Westbound, Warbound

by Westbound, Warbound (retail) (epub)

  ‘Finney?’

  ‘Yessir.’ He’d just come back in from the starboard wing. The Old Man – who understandably had stayed up and still had the ship, although Andy had been ready to take over from him half an hour ago – asking him whether he knew which switches controlled the navigation and steaming lights; Finney confirming that he did, and Andy appreciating that the Old Man had in mind lighting the ship up if necessary, in any sudden close confrontation with another ship or ships.

  Not having taken over the watch, he – Andy – had put himself in the wheelhouse’s starboard fore corner, with that window lowered – for the sake of visibility, not wanting misted glass in the way as well as fog, but also to listen out for the fog gun at Altacarry on Rathlin Island. The thick glass window dropped like those on the doors of railway carriages, on a leather strap: turned the wheelhouse into an ice-house, but –

  There – the signal gun’s double crack. And welcome. You knew where you were, within, say, 1,000 yards, but when some feature failed to come up when it should have done, in this case a double boom as from a cannon somewhere out there to starboard – where there was no horizon, no difference at all between sea and moonless sky – moon having set at about ten-forty – well, you felt a need of that confirmation, a touch of anxiety until you got it. He was moving to the door out into the wing, to get some notion of Altacarry’s bearing next time it went off, when Finney burst in from the other side, howling, ‘Small vessel three and a half points to port, sir!’

  The Old Man had lurched out – sending Finney staggering – and Andy was back at his open window, putting glasses up. Wouldn’t have needed them, though – dark shape steering to pass extremely close: small, stubby, single funnel, high foc’sl that would have a gun on it. Armed trawler. Couldn’t have seen PollyAnna, extraordinarily enough: other things having their attention, no doubt. Fair turn of speed, though: if it had been 40 degrees on the bow when Finney had reported it, and already coming up abeam – passing – then out of sight from here, although the skipper in the wing might still have his glasses on it…

  Now a much larger shape out there, though – Andy reporting it while wiping his glasses’ front lenses and putting them up again – this new one finer on the bow and well clear, closer to mid-channel. Tall funnel, and a wide gap between it and the bridge/accommodation island. Steamer about the size of this one. One of the old Clan ships, could be. Biggish, but he wouldn’t have picked her up without the glasses at that distance in the fog-thickened dark.

  Looking for others ahead now – if this was a convoy you were running into…

  Nothing anywhere close ahead at this moment. That one – Clan McWhatsit – had been about two points on the bow. Broader now, of course: two and a half maybe… Swinging back and sweeping to starboard – not that you’d expect to find anything outside the channel, in water that couldn’t be guaranteed clear of mines; but if PollyAnna wasn’t as near the channel’s edge as he’d reckoned – which might account for how close that trawler had been –

  Christ!

  Low, small – very small – and as distinctive as – He’d jumped past Ingram to the port wing doorway, yelled, ‘U-boat fine on the bow to starboard!’ Back out of the way of the Old Man, charging in and slamming that window down, glasses up in his other hand…

  ‘Starboard wheel and ram, sir?’

  Aware then that he might be hanged for making that suggestion: but ahead, fine to port, the night flared up in yellow flame, a vertical leap of it that first died down then grew again, expanding laterally – and a second later the thud of the explosion – torpedo hit, but interior explosion right after it. At least, how it had seemed… Glasses back on the U-boat by then: still there, surfaced, in profile or semi-profile, still ignorant of PollyAnna’s existence, watching the approach of westbound ships, and now in the light of that burning freighter – cargoliner, stopped and burning – and the U-boat with a white feather lengthening at its stem, on the move from right to left…

