Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  But tonight could be different: Kemp knew this was the massive attack, the one scheduled to halt the convoy in its tracks and destroy the troop lift before it could be deployed against the armies of the Third Reich. There would be many targets and the attack would be kept up indefinitely, or at any rate until the dispersal of the convoy was complete and the ships away on their separate courses. Even so, many of them were going to be sunk. That was inevitable. Certain of the ships were going to be marked by the U-boat captains, the bigger units, the troopships especially.

  The Ardara was one of those most at risk.

  Kemp watched for torpedo trails. All the lookouts were glued to their binoculars. The moon was bright now, an unkind quirk of fate that illuminated the targets for the Nazis. Each ship stood out sharply, silhouettes inviting attack. The destroyers were concentrating around the area of the most echoes, but Kemp knew that not all the U-boats would be in that area — some would have sneaked away to carry out isolated attacks. The cruisers were moving around, apparently aimlessly but doing their best to stand between the heavy ships and the likely direction of the enemy, a constant movement in and out, a tricky and dangerous movement calling for a consummate ship-handling skill. Away now on the port quarter as the Ardara steamed on her new course away from the attack concentration, the old R-Class battleship could be seen pushing her great bulk through the water, slow and solemn and stately with her battle ensigns hoisted — before the Ardara had moved farther off Kemp had seen the huge, over-size White Ensigns creeping to the mastheads in glorious defiance of Adolf Hitler’s killers. The old battlewagon could possibly succumb to just one torpedo if the Nazis aimed a lucky shot clear of the anti-torpedo bulges that ran along both her sides in protection of her magazines and engine spaces. But not all the way along: if she was hit in the bow or stern she could flood and never mind the watertight doors and bulkheads, never mind the efforts of the damage control parties. Certain things had been rumoured about Britain’s ageing battle fleet, the old-timers from the last war. Their so-called watertight divisions were said to leak like sieves ...

  Kemp wasn’t looking towards the battleship when the first torpedo hit was scored for Germany: he was looking right ahead and had in fact spotted the torpedo trail seconds before it hit. He had called an automatic and totally useless warning, and then hell appeared to lift from beneath the living world and shatter it into an inferno. Immediately ahead of the Ardara, an ammunition ship went sky high as something approaching twenty thousand tons of high explosive blew up.

  FIFTEEN

  Heat blasted back; Kemp’s eyebrows singed and his exposed skin felt red-hot. All the windows of the wheelhouse shattered. Debris, flung into the air from the ammunition ship, began falling from a great height. Slivers of steel had sliced across the Ardara’s fo’c’sle and bridge, some of them at white heat. Hampton was lying on the deck, quite still and bleeding. Two other of the ship’s officers were reeling about. Kemp ran for the wheelhouse. The quartermaster was all right, a lucky man.

  Kemp shouted the order: ‘Wheel hard-a-starboard!’

  ‘Wheel hard-a-starboard, sir.’

  Kemp ran for the engine-room telegraphs and once again the bells rang and the indicators, the tell-tales, ordered full astern. The heat was increasing, could be felt all along the open decks. Petty Officer Frapp felt it, though he was to some extent protected as were the guns’ crews by their anti-flash gear. Frapp looked for’ard, saw Lieutenant Williams on the bridge with the Commodore. It didn’t look as though Williams was coming down to start fussing and that was something to be thankful for. Frapp looked with horror at the shattered, blazing freighter so close ahead, beginning now to draw away as the Ardara’s helm took effect and the engines thundered her astern and clear. He saw men, ablaze themselves, jump from what was left of the decks. He fancied he could hear screams even over the roar of the flames, coming back to him through rolling clouds of red-licked smoke. It was total devastation, total obliteration of a big ship that had been steaming intact only seconds before, carrying some fifty men each with his own hopes and thoughts of homecoming. Many of those men would have been fried by now, reduced to running fat or blackened crisps. And many were in the sea, the red-lit sea, some swimming, some lying motionless with their heads down in the water.

  As Frapp looked in horror and anger, he saw the next torpedo trail. On the port beam and headed straight for the Ardara. He cupped his hands, yelled a warning to the bridge, then followed it up by use of the telephone, the communication between gun and bridge.

