The three airmen sat bunched in the pitching circular dinghy, their legs entwined in the centre, their heads jerking and nodding to the waves’ cruel rhythm. Facing the M.T.B., one of the leather-clad figures stared blankly, his mouth hanging open.
A seaman shouted, his voice breaking the silence: “’Ere y’are mates, catch a line!”
The fools, thought Royce savagely, what a lot they’ve got to learn. Then to Carver who had appeared hatless below him on the fo’c’sle: “Get them aboard, quick as you can. Lay them out by the tubes!”
Leach caught his breath sharply. “Are they . . . ?”
“Yes, dead as mutton,” said Royce shortly. “Exposure.” In shocked silence the seamen watched, while Raikes supervised the grisly task. Eventually they had finished, and with a roar the boat tore off in pursuit of the coasters. Royce sighted the bridge Lewis gun and squeezed the trigger angrily. The bobbing dinghy vanished in a cloud of spray and bullets. No trace remained of yet another small part of the nation’s sacrifice.
He sighed, and looked at Leach, who was standing staring back across their creaming wake. “All right?” he queried sharply.
“Yes, sir, it shook me a bit, that’s all. I’ve never seen—I never realized they looked like that.”
Royce softened. “Forget it, Mid. I’m afraid there’ll be others, before we’re finished.”
The hours dragged by, with little to take the hands’ minds off that little drama. Two weary trawlers passed them, heading for the Channel, and in the far distance a corvette patrolled her allotted beat. Otherwise the sea was theirs.
The three merchantmen kept in their steady, ponderous line, moving through the water at less than five knots, until eventually the novelty and tension of Royce’s new authority began to sag, and he decided that the opportunity was ripe for getting through his impressive pile of ship’s correspondence. Also, with him absent from the bridge, the other officers would be able to practice their capabilities as seamen.
He took a last look round the wintry scene. “I’m leaving you in charge, Mid. Call me if there’s any difficulty with navigation, or handling the boat”—he knew full well that he’d rather die first—“and I want to know about any strange aircraft, or ships. All right?”
“Oh yes, sir, I’ll be all right now.” The young face was eager.
With a smile Royce clumped below, and as he spread the papers across his desk, he noted with relief that the violent motion of the boat had eased considerably, and there was now merely a heavy roll, and a slow-moving M.T.B. will roll on wet grass.
Every so often he heard the soft creak as the rudder was put hard over, and he smiled, knowing that Leach was cautiously practising altering course, just as he had once done, when standing his first watch alone.
“Captain, sir!” The voice-pipe rattled.
“Yes, what’s the trouble?”
“Wind has dropped, and there’s a bit of a mist coming up from the east.”
Royce digested this information carefully. “Very bad is it?”
“Well, sir, I can’t see Bentaur.”
“What!” Royce leapt for the door.
Bentaur was the leading ship of the line.
As soon as his head cleared the hatch, he saw the thick, yellow mist billowing like smoke across the water on their starboard bow. This was no mist—this was the real thing.
With five bounds he reached the bridge, and then as he scrambled up he steadied himself. No point in letting everyone see he was worried. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the front screen, where Leach’s duffled figure peered anxiously forward.
By heaven, it was going to be a real pea-souper all right. He had seen it so often on this coast. One minute you have the damp, blustering wind, then a lull, and up comes the fog. The real enemy. He glanced at the other ships quickly, plodding along, confident and indifferent, but the leader had completely disappeared, wiped out by a sudden thick, swirling fence. What a dreadful business. He cursed inwardly. He could not tell the other two to anchor, and leave the Bentaur steaming on her own. In a couple of hours, his charges would be all over the place.
“Signalman!” he barked. “Signal both ships to reduce speed, and stream fog buoys. Port lookout, fetch the Cox’n!”
As the Aldis clattered, he assembled his thoughts. There was just a chance he could catch the other ship, and shepherd her round to the rest of the flock, before darkness fell.
Raikes appeared, imperturbable as ever.
