His tour of inspection completed, Turnberry went back to the starting-platform and used the voice-pipe to the wheelhouse. Captain Champney answered.
Turnberry said, ‘Chief here, sir. All correct.’
‘Thank you, Chief.’
‘What’s it like up top?’
‘Fair weight of wind, sea increasing, otherwise all quiet. But we’re still in the area where we can expect the Luftwaffe, remember.’
Turnberry grunted. ‘I’ll try not to forget. Meantime, there’s paperwork to see to. I’m going to my cabin if that’s all right, Captain?’
‘All right with me, Chief.’
Turnberry replaced the voice-pipe cover, nodded to his second engineer, and climbed the ladders to the air-lock and the hatch to the engineers’ alleyway. Emerging, he heard girlish laughter coming from the converted spare cabins: the wrens. As he passed an open doorway he saw a male figure, one of his off-watch junior engineers, sitting on a bunk with a girl on his knee. He halted, looming in the doorway. ‘Out of there, lad, pronto.’
The young engineer got to his feet, face scarlet. Turnberry said, ‘Wrens quarters are out of bounds. You know that. If it happens again, you’ll be up before the Captain. Maybe the Commodore too. There’s a touch of the RN aboard now and don’t you forget it.’
Turnberry went on his way, duty done but leaving him with a feeling of age and curmudgeonliness. What was more natural than to seek female company? Turnberry cursed the presence of the Wrens and the threats of dalliance they had brought with them in the middle of a convoy. In a sense, they were worse than Hitler: they were closer, and they would be there all the way to Trinco.
In his cabin, Turnberry started on the paperwork, returns of engine-room stores and bunkers for the company and for the Ministry of War Transport. The official work done, he turned to personal matters. He examined what had become, since his wife had died, his whole interest: his three passbooks. His bank account, and his savings accounts with the Leeds Permanent and the Halifax Building Societies. He was getting quite well lined: his expenses were few, so were his desires. Money mounted when left alone at two percent.
Turnberry was thus engrossed when the strident call of the action alarm burst into his reverie.
FOUR
I
‘Relax,’ Kemp said.
All binoculars were turned on the aircraft, circling distantly, out of range of the ack-ack. Kemp’s first instinct had been to sound the action alarm when the German was sighted, but now he ordered the stand down, the falling-out of the guns’ crews. The intruder had been identified by the yeoman of signals as a Focke-Wulf Kondor, the four-engined long-range reconnaissance aircraft of the Luftwaffe. It could be left to the Seafires, the fighter planes of the Fleet Air Arm now moving along the flight decks of the carriers. It was probably, Finnegan said, from Merignac in Occupied France.
‘Or Norway’, Kemp said. ‘Stavanger...they’re working from there as well now.’
He studied the aircraft. It was very unlikely it would attack; the FW 200s had been known often enough to attack single ships, or stragglers from convoys, but currently the escort would be far too much for a lone reconnaissance aircraft. The bugbear was that she would already have reported by now to the German command; the convoy’s position, course and speed would have been radio-ed, also its composition — the heavy, laden merchant ships and troop transports, the size of the naval escort — the presence of the Nelson and two fleet carriers alone indicating the importance of the convoy. Sooner or later the big attack would come. The U-boat would have made the first report; now the FW had come for a proper bird’s-eye view, and it was likely that the convoy would be shadowed distantly. In the meantime the FW had turned away, beating it for home. It was unlikely, Kemp thought, that it would get away from the Seafires but it wasn’t all that important now: it had done its work.
Now the day was darkening, sinking towards the bleakness of a stormy, windswept night. The rain had come, was slicing across the open bridge-wings of the Wolf Rock, and the ship was labouring somewhat to the swell and the breaking seas that crossed it, giving an uncomfortable motion. Below in her cabin Third Officer Susan Pawle lay sleepless, feeling not so bad so long as she remained flat in her bunk but desperately seasick if she stood up. Her mind was in a turmoil: the ripping apart of the armament ship earlier in the day had brought back her miseries. Something like that could have happened to Johnny for all she knew. The Admiralty didn’t go into details. Johnny could have been blown into fragments, not trapped at all. If so, that was of course a kinder way but it didn’t assuage widowhood.
