Pemmel said, ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’
‘Up to a point. I know what passengers can be like. But use some will power. You must have the strength of mind. You’d not have got a full purser’s berth unless you had.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Pemmel said, ‘don’t preach!’
‘I’m trying to help. As I said, I understand. I’m looking for a reason.’ The bloated face hung close, like an engorged moon, but the look was kindly, as was the intent. ‘Tell me something: is it Sister Ord?’
Pemmel gave a start. ‘What’s Sister Ord got to do with it — or with you either? What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. But you can’t expect these things not to be talked about. I’ve been at sea long enough to know that. I’m not moralizing either — it’s not my concern other than as a medicine man. It’s between you and me. I’m still looking for that reason, old chap. If you’d like to — to unburden yourself — ’
‘Are you after Jackie too?’ Pemmel asked angrily. ‘Is that it?’
The doctor wasn’t offended. ‘Goodness, no! I’m past all that sort of thing, a long time past. Don’t worry on that score. If you’d just like to talk, I’m very willing to listen.’
I’ll bet you are, Pemmel thought, dirty old man. Vicarious sex ... the doc was after the gory details, would listen to all revelations with flapping ears, after which he would see Jackie Ord through different, lascivious eyes. Pemmel said, ‘Just bugger off, Doc. If you’re not going to treat me, just bugger off.’ The doctor shrugged, looked sad, got to his feet and left the cabin. A few minutes later Pemmel got up. He felt better, quite suddenly, and no thanks to the quack. He believed it had been a mild case of panic and all he needed was a morning stiffener of brandy and ginger ale.
***
The signal from cs29 — the abbreviation for the Rear-Admiral Commanding the 29th Cruiser Squadron — though sent openly by lamp, was in naval cypher. It carried the Most Secret prefix and in addition to the convoy Commodore it was addressed to the senior officer of the destroyer escort and the captain of the battleship. Aboard the Ardara Lieutenant Williams had the decyphering tables in the safe in his cabin. One of his action duties, if the Ardara should look like being sunk, was to take the codes and cyphers in lead-weighted bags to the open deck where he would throw them over the side — just in case. An abandoned ship could stay afloat after all, and could be searched. Now, with Leading Signalman Mouncey’s numeral-filled naval message form safely in his pocket, he went to his cabin to begin what was going to be a long job of decyphering.
Mason Kemp paced the liner’s bridge, out in the open wing, facing the gale, bracing himself against the roll and pitch of the ship beneath him, pondering on the unexpected cypher. That it must be important was obvious. Even so, Kemp thought it was carrying security to extremes not to use plain language between ships out at sea with no enemy present. No U-boat captain would come so close to the surface in this weather that he could read a signal through his periscope. Was there, could there be, a lack of trust in the merchant-ship masters or their officers? Scarcely; but there was a parallel thought insofar as ships could be torpedoed when the weather moderated, and survivors could be interrogated, and the Nazi methods were far from civilized. Admirals had to have a care. Kemp paced on, felt the wind and spray, and now the rain, stinging his face; he willed his assistant to make fast work of the decyphering.
But below in his cabin Lieutenant Williams was having difficulty and was smoking one cigarette after another and looking distracted. He had always found decyphering — or encyphering come to that — a hard task and this time there appeared to be some corrupt groups since some of it wasn’t making sense. The originator of the signal was the Admiralty, not unexpectedly, and that was about as far as Williams had got so far. It was probably the fault of Leading Signalman Mouncey in not taking down properly the repeat flashed by light. Williams got a little further and decyphered the words Prime Minister. There was an obvious importance and Williams wrestled on, trying not to let himself get rattled by his slowness.
***
Away astern of the convoy, the main body of which was now beginning to approach the longitude of Cape Farewell at the southern tip of Greenland, though well to the south, the Stephen Starr lay with her engines stopped, heaving and rolling to the deep-sea swell and the waves brought up by the increasing wind. That wind was now at gale force. Captain Redgrave was still in the wheelhouse, the chair having been brought in from the bridge wing after Flynn had finished his first bathing and poulticing exercise, an exercise that had been repeated several times since. Redgrave was in considerable pain and the wound looked nasty. Flynn was a worried man, and cursed engineers under his breath but not so low that Redgrave didn’t hear.
