Convoy Homeward

by McCutchan,Philip

  ‘Like the back of my hand. And Melbourne and Fremantle. And the outback to a lesser extent.’

  ‘My oath! Well, Commodore, reckon that makes us mates. Why let a bunch of lousy Germans come between us, eh?’

  ‘Why indeed?’

  A possible disagreement had been neatly averted. But Kemp was well aware that there could be some truth in what the Australian had said about the Germans taking advantage of any attack. A word with Colonel Carter might not come amiss. And frankly Kemp was not entirely sure of whose initial responsibility the POWs might be. He had not been given a clear answer in Kilindini, nor when he had raised it at the Cape. If all poms used gobbledegook, then officialdom and the top brass used it three times over. Not that it was worth losing any sleep over; when the chips were really down, they were all literally in the same boat. And enemy seamen though they were, the Germans would be accorded the lifeboats or rafts, if it ever came to abandoning, as surely as anyone else aboard after the women and children of the returning British families.

  *

  Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton, the red tabs of the staff adorning the open collar of his khaki-drill tunic, walked the promenade deck as the sun went down, keeping to leeward to avoid the wind and spray and muttering to himself as he paced back and forth. He was still seething about the fracas that had taken place back at the Cape. He had no idea who the drunken man was; nor had he recognized Petty Officer Biggar. The men could have come from any one of the many warships in the port of Simonstown. After the occurrence he had made no report ashore; neither had he done so on his return aboard the Aurelian Star. He was aware that he had not come very well out of the encounter; a weeping brigadier was something to be concealed. But he brooded: the whole world as he’d known it was going downhill, heading straight for hell and the devil. There was no respect any more, no discipline in a pre-war sense. Of course, Pumphrey-Hatton knew quite well why that was: the influx of civilians, persons with no concept of service life. Counter-jumpers, clerks, artisans, labourers … bolshies all of them very likely. It took years to make a soldier from scratch, and the younger they joined the better. Drummer boys and so on, brought up from a tender age to obey their officers and NCOS instantly and without question. And some of the people with temporary commissions were of course utterly impossible, not fit to enter any officers’ mess. It had become a disgraceful state of affairs when men virtually straight from civil life, with no public school and Sandhurst behind them, were put in charge of troops. That alone had led to the decline in discipline: it was a fact that the men had no respect for them and the rest followed from that.

  It was cold on deck now. Pumphrey-Hatton entered the shelter of the B deck lounge. As he did so, he saw that the old man, Colonel Holmes, was getting to his feet and trying to catch his eye. Holmes called out, ‘A nightcap, Brigadier. If you’d care to join us my wife and I would be delighted.’

  Pumphrey-Hatton gave a nod. He’d spoken on a few occasions to the Holmeses, who had decided to forget the incident of the shove in the back. He’d found the old man a bore but at least he was a gentleman and had been a soldier, so they spoke the same language. He thanked the old man and sat down beside the wife, who smiled at him. ‘We always indulge ourselves in a nightcap,’ she said.

  ‘Very civilized, Mrs Holmes.’

  ‘A long-standing custom,’ Holmes said. ‘In East Africa, don’t you know —’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Pumphrey-Hatton’s tone was brisk: he wanted no more monologues. He said, when asked, that he would like brandy. Not Van der Humm: a genuine brandy, from France. The lounge steward was already waiting with a tray. The order was given: both the Holmeses asked for whisky. Whilst awaiting the drinks, they chatted desultorily. Mrs Holmes was worried about the sea passage. There had been rumours about a German surface raider being at large.

  ‘Do you know if that is correct, Brigadier?’

  ‘Can’t discuss that,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said briskly.

  The old lady seemed disconcerted at the abruptness, but she said, ‘No, of course not, I’m so sorry. Careless talk — I really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Better not,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said. ‘Get in the habit — when you reach UK you’ll find you need to be very careful. England isn’t East Africa, you know.’

  ‘Yes. Such a pity. We shall miss the life. We had some very good days, such very happy days.’ Mrs Holmes was growing a shade maudlin; she brought a wispy handkerchief from her handbag and wiped at her eyes. The old colonel became gruff.

