‘What nonsense, Billy. Whoever told you that?’
The boy looked up at him round-eyed. ‘Nanny did.’
‘Then Nanny had no business to. Nanny’s quite wrong, Billy.’
‘Nanny’s never wrong,’ the boy stated firmly. ‘Mummy said so.’
‘Really.’ A matter of discipline, of course. You always stood by your NCOS in front of the soldiers. Holmes cleared his throat. He said, ‘Certainly Nanny is always right when, for instance, she says it’s time to go bed, or … er … things like that. She really doesn’t know very much about the Germans, Billy, take it from me.’
The boy stared him in the eye. ‘Nanny knows all about witch doctors.’ Nanny, of course, would have been black. The boy went on, ‘She says they push red-hot needles into your eyes.’
‘The witch doctors are —’
‘No, silly, the Germans.’
At this point the small girl started crying and gave a shriek for her mother. Mother appeared from the lee of the boat’s falls, together with Billy’s mother, who said she hoped Billy wasn’t being a pest but she knew he would be all right with the Holmeses. ‘Come along, Billy —’
‘The boy’s no trouble, Mrs Moriarty,’ Holmes said. ‘But he has some strange ideas about the Germans —’
‘That’s Nanny,’ the mother said. ‘She’s rather alarmist.’ The children were gathered up and removed. Alarmist, Holmes remarked to his wife, was scarcely the word for such horror stories. Modern mothers, he said, didn’t pay half enough attention to their offspring, leaving them too much to their nannies. Then he remembered his own childhood days. What with boarding school and Nanny, he’d scarcely seen his own mother, just an hour a day after tea before he and his younger sister were gathered up and returned willy-nilly to the nursery. But that had been before the Great War when Germans had not yet become monsters, were indeed quite socially acceptable since their Kaiser was a grandson of the Queen-Empress …
Farther along the embarkation deck Gregory Hench was comforting Gloria North way. She had become almost hysterical when she’d heard the rifle fire, more so when the short burst from the Oerlikon was heard. Hench had put a protective arm around her and she had snuggled. She was snuggling still; Hench felt he had stolen a handy march on the Australian, Mulvaney.
Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton received a message from the Commodore: Kemp’s compliments and he would appreciate it if Pumphrey-Hatton would find it convenient to come to the bridge. Pumphrey-Hatton would. He went up immediately. Kemp said, ‘I just wanted to thank you, Brigadier. I understand you defused a very nasty situation.’
‘Potentially nasty, yes. Tact — that’s all. The Australians are not tactful. No more was that RSM — but RSMs are seldom renowned for tact, excellent fellows though they are. I’m glad to have been of service. Well, that’s in the past, or I hope it is. I’d like to take the opportunity of drawing your attention to my wash-basin …’
Pumphrey-Hatton had indeed been of service; Kemp listened patiently to the woes of the wash-basin and the bath water and a recap of the electric fan and the flies. It took quite a while and when Pumphrey-Hatton had left the bridge Kemp shook his head in bewilderment as to how the brigadier’s finicking could possibly add up with the firm way in which he appeared to have taken charge of the German problem. Of one thing, however, Kemp was determined: when his voyage report went to the Admiralty after arrival in the Clyde it would contain a glowing report of Pumphrey-Hatton’s action for forwarding to the War Office. It might do the man some good in whatever he was due to face in London. In spite of all Kemp hoped very much that it would.
When Pumphrey-Hatton, leaving the bridge, moved aft to take a look astern at the rest of the convoy, many of the ships still awaiting one or other of the tankers, he came face to face with Leading Seaman Purkiss.
He stopped, drawing himself up. Each stared into the other’s eyes. It was Purkiss who looked away. Pumphrey-Hatton said, ‘You’re the damn blackguard who struck me in Simonstown. Don’t attempt to deny it. I recognized you instantly. What have you to say about it before I call the master-at-arms and have you placed in arrest?’
Purkiss swallowed, and remembered an important tenet of life on the lower deck, this tenet being that however bleak the prospect you never admitted to anything. You let the buggers prove it for themselves. Since, when an officer was involved, you were going to be found guilty anyway, you couldn’t lose out by taking a chance that just might come off, however unlikely. So he pulled himself together and answered smartly.
