Convoy Homeward (John Mason Kemp Thriller Book 6)

by McCutchan,Philip

  ‘Gets on me wick,’ he said. ‘What’s ’e know about gunnery, compared to a Whale Island gunner’s mate. Eh?’

  ‘He’s an officer,’ Purkiss said, tongue-in-check. ‘Got to know best, hasn’t he?’

  Ramm’s breath hissed between his teeth. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Featherstonehaugh.’

  ‘Yes, PO?’

  ‘’Ow long before you aspire to the Weedin’ wardroom, lad?’

  Featherstonehaugh shrugged. ‘I don’t know, PO. It depends on more recommendations, and on —’

  ‘All right, lad. Reckon you know more about gunnery than I do, do you?’

  ‘No, PO —’

  ‘Dead right you bloody don’t,’ Ramm said grimly. ‘So just learn while you can, eh? Before bloody ’Itler says it’s too late, like. Shift round, take Leading Seaman Purkiss’ place on the gun. We’ll see how you make out.’

  As gun-drill recommenced, Finnegan was seen once again making his way aft. As Ramm began shouting orders to bring the three-inch to bear on imaginary targets, Finnegan kept a special eye on Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh as per orders from the Commodore. Watching, Finnegan reflected that the limeys made heavy weather for themselves even over their own names. Not only their own names but trade names too. Even Dooars whisky: the limes called it Dyouars …

  *

  That afternoon the wireless office received a WT signal from the Admiralty, a Top Secret classification addressed to the Flag repeated Commodore. The signal being in cypher and not plain naval code, it was decyphered by Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan. He handed the plain language version to Kemp in the latter’s cabin.

  Kemp read: the surface raider Stuttgart was no longer in the Indian Ocean. Intelligence reports indicated that she had rounded the Cape of Good Hope, having kept well to the south, and was now believed to be back in the South Atlantic.

  Kemp tapped the message form. ‘This could mean she’s waiting until we’ve embarked the main troop draft at Simonstown. A more worthwhile kill, sub.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I reckon there could be another angle to it.’

  Kemp looked up. ‘Well?’

  ‘Resolution, sir. She’s due to leave us at Simonstown. With her escort. It’s likely the Heinies know that, wouldn’t you say?’

  Kemp nodded. ‘It’s possible. Damn spies everywhere, and big mouths not taking in the message of the posters. You know — Be Like Dad, Keep Mum,’ Kemp got to his feet. ‘I’m showing this to Captain Maconochie. I’ll be with him on the bridge. My compliments to OC Troops … I’d be grateful if he’d join us right away.’

  When the three senior officers conferred within the next few minutes, Kemp put forward his assistant’s guess. Colonel Carter, OC Troops as far as Simonstown, concurred but made the point that the reduced convoy escort was bound to be reinforced with another battleship.

  Kemp was not so sure. The briefing at Colombo had made no mention of a replacement for the Resolution. There was in any case a shortage of heavy-gun ships and many of those that might be available — might being the operative word — were old and slow like the Resolution herself and their presence would slow the convoy when eventually it moved into the principal operating area of the U-boat packs — the North Atlantic. He added, ‘It was known from the start that Resolution would be leaving us —’

  ‘But surely this makes a difference, Commodore? The fact of the Stuttgart going back around —?’

  Kemp gave a hard laugh. ‘It ought to. Perhaps it will. It’ll be on the minds of the staff in the Operations Room at the Admiralty. But staff minds are unpredictable, and a lot depends on what other uses they have for the heavy ships. Don’t forget, there’s been a lot of talk about a second front in Europe. I have it in mind, and so will the staff, that the battlewagons are going to be needed to bombard the coasts, soften up for the landing craft to disembark the troops.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is this: the convoy could be left without proper protection, set at risk in the interest of something bigger?’

  Kemp said, ‘I’m not saying that, Colonel. All the same … it’s happened before. All we can do is — wait and see. You can be dead sure Admiral Layton will make urgent representations to the Admiralty just as soon as we reach Simonstown. Until then, he can’t break wireless silence.’

