The Death of the Fronsac_A Novel

by Neal Ascherson

  ‘But it still exists.’

  ‘Somewhere, yes. But it’s without interest; they won’t follow it up now. So tell me something really secret: when is your mad Polish cavalry going to gallop across the Channel and invade my country, and will there be anything left afterwards? Pauvre France!’

  21

  When the invitation arrived, delivered by a French sailor on a motorbike, Mabel Melville decided to turn it down. But it was impressive right enough. That’s to say pretentious, typed on thick pre-war paper – the waste!

  Capitaine de vaisseau Luc le Gallois, Free French Naval Forces (Clyde), invited Mme M. Melville and Mlle J. Melville to participate... the fourth anniversary of the tragic events concerning the contre-torpilleur Fronsac... weather conditions permitting, the launch conveying the delegation would leave Princes Pier at 11 a.m. on 30 April 1944.

  Mrs Melville sighed. Unexpectedly, she missed her long-dead husband. Not that Charlie would have had any useful advice. A timid man, he would have second-guessed what she might want. Still, even mocking his suggestions (‘Och, Charlie, for heaven’s sake!’) would have steadied her.

  Searching out her last pad of Basildon Bond, she composed a polite note to the Commandant. She excused herself on the grounds that such a ceremony would put too great a strain on Jacqueline, whose nerves were easily upset. She was sure the Commandant would understand. She was grateful for his considerate offer.

  Mrs Melville did not tell Jackie about either the letter or her reply. So when the phone rang and Jackie answered it – ‘Hello, my little spy!’ – it took her some moments to recognise the voice of Françoise’s father.

  ‘Why don’t you want to come with us on the boat next week? Your grandmother, she didn’t tell you? But I have kept two special places for you on the boat, I have ordered a special wreath. You only have to decide what to write on the card...’

  Jackie dropped the telephone from her ear and glanced over her shoulder. Mrs Melville, standing behind her, took up the receiver. The Commandant, it seemed, did most of the talking. When she was finally allowed to hang up, she walked over to where Jackie was sitting.

  ‘Are you a sensible, big girl now? Can I trust you to behave?’

  ‘Och, Granny!’

  ‘You’re to keep your mouth shut about what you and I know. D’you understand that? We’ll be going on this boat trip, this expedition, after all. He just keeps on about it, and, well... it would look strange not to go now. Strange and rude. I don’t want that big fellow in his uniform getting ideas.’

  ‘But, Granny...’

  ‘You can think of it this way. If it’s not your daddy you’re grieving for, then think of all those poor French sailors who are dead and gone, sure enough. So the wreath and such-like is for them. Have you got that in your head, young lady?’

  ‘Okay, Granny.’

  ‘Don’t you “okay” me! A plain English yes is what I’m wanting out of you.’

  ‘Yes, Granny.’

  *

  Uncle Mike came too. Jackie thought he had changed. It wasn’t just that he was wearing a British sort of battledress now, with a black beret and a POLAND shoulder flash. His face was redder, more weathered-looking. He had a leg that was sore from an accident. And he seemed quieter altogether, less of his daft remarks and jokes.

  ‘Any news from your mother?’

  ‘Aye, she was through from Canada for my birthday. That’s fifth of March. I was thirteen. She was bringing in a B-17, I think it was, a Flying Fortress...’

  ‘How’s she keeping?’

  ‘Fine, fine. She gave me an American book about sea life. Big colour pictures of giant squid and such. Wee bit childish, you know. Not about science and tidal zones. I like reading about tidal zones.’

  ‘Did she ask after me?’

  ‘No, not at all. She’s very sad about a friend of hers who got killed. A Canadian man who used to fly with her. But, Uncle Mike...’

  ‘Remember the man’s name?’

  ‘No, sorry. See, Uncle Mike, I need to ask you something. It was you told mother my dad wisna dead, that right? How did you find out?’

  ‘As you say here, curiosity killed the cat. I tell you another time.’ His English was amazing now. But still that funny rat-tat way of pronouncing.

