Rendezvous-South Atlantic

by Douglas Reeman

  Sub-Lieutenant Dancy, Stannard's assistant for the watch, the signalman, the men at the telegraphs, all parts of the ship. Extensions of his own thoughts and interpretations.

  Just do it, Pilot!' He could not control it any longer. `With the sort of results I've been getting since I took command, I think liferafts are about the most useful things we've got! By God, do you imagine this is bad?'

  Stannard stood his ground, his face angry: `I merely, meant....' He shrugged. `I'm sorry, sir.' He did not sound it.

  ,Well, listen to me, will you?' He kept his voice very low. `The weather is going to get worse, much worse. Before long we will have both watches on deck with steam hoses to cut away the ice. We are up here to do a job as best we can. It does not mean being battened down below and weeping for mother every time it bloody well rains!'

  Stannard turned and beckoned to Dancy. `Co yourself, Sub. Tell the buffer to take all reasonable precautions.' He kept his back to Lindsay. `No sense in killing anyone.'

  Lindsay leaned back in the hard chair, feeling its arms pressing into his ribs on one side then on the other as the old ship rolled heavily in the troughs. He wanted to go out on the wing in spite of the weather and watch the men detailed to replace the lashings on the Carley float. At the same time he knew he must stay where he was. Let them get on with it. Allow them to hate his guts and so work better for it, if that was what they needed.

  He peered at his watch. In fifteen hours they would officially relieve another armed merchant cruiser from this patrol. They would not see her, however, which-was probably just as well. It would do no good for some of the ship's company to see what the other A.M.C. looked like at close range. How they would be looking themselves after a few weeks of this misery.

  The telephone buzzed again. `Float's secure, sir.'

  `Very good.'

  Lindsay rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles rasp against his glove. He felt strangely relieved, in spite of his forced calm.

  Dancy entered the bridge, his figure streaming, his face glowing with cold. He sounded pleased with himself.

  `Not too bad, sir.' He clung to the voicepipes as the deck tilted and shuddered sickeningly beneath him. `But by God it's parky out there!'

  Stannard said shortly, `I'm going to the chart room, Sub. Take over.'

  Dancy stood beside the chair and rested his hands below the screen. Lindsay glanced at him curiously. Like the others, he knew little about him. Young, serious looking, but little else to give a clue. Without his cap and duffel coat he might even be described as nondescript.

  He asked, `What were you before you joined, Sub?'

  Dancy said vaguely, 'I-I wrote things.' He nodded. `Yes, I was a writer, sir.'

  Lindsay watched his profile. His own information described Dancy's previous calling as bank clerk. But if he wanted to see himself as something else, what did it matter? Nothing which had happened before the Germans marched into Poland made any sense now. All the same....

  `Tell me about it.'

  Dancy frowned. `Well, I've always ;had this. terrific feeling about the sea, sir. My parents didn't really want me to go into the Navy, and-after school I tried my hand at writing.'

  `Books?'

  Dancy sounded uncomfortable. `Not books, sir.' `What then?'

  `Things, sir'. Dancy looked at him desperately. `About the sea.'

  Stannard came back suddenly. `Sir? Sickbay has just called. The doc wants,' he hesitated, `he asked if you could change course for about twenty minutes. A seaman's

  fallen down a ladder and broken his hip. Doc says he can't fix it with all this motion.'

  Lindsay-looked at him. He could see the man's resentment building up. Waiting for him to refuse the doctor's request. He must think me a right bastard.

  `Very well, Pilot. But work out the additional revs we will need to make up time, and inform the chief.'

  Stannard blinked. `Yes, sir. Right away.'

  As he vanished, Dancy said seriously, 'Of course, I had to do other jobs as well. For a time, that is.'

  Lindsay slid from the chair, wincing as the stiffness brought pain to his legs.

  `Well, there's a job for you now.' He waved around the bridge. `Take over. I'm going to my cabin for a shave.' He saw Dancy's face paling. `Just call pilot if you can't cope.' He tapped the brass telephone by his chair. `Call me if you like.' He grinned at Dancy's alarm. `Good experience later on for your writing, eh?'

