Convoy of Fear

by Philip McCutchan

  Jean, too tired to argue, merely nodded. Miss Hardisty went on a bit more, talking about it being risky to lower one’s resistance against the cholera. It would never do, she said, for Miss Forrest to go down with it; she clucked like a mother hen.

  That afternoon, Jean Forrest collapsed whilst walking along an alleyway beneath what had been the first-class lounge. She was picked up by Chief Steward Bliss.

  ‘Oh, dearie me,’ he said. ‘Poor lady.’ He was joined by one of the army staff from the orderly room: RSM Pollock, who took over the burden, lifting Jean Forrest in his arms like a baby.

  ‘Cabin,’ he said briefly. ‘Where is it, Mr Bliss?’

  ‘I’ll show you, Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘Right you are, then. Call the doctor, eh?’

  ‘I’ll see to that,’ Bliss said.

  The WRNS officer was laid gently on her bunk and RSM Pollock stood back. She looked in a bad way, face white and lifeless, totally unconscious with it. Might be the cholera, probably was. RSM Pollock waited until the doctor came, then went along to his own cabin for a quick wash. You had to be careful even though the medics said you couldn’t catch the cholera by simple contact. Then he returned to the orderly room. Two of the staff had gone down with the cholera and their replacements were as thick as planks, which put a good deal more strain on RSM Pollock. And there was much to do: the ship was due off the port of Aden in two days’ time and a number of decisions had to be made before then. Decisions of that sort were not the RSM’s province but the carrying out of the subsequent orders would be.

  On entry to the orderly room, Pollock looked around. ‘Where’s Captain Archer?’ he asked.

  ‘Latrine, Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘Shits, eh. Not too good.’ Pollock thought to himself, I reckon we’ll get along without him.

  vi

  The conference was called in the Master’s day cabin. Kemp was present, with OC Troops, the battalion commanders, the senior medical officer and Mr Pollock, together with Purser Rhys-Jones, Dr Crampton and the chief steward. On the agenda was the advisability of entering Aden, which had not been on the original routeing instructions from the War Office or the Naval Control on the Clyde.

  Kemp started the ball rolling. ‘We’ll have to lie off under the quarantine flag at all events, just to embark cholera vaccine. If they can supply, that is. Now: does medical opinion support the idea of landing the worst cases?’

  The lieutenant-colonel RAMC answered that, after a glance at Crampton. ‘Frankly, no. I doubt if they’d take them anyway. And they’d be no better off in my opinion. Aden’s a hell-hole if ever there was one. We can cope.’

  Bracewell said, ‘It would relieve the strain, Colonel.’

  ‘I said we can cope, and we can. I don’t like the idea of landing my problems. It’s not as though it’s a case of something outside the ship’s ability. Such as a major operation for which I might not have the specialists.’

  A cough came from OC Troops. Pumphrey-Hatton was lying back in his chair, eyes closed, finger-tips together in a position reminiscent of a parson. He said, There will be no landings at Aden, gentlemen. None at all.’

  The RAMC officer shrugged. Kemp said, ‘I beg your pardon, Brigadier?’

  Pumphrey-Hatton didn’t respond directly. He disregarded Kemp and spoke to Bracewell. ‘If the ship should enter Aden, or simply lie off, then the same orders apply as at Alexandria and Port Said.’

  There was a brief silence. Kemp broke it, sharply. ‘To which orders do you refer, Brigadier?’

  Pumphrey-Hatton looked at him then — stared superciliously with raised eyebrows. ‘Obvious, I’d have thought. The orders about the men being confined below decks until the ship leaves.’

  A small tic started up in Kemp’s cheek and his face darkened angrily. ‘In Aden of all places? With cholera rife?’

  ‘Confinement makes no difference to the cholera.’

  ‘It makes a lot of difference to the men. What are your reasons, Brigadier?’

  ‘The same as before. There will be enemy agents in Aden. So the same considerations apply.’

  ‘What damned nonsense!’ Kemp burst out.

  OC Troops sat up straighter, eyes glinting now. ‘It’s not up to you, Commodore, to criticize the War Office or myself. Full secrecy was and is the order. If this ship enters Aden, then the troops will be confined below decks and that is final.’