‘Never set eyes on you, sir. ’Cept in the distance like, sir. Not at close quarters, what I’d ’ave ’ad to be to clock you one, sir.’
‘I said you were a blackguard. Name?’
‘Purkiss, sir, leading seaman —’
‘Now you’re a liar as well, Leading Seaman Purkiss. Two crimes I make that. However, with the convoy in possible danger and the likelihood of action stations, I shall leave the matter until the situation changes.’
Pumphrey-Hatton marched away. Purkiss let out a long breath and wiped the back of a hand across his forehead. Then he went for’ard in search of Petty Officer Biggar.
Biggar was worried but said, ‘He’ll have a job on his hands to prove it. Just you and me. So we stick together, no perishing admissions. His word against two of us. Look on the bright side, Purkiss. Make out it’s a case of mistaken identity.’
‘But you said earlier, ’e’d recognized you too, PO.’
‘Yes, that does complicate it sure enough. I’ll think of something … I still say, stick to what we says is the facts, all right?’
‘All right,’ Purkiss said gloomily. He was in deeper than Biggar; all Biggar had done was to do sod all when as a PO he should have taken action, made a report. A different matter from a Court Martial offence. Biggar might lose his rate, he, Purkiss, would not only lose his rate but his freedom as well for an indefinite period. Could even be six months or more in a civvy jail, like say Barlinnie in Glasgow on arrival in the Clyde. Striking an officer was about the worst thing you could do, short of desertion. Purkiss wasn’t too sure what powers of punishment the Commodore had; he could no doubt punish summarily or by warrant but if the punishment was more than ninety days there might have to be reference to a higher authority such as the Flag Officer in Charge, Greenock, and God only knew what an admiral might inflict.
*
Next morning, a day of fair weather and calm seas and no further contact reported from the destroyer escort, Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh was brought out from the cabin where he was being held and was taken under escort to the port side of the Captain’s deck below the bridge. With Petty Officer Ramm in attendance, acting as naval master-at-arms, the routine was gone through as it would be aboard a warship.
Ramm gave the orders as the OD was marched in by Leading Seaman Purkiss, to whom the proceedings were by way of a rehearsal for his own arraignment.
‘’Alt, off cap.’ Ramm turned to Finnegan. ‘Ordinary Seaman Peter Ewart Featherstonehaugh, official number P/JX 187153, sir. Did at 0123 hours of this day, open fire with the starboard side bridge Oerlikon without orders to do so.’
Ramm stood back. Now it was over to Finnegan. Ramm wondered if subby was going to lean over backwards to favour a rating who was in for a commission and whose old man had been an officer. It should prove interesting. Finnegan, however, had had further words with the Commodore. Kemp had stated the obvious: the charge was an extremely serious one and could turn out even more serious if the native soldier should die. The man was still on the danger list according to the doctors. Thus Finnegan was to do no more than bring out the basic facts. He was not to allow Featherstonehaugh to incriminate himself along the lines of possible motive.
He asked Featherstonehaugh if he had anything to say as to the charge.
‘Only that I did open fire, sir.’
Finnegan, standing with his hands behind his back, nodded. So much was indisputable. He addressed Ramm. ‘Petty Officer Ramm. W
ere instructions given that there was to be no firing without orders?’
Ramm temporized. He had no wish to harm Featherstonehaugh. He said, ‘It’s standing orders, sir, always is, that fire is never opened without orders.’
‘Yes. But more precisely, Petty Officer Ramm. On this occasion. If you follow me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ramm said reluctantly. ‘Before sending the ack-ack crews to the close-range weapons, sir, I issued the order for no firing unless specifically ordered.’
Again Finnegan nodded. ‘Featherstonehaugh, were you or were you not, aware of this order?’
‘I was, sir.’
‘And was it,’ Finnegan asked, knowing the answer, ‘countermanded by anyone on the bridge?’
Featherstonehaugh shook his head. ‘No, sir.’ He paused briefly. ‘I opened fire, really without thinking, when I saw the trouble on A deck.’
