Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  Kemp shifted uncomfortably in an ill-fitting suit, tight under the arms and across the chest. Kemp was a big man and his very size was now causing him to feel conspicuous in lurid light blue of execrable taste, a colour not unlike the ‘hospital blues’ worn by ambulant other-rank patients in military medical establishments. He wore his own white uniform shirt but the black tie had been replaced by a red one with yellow spots; and Kemp had been provided with a brown pork-pie hat with a small feather in the band. He felt like a greengrocer on a bank holiday.

  Deposited at the railway station complete with return ticket, Kemp settled into the train for Canberra, around a hundred and fifty miles south from Sydney. His appointment with the Military Board was for four p.m. which gave him time in hand. The staff lieutenant had provided him with reading matter: the Sydney Morning Herald, and the Sydney Sun. Just as the train started to pull out, two soldiers came aboard with what looked like a bum’s rush. Both were drunk; Kemp used the Sydney Morning Herald as a shield. There was heavy belching and a strong brewery smell: Australians liked their beer.

  ‘Got the time, mate?’

  The remark was addressed to Kemp; he glanced at his watch and gave it.

  ‘Bloody pom.’

  Kemp continued to read his newspaper.

  ‘I said, bloody pom.’

  ‘Yes. I heard you.’

  The drunken soldier lurched to his feet and stood over Kemp.

  ‘Want to make something of it, eh?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Not partic’ly,’ the soldier repeated in a mincing voice. ‘Bloody pom scum, ought to be in bloody uniform, letting real men fight the bloody war for you!’

  Kemp put down his newspaper. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he said. He didn’t raise his voice.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me.’ Kemp got to his feet, towered over the soldier. ‘One more word out of you, soldier, and I’ll heave you off the train.’

  The drunk swayed backwards, looked towards his mate but without result: the other man had passed out cold. Kemp resumed his seat. He had no further trouble. The soldier revenged himself in safety by keeping up, nearly all the way to Canberra, a low monologue about the iniquities of bloody poms. To Kemp, the man hadn’t the look of belonging to a fighting unit; he was probably a clerk in some military headquarters in the capital. Such were frequently more aggressive than the men who did the fighting.

  II

  Kemp was shown into the office of a staff brigadier, a bulbous-faced man whose red tabs clashed with his nose.

  ‘Good of you to come along, Commodore.’

  Kemp grinned. ‘Not much option.’

  ‘I suppose not. Well, I’ll not keep you here longer than it takes to tell.’ The brigadier extended a hand towards a chair. ‘As you say at sea, I believe — bring your arse to an anchor.’

  Kemp sat, relieved that the brigadier appeared to be human. As if to give the lie to his nose, the soldier offered tea, which Kemp accepted. A bell-push was activated and an orderly came in. Whilst awaiting the tea, the brigadier started.

  ‘Name’s Hennessy, by the way. Irish stock. All you poms like to think we in Australia are descended from convicts. A lot of us are but I’m not. My ancestors didn’t get found out. Me own great-granddad was a foot soldier in the British Army, sent out to guard the other buggers. Married an Aussie girl and settled. Right, now.’ The brigadier pushed papers about on his desk, which looked like a filing system gone mad. ‘Your convoy. Troops. A whole Aussie division to be lifted in four liners. Asian Star, Asturias, Southern Cross, Carlisle Castle. They’ll all be bloody packed out with men and equipment. This is to be a military convoy, right? You’ll have three armament carriers, all in ballast…plus three grain ships tagged on to break off for UK somewhere around the Azores. Right so far, Commodore?’

  Kemp nodded. ‘And the troops, and the armament ships? Mediterranean — North Africa, Egypt?’

  ‘No, reckon not. Norfolk, Virginia.’

  Kemp was astonished. ‘The US? What in heaven’s name for?’

  ‘You may well ask. Look, I’m as bloody flabbergasted as you are. Don’t tell me you’ve just brought out a war materials convoy from home — I know that — to give us the wherewithal to fight off any Jap invasion in the north and now we’re under orders to strip ourselves of a fighting division—’

  ‘May I,’ Kemp interrupted, ‘ask whose orders?’

