And now they’d both fallen foul of the police. A long and rather hysterical letter had reached John French in Simonstown: Alan and Billy had been caught shoplifting in Woolworth’s. The case was pending.
A worry he could do without as the troop convoy steamed for home.
Sighing, John French wiped his hands on a fresh bunch of cotton-waste and told his senior second engineer that he would be in his cabin if wanted. He had, he said, reports to write. What he really wanted to do was to read Monica’s letter again.
*
‘We seem to have altered course,’ Colonel Holmes remarked to his wife. He had noted that the sun was in a slightly different position relative to the ship.
‘It’s probably after that scare,’ Mildred said. ‘When that ship —’
‘No, no, it’s not that. The whole convoy’s altered.’
She looked up at him. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know, my dear.’
‘There’s obviously a reason.’
‘Yes. But I don’t know what it is.’
‘You could always ask the Captain, couldn’t you?’
‘I suppose I —’ Holmes broke off, feeling irritated by his wife’s non-perception of their status as passengers, nosey ones they would be considered. ‘One can’t bother busy people with questions they probably don’t want asked. We’ll be told in due course.’
‘Yes, but when?’
‘When the Captain considers it necessary. Not before.’ The old soldier believed the convoy’s alteration to have more than a little to do with the lurking enemy, but he wasn’t going to say so to Mildred, there being no point in worrying her too soon. Hearing footsteps on the deck behind him, he turned his head then turned it back again. In a low voice he said, ‘There’s that damn cad Hench. And that appalling woman.’
‘Which
‘Don’t look now,’ Holmes hissed urgently, but there was no avoiding an encounter when Hench stopped by the rail and leaned over alongside Mrs Holmes.
‘Something going on, Colonel,’ he said, speaking across Holmes’s wife. She moved back a little; the smell of stale whisky was strong.
‘Yes,’ Holmes said briefly. ‘We seem to have altered course, but not by very much.’
‘I didn’t mean that, though I expect it’s connected. I meant all the signalling. Flags, and flashing lights. See it, did you?’
‘Yes, I did —’
‘Something’s up,’ Hench said. He sounded nervous. ‘As I was saying to Gloria —’
‘Gloria?’
‘Miss Northway. You’ve not met?’
‘Not formally,’ Holmes said.
‘I’ll rectify that.’ Gregory Hench made the introductions. ‘Gloria Northway … Colonel and Mrs Holmes.’
‘How d’you do?’ Holmes said perfunctorily.
‘Fine, thanks, and you?’
There was really no answer to that, and neither of the old couple gave one. Miss North way went on to say, anyway, she was pleased to meet them. She hoped to God they would all reach the UK safely but now she was worried because Gregory had said the flags and lamps and so on meant that the escorting warships had had word about an enemy attack. Everybody knew there were hundreds and hundreds of U-boats at sea and what did Colonel Holmes think?
‘For a start, Miss Northway, I doubt the hundreds and hundreds. In the South Atlantic, anyway. Hitler has other fish to fry. Not just our convoy.’
‘Well, maybe, but it’s terribly scary. I’ll bet your wife’s having kittens right now.’
Holmes glared. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Hench said, ‘She meant Mrs Holmes must be worried, Colonel —’
‘I gathered that, thank you, Hench. Naturally my wife is anxious. But we are a military family, which perhaps Miss Northway doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand the significance of the fact of coming from a military family.’ He looked Gloria Northway directly in the eye. ‘Stiff upper lip, you know. All that sort of thing. Face up to the enemy. It’s a British characteristic. I have every confidence that we shall reach the Clyde in safety.’ He turned away and stared out to sea.
‘Weird old couple,’ Miss North way murmured as Hench, taking her arm, drew her away from the Holmeses. ‘Stiff upper lip, my God! What next?’
‘Colonial forces,’ Hench said. ‘Bred in the bone. Used to kicking the natives around. They’re sort of … cocooned from reality. Flies in amber.’