“Take over, ’Swain. I’m going straight up the line after the leader.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
With a deep-throated roar, the boat surged forward into the gloom. In a second the fo’c’sle was hidden from them in a thick, choking cloud and reluctantly they throttled down, edging forwards jerkily, every man training his ears and eyes.
Without warning, the deep-toned squawk of a fog-siren boomed out ahead, and Royce switched on the loud-hailer. Again, a bit nearer this time.
“That’s queer, Raikes,” he muttered. “He must be stopped, we’re getting near to him so quickly.”
Raikes nodded, his keen eyes scanning the steep bank of yellow which surrounded them. The M.T.B. seemed to be suspended in space.
Then they heard it, the steady pulsating beat of engines, thud, thud, thud, getting louder and louder.
“Stop engines!” His throat was dry.
Gently rocking on an invisible sea, they waited, their eyes smarting in the thick vaporous clouds.
Royce saw it first, fortunately, an imperceptible darkening of the fog-bank ahead, then with awful suddenness, two anchors zoomed into view, about thirty feet above their heads, like two huge eyes peering down at them. As he jumped for the voice-pipe, he got a blurred impression of the high, rust-streaked stem aiming straight for them.
“Full ahead port, hard a-starboard!” His voice sounded strained.
The engines roared to life, and the slim hull tacked round, as the giant iron bulk of the Bentaur reared over them, her siren deafening them. Helplessly they watched the full length of her dull sides sheer past, missing by mere inches. Then she was gone.
Sweating inwardly, Royce remembered the loud-hailer. His voice boomed and re-echoed around them. “ Bentaur, ahoy! Stop your engines! Anchor immediately!”
As if in answer, there was a sickening, tearing crash, and the sound of screaming metal.
“God, she’s hit one of the others,” hissed Raikes.
Carver had also appeared by this time, and stood awkwardly in the background, not quite sure of what was happening.
With Royce tense and full of foreboding, the boat crept back along her course. A dark shape loomed ahead.
The loud-hailer squeaked. “Are you damaged?”
A hoarse voice floated down to them. “Nay, but ah bluidy well will be if I stop here with all these bluidy lunatics!”
They pressed on until eventually, guided by bangs and frantic shouts, they discovered the two ships, locked together, with twenty feet of Bentaur ’s stem firmly sliced into the other’s fo’c’sle. Faintly they could hear the sounds of an anchor cable running out.
They scraped alongside.
“Bentaur ahoy! What’s the damage?”
There was a pause.
“Nothing much to us. But I’m afraid the other chap’s lost a bit of weight!” came the cheery reply.
Royce fumed. “Get aboard, Number One, and get them sorted out!”
Carver was relieved to be doing something, and went forward to await a rope ladder.
Royce paced up and down, deep in thought. Of all the damn fool things. It was obvious what had happened. The Officer-of-the-Watch on the Bentaur, seeing the fog, and realizing the others had vanished, had lost his head, and had come charging back to look for them.
Leach’s face was at his elbow, almost imploring. “It’s all my fault, sir. I didn’t know a fog could gather so quickly.”
“Well, you know now.” He didn’t trust himself to go further, and Leach slumped misera
bly by the compass.
When Carver reappeared, breathless and rather grubby, Royce expected the worst.
“She’s not making much water,” he announced, “and the Captain says the fog’s lifting already.”
It appeared to be as thick as ever.
Royce shrugged. “I hope you’ve gained a bit of experience from all this, Number One?”
“Rather, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything!”
Royce didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. “Dammit, you’ll do, go back and keep an eye on things, before I lay you out with something heavy!” He shook his head. What could you say to a man who thought a predicament like this was an interesting spectacle?
The merchant Captain knew his weather lore, for within half an hour the fog began to move. It didn’t lessen in density, it simply moved on, propelled by a languid breeze which obligingly wafted in from the north-east.
It was a sorry sight, like two jungle giants in a death struggle. Bentaur had come off best, but the other ship, an aged freighter with the strange name of Madame Zest, had a gap in her bows large enough to dry-dock the M.T.B.
The third ship had anchored of her own accord, and lay about a mile off, a cheerful spectator.
“Do you require a tug?”
