Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  Not like some.

  Lugg looked towards the bridge, saw in the moonlight the glint of gold oak-leaves from the two uniform cap-peaks. Christ, he thought, there could have been some attempt made, some sort of fight-back while they had the escorts handy. On the other hand, Lugg was well aware of the potentialities of oilers, not the best places to pick a fight. Even a chance bullet striking sparks off a tank top could be disaster. Funny things, unexpected things, could happen. Two of the Coverdale’s tanks had recently carried high octane stuff, aviation spirit, to Sydney. Those tanks were empty now, and had of course been cleaned, but Lugg remembered that summer tank not being properly cleaned. Any lingering fumes…maybe Dempsey and Kemp had had that in mind.

  At the after end of the port-side flying bridge Petty Officer Rattray spoke to Stripey Sinker. He’d seen some of the Nazis mustering for’ard and he made a guess. ‘Search party,’ he said. ‘That bag.’

  Sinker gave a sound of terror. ‘Best chuck it over, PO.’

  ‘Don’t be more of a prat than you can help, Leading Seaman Sinker.’ Rattray rose and fell on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind a stiff back, shoulders squared: once a gunner’s mate, always a gunner’s mate and sod Hitler. ‘The buggers are still behind the gun, up there. Any move like that, and we’ve all had it. Which is why they’ve mustered us here, right?’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘First of all, Leading Seaman Sinker, don’t bloody panic. Bag’s hidden for now, but not secure — easy to find in a search. What we got to do is to make it harder to find. So far as it’s bloody possible, that is. Turn your back to the stern and face for’ard.’ Rattray prodded two of the other ratings. ‘You an’ you, get round Leading Seaman Sinker. Cover him like, see? Now then.’ He reached into a pocket of his white shorts and produced his knife, which was attached to a lanyard around his waist. He removed the lanyard, slid it free of the knife’s ring, and passed it to Sinker. Sinker stared at it, puzzled. Rattray said, ‘Lucky you’re wearing overalls.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Use your loaf, Leading Seaman Sinker. If it weren’t for overalls, you couldn’t have bloody hid it in the first place. Now the overalls are going to provide even better cover — if we go on being lucky. Now - bring the bag out, secure the lanyard to it, then shove it in your flies, right? Join your cock in seclusion.’ Rattray gave a coarse laugh. ‘Thereafter, try not to waddle like pregnant duck.’

  ‘They’ll see —’

  ‘No, they won’t, not if you don’t draw attention.’

  ‘But a bleeding personal search, PO —’

  ‘Clamp your legs together. It’s a better chance than up by your tit, right? If they get that far, well, it’s just too bloody bad. Things do happen in war, you know. We can’t all win, but we can do our best, right? Now — move!’

  Stripey uttered a strangled bleat but was quite dextrous: the bag was tied and deposited uncomfortably between his legs in quick time. Not a moment too soon: the German seamen were coming aft, along the flying bridge. They pushed past towards the door into the after superstructure, no doubt to carry out a search of the engineers’ quarters. Rattray assumed a similar search for’ard in the seamen’s accommodation, another in the officers’ cabins amidships. Then the store-rooms and such. They’d be unlikely to open up the tanks, of course, except maybe the empty ones. In any case they’d have their hands full and Sinker might be able to relieve himself of the bag by shoving it into an already searched section later. Meanwhile, Rattray cast about for some way of letting the bridge know that the bag was in good hands. Hands? Rattray chuckled to himself: between good legs.

  The Coverdale moved at full speed on her temporary southerly course, the moon-streaked water swishing past her hull plates, the thump of the engines loud in the otherwise silent night, a light wind, made largely by her own speed, sighing through the standing rigging. It was, Rattray thought, a peaceful enough scene for what amounted to a time-bomb to steam through. He thought in terms of a time-bomb because he was convinced that Commodore. Kemp wasn’t going to take the situation lying down, and no more was Captain Dempsey. Rattray considered himself a good judge of men, and anyway you didn’t reach command by turning the other cheek too often.