‘Stiff upper lips don’t stop torpedoes,’ Miss Northway said. ‘Or do they, in the minds of ossified old fuddy-duddies like those two?’ She added, ‘The old girl never opened her mouth. I reckon she has to wait for orders …’
*
The word had gone from the Chief Officer via the bosun to all hands of the troopship’s deck department that extra vigilance would be required from all watchkeepers, the lookouts especially; Chief Engineer French was warned that within the next few hours there might be a need for sudden alterations of speed and that extra revolutions might be wanted at short notice. He in turn passed orders for the remaining boiler to be flashed up in readiness. Finnegan spoke to the two petty officers: the guns’- crews would now be working in two watches, which meant that extra guns would be manned at all times.
‘Meaning the Nazis are around, sir?’
Finnegan nodded. ‘We’ve had a report that the Stuttgart is not all that far off. That’s for the information of the guns’-crews only. The Commodore doesn’t want the civilian passengers alarmed, get it?’
Ramm said, ‘Got it, sir. We keep mum. What about them other Jerries? The POWs?’
‘That’s another reason the Commodore doesn’t want any loose talk.’ Finnegan added, ‘If it seems inevitable that we’re going to fall in with the raider, an announcement will be broadcast from the bridge, okay?’
Finnegan moved away, making back for the bridge. He found the Commodore deep in conference with OC Troops and Colonel Carter of the rifles. The subject under discussion was the one that had been raised by Petty Officer Ramm: the POW contingent, under guard below the troop decks. Kemp was concerned as to the possibilities of a breakout if and when the German raider was encountered. Harrison didn’t believe there would be any trouble. The Germans were, he said — and Carter agreed — under strong enough guard to ensure that they would remain firmly below in action.
‘Unless they have to be brought up,’ Kemp pointed out.
‘You mean if we have to abandon?’
‘Yes. In fact I’d prefer not to leave them below once action starts. There’s always a chance it’ll be too late as things develop. I don’t like to take that chance. So what I’m suggesting is this: the Germans should be brought up under escort and held in, let’s say, the B deck lounge, which of course will have been cleared of all passengers, the civilians. They’ll be in the firing line as it were, but so will we all be, and it’s better than being confined below if anything happens suddenly. Which is a fair enough prognosis, I think.’
‘Reckon you c’d be right at that, Commodore,’ Harrison said. ‘But I’d call it not all that likely. Because I don’t reckon that Nazi raider’s going to attack a convoy with a strong cruiser escort. Isn’t it a fact that the surface raiders concentrate on the less well-escorted convoys?’
‘Yes and no,’ Kemp said. ‘Don’t forget, we’re a prize target. Troop convoys always are. There would be a lot of prestige and a lot of celebration in Berlin after a successful attack on a troop convoy.’ He paused. ‘Normally, I agree, I’d not expect an attack by a single surface raider even on a troop convoy.’
‘So what’s different this time?’ the Australian colonel asked.
Kemp spoke quietly. ‘The Admiralty signal indicated something extra. There’s known to be two U-boat packs operating off Freetown — off the Rokel River. They don’t know the strength of these packs, but going on general intelligence knowledge of the German submarine command, they could be of six boats each. Now, if those packs are operating — and this isn’t known for sure either — if they�
�re operating with the Stuttgart, that puts a very different complexion on what might be going to happen.’
Harrison nodded thoughtfully. ‘Reckon you’ll get any further intelligence, do you, Commodore?’
Kemp shrugged. ‘That’s in the lap of the gods. If I do, you can be sure I’ll pass it on, Colonel. In the meantime — and I’m confident I don’t really need to say this — not a word to anyone outside your own trooping staff. I don’t want to cause any worry to the civilians over something that may never happen.’
Again Harrison nodded. ‘What do you reckon yourself?’ he asked.
Kemp said, ‘I think we’re going to have a fight on our hands. And just as soon as I’m able to make a positive appreciation, everyone will be fully informed.’