  ‘Yes, yes indeed, my dear.’ He raised the glass that had just been brought by the lounge steward and looked across at Pumphrey-Hatton. ‘Your good health, Brigadier.’

  ‘Good health,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said automatically, reflecting that a temporary officer would almost certainly have said ‘cheers’. As he drank, a gust of wind came into the lounge. A door had opened to admit a man in naval uniform, a rating, who after a look around headed for the ship’s Chief Officer who was sitting with Colonel Carter of the rifle regiment. Some sort of report was obviously being made; the Chief Officer excused himself and made his way towards the door to the open deck, followed by Petty Officer Biggar.

  Pumphrey-Hatton stared at the PO. Biggar stared back briefly, seemed to blink a little, looked away, then recovered his poise and moved on. Blood coursed through Pumphrey-Hatton’s head and his face became flushed. At his side Colonel Holmes was going on talking. ‘I said, Brigadier, that the Germans —’

  ‘Never mind the Germans, man, or what you were saying about them.’ Pumphrey-Hatton jerked to his feet, leaving his brandy mostly untouched. ‘I wish you goodnight.’ He went at a jerky walk across the lounge, leaving by the door opposite that taken by Biggar.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ Holmes said in some agitation. ‘What on earth did I do to bring that on?’

  ‘I don’t believe it was anything you said, Stephen. It was when he saw that naval man.’

  ‘But surely —’

  ‘Who was the man, do you know, Stephen?’

  ‘Oh … the PO in charge of the DEMS people, I believe. Don’t know his name.’

  ‘I think,’ Mildred Holmes said in a quiet voice, ‘that Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton knows him. I wonder …’

  ‘What do you wonder?’

  ‘Nothing, really. Nothing that I can lay a finger on. But it was really rather curious.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, Mildred.’

  ‘No, of course not. But I do dislike bad manners, Stephen.’

  ‘Well, yes, so do I. The staff always did think a lot of themselves though, and tended to be brusque — even rude.’ Holmes sighed. ‘They’re all so damned young these days compared with what they were before the war. Insolent puppy was what we’d have called the feller once.’

  *

  Later that night, when the guns’-crews were relieved by the oncoming watch at eight bells, Petty Officer Biggar approached Petty Officer Ramm, oozing unctuous intent not to prod his nose into a fellow PO’s territory. ‘Mind if I ’ave a word with one o’ your party, eh?’

  ‘Fill your boots,’ Ramm said off-handedly, then added on a note of suspicion, ‘What about, then?’

  ‘Not official, this isn’t. We ’appened to meet ashore, an’ I got a message for him after he’d gone on his way like. Your leading ’and it was, Purkiss.’

  Ramm wasn’t particularly interested in anything but getting turned into his bunk. Petty Officer Biggar drew Purkiss aside and muttered into his ear, ‘Best watch it, Purkiss.’

  ‘Watch what?’ Leading Seaman Purkiss was sorting out his anti-flash gear, the gloves and face protection that were required when the guns opened fire.

  ‘Pumphrey-Hatton. He recognized me, that’s what. No doubt about it at all.’ Biggar elaborated on the exchange of looks. ‘He may make something of it now he knows, or again he may not. Both ways there’s reasons, see. An’ just you remember, you ’it him. Struck an officer.’

  ‘He hasn’t recognized me yet, PO.’

  ‘May
be not. But now ’e’ll be poking his nose around the ship, won’t ’e?’

  ‘What am I supposed to do about it, then, eh?’

  ‘The obvious: keep your ’ead down, all the bloody way to the Clyde. Request permission to grow a beard p’raps — something like that. Basically, you just keep out of ’is way.’

  ‘What about you, PO?’

  Biggar shrugged. ‘I’m not worried. I didn’t strike him, did I? ’E struck me … in a manner o’ speaking. Sort of lashed out blind. So ’e won’t want that to come out, not if ’e’s got any sense ’e won’t. But I don’t want it to come out neither, and for why you might ask? Reason’s obvious. As a PO I should ’ave shoved you in the rattle, ’ad you up before the Commodore one-one-two. Which I didn’t. Which makes me an accessory after the bleedin’ fact or whatever it is them legal johnnies call it. See?’

