A FLOCK OF SHIPS

by Callison, Brian

  The Second Sparks grinned sourly as I pulled myself up to deck level. ‘Evenin’, Mate.’

  I nodded coldly and hoped he wasn’t going to start talking about what a hot-shot radioman he was. He seemed to have other things on his mind, though. ‘I see we’re headin’ east now, then.’

  I nodded again. At this time of night, and with the setting sun almost burning our tails off, it didn’t need a Vasco da Gama to figure that one out. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, well I still think we should’ve gone farther south before we headed for the Cape.’

  He must have been the only man on board who wasn’t damned glad to be heading for Africa for a change, even despite the possible hazards that lay ahead. I still couldn’t bring myself to be nice to him, though. ‘If we went much farther south, Larabee, we’d be in more danger from bloody icebergs than U-boats.’

  He grinned sardonically. ‘Come off it, Mate. We can’t be all that far past the Cape? What’s a few more miles between friends?’

  I ignored the ‘friend’ bit. ‘More days and more exposure to risk, for a start.’

  ‘Aye, but we’d maybe stand a better chance of gettin’ round back of the Jerrys doin’ it my way.’

  I was interested despite my aversion to the man. Anything that suggested greater safety was of interest right now. ‘And what’s your way, Mister Larabee?’

  He shrugged. ‘Roughly speakin’ I say we should head due south for, maybe, two hundred miles past the Cape to avoid all the converging shipping lanes into Cape Town—they’re dead naturals for any U-boat waitin’ for a target—cut east till we have Port Elizabeth broad on our beam, then right round an’ flat out on zero, zero, zero. Like cutting round three sides of a box if you see what I’m getting at. They’re bound to have bunkering facilities in Elizabeth anyroad, Mate, What do we want goin’ to a busy place like Cape Town, apart from to attract attention to ourselves?’

  He was certainly correct there, to my mind anyway. Publicity was the one thing we didn’t need right now, and the bigger the port, presumably the more comprehensive the screen of U-boats around it. In fact, everything he said made sense in a way, if you ignored the extra steaming time involved. But then, Larabee didn’t know what we carried in our strong­room. Or did he? Otherwise why should he assume we were something special?

  Something in the way he had this all figured made me glance at him suspiciously. ‘What makes you so sure all our trouble lies the way we’re heading, Larabee? We’re already well to the sou’west of the normal lanes ... Why should the Germans be expecting us to come into the Cape from where we are now, never mind from even farther south?’

  He seemed to shift uncomfortably, or maybe it was just my imagination. Then his frown cleared and he winked knowingly. ‘Who are you tryin’ to kid. Mate? I’ve got eyes the same as everyone else on this bucket. I saw the fancy illuminations out there last night, same as you and the Captain did. And that sub this morning. Are you tryin’ to pretend it was coincidence that she was where she happened to be? She’d have been wasted down here if she hadn’t been waitin’ for us. There’s not another allied boat for miles.’

  I still wasn’t happy but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. ‘You seem to be very keen to go farther south, that’s all I know, Larabee. There’ve been a lot of funny things happening on this trip and all of them have tended to make us follow exactly the same plan you’ve suggested. The Commandant whatsit—the Froggie—she was hit from the port side.’

  He shook his head, still smiling, but the hooded eyes looked very bright as he gazed at me. ‘So she had to get it from one side or the other. Where’s the big conclusion in that?’

  ‘There isn’t! But factor in the distress from the Kent Star and those unexplained lights you mentioned, plus that sub this morning? Add them together and you’re getting some kind of pattern, Larabee. Pressure to do exactly what you’re proposing we should compound. Like grab for more and more southing.’

  As I spoke it all started to fit together. I could also see that Larabee and I were due for another big blow-up. We seemed to react to each other like gunpowder and flame. Was he just getting mad because he could see that I was setting out to needle him, or was I genuinely rubbing some secret nerve that he’d unwittingly exposed?