Madame Zest considered for some moments. “No thank you. We will be able to make about three knots. All damage above waterline.”
“I’m sorry it had to be you.”
“I’m not. We’ll get a damn good refit out of this!”
Slowly and painfully they weighed anchor, and formed up in line, Bentaur slinking guiltily behind her wounded adversary. Night fell, but it was clear enough to make station-keeping easy, although at that speed it would be difficult to do much more damage.
Raikes was humming softly. “With your permission, sir, I’ll carry on below to check that the ship is properly darkened.”
It was a polite way of reminding Royce that he should not still be on the wheel. Royce grinned, and as the Quartermaster took over the helm, he remembered Leach. “Good God, Mid. You’re quiet.”
Leach stammered: “I thought I’d said enough, sir.” He faltered.
“Forget it. I have. And when you’ve been at it a bit longer you’ll come to expect this sort of thing every day of the week!”
Leach’s face filled with gratitude. “Gosh, thank you for saying that, sir, you don’t know what it means to me.”
“But that’s just it, I do. Now go and rustle up some cocoa,” said Royce gruffly. As the small figure scurried below, he chuckled. “You’re getting pompous already.”
“Pardon, sir?” queried the helmsman.
“Oh, er, I said keep an eye on the leading ship,” muttered Royce, flushing.
This was proving to be a better test for the ship’s company than Commander Wright had visualized, apparently. Throughout the boat, there was a brittle air of jittery expectancy, as the seamen pondered and voted for what was going to happen next. Royce observed, with grim amusement, that few of his amateur crew would pass the port torpedo tube on their comings and goings, where, in the dim light, the dark canvas-covered bodies of the airmen lay lashed together, comrades to the bitter end. They will have to learn.
A pinpoint of light flickered ahead. The leading merchantman was making an announcement.
“Southbound convoy ahead, about two miles,” repeated the signalman.
“How the devil,” began Royce, then he remembered that from the freighter’s lofty bridge, on such a comparatively calm sea, the dark shapes would be clearly discernible.
“Quick, make the challenge!” he snapped, but already the leading escort was creaming towards them, flashing menacingly.
As the lamps clattered, Royce reflected how different this type of procedure was to his normal round, where every ship seen in the night was an enemy.
Soon the silent, dark shapes had passed, and they had the sea to themselves again, and when dawn found them, cold and stiff, they were all longing to be rid of their heavy companions, who ambled so comfortably abeam of them.
Royce decided it was time to get a little sleep.
“Call me if anything happens, Mid, anything, you understand?”
It seemed as if the bunk had barely taken his weight, when the voice-pipe whistled again.
“Sorry, sir, but there’s a destroyer coming up fast.” The voice was nervous.
Again he mounted the bridge. The sea was a dull grey, tinged with blue blotches, sullen and heavy, but in contrast, the sky had cleared and had been left drained of any colour whatever. The destroyer was approaching fast, and when only a cable clear, she slewed round, making an impressive wake, which made the M.T.B. roll heavily.
The metallic voice boomed across to them.
“Come alongside. I have fresh orders for you.”
Royce came to life, putting off tiredness like an old coat. “Leading Seaman Denton, stand by to collect orders! Cox’n report to the bridge. Mid, Starboard Watch stand by with fenders, we’re going alongside.”
The orders fell from his lips automatically, it seemed, without thought.
With engines growling, Raikes steered the boat under the lee of the dark grey hull, while Royce hung anxiously over the screen, watching the gap of water narrow between them. One good bang and a lot of written reports would be called for.
At the destroyer’s rail, a Sub-Lieutenant waited with a canvas bag, which he lobbed neatly at Royce’s feet as he passed.
The voice of authority boomed once more. “I am detaching one of my corvettes for your little brood; you proceed to Rosyth and refuel. I understand you’ve got to take the Press to sea on your return trip. Cheerio, we must get on with the war. It’s still on, you know!”
Royce was at a loss for a witty answer. His mind was in a whirl. Rosyth, it was a miracle. Julia. A miracle! Feverishly he tore the envelope open. It stated baldly that he was to return to base after refuelling, and join the flotilla without delay. In order not to waste a journey, however, three war correspondents were to be given a ride down. To gain the right “atmosphere,” no doubt.
