Kleber's Convoy

by Antony Trew

  ‘What is it, Number One?’

  ‘Signal from Greenock, sir. From Captain (D).1 About Leading-seaman Tregarth.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘His wife died in labour yesterday. Captain (D) wants us to land him if we can.’

  ‘Can we spare him?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I think we must.’

  ‘Right, do that Number One.’

  There was an attractive ugliness about the first-lieutenant; smiling grey eyes and a nose on one side, like the face of a much-punished boxer. His manner was direct and his lopsided smile warm and friendly. He had an assurance, an air of confidence, an enthusiasm which infected the ship’s company. This strongly recommended him to his captain.

  Apart from Redman, the only Royal Naval officers in the ship were the first-lieutenant and Pownall, the navigating officer. The rest, but for Baggot the torpedo gunner, a warrant officer, were Royal Naval Volunteer Reservists. On the whole a good bunch of officers who made for a cheerful wardroom. He had reservations about Pownall. The navigating officer was competent but often supercilious at the expense of others. Then there was Sutton the new doctor. A queer fish. Pale, apprehensive eyes. A serious, joyless, detached sort of man. He’d joined the ship a few weeks back. Redman had his doubts about him. But he was sure of Vengeful. She was a good ship. Her chiefs and petty officers were all RN – some of them Fleet reservists – sound men, the hard core around which the ship’s company functioned. She was a Chatham-based ship, the majority of her crew ‘hostilities only’; mostly young Londoners in their late teens and early twenties. Life on the messdecks of a V and W destroyer in northern seas was hard and appallingly uncomfortable. But these youngsters, pitch-forked into the Royal Navy by the fortunes of war, endured it all with a stoicism which Redman admired. Of course some of them annoyed and worried him at times. Did stupid things like going absent without leave, usually because of some girl, and getting into other unnecessary trouble. And there was Cupido, the captain’s steward. Small, dark, taciturn. He worried Redman. Somehow he couldn’t get through to the man. They had a bad effect on each other. Cupido seemed unable to bring a hot meal to the sea-cabin. And he smelt of garlic.

  Redman lunched early and alone in his day cabin. He had just finished when the first-lieutenant reported that the ship’s company was assembled in the seamen’s messdeck. When Redman got there he outlined to the ship’s company in straightforward, simple language the operation on which they were about to embark: the escorting of convoy JW 137 to Murmansk. He drew on a blackboard a diagram of the convoy. For the first twenty-four hours Vengeful, with the rest of the Fifty-Seventh Escort Group, would be on the close screen. Off the Faeroes the carrier, the cruiser and the Home Fleet destroyers would join and the Fifty-Seventh Group would then move to the outer screen, eight miles ahead of the convoy. Distance apart of ships on that screen would be three thousand yards and it would cover a front of twelve miles. Vengeful would be the port wing ship.

  There were a few quiet good-o’s. Norway lay to starboard.

  Redirian turned from the blackboard. ‘Don’t forget where we’ll be on the return journey.’ The dark shadowed eyes smiled. ‘Norway’ll lie to port then.’

  That produced some coo-ers.

  On the last convoy, on the journey north, Vengeful had been starboard wing ship, one of two destroyers detached to sweep the Norwegian coast between the Ofoten and Alten Fiords during a long Arctic night. Their task had been to find and sink ships hugging the coast with supplies for German air and naval bases in Norway. Navigating the Norwegian coast with its straggle of offshore rocks and islets, without shore lights and in frequent blizzards, was not an experience anyone was keen to repeat And they hadn’t found any enemy shipping.

  With firm strokes Redman rubbed the chalk from the blackboard.

  ‘JW 137 is a big convoy. Thirty-six ships. But we’ve a large escort force – twenty-six of us including the carrier and a cruiser. Worst problem will be the weather. There’ll be U-boats and enemy aircraft, of course. We’ll have to be on the top line. But we’re a good ship in a good group – and we know how to fight her. We can’t ask for more. So,’ he hesitated, ‘the best of good luck to you all.’ He turned to the first-lieutenant. ‘Right, Number One. Carry on.’

