Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  Suddenly there was a shout from the Captain. ‘See that, Cameron? Fine on the port bow!’

  Cameron looked, and saw: an enemy aircraft, shot down, was still afloat; the pilot was climbing out along the wing and could clearly be seen, waving an arm towards one of the escort, whose course was a little to port of him. As Cameron watched, the destroyer’s bows came round, just a little.

  Cameron asked, ‘Do you pick up ditched pilots, sir?’

  ‘Like hell we do! Just you watch.’

  Cameron watched. The pilot was waving still — perhaps, like Cameron, expecting rescue before his plane sank under him. But the fast-moving, knifing bows, aimed dead on target now, cut through both plane and pilot like a bacon-slicer.

  ‘Bugger asked for it,’ the Captain said with much satisfaction.

  The attacks went on through the night; there were no more sinkings although hits had been scored on two of the troopships and there had been a number of casualties. A little before dawn the attackers withdrew towards Sicily and no more came out. Both convoy and escort took stock of themselves: by now the stricken tanker had burned out and was gone, sunk beneath a spreading, flaming patch of oil fuel. The survivors of the convoy steamed on; the damage to the troopships was not enough, their masters reported, to need assistance. One of the escorting destroyers had been sunk and another was sufficiently damaged for’ard to have to fall out from the escort and be taken in tow of one of her sister-ships.

  The rest proceeded at maximum convoy speed towards Malta and Alexandria. As they began the approach to the besieged island, the detaching orders came from the Flag and the Convoy Commodore: the food ships and the remaining tanker for Malta were to break off in company with HMS Foresight and enter the Grand Harbour.

  It had been quite a successful convoy. Malta was appreciative of it. By invitation of Foresight’s captain, Cameron was on the compass platform as the ships came slowly in through the breakwater and on past Fort St Angelo into the Grand Harbour. From every vantage point — from Fort St Angelo itself, from Custom House Steps, from Senglea, from the warships in the port — hands waved and cheering came. The sun was bright, and shone down on an outwardly happy island. But the happiness was no more than skin deep and was but temporary in any case. Everyone was on the point of starvation and there had been much damage, and not only to the island itself. From the water not far inside the breakwater, masts and funnel-tops pierced the blue water of the harbour, mute evidence of the bombs and magnetic mines that were dropped often enough inside the harbour entrance from enemy aircraft, to seal in the ships and prevent entry of supplies.

  The Captain had been this way before. Grimly he indicated one of the sunken wrecks, that of a destroyer. ‘She went two months ago,’ he said. ‘They haven’t got all the bodies out yet.’ As Foresight came farther in, he drew Cameron’s attention to another destroyer lying in Dockyard Creek off the Grand Harbour. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Your ship, Cameron. I wish you luck aboard her. They’re a good crowd — her Captain’s a good friend of mine.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve many illusions left about life out here being all sun, swimming and gin sessions — have you?’

  Cameron was about to answer very positively that he hadn’t when from ashore there came the sound of the air raid sirens. Immediately, Foresight was sent to action stations; and almost at once the whine of the incoming enemy aircraft was heard. They came in with the afternoon sun behind them, zooming high over the island to release their bomb-loads. The bombs were seen, dropping in clusters like eggs.

  ‘Your welcome to Malta, Cameron,’ the Captain said.

  2

  ‘WE’RE delighted to have you, I can tell you,’ Wharfedale’s First Lieutenant said, and obviously meant it. ‘Being short of a watchkeeper’s not been too easy. You’ve not had any experience yet, but you’ll learn fast! We don’t do an awful lot of harbour time these days — it’s far too damn dangerous!’

  ‘I can well believe it,’ Cameron said. The raid hadn’t lasted long, but the explosions indicated a good deal of damage ashore, while in Dockyard Creek, astern of Wharfedale, a bomb had hit the jetty and had flung sandstone and fragments of metal far and wide; Wharfedale’s decks had been dirtied but that was all — they’d just been dead lucky. Cameron asked, ‘How long before I’m allowed to take a watch on my own?’

