“Oh yes,” nodded Murray from the corner of the bar, “I’ve heard of them. They look after the Navy in peacetime!”
A howl of laughter went up, and the ice was broken.
The following afternoon, however, Royce stood uneasily on the bridge of the M.T.B. awaiting his new Commander, and having slaved for 24 hours to get the boat ready, he was in no mood for laughing. The boat gleamed from stem to stern, the smell of new paint pervaded everywhere, and all visible signs of the last action had been wiped away, like an unpleasant drawing from a blackboard. When he had first mounted the bridge, he had not been thinking about Kirby and his regulations, but wondering how he would react to going into action again, and whether his nerve might have gone, like so many who had been labelled “bomb-happy.” In the warm sunshine the bridge looked quiet and peaceful, and the fresh steel plates gleamed dully in their grey paint, while the brass of the binnacle and voice-pipes shone cheerfully in welcome. It was difficult to imagine this place as the roaring, shell-torn hell that it had been just a couple of weeks ago. He had checked the charts, the stores, and ammunition. The guns had been tested and the torpedoes stripped and prepared, until he was quite satisfied. He had even done the returns that Kirby had wanted for some purpose or other, and he was feeling the strain now of waiting to see his superior’s reactions to his efforts. He had not long to wait. Kirby, in a spotless new duffle coat and white scarf, swung over the side and marched up to him, and even as he returned his salute, his eyes darted everywhere, taking in every small detail.
“Quite good, Number One,” he conceded at length. “We proceed to sea at 1630 as ordered. Make a signal to that effect. Although it’s a more or less routine patrol off the Dutch coast, we might be lucky, and in any case it’ll get the cobwebs blown away.”
The Coxswain mounted the bridge to report all hands aboard for sea, and Royce was pleased to see that he had made a special effort to smarten his appearance. His cap, usually worn after the style of Admiral Beatty, perched carefully on the unruly, carroty hair, and his sweater was almost white.
“I understand that you, at least, are a regular?” questioned Kirby. “That is a good thing indeed.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the Coxswain, cautiously, “and I bin in this boat for two years, since she was built.”
“I see.”
And as Raikes turned to leave, “See that I’m piped aboard on every occasion in future, and I don’t want to see the men lounging on the guard-rails. Keep them busy. A busy ship is an efficient one. I shall be watching you, Cox’n.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Raikes, in apparent amazement.
Good, thought Royce, even the R.N. aren’t used to this sort of thing.
In due course the time of departure drew near, and with special care Royce watched as the hands singled up the wire springs, ready to slip. Around him the other boats were busy, and Royce felt a glow of affection as he watched the familiar figures scurrying to and fro. On the bridge, Kirby stepped from one side to the other, swinging up his glasses and examining his flotilla from every angle.
Collins, the signalman, lowered his glass. “Signal from tower, sir: Preparative, five minutes. ”
Kirby rang down “stand-by” to the engine room, and listened angrily, as the other boats began to rev their motors vigorously.
“If the engines are in proper order,” he barked, “you don’t need to start them until that Preparative is lowered.”
With a rush the tiny flag dipped, and Royce yelled, “Let go all lines. Bear off forrard!”
Fortunately for Petty Officer Moore, the engines roared to life at the crucial moment, but as he said later, “Never before, and never agin!”
Carefully, and gracefully, the eight boats swung into line and picked up their distances, making a proud picture in the bright sun. The new ensigns fluttered defiantly from the gaffs, and on every deck the crews stood in neat lines for leaving harbour.
As he stood on the fo’c’sle with his men, Royce’s heart lightened with pleasure at the sight, and he felt bound even closer to these wild young men, upon whom so much depended.
Through the boom-gate they threaded, and round the bell-buoy, towards the inviting but hostile sea, over which a million shimmering lights sparkled, and not even the faintest breeze ruffled its gleaming surface. He wondered what it would be like in peacetime. The small beaches packed with perspiring families, no doubt. Sand castles and toffee-apples. Laughing girls and carefree men. It was a world that didn’t exist. He sighed, and dismissed the hands, and returned to the bridge.
