‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Come on, man. Be a sport.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Maclnnes said again. ‘Orders, sir.’
‘Whose orders?’
Maclnnes stared him in the eye. Hench was already a little tiddly. ‘Captain’s. You heard the alarm, sir. Ship’s at action stations. You’d best get —’
‘Bugger that,’ Hench said in a harsh tone. He made as if to force the cage up, turned with a start as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He faced Purser Scott, three gold rings on his shoulder-straps, white cloth between. ‘Leave the bar, Mr Hench.’
Maclnnes completed the lowering of the cage. Hench said in a hectoring voice, ‘So they don’t teach you manners, Purser, in this Line. I happen to be a fare-paying passenger, not some uniformed bod in a military draft.’
‘Everyone aboard is under orders, Mr Hench, you included. Leave the bar immediately or I shall send for the master-at-arms to escort you out.’
Slowly, Hench slid off the stool. His voice slurring a little now, he said, ‘Don’t think I won’t be reporting this to the Line in London. Because I shall.’
He moved away towards the open deck. Maclnnes said, ‘We get all sorts, sir.’
Scott nodded. Any complaint to the Line’s head office would get the reception it deserved. A few minutes later the German prisoners began streaming in under guard of the rifles and bayonets. Going below, Purser Scott saw Gregory Hench going along an alleyway, his own cabin alleyway. With him was Miss Northway. What a time to choose, John Scott thought, if that was what was intended. On the other hand, it could be a pleasant way to die.
*
Finnegan had asked if the Commodore intended to scatter the convoy. Kemp’s answer was no. The ships were better off keeping within the guns and depth charges of the warship escort. If they should encounter the surface raider, then would come the time to scatter.
The reports were coming in now: all watertight compartments sealed, fire mains ready, fire hoses run out. All the military draft and civilian passengers mustered at their boat stations, Hench and Miss North way included. Their station happened to be under the orders of one of Scott’s assistant pursers and when Scott checked round he saw Hench and Gloria Northway struggling with their cork lifejackets. He grinned to himself: he’d obviously been wrong, maybe they’d just been going below for the lifejackets.
At the guns, the crews were ready for action. Petty Officer Ramm spat on his hands and observed that he hoped they’d spot a Jerry, forced to the surface by the depth charges.
‘Sink the bugger by gunfire,’ he said with advance satisfaction.
‘Probably a false alarm,’ Leading Seaman Purkiss said.
‘Trust you to spoil the fun, Purkiss. Not that I’d mind all that much, not being keen to get bloody sunk if they get us first like.’
‘Which they probably will. If they’re there.’
‘Defeatist talk, Leading Seaman Purkiss, so can it.’
‘Whatever you say, PO.’
Ramm moved to the ship’s side and stared out over the water. By this time there had been a good deal of signalling between the destroyers of the A/S screen and the senior officer, and between the senior officer and the Commodore. Already the destroyers had moved ahead at full speed, creating big bow waves and wakes that streamed astern to mingle with the kerfuffle kicked up by the churning screws. The cruisers of the escort were maintaining a close screen on the merchantmen, steaming at convoy speed on the port and starboard beams. As Ramm watched, the great humps of water began spouting into the air as the depth charges from the racks and throwers began exploding at their set depths beneath the sea.
‘Contact’s real enough,’ Ramm said, and moved back to his gun. ‘Stand by, you lot, you never know. I reckon —’
He was interrupted by Featherstonehaugh. ‘Something moving, PO!’
‘Where, lad?’
Featherstonehaugh pointed away on the starboard bow. ‘Just astern of the Vindictive —’
‘God almighty, lad, that’s not a something, it’s a bloody tin fish!’ Before he had finished speaking Petty Officer Ramm had grabbed the sound-powered telephone to the bridge. ‘Torpedo bearing green one five,’ he reported. He had just replaced the hand-set on its hook when there was a heavy explosion from the starboard beam, a merchant vessel that had strayed outwards from her station and was, or had been, moving on steadily astern of the Vindictive.
Now she was virtually gone.