*
‘Off your arse, Featherstonehaugh.’
Featherstonehaugh jumped to his feet as though stung by a wasp; he had been sitting on a fairlead alongside his gun, daydreaming. ‘Sorry, PO.’
‘You’ll be sorrier,’ Petty Officer Ramm said, and went on to diagnose what the OD had been doing. ‘Dreaming oh my darling love of thee. Dreaming of thee. Right?’
‘Just thinking, PO.’
‘Oh, yes! You’re not supposed to bloody think. Got it? Here to do a job, you are. In case you don’t know, there’s a war on.’
‘I know that, PO.’
‘Eh? Now and again I doubts it.’ Ramm ticked over. ‘Sorry, lad. Your dad. Don’t take all I say too much to ’eart. That said, remember the ship needs all the eyes it’s got. To spot bloody Adolf that is. Got a fag, have you?’
Featherstonehaugh produced a packet of Players. Ramm took one and flicked a lighter for himself and Featherstonehaugh. He blew a cloud of smoke and wondered how the armed services would ever manage if the brass hadn’t insisted on a constant supply of cigarettes being made available to the troops and seamen. Life itself depended on a quick draw, it took the tension out of things and all sensible officers turned a blind eye to smoking on watch other than at night when the flick of a lighter or even the glow of a cigarette-end could be seen through a periscope. The fag in his mouth, Ramm went on with his job, which currently was to inspect the guns, make sure that all was shipshape and that all moving parts were greased and ready. Not that the Aurelian Star’s armament would be any use against the Stuttgart: the Nazi cruiser was a big job, around 11,000 tons with a main armament to match — eight 8-inch guns in twin turrets, a secondary armament of six 5.9s plus ack-ack and six torpedo-tubes, all of which she could carry around the oceans at some 27 knots.
But of course they had the escort.
With any luck, the Nazi wouldn’t risk it.
The POW contingent had in fact been brought on deck daily for the exercise period laid down by the Geneva Convention for the treatment of their ilk. They were herded from their accommodation by a company of the African riflemen, and another company stood by on the boat deck as extra security, all the natives carrying rifles with bayonets fixed.
On the day of the early-morning receipt of the Admiralty’s signal the regimental sergeant-major of the Australian trooping staff watched as the German naval ratings emerged on deck, RSM Treddle was a formidable-looking man, tall, hefty and imposing in his bush hat and khaki-drill shirt and shorts, bunches of hair visible at the open neck of the shirt and the Royal Arms that denoted his rank as a Warrant Officer 1 prominent and shiny on the leather strap that secured it to a thick, hairy wrist.
‘Look almost human, eh?’ he remarked to Harrison’s adjutant.
Captain Mulvaney nodded. ‘Some do. Some don’t. Scraggy, some of the bastards.’
RSM Treddle went on watching. He observed that the native troops were treating the Germans with caution, very trigger-happy he reckoned, but at the same time seeming almost apologetic in their roles as guards on white men, as though they sensed the anger of the prisoners at being herded by men with black skins, RSM Treddle remarked on this to Captain Mulvaney.
‘Reckon they know about Hitler’s ideas, do you?’
‘What particular ideas?’
‘Race. The pure-bred Aryan idea. All others being inferior.’
Mulvaney gave a coarse laugh. ‘I doubt it. Reckon they don’t have enough bloody English for that, Sar’nt-Major. But I reckon I get what you’re driving at: the blacks expect trouble. But I doubt that too. The Jerries won’t start anything aboard a ship crammed with troops.’
‘Tempers,’ RSM Treddle said, ‘can erupt, Captain Mulvaney. Sudden incidents deliberately inspired, eh? Look at that bloke over there — see him? The tall bloke at the back end of the deck. By the rail.’
