Royce, alone on the bridge—he had sent the signalman to help on deck—lay across the screen, the glasses gripped in his wet, chafed hands, while the icy trickles of water explored the only warm place in the small of his back. Already it seemed as if they had always sailed this sea alone, and that there was no foreseeable end to the voyage.
Clank, clank, went the pumps, while Parker’s hammer beat out a steady tattoo below him. His senses became dulled by the noises, while his shivering body seemed to cringe at the onslaught of the rain. He forced his tired eyes down to his watch, and marvelled at the fact that three hours had already passed since Kirby had gone off to search for fresh laurels.
An oilskinned figure, barely recognizable as Able Seaman Roote, appeared at his side, guarding something under his streaming coat. He peered uncertainly at Royce’s face.
“Me an’ the boys thought yer might like a bit of Chinese weddin’ cake, sir,” his cockney twang sounded eager and somehow comforting. “We nipped in the galley an’ warmed it up a bit, an’ thought you might like a bit an’ all.”
His voice trailed away, as he whipped out a small basin of hot rice pudding. Royce vaguely remembered it from two days before, and he took the basin in his hands, revelling in its warmth.
“Thank you very much, Roote,” he said, touched. “Just what I need.”
Roote grinned, his sharp, knowing face creased with pleasure, and as he hurried away he added, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but we wouldn’t er’ done it fer someone ’oo shall be nameless!”
He was off before Royce could think of a suitable comment. Instead, he lifted the basin to his lips, there being no spoon, or any other instrument for that matter, and as he did so, he smelt and tasted the deep, rich fragrance of service rum. He laughed aloud, and gratefully swallowed the hot, glutinous substance. The old so-and-so’s, he chuckled, they didn’t miss a trick. He imagined Kirby saying, “Storing rum is a punishable offence, Number One!” or “A sober ship is a happy one!”
He pondered over his recent life in the game little ship that struggled along beneath him: of how the Coxswain who now shared his every confidence, had at first openly showed his contempt for him. Harston’s death had drawn them closer together perhaps. Even a character like Roote, who, until he had volunteered for Coastal Forces, had been fighting a constant war with authority in general, and officers in particular, had shown him the meaning of loyalty, and the acceptance of leadership. It was funny: he had bullied them, punished them, and driven them beyond the barrier of comfort, yet, because of his fairness, which he was inclined to take for granted, they had accepted him as their own leader, and personal property.
Another hour passed, and the unpredictable weather of the North Sea changed again. The rain broke off with an angry flurry of gusty squalls, which made the wounded boat stagger in her stride, and the wind force became stronger, veering round astern, so that the waves became longer and heavier, their great, grey peaks, unbroken as yet by white horses, rolling menacingly up under the transom in long, even ranks, each crest lifting the box-like stern clear of the water, and causing the overworked screws to screech a protest as they whirred free into thin air. Then, with a heave, they would drop again into a trough, and the boat would shudder, and lurch forward, always fighting the man at the wheel, as he tried to stop the sagging bows from broaching the boat round into the broadside position of danger. The wind, laced with salt, found its way through the damp clothing, chilling the flesh, and making their faces raw, while the ensign at the gaff grew steadily more and more tattered, blowing straight forward like the banner of a departed warrior.
Even the spirits of the seamen began to flag, as they toiled at the pumps, or stood on watch, wet, cold, and hungry. The Coxswain scurried from one end of the boat to the other, issuing a rebuke here, and a word of encouragement there, and later, a tot of “neaters” to all hands.
To reduce the rolling as much as possible, Royce had most of the unusable gear on deck heaved overboard. The smashed smoke-float, the motor dory, new but a month before, and now riddled with holes and damaged beyond repair, and countless articles which only made the boat struggle harder by their presence. The torpedoes were the main disadvantage, especially as they could no longer be fired with the bows at such an angle, but Royce decided against sending over four thousand pounds worth of machinery to the bottom.
It was about fifteen thirty when they saw a dark shape smudging the horizon on the starboard quarter, and anxiously they strained their eyes even harder to catch a glimpse of the stranger, while Royce gritted his teeth, and opened the throttles a little further, making the boat slightly steadier, but causing some of the makeshift plugs in the shot holes to weep and squirt water each time she bit into a wave.
