Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  IV

  The word went down to Chief Engineer Warrington from the bridge: there was alarm in his face as he took the message and turned to his second engineer.

  ‘Bridge reports apparent damage, strained plates maybe. Number One summer tank, port. Smell of vapour…’

  Evans sucked in his breath sharply. ‘Can’t be, sir! Summer tanks, they’ve been cleaned —’

  ‘Bloody is, according to the carpenter. And some people are cack-handed enough when it comes to doing a job properly.’ Warrington wiped a handful of cotton-waste across his streaming face. It was the empty tanks that were potentially the most dangerous in certain circumstances, like now, and they were always cleaned as soon as possible after discharge, gas freed by steam cleaning and swilling out with water. Empty tanks, improperly cleaned tanks anyway, could hold explosive gases and poisonous fumes, and if breached in the smallest degree could spread those gases and fumes throughout the hull between the cofferdams fore and aft, could get into the double bottoms, anywhere within the confines of the cofferdams, and form a kind of bomb.

  Evans asked, ‘Any water coming in, sir?’

  ‘Not a lot. Pumps are coping easily.’ As a precaution the pumps had been started the moment the bridge had felt the reaction from the near miss against the outer plating. Warrington went on, ‘Take over on the starting platform, Evans. I’m going to take a look for myself.’

  He climbed up through the maze of steel ladders to the air-lock and emerged from the engineers’ alleyway through the door giving access to the flying bridge aft. He looked up towards the bridge, saw Dempsey and the Commodore in the starboard wing; they were staring astern through their binoculars. As he went for’ard he glanced astern himself, just in time to see a big explosion against the port bow of the Kormoran. He gave a grim smile and turned for’ard again: the Nazi raider wasn’t having it all his own way.

  Dempsey called down from the bridge: ‘That tank, Chief —’

  ‘Just going to have a look, sir, before I give a diagnosis. I’ll need to open up Number One summer —’

  ‘Dangerous!’

  ‘Necessary,’ Warrington called up.

  Dempsey waved an arm. ‘All right, Chief. Take care. Report as soon as you can.’

  Warrington lifted a hand in salute to the peak of his oil-stained uniform cap; in the other he carried a very long, very powerful battery torch encased in rubber against any possibility of striking a spark off metal: one spark, if there was vapour around, and the Coverdale would be away as finally as the Rhondda and the Timor. He doubled along towards the for’ard tank deck to join Pedley and the ship’s carpenter by the hatch leading down into Number One summer tank. With them was the third engineer, who had not yet opened up pending permission from the bridge and the arrival of the chief engineer.

  ‘Right,’ Warrington said tersely. ‘Clips off.’ He found a slight shake in his fingers as they lifted the torch like a baton: Dempsey had said there was danger. He hadn’t needed to remind Warrington of that. For no real reason Warrington thought suddenly of his wife, Jean, and her terrible incapacity…The clips came off and he stopped thinking of anything but the ship when the hatch was lifted and a taint of vapour came up.

  ‘God Almighty,’ Warrington said, stepping backwards involuntarily. Then he moved forward again: in truth it was not a hell of a lot of vapour — but any at all was bad, was highly dangerous. He flicked on his torch, beaming it down into the tank’s deep darkness, stared down along the beam as it struck off the sides and brought a pool of light to the bottom some fifty feet below. There was something there, some obstruction.

  ‘Well, sir?’

  This was the third engineer. Warrington said, ‘Not well at all.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘I don’t quite know. Have a look yourself.’ Warrington stepped aside and the third engineer, using his own torch, peered down for some while, then came upright looking puzzled.

  ‘I can’t see any damage, sir. There’s something there that shouldn’t —’

  ‘Yes. But what?’

  ‘Looks like some sort of deposit. Sludge from the last cargo.’

  ‘Which was fuel oil, the heavy stuff. It shouldn’t happen, but I’ll not go into that now. Later, somebody’s guts are going to be had for garters. Point is, it’s obscuring the damage as you’ve seen, and we have to know the score.’

