Convoy East (A John Mason Kemp Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  These meetings were not long in being brought to the senior partner’s attention: spies abounded, it seemed, and a doctor was to some extent a local public figure.

  ‘Don’t do it, O’Dwyer. Too risky, man! Contain yourself for heaven’s sake, we simply can’t risk the practice being brought into disrepute —’

  ‘But they’re not patients, doctor —’

  ‘Ah!’ An admonitory finger was raised. ‘Not patients now, I agree. But suppose they become so? Where will you be then, may I ask?’

  Once again young O’Dwyer had taken the good advice. Too weary at the day’s end to go far afield to where the inhabitants were outside the practice boundaries, he had taken to smuggling the odd bottle of gin into his room. He grew in upon himself, depressed, overtired, underfed. And the partners didn’t die. O’Dwyer, the perennial assistant, sought other practices but without success. When the war had come along in 1914 his country needed him and he joined the RAMC with a feeling of great relief. In France there were women who would not be patients, and there was wine. There were also guns and mortars and German soldiers with rifles and bayonets...Captain O’Dwyer was caught up in the first battle of the Somme.

  He left his field ambulance and ran from the distant sound of the German machine-guns.

  Then the heavens opened on him. They didn’t shoot doctors for cowardice, he discovered, although he was in fact threatened with the firing squad and spent weeks in dreadful anticipation. He was cashiered, discharged with ignominy, back to civilian life in the middle of a great war. By this time he was ill, his nerve shattered, and he had taken to drink, much more than the odd bottle of gin. Even so, doctors were scarce now, and he found a practice in a town, a manufacturing town in the West Riding of Yorkshire where they were not too fussy. He disguised his past by making out he’d been unfit for military service following a long illness during which he had been unemployed. He did his work reasonably well and was never too drunk to hold a surgery or make visits: he had learned how to hold his drink and not let it be seen. But there came the time when he forgot the good advice tendered by the old doctor in London’s East End, and the sudden yielding to desire was due to the drink. It was not the drop of a hat that almost brought him before the General Medical Council; it was the drop of a knicker. He would never have got away with it had not his new senior partner, for the sake of the practice, compromised his soul by a lie that he too had been present at the examination, and had threatened the girl concerned with the courts for trying it on. But Dr O’Dwyer was given the sack. Thereafter he had developed a hang-up about women and their dangers. Drink was safer. When the war was over, Dr O’Dwyer did the sensible thing: he became a ship’s surgeon. Drink at sea was both cheap and plentiful: after deduction of his percentage as a ship’s officer, a bottle of gin or whisky cost him three shillings and sixpence. The duties were not onerous. Ship’s crews were mostly very healthy, so were the passengers in the liners: really sick people didn’t travel. Also it was lucrative: a good salary and in addition he was able to charge fees for cabin visits when passengers were seasick, or constipated, or suffered from diarrhoea after passage of the Suez Canal for instance. On top of that was the free first-class accommodation, the excellent meals and the services of a personal steward, and two nursing sisters in the sick bay who did most of the doctor’s work for him. So the habit of drink had grown, with so much time on his hands.

  Now, aboard the Wolf Rock passing to the east of Gibraltar towards the Sicilian Narrows and the German dive bombers Dr O’Dwyer reached out once again for the whisky bottle. His hand shook and some was spilled: no matter, it was still cheap enough. Dr O’Dwyer gave a hiccup and then heard the tap on his cabin doorpost.

  ‘Come in,’ he said hoarsely.

  The curtain parted. It was First Officer Forrest.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Forrest.’

  ‘Good morning, doctor.’ She looked at him critically. He was dressed in white shirt and trousers, no jacket, and the shirt was dirty, the collar rumpled, the tie askew. She saw the bottle of whisky, not much left in it, and the refilled glass. She said, ‘I’ve come about Mrs Pawle again.’

  ‘Yes, I see. It’s not...not my fault she wasn’t landed in Gibraltar.’

  ‘I know that, doctor. I’m not blaming you for that. But she’s still your patient and I don’t believe she’s doing very well.’

