‘Inside,’ Kemp said, and propelled Jean Forrest back into the wheelhouse. Bracewell came in through the door from the port wing. He said, That was a near thing, Commodore. That ship’ll be in a bad way now.’ He passed orders down for the chief officer: soundings had been taken continuously but now there was a need for the carpenter to make a thorough check right along the port side.
ii
The impact had been scarifying below. The bouncing of the destroyer off the plates had sounded like a series of giant-sized hammer blows, making the ship ring and clang throughout her length. Those in the lounges, still jam-packed, had seen the terrible sight for themselves as the loom of the searchlight had briefly entered by the big windows as the ship drew aft and away. A broadcast from the bridge gave them the facts, assured them that a check was being made. Miss Hardisty got down on her knees, clearing a space with some difficulty, and prayed as she had never prayed before. She believed her prayers had been answered when half-an-hour later the tannoy came alive again and Commodore Kemp spoke.
‘There is no cause for alarm. The ship has not been damaged further. We are taking no more water than before. And it’s extremely doubtful if any other ships are close, though I can’t promise this.’ There was a pause. ‘I have good news for you. The wind is tending to decrease. By dawn I expect to be in calmer water. That is all.’
Miss Hardisty, her hands still clasped, said aloud, ‘Oh, thank you, Commodore,’ and then, recollecting herself, added, ‘and God.’
iii
The reports to the bridge had been reassuring, enabling Kemp to make his broadcast. The army had done and was doing a good job and the ship was no lower in the water.
‘So what’s the prognosis?’ Kemp asked Bracewell. ‘What happens when we come out of the storm? Is it, in your view, going to mean abandoning?’
‘Yes and no,’ Bracewell said. ‘We’ll stay afloat — but we won’t be getting anywhere.’
‘A tow,’ Kemp said. ‘If the cruisers are still around. Or the Valiant. You think she’ll stand a tow?’
‘No reason why not. The damage is amidships. It’s not as though we’d be pushing into the sea with a gaping bow. Let’s leave it, Commodore. See what the dawn brings.’ Bracewell added, ‘We still have the wireless office as a going concern. We could ask Aden to send out tugs if there are no other ships around.’
‘And risk the German? She may still be out there, you know, Bracewell. Probably is. I’ve an innate dislike of breaking wireless silence at sea.’
‘But unless we do —’
‘No. I still have the convoy to consider. God knows where they all are at this moment, but I can’t take any chances of homing the Admiral Richter onto them. Aden’ll realize.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Kemp said wearily, ‘I’ve already suggested the possibility of a tow, Bracewell. Now I’ll follow your own suggestion: let’s leave it till the morning. Then we can better judge the position, anyway if the wind continues to moderate.’
‘It’ll do that all right, it’ll follow the usual pattern. We’re through the worst of it.’ Bracewell hesitated. ‘If I may make yet another suggestion, Commodore, it’s this: why not go below and get some sleep?’
‘Oh, I’m all right. You’re as whacked as I am anyway.’
‘But it’s my ship. And you’re not all right, you’re dead beat. I might point out that I’m a year or two or three younger than you. At our time of life, that counts. There’ll be many decisions to be made in the morning. You’ll need your sleep. As Commodore, I think that’s your duty.’
As the Orlando gave a sudden lurch to the still mountainous seas, Kemp reached out a hand to steady himself against the binnacle, and missed. He went flat on the deck of the wheelhouse, bumping his head on the binnacle support as he did so. He was helped to his feet by Bracewell, who said that he believed his point had been made.
Kemp went below. Bracewell would call him at once if he was needed. He found his cabin something of a shambles; in the emergency his steward had been needed elsewhere. Drawers hung open, spilling their contents. The photographs on Kemp’s desk had fallen to the deck, the glass was broken, the silver of the frames dented. That of Mary his wife was ruined, wet from a carafe of water that had sprung from its rack by the bunk.
