A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  Of the other two planes there was no sign. There was only the flotilla, now needlessly speeding in their determined little line.

  “Detach from group, and pick up survivors, if any,” read Paynton.

  “Blast!” He’s done this deliberately, he thought furiously. Probably thinks I’ll go off my head, because of Deith. “Acknowledge!” he snapped.

  It was lonely being away from the others so soon, and with the throttles down, they pushed back into the teeth of the weather. He called the officers to the bridge again.

  “What was all that damn shouting aft, Mid?”

  Leach smiled nervously, his pink face pinched and haggard. “Sorry about that, sir. The Brownings were running short of ammo, and the loader, Cleavely, didn’t arrive. Both my chaps reckoned they could have finished that Jerry, if they could have given him the whole magazine-full.”

  “Well, have a word with him. I won’t have anybody going chicken in the middle of a stunt like that!”

  Was that me talking? The harsh captain? What price nervousness now? He turned quickly to Carver, lowering his eyes. “Well?”

  “Oh, jolly good, sir. I said this is a lucky ship. Just a few more holes for the Chippy, and that’s the lot! I’ll get the Jerry airmen to clean the boat up, if we find them!” He laughed.

  “I can manage without your humour, thank you!” he snapped. He saw Carver’s face stiffen. “And I’ll trouble you to brush up your aircraft recognition. Make yourself useful!”

  He stalked to the front of the bridge, furious with Carver, and more so with himself. They think I’m jumpy, too hide-bound, that’s what it is. He looked quickly at Raikes, but the Coxswain’s face was quite expressionless. He was aware that Leach had gone forward to supervise the scrambling nets, and noted with childish satisfaction that he looked extremely miserable.

  Raikes glanced over his shoulder. “Go and fetch the new ensign, Bunts, you’ll find it in my cabin.”

  Captain and Coxswain stood alone, side by side, as they had on the sinking M.T.B., Royce thin-lipped and strained, and Raikes steady-eyed and thoughtful.

  “You remember that time we shot up the oil-tanker, off the Bight, sir?”

  “I remember. I hadn’t been aboard very long at the time.” “That’s right, sir. I recall the C.O. saying afterwards that he thought you’d make a very good officer. You know why, sir?”

  “You tell me.”

  Raikes looked steadfastly ahead, at the small white horses. His face was grimly determined. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but he said it was because you’d managed to joke about it, although you’d been through a private hell of your own.”

  Royce felt a lump in his throat. “That was quite the politest telling-off I’ve ever had! Blast you, Raikes!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And thanks very much, too.”

  “’S all right, sir. I’ve served long enough to know that whatever ship you’re in, gashboat or flagship, the junior officers always think their C.O’s past it! You’ll never change the Andrew.”

  Royce felt fresh and clean, and forgot his inner pain, and when the signalman returned to say he couldn’t find the ensign, he was very tempted to say that he had only been sent out of the room while his captain got a fatherly “bottle.” Instead, he said, “Well, get some cocoa then!”

  They eventually found the airmen floating in their brightly coloured life jackets, their faces turned up towards the boat in a trio of shivering, coughing wretchedness.

  The scrambling net splashed down, and two seamen, Jenkins and Archer, climbed down until their legs were lapped by the icy water. Denton kept a watchful eye from the rail, while Carver and Leach made up the reception committee. Royce noted with great satisfaction that the gunners maintained a vigilant watch on the skies while the boat lay motionless, although their curiosity must have driven them frantic. Yet another lesson learned.

  The three airmen stood dripping on the deck, gazing round in ill-concealed astonishment. They must have thought it unlikely they were going to be found.

  One of them, a small, pudding-faced youth, held his shattered hand inside his tunic, his features twisted in agony.

  The tall one, fair-haired and tight-lipped, snapped at him angrily, and then drew himself very straight, as Royce stepped down from the bridge.