  On the bridge, Dempsey and Kemp paced, scarcely able to keep their eyes open, falling asleep for fractions of a second whilst on the move, coming to with a start to find themselves cannoning into each other or into the bridge screen. The Nazi seaman on guard followed their movements. Neither of them would admit the weakness of exhaustion: their place was on the bridge and there they would stay.

  ‘Talk about something,’ Kemp said suddenly. ‘Anything, just to keep us awake.’

  So Dempsey did. He talked about the past, repeating things that Kemp knew already. He’d had a varied life, starting off like Kemp in the sailing ships, the old square-riggers largely out of Liverpool for Cape Horn and Chile and across to Australian ports. He talked of Liverpool as he’d known it nearly forty years before, in the first decade of the century. A real sailors’ town, more than sixteen hundred acres of docks, thirty-six miles of quays, any number of bars. Seamen from all the world rubbing shoulders in such public houses as the Bear’s Paw, shipmasters and agents conducting their business largely in the saloons and dining-rooms over whisky at three-and-sixpence a bottle, everywhere thick with pipe or cigar smoke. The old-time music halls, too — a wonderful atmosphere, Dempsey said, and Kemp, who recalled it himself, agreed in a slurred voice. Dempsey had been an apprentice then; the Great War had seen him with a temporary RNR commission as a sub-lieutenant, serving the King in Q-ships and later minelayers. After the war he’d joined the RFA; and his first appointment as master was aboard an old gunboat, HMS Racer, salvaging gold bullion from the White Star liner Laurentic, sunk by a mine off Lough Swilly in Donegal. It had been a record at that time, he said, five million pounds worth recovered by the naval diving teams.

  ‘I had a steward called Joss,’ he rambled on, nearly asleep again. ‘Had the curious habit of saying yoss instead of yes. Took my nephew aboard once, my brother’s boy, the one…told you about him, ex-POW. Four years old…Lad went around the ship saying “Joss says yoss” in a loud voice, quite embarrassing…’

  His voice trailed away. Kemp had crashed into him again; he took his arm and steered him. Kemp hadn’t heard a word and the object of the exercise hadn’t been achieved at all.

  IV

  The petty officer of the German boarding party reported to Cramm as the moonlight gave way to the first dawn of captivity; and Cramm confronted the Commodore.

  ‘The search has produced nothing, Commodore Kemp.’

  ‘You’d better search the floor of the South Atlantic.’

  ‘Do not make jokes, please. I am convinced the bag is still aboard the ship.’

  ‘You’re entitled to believe that if you wish.’ Kemp staggered, lurching back against the bridge rail. The dawn was fresh and spectacular, a sky shot with red and green and orange, over a sea beginning to shimmer to the sun’s rays, stretching to far horizons, a flat calm…Kemp’s mind reeled, he had the curious feeling that this was no longer the world, that he had had a glimpse of a better place where there were no Cramms, no Hitlers, no wars, no more responsibility for a convoy commodore. He wrenched himself back; back to the bridge of the Coverdale and Cramm’s revolver. Cramm was speaking again, ironically solicitous.

  ‘You are very tired, Commodore Kemp. You should sleep. You are no longer young. But you will not sleep. You will remain here until you tell me where the bag is.’

  ‘I’ve told you. There isn’t anything else to tell. The bag’s gone.’

  Cramm scowled, biting his lip. ‘Let us suppose, just for a moment, that that is the truth. You will know what was in the bag.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That also is a lie.’

  Kemp remained silent; there was nothing useful to be said. He swayed again, reached out to the rail for support. As he did so he felt the blow, the sting of Cramm�
�s hand, the bony back of it, taking him across the face, twice, once each side. His head rang like a bell. He wasn’t aware of Cutler coming across from the wheelhouse and taking Cramm by the scruff of the neck. He wasn’t aware of Cramm turning, and squirming free; but he heard the crack of the Nazi’s revolver and then he saw Cutler lying on the deck of the bridge, in a spreading pool of blood. Words came to him, blistering words of condemnation for Nazi barbarism. Cramm sneered, and his bunched fist took Kemp full in the mouth. Dempsey, he saw, was being crowded back into the wheelhouse under the guns of the German petty officer and two seamen.