  The First Lieutenant, who had introduced himself as Michael Drummond, shrugged and lit a cigarette. As an afterthought he passed the packet to Cameron, who took one. Drummond said, ‘At twenty for sixpence it’s hardly an expensive habit, is it? To answer your question, old man — it’s up to you. Shine, and Father will approve you.’ Father was the name customarily accorded a Captain by the wardroom. ‘You want to aim to get your watchkeeping certificate as soon as possible, then you’re all set to take charge of a watch at sea in your own right — but you know that, I dare say. Now you’d better come along and be introduced to Father.’

  Father — Lieutenant-Commander Rodney Sawbridge, RN — proved to be a cheery-faced man with a loud and infectious laugh, short and square in build and with big, freckled hands covered in ginger hairs like his head. He, too, was delighted to have his officer complement restored. Also, like the First Lieutenant of Foresight, he had heard about that U-boat in the North Atlantic.

  ‘Hand-grenades, my word!’ he said. ‘Never heard such impudence. Adolf will never recover from the shocking indignity. What’s your other experience, briefly summarized?’

  ‘Royal Arthur, sir, then Ganges. And Commodore’s Guard at RNB Portsmouth. After that, Carmarthen and King Alfred.’

  ‘Wm. Well, you have a lot to learn yet — and you’ll learn it if you value your life. We’re all interdependent — make a balls and you’ll kill yourself along with the rest of us, Cameron. As it happens, we’re stuck here in Malta for two more days — an engine-room defect. That gives you time to familiarize yourself with the ship, its equipment and potential, and the men. Make the most of it.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Right, good, then that’s all for now,’ Sawbridge said briskly, and rubbed his big hands together. Drummond took the hint and gestured Cameron to leave the Captain’s cabin. As Cameron reached the door, he was called back. ‘Make the most of Malta once shore leave’s piped,’ Sawbridge said. ‘There used to be a saying, pre-war... all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I believe in that saying. Right?’

  Cameron returned the smile that had accompanied the words. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  That evening, he took the Captain at his word. He went across the Grand Harbour to Valletta with the other sub-lieutenant, an RNR named Hugh Bradley, who had suggested a run ashore during tea in the wardroom, a brief meal of a cup of strong tea with sandwiches of somewhat vague origin, followed by fruit cake. Most of the officers had been present; apart from the Captain and the First Lieutenant, the officer complement consisted of two other lieutenants — both RNVR two sub-lieutenants and a midshipman, the latter taking on, in addition to his upper-deck duties, the task of Captain’s secretary, since destroyers carried no paymasters. The non-executive branches were represented by the Surgeon-Lieutenant, who was RNVR, and the Warrant Engineer, who was RN. Additional to the executive officers was the Torpedo-Gunner, also a warrant officer RN. During this, his first real experience of shipboard wardroom life, Cameron was somewhat nervous and reserved but was quickly put at his ease by his new brother officers. It was all very different from the Carmarthen and Able-Seaman Tomkins. It was much more comfortable, too; and Cameron, who was to share a cabin with Hugh Bradley, appreciated the semi-privacy of that.

  Bradley proposed taking him to a bar unofficially used by officers only. ‘Doesn’t do,’ Bradley said, ‘to drink with ratings. Men are apt to get drunk, and when they do, awkward scenes can occur. That’s to be avoided. Do you know why?’

  ‘Fights?’

  ‘Fights, exactly,’ Bradley said, ‘but not just the fact of getting involved in a fight. The point’s this: officers never
put themselves in the position where a rating might have to be charged with striking them — get it?’

  ‘I think so,’ Cameron answered. He was constantly returning salutes as he walked along; Malta was all Navy. ‘We always have a care for their own protection?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  They had not yet reached the bar when the next air attack came in and once more the sirens wailed. Within seconds, as it seemed, the streets were clear of Maltese and only British servicemen were seen — Navy, Army, RAF. Malta was a garrison, all of it, served by the Maltese more or less in the capacity of camp followers. The attack was a fairly heavy one, and the crumps of the falling bombs indicated a lot more damage. But the sky was soon filled with the bursts from the ack-ack, both ship and shore based; and after this the Hurricane fighters went in, climbing, weaving, diving. Malta was Mussolini’s bete noir, the unsinkable aircraft-carrier that gave him nightmares. He was doing his best via his allies to destroy Malta’s morale. But he wasn’t going to succeed. The RAF would see to that.

