Convoy of Fear

by Philip McCutchan

  It was damn ridiculous that OC Troops couldn’t get rid of his prickly heat! When his batman came back with some sort of treatise on flies, Pumphrey-Hatton threw it bad-temperedly onto a table and demanded to see the ship’s purser.

  v

  ‘What are you going to do about OC Troops?’ Bracewell asked as he stood with Kemp in the bridge wing. Once through the Gates of Hell the decision had been taken to enter Aden, go to the anchorage and request vaccine and stores. The signals had been exchanged with the Flag; the Orlando would detach from the convoy at dusk the following day. Since the call was to be a short one, it had been decided that the rest of the convoy and its escort would remain outside the port rather than allow the big troopship to follow on behind like an arse-end Charlie on an overtaking manoeuvre. While the Commodore was in the port, the ships would maintain their steaming speed up and down with the asdics fully operational and the destroyer screen on the alert.

  Kemp answered Bracewell’s question. ‘I’m not going to do anything about him. It’s up to him.’

  ‘But if he gives the order?’

  ‘I don’t believe he will, Captain.’

  ‘I can only hope not.’ Bracewell was a shade diffident. He went on, ‘It’s put me in a somewhat equivocal position as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry. You’re the Master — I know.’

  ‘I’m not sure it isn’t my prerogative, strictly. As you know, I’ve not sailed with a commodore before. It’s a new and somewhat uncertain position for me. Those troops — they’re my passengers in a sense.’

  ‘A very positive sense. Perhaps — I’ve been thinking about this — I said too much. Overstepped myself. Yet what I said remains what I feel. We can’t have the troops subjected to stupid whims and fancies. The secrecy angle’s tripe and we all know it.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I agree, but —’

  ‘Are you with me on this, Bracewell?’ Kemp asked directly, turning to face the Master.

  Bracewell nodded. ‘Yes … yes, I am. You have my assurance — I shall back you. But, frankly, I’d rather not. I think you understand, Commodore?’

  Kemp did, having been a liner’s master himself. He understood only too well. Brigadiers could make a good deal of noise after the event. Whitehall could take note, and probably would if the below-decks confinement order had come from there, which in fact Kemp believed it might not have done — it might have been the personal idea of OC Troops himself. But if Whitehall had indeed been the originators, then there could be frosty communication with Bracewell’s owners in the City and next time home Bracewell would be called upon to explain. Owners never wanted trouble at any time; now, in war, the trooping contracts were valuable. Not that the War Office, with its great need for transports, would refuse to employ the Orlando; but it might well raise objections to a Master who had been party to over-ruling an OC Troops.

  Bracewell said, ‘I’m wondering if we could find a way out.’

  Kemp gave a short laugh. ‘I rather doubt that, frankly! If it comes, it’s going to be a clash. All or nothing. I can’t see any room for a compromise. Can you?’

  Bracewell admitted that he couldn’t. ‘Perhaps OC Troops will have second thoughts. See the light — or something.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so. I don’t want any trouble, I assure you. We have troubles enough already.’ Kemp paused, searching the sea ahead through his binoculars, one of the almost reflex actions of the war. So often split-seconds counted, that extra time given by spotting the tell-tale feather of water streaming from a periscope, or seeing the dot in the sky that heralded an air attack. His scan completed for the time being, he lowered his binoculars. Coming to a sudden decision he said, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll go and have a yarn with Pumphrey-Hatton. Smooth the ruffled feathers!’

  Bracewell grinned. ‘Apologize, Commodore?’

  ‘If I have to, yes. For being rather too forthright. But I’ll stand by what I said. And that’s for sure.’

  vi

  There was the feeling of a death ship now. Below decks, the smell of sweaty bodies and sweat-soaked bedding had given place to medical smells of antiseptic. Carbolic was being freely used, so was permanganate of potassium. When Petty Officer Ramm went below, he felt he was entering hospital which in a sense he was. The spread of the cholera had been fast, unexpectedly so. Of the naval party, four, including PO Perryman, had gone down with it. So far none had died. Of the military draft, there were 310 cases of varying severity and, so far, 47 deaths. The ship’s crew was badly depleted; 89 men on the sick list, including three deck officers and one assistant purser. So far the engineers seemed to have escaped. 11 of the deck and catering departments had died; the committal services, Ramm thought, went on for ever and ever. Soon they would run out of canvas for the shrouds, but no doubt a fresh supply would be indented for at Aden.

