The joy hadn’t entirely lasted: his mother-in-law was with him still, at any rate on paper. Every letter from Doris contained news of her in detail: how she felt, what she said, the state of her bowels, her rheumatics, her teeth, corns, bunged-up ears, indigestion, heart, lungs, the lot. What her opinion was of the War, Churchill, Anthony Eden, Hitler, Mussolini and the Japs, the latter added only recently, after Pearl Harbor, like the Americans. And the Royal Family. Even though the old biddy was a socialist she had a lot of time for the King, and this was the one and only point on which they saw eye to eye.
As Petty Officer Rattray finished sealing down the mendacious hope for his mother-in-law’s well-being there was a tap at his cabin door.
Rattray called out, ‘Yer?’
A full-stomached leading seaman with a lurid purple birthmark disfiguring his face appeared in the doorway: Stripey Sinker, Rattray’s Number Two. He said, ‘Just going to nip ashore, PO.’
‘Oh? Who says so, might I ask?’
Sinker gave a cough. ‘Asking permission, like.’
‘That’s better. Piss off, do.’ Rattray chuckled. ‘Don’t take that as an invite. Remember there’s a war on. So don’t overdo the muck they call beer out here.’
‘As if I would,’ Sinker said virtuously. ‘You know me, PO.’
‘Which is why I issued the warning. Here.’ Rattray chucked the letter across to the leading seaman. ‘Post this for me, eh? Fleet mail box.’
‘Right, PO.’ Leading Seaman Sinker waddled off, making for the gangway to await the routine call of the harbour boat detailed to attend on the ships at anchor off Kurraba Point. He wore a look of keen anticipation, but it wasn’t for the Aussie beer, which he agreed was gnat’s piss compared with what they brewed in the UK. It tasted like straw and looked like it too, a nasty unappetising yellow. Sinker had found himself an ‘up homers’ in Sydney. It had been fast work, since the Coverdale had been in port only a week. Sinker’s ‘up homers’ was down by Kings Cross — the Cross, the Aussies called it — which was a kind of Soho, night life, prozzies, the lot. Dinah Deeling wasn’t a prozzy, of course, but she was willing enough and Sinker suffered from continuous desires that had to be satisfied. His birthmark was no help at all; some women fled from it. Dinah, whose old man was somewhere in North Africa fighting Rommel, had a job in a shoe shop down the Cross, both of which circumstances left her free in the evenings. Stripey Sinker’s interest had first been aroused when he’d entered a bar a little ahead of closing time and had been squashed against her. At that time he hadn’t known enough of Australia to be surprised at seeing a woman in a bar, and anyway she’d been obviously accepted by the men. What had tickled his interest had been a huge Australian wearing a bush hat and a sort of lumber jacket against the winter chills and looking as though he’d come in from the outback who had addressed the woman in a carrying shout — Australians, Stripey found, always shouted.
‘And ‘ow’s Feeling Deeling tonight, eh?’
She’d given him a cheeky answer and had turned round virtually into Stripey’s arms, where she had remained since the crush forced his arms tightly about her. Feeling Deeling; it held possibilities and Stripey, never slow when it came to trying it on with women even if he hadn’t always succeeded, had made the most of it. He would buy her a meal, he said.
‘Expensive, mate.’
Stripey made up his mind to be generous. ‘Sod the expense, buy the cat a goldfish.’
He’d gone ashore each night thereafter; he had to work watch and watch with the PO, but Rattray didn’t seem interested in going ashore, so that wasn’t a problem. That first night, after the meal, they’d gone to the girl’s flat over a butcher’s shop and he’d stayed till morning. Feeling Deeling was very experienced but she definitely wasn’t on the game — she was selective, she said, and never did it for money, not in a direct sense anyway. That was a relief: women who did it for cash on the nail could have nasty diseases, and Stripey Sinker, who’d once caught a dose in Hong Kong, tended to be careful. Feeling Deeling didn’t do it for love exactly, though she did do it because she liked it, and liked the British Navy and what the British Navy was prepared to spend on her. Stripey Sinker was relieved that there were no Yanks around yet.