“As soon as it’s sunset, the flotilla will go to Action Stations,” ordered Kirby, “and as I said at the conference, nobody fires a shot or breaks station without a signal to that effect from me.”
Royce took over the watch, realizing it was useless to argue or make suggestions, and Kirby retired to his cabin. It seemed obvious to him that Kirby still thought he was running a destroyer, and didn’t really grasp the significance of this close fighting, where individual action counted for so much.
As the light faded, and the boats bowled forward at a steady, medium speed, Royce leaned pensively on the screen, and thought again of Julia. It was wonderful to have someone to think about in that way, and he decided that as soon as he could get ashore, he would start making inquiries to try and trace her, without making it too obvious. He wished that there was someone he could consult about such matters, someone who would be able to give him the benefit of experience that he himself lacked. Before he had volunteered for the Navy, he had been far too wrapped up in his work, and studying for seemingly impossible exams, to even consider investing some of his meagre allowance on the pursuit of the opposite sex. It was all very worrying; she might at this moment be getting engaged, or even married, without his getting another look at her. He shook himself. This was absurd, he told himself. Why, even if he ever found her again, she might be quite unlike the girl of his constant thoughts, and he would make a fool of himself once more. But the image of the large brown eyes persisted, and again all doubts and appeals to reason were dispelled.
Two ungainly corvettes, their sides streaked with rust and red lead, steamed sedately past, no doubt on their way back home from convoy duty, and as is the custom of the Navy, the signal lamps got busy.
“Signal from Rockrose, sir,” grinned Collins. “What yacht club are you?”
Royce laughed. “Make East Coast Cruising Club. What are you doing? ”
For a few seconds the lights winked back and forth across the darkening water.
From Rockrose: Joining the Wrens, Good night!
With a cheery toot on the siren the battered pair made off towards Harwich.
Kirby stood by his side, apparently drawn from his cabin by the sounds.
“What was happening, Number One?” he queried. “What signals were they? Have they sighted something?”
“No, sir, just the usual light chatter, otherwise all quiet.”
“I don’t approve of these silly signals, Royce, they’re quite unnecessary, and only encourage slackness. The only signals to be sent are those you put in the log. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Royce heavily, while Collins suddenly busied himself with the flag locker.
You absolute pig, he thought to himself, and turned his attention to the compass.
Kirby, who looked pale and drawn, stood fidgeting for some moments, his calm temporarily upset by all these unorthodox goings on, then giving Royce and the signalman another glare, he stalked from the bridge.
Collins’s soft, tuneless whistle wafted quite clearly above the rumble of the engines, “All the nice girls love a sailor—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake stow it, will you!” he barked, then realizing it useless to take it out of the unfortunate Bunts, “See if you can get some kye laid on; it’s getting a bit chilly now.”
“It certainly is, sir,” muttered Collins with heavy irony, and hurried off before he could receive another rebuke.
<
br /> At the clamour of Action Stations, the hands poured up from below, and settled themselves once again around their weapons, muttering and cursing about what they considered to be an unnecessary precaution. Able Seaman Roote, who had relieved Parker as gunlayer on the pom-pom, while he was in hospital with his badly cut face, made no bones about voicing the opinion of the mess-deck.
“It’s ruddy daft, that’s what! ’Oo does ’e think ’e is, I want to know? In this tub already I bin in twenty scraps, and nobody’s ever asked me ’ow I was dressed before! But ’is bleedin’ lordship up there says, ‘Hall thet his a-goin’ to be quate different in the footure.’” He mimicked in a high, falsetto voice.
“Lofty” Poole, his “oppo,” showed his strong teeth through the gloom. “Watch out Rooty, ’e’ll ’ave you in cocked ’at and spurs afore long!”
The ex-milkman from Hackney laughed mirthlessly.
“You ’eard what old Bunts said? Poor old Jimmy-the-One was fair fumin’. Bunts reckoned ’e was goin’ to poke the Old Man in the chops!”