  Down in the wardroom not long afterwards they were discussing the captain’s talk. O’Brien, a burly Irishman with tousled red hair and beard, said, ‘I suppose the Old Man’s fireside chats do some good?’ O’Brien was next in seniority to the first-lieutenant.

  ‘They add a touch of drama to the mundane,’ said Pownall.

  The first-lieutenant swallowed the last of his sherry, ‘I think they’re good. The Old Man takes the ship’s company into his confidence. They understand the object of the exercise. Know what’s expected of them. Much better than the remote sort of skipper. Tight lips, sealed orders, a grim look, and tell the ship’s company nothing.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Rogers, one of Vengeful’s two midshipmen. A thin youth with mousy hair.

  ‘The young should be seen and not heard,’ said Pownall. ‘And say sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A dark man in overalls, wearing a greasy cap and gauntlets, came into the wardroom. It was Emlyn Lloyd, the engineer-lieutenant. He had crowsfeet at the corner of his eyes and seemed always about to smile.

  The first-lieutenant suggested a drink.

  Lloyd nodded to the steward. ‘Sherry, please, Guilio.’

  ‘You’re not sitting down to lunch with us in that rig, are you, Chiefy?’ Pownall raised a disapproving eyebrow.

  Lofty Groves, the sub-lieutenant, went to the dartboard, took the darts and handed three to the engineer-lieutenant. ‘Give you a start of ten,’ he said.

  ‘No respect,’ said Emlyn Lloyd, shaking his head. ‘No respect. That’s the trouble nowadays.’ He flicked a dart into the board. Wilson, junior of Vengeful’s three lieutenants, picked up his cap. ‘Better show myself on the upper deck.’

  ‘About time,’ said the first-lieutenant. The officer-of-the-day should be available on deck at all times,’ he quoted.

  ‘Article one-one-five-two,’ said Pownall. ‘King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions.’

  ‘Holy Saint Patrick,’ growled O’Brien.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Nothing, Number One. Just the punishment returns. Forgotten to send them in.’

  ‘Dereliction of duty, is it?’ said Emlyn Lloyd. ‘Forget them, lad. Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Indeed, we may be sunk and they won’t be necessary at all.’

  ‘Now that’s a fact,’ said O’Brien, ‘That’s a really practical attitude.’

  There was a burst of laughter from the two midshipmen in the corner, Rogers and Bowrie. Lofty Groves turned on them. ‘Pipe down. Can’t hear myself throw a dart.’

  ‘He’s losing,’ said the engineer-officer.

  O’Brien went over to them. ‘And what’s amusing the children?’

  ‘N-nothing, sir,’ Bowrie had a slow stammer. ‘Rogers was telling me what he d-did on leave.’

  O’Brien shook his head. ‘What midshipmen do on leave. Bless my soul.’

  ‘Rather sad, really,’ said Pownall. ‘Caught between childhood and adultery.’

  ‘Anyone seen Huff-Duff?’ asked the first-lieutenant.

  ‘In his c-cabinet calibrating h-his …’

  ‘Steady lad,’ said O’Brien. ‘Speak no evil.’

  ‘H-his set, sir,’ finished Bowrie.

  Huff-Duff was the wardroom’s name for Sunley, a specialist branch RNVR lieutenant who maintained and operated Vengeful’s high-frequency direction-finding apparatus – HF/DF, known in the Navy as huff-duff – a key weapon in tracking U-boats.

  A man with a horse-like face, pale eyes and straw-coloured hair came into the wardroom. He went to the notice-board and took from it an OHMS letter addressed, ‘Surgeon-Lieutenant E. B. Sutton, RNVR.’

  He sat down on the padded seat
round the Charlie Noble, the wardroom’s coke fire, its circular iron body topped by a shining brass chimney.

  The first-lieutenant said, ‘Ship’s company fit, Doc? Clean bill of health?’

  The doctor frowned, looking up from the letter he was opening. ‘Beer, please, Guilio. Yes, Number One. I think so. Common cold, VD. A few old friends. Nothing operable.’

  ‘L-lucky for someone,’ murmured Bowrie. The doctor’s pale eyes regarded him with distant contempt.