  Kemp said, ‘On the contrary. It is far from final. The men will not be confined below decks. It is my decision as Commodore whether or not the ship detaches into Aden from the convoy and then overtakes after — if I decide to enter, then it will not be at the expense of the physical discomfort of the troops.’

  Pumphrey-Hatton began to splutter. Moisture ran from one corner of his mouth. ‘You have no damn jurisdiction over —’

  ‘As Commodore I have, for certain purposes which do not of course include any usurping of the Master’s authority, full jurisdiction for the convoy and those taking passage in it —’

  ‘Damn you, I —’

  ‘And I consider the order for confinement to be plainly and simply idiotic and inhuman and it will not be given. I shall remind you, Brigadier, of another fact of service life. As a commodore RNR I rank with you as a brigadier. But as a naval officer of equivalent status, I in fact outrank you or any other officer of brigadier’s rank. You will therefore obey my orders — not I yours. I trust that is quite clear.’

  This time the silence was longer. Kemp felt remarkably pompous. He had always detested any suggestion of pulling rank. But this time he was determined to stop Pumphrey-Hatton in his tracks and he meant to stick to his guns come what may.

  NINE

  Now it was war; war of a different sort from the fight against the Axis powers and the cholera. War between the Convoy Commodore and the Officer Commanding Troops was very much to be regretted, but Kemp felt that it had been none of his making. He considered Pumphrey-Hatton’s attitude to be wholly unreasonable, and, as he had said in so many words, inhuman. It was said that there was a particular kind of army officer who was impervious to reason; Kemp believed that he had come up against such a one.

  Pumphrey-Hatton had got to his feet and stalked jerkily out of the Captain’s day cabin without more ado. The battalion commanders had got to their feet, looking somewhat uncertain and, half apologetically, had followed their lord and master. The RAMC colonel, Dr Munro, had remained.

  He said, ‘I’m with you, Commodore.’

  ‘I’m glad someone is.’

  Munro laughed. ‘I fancy all the men will be! It’s damnable. I’ve had words with the brigadier already, pointed out that health’s as vital as secrecy. More so, in this idiotic situation. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about it. I don’t like …’ Munro hesitated, glanced sharply at RSM Pollock whose face remained expressionless. He changed the subject. ‘I just hope Aden will let us have that vaccine. I suppose there’s no chance of asking ahead?’

  ‘We don’t break wireless silence at sea, Colonel.’

  ‘No, quite. I was just thinking … that Jap submarine. Won’t she have reported our presence, the presence of the convoy? In which case —’

  Kemp broke in. ‘I doubt if she’ll have reported anything. She was submerged on first contact by the destroyer screen, and she surfaced only very briefly. I doubt if they’ll have got any messages away, even if their W/T was working after the depth charge attack.’

  Munro shrugged. ‘Oh, well. I don’t suppose it would make much difference anyway. If they’ve got the stuff, they’ll let us have it. If they’ve enough, that is. They have their own garrison to think about, of course.’

  Munro excused himself; like Crampton, who left the Captain’s quarters with him, he had much to do amongst the sick. A discussion with Bracewell, the purser and chief steward followed; if Kemp made the decision to enter, stores would be embarked — fresh fruit and vegetables from an area that could be presumed free of the cholera. The chief engineer had not been called to the con
ference, at his own request: he was needed below where there was a slight difficulty in the engine-room. In any case, his concern was only with his oil fuel supply, and the bunkers had been topped up in Port Said, all the ships refuelling from Royal Fleet Auxiliary tankers, since Aden, the usual bunkering port, had not then been on the list of calls.

  When the conference ended Kemp rang down to the ship’s surgery and spoke to Dr Crampton. ‘Miss Forrest,’ he asked. ‘How is she now, Doctor?’

  ‘Not too good, I’m afraid —’

  ‘Cholera?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve just this minute confirmed it.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘No reason why not, sir, I suppose.’

  ‘You sound doubtful.’

  ‘Do I? I’m not really. It’s just that … well, she looks very sick. You may get a shock.’

  ‘I’m well inured to shocks,’ Kemp said. ‘I’ll be down.’