  With a glance at the gyro he walked stiffly to the ladder abaft the.wheelhouse and did not look back.

  Dancy remained staring fixedly at his own dim reflection in the spray-dappled glass. He felt riveted to the deck, unable to move. Even his breathing had become difficult.

  Very cautiously he looked over his shoulder. The quartermaster's eyes glittered like stones in the dim compass light, the rest of the bridge party swayed with the ship, like silent drunks.

  Nothing had changed, and the realisation almost unnerved him. He was in sole command of this ship and some two hundred and fifty human beings.

  The quartermaster, for instance. How did he see him? he wondered. Authority, an officer in whose hands he was quite willing to entrust his life?

  . He asked suddenly, `How is she handling, Quartermaster?'

  The seaman, McNiven, stiffened. He had been watching the ticking gyro, holding the staggering ship dead on course, so what the hell was wrong with Dancy? His eyes flickered momentarily from the compass, sensinga trap of some sort. -

  'All right.' He waited. `Sir.'

  He had been thinking about his last leave in Chatham. The girl had seemed fair enough. But after a few pints under your belt you could get careless. He stirred uneasily, just as he had when the bloody Aussie navigator had spoken to the skipper about the sickbay. Suppose that bloody girl had given him a dose? What the hell should he do?

  Dancy said, `Oh, in that case,' he smiled through the gloom, `carry on.'

  McNiven glared at Dancy's back. Stupid sod, he thought. Carry on. That's all they can say.

  Unaware of the quartermaster's unhappy dilemma, Dancy continued to stare straight ahead. It was true what he had told the captain. Partly. He had always loved the sea and ships, but his parents' means and openopposition had prevented his chances of trying for Dartmouth. At the bank he had often met a real naval officer. He used to come there when he was on leave to draw money, and Dancy had always tried to be the one to serve him. He had listened mesmerised to the man's casual comments about his ship, and the exotic places like Singapore and Bombay, Gibraltar and Mombasa. And later he had let his craving, his desperate imagination run riot.

  He sometimes told himself that but for the war he would have gone raving mad at the bank. Mad, or turned to crime, robbing the vault, and making old Durnsford, the manager, beg on his knees for his life. He knew too that if the war had not come to save him he would have stayed on at the bank. No madness or crime, just the miserable day to day existence, made endurable only by his imagination.

  At King Alfred when he had been training for his temporary commission he had met another cadet of about his

  own age. An Etonian, someone seemingly from another planet, he had transformed so much in Dancy's caution and suburban reserve. And 'it had been catching.. When Dancy had gained the coveted gold stripe and had been sent to the little armed yacht at Bristol, the first lieutenant had asked him about his earlier profession. Profession. He could still remember that moment. Not job or work. Or business, as his mother would have described it. It had seemed quite natural to lie. `I'm a writer,' he'd said. It had been easy. The officer had been impressed, just as Commander Lindsay had been. Writers were beyond the reach of Service minds. They were-different and could not be challenged.

  Stannard slammed back through the door and stared at him.

  `Where's the cap'n, for Chrissake?'

  'He left me in charge.' Dancy's eyes wavered under the Australian's incredulous gaze.

  Stannard muttered, `Must be off his bloody head!' He looked at
McNiven. `I'm going to alter course to zero-twozero in half a sec. I'll just inform the sickbay.' He glanced at Dancy. `In charge. Jesus!'

  Lindsay completed the shave and studied his face critically in the mirror. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his neck looked sore from wearing the towel under his duffel coat. But the shave, the hot water refreshed him, and he wondered how the surgery was going on the seaman's hip.

  He glanced towards his other cabin and pictured the bunk beyond the door. The warm, enclosed world below the reading lamp. Perhaps later he might snatch'some proper sleep.

  Jupp padded into the cabin and, laid a silver coffee pot carefully between the fiddles on a small table.

  He said, `The old girl's takin' it quite well, sir. Not too bad at all.'

  Lindsay sat in a chair and stretched out his legs gratefully.

  `At least the decks aren't:, awash all the time. That's something.'

  The telephone rattled tinnily, and when he clapped it to his ear he heard Stannard say, `The doc's reported that he's finished, sir. I'm about to alter course, if that's all right by you?'

