Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  Kemp called down again. ‘All close-range weapons’ crews stand by!’

  Rattray’s voice came back. ‘Permission to open fire, sir?’

  ‘No. It’d be a very lucky shot that got her first time. And the moment we open, we’re done for. We’ll play this differently.’ Kemp paused. ‘Stand by for further orders, Rattray. When she approaches too closely for a torpedo attack, I intend to rake her with the close-range weapons. And then you may get your chance with the 3-inch as well.’

  III

  To a large extent Kemp had been relying on the emerging moon: in that light the U-boat’s conning tower must surely be seen by the escort. He had refrained from making a signal asking for assistance; to do that would be to invite the torpedo that would send them all blazing into the heavens as surely as the armament carrier. But the moon failed him. With the devastating suddenness to which the sea area was prone, a squall came up. Clouds where there had been none only minutes before, and a screaming wind that brought the sea up into heavy waves, from the tops of which the spume blew like a carpet to hide the U-boat. Teeming rain, so fierce that as the slashing water-slivers took the decks they bounced back up again to a height of some three feet, drenched the men from below as well as from above. Visibility was brought down to a matter of yards.

  Salvation in itself? Perhaps. Certainly it would aid the convoy. The main attack would be drawn off again until the visibility cleared. There would be no point in the Nazis loosing off their torpedoes, blindly into the night. And with luck their close companion would go deep — but, again, only for the time being. Basically the threat remained. But there was something that could be done, a delaying tactic.

  ‘Captain Dempsey…I suggest we move on out. Fast!’

  Dempsey rang the engines to full ahead. Noise came back to surround Evans as the shafts turned and bit. The Coverdale moved on, keeping the course of the invisible convoy. Along the upper deck the tanker’s crew and the naval ratings shivered in the now icy cold. The rain had soaked into everything: white shorts and shirt stuck to Petty Officer Rattray as though he personally were being laundered. Stripey Sinker shook with more than the cold and wet: a murderer, all set to hang when the ship reached dry land, or anyway, UK. They wouldn’t land him in the States, he imagined; he was a British problem. He felt the unfairness: he’d been driven to it, all those rats, stinking buggers. And all, in the last analysis, the fault of bloody Rattray’s big mouth and the daft remarks that had issued too loudly from it. Now this attack on the Coverdale itself, singled out from all the others in the convoy, the ship in which he, the Nazi spy so called, was sailing. He’d be lucky not to be murdered himself. Well, it wouldn’t be any worse than waiting bloody months while all the formalities of charge and prosecution took their lengthy course and in due process of the law he was made ready for the hangman and felt the rope go around his neck.

  On the bridge Kemp spoke again. ‘The Rear-Admiral will have broken wireless silence, Dempsey. Once attacked…’ Kemp looked around the close horizons that hemmed them in. ‘How long will this last, d’you suppose? I’m not too familiar with this part of the world.’

  Dempsey said, ‘It could be over within half an hour. But there’ll be more behind this one. Once they come, they tend not to come singly.’

  Kemp grinned. ‘But in droves…Shakespeare, I think.’

  ‘Not exactly droves.’ Dempsey sounded a little on edge and Kemp knew why: a prudent master didn’t push his ship at full speed into nil visibility, not when there were other ships in the area. The radar was all very well; it was never one hundred per cent to be relied upon. If the Coverdale should slam into another ship it would be reckoned against Dempsey: he was not obliged to obey the Commodore’s order when it came to ship safety. He still commanded the ship: no one could take over that responsibility. With the lookouts, with all the bridge personnel, Dempsey was straining his eyes through the deluge, watching out for the loom of a ship’s hull as the big oiler moved on through the night.

  So many ships, so many echoes for the radar to report, those bearings constantly shifting as the vessels, running blind, altered their relative positions in the convoy pattern. They would be dead lucky to get away without a collision somewhere in the formation.

