Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  There were those who knew by now that their men would not be coming back: Mrs Warrington and Mrs Pedley among them.

  The chief engineer’s widow sat in her wheelchair, outwardly calm but the look in her eyes showing the turmoil within. Her sister-in-law grieved for a lost brother but kept occupied in looking after his widow. It would be drudgery for as long as it lasted but she wouldn’t let her down now. She looked out for letters from overseas each time the postman came along the street. There would be some from Walter to make sad reading, and one from Captain Dempsey, something perhaps to treasure through the empty years, something saying Walter had died for his country. There had been no mention of an illness in the Admiralty’s telegram so the ship had probably been attacked by the Nazis. Walter Warrington’s sister always thought of them as Nazis, not Germans. The Germans were a decent people; in the late twenties, early thirties she’d spent some years in Germany, secretary to a British businessman in Berlin, and she’d seen at first hand the rise of Adolf Hitler and his goose-stepping SS guards, and had seen what Nazi-ism had done to Germany, and had now done to her brother.

  In Meopham in Kent old Granny Marsden banged on her bedroom floor with her stick and Mary Kemp went up to see what it was all about this time. She climbed the twisty cottage stairs slowly: there was a stiffness in her knees and often there was pain. She wasn’t getting any younger.

  ‘Well, Granny. What is it?’

  ‘My pillows.’ The voice was still strong but lately a petulance had developed. It wasn’t surprising really: Granny Marsden was far from the sort who would have wished to live on into decrepitude and dependence. Mary fluffed up the pillows and settled the thin white hair comfortably. The old lady asked fretfully, ‘Still no news of the boy?’

  Mary took a grip. ‘I told you. The telegram.’ She said it all over again, feeling tears start. ‘Missing presumed drowned.’

  ‘I know that, Mary dear. It’s the presumed part, don’t you see? They ought to know. I still think you should telephone to Sir Edward.’

  ‘Sir Edward telephoned me — I told you that too.’

  ‘But not with news, Mary —’

  ‘Not with news, no. Sympathy.’

  ‘I think he should be specific. He’s always been so good.’ Mary sighed and suppressed a strong desire to snap, remembering that John was fond of his grandmother. ‘Sir Edward’s the chairman of the Line. He’s not the Admiralty.’

  ‘There’s no need to sound so irritable, Mary dear. I may not be here much longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Granny.’ After all, the poor old thing was devoted to her great-grandson. The news had left fresh lines on her face if such was possible. Mary Kemp fluffed again at the pillows, checked that the water-bottle was full and the pills prescribed by Dr Hawkins were not available for inadvertent over-dosage, opened the window a fraction, was sharply told to shut it again, did so and went down the stairs to listen to the BBC News. Today it was not all gloom: the troops were in good heart in Egypt, eager to mount a fresh offensive some day soon, they were having a great time on the whole, there was plenty of sport available and a new Army Commander had been appointed, a lieutenant-general named Montgomery whom Mary Kemp had seen recently in a newsreel at the cinema when she’d managed to fix a granny-sitter. A cocky little man wearing a beret covered with badges, with a somewhat hectoring voice that had spoken of knocking Rommel for six. Mary wished him luck. The newsreader, Gordon MacLeod, said now that Montgomery was already known to his troops as Monty and that this was a good sign. Mary didn’t hear any more because the stick banged again, urgently.

  V

  Captain Dempsey was on the bridge when the signal was flashed from the Flag; Cutler was down aft with Rattray, putting the gunnery rates through their paces. Dempsey called down the voice-pipe to Kemp.

  ‘Asdic contact, bearing green four-five, distant eight miles, closing.’

  THIRTEEN

  I

  With the ship at action stations Kemp leaned from the after screen of the bridge. ‘Cutler!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Warn the guns’ crews, U-boat contact, action imminent. Then get up here.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Cutler turned to Rattray. ‘Well — you heard, PO.’

  ‘Looks like this is it, sir.’

  Cutler grinned. ‘You can say that again. All I can do is wish you luck — wish us all luck. I know the lads’ll do their best —’

  ‘They will, sir, they will.’