  Cameron and Bradley got to the bar somewhat the worse for wear: a bomb, exploding at the end of the street they were in when the attack came, had thrown them flat and their white uniforms were covered with dust and in places torn. They had their drinks and a meal once the All Clear had sounded and the bar staff had come back to duty. They met some girls, English girls working at the Under Twenty-One Club in Valletta; then they returned aboard from Custom House Steps, taking a dghaisa across the Grand Harbour’s moonlit water. The warships looked stark, forbidding, silhouetted as they were against the silvered sandstone behind, the rising, clustered alleys of Senglea beyond the Naval Victualling Yard.

  They returned to a degree of panic.

  ‘Captain wants you as soon as you come aboard, sir,’ the quartermaster on duty at the gangway said to Bradley. ‘And you, sir,’ he added to Cameron.

  Bradley nodded. ‘Thank you, Gaunt. What’s in the air, d’you know?’

  ‘No, sir, not really, sir. An officer come aboard half an hour ago with a hand message.’ Able-Seaman Gaunt paused, weightily: it was nice to have officers hanging on his words for once, instead of the other way round. ‘There’s a buzz, sir, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Gaunt, what’s the buzz about?’

  ‘Crete, sir.’

  ‘Crete!’

  ‘That’s right, sir. There’s, what, around twelve thousand brown jobs in Crete, according to the buzz, like.’

  ‘Uh-huh. What else does the buzz say, Gaunt?’

  ‘Nothing else, sir. Nothing else at all. Maybe it’s all wrong anyway, sir.’ Gaunt looked innocent. There might well be nothing in it, but in Gaunt’s experience, a long experience testified to by his three good conduct badges, buzzes emanating from the galley wireless more often than not held at least a grain of fact. While Gaunt cogitated on buzzes, the two officers made for the Captain’s cabin; in there, all might be revealed and Gaunt’s information by-passed. In the mean-time there was always something about unsubstantiated buzzes on board any warship whose ahead movements were forever uncertain. It was a kind of masochism; you always hoped that somehow or other a home leave might come into the next movement order, but of course you knew very well it never did.

  It didn’t this time; far from it. And the Gaunt-borne buzz, if incomplete, was by no means inaccurate.

  ‘Glad you’re back,’ Sawbridge said, standing by his wash-hand cabinet while his officers sat around him wherever a rump could find purchase. ‘Something’s come up and the moment we’re ready for sea — as I’ve been telling the Chief — we’ll be under orders to move out. This time, it’s not a convoy.’ He paused, running a hand through the thick ginger hair. ‘I’m ordered to join the Med Fleet units that are trying to stop any enemy seaborne landings in Crete and trying to keep the sea lanes open for supplying our garrison there. It’s not going to be a picnic, I need hardly tell you.’ Sawbridge went on to sketch in the background: when Greece had fallen, and large numbers of Allied troops had been taken by the Germans, a decision had been made to hold Crete, to which many troops had been evacuated from Greece. Now the German High Command had determined to take the island for themselves and already there had been attacks by bombers, with parachute landings backed up by gliders and transport planes. Admiral Cunningham had made his dispositions, and when the attack had started three days earlier Force A — the battleships Warspite and Valiant with their destroyer escort — had been steaming about a hundred miles west of Crete to cover the light forces; subsequently the cruisers Gloucester and Fiji with more destroyers had been ordered out from Alexandria to join Force A, which was also to be reinforced from the Antikithera Strait by the cruisers Ajax, Orion and Dido. The aircraft-carrier Formidable was standing by in Alexandria with her fighters and bombers; the battleships Queen Elizabeth and Barham were ready also. Sawbridge went on, ‘I’m ordered to leave Malta the soonest possible, and join the Fifth Destroyer Flotilla which has already gone to sea. Any questions, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes,’ the First Lieutenant said. ‘We seem to be committing a hell of a lot of ships, sir. Big stuff and all... it almost looks as though they’re going to be required for an evacuation, doesn’t it?

