Paskins’s boat cruised slowly down the line and as he came abreast of them, he shouted through his megaphone, “We’ll stop here for a bit, in case Jerry’s sending anyone across to intercept the convoy.” And as he raced back to the head of his flotilla, the boats cut their engines, and rolled uneasily in the freshening breeze. With legs braced, the two officers stood back to back with their glasses trained into the blackness, Royce noting with sympathy the dismal retching of the young signalman as he fought his private battle with the sea.
Half an hour passed. Their eyes smarted, their bodies ached with the constant readjustment to the irregular pitching of the slender hull, and only Harston seemed cheerful and alert. Without warning, a bright orange flash lit the horizon, and seconds later a dull boom echoed across the water, yet before it had died away, the R-T speaker crackled into life.
“Leader calling. General chase!”
Harston’s orders jerked Royce back to reality. “Full ahead, steer due west.”
All round, the eager engines coughed and roared to life, and with a mighty flurry of foam they were off, their graceful high-speed hulls surging and leaping over the steep, little waves towards the distant fire which slowly ebbed and then died, as if extinguished by a giant hand. Emberson’s boat was well out ahead of the pack, throwing up two solid sheets of spray as she tore into the night like a grey avenger.
Royce scrambled down to the pom-pom platform on the bucking fo’c’sle, as the gunners stripped off the spray shields, and trained their weapon round. His heart thumped madly, and he felt the sour taste of vomit forming in his throat, the icy fingers of real fear clutched at his inside, until he felt his head reeling. With an effort he steadied himself against the rail, and then noticed that Leading Seaman Parker was the gunlayer, his face hard and set, his large, red hands controlling his gun with ease and practice. For a moment their eyes met, and Parker’s heavy face twisted into a grin. “Now d’ you see why I want a bloody refit?” he yelled, and Royce found himself laughing crazily in return. His voice sounded unnatural too, as he called back, “I’ll need one myself after this!”
He found himself falling through space as the boat rolled to her beam, the tiller hard over, but Parker’s vice-like grip pulled him up with a jerk, and as if in a dream he caught a brief glimpse of a lump of wreckage in the water that Harston had narrowly avoided, and two upturned white faces that were immediately lost in their boiling wake. As they swung back on course, they caught up with the rear ships of the convoy, and Royce had many blurred impressions of gleaming black hulls and rusty plates skimming past within feet of his touch. A destroyer was firing rapidly across the head of the columns at a twisting, silver-grey shape brilliantly framed by a well-placed star shell.
“E-boat, Green one-one-oh!” yelled the rating wearing the head-set, and the pom-pom swung round farther still, but the target was blotted out by a madly zig-zagging tanker, which broke away from the neat line of ships.
“For Christ’s sake, what’s he doing?” cursed Parker, and as if in answer, a fresh explosion rent the night in two, and a blinding flash lit up the stricken tanker’s bridge and rigging like a hideous monument, and a searing pain shot through Royce’s eyeballs, as he cringed from the shock. Already the ship was rolling in her death agony, and in the light of the fires on board they could clearly see small, pathetic figures scrambling down the sloping decks. As they crossed her bows they saw the killer turning towards them, the long, low shape gleaming in the flickering light from the tanker. With a deafening rattle the starboard Oerlikon opened fire, the red tracer clawing over the rapidly shortening range, then the heavy thud, thud, thud of the pom-pom joined in, as the two boats closed each other. Then Royce saw the green tracer climbing, apparently lazily, from the E-boat’s guns, and pitching down straight for him. He felt a sudden, hot breath on his cheek, and heard the clang of metal behind him, while somewhere on the bridge he heard Harston’s cool voice shout: “Watch your steering, Cox’n, there’s another ship dead ahead!”
