Convoy South

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘So, a murder. Who did this, Captain Dempsey?’

  ‘No idea,’ Dempsey said.

  Cramm said, ‘I shall find out. We in Germany do not condone murder. When we reach port, the man responsible will die.’ Then, for no particular reason that Dempsey could see, he shot out his arm in the Nazi salute. ‘Heil, Hitler!’

  As Passmore’s body, sewn into its canvas shroud, lead weighted for fast sinking, began to disappear, Cramm heiled again. Then he turned about and went into a huddle with his petty officer, who hurried below.

  Cramm spoke loudly, in English. ‘All British men are to remain precisely where they now are. Any who move will be shot. You will be joined shortly by the rest of the crew.’

  Stripey Sinker gave a strangled bleat and looked around for Petty Officer Rattray: He knew what was coming: the personal search. He reckoned he’d had it. There was no way out. He couldn’t disconnect the bag from Rattray’s lanyard and throw it over the side in full view of the Jerries. Panic set in. He started running along the flying bridge, making further aft, away from Cramm, straight towards the armed Nazis, his mind a mere pool of unthinking terror. He heard the crack of bullets as he reached the deck above the engineers’ accommodation, heard a lot of shouting, felt the wind of the bullets as they zinged past him. There was a stinging sensation, and the sudden dampness of running blood as he was hit, or anyway grazed, nothing too serious, but something had happened to the bag, which was dropping. That bullet had parted the lanyard round his waist, a very near thing. He stopped, breath rasping in his throat like an organ, chest heaving, eyes wide now and staring back at his tormentors. He put his feet together in order to clamp the bag tight: it impeded him. It was no good now; he’d had it. He raised his hands in surrender. The Nazis got the message: Cramm gave the cease fire order and at that moment Stripey, starting to move for the ladder down to the flying bridge, trembling, put a foot on a patch of oil.

  His feet went from under him and he fell sideways, his fat body coming slap across the guardrail of the poop deck with his top half, the heavy half, outboard and hanging over the South Atlantic.

  He tried to grab with his feet. He failed. As men ran along the flying bridge, he dropped, straight into the water. The engines had not yet been started up again following the sea burial. Stripey lashed about with his arms and legs, desperately, creating a flurry of foam. He drifted off the ship’s side, was aware of a line being thrown, with a lifebuoy. It went wide. Soon he became aware of a boat being lowered from the falls, with Nazis embarked. He kicked out and the bag dislodged. He shoved a hand into his flies and dislodged it further, into the deep ocean water. It sank. Thank God, fucking thing.

  Hope returned: they couldn’t pin anything on him, not for sure. The seaboat hung poised above the sea and was slipped. It took the water with a splash, came free of the side and was pulled fast towards him. That was when he felt the awful kerfuffle in the water, the dreadful proximity of a powerful body propelled by a lashing tail, then the slicing of a fin followed by the iron-hard clamp of teeth cutting through a leg. He screamed, and the water turned red. The boat wasn’t fast enough. The shark did its work.

  The boat came up: one of the Nazis was sick over the side. Too late now, the shark was despatched by gunfire. Stripey Sinker’s body teetered just beneath the surface. What was left of it was stark naked. The torso was rolled over with a boathook. A Nazi seaman called up to the Coverdale’ s deck, addressing Cramm. Cramm swore viciously, having put two and two together after Sinker’s panic dash. The boat was hoisted to the davits, and Captain Dempsey once again put his engines ahead. Ten minutes later he went below to his cabin: he was not prevented, though an armed Nazi accompanied him as far as the door and then remained on guard. Porter came through from the pantry, teacloth over his arm.

  ‘Breakfast, sir?’

  Dempsey shook his head. ‘After that? Just coffee, Porter. Strong.’ He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking. He’d had a very good view.

  Porter said, ‘There’s a message, sir. From Petty Officer Rattray.’

  ‘Well?’

  In a whisper, standing close to Dempsey as he poured the coffee, Porter passed the message. Dempsey said, ‘Pass it to the Commodore as fast as you can without being obvious.’