  “I shut be greatfull ef you gould attend to mein unterofficer, Captain. He is slightly vounded!” he said stiffly.

  Royce nodded, and Leach stepped forward with the firstaid satchel.

  The other German, a hard-faced brute of a man, with a shock of dark curls, snarled angrily. “It’s a pity ve dedn’t get you first!” he snapped. His accent was slightly American.

  The officer rattled a string of obvious harsh comments, and the airman stood stiffly to attention, looking rather ridiculous.

  The officer bowed slightly. “The man is a fool, Captain. Ignore him. He has not learned to, er, how do you say, play the game?” He smiled briefly.

  “Take them below, Mid, with an armed guard.”

  As the strangers were led below, Royce shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know, Number One. I thought they’d look different somehow. You know, the Master Race and all that. They’re very like us to look at, aren’t they?”

  “If I may say so, the comparison ends there. Cocky little bastards!”

  Leach came back panting. “All tucked up nicely. Two survivors and three Jerries. In the wardroom and P.O.s’ mess respectively.”

  Royce climbed the bridge ladder, then stopped, his foot poised halfway, and looked down into their expectant faces. “By the way, I think you both did very well. Oh, and Number One, I’m sorry I bit your ears off. It was completely unjustified, so forget it.”

  Carver beamed. “I’m sure I deserved it, sir!”

  “No, I forgot something. But I was reminded of it just in time,” he said quietly, and hurried up the ladder.

  They had an inspiring welcome at the base, complete with sirens, and witty signals from every direction.

  Not the least of Royce’s pleasures was to see that as the three captured Germans were being escorted ashore, one of the war correspondents of his Rosyth trip was standing open-mouthed on the jetty, and looking suitably impressed.

  He joined the other two in the wardroom as soon as they had snugged down. “Won’t worry you now, blokes, but there’s just one little bit of advice I can give you to save any embarrassment in the future. If you get yarning with the other officers, never mention those who’ve ‘had it.’ No matter how much they meant to you.”

  He felt suddenly tired and heavy, and looked dully from Carver to Leach, trying to fathom out their reactions to his words, which to him already seemed meaningless and pointless.

  Carver was holding out one slim hand, studying it thoughtfully. “Look at that, shaking like a jelly!” he mused, and for a moment, Royce imagined he had not heard. “I think that idea you’ve just mentioned is a damn good one. When a chap has been through what you’ve put up with in the past, I think it must be extremely necessary to sever all strings, and especially when you’ve lost a friend or two.” He nodded several times, like an old man, his fair hair flopping over his high brow.

  Leach looked up defiantly. “I wasn’t a bit scared! I couldn’t see a blessed thing from down aft! But that M.T.B. burning like that . . . I kept thinking, it might have been us!”

  Royce shrugged heavily. “Anyway, it wasn’t us. And by God it never will be if I can do anything about it!” he said savagely.

  Carver stood up slowly, unwinding himself like a cat, and stretched himself languidly, wringing from his tall frame all the discomforts of cold, tiredness, and anxiety. “It’s my humble opinion, sir, that we’ve nothing to worry about, so long as we have a professional for a C.O.”

  Royce looked glassily at him, trying to think of an answer, trying, too, to fight off the fear that he was letting the strain of command crush his will power. He felt so very, very tired.

  There was a tap on the doo
r, and Paynton stepped in. “Signal from Senior Officer, sir . All First Lieutenants to exercise hands at Fire Fighting at eight bells.”

  “Very good,” smiled Royce. “Acknowledge.”

  Carver fell back into his chair, like a deflated balloon, his face crimson. “Well, damn me!” he exploded. “I mean to say, that really is a bit too much, sir! Doesn’t he think we need a bit of rest?”

  Leach stood up, yawning. “Well, I’m for forty winks. Don’t let the Fire Brigade make too much noise, will you, Number One?”

  “Oh hell! What shall I do?” Carver was desperate.

