“That’ll show them, Number One,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Now we’ll see what else we can find.”
Royce glanced at him in surprise.
“Surely we’re not going to stay here, sir?” he asked. “That ship must have been waiting for her escorts, and in any case, the local support groups will have been alerted by now, and they’ll be down on us like a ton of hot bricks. It’s happened before like that to this flotilla.”
The pale blob of Kirby’s face turned towards him for some moments.
“Getting cold feet, Royce? There’s no need to go to panic stations yet, you know.”
Royce felt his face burning, and remembered his own foolish remarks to Leading Seaman Parker before that first patrol. “Certainly not, sir, it’s just that we’ve always pulled away from this coast after an attack; there’s no room to manoeuvre.”
“I think I know this business better than you,” snapped Kirby. “I would be very much obliged if, in this instance, the amateurs would stand fast, and try to learn something for a change.”
He jerked his head back in the direction of Emberson’s boat. “Take him, for example. Wasted two torpedoes, mine would have been quite sufficient. And in any case, he missed altogether with one!”
“We might have missed with ours, sir, then it would have been very different.”
“Really, that’s very interesting,” Kirby’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I’m not in the habit of wasting valuable equipment. I’m not in the Service just for a lark while there’s a war going on; I’ll trouble you to remember that!”
Royce choked back the hot fury that made his eyes swim with rage.
“Aye, aye, sir,” was all he dared allow himself to say.
As he lay against the side of the bridge, steadying his glasses, he found it difficult to believe that anyone could be so utterly callous and pompous, to be able to give a lecture about his career, quite calmly, after having just destroyed a valuable enemy ship. It was quite fantastic, all the more so, because he was so sure of himself, so self-reliant.
For two hours they cruised through the night, the dark coastline never far abeam, and then, quite suddenly, they saw the two trawlers coming straight towards them. Royce’s heart sank. It seemed inevitable that they should meet again with the “floating forts,” and that this would be another wall of destruction.
“They might be the flak-boats!” he shouted, above the increasing roar of the engines, “Covered with guns and concrete!”
Kirby paid no heed, but headed straight for the nearest vessel.
Both trawlers were flashing lights wildly, and turning away from each other, their shapes lengthening, their stumpy funnels clearly visible.
“Open fire!” shouted Kirby, and the bridge rattled and vibrated as the tracer shells clawed towards the nearest dark shape. The Oerlikons joined in with their ear-shattering rattle, and at once a flurry of splashes churned the water around the trawler into a white frenzy, moving steadily, until a ripple of flashes tore along the decks, to hover, and then hold the high bridge in a deadly cross-fire. Pieces of wood flew in every direction, and faintly the sounds of breaking glass were heard, as the wheelhouse windows flew to fragments, carving the helmsman to ribbons. She slewed round and stopped, steam pouring from her, and flames beginning to take hold of the superstructure, and as they turned round her stern, Deith’s 1815 shot into view, his tracers swamping the other trawler with a deluge of fire, and like her sister, she began to settle down, a dense pall of smoke rolling over the sea towards them.
Kirby snatched the hand-set of the loud-hailer, his crisp voice carrying clearly above the crackle of burning woodwork and exploding ammunition.
“Get back in station,” he yelled, “I can finish this one off.”
Deith’s speeding boat turned in a creamy circle, and the whole flotilla must have heard his angry voice boom across the water. “My bird, I think, sir!”
“Impudent young puppy,” fumed Kirby. “We’ll see about that!” He flounced up and down the bridge, to the obvious delight of Collins, and then calmed himself with a supreme effort. “Steer west-south-west, and take up course for base,” he snapped. Then, as if to let off steam, “So much for your ‘Floating Fortresses.’ It seems I’ve come along just at the right time!”
As the flotilla sped for home, and even until the horizon began to lighten, Royce stood silent and fuming beside his superior, not daring to speak, and conscious only of a helpless feeling of frustration at the unfairness of Kirby’s remarks, and at the ruthless way he was so obviously determined to capture as much of the limelight as possible for himself.