Tonight he walked from the landing stage at Woolloomooloo, across the edge of the Domain towards the Cross, whistling to himself. There’ll always be an England…wherever there’s a bit in bed…The words, as they ran through his head, being mostly his own. Dinah was very attractive: slim, petite, dark with big eyes and long lashes and a seductive scent that had over-ridden the smell of beer and sweat in the bar. Big breasts and all, like the heavy fenders they put out when a ship went alongside in the dockyard. Stripey knew the saying: every man was either a tit man or a bottom man. Stripey was both, which he felt ought to be unusual. Dinah was pretty good down there as well. Feeling Deeling, eh! And at a guess she wasn’t much more than say twenty-four or five. That did his ego a lot of good: he wasn’t going to see forty again. Of course, his rate might have helped: that first night, Dinah had taken an interest in his badges, gold ones since he’d worn his Number One uniform. He’d explained.
‘The anchor, see, that means I’m a leading ‘and.’
‘And the three chevrons, like a sergeant?’
‘Good Conduct badges. Thirteen years exemplary service. Stripes…that why they call me Stripey.’
‘An important man…’
‘Well, you might say so. Aboard a ship.’
‘And the crossed guns?’
‘Gunnery rate. The star, like, above them guns…means I’m a gunlayer. What lays the guns on the bleeding Jerries.’
‘You are so…interesting.’ The voice was sultry and when she was undressed she was darkish all over, almost like someone from a South Sea island. ‘Men who go to sea…you are going to sea again soon?’
‘Could be for all I know. Ships do.’
‘So interesting…’
‘Yes, well, it’s all routine, like, far as I’m concerned, nothing to it.’ Stripey’s hand moved; he didn’t want to talk about the bleeding Andrew or about the Coverdale; that wasn’t what he’d come ashore for. She didn’t either and the questions stopped. His hand roved again. It was somewhat calloused from a working lifetime spent hauling on ropes and handling heavy steel gun parts, but women always liked real men and certainly Dinah didn’t seem to mind.
VI
Kemp turned in early, after spending a while looking from his window at the lights of Sydney. You didn’t see city lights so often in these dark days of war. The whole of England, under the stringency of the blackout, seemed to have stepped into the dark ages. London’s streets, though Kemp in fact avoided the place whenever he could, were as dark as the night itself. Air raid wardens, officious men wearing steel helmets and armbands and carrying gas masks saw to that. Sydney in that sense was a blessed relief and quite a striking sight. From the window Kemp looked down on the New York-like pattern of straight streets crossed by other straight streets, well delineated in the lights.
There was plenty of life down there, plenty of crowds even though the bars were shut. Libertymen from the warships drifted, looking for women no doubt. Raucous song came up: a crowd of Australian soldiers on the rampage, seeking excitement. Perhaps they were some of those detailed for the troop lift to the United States. Kemp wished them all the luck in the world for their last few days in Australia but hoped there wouldn’t be trouble between them and the British seamen. Fights so soon developed and didn’t do anyone’s image any good. Kemp’s thoughts drifted homeward: once he’d got the convoy safely into Chesapeake Bay in Virginia he might, with luck, get orders for a homeward convoy across the North Atlantic — never a picnic but at least pointed in the right direction. Kemp had unpacked an overnight bag and brought out a silver-framed photograph of his wife. That photograph, taken just before the war, was always beside him, remindingly — as if he needed reminding.
He had drifted off to sleep when a knock came at
his door and it opened.
‘Who’s that?’ Kemp reached out for the light switch.
‘It’s me, sir.’
‘Oh — Cutler. For God’s sake…what is it?’ Kemp sat up, ran a hand through tousled, greying hair. ‘For a moment I thought I was back at sea. What’s the panic?’
‘No panic, sir, Commodore.’ Cutler was looking awkward, standing unnecessarily at attention but fiddling with a brass button on his uniform jacket: he seemed almost in a state of embarrassment. He went on, ‘I just took a phone call from Naval HQ, sir.’
‘Well, go on, what was it?’ Kemp was testy: he’d had the sort of day he didn’t much care for, attending on shoreside bigwigs and travelling incognito in railway trains.
‘Ship losses, sir.’
Suddenly Kemp felt a constriction in his throat, for no real reason. Many ships were lost in time of war; but there was a premonitive feeling because of Cutler’s manner. Kemp said harshly, ‘Let’s have it, laddie.’
‘Yes, sir. Burnside’s gone down. I’m very sorry, sir. But —’
‘Survivors?’
‘Not known yet, sir.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Convoy through the Med, sir. Eyetie torpedo-bombers.’ Cutler hesitated, fiddling again with his button. ‘I’ll let you know, of course, as soon as there’s more news.’
‘Thank you, Cutler.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘I know, Cutler. Thank you. That’s all.’
‘Will you…be all right, sir?’
‘Yes, Cutler, I’ll be all right.’
