***
Still some distance to the east of the OB convoy’s position and a little south, HMS Prince of Wales with her destroyer escort headed at speed for Placentia Bay in Newfoundland. The security was still one hundred per cent and would remain so if the combined efforts of British and American Intelligence could enforce it. Even the American press had been diddled: it was believed that President Roosevelt was aboard the Potomac, the presidential yacht, whereas in point of fact he was aboard the USS Augusta which would rendezvous with the Prince of Wales in Placentia Bay.
With the British Prime Minister aboard the battleship were Harry Hopkins, Roosevelt’s confidential aide, together with Field Marshal Sir John Dill: a useful bag for Adolf Hitler. Winston Churchill, revelling in being aboard a warship at sea, seemed to have no worries about his safety. His curiosity was intense: he explored every part of the battleship, asking probing questions, gesticulating with his cigar as he put officers and ratings through analytical interrogation. He worked or played cards in what would normally have been the Admiral’s quarters or he watched films in the ship’s cinema or he walked the decks as the great screws thundered him westwards for a vital meeting. He was usually awake early, turning out to smoke a cigar on the quarterdeck and chat to the after turrets’ crews and breathe the morning freshness; either that, or get down to some early work before breakfast.
During one of these quarterdeck walks, something seemed to be happening. The Prime Minister became aware of signalling between the extended escort and the flag deck of the Prince of Wales. He asked what was going on: no one appeared to know. It could be that a U-boat had been reported, an Asdic contact. But there was so sign of the battleship going to action stations.
The Prime Minister climbed many ladders, making his way to the compass platform, where he found the Captain, the navigator, the Officer of the Watch and the chief yeoman of signals staring through binoculars towards the destroyer escort.
‘Good morning, Captain.’
The Captain swung round. ‘Good morning, sir. I — ’
‘What’s going on, pray?’ Cigar smoke drifted across the compass platform. ‘A submarine?’
‘No, Prime Minister. A merchant ship fallen out from the last OB convoy — she’s been having engine trouble, but that’s been sorted out. Now there’s other trouble — her master’s in a bad way.
‘Sick, Captain?’
There was a nod. ‘Suspected gangrenous leg. High up in the thigh. Probably not much hope, if the diagnosis is correct.’
‘But all possible must be done.’
‘Yes, sir. It will be. One of the destroyers will embark him, and he’ll be attended by a doctor.’
‘Ah. What sort of doctor, Captain?’
‘A surgeon lieutenant, sir.’
‘Yes. And the medical facilities aboard a destroyer?’
The Captain shrugged. ‘Bare necessities.’
‘And little room or comfort for an injured man. I beg to suggest, Captain, that your sick bay and your surgeon commander might be more welcome ... ’
‘With respect, sir, I think not.’ It was not reasonable, the Captain said, to hazard either the Prime Minister or the Prince of Wales. To embark a sick man would mean reducing the speed of the battleship and if there were undetected U-boats in the vicinity she would be placed at much risk. Then there was the known presence of surface raiders to the south, who might well elude the heavy ships detached from the OB convoy and make a sudden appearance at a moment when the Prince of Wales was unready and not immediately manoeuvrable. The Prime Minister, knowing very well that only the Captain commanded the ship, that only the Captain could make the decision, grew visibly angry. The pugnacious jaw came out, the cigar made stabbing motions. Churchill’s mind was made up: the merchant Captain must have the best attention, and that attention was aboard the Prince of Wales. Surgeon lieutenants were no doubt competent but their experience was not that of surgeon commanders, and there was presumably a chance that the leg might be saved.
The Captain assessed the situation as a destroyer detached from the escort towards the Stephen Starr, now visible to the naked eye. Winston Churchill would seethe and fulminate all the way across the North Atlantic and would arrive at his rendezvous in a fractious mood, and he might quarrel with Roosevelt, himself often not an easy man. The ramifications of a quarrel, of ill temper, would be catastrophic, all Britain’s hopes shattered. The Captain conceded: signals were made accordingly and the smile came back to the Prime Minister’s face.
