‘There’s civvy passengers at risk, Commodore.’ This was Harrison. ‘Me, I go along with Carter.’
‘No,’ Kemp said firmly. ‘Those Germans are not going to be put below. To do that … it’s not in the tradition of the sea —’
‘For Jeez’ sake,’ Harrison cut in, ‘balls to tradition, in a situation like this. What we —’
Kemp rounded on him. ‘I have given an order, Colonel Harrison, and you will obey it. I’m giving another order and it’s this: the Germans are to be made to understand that they wouldn’t have a hope if the riflemen or your Australians were ordered to open fire. They must be told quite clearly that if they don’t calm down, the order to open fire will be given — though I hope to God it doesn’t come to that. And now, gentlemen, go away and carry out my orders and leave me to do my job — which concerns the safety of the convoy as a whole against possible attack.’
The soldiers turned away and went down the ladder, their faces saying clearly that they considered the Commodore to be entirely wrong. It was soon after they had left the bridge that the sound of rifle fire came from below. Kemp, awaiting further reports from the A/S screen and worrying about the state and readiness of the merchant ships as they got under way, shut his ears to it. The soldiers would have to cope. It was their job to guard the prisoners. And undoubtedly, on the face of it, the regimental sergeant-major had stuck his neck out rather too far. Kemp cursed the involvement of prisoners-of-war; he was a seaman, with a vital job to do, not a pongo or a warder.
He found himself wondering how Pumphrey-Hatton would have reacted, had he still been OC Troops.
Kemp had a feeling the brigadier might have made a better fist of it than Harrison. Pumphrey-Hatton was, after all, of the old school of military thought, and part of his code would be at least a degree of chivalry towards a defeated enemy, though in all conscience the Aurelian Star’s prisoners-of-war didn’t appear to regard themselves as defeated. But in any event Pumphrey-Hatton’s attitude would be very different from Harrison’s; Harrison was brash.
*
As it happened, Pumphrey-Hatton was already involving himself. He had been startled by the sound of what he took to be revolver fire followed by rifle fire, quite a number of rounds, coming from the deck above. He had at once left his boat station and had climbed fast to B deck. There was a shindig coming from the lounge and he had seen that some of the big square ports had been shattered, no doubt by the rifle fire. He found Captain Mulvaney outside the main door.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Mulvaney told him. ‘Bloke smoking. One of the black NCOS fired his revolver on the RSM’S order and that did it, I reckon. There was a riot and the blacks fired over the Nazis’ heads. I reckon —’
‘Where is OC Troops?’
Mulvaney gave a jerk of his head. ‘In there. Sorting it out or trying to.’
‘Ask him to come out on deck.’
Captain Mulvaney pushed his bush hat back from his head. ‘Now look,’ he began in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a child. ‘You don’t want —’
‘Kindly refrain from telling me to look, Captain Mulvaney, and from telling me what I don’t want. Go and fetch Colonel Harrison. That is an order.’
‘You’ve got no authority that I know of —’
Pumphrey-Hatton’s voice rose. ‘I am a brigadier of the British Army and I have given you an order. You will disobey it at peril of a Court Martial. Do I make myself clear, Captain Mulvaney?’
Mulvaney glared, muttered something indistinct, then swung away sharply and went into the lounge. A few moments passed and then he returned with OC Troops.
Harrison was tight-faced. ‘You listen to me, Brigadier. I —’
‘On the contrary. You will listen to me.’ Pumphrey-Hatton’s tone was crisp and authoritative, his curious manner and his preoccupations with trivia seeming to have vanished. ‘I may not be OC Troops any longer, but I have experience that, if I may say so, you lack. The whole ship is now faced with a very difficult situation, as you must realize. I have had experience of dealing with German prisoners in the western desert — Eighth Army, also under Australian command in Tobruk.’ He paused. ‘A day or so ago you asked my advice as to the duties and so on of OC Troops. I now apologize for my abruptness. I am asking you to allow me to handle this situation … on your behalf.’
