Cartwright of the Gleam was the oddest-looking of them. Rather like Long John Silver, except he had two legs and no parrot on his shoulder. But perhaps the most detached and different of them all was Lieutenant-Commander Baillie of the Astilbe. Nick remembered—now that the man had failed to turn up on time—that he’d had an impression of someone shut up inside himself: either aloof, or worried by private uncertainties. With an evasive quality, a way of shifting his eyes elsewhere.
A tall, red-headed skipper with a lantern jaw raised his head and voice above the racket: “We here to do a job of work, Commodore, or is it just a bloody social?”
He’d won growls of support from all round the long trestle tables. These weren’t people to be pushed into a classroom and told to wait. It wasn’t only the waiting, either: it was the muggy heat, stifling atmosphere … Sandover was explaining, “One man still to come, Captain. Sorry … If he isn’t here in one minute, we’ll get on with it.”
“Bugger’s in the kip, most likely.” Davies, that was, the Chauncy Maples’s master … And in this climate most of them would have been stretched out on their bunks at this time of day. In tropical routine you knocked off at midday and turned-to again in the dog watches when it was slightly cooler: but just today, there were no hours to spare for siesta. It was a case of mad dogs and Englishmen, and it wouldn’t have been at all difficult to fall asleep, Nick thought, if you’d been in a position to allow yourself that luxury. Last night’s session on board the commodore’s ship had been a long and late one. The invitation to dine had come when he’d been waiting for the escort captains to arrive; he’d signalled acceptance at once, because he’d only planned to give his own guests a drink or two, crack the social ice in preparation for a hard day’s work to come, and this chance to do the same with the commodore wasn’t to be missed.
He’d got through a lot of preliminary work with the other captains this forenoon. And Mike Scarr had been up half the night preparing material for further sessions, as well as some things for this conference. Scarr was here, and so was Tony Graves, who’d been chatting with the commodore but was leaving him now, pushing over towards Nick while Sandover joined Harry Davies: Sandover taller and slimmer than the stocky Welshman, who as usual had a pipe between his teeth, wide-set eyes narrowed through drifting smoke. Pipe-smoke and cigarette fumes hung blue and pungent in the still, hot air. This was only a hut, a prefabricated addition to the sprawl of the naval base, and its ventilation wasn’t up to coping with the climate or the number of human beings crammed into it now. At this end, where a blackboard and easel stood on a small platform, there was even a stove, a black object as grimly threatening as some instrument of torture. Graves reached Nick, and told him, “Commodore says we ought to start, sir, or when Astilbe’s skipper does turn up he may get lynched.”
“Serve him right. Except we need him.” Nick shrugged: he hadn’t wanted to start before Baillie came, because whatever was said in here needed to be heard by everyone concerned. “All right. Tell him I agree. In fact he’s been very patient.”
“Captain Everard, sir?”
Turning, he found a young RNVR lieutenant at his elbow.
“I’m Marvin, sir, first lieutenant of Astilbe. Bad news, sir—my skipper’s collapsed and he’s been taken to the base hospital. I’m sorry I couldn’t get word to you before, sir, but we’ve been—”
“Anyone know what’s wrong with him?”
“Some stomach thing, sir, could be appendix or—”
“Damn.” He looked at Graves: both of them appreciating that there could hardly have been a worse time or situation. Possible alternatives—instinctive reaction was to look at once for answers to a problem that might well become insoluble, in a place like this—might be to arrange for the CO of the corvette they were keeping here—Calliopsis—to move to Astilbe: or for Calliopsis to join the escort instead of Astilbe. Two things were certain: first, he couldn’t afford to lose one of his only two corvettes, and second, this lad Marvin, behind whose ears you could almost see the wet shine, couldn’t conceivably take over the command … Another thought was that Baillie had most likely had some illness coming on, had been in pain and trying to ignore it, keep going: so in terms of his own recent thinking he probably owed the man an apology … Nick went over to Sandover, to give him the news and invite him to set the convoy conference ball rolling.