  He started to smack one hand in the palm of the other. ‘What the bloody hell are you suggesting, Kent? That I’m some kind of super spy or somethin’? Those lights in the night ... Did I have some kind of speed boat that could whip me out there, set them off, then sneak back fifteen miles with no one to see me? Did I? And that Kent Star signal you’re so obsessed by ...? Listen, Mate, I wasn’t even on watch when that came through. Foley took it, for Christ’s sake! Foley and the Navy corvette - they both picked it up. You’re off your bastard chump: you’re so bloody scared an’ suspicious ...’

  He stopped suddenly when he saw me staring at him. I’d expected, in fact invited, him to haul off at me, but never quite as violently as that. For a few moments then he’d acted like he did that night in the radio room, like a man close to the edge under strain ... or guilt?

  Because there was still someone aboard Cyclops who pushed men over the side and who fired guns at other ships in the middle of the night: that was one thing Larabee couldn’t pretend hadn’t happened.

  I was about to retort when Larabee forestalled me resentfully. ‘Yeah, I know. Now you’re goin’ to say it was me heaved that old drunk, Foley, over the wall, aren’t you?’

  I didn’t say yes, but then again I didn’t deny it. Childish spite, I suppose. I just stood and looked at him and maybe enjoyed myself a little, feeling about him the way I did. He glared at me tight-lipped for a moment then, disconcertingly, smiled and shrugged. ‘OK, OK, if that’s what you think, Kent, then jus’ you go ahead an’ do two things ... One, try an’ bloody prove it. And two - just ask yourself, if I’m such a suspect character in your book, then why did I get the Old Man to put a strong-arm Popeye like him ...’ he jerked his head contemptuously at the still lounging and apparently indifferent A.B., ‘right outside my bloody door?’

  I blinked. I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps I was the one suffering the effects of fear and sleep deprivation? Perhaps, as Larabee had said, I'd become so paranoid that I was seeing something to suspect in everything that happened round me? What fifth columnist would invite—no, positively demand—a witness to his every movement? And anyway, surely no trained enemy agent could be quite as bloody objectionable as Larabee? A professional would blend in unobtrusively, not stand out like a skyscraper in a desert.

  Of course there was no link, no purpose, behind the events of the past two days ...

  By then I was so convinced it was all in my mind that I nearly apologised to the still white-lipped Sparks. I didn’t, though. Instead I forced a sneer and tried to sound like a tough, bucko mate. ‘Your point, Larabee, being that you haven’t been slammed on the skull an’ shoved over the wall so far, then?’

  His response followed me as I turned away triumphantly towards the bridge, the harsh voice full of malice. ‘No ... But then again, so far I haven’t bumped into the fuckin’ Mate of this bucket when I’ve been left on my own!’

  And, as usual, I couldn’t think of anything sharp enough to retort.

  *

  The Old Man was stamping back and forward out on the starboard wing when I arrived on the bridge. His cap was crammed well down over his eyes, and the way he paced out there, like a caged lion, hands clasped grimly behind his back, made me shoot a guilty glance at Brannigan as I entered the wheelhouse. Evans had been standing my watch while I had dinner and did my rounds and, judging by the glare in his eyes, I’d been too long away. I stole a quick look at the stolid quartermaster behind the wheel—it was McRae—and tiptoed over to the Fourth Mate.

  ‘What’s the Captain so raised about, Four Oh?’ I whispered apprehensively.

  He jerked a casual thumb at the sea, out past the threatening figure of the Master. ‘The escort, Sir. She’s been swan
ning around under our bows for the past half-hour. Dropping back, then surging up alongside us like she doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  I felt distinctly relieved. At least it wasn’t me who was incurring the Old Man’s wrath this time. The zig-zag clock dinged for the next leg and Brannigan turned to McRae. ‘Five more to port, McRae.’

  The blue-jeaned sailor put her two spokes down and watched the lubber line on the gyro compass. The ship’s head had hardly moved across the now darkening horizon before he was bringing the helm back amidships, stopping her dead on her new course. ‘Steady on 060, Sir.’