Harrison’s mouth opened and then closed again. He was still angry, wishing to tell the old geezer to stuff his advice and not act as though he were God. But something was stopping him. A riot that could now be held only by gunfire, a riot that could end in the killing of prisoners-of-war under the protection of the Geneva Convention would for sure rebound on him as OC Troops. He might just as well keep his trap shut and let Pumphrey-Hatton take at least some of the blame afterwards. He glanced at his adjutant, whose face told him he was keeping out of it so far as he could, then he turned back to Pumphrey-Hatton.
‘Righto,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Advise away if you want to.’
Pumphrey-Hatton asked, ‘Is the German officer, Leutnant Stoph, in there?’
Harrison said he was.
‘Have him brought out. And the regimental sar’nt-major who I understand is involved. The rifles’ sar’nt-major.’
‘Too bloody right he’s involved —’
‘Just have him brought out, Colonel Harrison. And then we shall all shift up to A deck, rather than conduct proceedings in the view, and possibly in the hearing, of the prisoners.’
Harrison, fuming, gestured to Mulvaney. The Australian captain turned away and went back inside the lounge, returning after an interval with Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph and RSM Nunn, plus native escort. They all climbed to A deck, whence Pumphrey-Hatton had already gone, RSM Nunn slammed to attention in front of the brigadier with much banging of boots and a quivering salute. In rear of Stoph stood one of the riflemen with his bayonet fixed and his eyeballs rolling.
‘Now then,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said briskly, addressing the German officer. ‘I understand there is a complaint.’
‘There is much of a complaint,’ Stoph said.
‘You will address me as sir, or as Brigadier.’
‘I will not address you as sir,’ Stoph said superciliously.
‘I see. Then I have to say that I am disappointed in you, Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph. Also surprised. I take you for an officer and a gentleman. For a professional seaman rather, perhaps, than let us say one of the Gestapo or the SS.’
There was no response from Stoph, who stood looking disdainfully at Pumphrey-Hatton, his tall body as straight as that of the RSM.
Pumphrey-Hatton went on, ‘I believe there is a German Grand Admiral named Stoph, who retired from your service before the war. A Prussian, with a Prussian’s code of honour.’
‘My uncle, yes.’
‘Then may I say that were I a prisoner, I would address your uncle as sir, or as Admiral,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said mildly.
There was another silence. Then Stoph said, ‘I understand. I shall therefore address you as Brigadier.’
Pumphrey-Hatton smiled. ‘Good! A small but important point of etiquette is settled, and we can talk about your complaint. We can talk, too, about what is currently taking place in the lounge. Your complaint is to do with smoking, as I understand?’
‘My complaint is to do with harassment over one of my men observed to smoke, Herr Brigadier.’
‘Yes, I see. Not perhaps harassment but the establishment of discipline and the safety of the ship, upon which we all depend, your men included, Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph. I don’t see it as any occasion for the sort of trouble that seems to have erupted. Do you?’
Stoph’s eyes shifted. ‘Perhaps no.’
‘H’m. Sar’nt-Major?’
‘Sir!’
‘A word from you would help, Sarn’t-Major.’
RSM Nunn stared at a fixed point over the brigadier’s head. ‘There was words, sir. Provocative words, sir, as to Mr Churchill who was referred to as being a pig, al
so as being a monster, sir. Also as being mad, sir. Such arose, sir, on account of my stopping the man smoking.’ Nunn paused. ‘The cigars, like, sir, see.’
‘The cigars, Sarn’t-Major?’
‘Mr Churchill’s, sir.’
‘Really. Sarn’t-Major … if you were a prisoner in Germany … I wonder what you might say about Herr Hitler?’
RSM Nunn lifted a hand and tweaked at the ends of his moustache. ‘Yes, sir. I get your meaning, sir. Perhaps I was over-hasty, sir.’
Pumphrey-Hatton nodded. ‘A little give-and-take, Sar’nt-Major, that’s the thing. A storm in a tea-cup, I rather fancy.’ He turned to Stoph. ‘If the rifles are withdrawn, Kapital-Leutnant Stoph, have I your word that your men will quieten down and remain obedient to orders for your own safety while the convoy is in danger?’
Stoph hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he said, ‘You have my word, Herr Brigadier. I thank you.’
Pumphrey-Hatton nodded again and turned to Colonel Harrison. ‘Now it’s over to you again, Colonel. I trust I’ve been of some assistance.’