Kemp went along himself to the Captain’s pantry. The whisky bottle in his cabin beckoned, but this he eschewed. In the pantry he made himself a hot, strong cup of coffee. Having drunk this, he went back to his cabin. But he knew he wasn’t going to find sleep and if he did by some chance then it would be a time of nightmare. His mind was still too active, too filled with past events and future decisions. No, he wouldn’t sleep.
He reached for his uniform cap and put it on. He would make the rounds of the ship below decks, and talk to the men. It might bring some sort of comfort. To himself as well as them.
iv
Kemp found the packed lounges and other public rooms hard to penetrate. There was a certain amount of light from his own battery torch and others being used by the troops, occasional flickers that briefly lit the scene. A sergeant saw his gold-edged cap peak and got to his feet.
‘Gangway there, gangway for the Commodore!’
‘No ceremony, please, Sergeant. I’m not here to be a damn nuisance.’
‘Sir!’
‘What’s it been like?’
‘A fair degree of hell, sir, but nothing we can’t take.’
‘It won’t be for much longer, Sergeant. We’re coming out of it.’
‘I see, sir. A good thing, sir, if I may say so. If I may ask a question of you, sir?’
‘Of course, go ahead.’
‘What’s next, sir? What can I tell the lads? Some of them, they’re worried sick.’
Kemp smiled. ‘That’s not surprising. They don’t know the sea. I do, so do all the ship’s officers. Captain Bracewell and I were at sea in the old Cape Horners, smashing into the westerlies off the pitch of the Horn. That was real weather! It was hell, but we came through, and we hadn’t any engines either. You can tell your men that we’re coming through again, though at this moment I can’t say just what comes next, whether or not it’ll be a tow.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll tell them that, sir, straight from the Commodore.’
Kemp moved on. There had been no point in telling that sergeant that not all the Cape Horners had come through. There had been many lost, many ferocious injuries and many deaths from falling aloft in the ships that did come through. Nor was there yet any point in saying that he, Kemp, was fast coming to the conclusion that they might have to abandon once the weather had moderated enough to get any undamaged boats and rafts away. Abandon, and await rescue from Aden, where the naval HQ would know there had been a battle because, since once engaged there was no further point in maintaining wireless silence, the senior officer of the escort had transmitted the current position of the Admiral Richter. The subsequent silence from the Arabian Sea would not be hard to interpret and as soon as the weather permitted the rescue would be mounted.
That was the best hope now.
Kemp walked among the sick, having a word here and there when he saw a man awake and watching him. They seemed to appreciate it, and he was able to calm a few fears. The very fact that the Commodore had left the bridge to come below spoke for itself.
He met Jean Forrest in an alleyway as he was making his way back to his cabin. She seemed ill-at-ease. In a low voice she said, ‘I want to apologize, Commodore. For coming to the bridge.’
‘You’re forgiven.’
‘That’s — very nice of you, Commodore.’
‘Not at all. I understood very well.’
‘It won’t happen again, I promise.’
He nodded; he certainly wasn’t going to encourage bridge visits. But he said, somewhat self-consciously, ‘When we get to Trincomalee, and we are going to get there … ’
‘Yes, Commodore?’
He said, ‘Oh … it’s not important, Miss For
rest.’ He moved on, leaving her to stare after him. He’d been going to suggest they might meet somewhere in an unofficial capacity; he was relieved, really, that he hadn’t. He went into his cabin and took up the spoiled photograph of Mary, which before going below he’d tried to dry off with a towel. He looked at it for a long time. Yes, he was glad he’d turned matters off in time.
v
The dawn came.
It was not a pleasant sky but the wind had all but gone and the seas, though restless still with a heavy surge left behind by the typhoon, were free of the pounding immensity of the waves. The Orlando rode better now, no more heave and lurch. Miss Hardisty in the main lounge came awake to find light stealing through the windows. Close by one of her girls snored loudly. Wren Peters — it would be. Miss Hardisty poked at her with a finger.
‘Stop it, girl, it’s unseemly.’
‘What?’
‘You heard, Wren Peters. All these men.’
