Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘A dockyard job?’

  ‘I expect so. I’m not risking welding or riveting at sea with a partly loaded ship.’

  ‘You mean you’ll have to discharge first?’

  Dempsey said, ‘Certainly! And then clean all tanks.’

  ‘What sort of delay is that going to mean?’

  ‘That depends on the dockyard mateys. The convoy’s scheduled to remain three days in Simonstown, isn’t it? That ought to give us time, but I repeat, it’s up to the dockyard.’ Dempsey grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had much experience of HM dockyards, Commodore! Sometimes they’re pretty good. Other times, it’s a case of dead slow and stop and when you complain you’re met with a brick wall.’

  Kemp said, ‘We shall see about that.’

  Dempsey grinned again. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world!’ He turned away into the wheelhouse, and passed word down that the chief engineer’s body would be despatched overboard as soon as the Commodore had shepherded the convoy together again for onward passage behind their now solitary destroyer escort. Dempsey would read the service and the body would go over from the tank deck, port side aft, whilst engines were temporarily stopped, something that probably wouldn’t have happened in the areas liable to U-boat attack.

  Alone now, Kemp watched the ships of the convoy come together again and resume their formation. Through his binoculars he saw the crowded decks aboard the transports, the Australian soldiers who had now had their first taste of war and would have something to think about as they queued for grub along the messdecks. As he watched he pondered on what Dempsey had referred to: his lack of experience of Royal dockyards, a lack shared with any liner officer. Like all permanent Royal Naval Reserve officers, Kemp had done his periodic time with the fleet, just short appointments aboard a cruiser or battleship at sea when he had been supernumerary to the complement and was never involved in dockyard refits or repairs. Kemp pondered on the great diversity of life in the merchant service: cargo-ships, liners, tankers of the British Tanker Company or Shell for instance, down to coasters and ferries and even the steam yachts belonging to a handful of millionaires. Separate from all stood the Royal Fleet Auxiliaries with their fleet oilers and replenishment tankers, their dry cargo ships and their armament supply vessels, ships that hadn’t the advantage — as some would see it — of a regular run with regular sailings and always the same ports at each end, where dockers and repair firms were attuned to the ways of the particular company and were employed for the express purpose of keeping that company’s ships ready for the next embarkation of passengers. The RFA ships went anywhere according to the dictates of the Admiralty and the various Commanders-in-Chief of overseas stations, and presumably were subject to the same frustrations of dockyards as were the warships of the fleet.

  Dempsey rejoined Kemp half an hour later. ‘Ready when you are, Commodore.’

  ‘The committal?’

  ‘Yes. D’you want to come along?’

  ‘I’d very much appreciate that, Captain. Mr Warrington was very helpful, very patient when I joined you in Sydney.’

  They went down aft together, the chief officer in charge on the bridge with Sub-Lieutenant Cutler standing in for the Commodore and ready to report any signals to his lord and master. The ship’s second officer and third engineer, the latter now acting second, were standing by the plank bearing the body beneath the Blue Ensign of the RFA provided by ex-Yeoman of Signals Gannock from his flag locker. As Dempsey read the sombre words of the committal service the plank was tilted and the canvas-shrouded body slid down into the water, lead-weighted at the feet, vanishing fast. A final salute and the small party broke up, officers and men going back to their various duties about the ship. As Kemp and Dempsey reached the bridge, the telegraph handles were pulled over for full away, and the Coverdale began once again to vibrate to the thrust of her screws and to move through the re-formed troop convoy to the Commodore’s station.

  From the master’s deck outside Dempsey’s accommodation, Steward Porter, his tea-cloth over his arm, looked around at the ships and the clearing weather. The grey skies had gone now, had been left to the south and the antics of the Roaring Forties. The sea, like the sky, was blue, dappled with white horses from a wind that was still fairly strong. Porter breathed deep: the air was good. So far as was ever possible aboard a ship at sea in wartime, there was a relaxed feeling. The Kormoran had gone; so far as Porter knew, and like any Captain’s steward he always made it his business to keep a flapping ear, there was no other known enemy around and they should have a nice, clear run to the Cape.