  The third engineer said, ‘There’s not a lot of gas there, sir. I’ll go down —’

  ‘No. Not you, laddie. It’s my responsibility. And I’ll not involve the Captain either — he’s got enough on his plate.’ Warrington waved towards the Nazi raider, firing still though quite badly down by the head. ‘As for the gas, well, I’ll have to improvise.’ He reached around inside his overalls, turning his back, a handkerchief in his hand. One day someone might get around to providing anti-vapour helmets or some such but that day hadn’t come yet. A urine-soaked handkerchief, like the troops had used against poison gas in the trenches in the last war, was at least some sort of protection and Warrington didn’t intend to take long over his dangerous job. As soon as the handkerchief was soaked through he swung a leg over the hatch coaming and groped with his rubber-soled shoes for the steel ladder that would take him to the bottom. He went down fast, the handkerchief knotted over nose and mouth. Down, down… the vapour was largely held at bay by Warrington’s simple precaution, but not entirely. His head began to swim: he went on doggedly. His thoughts proliferated: maybe he was getting light-headed. He saw Jean, saw his sister, almost heard them telling him to take care, that he was needed in Portsmouth as well as aboard the Coverdale.

  V

  Away astern of the oiler, the Kormoran had continued on her ramming course; and although there had been that one torpedo hit for’ard it had come too late to take off her speed sufficiently. She hit the destroyer fair and square with all her 15,000 tons flinging fast through the water. The little Ayers, her back broken by the huge impact, was sent broadside through the water, her fore part wrapped around the Kormoran’s port side, her after part swinging off along the starboard side. From the Nazi’s deck the close-range weapons and rifles were brought to bear, to sweep what was left of the destroyer before her two parts broke away and plummeted down beneath the surface. The firing was continued on the survivors and the Kormoran swung to carry on the action against the remaining destroyer. The Nazi’s bows were down in the water but apparently she was seaworthy still, as Kemp remarked.

  ‘She can stay afloat, I think. And carry on firing. It’s up to the Bass now. The last one left! If she gets her, then God help us!’

  As Kemp spoke, the gunfire was resumed against the convoy, now mostly dispersed and moving out of range. The Kormoran seemed to be concentrating her fire on the Coverdale, proclaimed Commodore’s ship by Kemp’s broad pennant flying out from the starboard fore yard, and a valuable ship in herself, a blow to the fleet if she went. But by now the Kormoran’s firing was erratic: she was being harried by the Australian destroyer, and was constantly altering her course — from the look of the action, Kemp thought, she was taking avoiding action against torpedoes.

  That was when the Coverdale’s masthead lookout made an urgent report to the bridge: ‘Torpedoes, sir — two trails bearing green one-three-five, distant four cables!’

  So now the Nazi was using his own tubes: Coverdale wasn’t yet quite out of torpedo range, but Kemp believed those tin fish must be almost at the end of their run. Dempsey gave the helm order before Kemp spoke.

  ‘Wheel hard-a-port!’

  The big oiler turned under her full port helm to run before the torpedo trails, presenting her counter to the attack, a smaller target than her long broadside would give. She heeled over in response to her rudder, was then steadied by the Captain who ordered the wheel amidships. With Dempsey Kemp watched the twin trails closely.

  ‘We have the legs of them,’ he said. ‘Thank God for your speed, Dempsey! I think all’s well now.’

  Dempsey was about
to make some response when there was an urgent shout from the port side forward, from the bosun standing by Number One summer tank. Dempsey went fast into the port bridge wing. ‘What is it, Pedley?’

  ‘Chief engineer, sir, gone down into the tank —’

  ‘No permission was given, Pedley.’

  ‘No, sir. Chief hasn’t come up…he’s at the foot of the ladder, sir, and I don’t reckon he’s moving.’

  ‘I’ll come down immediately,’ Dempsey called.