  Sub-Lieutenant Cutler was still standing by the guardrail, still holding the vital sealed bag: just as well, he thought, that he’d suggested to the Commodore that he should hang on a while longer. The squall had mucked up the Nazi’s plans quite nicely. Cutler believed they were going to get away with it; thoughts of home came back to him, and thoughts of Cape Town as well. One day he might go back to the Cape. Not that Lady Natalie would be waiting around for him: there were too many other men handy in Cape Town, and more convoys, out and home, arriving to bring fresh blood…

  ‘Cutler?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘That bag.’ Kemp had already had a discussion on tactics with Dempsey: his intention, when the U-boat reappeared, was to let the Nazis come alongside. They would be lulled; once close, as Kemp had said to Rattray, they wouldn’t be in a position to fire off torpedoes. There was, of course, her gun; but Kemp didn’t believe it would be used when close, any more than torpedoes. The subsequent explosion would involve the U-boat as well. Dempsey had been in full agreement with Kemp’s plans. Kemp now said, going back to the bag, ‘We have to choose our moment right, Cutler. I want to hang onto that bag if at all possible. But if it has to go, then go it will. After that, the ship’s the main consideration.’

  ‘Sure it is, sir —’

  ‘What I mean is, we may let the Nazis board rather than risk the ship. It’s the bag they’re after — not us as such. When they know it’s gone — once they’ve searched the ship - they won’t hang about.’ Kemp was still clearing his own mind. ‘They’ll go back and shove off. Go deep if the A/S screen’s around. That’s when our gunners’ll have to be fast — before they either dive or put a fish in us.’

  Cutler didn’t say anything. Kemp, water streaming from him as from a duck’s back, resumed his watch ahead, binoculars peering through the filthy weather. The cloud seemed to be right down on the water now, bringing a thick murk even though the wind was still at screaming pitch: there must be one hell of a lot of cloud around, Kemp thought, more and more of it being hurled about them by the wind. He felt as though he was breathing water like a drowning man. Dempsey was standing by the fore rail, close to the wheelhouse door, ready to pass instant orders to the helmsman and the engine-room. Below, Petty Officer Rattray moved with difficulty along the flying bridge, still to a large extent a dot-and-carry progress, keeping tabs on the alertness of his guns’ crews — and on Leading Seaman Sinker, murderer-at-large.

  He found Sinker by the for’ard 3-inch, holding onto the gunshield and staring out into the teeming rain, not seeming to be aware that he was as full of water as a sponge. Close by was Able Seaman Parsons, detailed as guard, watchdog, nanny or whatever you chose to call him.

  ‘All right, Parsons?’

  ‘All right, PO.’

  ‘Don’t take your eyes off him, Parsons.’

  Parsons shifted uncomfortably; he didn’t relish his job. ‘Poor sod,’ he said.

  ‘Not the way to speak of a leading hand, Parsons.’

  Parsons stared: the pusser bugger! Well, of course, poor old Stripey was still a leading seaman…but still. His remark had been one of sympathy, but bloody Rattray would never understand that. All gunners’ mates were the same, not human. Quarried, not born of woman. Ice water in their veins, gunpowder instead of brains, and did everything, but everything, by numbers. Even when on leave. Wife and kids to have breakfast, one-one-two. Fall-in for washing-up, muster for housework. Family to dinner, tea, supper, then pipe down. Then the other thing: they did that by numbers too. Parsons gave a sudden chuckle. Rattray on the job…it would be a routine process like shoving a projy up the breech of a gun.

  ‘What’s funny, eh?’

  ‘Nothing, PO.’

  ‘Laugh
at bloody nothing, do you?’

  ‘Just thoughts.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have thoughts, not at sea, Parsons.’

  ‘Sorry I’m sure,’ Parsons said. Why didn’t the stupid prat eff off? Suddenly the stupid prat seemed to widen his eyes, not that Parsons could exactly see that in the prevailing conditions, but Rattray had stiffened his body as he watched out ahead, past the shivering figure of Stripey Sinker.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Parsons saw it and moved fast, grabbing at Sinker and hustling him aft as the Coverdale swung heavily to port. Dead ahead of their track a huge shape had loomed through the murk, a vast counter, the stern, Parsons believed, of one of the troop transports. The Coverdale’s plates shuddered and rang as the engines went to emergency full astern and the heavy swing increased.

  IV

  ‘Close,’ Dempsey said. His face was expressionless: they had just about grazed past, a scrape of hulls before the full port wheel and the engines had done their work, and done it just in time.

  Kemp said, ‘Nicely done, Dempsey.’