  He hung the handset back on its hook. Jean Forrest, always smart. Very attractive, as he had begun to notice. Reliable, conscientious — all the virtues in his book. It was a damned shame that she should go down with such a filthy disease. But then she was just one of many. It was the fact that she had been under no operational compulsion to be here at all that stuck in the throat. You didn’t get cholera in Britain these days and she’d had no need to leave Britain’s shores if she hadn’t volunteered for the draft for those personal reasons connected with another brigadier …

  Kemp caught himself up: he was becoming allergic to brigadiers and that would never do.

  He went below.

  ii

  RSM Pollock was talking to his opposite number — Mr Privett, Regimental Quarter Master Sergeant on the orderly room staff. The subject was the conference, RQMS Privett, who had not been present, was told about the intervention of the Commodore.

  ‘I reckon he was right, Mr Pollock.’

  ‘So do I, Mr Privett. So do I. But it’s put the brigadier in a nasty frame of mind, that it has.’

  ‘A wounded tiger.’

  ‘Eh? Well, yes, in a sense.’

  ‘Dangerous, Mr Pollock. We’d best all watch our step for a while.’ RQMS Privett twirled at his moustache. Privett was on the elderly side, recalled to the Colours from pension back in ’39. In his day, the sergeant-major and the RQMS had more often than not waxed their moustaches, and so Mr Privett did now. The truth was that the Red Sea’s heat wasn’t good for wax, and Mr Privett looked remarkably like a sad-faced walrus. ‘God can be, well, vindictive.’

  RSM Pollock said, ‘It’s not for us to criticize, Mr Privett. Not senior officers.’

  ‘No, course not.’

  Suddenly Pollock laughed. ‘God, you said. That’s just the trouble. He’s been broke to the ranks. God’s on the bridge now. Convoy Commodore. God the Father. And Captain Bracewell, God the Son.’ He paused. ‘Mind, that’s not criticism.’

  ‘Course not.’ The RQMS frowned and twirled again at his sagging moustache. ‘I’ve been thinking. Thought a lot the last few days. The brigadier’s been … well, very tetchy like. Jumpy. Bag o’ nerves, I’d say.’ He paused. ‘I’ve heard talk. Talk about some fly-blows in his gin …’

  ‘Yes, I heard it too. Take no notice, Mr Privett, that’s my advice.’ Pollock looked hard at the RQMS. ‘Are you suggesting something else, by any chance?’

  ‘Well … no. Not really. The strain o’ war —’ RSM Pollock became official. ‘Careless talk, Mr Privett. I warn you not to repeat it. There’s nothing wrong with the brigadier. He’s had a hard war, like the rest of us. Some more than others. Get me?’

  RSM Pollock turned away, marched smartly along the deck with his cane beneath his left arm. A hard war was what he happened to know Pumphrey-Hatton had had. Not only in this lot. In the 1914-18 war, the brigadier had been a subaltern with his regiment, the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry from Bodmin. Pumphrey-Hatton’s battalion had been cut to ribbons in the first of the big battles on the Western Front, and Pumphrey-Hatton had been severely wounded, out of action for months, then back again to the horrors, the mud and slaughter in France. In this war he’d got out from Dunkirk by the skin of his teeth, wounded again whilst helping with the embarkation of the troops into the rescue fleet from the south coast of England. He’d earned a mention in despatches from the Commander-in-Chief, General Lord Gort. Later, in the Western Desert — in Tobruk, on attachment to General Sir Leslie Morshead’s Australian Division, he’d won a DSO. And his only son had been killed in an air raid over London. At the same time, so had his wife. All this, RSM Pollock had heard from Pumphrey-Hatton’s batman, who’d been with him since the days of peace. Pumphrey-Hatton was no Whitehall Warrior with rolled umbrella and bowler hat. Which, come to think of it, was why he, Pollock, was disturbed by what the RQMS had hinted at. The truth was, the brigadier was starting to behave like one of those pea-minded bastards from the safety of the bunkers beneath the offices of state.

  Pollock went on his way below, thinking of the curious degrees of God as manifested in the armed forces of the Crown. He himself was God to the troops; he had his God too — his colonel. Colonels had Gods — the General Staff, whose own God was ultimately the Monarch himself by way of the Secretary of State and the Prime Minister. There were classes of God — First, Second and Third. But, as Pumphrey-Hatton was in the process of discovering for himself, the only God that counted while they were aboard a ship was the God on the bridge.

  iii

  Jean Forrest was pale and shivering, unable to keep still as she lay on the bunk. Also, she was weepy, so much so that she could scarcely speak.