  ‘Steer to ram the bastard, lad.’ Captain to helmsman, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice, one hand on Ingram’s shoulder and the other pointing in case he hadn’t seen it – which he had – captain now ringing down for full ahead and repeating it – double full ahead… By the flames’ light you didn’t need glasses – Ingram didn’t – putting on rudder but not a lot of it – not needing much, even with the handicap of the heavy forepart, had only to bring her round by about 10 degrees – and the submarine well illuminated, Andy’s own concept being of maybe two or three Huns in that conning-tower, maybe part-blinded by the firework display as well as looking for a new target and no reason to expect intervention from this direction. Bloody fool Huns, if so… But thinking also – the thought having struck initially within a second of rashly blurting out that suggestion – which he knew damn well would not be what had galvanised the Old Man into doing this, risking this – PollyAnna by no means needing any new damage for’ard… Happening, though, committed to it, Ingram grunting with the effort of reversing helm to check the swing that had taken a while to start and would now take some stopping. It would have been at about this stage they saw her coming – by the flames’ light and almost but not quite bow-on, aiming-off by a few degrees, and to the Huns close enough to be like something out of a nightmare, their only hope being to crash-dive, get their craft down under her forefoot’s reach probably faster than they’d ever dived before. Like a whale spouting, only from several vents, spray pluming, glittering in the rush of high-pressure air from ballast tanks, sound like ripping canvas. You were that close. Old Man bellowing to Ingram, ‘As she goes, lad, hold her as she goes!’ The U-boat’s forward way noticeably reduced in the act of diving, but its forepart already dipping under, conning-tower and periscope standards aslant and most of the hull submerged when PollyAnna’s deep-sunk forefoot struck, carved into it, heavy jolting impact jarring through her and the clang of the telegraph ordering ‘stop’. Having done the job – beyond doubt destroyed that thing – but not wanting to tear one’s own bow off if that could be avoided – which most likely it could not. Hun done for, for sure, but PollyAnna too? Hun going first, was all – filling and dragging clear, down into – what, not much more than fifty fathoms here?

  ‘Finney – carpenter to sound bilges, tell Mr Fisher all hands stand by boats and rafts. Then stay with Miss Carr, send Janner up here.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’

  On his way. And that steamer on her way, sea dowsing the fires in her as she settled by the stern, raked bow lifting. There were boats in the water, a roar of escaping steam, and punctuating that the bark of the Altacarry fog gun. Old Man bawling to him, ‘Get out the Aldis, Holt, look for swimmers. No – have the wing lookout do that. You go down, see that they know they’re mustering, not abandoning. May get away with it – else she’d be on her way by now. Tell Fisher see Postlethwaite gets a wriggle on – and Dewar, I want him –’

  ‘Postlethwaite’s got no sounding-rod, sir.’

  ‘Damn it, so he hasn’t. Well – tell Fisher if there’s Hun swimmers, embark ’em for’ard, toss ’em a line and haul ’em in; don’t want boats launched unless we’re going down. Then see the chief, tell him if there’s water in the peak or deep-tank – or number one – get his pump on it, but if she’s dry we’ll be underway soon as I know it.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. But’ – pointing – ‘armed trawler, sir –’

  Where the boats were. Trawler nosing in towards the boats with a searchlight, or maybe it was an Aldis poking around, its beam ultra-brilliant in the fog. Looking for swimmers, obviously. German survivors, if any, PollyAnna would look after. More than they deserved – who did they ever look after? The flames were dying – had died – and the fog had the upper hand again: you could barely make out detail even with glasses, except what the trawler’s light lit up; but the main feature was the cargo-liner vertical in the water, huge-looking, heart-stopping in her isolation – that was the last he’d seen, was rattling down the central ladder and the two
below it, out on to the fore-deck, looking for Fisher and wondering whether that trawler was the one that had passed them earlier, or another. The whole business having taken only about twelve minutes, and here was PollyAnna lying stopped – surprisingly, as of this moment still afloat – and the trawler and the torpedoed ship’s boats 1,000 or 1,500 yards away, fog wreathing the surface between here and there in whorls and drifts, and again, distantly, the double-barrelled blast from Altacarry.

  17

  From the vicinity of Rathlin, where they’d hauled three half-drowned U-boat men out of the water, the run to clear Kintyre by a safe margin was thirty miles on ESE, with visibility no better but a fog signal bleating from the Mull, and, after covering about half the distance, the company of an armed trawler which came up from astern showing its steaming lights and took station on the beam to port. A signal, one of many, had informed the Old Man that this escort would be joining them – either out of Londonderry, or one they’d encountered westbound off Rathlin Island; that apparently blind one, maybe, and there was no relaxation of the lookout. Andy’s watch ended at about this time, but as navigator and in close proximity to land he’d stayed on the bridge; in fact had manned the Aldis when the trawler had called them up and flashed: ‘See the conquering hero comes’, replying to it with the Old Man’s rather lame: ‘Glad to have your company.’