‘Right,’ Finnegan said. It would be as well if the OD offered no further evidence at this stage. Finnegan said, ‘Commodore’s report,’ and nodded at Ramm. ‘Carry on, please, Petty Officer Ramm.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Ramm saluted. ‘Commodore’s report, on cap, salute the officer, about turn, double march, down the ladder, fall in on A deck.’ Finnegan watched him go, feeling immense sympathy for what must be Featherstonehaugh’s state of mind. Slowly, he climbed to the bridge. He found Kemp in his usual place, standing in the starboard wing, body braced against the guardrail, using his binoculars to scan the seas and the ships moving along sedately, the shepherd watching his flocks by night and day. Finnegan saluted the turned back.
‘Commodore, sir?’
‘Yes, Finnegan.’ Kemp turned round, lowering the binoculars to the limit of the codline preventer. ‘Well?’
‘Placed in your report. Full admission.’
Kemp gave a short laugh. ‘Obviously! Nothing further?’
‘He opened fire without thinking, sir. What I’d call an automatic response, I guess. Do the same myself.’
‘We’re not considering hypothetical situations, Finnegan, or what you would do.’ Kemp paused. ‘What’s your opinion?’
Finnegan shrugged. ‘Guy’s honest and straightforward, I guess. And if he did aim for the kraut … well, killing krauts is what the war’s all about. Isn’t it?’
‘Not prisoners-of-war, Finnegan. Clear your mind on that, for God’s sake! And don’t get sentimental —’
Finnegan’s eyes widened. ‘Me, sir? Sentimental?’
‘Yes, you, sir. Sentimental. Sympathy doesn’t come into this … though God knows I do understand.’ Kemp’s mind was with his two sons, serving the King at sea as he was himself. If one of them should be killed, and he had a Nazi in his sights, POW or not … he couldn’t be sure what his reaction would be. Probably responsible enough; he was too old, too accustomed to command, too experienced in controlling his feelings to let those deep and instinctive feelings get the better of him. But a younger man, a much younger and more callow man, might respond quite differently and in that category he had to place his own sons. Either of them, given a similar set of circumstances, might have been in Featherstonehaugh’s shoes. Once again, as Finnegan stood there waiting for him to go on, Kemp forced the mental images from his mind. He was jumping the gun. Featherstonehaugh, he reminded himself for the tenth time, very likely had had no such intention.
He looked at his wrist-watch. He was about to tell Finnegan that he was going below to his cabin for five minutes when a rating came up the bridge ladder and approached with a signal form in his hand. ‘Cypher from Flag Officer Gibraltar, sir.’ He passed it over. Kemp glanced at it and handed it to Finnegan.
‘Prefix Most Immediate, Finnegan. See to it at once.’
Finnegan went below to get his decyphering tables out of Kemp’s safe. He was back on the bridge within twenty minutes with the plain language version. Kemp read, CS23 repeated Convoy Commodore, German raider Stuttgart reported in position 30 degrees east 22 degrees 25 minutes north, course south, estimated speed 25 knots, now disappeared into fog. Time of origin 0933 GMT.
Kemp called to Maconochie and went with him to the chart room, where Maconochie noted the positions of his own ship and the raider. Laying off the distance between, he said, ‘Around 2200 miles ahead. Closing speed … forty knots. A little over two days.’
‘And then that’s it,’ Kemp said. ‘That’s it — and no word of the Duke of York.’
Commodore and Captain went out to the open bridge. Nothing was said between them, but Kemp’s mind was racing. The heavy guns of the Stuttgart … the convoy had nothing to match them. All would now depend upon the arrival of the Home Fleet battleship from Scapa Flow. If she failed to turn up, the convoy would be decimated. The only heavy ship the convoy had was the Vindictive, due shortly to detach to her Freetown base. No doubt she would be ordered to remain, but her guns too would be no match for the Stuttgart.
Kemp and Maconochie waited now for messages from the senior officer of the cruiser escort. In the meantime there was a tacit agreement that it was as yet too soon to warn the passengers as a whole. The report would of course be communicated to OC Troops, but it was to remain strictly in the confines of the orderly room until Kemp broke silence throughout the ship.