  ‘Thanks be to God.’ Kemp glanced at Dempsey: he’d sounded as though he really meant that, a kind of genuine thanksgiving for salvation. God was often enough there with seafarers: Kemp had had some narrow escapes at times and had a strong fellow feeling for Dempsey and his evident belief. The majesty of sunrise and sunset in all the quarters of the world, the brilliant colours, the often amazing cloud effects; the sheer strength of angry waters, of howling winds, the peace of calms, the very look of the waters off Cape Horn, or the North Atlantic where the waves could rise well above the bridge of the biggest ship afloat, sending her down into the depths of a valley only to pass beneath the hull and lift thousands of tons of steel to the heights, so that her company could look straight down a hillside…these things were not of man, they were of the elements, and God was the elements. Kemp was not a churchgoer, though in the days of peace he had taken many a Divine Service in the first-class lounges of the liners of the Mediterranean-Australia Line and the act had always meant something to him. It had been conducted with full reverence and never mind that the surroundings were unchurchlike in the extreme: the lounge, place of drinking and dancing and of the arrangements made preparatory to sea seductions. On Sunday mornings, God took over and cleaned things up, for however short a time…after the service the stewards who largely formed the choir were given their beer money from the collection. Officially the collection went towards Marine Charities, but it was always accepted that beer money was a marine charity of a sort. Kemp had a feeling that God would understand that, and give the mild deception a wink and a nod from on high.

  Standing beside Dempsey now, Kemp said quietly, ‘I think God’s with us, all right. The visibility’s improving.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dempsey had his glasses up: the ships of the convoy were coming into view, great shapes not where they should be. But they would soon re-form into convoy columns. The destroyers of the escort were away ahead and on the flanks, but there was no more depth charging. Dempsey eased his engines to drop the Coverdale back into the Commodore’s position: they had overtaken a number of ships and Dempsey remarked on this.

  ‘Sheer luck we didn’t hit anyone.’

  ‘Divine intervention again?’

  Dempsey gave a short laugh. ‘Could very well be. And perhaps God’s taken care of the U-boats as well.’

  ‘Just a respite.’ Kemp gave a huge yawn, one that he was unable to smother: he was dead tired, but knew he couldn’t go below until the convoy was in the clear, and no more could Dempsey, who looked equally tired. ‘They’ve gone deep, but they’ll be back —’

  He broke off suddenly: there had been a curious sound from below, from deep down in the ship. A second later the decks gave a very heavy lurch to port and the bow seemed to rise, to lift high and then drop back. Dempsey and Kemp both found themselves staggering, and Kemp fell heavily to the deck of the bridge: no damage except to his dignity.

  Dempsey helped him to his feet. ‘Hit something, Commodore. How much’ll you put on it that it’s a U-boat?’

  ‘Can’t be anything else.’ Kemp was breathless. ‘We’ll not have done it much good, that’s for sure.’ He was wondering if the submerged object might be the shadowing U-boat, and deciding that it most likely was. If so, that particular worry was now past: anything hit like that would be so badly stove in that it would go down like a stone, flooded within seconds. But the relief didn’t last long. As Dempsey passed the word for the carpenter to sound round below there was a shout from ex-yeoman Cannock. The half-surfaced shape was back and was lying off to starboard.

  FIFTEEN

  I

  ‘Signalling,’ Dempsey said. ‘It looks as though he means to lie off.’

  Kemp said between his teeth, ‘I might have known it.’ The U-boat’s signal, as reported a few moments later, indicated that the tubes were lined up on the Coverdale to act as cover for a boarding party, who would be expendable if the British Commodore should wish to commit suicide after they had come aboard. Soon after that the watchers from the bridge saw something moving between themselves and the Nazis: two inflatable rubber dinghies being pulled across the dark water and already close. Rattray saw them too, and called up to the bridge.

  ‘Seen them,’ Cutler called back.

  ‘Open fire, sir?’

  Kemp heard. ‘No!’ He spoke to Cutler. ‘All right, this is it. Ditch the bag, Cutler.’

  ‘Already have, sir.’ Cutler had been sweating, now felt a strong sense of relief that his clumsiness didn’t matter: when the ship had hit the underwater obstruction he, like Kemp, had lost his balance. The bag had shot from his hand, over the canted starboard guardrail, and plummeted down towards the sea. Now, Cutler started to explain.

