but I know what I intend to do.’
‘And that is?’
‘Not to be buggered about by any Nazi a
gent. I’m not concerned what happens to him —’
‘Perhaps not, Captain, but I have to be. He has to be got into Archangel.’
‘Aye! That’s the orders. I have my ship to consider. My ship, my crew, and my cargo. It’s a vital cargo. The German has the whip hand, Commodore Kemp. We have to let von Hagen go across —’
‘We’ll keep them on a string, Captain.’ Kemp looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Three minutes had now passed. The next two minutes seemed to fly away, while the Hardraw Falls moved on and Kemp wrestled with his decision. Obviously there could be no hope of engaging the German successfully; Portree carried nothing heavier then 4.7-inch guns. But Kemp was in no doubt that Whitehall considered von Hagen of more importance to the conduct of the war than the men or cargo aboard the Hardraw Falls. Once again he tried to see into distant, political minds, the brains of the men responsible for the overall strategy. Would it be a better thing, in their view, that von Hagen should die with the rest rather than be returned to Germany?
The answer was a clear yes. The Hardraw Falls had to be the sacrifice.
Kemp was about to give his decision when the German began calling again, this time addressing the Hardraw Falls direct. Corrigan read off the signal: ‘From the German, sir, who’s still not giving her signal letters. “You have a passenger who is at once to be put aboard me. You will heave-to”. Message ends, sir.’
‘Message as before, more or less.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Kemp caught Theakston’s eye. Theakston said firmly. ‘We must do as he asks. I said before, I don’t give nowt for a dirty Nazi spy. I’ll not hazard my ship for that.’
‘I shall not part with von Hagen, Captain.’
Theakston blew out a long breath of exasperation. ‘See sense! Your personal problem would be solved — no broken promise, no dirt done —’
‘I can’t allow that to weigh. You know that as well as I do. And there’s another point, Captain. The moment von Hagen’s put aboard the German, we’ll be sunk by gunfire. They’ll never let your cargo go free.’
Theakston said, ‘That need not happen. Von Hagen is your friend, and he ranks high in Germany. He’ll not let that happen. You’ll have saved him from the Russians, from the KGB.’
‘I’m sorry, Captain. I have my orders.’
‘And I have my ship,’ Theakston said doggedly. That is my responsibility, Commodore Kemp. I, too, am under orders — to reach Archangel with my cargo. I command the ship, you don’t. In effect you’re no more than a passenger.’ All Theakston’s Yorkshire obstinacy had surfaced now, and he stood four-square on his own bridge. ‘If necessary I have the authority to place passengers in restraint — as you had in the liners.’
Theakston turned away and went into the wheelhouse. Kemp saw him go to the engine-room telegraph and haul the lever over to stop. He was, strictly, within his rights; and Kemp could appreciate his point of view, would probably in Theakston’s place have taken up a similar position. British seamen were at immediate risk now. But von Hagen was a catch; his knowledge, if he could be made to talk — even to the Russians — could possibly shorten the war. Kemp turned away and went down the ladder to his cabin, where he unlocked the safe. When he returned to the bridge he had his revolver in his hand.
II
The Home Fleet in Scapa and the Firth of Forth had been at immediate notice for steam and no time had been lost in proceeding to sea in accordance with the orders from the Admiralty, on course for the vicinity of the North Cape with paravanes streamed from the bows against possible mines. The battle squadron pushed through wind-blown waters at its best speed, covered by the cruisers and the extended destroyer escort. The distance would be around 1350 miles: some fifty-eight hours’ steaming. The estimation was that although they would have no hope of making their arrival in time to save the PQ convoy, they would catch the heavy German units either to the north as they retreated towards Spitzbergen or to the south as they tried to escape back to their bases in occupied Norway — there was no knowing yet what the German choice would be. The Vice-Admiral commanding the battle squadron believed that it would be the latter; the Germans, their work done on the convoy, would wish to scuttle south for shelter as fast as possible. For now the Fleet steamed in two watches, half the armament manned for action, and full alertness throughout on the part of the watchkeepers on the bridges and at the lookout positions as the Fleet came north to leave Iceland on the port quarter, moving into the bitter cold and the great freeze that had gripped the convoy, the gunners’ mates, the armourers and the electrical artificers constantly checking for ice in the working parts of the big gun-batteries and secondary armament.
In the Admiralty’s Operations Room the counters were moved north, following the dead-reckoning estimation of the Fleet’s advance. The position of the PQ convoy and its escort had now, also by dead reckoning, been moved along past the North Cape towards Archangel. The atmosphere was tense, made worse by the presence of the Prime Minister, always an unpredictable and uncomfortable person, his face pugnacious now behind the immense cigar. Beside him was the First Sea Lord, Chief of the Naval Staff.
