‘And so we shall be. The first to fire. The first to hit. And the smartest. It’s easy to let things slip, but it’s just as easy to have standards. Any man who sets foot on the bridge will be on a charge if he’s not smartly dressed, clean shaven and with disciplined hair. The rest will soon get the message.’
A shudder of dismay ran through the wardroom at Steadfast’s intransigent demand – the men weren’t used to this. They worked hard and lived hard, as did the men in every convoy escort in winter. Their quarters were cold and wet, and reeked with the smell of oil, damp clothes and vomit. Hammocks could rarely be slung at sea and the men slept and dozed in any corner that might be safe from the lurching and rolling of the ship. The food was awful even when the galley stoves could be lit. As like as not, eating was a grab what grub you can business, when weather and duties permitted. For hours on end the men were at action stations, knowing that they were never more than a few miles from the enemy, a few minutes from a torpedo and a few yards from a mine.
‘And you, Sub Lieutenant…?’
‘Ross, sir. Thomas Ross. Just three months with the ship, sir. I was at the Admiralty at the start of the war – in Intelligence. They didn’t want to let me go, but I kept on badgering. I reckon they thought a few months on a destroyer in the North Sea and I’d be back banging on the door at Admiralty House.’
‘And will you?’
‘No, sir. It’s your job I want, not a desk in the dark recesses of Whitehall.’
‘Well, I’d better watch out, then,’ joked Steadfast.
‘You want my job, too, Sub Lieutenant…?’
‘Henry Paris, sir. Not on your life, sir. I’m strictly hostilities only. As soon as we’ve pushed Jerry back where he belongs I’ll be back teaching Classics. I’ll do my bit and that’s all.’
‘And the others, Number One?’
‘The Engineer Lieutenant is Archibald Sherman – a career Navy man. Knows all there is to know about the machinery. Then there’s Doctor Kendrick. He’s RNVR like me so he’ll be back in his practice in the Highlands as soon as this show’s over. And Guns is Stanley Jackson – warrant officer with bags of experience. He won’t let you down.’
Steadfast, touchy at the least hint of anything less than perfection, frowned at this description. ‘I hope no one will let me down, RN, RNR or RNVR. Anything else I ought to know?’
‘Well, there is Runaway Rattlesnake,’ replied Gardiner.
‘Who the hell is he?’
‘The convoy commander, Vice Admiral Walter Rawlinson. He’s the ‘let’s get home before tea’ type. After a day or two, he’ll have the convoy spread out like the tail of a comet. Finds himself a nice fast collier to lead the convoy and goads her master to put on steam.’
‘So I suppose it’s a case of ‘watch out for the stragglers’.’
‘That it is, sir, with a vengeance.’
‘OK, let’s get the Quartermaster to clear the lower deck. I’d like to have a talk with the men before dinner. And, Number One, have a word with the Coxswain about smartening up.’
Commander Steadfast went off to his cabin to check the bundle of paperwork that had been thrust into his hands with indecent haste an hour earlier. He had a lot to learn, both about the ship and the convoy. But he didn’t have much to learn about war. He may have seemed rather brusque and harsh to his officers, but he was no land-based Johnny talking from the comfort of a warm office with a nearby canteen serving a three course lunch. Steadfast was as blooded as the next officer.
***
‘So that’s the new captain. Know anything about him?’ Asked Robert Elphick, a torpedo man.
‘A bit. I’ve got a mate down in the office. Met ‘im in the Crown and Anchor this afternoon. Says the new captain was Number One on the South Riding when she went down,’ replied his station companion Norman Greenwood, ‘nasty business, that was – only eleven survivors, they say.’
‘His fault, do you think?’
‘Hope not. Don’t suppose he’d be here if it was. He’s a survivor, though. Went to Narvik when the place was already half burnt down and the sky was thick with Heinkels. My mate says he just missed a DSC – he was going over the side to pull men out, pushing boats through burning water – that sort of thing.’
‘Heroic type, eh? Not sure that’s good news for us. I prefer the cautious type myself. Hang on, he’s going to speak.’