  ‘Clumsy oaf,’ Kemp said. That was all. There was only one line of action left now, the second of his two alternatives. The U-boat was not after all taking the risk of closing within gun range, and since the bag had gone and its vital secrets with it, Kemp would simply let the Nazis board. There was no other way, short of allowing the Coverdale to take a gutfull of torpedoes, and that would help no one. ‘Brains before brute strength,’ Kemp said. He gave a harsh laugh. ‘I haven’t an idea in the world what happens next, but something’ll turn up!’

  Dempsey said, ‘Whatever turns up isn’t going to be much use to us now.’

  Kemp didn’t respond to that. He knew, as Dempsey knew, that the moment the frustrated boarding party left the ship, the U-boat would send in the torpedoes. Meanwhile the main attack on the convoy was being resumed: the destroyers of the escort were moving fast on the flanks and the sea’s surface was being broken again by the upheaval as the depth charges exploded beneath. As the rubber dinghy closed the gap, there was a white flash from one of the troop transports, the Asian Star, taken on her port side for’ard, then a second later another amidships. Kemp watched the spreading fire, the red glow from her plates. In the fires he could see the lifeboats, swung out ready from their davits and lowered to the embarkation deck, with the Australian soldiers milling about, caught up in an unfamiliar situation in an unfamiliar world, far from the homeland they would not have left if Brigadier Hennessy had had his way. Really, that bag’s contents had been too late all the way through, certainly too late to be effective for the troops aboard the Asian Star.

  And something else stood out a mile: with a troop transport in difficulties the attention of the senior officer and the escorts would be heavily concentrated, and not upon events around the Commodore’s ship, though they might wonder at the Commodore’s silence in an emergency.

  II

  Along with two seamen of the Coverdale’s crew Petty Officer, Rattray stood by the lowered Jacob’s ladder sent down from the after tank deck for the embarkation of the armed Nazis.

  ‘Dirty bastards,’ he growled as a German officer came over the side.

  The officer, a man in his early twenties, skinny and bird-like, smiled. ‘There is a war on, my friend,
’ he said.

  ‘Speak English, do you?’

  ‘Yes. Heil, Hitler! Take me to your Commodore. Quickly!’

  Rattray pointed. ‘Bridge. Up there, see?’

  More men came over the side: fifteen all told, armed with submachine guns. As the last man embarked, the dinghies stood off to starboard to become lost in the darkness. The Nazi officer spoke again to Rattray: all hands were to stand away from the guns. If there was any trouble, a signal would be flashed to the U-boat and the torpedoes would be fired.

  ‘After you’ve hopped it over the side, I s’pose,’ Rattray said sourly. The Nazi didn’t bother to answer, and Rattray was aware he’d talked nonsense: the spreading, blazing oil when the Coverdale went up wouldn’t leave anyone alive in the vicinity. Back in Germany, this lot would be rated bloody heroes who’d sacrificed their lives for the Fatherland. Rattray felt a sense of grievance: only the British were supposed to be heroes. He wondered fleetingly what it would be like to be a Jerry, facing the same dangers, praying for deliverance to the same God, all the flipping padres busy on both sides, spouting praise and glory. All that aside, he reckoned these Jerries were bluffing. In due course they would piss off out of it and only then would the Coverdale be sunk. Rattray felt a familiar itch in his trigger finger as the Nazi officer left the tank deck and climbed up to the bridge.

  He watched the Nazi salute Dempsey and the Commodore, all very formal and polite. The Nazi had a narrow, unpleasant face — looked like Gestapo but wasn’t. What a bunch, salute and fire. Still, all officers were the same, velvet glove and iron fist. Rattray moved away from the Jacob’s ladder, making across to the flying bridge where the naval party had been told off to muster to the Nazis’ instructions. He was followed by a German seaman, who went on aft to the deck above the engineers’ accommodation where he took charge of one of the close-range weapons and lined it up on Rattray and his gunnery rates. Rattray was wondering just what all this boarding was in aid of: before the Nazis had come aboard, he’d had a word with Porter, the Captain’s steward, asking what was going on. But never mind big ears, Porter didn’t know a thing. Or wasn’t saying. Porter had looked dead worried, which wasn’t surprising, they were all worried, all in the same boat. Literally. Rattray, however, didn’t know what Porter’s personal worry was: when the baby was born, it was going to be not only a bastard but a fatherless one, and what would happen to Beryl?