He mellowed a little at the sight of the glorious, glowing ball of the sun, rising in all her splendour over the horizon, and bringing life and colour to the flat glassy sea. It was a rare experience for them to sail in the sunlight, and as they felt the little early morning warmth fan their tired faces, they felt that the fangs of the night had been temporarily drawn.
“Aircraft, sir. Red nine-oh!”
The gunner’s warning cry made heads turn skywards as one, and soon the glasses of the flotilla focussed on the minute black speck which had appeared from between the high, fleecy clouds.
“There’s another, and another, by God, there’s ’alf a dozen of ’em!” muttered Collins.
The hunt was on, and already these planes would be calling their base for reinforcements.
The six aircraft turned in a wide semi-circle, their wings glinting, until the sun was behind them, and then in a perfect line they screamed down to the attack.
Again the M.T.B.s’ armament rattled into life, as every boat sent a barrage of shells and bullets to meet the attackers. Down, down, down they came, until the black crosses were clearly visible on their wings, and then the first in line, garishly painted in yellow stripes, opened fire with his battery of wing-mounted machine-guns, and a shower of woodwork and loose gear flew from one M.T.B.’s deck. But the concentrated barrage was too much for the others, and they pulled violently out of their dive, one with a light plume of smoke streaming behind it.
Marshalled by Yellow-Stripes, they re-formed and headed for the clouds, and it was only then that they saw the five Spitfires zooming low over the water, rolling their wings in welcome.
“I’m going below now,” informed Kirby. “Signal the Spit-fires: About time too, ” and he stamped down the ladder.
Collins picked up his lamp, but Royce shook his head.
“Make: Pleased to see you, ” he grinned. “That sounds a bit better!”
The fighters streaked off after the Germans, and the sea became an empty glassy mirror of reflected morning glory.
“Signal from 3007: That bugger has made a mess of my new deck, ” repeated Collins with a broad smile.
Poor old Jock, but still it was a relief no one was hit.
They had a big welcome back to the base, when they cruised slowly and carefully alongside the Depot Ship, the hands fallen in at their stations, and ensigns fluttering bravely. Kirby had made signals in every direction as they had crossed the boom, so that no doubt would be left in the minds of the naval staff as to whose victory it really was.
When the Depot Ship bugler was sounding “Sunset” that evening, they gathered together in the bar, where another piece of news was awaiting them.
Benjy Watson burst excitedly into their midst, his face beaming with pleasure. “Guess what, old Artie’s half-stripe has come through; the Little Admiral’s got a rival now!”
Deith raised his glass, “Good old lawyer, he’s damned well earned it too!”
Emberson entered the wardroom at that moment, his face thoughtful, and in seconds his back was being thumped, and a large glass put in his hand.
Royce smiled, and called above the din, “I’m very pleased, Artie; how does it feel?”
“Yes, what’s it like Lootenant-Commander?” quipped Benjy.
Emberson looked sadly at each one in turn, before speaking, as if to memorise each friendly face.
“It’s not as easy as all that, chaps. I’m being drafted to Harwich as Senior Officer of a flotilla of Fairmile M.T.B.s, so you see, this is the end of the road for us,” he ended quietly.
Their faces fell. It didn’t seem right to break up the old crowd like this. Up to now, only death or disablement had parted them.
“Och, that’s a raw deal.” Jock Murray was the first to speak. “We’ll miss you, lad.”
Emberson straightened up. “I’m off tomorrow afternoon, so tonight let’s have the mother and father of all parties!”
That was a cheering thought, especially as they knew that they were not required to go to sea for at least two more days.
“Right, but where’ll we have it?” queried Lieutenant Cameron. “Can’t have it aboard here, without Kirby and other outsiders horning in, with all due respect to your C.O.,” he added with a grin, turning to Royce.
“No,” agreed Emberson. “We’ll have it aboard my boat, and Benjy’s, as he’s right alongside me.”