***
Redgrave was a very sick man; he was delirious almost all the time now, with just brief periods of lucidity, and in those periods the pain was more than agony. Chief Officer Hardy had still not taken the decision to operate, to amputate. He had agonized himself, sweating blood in an attempt to reach the right decision. Then his problem had been resolved when the lookout high in the foremast had reported a strong force coming up astern. They might be Germans in which case the Stephen Starr would be sunk. If they were British there would be succour. It was in the lap of the gods. Hardy recognized the British destroyers with relief, and answered the challenge on his Aldis lamp.
EIGHT
‘Mouncey!’ Kemp’s voice was sharp.
‘Yessir?’
‘Look alive, man! Destroyer signalling.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Kemp glowered: inefficiency depressed him; signalmen were the eyes of the convoy and they couldn’t afford to blink. He had a premonition as to what the signal was: already the escort had indicated that the time was not far off when both destroyers would need to refuel from the tanker in company but there had been general agreement that the ocean swell was still too great for the manoeuvre to be successful. It was a tricky business at the best of times, to refuel at sea. The vessels concerned had to approach dangerously close — dangerously, that was, in adverse weather conditions. Now the swell had decreased and the U-boat packs might not be all that far ahead. It was time to take a risk. As always it was a case of weighing one thing against another, the Commodore’s responsibility again.
Mouncey reported. ‘From leader, sir, to Commodore: Request permission to make alongside oiler.’
Kemp lifted his binoculars towards the fleet oiler, RFA Wensleydale. She was a big ship, had been the Mediterranean Fleet oiler just before the war, but well down now to her marks so that her size didn’t show other than in her length. Her master and ship’s company would be well practised in oiling at sea, and she had something of the manoeuvrability of a cruiser — twin screws, for instance, to assist in turning short round when necessary, and plenty of reserve power to give her some twenty-two knots of speed. But she was dipping a little to the remains of the swell and Kemp knew the job was going to be a matter of crossed fingers throughout.
‘All right, Mouncey. Make to the leader: Approved. And make to Wensleydale: Stand by to fuel destroyers in succession.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Mouncey operated his shutters, using the big SP. The signals were quickly passed: the Wensleydale carried signal ratings and was not slow to respond as so many of the purely merchant ships could be at times. The Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessels were a mixture of two services, RN and Merchant Service. Owned and managed by the Admiralty, they carried Merchant Service officers and men. When Wensleydale had sent the acknowledgement, Kemp signalled the destroyer leader to start the ball rolling, then watched as she turned under full helm to race back through the convoy lines, her bows thrusting the North Atlantic aside and bringing up a big bow wave that washed aft from her fo’c’sle-head.
‘They’re like racing cars,’ Kemp remarked. ‘All swagger and a sharp pull-up as if they’d rammed the brakes on hard!’
Williams said, ‘Showing off, sir.’
‘Well, I don’t blame them. They have the power, and usually their judgment can’t be faulted.’ Surreptitiously Kemp laid a hand on the teak guardrail in front of him, touching wood: this was no time to tempt fate. A scrape of hulls wouldn’t be any help.
Aboard the RFA, as Kemp saw through his glasses, they were lowering heavy fenders over the starboard side, heavy beams with lines attached at each end, the beams themselves thrust through a continuous line of old motor-car tyres, a type of fender known as the Brambleleaf fender, officially noted and recommended as such in Admiralty Fleet Orders and named after the Wensleydale’s predecessor in the Mediterranean Fleet, whose master had invented it. Very effective, as Kemp knew from past experience, and very necessary even though the destroyers wouldn’t approach the oiler’s side so closely. Precautions were never neglected at sea.
By now the leader had come round the oiler’s stern and was turning to make her approach along the starboard side. Already a big gantry had been swung out from the Wensleydale, carrying the fuel pipeline, and as the destroyer came into position and the speed of the two ships was synchronized the gantry was lowered over the warship’s deck, where the engineer officer and an engine-room artificer were standing by with four stokers to take the pipeline and make the connection to the bunkers.
‘Expeditiously done,’ Kemp said as the pipeline was connected. He spoke to Captain Hampton, who nodded.