  I glanced up at the course board. We were now running at twenty-five degrees to port of our mean course, with that big, scary sixty-degree swing to starboard as the next leg. It was starting to get dark quickly too, as it always did in these latitudes, then we’d really have to be on our toes. I sort of hoped that Braid over on Mallard would decide to change the zig-zag pattern during the night. Even with the apparently adequate distance between us and Athenian, it was only too easy to creep up five cables on the ship ahead of you when they weren’t showing any stern lights. I decided to do something to help overcome that problem at least, and gestured to young Conway who was standing out in the solitude of the port wing, keeping as far away from the Captain as possible.

  ‘Nip down and tell the Bosun to prepare a barrel for streaming astern during the night,’ I said, as the kid came over.

  He nodded, looking intelligent. ‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ then moved away on the run. I stopped him before he slid down the ladder. ‘Conway.’

  ‘Sir?’ he blinked at me.

  ‘Do you know why I want a barrel streamed aft?’

  He frowned in concentration, then shook his head. ‘No, Sir.’

  I didn’t think so. Why was it that all cadets were the same? None of them ever had the sense to know that, unless they asked questions, they never learnt anything about what was supposed to be their chosen profession. Or was I too much of an ogre-like figure for a scared young kid like Conway to approach? I didn’t want to be.

  I tried to look patient and understanding, though I suppose, to him, I still looked bloody bad-tempered. ‘I want a barrel streamed over the stern, Conway, because when it gets dark it will be extremely difficult for the watch-keepers on Athenian to know exactly where we are. We aren’t showing any lights, there may not be a moon like there was last night, God be pleased, so if we allow a barrel to drag along the surface of the water about a cable astern of us ...’

  He looked bright. ‘... then the spray it kicks up will help them keep their distance, Sir?’

  I nodded. Thank heaven for small mercies. ‘Affirmative, lad. You’ll probably find the Bosun having a last pipe on number five hatch.’

  He dashed off and Brannigan said, ‘Now, when I was a cadet ...’

  ‘... which was less than a spit ago, Mister Brannigan,’ I finished for him, ‘you still didn’t know anything. Like now.’

  He beamed shamelessly as I decided to face the storm and stepped out on to the starboard wing. Evans met me with a growl of rage directed, however, at the little Mallard, now less than two cables off our beam. She was so close I could almost make out the features of the two officers and the ratings on her bridge.

  ‘What the bloody hell do they think they’re playing at?’ the Old Man gritted. ‘They’ve been buggering round under our bows like this was some kind of fancy fleet exercise we’re on!’

  I leaned over and looked down at the corvette. When you actually saw her up close she seemed to be all depth-charges and White Ensign aft while, farther forward, there was just a miniature superstructure that could have sat on our smallest hatch cover with room to spare, then a slip of a foredeck to provide a platform for the gun. She was smart, though. Everything either smooth black or smooth grey with hardly a scratch or flaw to be seen in the paintwork. Wooden hulled, of course, which helped to minimize rusty streaks.

  I shook myself suddenly and realised that I’d been looking at her with the critical eye of a ship’s husband and not as a navigator viewing a potential hazard. I started to get an uneasy feeling myself about the way she was seemingly ignoring our proximity. If it had been me down there, with all the South Atlantic to play with, I’d have been a good half-­mile away at the least.

  Why was she so bloody near?

  The binoculars were in the box in front of me so I lifted them and took a good look at the men on her bridge. One of the white-shirted officers was a midshipman and the other didn’t look very much older, come to that. Probably the First Mate or Lieutenant or whatever it was they had in the RN. The silly bastards seemed to be just watching us and grinning as if this was some kind of game we were playing. Chicken. That was the name of it ... Chicken! See who gave way first. Obviously Commander Braid wasn’t up there or they wouldn’t be arsing around like that.

  Beside me Evans still seemed to be more angry than concerned so I decided to act. It was my watch anyway, even though I hadn’t formally relieved the Old Man again. I moved over to the wheelhouse and told Brannigan to get the Aldis out on the wing, then I ordered McCrae at the helm to ease her a little to port to give us a bit more room. Stepping back out to the wing, I sighted the Aldis on her bridge and commenced signalling irritably, GET OFF MY BACK IMMEDIATELY YOU ARE MUCH TOO CLOSE FOR SAFETY.

