Lambert shrugged. ‘Routine convoy, that’s all.’
‘Routine my arse! Not known convoys before, run through Alex to Trinco. Not that you’d say, I s’pose.’
‘That I wouldn’t.’ Lambert looked surprised. ‘Where d’you hear about Trinco, then?’
Ramm winked. ‘A little bird told me. Jenny Wren to be precise. Know we were embarking Wrens, did you?’
‘Not officially, GI. And you—’
Ramm jeered. ‘Come off it. Accommodation’s all ready, as near the officers as possible, lucky sods. Met one of ‘em ashore and got her talking. Ever hear the one about the Wren that went for a swim on a cold day, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Two blue tits came out.’ Ramm gave a loud laugh. ‘Better get that letter done, Yeo, or subby’ll close the mail.’ He left the mess; Lambert stared after him with a jaundiced eye. Thick as a plank, was Ramm, like all gunnery rates in Lambert’s view. The signal staff were the brains of the outfit, the ones without whom all would be lost. Even Lord Nelson had depended on his signal lieutenant, among other things to get that last message hoisted for the eyes of the fleet. Ramm was all gas and gaiters, loud voice, left-right-left along the deck and swing those arms, cap square on his head and boots banging like Ramm himself on a night’s liberty. Lambert sighed, finished his letter, put it in the envelope, left the flap open for subby to get his thrill, and wrote S. W.A.L.K. on the back flap. He could only hope Doris was OK and would remain so, what with the perishing air raids and all. What he would do without that figure he knew not. Doris was his mainstay in a wicked and now dangerous world, always there to come back to. As Lambert got off the mess stool he reflected, not for the first time, that the sealing, loving kiss would in fact be the tip of the censoring officer’s tongue...and as he was thinking this the tannoy from the bridge came alive.
‘Commodore coming alongside starboard.’
Lambert left the mess, depositing his letter in the mail box on the way to the starboard accommodation ladder. The Commodore would expect his yeoman of signals to attend upon him: there were often last-minute signals for the shore. As he reached the upper platform of the accommodation ladder and stood at the salute for Kemp’s embarkation, he saw the last drifter, the one that would take the mail and the dockyard mateys, lying off to come alongside after the Commodore. A lot of young faces looking up from beneath floppy-brimmed hats of navy blue: Wrens. Some were looking seasick already, for there was a chop on the waters of the Tail o’ the Bank.
TWO
I
Captain William Champney, Master of the Wolf Rock, was also at the accommodation ladder to welcome the Convoy Commodore. He was not without a degree of wariness: this was to be his first experience of having a commodore aboard, the first time his command would wear the Convoy Commodore’s pennant, and he suspected there might be friction. Captain Champney was not a man to share his own command and he had heard yarns of commodores who tried to take control of the ship. Not many, but a few. The facts of seafaring life and of maritime law were that the Master and no-one else was in full command. The Convoy Commodore was no more than a passenger as regards the conduct of the ship in which he found himself. His responsibilities were to the convoy as a whole, to act as co-ordinator and as leader — not dissimilar from the role of an admiral commanding a fleet of warships, who commanded the fleet itself but did not interfere with the duties of the captain of the flagship. Some convoy commodores, notably those who had themselves been admirals and were now on the retired list and recalled to serve in a very different role, seemed — so Captain Champney had heard — to think that when not aboard a King’s ship they could do just as they wished.
But probably not Kemp: Kemp, as Champney knew, was RNR and as a basic merchant service officer he would be easier to get along with. They had met at the afternoon’s conference, had had words before Kemp had been taken off by the Flag Officer in Charge. Champney had liked Kemp’s very direct eyes and his easy manner, assured but far from pompous.
Now, he watched as Kemp climbed the ladder, reached the top platform and gave a friendly grin. Kemp said, ‘A dirty-ish night, Captain, but not unusual for the Tail o’ the Bank, of course.’
‘Not unusual, no. Welcome aboard, Commodore.’
‘Thank you.’ Kemp looked shrewdly at Champney, appreciating what he had already seen that afternoon, an alert face, weather-beaten like his own. Obviously very tired: keeping the seas in wartime was a tough and demanding job, and the one man who had always to be on the bridge in danger or difficulty, in altering formation, when entering and leaving port and a hundred other times, was the Master. It was often enough a case of ‘watch on, stop on’ as the saying went. ‘You’re all ready for the off, I take it?’
