The next day they buried their dead at sea, and the following morning the ships steamed past a line of outward-bound Russian destroyers and entered the Kola Inlet.
The long haul was over.
11
Away from Everything
IT WAS NOT until mid-November that Growler and her weather-beaten consorts arrived home, or to be more exact, Loch Ewe in Scotland.
The return convoy from Murmansk to a rendezvous with fresh escorts off Iceland had been a quite different affair from the outward voyage.
They saw little of the enemy, and although they were shadowed and attacked at long range by a pack of submarines, only one ship, a tramp steamer which looked too old to be afloat, had been torpedoed. Even then, the ancient vessel, a Greek-crewed ship, refused to give in voluntarily, and had to be put down by an escorting destroyer.
The real menace was from the sea itself. Bitterly cold, it harried and buffeted the empty ships through every wearying day and night. Strong winds built up the waves into great terrifying crests, which had at times lifted one ship higher than the next, and then dropped it so deep in a trough that only a mast or funnel cap was visible. Station-keeping was a nightmare, and tempers became harsher and more dangerous with each change of watch.
It was only when the group anchored in Iceland to refuel, to land the more badly wounded at the hospitals there, to put right some of the many defects to equipment and machinery, that anyone found time to stop and consider what they had achieved.
An engineer from the base in Reykjavik had asked Bray, the navigating officer, what he had thought about Russia.
Bray had replied without hesitation, ‘All sulks and bloodymindedness. I know they’re having a hard time, and compared with the losses on the Eastern Front our lads who were killed on that convoy must seem small stuff. I wasn’t expecting a brass band and garlands of roses, but I did think we might have been made welcome.’
Apart from a few visits to the heavily guarded jetties, and to a hut which had been laughingly called the Officers’ Club, Rowan had seen as little of Murmansk as the rest of the company.
There had been an air-raid every night and morning, which had not been surprising, as the Germans were still very near. None of the convoyed ships had been hit, and the work of unloading their precious cargoes had gone on without a break, twenty-four hours a day, even in the dead of a bitter night when the massive barrage of anti-aircraft fire from around the port and from the many anchored ships lit up the heavens like some fantastic Brock’s Benefit.
The Russians had used anyone and everyone for the work. German prisoners, others from civilian penal settlements, their own troops, men and women of all ages.
They had seen them resting between shifts, sustained only by soup and coarse bread, their faces so worn by the hard work and poor food that many of the sailors had tried to give them their own rations.
Before the brief contact had been broken by a local Russian official and a few threatening gestures from the armed guards, Rowan had seen quite a few packets of chocolate being hidden away, held with all the awe of somebody handling precious stones.
The Russian official had had a fiery interview with Captain Buchan. It had not been helped by the ship’s interpreter, whose knowledge of Russian was almost nil.
Buchan had ended the discussion in his own way. A bottle of Scotch to the Russian, who in return handed him one of vodka.
But as Bray had said, it had been something of a let down, an anti-climax after what they had seen and endured along all those bitter miles.
Of Chadwick he had seen little. He had gone ashore in Iceland within minutes of mooring, and only returned an hour or so before they cast-off for the final run south.
Some had suggested he was to be replaced, that his head was on the block because of the flaws in the convoy plan. But when the rear admiral hurried up the brow, saluting in response to the trill of calls, his collar upturned against the first flurries of snow, Rowan could see from his shining face that he was well pleased with himself.
Rowan had been more than a little worried about his own future. He had done a lot of extra duty, mostly replacing the dead Villiers, and his wounded leg had been playing him up. The damp and the chill air, the ship’s violent motion had had much to do with it, but his own stubbornness, his determination to avoid the sickbay as much as possible had kept him going.
The nearer they got to Scotland the more frayed his nerves became. Passes and travel warrants were being made out for leave. Growler would be out of service for weeks while additional detecting gear was fitted and some more automatic weapons installed.
There was the need to work-up a new Swordfish squadron, and to replace men killed and injured, or merely drafted elsewhere.