Royce hummed gaily, as he bent over the chart. All his worries seemed unimportant now. Julia, at last.
“Steer north forty-five west, half speed. Yes, what is it, Mid? What’s the matter?”
Leach was hopping. “It’s Number One, sir, he’s still aboard the Madame Zest! ”
Carver was still quivering when he swung aboard from a dangerous-looking ladder.
“Strewth, I thought you were cross with me,” he laughed. “Strewth! Didn’t fancy stopping with those chaps. They’re real sailors!”
With paintwork still gleaming, and the hands fallen in at their stations, the M.T.B. cruised easily alongside the oiling wharf, between a grubby corvette, and two M.L.s.
As the last rope snaked ashore, and the boat trembled to a halt, Royce called his officers to the bridge, and informed them of his new orders. “The point is, that we’ve got to get down to it. Drill them till they drop if necessary. You saw how they reacted to those airmen?” He could have added, “and you too.” “I have a feeling that we’ll be seeing quite a bit of action when we rejoin the flotilla, so get ’em down to it.”
“What time do the Press arrive, sir?” Carver’s face was quite straight.
“Any time now, so you look after them till I get back. I’m just going up to the Signal Station.”
“Would you like me to go, sir?” Leach was eager.
“Er, no, this is something special.”
Was there a glimmer in Carver’s eye? I’ll stop that. “Right, Number One, you can start now while you’re waiting to fuel. Turn the hands to Damage Control Drill, and see if you can knock five minutes off the Fire Drill, too!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” But he still smiled.
In feverish haste, Royce shaved, and flung on a decent uniform, then hurried ashore, in search of the signal station. After a somewhat agonizing route, between oil pipes, mountains of wooden crates, and a squad of Home Gua
rd drilling, he eventually found the lofty, whitewashed building, overlooking the graceful sweep of the anchorage.
He was taken aback by the bustling efficiency of this vast establishment. In every direction messengers scurried, carrying important-looking signals, while from the various offices came the clatter of typewriters and teleprinters. He examined the doors carefully. The first stated, “Staff Officer, Communications, Please Enter.” He gingerly opened it. Directly inside he saw a hatstand, upon which hung three caps, liberally covered with “scrambled egg.” Quietly, he pulled the door to, and moved further along the passage. The next door had nothing on it, so he opened it hopefully. A Wren stood facing a wall-mirror, and turned as he appeared.
“The Officers’ Heads are at the end of the passage!” she announced hotly.
Mumbling apologies, Royce withdrew.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Royce turned, blushing, to face another Wren, who stood smiling at his side. She was obviously bound for the forbidden room.
“Well, yes,” he answered thankfully. “To be perfectly honest, I’m looking for Wren Harston. She’s in the signals branch here.”
“That’s right, she’s in my watch. Just go up the stairs to the Tower, and ask the Second Officer. Her name’s Mannering.”
Royce was overcome. “Thanks very much; I’ve never been here before.”
She gave him an old-fashioned look. “So I just gathered!”
The door swung behind her.
He started to climb the stairs, his heart heavy with excited and painful anticipation. This was to be an important moment, but his confidence had taken wings.
The S.D.O. and Signals Office presented to his anxious eyes a violent maelstrom of Wrens in white shirts and rolled sleeves, and millions of fluttering pieces of paper. The noise was overpowering, at least six of the girls were reading or repeating signals over an imposing battery of telephones, while others called mysterious numbers and references to each other. At an overladen desk, a buxom Second Officer was also using her telephone, it seemed for an argument, although she managed to drink a cup of tea at the same time. No one took any notice of him. He was invisible. He noticed that the back of the room was made of glass, and opened on to the signal “Veranda,” where several girls, well wrapped up against the weather, were manipulating a ponderous signal projector. From another small door, a rosey-faced Chief Yeoman emerged, puffing at a pipe. It was comforting to note that he at least was surprised to see another man in the room.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 16