Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  Porter, the Captain’s steward, was something of a wizard with a tray. Mugs of steaming cocoa reached the bridge, miraculously unspilt after the climb from the pantry.

  ‘Kye up, sir.’

  Four mugs — Commodore, Captain, Officer of the Watch and Sub-Lieutenant Cutler, Commodore’s assistant.

  ‘Good on yer, Porter,’ Cutler said.

  ‘I thought you was a Y — American, sir?’

  Cutler grinned. ‘Sure, that’s right. Only I try to accommodate to the natives wherever I am.’

  ‘Very wise I’m sure, sir. You’d best start practising Afrikaans, sir. Whoops!’ Porter reached out for a stanchion as the Coverdale fell away to starboard and pitched at the same time, a nasty corkscrew motion.

  ‘Ever work in a circus?’ Cutler asked.

  ‘Me, sir?’ Porter’s eyebrows went up. ‘No, sir. Why, sir?’

  ‘Acrobatic. Tightrope expert?’

  ‘Not with my figure, sir.’ Porter was short and fat, almost round, with a cheery face that carried a perpetual smile. ‘Me, I’ve been at sea all me working life, sir. Last five years with Captain Dempsey, ever since ‘e got command like. Relies on me, ‘e does.’

  ‘Not in vain, I guess.’

  ‘Never let it be said, sir.’ Porter, the officers having been served, retreated below with his tray. In the pantry, he fared better than the bridge personnel: he opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Dewar’s whisky and poured a slug into a cup of tea. It was good stuff, gave a glow in filthy weather and at other times too. Took the mind away from its nagging worries, and by worries Porter didn’t mean the war, he meant a young woman in Rothesay, Isle of Bute. Last time on the Clyde he’d gone and put a bun in her oven. That was four months ago; he was now worried sick, though he never let it show. He had no wish to get married, and if he ever did it wouldn’t by choice be to Beryl, the one with the lodged bun; but on the other hand he wouldn’t let her down. That wasn’t his style at all. Fostering? But then Beryl would still be basically an unmarried mum with all that that entailed, especially in Scotland though presumably Scotsmen did it the same as Sassenachs — or maybe not since they drank so much whisky. Porter started whistling to himself. Without especially realizing it, he whistled a Scots tune, a catchy one that he’d picked up in Glasgow one Saturday night: ‘We’re no awa’ tae bide awa’.’

  Still whistling, Porter emerged from the pantry, making for the Captain’s day cabin, just as Captain Dempsey came in through the lee door from the bridge ladder. Seeing Dempsey, Porter stopped whistling.

  ‘So I should damn well think,’ Dempsey said sourly. ‘As if we haven’t enough wind!’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’m sure.’ It wasn’t done, to whistle at sea. Something of a superstition, though tending to die out among the younger seafarers. Captain Dempsey, he’d done his apprenticeship in sail, aboard the old Cape Horners, where you never whistled other than when you wanted a wind to carry you on across the world’s waters. A lot of whistling used to be done, so Porter had heard, in the Doldrums. Dempsey vanished in the direction of his bathroom; Porter stared after him, speculatively. They knew one another well, and though the Old Man could be short-tempered and pernickety, he was human. A word of advice in his predicament? It always helped, so they said, to talk things over and the Old Man just might come up with something. He would have to choose his moment, though, and it wasn’t now. Wait till the convoy had cleared the Bight, maybe. Captain Dempsey, he could be caught on his wrong side and God knew he had enough to occupy his thoughts, at sea in wartime and in command.

  In the meantime, after Dempsey had gone back to the bridge, Porter sat in his pantry with a pad of notepaper and wrote a line to Beryl, for posting at the Cape. Just to let her know he was thinking of her.