But to the bulk of Growler’s officers and men the reasons were unimportant compared with the end result. Leave.
In Iceland they had read very little of their convoy. But the Russians were launching another attack right along the front, and the Germans had suffered heavy losses.
One unexpected piece of news had been that of a midget submarine attack on the mighty German battleship Tirpitz. The tiny X-craft had penetrated the deep fjord where she lay, and had exploded their charges right underneath her hull. The enemy had clamped a tight web of security around the ship, and the Norwegian Resistance had been able to discover nothing of the extent of the damage. But the fact was they had managed to do it, and several of the officers from H.Q. at Reykjavik had hinted that Chadwick’s attack and destruction of the big oil tanker had deprived the German battleship of fuel. And if she had sailed amongst the convoy, nobody had much doubt about what the gruesome result would have been.
In a steady drizzle, Rowan stood on a walkway with Bill Ellis, watching the dull hump of the Isle of Lewis gaining shape against a low sky.
Four rust-streaked corvettes went puffing abeam, exchanging signals and greetings, their dented hulls glistening in the grey light.
Many, many times since he had come this way before, Rowan had thought he would be killed, or broken in mind and body like some of those poor devils they had landed in Reykjavik.
But now they were almost home. Home? Where was that?
Bill asked abruptly, ‘What are you going to do, Tim? Don’t bite my head off, but I’d like to share it with you.’
Rowan glanced at his strong profile, recalling his relief at seeing him return from some patrol or another.
‘Sorry, Bill. I’ve been a bastard. I didn’t mean to get at you, of all people.’
Gulls swooped down and glided parallel with the slow-moving carrier, their eyes hard and unwinking as they examined the two figures standing in the icy drizzle.
Bill grinned. ‘I know. Otherwise I’d have knocked your bloody head off.’
‘The doc told me I’d have to wait a while before I can go on leave. The leg is playing up a bit.’ It was always easy to confide in Bill. ‘He swears there’s nothing badly wrong. He was muttering in his beard about one of these country houses where they send blokes like me.’
Bill nodded. ‘I know the sort of place. Kidneys and kedgeree for brekkers under silver lids. Then being chased round the grounds by her ladyship with a riding crop. All very recuperative.’
The mood changed and he added, ‘But when you do get away, Tim. Come to London and spend some time with me, eh?’
‘Yes.’ He thought of the house by Oxshott Woods. With any luck it might be hidden under snow before he reached there. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Frank Creswell’s in the same boat as you, Tim. He told me the doc’s sending him to a convalescent establishment. Probably the one you’ll be staying at.’
Rowan turned to watch the gulls diving and screaming below one of the gun sponsons. Somebody must have hurled some gash over the side.
Frank Creswell had certainly changed, and could even be said to be enjoying his new role as the wounded hero. At least it appeared to have taken his dead friend off his mind. He would have had to accept it
sooner or later. Otherwise he would never survive the next encounter.
‘Let’s go below and have some tea. Or shall we wait until the bar opens? It’ll be nice to see somebody getting drunk again.’
Before Bill could reply a muffled bosun’s mate peered at them and said. ‘The captain sends his compliments, sir, and would you report to his cabin.’
‘Thanks.’ Rowan glanced at his friend. ‘In his cabin? We must be safe if Buchan’s left the bridge!’
Bill walked with him to a screen door and said, ‘It’s probably about your leave.’
Rowan tapped on the door marked Captain and was invited to enter. Buchan was sitting at his desk writing busily in a large file, a pipe jutting from his jaw like an extension.
‘Ah, Rowan.’ He looked up. He had obviously showered and rested, and the change was amazing. ‘I’ve got your papers here. Thought I’d like to give them to you myself. We’re getting in tonight, and I’ll probably be busy for a day or so, until I’ve got my ideas across to the base staff, if you see my meaning.’ He smiled gravely. ‘You’re to report to a place in Hampshire. Just to rest up for a bit. I’m sorry about it, but a lot of people have been less fortunate.’ He glanced at a metal box on the deck beside his chair. ‘Commander Villiers’ personal effects. I’m sending them to his widow. She can do what she likes with them.’