The wind was still freshening, and the ugly, grey hills were now tinged with curved, angry white crests, and as they plunged into each trough, the boat shuddered and groaned. Then shaking the salt froth from the streaming decks, she would stagger up on the next roller, while every man peered aft at the other vessel, which was growing rapidly larger. Royce jammed his glasses against the rattling signal locker, and wedged his aching shoulders into a sharp voice-pipe cover, while he endeavoured to get a good look at the ship which was obviously overhauling them. As he angrily dashed the salt from his streaming eyes, and wiped the lenses of the glasses on a piece of sodden tissue, he saw that the faces of his men were now turned up towards him, waiting for a verdict.
Slowly, gently, but firmly, he moved the powerful glasses along the top of the heaving locker, seeing the tumbling waves magnified to a horrible and larger distortion, then into his vision came the close-up picture of the newcomer. In the seconds that he held her, he saw a large, rakish trawler, of the ocean-going type used by the Norwegians before the war, now painted a dark grey, with a thin plume of smoke trailing from the squat funnel, lifting and plunging over the tumbling water towards him. The high, knife-like fo’c’sle rose at all times clear from the sharp bow-wave, and it was possible to see the powerful gun mounted high up, close to the stem head, in the manner of all converted trawlers.
Royce thought furiously and quickly. It was possible that the other ship had not seen them, as they were so low in the water, and should she be an enemy—and it was unlikely to find a lone British trawler this far from base—she might well be on a hurried mission to another part of the coast. It was worth a try, and shakily the little M.T.B. turned into a quarter sea, away from the trawler. Royce watched tensely, and his heart sank, as he saw the other ship’s silhouette shorten as she turned bows-on again in their direction.
Having informed the engine room to expect a last-minute dash, he called Petroc to the bridge.
“Get the remaining smoke float ready to lower,” he ordered. “It won’t be too wonderful in this wind, but it may help. And loosen the life-rafts, in case we have to ditch.”
Petroc turned his worn face to the angry waters, and shuddered.
“Like as not we’m needing ’em afore long,” he muttered.
A light winked across the water, and Royce snatched up the Aldis lamp, flashing the first letters that came to his mind. The trawler waited a moment, then repeated the challenge. Again Royce flashed a meaningless garble in reply. God, if only it would get darker, but even with the prevailing weather conditions and threatening clouds, they had another hour at least to dodge and elude their powerful adversary. As he watched, he saw a red ball mount to the trawler’s gaff, and break out stiffly to the wind. The bold, red flag, with the black cross and swastika, which they knew so well.
At once there was a puff of smoke from her bows, blown immediately to nothing by the wind, and seconds later the flat, heavy boom echoed across to them. Even as they stared round, a tall, spindly column of water rose about a hundred feet ahead of them. Another bang: this time the shot was nearer, making their hull wince, as if struck a body-blow. Frantically, Royce signalled aft, and the tub-shaped smoke float thudded into the water, the black, greasy vapour already pouring ou
t in a steady stream, low across the wave tops. The wind plucked at the fringes of the pitiful smoke-screen, and tore the life from it, leaving only the core, and a fast-moving vaporous mist between them and the German.
“Open fire when your guns bear!” ordered Royce, and following on his words came the clatter of the starboard Oerlikon, as Able Seaman Poole sent a stream of tracer spinning through the smoke, the shells seeming to bounce across the waves as they groped for the enemy.
The next shell fell so close that a deluge of water cascaded into the bridge, making Royce splutter and cough, the salt water tinged with the stink of cordite.
Over went the wheel and the M.T.B. swung crazily to starboard, as another shell burst in the very spot where she would otherwise have been. Poole gave a wild whoop, as he saw his tracers spatter across the trawler’s bridge, and they watched as she turned away, drawing out of range. Bang— and the awful scream passed close overhead, making them duck, and the ghostly waterspout rose a cable’s length beyond them. If only the pom-pom would fire, cursed Royce. This was hopeless. Although the trawler had been hit, and had temporarily lost the range, it was just a matter of time.
