Anna Homebound…
12
The anchorage at Halifax, Nova Scotia, a vast expanse of water called the Bedford Basin, protected then by a boom and anti-submarine net across its entrance, was full of ships – forty-six at this stage but with more to come in the next few days. PollyAnna had got in yesterday – a Sunday, 14 January – and the fifty-odd steamers already there, or at least enough of them to sound like fifty, had welcomed her with shrieking and tooting steam-whistles. Andy had told Julia when he’d come down from the bridge and found her at the rail with her friend Mark Finney, ‘All that hullabaloo in your honour, d’you realise?’
‘More likely in yours for rescuing us, I’d say.’ Smiling a little, and speaking quietly in her pleasantly low-pitched way. Her uncle had been master of the refrigerated cargo-vessel MV Cheviot Hills, was one of a considerable majority who had not survived. But as to that noisy welcome, the PollyAnnas were all celebrities now, especially in the eyes of Merchant Navy men: the name PollyAnna was almost on a par with those of the cruisers who’d nobbled the Spee, and Josh Thornhill was to be awarded the OBE. Informed of this by signal a week ago his comment to Chief Wireless Officer Dewar had been, ‘Go on, pull the other one…’ He himself having set the ball rolling in the early hours of 23 December with a signal informing the Admiralty and any nearby naval forces that the German MV Glauchau had been scheduled to depart Vitoria 0500/23, destination unknown but as likely as not attempting to return to Germany, best speed estimated as fifteen or sixteen knots; sailing might be delayed beyond 0500 as he, Thornhill, Master of the SS PollyAnna, had been able to lay alongside her at 0200 in the roadstead at Vitoria and extract British Merchant Navy prisoners whom the Germans had been holding in their ’tween-decks and were survivors from MV Cheviot Hills, sunk by gunfire from a U-boat two weeks earlier, 300 miles southwest of the Azores when on passage from Christchurch New Zealand to London via Panama. Heavy casualties had been sustained in attempting to fight off the U-boat and survivors numbered only seventeen, including a passenger, Miss Julia Carr, niece of the master, Harry Carr, who’d gone down with his ship. Other survivors were Chief Engineer Ron Dixon, First Mate Sam Cornish, Apprentice Mark Finney, Steward Mervyn Benson, ABs T Raikes, W Rogerson, J Smith, P Taylor and A Willis, OSs H Ellis, J McAndrew, L Thomas, Greasers K Sawyer, T Small and A Rahman, Chinese Laundryman Ah Nong. The Glauchau had stored and bunkered in Lisbon and had been on passage to R/V with Graf Spee when informed by signal from the U-boat of the position of the sinking and that there had been some twenty-four survivors in the only boat that had been launched. In fact there had been twenty-two, and five had died of wounds during the four and a half days before the Glauchau had hove into sight flying the Red Duster.
Julia had told Andy, ‘That was an awful let-down – when we realised they were Germans. Why’d they have flown false colours? We couldn’t have got away, or done anything…’
‘Save ’emselves any trouble getting you aboard, I suppose. At least they did search and pick you up. Odds’d have been heavily against finding you, incidentally. Terrific luck that they did, in fact – after a four-day interval, especially.’
‘In some ways it was worse on board the Glauchau than in the boat. Except for those poor men dying – and not knowing who else, how long –’
‘Don’t talk about it, love.’ The Cheviot Hills’ chief engineer, Dixon – who’d been acting as guardian to her. He was a man of fifty, same age as Harry Carr had been, tallish and thin, slightly stooped, had a wife in Whitley Bay and two sons at sea. ‘Try not to think about it, love.’
‘Difficult to think of anything much else, I’d guess.’ Andy looked from her to the engineer. This had been in the saloon, somewhere between Vitoria and St Lucia, probably only a day or so out of Vitoria. Andy with the back of his neck a fearful sight, where Halloran had sewn him up. There’d been quite a lot of such rough-and-ready repairs for the mate to attend to, after their guests had received some similar attentions and been settled down. Christmas Day maybe, this conversation might have been, when the Anna had been off Salvador – Maceio – or Boxing Day, when she’d been passing Recife and Natal. He’d added, aiming to rationalise the thinking, depersonalise it – if that was possible, which he didn’t know, but out of sympathy for her was a natural inclination – ‘It’s surprising they’d have been so keen to pick you up. Obviously must have taken them off-course; and as they’d have known, ten to one against finding you. Unless they’d time to kill before the scheduled rendezvous, of course.’