‘It’s the ammo ship,’ Ramm said in a shaking voice. ‘Poor sods. There won’t be any survivors from that lot.’ A moment later the debris from the massive explosion began dropping in the water all around, some of it landing on the decks of the Aurelian Star. Blazing pieces of woodwork, white-hot metal fragments, parts of dismembered bodies blown through the air with tremendous force. Ramm ordered the gun’s-crew to get below the shelter deck. Leading Seaman Purkiss, Ramm noted, was there already.
*
On the bridge, Captain Maconochie had lost no time when the report had come in from Petty Officer Ramm. He had ordered thirty degrees of starboard wheel, following the proper procedure so as to present as small a target for the oncoming torpedo as was possible: bows-on. Steadying his course when the torpedo’s track was still a little on the starboard bow, he waited, watching narrowly as the menace sped towards his ship. Kemp stood by the rail in the starboard wing, found himself clutching the rail like a vice. Then came the shattering explosion as the big ammunition ship blew sky-high and the debris began to fall. Kemp’s and Maconochie’s whole attention remained on the approaching torpedo, evidently one of two — maybe more — that had been fired. Kemp blew out a long breath of relief when the tin fish passed down the troopship’s starboard side. He found his whole body soaked with sweat.
‘Well done, Captain,’ he called. ‘Very nicely timed.’
Maconochie was also wiping away sweat from face and neck. ‘We had better luck than those poor beggars,’ he said, waving an arm to starboard. There was drifting debris, and flames shooting up from what was left of the ammunition ship. Some ten thousand tons of munitions had gone up, lost to the Allied war effort, but it was the fate of the men, the human factor, that was on all minds. Husbands, sons, fathers. So many families ashore whose lives would be in ruins.
‘Bugger this war,’ Kemp said. His voice was filled with anger. Then he stiffened. Incredulously he said, ‘Did you hear that, Maconochie? Cheering! From the B deck lounge.’ His face was unbelieving. ‘Finnegan, restrain me from going below with a revolver!’
Finnegan said, ‘I feel the same way as you do, sir. So I guess we restrain each other, okay?’
There was another thought in both their minds: at any moment they might go the same way as the ammunition carrier. If that happened, there wouldn’t be much help given to the Germans.
The Commodore’s ship under port wheel moved back to her course and carried on. The detonations of the depth charges continued, one after the other. Kemp remarked that it seemed likely there was a whole pack of U-boats attacking.
‘Jumping the gun, sir?’
‘What gun, Finnegan?’
‘Not waiting for the Stuttgart. One of the theories was that the Stuttgart would attack together with the U-boats.’
‘Correct, Finnegan. But they’re always full of theories, shore-side.’
‘Guess that’s right, sir, Commodore. But this one was yours. The conference with OC Troops —’
‘All right, Finnegan, I’ve never pretended to be an oracle. But just bear in mind that there may be, probably will be, other packs around.’ Kemp swung his binoculars, scanning the assembly of ships ploughing doggedly along beneath a clear blue sky with enough breeze to ruffle the sea’s surface and make the spotting of periscopes difficult. He said, ‘Whoever picked up that first torpedo was a live wire. We failed to spot it from the bridge.’
‘Guess we did, sir.’
‘When this is over, find out who it was.’
‘I’ll sure do that thing
, sir.’
‘Just aye, aye, sir is quite enough, Finnegan. Three words instead of … how many was it?’
Finnegan counted on his fingers. ‘Six, sir.’
Kemp grunted. ‘Verbal diarrhoea, Finnegan.’
‘Why, I guess you could be right at that, sir, Commodore —’
‘Shut up, Finnegan.’
The convoy steamed on. Inside the next two minutes there was the whine of the sound-powered telephone from the lookout at the foremasthead. Finnegan answered and reported to the Commodore. ‘U-boat surfacing, red four five, sir!’
Kemp swung round. A long black bow was starting to emerge, to be followed by the conning tower breaking through the water. ‘Damaged by the depth charges,’ Kemp said. ‘But she can still be dangerous. Warn the guns’-crews, Finnegan.’
Finnegan ran to pass the word fore and aft. The U-boat was on a clear bearing from the Aurelian Star’s decks and was within gun range of both the three-inch. Two destroyers were moving towards her but were still some way off. As Finnegan reported the Commodore’s message passed, a stream of machine-gun fire arced towards the Aurelian Star, and there was a puff of smoke from a gun mounted just for’ard of the conning tower.