The strength of the smoke-float was rapidly diminishing, and he decided that soon the time would arrive for him to decide how best he could use his engine power to try to make good an escape. The weather was steadily worsening, and the harsh sweep of the wind was approaching gale force, and the boat was beginning to get into real difficulties, which even without the appearance of the enemy, would have been critical enough.
He reeled to the engine room voice-pipe, shouting hoarsely above the spasmodic bursts from the Oerlikons, which were now pointing straight astern, and the rising shriek of the wind, whose icy hand plucked the words from his mouth and flung them seawards.
“Chief!” he yelled, “Do all you can. I’m going to make a run for it!”
Moore’s steady voice carried clearly up to his waiting ear.
“Good luck, sir!”
Royce snapped down the cover of the voice-pipe, and rang for half speed, and he felt an increasing rumble beneath him, as the boat thrust her stem into the grey and tempestuous seas. The bows, cracked and splintered, abetted by the mounting water in the flooded bilges, plunged heavily into every trough, throwing up great sheets of spray over the gun-platform, and swamping the bridge. But still the revolutions mounted, and they thrust forward, the seamen on deck slithering and falling across the streaming salt spume, as they manfully fought with the pumps. Only the Oerlikon gunners, strapped in their guns by leather harnesses, remained firm in the onslaught, and Weeks at the port gun could faintly be heard cursing as he fumbled with freezing hands to fit a fresh magazine.
Another shell hissed into the sea off the port side without exploding, but it was very much closer than the last, so once more they lost valuable headway, as the boat clawed away from the tell-tale splash in an effort to elude the next shot.
It was obvious that the trawler was still overhauling them, and even with the poor visibility her shape was taking on a sharper outline, as she dipped and plunged in relentless pursuit.
Royce sent Parker below to report on the state of the repairs, as the pom-pom was now definitely classed as unserviceable, and when he reappeared, breathless and wild eyed, Royce guessed that the cards were stacked against him.
“’S no use, sir!” bawled Parker, snatching violently at the rail to stop himself from being pitched back down the ladder. “The water’s two feet over the mess-deck, an’ still comin’ up fast.”
He paused for breath, watching the officer’s taut face anxiously.
“The sea is tearin’ the outer skin right off the port bow, just under the tube!”
Royce could well visualize the scene. The havoc wrought by the savage cannon shells would soon be exploited by these heavy seas.
He reached across to the voice-pipe again. “No good, Chief, slow her down, just give me steerage way!”
He toyed with the impossible idea of going full astern, to try to save the strain on the bows, and he lowered his head again to the brass bell mouth of the pipe. As he did so, he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle of higher pitch than before, followed in the tiniest fraction of a second by a deafening crack behind him. Simultaneously, a blast of hot air struck him in the mouth. Dazed and incredulous, he realized that the voice-pipe was streaming smoke in his face.
He straightened, and stared aft, his stomach retching violently. Angry, red flames clawed along the stern, and a thick pall of black smoke rolled away on the wind.
It had been a direct hit on the boat’s small quarter-deck, the shell pitching down against the after bulkhead before exploding with sickening impact below, sending a stream of razor-sharp, white-hot splinters in every direction, and making the after flat a raging furnace.
With a sudden, almost fatalistic calmness, Royce gave his orders. “Cox’n! Hand over the wheel, and come on deck. Get every extinguisher to work aft!”
Parker still stood at his side, his honest face white with shock.
“Come on Parker!” he snapped. “Get all hands except the gunners down to that fire!”
Then urgently, he called the engine room.
“Chief! Moore! Can you hear me?”
A tired-sounding voice answered.
“Aye, sir, I’m here.”
A pause and a bout of violent coughing.
“’Fraid I can’t get you any more revs. The fire’s in here now, and one of my lads has bought it!”
“Right, Chief, clear out! Bring the other chap on deck. We’ll have to ditch!”
A longer pause. “Aye, aye, sir, we’ll do that!”
Overhead another shell screamed like a mad thing, but the German gunners were shooting wildly, their aim ruined by the M.T.B.’s death pall.
Royce leaned over the side of the bridge, trying to get a glimpse of the trawler, but she was invisible through the smoke. He looked into the upturned face of Able Seaman Poole, who hung suspended in his gun harness, his arms swinging to the motion of the boat. His eyes were open wide with amazement. There was very little of him from the waist down. Royce sobbed, and was violently sick, his lungs aching and sour.
