Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Very. Well, we were all young once, but for Cutler’s sake…I mustn’t be unkind, though.’ Dempsey frowned. ‘What was this Bodders she kept on talking about?’

  ‘Didn’t you get the reference, Dempsey? Bodmin — the family place is near Bodmin, in Cornwall. Bodders…we’re just getting old, you and I.’

  ELEVEN

  I

  At 0750 next morning the departure reports reached Captain Dempsey, on the bridge with the Commodore: all crew members aboard, the naval party present and correct — they were all fallen in for leaving harbour, under Leading Seaman Sinker acting for the PO, along the starboard after flying bridge — and the ropes and wires singled-up to the springs ready for casting off.

  The main engines had already been rung to stand by; on the starting platform Evans wiped his hands on a ball of cotton-waste and watched the telegraphs and a number of dials and gauges. The engine-room was as spotless as ever, the metalwork gleaming, the bearings all with their due coating of oil. There was a hot oily smell and a sense of power. The telegraphs rang and Evans repeated the order.

  ‘Slow astern.’

  There was an increase in the sound level as the shafts began turning slowly; a small shudder ran through the ship as the screws bit into the water. On the bridge Dempsey, watching carefully as his ship slewed her bows round against the back-spring’s checking of her sternway, passed the order aft: ‘Let go all!’

  ‘Let go, sir.’ There was a splash as the heavy hemp backspring, its eye cast off from the bollards on the quay by the unberthing party, dropped into the water and was winched aboard dripping foul harbour water. ‘All gone aft, sir!’

  Dempsey, from the bridge wing, raised a hand in acknowledgement, moved into the wheelhouse and passed the next orders: ‘Engines to slow ahead. Wheel amidships.’

  ‘Engines to slow ahead, sir. Wheel’s amidships, sir.’

  The traditional repetitions of the sea. Each order repeated back so that there was no mistake, no mis-hearing. The Coverdale, under five degrees port wheel a little later, moved out and away from the berth. After her the big troop transports came off the dockyard wall, to be followed by the grain ships and the others of the convoy. The warship escort had already moved out and were steaming slow down False Bay: the damaged Australian destroyer was no longer with them — she would need an extended refit. But for the dangerous part of the run the escort had been strengthened beyond that originally provided for the run from Sydney. They now had two County Class cruisers, Staffordshire and Northampton, one Colony Class — HMS Nassau, wearing the flag of the Rear-Admiral commanding the escort — and four destroyers: Newbury, Leyburn, Meriden and Melton.

  Still far from a strong escort, as Kemp had stressed at the convoy conference; but all that could be provided by a navy stretched almost beyond its limits, a provision only made possible at all by keeping the ships at sea month after month when by all normal peacetime standards they should have had time in port for all manner of small defects to be attended to. The same with the ships’ companies: the men had been and would continue to be driven hard to their own limits of endurance.

  So the convoy moved out to come around the butt of the Cape of Good Hope.

  ‘Well, Cutler?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You look pensive.’

  ‘Sorry, sir —’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not criticizing. Sympathizing, rather. She’s a good-looking girl.’

  ‘Guess so, sir. Awf’ly good sort.’

  Kemp stared. Was Cutler being tongue-in-cheek, sardonic…or was it love, expressed in adopting his idol’s modes of speech? Cutler looked too honest, too fresh-faced and frank, to be sardonic. It had to be love.

  Kemp said, ‘Don’t drop your Americanisms, Cutler. Sometimes I’ve criticized…but it’s all been a lot better than — well, British expressions that don’t suit you. D’you get me? Just a friendly word.’

  Cutler grinned. ‘Guess I get you all right, sir, Commodore. Something else too: my dad — he’d say the same.’

  ‘Sensible man.’

  Kemp lifted his glasses towards the exit from False Bay. Some fifteen minutes later the Coverdale swung to starboard to make the turn, followed in succession by the troop-laden transports, moving out behind the Flag and the rest of the escort. Out for the turn north eventually into the South Atlantic, to head up for the latitude of the British port of Freetown in Sierra Leone from which, it was expected, more destroyers would join for the final leg, the leg where U-boat attack would be most likely.