  After that — well, the South Atlantic wasn’t so good. There were U-boats on the prowl, off Freetown in Sierra Leone and right down to lie across the shipping routes to the Cape, and north from the Cape to UK or across to the United States, the way the convoy was said to be going, though you never knew for sure until you were on the way.

  The point was, after Simonstown the Old Man would be a bloody sight more occupied than he would be over the next few days before arrival: Porter’s chance might be lost and by now he was beginning to worry himself sick. He didn’t expect miracles, he just wanted to get things off his chest and feel that his worries had been shared: the voice of common sense might bring some balm. But in the upshot, partly because Dempsey remained on the bridge right throughout that day so wasn’t available, and partly because Porter began to lose his courage for broaching fornication to the Captain, it was to the chief steward that he went. The chief steward was quite a fount of wisdom in his own right.

  ‘Thought there was something up,’ Chief Steward Lugg said, pushing aside his mountain of stores lists and ship’s accounts. ‘So it’s a young lady. Now we know.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Got her in the club, would that be it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody fool! Kiss ‘em and leave ‘em, lad, and nothing in between, that’s the safest way. I don’t hold with what goes on these days, everything’s a sight too loose, no discipline.’

  Porter shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s not a case of discipline, Chief —’

  ‘Oh yes it is, lad, self-discipline. Keep your flies buttoned.’ Grave-faced, Lugg stared disapprovingly over the tops of steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘The war’s no excuse,’ he said, just as though Porter had said it was. ‘We still have our responsibilities to face up to and that’s what you will have to do, right?’

  ‘You mean —’

  ‘You know what I mean. Look, you said you’d thought of going to the skipper. If you’re not plain daft, you know just what he would have said. He’d have said it was your duty to marry the girl, wouldn’t he? Stands to reason: you can’t let her down, not after what you done. What else were you thinking you might do, eh, lad?’

  Porter, red-faced now, said, ‘Well, I thought about — about an abortion.’

  ‘An abortion! God give me strength.’ Lugg wiped at his face with a handkerchief. He was thinking of that as yet unborn grandchild, the difficulties his daughter was facing in giving it birth, and he felt suddenly very angry that anyone could so casually use the word, abortion. ‘What are you, a man or a worm? Get out of my cabin!’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Go on, get out.’ Lugg got to his feet and waved his arms in the air, in Porter’s face. Porter got out, no argument: Lugg looked fit to commit murder. Walking away from the chief steward’s cabin, Porter encountered Leading Seaman Sinker who was also looking worried, almost distraught. Porter scuttled past but Sinker turned and called after him.

  ‘Hey you, po bosun —’

  Porter knew the Navy’s term for officers’ stewards. He stopped. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You blokes act as kind of doctors, so they tell me.’ Sinker moved closer, confidentially. ‘Never needed a doctor before, but I reckon I do now. I was going to have a word with the chief steward, but maybe you’ll do. Less sort of official like. Got a copy of that medical guide, have you?’

  ‘Not me. Chief steward. What’s the trouble, Mr Sinker?’

>   Stripey Sinker looked all around, making sure they were alone. ‘You keep this to yourself, or else. Thing is…I had a woman back in Sydney, down the Cross, know what I mean? Now I got what you might call a reaction. Started some days ago it did, back in the Bight.’ There was real alarm in Sinker’s face, and he had started to shake. ‘P’raps I’d best see the chief steward after all. I s’pose he’s got the medical chest, drugs an’ all. Sulphur something I reckon cures it. It’s like bloody broken glass every time I pee. Can’t take it much longer.’ His courage screwed up, Leading Seaman Sinker pushed on past before Porter could utter. Porter went off shaking his head but with a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. Poor old Lugg’s principles were taking quite a battering today.

