Convoy of Fear

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Come again, PO?’

  Ramm jerked his thumb backwards towards the doctor’s cabin ports. ‘All right for them. I looked in like, saw the pisspot jerker serving drinks. Officers, see? Not that I’m one o’ them socialists, far from it. But doctors and nurses, angels o’ bloody mercy shouldn’t be drinking in working hours, not in front o’ the ’ands, bloody boat dry an’ all for everyone but ship’s officers.’ It was scarcely in front of the hands but it wouldn’t be tactful to say so, Cardew thought. He let Ramm waffle on.

  ‘Ships’ doctors! Pissy-arsed lot, all of ’em. RN doctors are no better neither. S’pose that bloke ’ad to operate — what then, eh? Fingers shaking like a pair o’ knickers on a washing line in a sou’westerly gale. Do an appendix, cut a poor matlow’s bollocks off like as not. Talking of which.’ Ramm sniggered. ‘That nursing sister. All goo-goo eyed, just looking at ’im. You can’t tell me nurses are born for medical duties only, oh no! Doctors’ perks, they are.’

  The leading hand, running a rag over the breech of the 6-inch, risked a joke. ‘What about POs? I reckon you got first call on that PO Hardisty. I —’

  Ramm’s glare silenced whatever had been coming next. ‘Don’t you talk disrespectful o’ your betters, acting Leading Seaman Cardew.’ He reached out and tapped the fouled anchor that had been sewn on the erstwhile AB’s sleeve, the badge of his advancement. ‘That ’ook can come off as easy as it went on, right?’

  ‘Sorry, PO.’

  Ramm went on his way, muttering to himself. Through the port he saw the ship’s surgeon and the nursing sister have a refill. It just confirmed what he’d been saying. As he went for’ard, having nothing in particular to do, but looking busy since Kemp or that Finnegan might be watching from the bridge, he heard the sound of singing coming up from below, via one of the mushroom ventilators. He stopped to listen: girls’ voices. The little so-and-sos were having a sing-song. Stuff a duck, he thought as the words of Beneath The Spreading Chestnut Tree came up clearly, that’s not the sort of song matlows would sing when they got together in the shore canteen in Pompey or Scapa! Old Ma Hardisty must be leading that crap. Just the same, Ramm wished he could see them, beating at their breasts as they carried out the motions in time to the words. King George would have a blue fit.

  iii

  ‘It’s going to create pandemonium!’ Captain Archer said distractedly in the orderly room. There had been much panic discussion between himself, the battalion commanders, the Brigade Major, the various adjutants and the regimental sergeant-majors, all of whom had had of necessity to be told of the orders for Trincomalee. It was, the Brigade Major had said, the typical army cock-up only this time more colossal than normal. The brigade was not equipped to make the traumatic shift from expectancy of the Western Desert to far distant Ceylon and then possibly the jungles of Burma. For one thing, there was the question of camouflage jungle uniforms; one of the adjutants remarked with assurance that this and all else would be provided at Trincomalee. He wouldn’t believe the War Office was that stupid, sending a brigade into the jungle and the swamps with only khaki-drill shorts to protect legs against leeches and other unpleasantnesses.

  Captain Archer was prepared to believe the worst of the high command. He told a story he’d heard from his brother, who was RN. There had been a pre-war officer living at Hamble near Southampton. He had received orders to proceed immediately to Colombo to join HMS Southampton, and had been provided with outward transport aboard a P & O liner. When he reached Colombo he found that his orders had become mixed and he should have gone to Southampton to join HMS Colombo. Such was service life. That was when Archer had gone on to say, ‘It’s going to create pandemonium!’

  ‘It will not, sir.’ This was RSM Pollock. ‘Pandemonium, sir, will not be created in my orderly room. With respect, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Mr Pollock. To me, it has all the hallmarks of SNAFU.’

  ‘SNAFU it is, sir, I will agree. But we shall cope, sir, SNAFU or not.’

  RSM Pollock had a loud voice. It carried, PO Wren Hardisty heard it as she walked past the orderly room. She pondered on an expression she had not heard before. She made an enquiry of one of her girls, later.

  The Wren rating looked surprised. ‘Not heard it before, PO?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Situation normal, all fucked up, PO.’

