A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  Eventually he found himself alone once more in the strange surroundings of his new cabin. He was amazed that so much could be jammed into such a minute space. From the neat bunk to the built-in bureau, it had an air of quiet efficiency. He unpacked his cases, which had been spirited aboard by some unseen hand, and changed slowly into his seagoing rig, listening while he did so, to the orderly chain of noises over his head, the full impact of his grim task of training and using the boat only dawning on him as his eye caught the brief sign on the open cabin door. It stated simply, “Commanding Officer.” He sat heavily on the bunk, feeling suddenly deflated, staring at it for some moments, weighing up his chances of success, and the apparent possibilities of a horrible failure. There was now no one to give him guidance, no detached feeling that all he had to do was obey orders. He would be giving them. For once, he felt at a loss, and that he ought to be rushing on deck to see what his officers were doing.

  He restrained himself, and began to think slowly and deliberately, as he was to do many times in the future. Peering out of his small scuttle, he was able to see the Royston, and the Coastal Forces’ moorings, about half a mile away. His orders stated that he was to take the M.T.B. alongside the Royston as soon as he had finished taking on stores, i.e., about 1200 hours. Such a narrow piece of water, comparatively clear of shipping, as most of the harbour craft had tied up ready for the midday meal, but to him, in a strange craft, with the prospect of going alongside under the eyes of the flotilla, it may well have been the North Atlantic. He was suddenly aware of a hush in the shipboard sounds, and as he stood with his head cocked, Carver clattered down the ladder to his door. He was now clad in a bright new duffle coat, and had his cap under his arm. He was obviously more than a little worried.

  “All stores aboard, and ship ready to move,” he announced breathlessly. “The Cox’n is waiting in the Royston. I’ve just had a signal,” he added.

  Blast! thought Royce savagely. Not even an experienced Coxswain, but to Carver he said as evenly as he could manage, “Stand by to slip.”

  Pulling on his duffle, and slinging his glasses round his neck, he climbed to the bridge, where Leading Seaman Denton stood stolidly by the wheel. Unlike the other boats, this type had the steering position on the open bridge, and although it meant that the Coxswain was more prone to injury in action, it had the advantage of allowing the Captain to be able to direct operations with the minimum of wheel orders, which was so essential when a vessel of this nature was employed twisting and turning at high speed, and the Captain was required to supervise and control the firing of torpedoes. He nodded to him briefly, and noted with satisfaction that the bridge was clean and sensibly laid out. A young signalman was fiddling with halyards behind him, and on the fo’c’sle he could see the hands taking the slack off the wires. He checked with the engine room, and rang down “stand by,” and was startled by the immediate roar of the giant engines, which settled down to a steady confi-dent rumble. The air was faintly tinged with exhaust fumes. Only when there was absolutely nothing more to do on the bridge, did Royce steel himself to begin the operation of actual movement.

  “Let go forrard!” he bawled, and he saw a dockyard worker heave their bow rope into the water, and Carver seemed to be coping all right there.

  He craned over the screen. “Let go aft!”

  Vaguely he saw Leach nod, his face anxious, and then scurry right aft to watch the dripping wire snaking aboard.

  When satisfied that there was no wire in the water to foul the screws, Royce rang down for “Slow ahead.”

  The strong current which was eddying round the end of the jetty had swung out the bows just nicely. Royce had allowed for it without conscious thought, and as the engines snapped into gear, the boat thrust purposefully out into the open.

  “Steer straight for the Depot Ship,” he said, not wishing to complicate matters.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” And Denton spun the wheel in his hard hands, his eyes squinting against the glare on the water.

  Royce’s heart had stopped pounding quite so horribly, and he felt instead a wild sensation of elation. He had actually started the ship himself, his own craft. He rubbed his hands.

  Carver was looking up at him for instructions.

  “Hands fall in fore and aft for entering harbour!”

  Carver saluted, in a rather theatrical manner, and a second later Royce heard the twitter of the pipe, and the padding of feet on the wooden decks, as the hands fell in.