  ‘Your war cabinet. I wouldn’t be positive, but I believe it’s Churchill’s personal idea. It’s fairly common knowledge that one day there’s to be a second front opened up and —’ Hennessy broke off as the tea-tray was brought in and the orderly poured and handed the cups round. When the man had gone Hennessy went on, ‘We reckon Churchill’s already starting the troop build-up in the UK. God knows when it’ll come, but it can’t surely be yet. The Allies…we’ve got our hands full in North Africa, dealing with bloody Rommel. But the orders from the high command are that we strip ourselves as I just said - us down under, that is. Let bloody Australia sink, just so long as UK stays afloat.’ The nose, under the stress of obviously strong emotion and disapproval, grew deeper in colour. ‘Well, that’s poms for you. I’m not being personal, of course.’

  ‘I know that, Brigadier. And I understand how you feel.’ Kemp paused, thinking ahead. It wasn’t going to be a happy convoy, at any rate aboard the liners acting as troop transports, not with a whole division probably feeling as disgruntled as Hennessy, every man knowing that he was depleting his homeland’s defence. Kemp knew that the anxieties about a possible Japanese invasion were real enough. Someone in Whitehall, he believed, had really pulled a boner this time.

  He asked a further question. ‘You spoke of a build-up in UK. Do I take it your troops will be going on across the Atlantic straight away?’

  Hennessy shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. They’re to be held in the States. Further training’s the given reason. Well, it may be so, but I have other thoughts. They’re being held there because it’s safer. Out of the way of the Nazi bombers, right up to the time Churchill feels he’s ready to go. And—’

  ‘And that,’ Kemp said heavily, ‘could be years yet.’

  ‘Exactly — too bloody right! A whole Aussie division, kicking their heels. If you as a seaman like to say the military mind’s a madhouse, well, I’m not going to disagree, sorry as I am to have to say it.’

  Kemp blew out his cheeks: any comment would be superfluous: Hennessy had said it all. But he said, ‘All this isn’t the reason I was ordered to report here. Is it?’

  ‘Partly, yes. I wanted you to know, you personally, as the convoy Commodore - to know how we feel. I think that’s your due — anyone in command of anything has to know the pulse, so to say. The Navy in Sydney, they wouldn’t put it across the same. Anyway, that’s how I looked at it. Maybe I’m just getting old, gathering bees in me bonnet. But of course there is something else. It’s this.’

  Hennessy pushed his chair back a little way and reached into the middle drawer of his desk. He brought out a canvas bag and laid it on the desk. It was around nine inches square and was pierced by a number of holes with brass eyelets. When Hennessy had laid the bag on his desk there had been a noticeable thud: it was lead-weighted so that when thrown overboard in an emergency it would sink fast.

  ‘Vital,’ Hennessy said. ‘Most Secret classification. By Hand Of Officer throughout. Right now, By Hand Of Commodore.’

  ‘For Sydney?’

  ‘Wrong again. For Washington — the Pentagon. It’ll be collected from you at the US Navy Operating Base in Norfolk.’

  ‘I see.’ Kemp paused. ‘Am I to know its contents, in a broad sense, that is?’

  ‘In a broad sense, yes. That bag contains detailed information, garnered by our intelligence boys, as to the Jap intentions to saturate New Guinea and Papua. When they do that, they’ll be as far as the Torres Strait and the Arafura Sea…Reckon I don’t need to tell you, just the hundred miles of the Torres Strait’ll separa
te us from the Jap armies.’ Hennessy grinned suddenly. ‘Reckon that brings me full circle, eh? Back to a moan about taking our troops off us…’