  Kemp, too, had seen it. As Frapp put down the telephone the Ardara, with sternway on her and with her bows swinging, presented her counter to the approaching torpedo. Kemp, watching closely from the port wing of the bridge, checked the swing so as to maintain a position stern-on to the torpedo trail.

  ‘Wheel amidships ... hard-a-port. Stop engines ... engines to full ahead. Midships ... steady!’

  Sweat streamed down his cheeks, not from the heat of the burning ship alone. For a moment he lost the torpedo and stood with fists clenched, waiting for the stern to blow out of the ship. Then he heard Williams’ voice.

  ‘It’s all right, sir! You’ve done it!’

  Kemp felt far away. ‘Done what, Williams?’

  ‘Torpedo passing down our port side, sir.’ Williams pointed; Kemp looked. Down the port side was right — the tin fish could be seen, or its trail could, a matter of half a dozen feet from the Ardara’s plating.

  Kemp said, ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But that’ll be the first, only the first.’

  ‘I know.’ Kemp stared down into the water, at the men struggling for their lives, men now drawing astern fast but still visible in the bright glare from the ammunition ship. Not for long: the light went quite suddenly as the rising water doused the fires, and left a hiss of steam behind as the freighter sank, steam and a great bubble of air. No one spoke of picking up survivors: no one would expect to hazard a troopship for the sake of a handful of men who might well have little longer to live in any case. The Ardara’s task now was to keep floating and clear the danger area — but that danger area extended across many square miles of the ocean depths. Kemp said, ‘We’re not the only target, Williams.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And I don’t mean that as a kind of hope for ourselves.’

  ‘I realize that, sir.’ Williams spoke with sincerity; he knew the strains on the convoy Commodore, knew that Kemp was thinking of all the others, of his responsibility that continued overall even though each shipmaster was now under individual orders. The Commodore couldn’t be everywhere at once. But that wouldn’t lift the weight from a man like Mason Kemp. Williams had learned quite a lot about Kemp since the convoy had left the Clyde; Kemp had proved he was no has-been, no dug-out like Brigadier O’Halloran. O’Halloran, to give him his due, had remained quiescent in a corner of the bridge wing throughout, but now, as the Ardara drew away on a zig-zag course to the south, he thrust himself back into the picture.

  ‘Somebody’s balls are going to be had for garters,’ he said.

  Kemp turned and stared briefly. ‘Whose, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh, not yours. The skipper of that freighter.’ O’Halloran seemed to realize he’d said something out of place. He coughed. ‘Poor bloke ... he’ll be dead most likely.’

  ‘Yes. And not to blame in any way, Brigadier.’

  ‘That torpedo should have been spotted.’

  ‘Try it some time. It’s all luck. We could get one at any moment.’

  O’Halloran said, ‘All that wasted ammunition!’ He sounded disgusted.

  Kemp turned his back: inside, he was boiling. What did a man like O’Halloran know of the war at sea? Then Kemp took a grip and simmered down. The answer to his unspoken question was: about the same as he, Kemp, knew of the war on land. The difference was that Kemp, if caught up in a land battle, wouldn’t shoot his mouth off.

  Kemp looked at his watch: the whole thing had taken no more th
an two minutes. Now there were things to attend to: the transport’s Captain and the two watchkeeping officers. Kemp said, ‘Williams, get the doctor up at once.’

  ‘Message already sent, sir.’

  ‘Good. Have you had a look at them?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Captain Hampton ... he’s dead, sir. Caught in the neck ... a steel splinter by the look of it.’

  Kemp reeled a little: an old friend and shipmate. He asked, ‘The others?’

  ‘Just knocked out I believe.’ A minute later Dr Barnes, the assistant surgeon, reported to the bridge. Kemp, with sharp memories of the slurred telephone call, refrained from asking why his senior wasn’t attending. Barnes made his examination and confirmed what Williams had said. Barnes had Sister Ord with him. Kemp recalled the last time they’d met on the bridge, the time he’d had to deliver a broadside at her. She had been ill at ease then. Now she was the spirit of confidence, the ship’s nursing sister doing her professional job.