‘The chief’s doing his best, Flynn. Criticism doesn’t help matters.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
The Irish were a weird lot, largely: there were two physical types of Irish, one lugubrious and dark and with a long upper lip, the other fresh-faced and merry, always smiling. There were two mental types as well, one argumentative, the other tending to agree with everything that was said. Physically Flynn was group one; mentally, group two. A tiresome group; Flynn, having agreed that what the Captain said was right, went on muttering as he fixed the fresh bandage.
Redgrave said, ‘Put a sock in it, Flynn. Not the thigh, your mouth.’
Flynn grinned. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s you I’m worried about, sir.’
‘Then don’t be. You’ve done your best. The rest is up to God.’
‘And the chief engineer, sir.’
‘Oh, get away with you, Flynn.’
Flynn departed; Redgrave stared through the rain and the spray-slashed glass of the fore screen. He had an idea the engines would never start again; they needed the assistance of the shore, of the shipyard. Worn out, past it, and, according to Hankins, not the right spares aboard, not the ones he needed for the job. Hankins had tried to explain to the bridge but neither the Captain nor any of the deck officers seemed to hoist in the technical details and he’d given up. The screw wasn’t turning over and that was all they were interested in, and it was his job to make the repair before Hitler found them wallowing and helpless. With his second engineer he worked like a slave, covered in grease and muck, perspiring and feeling savage and wanting to take a crowbar and smash the whole show up. He was as conscious as anyone else aboard of the potential dangers of lying stopped on the convoy routes, though very likely by this time the gale had blown them away to the north of the track, somewhere up towards Greenland and the Denmark Strait.
The voice-pipe from the bridge whined and the second engineer answered, then called out to Hankins.
‘Bridge, Chief. Skipper wants a word — ’ The second engineer broke off, swore as his feet slid from under him on the greasy steel deck. ‘Bugger!’
‘D’you mind?’ Hankins asked coldly.
‘Sorry, Chief.’ Hankins was religious, a member of the Elim Tabernacle, and swearing and such was a sin. ‘Such’ included almost everything a seaman indulged in: fags, booze, women. The second engineer thought what a hell of a life the chief must have had, always in the company of sinners; but no doubt it meant he saved money.
Hankins was at the voice-pipe. ‘Chief here. No progress yet, Captain.’
‘As long as you’re doing your best, Chief.’
‘Of course I’m doing my best. And it doesn’t help to keep pushing.’ Ill-temperedly, Hankins banged back the voice-pipe cover. At once he regretted it: the skipper was all right and he was said to be in pain. Nasty, that bullet wound. Hankins had half a mind to call the bridge and apologize, but he didn’t. It might show weakness. He lurched across the engine-room from the starting platform, fast and slow by turns as the deck heaved beneath his feet, and fetched up hard against a big handwheel. Not a tall man, he banged his face against the metal. His lips worked: often he wished he wasn’t a member of the Elim congregation. At
times like this a good, hearty ‘bugger’ would have been an immense relief. But as it was he had no intention of messing up his chances with the Almighty, whom he might be about to meet face to face at any moment.
***
When Williams had finished his task he had brought the result to the bridge, post-haste, doubling up the ladders, his expression urgent. Saluting Mason Kemp, he passed over the transcript on a naval message form. He couldn’t wait to impart the news in person. He almost gabbled it out. ‘It’s Mr Churchill, sir!’
The Commodore nodded. ‘All right, Williams. Thank you.’
He read. The Admiralty’s signal as summarized by CS29 was very informative: ‘The Prime Minister is currently aboard Prince of Wales steaming to the south of the convoy en route for a meeting with President Roosevelt in Newfoundland waters. Prince of Wales is strongly escorted but intelligence reports indicate two German commerce raiders proceeding north from the South Atlantic. One is believed to be Scharnhorst, the other a converted merchantman. I am ordered to detach with all escorts except two destroyers and steam towards the Germans to intercept. Commodore will assume command of remaining escorts. The priority is obvious and the situation most urgent.’