Champney nodded. He introduced Harrison, his chief officer. The chief engineer, he said, was busy in the engine-room and sent his apologies.
‘That’s all right,’ Kemp said, and caught the eye of Yeoman of Signals Lambert. ‘All well at home, Yeoman?’
‘Yessir, thank you, sir.’
‘How was Portsmouth?’
‘Bit knocked about like, sir. Barracks and all...and a lot o’ civvies killed in the last raid, sir.’
‘It’s turned into a filthy war,’ Kemp said, and added, ‘All right, Yeoman, no signals, you can go and get some sleep until the convoy weighs — but have a signalman standing by on the bridge please.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lambert saluted and turned away, his signal clipboard in his hand. It was just like Kemp to take the trouble to ask personal questions, not nosey ones, and take an interest. They’d not met for a month, not since Kemp had brought the last convoy home and they’d both had leave; it was good, Lambert thought, to be back with him again even though he’d have preferred to stay on permanent leave and bugger the convoys — but if you had to go to sea, then Commodore Kemp was the right bloke to go with.
Coming fast past Lambert and making for the starboard ladder was Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan, looking harassed.
‘Commodore aboard?’ he asked.
‘Yessir. Reckon you’ve missed the boat, you ‘ave, sir.’ Finnegan moved on fast and Lambert grinned to himself. Subby had had his head down, most likely. He’d come aboard earlier, off one of the drifters, having attended upon the Commodore at the conference but not having been asked to remain behind when Kemp had gone off with FOIC and the Chief of Staff. Kemp would probably give him a bollocking now, for not being with the others at the ladder. Kemp, however friendly he might be, was a stickler for things being done properly and never let slackness pass.
II
The three WRNS officers were to be accommodated in the mid-ship superstructure, using the deck officers’ spare cabins. First Officer Forrest was in a single cabin, the two Third Officers, Susan Pawle and Anne Bowes-Gourley, shared a cabin in which an extra bunk had been fitted at the start of the war. The Wrens, nineteen of them under the immediate charge of Petty Officer Wren Rose Hardisty, were accommodated in the engineer officers’ accommodation aft, in five four-berth cabins, spaces also fitted-out for possible passenger use in wartime. A little before sailing Jean Forrest encountered Kemp outside the door of the Master’s spare cabin, now allocated for the Commodore’s use.
She gave him one of her bright smiles. ‘Oh, Commodore, I do hope you didn’t mind my speaking to you this morning?’
‘That’s all right, Miss Forrest.’ Kemp’s tone was gruff: he had an idea the encounter was not entirely fortuitous; but he had no wish to be impolite. He asked, ‘Has your party settled in all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Commodore.’ She paused: Kemp’s hand was on his cabin doorknob. She went on with a rush, ‘It’s such a new experience for all of us, you know. Aboard a ship — well, there can be problems as I’m sure you’ll realize.’
Kemp smiled briefly. ‘Yes. Men. They can cause problems, but I’m sure you’ll cope, Miss Forrest. However, if you’re in any difficulty, you can call upon me. You’re part of my responsibility, of course, as a Naval dra
ft.’
‘Yes, thank you, Commodore. I’m—’
‘Goodnight, Miss Forrest.’
Kemp turned away abruptly. There was something potentially effusive about First Officer Forrest and that was not to be encouraged. He wondered if she would find a man aboard, but reflected that she was probably a snob. WRNS officers had a reputation, perhaps not wholly deserved; they were all, or nearly all, young ladies of impeccable upbringing who were said to bed only with officers of commander’s rank or above. Jean Forrest just might settle for the ship’s chief officer and what Kemp had seen of Harrison, albeit briefly, had suggested that he might well be co-operative. But time would tell. Just one thing was cast-iron certain: if she had her eye on himself, she was barking up quite the wrong tree. Not only was Kemp faithful to his wife, but convoy commodores on sea duty didn’t dirty their own nautical doorsteps or risk ships and mens’ lives by having their minds on dalliance of that sort. But Kemp found part of his mind on the general subject of the WRNS when, at a few minutes before midnight, stations for leaving harbour were taken up and he joined Captain Champney on the bridge. He asked Champney if he’d sailed with women before.