  Barnes said, ‘The chief officer, sir. He’ll need rest in his bunk.’

  ‘See to it, then, Doctor. What about the senior third?’

  ‘Fit enough, sir, just knocked about a bit by the blast.’

  ‘Fit to take over the watch?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  Kemp nodded. ‘Right. I’ll be here myself, of course.’

  Barnes looked at him critically. ‘You need rest yourself, sir. I — ’

  ‘I’m all right, Doctor.’

  ‘But you — ’

  ‘I said, I’m all right. Doctor’s orders don’t always apply at sea.’ Barnes was stubborn. He tried again. ‘Benzedrine, sir. A tablet would keep you going.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘You could call it that, yes. But with a difference.’

  ‘You can put them where the monkey put the nuts,’ Kemp said tersely.

  ‘Waste of much-needed medical stores,’ Barnes said with a grin. ‘The point is, benzedrine helps concentration when you’re tired. As Commodore, you need — ’

  ‘Don’t you tell me my duty, young man!’

  ‘It’s my duty to do so, sir.’

  ‘God ... ’ Kemp came near to an explosion but held on to his temper. Barnes was persistent, and certainly he had a duty as much in his own sphere as the Commodore in his. One should not be too old-fashioned in this war; keep-awake drugs could help. And Kemp respected anyone who did his duty and stuck to his opinions in the face of seniority and rank. He came to a decision, for the good of the convoy. He said, ‘Very well, Doctor. Produce your confounded bloody tablet!’

  Barnes fished in a pocket and brought out a phial. He also produced a flask. Kemp asked, ‘What’s in that? Whisky?’

  ‘Water, sir. For sending down the Benzedrine.’

  Kemp laughed. ‘You come prepared!’ He put a tablet on his tongue and took a swig at the flask. A pity it wasn’t whisky ...

  ***

  Hampton’s body was taken down from the bridge by two seamen with a Neil Robertson stretcher and laid upon his bunk in his sleeping-cabin. Kemp wondered about committal: it would have to be done, of course, but not before they were clear of the danger zone. He could not risk stopping engines while the body went overboard. So that was something for the future, a grim and unwelcome business that he didn’t want to think about too much. He put it from his mind. There were other considerations: Staff Captain Greene would now take over command as master of the Ardara. Greene was in general charge below during action stations and had better remain there until he was relieved by another officer. Kemp sent Williams down to report the facts and ask Greene to make his arrangements. Kemp himself would do no more, could not interfere with the master’s conduct of his ship. Poor Hampton ... Kemp took a grip on his mind, forced down thoughts of pre-war days, of a lasting friendship, of a first-class shipmaster who very likely, if he’d been given the chance, would have preferred death at sea while still in command to the slow disintegration of old age and the gabbling of senility, the repetition of stories of old times that no one wanted to hear any more. Kemp thought suddenly of his grandmother: if she survived much longer she too would probably outlive her wish to go on. He knew all her yarns by heart, had often prompted her in the telling, bored stiff but not wanting to hurt. It was hard to grow old. Well, Arthur Hampton wouldn’t be doing that. Kemp would find time to write a letter to Hampton’s wife, for posting in the Clyde if ever they got there. Hampton had lived not far from Meopham; Mary would go and see her, do what she could — they’d liked each other and there was the sea’s and the Line’s bond between them ...

  The Ardara moved on, zig-zagging at full speed, coming clear of the convoy as the ships scattered in all directions. The senior second officer had come to the bridge to take over the watch; the senior third remained to act as second watchkeeper. Distantly there had been more attacks, more torpedo hits: Kemp had counted no less than thirteen and currently had no information as to whether the ships concerned were afloat or sunk. There had been only three mayday calls and it could be assumed that those three ships had gone down: the calls had not been repeated.

  Greene came to the bridge and saluted the Commodore. He reported, ‘Taken over command, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. I’m sorry it had to be this way.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘What’s it like below?’

  ‘Everything under control. No panic. All troops at their boat stations, sir.’