Without comment the Commodore handed the message to Hampton. He said, ‘This won’t be Winston’s wish. Very likely he doesn’t even know. He wouldn’t leave a convoy without protection.’
‘An empty convoy,’ Hampton said.
Kemp gave a hard laugh. ‘Not quite empty! Just add up all the crews, Captain. However, those are the orders. We just push on. No option!’
Williams said, ‘We’re moving into safer waters, sir. Beyond U-boat range.’
‘We won’t count too many chickens, Williams. And the information about Churchill is to be kept to the bridge.’ Kemp moved away, paced the bridge wing as he had done so many times. To reduce the escort so drastically was an extreme measure whether or not the convoy was moving into safer waters; it was going to be bad for morale, would leave a very naked feeling as the warships turned to the south and steamed away. The little ships, the corvettes, had already withdrawn for home waters as indicated by NCSO in the Clyde, and even their departure had left a gap both in the defences and in the minds of the merchant crews who had watched them go. Soon the tankers would be detaching for the Gulf of Mexico — soon, but not yet. As this thought came to Kemp a light started flashing from CS29’s signal bridge and Leading Signalman Mouncey banged the shutters of his signalling projector in acknowledgement. This time the signal was in plain language, and Mouncey read it out to the waiting officers.
‘Commodore from CS29, sir. Tankers British Light, British Lantern and British Leader will accompany me for refuelling destroyers in suitable weather conditions and will then detach in accordance with previous orders.’
‘Thank you, Mouncey. Williams — ’
‘Sir?’
‘Make to the tankers: You are to detach with CS29 and then come under his orders.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Mouncey?’
‘Yessir!’
Kemp listened to the rigmarole, the repetition to Mouncey of what he had just said to Williams. The RN was something of a marvel insofar as it found time to work at all amidst all the bull and flannel. All the niceties had to be observed, and that wasn’t just as between Williams and the leading signalman. It was as between CS29 and himself. The Rear-Admiral could more expeditiously have made the signal direct to the tankers himself, but no, that would cut out the Commodore of the convoy, rip across his responsibilities. Sometimes Kemp thought he was just a messenger, a signal link between the escort and his merchant ships. Very largely that was so; but not any longer, not this time, not all the way in to Halifax.
In a few more minutes the convoy would be on its own and so would he, the Commodore. He would be in total command of thirty-four merchant ships plus two destroyers. They would succeed or fail, arrive in Nova Scotia or sink en route, depending upon his yet-to-be-proven ability to outwit any enemy that might be in the vicinity.
***
Pemmel had gone along to the main office after all, but had skipped breakfast as he usually did, making do with a cup of strong black coffee to follow the brandy and ginger ale. He found his deputy purser in conference with the chief and second stewards. They all looked up as Pemmel entered. Mr Portway thought there was one thing about the purser: even when his eyes looked red in the whites he was always well turned out dresswise — he had his steward largely to thank for that, of course.
‘Morning, sir,’ the chief steward said.
‘Good morning, Mr Sandys. Anything you want of me?’
‘Not really, sir. Just a reminder: Captain’s Rounds, 1100 hours.’
‘God damn ... what day of the week is it?’
It was the deputy purser who answered. ‘Saturday, sir.’
‘Ha!’ Stupid of him to have asked. Captain’s Rounds was always on Saturday. Pemmel banged his way into his private office, sat down and put his head in his hands. He felt ill again, his stomach heaving. He was losing his grip and hoped it wasn’t becoming obvious. A knock came at his door and the second steward entered. Pemmel looked up.
‘What is it, Mr Portway?’
‘Permission to alter the last lot of overtime sheets, sir.’
‘See the deputy purser. You know the drill.’
‘Yes, sir. But Mr Lewis said to see you, sir, seeing as the sheets have gone through the Portage Bill.’