  ‘The wound’s clean.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She felt inclined to say, how do you know, you’ve scarcely looked at the girl. ‘My girls have done that for her, washing and bandaging. It’s the morphine I’m worried about — oh, I know the pain has to be dealt with, but surely there’s a limit to the number of injections you can give? Surely there’s some alternative, isn’t there?’

  ‘Aspirin,’ he said half-heartedly.

  ‘Aspirin! The stuff you take for a hangover. Really, I —’

  ‘No, no, no. Aspirin is an analgesic, you know. It can be a help.’ O’Dwyer stirred himself, sat a little straighter in his chair. Miss Forrest was quite attractive and she was asking his help. She was depending upon him. She had, he saw, a very good figure for a woman of her uncertain age. His gaze became a trifle fixed in the region of her breasts. ‘I’m not at all sure Mrs Pawle isn’t malingering a little —’

  ‘Malingering! A leg —’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Terrible for her, of course. And I’m sure the pain’s been real enough, at any rate earlier on. But it should have eased by now, you see. I’m not sure her trouble’s not psychological. To some extent, that is. I know her history, of course. Very tragic, the loss of her husband. And you say the wound’s clean...there’s no — no —’

  ‘Suppuration.’

  ‘Yes, suppuration. No gangrene. Quite clean. But the loss of the husband is causing...or may be causing...’ O’Dwyer’s voice trailed away. Jean Forrest believed he was rambling a little and his gaze was becoming more fixed. There was something like a leer.

  She said sharply, ‘May I ask what you’re looking at, Dr O’Dwyer?’

  ‘What? Oh — nothing, really.’

  ‘Then kindly look somewhere else.’

  ‘Most certainly, yes.’ The eyes turned away, a hand reached for the glass. Some of the liquid trickled down the doctor’s chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sure you need not worry about the patient. We’ll get her up as soon as the weather’s better, get her on deck in the fresh air. I believe that’ll help, both mentally and physically. In the meantime, we’ll stop the injections and try aspirin. At least it’s worth a try...’

  He dropped his glass. He bent to pick it up. When he straightened, Jean Forrest had gone.

  IV

  Kemp studied the chart with Captain Champney and Chief Officer Harrison, their attention on Sardinia. Finnegan was looking over their shoulders. ‘Cape Spartivento,’ Kemp said. ‘We’ll bring it due north at dusk tomorrow — right, Captain?’

  Champney nodded. ‘If the convoy maintains its speed, yes.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘So dusk tomorrow —’

  ‘Is when we must expect attack. Though it could come before, of course. The weather’s moderating...lucky for the enemy, is that! Not for us. Finnegan?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have you the latest forecast?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was going to report...wind decreasing, expected to be no more than light airs by dawn.’ Finnegan added, ‘The barometer’s rising already. So’s the temperature.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kemp yawned, stood back from the chart and stretched. They were all in white uniforms now, the Dress of the Day signal having come from the Flag to the escorts, repeated Commodore for information, at 0800 that morning despite the fact that at that time the weather had still been bad. The Naval mind was rigid where dress was concerned. East of Gibraltar, between certain dates of the year, Naval personnel shifted into whites. All the officers’ caps now bore white cap-covers. Kemp asked, ‘How’s the gunnery practice going, Finnegan?’

&
nbsp; ‘Ramm’s keeping ‘em up to it,’ Finnegan said, and grinned.

  Ramm was being a bastard, and Finnegan reckoned he knew some of the reason: Ramm was suffering frustration. Finnegan had noted the way the gunner’s mate looked at Wren Smith whenever she came into his line of sight, all randy. For her part Finnegan didn’t believe she was interested; she had better game, and the name of the game was Peter Harrison. Not much escaped Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan. And he believed Wren Smith was doing the ship some good via her effect on Petty Officer Ramm: the more he took his frustrations out on the guns’ crews, the more shit-hot they were likely to be in their handling of the guns, and the safer might be the Wolf Rock.

  Maybe.