He turned to Benjy. “Now you’ve got work to do. Get some Wren types laid on, tell them it’s a farewell party, so they don’t think we’re up to anything. And you, Jock, you’re in charge of bonded stores. Scrounge all the booze you can. And get some beer as well from the White Hart. I think that just about covers everything.”
One hour later, the Quartermaster was treated to the happy spectacle of some sixteen officers threading their way along the catwalks to two of the M.T.B.s, each carrying an assortment of bottles, and hastily prepared snacks that the chief cook had been heavily bribed to prepare, whilst across the water floated feminine laughter, as the duty boat arrived from the signal tower. Benjy had made a good haul, somehow or other; not one presentable Wren officer now remained on duty in the port.
The atmosphere in Artie’s tiny wardroom, which measured about eighteen by ten, was close, to say the least, but as the guests arrived it was evident that the cramped quarters would be a help rather than a hindrance.
Lieutenant Peter Page, Artie’s Number One, had done well. In about half an hour he had folded up the bunks, put down a borrowed carpet, produced flowers, and still found time to fix up a kind of buffet, of which he was now in charge.
After the usual shouted introductions, which nobody heeded anyway, the party really got started, and very soon, with the aid of a battered gramophone, some sort of dancing was in progress, consisting mainly of swaying back and forth over the precious carpet, bumping heads on overhead pipes, and treading on each other’s feet. When exhausted, it was customary to take your partner on to the upper deck and sample the cool night air, before plunging back into the fray. It was in the latter position which Royce now found himself, with a ravishing blonde Third Officer called Sylvia, who now persisted in calling him “old solemn-face.”
Royce, who by this time was feeling slightly light-headed, proceeded to marshal his thoughts, and like all men who have had one too many, broached the question of Julia Harston, with what he fondly imagined was superb cunning, but what in fact sounded as if he was comparing the romantic Sylvia with one of many conquests.
“Really, darling,” she breathed, her expensive perfume mingling evenly with the scent of one of Benjy’s gin-slings, “don’t tell me you’re one of those awful men of the world that mother warned me about?”
Royce tried again, but it was quite useless, so after a somewhat wet kiss, he piloted his charge back to the party, where he passed her over to Cameron, who, being a Romeo of the first water, was quick to take advantage of the situation, and together they took a further stroll on deck.
Emberson shouldered his way through to him, with yet two more glasses.
“Enjoying yourself, Clive?”
“Yes, thanks, Artie. That damned girl Sylvia whatsit, I was trying to pump some information out of her, about a girl I want to find, John’s sister. She was in the signals here, but went on draft, after—”
“Good heavens, I knew he had a sister, but I didn’t know she was here.” Emberson was plainly amazed. “Nice, is she?”
“She’s wonderful,” sighed Royce. “Hates me, though.”
Emberson laughed until he shook from head to toe. “It sounds fine. Please don’t mind my laughter, old friend, it’s just the way you come out with things.”
Royce smiled self-consciously. “I know, but I can’t get her out of my mind.”
“Leave it to me. I wish you’d asked me earlier, as I happen to know their drafting type, but she’s on leave at the moment. Tell you what, I’ll write to her next week, and get the gen for you, how’s that?”
Royce’s face showed plainly how it was.
“There’s one other thing I wanted to tell you.” He dropped his voice. “I think we both get on well, and I’ve never known old John take to a chap as he did to you, so I’d like to have you with me at Harwich, as soon as you get a command. Don’t laugh; it won’t be long. In fact, I think it’ll be when you pick up your second ring.”
Royce was touched. “It’d be fine by me,” he said sincerely.
“I’ve spoken to old Wright, and he says he’ll do what he can for you. I gave him a load of bull about you, of course. Seriously though, I’d ask for you now as Number One, but that’d foul your chances of an appointment. So remember, all you’ve got to do is pick up the stripe, don’t fall foul of Kirby, whatever he does, and find Julia. I’ll do the rest.”