At the swing of the wheel, the M.T.B. swerved again across the path of the E-boat, the range dropping to twenty yards, before another looming merchantman hid the E-boat from view. In the distance, they saw Emberson’s boat take up the chase, and the tracers intermingled in a fresh, deadly pattern, as the German captain twisted and turned in desperation to break off the action. Yet another M.T.B. burst out of the convoy and opened fire immediately, and in the concentrated cross-fire, they saw the enemy stagger and lose speed as small orange flashes rippled across her bridge and decks, and pieces of the hull broke away as the cannon shells struck home. Without warning the E-boat ploughed to a stop, and burst into flames, burning petrol spewing out of her like life-blood. Within seconds she flopped on to her side, and with a searing hiss slid under the surface. The silence which followed seemed to burst the eardrums, and even the racing engines appeared quieter. Shakily Royce drew his glove across his cold, wet face, gulping in the keen air to rid his throat of the tang of cordite and fire.
“All right, sir?”
He was aware of Parker peering at him through the gloom, a look of concern on his large face. He nodded shakily, feeling incapable of speech, and only dimly conscious of his surroundings.
Parker rounded on his gun’s crew who were watching Royce with interest. “Come on you lazy lot!” he bawled. “There may be some more of the perishers about yet, so don’t look so ruddy cocky!”
The pale blob of Harston’s head appeared over the bridge screen. “Very nice shooting,” he called. “You can secure now and get rid of the empties; Jerry has broken off the action. Come on to the bridge, Number One.”
As Royce clambered over the glittering shell cases to the ladder, he forced himself to think straight, and to try to piece together the violent events of this unreal and nightmarish encounter with the enemy, and immediately his mind was assailed with fresh doubts as to his competence in such a terrible situation.
Making a great effort to keep his voice steady, he nodded in the direction of the convoy, “What happens now, sir? Do we stick with them, or press on after the E-boats?”
Harston was studying him keenly. “Well, I’m happy to say, neither. They’ll be quite safe now, and Jerry got a bloody nose. One E-boat sunk by that lucky old lawyer, Artie, and the destroyer mauled another. Pity about those two ships,” he added, “but at least they were empty, except for their crews, and God only knows where they are now, poor devils. There are a couple of trawlers looking for them.”
He glanced up at a pinpoint of light ahead, and focussed his glasses. After a moment he turned, his face suddenly tired. “Make a signal with the lamp to the next astern: Resume formation. We’re returning to base.”
Royce forced a smile. “Bunts still seasick?”
Harston stared at him for several seconds before replying, then waved vaguely to the darkened corner of the bridge. “Afraid he’s bought it,” he said harshly.
Royce lurched over to the small figure sitting awkwardly against the signal locker, and knelt down at his side. The young signalman’s legs were sticking straight out in front of him, his hands still clutching his Aldis lamp against the oversized duffle coat. His face was thrown back, and the fair, curly hair rippled gently in the cold breeze, as the glazing blue eyes stared up at the scudding clouds, as if amazed at what he saw. Through the thin plating at his back was a small, round hole.
Royce, suddenly ice-cold, choked back the lump in his throat, very gently prized the lamp from the stiff, chilled hands, and blindly triggered the signal to the dark shape astern.
As the flotilla reformed into line, Harston swore softly out to sea. “Damn them to hell! He was just telling me that he wasn’t afraid!”
He pounded his fist on the rail, then seemed to go limp. “You did well, Number One, but don’t ever worry about being afraid. The man who says he isn’t is either a liar, or a bloody lunatic!”
The Coxswain stepped out of the darkness and touched his cap. “Everything’s secure below,
no damage,” he reported. “I’ll get a couple of the lads to give me a hand with young Mead here.” He fumbled under his oilskin, and produced a bottle and two enamel mugs. “I brought you a couple of tots of neaters, sir. I reckon you can do with it up here.”
Harston downed his rum with one gulp, and walked stiffly to the compass. “I’m going below to write my report, Number One. It saves a bit of time when we get in. Do you think you can handle her now?”
Royce nodded.
“Call me when you sight Outer Spit buoy. That’ll be about 0500.”
He paused as he passed to the bridge ladder. “It’s all so bloody futile, isn’t it?” and then he was gone.
Royce checked the course, and leaned against the screen, his chin pillowed on his hands, suddenly desperately tired and cold, his face stiff with salt spray, and the towel wrapped around his neck soggy and raw against the skin. On and on thundered the boats, and still he stood as if in a trance, only once stiffening when he heard the Coxswain supervising the removal of Mead’s body, his watch- keeping companion of how long ago? Only four hours; it seemed like a lifetime.