  Or you’ll know the reason why, Cutler thought to himself. Rattray’s face was like a vice, hard and unyielding. He hated Nazis and he knew just what they all faced if a single torpedo took the ship, knew too that no gun would be likely to stop a torpedo once on track. The only real defence would be hawk-eyed lookouts and immediate responses from Captain Dempsey, who would be doing the dodging.

  Rattray looked round when Cutler asked, ‘Where’s Sinker, PO?’

  Rattray said, ‘Sinker, he’ll have gone for’ard, sir. Must have, if he’s not here.’

  Cutler nodded and doubled away along the port side flying bridge. Dempsey and Kemp were covering the bearing with their binoculars; the leading signalman was watching out for further signals from the flag or captain (D) in the destroyer leader, now moving to attack. The Officer of the Watch, Third Officer Peel, was standing by in the wheelhouse ready to pass Dempsey’s helm orders to the able seaman at the wheel, and telegraph orders to the starting platform below in the engine-room. The lookouts on the bridge and at the foremast head were scanning the sea for the tell-tale streaks that would indicate the oncoming torpedoes: the flat calm conditions would help in this but as if to negate such assistance the day was fading, fast as it always did in the tropics; there was a many-coloured splendour across the sky as the red of the sun declined below the horizon, and a deep purple light over the sea…very romantic, Cutler thought, if times had been different and the Coverdale a liner with girls in ball gowns and a band playing.

  But not now.

  There was a stillness: no one spoke. So far there were no more signals. Kemp was like a statue in the starboard bridge wing, as though he felt that any movement might attract a torpedo, a statue that had no current bearing upon events other than to wait and then, very promptly, to react. Dempsey, standing beside the Commodore, was equally still. Like Kemp, he had no current function other than vigilance. The Coverdale was as ready for action as was humanly possible: which in Dempsey’s mind meant she was ready to be blown sky-high with all hands. There was nothing anyone aboard a laden tanker could do other than pray and hope to take that vital avoiding action in the very nick of time.

  Cutler looked for’ard towards the gun’s crew on the fo’c’sle: he noticed he couldn’t see Leading Seaman Sinker, who might have gone to the after gun after he, Cutler, had left it. If he hadn’t—

  ‘Cutler.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cutler moved across towards the Commodore.

  ‘That bag, Cutler. I see no point in ditching it. If we come through, we come through. If we get hit…’ Kemp shrugged. There was no need to put it into words. ‘All the same — stand by to get it out from the chart room. Here.’ He passed over his keys. ‘Unlock the drawer, Cutler. We just may have to act in a hurry after all.’

  ‘You’re thinking of that hand message, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kemp didn’t elaborate. Cutler went thoughtfully into the chart room and unlocked the drawer. Kemp had a boarding party in mind, armed Nazis with orders to get hold of the bag, men covered by the torpedo-tubes and guns of one of the U-boats. But surely not in the middle of a full-scale attack on a convoy? A surfaced U-boat would never stand a chance; the warships of the escort would be on her like a pack of hounds. Cutler gave a shrug and went back to the bridge wing, where he returned the key of the drawer to Kemp. He looked around at the convoy, still in its formation, the big troop transports, Asian Star, Asturias, Carlisle Castle, Southern Cross, and the armament carriers, and the three big grain ships that had not yet broken off for the
United Kingdom. The Nazis had chosen their time nicely, they had plenty of targets.

  ‘Scatter, sir?’ Cutler asked.

  Kemp shook his head. ‘Not a good idea against U-boats. Surface attack is different. We keep together and leave it to the AJS screen. I —’ He broke off, looking up from his binoculars. ‘They’re attacking now. The destroyers.’

  Cutler saw the great spouts of water rise from the flat surface, just visible in the last of the daylight as the depth charges, released from the racks and projected by the throwers, exploded on reaching their settings. At the same time a lamp began flashing from the flagship. Kemp called to the leading signalman.

  ‘Reading, sir. Further contacts port, sir.’

  ‘Buggers,’ Kemp said grimly.