After that, the world seemed a finer place to be in, and Royce’s pent-up feelings burst forth with such enthusiasm and hitherto unsuspected gaiety that the already successful party was brought to a most happy and boisterous conclusion. In twos and threes, they ambled up to the darkened decks, and even the dismal wail of distant air-raid sirens failed to curb the full-throated, if unmelodious, singing. Having got the Wrens safely embarked upon their motor-boat, to the amused grins of the seaman on duty, they proceeded to march up the catwalks to the Royston ’s main deck, with Emberson perched shakily on their shoulders. The Officer-of-the-Day, already warned in advance, stood by the shaded police-light, at a solemn salute, as to the tune of “Don’t Put Your Daughter On the Stage, Mrs Worthington,” the revellers voiced the famous Coastal Forces ditty, in honour of their comrade.
Don’t send my boat out to sea, Senior Officer,
Don’t send my boat out to sea.
She’s a bit of a roaring gash-boat
Of that we’ll all admit,
Her boost is far too phoney,
The Captain’s a bit of a Twit.
For such a sad occasion, all of them had done their best to make the night a memorable one.
4 |
WHAT A SHORT SUMMER it seemed to Royce, so full of activity and not a little danger, that he did not have much difficulty in avoiding Kirby, who, as autumn sent her icy messengers scurrying through the rising winds of the Channel and North Sea, became more and more wrapped up in himself, rarely speaking to his crew, except in the line of duty, and avoiding his officers in their spells ashore. He walked like a man possessed of some weird driving force. Unable to trust his so-called amateur crews, he spent every moment of his spare time poring over the flotilla orders, and studying reports of other groups’ activities. It was well known that he was persistently badgering Commander Wright about their patrol areas, almost openly accusing him of giving his flotilla the worst areas to cover. This was mainly due to the fact that the record of successes rarely seemed to come his way, and as he was quite unable to see it was due to the fact that his method of operations was far too fixed, and lacking in the necessary reckless dash, he and the redoubtable Wright soon began to get on each other’s nerves.
Emberson had been true to his word with regard to Julia Harston, but there success ended. She had been drafted to Rosyth—it might have been Greenland for all the use it was to Royce—and as he didn’t wish to open operations by writing to her, in case she stopped him dead in his tracks, he spent hours of his watchkeeping time dreaming and hoping for the chance to get leave, and make the long pilgrim
age to Scotland. When he confided these matters to Deith, he nodded sagely, and merely said, sadly, “Must be love, old man.”
Around the world the tides of war ebbed and flowed, and time after time the dark clouds of near destruction seemed to hang over the British forces. While the armies of the Commonwealth fought and died in the steaming swamps, or the parched deserts, or trained and waited around the coasts of England, politicians wrangled and argued about expenditure and wastage almost as though the war was a private enjoyment of the forces, not to be encouraged unless from a political angle.
Fortunately, the majority of bomb-torn and rationed Britain faced the grim future with realism and fortitude, and found time to give a thumbs-up at any announcement of a hard-won victory, and should it be a reverse, they just shrugged, and hung grimly to the old supposition that we could always win the last battle.
The war at sea meant convoys, and still more convoys. Hard-pressed ships, many of which would have retired gracefully to the breakers’ yards but for the war, battled every mile of ocean, bringing the life blood to the nation, and carrying men and material to a score of battle-fronts. Alongside the Royal Navy, the men of the merchant fleets carried on the grim struggle without complaint, the ultimate prey and target for every submarine, E-boat, and bomber that the enemy could hurl against them, while the pitifully thin escorts hunted blindly around their helpless charges, shooting, depth-charging, and dying.
Unlike the army, they rarely saw their enemy. He was just another menace, like the howling gales which scattered the convoys’ straight lines, and made navigation on a pitch-black night a screaming nightmare; or the hidden mine, lurking in the grey waters, inert and still, until touched by an unwary ship, with the terrible aftermath of the thunderous explosion, inrushing seas, and the pitiful cries of doomed sailors trapped within. No, to the men of the Navy, the enemy rarely had a personality. He was everywhere and nowhere, the constant menace, who made them think only of the next minute, of the next hour. Tomorrow was too improbable.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 8