Of the trawler there was no sign, although her gunfire roared and whined through the steep bank of smoke forming astern, which was tinged with pink and orange hues, making it look a real and solid thing.
He realized too that they were maintaining their speed, but turning in a wide circle. Forcing his way behind the port Oerlikon gunner, who fired steadily into the smoke, he pushed his way into the shuttered wheelhouse. Even as the door opened, he smelt the cordite fumes, and above the rattle of the guns, he could hear a persistent, shrill screaming.
As his eyes became adjusted to the feeble light, he realized that the interior of the wheelhouse was a complete shambles. Pieces of equipment were scattered about the deck, and he could see the flashes from the starboard Oerlikon’s intermittent bursts through a six-foot gash in the plating. Petty Officer Raikes was on his knees by the wheel, hard at work; with a screwdriver, which he was using like a jemmy, as he used all his strength to free the steering gear, which was jammed tight by a corner of a steel plate, bent over like wet cardboard. Royce noticed that his unruly hair was speckled with little pieces of paint which had been torn from the deckhead. Lying pinned under the twisted metal of the gash in the bridge side was the wretched creature whose spine-chilling screams made Raikes fumble and curse, and turn an imploring eye to Royce.
“Carn you stop ’im, sir?” he gasped. “God knows what’s keepin’ ’im alive!”
Indeed, there seemed little resemblance to a man in the twisting bundle of rags which caused Royce to step back with horror. Able Seaman Lund, already wounded, had been dragged to the bridge for safety, only to be pounded into human wreckage by the last salvo of cannon shells, which had raked the boat from stem to stern. With a final jerk, the Coxswain freed the wheel, and clambered to his feet, spinning the spokes deftly in his scratched and bleeding fingers, and as if that was the awaited signal, the awful cries ceased, for ever.
“I’m on course, now,” shouted Raikes, “but if you can get me a relief, I’ll give you a hand on deck.” He sounded cool and confident.
Royce nodded dumbly, and went outside into the cold air, to pull his aching body on to the bridge. With despair he saw the tangle of wires and halyards wrapped round the mast, which pointed over the side like a broken limb, and under it, the shattered chart table, wood splinters, and the upended signal locker spewing out its cargo of coloured bunting. Harston knelt in the pose of a runner waiting for the starting pistol, moaning softly, and trying to pull himself to the voice-pipe, each movement causing him to clench his teeth and close his eyes with pain. In two strides, Royce reached him, and eased the weakly protesting body back against the screen.
“It’s all right, Skipper, just take it easy; we’ll have you fixed up in no time. Now just you lie quiet.”
Harston seemed to hear, but he couldn’t be sure, and he glanced wildly round for assistance. For the first time he saw the large sea boots of the signalman protruding from beneath the chart table. One of them twitched faintly, and then, with a sudden heave, Collins rose from the wreckage like a huge dog, apparently unhurt, but shaking his head, and repeating slowly, “Gawd, what ’appened?”
Royce yelled madly: “Quick, Collins, relieve the Cox’n, and steer.” He twisted round to the compass which was, by a miracle, intact. “Steer north-west, and send him up with the first aid gear.” He stared at the signalman anxiously. “Can you do that?”
“Yessir, I’m okay, just a bang on the ’ead. Gawd!” And he limped down the ladder.
Harston’s eyes opened, and he seemed to be trying to focus on Royce’s worried face. A gloved hand patted feebly at his shoulder, and a small voice croaked, “Leave me, Number One, I’ve had it. Get the boat out of here.”
His chest shook to a violent fit of coughing, and Royce held him close, hugging him until it stopped.
The pale face twisted into a smile, and Royce bent his head to hear.
“You’re all right, Clive, the best I’ve ever—” He coughed again.
Royce felt a sudden fierce grip on his arm as Harston tried to pull himself forward.
“Look after my boat, and the lads for me, will you?” Royce nodded. “Don’t say it; I’ll get you back,” he choked. “Tell Artie he can have my breakfast, and tell him that . . .” He quietly lowered his face on to Royce’s shoulder, and he felt his body give a long shudder and go limp.