Kemp said, ‘Open fire, Finnegan.’
*
‘Open fire!’ Ramm roared out. The gun went into immediate action, as did the for’ard gun under Petty Officer Biggar. There were sharp cracks and a shudder ran through the ship; down below cork insulation was brought down in showers from the deck-heads immediately beneath the gun-mountings. A rapid fire was kept up. The first shots from both guns went over the target. The next shells fell short.
‘Straddled,’ Ramm shouted in high excitement. ‘We’ll get the bastard with the next.’
They didn’t; there was another shortfall. But after that they had the range more closely and a shell took the upward-canted bow of the U-boat. There was an explosion, and the bow slewed to port. Two more that were near misses; and then there was a further explosion, this time slap on the conning tower. There was a burst of smoke and flame. Ramm had the impression that the conning tower and its adjacent gun had ceased to exist. On the heels of the strike another shell took the base of what had been the conning tower, ripping away the plating of the pressure hull.
The order came from the bridge to cease firing. As the guns fell silent there was a further tongue of flame from the gap left by the shattered conning tower and this was followed by a burst of pressurized steam just before the U-boat settled in the water and then, her broken bow lifting to point upwards like a finger, slid back beneath the sea.
‘Let the bloody Nazis cheer that one,’ Ramm said with a great deal of satisfaction. ‘One up to us, eh? Well done, lads.’
Purkiss said sourly, ‘Bet you a day’s pay PO Biggar’ll claim it as his.’
‘Put a sock in it, Leading Seaman Purkiss. Biggar can claim what he bloody likes. I see our shell ’it.’
‘Ha, ha,’ Purkiss said, but he said it sotto voce, very much so.
The guns’-crews were kept closed up; the action was not over yet. Ahead of the convoy another U-boat was brought to the surface and despatched by gunfire from the Vindictive. One of the cruiser escorts, HMS Okehampton, was taken by a torpedo on her starboard bow. Her Captain reported damage and casualties but indicated that he could proceed at slow speed while makeshift repairs were carried out. The cruiser was given orders from the senior officer to detach from the convoy once the U-boat attack was over and to enter Freetown. In the meantime a destroyer would be detached from the A/S screen to stand by her to the Rokel River. On urgent representations being made by the Commodore, the senior officer indicated that he would break wireless silence, the position of the convoy being already known to the Germans now, and request back-up from Rear-Admiral West Africa in Freetown.
When the asdics of the escort reported lost contact Kemp said, ‘Either there were just the two, or the rest took fright. We’ll keep the ship at first degree of readiness for a while longer, if you please, Captain. The Germans don’t usually get cold feet. There could be a boat lying deep with engines stopped.’
*
Kemp went round the upper decks, having a word here and there with the troops and the civilian passengers, doing his best to allay fears. The blowing up of the ammunition ship had had its effect on morale in a number of cases. Old Mrs Holmes was shaking and pale, and her husband was doing his best with her. There was a good deal of stiff-upper-lip about Colonel Holmes. War was war and had to be faced up to. And he was certain they were all in good hands. The Navy would never let them down.
Kemp agreed heartily with this, though he doubted if the crew of the ammunition carrier would take quite the same view.
Moving aft, Kemp spoke to Ramm and his gun’s-crew.
‘Very well done, all of you,’ he said. ‘We don’t know if it was this gun or Petty Officer Biggar’s that got the U-boat, but —’
‘This one, sir, for certain sure. I see the projy ’it like, sir.’
Kemp concealed a grin. ‘I’ve no doubt Petty Officer Biggar saw his do the same thing. Let’s say it’s honours even. The result’s the same and you all contributed. Which of you was it who saw the torpedo track?’
Ramm said, ‘It were Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh, sir.’