  Kemp nodded, lifted his binoculars and once again studied the sea’s surface, sweeping all around. So far as could be seen, there were no torpedoes running. He could have chosen a lucky course, but that couldn’t be banked upon. He looked away towards the destroyer escorts: he couldn’t pick them out now, but he saw the evidence of attack, the results of the exploding depth-charges. Some of them must surely reach their targets, the U-boats wouldn’t get away without losses. Kemp thought ahead: such ships as remained to re-form the convoy at the rendezvous later would still not be in the clear. Soon after they had re-formed, they would come within the range of Goering’s Luftwaffe, the reconnaissance Focke-Wulfs and the bombers and the torpedo-bombers that in many ways were worse than the U-boats. Kemp sent up a prayer that the aircraft-carrier from the Home Fleet would reach them in time. Her fighters would be more than welcome as a better bet than the anti-aircraft fire from the escort.

  ***

  ‘All right, Crump?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Portway, thank you.’ At emergency stations, Crump became one of the below-decks fire parties working in the second steward’s section. Currently he was standing by a fire hydrant, ready to spin the handwheel and bring the water to swell out the hoses.

  ‘Nasty, that ammo ship,’ Portway remarked. The word had spread to the troglodytes below decks as to what the vast explosion had been due and all hands were expectant of something similar happening at any moment to themselves; but Portway’s thoughts were still centred mainly around his personal problems and he was being nice to Crump, just in case. He said, ‘I could do with a drink.’

  Crump made no comment.

  ‘Care for one yourself, would you? In my cabin.’ Portway, in charge of his section, had a fairly roving commission and wouldn’t be missed if he made it a quickie. He said as much.

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Portway. Not in action.’ Crump’s whole bearing was a rebuke. Portway flushed and turned his back, stifling a temptation to tell Crump to fuck off.

  ***

  The purser’s staff had all the cash checked and balanced, a nightly routine at sea in wartime, and ready in bags to be sent aboard the lifeboats if they had to abandon. There was plenty of it, in Canadian dollars and sterling, notes and coins, the notes largely fivers all ready for paying off the crew when they reached their home port, preparatory to re-signing the same hands, in the main. Pemmel took personal charge of the Articles of Agreement and the as yet uncompleted Portage Bill, the basis of the crew accounts. These were in his briefcase, and the briefcase was close by his side as he sat in his private off
ice taking sips from his whisky flask.

  His telephone went: it was the surgery calling. ‘Purser speaking ... yes, Jackie?’

  ‘It’s the doctor, Andy.’

  Pemmel sat straighter in his chair. ‘What about him?’ If the doctor had been taken bad ... Jackie could be for it, not having called Barnes in. ‘Bad, is he?’

  There was a brittle laugh. ‘Not that! Better if anything — mobile, anyway. He’s not in his cabin.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. He’s certainly not in the surgery or the sick bay. No one seems to have seen him.’

  ‘Heads?’

  ‘Not there either. Not his own, anyway — bathroom’s empty.’ Jackie’s voice gave away her anxiety. ‘I was wondering if I should let the bridge know?’

  ‘Why, Jackie? They’ll have enough on their plate — Captain dead, ship in the middle of a bloody great mass of U-boats — ’

  ‘Yes, I know all that. Can’t you guess what I’ve got in mind, Andy?’

  Pemmel’s lips framed a whistle. ‘You mean he could be suicidal?’

  ‘Yes! The state he was in, the state he’s been in so long, come to that. I’m terribly worried ... ’

  ‘All right, Jackie. I’m all ready here and the DP can cope if the bridge wants anything, which I doubt if they will. I’ll have a look around myself, do some questioning. I’ll ring you later.’

  Pemmel put down the receiver, picked up his cap and briefcase and left the office. He’d talked of questioning but that would take too long and might lead nowhere. He went straight up on deck, to the open section of C deck alongside the square ports of the peacetime staterooms to port and starboard. No sign of the doctor; and the same on B deck, where he looked into the big main lounge, empty but for duty hands. In the lounge he did ask questions: no one had seen the doctor.