  II

  Spray whipped across the open bridge-wings, brought salt to Kemp’s weather-beaten face. He shivered beneath his duffel coat: the spray was icy, so was the wind. Despite the weather the convoy was keeping good station. Kemp thought with sympathy about the troops aboard the transports, packed tight. As sick as dogs, very likely. The peace-time passengers from home had never liked the haul through the Bight; quite a few of them used to disembark at Fremantle and go overland to Melbourne or Sydney rather than face it when it was in one of its moods, like now. It was always incredible what a difference came to a liner in the Bight in winter: the air of gaiety gone, the ship rolling and pitching, the air dank, the sky grey when you could see it at all through the flinging spume, the public rooms largely deserted, even the bars not doing their usual trade. Today Kemp was feeling that same old depression, brought not only by the weather but also by his anxieties: Harry, and that confounded bag locked in the chart room drawer. He mustn’t think about Harry: he must concentrate on that bag. It was quite a responsibility to have in one’s personal charge. Presumably its loss to the enemy could affect the course of the war, but that was not going to happen. It would be easy enough to recognize the moment, if and when it came, for jettisoning overboard; but even that could no doubt cause consternation in high place, at any rate in Australian Army circles. Or that brigadier’s anyway.

  Not too late, and not too soon either; and with luck he would never have to make the decision which, in spite of his thoughts as to the ease of recognition of that moment, would have to be finely balanced.

  He paced the bridge-wing, uphill and then downhill with a controlled rush as the Coverdale did its horrible roll: he could almost believe he could hear the surge and gurgle of the cargo tanks beneath the main deck. He looked for’ard along the flying bridges, at times half submerged by the tons of swilling water, along the mostly invisible tank tops with their heavy covers and clips and all the clutter of a tanker’s working deck, the valves and pipes and the access ladders from the flying bridges. With all that water, it was akin to looking down from a submarine’s conning tower to a hull not fully surfaced.

  Submarines, U-boats: this was far from the North Atlantic and it was highly unlikely Admiral Doenitz would have any of his hunting packs in far southern waters — hence the current paucity of the escort, which would be strengthened at the Cape for the much more dangerous run from there to the Virginia Capes outside Chesapeake Bay.

  Kemp felt a presence at his side. He glanced round.

  ‘Well, Cutler. Looking forward to home?’

  ‘I guess so, sir.’ Cutler hesitated. ‘Any chances of leave, are there?’

  Kemp shrugged. ‘Don’t be premature, laddie! Who knows, in war?’

  ‘No, sir…’

  ‘I’ll do my best for you, you can reckon on that. Your parents —’ He broke off, things that he was doing his best to suppress coming back to him.

  ‘They’ll be glad, sir. I guess they worry.’

  ‘Yes. Well, when you see them, you can assure them of one thing: you’ve been a credit to the United States all the times we’ve sailed together.’

  Cutler seemed surprised. He said, ‘Why, thank you, sir, Commodore, I guess I don’t deserve that. I —’ Then he too broke off. ‘Signal from the senior officer.’ He turned. ‘Signalman!’

  ‘Seen it, sir.’ Ordinary Signalman Lashman had taken over the watch from his leading hand and was screwing up his eyes towards the flashing lamp from Rhondda’s flag deck. A Hostilities Only rating not long qualified as a convoy signalman, he wasn’t as fast as Coverdale’s own signalman, ex-Yeoman of Signals Gannock.

  It was Gannock who reported to the Commodore.

  ‘From senior officer, sir, addressed escort and Commodore, repeated all ships…cypher from Commander-in-Chief Ceylon indicates German surface raider operating in Indian Ocean believed to have moved south-west towards Madagascar.’ Gannock looked up from his clipboard. ‘Message ends, sir.’

  That, Kemp knew instinctively, was to be the start of it. That raider could have other quarry, of course; but she could have had intelligence of the convoy’s movement out from Sydney, and if she had she would know, or guess, its course for the Cape. At Kemp’s side
Cutler, as if sensing the Commodore’s thoughts, said, ‘Could be just searching on the off-chance, sir. Not us in particular.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t go much on coincidence, Cutler. I’m going to assume she’s got the word.’

  ‘We have a strongish escort, sir.’

  Kemp laughed, a bitter sound. ‘Strong my backside. Just one old County Class cruiser and a handful of destroyers! I’ll tell you one thing: if that raider’s presence had been known earlier, I’ll bet the Admiralty would have held the convoy back in Sydney — either that, or strengthened the escort.’