  ‘Any special orders, sir?’ Finnegan asked.

  ‘Just one for now,’ Kemp said. ‘A signal, to all merchant ships from Commodore: we are now twenty-four hours off Cape Spartivento. Extra lookouts should be posted from now and all guns’ crews warned to be ready for action with instant response required. When attack comes all Masters must remember that no ship should stop or reduce speed to pick up survivors. Speed and the cohesion of the convoy are vital. All right, Finnegan?’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  Kemp lifted an eyebrow and his face hardened. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean, Finnegan?’

  ‘Why, sir, just that the bit about not picking up survivors kind of gets me. That’s all.’

  ‘You’ll keep your opinions to yourself, Finnegan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Finnegan tore off one of his curious salutes, right forearm brought across his body horizontally with the hand vertical in front of his nose...Kemp held onto his temper. The customs of the United States were often maddening to a middle-aged, dyed-in-the-wool British convoy commodore. But America was by this time indispensable to the war effort and had they not joined in after Pearl Harbor the end might well have come for Britain. Men, ships, tanks, munitions, aircraft, the United States supply line had been magnificent. Finnegan was all right, too; he was simply young, something that the years ahead would rectify. Feeling unusually huffy Kemp left the chart room and walked out to the bridge wing where Yeoman Lambert was sending his signal by blue-shaded lamp to the merchant ships in company, all of them moving more steadily than before and keeping very good formation, as Kemp was glad to see.

  After an all-round look through encroaching darkness Kemp went below meaning to go to his cabin to snatch an hour or two’s sleep. But he by-passed his cabin and made his way out on deck for a word with the 6-inch gun’s crew aft of the now tarpaulin-covered wreckage of the deckhouse over the engineers’ accommodation.

  In the after well-deck he encountered the PO Wren. She stood smartly at attention and he shook his head at her.

  ‘No need for formality, Miss Hardisty.’

  ‘Oh — no, sir.’ She was confused, flattered that the Commodore not only remembered her name but addressed her as though she were an officer. ‘I mean yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

  He smiled, stood before her with his arms behind his back. PO Wren Hardisty thought he looked quite magnificent with his square, weathered face and solid figure, and the broad gold bands of rank on his shoulder-straps. ‘What’s the news of Mrs Pawle?’

  ‘Oh, she’s poorly, sir, still very distressed. It’s only natural, I know that, but it worries me to see her.’

  ‘You’ve all rallied round, I’m told. You’ve all helped her a lot.’

  ‘Well, we’ve done what we could, sir, not that it’s much, poor young lady. What’s going to happen to her if we get hit, the good Lord alone knows, and —’

  Kemp said, ‘Don’t worry about that, Miss Hardisty. She’ll be a first priority I promise you. And don’t forget, we have a strong escort — the more so now Force H is with us. We’re going to come through, never doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t, sir, not really.’ Rose Hardisty stiffened herself, brought her shoulders back, a PO Wren four-square to anything the combined machinations of Hitler and Mussolini could throw at her. She remembered her late father, the chief stoker who had served under Admiral Beatty and had been at the battle of Jutland in Beattie’s flagship, HMS Lion, a great battle-cruiser. She remembered the yarns he used to spin about that war, all the dangers he’d faced, and faced them bravely without a doubt. Then she remembered something else, something she’d heard whispered about Wren Smith and her carryings-on. It was not the province of a PO Wren to speak directly to the Convoy Commodore, she knew that, it ought to go through First Officer Forrest in the proper service manner, but Commodore Kemp was talking to her and he seemed kindly and it might be a good opportunity, one that might not recur. So, impetuously and with good intent, she indulged in indiscretion. She said, ‘There is another worry, sir. That Wren Smith. She —’

  ‘That’s been gone into already, Miss Hardisty. There’s no more I can do about it.’

  She rushed on. ‘Not about landing the girl, no, sir, I realize that - not until Port Said anyway. But I believe she’s been carrying on with that Mr Harrison and —’

  ‘Indeed.’ Kemp’s tone was frosty.