The cigar was removed and waved in the air.
‘What are the chances, First Sea Lord?’
‘Slim, sir — of being of any assistance to the convoy. A question of speed. If only we had more of the KG5 class —’
‘Yes. I did my best before war came, as I warned everyone it would.’ The Prime Minister’s face became for a moment cherubic. ‘I prodded and prodded and I confess I much enjoyed the discomfiture and indeed the exasperation of the prodded, the wretched fellows who put votes before country. I found that Tories could be most remarkably dense, unable to see a day ahead, much less the more distant future. Yes, had they listened, we would have had enough warships.’ The cigar was once again thrust back between the full lips. ‘The jackal of Germany would never have dared to risk a fight with us in the first place if we’d rearmed in time.’ For a few moments Churchill glowered towards the wall map, watching the trim figures of the Wrens with their pointers. ‘That Nazi agent...which ship was he transferred to?’
‘The Hardraw Falls, Prime Minister, an ammunition ship.’
‘Ah yes. The Commodore’s ship. Commodore Kemp — am I not right?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister...if you remember, it was because he had known von Hagen that —’
‘Yes, yes, I don’t need reminding of everything, thank you, Admiral, I’m not in my dotage yet. Now then: what do you suppose Commodore Kemp will do if the convoy encounters the Germans? As to the Nazi agent, I mean.’
‘Simply carry on, Prime Minister. What else would he do?’
‘That’s what I asked you.’ The Prime Minister shifted irritably in his chair. ‘We must not neglect the possibility that the Nazis know where von Hagen is. In that case — ‘
‘Unlikely, sir.’
‘So are many things, but the unlikelihood didn’t stop them happening. I hope Commodore Kemp can be relied upon! The safe delivery of von Hagen in Archangel is paramount...at this stage of the war we dare not upset that arch villain Comrade Stalin, much as I would enjoy so doing.’ Mr Churchill removed his cigar and aimed it like a gun at the Chief of Staff. ‘That last remark goes no farther than yourself, First Sea lord.’
‘Of course not, Prime Minister.’
III
Returning to the bridge, Kemp had seen that the destroyer escort had slowed as the way came off the Hardraw Falls and was standing off to port, keeping herself between the Commodore’s ship and the enemy cruiser. Kemp went into the wheelhouse, where the master was standing beside the engine-room telegraph.
Hearing Kemp’s entry, Theakston swung round. He saw Kemp’s revolver.
‘What’s the idea?’ he asked.
‘A few pot shots of my own,’ Kemp answered: he had read in Theakston’s face that the master fancied he was about to take over the ship himself by force of arms. The idea had flitted through Kemp’s mind but only as
an expression of his frustration at Theakston’s obstinacy, something he would have liked to do had it been practicable, which it would not. But the fact of Theakston having taken the way off his ship had given Kemp an idea and for what it might be worth he intended to put it into effect. He said, ‘The German’s stopping too. Any moment now, he’ll be lowering a seaboat.’
As he spoke, a searchlight came on aboard the German cruiser and its beam steadied blindingly on the bridge of the Hardraw Falls before moving aft. When his vision had been restored Kemp saw in the backglow of the beam that a boat was already being lowered to the cruiser’s waterline ready for slipping, a boat with armed seamen aboard.
Theakston asked, ‘What do you intend doing?’
‘I intend to to take full advantage of a cruiser that’s lying stopped — that’s all!’
‘What the heck —’ Theakston was looking puzzled.
Kemp said, ‘That boatload’s going to get a reception they’re not expecting.’ He raised his voice through the wheelhouse door to the open bridge. ‘Corrigan!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Corrigan came across, the lead of his Aldis trailing behind him.
‘Call up Portree. Tell ‘em, do as I do.’
‘“Do as I do”, sir?’
‘Yes. I doubt if that’ll convey anything much to the German. And add, “fish”.’
Corrigan stared. ‘“Fish”, sir? Just that?’
‘Yes. Torpedoes, man, torpedoes!’
Corrigan appeared to tick over. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he said, and doubled away to the bridge wing. Soon after the signal had been made Kemp saw the destroyer using her engines to come up more on the German’s beam: Portree’s captain had, it seemed, cottoned on nicely. Kemp turned once more to Theakston. He would, he said, open fire on the seaboat as soon as it was within range. To Petty Officer Napper, who had come to the bridge for instructions, he said his own revolver shot was to be considered the order for all the close-range weapons to open, and they would be joined by the guns aboard Portree.
Convoy North (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 12