  IV

  Below in the engine-room Evans, acting chief engineer, wiped his hands on a bundle of cotton-waste and stared around somewhat apprehensively from the starting platform. He felt at a disadvantage: no one of the black gang was really going to look upon him as chief. For one thing he still wore second engineer’s stripes, gold with purple between, one stripe less than a chief’s — he had toyed briefly with the notion that he might use Warrington’s shoulder-straps when he was in his white uniform on deck but had decided not to, that might bring bad luck - and, of course, he knew his own lack of experience: he hadn’t long had his chief engineer’s certificate. The sea services were being diluted as a result of wartime pressures and the RFA was no exception. In peacetime it would have been years yet before he’d made even second engineer, and now here he was, chief aboard a big fleet oiler in waters that would soon become dangerous again and anything might go wrong in the engine spaces.

  Would he be able to cope?

  Of course. He braced his shoulders back, left the starting platform and walked around with an air of authority, the authority of the chief, the one who made all the decisions in his own kingdom of oil and grease, heat and noise, the man who made the ship go and without whom all would be lost. He knew that to be the fact and if he hadn’t already he would have done by the time his father-in-law, a recent acquisition on his last leave, had expounded at much length, garrulous old sod…the father of Ruth, his wife, had been a chief engineer himself, in the Clan Line, and had a name to go with it, MacArthur, like that American general. What old MacArthur didn’t know about engines and the vital importance of chief engineers hadn’t yet been invented. Evans knew that he had to prove himself in his father-in-law’s eyes, which meant Ruth’s eyes also, for she fancied the sun shone out of her old man’s backside and was accustomed to nod decisively at each of his dogmatic utterances. Evans, cringing inside, could hear the old geezer’s reaction to the knowledge, when he got it, of his son-in-law’s rocket-like projection to high rank. It would be a loud laugh like that of a horse…and, possibly from sheer habit since she was not in fact disloyal to her husband, Ruth would nod.

  He was going to show them both. And the first thing he would have to deal with, in conjunction, of course, with Chief Officer Harlow, was a damaged cargo tank. That tank was currently being cleaned — properly this time…lucky in a way for poor old Warrington that he wouldn’t have to face the enquiry into that improperly done job, which might yet rub off on himself, Evans, as the then second engineer of the Coverdale. When they eventually returned to the UK — or even in a few days’ time at the Cape — the Admiralty would appoint some RN engineer officer, probably a captain(E), to investigate and ask searching questions and render his report. If any blame then attached to himself, old MacArthur would have a field day.

  That must not happen. He could do worse than take a look at Warrington’s engine-room logs and records, some of which would be in the chief’s safe of which he now had the key. Just to refresh his memory. He returned to the starting platform and spoke to the new second engineer.

  ‘I’m going up, Mr Vetch. Call me immediately if I’m wanted.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The ‘sir’ was pretty spontaneous and Evans felt pleased about that; it did something for his self-confidence. As he was climbing the ladders Leading Signalman Goodenough was making a report to the Commodore.

  ‘Destroyer signalling, sir.’ Goodenough made the acknowledgement and began reading the message off as it came through. ‘Addressed Commodore, sir. “Radar indicates vessel bearing 325 degrees, distant thirteen miles, drawing aft.” Message ends, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Goodenough. Cutler?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Anything on the plot? Anything of ours?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir. Just blank.’

  Kemp frowned, watching the given bearing closely as though something might emerge. ‘An unknown vessel, moving easterly. What does that suggest to you, Cutler?’

  ‘Something scuttling away, sir?’

  ‘Away from a virtually unarmed convoy? We can assume she’ll have picked us up on her radar and identified us. She’ll probably know the facts about the losses — we know Kormoran broke wireless silence once she’d engaged.’ Kemp paused. ‘For my money she’s a supply ship for the Kormoran, making what would have been a rendezvous.’

  Cutler said, ‘Make a nice prize, sir.’

  ‘Very nice! But somewhat unattainable so far as we’re concerned. Even a supply ship —’ Kemp broke off. ‘Escort’s signalling again.’