‘Men,’ said Steadfast in a strong, clear voice, ‘I’m very proud that the Defiant should be my first command. I know that Jerry’s given you and her a tough time, but you’ve proved to be a credit to the Navy.’
‘He’s right there. We can match any ship any day,’ muttered Elphick.
‘I’m the new boy around here, but I’m not new to destroyers. She’s the second I’ve served on, and I’ve been on a minesweeper. I’ve seen some tough times myself, so I can guess what we might be in for. We’re Tilbury-bound tonight. The weather looks doubtful, which should keep Jerry out of the way. Pity, but we’ll have our chance to get at him when the weather clears.’
‘Bloody hell, does he want to be mangled into mincemeat and dumped in the sea? I hope he’ll leave us out of it if he does,’ griped Greenwood.
‘And he says he knows about destroyers! Just wait until he’s been up and down E-boat alley a few times. That’ll shake him,’ responded Elphick.
‘Aye, E-boat alley will strike fear into any man,’ replied his companion.
Chapter 3- Defiant Goes To Sea
Dinner in the wardroom that evening was a quiet affair at first. Under Smith the officers had enjoyed a hearty level of ribaldry and repartee, but in the presence of a new captain they awaited his lead.
But Steadfast preferred to listen while he sized up his men. He was far from impressed with Gardiner. RNVR was bad enough – but how could anyone think that weekend sailing in a dinghy was a preparation for war? And, on top of that, he was an actor! Inwardly, he exploded at the thought of a Sunday-sailor, would-be Hamlet, being Officer of the Watch when it came to dodging torpedoes. As for Ross, he seemed to be a plant from HQ. All ‘When the First Sea Lord said…’ and ‘I think the First Lord would prefer…’. It was quite clear where his ambitions lay. And what a show-off with his Maserati Tipo 26B and his rosettes from this rally and cups from that. He wondered what Ross would do if he was stuck on the bridge when bombs were falling all around. Then there was young Paris, with the emphasis on ‘young’. He may have sculled to victory on the Thames in the 1939 Oxford and Cambridge boat race, but one look at him suggested that was his limit. So juvenile in appearance and no hint of command in his face and manner. He seemed cowered by his colleagues round the table. And at dinner he had three times referred to Greek and Roman texts. At his age, mused Steadfast, I thought of only two things: the Navy and women, preferably unattached and in bed. No, not officer material in Steadfast’s book. Guns and Lieutenant (E) sounded good types, though, – proud of their jobs and not too ambitious. He liked the way Guns kept emphasising the need for gunnery practice – a good practical type.
When the Chief Steward, Walter Peters, had finished clearing away dinner and disappeared to the galley, Steadfast passed round the port as a preliminary to exploring his fellow officers’ views on convoy work.
‘So, gentlemen, what makes a good convoy escort?’
Gardiner took the bait, mistakenly thinking that Steadfast was asking for advice.
‘Well, sir, I would say your first job is to keep the convoy nice and tight, and to set an example by keeping close up ourselves. The really important thing is not to get distracted and go off chasing Jerry or herding in stragglers.’
‘Sounds rather tame to me. Where’s the Nelson flourish or the Beatty dash?’
‘If you ask me, sir, they wouldn’t have been much good at convoy work. All they had to do was fight the enemy – they didn’t have to think of anyone else. In this sort of work, it’s the commodore’s convoy, not ours. We’re the servant, not the master. We go at their speed, we follow their r
oute, and we hope to arrive safe and sound all together.’
‘Are you not keen on getting at Jerry, then, Number One?’
‘I don’t think that’s what we’re mainly here for, sir. We’re here to protect. It’s not our job to provoke big fights. Anyway, if we were to allow ourselves to be lured away from the convoy in swashbuckling adventures, the convoy would soon be set upon.’
‘I’m with the captain on this,’ interrupted Ross. ‘It’s our tradition to attack and not to let the enemy get away. Remember the Goeben and Breslau in the last war? How they ran rings round old Arky-Barky? There’s an admiral who sat back and waited. We don’t want to end up like he did, do we?’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Sherman.
‘Exonerated and put on half-pay for the rest of the war,’ replied Ross.