Champney hadn’t. Not, that was, other than his wife on the occasions when his company’s regulations had permitted the Master’s wife to accompany him. ‘You’ll have had experience of them in the liners, of course.’
‘Yes. But there are differences.’
Champney laughed. ‘Sure thing! Lavatory and washing facilities, as an instance. I’ve had to mark off the washrooms and—’
He was interrupted by the yeoman of signals. ‘Message from the Flag, sir, addressed Commodore. Report when ready to proceed, sir.’
Kemp lifted an eye towards Champney. ‘All ready, Captain?’
‘All ready.’
Kemp said, ‘Make to the Flag, ready in all respects.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Kemp and Champney paced the bridge. In the wheelhouse, the helmsman stood ready at the wheel. Chief Officer Harrison was seen in the eyes of the ship, ready to supervise the operation of weighing the anchor when the order came from the bridge. The lookouts were in position. The wind was still cold and seemed to be increasing. A few lights flickered from Albert Harbour but otherwise the area was darkened. Greenock lay to port, Helensburgh and the Gareloch to starboard. Quickly on the heels of Kemp’s response to the Flag, another signal came, this time addressed generally to all ships in company. Lambert reported again: ‘From the Flag, sir, shorten in cable.’
Champney took that up. He called down to the fo’c’sle-head. ‘Shorten in, Mr Harrison, two shackles on deck.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Harrison passed the order to the winchman. When the steam winch had been put into gear the slips and bottle-screws were knocked away and the weight of the cable came on to the drums of the winch. As the drums revolved and the cable came home, with seamen on the fo’c’sle directing the wash-deck hoses on to the links to clear away the Clyde mud before they dropped down into the cable locker, there was a metallic rattle and a cloud of steam from the fore well-deck, steam that was blown across by the buffeting wind.
When the second joining shackle appeared at the lip of the hawse-pipe, Harrison stopped the winch and reported to the bridge: ‘Shortened in, sir!’
Champney lifted an arm in acknowledgement. The next signal from the Nelson was as brief as the others and was final. The yeoman of signals reported, ‘Weigh and proceed in sequence as previously ordered, sir.’
Kemp caught Champney’s eye. ‘We go ahead of the main body of the convoy, Captain. Immediately after the destroyer escort.’
‘Yes. I was at the conference too, Commodore.’
Kemp grinned. ‘Of course you were — I’m sorry! No offence?’
Champney grinned back. ‘Of course not.’ All the same, Champney reckoned a point had been made. As Master, he didn’t propose to be treated as a mere watchkeeping officer. He kept a careful lookout as the destroyers of the escort began moving ahead past Rosneath Patch, sliding past the sides of the Wolf Rock and the other ships of the convoy, slim shadows in the night, moving as to war, moving to take up their positions ahead of the merchantmen for the long passage out through the anti-submarine boom laid across from Cloch Point to Dunoon and on beyond the Cumbraes to the open waters off Ailsa Craig where they would take up station on the flanks of the convoy to act as an anti-U-boat screen. As the last of the destroyers came up on his port quarter Champney called the order to weigh and rang down Stand By Main Engines on the telegraph. A matter of minutes later the Commodore’s ship was moving out in the wakes of the destroyers, to be followed in their due time by the rest of the convoy. Behind them would come the cruiser squadron, and finally the great battleship Nelson. Once into the open sea off the Northern Irish coast, a rendezvous would be made with the two fleet aircraft-carriers, Indomitable and Victorious, on passage north about from the Firth of Forth and currently coming down past the Outer Hebrides, through the Minches with their own destroyer escort.