  To the onlooker, she made a brave sight in her new paint and gleaming guns, with the white-jersied figures standing in two neat lines on deck. From beneath her cut-away stem, twin rolls of foam creamed away behind her, while from the gaff a starchy new ensign flapped in the slight breeze.

  Carver stood in the eyes of the boat, staring ahead, and thinking goodness only knows, while little Leach stood aft, dwarfed by the seamen.

  On down Fenton’s Reach, to the destroyer flotilla leader, bearing the broad black band of Captain (D).

  As they drew abeam, Royce yelled “Pipe!” and again the shrill notes of the call echoed across the water.

  They paid their respects to the Senior Officer. She, too, replied with a clear, trilling precision.

  Royce beamed with pleasure, and wished he could confide with someone about his childish delight. At that moment the signalman shouted, and pointed over the port quarter.

  “Ship closing, sir!”

  Royce swung round, and saw with amazement the lumbering hulk of an ancient freighter, with black smoke gushing from her spindly stack, steering straight for him. She was still a good fifty yards away, and must have steamed round the point while they had been busy with salutes. Royce checked the marks, and found that he was in the correct channel, and had the right of way.

  “Bloody fool,” he muttered, and Denton grinned.

  The M.T.B. held her course for some moments, until in fact it became obvious to everyone on board that either Royce broke the rule of the road, or there would be an unpleasant collision.

  “Hard a-starboard, and cut across her wake,” he snapped, and then switched on the loud-hailer. He noted that the paint was hardly dry. He heard it squeak into life, and directed his attention to the towering, rusty bridge of the freighter.

  “Flying Lantern ahoy!” The harsh vibrations brought two little heads to the bridge rail, one wearing a battered, gold-braided cap, and the other a rakish trilby.

  “Don’t you know your regulations?” roared Royce, and waited.

  The trilby vanished, then reappeared with a megaphone, which was handed to the Captain.

  “What’s the matter? ’Fraid we’ll scratch your wee yacht?” Some of the seamen tittered, and Royce flashed, “No, we’re scared you’ll capsize in our wash!”

  The captain called back an unprintable word, and went into his wheelhouse and slammed the door.

  Royce felt better, and realized that he was practically up to the Royston ’s buoys. More piping, then the delicate touch astern on the engines, as the heaving lines went to the waiting seamen on the pontoons. “Stop engines.” It was over.

  As the boat shuddered into silence, and creaked against her fenders, he swung down to the fo’c’sle.

  “I’m going aboard, Number One. Don’t forget what I told you about Dress of the Day. Commander Kirby is probably watching even now. I see that the rest of the flotilla are now back. I’m going to find our new Cox’n, P.O. Banks, or whatever his name is.”

  “What shall I do now?” Carver sounded lost.

  “Feed the brutes, and see that they get their tots,” grinned Royce, and started up the catwalk.

  The first person he saw was the familiar, stocky figure of Raikes.

  “Petty Officer Banks, reporting for Cox’n,” he said without a smile.

  “What? Have you gone up the wall?”

  Raikes smiled, and Royce felt a glow of friendship.

  “Well, sir, this Banks chap did a silly thing. He found that some rotten perisher had mixed up
the draft chit, an’ he got ’imself sent to Scapa; cruel, ain’t it, sir?”

  Royce laughed loudly. “Now I wonder what rotten perisher did that? It’s good to have you back. Quite frankly, I need your services badly.”

  “I watched you come alongside, sir, and quite frankly, I think the Navy’s gettin’ some very queer seamen nowadays. Still, we’ll soon lick ’em into shape.”

  Royce walked on air as he strode to the wardroom. He felt that now, at least, he had someone upon whom he could rely, to help the unkind process of training the crew to run more smoothly.

  The very first person he saw in the wardroom was Kirby. Somehow he seemed smaller and older. He was leaning against the bar talking to Deith, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Good grief!” said the latter, with a relieved smile. “Here he is at long last.” And ignoring Kirby he shook him by the hand.

  “Good afternoon, Number One; or rather I should say ‘Lieutenant Royce’ now, shouldn’t I?” Kirby’s voice was flat. “It’s all working out for you, isn’t it? Promotion, and a command. Well done.”