  After that, a straight dash for the Virginia Capes, Cape Henry and Cape Charles, and a safe berth in the James river. That, at any rate, was the hope of everyone in the convoy. And there was an extra worry for Kemp and the masters of the transports: at the conference those masters had reported bad feeling along the troopdecks. There were agitators spreading despondency about Australia’s defences. None of the liner masters had hinted at anything like mutiny; that was unthinkable — the men were loyal enough, no question. But there had been rumours circulating in all the ships that the Australian high command was split on the issue and that had worsened the soldiers’ fears and doubts. It wasn’t a happy situation.

  II

  Far to the north, in the heart of Germany, the Führer was on a tour of inspection of his troops, having left Berlin by heavily guarded train for the military garrison at Minden in Prussia, on the left bank of the River Weser. Herr Hitler reflected that Minden was a name that had happened to figure much in British history, in wars long past: among others the British Hampshire Regiment had gained distinction when in 1759 they had routed the French cavalry, and as a result had added the Minden Rose to their cap badge, something that the Führer regarded as an impertinence. Now, of course, the British were very conspicuous by their absence; and Minden, that day of inspection, resounded to the tramp of marching German feet, to the thunder of the gun-carriages and the splendidly stirring sounds of the military bands as they came past the saluting platform to receive their Führer’s lifted-arm acknowledgement. From Minden the Führer was driven in a Mercedes to inspect the garrison at Rinteln, also upon the Weser. Before carrying out the inspection, Hitler insisted upon walking, with a fat and heavy-breathing Field Marshal, to the top of some hills from which he could look down on the barracks, built only fairly recently in the form of a large Nazi swastika, potent symbol of the victorious Third Reich, the symbol that before much longer would bring down the wretched Churchill, humbling his conceit in the dust and chaos of total military and naval disaster.

  For the Third Reich was on the march now to the victory that Herr Hitler had known all along must come. The British, despite their best efforts, were making no progress in the North African campaign against the master tactician Rommel; the Americans had entered the war it was true; but their fleet lay shattered by the gallant Japanese on the bottom of Pearl Harbor, or sticking up from it in jagged pieces of steel. There had been rumours of a second front one day but the Führer considered that merely boastful: the British Army was a ragged and broken force that could never again attempt to stand up to the might of Germany. And in the meantime the detested Russians, with the Führer’s generals hard upon their heels, were in retreat towards Stalingrad and Moscow even if not so fast as had been expected.

  And the British Navy?

  Hitler gave a laugh and danced a few steps, a sort of jig, stared at by the fat Field Marshal. The British Navy was a joke: had not the great battleship Royal Oak been sunk early in the war inside its own base of Scapa Flow, by the gallant Kapitan-Leutnant Prien’s U-boat? Had not the aircraft-carrier Courageous — which its own ship’s company called the Curry Juice, thus demonstrating their frivolous attitude towards war — also been sunk very early after hostilities had commenced? And of course later the Hood, and so many other ships as well; and the U-boats of the Reich were winning the Battle of the Atlantic, going in amongst the British convoys and sending the merchant ships and escorts alike to the bottom.

 
; It was splendid.

  It was certainly true that the sinking of the Hood had been followed by the end of the Bismarck, but that was a different story and one written only via the sheer obstinacy of the terrible Churchill, who had diverted every ship in the British fleet to the chase, the act of a madman who was prepared to leave the seas naked so that he could serve his own overweening arrogance and self-satisfaction. In any other circumstances, the Bismarck would not have been sunk. Everyone knew that.

  The Führer was thus pondering the war at sea when a corporal of signals approached — a despatch rider from Minden, who had left his machine at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘Mein Führer —’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Hitler’s voice was an irritable snap; he disliked being interrupted in a pleasurable reverie.

  ‘Mein Führer, a message to be delivered personally.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  An envelope was handed over and the Führer ripped it open. The message was from the Admiralty in Berlin, from Grand Admiral Raeder himself. Hitler read, then conferred with the Field Marshal.