‘Already?’ The Portage Bill was the account of the crew’s wages, overtime payments, allotments, fines, income tax and insurance deductions and so on. Even with no passengers aboard, there was still work for the purser’s department to do. ‘Someone’s been conscientious, evidently. All right, Portway, tell Mr Lewis he can make the alteration.’ He paused. ‘What’s it all about?’
Portway coughed. ‘Dispute from some of the bedroom stewards, sir.’
‘Dispute?’
‘Bit of a moan, sir.’
‘They haven’t got enough overtime — even though the cabins are empty, and they haven’t enough work even to fill the normal hours of duty?’
Mr Portway shuffled his feet. ‘Well, sir. You know how it is, sir.
‘Yes, yes, I do. They have to keep their families in the style to which they’ve become accustomed — by way of unworked overtime. All right, Mr Portway, go ahead and work your ungodly fiddles only don’t make it too obvious, eh?’
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Mr Portway said, and backed out of the door obsequiously. Bedroom stewards were only bedroom stewards but when they banded together they could be a flaming nuisance to a second steward who liked peace and quiet — and good bonuses for himself. He looked at his watch: early yet, but he had things to see to, and if he spun them out he’d be right on time to bum a noggin off the chief steward at 1030. He went about his work, ponderously, carrying a sheaf of papers: you always looked busy when you carried a sheaf of papers and never mind what the subject matter happened to be. Sharp at 1030, which he knew from experience was the exact moment the chief steward relaxed on Saturday mornings with a bottle of beer before Captain’s Rounds, Mr Portway knocked at the cabin door and went in, trying to look surprised at how well he had timed his arrival.
‘Sorry to butt in, Chief — ’
‘Save your lying breath,’ Sandys said amiably, ‘and shove your arse in a chair.’
‘Well, don’t mind if I do. Thanks.’
‘All ready for the skipper, are we?’
Portway nodded. ‘All ready. Nice and easy when the ship’s empty.’
‘Still get accumulations of dust.’
Portway nodded and took a tankard of beer from the chief steward’s hand. Dust. He knew captains, and he knew Captain Hampton in particular. Dust was his hobby and he knew instinctively where to look, where to draw his hand across the top of a steam pipe or similar and have it come away dirty. Then the rocket went right down the line: staff captain, chief officer, purser — if the dust was in the accommodation — chi
ef steward, second steward. Mr Portway did his own bollocking afterwards until the actual miscreant was discovered and taught a thing or two. This time he’d been round all the accommodation twice, just to make sure. He was about to tell Mr Sandys this when the Tannoy came on, informatively, from the bridge.
‘This is the Captain speaking. The naval escort is about to withdraw. There is no cause for any concern, the situation in regard to the convoy is in hand.’
That was all. The chief steward gazed blankly at Portway and said, ‘Well, luv-a-duck, eh? What’s all that in aid of?’
FIVE
If so many of the convoy crews were thinking in their quiet moments of home, of wives and girlfriends, parents and brothers and sisters, then an equal number of thoughts were winging out across the seas from the home front. Naturally, the tightest possible security screen had been thrown around the mission of HMS Prince of Wales and the fact of the vital meeting between Prime Minister and President. A handful of persons were in full possession of the facts; Mr Churchill had embarked in total secrecy and the Prince of Wales, Britain’s newest and most powerful battleship, had slipped away into the dawn mists from Scapa Flow, as anonymously as was possible, carrying the hopes of a war-torn country across the seas to the New World.
Much secrecy: so the families knew nothing, had no knowledge that now their menfolk were being left unguarded. But no matter: they would have worried anyway, since they worried all the time when their minds were not otherwise occupied. One of them was Patricia Redgrave, Captain Redgrave’s sister, a spinster of thirty-five who looked after her father, a widower. They lived in York, a house off the main road running into the city from Harrogate and Green Hammerton. Peter Redgrave filled Patricia’s life: the father was tiresome, demanding, rude and unloved, and the fact of his continued existence had kept the daughter chained to spinsterhood. That, and nothing else: she was attractive enough to have married and she’d had her chances but she’d been loyal to her father, who was an invalid, and had never felt it fair to ask any husband to take him on.
Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 5