“Yeh, old Jimmy’s not a bad bloke for an officer; ’e was proper busted up about the Old Man catching it. The real skipper, I mean.”
They huddled together for extra warmth, and lapsed into a companionable silence born of long training.
Bunched abaft the squat bridge, the torpedo party too were going through their usual fumbling paces with their twin giants, their bodies rolling to the easy motion of the throbbing hull. The L.T.O., a small, unhappy-looking man from Cornwall, called Petroc, kicked one of the tubes savagely.
“You’m a big useless lump o’ metal, that’s what yew are!”
As the torpedo showed no sign of having heard this outburst, he continued, “If yew don’ sink summat this time, oi’ll stuff the ol’ man in yew, an’ foire ’im instead! Recon yew won’ loike that!”
Overhead the sky was a ceiling of black velvet, sprinkled with a million stars of every size and shape, which made their little ship seem unimportant and fragile. The short, stumpy mast revolved in a tight circle, pointing first at one group of stars, and then another, like a dark ringer.
Royce thrust his head and shoulders beneath the waterproof blackout curtain covering the private world of the chart table, and with the aid of the dim light, he got to work with parallel rulers and dividers on the well-worn chart showing the approaches to the Hook of Holland.
The principle of inshore fighting is to creep among the treacherous sand-bars, where the convoys and their escorts cannot reach, and then pounce out at full speed, every man for himself. It usually worked.
Now at a dead slow crawl, the lithe shapes of the flotilla crept forward against the ebb tide. Station-keeping was no great difficulty on this occasion, as all the boats were leaving long phosphorescent trails astern, like fiery comets, but even so, carelessness—as they all knew from experience—could result in sudden, crippling damage, or the prospect of being left high and dry on a mud-bank for the enemy to collect at leisure.
Kirby stood very erect by the chart table, shrouded in his duffle coat, his eyes fixed on an invisible mark ahead. What schemes were passing through his thoughts Royce could only guess, but in his own mind the usual combination of cold excitement, and the tugging grip of fear, had already got to work. He shivered violently, and worked his shoulders vigorously. He wanted to stamp his feet too, but knew that this was probably the moment of decision, calling for complete watchfulness and silence. On the other hand, it would quite likely be just another empty patrol.
“Stop engines,” ordered Kirby curtly, and as the boats lapsed into silence, one after the other, the gentle slap, slap of the small waves against the mahogany sides sounded loud enough for even a dead German to hear.
Royce kept a careful eye on the compass, trying to determine their drift on the sluggish current, and the nearness of the other craft, and he jumped violently when Kirby suddenly jabbed him in the ribs.
“There,” he hissed, pointing over the port bow. “D’you see?”
For the moment he could fix his eyes on nothing, and then for the tiniest instant, far away it seemed, he saw a minute flicker of light, then blackness. Yes, there it was, a faint beam of light, then it had gone again.
“What is it, sir?” asked Royce. “It’s no buoy, there are none about here. It was rather like a signal, but it was almost regular, wasn’t it?”
Kirby raised his glasses again, and Royce heard him chuckle.
“I’ve seen that before on other slack ships. That was loose deadlight over a port.”
He waited for the significance to sink in.
“Each time the ship rolls, the deadlight opens, and out shines the light. Probably some stupid officer in his cabin. Oh yes, Number One, there’s a nice big ship on the end of that light. Stand by to engage with torpedoes!”
Royce flung himself down towards the torpedo party, hearing briefly as he did so, the click of a shaded Aldis lamp to the other boats. The engines purred to life, and they crept forward once more, this time in earnest.
Peering round the side of the wheelhouse, Royce saw the darkness ahead lose its silky smoothness, and slowly but surely a new, hard shape began to emerge. It was like a wild dream, it was so unreal and almost frightening, as this great ship moved silently across the water ahead of them. The range was still about a thousand yards, and yet the strange vessel rose like a factory, high above them.
“Phew, it must be the Queen Mary!” muttered Petroc.
The voice-pipe rattled, “Stand by, tubes.”
They waited.
Still they cruised towards each other, on a course which could end in a collision if nothing happened. Surely the enemy captain must see them soon.