He said it so brutally that Rowan stared at him. ‘I didn’t know he was married, sir.’
‘She left him.’ Buchan laced his fingers across his stomach and regarded him curiously. ‘It’s probably what finished him.’
So Buchan, who had not left his place on the bridge from one emergency to the next, had even guessed about Villiers’ death.
The captain said slowly, ‘When you find a good girl, marry her. Never mind what the clever-dicks say. You hang on to her like grim death. They’re not that easy to come by.’
‘Was that all, sir?’
Buchan stood up and impulsively thrust out his hand. ‘I don’t know when we’ll meet again. Tim, but then you know the Service. Take good care of yourself, and my thanks for everything you’ve done, and tried to do, for my command.’ He gripped his hand very hard. ‘I hope you come back to us.’
Buchan sat down and pushed a bulky envelope across the desk. It was all he could do to hold back a grin.
‘These are your travel warrants, ration cards and all that stuff.’
Rowan turned the envelope over in his hands and then stared at the neatly typed label.
For the attention of Lieutenant Commander T. Rowan. D.S.C., R.N.V.R.
He looked at Buchan. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’
Buchan sounded pleased. ‘Nothing to do with me, my lad. Had it been left to me I’d probably have promoted you to rear admiral!’
He re-opened his file. ‘Now be off, and try to find yourself.’ His voice pursued Rowan as he walked dazedly into the busy passageway. ‘And see the tailor before you leave my ship!’
Rowan made his way to the wardroom, expecting to find Bill. Instead he discovered Frank Creswell sitting on the arm of a chair, his face split in a great smile.
He exclaimed. ‘They’ve given me another stripe, Tim! I just heard!’
Rowan glanced past him towards the white cloth covered tables where several officers were eating bread and butter and jam with their tea. At the table where most of the Swordfish officers usually gathered there was only van Roijen and one other. He recalled what Buchan had just said. A lot of people have been less fortunate.
‘Good. I’m glad for you.’
He walked over and sat down, automatically adjusting his leg under the table where it could not be kicked.
Van Roijen turned and nodded to him, the deep lines on his face giving way to his warm smile.
‘Ah, Tim, my friend. We will be in soon, then maybe I get news from my family, eh? That will be fine, will it not?’
Rowan looked away. We are all pretending still. Hiding from each other.
‘Just fine, Peter. I hope you’re right.’
James, the Operations Officer, sat down opposite him and watched the steward pouring tea from a giant pot.
He looked across and said quietly, ‘Congratulations, Tim. I knew about it this morning.’ He glanced at his own faded stripes on his seagoing reefer. ‘I hope it brings you luck.’
Rowan smiled. ‘Thanks.’
He couldn’t help wondering what James and some of the other regulars really thought. Now Rowan had a half stripe like him. If the war went on and on as many predicted, they would be seeing an overwhelming weight of temporary officers in senior appointments. Perhaps they dreamed of peacetime, when such matters were slow and drawn out. But then, few people died in peacetime, and had their entire lives collected in a metal box like Villiers.
He said, ‘It’ll take some getting used to.’
James sounded fat away. ‘Shan’t be sorry to get on leave, I can tell you.’
Rowan glanced at van Roijen’s hand on the table. Very still, as if it and not its owner was listening. Thinking of the unfairness of it. James had a German wife who was alive. Whereas his own family . . .’
He replied, ‘I’d just as soon stop aboard.’ He did not know why he had said it. He was even more surprised to discover that he meant it.
The small naval bus with red crosses painted on roof and sides lurched through a narrow lane, the windscreen wipers barely coping with the sleety rain which would soon change to snow.