  SEVENTEEN

  I

  Also under threat of a Nazi gun the Coverdale’ s radio officer was brought from imprisonment in his cabin to send out the signal as dictated by Cramm, who reminded him that he spoke good English and could read Morse. Like any Mayday signal, it went out in plain language, not code or cypher: Cramm could monitor it. The drama was precisely played: when the essential words had been transmitted, the butt of Cramm’s revolver came down on the radio officer’s skull and the transmission ceased abruptly — and, to those who picked it up, no doubt convincingly. There would be no more: the radio officer was lifted and carried back to his cabin and once again locked in. From now on there would be the silence of a blown-up oiler, gone with all hands. Soon after this, the course was altered to the north-east.

  Sub-Lieutenant Cutler, US citizen in the RCNVR, was a hero now: the only one who’d had the guts to hit back, according to some. According to others, foolish: he’d never had a hope and had probably made things worse for everyone thereafter — but there was general agreement as to guts. Cutler was currently in a bad way, said Chief Steward Lugg who had the responsibility of seeing to him in his cabin, under guard by a German rating. The bullet had entered his body on the right-hand side of the stomach and appeared to have lodged somewhere — there was no exit hole, anyway. The bleeding had been profuse. Blood-stained towels littered the cabin. Cutler was white and unconscious, probably, Lugg thought, from the loss of blood.

  Lugg soothed his brow with a wet cloth and some ice from the ship’s freezer. Lugg was no nurse, but he did his best, knowing that Cutler was due to kick the bucket if they couldn’t get a proper quack to him pronto.

  A fat chance of that!

  There was some disturbance at the cabin door, an argument. Lugg went for a look-see: Porter, yacking at the Nazi sentry, who let him in but stood there at the open door with his gun aimed through.

  ‘How is he, Chief?’

  ‘Poorly.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  Lugg shrugged. ‘Blowed if I know, lad. Where’s the Old Man?’

  ‘Still on the bridge. That Cramm, he’s let Kemp go below to his bunk. The Old Man’ll be next.’

  ‘Generous!’

  Porter said, ‘Cramm knows they’ll be bloody useless as they are now. And they’re going to be needed.’

  Lugg nodded, understanding the German need. He said, ‘I reckon that bullet ought to come out — obvious, really.’

  ‘Can you do it?’

  Lugg said, ‘I can do it, yes. There’s a scalpel in the medical kit. But can I do it proper? Answer: no, I bloody can’t. How do I know what I might cut through on the way? Gut, gristle, veins and arteries. Appendix. There’s a long bowel, bloody feet of it so I’ve read. Chances are, I’ll kill him.’

  ‘He’ll die if nothing’s done, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lugg said simply.

  ‘Well, then. I reckon that’s your answer, Chief.’

  ‘Not really my job nor my decision, lad. Skipper’s the official MO aboard a quackless ship, you know that.’

  Porter said, ‘The Old Man’s too dead tired to operate on a boiled egg, right now. And time’s short by the look of him,’ he added, indicating Cutler. ‘I’ll give you a hand, Chief.’

  Lugg shook his head: there was an obvious and strong reluctance. He dithered, under the stare of the German sentry, under the sub-machine gun. He said, ‘Well, maybe. But I’ll need authority. Mr Cutler, he’s Navy.’

  ‘The skipper —’

  ‘Not from what you say — he’s probably not co-ordinating. And it’d be another worry. Same with Kemp. I’ll take the authority of the senior naval bloke left on his feet.’

  ‘Rattray?’

  ‘Yes. Get him along, lad, all right?’

  II

  Rattray felt flattered to have his opinion asked, his approval sought in regard to a medical, or anyway surgical, matter. He looked very official and knowledgeable, and stroked his chin like a specialist considering his verdict. After a moment he gave it. ‘Not my job. Ask the Commodore. Or the skipper.’