  Leading Seaman Purkiss gave a long sniff and then, blocking one nostril, expelled air through the other one, leaning over the ship’s side as he did so. He said, ‘I don’t reckon you can keep out of the way of anybody, not aboard a ship you can’t.’

  Petty Officer Biggar made his way for’ard, checking right round the guns, surface and ack-ack. He had come to an accommodation with Ramm: they shared the duties of gunner’s mate and that satisfied both of them. More or less; PO Biggar still thought of himself as being in overall charge.

  Chapter Seven

  When the noon sight was taken next day, the second officer fixed the ship’s position in longitude 33°40’ south, latitude 10° east. They had made good some 540 sea miles from the Simonstown departure and were steaming on a north-westerly course that would take them clear of the coast of South West Africa towards, eventually, the Cape Verde Islands off French West Africa, a long way ahead yet. Many miles of ocean, and many hours of tension for the civilian passengers, the homeward-bound families. Tension and in many cases boredom: there was little to do but worry about the surface raider and later the U-boat packs. There was plenty of drinking time for those who were most at home propped on a bar stool.

  One of these was Gregory Hench. Hench had owned a coffee plantation back in Kenya, not a very successful one, the lack of success having been mostly due to a lazy disposition and a liking for whisky. At thirty-nine he was returning home a failure: the plantation had gone bankrupt and he had just about raked up the fare for UK plus enough to keep his thirst at bay. In point of fact he had no need to pay over the bar: he signed chits. He would probably not have enough to cover them at the end of the voyage, but saw no need to cross that bridge for some while yet. In any case, you couldn’t get blood out of a stone. He’d made that point to the bankruptcy court. He’d had few assets beyond the rundown plantation and he’d had a number of debts. It had not been until after the proceedings that he’d cabled his old mother for the fare home plus expenses. Longing, as she’d said, to see him again, the cash had been instantly forthcoming. The fact that she couldn’t afford to part with it without sacrifices was just too bad. What were parents for?

  Hench pushed his empty glass across the bar. ‘Same,’ he said.

  ‘A large one, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Same.’

  ‘Coming up, sir.’ The bar steward, a cheerful-looking Scot who had been with the Line since the middle thirties, studied Hench in the mirror behind his optics. He saw a man with a florid face, a disagreeable expression, a man as thin as a rake whose fingers shook as he fumbled with a propelling pencil and a book of wine chits. Steward Maclnnes was pretty adept at summing up his customers. He foresaw trouble with Mr Hench, who would be truculent when drunk, really drunk — he’d not been exactly drunk since embarking at Kilindini, just very well oiled, but give him a few more days and he might go over what appeared to be his set limit. Four large whiskies at the lunchtime session, six large whiskies at the evening session, two large brandies after dinner. Maclnnes had already made a mental note to have a word with Chief Steward Chatfield about the future: Maclnnes reckoned Mr Hench might well default on his booze chits. He didn’t give the impression of being well lined; his khaki shirt and shorts had seen better days and his shoes were scuffed and his hair too long and ragged, as though he economized on the barber.

  ‘There we are, sir.’ The glass was pushed across. The response was a grunt; never a thank-you from Mr Hench.

  Hench took a gulp from the glass and set it down again. His fingers seemed a shade less shaky: Maclnnes had noted that the shake tended to subside after the second large whisky. As the steward polished glasses with the cloth that he always carried over his arm he saw another passenger joining Mr Hench at the bar. Miss Gloria Northway, aged at a guess thirty-five. She too had a good intake — gin in her case. She also had a predatory look, one well known to Steward Maclnnes. Women at sea — single women or women travelling without their husbands, it came mostly to the same thing — were different from women ashore. Different in that they really let their hair down as though it didn’t matter a tinker’s cuss. Aboard a ship they were divorced from shoreside life, no one ashore need ever know what they’d been up to at sea, and they lived in a sort of safe cocoon within which they could behave as maybe they’d always wanted to behave but hadn’t dared to. Grinning to himself as Mr Hench looked around at the newcomer and made welcoming noises, a grunt of a different sort from that used to stewards, Maclnnes wished Miss North way luck with Mr Hench but didn’t reckon she would achieve much. A pound to a penny Mr Hench suffered from distiller’s droop.