He went away with his odd, jerky walk. He felt he’d settled something, defused a tricky and dangerous situation. Now he had other matters back on his mind and once the convoy was safe from possible attack he would make representations in the proper quarter. Really, these days it was one damn thing after another and just before going to his boat station he had discovered that the tank beneath the wash-basin in his cabin had not been properly emptied by his steward, a residue of water being left after his last wash. These things all added up to a very serious lack of discipline throughout the ship, as dangerous in its way as the Germans.
Pumphrey-Hatton had started down the ladders to the embarkation deck and his boat station when he heard more firing, this time heavier as though from one of the close-range weapons, the Oerlikons mounted in the bridge-wings or on monkey’s-island above the wheelhouse.
*
As Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph had been ordered back down the ladder to B deck he had slipped on a greasy patch. He had lost his balance, pitching sideways and knocking RSM Nunn off his feet. A trigger-happy gunnery rate at the starboard bridge Oerlikon had, without waiting for orders, opened fire in a short burst, evidently taking the incident as an attack on the RSM. The bridge personnel had been taken off guard and had reacted too late. As the burst ended, Kemp himself seized the man and wrenched him bodily from the straps. The rating was Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh.
One of the Oerlikon shells had taken an escorting native rifleman in the left shoulder; another had hit Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph, who was lying on the deck. The rest of the burst had gone harmlessly aft.
Chapter Fourteen
Petty Officer Ramm, hearing the Oerlikon in action, had gone at the double to the bridge. He saluted the Commodore.
‘Sounds like trouble, sir,’ he said breathlessly. He looked at Featherstonehaugh, standing quietly in the bridge wing. Again there was something funny in the OD’s eyes. Or could have been the moonlight streaming across the bridge into his face.
‘Trouble’s right,’ Kemp said. ‘This man fired without orders. Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan will make the charge and carry out a preliminary investigation once the convoy’s in the clear and he’ll be brought before me subsequently. Until then, he’s to be held in arrest.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Where’s he to be placed, sir?’
Kemp hesitated. He had no wish to place any man in cells at sea, still less so in current circumstances. He said, ‘Contact the Purser, Ramm. There’s always a cabin or two kept empty for emergencies of one sort or another.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Ramm saluted again. ‘Right, Featherstonehaugh — about turn, quick march, down the ladder.’ He added to Kemp, ‘I’ll send up a replacement right away, sir.’ He clattered down the ladder close behind the OD. When he reached the bottom he said in a low voice, ‘What d’you want to go and do a thing like that for, eh, lad? Bloody daft.’ Then, quickly, he said, ‘Don’t answer that. Forget I asked. You’re what they call sub joodyce now.’
*
The rifleman was in a bad way as reported to OC Troops by the medical officer. The shoulder was shattered and there had been a serious loss of blood plus some ancillary injury to the head on the left side. Emergency surgery would need to be carried out and it was too early yet for any positive prognosis. The German, Stoph, was not badly hurt: nothing beyond a graze to the right upper arm beneath some torn clothing. He had been concussed by striking his head on a mushroom ventilator when he’d fallen and he would be kept under guard overnight in the sick bay for observation.
Soon after the doctor’s report had reached the bridge a series of explosions was heard away on the convoy’s starboard beam.
‘Depth charges,’ Kemp said. ‘And a perfect night for attack. Has that rating been fixed up, Finnegan?’
‘Yes, sir, I guess so. When the attack is over he’ll be accommodated in a cabin on F deck, armed sentry on guard outside. Meantime he’s back on the after three-inch. Petty Officer Ramm’s acting as watchdog. I gave that the okay, sir, all right?’
Kemp nodded. ‘Sensible, Finnegan.’
There was a grin. ‘Trust the US Navy, sir, Commodore —’
‘Stop boasting, Finnegan, and watch out for torpedo trails.’
‘I’ll do that thing, sir, Commodore.’
‘Which I take it is American for aye, aye, sir.’
‘You bet it is,’ Finnegan said.
‘In that case,’ Kemp said heavily, ‘it’s time you learned English, young man.’