  ‘An immediate reply is clearly needed,’ he said. ‘See — Raeder has intelligence from the British base at Cape Town. A large troop convoy has left and has turned north around the Cape of Good Hope. And something else. You may read it.’

  The Field Marshal did so: German intelligence had reported a most vital despatch known to be aboard the Commodore’s ship. Grand Admiral Raeder wished to attack the convoy and seize the ship carrying the despatch, the contents of which were not known but again the likely importance was stressed, as was the destination, as believed, of the troop convoy: the United States of America.

  Before the Field Marshal could utter, the Führer spoke. ‘Raeder is wasting time by asking my permission. This is of course granted — see that he is told at once. The withdrawal of forces from the North Atlantic is approved. He should have known my wishes! The convoy is to be destroyed.’

  The Führer had become angry, but the Field Marshal sympathized with Admiral Raeder, who was not clairvoyant. Only a suicidal fool would act on his own initiative when it was well known that the Führer insisted on making all large decisions himself.

  The Führer’s answer was passed to the despatch rider, who left immediately. Hitler became sunny again, looking down at his barrack buildings.

  ‘Another blow to the heart of Churchill,’ he said. ‘And the wretched Roosevelt!’

  III

  ‘Leading Seaman Sinker?’

  Stripey Sinker looked up towards the bridge from aft. ‘Yessir?’

  ‘On the bridge,’ Cutler called down. ‘Smart!’

  ‘Yessir.’ Smart, eh! Young shaver. It was all very well for him no gut to carry around. Feeling his responsibilities as acting PO, Stripey bore his stomach along the flying bridge and up the ladders at the end, thinking of the constant adjurations of Petty Officer Rattray from his sick bed, or more precisely the couch provided for the support of his leg by the chief steward.

  Rattray had been fretful from the start, not trusting anyone else to do his important job. ‘Keep ‘em up to the mark, Leading Seaman Sinker, or you’ll get what for once I’m back to duty, where I should be now, by rights.’

  ‘You can’t walk proper, PO —’

  ‘Bloody hobble, can’t I?’

  ‘Not if the weather gets up.’

  ‘If, if,’ Rattray said scathingly. ‘Flat as a virgin’s stomach, it is, and likely to remain that way. Now then: plenty of gun drill, right? Quarters Clean Guns likewise. Them guns got a proper overhaul in Simonstown after the bad weather…or I hope they did.’

  ‘I reported —’

  ‘Yes, I know you did. What’s reported, Leading Seaman Sinker, and what’s done, is sometimes two different things, right? What I was going on to say,’ Rattray continued, wiping his sleeve across his nose, ‘is, see that they stay that way. The guns. Plenty of greasing an’ that, keep the weather out. And chase the hands like I said.’ He paused. ‘Any buzzes going around? Me, I’m out of touch like.’

  Stripey said, ‘No buzzes, PO. Not that I’ve heard.’

  ‘That’s odd. There’s always a buzz. When there isn’t…well, I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t reckon ‘Itler knows there isn’t a buzz.’

  Rattray looked blank. ‘Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, PO.’

  Rattray had started to simmer and Stripey had invented a job to be done and had buggered off out of range of Rattray’s hectoring voice. Now, making for the bridge, he reflected on the fact of his standing in for the PO. True, there was no one else to take over, he being the next senior, so it wasn’t all that much of an accolade. But if he did well, came out of it without any mishaps, well, he might be in line for PO himself. If Kemp put in a good report he might be rated up once they got back to UK and the Pompey depot put his name on the roster. Or maybe Kemp could rate him up all by himself — Stripey wasn’t sure about that. If he made PO, his wife would live a bit better. A leading seaman’s pay wasn’t too hot and he could do with the extra, a bob or two more for himself and the rest on his allotment note to go home to the old lady. Life wasn’t funny for the civvies in wartime, all the rising prices and that, to say nothing of shortages and power cuts and the air raid warning sirens going half the night if you lived anywhere with a target value. At sea, until you came under attack, you didn’t do too badly. Plenty of food, warmth off watch in the messdecks, fags ten for sixpence, a daily tot of rum for free. Uniform more or less provided by the initial free issue supplemented thereafter by the Kit Upkeep Allowance, although that didn’t amount to much and what there was of it was spent by most ratings on fags and, when ashore, beer. Sinker reckoned that Rattray saved his and spent it on what it was supposed to be spent on — he was that sort of bloke, apart from the odd booze-up.