  III

  Kemp left the offices of the Military Board with Hennessy’s parting words loading his mind: if ever that bag fell into enemy hands it would be dynamite, for if the contents became known the Japanese high command would surely move before Australia was fully ready — and Hennessy had said that they were in fact far from ready. Any invasion of Australia by way of the Torres Strait and the Cape York Peninsula would bring the Japanese hordes quickly down into Queensland and that departing division would be badly needed; but it had been impossible to shift the top brass in Canberra who considered the intelligence reports to be hysterical, considered that the threat if and when it came could be met and held without too much strain. Hennessy had disagreed violently with his own superiors: as it happened he had been in Singapore with the British troops when the Japs had come in strength and the great naval and military base had been surrendered; Hennessy had got out by the skin of his teeth and a dangerous sea voyage in a fishing boat. He knew the Jap potential at first hand. Though he didn’t in fact say as much, Kemp was left with the strong impression that the despatch of the vital bag was a case of Hennessy acting on his own initiative and without the knowledge of the brass. Also that in basis the bag’s contents were a plea for United States assistance and a hint that the Australian division might yet be recalled in defiance of the wishes of the British war cabinet. When Kemp had asked why the information couldn’t be sent by cyphered signal Hennessy had shrugged and said any cypher was liable to be cracked. True enough: but — again a guess — Kemp figured that a brigadier acting behind the back of the brass would be unlikely to find the radio waves open to him.

  In the meantime the security appeared crazy: the canvas bag was wrapped in a brown paper parcel and given a sticker with Happy Birthday on it and some pink ribbon binding. A present for the kids, Hennessy said. No car was provided to take Kemp to the railway station - that could make him conspicuous, he was told, since cars were not provided for all and sundry — there was a severe petrol shortage just as there was back in UK. Off Kemp went with the parcel under his arm. He felt like a good strong drink but wasn’t going to take the risk so long as he had the bag in his charge. Australia was now approaching its drunkest hour, the daily ritual when all drinking Aussies got well and truly tanked up before the bars shut for the night at six p.m. Kemp recalled past days in Sydney, the Long Bar of the Hotel Australia — said to be the world’s longest — packed like the Queen’s Hall on the last night of the proms, all male, each man fighting for his pints of beer, one after another, an endless glug until the point of near paralysis was reached when the drunks seethed blindly out into the streets as the shutters came down.

  The train journey back was uneventful if somewhat fraught with anxiety: Kemp didn’t care for the close proximity of military secrets. On arrival he took a cab to Woolloomooloo, checked in at the naval picquet-house and got a message sent across to Garden Island for a boat. At the island he found that the Rear-Admiral had, in naval parlance, gone ashore — in other words, home. The staff lieutenant took temporary charge of the brown-paper parcel, locking it in a safe without asking any questions. He confirmed that Kemp’s gear had been shifted from the Commodore’s ship and a room booked for him in the Hotel Australia.

  He had a fragment of news: the sailing date of the convoy had not yet been fixed but the name of the Commodore’s ship had been notified.

  ‘One of the liners?’ Kemp asked.

  ‘No, sir. RFA Coverdale. You’ll be pretty comfortable, sir.’

  Kemp nodded but didn’t comment: he had guessed the likely reason — the greater speed and manoeuvrability. But tankers were always liable to blow up a sight faster than anything else short of an ammunition ship. Kemp, in his time of war service, had seen them go up like roaring bonfires spouting out streams of burning oil fuel, or simply disintegrating in one big flash if they had been carrying aviation spirit. He had always hoped he would never be put aboard a tanker; but he would never say so.

  All he did was to ask, ‘Where’s my assistant — Cutler?’

  ‘Supervising your gear in the Hotel Australia, sir.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be joining him directly. You’ll know where I am if I’m wanted. I’ll not be going out again.’

  He saw, or maybe he just fancied he saw, a glint of suppressed humour in the lieutenant’s eye, almost a smirk. Well, let him think the Commodore was an old fuddy-duddy. The young were mostly predictable: when that lieutenant had a free night on the town he would make the most of it, and why not? Drink and women, the easy lay. Kemp had been young once. But at fifty-three you looked at things differently, or anyway he did. Kemp’s family was always much on his mind: Mary, facing rationing and other shortages at home, Nazi bombing, constant alerts day or night — Meopham in Kent was in one of Britain’s most dangerous corners — cold in winter because of power shortages or often total failures if the Nazi bomb aimers had hit their targets. And always worrying about her three menfolk out at sea. It wouldn’t be fair to do anything but have a drink and a meal and go to bed.