  Rose Hardisty went scarlet. And the way the girl had come out with it! No shame. It was little Master Donald all over again.

  iv

  Next day at 1100 rounds were made by Captain Bracewell and the Staff Captain, with OC Troops, the Brigade Major, the three battalion commanders and RSM Pollock as senior warrant officer. The company commanders stood by in their sections, attended by their company sergeant-majors and platoon sergeants. Jean Forrest stood by in the WRSN day room and PO Wren Hardisty in the girls’ cabin accommodation.

  As Convoy Commodore, Kemp stood aloof from ship’s business. He remained on the bridge, pacing the wing with Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan, continually watching the sky and the horizon to the north. Among the escorts the antennae of the radar aerials were turning constantly as the operators aboard the Nelson, the aircraft-carriers, the cruisers and destroyers kept alert for the first signs of any strike from Crete.

  So far, since Malta, apart from the one sortie earlier, they had been lucky.

  ‘It can’t last, Finnegan,’ Kemp said.

  ‘Maybe they’re satisfied with what they did before Malta, sir.’

  Kemp gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt it somehow. We’re too good a prize.’

  ‘The Heinies do funny things at times, sir.’

  ‘Such as?’ Kemp looked sideways.

  ‘Why, Dunkirk. Let the British Army get away —’

  ‘Not without interruption, Finnegan.’

  ‘No … but after that. No invasion. Guess Hitler just didn’t follow up.’

  Kemp said, ‘I understand his stars told him not to.’

  ‘Could be the same again, sir.’

  Kemp grunted; he never had believed too much in luck. It tended to run out at awkward moments. Currently it was much too peaceful; and by the following evening the convoy would have reached Alexandria. It was always possible the enemy meant to wait until after their arrival, and then mount a massive attack on the base and harbour. Possible but not really likely: once in the harbour, a large number of troops could be got ashore even under attack, and ships were more surely and effectively sunk at sea. On the other hand, if big ships were sunk in the harbour, that harbour’s use would be quite severely restricted. Earlier in the war, the battleship Queen Elizabeth, which had carried the flag of the pre-war Mediterranean Fleet, had been attacked by frogmen with magnetic mines, and had been holed to such an extent that she had settled on the bottom and become an encumbrance to vital shipping until she had been refloated a long while after.

  Meanwhile the sun shone and the sea remained smooth, still like a peacetime passage. When a message came up for Finnegan from Petty Officer Ramm on the after 6-inch, and Finnegan left the bridge, Kemp’s thoughts turned homeward to the cottage in Meopham in Kent where Mary his wife was holding the fort under all the difficulties of war. No help in the house, shortages of everything, food strictly rationed while he ate off the fat of the land; the car laid up for the duration and growing whiskers in the garage — there was petrol available in very small quantities if you had a good reason for needing it, but Kemp had refused to trump up reasons when seamen were dying aboard oil tankers out at sea in their endeavours to keep the vital parts of Britain moving and to feed the engines of the armoured columns and the aircraft and the ships themselves. Kemp had seen too many tankers blown up since the war started, had seen too many men gasping and struggling and burning to death in the blazing contents of the oil tanks that spread out when the explosions came.

  v

  ‘What’s it about, Petty Officer Ramm?’

  Ramm jerked a hand downwards. ‘It’s that PO Wren, sir, Hardisty. She came up
on deck, all hot an’ bothered about the OC Troops, sir, dunno why. Then she went below again … after asking me to report to you.’

  Finnegan said, ‘Bugger. Okay, I’ll go below. No clues at all?’

  ‘No, sir. Not that I could make out.’

  Finnegan turned away, went into the after superstructure near the tavern bar, and down a staircase. As he approached the section of cabins allocated to the WRNS draft, Miss Hardisty bustled up to him.

  ‘Oh, Mr Finnegan!’