For several seconds he sat holding him, until the Coxswain appeared with two seamen. Then he turned his head away, so that they should not see his tears, and rasped, “The Captain has just died. See to the others.”
Gently he freed himself from the embrace, and stood stiffly at the rail, then he called down the engine room voice-pipe, “Everything all right down there, Moore?”
The tinny voice rattled back, “Aye, aye, sir, no damage. There were two holes forward below the waterline in the mess-decks, but I’ve had ’em plugged. I can still give you maximum revs, if you’re wanting to get out of it, sir.”
Royce could well imagine Moore squatting down in the smoke and din of the engines, surrounded by tanks of high-octane spirit, and wondering what on earth was happening above his head, but taught by his nine years in the Navy to ask no questions.
“Very good, stand by for full speed after the Cox’n has made his report.”
Ten minutes later, Raikes reported the findings of his hurried tour. “Five dead, including the Captain.” He paused and lowered his eyes. “Three wounded, one seriously—that’s Banks, port Oerlikon,” he added.
Royce then remembered the huddled gunner firing wildly into the smoke screen. Alone, wounded, and frightened, he had fired until his magazine was empty.
“As to damage,” continued Raikes, suddenly brisk. “Two shot holes below the line, now plugged. ’Bout two hundred holes in the port side, and half that on this side. Pom-poms jammed, machine-guns smashed, and motor dory in bits. Most of the gear below is buggered-up too.”
“In other words, she’ll float but not fight. Right, keep the Oerlikons closed up, and try to get the wounded comfortable. Oh, and a good cup of rum all round.”
He turned to the voice-pipe. “Steer west-north-west, full ahead!”
He was aware that the Coxswain was still standing there.
“Well?”
“I just wanted you to know, sir, that I’m sorry about the Captain. He was the finest man I’ve ever served under.” For once he seemed at a loss for words.
Royce nodded. “Thank you, ’Swain, I know what you mean.”
Collins had resumed his place, and was sorting out his flags in an aimless and fuddled manner, and as he worked, muttering and humming to himself, Royce stood looking at the empty corner of the bridge, the dark stains on the planking, the cruel pattern of bullet holes in the thin plating that had plucked down a man, a leader, who even at the gateway of death had thought of his duty to others.
Furiously, Royce dashed his hand across his face and eyes, and stared hard across the grim, heaving waters, the reaction of the last soul-tearing hour causing him to tremble violently, and his stomach to heave until he felt faint and ice-cold.
Of the battle there was no sign; in fact, as far as he could ascertain, there was no other vessel at sea, and a great peace had replaced the flaming crescendo which had nearly engulfed them. Far across the dim horizon the sky broke, and displayed the silver fangs of the dawn, which were reflected and magnified by the twin sheets of white foam cascading from each side of the sharp bow, as it lifted and pointed towards home. Beneath his feet he felt the thud of hammers as the Coxswain’s party shored up the splintered planks, and sorted out the usable gear from the debris and confusion. The sounds of their activity, and the smell of cocoa from the galley steadied his nerves, and he felt himself stretching, and exercising his taut muscles for the first time. Wearily he raised his glasses, and as he swept the bleak area on the port side he tensed as into the lenses flitted a small, white feather, surmounted by a fast-moving hull, and even as he watched, the shape shortened, turning towards him,
moving fast.
Already his hand groped for the button which caused the alarm’s clamour to call its urgent message throughout the boat, and brought the men running once again to their stations, except that this time there were only the two Oerlikons, with little ammunition, the huge torpedoes that lay in their tubes like useless passengers, and of course, they were quite alone.
“It’s one of the gunboats, sir!” Collins’s keen eyes had recognized the speeding shape, even at that considerable distance.
And a gunboat it was, flashing a challenge, which Collins promptly answered. She tore down in a wide arc to run parallel with them, but fifty yards away.
“Reduce speed, and keep station on me,” boomed the loud-hailer, and Royce caught a glimpse in the grey light of the Senior Officer of their escort surveying their damage through his glasses.
As Royce made no comment—his own loud-hailer was in several pieces—the sharp voice crackled again: “The rest of your flotilla are coming up astern. You are the last one to be accounted for.”
