Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  Kemp and Hampton chatted, mainly of the old times. ‘A bit of a change from the Indian Ocean,’ Hampton said.

  Kemp laughed. ‘You can say that again.’ He thought of the sunlit days, the first-class passengers around the swimming pool, or in the tavern bar at the after end of C Deck which abutted the pool, and men and women sitting around with long, iced gin-and-somethings, in their swimming gear, the young girls largely surrounded by off-watch ship’s officers, though the latter usually contrived to look as though they were only duty-socializing if they saw that the Captain’s eye was on them. The assistant pursers were the worst, Kemp remembered — they had more opportunity than the deck officers.

  Hampton, seeming to sense Kemp’s thoughts, said, ‘A different world, sir.’

  ‘It’ll come back when this lot’s over.’

  ‘I doubt if it’ll ever be quite the same again.’

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic! The Indian Ocean’ll still be the same, so will the romance — it’s human nature, isn’t it?’ Kemp could remember back to when he’d been a junior officer, young enough to appreciate the possibilities raised by the deep-sea moonlight, the balmy night air, the slow, gentle roll of the ship, and the undoubted attractions of a brass-bound uniform — mess dress, for the ships of the company changed for dinner every night except in port or on the first night after departure. Bow tie, wing collar, starched white bum-freezer and shoulder-straps of rank. Kemp had in fact met his wife on board one of the company’s ships, going out to Sydney with her mother to visit an aunt who’d emigrated years before. Mary had returned alone to the UK by the homeward voyage: it had been one of those whirlwind romances associated with the sea, and it had been a success from the start. They’d married before the ship sailed again, and next voyage Kemp had brought his mother-in-law back. That had been the one snag: mother-in-law had had a flea in her ear on account of the whirlwind element, but it had stopped biting after a while. Now, looking back after many years, Kemp could understand. The young were thoughtless.

  Kemp got to his feet. ‘I’m going to take a look around, Captain. Coming up?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘After that I’m turning in for a spell.’ He repeated, from force of habit, the order that officers in wartime knew by heart.

  ‘I’m to be called immediately if necessary.’

  The two men climbed to the bridge. Looking aft and to either side, Kemp could see the shadowy shapes, large and small, beamy and slim, moving in their formation through the night, following the zig-zag pattern, each ship darkened and showing no steaming lights other than the shaded blue stern lights that were needed to assist station-keeping. The wind had increased again and was now blowing, by Kemp’s estimate, a Force Six on the Beaufort Scale. The more wind the better, at any rate until they had passed beyond the likely U-boat range.

  Kemp remained on the bridge for a while, went into the wheelhouse for a word with the Officer of the Watch and the quartermaster, then went below and turned in, having told Williams he too could get some sleep.

  ***

  Andrew Pemmel, purser, had a drink or two too many with his deputy purser and Sister Jacqueline Ord who, with the second nursing sister, was one of the only two females aboard the troopship. Obviously, they would be in much demand, at least until more nurses, army nurses, embarked with the troops. The nursing sisters were usually considered the hunting ground of the deck officers, though humankind being what it was this was not always strictly adhered to, and Pemmel had currently more than an eye for Jackie Ord. After a while he looked at his watch and said, ‘Well, lads and lassies, the time has come: bed.’

  His guests took the hint and left. Ten minutes later Miss Ord was back. Pemmel said, ‘Good of Jackie.’

  She gave him a look, a raking one. ‘Not so much of the old. Or the good either, not tonight. I only came to say you’ve had too much. You don’t need me, you need the surgeon.’

  ‘That old has-been.’

  ‘Which is what you are at this moment. And you know what I mean, Andy. Do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Pemmel said.

  ‘All right. I’ll leave you to your Scotch bottles.’