  ‘Wanted me, did you, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Followed by Sinker, Cutler moved across to the port wing of the bridge. ‘That trouble you had before Simonstown. I’m talking about the crew — understand?’

  ‘Yessir —’

  ‘Quietened down, has it?’

  ‘Yessir, I reckon so.’

  ‘Good.’ Cutler looked out across a blue sea, flat calm although there was a fairly heavy swell that was making the Coverdale roll heavily. Cloud drifted high across the sky as blue as the sea; it was a welcome contrast to the Great Australian Bight and the roaring forties. Cutler grinned. ‘Maybe it’s the weather.’

  ‘Yessir. Or p’raps it’s because…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Because we’re all peaceful, like, sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope we stay that way, Sinker. There’s a long way to go yet. All right, that’s all.’

  Sinker saluted and went back down the ladder, thinking about officers, a weird bunch. You thought they weren’t bothering about you but all the time they remembered and kept an eye lifting; it was quite flattering really. And could be just as well: although there had been no further manifestations of hostility from the crew, Stripey Sinker didn’t feel safe yet. There was indeed a long way to go — he knew from one of the quartermasters, who’d had a look at the chart, that the convoy was currently a little north of the latitude of Cape Lopez in French Equatorial Africa and coming up between the African continent and Ascension Island. Six days out from Simonstown, something like fifteen more days to Chesapeake Bay.

  Plenty could happen yet. The crew were quiescent only; they might not remain so if Adolf Hitler showed his hand again.

  TWELVE

  I

  This was easy, Cutler thought, making home for the States across a somnolent sea, a burning sun overhead, the blue water broken only by the wakes of the ships in convoy and their escort. The tropical heat was uncomfortable certainly, but there was a wind made by the ship’s passage that brought a little relief from that. Kemp had yarned to him during one of the quiet spells on the bridge about his early days in sail, how the windjammers had lain for days
, sometimes weeks, in the Doldrums, waiting for a wind to carry them on down to the passage of Cape Horn with its eternal storms and lashing rain. The Doldrums had been hell enough then, Kemp said, a time of lost tempers, of shipboard feuds coming to breaking point as the sun blistered, the sails slatted against the masts, and the general airlessness made the ship into a torture chamber below decks until a sudden, brief squall struck when it was a case of all hands to tend the sails and try to use the tearing wind to carry them on a little farther while it lasted.

  But in those days they hadn’t had the enemy to cope with.

  Cutler paced the bridge wing, his thoughts now veering between two opposite points: home, and Cape Town. Would it be a case, as with Kipling’s East, of never the twain shall meet? Probably: wartime romances were fragile things, usually very temporary. Not always, though. Cutler was seeing a vision of the girl when he was interrupted by Leading Signalman Goodenough.

  ‘Flag calling, sir.’

  Cutler looked ahead towards the Nassau and the signal lamp winking from her flag deck. Goodenough had already sent the acknowledgement and was reading. It was a short signal: Goodenough reported, ‘Commodore from Flag, sir. “Am about to close your starboard side.”’

  Cutler was puzzled. ‘What the heck?’

  ‘Something to tell us, sir, very likely too long for a signal. He’ll use his loud hailer.’

  Cutler shrugged and spoke down the voice-pipe to Kemp’s cabin. Kemp was on the bridge with Dempsey within half a minute and was levelling his binoculars. Nassau was coming round under full starboard wheel, heeling sharply until she straightened and came down on the convoy, her signal lamps busy again, passing messages to the other warships of the escort. Within the next few minutes, astern now of the Commodore’s ship, she had turned again and was coming up rapidly on the Coverdale’s starboard side, easing her engines as she began to come abeam and then taking her way off with a short burst of stern power.