  The wardroom steward brought the beer. The doctor finished the letter, looked thoughtful and put it in his pocket. While the others laughed and chatted he worried. Redman had at the doctor’s request visited the RN hospital at Bridge-of-Weir for examination. The captain had stalled, postponing the visit to the day before the ship sailed from the Clyde. The OHMS letter was from the consulting physician. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Redman,’ it reported, ‘is suffering from bronchial asthma brought on by nervous exhaustion; too long at sea, too much stress, too little sleep. There is a childhood history of the complaint. With a suitable period of rest and freedom from anxiety it will probably disappear. The patient makes light of it and is not amenable to any suggestion of leaving the ship. He has particularly requested that no medical report be submitted to Captain (D) until Vengeful returns to the Clyde in three weeks’ time, and then only if the complaint persists. Since the X-ray plates only became available the day after the examination, Lieutenant-Commander Redman was not informed of the diagnosis.’

  The consulting physician’s diagnosis did not surprise Sutton – at least not the part about stress and nervous exhaustion. It accorded with his own. But Redman hadn’t told him of any previous history of bronchial asthma. That had been unhelpful of him.

  Stress and anxiety symptoms were not uncommon among escort captains in the Western Approaches, but the doctor’s problem was what to do about the letter. When Captain (D) Greenock, the group’s administrative authority, received the medical report he would no doubt act. Put the captain ashore for a rest whether he liked it or not. The doctor decided it wouldn’t help to tell Redman the result of the examination now. He’d probably blame him for having organised the visit to Bridge-of-Weir. The doctor was unsure of Redman. Sensed that the captain had not yet accepted him.

  The Maltese messman reported that lunch was ready. The first-lieutenant said, ‘Come on. Let’s get cracking. We haven’t much time.’

  The wardroom officers of HMS Vengeful sat down to what promised to be their last normal meal for many days.

  1 TBS – Talk Between Ships. A very high-frequency two-way radio telephone with limited range.

  1 Captain (D) was the title given to the officer commanding a destroyer flotilla or destroyer escort group. In the latter case he was usually based ashore.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In his cabin Redman was preparing for what lay ahead. At least the next eight days would be spent on the bridge and in the tiny sea-cabin adjoining the wheelhouse. There would be little sleep, frequent alarms, appalling weather, almost continual darkness – the exception being a couple of hours of feeble twilight during the forenoon – no change of clothing, cold or at best lukewarm food, no comforting gins or whiskies – captains did not drink at sea in wartime – and few opportunities to ease his bowels. There would be explosions in the night and sudden disaster. And having got one convoy to Russia they would have to bring back another. The gauntlet had to be run twice. He’d done six: three outward, three homeward. Others in Vengeful had done more. He wondered how long the ship’s luck would last. With these thoughts he changed into the clothing he would wear until they reached the Kola Inlet. Thick, loosely-knitted grey wool underclothing provided by the Admiralty; then a flannel shirt, over it a heavy wool jersey; uniform trousers, well-worn; an old uniform reefer; woollen socks, seaboot stockings and felt liners to the leather seaboots which he pulled on last of all. Slowly and methodically he tied the Mae West – the inflatable life-belt – round his waist, secured the tapes, tested the survival light, slipped a rope picking-up harness over his shoulders and adjusted it. He hated the harness but wore it in accordance with Admiralty Fleet Orders to set an example to the ship’s company. There was another reason. He knew that if he’d paid more attention to these things in his last ship fewer lives would have been lost. He thought of that night – the agonising reality of icy water, the knowledge that one was weak from injury. Worst of all, Patterson’s cries for help. Cries to which he’d made such a feeble response. He tried to shut the picture from his mind.

  The clock on the bulkhead showed 1350. Ten minutes to go.

  He put away those things on the desk which would roll off. The last of these was the photo of the flaxen-haired girl. Before putting it in the drawer he looked at her face, trying to recall the sound of her voice, but failing. He picked up his duffel coal, uniform cap; mittens and night glasses and stood uncertainly, looking round the cabin wondering what would have happened by the time he next saw it – during those eight or nine days that must pass before they reached the Kola Inlet.

