Convoy East (A John Mason Kemp Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  As the strain came on the whip, the bomb and Kemp began to lift. Slowly, gently, higher and higher...clear soon of the guardrails, buffeted by the gale that slewed them out sideways, starting a terrifying swing. High still; and then a signal from Kemp as he clung to the thin whip of the derrick, and the men on the guys started hauling the arm of the derrick outwards as the clatter of the winch ceased.

  With the bomb, Kemp hung poised over the water’s turbulence, some ten feet clear of the ship’s side, rising and falling as the ship herself rose and fell to the sea’s violence. Then another hand signal and the winch started up again, and the whip’s load was lowered, coming close to the surface — so close, soon after, that both bomb and Commodore vanished for long moments beneath the waves, to reappear again as the water fell away. Kemp’s hand was on the strop. He held a seaman’s knife, blade open and ready. Then, as once again he came clear and visible, he was seen to make a clean, hard, decisive cut, the moment chosen exactly right as the water fell away beneath him, fell away but not too far, and as Champney rang the telegraph to stop, the bomb dropped a matter of no more than a foot, and disappeared beneath the water. The ship moved on under her own impetus, the bomb now safe from the spin of the screw. Kemp made his final hand signal and was swung back aboard. Dripping water, his face pale, he went straight to the bridge.

  ‘Finnegan?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Make to the Flag, from Commodore, bomb disposed of overboard. Will not now require dockyard assistance from Gibraltar.’

  II

  Kemp stripped off in his cabin, had a hot bath run by Botley, then a tot of whisky. He felt deathly tired all of a sudden: the strain told more when you were not so young, some of the resilience both mental and physical left a man. He called the bridge and told Champney he intended turning in for a spell but would be obliged if he was called at once should his presence be needed. Then he crashed down in his bunk, flicked off the light, and was asleep within seconds. A dreamless sleep, virtually total unconsciousness: when he woke it was a moment or two before he remembered where he was and that the threat of the bomb had gone. The motion of the ship told him that the foul weather was with them still. He rang for Botley: when the steward entered his cabin, Kemp learned that he had slept right through the night and that it was now breakfast time.

  ‘Big eats, sir?’ Botley enquired.

  ‘Yes. I’m reasonably hungry. And plenty of coffee. Hot and strong, Botley.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Botley set down the tray of morning tea and departed. Kemp sat up in his bunk, lit a cigarette and drank the tea. He wondered if Champney had been on the bridge all night. Probably not: there was no need for the ship’s Master to work as it were watch-and-watch with the Convoy Commodore. And obviously there had been no alarms or excursions, or he would have been called. Something to be thankful for.

  Breakfast came: corn flakes, fried bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, the hot, strong coffee he had asked for. After it Kemp felt a new man; he shaved and dressed and went up to the bridge to be met by the ship’s chief officer and Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan.

  ‘Morning, Finnegan. Had your breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nothing to report, I gather.’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir. Quiet as you like, all night. There’s just one thing, though. Not what you’d call operational, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kemp lifted an eyebrow. ‘What would I call it?’

  ‘At a guess, sir, I’d say you’d call it a bloody nuisance.’ Finnegan paused. ‘First Officer Forrest, sir. About Wren Smith. The pregnant one,’ he added helpfully.

  ‘Thank you, Finnegan, I’m not too old to have a memory. What is it now? Twins?’

  Finnegan said, ‘You told Miss Forrest you’d see Wren Smith, sir—’

  ‘So I did. Well?’

  ‘She asks when it’ll be convenient, sir.’

  ‘Damn and blast! It’s never going to be convenient — but don’t tell Miss Forrest that, Finnegan.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘All things being equal, I’ll see the girl at...’ Kemp looked at his wrist watch. ‘Four bells, Finnegan. In my cabin.’ He added firmly, ‘Chaperoned.’