  But his tone showed no warmth. As he turned and left the room, Deith shook his head.

  “God, what a man. We’ve just been out on a practice run, and I missed the target. You’d think I’d tin-fished the Nelson for all the fuss he’s making!”

  The other familiar faces drifted in, tired and thirsty, and upon seeing Royce, they seemed to come to life. Benjy positively beamed.

  “My boy, you’re a hero, you’re absolutely magnificent, you do credit to us all!” he thundered.

  Royce grinned, for although he, too, was proud of the blue and white ribbon on his breast, he knew that at least six of the flotilla’s officers already held that decoration. Benjy was one.

  “I’m back all right,” he smiled, “and I have a feeling that there is a party in the offing.”

  There was indeed.

  Viewed from the sea, the East Coast has probably less personality than any other part of the British shoreline, with its constant blue misty lowland, and the patchy fen district, a silhouette only broken here and there by the squat shapes of villages, church spires, and the occasional navigational aid. In winter, it becomes even more bleak, and the making of an exact landfall or fix becomes all the more difficult, especially when the compass binnacle is swinging through a jerky arc of eighty degrees or so.

  Alone, on the angry, white-crested sullenness of the North Sea, with the half-hidden hump of land reaching away from the port beam, M.T.B. 9779 rose and fell uncomfortably, as she ploughed forward into the vicious little waves. Every so often, her sharp stem fell into an unsuspected trough, and there would be a flat smacking noise, and a sheet of salt spray would fling itself high over the tiny bridge, and make the decks stream and glisten. Up, down, up, down, with a correspondingly sickening motion from side to side, until it seemed as if the whole world had always been built on this crazy pendulum.

  In his cabin, Royce lay fully dressed on his bunk, one foot jammed against his bookshelves, to prevent a sudden passage to the deck, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he stared moodily at the blank face of the clock. He had been in command for exactly a week now, and every day, without exception, he had been forced to manoeuvre his beloved boat back and forth across the harbour, practising his crew at all the evolutions of seamanship, and trying to make them perform all the seemingly tiresome and unnecessary details of ship ceremonial, and all to Kirby’s whims and desires. Only once had he been outside the boom-gate for a practice shoot, and that had been shortened by bad weather.

  It must be impossible, he told himself, but all the same, it did seem as if Kirby was going out of his way to be awkward and unhelpful, as if he didn’t want him to be part of his flotilla on patrol.

  Commander Wright, in all his wisdom, had watched these happenings with anxiety and distaste, and at last, in desperation, he had approached Kirby on the matter. Kirby had stood complacently in his office, his neat hands inserted in the pockets of his monkey jacket, those piercing eyes cold and sceptical.

  Wright had turned his eyes away, determined not to show his dislike.

  “It’s like this, Kirby, we’ve got to get these boats out on the job, every boat we can muster, provided it’ll float.”

  Kirby was unmoved. “There’s no point in putting an untrained crew to sea with the flotilla. They’d only be a liability.”

  Wright turned, his eyes hard. “Damn it, man, they’re all untrained! We haven’t got time, don’t you see? This isn’t peacetime!”

  “Some are more untrained than others.”

  Was there a trace of a sneer on Kirby’s face? Wright studied him thoughtfully, fully aware he was making little progress.

  “As Senior Officer of the flotilla, I must take all the responsibility for my captains,” continued Kirby, speaking softly. “And frankly, the reputation of the whole Group is being damaged by this influx of second-rate seamen.”

  Like an ancient knight circling an adversary, Wright saw the small chink in the armour, and mercilessly he lunged. “I’ve been as reasonable as I know how, but it seems to me that you’re only interested in your own damned reputation,” he grated. “These are good boys, all of ’em. I should know, I’ve been watching them die long enough. And, quite off the record, of course, if you can’t make something of your flotilla, I’ll bloody well see that we get someone who can!”

  He sat down heavily, breathing fast, glaring at Kirby, who had paled.

  “May I remind you, sir, that what you’re suggesting constitutes a threat to me, personally?”