Finnegan grinned again. They understood one another well enough. The explosions continued, growing more distant. Half an hour later there was a blue flashing lamp from the senior officer of the escort. Yeoman Lambert reported, ‘Enemy losses believed to be three U-boats, no losses to convoy or escort. Have broken off action.’
Kemp said, ‘Thank God for a good result. Tell the guns’-crews, Finnegan. They can stand down but remain handy. Yeoman, make to the senior officer from Commodore, propose to resume fuelling.’
Over the next fifteen minutes the convoy resumed its formation for completion of taking bunkers, turning back through 180 degrees for Ascension Island.
Finnegan thought ahead to his forthcoming session with Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh, which would take place next forenoon. He had no liking for that task; he, as well as Kemp, knew the rating’s recent history. If the Nazis had killed his, Finnegan’s, dad he would very likely do the same thing if he got the chance. But the moment that line of thought entered his mind, he conscientiously dismissed it. That would be prejudging the case: there was so far absolutely no evidence that Featherstonehaugh had been aiming for Kapitan-Leutnant Stoph.
Nattering whilst the ship was once again taking oil fuel from the Brambleleaf, Petty Officer Ramm did what he shouldn’t have done which was to discuss what had happened with Petty Officer Biggar. He had no qualms about prejudgement. ‘Avenging his dad,’ he said firmly. ‘Stands out a mile. Bloody rotten shot, that’s all.’
‘Took ’is chance, like.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
Biggar scratched his head. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I just might, I s’pose. But only when I knew I was going to get away with it. I’m not that bloody daft.’
Ramm nodded. Himself, he didn’t believe the OD had a hope in hell of getting away with it. His dad — circumstantial evidence they would call that. Ramm wondered what the penalty would be; and pondered on what Biggar had said. In the last war, so it had been rumoured, officers on the Western Front, officers who’d been rotten bastards to their men, had on occasion taken a shot in the back during an advance on the Jerry trenches. It was different at sea: Featherstonehaugh had been much too indiscreet. Daft, really.
*
Kemp paced the bridge while the interrupted oiling continued and the tanker, having completed fuelling the Aurelian Star, moved off the troopship’s side and proceeded to the next of the waiting ships.
Kemp had much on his mind, not least the stupid action of Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh. To go into action without orders was bad enough; to project gunfire towards a prisoner-of-war, unarmed and giving no trouble, was conduct of the worst kind. Featherstonehaugh could say goodbye to any prospect of a commission. Kemp would be immensely sorry about that; but there were no two ways about it. It was, however, not that alone that now weighed heavily with the Commodore. Kemp was in a fair way to blaming himself for both Featherstonehaugh’s predicament and the injury to the native rifleman. None of this would have happened if he had heeded the opinions of Colonel Carter and OC Troops that the POWs should be taken back to their quarters below.
He had perhaps been obstinate.
He paced on, his face set into hard lines. No use having regrets now; what was done was done and that was that. But his self-recrimination could be reflected in the view he would be taking of Featherstonehaugh’s action when the rating came up before him. He must not allow that either. Whatever he, Kemp, might have done, Featherstonehaugh’s action stood on its own demerits.
Kemp, as he came to Finnegan hunched in the starboard wing of the bridge, stopped his restless pacing. He said, ‘’our investigation, Finnegan. The shooting.’ He paused. ‘First thing after dawn action stations, Finnegan. I want all this settled soonest possible.’
*
The shooting had naturally reacted on the civilian passengers. Mothers had become extra protective of children, in most cases holding them tight. The children themselves were scared. They knew there were Germans aboard, and they had mostly heard scary tales about Germans from fathers who had fought in the trenches of the Western Front in the last war. Germans were Huns, warlike, ferocious as the giants and ogres and hobgoblins in Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The nanny of one of the children had said they had horns like devils, and forked tongues that went out and in like serpents. They spitted children on their bayonets, and roasted them over fires like the fires of hell that would burn them up one day if they didn’t say their prayers.
One small boy, known to the Holmeses back in Kenya, voiced some of this in a loud whisper to a girl of about his own age and was overheard not by his mother but by Colonel Holmes, who intervened.
Convoy Homeward (John Mason Kemp Thriller Book 6) Page 16