  There’d been a whole succession of wireless signals, after the Anna had woken them all up with a report to Clyde Naval Control. That she was still afloat and getting home under her own power would have been welcome news, but on top of that to have sunk a U-boat – they might have wondered whether they were having their legs pulled. Congratulatory signals were still coming in: from Naval Control, and Admiralty, and most recently from the owners, informing the Old Man that the chairman, Sir Alec Dundas, would be on the dockside to greet him. Dry dock in Port Glasgow, this would be, but there was a stop before that; in greying light – no fog now, but sleet showers and low cloud – a rendezvous off Brodick on Arran, where they were met by another trawler and a tug, a Clyde pilot on the tug and in the trawler a party of Royal Marines to take charge of the prisoners – the U-boat’s captain, a junior lieutenant and some kind of petty officer. They’d been accommodated in the bosun’s cordage store in the foc’sl-head, and had looked somewhat resentful as well as the worse for wear, but they’d been (a) pumped out, and (b) given tea, biscuits and blankets; really had very little to complain about. Off Arran they were induced to transfer to the trawler, which sped off with them, and the Anna had got underway again with the pilot conning her and the tug in company. The armed trawler, her job done, had turned back south.

  North by east then, four miles up-Firth to enter the narrows between Garroch Head and Little Cumbrae; Great Cumbrae then, and Rothesay off to port. Lazy man’s sailoring, with the pilot doing all the work – and very welcome, being tired and hungry, having had no sleep except for a doze last evening before midnight, and no breakfast yet, but still reluctant to go below even for ten minutes, miss any of this homecoming: Skelmorlie there, for instance, and Wemyss Point, Ardgowan; then the Cloch – where the boom gate was standing open for them and the Old Man remarked to Chief Hibbert as the pilot guided them through a crowd of ships at anchor in the Tail of the Bank – ships mainly in ballast, no doubt awaiting convoy westward – ‘Must be scared if they held us up a minute we’d bloody sink,’ and Hibbert shrugging: ‘Still might, at that’; adding, ‘Red carpet treatment, though, is what it is. You’re a hero all over again, Josh. Knighthood this time, shouldn’t wonder.’ Suppressed mirth from Ingram, who was on the wheel: and to starboard, Gourock coming up, Andy using Fisher’s telescope to spot the Bay Hotel – where by golly there’d been high jinks from time to time. Between Gourock and Kilcreggan now: and as the woods on Roseneath Point slid away out of the line of sight – there was Helensburgh. Home – the house itself not visible, but where by the end of what was certain to be an exhausting day he was counting on ending up in a soft bed between clean sheets – well fed, at that – and come to think of it, when the time came you wouldn’t want to turn in all that soon, even if you were half dead on your feet.

  Here and now, anyway – back to the other side, the starboard bridge-wing, for a better view of the southern bank through more driving sleet. This was Kempock Point to starboard, and Greenock with its pier coming next: you were out of the Firth, in the river itself now, with Port Glasgow up ahead.

  Hibbert hadn’t been far wrong about red carpet treatment. There was quite a bit of a crowd cheering and clapping the old Anna as she slid her half-sunk forepart into the dock, the tug with a line on her stern to middle her until wire ropes were out and secured both sides, stern line then cast off so the dock gate could be shut and pumps started to drain the dock down, eventually settle her on the blocks. Andy was on the stern end of all that – since the Old Man hadn’t needed him on the bridge, and Fisher as acting mate had to be up for’ard – while a brow with handrails was being lowered into position by a crane, and the chairman of Dundas Gore, Sir Alec Dundas, was the first to cross it, along with his marine superintendent – Captain Straughan – and a middle-aged civilian by name of Colley, Blood Line’s office manager, and two younger men, clerks, whom an hour or so later – an hour of fairly thorough-going chaos – this Colley person would leave to do the rest of the donkey-work after he, Colley, had been ordered by Sir Alec to visit Mrs Halloran, impart to her the sad news of her husband’s death – which Messrs Dundas Gore hadn’t known about until now – and convey to her his own and his fellow directors’ deepest sympathy. Colley, of course, had no option but to comply, but asked to be accompanied by someone – a deck officer, presumably – who’d actually known Halloran.