The recce had left its sinister shadow over all: everyone in the convoy knew the score. It was just a matter of waiting now, and probably the wait wouldn’t be very long. The attack would come before the convoy had moved too far out for the fuel capacities of the German dive-bombers and their fighter escort. Aboard the flagship the Admiral conferred with his staff officers and with the Flag Captain, together with the fleet gunnery officer: all would be on the top line, extra vigilance throughout the convoy and escort, ready-use ammunition lockers rechecked, the parties in the shell-handling rooms deep below the armoured belts set to move fast in getting the shells into the hoists to the guns, damage control parties rehearsing what could happen when the bombs came down so that they would be ready with an instant response.
II
The knock came at Kemp’s cabin door when he’d been about to turn in, fully dressed except for his seaboots and monkey-jacket, to snatch as much sleep as possible before things hotted up. He was not needed on the bridge when things were quiet: Champney and his deck officers had no need of a nanny and Kemp had no desire to appear to be such. Hearing the knock, he gave a sigh: no peace for a commodore.
‘Come in,’ he said testily.
The door opened: it was Jean Forrest.
‘Well, Miss Forrest.’ Kemp’s tone wasn’t welcoming.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Commodore.’
‘Get it off your chest, Miss Forrest, and be sharp about it if you don’t mind. I assume it’s important?’
‘Yes, it is’
Kemp indicated a chair; Jean Forest sat, crossing her legs, hands clasped around a knee, the two-and-a-half blue stripes on each cuff catching the electric light from the deckhead. She said, ‘We have a pregnancy —’
‘What?’
‘A possible pregnancy, I should say. That’s being optimistic though. The girl’s pretty sure.’
‘That’s all we need,’ Kemp said heavily. ‘A damn Wren up the spout! Well, what’s the story?’ He glanced at the brass-bound clock on his bulkhead. ‘In as few words as possible, please, Miss Forrest.’
She told him. When she’d done he asked, ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
‘Well, I have to keep the regulations in mind.’
‘Bugger the regulations...I’m sorry, Miss Forrest —’
‘That’s all right,’ she said quickly. PO Wren Hardisty would have had a fit, probably. ‘But really she ought to be put ashore —’
‘Put ashore?’ Kemp stared, eyes exaggeratedly wide. He gestured towards the deadlighted ports of the cabin. ‘On a Carley float, or something? With Finnegan to navigate?’
‘Not exactly, Commodore. What I meant was, she should be landed in Gibraltar.’
‘The convoy’s not entering Gibraltar, Miss Forrest.’
‘Or Malta.’
‘The convoy as a whole is not entering Malta either. A transfer at sea would be out of the —’
‘I thought perhaps a boat —’
‘Think again, Miss Forrest. The Admiral’s not going to delay the convoy for a pregnant Wren. Nor would I! She’ll have to go through to Alexandria and await passage back to UK. Have you contacted the doctor?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Going to?’
‘I think I should. But —’
Kemp gave a harsh laugh, a sound of no humour. ‘I wouldn’t like any daughter of mine to be examine
d by Dr O’Dwyer — breath like an anaesthetic! However, I suppose it’s the form. Your Wren high command’ll expect it — won’t they?’
She nodded. ‘It’s all very unfortunate.’
‘That’s an understatement. Tell me one thing: does the girl love this man? Did you find that out?’
‘I believe she does, Commodore. I really do. I asked her why, that being the case, she hadn’t got herself off the Trincomalee draft. The answer was quite interesting. The man concerned was also on draft to Ceylon, to Trinco. Seamen replacements for casualties in the Eastern Fleet.’
‘You’re saying she wants to go on with the convoy?’
‘Yes, Commodore.’
Kemp gave a hard laugh. ‘Some hope, once your Wren bigwigs get their teeth into the girl!’
‘Well, the regulations do —’
‘Yes, yes. But I’ve a suspicion it could be a damn sight easier all round if we played Cupid, Miss Forrest. It’s very early days, isn’t it, pregnancy-wise? I mean...she won’t — show is the expression I believe, all that quickly?’