  IV

  Chief Steward Lugg was bathed in sweat. He wore only a pair of white uniform shorts and sandals, with a towel draped about neck and shoulders to catch the sweat from his face. His body hair was matted, sticking flat to chest and stomach, and he was covered in blood. There was an air of a butcher’s shop. Things were not going well. To start off with there had been a lengthy delay: the medical kit contained just the one scalpel and it was as blunt, Lugg found, as a pig’s arse, probably been aboard the ship since she was built and used too many times on seamen’s corns, callouses and boils and God knew what else - opening tins? The tip had a bit of a twist and it was useless. Finding just the right sort of knife from the galley hadn’t been easy, and once selected it had had to be cleaned and sterilized. Also, there had been the order from Cramm for all hands to muster on deck and that had entailed a good deal of argument and never mind mercy; the German PO would excuse no one without express orders from his officer. Cutler could wait. After the boat had returned to the ship, the search was conducted, the personal body search, for Cramm couldn’t be sure about Sinker and was taking no chances. At last, after speaking to Captain Dempsey and Commodore Kemp, Porter had gone to Cutler’s cabin to act as Lugg’s assistant and the chief steward, shutting his eyes, had gingerly placed the tip of his knife against Cutler’s stomach in the region of the point of entry of the bullet.

  Summoning up his nerve, he pressed. The knife was sharp and went in fairly easily. Still with his eyes closed, Lugg inserted two fingers and probed around.

  ‘Anything there, Chief?’

  ‘Sod all yet.’

  There was plenty of blood. Lugg probed deeper and the flesh tore, but there was still something to be cut away so Lugg cut. He got a hand in, shuddering as he did so, and praying that he wasn’t doing too much damage. The sweat went on pouring, the towel around his neck became soaked. Then he felt something hard.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. He clamped the object firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulled it out. It was, of course, the bullet. Lugg stared at it, shaking his head. He’d been lucky: the incision had been in the right place. He needed a good, strong drink, some of the rum. Cutler’s face, he saw, was a nasty grey colour, bloodless, and the breathing was heavy, but he didn’t appear to be feeling any pain, being still deeply unconscious.

  Porter said, ‘Well done, Chief.’

  Lugg didn’t hear him. Cutler’s breathing changed, became for a moment harsher, then there was a sort of glug and gurgle and it stopped altogether. One of Cutler’s arms flopped from the bunk and dangled down towards the deck of the cabin.

  ‘He’s a goner,’ Lugg said, his voice hoarse, and with a note of disbelief although in all conscience he should have been prepared. ‘Cut along and tell Rattray, lad.’

  V

  Porter met Rattray at the head of the ladder down which the PO had fallen in Simonstown. There were no Germans within earshot. Rattray sucked in his cheeks at the news that Cutler had bought it.

  ‘Dirty bastards.’

  ‘We did our best—’

  ‘Not you, you oaf, the Nazis.’ Rattray looked around before going on, ‘Get that message across, did you, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Kemp and Dempsey both.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No orders,’ Porter said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Rattray sucked at his teeth, frowning. ‘They won’t know the bag was still on Sinker.’ He looked quickly at Porter: the steward wouldn’t know what was in the bag, shouldn’t by rights know anything at all about it, presumably, any more than Rattray himself. He wouldn’t be seeing the significance though if he had any wits at all he’d be making accurate guesses. ‘Another message, Porter: Leading Seaman Sinker had the bag — all right? Just that.’r />
  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Porter said. They parted company. Later that morning, word came back to Rattray that Kemp was much relieved, was grateful for Sinker’s quick thinking, and that once they were back in UK, Sinker’s selfless act would be reported to the Admiralty.

  ‘Died a hero’s death, did he?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Rattray scratched at his lifted jaw. ‘Don’t know so much about hero. Scared out of ‘is mind and fell arse over bollocks into the drink, clumsy bugger.’

  Porter felt a sense of shock at the insensitivity: Rattray read this in his face, and reached out to lay a hand on the steward’s shoulder. He said, ‘Face facts, lad. That’s what ‘appened. But never let it be said elsewhere, all right? Me, I’ll go along with the hero lark when we get ‘ome. If we do. Better for ‘is old lady than a charge o’ murder. This way, she’ll get a pension out of it.’ And what, he wondered to himself, about Fireman Passmore? Case not proven — both dead. Well, somebody always had to suffer in this world.

  Rattray climbed the ladders to Cutler’s cabin. He got there just as Kemp was leaving it, looking a sick man. Rattray saluted. Kemp returned the salute without speaking: Rattray had the feeling the Commodore couldn’t trust himself to speak, not even to give the PO a good-morning, which wasn’t like him. Kemp was taking it hard, Rattray thought.