  Topcutt came from the sleeping-cabin with an anorak suit, fur cap, fur-lined gauntlets, spare jersey, steel helmet, handkerchiefs and a bag of shaving and washing gear. He said, ‘I’ll be taking these up to the sea-cabin, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Topcutt.’

  The able-seaman popped his head back through the door. ‘Be back shortly for the bedding, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Redman absent-mindedly.

  Topcutt hesitated. ‘The – the bronchitis. Better, sir?’

  Redman said an irritable ‘Yes.’ Topcutt took the hint and left.

  When he’d gone Redman looked through a navigating notebook, checking data he’d recorded before they left the Clyde. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Ready for sea, sir.’ It was the first-lieutenant.

  After the first-lieutenant came the engineer-officer, Emlyn Lloyd. ‘Engines ready for sea, sir,’ he reported. Next it was the gunner (T). When he’d made his report Redman said, ‘That starboard depth-charge chute all right, Mr Baggot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve got it fixed.’

  ‘Good. We shall need it.’

  Then came Pownall, the navigating officer, to make his reports: radar tested and in order; master gyro running, repeaters checked and found correct. He was followed by Lofty Groves, the asdic control officer.

  ‘A/S equipment tried, tested and in order, sir.’1

  ‘Thank you, Groves. Dome housed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Redman was referring to the asdic dome from which sound waves were transmitted and received when searching for a submerged submarine. It protruded from the bottom of the hull in the forepart of the ship and could be raised and lowered. In harbour it was normally raised – ‘housed’ – but lowered at sea.

  When steaming into head seas at speed the dome was housed to avoid weather damage. The asdic search equipment could not function with it in this position.

  Finally Sunley, a thin grey-faced young man, reported that the HF/DF equipment had been tested and found correct.

  ‘Good,’ Redman looked up from the desk. ‘We couldn’t do without your Huff-Duff, Sunley.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Sunley blinked, then withdrew, closing the door in slow motion as if apologising for the intrusion.

  Five minutes to 1400. Redman went to the door of the cabin and took a last look round. At the back of his mind was the thought that he might not see it again. He shut the door and made for the bridge.

  At 1400 the shroud of silence over Loch Ewe was broken by the sound of windlasses turning and the squeak and groan of anchor cables coming home. The ships in the loch had begun to weigh. The Fifty-Seventh Escort Group was first to leave, led out by the senior officer, Ginger Mountsey, in the sloop Bluebird. The sloop Chaffinch followed, then Vengeful, after her Violent and the remainder of the group. The south-westerly wind continued to gust and eddy, driving the rain before it under a lowering sky. Vengeful steamed out into the North Minch b
etween Rubha nan Sasan and Ploc an Slagain, the two headlands looming through the rain, the monotony of their greyness relieved here and there by the russet of dried heather. As she left the shelter of the land the destroyer began to move about in the seaway.

  A group of men in oilskins were clustered together on the small bridge: Redman, Pownall, Burrows, the yeoman of signals, the first-lieutenant and the lookouts. On the forecastle other oilskins glistened wetly in the fading light as the cable party put the final touches to securing anchors and cables under the watchful eyes of O’Brien.

  Redman stood in the forefront of the bridge searching the sea with binoculars. Away to port he could see the lighthouse at Rubha Reidh, a thin grey pencil poking into the wet sky. Moving to starboard he looked astern to where Vectis, the last ship of the group, was clearing the headlands.

  The movement of the ship, the slap of water at the bows and along the sides, the whirr of the turbines, the ping of asdic transmissions relayed on the bridge-speaker, the steady sweep of the radar scanner on the tower – these things reassured him. The ship was alive, her equipment was at work in capable hands, for him the party had started and the worst of the tension had gone. And so, oddly enough, had the wheeziness which had troubled him.

  Behind Vectis the frigates and corvettes of the Eighty-Third Escort Group were emerging from the mist. Astern of them the freighters would be lining up to leave the loch. He turned to Pownall. ‘Time of sunset?’

  ‘Fifteen sixteen, sir. Nautical twilight ends at sixteen fifty-seven.’

  ‘It’ll be dark long before that in this weather.’