‘I guess a shot of Scotch—’
‘If I feel in need, I’ll call room service. Off you go, and turn in.’
Kemp’s assistant left the room. Kemp got up, walked around in something of a daze. Two sons at sea, and one of them an RNVR sub-lieutenant in the destroyer Burnside. A little over twenty-one, was Harry. There had been a letter from him on the convoy’s arrival in Sydney: he’d been enjoying life and was hoping he might get accelerated promotion to lieutenant, always assuming the Admiralty accepted his captain’s recommendation.
Always assuming: there were so many potential slips. Kemp was a realist: that convoy through the Mediterranean — it would never stop to pick up survivors, not in the middle of an attack. The ships and their cargoes were the primary concern of the Commodore and the senior officer of the escort — in action, the only concern. And of course there would have been a lot of casualties before the Burnside had gone down. Kemp wished he could be with Mary now.
THREE
I
‘Boat, sir, coming across from Garden Island, a naval picquet-boat. It’ll be the Commodore.’
‘Thank you, Harlow.’ Captain Dempsey, followed by the chief officer, left his day cabin and went down two decks to the accommodation ladder, pulling at starched shirt-cuffs as he went: starched cuffs were not easily laundered in wartime, but Dempsey felt that the first arrival of the Convoy Commodore merited their use. Dempsey believed in smartness: he had set a standard in the RFA that was recognized throughout the fleet. Ratings in the RFA ships were not provided with uniforms, at least not at the Admiralty’s expense. Dempsey had always seen to it that each man in any ships he served in was provided with a seaman’s cap and cap ribbon, and working overalls, all out of his own pocket, and he insisted they be worn at all times when aboard. He believed it paid dividends.
Standing just inboard of the platform at the head of the ladder, Dempsey and Harlow saluted as the Commodore ascended. Dempsey, like Cutler a few nights earlier, felt some embarrassment. News travelled fast between ships and shore establishments and the sinking of the Burnside had in any case been announced. Word of Commodore Mason Kemp’s personal anxiety had reached the Coverdale along with the news, and so far as Dempsey was aware there had been no information about survivors, which didn’t look too good. Other news had filtered through that Dempsey and Harlow were both pleased to hear: the Commodore was no dugout admiral. He was genuine RNR, a merchant service man like themselves…
Kemp, at the head of the ladder, returned the officers’ salutes. ‘Good morning, Captain.’
‘Good morning, Commodore. Welcome aboard.’
Kemp smiled, a rather drawn smile, and held out his hand, which Dempsey shook. ‘You have a smart ship, Captain.’
‘Thank you. The work of my chief officer, Mr Harlow.’
Kemp nodded; he seemed abstracted, as well he might Dempsey thought. ‘I take it you’re ready for sea, Captain Dempsey?’
‘All ready.’
Behind the Commodore came Sub-Lieutenant Cutler followed by two ratings bringing up his and Kemp’s personal gear. Dempsey turned and led the way to his quarters below the bridge, hands clasped behind a broad back, the four gold rings of a master riding above the starch. He offered drinks when they reached his day cabin.
‘Thank you, whisky. Just a small one.’ Kemp looked around the day cabin as Dempsey’s steward brought glasses. ‘You have comfortable quarters, Captain.’
Dempsey laughed. ‘We need them! In peacetime we used to spend a good deal of time up the Persian Gulf at Abadan — a dump like that calls for some sort of compensation!’
Dempsey had the feeling they were both talking trivialities in order to avoid another topic of conversation, a mutual embarrassment. He coughed and uttered another superfluous remark. ‘As I understand it, the troop transports leave first and we follow. Right?’
‘Yes, quite right. The escort will precede the transports. Once we’re outside the Heads, Coverdale takes up station ahead of the transports. Have you been in many convoys, Captain?’
‘One or two. We work largely with the fleet, of course…and even when in convoy we’re to some extent a part of the escort.’
Kemp nodded. ‘Yes. With but not of! You fellows have a similarity with the Marines — what Kipling called “giddy hermaphrodites” if I remember correctly. Anyway — you’ll know all about station keeping.’ He paused, looking from the master’s ports across the harbour towards Circular Quay: the Manly ferry was embarking passengers and there were a number of yachts about — not so many as in peacetime, as Kemp had remarked to Hugh MacAndrew, but it took more than a world war to keep the Australians away from the water entirely. He hoped that they would keep well clear when the convoy left but doubted if they would: there would be plenty of people who’d want to wave a last farewell to the America-bound troops.