  Kemp was out of his element, had no idea what to say, how to offer comfort. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder and murmured something totally inadequate about feeling better soon. Miss Hardisty, at his side and looking desperately unhappy, did the talking for him, stating the obvious.

  ‘The Commodore’s come to see you, ma’am.’

  She nodded without speaking, her eyes, large and luminous, on Kemp.

  ‘I’ve told him you’ll be right as rain soon, ma’am.’ Miss Hardisty glanced up at Kemp. His large frame seemed to fill the small cabin. ‘He says you’re not to worry about anything, ma’am, not for now. Once you’re up, you’ll see all the girls are being looked after, isn’t that right, sir?’

  ‘Quite right, Miss Hardisty. Just get better, Miss Forrest. That’s all that’s required of you.’

  She looked at him again and there was a flash of humour in her eyes. ‘King’s Regulations for sick WRNS officers, Commodore?’

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  Her body seemed to jerk and suddenly, surprisingly, she said, ‘God save the King, then. I mean that. I’d like to see him victorious. But I won’t. I’m going to die. I know that.’

  Kemp was shocked. He said sharply, ‘Nonsense. Please don’t talk like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. It was little more than a whisper. She closed her eyes and seemed to sag, to droop in the bed though she went on shivering. Kemp caught the PO Wren’s eye and moved away. She left the cabin with him.

  ‘Poor lady,’ she said. ‘She’s been overdoing it, sir. That won’t help. The resistance, you see, sir, it’s lowered.’

  Kemp nodded. When he turned away to go back to the bridge, there were tears in his eyes. He hoped the PO Wren hadn’t seen that. A weeping commodore wouldn’t inspire much confidence in anybody.

  iv

  Pumphrey-Hatton was in his stateroom, chain smoking, trembling with anger. He’d always regarded the Navy with suspicion: they thought they knew it all and they were so damned superior in their attitude, so conscious of being the Senior Service, aided and abetted in this attitude, this certainty, by the King himself. His Majesty didn’t discriminate, of course, but it was a well-known fact that he preferred to wear naval uniform rather than anything else, and also he’d served in the fleet from midshipman to lieutenant himself. There was bound to be a bias. This was a disloyal thought,
and Pumphrey-Hatton thrust it from his mind.

  This Aden business — that was what he had to concentrate on.

  Should he give the order?

  He had said in no uncertain terms that he intended to. He could scarcely back down with any dignity. On the other hand, the order given, that oaf on the bridge would countermand it. What, then, would be his position as OC Troops? He would be a laughing-stock to his own officers and men. The effect on discipline would be appalling.

  The stick he was in was a very cleft one indeed.

  Pumphrey-Hatton lifted his gin glass with a shaking hand, spilling some on the carpet left from the opulence of peace. No fly-blows now: he had dealt with slackness firmly. But as a precaution he examined the glass carefully each time. By now the flies had largely departed, but quite a few had been left below decks when the ship had cleared from the confines of the Gulf of Suez, and these could be very dangerous. He had got the RAMC to spray his stateroom, bedroom and bathroom with something that they had assured him would kill flies but this hadn’t been entirely successful. Some flies as it were broke through the defences. Like the Hun at Tobruk …

  There was no security, none.

  Pumphrey-Hatton called for his batman, Private Oliver.

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘Oliver, my compliments to Colonel Munro. He’s to send up anything he’s got on flies and diseases pertaining thereto. At once.’

  ‘Yessir.’ Oliver hesitated. ‘Flies, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said, man, or are you deaf?’ Pumphrey-Hatton was shouting now.

  ‘Nossir — yessir! At once, sir.’ Private Oliver turned about; boots failed to thud on carpets but the motion was very parade-ground. When the man had gone on his errand, Pumphrey-Hatton walked up and down the stateroom, looking from the square ports at the sunlit blue of the Red Sea, shimmering like an electric fire’s reflection from a chrome backing. A terrible place; Pumphrey-Hatton scratched at his chest. There was a very worrying itch, like eczema. Of course, it was only prickly heat — he knew that. Have a shower and it would go. But there was no shower now. The showers were fresh water, which was scarce and had been since Alexandria. He could have a salt-water bath but that left one sticky, and that made the prickly heat worse.