  Dismissing pregnant Wren ratings from his mind, Kemp took up his binoculars and stared across the restless, heaving sea. The station-keeping was still not too good; but allowances had to be made on account of the appalling weather. Even a well-practised battle squadron, with all the ships having more or less similar tonnages, speeds and handling characteristics, would have had its work cut out to maintain decent station. But once the weather improved, Kemp would have his yeoman of signals busy, clacking out gentle, or not so gentle, reproofs from the Commodore if a better showing was not made. The Masters wouldn’t like it: they were always an independent-minded lot. Kemp gave an understanding grin across the water: basically, he was one himself. How long, he wondered, was this wretched war going to last? Would he, when at last it was over, be too old to take up his peacetime command again, and sail the seas in tranquillity along the old route to Fremantle, Melbourne and Sydney? Not that it had always been tranquil: the weather was with a seaman in peace as well as war, and both crew and passengers could pose problems for the Master, the final arbiter of right from wrong, the autocrat who was in control of everything aboard and whose judgment had to be that of a seabound God.

  Which led him back to Wren Smith again.

  III

  Kemp went down to his cabin at a little before four bells. Champney was on the bridge again and Kemp had repeated his request to be called at once if needed but otherwise not to be interrupted, though in fact he would have welcomed any diversion from what he believed would prove an ordeal. Wren Smith might manifest one of any number of female characteristics: she might be weepy, she might be brazen, she might be loquacious, she might need to have every word dragged out of her. How did one handle a pregnant Wren? Kemp remembered Finnegan’s advice, more or less tongue in cheek Kemp suspected: use threats, the threat of a landing at Gibraltar; it was true that sympathy would be misplaced in the circumstances. In Kemp’s view pregnancy was a natural enough thing and one that made women even harder to handle than when they were not pregnant, but the Navy was the Navy and it didn’t like problems of pregnancy of unmarried women.

  Sharp at 1000 there was a knock at Kemp’s door and Botley appeared.

  ‘First Officer Forrest, sir,’ the steward announced.

  ‘Thank you, Botley, ask her to come in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Botley withdrew. Miss Forrest and PO Wren Hardisty came in, the latter unexpected by Kemp. Between them came Wren Smith. Tarty, was Kemp’s first thought, but currently a shade bedraggled and apprehensive, and very pale faced. Dark hair, long, seemed stuck to her cheeks. There was a kind of cockiness as well as apprehension in the girl’s expression. Kemp had got to his feet as the women entered and since there were not enough chairs for them all to sit down, he remained, as they did, standing. Kemp felt awkward: the standing position was too reminiscent of Captain’s Defaulters aboard a warship and he had not intended such an atmosphere to prevail.

  ‘Wren Smith, sir,’ Miss Forrest said. Kemp noted that the First Officer was going to be formal. She rattled off an official number — Defaulters again.

  ‘Ah,’ Kemp said. ‘Well, young lady. I — er — gather you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Not really.’

  PO Wren Hardisty said, ‘Address the Commodore as Sir.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Sir.’

  Kemp said, ‘Let me put it more directly. I understand you’re pregnant.’ He paused, wishing Jean Forrest would help him out. ‘Have you anything you wish to say?’

  ‘No. Only that —’

  PO Wren Hardisty came up again. ‘Address the Commodore —’

  ‘All right, all right, PO,’ Kemp interrupted. ‘We won’t stand on too much ceremony. Go on,’ he added to Wren Smith. ‘You were saying?’

  The girl’s voice was defiant now. ‘I made a mistake.
Me dates. I’m not due yet.’

  ‘You mean you’re not pregnant, is that it?’

  She nodded. ‘Sorry if I’ve made any trouble. I just made a mistake, that’s all, sir. It isn’t any crime anyway, to get a — to get caught, like —’

  ‘No, no — not a crime. Just a blasted nuisance in the middle of a vital convoy.’ Kemp, feeling disadvantaged, was growing angry. There were so many more important matters to worry about. He went on, ‘I’m told there is a distinct possibility you are in fact pregnant —’

  ‘I’m not. I told you, I —’

  ‘Kindly don’t interrupt me, Wren Smith. I repeat, you’re being a nuisance, and if you’re trying to conceal a pregnancy...have you any idea of the consequences, if I permit a pregnant Wren to be on-carried to Trincomalee, rather than land her in Gibraltar or Malta for passage home to UK? I tell you one thing: you’d be sent back on the first available ship — even from Ceylon. And the C-in-C British East Indies Fleet isn’t going to be pleased about a pregnant Wren taking up valuable passage space unnecessarily. Do I make myself clear? I wish to know, here and now, what the facts are.’