Royce waved heavily, and ordered the Coxswain to reduce speed. The Senior Officer had set him wondering. “The last one to be accounted for.” What did that mean? That all but Paskins’s boat were safe? But what of the casualties? At that thought, a fresh pang of grief shot through him, as he saw starkly in his mind’s eye Harston groping weakly across the deck where he himself now stood, and he remembered anew his helplessness as he felt the last spark of life die, the vital, ever-boyish spirit vanish in a split second.
It was all so unreal, so nightmarish, that he shook himself violently, without realizing that this nightmare would live with him forever.
He suddenly observed that all the terrible scars of battle were now visible on the gallant little ship’s upper deck, and the horizon had taken on a hard, grey line, as a new day broke, slowly at first, as if reluctant to display the night’s tragedy, then with the full, bright glare of a watery sun, it was upon them. And with it came the little band of brothers, limping painfully out of the early morning mist, one behind the other, closely bunched, seeking comfort and protection in what, at any other time, would be a dangerous formation.
Emberson’s boat led, and as she drew near, an intricate pattern of holes could be seen down the side, and the barrel of one Oerlikon was missing. From the bridge, a bright yellow scarf waved like a defiant banner. Next, Benjy Watson’s 2007 came into view, towing another boat stern first, and making very heavy going of it, as the reluctant charge, which was Jock Murray’s 3007, yawed awkwardly from side to side. Watson stood high on the bridge screen, watching the tow-rope with red-rimmed eyes, and constantly barking changes of speed to his Number One, who sat on the chart table, having his hand bandaged. Murray’s boat was a mess, blackened by fire, riddled with shot. She was down by the head, the pumps clanking monotonously to stop the sea which poured hungrily through the torn planks. The Captain slumped moodily by the compass, breathing heavily, and cursing the slow passage. Half his crew lay dead below, and his Number One had been blinded.
Still the procession came on M.T.B. 1815, commanded by Lieutenant Deith, the suave, dark ex-car-salesman from Kensington, was steering a very erratic course; her rudder gone, she was using just the engines. She too, had plenty of debris, human and otherwise, to show as evidence of defeat.
Lieutenant Cameron’s 2015, the flotilla’s newest addition, was least damaged—except for a torn upper deck—and hovered in the rear, keeping a watchful eye on her companions.
And that was all; two boats missing: Paskins’s and 1917, Lieutenant Ronnie Patterson, the youngest of the captains.
By this time, Emberson had drawn close alongside and was waving happily with a megaphone.
“Get John up here, will you!” he yelled. “I knew you’d turn up all right.”
Royce swallowed hard and gripped the rail with desperation. “I can’t,” he faltered. “He was killed last night.”
He wanted to say so much, but what was there to add to this bald statement, that now sounded so cold and indifferent?
Emberson’s smile of welcome vanished, and he seemed turned to stone.
“I see.” He nodded slowly. “I see.” And he added something which sounded to Royce like, “my friend.”
He pulled off his cap, and lowered his head, his hair ruffling in the cold breeze. He stood like that for some seconds, but it seemed a frozen eternity. Then with a brisk jerk he replaced his cap, and squared his shoulders.
“You and I’ll have a talk later,” he called. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
With a roar of engines he swerved away to lead the line again.
Royce never forgot the voyage back, every little detail and each crisis forcing him to strain himself to the utmost of his ability, and by the time they were challenged by the destroyer patrol sent out to guide them to safety, he was near mental and physical collapse.
In silence they landed their dead at the railway jetty and handed over the boats to the waiting dockyard men. Then, bundled together in a harbour lighter, they made their way back to the Royston, unaware of the curious and anxious faces that lined the rails, feeling nothing but a deep despair of pain and defeat.
3 |
THE HARD, BRIGHT GLARE of a spring morning sent a powerful shaft of light sweeping across Royce’s tiny cabin as the steward deftly unscrewed the deadlight, and laid down a large cup of tea at the side of the bunk. The bunched figure wrapped in the blankets lay quite still, like the others that the steward had been busily tending, and even the scattered array of salt-stained clothing, sea boots, and other gear bore a marked similarity. Gently but firmly, in a manner born of long practice, he found a shoulder, and shook it. The figure groaned, and stirred slightly.