  ‘Morning, Gloria.’

  ‘Is it?’ Her voice was hoarse.

  ‘Hangover?’

  ‘Bloody awful. As per usual. Steward?’

  ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘Hair of the dog. Fast before I die. And have one yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. I’ll take a pale ale.’ Maclnnes, knowing the particular dog, mixed gin and grapefruit in a long glass with a straw. Gloria Northway sucked avidly and said something about the bottom of a parrot’s cage.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to go on the wagon,’ she said, still hoarse, ‘but I don’t suppose I will. Too painful. Got a cigarette, have you, Gregory?’

  Hench produced his cigarette-case. Silver, salvaged from the wreck. He flicked a lighter and Miss North way blew smoke towards Maclnnes. Stale breath accompanied it. With a long finger-nail she removed a fragment of breakfast from a tooth and deposited it in an ashtray. She said suddenly, ‘Sod the war.’

  Hench looked surprised. ‘Why, in particular? I mean — just like that, out of nowhere so to speak?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She shifted about on her stool; her breasts wobbled, more or less tantalizingly. ‘Just sod it, that’s all. All the shortages, and the dangers, and everyone here today and gone tomorrow, you know what I mean.’

  Hench nodded but didn’t comment.

  ‘Take you and me. Waifs of the war.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Funny we never met in Kenya.’

  ‘You said you’d been in —’

  ‘Nyasaland, right, so I did. And was. Anyway, we’ve met now and that’s something good come out of the war. Coffee, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hench said.

  ‘Coffee’s good and safe. I just drifted and I don’t mind admitting it, Gregory, I don’t mind at all. I suppose you could say I was a bit of a bum, actually.’

  Kept woman was more like it, Hench thought, but he said, ‘Oh, no, surely … you shouldn’t say that —’

  ‘I do say it.’ She reached out a little unsteadily and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Someone like you is good for little me,’ she said.

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘Damn right I do.’ She belched, put a hand to her mouth and said, ‘Pardon me, so sorry. Where was I?’

  ‘I’m good for you. May one ask why?’

  She waved her cigarette in the air. ‘Morale. I’m not proud, I’ve had a few rejections. Could be I drink too much, but so what?’

  Hench grinned. ‘Have another,’ he said, noting that her
glass was already nearly empty.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Miss North way drained the glass and pushed it across towards Machines. ‘That’s what I meant,’ she said to Hench. ‘You don’t criticize.’

  He shrugged. ‘Live and let live.’

  ‘And so say I … dear Gregory. Oh God — my head.’

  She would very probably be willing. Hench was willing, at any rate in spirit; any port in a storm and Gloria North way wouldn’t expect to be — what was the word — wooed. No need for extended preliminaries. But there was a snag, an overwhelming one. Hench, who had never married, had had sundry brief affairs over the years, mostly with the wives of fellow planters until they found out he was no use in bed, however strong and urgent the desire. With deadly accuracy, Steward Maclnnes had put his finger on it. Desire, heightened by the treacherous effects of whisky, was always frustrated by its own bolsterer and Gregory Hench had come to dread the moment when a woman showed signs of being ready.

  Once again he pushed his glass across and recommended Miss Northway to take a couple of aspirins.

  Below in his cabin, Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton found that once again his electric fan was not turning properly. He muttered furiously to himself, then, with hands that shook badly, he took hold of the fan, jerked it hard so that the flex parted, and cast it down on the deck by his bunk. The moment he had done so, he regretted it. There would now have to be explanations to his steward and he was damned if he was going to explain himself to anyone of that sort. He slumped into the hard, upright chair that was all he had to sit on, and put his head in his hands. The business at the Cape was much on his mind, having seen that petty officer. He should be taking action over that, should be making a formal report to the Commodore, or Captain Maconochie if the man turned out to be one of the DEMS party. Ratings should never be allowed to get away with crimes … but if he made a report far too much would come out. In the meantime the man was no doubt sniggering away behind his back, knowing that he had him by the short hairs.

  *

  ‘Cypher, sir.’