Raikes appeared below him, his face worried. “Sir! The engine room hatch is jammed solid. Pony can’t get out! Can you come, sir?”
For the first time in a century, or so it seemed, Royce left the bridge, walking as if in a dream, stumbling across the splintered decks to where the hands hacked and slashed at the deck casing around the metal hatch of the engine room. Feathers of smoke streamed from every crack, and from the tiny, grill-like ventilator, where two of the hands were squatting. They moved away as Royce knelt down to the small, barred opening, and beneath it he could plainly see the dull red glow within.
As if out of the flames, a frantic, terrified voice, high-pitched and desperate, made Royce recoil with horror.
“God! Get me out of here! Please, will someone help me. Please, don’t leave me!”
Then they heard Moore’s harsh tones. “It’s all right, son, I’m here!”
There was an audible thud and the cries ceased. As the crackle of flames rose to an all-engulfing roar, they heard Moore coughing violently, then there was nothing.
Royce stood up, his nerves screaming, and he looked wildly at the white faces around him. Each one set in its own clear caste, but bonded together with their common suffering.
“All right lads, lower the rafts!” He forced himself to say those fearful words. “Abandon ship! And good luck!”
He noticed that one seaman was crying.
The knives flashed dully, as two seamen slashed at the rafts’ lashings, and the cumbersome objects splashed alongside secured only by a thin line.
Some of the men went eagerly, and some gazed fearfully at the heaving waters, unwilling to leave the apparent security of the boat. But eventually they leapt down, shouting each other’s names, and peering dazedly at the slanting deck. The boat was already much lower in the waves,
but as the after part flooded, the trim was gradually corrected, as if in a final defiance.
Royce and the Coxswain stood side by side, holding grimly to the guard-rail, when a fantastic idea formed in Royce’s racing brain.
“We’re on even keel for a bit!” he shouted, his eyes smarting with the smoke. “What are the settings on the torpedoes?”
“Ten feet, sir,” answered Raikes, puzzled.
“Right, just check they’re both ready for firing, then over you go!”
Raikes, numbed by the loss of his friend, didn’t seem to be able to grasp his meaning. “What are you going to do?” he stammered.
“I’m going to blow that bloody trawler to hell! That’s what!” yelled Royce wildly. “She’ll be up here in a minute to have a look round, and with luck, I’ll be able to get both fish running even now.”
Raikes stiffened. “I’ll stop an’ give you a hand,” he announced stolidly.
“Like hell you will, Cox’n! You look after the men and pick me up afterwards.”
They both knew there was little chance of that. Already the flames licked the deck near the fuel intakes, under which lay the high-octane spirit.
He pushed the Coxswain towards the tubes, and when he saw him checking the firing mechanism, he ran to the bridge, and threw the confidential books overboard in their weighted bag.
The Coxswain hovered by the rail, his face blackened and scratched.
“So long, sir, don’t leave it too long!” As he jumped into the nearest raft, they severed the line, and shoved off, staring silently back at the boat.
Royce waved and laughed crazily, “Thank you, lads! Now get clear!”
He staggered back into the choking clouds, stepping over the abandoned articles of clothing, and pathetic possessions, the boat dead already but for the crackling flames, and the rattle of loose gear and empty shell cases as she rolled heavily with a stricken stagger. Grimly, he squatted by the sighting bar, forcing himself to concentrate on the small, dark patch of sea ahead, fenced off by a long, sullen bank of oily smoke. Frantically, he shut his ears to the distant sound of paddles, as the rafts moved away, fighting the rising feeling of panic within him. Supposing the trawler had gone away, or came up too late, he would be fried alive for nothing. It was madness, terrifying madness, which held him in its grip. He lowered his sweating forehead against the ice-cold metal, and his body shook with a paroxysm of uncontrollable sobbing. It didn’t matter any more. There was no Kirby to criticize him, no seaman to watch his weakness with contempt. Only Poole swinging gently at his gun, one of his arms now alight like a torch. Petty Officer Moore and his two mechanics burning below would no longer be interested, and Able Seaman Lake, the injured man, doped with morphia, had been cut to pieces while he slept. He too would shed no tears.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 10