Hampton said, ‘Not something I’d care to do myself. I don’t like other vessels too close ... being in convoy’s bad enough as it is! Just one lift of the sea ... ’
‘Quite. That’s when the fenders come into play, of course.’ Kemp was watching closely. Every now and again the destroyer’s stem swung, either to port or starboard, and was quickly righted. Too large a swing to port and she could cut in and smash her bows into the oiler’s side. If there was damage, then the Commodore would be faced with problems. Kemp had already considered this and had formulated his orders in his mind, but he knew that nothing ever went quite as visualized and he would have, as it were, to think on his feet if the unexpected happened. For now he thrust it from his mind and said to Hampton, ‘It’s something we never had to think about in the old days, isn’t it? Fueling at sea.’
Hampton laughed. ‘You’re right, sir. I wonder we didn’t really, or the company didn’t — something to amuse the passengers!’
‘Yes.’
Keeping the passengers amused was always important. They were all very well in small doses but there were a lot of them at the Captain’s table, mostly elderly and often full of their own importance. Kemp had frequently envied the junior officers. Their companions tended to be much younger and much less important, and Kemp had grown inattentive at his table, looking across at laughing groups getting along splendidly while his own gaggle of decrepits munched steak with false teeth, thought about their digestions, and explained in detail to Kemp how they had got to the top in their various spheres. Often their wives did that for them and the husbands themselves were embarrassed. Of course there were exceptions. Kemp himself was happiest on the few occasions when he had carried a retired admiral or general out to Egypt or Ceylon or all the way to Australia. They had something in common with him, and his last-war medal ribbons had meant something to them, as had his then rank of Captain RNR.
He reverted to Hampton’s last remark. He said, ‘I doubt if I’ll enjoy retirement when it comes, in spite of all. What about you, Hampton?’
They knew one another very well. Hampton said, ‘Same as you, sir. I’ll miss the sea. I’ll miss the companionship of men who go to sea. I’ll miss the Line — as such. They’re a good outfit. But I won’t miss the passengers. What was it the pursers used to say? One thousand passengers equals one thousand bloody stupid questions a day.’
‘Yes, do I not know!’ Kemp swept a hand around the convoy, the ships pushing into the North Atlantic, heading towards danger. ‘All that ... it makes the peacetime days fall into some sort of perspective, doesn’t it? All frivolity, people with too much damn money wondering how to get rid of it in the most pleasurable way. That was cruising anyway — the long run to Sydney was all right.’
‘There was a different element creeping in even to that. We’d started to become gin-palaces and floating brothels! Maybe the war saved us, I don’t know.’ Hampton paused. ‘If I had my time over again, I’d go for the cargo liners, the twelve-passenger jobs. Best of both worlds. More variety and nicer people.’
Hampton turned as the senior second officer came up to him with the result of the noon sight. He excused himself from the Commodore and went into the chartroom, where the position had already been noted on the chart by a neat pencilled cross. The convoy was now well westward of Cape Farewell.
***
Pemmel sat in his private office leading off the main office, with his head in his hands. Another hangover, headache, red-rimmed eyes, parrot’s-cage mouth, white-furred tongue, and a general feeling of creeping death and dissolution. By some sort of alchemy or thought-transference his mind had been running along lines similar to Kemp’s reflections on the pre-war days and he had thought of the depressing sameness of the stupid questions that Kemp had talked of to Captain Hampton.
Pemmel could hear them now.
‘Oh, Purser, do tell me, how much is a penny-ha’penny stamp?’ They all thought prices were different at sea, like duty-free.
‘Oh, Purser, where’s the next deck up and how do I get to it?’
On embarkation: ‘Oh, Purser, is this the right ship for Fremantle?’ Just like a bus stop.
‘Oh, Purser, which is the tender between this and the next, and what time does it go?’