‘Concerned to save lives, surely.’ Dixon again. ‘Give credit where credit’s due, I’d say. U-boat wouldn’t have had room for prisoners, must have known the Glauchau’s route south from Lisbon – would have, wouldn’t they? They’d be kept informed so as not to attack one of their own ships. So Glauchau obliges, and pulls it off – maybe to their own surprise – and being stuck with us then, not giving two hoots, mind, for our comfort or –’
‘Not one. You can believe it.’ She muttered – for Andy’s information, but not looking at him – ‘An oil-drum in the lower hold, winched it up at night and emptied it, and – that was all…’
‘And no fresh air. Or exercise, I suppose. And that music –’
‘The days in harbour – yes. Like having plugs in your ears – deaf as well as blindfold. How it felt, I mean.’ Shaking her head. ‘No, no fresh air at all. Except the first few hours – kept us on deck to start with while they cleared stuff out of the store-rooms that had been built in there – where you found us.’ A glance at the engineer: ‘Ronnie, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t go on – I know I shouldn’t… Funny thing is that what one remembers as the worst is the last thing – I mean, when there’s sort of a series of awful things – so maybe it does fade, in fact the earlier part has, to some extent; it gets to be something like – you know, something you heard or read about?’ Shaking her head again. ‘Not making much sense, am I. But Charlie Knox, for instance…’
He’d never heard of any Charlie Knox, and didn’t ask because Dixon had frowned, shaken his head warningly, but was told later by the apprentice, Finney, to whom it was still a nightmare, that Knox had been an apprentice too, his chum, both of them aged seventeen – and had died in the boat in Julia’s arms, with a shrapnel wound in his head and one foot blown off. Finney himself near weeping when he described it, and Andy with a longing to take Julia in his arms and hug her, comfort her, but not able to, either in front of others or when they were alone – as they were on occasion, briefly – even though his motives would have been entirely decent and honourable. He’d mentioned this in a letter he’d written and posted in St Lucia to his sister, Annabel, adding self-deprecatingly and for her entertainment, Well, all right, tell that to the Marines!, but finding he had then to add, Although it does happen to be true. Really getting old? But Julia did have virtually constant companionship: old Dixon for one, and Finney for another. It was Finney who’d called out, ‘Blooming miraculous, sir!’ on the Glauchau’s deck; he was never far from the girl’s side, and quite often they sat or stood, holding hands. She did clearly need contact, comfort, companionship, which those two must have realised long before he did. She was about his own age, he’d gathered, and was very attractive, with an oval face, light-brown hair and pale-brown eyes that were very quick and sensitive, reacting to whatever she was hearing – or thinking, he supposed. Not, he thought – in fact was sure of it – not consciously sorry for herself or fishing for compassion so much as shocked, scared, bewildered, at times barely able to believe that any of it had happened, really having to think about it, face it, talk about it – mostly talking rationally enough, saying for instance at a later stage, in that conversation or another one, that she was astonished the U-boat had bothered to signal their whereabouts to the Glauchau. It definitely had: the survivors had been told this by a German galley-boy who spoke some English and as often as not brought their food down to them; he’d answered the men’s questions quite freely – about the ship’s last por
t of call having been Lisbon, that her home port was Bremerhaven, and so forth, for which no doubt he’d have been in trouble with his superiors if they’d known of it. Julia’s surprise, though, was that the U-boat commander had bothered to make any move towards having them picked up after treating them and their ship with the utmost savagery, blasting her with shell after shell, also machine-gun fire, in the course of it killing three-quarters of her company. Theirs had been the only boat that had got away, hadn’t been smashed by shellfire or machine-gun fire in its davits – as others had, with or without men in them. She’d told Andy this, concluding, ‘Go to such brutal lengths, then as it were toss us a lifeline?’
He’d suggested, ‘Would’ve done better to have made a signal giving the position in plain English, if he’d had lifelines in mind.’