  SIX

  I

  It had started with that swimming in the head, the odd sensation that had produced jumbled thoughts of home leading Warrington back into the past, something akin to a drowning man in his last moments of life. Deeper into the tank the residue of gas that was no doubt coming from the sludge at the bottom had grown quite strong and Warrington had begun breathing it through the handkerchief, the effect of the soaking wearing off fast. Small things came to him, Portsmouth and Southsea as they had been before the war, Commercial Road and Queen Street filled in the evenings with seamen from the ships in the dockyard or from the barracks, all of them in uniform — no plain clothes allowed to ratings on short liberty — many of them the worse for drink as the evening rolled on. The old Coliseum in Edinburgh Road near the Unicorn Gate into the dockyard, the Hippodrome opposite the Theatre Royal, the clanging trams running from South Parade Pier to the Hard and the dockyard’s main gate, the urchins known as the mudlarks who paddled about in the slimy ooze inshore of the harbour station, catching pennies thrown to them by the passing crowds. Often he’d taken Jean to the Isle of Wight before her affliction, catching the paddle ferry from the harbour station or Clarence Pier, happy days walking along the sea shore at Ryde and looking across the waters of Spithead towards Southsea common and the castle, and the naval war memorial. That, or a trip in the steamy old train that ran from Ryde pierhead to Ventnor; sometimes a trip around the island in a charabanc and climbing down to see the many-coloured sands of Alum Bay in the lee of the Needles.

  Johnny, mown down by a motorist at the age of fourteen…how he’d enjoyed those and other trips! A fair-haired, blue-eyed, happy lad who’d wanted to go to sea one day, following his father’s footsteps around the world. Warrington had served in RFA ships in Hong Kong, the Persian Gulf, Malta and Gibraltar, the West Indies, Australia.

  It had all come back in extraordinarily vivid flashes until it had faded into a blankness at the bottom of the ladder, where he had hooked an arm over one of the steel treads, his body sagging against the uprights.

  II

  ‘I’m going down,’ Dempsey said at the tank top. He’d had words with Kemp, a brief statement of his intent. He knew Kemp had wanted to demur: the Captain’s place was on the bridge and he shouldn’t risk his life elsewhere. But Kemp had said none of this, had just nodded. He had understood, and, as ever, the Captain commanded the ship. Dempsey had gone down at the double, almost sliding down the ladders to the tank deck. Once again the third engineer had volunteered but Dempsey had cut him short. As master of the ship he wouldn’t send any other man down, volunteer or not. Dempsey felt his own responsibilities keenly, knew that as top of the pyramid of command he was finally to blame for an improperly cleaned tank even though it was entirely normal to take the word of one’s chief engineer, the man most immediately responsible together with the chief officer.

  ‘Pedley…the chief should have gone down on a line.’ Dempsey was angry, as much with the bosun as with Warrington: Pedley should have seen to it that the chief didn’t go down untended. Dempsey looked down into the tank behind the third engineer’s torch: Warrington was slumped against the ladder. Now there was no time to wait while a line was fetched: Dempsey, hardly aware now of the action going on away astern of the oiler, nor of the fact that there was no more gunfire, went over the hatch, felt as Warrington had done for the treads of the ladder, and went down very fast, holding a deeply-indrawn breath.

  With no time wasted he pulled Warrington from the ladder and got him across his shoulders. Another valid reason for not letting the third engineer go down: Dempsey was twice his size, twice his strength. As soon as Warrington was in place, Dempsey started to climb back, sweating like a pig, still just about holding onto his breath. It went out with a gasp as he neared the hatch. The bosun and third engineer leaned over and between them took Warrington’s weight.

  They laid him on the deck, between the tank tops. Dempsey knelt beside him, pulling away the overalls and feeling for heartbeats.

  He looked up. ‘Dead, I think. Get some hands along he’s to be taken to his cabin. I’m no doctor — there’ll be tests we can make, just to be sure.’

  Mirrors held before the mouth, an incision in a vein — or should it be an artery? The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide would settle that one, perhaps. The Coverdale carried no doctor and treatment of the crew, with the assistance of the chief steward, was another of the master’s responsibilities — a case of diagnosis by guess and by God. As soon as Warrington had been taken aft to his cabin above the engine-room, Dempsey made his researches into the fact of death. He left the cabin heavy hearted and went back to the bridge after a word with Evans, now acting chief engineer.