  Kemp was: he’d come to like Cutler, a dependable, intelligent officer, a US citizen who’d had no need to join the fight against Hitler’s Germany at the time he had. Cutler, Kemp believed, would have gone far, both in the war and after it was over. When the Coverdale reached Chesapeake Bay, and Kemp refused to consider the fact that she might not, he would go to Cutler’s home and face the parents.

  On the bridge he nodded at Dempsey. ‘I suggest you get some sleep.’ he said.

  Dempsey was looking haggard, deep hollows beneath his eyes giving his face an almost skull-like aspect. He said, ‘Later.’

  ‘I’m here now. I’ll take over.’

  ‘My ship, Commodore.’ Dempsey gave a faint grin. ‘I’ve a feeling something’s going to happen very soon.’

  Kemp lifted an eyebrow. ‘Clairvoyant?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Kemp had an idea Dempsey was waiting for something he already knew was about to happen. Dempsey said nothing further and Kemp refrained from pressing: he was beginning to feel that Dempsey had organized something without reference to Kemp as Commodore. Commodore of what? There was no convoy now so far as he was concerned. In those ships still steaming north-westward for the Virginia Capes, the Vice-Commodore would have taken over and he, Kemp, would have been written off once the false Mayday signal had been picked up. The families at home? Kemp wiped sweat from his face. Nothing would have been said — not yet. No announcement would be made, at any rate while the main convoy was still at sea. Probably not even after the arrival: the Admiralty was never going to admit that an RFA oiler had been cut out from an escorted convoy by a boarding party from a U-boat. In due course it would be announced from Berlin, gloated over by Lord Haw-Haw, but it would be denied, put down to Lord Haw-Haw’s usual lying boasts. Of course, in the meantime a story would have been cooked up, the women notified that their menfolk had gone, but for the moment they would all be in happy ignorance, the time for tears not yet come. Kemp thought again, as he’d scarcely stopped thinking, of his son, now apparently in German hands. He found no reason to disbelieve what Cramm had said since Cramm seemed to know his facts. It was a relief, but in the circumstances not much of a one, that Harry was still alive. As things were, whether or not he remained alive might be up to Kemp.

  Or Dempsey?

  In the wheelhouse, a voice-pipe whined. Neither Kemp nor Dempsey moved, but Kemp noticed a sort of tic in Dempsey’s face, a betrayal of nerves. The third officer came out to make a report to the Captain.

  ‘Captain, sir. Engine-room —’ The third officer broke off: Cramm had come up the starboard ladder.

  ‘Go on, Mr Peel.’

  ‘Bearings running hot, sir. Mr Evans can’t trace the fault. He wants to shut down, sir.’

  Dempsey nodded. ‘Telegraphs to stop, Mr Peel.’

  EIGHTEEN

  I

  Cramm went up to Dempsey, sparrow-like against Dempsey’s bulk. He demanded, ‘What is this for, Captain Dempsey? Why do you stop engines, without permission?’

  ‘Permission?’ Dempsey laughed. ‘I need no permission aboard my ship —’

  ‘We will not argue,’ Cramm interrupted angrily. ‘Why is the engine stopped?’

  Dempsey repeated what the third officer had reported. ‘Hot bearings mean trouble. You should know that, Lieutenant Cramm.’

  ‘Why are the bearings hot?’

  ‘I don’t know. No more does my chief engineer, yet. We must be patient.’

  Cramm muttered something in his own language: he was tense and growing angrier. ‘I shall go to the engine-room,’ he said. Dempsey nodded, said he would follow Cramm down himself. As Cramm left the bridge, Dempsey spoke briefly to Kemp.

  ‘You’ll take over up here, Commodore?’

  ‘Of course —’

  ‘Leave the rest to me,’ Dempsey said. ‘It’s better that way. You’ll see.’ Without further explanation he left the bridge and deviated into his day cabin on the way down to the flying bridge aft. Porter was there, moving about with a dusting cloth. As Dempsey went towards his desk and rootled about in a drawer he spoke in a low voice to the steward.