  Wright smiled, but there was no mirth. “Yes, I’m threatening you. What do you propose to do about it?”

  Kirby stood stiff and shocked, like a man hearing sentence at a court martial, unwilling to yield, yet unable to find a way out of this unforeseen predicament.

  Wright followed up the attack, by turning to his wall-chart, covered with coloured pins and numbered darts.

  “Look here, there’s a small convoy of three ships leaving Yarmouth tomorrow. They’re stragglers of the last northbound. Young Royce can go as their escort. It’ll give him time to break in his boat and crew, in his own way. All right?”

  “Very well,” snapped Kirby, “and I’ll take him with me on the next sweep.” He stood looking at Wright, his gaze now uncertain.

  “All right, Kirby, carry on, and for goodness sake try to understand that it’s harder for them than it is for you.”

  “I hope I know my duty, sir!”

  “I hope so, too,” answered Wright meaningly.

  As the prompt result of that meeting, Royce was now at sea, his own master at last. With another glance at the clock, he heaved himself off the bunk, and adjusted his body to the uneven roll, then with a deep sigh he made his way to the bridge.

  His head and mind were cleared in an instant by the keen air, and the sharp edge of the salt, and without speaking he checked the chart, while from the corner of his eye he saw Carver clinging to the voice-pipe, his face like death.

  “Well, Number One,” he said eventually. “How’s it going?”

  “I feel ghastly. And I’ve not picked out the ships yet.”

  Royce swung his glasses shorewards. “Hmm, where was your last fix?”

  “Er, Lowestoft lighthouse.”

  “Well, that should be all right. Give them another ten minutes or so then we’ll turn in a bit, and see if we can pick them up.”

  It was like listening to another person, just to hear his own voice giving orders, making prophecies, with a calm, confident manner he had not believed possible. He chuckled to himself. “How are the hands shaking down?”

  “Fifty per cent are fighting seasickness, I’m afraid. So am I,” added Carver miserably.

  “Right, go below, and have a warm. I’ll hang on here for a bit.”

  When the grateful Carver had departed, Royce leaned happily across the screen, humming to himself, completely disregarding the retching of the helmsm
an’s stomach.

  Sure enough, just a few moments later, the signalman reported three ships closing from the north-east, so increasing speed the M.T.B. steered to intercept. To any seasoned Captain they appeared the usual sweepings of the Convoy Pool, but to Royce, the three battered coasters represented his first personal convoy, and for the next quarter of an hour he weaved around them, jockeying them into a semblance of order, and generally getting them sorted out.

  Then they steadied down on the starboard side of the little procession, and the awful motion started again. When Carver returned, still looking slightly green, Royce went below once more.

  Half concentrating on the latest Admiralty Fleet Orders, and half on a corned beef and pickle sandwich, he sat in his solitary chair, wedged in one corner of the cabin, a feeling of contentment and confidence making his tired body relax. Eight bells, young Leach would be taking over his first watch at sea from the First Lieutenant. He cocked his head back, the sandwich poised in mid-air, imagining the scene. The hurried confidences, the whispered instructions, then the eighteen-year-old boy would take over command of the bridge, with the care and protection of the M.T.B. and three merchantmen in his hands alone. A frightening thought, although on this route, through the swept channel of the vast East Coast minefields, there was not a great deal of sudden danger. Too light for E-boats, too dangerous for submarines. Aircraft were the main worry. Royce shook his head when he remembered the shooting of his gunners. They would have to get in a lot more practice.

  He jumped nearly out of his skin as the voice-pipe at his elbow whistled urgently.

  Leach’s voice was shrill: “Sir, there’s an object in the water. ’Bout a mile on the starboard bow!”

  Royce didn’t wait for a lengthy description; he flew up the ladder. He trained his glasses round, while Leach fidgeted nervously at his elbow. It was a small, yellow shape, barely visible above the little waves. A rubber dinghy.

  Lifting to the full throttle, the boat tore down to the fragile craft, the sailors momentarily forgetting their seasickness, and curiously gathering at the guard-rails. They slowed and circled warily.