  ‘Floating coffin,’ Ramm remarked, encountering Miss Hardisty.

  ‘What a thing to say, Petty Officer Ramm!’

  ‘True, though.’ Ramm sucked at his teeth. ‘How’s Miss Forrest, eh?’

  ‘Very poorly I’m sorry to say. How’s Petty Officer Perryman?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Miss Hardisty was shocked. ‘You mean you haven’t been to see him, haven’t even enquired?’

  ‘Well, I —’

  ‘Commodore Kemp came down to see Miss Forrest. Came down himself, ever so upset he was, and him being on the bridge nearly all the way from home!’

  ‘Well,’ Ramm said again. ‘I’ll look in.’ Rose Hardisty said she hoped he would, and went away. Ramm thought that maybe it was his duty; if a commodore could call in on a Wren, then maybe he should do the same for someone of his own branch, and he needn’t linger long. And no time like the present, get it over and done with … he went along to the ship’s surgery and ascertained where Perryman was being treated, in a sort of makeshift ward at the after end of G Deck, hot and stifling and reeking of antiseptic like everywhere else, only more so in the confined spaces so far down in the ship.

  They wouldn’t let him in; Nightwatchman Parkinson, having had to change his duties on account of the length of the sick list, was on the door.

  ‘Petty Officer Ramm, isn’t it? What can I do for you, Mr Ramm?’

  ‘Like to see me mate. Petty Officer Perryman.’

  ‘Perryman, yes. Perryman. Well, the orders are, no-one to enter without due authorization. Got a chit?’

  ‘No, I —’

  ‘Sorry. You can call out to him — he’s berthed just inside the door, first bed on the left. Stand in the doorway, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ Ramm said, glad enough not to have to go right into an area of infection. ‘How is he, eh?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ was the answer. ‘Else, you wouldn’t be allowed conversation.’

  Ramm nodded and put his head inside the door. Perryman was reading, a paperback. He looked fairly colourless but that was about all. Ramm called out his name and he looked up.

  ‘You, eh? Nice of you to call.’

  ‘Glad to. How are you?’

  ‘Fair to middling. Quack says I’ll recover. Mild case, quack says. Mostly the runs. How’s things up top?’

  ‘All on top line. Just one thing.’ Ramm couldn’t resist it. ‘Rust on the breech, 6-inch aft.’

  ‘Not when I was took sick there wasn’t,’ PO Perryman said promptly. ‘Want to watch that, you do. I never did ’ave rust on my guns.’

  Ramm seethed but kept silent: you didn’t exacerbate the sick by arguing the toss. But he would remember that. After another word or two he went away, trying guiltily not to reflect too much on the fact that if Perryman had it only slightly he might well be back to duty before the arrival at Trincomalee. Reading a bloody paperback, Ramm thought, I ask you! He reckoned Perryman was a fraud.

  vii

  Purser Rhys-Jones had reported as requested to the OC Troops and on returning to his office rang down for the chief steward. ‘Mr Bliss — purser here.’

 
‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I have been speaking to OC Troops, Mr Bliss, I have had a most difficult conversation. He insists on having shower facilities restored.’

  ‘The orders, sir —’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know of the orders of course. But it is on account of the prickly heat, you know —’

  ‘Prickly heat, sir? Got it myself. Scratching like a moggy I’ve been —’

  ‘Yes, yes, but you are not the OC Troops, Mr Bliss, though goodness knows it is not I who would wish to say that there should be exceptions to the order, OC Troops is in a different position, you see, or so he says.’ Rhys-Jones wiped sweat from his face and neck and adjusted the electric fan set in the deckhead so that a stream of less hot air wafted over him. ‘He is asking to have his shower reconnected, Mr Bliss.’