  Three days later the convoy and escort reduced speed for entry to the base at Simonstown. Shortly after the ships had secured at the berths, Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton, who had lain low ever since the contretemps with Kemp on the bridge, was observed making his way ashore.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Gibraltar,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said reminiscently. ‘Eight years ago. Or was it nine — one’s lost count of peacetime years, I find. It all coalesces. I see you have flies here too,’ he added, sweeping a hand across his face. ‘Damn brutes! It was they that brought the cholera, back there in the Red Sea.’

  Pumphrey-Hatton was seated in the office of a rear-admiral, who held the appointment of Senior British Naval Officer, Simonstown. Pumphrey-Hatton, then a major, and Rear-Admiral Thomas, then a commander, had met in Gibraltar when Pumphrey-Hatton had been stationed in Buena Vista barracks with the foreign service battalion of the DCLI; Thomas had been Executive Officer of the battleship Queen Elizabeth, flagship of the Mediterranean Fleet. They were both men of a largely similar outlook and they had got along together when they had met at the various social occasions that had been part and parcel of naval and military life in peacetime. There had been drinks at the NOP, the Naval Officers’ Pavilion, swimming at Rosia, parties at Government House, functions at the Royal Gibraltar Yacht Club and so on. There had been expeditions across the guarded frontier into Spain. Now, Pumphrey-Hatton spoke of some of this.

  ‘Lamorna,’ he said. ‘No blasted flies. You’ll remember, of course.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Lamorna was the name of a guest house where many service families had stayed when out from home on a visit to their husbands — mainly naval wives since the army families mostly had quarters in the garrison. Commander Thomas’ wife and children had stayed there on two or three occasions when the flagship had been in the port; and Pumphrey-Hatton and his wife had dined with the Thomases. Pumphrey-Hatton remembered what he had privately called ‘the Thomas woman’ as a somewhat faded beauty who spent much of her time talking about horses and had a voice and a laugh to match.

  Now, he enquired after her.

  ‘Oh, she’s very well … when I last heard, that is. Sent her off to a sister in the country when the war came. Plenty of riding, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, quite. There’s another fly.’ Pumphrey-Hatton swatted again.

  The rear-admiral raised an eyebrow. ‘Flies really bother you?’

  ‘Yes, they damn well do.’ Pumphrey-Hatton spoke viciously.

  ‘Don’t let them, then. They don’t bother me, so long as they keep out of the gin.’ The rear-admiral gave a hearty laugh.

  ‘That’s just it — they damn well don’t! I had them in my gin in the Red Sea, you know. Really damnable — I’ve had the devil of a time I don’t mind telling you. What with the cholera and the sinking. Of course, you’ll have heard I’m being invalided home.’

  ‘Yes. I’m very sorry — rotten luck, that.’

  ‘And all because of flies. Largely, anyway. And other things that are just as bad. Confounded inefficiency. And damned impudence!’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear chap. I agree things aren’t what they were in peacetime, but …’ He glanced at a clock on the wall to his right: he was verging on an appointment with a member of the South African government. He continued with what he had been about to say. ‘We have to make the best of things as they are. It’s been good to meet you again, old boy. We had some wonderful times in Gib. If there’s anything —’

  ‘I’ve not finished yet,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said. He brought out an envelope and handed it across to Rear-Admiral Thomas. ‘In there is a report, compiled by myself, on the conduct of the Convoy Commodore. Kemp’s his name as I dare say you’r
e aware. Confounded inefficiency is rampant, absolutely rampant, in that man’s ship. Not just the flies. Other things. Electric fans that don’t work, stewards who fail to answer bells. And personal rudery to boot. The man had the blasted cheek to order me off his bridge — and then threatened me with arrest! It’s all in there. I’m asking you to read it and then forward it to the Admiralty.’

  At Simonstown, the mail came aboard. Kemp read five letters from his wife. The death and funeral of his aged grandmother was gone into; the Chairman of the Mediterranean-Australia Lines had attended the funeral out of respect for Kemp who had been one of his senior captains. There were also letters, one each, from his sons at sea on naval service and unable to write much about their lives on account of the censorship; but both were in good spirits and, so far anyway, safe and well.