  *

  The boat was quite large, a peacetime pleasure launch with a long windowed saloon. A dozen or so people had gathered on Princes Pier, coat collars up against the snell north-wester coming in across the water. Mrs Melville wore black and a small, surprising black hat with lacy trimmings; Jackie was not allowed to wear her parka but was fastened into a navy-blue woollen coat with horn buttons. There was a Catholic naval chaplain, a photographer from the Greenock Telegraph and three or four silent French women in foreign raincoats. As the Commandant reminded everyone, most of the bereaved families had returned to France four years ago, after the Armistice. Françoise was not there, either. Perhaps she was feared of sea-sickness.

  Le Gallois himself, flanked by four French marines in parade uniforms, was already standing on the launch, welcoming the guests as they made their way down the gangplank.

  ‘Shoosky! Come and talk to me when we get going.’

  In the wheelhouse, as the engines began to vibrate, le Gallois said: ‘The salvage men have just started work on her. Preliminary survey. They have a lighter alongside and ladders. So we keep well clear, and put the wreaths down in open water where she first sank. Then, afterwards, you and I will go across and see what’s happening on board.’

  He pulled a business card out of his pocket. ‘That supervisor who came to see me left me his very grand carte de visite: Lang & Wilson’s, shipbreakers, operations engineer Mr Alexander Ketling. Shoosky, you are making a funny face, do you know him?’

  ‘I met him. Two times – three times. But it was a year or so back.’

  ‘Not my type. A reptile. All dockyards in the world have them, waiting with contracts when you come in for refit. Not your best pal, I hope?’

  The launch cast off and headed out into the Firth. The Commandant ordered the helmsman to take a big circle out into the anchorage so that the passengers could see the vessels mustering for convoy: rusty American ‘Liberty’ ships with goal-post gantries for unloading tanks; a two-funnelled liner discharging a file of soldiers into a ferry; a flat-topped aircraft carrier; a long British battleship dazzle-painted black and grey.

  Further out, masking the hulk of Fronsac, lay a cruiser whose flanks showed red-leaded scars of damage. ‘Back from the Arctic convoys,’ explained le Gallois. The man from the Telegraph and one of the French women began to take photographs. Le Gallois frowned, then shrugged.

  A buoy with a tricolour pennant was bobbing in the dredged channel off the Greenock waterfront. The launch slowed, frothed for a moment astern, then switched off engines. In the silence, the Commandant saluted, then removed his cap and with one gloved hand slipped a wreath into the water. A French lady in a veil threw some flowers. Jackie threw the wreath provided for her and Mrs Melville. She had written the word ‘Love’ on the label, but couldn’t think how to go on before it was time to throw.

  As the priest opened his book, Jackie’s wreath began to sail briskly away. Alarmed, she looked up and saw that Greenock itself, the tier upon tier of grey stone tenements ranged up the hillside above them, was rushing past her towards Argyll and the distant Atlantic. For a moment she felt sick; a vertigo, but also a terror. Then the launch trembled as the engines growled back to life, spilled a pile of foam from the stern and drove against the incoming tide-stream. Greenock hesitated and came to rest again.

  The priest read from his book. The Commandant made a long speech in French. The Marines blew their bugles. The Commandant saluted several more times and so did Major Szczucki. Jackie noticed how Uncle Mike did a funny salute with two fingers squeezed together. Polish, huh? More like what the Boy Scouts did, if you asked her.

  When the launch returned to the pier there was a lunch on board, served by the Ma
rines wearing white gloves. The bread was not loaves but long, crisp sticks made in the French naval bakery, and something sharp and liquid had been added to the lettuce instead of salad cream. There was wine, which some of the ladies drank. Jackie thought that was very unsuitable.

  Afterwards, the guests went ashore. Major Mike explained to Mrs Melville that he was staying on board and would be back at Union Street in the evening.

  ‘Why don’t we take your little friend along?’ suggested le Gallois. ‘An adventure for her. Not so little, anyway. She is growing tall now.’

  ‘No, I think not. No.’

  ‘Why not? You could keep an eye on her.’

  Mike said in French: ‘The dead – they are still on board. I mean, it’s not for a child. A girl who has lost her father on that ship.’