  ‘That’s not possible, sir. It can’t be isolated from the rest of the A deck accommodation, and if —’

  ‘Well, yes, I knew that and I said as much but OC Troops still insisted, you see. So we must think of something else. What do you suggest?’

  ‘God knows, sir, I don’t.’

  ‘That is not helpful, Mr Bliss.’

  No, Bliss thought, it isn’t. Why he should be bothered with OC Troops’ prickly heat he knew not, but there it was. He said he would think something up and the purser rang off, satisfied that he had passed the buck. Mr Bliss sighed, put away the bundles of paperwork waiting on his desk, and went in search of the chief officer. A conference was held consisting of the chief officer, the senior second engineer, Mr Bliss and his second steward, and the engine-room storekeeper. The problem was attacked and eventually, in the way of seamen accustomed to producing solutions out of thin air, was solved.

  viii

  There was a knock on the stateroom door.

  Pumphrey-Hatton called in a high voice, ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Kemp, Brigadier.’

  ‘Really.’

  Kemp went straight in; he was not accustomed to being kept waiting outside doors. Pumphrey-Hatton’s face was stony. ‘What does this mean, Commodore?’

  Kemp said, ‘There are things we must discuss.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean, Brigadier. The ship will enter Aden at dusk tomorrow —’

  ‘I’m aware of that, thank you.’

  ‘So there’s the question of confinement of the troops.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pumphrey-Hatton had not asked Kemp to sit down, but remained seated himself, an overflowing ashtray on a table beside him. ‘My order stands. I don’t know what you propose to do about it.’

  ‘I suggest you withdraw the order, Brigadier. You must see that it’s totally pointless —’

  ‘I do not see that my orders are pointless!’ Pumphrey-Hatton got to his feet and stood with his chest heaving and two spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. He faced Kemp like a sparrow confronting a bear. Kemp saw that he had been indiscreet; he offered an apology.

  ‘I don’t want your damned apologies, thank you, Kemp.’ OC Troops was shaking all over, almost beside himself. ‘I’m not going to be treated like some blasted subaltern who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I am the Officer Commanding Troops aboard this ship and what I order is my own affair —’

  ‘Not quite, Brigadier. Not entirely. The ship’s Master and I —’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks! You’re simply being obstructive and pandering to the men, playing to the gallery, seeking some sort of damned popularity —’

  Kemp, angry himself now, snapped, ‘Not so. What do I need popularity for? That’s not my job, Brigadier.’ He made an effort to restrain his temper and said in a milder tone, ‘We have no need to fall out over this. Let me suggest a compromise: we shall enter at dusk and we shall be clear of the port shortly after first light if not before. I —’

  ‘If it’s after dark —’

  ‘If it’s after dark, which it will be almost on arrival, then the troops won’t be seen from the shore. The decks will of course be darkened as will the ports, just the same as at sea. And the troops can if you wish be confined just for the short period of daylight before we’re clear away. What cannot be accepted is that they should be confined throughout the night in such conditions as pertain in Aden. Aboard an over-crowded ship prickly heat alone drives men out on deck in the dark hours to find a little cooler air. We can’t deny them that, Brigadier.’

  Pumphrey-Hatton, his face working and the spots of colour even more pronounced, turned away from Kemp’s gaze and began strutting the carpet of his stateroom, fingers balled into fists. He breathed heavily, as though on the verge of a stroke. Big patches of sweat spread from his armpits, staining the khaki-drill tunic. He had swung round and seemed about to address Kemp again when there was another knock on the door, OC Troops seemed glad to be interrupted. He said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Chief officer, sir. Your shower arrangements.’ The door opened and a procession came in: chief officer, purser, second steward, ship’s carpenter, a man in oily overalls and two stewards carrying what looked like a tin bath perforated with a number of holes, followed by another steward with a large enamel jug and a deck rating with lathes of thin wood.

  ‘What the devil!’

  ‘It’s the best we could do, sir,’ the chief officer said. ‘We’ll rig it up in a jiffy, over your bath. The steward will pour the water. Fresh water.’