‘That’s true, Commodore, but I gather she’s talked more than she should, which is why PO Hardisty —’
‘Yes, so you said. Let’s sleep on it, Miss Forrest — and you’ll have to see Dr O’Dwyer in the morning. We have to have a care for her health, come what may. That’s the first consideration. Good night, Miss Forrest.’
Kemp got to his feet. So did Jean Forrest. She said, ‘You look terribly tired, Commodore.’ There was what he took to be womanly sympathy in her eyes. He agreed abruptly that he was indeed very tired, and held the door open for her exit. Then he slumped on to his bunk and was dead asleep within the minute.
III
By next morning the weather had worsened. The wind was up to Force Ten on the Beaufort Scale and the wave crests rolled in apparently unending numbers ahead of the convoy, still steaming due west. Spume flew from those crests like a white carpet; the wind howled like a company of evil spirits through the standing rigging. Both the Commodore and the ship’s Master were on the bridge with Chief Officer Harrison, whose watch it was until his relief came up at 0800. Kemp was clearly anxious: the ships of the convoy were scattered all over the show, some of them visible only when they rose between the crests, coming briefly up from the valleys of the deep ocean. The weather had played hell with the station-keeping. Kemp said, ‘It’s the worst lash-up I’ve seen since the early days.’
Champney shrugged. ‘It’s the times we live in. I mean, the sea service is getting thinned out. So many dead, so many yanked off into the RNR. There’s a lack of experience that’s starting to show now.’
‘I don’t envy the destroyers their job this morning,’ Kemp said, scanning the convoy through his binoculars. The destroyers, the shepherds, were everywhere, circling the spread-out convoy, weaving dangerously in and out of the disordered columns, the signal lamps busy as the commanding officers strove to get the merchant ships back into some sort of station. The aircraft-carriers had dropped farther astern, prudently: there was danger of collision while the convoy sorted itself out. Through the spume-carpet the Nelson was no more than semi-visible as the water rose over her fo’c’sle and streamed back along her flush decks, turning her superstructure into an island moving through the sea. The great turrets were submerged for most of the time, appearing now and again like three more islands on the move. As Kemp watched, there was a shout from the yeoman of signals.
‘Flag calling up, sir.’
Kemp waved an arm in acknowledgement. Lambert read off the flagship’s lamp, his words being taken down on a signal pad by the signalman on watch. The message received, Lambert reported to the Commodore, handing over the torn-off message form. Kemp read: Commodore from Flag, s.s. Langstone Harbour dropping astern with engine trouble. Am detaching two destroyers to stand by. Remainder of convoy to maintain formation, course and speed.
‘Formation,’ Kemp said sardonically. ‘All right, thank you, Yeoman.’ He looked around the plunging ships again. Some two hours earlier, when the weather had started its deterioration, the order had gone to all ships to cease the zig zag and steer the mean course of the convoy: there was no likely danger from U-boats in such conditions. ‘Finnegan?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kemp’s assistant came across, sliding downhill along the wing as the Wolf Rock rolled heavily to port.
‘Langstone Harbour, Finnegan.’
‘Dry-cargo, sir. 10,000 tonner. Foodstuffs, for detachment to Malta.’
‘I know that.’ The Malta garrison and civilians had been under long siege, were said to be down to eating rats. The Langstone Harbour was very badly needed but the real chances of her entering the Grand Harbour at Valletta were pretty slim: the Italians were determined that Malta should be starved into submission and they would throw in all they’d got as the convoy came within striking distance of Malta. And now the Langstone Harbour looked like being a sitting duck, at least for a while. Kemp asked, ‘You’ve got the list of convoy? What’s her Master’s name?’
Finnegan brought out a typewritten sheet. He scanned it. ‘Captain Horncape, sir. Weird sort of name —’
‘Horncape? Christian name, Finnegan?’
‘Jake, sir. Captain Jake Horncape.’