  One of the white shirts on her control platform raised an arm in careless salute and her lamp flashed stutteringly, SORRY WE WERE JUST ADMIRING YOUR FIGURE. Then the white cap cover flashed briefly in the last rays of the setting sun as the watchkeeper bent over the row of voice pipes under her glass windscreens, and the foam at her counter kicked higher as she started to draw ahead with an acceleration that made me green with envy.

  Abruptly our zig-zag clock dinged again from within the wheelhouse, signalling time for the next leg. I still wasn't comfortable about Mallard’s proximity, so I lifted a warning hand to Brannigan who’d already started to give the new helm order to McRae at the wheel. Like me not so long ago, he’d also forgotten to check first on where the other ships in the group lay. The Captain hadn’t moved all this time from his stolid, legs-apart stance, but when he saw me gesture he looked round. ‘That was the bell, Mister Kent.’

  I looked at him a bit surprised, then jerked my chin at the escort, by now about three cables ahead and to starboard of our flared bow. ‘Yes, Sir. But the next leg’s the big one ... to starb’d!’

  Evans sniffed bad-temperedly. ‘Aye? Well then?’

  By God but he was needled with the way Mallard had come in so close. I didn’t really blame him, but ... ‘I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t consider the escort to be far enough ahead to risk a sixty-degree turn across her stern.’

  He glanced forward and seemed to consider for a moment, then the aggressive jaw hardened almost petulantly. ‘Bugger them! They started this bloody chasing round in circles, Mister. As the escort it’s their duty to keep clear of us.’

  I weighed her relative position again. She certainly seemed far enough ahead by now to be clear of our turning circle, assuming that nothing went wrong. But could we be sure? It was almost twilight, the worst time of evening to see perfectly: the time when big ships only a few hundred yards away in reality look small and insignificant. And another thing ... Mallard was still the stand-on ship, irrespective of whether she was our escort or not. According to the International Regulations we, as the overtaking vessel, still had the responsibility to keep clear.

  It was obvious that the Old Man didn’t subscribe to the rule of the road when it came to escorts, though. He wasn’t alone in this feeling either, come to that. A lot of merchant masters I’d met felt that, with the added strains of zig-zag routing to contend with, it was the responsibility of the Royal Navy to give us the sea room required, especially when there were several thousand square miles of it as in this case. Still, I had to have one more try.

  ‘We could delay the turn a few more minutes, Sir. Give her time to draw further ahead,’ I ventured.


  To give him his due, he didn’t just haul off at me as he could have done. Instead, he glowered critically over at Mallard yet again before answering.

  ‘She seems to have settled down for the bloody night where she is,’ he grunted irritably. ‘No, Mister Kent, starboard your helm or we’ll never turn at all. If she doesn’t shift when she sees us yawing towards her, then we’ll wake the buggers up with a blast or two on the horn.’

  He was certainly right in one way. Mallard didn’t seem to be moving any farther away after her first debonair spurt of acceleration and, if she was keeping permanent station so close under our bows, then we’d never be able to turn in safety. The minutes were ticking past quickly, and on our present leg we were already well to port of our proper heading. I turned into the wheelhouse and crooked a finger at Brannigan.

  He came over inquiringly and I jerked my thumb towards the foc’slehead where the small, black shape could be dimly seen cutting ahead of us. ‘The corvette's still close under us, Mister Brannigan. I want you to stand by the whistle lanyard to wake ’em up if necessary ... Right?’

  He nodded, ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  I stepped over to McRae at the wheel. For some reason I suddenly found myself whispering, which was bloody silly but, somehow, it just seemed so quiet up there right then. McRae glanced pointedly at the green glowing dial of the zig-zag clock in silent admonishment and I saw we were now four minutes past the pre-arranged zig-zag point.

  For some reason I didn’t give him the new course and leave him to it—maybe, subconsciously, I still felt there was something wrong. Instead, I just said, ‘Starboard your helm ten, McRae,’ meaning him to put the wheel over until the ‘Tell-tale’ pointer of the telemotor showed we had a constant ten degrees of rudder. Then I walked forward to the window and watched as we started to swing, slowly at first, then faster and faster.