  ‘So I understand, sir, and —’

  ‘Hearsay, Miss Hardisty. And don’t bring the galley wireless to me. At this moment I do not propose to concern myself with the morals of your young women and the ship’s Chief Officer. If they wish to —’ Kemp broke off: he was furiously angry and the less he said the better. He strode away, his face formidable in the gathering gloom of the Mediterranean nightfall, cursing beneath his breath, cursing predatory ship’s officers and eager young women. It had been one thing aboard a liner in peacetime; it was quite another aboard the Commodore’s ship in a troop convoy moving towards what would almost certainly be bloody action with much loss of life. And the PO Wren had had no damn business to bring it to his attention in such a manner: something a male petty officer would never dream of doing. There were the proper avenues; but probably it was hard to impress the proper avenues on Wrens. Nevertheless the attempt should be made. He would have a word in due course with First Officer Forrest. Currently there were more important things to think about.

  Rose Hardisty watched him go, blaming herself for her stupid temerity. He had been provoked, she believed, almost into uttering the forbidden word, the word that Petty Officer Ramm and many of the other men used with such abandon. That wouldn’t be at all like Commodore Kemp in the normal way. Rose Hardisty felt her face flush a deep red and she turned and went for’ard towards the midship superstructure and then down a hatch towards where the Wren ratings had been re-berthed from the engineers’ accommodation. Just like a male PO, she could relieve her feelings by finding fault with the junior ratings even where no fault existed. What else was the point in being a petty officer and taking all the responsibility for your subordinates, the buffer between the commissioned officers and the rest? Rose Hardisty knew that the embarked naval ratings, as well as many of her own brood, regarded her as an interfering old bag, fat and forty and never had a man — that rankled still and would go on rankling — and there were times when she decided to live the part. This was one of them. And if Wren Smith was wise she’d stand clear of any more provocation, button up her pinny and keep it buttoned.

  PO Wren Hardisty’s current intentions came to nothing when from the Wolf Rock’s bridge Yeoman Lambert reported a shaded blue signal lamp flashing from the Nelson, after which things moved swiftly towards a lurid red hell.

  TWELVE

  I

  ‘Aircraft reported, sir, coming in ahead. Flag’s increasing speed, sir.’

  ‘Finnegan!’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Get down to Mrs Pawle’s cabin — she’s going to be your responsibility in action.’

  ‘But I’m needed —’

  ‘Do as you’re told, Finnegan. Ramm’s perfectly capable of taking charge of the guns.’ Kemp turned to Captain Champney, who had already sounded the action alarm. ‘As much speed as you can muster, please, Captain. Yeoman, make to the convoy, am increasing spee
d to maximum. Act independently to avoid imminent attack by aircraft but keep within the overall escort pattern.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lambert hurried to his signalling projector thinking the bastards had turned up a lot earlier than expected, maybe because of the improving weather allowing them to get off their Sardinia-based airfields. In the moment of coming danger Lambert, as always in this perishing war, found his thoughts turning homeward to Pompey and the wife. If she could see him now...but just as well she couldn’t. She’d bust a gasket with worry; she had always worried about him when he was out of her sight, even when he went to post a letter and might get mown down by a Corporation bus or something. Doris should never have married a sailor, not really she shouldn’t, but Lambert didn’t know what he’d have done without her. Or what she would do without him if anything happened on this or any future convoy — and never mind that unfortunate discovery on his recent leave. The war seemed to stretch away into his future, no let-up, no peace ever again, world without end.

  Below in the engine-room Chief Engineer Turnberry wasn’t worrying about the shore and things or people left behind: his mind was filled with his engines, as were his ears. The racket was horrific as more oil fuel was fed into the furnaces and the single shaft turned faster to thrust the Wolf Rock on and help to keep her safe from the coming attack. The engines would stand so much and no more, which was a fact of sea life that no deck officer seemed ever to appreciate.

  Champney had rung down personally: ‘Flag’s just reported surface vessels as well as aircraft. I’ll want all you’ve got, Chief, and then some more.’