  IV

  A couple of hours before Kemp had got back from Canberra, a hand message had gone across by boat from Garden Island to Kurraba Point, being put aboard RFA Coverdale addressed to the master, Captain Giles Dempsey. When the envelope was brought to his cabin, Dempsey was having a gin with his chief officer.

  He read the message and said, ‘God damn!’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘We’re to be Commodore’s ship, a doubtful honour sure enough.’

  ‘A bit of variety,’ Harlow said vaguely.

  Dempsey glared. ‘I can do without that, thank you! The Commodore’s ship — always a special target at the best of times, and no tanker needs to be singled out.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about it, sir.’

  ‘I know that. You’re full of helpful suggestions, Harlow, like a dog is of fleas. Better have another gin to keep your mouth full.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Harlow, as his glass was refilled, looked covertly at the master. Old Dempsey wasn’t all that worried about being singled out as Commodore’s ship. He had sailed the seas in peace and war aboard fleet oilers too long for that; the risks had always been there and would remain just as long as they all stayed at sea. The presence of the Commodore wouldn’t make all that much difference to the Germans or the Japs and Harlow, who along with Dempsey knew the composition of the forthcoming convoy though not as yet its destination, believed that Commodore or no Commodore the first target would be the troop transports currently lying beyond the harbour bridge at Pyrmont. There was something else eating deeply into Dempsey, and Harlow knew very well what it was, for he’d sailed with Dempsey ever since the outbreak of war. Dempsey would dislike having nanny looking over his shoulder. This Commodore could, for all they knew, be a pernickety old bugger, might even be an ancient, retired admiral crammed to the gills with memories of days when he had commanded battle fleets and bowled captains down like ninepins. Dempsey wouldn’t go much on that for like all the officers and men of the RFA, he was basically of the Merchant Service. All the officers had masters’ or chief engineers’ certificates gained before they had entered Admiralty service; their uniforms were those of the Merchant Service except for the cap badge, which was basically RN but with the silver anchor encircled by a blue lifebuoy bearing the letters RFA. In a sense they fell between two stools, a part of each service. But Dempsey, an Irishman, from the wild country of Connemara, still saw himself as a master mariner first and foremost and was inclined to act independently of the RN.

  Much was going to depend on the Commodore of the convoy.

  V

  In the ratings’ accommodation aboard the Commodore’s ship Petty Officer Rattray, a recalled Fleet Reservist with the non-substantive rating of gunner’s mate, was writing a letter home, home being a two up, two down in a roa
d off Arundel Street in Portsmouth. Rattray wrote slowly with an indelible pencil, the writing purple from a sucked tip. Ratty, as he’d been known to his equals in pre-war days, was no scholar and had surprised even himself when he’d completed the gunner’s mates’ course at Whale Island. Hence his letter home was stilted, short, and contained a lie: he wrote that he hoped the wife’s mother was keeping well. This was expected of him. If he left it out the next letter from Pompey would contain a rebuke. Rattray’s mother-in-law was accorded the respect due to great age, and in his absence she ruled the home. Rattray had gone out on pension back in 1932 and got himself a job as handyman in a gunsmith’s shop, which seemed suitable enough for an ex-gunner’s mate, and he had enjoyed it at first.

  Until Ma Bates had been left a widow and come and plonked herself on him and his wife, after which life had gone very sour…

  Petty Officer Rattray finished his letter, licked the envelope and stuck it down, giving a long-suffering sigh. He’d been overjoyed to be recalled to active service in 1939; it had seemed like a kindly act of God, or even of Herr Hitler who could almost have started the war specially to free Rattray of his mother-in-law. The first thing he’d done had been to have a good old booze-up with a lot of his old mates who’d also turned up in the petty officers’ mess in Pompey barracks. Life had been great, the more so when he did a course for defensively equipped merchant ships and got a draft to sea in charge of a gun’s crew aboard, first, a cargo ship and then the Coverdale, which he preferred because she was within the ambit of the Admiralty and carried a signalman who’d once been a yeoman of signals and had served aboard the old Iron Duke with Rattray.