  Pumphrey-Hatton stared. Kemp stared. Then their eyes met; Kemp’s look was sardonic, and OC Troops understood very well why. Kemp saw that as well. He left the stateroom, feeling that by a sheer fluke he had made some sort of a point.

  TEN

  To take the ship into Aden was Captain Bracewell’s responsibility but Kemp accorded him the use of his own signal staff, the ship’s signalman being on the sick list. Bracewell, as the Orlando, now detached from the convoy, made the approach, passed the orders to Yeoman of Signals Lambert.

  ‘Quarantine flag, Yeoman.’

  ‘Yessir. Already bent on, sir.’

  ‘Hoist.’

  The yellow quarantine flag was hauled up to the starboard main yardarm. Bracewell said, ‘Request permission to enter.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lambert flashed the signal to the King’s Harbour Master. There was some delay and then the response was signalled. Lambert reported, ‘From KHM, sir. Understand you may have cholera aboard.’ Lambert interrupted his report to say, ‘That’ll have been sent ahead by land line or wireless from Port Said, sir.’ Bracewell nodded and the yeoman completed the message: ‘What is your reason for entering?’

  Bracewell said, ‘Make, to embark fresh stores and cholera vaccine if available.’

  This was flashed across; there was further delay while the ship lay with her engines stopped. The place was airless and oppressive beneath the distant mountains which loomed behind the port. It was dark now. Kemp looked down on the boat deck; troops lined the sides and a buzz of conversation came up on the still air. Pumphrey-Hatton had conceded, the compromise had been reached: that personal shower arrangement, that pulling of rank — it had been very fortuitous and it had done the trick, OC Troops, not speaking again to Kemp, had sent up a note saying that he would reconsider but if there was any come-back then it would be laid at Kemp’s own door. Kemp was not worried about come-backs and had sent a soothing note of thanks to OC Troops for his understanding.

  That had closed the matter, which Kemp regarded as a storm in a teacup that should never have happened; and he was humble enough to acknowledge that his own forthright attitude had not helped.

  After almost half-an-hour of what Kemp irritably regarded as a waste of valuable time, the further signal came from the King’s Harbour Master giving permission to enter and indicating anchor bearings in a distant part of the anchorage.

  ‘They’re keeping us nicely at bay,’ Kemp remarked to Bracewell. ‘Understandable, I suppose, but medically unnecessary.’

  Bracewell nodded, and passed his orders for getting under way again. As he conned his ship inward
s, more signals came, asking for details of store requirements and indicating that a small amount of vaccine would be available. There was a hint that the cholera could spread down from the canal zone and they had their own personnel, naval and military, to consider. KHM asked if any other medical assistance was required, OC Troops had come to the bridge for the entry and was avoiding Kemp’s eye, which Kemp considered childish. When Bracewell turned to him in regard to the medical assistance his answer was curt.

  ‘No.’

  The ship approached the anchorage, stealing through the darkness of the port, perhaps the most barren and inhospitable harbour of the Empire, a place of burning sun by day, of airless heat and arid ground and more flies. Men swatted at them along the decks, they found their way below to the troop decks and the cabins and in the makeshift sick bays they settled on the sick and the dying. The orderlies of the RAMC, and the Wrens who were still helping out, though in lesser numbers now since four of their number were themselves on the sick list, did what they could to keep the air and the flies moving.

  In her cabin, tired to the point of exhaustion now after endless tending of the sick, Miss Hardisty felt a terrible griping pain in her bowels. Soon after this she vomited, and collapsed onto her bunk, feeling like death.

  ii

  The order to let go the starboard bower anchor went from the bridge to the chief officer standing in the eyes of the ship; there was a roar as the cable, already veered to the waterline, went out, and a cloud of red rust rose above the fo’c’sle-head. With the engines moving slow astern to check her way, the Orlando came to her temporary anchorage; the cable was secured with the third shackle on deck. The fo’c’sle party was fallen out once the slips were on, and the engines were rung to stand-by. Bracewell intended to maintain an anchor watch on the bridge, which meant that a stand-by presence would also be required on the starting platform below.