Petroc checked with his sighting bar. “Three hundred yards, sir,” he whispered.
Then, quite clearly and crisply across the water, they heard the urgent clamour of a klaxon hooter, and a split second later there was a flat explosion from the bridge, as a snow-flake rocket was sent on its journey over the surprised vessel. When it burst, in a gleaming, eye-searing glare, they saw before them, as if engraved on a black backcloth, a vast oil tanker of some twenty thousand tons, every detail clear and bright, from her tall, tapering derricks and lofty bridge, to the neat lifeboats stacked under their davits. In answer to the alarm, tiny figures scurried aft to a shrouded gun-platform, while the great ship began to turn away from the attackers. A fresh, creamy froth rose from her stern, and she surged forward, the bow wave rising against the proud, raking stem. But in vain. Even at the Tactical School at Portsmouth, no target could be better placed for a kill.
They all heard the harsh orders on the R-T, as Kirby flung his force to the assault. As their own bows lifted, and they swung on the new course, their engines screaming with hate, Kirby gave the signal to fire. With a cough of yellowish smoke, the great fish pounced from the gaping mouths of the tubes, ungainly and ugly, but as their sharp fins and propellers dug into their natural element, the sea, they shot forward remorselessly, gathering a fiendish speed. Instantly, the M.T.B. heeled over, lightened from her burden, scudding round and away, to leave the way clear for the next boat in the line.
They could clearly see the sharp bows of Emberson’s boat cleaving rapidly on the same course as they had just taken, and when he fired his fish, it looked all the more impressive and terrible. The German gunners had been forgotten in the excitement, but now, above the noise of the engines, they heard the sharp bang of the twelve-pounder as they got the first shell away. Where it went they never knew, for at that instant, their torpedoes struck home, biting deep into the bowels of the engine room. They exploded as one, and the night was torn in two by the great roaring detonation. A tall column of water rose high above the masts, followed by a terrifying orange flash, more powerful than even the rocket had been, and before their shocked minds could readjust themselves, the centre of the main deck dissolved into a mass of writhing flames, the heat of which could be felt harsh on their faces. Another deafening bang heralded th
e arrival of one of Emberson’s torpedoes, the other had apparently missed, and before their eyes, the vast bows dropped into the sea, as if sheered off by an invisible knife. Kirby signalled to break off the action, and withdrew from the new menace of the blazing oil which was pouring in thousands of gallons from the shattered tanks. It spread over the waves in a great fiery apron, stripping the paint from the ship’s scorched sides, and causing the jagged plates to glow red, and to buckle into fantastic shapes. Slowly and majestically she dipped her head in submission to the savage onslaught, the great flames hissing and darting along the whole length of the decks, and above all other sounds could be heard the bellow of scalding steam, and more internal explosions, as her very entrails were torn to shreds. The propellers, now still, rose dripping and shining in the glare, whilst in a shower of sparks, the main derrick tore free from the tormenting fire and plunged over the side. More quickly now, the glowing carcass that had been a proud ship but a few moments before rose steeply, until it hung, apparently motionless, while the awful sounds of tearing metal and heavy equipment breaking through the length of the hull, ground across to the watchers. With a great sigh, and another sullen explosion as the boilers split asunder, she took the final plunge, pulling up with another jarring crash as she struck the bottom of the channel, and rolled over on to her side, to disappear in a flurry of foam and burning oil.
They watched in silence, as if in homage to the dying ship, the old hands with a hard feeling of satisfaction, the others, like Royce, in shocked wonderment. They cruised for a while around the creeping patch of flaming oil, knowing in their hearts that there would be nobody left to save from such a holocaust, but peering into the greasy water just in case. Only the pitiful oddments remained, a life-raft, a few pieces of smouldering deck planking, and a smoking bundle of charred rags and flesh, face down, a despairing shoulder turned against the desperate land of the living.
Kirby found it difficult to conceal his jubilation, and paced impatiently back and forth, until, with a hasty glance at his watch, he ordered his flotilla to reform, and continue northeast up the coast.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 7