  ‘I guess it depends on the raider’s identity, sir. If it’s a battle-cruiser or a pocket-battleship, why then it’s not going to be so good. But it doesn’t have to anything that heavy.’

  ‘True. If only they’d identified…I can only assume they’re going by the bush telegraph!’

  Cutler grinned. ‘A bunch of native fishermen off the Madagascan coast?’

  ‘Something of that sort,’ Kemp said savagely. ‘In the meantime there’s damn-all we can do about it — except carry on and await further information.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Any special orders for the convoy?’

  ‘No. All the masters have had the signal, Cutler. They’ll be on the top line without a prod from me.’

  Cutler nodded; there was, in any case, no immediate emergency. There were still a couple of days to go to Cape Leeuwin and the southern extremity of the Indian Ocean.

  III

  Ordinary Signalman Lashman had what Leading Signalman Goodenough called a big yap; even if he hadn’t, the word about the senior officer having made a signal would have spread throughout the ship in no time and would have led to that peculiarity of shipboard life, especially in wartime: the buzz. The lower deck lived on buzzes, they brought variety to dull routine. The buzz all hands always hoped to hear was that they were going home, but they heard that one all too seldom on the galley wireless. And certainly they didn’t this time as the Coverdale rolled uncomfortably on across the Bight. From Lashman they heard the truth: there was a Nazi commerce raider at large ahead of their track and the Commodore had expressed the wish that the convoy hadn’t left Sydney. That meant he was apprehensive, not to say scared. The buzz grew and extended into a possibility that the convoy might be ordered into Gage Roads off Fremantle, to wait there until naval forces had been moved in from the Eastern Fleet or somewhere to despatch the Nazi. Since nice buzzes seldom came about in fact, the more experienced of the men didn’t give that one much credit.

  Petty Officer Rattray was one of these: he made the rounds of his guns, anticipating the order that would come down from the bridge before the day was out. Plenty of gun-drill, plenty of maintenance of moving parts of the guns before they rounded the Leeuwin. All they had were popguns but they would have to do their stuff if they met the Jerries. Rattray was a chivier, and he chivied hard in the tradition of what he was — a gunner’s mate trained at Whale Island, the navy’s principal gunnery school, the place that inter alia produced the Portsmouth Port Division’s entry for the gun contest at Olympia each year in peace. One year, Rattray himself had been for a few performances the PO of the gun team, standing in for the chief gunner’s mate gone sick when some cack-handed rating had dropped the gun barrel on his foot. Even now, Rattray could hear the language.

  Aboard a battleship or cruiser the pipe would have been Hands to Quarters Clean Guns. Today, Rattray passed the equivalent order himself, moving from one gun position to another accompanied by Leading Seaman Sinker. In point of fact then wasn’t a lot in it; Rattray always saw to it that his guns were in tip-top condition; he wasn’t going to have it be said that he was past his best just because he was an RFR man who’d taken his pension. Fuddy-duddies they were regarded as, out-of-date and out of condition. True, many of them had lost their bark and bite; not Rattray. For one thing, he was always smartly turned out whatever the weather. Look beneath Rattray’s oilskin or duffel coat and you’d find his Number Three uniform complete with badges, plus a collar and tie. Not for him the jerseys and scarves and clutter worn by such as hadn’t the advantage of being trained as gunner’s mates, the elite — in Rattray’s view — of the whole navy.

  Today, moving with difficulty along the starboard after flying bridge with Sinker, he looked sour.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he said.

  Stripey Sinker looked blank. ‘Don’t have to what, PO?’

  ‘Look like a bloody scran bag. Just because you’re a fleet reservist.’

  ‘Well, I’m buggered!’ Stripey looked offended. He glanced down at his oilskin, held together around his stomach by means of a length of codline. That oilskin had seen better days it was true, but it sufficed, as did the scuffed leather seaboots. ‘There’s a war on,’ he said huffily.

  ‘Don’t you answer me back, Leading Seaman Sinker, or else.’