  Finnegan put a hand on her shoulder; she was very agitated. ‘Tell me all,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir, I will. It’s that OC Troops. He was ever so rude to me and I don’t think it was called for, I’m not really used to ships of any sort, sir, let alone big liners —’

  ‘Neither is OC Troops, I’ll bet. What happened, Miss Hardisty, just tell me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She was almost twittering with indignation. ‘He went into the girls’ cabins. I wasn’t expecting that. My girls have never been inspected, not as to their quarters that is, by a man. And it wasn’t only that brigadier, it was such a lot of them, all those soldiers. All men. Oh, I just didn’t know what to say, that I didn’t, when that man lifted … one of the girls’ smalls it was … on the end of his cane. He asked what it was. He insisted, and there was I, blushing. Oh, I was so mortified!’

  Finnegan kept a straight face. ‘What did he go on to say, Miss Hardisty?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that I can …’ Miss Hardisty’s voice trailed away then she stiffened herself to her task. She had always impressed upon her little charges years ago that if you started anything you must, as a bounden duty, finish it. She went on, ‘He said, don’t just stand there, woman, answer my damn question. Or do I take it you’ve never seen a pair of knickers before. That was what he said, Mr Finnegan.’

  Finnegan nodded. Gravely he said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Hardisty. I’ll report to the Commodore.’

  ‘Oh, I’d be ever so grateful if you would, sir.’

  Finnegan went back to the bridge, being overtaken, before he had cleared the lower decks, by the procession of Captain’s Rounds. He pressed himself to the bulkhead of the alleyway as the long line of brass went past, with RSM Pollock bringing up the rear like a sheepdog, marching stiffly as if on parade, cap peak pulled well down so that in order to see his next ahead he was forced to hold his neck at a backward angle.

  On the bridge eventually, Finnegan made his report.

  Kemp said, ‘God! Rude, yes. But talk about a storm in a teacup!’

  ‘Right, sir. But I thought I’d warn you. OC Troops will be stirring things up if I’m not mistaken. I kind of read into it — the knickers and that — that the cabins were not exactly prepared for inspection.’

  ‘Finnegan, I’m the Convoy Commodore. Not a housemaid. Or a lady’s maid.’

  ‘No, sir. But as the naval authority aboard, OC Troops is going to reckon the girls are yours. If you see what I mean.’

  Kemp blew out his cheeks. ‘Bombs and brigadiers. Take due warning, Finnegan. If this war goes on long enough, you may even find yourself with a convoy commodore’s appointment! By that time I won’t be worrying … but I wish you the best of luck.’ Kemp glanced at the clock on the after bulkhead of the wheelhouse: Captain’s Rounds should be about finished; and any moment the army might be storming the bridge, fulminating again about women in war. But in the event rounds were not yet finished when Yeoman of Signals Lambert reported the lamp flashing from the Nelson’s flag deck, with a hoist of flags creeping up to the starboard fore yardarm.

  ‘Message, sir. Flag reports submarine contact by Probity bearing red three-five, distance eight miles, probably Italians, sir.’

  Kemp said, ‘Thank you, Yeoman.’ He turned to the officer of the watch. ‘Mr Renshaw, sound action stations, if you please.’

  FOUR

  The urgency of the alarm rattlers sounding throughout the ship scattered Captain’s Rounds like ninepins. Bracewell ran for the stairways and ladders, making for the bridge. He was followed by Pumphrey-Hatton. RSM Pollock made for the troop-decks, bellowing the rank-and-file to their stations. A mass of men pulling on lifejackets filled the corridors. Night-watchman Parkinson, ex-Colour Sergeant, Royal Marines, off duty and asleep, woke on the instant, pulled on his uniform and pushed through the mob to take up his rock-like stance at the entry to the Wrens’ alleyway. Even with the action alarm sounding, or maybe because of it, lust could out before the girls could get to their boat stations. But Parkinson, to his astonishment, was pushed aside by the egress of the girls, led by PO Wren Hardisty, from below. They were, it seemed, right on the ball.

  The two naval petty officers, Perryman and Ramm, shoved their way along the boat deck, going in turn to all the guns fore and aft to chase the crews and report ready to the bridge, where Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan would act as gunnery director, or co-ordinator, though Ramm reckoned he could manage very well without. Ramm reckoned subby didn’t know a six-inch projy from a fried egg. In the meantime more reports were coming through from the flag and Kemp was conferring with the troopship’s Master.

  ‘Your engines, Captain. I’d like all you’ve got.’