“Morning, sir, pusser’s tea for one!” he chirped brightly, and then stood back to await results. Like the rest of Royston ’s ship’s company, he knew quite well about the last battle of the M.T.B. flotilla, and of the losses sustained. He knew, too, that this young officer had refused help and rest after his ordeal, until he had made sure that his crew were safe in their hammocks. And even then, he had forced himself to write letters to the relatives of the dead, and telephone the hospital to inquire of the wounded. As he had handed in his report to the Operations Officer, he had been told that fourteen days’ leave would be granted to all the boats’ crews, as from the following morning. This morning.
Royce blinked, and heaved himself on to one elbow. Dazzled by the bright sunlight, he squinted at the steward.
“Thanks. What’s the time?” His voice sounded thick.
Swiftly the steward moved into the attack. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, sir,” he said quickly. “It’s eight o’clock now, and it’s a lovely morning to be starting your leave. I’ve pressed your best uniform, and Stripey Muddock has done four shirts real smashing for you. Oh, and I’ve looked up the trains to London just as you asked. Breakfast is Spam, but Cookie has doctored some powdered eggs, special. I’ll bring it in to you.”
Royce didn’t remember asking about trains, and suspected he was being pampered, but the door closed before he could muster a comment, so he rolled off the bunk, and sipped the sweet tea.
Later, as he munched his breakfast, he thought about leave, and wondered if his parents would see any difference in him, or whether his mother would persist in treating him like a schoolboy. The thought of the Surrey woods, now green and fresh, the feel of springy turf under his feet, and the excited barks of old Bruce as he lumbered about in the bushes, sent a queer thrill through him, and a warm excitement made him determined to close his mind tightly on the previous 48 hours.
As he dressed slowly and carefully, his ear picked out the usual shipboard noises which he had come to know so well. The measured tread of the Quartermaster above his head, the clanking of a winch, the appealing mew of the gulls, and the twitter of the pipes throughout the ship, as the hands were invited to muster on the fo’c’sle to perform a task.
In bustled the little steward, and s
urveyed his charge carefully, then nodded. “Very smart, if I may say so, sir, and just in time for the nine-ten to London. Gets in at about eleven thirty, and there are plenty of trains out from Waterloo for your manor.”
Royce thanked him, and picked up his case and respirator.
“Tell the Quartermaster to hold the post-boat. I’ve just got to call in to the wardroom.”
The handshakes were firm, and the good wishes genuine, as he parted from his friends, all of whom were looking forward to their leave, as a starving man sees his first meal. Emberson followed him on deck, and together they looked down into the duty boat, hooked on at the main gangway, the Coxswain obviously impatient to be off.
“Well, so long, Clive,” he said quietly. “Have a good leave and forget everything else. I’m following you in about an hour.”
Royce watched the lonely figure at the guard-rails until the motor-boat turned the railway jetty, and the Royston was hidden from view.
He made a smart figure in his best doeskin jacket, the gold wavy stripe gleaming on the sleeve, as he strode briskly up the ramp to the station. A naval patrolman hurried from the R.T.O.’s office, and saluted.
“Beg pardon, sir. Sub-Lieutenant Royce is it?”
When the officer nodded, he continued: “Dockyard gate ’ave just ’phoned through to say there’s a Wren trying to get through to see you. I don’t know no more, the line’s gone dead again, but I expect it’s some message from the Signal Tower.”
Royce paused, one eye on the clock. “Hm, I guess it’ll wait till I get back. I don’t want to wait an hour for another train.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll tell them you’ve gone if they get through again.”
Royce settled himself in an empty compartment, and proceeded to fill his pipe with duty-free tobacco. Ten minutes to wait, and then the war and the Navy would be left behind.
His line of thought was interrupted by a screech of brakes in the station forecourt, where he saw a grey dockyard van jerk to a halt, and immediately a small figure in blue jumped out, and hurried up the platform, apparently peering in each window, to the obvious delight of the sailors in some of the compartments.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 5