  III

  Petty Officer Rattray gave a shout. ‘She’s going! She’s bloody well going!’

  The Kormoran, well down now by the bow, was beginning to slide, the water reaching up along her fo’c’sle and lapping round the for’ard 5.9-inch guns. The after armament was firing still, but with no effect; the remaining destroyer, HMAS Bass, was answering the stricken Nazi’s fire. More explosions appeared on the raider’s upper deck and then within the next few minutes she started to go with a rush, her stern came up sharply as the weight of water in her fore part increased, and suddenly she took a very fast dive and was gone, leaving the sea’s surface dotted with wreckage of boats and rafts and other moveables and with swimming men making for the safety of the destroyer, now standing by to pick up survivors. From the after superstructure of the Coverdale, Rattray watched, and despite his loathing for the Nazis watched with mixed feelings, because he knew what it was like to have to swim for it, as he started to remark to Leading Seaman Sinker.

  ‘Poor sods, swimming through spilt fuel oil, and likely enough wounded. I remember —’ He checked himself: he didn’t want to get the reputation of labouring his own part in the last war, and he’d told Stripey Sinker before now how he’d been tin fished as a young AB aboard a destroyer of the old Dover Patrol and had been hauled from the drink by a collier coming down from the Tyne to Frazer and White’s coal wharf in the Camber off the entry to Pompey dockyard. Feeling the heel of the deck beneath his feet, he looked at the wake. ‘Skipper’s altering, going in to help the destroyer.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Stripey paused. ‘Heard about the chief, have you, PO?’

  Rattray nodded. ‘Saw him being carried aft.’ He spoke without much feeling: he’d never exchanged a word with the chief engineer, never been in contact, not his department. He glanced at Stripey Sinker and said with a touch of sardonic malice, ‘Best search your conscience, eh?’

  ‘What d’you mean, PO?’

  ‘What I said earlier. Careless talk. Look what you’ve been and gone and done, eh!’

  Stripey flushed behind his lurid birthmark, though he knew Rattray was once again only indulging in his idea of a joke. It wasn’t seemly, to joke. Besides, Stripey was already feeling that sense of guilt. Daft, but there it was. You couldn’t help yourself. They always used women as spies: Stripey remembered some bit of stuff called Mata Hari who wormed all sorts of secrets out of the brass whilst in bed, not that Feeling Deeling was Mata Hari any more than he was the brass. He moved for’ard along the flying bridge, Rattray’s number two checking round the guns after action. Looking down at the tank deck he saw some of the ship’s crew gathered around the top of Number One summer tank. They all looked up as he passed along above their heads. Maybe it was his imagination but he didn’t like the way they looked at h
im. He gave himself a mental shake: he was seeing trouble where none could possibly lie. It was just that perishing sod Rattray…

  On the bridge there was an exchange of signals in progress, lamps flashing in all directions as the convoy was ordered by the Commodore to reform and resume course for the Cape. A signal from the Bass had indicated she could take all survivors aboard without assistance.

  When that signal had come Kemp had felt relief: he had that weighted canvas bag in mind and he didn’t much want any Nazis aboard if he could avoid it — just in case. When the Kormoran had gone down, the bag had been returned to its locked stowage in the chart room. Kemp walked up and down the starboard wing with Captain Dempsey and raised the question of the dead chief engineer.

  ‘Committal, you mean?’ Dempsey asked. ‘Sooner the better.’

  ‘Yes. In case of further alarms.’ Right now, it should be safe enough to stop engines, Kemp considered.

  ‘That and other considerations. You know merchant seamen, Commodore.’

  Kemp nodded. Corpses were not popular aboard ships, they were a bad-luck symbol. ‘I know it’s not my business, Captain, but what’s your acting chief like?’

  ‘Evans? Oh, he’s reliable — if relatively inexperienced. This is his first voyage as second, let alone chief.’

  ‘A big responsibility. What about that tank?’

  Dempsey said, ‘I’ll wait for my chief officer’s report. We’ll probably steam clean the tank, then the hole can be plugged until such time as we reach Simonstown —’