Far ahead he saw the steely grey fingers of the dawn creeping almost cautiously across the horizon, and the dim shapes of the other boats took on a hard realism. Up and down the weaving line, red-rimmed eyes peered out for friends, and weary, muffled figures waved and sighed with relief. As far as Royce could see, Emberson’s boat was the only one with visible damage. A line of holes above the waterline, and one larger gash in the deck just aft of the port torpedo tube, not too bad, in fact.
“Outer Spit buoy on the starboard bow,” reported the lookout, and Royce peered at his watch, 0445.
He leaned to the Captain’s speaking tube. “Captain, sir,” he called. “In position, Outer Spit ahead.”
Harston joined him, and silently, side by side, they stood and watched the landmarks taking shape in the growing light. First the dull hills at the back of the port, then, more sharply defined, the long, low harbour walls, the boom-gate, now open to receive them, and a couple of outward-bound trawlers, jauntily thrusting their blunt bows into the choppy sea, their spindly funnels belching smoke, their tattered ensigns fluttering defiantly as any cruiser. The hands fell in for entering harbour, silently this time, only dimly aware of their surroundings, and only thinking of sleep, the sailor’s cure for everything.
Through the harbour mouth, and up the stream, past the heavy cruiser Leviathan. On the cold morning air they heard the shrill notes of a bugle sounding Reveille, “Wakey, wakey, lash up and stow,” and as they threaded their way between the moored vessels, unnoticed, except by the vigilant signal tower, the anchorage roused itself for another day.
First to the petrol jetty to take on fuel, then, while the other boats made for the Depot Ship, they pulled over to the railway wharf, where Royce saw a khaki ambulance waiting to take young Mead on his last trip. They watched it drive away, then slipped once more, and in the harsh, bright morning sunlight they tied up alongside the Royston ’s catwalk. Seven o’clock exactly.
The Depot Ship’s maintenance men, wide awake and freshly shaved, hurried aboard and went to work. Royce dismissed the hands and sleepily watched them scramble up the steep side and disappear. Then, together, the two officers went over the main gangway, where Harston handed his brief, scribbled report to a messenger, and they were confronted by Artie Emberson, his reddened face creased into a smile. He slapped two hands on Harston’s shoulders, and pulled him towards him.
“So you’re still here, you old devil, and I thought I’d be able to have your breakfast this morning!” But his obvious relief shone in his eyes.
Breakfast was a hurried, silent meal, as the grubby officers mechanically warmed their chilled insides with the carefully prepared food, and then, with a tired smile here, and a pat on the shoulder there, they dragged themselves to the sane, quiet privacy of the little cabins. As Royce closed his door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked at the grey, lined, and suddenly aged face which stared back at him. He didn’t remember undressing, or dabbing his sore skin with the steaming water. He just managed to heave his body between the gentle sheets and switch off the light, and the next instant he was safe from the sea, from patrols, and from himself.
2 |
IN THE MONTHS that followed, the war at sea, as far as Royce was concerned, pursued a regular, wearying pattern. Night after night they patrolled their scattered areas of the North Sea, covering the vital convoys which crept up and down the East Coast, and sometimes there was the variation of the hit-and-run dash across to the mud flats of the Dutch coast in search of the enemy’s supply ships. Like the men who manned them, the little ships knew every stress and strain as the momentum of war quickened, and the carefully laid rules were overlooked or savagely broken. Often in foul weather, and always at faster speeds than their engines were expected to tolerate, they pushed into the night, their wooden hulls twisting and bucking, while the cold North Sea winds moaned through every crack and crevice, making the watch below groan, and clutch their damp blankets closer to their chilled bodies. On watch, these men fought against sleep, and off watch, rest was denied them by the cold nights, and the uneven motion of the mess-decks, which took every opportunity to bombard them with crockery, wet clothing, and the ever-penetrating sea water, which slopped about them, and made their lives a misery. Even the prayed-for refits became scarcer and shorter, as the cry went out for more ships, and more men. In the middle of these confused circumstances, Royce grew up, and became a useful and efficient member of their little world which was cut off from the rest of the fleet, and, in fact, from any other way of life. He now knew the life history of every member of the crew, their likes and dislikes, and their weaknesses. Their hopes and fears he shared.