  ‘You bloody bitch,’ Pemmel said. He said it without any particular emotion. Jackie Ord left his cabin, her retreating footsteps overlaid by the sound of the forced-draught blowers. Pemmel went for his cupboard and poured another whisky, which he took fast and straight. Then he looked at himself in the full-length mirror behind the door of his wardrobe. Tall and slim yet, no stomach, he looked years younger than forty-five. Even his face ... well, no, perhaps not. No lines or wrinkles certainly, but there was a puffiness and a nasty pallor behind the suntan and in the morning his eyes would look like pissholes in the snow. But drink was part and parcel of a purser’s life: so much duty entertaining of passengers, and he had been too conscientious. It was too late now to kick the habit, he was more or less immersed. He knew the line would say a polite goodbye once the war was over and for now he was going to make hay.

  Pemmel shrugged, had another whisky, and dropped fully dressed on to his bunk. In the morning he would feel like death warmed up.

  ***

  The Stephen Starr was now many sea miles astern of the convoy, way out of the helpful reach of the escorts even if they had been permitted to turn back. Captain Redgrave carried no doctor: the Nazi bullet was still embedded in his right thigh and he was in a good deal of pain and general discomfort: the climb to and from the bridge was difficult to say the least, and he had given up the attempt and now sat permanently on a hard chair in the starboard wing of the bridge, a case of watch on stop on. Hardy, his chief officer, had done what he could with a knife supplied by the galley and sterilized, more or less, by a naked flame. The result had been horrible. The bandages were bloody but Redgrave believed the flow had stopped. The bullet seemed to have missed veins and arteries, which was something to be thankful for. He would make it into Halifax and hospital. As the painful hours passed, however, Redgrave began to regret his quick dismissal of the aid offered by the escorting destroyer that had turned back to the Stephen Starr’s assistance. That doctor could have made all the difference, but Redgrave hadn’t wanted to be the cause of any ship hanging about in dangerous waters. Nor had he wanted to be yanked off the ship, which had been to say the least a possibility. The Stephen Starr had become home now; even back in Liverpool he would remain aboard all the time and then sail again, quite likely without setting foot ashore except on duty. There were those memories of the family ... now he would guard them personally all the way across the North Atlantic wastes, come gale or sunshine and enemy attack.

  His steward came to the bridge, bearing a can of water, a tin hand-basin, a flannel, bandages and some sort of white powder.

  ‘What’s all that, Flynn?’

  ‘Bathe the wound, sir.’ He pronounced it ‘sorr’. Flynn was from County Galway in the west of Ireland, a good and loyal steward who had once been a soldier, a lance-corporal in the Connaught Rangers, a regiment disbanded in 1922 when the British had left and the Irish Free State had come into existence. ‘Keep it nice and clean, sir.’

  ‘It’s clean enough. Mr Hardy did a good job.’

  ‘Ach, maybe he did, sir. But it’ll need attention. We don’t want to lose you, sir.’

  Redgrave managed a smile. ‘In case you can’t find the way across without me, no doubt.’

  ‘Ach, that’ll be it, sir.’

  Redgrave knew it wasn’t just that. Flynn looked after him like a nanny, anticipated his every whim with true devotion. Redgrave had lost count of the times he’d bailed Flynn out in the various ports of the world they’d visited. Flynn had been his steward in every ship he’d commanded and Redgrave knew his ingrained habit of drink. Once ashore, Flynn made for the nearest bar. His drink was either Guinness or whisky, usually both, but he was willing to drink the wine of the country when he couldn’t get either. The results were often appalling. Redgrave paid the fine, argued the toss wit
h the local police when they wanted to put Flynn in a cell, had even been known to make a metaphorical rude gesture at the Line and hold the ship in port when Flynn had been given an unavoidable week in gaol. Flynn was always grateful. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the Captain.

  ‘Have your way then, Flynn,’ Redgrave said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Hold still now — it’ll hurt.’ Redgrave felt a prize charlie: in the wheelhouse now, trousers down, shirt-tail flapping ... deftly Flynn removed the bloodied bandage and got to work with the flannel soaked in salt water. It bit and stung, felt as though it must be doing some good. Redgrave could feel the bullet when Flynn pressed, however gently, a red-hot lump boring into his flesh. Flynn clicked his tongue.

  ‘Now what?’ Redgrave asked.