  Yeoman of Signals Lambert also had a letter from his wife. Just the one, and a little restrained in tone: reading between the lines Lambert believed the episode of the french letter had not been entirely set aside. The letter seemed to contain a rueful sniff, a sort of self-pity that didn’t exactly help a man thousands of miles away across the sea.

  For Chief Steward Chatfield there was a long letter, heavily scented, from Roxanne in Southampton. It was very loving and there was no mention of a salesman but she did say she was having as good a time as was possible in wartime and without him by her side. A friend (what sort of friend?) had managed to get her a bottle of gin, rare as nectar these days, and each supper time she gave herself a teensy-weensy one and drank to hubby’s safety at sea. She hoped — and he could almost hear the coy giggle — that he wasn’t going after all those uninhibited popsies out east, the word ‘east’ being heavily scratched out and ‘where you are’ substituted.

  There were other letters for Chatfield: a reminder that the rates hadn’t been paid; a bill for a wireless repair; an invitation from Dr Barnardo’s to make a donation. These had all been forwarded by Roxanne. There was one that had not been: one from the anonymous busybody. The Morris Eight had been seen again, many times. Its driver had been seen: a man of around thirty, maybe a little less, who should have been in uniform but wasn’t. He was handsome if you liked that sort — rather slick with Brylcremed dark hair and padded shoulders — and he hadn’t looked short of a bob or two, or of petrol either come to that.

  As before, Chatfield ripped the letter up angrily. He turned his attention to his stores list. There was quite a bit to come aboard in Simonstown, including booze for the passengers and ship’s officers. Chatfield also had his own personal stock to consider: he was very partial to van der Humm, the very excellent brandy that they produced at the Cape.

  Petty Officer Ramin’s wife had also written. So had the blonde bombshell from the Golden Fleece. Ramm opened each letter to the rapid thump of his heart, but all was well so far. And never the twain must meet …

  *

  During the afternoon Kemp made his formal call on SBNO — Rear-Admiral Thomas. After his morning appointment, Thomas had read Pumphrey-Hatton’s lengthy report. It was a diatribe of complaint, an extension of what the brigadier had already reported verbally: flies, fans, stewards and rudery, right back beyond Colombo where the current convoy had originated, back to the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, and the Mediterranean. It seemed to substantiate what Thomas had gleaned about Pumphrey-Hatton’s mental state. Nevertheless, it was a report officially delivered from a senior military officer who until disaster had struck had been OC Troops aboard the Commodore’s ship.

  After Kemp had made his formal report, also for transmission to the Admiralty, of the conduct of the convoy from Colombo to the Cape, the rear-admiral mentioned Pumphrey-Hatton.

  ‘How,’ he asked abruptly, ‘do you get on with Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton?’

  ‘In what respect do you mean, sir? Socially — or in the course of duty?’

  ‘Let’s say both, Kemp.’

  ‘I’d say he’s fairly typical of a certain sort of army officer.’

  Thomas gave a short laugh. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  Kemp said, ‘I rather think you get the meaning — don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. Not all beer and skittles. Of course, there’s no question of duty for Pumphrey-Hatton now. I find it all rather sad. He’s a prickly character.’ Thomas got to his feet and took a few turns up and down the room. He seemed about to say something further but thought better of it. He returned to his desk and sat down. ‘Question of your escort,’ he said. ‘There’ll be the usual sailing conference with NCSO but I thought a word first … you’ll know you’re losing Resolution and her destroyers, of course.’

  Kemp nodded.

  ‘Admiral Layton will leave Simonstown after refuelling. And I dare say you’ve noticed there’s no other battleship in the port.’

  Kemp said, ‘Yes, I had noticed that.’

  ‘With some misgivings, I suspect?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you could say that.’

  ‘Well, we can’t produce battlewagons out of thin air. Layton’s destroyers will be replaced and there’ll be one additional cruiser, a heavy one — Vindictive. Ten thousand tons. She’s been down here boiler-cleaning. And,’ Thomas added with a grin, ‘replenishing her wardroom wine stocks. She’s normally based at Freetown in Sierra Leone and that’s where she’s bound. She’ll detach at the latitude of the Rokel River.’