‘Well, I like that! Anyone’d think I’d —’
‘There’s no call for impertinence.’
Wren Peters sulked and snuffled. Miss Hardisty produced a handkerchief and ordered her to blow her nose. The WRNS had to maintain its dignity, which the Lord knew was a hard job in the present circumstances. After a while Miss Hardisty climbed to her feet, smoothed down blouse and skirt, which she’d now worn for far too long, a lifetime it felt like since she’d last undressed, and made her way through the clutter of waking soldiers, out to the promenade deck where she took a walk up and down, and took a look at the sea.
She couldn’t see any other ships. The German raider must have gone, and praise the Lord for that. But where was the convoy? She was sure Commodore Kemp must be very worried about that.
Kemp, back now on the bridge, was, though he had hardly expected anything different. To Bracewell he echoed Miss Hardisty’s unheard thought.
‘Thank God the Richter’s not around.’
‘No Valiant either. No escort. And I’m not thanking God for that!’
‘Like the Ancient Mariner … all alone upon a sunless sea. Or whatever it was.’ Kemp once again scanned the horizons all around the ship: nothing moved anywhere, a lonely scene. He said abruptly, ‘Time for those decisions, Captain.’
Bracewell was about to answer when a voice-pipe whined in the wheelhouse. The Officer of the Watch bent to take the message, slammed back the cover and came out fast to report to the Captain.
‘Carpenter, sir, reporting after sounding around. The level’s increasing fast. Chief officer’s on his way below.’
Bracewell swore. ‘Does the carpenter know what’s happening?’
‘No, sir. He’s flummoxed so far. He’s —’
‘He’d better unflummox fast at the double,’ Bracewell said. He looked along the decks fore and aft, crowded with the troops who had come thankfully out from the lounges and other places of refuge now that the typhoon had passed. He looked down at the sea; there was that surge but on the whole the surface could be risked flat enough. Decisions were forming in his mind, but first he would await the chief officer’s report.
That came after a quarter of an hour’s impatient pacing of the bridge wing. The chief officer was as flummoxed as the carpenter. He gave it as his opinion that there was more damage from the Admiral Richter’s shell than had been suspected, and that something extra had occurred, some shift, as a result of the typhoon’s pounding, something that had decided to shift only very recently.
‘How much more water?’ Bracewell asked.
‘Increase of twelve inches in the last half-hour, sir.’
‘Despite the pumps?’
‘They’re doing all they can, sir.’
‘I’m starting to get the feel of the extra depth,’ Bracewell said. ‘More sluggish on the roll.’ He passed a hand over the stubble of his cheeks; it was almost a gesture of resignation, of hope gone. He asked, ‘What are the chances of making it good, a makeshift patching up?’ Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer.
The chief officer said, ‘None at all, sir. Just none. I believe there’s a seam opening in the bottom plating, running right down through the double bottoms.’
Bracewell turned to Kemp. ‘Too late for a tow even if there were ships around. This is it, Commodore.’
‘You’re going to abandon?’
‘I am. It’s all we can do now.’
‘I’m with you,’ Kemp said. ‘Right away?’
‘Right away. But no panic rush.’ Bracewell went into the wheelhouse and took up the tannoy. Before he began speaking, passing the final order, Kemp said he was going down to see OC Troops.
vi
There had already been alarm: the word had spread when what had looked like a touch of panic had manifested itself in the ship’s personnel. The chief officer had gone below at the rush, taking the ladders and companions at the double, his expression grim. The carpenter had been seen talking to the Staff Captain and two of the engineers with every sign of urgency. So the rumours started: they were about to go down. That had hastened the exit of the troops to the open decks, so that when Bracewell’s voice passed the order to stand by to abandon ship they were mostly back already at their stations along the embarkation deck. Within a couple of minutes the ship’s officers were in amongst them, doing their best to sort them out into new abandon ship stations, away from the smashed lifeboats on the port side. There were some ugly scenes as a number of the soldiers found themselves hustled towards the Carley floats, though in fact they were luckier than those who would have to jump and hope for the best, hope to get a handhold on the lifelines rigged along the sides of the boats and floats once they were in. Miss Hardisty, a hen with her chicks, mustered as directed by the senior third officer at her original station on the starboard side.