  ‘It has an angry look, sir. Red and swollen. Maybe it’s heat it needs.’

  ‘What about a poultice?’

  ‘Ach now, a poultice, sir, yes. I’d not be knowing how to make a poultice, sir.’

  ‘You don’t make a poultice, Flynn, you apply it. It’s ready made. That’s if there’s any kaolin in the medical kit.’

  ‘Kaolin, sir ... no, there’s not. I did happen to notice nothing called kaolin, sir — ’

  ‘It’s great to be Irish, Flynn. Go and check through, just to be sure.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir, I’ll do that right away.’

  ‘And if there’s no kaolin, get some bread from the galley. Heat it.’

  Flynn looked puzzled. ‘Toast, sir, would it be?’

  ‘Not toast. Hot bread. Crumbled, I fancy. Applied and bandaged.’

  In truth Redgrave had no idea; nor had Flynn or anybody else aboard. Hardy had been unable even to find the statutory copy of The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide, which should have been with the first-aid kit. Maybe the rats or cockroaches had eaten it. Redgrave felt as though rats were gnawing at his thigh as he waited for Flynn to prepare some sort of poultice. As he waited he thought of the convoy ahead — far ahead and steaming fast for Halifax. Those big liners ... himself, he would have detested the life, detested passengers. He was dedicated to the carrying of inanimate cargoes, crates and bales and so forth without tongues to argue with, complain with, ask silly questions with. They could keep their passengers, Redgrave thought, but he could have done with a bit of the plush now, the sheer comfort below and the high bridges that didn’t often get swept by spray or solid water. That, and the ship’s surgeon. They were mostly a pissy-arsed bunch, but they did know more than Flynn with all his devotion.

  The weather was worsening now. Nearly gale force already, and the spray was coming over, drenching the bridge wings, sounding like machine-gun fire on the wheelhouse screens and bulkheads. The ship was lurching heavily from time to time and water was cascading through one of the glass screens shattered by the FW’s gunfire. Redgrave shivered, suddenly began feeling hot and cold by turns. Fever? If it was, there was nothing to be done about it except take aspirins. And whisky.

  Flynn came back with a dirty-looking tin. He had found the kaolin after all and had sought help as to its administration. He brought a pad of pink stuff, lint. He was making his final preparations when the voice-pipe from the engine-room whined. The second officer, who had the watch, answered then spoke to Redgrave.

  ‘Chief, sir. Wants to stop engines.’

  ‘What for? Never mind, I’ll have a word with him.’ Redgrave hobbled across to the voice-pipe. All chief engineers were fairly impossible and Hankins rated high in impossibility: this was a fine time to stop engines, in worsening weather and with the glass falling so fast it was going to clang against the bottom. Redgrave knew that the closer enemy was no longer Hitler; it was the elements.

  FOUR

  Now it was another morning and a grey one. The sky and sea were bleak, the horizons close and seeming to merge with the sea itself. Mason Kemp went to the wheelhouse as soon as he woke, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. He had found he couldn’t sleep, had tossed and turned all night, woken right up at intervals, switched on his light and smoked cigarettes. He was thinking about the Stephen Starr: just one ship out of many that were his responsibility, but as important to him as any of the others. The ship was, of course, right out of contact: you didn’t break wireless silence at sea in wartime. So Kemp had no notion of what was going on other than that the Stephen Starr had shaky engines and a wounded master. Redgrave had been a fool and a remiss one not to have taken advantage of the destroyer’s surgeon lieutenant, but Kemp could understand what he knew would be the reasons behind the refusal. Masters stood by their commands. Redgrave had probably thought a lodged bullet not too serious, something not to make a fuss about — at the time anyway. During the previous afternoon Kemp had asked Hampton to send for the ship’s surgeon so that he could pump him about lodged bullets, but the result had been unsatisfactory. The surgeon had never seen a lodged bullet and hadn’t operated for more than a dozen years. God help passengers with appendicitis, Kemp had thought. He’d served with some first-class ships’ surgeons in the Mediterranean-Australia Line; this particular medico was unknown to him until now, had apparently joined the Line from another shipping company just before the war — years ago he had been in general practice somewhere up in Westmoreland, until his drink problem had eased him out of it, or so it was whispered according to Captain Hampton. Certainly he looked as though he might even clean his teeth in gin in preference to plain water ...