Kemp reached out and shook the OD’s hand. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you. It’s not too much to say you may have saved the ship.’ He would have liked to add that he would be putting in a word to the right quarter, but he refrained. The young man was in for a commission and there must be no suggestion of anything that might be construed by his messmates as favouritism, or any apparent leaning over backwards to commend an ordinary seaman destined for the wardroom. Kemp was well enough aware of jealousies along the lower deck and indeed he could understand them. Often he had reflected that it must be galling for, say, any PO such as Ramm or Biggar, men of long sea experience in the fleet, fine seamen all of them, to see a youngster virtually only just out of school vault over their heads to the wavy gold stripe of a sub-lieutenant RNVR. He had occasionally overheard the comments: ‘Bin in the Andrew ’alf a dog-watch and just look at ’im.’ That he, Kemp, could understand the feelings was not to disparage the RNVR — far from it. The green sub-lieutenants learned from experience and became as reliable as anyone else, and quickly too. Moving on again, Kemp grinned inwardly at another thought: the green sub-lieutenants not infrequently equipped themselves with two officers’ cap badges and kept them alternately in glasses of salt water to make them look as though they had faced years of bad weather … and reflected also that he had done the same thing himself years before when he had first joined the Mediterranean-Australia Lines as a junior fourth officer.
Going back for’ard Kemp met Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton at the foot of the starboard bridge ladder. Pumphrey-Hatton said, ‘A word in your ear, Kemp.’
Kemp waited. The brigadier went on, ‘That RSM. You’ll know what I’m getting at. Of course, the feller’s the responsibility of his own OC Troops, I know that. But as Commodore you may come into the picture. Or Maconochie might, as Master. I just wanted to have my say. I’m not inexperienced when it comes to men, you know.’
‘Of course not, I appreciate that. I’ll be glad to have your views, Brigadier.’
Pumphrey-Hatton looked at him sharply. ‘Do you mean that, Kemp?’
‘I do.’
‘Very well then, here they are. Try to get that Australian colonel to play it down. Regimental Sergeant-Majors are the back-bone of any army. Damn fine fellows, with a damn hard job to do. Follow?’
Kemp nodded. ‘Yes, I do. The Navy’s never had quite the equivalent. We have warrant officers, but they don’t entirely equate. Nevertheless —’
‘Nevertheless, what the fellow did was wrong. Dead wrong — I know that. If you look at it that way — as death caused to a prisoner-of-war. Personally, I do not. The RSM never laid a hand on the man. And the RSM’s reaction was perfectly understanda
ble, don’t you see, a natural response to the giving of the Nazi salute. Don’t tell me you’d not have done the same.’
Kemp said, ‘That’s possible.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, I’d have had the initial urge, I expect, but I’d like to think I’d have exercised more self-control.’
‘Ah, but you’re not an Australian. I’ve fought with the Australians — the Australian Division at Tobruk, under Morshead. Their discipline wasn’t that of the British infantrymen, but, by God, they achieved results.’ Pumphrey-Hatton paused. ‘I’m just asking you to put in a word if you get the chance. Not that it’s any business of mine. Except that I’m a soldier too.’
He turned and walked stiffly away. Kemp remained for a moment at the foot of the ladder, staring after him. Pumphrey-Hatton hadn’t seemed the sort to intercede on behalf of anyone not of commissioned rank … or had he? Kemp recalled the events of his previous convoy, the outward convoy from the Clyde to Trincomalee when Pumphrey-Hatton had been OC Troops. The Regimental Sergeant-Major of the trooping staff, Mr Pollock late of the Border Regiment, had fallen victim to the cholera that had raged throughout the Commodore’s ship and other vessels of the convoy and escort. Kemp had heard via the galley wireless that Pumphrey-Hatton, visiting his RSM’s sickbed, had found two of the ship’s crew, one a man who had been a sailmaker in the days of the old square-riggers, already measuring the dying man for the canvas shroud in which he would shortly be slid overboard. Pumphrey-Hatton had been outraged and had booted the pair of them out of the cabin in no uncertain fashion. And when Mr Pollock had died, it had been Pumphrey-Hatton who had insisted that the regimental depot at Carlisle Castle be informed and urged to do all they could for Pollock’s family.
Pumphrey-Hatton was a long-serving officer. He’d soldiered through the peace between the wars. He had, no doubt, a fierce pride in the British Army and in its regimental system where all the members of the regiment formed a family, very much along feudal lines — the squire, the parson, and, below the salt as it were, the villagers. But a source of great strength and pride and, by and large, fairly benevolently conducted. Kemp guessed that what got under Pumphrey-Hatton’s skin were the civilians turned soldiers, men who hadn’t at all the same outlook, and in many cases were villagers transported to the Hall.
Convoy Homeward Page 11