‘You’re very quiet, Paris,’ said Steadfast.
‘I’m not sure that I can add much, sir. I’ve only been in the Navy for two months. You’ve all known the Navy for years. But names like Goeben and Arky…?’
‘Admiral Sir Archibald Berkeley Milne,’ interjected Ross.
‘Thank you, and Berkeley Milne, they mean nothing to me,’ continued Paris.
‘At least that’s honest, Paris,’ said Steadfast. ‘If you want to learn, this is the ship to do it on. We’re a fighting ship, and we’ll happily teach you to be a fighting man.’
‘Now, gentlemen, I’ve got a ship to get to know, so I’ll leave you to continue the debate between yourselves.’
The wardroom fell silent, no one daring to speak until they were certain that Steadfast was safely back in his cabin.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Paris.
‘It’s about a raving nutter who wants to use this ship to re-fight the Battle of Trafalgar. He doesn’t seem to care a damn about the convoy, all he wants is a good fight and plenty of mentions in despatches,’ chimed a shocked Gardiner.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Ross excitedly, ‘he’s talking about fighting, and that’s what this ship is for. We’re in the Navy, for God’s sake. What else are we here to do?’
‘To protect, as I said before,’ responded Gardiner in an irritated voice. ‘If we let that man turn us into some kind of freelance prize-seeking outfit, the convoy will be at the bottom in no time. Every decision we make, every action we take has to be for the convoy’s sake. And as for our using our escort duty as a quick way to some flashy medals, well, words fail me!’
‘I hope we’re not going to quarrel for the rest of this convoy,’ said Paris in a perplexed and anxious voice.
‘There’ll be no quarrel so long as we put the convoy first. Of course, we have to obey orders. Fine. But we should all do our best to keep the brakes on the captain, or he’ll run us into serious trouble,’ replied Gardiner.
‘I hope you’re not speaking for me,’ said Ross, ‘I think the Captain talks a lot of good sense.’
‘Do you?’ said Gardiner rising from his seat. ‘Then Heaven help you.’
And with that Gardiner left the wardroom, slamming the door behind him. A bewildered Paris stared at an animated Ross. They’d all got on so well under Captain Smith. What had gone wrong?
***
The men’s supper was quickly over. No one wished to linger as the hour of sailing approached. Steam had been up for some time now and the power line from the dockside long since withdrawn. Over the Tannoy came the call, ‘Special sea duty men to their stations. Hands fall in for leaving harbour.’
Men made last checks on anything that could move. Hatches not in use were battened down. Portholes (or scuttles as they called them) were locked tight and their deadlights firmly sealed. On deck, cables were secured, boats and Carley floats were checked. Down below all the galley equipment not immediately needed was put away. The cable party took one last look at the anchor gear and the men made one final check on the blackout – a single chink of light at sea could mean the end of the ship.
At last the ship’s two umbilical cords were let go: the shore telephone line was disconnected and the gangway withdrawn. The cable party forward waited for the order to raise the anchor. Then the motor stirred into life with its scraping, rasping noise. The long chains on the deck inched into motion. Link by link the cable was wrenched round the capstan, while two men hosed the muddy, weed-covered chain in the hawse pipe. Now clean, the chain tumbled into the locker, guided by another hand to ensure even packing. With a loud clang the anchor settled in the hawse pipe and the men rushed to secure the Blake slips. A loose anchor at sea was at least one hazard they could eliminate.
***
On the bridge Steadfast and Gardiner had watched the cable party as they waited for the ship to proceed.
‘What’s the latest forecast, sir?’ asked Gardiner.
‘Gales – westerlies,’ replied Steadfast. ‘It’s going to be a bad night.’
‘No need to worry, sir, this ship can take anything.’
‘Not that kind of ‘bad’, Number One. Bad because we won’t get any sport with the enemy. We’ll hardly be able to find each other, let alone find Jerry.’
‘Oh, I see, sir. I rather think I’ll settle for the bad weather in preference to the E-boats.’