  ‘I’m not bloody well pregnant!’ Wren Smith said, and burst into tears.

  Kemp blew out his cheeks, and caught Jean Forrest’s eye. He said, ‘Over to you, Miss Forrest. And, I think, Dr O’Dwyer.’

  As the women left his cabin, Kemp reflected that he hadn’t handled the interview particularly well. Also, he was still far from certain of his ground in ordering a Wren to submit herself for examination by the ship’s doctor. Nevertheless, he felt he had enough justification, since there was that distinct possibility that there might have to be contact with Gibraltar in spite of the bomb having been disposed of: there was still Susan Pawle to be considered and in Kemp’s view the base hospital in Gibraltar was the place for her to be attended until she could be returned to the UK. Before Gibraltar was reached, Kemp needed to know Wren Smith’s condition. Later that day, O’Dwyer carried out his examination but the results as he reported them to the Commodore were totally indecisive. If, as the girl had first stated, she had missed her first period, she could be pregnant; but far from necessarily since there were other conditions that might lead to this. In any case, it was tar too early to make a diagnosis, and the ship did not carry any facilities for pregnancy testing. O’Dwyer added it as his opinion that if indeed the girl had missed her first period, and perhaps despite her denial her second, then her condition would certainly become diagnosable by the time the convoy reached Trincomalee.

  ‘You mean there’d be no disguising it?’ Kemp asked.

  O’Dwyer nodded. ‘That is so.’

  ‘Damn and blast!’ Kemp said for the second time. ‘Now, the other girl, Mrs Pawle. How’s she doing, Doctor?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. The wound’s keeping clean, no infection. Physically, she’ll mend I believe, though she really must be landed the soonest possible —’

  ‘That’ll be up to the Admiral,’ Kemp said. ‘Let me have a full report, will you, and I’ll send a signal to the Flag. Then Nelson’s PMO can support the request.’ He paused. ‘You said, physically. What’s her mental state?’

  O’Dwyer shook his head, a gesture seemingly of doubt. ‘I can’t really say. No-one loses a leg without some mental trauma, of course. She’s very weepy and doesn’t want to talk.’ He added, ‘I understand she’s been recently widowed - and now this on top of it.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a damn tragedy for a girl. For anyone, I suppose, but a girl with a wooden leg’s a particularly pathetic sight. Bound to have a lasting effect.’ They talked a little more; O’Dwyer thought Susan Pawle would probably be invalided from the WRNS, which in itself would be bad mentally. When the doctor had left his cabin, Kemp pushed the port open: there had been a strong aroma of whisky, and Kemp fancied O’Dwyer had been hopeful of an offer of a glass. Kemp went back to the bridge, back into the tearing wind and the sea’s spray that was still drenching the decks, the weather still too bad to conduct a sea burial of the dead Wren officer.

  Later that day, as once again the skies darkened into night, Captain Champney indicated that the convoy was approaching the position for the turn eastwards for Cape St Vincent and the entry to the Mediterranean. ‘About an hour to go, Commodore.’

  ‘And then we bring the wind and sea almost abeam,’ Kemp said. ‘Life just gets worse, doesn’t it!’

  ‘It’ll be uncomfortable,’ Champney agreed. ‘In the case of the Langstone Harbour, when she makes the turn, it’ll be bloody dangerous.’

  Kemp nodded; he had Jake Horncape much on his mind. Anything could be happening aboard the freighter with its injured crew members still presumably without medical attention from the doctors aboard the towing destroyers — with no improvement in the weather since the last report, no boat could yet hope to live in the mountainous waves.