  “When I was a First Lieutenant, I used to ask that very question,” grinned Royce, feeling slightly better. “Call me if you need inspiration.”

  Carver flung his slippers across the wardroom at the departing Midshipman, who turned and eyed him sadly.

  “Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat,” he quoted solemnly.

  “Come again?” gurgled Carver.

  “A rough translation is, ‘Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first send mad!’” And he ducked quickly away round the door.

  As Royce lay back in his bunk, he smiled contentedly to himself. With a crew like this he had to be all right. They were too precious to be sacrificed without a battle. He closed his eyes.

  8 |

  ROYCE SAT COMFORTABLY at the wardroom table, a cup of tea at his elbow, methodically checking and re-reading the impressive piles of ship’s correspondence, and demand-notes. He leaned back, and started to fill his pipe, noticing as he did so, the bowed head of Leach on the opposite side of the table, apparently engrossed in correcting the Admiralty Fleet Orders.

  Outside the warm shell of the low cabin, he could hear the steady swish of icy rain against the wooden hull, and the squelchy thud of the Quartermaster’s measured tread above his head. Every so often, a powerful squall would rake the harbour reaches, lashing the sheltering vessels, and he would hear the mooring wires groan a protest, as the boat jerked back sharply. He tried to shelve the problem that had been gnawing at his mind since they had returned to base. He glanced again at the bulkhead calendar. Ten days to Christmas. That was it. Julia’s present. The great problem. It had to be something special, but what? He frowned.

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Er, no, Mid, I was just thinking about Christmas,” he said, truthfully.

  Leach dropped his scissors and glue brush. “Yes, it’ll be my first in the Navy,” he said excitedly. “Will we have a party?”

  “We will indeed. We’ll ask everyone if necessary. Just to please you. Commander Wright has stated that the flotilla will be in harbour for Christmas. Unless there’s a flap on, of course.”

  Carver entered, and hurried to the stove. “God, it’s parky on deck.” He shivered. “Just got the last of the stores stowed away. I’ve sent the hands to tea.”

  Royce nodded, “Ah, Mid, I want you to go to the Cox’n, and ask him about getting some turkeys for the lads. See if he’s got it in hand.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Look, Number One,” he said, when Leach had left them, “I want your help rather badly.”

  “Oh sure,” answered Carver airily. “Anything you name. Except Fire Fighting, of course!”

  “Ass! No, this is rather serious.”

  He paused, searching for words, while Carver studied him, his face expressionless.

  “My, er, Christmas guest. Well, she, that is—Oh damn it! What I mean is, I want to give her a decent present, and really I haven’t a clue about these matters.”

  The other man eyed him shrewdly. “And as a loose-living sort of character, I might be able to advise you, eh?” he laughed.

  “Good heavens, I didn’t mean that! But you did say you’d had quite a bit of experience in this field.”

  “You haven’t anything in mind, I suppose?”

  Royce coloured slightly. “Well, I did think of a nightdress. You know, something special,” he mumbled.

  “Leave it to me. I know a chap in London who can get just the thing. Black Market of course, but as money is no object,” he lowered one eyelid dramatically, “I dare say it will be something special all right!”

  “You don’t think that she’ll get the wrong idea, do you?” Royce was anxious, and no longer cared if it showed. “I mean, you know how it is.”

  “Well, I think I know how it is. But you shouldn’t have to worry too much. Much better a present like that, than a set of knitting needles or something!”

  “Phew, what a relief! You really are a pal. When can you go?”

  “I’ll ’phone the bloke tomorrow morning, and fix it up. I’ve no doubt he’ll post it to me. We’ve done quite a bit of business in the past.” He smiled wickedly.

  “How will you know her size?” queried Royce suddenly. “I don’t know myself.”

  “Not to worry. It doesn’t matter a lot, and I got quite a good look at her. Of course, I may want her to come over for a fitting!”