  The message was flashed across the water: the unknown ship was now altering towards the convoy and the range was closing fast. Cutler believed Kemp could have been wrong; but the Commodore said, ‘As I was about to remark, even a supply ship has guns of some sort and she could have got that report — that we’re virtually without an escort now. Close up the guns’ crews, Cutler. And pass the word as to what I expect.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Cutler went down the starboard ladder fast, making for the flying bridge and shouting for Petty Officer Rattray. When Rattray got the word of possible action against a Nazi supply ship he spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and with a gleam of anticipation in his eye moved at the double to rouse out his gunnery rates.

  SEVEN

  I

  Cutler asked, ‘Do we scatter the convoy, sir?’

  Kemp shook his head. ‘No. Not this time. Somehow I still think it’s a supply ship. Her captain may have ideas of heroics now the Kormoran’s gone. So far as we know, there’s no other raider in the vicinity.’

  Cutler looked dubious; but it was not up to him to question the Commodore’s decision. However, he asked, ‘Do we engage, sir? The Coverdale, I mean?’

  Kemp said, ‘If we’re attacked, yes, of course. I dare say we can match a supply ship, gun for gun.’

  ‘We’re a tanker, sir.’

  Kemp said evenly, ‘I’m aware of the dangers, Cutler.’ He turned to Dempsey. ‘What do you say, Captain Dempsey? She’s still your ship and your responsibility.’

  ‘I’ll go along with you, Commodore. We’re in no more danger firing back than just sitting it out.’

  ‘You can move out of range, remember.’

  Dempsey gave a short laugh. ‘Maybe I will if and when I think fit. But for now, well, I won’t deprive the convoy of what our guns can do to help.’

  Kemp clapped him on the shoulder, but didn’t speak. He lifted his glasses again towards the expected bearing, watched the Australian destroyer moving to starboard under full power, cutting across the wind and the swell, throwing back a big bow-wave, her battle ensign streaming from the mainmast head. Below at the for’ard gun, Petty Officer Rattray also watched, many things running through his mind. That Aussie destroyer had suffered during the attack by the Kormoran: two of her guns had been put out of action, there was a shortage of oil fuel, she had sustained a lot of casualties. It wasn’t going to be any walkover and if the Coverdale was to engage they might all be going sky-high within the next few minutes and Doris would be a widow, all alone with her hypochondriac mother. Thinking of Ma Bates, Petty Officer Rattray shuddered. Maybe death would be better than going back to all that one day when the war ended; better a quick end than a long, slow one at the end o
f Ma Bates’ tongue.

  Home didn’t always beckon…Aboard a ship one was Petty Officer Rattray, gunner’s mate, and very important in the lives of junior ratings. At home one was just ‘that husband of yours’ and a lifelong meal ticket. A crown above crossed fouled anchors on the left sleeve, crossed guns with crown and star on the right, all in gold when in Number Ones, didn’t register in the home.

  ‘Well, Leading Seaman Sinker, what’s up with you, eh?’

  ‘Nothing, PO.’

  ‘Stop bloody twittering, then. All on top line?’

  Stripey nodded speechlessly: he was on fire between the legs, having just taken a pre-action precaution, a leak. Broken glass wasn’t in it; his feelings towards Feeling Deeling were sheerly murderous.

  ‘Right,’ Rattray said. ‘Take charge aft and be ready to open the moment word comes from the bridge.’

  Stripey nodded again. Trust Rattray to underline the obvious, he never left anything unsaid that didn’t need to be said, it was all part and parcel of a gunner’s mate’s image, all gas and gaiters. Stripey Sinker carried his private agony aft along the flying bridge, another who with Rattray felt that a quick end might have its advantages. It wasn’t just the broken glass either: not as such, that was. Back home, which was off the Ratcliffe Highway in London, Stripey had a wife. If ever she found out about his extra-marital activities, then he was for it. If he didn’t find a cure for his current affliction, then she would find out, since it would go on getting worse and might even become incurable for all Stripey knew. She might divorce him and he didn’t want that.

  If he lived though what was coming.

  Supply ships, if that was what this one was, didn’t have much weaponry, just defensive stuff like any merchant ship in convoy, but Stripey was as aware as anyone else aboard that all a tanker needed was just one projy in or near a tank.