Kemp smacked a fist into his palm. ‘Jake Horncape! Well, I’ll be damned! Can’t be anyone else of that name...I don’t recall seeing him at the convoy conference, but of course he’ll have changed. So’ve I, come to that.’
‘You know him, sir?’
Kemp laughed. ‘Knew him, yes. I certainly did! He and I were apprentices together in sail...oh, more than thirty years ago. Our paths never crossed since. We had plenty of fun with that name of his, rounding Cape Horn in the old days!’
‘I’ll bet you had, sir.’ Finnegan had his binoculars to his eyes. ‘Destroyers detaching now, sir. Hindu and Pindari, 34th Flotilla.’
Kemp picked them up, battling through the heavy seas, making for the rear of the convoy. He dictated a short signal to the yeoman, a message of good luck. He asked if Lambert could raise the Langstone Harbour.
‘Yessir.’
‘Then make by light, best wishes and all luck from John Kemp. Thirty-odd years is a long time.’
‘Not from Commodore, sir?’
Kemp said, ‘Not from Commodore, Yeoman.’ As he braced himself against the corkscrew, roll-and-pitch motion of the Wolf Rock, his mind went back over the many years, the long years of sea service from apprentice in sail to Master of a great liner. The days of sail were little more now than a memory, but one that would never fade from the minds of those few mariners left at sea who had served their time under the great spreads of canvas, bowling along before a fresh wind, or tacking into a blustery storm, or lying becalmed in the Doldrums as they dropped down through the South Pacific to come past the Falklands for the terrible east-west passage of Cape Horn, battling into the teeth of the westerlies that stormed around the world’s bottom virtually without cease, to come into the kinder waters of the South Pacific. Then the long run to New Zealand and Australia, or up the coast of South America to Chilean or Peruvian ports to load for home. Largely the cargoes from Peru had been guano, the acrid, stinking droppings of sea birds for use as fertilizer. But it was not the cargoes that Kemp was recalling: it was Jake Horncape, a frivolous youth in those days and one inclined to be slow at times to obey the orders of the Master or mates. On one voyage he had been sent aloft as a punishment, sent to sit on the fore upper tops’l yard minus his trousers whilst the ship had been on passage of the Horn. When ordered down again, he was frozen to the ice-covered yard. Young Kemp had been sent up with one of the fo’c’sle crowd to bring him down. He’d only just about lived, that time. On another occasion he had been confined for three days to the hen coop carried below the break of the fo’c’sle...less lethal, but more smelly. Jake Horncape had survived all that with a rather impish grin on his face, shrugging it off as one of the penalties of going to sea in a world of hard men engaged in what was perh
aps the hardest way ever known of making a living.
Would Jake Horncape survive this lot, with his broken-down engines?
Kemp spoke again. ‘Finnegan, get a signal made to the Flag. I’d like the details of what’s happening aboard the Langstone Harbour.’ Kemp leaned across the guardrail, chin resting on his hands. His mind was still half back in sail, remembering and wishing...sail might have been hard, might have had its almost insuperable difficulties, but at least pregnancy was not one of them.
When the answer came from the Nelson’s signal bridge it didn’t sound too good: the Langstone Harbour’s main shaft was in trouble from a hairline crack in the metal.
Captain Champney, making his own forecast of disaster, rang down to his chief engineer for confirmation. Mr Turnberry’s answer was swift. ‘Curtains, I’d say. She might be able to go ahead dead slow but I wouldn’t be sure.’
Kemp’s face was grim: without power on her main shaft, the Langstone Harbour really was a potential dead duck, sitting prey for the Germans when they came in.
Champney said, ‘She’ll need a tow, Commodore.’
‘Yes. But that’s up to the Admiral.’
‘Or you, surely? It’s your convoy. The Admiral...he’s just the escort.’
Kemp laughed, an edgy sound. ‘It’s not quite as clear-cut as all that, Captain. But if — I say if — it should come to that...do I take it you could pass a tow?’
Champney nodded. ‘Yes, I could, But it’d be better done by those two destroyers. You know the limitations of single-screw ships, and the strain put on any towing ship by constant yawing in a seaway.’
Convoy East (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 5