  Le Gallois gave him a long, considering look. Then he said: ‘Well, yes, the crew, the poor creatures. Whatever may be left of them now. It’s the first problem I must discuss with Ketling today. Bad to think about.’ He turned to Jackie and suddenly smiled at her. ‘Still, what a pity not to give a treat to this one. Elle sera belle, tu verras.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘That you will be a great beauty one day. Even better than your mother.’

  ‘But I’ve got spectacles,’ said Jackie, aghast. The two men began to laugh loudly at her. Why, what was so funny? What had she done wrong? Behind the spectacles, tears pricked her eyes.

  *

  ‘I have, then, three things to do this afternoon,’ the Commandant told me. ‘One: my dead sailors. Bones, I suppose. The salvage men must be reminded to take proper care of anything they find.’

  The wind had risen. Wedged in the wheelhouse as our launch bumped and pitched across the Firth towards the wreck, le Gallois lit a king-size Pall Mall. ‘Two: to tell these guys about the explosives. The big bang – that was only one magazine and some of the fuel. Down aft, she is still crammed with live depth charges. I didn’t want to alarm Ketling before, but I have to tell him about them now. I have the list: sixteen of these fat brutes, still in their launching chutes. Cut into one of those with a burner flame and – pouf! – Mister Ketling and his boys are fish food. Well, and then the matter of the box. That’s three.’

  The launch slowed and turned sharply into the wind. An overhanging steel cliff leaned out of the sea a few yards from us, a long, rusty wall banded with brown and green tide marks. Frayed lengths of rope hung down from above, swinging and slapping against the side. The launch edged along towards the stern and came to a pontoon with ladders; men in worn overalls caught and steadied us both as we leaped to the raft.

  I jumped, landed, straightened up and found myself looking into Johnston’s face. ‘Mr Ketling, hello! Didn’t we last meet in your office, in Rosyth...?’ But Johnston, after a moment’s expressionless stare, had turned away to greet the Commandant.

  We scrambled up the ladders to what had been the deck, now tilted so steeply that we had to cling to a web of ropes run up by the salvage crew. The stench of a dead ship hit us, an overwhelming reek of rotting seaweed, fuel oil, burnt paintwork and putrid deck-head wadding. Overhead, a few gulls balanced and a red danger flag cracked in the wind.

  The Fronsac in death seemed gigantic. Above the slanted deck towered the three surviving funnels, stained and spattered by birds and weather. The fourth, an unrecognisable crumple, lay on its side; a blue spark showed where a worker was starting to cut it away. Fronsac was not only listing but was steeply down by the head, so that her bows and forward deck were submerged. The tide was still rising as we watched. Sea water with rainbow gleams of oil was already slopping in and out of the doorway leading up to the bridge.

  Johnston was wearing the gear of a Clydeside gaffer: a brown gabardine raincoat buttoned from chin to ankle, a pork-pie hat, heavy black shoes. As he talked to the Commandant, he kept his back turned to me.

  ‘No, sir, no chance we could get into the forward accommodation. Where the, ehm, the remains might be. Not till the ship’s upright and the silt pumped out of her. Meanwhile, anything of that type we came across, we’d show respect, you know. After all, it’s an Admiralty contract we’re on.’

  The Commandant’s English was awkward but loud. ‘Keep me informed. Mister Ketling, this ship is also our business. I mean this is Free France, not only British Admiralty. They can raise it, but that’s all. Now, Mr Ketling, here’s a list of the munitions. Probably there is more. Fronsac was ready for action when the explosion took place.’

  ‘The tragic explosion, sir. A tragedy we all of us here feel, sir, because...’ His eyes were on the list. ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, no!’ He swung towards the man cutting into the funnel. ‘Dowse that fuckan torch: now, right now!’

  Le Gallois caught my eye and his mouth twitched. Johnston said furiously: ‘Naebody telt us we was cutting into a volcano. I’ll need to phone the office and report this. We cannae proceed till the depth charges are removed. I mean, my lads are no qualified to do that. See, that’s a Royal Navy job, it’s for bomb disposal folk. How’s it they didn’t do it already? That’s scandalous, so it is.’