Aft of the bridge as the Wolf Rock passed the boom, moving cautiously through the darkness and following the shaded blue stern-light of the destroyer immediately ahead, Third Officer Susan Pawle stood in the lee of one of the ship’s lifeboats, between it and the funnel casing. Heat and fumes were blown down upon her from the funnel as the wind eddied around the open decks; it made her cough, made her eyes run. There was a flap of canvas where one of the boats’ covers had been improperly secured, and it had an eerie sound like the tappings of a supposed corpse inside a coffin...horrid simile, she thought, and shuddered. The deck was lifting slightly to rough water, and she clutched at a davit for support. She didn’t like the motion and she didn’t like the fumes but she stayed where she was and would remain there until the ship had passed Toward Point and the entry to Rothesay Bay where not so long ago she had been happy. Only twenty-three and for a little over a year married to an RNR lieutenant serving as First Lieutenant of a boat of the Seventh Submarine Flotilla based on Rothesay. That submarine had failed to return from a patrol and she had been left shattered, to see in her recurring nightmares a body trapped in a broken, depth-charged steel hull, floating sightlessly, bumping against the torpedo-tubes and the useless periscope housing and the spider’s-web of pipes that threaded through the close confines of the boats.
Susan had been working at the Greenock naval base, handy for Rothesay, and it had been no problem for her to get night leave when Johnny’s submarine had been in Rothesay, lying alongside the old depot-ship Cyclops. Nights spent in the Victoria Hotel just behind the pier where the Greenock ferries came in...parties aboard the Cyclops where the submariners relaxed after their patrols...all happy days, so suddenly and cruelly brought to an end. Afterwards she had wanted desperately to get away, and had asked to be reappointed. Passage aboard the Wolf Rock to the base at Trincomalee had been the Admiralty’s sympathetic response, in fact somewhat unexpectedly since requests were often enough met with a dusty answer and an appointment very different from what one wanted.
As the ship came abeam of Toward Point the past came back once more. The point where the ferries, the paddle-steamers from Greenock, had turned to starboard for the entry...The ship moved on, coming off Kilchattan Bay. They had often done the long walk across the high ground from Rothesay to Kilchattan to have a drink in a friendly pub and look across the water to the Cumbraes lighthouse, and the other way to Inchmarnock Water and the great peaks of Arran, Goat Fell rearing to blue skies over Lamlash Bay and the summer-sparkling waters of the Firth of Clyde.
Oh, Johnny, Oh, Johnny, heavens above...They had courted to that song. Once past the island of Bute, Susan, stiff-faced, went below to her shared cabin.
Her cabin mate, Third Officer Anne Bowes-Gourley, stared at her face and asked if she’d seen a ghost or what.
‘I — I—’ she couldn’t go on: of course, Anne didn’t know. She didn’t want to talk about it.
III
Peter Harrison, chief off
icer, had once been a junior second officer in the liners but had fallen foul of authority because he didn’t mix well with passengers, whom he had regarded as perishing nuisances very largely. Not entirely: there were the women, and that had been where his final downfall had come. Peter Harrison had a simple and direct way with women, an approach not unlike that of a stallion or a bull. Select the most likely-looking prospect, usually but not always a married woman travelling without her husband, get her into his cabin, shove a whisky in her hand, put a suitable record on his gramophone, move closer on the settee, then make a grab.
It worked nine times out of ten because he had taken trouble over the selection in the first place, but there was the tenth that cropped up now and again and that woman didn’t usually complain to the Master because she knew she had herself at least partly to blame. But it could happen, and finally it did, that you could pull a complete boner and go too much on appearances. One of those tenths had been both virginal and scandalized and had gone straight along to the purser’s office to lodge the worst kind of complaint, short of professional negligence, that could be made against a ship’s officer.
Sacked, Peter Harrison, tall, blue-eyed and handsome and well-preserved in his middle thirties, had found a coasting berth for a while and then had started the climb back by joining a foreign-going freighter company when war had broken out and there was a shortage of officers due to so many being called into the Royal Naval Reserve. By now the climb back was well under way: one more step in promotion and he would be a master. Which was why he didn’t entirely welcome the fact of women being aboard the Wolf Rock: the temptation would be great, and he had to keep his nose clean. Champney, who knew his record, would be keeping a weather eye lifting, and there was also the Commodore to be stood clear of. In peacetime, the then Captain Kemp had been a well-known shipmaster on the Australia run, and although Harrison’s company had not been Kemp’s, he knew of Kemp by repute. Kemp ran a happy ship always, it was said, but a very taut one.
Convoy East (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 2