  Which of course came down to Andy: on the Old Man’s orders, relayed to him by Fisher.

  * * *

  Colley, at the wheel of his Morris Twelve, trundling westward along the river through continuing rain and sleet, was a red-faced man of about fifty: dark blue suit, macintosh and bowler hat. He and Andy had loaded the former mate’s gear, suitcases and his sextant, into the back of the car, were taking it as well as the chairman’s condolences to Leila at 11 Merriwell Way, Greenock.

  ‘What sort of fellow was he, then?’

  ‘Oh. A good first mate. The men liked him. Stood no nonsense, but – fair, you know.’

  ‘Pierhead jump, wasn’t it, the way he joined us. Replacement for Harve Brown when he got took ill. Consequence of which we don’t know much about him – except he was on tankers, then did a stint with Grants. Know anything about the wife, do you – the widow, I should say?’

  Andy shook his head. Windscreen wipers squeaking monotonously and the car jolting in and out of potholes. He said, ‘Only that she’s pretty and quite a bit younger than him. He had a portrait of her in his cabin.’

  ‘Hm.’ Frowning at the downpour. ‘Not a nice task, this. I can see Sir Alec really had no option but to send me, but – well, I’m glad to have you along, seeing as you knew him.’

  ‘As well as anyone did, I suppose. Can’t say we were close friends, exactly – first mate and third, after all. But we went ashore together once or twice.’

  Once. ‘Once or twice’ sounded better, somehow.

  Even without having been detailed for this by the Old Man, he’d have volunteered. After the months of sneaky glances at Leila’s portrait, and envy of Halloran – who’d sensed it and seemed perversely to have taken pleasure in it. But to show willing in any case – feeling that at least one of the man’s brother officers should pay respects, offer sympathy. Fisher hadn’t been volunteering – in fact had given Andy a funny look when he’d accepted the instruction so readily. While the Old Man certainly couldn’t have taken it on, even if he’d had any such inclination; he’d had his hands more than full enough already, entertaining the chairman – who, incidentally, had offered to take Julia in his Daimler to the Central Hotel, where her mother, who was on her way from Newcastle, had said she’d meet her – a
nd coping with the Marine Super, answering or maybe stone-walling fussy questions about the flooded hold – as well as the routine arrival tasks such as Customs entry, cargo documents, health regulations and – most time-consuming of all – paying off the hands. A lot of it would be dealt with by Fisher and Colley’s clerks, but that still left plenty needing the master’s personal attention. On top of which there was a trio of shore-based naval officers taking up his time, or waiting to do so, primarily on the subject of the U-boat, but also the Glauchau business; there was to be a press release covering all of that, even a photographer standing by.

  The Old Man had had no sleep last night, either. At his age, would be feeling at least as rough as Andy, who had his head back and eyes shut when Colley asked him, ‘What’s your future now, Holt? Signed off from the PollyAnna, have you?’

  ‘Not yet. Old Man being up to his eyes in it at this stage. When we get back I’ll try to see him. If they’re going to mend her good and quick – well, might take a couple of weeks’ leave. Happen to be rather well-off at the moment – had my twenty-first when we were in Brazil, so –’

  ‘They’ll waste no time mending her. Ships aren’t being left idle these days. I’d guess he’d be glad to have you sign on again. We’ll be asking him to stand by her, I’d imagine. Might install Harve Brown, come to that – seeing he knows her inside-out. You live at Helensburgh, that right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, instead began to brake – pulling over to the right then. ‘Here’ll do us, now. I’ll ask ’em where Merriwell Way might be.’ He’d stopped in front of a newsagent, was out of the car and hurrying across wet pavement, hunched and turning up the collar of his mac. Andy, hungry as well as tired, reflecting that he might have gone along too, found something like a bar of chocolate – depending on what was rationed or available or not in this wartime Scotland in which one was virtually a stranger. But Colley was already on his way back, telling him as he got in, ‘Easy enough by the sound of it. Straight ahead then a left and second right. Merriwell Close, Merriwell Walk, then Merriwell Way… What grand weather you’ve come to, eh?’