  ‘Easy, Mr Ketling. Nobody asks Lang & Wilson’s to blow themselves up. Obviously, the British navy will remove all that – I will see to it. But tell me something more fascinating. How will you raise my poor Fronsac, how will you float her to a scrapyard? You are the true expert, Mr Ketling. Tell us.’

  Johnston Melville had pulled off his hat, letting the wind toy unkindly with his flat red hair. But the Commandant’s words seemed to calm him. He began to nod importantly. It was a reassured Mr Ketling who put his hat on again.

  ‘I’ll not be discreet with you, sir, I’m telling you openly: we at Lang & Wilson’s have a big, big problem here. We thought of cutting her into sections. But they wouldnae float safely; her shape is wrong. So she’s needing lifted – all three thousand tons, all in one piece. That means lifting craft alongside. And the silt from inside her wants shifted, and the superstructure needs cut away to bring the weight down.’

  He glanced at the man with the acetylene burner, whose gear was clanging and dragging on the deck as he made his way towards us. ‘You need to grasp this, Commandant: this would be pretty certainly – pretty definitely – the heaviest vessel ever lifted this way. She’s settled eight or nine foot into the mud here. So it means divers going down to tunnel in the dark, working by feel. Black as midnight down there: ye cannae see your hand before you, even with lights.’

  ‘All that, just to tow a wreck to a scrapyard?’

  ‘Ach, months of work in it, sir. And it could all go wrong on us forbye. See, if she’s corroded bad, the lift cables could just saw through the hull like wire through a skelf of cheese. And the tunnelling underneath. There’s boulders down there in the silt. If the tunnelling weakens them, any one of them could fracture. Then the hull would fall back deeper.’

  ‘On top of the divers. In the dark.’

  ‘Right enough, sir. On the divers.’

  Le Gallois reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, but met a look of horror – ah, of course, the depth charges – and stowed the pack away again. ‘And now, Ketling. I want you to show me the chartroom.’

  ‘Chartroom?

  ‘Yes, but we discussed this, how you don’t remember? A code book. In a caisse – how do you say it?’

  ‘A briefcase? What like of case? What are you talking about?’

  ‘He means a cashbox, a little steel cashbox.’ The interruption was mine.

  There was a silence. Once again, an expressionless gaze met my eyes for a few seconds, then dropped.

  ‘Well, precisely, that’s what I mean. Did you find that steel box in the chartroom? Or anywhere?’

  ‘There is no chartroom, sir. Come on till I show you.’

  Holding on to ropes and rails, we stumbled forward to the door leading into the lower bridge. This was now the tide’s edge, the sea lapping over the door-coaming. Looking towards the bows, we could see only a twisted gun platform and the
stub of a crane rising above the water.

  ‘The chartroom was under here. See, it’s high water now; it’s flooded. But even when the tide’s down, there’s nothing left – took the main force of the explosion, ye with me? Bust-up steel furniture, lagging from the ventilation trunking, every kinna wreckage – just a damned mess.’

  ‘So you have been in there?’

  ‘Aye, right, I climbed in. But didny get far. None of your case, your box, anyhow. Never saw anything of that kind.’

  He paused, then added: ‘I’ll need to warn the lads about the depth charges now. And then ashore to the phone.’ He walked away to where his crew were waiting, clapping their gauntlets to keep warm.

  Commandant le Gallois nodded. He was staring forward, at the cold, scummy expanse of water over the Fronsac’s bows.

  ‘Take a look, Shoosky. That’s where the forward accommodation was. Under there. The mess deck, where the hatches jammed. All those lads who drowned before they burned, or burned before they drowned. They are still there, Shoosky.’

  ‘Four years ago, Commandant. You can’t help them now.’

  ‘The morphine jags? The razor blades given to them? Those bare arms reaching out of scuttles too small to squeeze a body through? Is all that true?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all true. But I think now it was not an act of war, and not murder. Even if Kellerman’s confession is true, it was some sort of accident.’

  ‘No accident, never! No. Maybe not Kellerman, but somebody... well! We shall know one day. When France has been liberated by Americans and Poles and Scots and English and even by a few Frenchwomen and Frenchmen. When I have watched these poor bones go home. Then we shall settle accounts, Shoosky.’