  Stripey stifled a groan: it was to be one of those days. Rattray, he knew, suffered from indigestion and when he had a bout, which mostly came after he’d had a letter from home, he was like a monkey with a sore arse. Other times he was all right, so when he was in a mood you did best to endure it and keep your trap shut. This time Rattray had something nagging at him and he wasn’t going to let up.

  ‘On’y time you smarten up is when you go ashore, right? On the prowl for women. Ought to know better, a bloke of your age.’

  ‘I’m not that old, PO.’

  ‘Bloody pity you aren’t too old.’ Rattray’s face looked like Punch, a long nose reaching down to a long chin, with a slit of a mouth in between. ‘If I had my way, I’d confine all hands to the bloody ship except in home ports.’

  Stripey failed to see the connection between his age and proclivities when ashore, and any need to curb shore leave. He said as much. Rattray spoke vehemently if tongue-in-cheek: ‘That commerce raider. A suggestion came down from the bridge — she could know our movements. There’s plenty of sodding careless talk around. We all know that. I s’pose, Leading Seaman Sinker, you didn’t drop anything else when you last dropped your trousers?’

  Stripey gave a jerk and his face flushed: it was as though the PO had been reading his mind as they left Sydney. Feeling Deeling…Rattray didn’t know anything about her and Stripey knew there was no serious intent behind his last utterance, it was his idea of a joke. Also, Stripey knew that his own thoughts had been sheer melodrama or even maybe a sort of self-punishment for acting as an old goat. All the same, what Rattray had said rankled. Take the thing to its extreme, however unlikely…it wouldn’t be nice to have on one’s conscience for the rest of one’s life, that one had a responsibility for maybe thousands of deaths.

  Stripey managed to laugh it off. ‘You know me, PO, soul of discretion.’ Rattray didn’t comment and they left the flying bridge to climb up to monkey’s island for a check on the Lewis guns. From way up top Stripey Sinker looked out at the convoy and its escort, the plunging little destroyers out on the bow acting as the screen ahead of the old cruiser, which was taking the weather badly, climbing the seas and rushing down the other side, rolling like a bathtub. Stripey felt glum: it was well known that the old three-stackers, with their very high freeboard, were terrible gun platforms, never still for a second in anything of a sea, never a chance to get their sights on. Stripey had served in the old Cornwall of the pre-war China Squadron. Half the time on practise shoots the 6-inch batteries had fired down into the hogwash or up at the sky. And now the Rhondda was just about their only defence. The destroyers were all right against U-boats, but they were not built to fight heavy surface ships. The convoy could become a sitting duck; the consequences were best not even thought about. But perhaps the buzz was right after all, and they would be ordered into Gage Roads. Troops were valuable; you might chuck away poor old matloes, but not troops. The public back home were accustomed by now to ship losses as such, but there would be a God Almighty fuss if four troop transports got it, all in a bunch.

  Two days later, with no amendment of its orders, the
BT convoy left Cape Leeuwin on its starboard quarter and headed out through the Roaring Forties for Simonstown.

  FIVE

  I

  With the Western Australian coast now well behind, another report reached the senior officer of the escort and was passed to all ships: the German raider, whose identity was still not known, had become lost in the wide waters. After the first report a search had been mounted but without success. As a precaution, two cruisers had been detached from the Eastern Fleet with orders to steam towards Madagascar and on down to the convoy’s track; but these would take time to arrive, perhaps too much time in Kemp’s view. Nevertheless, the fact that they were on their way was some comfort.

  ‘Means we’re not being left to it,’ the Commodore remarked to Dempsey. ‘They care after all!’

  Before Dempsey could utter, a lamp began flashing again from the Rhondda. Leading Signalman Goodenough made the acknowledgement and then reported to the Commodore. ‘From senior officer, sir: “Estimate raider to be well north of our track as yet. Speed of arrival Simonstown considered paramount. Convoy will accordingly alter north to come into calmer waters. Course to be 315 degrees until further orders then west. Executive will follow.”’

  Kemp stared in concern. Dempsey put his thoughts into words: ‘He must be crazy! Taking us closer —’

  ‘Yes. I tend to agree, Captain. However, I can follow his reasoning…calmer waters, better speed. You know these westerlies, they just don’t come to an end — remember?’