  As the hour ran down to the alteration time, Yeoman Lambert reported the expected signal from the Flag: the convoy would turn on the executive and would steer a course 090 degrees. When the executive was flashed, Champney brought the Wolf Rock onto the new course. Immediately conditions became worse, with the weight of the wind and sea some three points on the starboard bow — almost abeam, as Kemp had said. The ship laboured badly, lurching into the troughs, climbing again and once more sliding down the great water sides. Below, Chief Steward Campbell, warned in advance, had checked his storerooms and spaces to ensure so far as possible that everything was secured, but nevertheless heard unwelcome sounds of breaking crockery coming from the galley and pantries. In the engine-room Mr Turnberry, on the starting platform for the course alteration, felt his feet slide from under him and grabbed for a hand-wheel to support himself. He listened to the crash of the seas sweeping past the engine-room bulkheads, thin sheets of metal that alone stood between the men below and the raging tumult outside. In the makeshift sick bay Jean Forrest sat by the side of Susan Pawle, reaching out to hold the girl’s shoulders, steadying her against the increased motion. Susan was as pale as death. Jean Forrest had a suspicion she was going to die; there was no apparent will to live. Even Gibraltar with its proper medical facilities...and Kemp had told her that in any case Gibraltar lay three days’ steaming ahead yet.

  IV

  Petty Officer Ramm made his night rounds of the gun positions. The old 6-inch aft of where the bomb had gone down was manned in cruising stations by two of the gunnery rates; on the bridge, one hand kept the watch, handy to go to any of the close-range weapons, Oerlikons and pom-poms, as required if there should be a sudden alarm. Which wasn’t in the least likely on a night like this, Ramm thought. He’d seldom seen such weather, not apart from once getting caught in a typhoon on the China coast when he’d been an AB in the old Sussex, one of the high freeboard cruisers, 10,000-tonners, that had rolled her guts out in anything at all of a sea. That typhoon had been something to remember; Ramm, cold and wet now as then, preferred to forget it and remember something nicer: Gibraltar, pre-war when the combined Home and Mediterranean Fleets had met for their annual manoeuvres, the battleship Queen Elizabeth wearing the flag of the Commander-in-Chief Mediterranean and the Nelson that of the Commander-in-Chief Home Fleet. Big ships — battle-cruisers as well as battleships, aircraft-carriers, cruisers, destroyers, submarines. All the pomp and circumstance, all the bullshit of the peacetime Navy, made a man feel mighty important when he went ashore in his white uniform with the blue badges of a leading seaman rated as a director layer which Ramm had been by that time. Bronzed, fit, athletic, swaggering out of the dockyard by the Ragged Staff Gate, past the Trafalgar cemetery and the Naval picquet house, along Main Street in the scented air of dusk, towards Casemates where the pipes and drums of a highland regiment beat out for the ceremony of The Keys when the Land Port into the garrison was shut nightly...it gave Leading Seaman Ramm romantic backing; and it pulled the birds, all right! Not that he needed help, mostly. In Gibraltar Ramm had a kind of up-homers, which was the Navy’s term for a cosy family atmospher
e away from home, a temporary mum and dad, preferably with a good-looker for a daughter, who would feed and generally cosset a sailor on shore leave. Ramm’s Gibraltar up-homers didn’t include any mum or dad, just a Spanish girl named Francisca, with swelling tits and a willing nature. She was in fact a widow, her husband, a picador, having been killed by a bull in the bullring at La Linea, the frontier town on the Spanish side of the border, beyond No Man’s Land, and she was around five years older than Leading Seaman Ramm which he didn’t mind a bit because she was experienced and thus exciting. She had taught him quite a lot over the years of his visiting Gibraltar either with the Home Fleet on those manoeuvres or when serving in the Warspite in the Med. Sometimes Ramm thought he had begun to live only after meeting Francisca, the first meeting having taken place in a night-dark alley near the Cathedral when she had been roughly handled by a drunk AB and had sought Ramm’s assistance. Very fortuitous.

  Happy days, Ramm thought as he lurched along the after well-deck of the Wolf Rock, making for’ard towards the bridge. Very happy days, and what had become of Francisca now? Probably still doing it, Ramm supposed; he was philosophical about it because he had to be. He’d never imagined Francisca led a sheltered life when he wasn’t in Gibraltar, any more than he did himself when he was elsewhere. Still thinking about past dalliance, Ramm went through the door into the midship superstructure and started up the ladder leading to the deck officers’ accommodation beneath the Master’s deck. As he reached the head of the ladder a cabin door opened and someone looked out: Mr Harrison.