  `Good. Carry on, Pilot.'

  He felt the deck tremble, a sudden tilt as the helm went over, and saw the curtains on the sealed scuttles standing out from the side as if on invisible wires. The sea boomed along the hull, angry and threatening, and then subsided with a slow hissing roar to prepare another attack.

  The telephone buzzed again.. .

  `Captain.' He raised the cup to his lips, watching Jupp as he stooped to pick a crumb from the carpet.

  Stannard sounded terse. 'W/T office has picked up an S.O.S., Sir. Plain language. It reads, Am under attack by German raider.'' He paused, clearing his throat. `Seems to be a Swedish ship, sir, probably a mistake on the Jerry's part.'

  Lindsay snapped, `Keep on to it!' He dropped the cup unheeded on the tray. `I'm coming.'

  He bounded up the ladder and found Stannard waiting outside the W/T office door. Two operators were crouched below their sets, and Petty Officer Telegraphist Hussey had also appeared to supervise them, his pyjamas clearly visible under his jacket.

  He saw Lindsay and said awkwardly, `Was just having a nap, sir. Had a feeling something like this might happen.' He was not bragging. Old hands often found themselves called to duty by instinct, and Lindsay had no intention of questioning it.

  Lindsay asked, `What do you make of it?'

  From the door Stannard said, `She gave a position, sir. I've got it plotted on the chart. She's about ninety miles due north of us.'

  Hussey looked up from his steel chair. `Someone's acknowledged, sir.'

  Lindsay bit his lip. `That'll be Loch Glendhu, the other A.M.C.'

  Hussey added after a pause, `Dead, Sir. Not getting a peep now.'

  Stannard said uneasily, `That might mean anything.'

  `Let me see your calculations.' Lindsay brushed past him into the chart room. In spite of the steam pipes it was damp and humid:, the panelled sides bloomed with condensation.

  'Loch Glendhu should be pretty near there, sir, according to our intelligence log.' Stannard seemed calm again, his voice detached and professional.

  Lindsay stared at the neatly pencilled lines and bearings on the chart. Loch Glendhu was bigger than Benbecula and better armed. But no match for a warship. Perhaps she would haul off and report to base for instructions.

  `Keep a permanent listening watch for her. Tell Hussey to monitor everything.' .

  What the hell was a Swedish ship doing up here anyway? Probably using the Denmark Strait as a matter of safety. Bad weather was better than being sunk by mistake in the calmer waters to the south.

  `Lay off a course to intercept, Pilot.'

  He recalled Fraser's words. I can give you sixteen knots. It would take over five hours to reach the neutral ship's position. Longer if he waited for instructions from some duty officer in the Admiralty operations' room. Five hours for men to die beyond reach or hope.

  He realised that he was sweating badly in spite of the unmoving air, could feel it running down his spine like iced water. Without effort he could see the low grey shape on the horizon, feel the breath-stopping explosions as the raider's shells had torn steel and flesh to fragments all around him. He tried not to look at the nearest scuttle with its sealed deadlight. Tried to shut it from memory.

  Lindsay asked, `Have you got it yet?'

  Stannard put down his brass dividers and looked up from the chart. `Course would be zero-one-zero, sir.'

  Lindsay nodded. `Not would be, Pilot, is. Bring her round and get the chief on the telephone.'

  He realised that Goss was on the bridge, his heavy face questioning and worried.

  He said, `The A.M.C. we're relieving is probably going to assist another ship, Number One.'

  Goss nodded jerkily. `I know. I just heard. Neutral, isn't she?' It sounded like an accusation.

  `Nobody's neutral up here.'

  Stannard called, `The chief's on the phone, sir.' Lindsay took it quickly. 'Loch Glendhu's in trouble, Chief.'

  Fraser sounded miles away. `I'll give you all I've got. When you're ready.'

  Lindsay looked at the others. `We'll see what we can do.' To Stannard he added, `Right. Full ahead together.'

  The. telegraphs clanged over, and far below, enshrouded in rising steam on his footplate, Fraser watched the big needles swing round the twin dials and settle on FULL.