She was assured that there would be no difficulty in getting the boats away. She asked, ‘Do you know how long it’ll be before we’re picked up, Mr Wilbraham?’
‘Shouldn’t be long. The Captain’s authorized a mayday call, and it’ll be transmitted until the wireless room packs up.’
Miss Hardisty looked alarmed. ‘Won’t those Germans hear it?’
‘Probably. But the Captain had no choice. It’s better to be picked up by the Germans than just be left to float around.’ The senior third officer moved away; he had much to do. Before he went he said the Germans would treat them decently. Miss Hardisty wasn’t so sure about the Germans’ merciful intentions, however, and she had no wish for her and her girls to spend the rest of the war in a POW camp in Germany. That Hitler, he was a brute and he issued brutal orders, and it was quite possible the Admiral Richter would open fire on the survivors rather than pick them out of the water, wasting time while the British Navy got on their track. She had heard that in fact they had fired on boatloads of survivors sometimes, and she had heard also that the German soldiers spitted French babies on their bayonets and roasted them over open fires, though she wasn’t sure that hadn’t been in the Great War.
Mustering his guns’ crews at their stations, Petty Officer Ramm wasn’t too worried about who picked him up, just so long as someone did. There were, he understood, sharks in the Arabian Sea, cruising up from the Indian Ocean.
Not very nice.
vii
‘A matter of courtesy,’ Pumphrey-Hatton mumbled from his sick bed.
‘Which is why I’m here,’ Kemp said. ‘I —’
‘Yes, yes, but I didn’t mean that. I mean Bracewell should have had the courtesy to inform me before passing the order. I have the responsibility of my troops, damn it!’
‘The order had to be given,’ Kemp said heavily, ‘and it had to be given without delay. I’ve come down to explain the situation —’
‘Do so, then. First, be so good as to get me a glass of water, a clean glass.’
Suppressing anger, Kemp went to the bathroom and ran the tap. The water was turgid. He brought the glass to OC Troops, who drank. He didn’t seem very bad to Kemp’s non-medical eye. ‘Now
go on, Commodore.’
Kemp explained. Assistance, he said, would be on the way. OC Troops would be disembarked into a lifeboat with his staff. He could, if he wished, Kemp said tongue in cheek, carry on the military command from there. Pumphrey-Hatton interrupted to say, testily, that he believed Captain Bracewell to be panicking: the ship felt perfectly all right, perfectly steady, to him. Kemp didn’t bother to argue; but before he could go on with his brief exposition the brigade major entered, accompanied by a staff sergeant and two of the ship’s stewards, one of whom carried a Neil Robertson stretcher. In the rear was Colonel Munro. OC Troops would be in good hands. Kemp made thankfully for the door, heading for the bridge. As he left he heard sounds of argument, Pumphrey-Hatton’s high-pitched voice protesting about something or other. Perhaps there had been fly-blows on the stretcher.
On the bridge, Bracewell was watching out for any ships and finding the seas still blank and empty. He and Kemp paced the wing. Bracewell took reports as they came in from the deck officers responsible for the muster along the embarkation deck and the safe lowering of the boats once they had embarked their loads. The bridge was awaiting the final report from the Staff Captain that all crew spaces and military accommodation had been cleared and all personnel on deck ready to go. It was understood between them without a word being said that Kemp and Bracewell would be the last to leave the ship. The tradition of the sea held. And, again, without it being mentioned, each knew the other had reservations about his personal survival. Captains, by tradition, had once gone down with their ships, Captain and ship being considered a single entity, one and indivisible. In Kemp’s view, the same could be said of the Convoy Commodore. He dreaded being shipped back to the UK as a passenger, to report the apparent loss of a whole convoy as constituted after leaving the port of Alexandria.
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