‘Of course he would. But why even what he did –’
‘I’ll tell you, love.’ Ron Dixon, slowly, choosing his words carefully: ‘See – got his dander up good an’ proper, as I’d see it.’ Tangentially then to Andy: ‘This young lady’s uncle, Harry Carr – well, if you’d allow it as fair comment, Julia, love – strong-headed feller, weren’t he? Giving the Hun as good as he got – least, aiming to – keeping stern-on to the U-boat no matter what it tried, keeping that stern gun bearing – not hitting, more’s the pity; you might say our gun’s crew never got the practice they should’ve, but then again, could’ve struck lucky any moment, one direct hit, Hun would’ve have had his chips. Had to smash us up, didn’t he – an’ quick, or he’d’ve had it.’
Finney had put in, ‘Could have finished us with a torpedo, couldn’t he? Let us abandon ship first?’
‘Except, lad, he opened up with his gun – which he’d’ve reckoned on being enough to send us to the boats, maybe – and from then on a gun-fight’s what it was. Any case, how many torpedoes might a U-boat carry? What if he’d used ’em all – or needed to hang on to what he had?’
Julia had persisted, ‘But then to signal to the Glauchau –’
‘Cooled down, maybe. Had time to think it over – the state he’d left us in. Thought better of it, like.’
* * *
What state PollyAnna had left the Glauchau in was something else. Slightly dented maybe: rails bent, hull scraped to bare shiny iron; some straightening-out then yet more chipping and red-leading might be necessary. On PollyAnna too; she’d run alongside much more heavily than the skipper had intended, heavily enough that on her way down-river the carpenter, Postlethwaite, had busied himself dipping every tank and hold in case there might have been more serious damage. That possibility hadn’t occurred to anyone else, but it happened to be a ship’s carpenter’s job – had been since ships were all made of wood – so he did it, and thankfully found all compartments dry, as he reported soon afterwards to Halloran. They’d have left a few fractured German skulls behind, and had some injured men themselves – Andy with his gashed neck for one. The worst of that from Andy’s point of view had been Halloran’s first washing out the wound with Milton then pressing its edges together between finger and thumb of the left hand while driving what felt like a skewer through, with a leather sailmaker’s ‘palm’ cushioning the palm of the other. No cushioning of the back of the neck and no anaesthetic, just plain bloody agony. The mate’s own face had had some small craters in it, but after picking out the glass he’d doused them in disinfectant and sealed them up with plaster: hadn’t been able to shave since then, looked like a haphazardly clipped poodle walking around on its hind legs. Some of the rescued had needed attention to similarly minor injuries, but considering the rough handling they’d been given, had mostly come through in surprisingly good shape. Exceptions were the Cheviot Hills’ first mate, Cornish, who had broken ribs and a leg wound of a kind the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide had no advice that could be acted on in present circumstances, the Old Man therefore deciding to land him to hospital at St Lucia, together with OS Ellis and greasers Small and Rahman, who were also in need of more professional care than could be provided on board.
The Old Man had given Julia his sleeping cabin and had a cot put in the day cabin for himself. The sleeping cabin was only cupboard-sized, but at least she had it to herself, with ablutionary facilities close by. The injured Sam Cornish was installed in the spare berth in Halloran’s room, Chief Engineer Dixon moved in with Hibbert, and the apprentice, Finney, was given the spare upper berth in Fisher’s cabin. Andy, whose cabin was smaller and contained only the one berth, offered to change with Fisher, allowing the more senior man to remain in sole occupancy, but Fisher decided it wasn’t worth the upheaval. The rest of them were accommodated aft, as directed by Batt Collins and the donkeyman, while the steward – Benson, a short, dumpy man – had volunteered to help out, easing the overload imposed on galley, saloon and mess-hall.
PollyAnna plugging northward and northwestward then, making for St Lucia in the Windward Isles, where she’d be bunkering and watering and where Julia hoped to buy some clothes. She was living meanwhile in the rags she’d been wearing since the sinking – although they’d been washed and ironed by Ah Nong within a matter of hours – and some items of borrowed gear – striped pyjamas presented by Gorst, for instance, Gorst’s legs being about the same length as hers. All the survivors were in need of clothing – light stuff for now, but cold-weather gear as well, since after St Lucia they’d be heading north – for the ice, eventually – and for these and other purposes cash advances were to be made available by the Cheviot Hills’ former owners, Messrs A & J Hills Ltd of Tynemouth, through their agents in Castries, St Lucia.