  ‘And be replaced?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Kemp —’

  ‘But that German raider, the Stuttgart —’

  ‘Yes, we know all about the Stuttgart. Except, that is, her current exact position and course. But you’ve not been forgotten. The Admiralty’s well enough aware of the risks. C-in-C Home Fleet has been ordered to detach a battleship from Scapa and steam her south to rendezvous with the convoy. We don’t yet know where the rendezvous will be nor which ship C-in-C will detach, but it seems likely it’ll be the Duke of York. And that’s all I can tell you for now, Kemp.’ He paused. ‘By the way, your report didn’t have much to say about those POWs. I take it you’ve had no trouble?’

  ‘None at all, sir.’ Kemp hesitated. ‘Nothing beyond a few long faces amongst the merchant crew. And my own staff … nothing that can’t be contained, of course.’

  The rear-admiral nodded thoughtfully and after a pause said, ‘You have a CW rating aboard. Featherstonehaugh.’

  ‘Yes, I have —’

  ‘How’s he making out?’

  ‘I’ve only had him since Colombo, sir. But I’ve no complaint to make. He does his job, according to my assistant and the gunner’s mate.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him, Kemp. I knew his father — commander (E) in the Barham. Lost, of course. I met the boy on a couple of occasions before the war. Seemed the right type. No favouritism, of course — but keep an eye open whenever you can, Kemp.’

  Kemp promised to do so. But if that eye detected any shortcomings, it would not be the Nelsonic blind eye. Too many men’s lives depended in war and peace at sea on the efficiency and personal qualities of those set in authority over them for high-ranking connections to over-ride any defects.

  After Kemp had left his office, Rear-Admiral Thomas read again through the report prepared by Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton. It was, in his own unuttered phraseology, a load of bullshit. Flies and faulty fans might be irritants but personal comfort had no place in a formal report from a brigadier. Thomas had more than a suspicion that Pumphrey-Hatton wouldn’t bat an eyelid at flies and airless heat along the troop-decks. And any commander at sea had the unassailable right to chuck anyone off his bridge if he felt so inclined. The threat of arrest was perhaps, but only perhaps, going a little far. But from what he had just seen of Kemp, Thomas was inclined to believe that his judgement was unlikely to have been at fault. In other words, Pumphrey-Hatton had asked for it. Thomas had played with the idea of telling Kemp about that list of complaints but, since it had been delivered in confidence, he had felt his hands, or his tongue, to be tied. Which he very much regretted. Pumphrey-Hatto
n and he had got along together in those pre-war days. Pumphrey-Hatton had been a keen soldier and dedicated to his regiment. A harsh disciplinarian, or so it had been said, but there was nothing wrong in that. Something of a nit-picker, but then so were many regimental officers with little to occupy their time on foreign service. Thomas recalled that his wife hadn’t really liked him. Too starchy, she’d said, and no interest in horses. Now, sitting brooding in his Simonstown office, Thomas believed that that ill-natured report, when received eventually at the War Office via the Admiralty, might prove to be the final nail in Pumphrey-Hatton’s military coffin.

  *

  Leading Seaman Purkiss, right-hand man of Petty Officer Ramm, had gone ashore just as soon as libertymen had been piped. He had gone ashore with two objectives: to get drunk, and to find a popsie, black, coloured or white didn’t matter all that much. By the time Commodore Kemp was on his way back, in a taxi, to the Aurelian Star, Purkiss was well on his way to achieving his first objective, having consumed several pints of beer, six gins, and a couple of large Van der Humms. There was, however, still some spare capacity, and it was while that capacity was waiting to be filled that Leading Seaman Purkiss left the bar where he had been seated on a high stool and made his way to the gents to empty tanks, a precautionary move on his part.

  On emerging he bumped into a uniformed figure. Swaying, he blocked the way, uttering a belch of fumes.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton said. Purkiss lurched and almost fell against the brigadier. ‘An’ ’oo says so?’

  ‘I’m Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton.’

  ‘I don’t give a fish’s tit if you’re Pontius bloody Pilate, mate —’

  ‘You’re stinking drunk, man, and a disgusting sight. If you don’t get out of my way immediately, I shall call the Military Police and have you arrested. Move!’