Mulvaney looked. The tall German, by his dress a petty officer, was getting up on the rail and looking forward towards the bridge. As the two Australians watched the German gave a Nazi salute, arm extended, hand palm down. They heard his shout: ‘Heil, Hitler!’ A number of other Germans followed suit, and there was a general stir from the prisoners.
Mulvaney met the RSM’S eye. ‘Not really our patch,’ Mulvaney said. ‘Not really. But let’s get in there just the same, eh?’
‘Right with you, Captain,’ Treddle said.
They moved aft, RSM Treddle in the lead. As they reached the native escort, the riflemen parted to let them through. They pressed on through the bunched prisoners. The man who had given the Nazi salute watched their approach, smiling, still in his position on the rail.
RSM Treddle halted in front of him. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Yes, Sergeant-Major?’
‘So you speak English, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, good on yer, then. Pull your ears back and we’ll see if you understand Australian too.’ RSM Treddle took a deep breath that visibly increased his chest measurement. Staring the German in the eye he said, ‘You’re aboard a pommie ship and you bloody respect the fact, right? For a start, you’ll not mention the name of fucking Hitler, never again. We don’t want to bloody hear about that little bastard. And if you give the Nazi salute in my presence again, I’ll wrench your fucking arm from its fucking socket with my own fucking hands. Got that, have you?’
As he finished, he moved closer, flexing his muscles. The German flinched away, lost his balance on the guardrail, and fell straight down to the after well deck, a long drop. Breathing hard RSM Treddle said, ‘I hope he’s bust his fucking neck.’
‘For your sake, Sar’nt-Major,’ Mulvaney said, ‘let’s hope he bloody hasn’t.’
They each drew their revolvers and began the move back through the prisoners. They made it in safety; but the mood of the Germans was obvious enough.
*
Major Kennedy, the medical officer of the native regiment, was quickly at the scene. A moment later he was joined by the ship’s surgeon, Dr Grant. An examination was made: it didn’t take long. Their eyes met over the broken body: there was no need for speech. Death from a broken neck was all too obvious.
It was now a matter for higher authority: in the first instance Colonel Carter commanding the riflemen, the official guard on the POWs. And then OC Troops. And an unwelcome worry for the Commodore. Whoever was ultimately responsible for the safe conduct of the prisoners to the UK, the authorities in London were not going to be happy with any breach of the Geneva rules.
*
There would be an enquiry. In the meantime RSM Treddle went about his duties, supervising others doing theirs. Each day, after the rows had been taken back to their quarters below, there were parades of the Australian and New Zealand contingent. Parades for the inspection of arms and equipment, parades for physical training, parades for this, that and the other, anything to keep the troops on their toes and as fighting fit as possible. When inactive for too long, men grew soft. It was RSM Treddle’s mission in army life to stop them getting soft and he was pretty good at it, inventing all manner of things to keep them on the hop. Also being there in person to make sure the sergeants and corporals kept them at it. It was no use giving orders and then not see them carried out.
It was in the middle of one of his parades and around half an hour before Captain’s Rounds of the troop decks that RSM Treddle was bidden to the bridge. This order was almost immediately negatived. In the short interval that had elapsed between the two messages, the Commodore had had a report from the senior officer of the escort, made by light and repeated from the leader of the anti-submarine screen: the Asdics had picked up two echoes. U-boats were in the vicinity.
Chapter Nine
‘Action stations, if you please, Captain,’ Kemp found this one of the unwelcome irritations of being the Convoy Commodore; he was not in command of his own ship and it was the Captain’s responsibility to handle her and pass the orders. A moment later the action alarm sounded throughout the ship. By Kemp’s order passed earlier, the B deck lounge was cleared for the reception of the German prisoners. Gregory Hench was sitting on a bar stool when Steward Maclnnes began lowering the metal cage over the bar in protection of his stocks and to indicate that no more drinks would be served until orders came from the Purser.
‘Just one more,’ Hench said, holding the descending cage up by thrusting his hand through, the hand holding a glass.
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