Cash assistance to Julia would be paid against credit due to her uncle. The owners had been in touch both with his widow and with Julia’s mother – who had sent her a cable which Julia received when they docked at Castries. Half an hour after that a khaki-painted van brought to the gangway a bulging sack of the mail they hadn’t received at Vitoria; Andy had a long letter from his father, two from his mother and one from his sister, all written well before his birthday. He guessed this lot might have just missed them at Montevideo and been forwarded to St Lucia in case of just missing them again at Vitoria.
Halloran had three letters: two in Leila’s handwriting on that same violet-tinted stationery, and one more nondescript – addressed in a rounded, childish hand, and grubby, as if it might have been kept for a long time in a dirty pocket. Andy was in the saloon, had picked up his own mail and in so doing cast a swift eye over Halloran’s, when the latter arrived in his customary rush and snatched his up – waving Leila’s for everyone to see and calling, ‘Better late than never, uh?’ The scruffy letter he’d only glanced at then pushed into a pocket of his shorts was obviously less thrilling to him. Julia, arriving in the saloon with young Finney – they’d been up in the skipper’s day cabin dealing with Messrs A & J Hills’ agent – had had to stand aside as Halloran hurried out again, and murmured as she and the boy joined Andy, ‘He looked as if he’d had good news?’
‘Two letters from his wife. Her name’s Leila and she writes on funny-coloured paper – can’t miss it.’
‘I suppose you get to know all about each others’ families and whatnot.’
‘Not really. Some. But he rather goes on about his wife. Odd bloke, some ways. Did you get your business fixed up?’
She nodded. ‘Shan’t be looking like a down-and-out much longer, touch wood. Just waiting for Ronnie, then we’re off to the shops. Oh, but I had a lovely cable from my mother. She wants me home at once!’
‘She would, wouldn’t she. And you will be – soon as we can get you there.’
‘That’s what I’ve said, more or less. But I’m keeping you. You want to read your letters and answer them, don’t you – get answers off before we sail?’
‘I suppose so. Try to.’ He hadn’t opened any of them yet, only checked them for weight and thickness and the smudged dates in postmarks. ‘Anyway, good luck with the shopping.’ He put a hand on Finney’s shoulder, warned, ‘Don’t let her go mad, now
.’
The agents, both PollyAnna’s and Messrs Hills’, were still up there with the Old Man, who, when he’d finished his business with them – which would include changing all the Brazilian cruzeiros he’d been stuck with into either sterling or Canadian dollars – would be landing to pay calls on the Sea Transport Officer and – by signalled request – the office of NOIC, Naval Officer In Charge. One of the things about which the Navy and HM Government would be wanting to know more than it had been possible to convey in plain-language wireless messages was the Nazi element in Vitoria. Holding prisoners on board in a neutral port had been a clear breach of the Hague Convention; if it could be proved that the shore authorities had connived in it, the skipper had pointed out, they could stuff any complaints they might have against SS PollyAnna – such as her having sailed without clearance or a pilot.
Poor old Mendoza should be in the clear – as long as Capitao Whatsit was back and asserting his authority over Caetano and Ferras – but one other who might get it in the neck was the skipper of the minelayer. When PollyAnna had been steaming out past her, working up to half-speed and nosing into the narrows off Sao Joao, there’d been activity of sorts on and around the little warship, most alarmingly a searchlight flaring out from the vicinity of her bridge, sweeping across the water to lick at the Anna’s stern before losing her, the headland of Sao Joao intervening. Fisher, who’d admitted to having been already on tenterhooks, facing the hazards of getting her out in darkness through four miles of narrow river, dreading in particular the possibility of all the navigational lights on buoys and shore-marks suddenly being extinguished, sweating again as he told Andy, ‘Really did think she was coming after us. On the flood tide she could have –’
Westbound, Warbound Page 19