  ‘You’re a useful go-between, Porter. Now you’re going to help save the ship. Can you drum up an excuse for a word with Petty Officer Rattray?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I —’

  ‘Good! Tell him I expect the U-boat to close us when the way comes off the ship. Tell him to pass the word around his guns’ crews, and round our own hands as well. I want him to try to regain the guns…he’ll recognize his opportunity when he sees it — tell him that.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Dempsey said, ‘Good man,’ and squeezed Porter’s shoulder briefly. He’d been in the cabin less than a minute. He came out carrying his long torch, the powerful one used for looking down to the bottoms of the cargo tanks. He brushed past the German sentry and strode out to the flying bridge. Reaching the after end he dropped down to the tank deck. Watched by the German ratings he stopped short, put a look of puzzlement onto his features, and walked across to one of the clipped-down tank tops, one of those that, now empty and cleaned, had carried aviation spirit, the dangerous high-octane stuff. He paused by the tank, bent as if to sniff the air around it, then shrugged and went back across the tank deck to the entry into the engineer’s alleyway, a perhaps useful little charade completed. He hoped — he prayed — that Cramm and his party wouldn’t know much about tankers cargoes, the unpredictabilities of high-octane spirit, and the general management of fleet oilers. Just enough to make them appreciative of the possible dangers.

  Down along the alleyway he went into the air-lock, closed the door behind him, went through the next one, closed that, and descended the intricate web of steel ladders leading down to the starting platform.

  Cramm was haranguing acting Chief Engineer Evans, who was shrugging and looking baffled.

  ‘I see no heat, no red-hot bearings.’

  ‘They don’t have to be red hot to be dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Dangerous in the sense that to keep the engines moving would lead to a seizure,’ Evans said.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we can’t move.’ Evans looked around as Dempsey reached the starting platform. ‘Sorry about this, sir. I hope it’s not making things awkward up top.’

  Dempsey grinned and said, ‘As you can see, Lieutenant Cramm’s not happy. Where’s the source, do you know yet?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, no.’ Evans’ face was creased with worry, a good act Dempsey thought with satisfaction. The acting chief gestured towards the for’ard bulkhead of the engine-room behind the starting platform itse
lf. ‘I believe there’s heat coming through there —’

  ‘The cofferdam?’ Dempsey put alarm into his tone.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was just going to call the bridge for permission to open up for inspection —’

  ‘One moment.’ Cramm intervened, frowning. ‘At first it was a heated bearing. Now it is a cofferdam. I see no connection between bearings and cofferdams.’

  ‘No connection, no. This is something else. If the cofferdam’s heating, and God knows why it —’

  ‘What is this cofferdam?’

  Dempsey caught Evans’ eye and took over. ‘The cofferdam seals the cargo tanks off from the rest of the ship fore and aft — two cofferdams, two pumping stations —’

  ‘You are saying there is danger, Captain Dempsey?’

  ‘The cofferdam is hard alongside an empty tank that recently carried high-octane aviation spirit. And we’ve had trouble already. I think I detected gas a few minutes ago — and now my chief engineer suspects heat in the cofferdam. There’s nothing aboard a tanker more dangerous than an empty tank that may not have been properly cleaned. Hydro-carbon gases from oil residue … it’s best described as a bomb, one that’s liable to go up at any moment.’ Dempsey turned his back on Cramm and spoke urgently to Evans. ‘Open up the cofferdam at once, Mr Evans. In the meantime, clear the engine-room of all hands.’

  He turned back to Cramm: the Nazi was wide-eyed, clearly scared, clearly out of his depth. He said, ‘You think —’

  ‘I think we’re liable to go sky high at any moment, Lieutenant Cramm.’

  Cramm was first up the ladders, his skinny body moving like a streak of lightning. He was followed by the two Germans on engine-room watch. Dempsey grinned again and gave Evans a thumbs-up. Maintaining the charade they climbed the ladders fast behind the greasers and firemen. As Dempsey emerged onto the tank deck from the alleyway he saw Cramm making his way for’ard with his petty officer, who was shouting orders in German to the ratings of the boarding party, one of whom was making fast up the ladders to the bridge. Soon after the man reached the bridge Dempsey saw the signalling projector in action, saw the answering flash from the U-boat. By this time the hatch into the cofferdam was being opened up: none of the Germans noticed that the overall pockets of the fourth engineer, who was going down for the inspection, were filled with cotton-waste.