Chapter Fifteen
The orders had come quickly from CS23: the convoy would alter course north-westerly in the hope of bringing the ships to the westward of the Stuttgart’s estimated course. With luck, they would stand clear of the raider, then alter again to make the rendezvous with the Duke of York. As they made their northing there might be an aerial reconnaisance by the enemy long-range Focke-Wulfs and if they were picked up then the Stuttgart would inevitably be homed onto them. If there was an encounter the convoy would be scattered on orders from the Commodore, and the escort would stand and fight to the last, putting themselves between the enemy and the valuable troopships and cargo vessels. In the meantime Vindictive would detach in accordance with previous orders: she had reported to the senior officer of the escort that she had insufficient oil fuel in her bunkers to remain at sea beyond Freetown, not having fuelled off Ascension since she had intended taking on fuel at her Freetown base.
Kemp cursed, but said, ‘Fortunes of war, Maconochie. We’ve all been relying on the Duke of York turning up before we met the Stuttgart.’ He paused, then turned to Finnegan. ‘Exercise guns’- crews, Finnegan, till they drop.’
‘I’ll do that, sir. But they can do the drill in their sleep by now.’
Kemp grunted. ‘I’m glad to hear it. If we scatter, they’ll be all we’ve got.’
*
Captain Mulvaney, having promulgated Colonel Harrison’s orders for engagement to the Australian company commanders, went below to fulfil an engagement of his own. He tapped at Gloria North way’s cabin door.
She was irritable. ‘What’s been keeping you?’ she asked.
‘Routine. Work. Not like some.’ Mulvaney had sealed lips by order, though he failed to see the point. All aboard were going to have to know sooner or later, unless the Commodore intended saying nothing at all if they managed to evade the Stuttgart. Maybe there was sense in that.
He threw his bush hat onto a chair and stripped off his khaki-drill jacket. Miss Northway watched him sardonically. She said, ‘Don’t bother with the trousers.’
He stared, trousers waistband already slackened. ‘Eh? What d’you mean, don’t bother with the trousers?’
‘What I say. Something’s happened.’
‘What’s bloody happened?’
‘Don’t sound so damn truculent, and don’t make out you’re that dumb. Men who come from whatsit, the Murrumbidgee, didn’t come down with the last shower. Or that’s what you once said.’
Mulvaney ticked over. ‘Bloody hell, girl, so that’s it, eh?’
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Sorry, but there it is. Time of the month and all that.’
‘Bloody sudden,’ Mulvaney said angrily.
‘That’s the way it goes. Caught on the hop.’ S
he added, ‘There’ll be other times before we get to the Clyde, don’t worry yourself.’
Captain Mulvaney resecured his trousers, put his tunic on again, took up his bush hat and stormed out of the cabin. Bloody women, he thought, they’re all the same, lead you on and then go and get the curse. Or maybe she hadn’t; maybe she’d just changed her mind … but he didn’t think she had. Captain Mulvaney from the Murrumbidgee was a real man and women didn’t turn real men down. Not in his experience. But she should have got her dates worked out better and not got him all worked up in anticipation. That rankled. Sod the woman.
He didn’t see Gregory Hench at the end of the alleyway when he stormed out of Miss Northway’s cabin, but Hench saw him very clearly and it gave him a jolt. Hench had intended going himself to Gloria’s cabin. He’d had a sudden feeling things might turn out all right and he’d meant to take advantage before that particular urge subsided.
Now he turned away. It had subsided. He knew he would be no match for Mulvaney. After that sighting, he simply couldn’t. He went instead to the B deck lounge and ordered a large whisky.
*
Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton’s mind nagged away at the wretched matter of the two ratings involved in the fracas at the Cape, men of whose names he had made a note on recognizing them. He had yet to decide what to do about them. Currently they were probably laughing at him behind his back. Meanwhile, having observed the extra gun-drills currently in progress, he had another ground for complaint, since he realized the significance of the drills as the Commodore’s assistant stood by the exercising, sweating crews with a stop-watch in his hand. The closing-up, the opening time after time of the breech-block, the thrust of the ram as an imaginary projectile and charge were loaded, the shouts of the petty officers as the breech-blocks were slammed shut and the gunlayers swung onto imaginary targets … the repeated exercising of the misfire procedure, for ancient naval guns were prone to misfires at critical moments … it all had the unmistakable sound of much urgency. To Pumphrey-Hatton urgency meant only one thing: the German raider was believed to be in the vicinity.
Convoy Homeward (John Mason Kemp Thriller Book 6) Page 17