He spoke again to Dempsey. ‘I’d appreciate a look around your bridge before we leave, and a run-down on how she handles.’
Dempsey led the way up the ladder to the bridge and wheelhouse, where the Coverdale’s second and third officers were making a last-minute check. Dempsey gave brief information: twin screws which made for good handling, plenty of speed in reserve over the convoy’s advance — twenty-two knots if need be. The ship would be sailing with water ballast except for three of the cargo tanks. Apart from the facility to refuel the escort, you didn’t take fuel oil from Australia to the United States. After Chesapeake Bay the Coverdale was under orders to proceed to Galveston, Texas to load for UK. As for the convoy, Kemp’s orders were that they would enter Simonstown at the Cape for bunkers as necessary before making the long haul up the South Atlantic. Kemp looked fore and aft, towards the ship’s armament. Two 3-inch guns behind open gun shields, both on reinforced platforms, plus close-range weapons, Oerlikons, Lewis guns at each bridge-wing and on monkey’s island above the wheelhouse and chart room, a single porn-porn mounted aft of the bridge, more small stuff on the deck above the engineers’ accommodation in the stern and on each side of the fo’c’sle. There was the question of the naval guns’ crews and Kemp decided to broach it with the ship’s master right away.
‘They’re your permanent gunners, Captain, of course. You’ll know I’m not bringing gunnery rates aboard with my own staff on this voyage.’
Dempsey nodded; Harlow, guessing what was coming, watched covertly for Dempsey to get his dander up. Kemp went
on, ‘It’s up to you, naturally. But I’d appreciate it if my assistant and I could deal directly with them when necessary?’
Dempsey spread his hands wide. Harlow relaxed: these two were going to get on, they were in fact chips from the same block — no bull and blimpery from a man like Kemp. Dempsey said, ‘Sure thing. They’re RN, you’re RNR. I’ve no objection.’ He paused. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’
‘That’s all for now,’ Kemp said. He stared again across the harbour, an inward look in his eyes. The Manly ferry was coming out now. That family visit to Sydney, years ago…he’d taken Mary and the boys across to Manly and Harry had been much intrigued by the sharks that were displayed in a vast tank not far from where the ferry berthed at Manly beach. People used to throw coins down to them, for luck. There had been a notice indicating that copper was bad for the sharks and Harry had made a joke, asking his father which sharks copper was bad for, the actual sharks or the business sharks who ran the show.
Dempsey sensed the atmosphere and made a guess; then he took the plunge. It had to be uttered sometime or other. He said, ‘I’m very sorry, Commodore, very sorry. I take it there’s been no news yet?’
‘No,’ Kemp said. ‘There hasn’t.’
II
The troop embarkation had taken place the day before, men having been entrained from all the military commands of the Commonwealth of Australia — from Darwin in the Northern Territory, Queensland, Victoria, South Australia, Western Australia, as well as New South Wales and Australian Capital Territory in which Canberra lay. It was a constant procession of marching men from the railway station to the docks at Pyrmont, bands playing them to the troopships. Bush hats and khaki greatcoats, rifles and packs and singing from both the troops and the farewell crowds, Waltzing Matilda predominating. The Sydneysiders had been there in their thousands to cheer the big contingent away. Kemp had been among the crowd, having decided to walk across to Woolloomooloo to take the picquet-boat to Garden Island and regain possession of that vital bag. It had been a cold day and a wet one, but it failed to dampen the sendoff. Kemp, having in mind what Brigadier Hennessy had said, was surprised; he would have expected some note of dismay that Australia was being bereft of her fighting men…on the other hand, of course, they would want to give the troops a proper farewell and then the doubts and worries could come out later. Certainly the soldiers themselves didn’t appear worried as they marched along the packed streets; there was an air of anticipation, or it could have been no more than a reaction to the ballyhoo, the bands and the cheers and the somewhat pathetic streamers damp and limp with rain. Those streamers brought more memories back, of the great liners of the Mediterranean-Australia Line, the Orient Line and P&O just before leaving the berth at Circular Quay or Woolloomooloo, seemingly unable to move off for the thousands of colourful paper links attaching them to the shore, the shore ends being held as a last remembrance by the godspeeders. But of course they had parted one by one as the big hulls had drawn away, hanging sadly down the ships’ sides as the emotional singing started from the quay-bound friends and families, the singing of the haunting words of ‘The Maori Farewell’ imported from New Zealand. Soon you’ll be sailing, Far across the sea…
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