It was bitterly cold, and Rowan and Creswell, the only passengers, sat huddled together, hands in greatcoat pockets, collars turned up over their ears as they watched the driver manoeuvring the bus with elaborate care. It was early evening and very dark, and with the headlights covered by slitted hoods to prevent their showing any sort of glare towards the sky, it was a wonder he had not driven them into a ditch long ago.
Rowan felt sick. Of the uncomfortable, jolting ride, of the fact it had been two days since they had left Scotland for the ‘place in the country’. At night they had been admitted to local army hospitals, and then on again, the weather worsening all the way.
Creswell groaned. ‘God, if this doesn’t stop soon, I’ll damn well get out and die!’
‘You shouldn’t have had so much to drink.’
Rowan smiled unfeelingly, remembering their small attempt to put some gaiety into their strange isolation. They had stopped at a small pub, which had been empty but for two farm workers, the landlord and an air-raid warden. The occupants had watched the two young naval officers without saying a word, as if they had just landed from the moon. It had not been a satisfactory celebration, and the beer had been stale, too.
On the bus again Creswell had become suddenly serious. He had said, ‘I haven’t really had a chance to speak to you properly.’ His eyes had looked very dark, as if he had been feeling the pain. ‘I’ll never forget what you did. How you guided me down into the drink. Your voice in my ear, I can hear it now. So calm. So very near.’ He had shaken his head. ‘No, I’ll never forget.’
Rowan had felt awkward. ‘Just remember the important bit in future. Look and think before you start celebrating. Enemy fliers want to stay alive too, you know.’
He had certainly learned more about Creswell on their uncomfortable journey south than he had discovered the whole time in Growler.
He was an only child, and because his father had spent much of his life travelling abroad for his company, buying timber from Scandinavia and Burma, he had grown even closer to his mother. Quite suddenly, his mother had been taken ill and had died while Creswell was still at school.
He had said flatly, ‘My old man was married again before you could say knife. She’s years younger than he is. I’m not sorry I’m going to this country house, or whatever it is. My last leave was a disaster. She seemed to delight in pawing him about all the time I’m there. And he just sits and grins like a great idiot.’
Rowan had suggested, ‘Maybe she’s a bit jealous of you? Did you ever think of that?�
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But Cheswell had replied vehemently, ‘Not on your life. She’s like a bloody barmaid.’
Rowan leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking of the drive south. Once they had stood for ages at a level-crossing, waiting while an endless train of flat trucks had rumbled slowly past. Each truck carried a powerful tank, brand-new and en route for some regiment or other. For the much talked about Second Front? This year, next year, sometime, never.
Otherwise he had seen little change. The houses looked even shabbier, denied their usual paint-work, denied in too many cases the care of their owners who were away in uniform.
The thin newspapers were full of vague reports. The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of H.M.S. So and so. Last night our bombers raided Hamburg, or the U-boat pens at Lorient.
Times of blackout, notices of scarcer clothing or eggs, seemed to make up the rest of the news.
Perhaps if you were a civilian, anchored to a job or a way of life you could do nothing to defend, you saw what gave you comfort in the papers and discarded the rest.
He had dreaded the actual moment of leaving Growler. And when the time had come for him to board his transport with some of the walking wounded, as Minchin chose to describe them, the sense of loss and isolation had been complete.
The ship, normally so noisy and bustling, had been still. Just a few of the duty part of the watch remained aboard, and they had been sensible enough to remain invisible. Buchan had been there, and Rowan had seen his wife being greeted at the brow and swallowed up with the others.
To every corner of the British Isles, to their wives and families, to girlfriends and mistresses, to broken homes and to no homes at all, Growler’s company had scattered.
The bus gave a savage jerk, and Creswell gasped. ‘That’s either broken the axle or my bloody back!’
The driver muttered angrily and then said, ‘We’re ’ere anyway, gentlemen.’ He threw open a door, letting the sleet patter across the floor. ‘I’ll get somebody.’
Rowan stood up gingerly and supported himself between two seats.
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