  II

  Rattray spat on his hands, then wiped them on the seat of his white shorts. If one of the U-boats could be forced to the surface within range of his guns he was going to have a field day and he wouldn’t be waiting for any order from the bridge before he opened. He wondered, as he waited, about Leading Seaman Sinker. Bloody blockhead, he should have reported for action and not just gone for’ard all on his own initiative. But now wasn’t the time to go for’ard himself and give Sinker a bollocking: that could wait. Rattray’s fingers itched to press the tit and kill a Jerry. He’d always hated Nazis but more so since Cape Town. After that first run ashore early on, when he’d got so pissed that he’d gone arse over bollocks down that ladder, he’d faced the prospect of being shipbound all the time in port, which was largely why, in spite of the indignity, he’d consented to being carried down the accommodation ladder one afternoon and placed in a wheelchair for propulsion to a sort of garden party organized by a group of Cape Town lady do-gooders to bring some joy into the lives of sailors in from the sea, a strictly no booze affair, but still. Chief Steward Lugg had been insistent that it would be better to go than to mope around on his bunk in stifling heat, and the quack, come aboard to look at the leg’s progress, backed Lugg’s opinion; the quack happened to be on the do-gooding committee. So Rattray, on the appointed day, had been shoved, chairborne, into the back of some sort of ambulance where his conveyance was snugged down with lashings to stop it charging about the vehicle, and driven into Cape Town to be deposited in the big garden, with marquee, of some local notable.

  As he had half expected and looked forward to, Rattray attracted immediate attention: the wounded warrior, home from the sea and combat. Women, young and old, clustered to ask questions. One of them, an old bag he thought her, clutched his hand and leaned across him dripping diamonds.

  ‘Were you shipwrecked, you poor, poor man?’

  No, he wasn’t shipwrecked.

  ‘But hit by shells?’

  ‘Attacked,’ Rattray answered truthfully. ‘Casualties, like.’

  ‘And your wound?’

  ‘Me leg.’ Rattray screwed his face up as though in pain. No need at all to mention ladders and getting tanked up in the bars of Simonstown. The old bag almost swooned with emotion and was forced to let go of Rattray’s hand by a press of other women anxious to be able to say they’d shaken the hand of a British hero, badly wounded in action against the enemy. Cups of tea were brought, and buns. Rattray munched and preened; it was nice, being a hero. He didn’t feel any sense of guilt — after all, he could become a real hero at any moment once the convoy sailed again, or anyway could catch a packet and there was no harm done in having the adulation in advance. He half wished Ma Bates was present, just to see him getting all the attention. At one moment, while talking about his wound to a bright young girl dressed as he imagined a southern belle from the USA might dress, all flounces beneath a sunshade and a big picture hat, he heard a suppressed hoot of laughter from behind, from one of the wheelchair attendants — two able seamen from the Coverdale’s naval party, detailed as PO’s nurses for the spree if you could call it that.

  Rattray twisted round. ‘Shut it,’ he said. ‘Or else. Right?’

  ‘Right, PO.’

  His tone had been harsh; the southern belle twittered a little. A bully? That wouldn’t be nice…but of course the poor man was in pain so it was understandable. Rattray read all this in her face, and again manifested pain with a grimace. Not that it mattered; someone else turned up and there was a strong stench of rum that scattered the ladies.

  ‘Ratty! Well, I’ll be blowed if it’s not Ratty, the old bugger!’

  ‘Christ above,’ Rattray said wonderingly. ‘Shiner White! What you doing here, then?’

  ‘Come down from Freetown for a boiler clean. In the old —’

  ‘Pissed as usual,’ Rattray said. ‘You don’t fit with a bleeding garden party.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Got any with you?’ he asked. They hadn’t met for years; but in the past, Petty Officer White had always bottled his tot, illegally saving it up for a good free piss-up ashore where you didn’t get run in for being three sheets in the wind. Shiner White, not changed over the years, produced a lemonade bottle, half full of issue rum, the real hard stuff that you didn’t get ashore.