  ‘You shall have it.’ Bracewell had already rung down emergency full ahead on the telegraph and the effect was being felt in the increased vibration. By remote control from the bridge, once all personnel not required for duty below had been reported clear, the watertight doors and firescreen doors were shut, thus sealing off the working alleyways below the troop-decks and isolating the individual sections in what had been the passenger accommodation.

  The eyes of the convoy were now on their Commodore but for the moment there was nothing else to be done aboard the Orlando. Just watch carefully and wait. Hope that each ship would spot the torpedoes’ tracks in time, and alter course towards safety. It looked like a big attack; the further reports had indicated no less than six contacts, closing. The destroyers were churning the water, swathes of white foam from their wakes criss-crossing the blue, the bow-waves creaming over their stems as they raced to intercept.

  Kemp looked down at the decks; the lifeboats had been swung out in orderly fashion and lowered to the rails of the embarkation deck. The troops were fallen in, lifejackets on now, standing easy with their NCOs walking up and down in front of the ranks. At the after end of the boat deck Kemp saw the WRNS party fallen in under Miss Forrest and the PO Wren. It was a calm scene; the sun still shone, and the lurking enemy was not in sight. But he was not far away. If the lookouts or the bridge personnel failed to see the track, the disturbance below the water, a torpedo could hit at any moment and the scene would alter fast.

  ii

  Once the system of watertight doors and bulkheads had been activated to seal the various sections of the ship, individual doors would if required be opened again on permission from the bridge so that the fire hoses could be run out from the hydrants. The men, largely stewards, manning those hoses knew that in the event of emergency those doors would again be shut by automatic control, and that they might well find themselves sealed off by them with no hope of escape. It was a similar sort of thing to the shell-handling rooms aboard the big warships, the spaces where the heavy shells and charges were brought up from the magazines to be sent on the hoists to the gun batteries. The men who went down in action to the handling rooms were sealed in after entry, the hatch over the deep, shining shaft being clipped down hard from above with no corresponding clips beneath to enable the hatch to be opened from below. In extremity, the order would come from the bridge to flood the magazines, and with that order the handling rooms would also flood. The trapped ratings would drown, their bodies rising on the seawater to impact against the big steel hatch.

  One of the trap situations aboard the Orlando lay in the engine spaces, the engine-room itself and the boiler-rooms. Chief Engineer Stouter stood solid on the starting platform, ready for urgent orders from the bridge, white-overalled and carrying in his fist the inevitable bunch of
cotton-waste to help keep his hands clean. He exuded a confidence he was far from feeling. He knew his men looked to him and he must never show fear. But he was afraid and had been ever since the war had started. His father, also a ship’s engineer, chief of a freighter in the last war, had been trapped in his engine-room when a U-boat had struck in the North Sea, not far off Hull, not far from home. The young Stouter had never known precisely how his father had died, but his mother had heard the story outline from a survivor, the freighter’s third mate. The torpedo had hit just abaft the engine-room and plates had been buckled and so had the exit through the air-lock. No-one had come up, no-one above could get to them before the ship went down. Stouter senior had died in the execution of his duty, and young Stouter had had an imagination. Boiler-rooms in those coal-fired days had held a series of red-hot furnaces; and the boiler-room had led off the engine-room. If the furnaces had shattered, the scene would have been a fiery hell.

  The images had stuck; but young Stouter had gone to sea because that was what his dad had always wanted for him and he’d felt in duty bound. And, of course, that war was to be the last ever. The war to end all wars.

  Stouter’s senior second engineer came to the starting platform. ‘All correct, sir. Everything bearing an equal strain as they say.’

  Stouter nodded. The starting platform canted sharply as the bridge put the helm over. The senior second said, ‘I suppose that means something’s close.’

  ‘Could be, yes. Or just avoiding another ship. You know what it’s like, with the convoy all over the show.’ He smiled, tightly, feeling the fear in the pit of his stomach. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’ He looked along at his engines. Turbines were unspectacular objects, with a sort of calm look, not like the old reciprocating engines, say, with their great flailing beams and pistons and suchlike. Calm now, not so noisy as engine-rooms used to be, but all that could change in a second.