Defiant was now under way. One hundred-and-seventy men thought of their homes and wondered if they would ever see them again. Some had left wives and children. Some would return to find themselves fathers. Others to find they had been bereaved. Some, like Steadfast, had found a new love in their life and now suffered an anxious separation. All could not help thinking that they might not return. Some would be right.
Alone among all the souls on Defiant, Steadfast dreamed of action and glory. Out there was the enemy – his enemy – and so near. The Steadfasts had to seek and destroy. Nothing else would avenge the wrongs his family had suffered. Yet he suspected that, to a man, his colleagues would settle for just surviving the run to the Thames.
***
The Defiant proceeded slowly, first making her way through the mass of shipping in the harbour approaches and then finding her passage down the narrow waterway to the sea. In the darkness Steadfast eyed the twisted hulks of wrecks awaiting repair: masts leaning at every conceivable angle, bridges bent through ninety degrees, a bow missing here, a stern there. Each contorted skeleton in this graveyard was a ghastly reminder of the fate of those who ventured into the North Sea in war. He shivered as he recognised a particularly mangled ship. A good few years ago he had been a sub on her. Now he could barely make out the location of his old cabin amongst the twisted spars and crumpled steel.
‘Boom ahead,’ called a lookout. It swung open and Defiant slid through, a low black mass with her foaming wake churning the still harbour waters behind her. The boom closed and Defiant was alone on the dark sea.
The wind freshened as the ship approached more open waters and she rose and dipped as she met the first waves.
The lookouts peered into the darkness in search of the first harbour channel buoy, marking the route to the convoy channel, but Gardiner could navigate it backwards. Watch in hand, he was as alert as either of the lookouts, determined to make sure that the vital buoys were not missed.
‘Fifteen minutes to the first buoy,’ called Gardiner.
A short steep sea struck up the ship’s weather side and the wind freshened, but visibility was good.
‘Buoy on the port bow, sir!’
‘Steer twenty degrees to starboard.’
‘Twenty degrees it is, sir.’
Then came the last harbour channel buoy. Beyond was the open sea and the waiting convoy to the Firth of Forth and south to London.
Chapter 4 – Forming The Convoy
Defiant was quite early on station. As usual there were always one or two merchant men that turned up late. The convoy was supposed to move off at midnight but it could take hours to hustle the independent minded masters into order. How they resented being bossed around by the Navy! Tonight, though, the convoy was looking promising. By 11.00 pm it was s
teadily forming, with most of the thirty-five small coasters, tankers and miscellaneous freighters bobbing up and down in the lively sea. Their captains had all attended the commodore’s briefing – a most incongruous affair since it was held in a peacetime ice cream parlour with enticing advertisements on the peeling walls for pre-war ices and sodas. The masters, in plain clothes, along with their Royal Navy signals ratings, had listened as the commodore gave them details of their pendant numbers, which ensured that they would enter and leave the convoy at the right ports. Most of them had no need of his basic lesson on identifying German warplanes and the dreaded E-boats. By late 1941 they were all too familiar with these. But the commodore knew his masters’ weaknesses when he reminded them to keep closed up and to repeat back all the signals they received. He had great admiration for the Merchant Navy but the bloody-minded independence of its masters was another matter. Discipline was all in a convoy, but discipline meant nothing to them.
Defiant joined the second escort destroyer, HMS Tremendous, and the corvette HMS Keswick in rounding up the unhurried merchantmen. Up and down the lines they went, checking that each ship was in place: Daffodil, Queen of the Tyne, Rosemary… The commodore considered it vital that the ships took up the positions allocated by him: those ships going to the earlier ports had to be in the column nearest the coast and the first to turn at each port had to take the rearmost stations so that they could turn off without passing through the convoy. But Gardiner knew that it was all rather futile. Ordering the convoy by destination could result in the fastest ships being in the rear and the slowest in the van. Within a day they would all be huddled together in a bunched up scrum. The other way around would result in the convoy getting longer by the day. Still, they had to follow the commodore’s dispositions.
‘Moira’s not here,’ noted Steadfast.
‘We can leave her for now, sir. We know her master well. Old Goodridge delights in teasing us – always leaves things to the last minute just to keep us on our toes.’
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