  Sawbridge nodded. ‘It’s in the air. Nothing definite yet, but for my money that’s the way it’s going to go. Which is where we come in, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘We’re not just going to redress the balance, then?’

  ‘One poor bloody destroyer wouldn’t redress many balances, Number One. If anything, we’d be a drag on Lord Louis’s flotilla... he has the speed that we haven’t. No, we’ve been given a special mission, and it remains with me alone, by personal order of the Vice-Admiral, until we’ve cleared away to sea. Then I shall tell the whole ship’s company. In the meantime, all I’ve said tonight is to be regarded as Most Secret classification. Understood?’

  There was a murmur of assent. Sawbridge said, ‘See to the general readiness, Number One. Stores, ammunition, the lot. And there’ll be no more leave piped till we get back. Chief?’

  The Warrant Engineer looked up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Speed’s of the essence, Chief. Do your level best to get ready for sea, all right?’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  Sawbridge nodded and pushed himself off the bulkhead. ‘That’s all, then. Those that can, get some sleep. There won’t be much more of it.’ As the officers left the cabin, Sawbridge called Cameron back. He said, ‘You’re being thrown in at the deep end, Cameron. First ship as an officer... it’s going to test you out. How d’you feel about it?’

  ‘Scared, sir!’

  Sawbridge laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll bet you do! So do I. It’s not a bad feeling to have. It’s the best way of being kept on your toes. And I’ve no doubt at all you’ll cope.’

  *

  There was a greater fear to drive Cameron on, and that was the fear of showing fear. Officers above all must not be seen to be afraid; that way, the rot set in and in any case there was the question of pride. His chief doubt concerned his actual abilities to take charge of a situation, if he had to, in an emergency. True, he had to some extent done so in Carmarthen, but there had been a vital difference: as a rating, he had not been expected to take charge; now, he would have to do all that was required of an officer and if he couldn’t his name would be mud.

  He was realizing his inexperience fast. There was as yet all to learn. Before he had gone ashore that evening, Number One had outlined what his various duties would be. He had been allocated to the FX or fo’c’sle division as assistant to the Divisional Officer — Roberts, one of the RNVR lieutenants, whom he would also understudy as assistant Cable Officer responsible for anchors and cables and the bringing of the ship to a buoy or to anchor, and for the handling of the fore ropes and wires when coming alongside. His cruising station would be as second Officer of the Watch until he had been pronounced fit to take a watch of his own. In action his station, for the time being, was also to
be second Officer of the Watch, a position in which he would be readily available to the Captain should he be required to take over from any officer killed or wounded. He was forced to recognize that he was being regarded as something of a spare hand; this was bad for the ego but was perfectly understandable. Green officers if unsupervised could kill men.

  That night he was kept busy until the early hours; the First Lieutenant took the opportunity of acquainting him with stores lists and how a ship was prepared for sea in all manner of unromantic ways involving much paper-work. That, and the more practical aspects of overhauling the deck gear and the guns and torpedoes and firing circuits, much of which was the responsibility of the Torpedo-Gunner, or Gunner (T) for short, one Mr Vibart, Warrant Officer. Mr Vibart lost no time in telling Cameron, whilst instructing him in the intricacies of torpedo circuits, that he had been in the Navy for thirty years.

  ‘A long time, Mr Vibart.’

  ‘A very long time, yes.’ Vibart gave a sniff and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘An’ all I got out of it’s a thin stripe, not like some. Still, that’s the way of the world, I reckon.’

  Cameron said nothing to that; he recognized that Mr Vibart didn’t go much on RNVR sub-lieutenants and he couldn’t blame him. The Gunner (T) went on morosely, ‘We’re in for it this time. Special missions... they’re always ‘orrible. Ends in bloody murder every time.’ He stopped work for a moment and stared round the Grand Harbour, at the moonlight on the water and on the close-set buildings. ‘Best say hail and farewell to bloody Malta while you can. I don’t reckon we’ll ever see it again.’