That sort of thing; it used to be said that passengers marked their brains ‘Not Wanted On Voyage’, like their heavier baggage destined for the holds. Nevertheless passengers, at any rate the female ones, had had their compensations and Pemmel was wishing for the days of peace and promiscuity back again. He was having a bad time with Jackie Ord, who was slipping through his fingers. His own fault — he knew that; he had no illusions. He drank too much but he couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t get by without it, couldn’t face the day. The doctor had spoken to him about it again, reprovingly, doing his duty as a medico but not managing to avoid the suggestion of the pot calling the kettle black and thus having no effect. Yet it was a funny thing: the doc had cut it down a lot in the last twenty-four hours. Rumour had said he’d taken it badly when he’d failed to follow his Hippocratic oath in buggering off to the heads when wounded men needed him. Something had penetrated, it seemed; but it was early days yet and he would probably have a relapse before long.
Pemmel gave a low groan as a knock came at his door. It was the second steward. ‘Yes, Mr Portway, what is it? Overtime sheets again?’
It wasn’t the overtime: behind Mr Portway loomed Master-at-Arms Rockett. It was Rockett who reported: ‘Case o’ theft, sir. One o’ them stewards.’ He jerked a hand towards Mr Portway, managing to infer that all stewards were thieves and layabouts. ‘Have to be investigated, sir.’
Pemmel groaned again: a purser was ship’s dogsbody. Banking, catering, sports and pastimes, money changer, tour organizer at en route ports, passenger appeaser, Captain’s secretary — CID, too, when something like this happened. He didn’t feel up to it. ‘Too busy,’ he said. ‘See the deputy purser.’
Neither Rockett nor Portway argued; but Pemmel saw the look that passed between them as they withdrew to the main office.
***
The oiling of the leader was successfully completed and she drew away to resume her protective station while the other destroyer prepared to take on bunkers herself. As the leader settled on the convoy’s starboard bow, her consort turned and headed for the Wensleydale and the performance was repeated, the gantry going out and down and the pipeline connections made. Kemp, watching as before, could see the pulsing of the heavy pipe as the oil-flow was switched on aboard the Wensleydale. A breeze was coming up now, nothing much but enough to ruffle the water — nothing much yet, but it could increase. Kemp was only faintly concerned, however. The oiling should be finished long enough before there was any real weight of wind to bring danger and perhaps force the termination of oiling.
Kemp’s assistant had som
ething to say; Kemp knew Williams had had something on his mind ever since the leader had asked the Commodore’s approval for oiling and now he came out with it.
‘Mouncey, sir.’
Kemp turned. ‘What about Mouncey?’
‘Slackness, sir. Having to be told the senior officer of the escort was calling us.’
‘Yes.’ Kemp’s tone was off-putting.
‘I was wondering if he was up to the mark, sir.’
‘His first lapse that I’m aware of, Williams.’
‘Well, sir, I’ve noted signs before.’ Williams coughed. ‘Do you want him charged, sir?’
‘What with?’
Williams said carefully, ‘I’ve been preparing a charge as a matter of fact. I suggest simply inattentiveness to his duty whilst signalman of the watch in convoy, sir. Whereby he could have endangered ships and lives.’
‘But didn’t.’
Williams gaped. ‘Sir?’
‘I think you heard, Williams. I don’t deal in ifs and buts. The matter was not serious — though I agree it could be if it happened again. But, you see, I’ve already dealt with it and it won’t happen again.’ Kemp was looking his assistant straight in the eye. ‘I see you don’t consider a rebuke to be an effective way of dealing with it. Let me tell you something. There is a tone of voice that carries in it more than the words of the rebuke. Remember that, Williams. There will be no charges. Mouncey is a good signalman. That’s all.’
Williams realized that Kemp’s tone of voice was being used once again, with intent. Kemp turned his back and concentrated on the refuelling scene. He had a shrewd suspicion that there was more behind Williams’ wish to make a charge than had appeared on the surface. He was aware of a touch of surliness in Leading Signalman Mouncey when addressed by Williams: Mouncey was a shade bolshie when it came to Williams, a different Mouncey from the one who jumped to it when spoken to by the Commodore or the ship’s master. Although that was to be deplored it wasn’t up to Kemp to interfere: Williams alone had to earn Mouncey’s respect, all by himself.
Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 9