It was not, as he repeatedly told himself, quite as they had said it would be when he left the training establishment at Hove. Apart from that breath-taking encounter on his first patrol, he had not caught even a smell of the enemy. His war so far had mainly been against the weather, plus a steadily mounting struggle with the boat’s technical and domestic affairs, of which the latter was becoming rather out of hand. It was, as far as he could see, a case of a good crew overworked and pushed to breaking-point, with little prospect of improvement. His opposite numbers in the flotilla assured him that all would be well in action, but as that seemed a cruel justice to him, he painstakingly carried out his duties ashore and afloat, in a great effort to avoid a queue of defaulters at the Captain’s table, or the miserable collection of leave-breakers and deserters, which some First Lieutenants were having to contend with. The result, although not startling, was gratifying, and was not unnoticed by Harston, who left more and more tasks to his assistant, in the safe knowledge that they would be carefully and intelligently carried out, without the fear of an aftermath of furious signals from base, or disgruntled comments from the Coxswain. The other result was that Royce’s social life was now at a standstill. With the exception of brief visits to a giant Nissen hut in the harbour limits, lavishly called the Officers’ Club, he had confined his activities to the Depot Ship. With these thoughts in mind, he sat in his cabin half-heartedly concocting a letter to his parents. He found it difficult to write in a matter-of-fact way that would please his mother, and yet find suitable information about the war, of which he knew little, for the sake of his invalid father, who was, in his own way, a keen strategist. In addition, he knew that any one of these letters might well be his last. Both the other East Coast groups had been encountering heavy opposition of late, and it seemed likely that their turn would come again soon.
He finished the letter with a flourish, and a sigh, and reached for his pipe. At that moment, the door slid open, and Harston and Artie Emberson were framed in the light.
“Well, well, well,” drawled the latter, “so this is where your little slave hangs out!” He surveyed the spartan cabin, which resembled all the others in the ship to an exact degree.
“Hmm, most tastefully furnished too. As you have stated, John, this is a very adaptable lad.”
Harston grinned. “Sorry to upset your solitude, Number One, but you’ll doubtless be horrified to know that S.O.O. has granted the flotilla a night in harbour. Apparently they want the whole area cleared of small fry so that our larger friends can get in some sea time!”
Emberson interrupted. “And as the junior partner, we thought you might be interested in having your education extended by a run ashore to the old White Hart with us. You like?”
Royce was already buttoning his jacket, and searching for his respirator. “Thanks very much; two pieces of good news in one evening is more than I can resist.”
Emberson winked. “Not only a keen lad, but eager!”
The White Hart was situated half-way along the port’s High Street, between the food office and a musty-looking restaurant, its high, ornate façade giving the appearance of vulgar opulence amongst the other neglected and weather-beaten buildings. As the three officers pushed open the swing doors and fumbled through the heavy blackout curtains, the brassy, cheerful noise, coupled with the mixed aromas of beer and tobacco, overwhelmed them. The evening was young, but already the bar was half filled with early drinkers, mostly naval officers from the local flotillas, with a pale blue sprinkling of the Air Force Coastal Command base nearby. Here and there, in the odd corners of the vast lounge, were the seemingly misplaced regular customers, their dowdy suits making a sharp contrast with the uniforms. They too were mixed, either elderly, sitting quietly with their friends and watching the young sailors’ friendly horseplay, or young and loud-mouthed, the product of the port’s reserved occupations. These latter were usually overpaid and, therefore, overconfident of their new surroundings.
The long bar of dark wood, shiny with bright lights and spilt beer, was ably controlled and easily dominated by a cheerful barmaid of supreme proportions, who scurried to and fro with pots and glasses, her plump face split into a permanent grin, and her speedy service punctuated with giggles and nods to her thirsty court, and a hurried, “Sorry, love, no spirits,” to any strange face which hovered near her domain. The landlord, a rotund and grizzled little man, in a shabby tweed suit, remained at the end of the counter, passing the time with his cronies, and keeping a watchful eye on the busy scene.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 3