  Lugg explained. ‘Dead beat the both of ‘em

  ‘Commodore won’t thank you if Mr Cutler pegs out. Tell you what. I’ll take a look for myself. Know better then, won’t I?’

  Porter started off for Cutler’s cabin, expecting Rattray to follow, but the PO put out a restraining hand, having just been struck by an idea: the bridge still had to be told about Sinker’s bag, and he himself might never get the chance to tell Kemp — the Jerry guard would be too much present. He said, ‘Just a minute. You got access to the Commodore and Dempsey still, have you?’

  Porter said he had. Rattray said, ‘Get a message through, can you? Just in case I can’t.’

  ‘I should think so, yes —’

  ‘Right. Don’t get over’eard by the Jerries. Tell one of ‘em, Leading Seaman Sinker’s found a bag with ‘oles in it — they’ll know what you mean. Tell ‘em it’s safe for now, but I’m awaiting orders from the Commodore soon as he can be told. All right? Don’t make a muck of it. It’s important.’

  Porter nodded and with Rattray headed for Cutler’s cabin. The Nazis seemed to proliferate, as though by some sort of automatic breeding process: they were always watching yet enough freedom was allowed for movement about the ship. After all, there wasn’t anything the British could do: too many German guns, and the sea’s isolation. Rattray was allowed by the sentry to look at Cutler from the doorway and he didn’t go much on what he saw. He sucked in his cheeks, looking shocked, then blew out his breath. ‘Curtains, I reckon,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and wake Kemp.’ Maybe, he thought, he’d get that chance of reporting the bag after all.

  He went to the Commodore’s cabin. He was stopped by the guard. ‘Look,’ Rattray said truculently. ‘I want a word with the Commodore —’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Bloody Hun —’

  There was another nein. The snout of the sub-machine gun butted Rattray in the stomach and he stepped back, flinching. ‘Bloody, sodding Nazi. Look, I —’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So you do bloody speak a proper language. Now listen, I —’

  Rattray found himself taken from behind, another gun muzzle. He turned to face Lieutenant Cramm. He explained; Cramm listened, then said, ‘I shall not permit speech with Commodore Kemp. I shall take the responsibility. We are merciful people. The operation will be done.’

  ‘Right,’ Rattray said, and went below one deck to Cutler’s cabin. He felt relief that the decision had become a German one, almost might be considered an order. He gave the thumbs up to Lugg. ‘How about an anaesthetic?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t any. Bottle of rum with the cork lifted, like they did in the windjammers.’ His own face pale and his hands already shaking, Lugg ferreted about in the ship’s medical kit for the scalpel. He had no idea in all the world what to do. Just plunge in and hope for the best, hope to find the bullet and pull it out, and then plenty of bandaging to stop the flow of blood. He felt like a murderer, just thinking about it.

  III

  When the dawn was well up, still in the freshness of the early morning before the sun bit, the body of Fireman Passmore, dead by the desperate hand of Stripey Sinker, was at last committed to the deep, sliding from the plank rigged on the tank deck guardrail aft, sliding from beneath the Blue Ensign as the ship lay briefly with her engines stoppe
d. From a distance Stripey Sinker watched, the sealed bag still between his legs and getting in the way of things: peeing was potentially extremely dangerous, because a Nazi guard was always watching, but Stripey’s turned back was a shield. To him, the bag had become a very personal bomb. The bloody Germans would go mad.

  Dempsey watched from the bridge: he was not permitted to go down to the tank deck. It was Cramm who read the service, in English, demonstrating more of the Nazi mercy and good fellowship…they were a weird lot, Dempsey thought. They saw no inconsistencies in alternating phoney mercy with brutality. Like Adolf Hitler himself, who authorized the concentration camps and so on at the same time as patting babies’ heads all over the Fatherland, the kindly despot — they just didn’t see themselves as others saw them. Dempsey, motionless at the salute as the body hit the sea, caught sight of Leading Seaman Sinker standing on the flying bridge, gawping and with his legs a little apart. He recalled some earlier words from Cramm, when he’d asked permission — asked permission, aboard his own ship! — for the committal ceremony to be held. He’d been forced to explain.