  Rattray took a swig. ‘God, that’s better.’ He wiped the back of a hand across his lips.

  ‘Got another an’ all,’ White said. ‘What’s up with you, eh?’

  ‘Hurt me leg,’ Rattray said dismissingly. ‘But don’t let it obtrude.’ He twisted round again. ‘All right, you two, you can bugger off and enjoy yourselves if you can find any talent. Report back when the show’s over.’ He settled back for a yarn with his old mate — shared commissions China-side, in the Med, West Indies, Atlantic Fleet in the days before it had been redesignated the Home Fleet, Pompey barracks. Whale Island, too — Shiner White was a fellow gunner’s mate. There was plenty to talk about; and there was plenty to drink. The ladies of the garden party tut-tutted a little but kept the condescending smiles intact on their faces and left them to it. You always had to stretch a point with sailors, a roughish lot but good-hearted. They simply made way when White decided to push his old mate around a bit and get to meet some of his own shipmates. And that was when it happened. Rattray’s wheelchair struck a tall, distinguished-looking man in a white sharkskin suit, who went down flat.

  ‘Pardon me,’ Shiner White said.

  The man swore. Rattray gave a start. The man, picking himself up, said, ‘Clumsy idiot.’

  White pushed the chair away, fast. Rattray said, ‘He spoke German, Shiner!’

  ‘Eh? Clumsy idiot, that’s English enough.’

  ‘Not that. Before he said that. A Jerry swear word. I met a Jerry cruiser squadron once, China-side, got to know some of ‘em. Look, Shiner, that bloke could be a bleeding spy —’

  ‘Just because ‘e swore —’

  ‘Caught on the hop, see? Automatic reflex, you swear in your own bleeding language. There’s Nazi spies everywhere, you know that. Besides, when he said clumsy idiot, it come out guttural. Bloody swine!’ The rum was surging by now; Petty Officer Rattray saw himself as a real, genuine hero, the bloke that had bowled out one of Hitler’s spy rings operating in a vital naval base. His duty, he said indistinctly to Shiner White, was clear: they had to report the man to the brass, and there was bound to be some brass present, the high-ups always liked slumming and putting on a friendly face to the lads on occasions like this. And sure enough, half-way through the afternoon there was a stir as the Admiral arrived, white Number Tens, double row of gold oak leaves on his cap-peak, gilded shoulder straps with crossed swords and stars and all. Many medal ribbons, and a flag lieutenant in attendance. The do-gooders loved it. And Petty Officer Rattray, spycatcher, took his chance of glory.

  Now, back at sea and waiting for the first of the torpedoes to go in amongst the ships of the convoy, Rattray shuddered in recollection. Pushed, egged on even, by his old mate PO White, he had bearded the Admiral, saluting stiffly from his wheelchair and being very much the gunner’s mate in adversity. There had been a great hoo-ha and the gutteral-voiced man who had sworn in German was brought along. To Rattray’s astonishment th
e Admiral saluted him: it turned out that he was indeed a German, at any rate by extraction, but had for many years been a South African by nationality, a good citizen of the Empire and a bigwig in the South African government. To Rattray’s further mortification, the quack who’d seen to his leg had been present and had explained to the Admiral. That was all right so far as it went: it got Rattray off the hook so far as discipline and charges were concerned. It was fair enough that a man in from a convoy should have a drink or two and the Admiral happened to like being seen to be democratic and tolerant of ratings’ foibles. But the quack — the bloody quack had come across loud and clear, that the wounded hero had slipped arse over bollocks down a very peaceful ladder…

  In Rattray’s mind it was all the German’s fault. It added fuel to the flames. He patted the breech of the after 3-inch, muttering to himself as he did so. He was going to give the sods what for.

  Then, across the dark water with its gleam of phosphorescence, he saw the twin tracks heading for the convoy and he yelled a warning to the bridge.

  III

  Dempsey too had seen the trails. No avoiding action was necessary: the torpedoes were passing across his stern, harmless to the Coverdale. He passed an order to ex-yeoman Gannock, his own signalman: a warning signal to the port column of the convoy.