  “You blighter, that’ll cost you a large pink gin,” shouted Royce. “But thanks, anyway, and I give you full control of my purse.”

  Leach came back, shivering. “Raikes said you’d already got the turkeys fixed up with the N.A.A.F.I. manager,” he said peevishly. “I got all wet for nothing!”

  “Oh, er, yes, Mid, I forgot. Captain’s privilege, you know.”

  He and Carver exchanged a quick glance of mutual understanding. The manoeuvre had been completed with success.

  Ordinary Seaman Jenkins poked his head round the door, the light reflecting from his gleaming oilskin. “Air-raid warning’s just gorn ashore, sir,” he croaked, his eyes darting round the warm comfort of the wardroom. “Wind’s rising from the nor’-east, an’ the rain’s getting worse,” he added gloomily.

  Royce desperately wanted to say “have a drink to warm your inside,” but custom and discipline prevailed. “Very good. Tell the Cox’n to close up the gunners as soon as it’s a Red warning.”

  It was customary for the flotilla to assist the town’s anti-aircraft guns when the enemy came too near to the port.

  Shortly after the Quartermaster’s announcement, Royston signalled: Air-Raid Red, and Carver mustered his guns’ crews around the dripping weapons. Away across the town could be heard the rumble of ack-ack fire, and on the dark, storm-wracked mantle of the horizon, they saw the red flashes of their exploding shells. Tiny pin-pricks of light.

  Then steadily, above all other sounds, above the slap of water, the moan of the wind, and the pattering of rain, rose the uneven beat of powerful engines. The too-familiar, Berrum-Berrum-Berrum, that night after night heralded the approach of death and destruction to men, women, and children. It was peculiar to think that thousands of feet above them, on this bitter evening, dozens of human beings squatted on little stools, and peered at complicated instruments, solely intent upon this one devilish purpose.

  There was a dull roar from the town, and a bright flash, followed by an echoing rumble of falling masonry. The first bomb had fallen. Another and then another, and dimly across the dark anchorage they heard the clamour of fire bells. Slowly the bombers faded away, out of reach of the probing guns, and the Royston signalled: Stand Down.

  “Too high for us, anyway,” mused Royce, as he squinted upwards against the driving rain. “I think the party’s over for tonight. They were probably on their way back home, and had a few bombs to get rid of.”

  As the hands clattered thankfully back to the warmth of the mess-decks, the three officers stood watching the flickering fires ashore.

  “Not much of a raid, anyway,” muttered Leach, “The A.R.P. seem to have it all under control.”

  “Yes, I think I’ll take the First Lieutenant ashore for a pint,” said Royce suddenly. “We’re not wanted tonight, and it’ll do us good to stretch our legs.”

  “Hmm, yes, and I could make an important ’phone call, I suppose,” answered Carver drily.

  “What, leave me out here at the buoy alone?” squeak
ed Leach.

  “Never mind, Daddy won’t be long . . .”

  As Carver remarked, as they sped swiftly across the dark waters of the harbour in the motor dory, Leach was really tickled pink at the idea of playing Captain for a while.

  While the confident Carver made his way to a telephone box, to make the all-important arrangements, Royce wandered around the squalid, little streets which backed the dockyard in an uneven semi-circle. In one, there was an unusual disturbance, as firemen, air-raid wardens, and police hacked and pulled at the shattered remains of one small house, the front of which lay scattered across the roadway. In the poor light of shaded hand-lamps and torches, he saw the pathetic, broken furniture, stripped wallpaper, and a picture hanging at a peculiar angle, whilst the air was thick with the smell of recently extinguished fires. Even as he watched, he saw two uniformed figures carry a small, limp bundle into the lamplight, and as they laid it carefully down on the pavement, he saw the old lady’s silver hair moving faintly in the breeze. It was, he knew, the only movement she would ever make again. He turned away bitterly, and strode back to the yard gates, where Carver was just leaving the booth.