  The wheelhouse door opened and Lieutenant Williams came in.

  Kemp turned. ‘Morning, Williams.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Williams was brisk, rubbing his hands together and smiling. The weather didn’t seem to depress him — nice to be young, Kemp thought. ‘Poor visibility, sir.’

  ‘Yes, bloody awful. But some protection.’

  ‘We’re beyond the Nazis’ range by now, sir, I imagine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Kemp said. He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and brought out a silver cigarette-case: a wedding present from Mary and he was never without it. Opening it he handed it round. Williams and the Officer of the Watch, First Officer Wells, accepted. Williams flicked a lighter, always the attentive Commodore’s assistant. ‘Thank you, Williams.’

  Kemp sucked the smoke in deep and blew out a grey-blue cloud. What men at sea would do without cigarettes ... life savers, stopped you going round the bend, eased tensions, the first thing wounded men in both world wars asked for and were given. And they always kept up the supply to ships at sea, duty-free price sixpence for twenty, half a crown a hundred in sealed, airtight tins.

  ‘Sea’s increasing, sir,’ Wells said. He looked up at the brass clock above the fore screen: ten minutes to eight bells and the reliefs were moving around the ship, on deck and in the engine-room, ready to take over and send weary officers and men below for breakfast. Wells was writing up the deck log at the end of his watch when the flagship of the cruiser escort began flashing a message to the Commodore.

  ***

  Purser Pemmel didn’t feel at all well; it went beyond the expected hangover. He’d vomited and felt better, but only for a short time, after which he felt worse. He was shivering and had a terrible headache and the cabin had spun in circles when he got up from his bunk to visit his bathroom. The symptoms were not unusual and it could be just a hangover but he didn’t think it was. This time, there was an extra dimension. Approaching death?

  Pemmel tried to pull himself together. It wasn’t as bad as that, but there was something wrong. His mind reeled and he had weird thoughts, like visions almost, visions that receded and were replaced by a kind of blank blackness.

  Pemmel was dead scared. There was a griping pain in his gut and his stomach felt bloated. When his steward came in with his early-morning tea Pemmel sent him for the doctor. The doctor took his time and came in looking like the wrath of God.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ Pemmel said, looking at his watch.

  The doctor sat beside the bunk. ‘What seems to be the matter, Pemme
l?’

  ‘I’m bloody ill, Doc.’

  ‘’M-h’m.’ The doctor reached out a shaking hand, holding a thermometer which he thrust beneath the purser’s tongue. With the other he felt for the pulse. He was noncommittal as to the result of his investigations. ‘What are the symptoms?’

  Pemmel told him.

  ‘A simple hangover, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that, Doc, I’m certain. Those queer visions ... could it be DTS?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Oh, no, you’re not a candidate for that. You’d have to be drunk consistently for something like three weeks, never let up, never sober up. You haven’t reached that stage yet, have you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d make sure I didn’t.’ The doctor caught the expression on Pemmel’s face, the expression that said clearly: look who’s talking. He didn’t mind; there were few secrets at sea and he and Pemmel had shared many a gin session. There was little work for a doctor to do in all conscience, aboard a ship. He was really only there because the regulations said a doctor had to be carried — two doctors aboard the Ardara in fact, and he had an assistant not long out of Bart’s, no experience to speak of, mostly seasick, but as sober as a judge, fortunately. ‘I do understand. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s not much I can do. I’ll have a powder sent along from the surgery — that’ll put you right. Better stay turned in for the rest of the day, perhaps — you haven’t much to do till we reach Halifax. You can be spared.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The doctor looked at him quizzically, bloodshot eyes narrowed above a purple nose. ‘You really should cut it down. Think of what can happen. Cirrhosis of the liver for one thing, very nasty indeed.’