  Slightly below him he saw his assistant, Lieutenant Dyke, grimacing at him and shaking his head. His lips said, `She'll knock herself to bits.'

  Fraser's lips replied, `Bloody good job.'

  Then the noise began to mount with each thrashing revolution, the machinery and fittings quivering to join in with their own particular din, and Fraser forgot Dyke and everything else but the job in hand.

  4

  A ship burns

  Still nothing from W/T office, sir.' Stannard sounded wary.'

  Lindsay nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the ship's labouring bows. Benbecula was no longer riding each wavecrest but smashing through the angry water like a massive steel battering ram. The spray rose in an almost unbroken curtain around the forecastle, crumbling in the wind to rain against the bridge screens like pebbles, and the motion' was savage. Every strut and frame in the superstructure seemed to be rattling and protesting, and as the sea sluiced up and over the well deck Lindsay saw the foot of the foremast standing like an isolated pinnacle ,in the great frothing white flood. He wondered briefly what the lookout would feel in his snug pod, and if the mast was quivering to the onrushing water.

  A quick glance at his watch told him that they should sight something soon, if something there was. The hours since that short, feeble burst of morse had felt like days, and all the while the ship had crashed and rolled, pitched and battered her way forward into the teeth of sea and wind alike.

  There was a metallic scrape above the bridge and he, imagined Maxwell in his control position testing the big rangefinder, cursing his spray-smeared-lenses. It was a good rangefinder, but in a war where weapons had long since outstripped the minds of those who planned day-today survival, it was already out of date. Even the old Vengeur had been allowed some of the better sophisticated detection equipment, and newer ships were fitted with the latest, and even more secret, gear. But Benbecula was right down at the bottom of the list as far as that was concerned. Convoy protection, anti-submarine tactics and strikes on enemy coastal resources took all the precedence, which on paper was only right. But as he stared intently- through the whirring clearview screen Lindsay' wondered what the planners, would think if they were here on the bridge instead of their comfortable nine-tofive offices. It was almost unnerving to imagine the radio operators at this very moment, at Scapa or down in the cellars of the Admiralty. Information and calls for help or advice. A convoy massacred, a U-boat sighted, or some maddening signal about clothing issue and the need to entertain a visiting politician. The telegraphists would be hardened to all of it. Probably sitting there right
now, sipping tea and chatting about their girls, the next run ashore.

  He glanced quickly around the bridge. Tense and expectant, a small, sheltered world surrounded by sea noise and the creaking symphony of metal under strain.

  It was all over the ship by now, and he made a mental note to arrange for the tannoy system to be extended to all decks and flats so that if necessary he could speak to every available man himself.

  He tried to remember the exact layout of his command, see it like some blueprint or open plan. They were all down there listening and waiting. Hearing the sea and feeling the hull staggering as if to fall apart under them. Warm clothing and inflatable lifebelts. Those little red lights which were supposed to show where a man was drifting in the water.

  Stannard said, `Time, sir.' He sounded less weary now.

  Alert, or maybe frightened like most of them.

  Lindsay felt the sudden dryness in his throat. As I am. `Very well, Pilot.'

  He reached forward and held his thumb on the small red button. Just a while longer he hesitated. It was their first time together. As a ship's company. He cursed himself for his nagging anxiety and thrust hard on the button.

  The alarm bells were muffled, but nevertheless he could hear them screaming away throughout the ship, and the instant clatter of feet on bridge ladders, the dull thuds of watertight doors slamming shut.

  As messengers and bosun's mates hurried to voice-pipes and telephones the reports started to come in from every position.

  `Number Six gun closed up!'

  `Number Four gun closed up!'

  `Damage control party closed up!'

  The mingled voices and terse acknowledgements sounded unreal, tinny. Through the drifting spray he saw' crouching figures hurrying towards the forward guns, and could almost feel the icy metal of shell hoists and breeches.

  Stannard said, `Ship closed up at action stations, sir.

  Lindsay eyed him searchingly. `Good. Three minutes. Not at all bad.'

  He swivelled in the chair and looked at the figures which had filled the bridge. His team for whatever would happen next.