He watched the audience, while Sandover reeled off the usual preliminary stuff—importance of effective ship-darkening at night and of keeping funnel-smoke to a minimum by day; restrictions on the ditching of gash—meaning the dumping overboard of garbage—because floating rubbish could provide a trail for a U-boat to find and follow … Then signal routines, W/T wavelengths, use of alarm rockets and “snowflakes,” siren signals for emergency turns, and the drill for turns, the importance of maintaining station in the convoy …
Many of the captains wore the bored, ironic expressions of men who’d heard it all dozens of times before and knew most of it by heart. The convoy system, to most of them, was an evil necessity; they weren’t the sort to enjoy being regimented. Two of the older hands were already asleep, and others dozed occasionally, waking with jerks and grunts … You could hardly blame them, in this atmosphere … Nick looking at Guyatt now, CO of Paeony: he at any rate was awake. A small, dark man with a West Country drawl. The trawler skippers sat in a bunch beside him. Broad of the Stella—an RNR lieutenant-commander, a huge man, getting on in years and grey not only round the edges—was next to him, and on Broad’s left was the piratical-looking Cartwright of the Gleam, one-eyed, sporting a black patch, and always with a black cheroot clamped between his teeth. He was a lieutenant-commander too, the RNR stripes on his khaki shirt as frayed as if a dog had chewed them. Then Kyle of the Opal, a complete contrast to that pair—slight, quick-eyed, with greased black hair, a hand-rolled cigarette damp between nicotine-stained fingers.
The proof of that pudding, Nick thought, would be at sea, where all of them belonged. But however good they might be as seamen, as convoy escorts their contribution was likely to be small. You’d often find one trawler, even two, as make-weight in a screen, but to have half the force made up of them was—well … He switched his attention back to Sandover, who was referring his audience to the convoy plan, a diagram of which was in each captain’s sheaf of papers. Detailing rescue ships: they’d be the Timaru, number 35, and the Leona, number 65. The figure 65 meant the Leona’s position in convoy would be fifth (rearmost) ship in the sixth column from the left. The convoy would be disposed in eight columns, each five ships long, except that in the whole chequerboard diagram there’d be four vacant billets.
The master of the Leona was the red-headed individual who’d complained about the delay in starting. He’d begun complaining now about being saddled with the rescue duty, but others were shouting him down. Even one of the two grey-headed captains who’d slept until now had opened bloodshot eyes to rasp “You might as well lump it an’ like it, old son!”—then relapsed into what appeared again to be sleep. It might have been only a way of detaching himself from the crowd while he listened. Sandover announced, “Vice-Commodore’ll be Captain Stileman, Dongola, number five-one. All right with you, Captain?” A crewcut, greying head nodded: it had obviously been agreed earlier. “And Rear-Commodore will be Jack Osborne of the Ilala. That’s number seventy-one.” Osborne, a bald man with a paunch; raised a hand in acknowledgement. Scarr was taking notes, for Nick, of anything that wasn’t already in the duplicated orders. Vice and Rear commodores were substitute leaders, reserves who’d take over the job if it became vacant—if the Chauncy Maples, then Stileman’s Dongola, should be torpedoed.
“Now, gentlemen—before I hand over to Captain Everard, our very distinguished escort commander, I want to mention that it’s likely there’ll be U-boats somewhere around the Azores-Canaries stretch. That’s going by current Intelligence. So we need to be ready for a dust-up, and I’m warning you here and now that when we get out there—” he w
aved a hand seaward—“I’m going to drill you until you can manoeuvre like a platoon of bloody guardsmen. We’ll stick to it until I’m good and sure you’ve got the hang of it: so how long it lasts will be entirely up to you.”
Groans. A grumble from the carrot-headed man, the Leona’s master … Nick was on his way up to the stand. He introduced himself and then the other escort captains individually, and pointed out on a diagram, which Scarr had prepared on the back of an old chart, the station each ship would occupy in relation to the convoy. With the spread of escorts—for instance, Harbinger would be four thousand yards astern of the convoy’s rear, Paeony and Astilbe six thousand yards ahead of its van—the total width of the assembly would be five and a half miles, depth nearer six. More than thirty square miles of sea would be occupied by the advancing convoy. Trawlers would assist in rescue work when necessary and practicable: but the corvettes would not …
“I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick and think you’re being neglected. I’ve only my own destroyer and the two corvettes—I hope I’ll have as many as two—to act as strikers, hit out at the enemy before he’s in a position to hit you. This is the tactic that will be basic to all our movements.” He saw some nods, some shrugs. He went on, “Commodore Sandover told you it’s likely there’ll be U-boats in the Azores area or thereabouts. I’d say it’s more than likely, it’s damn near certain. On the other hand I’ve been warned that the convoy must hold to the planned route, with no diversions. The commodore and I discussed this last night, and we decided we’ll interpret it as meaning we can take evasive action when we have to, but each time we’ll steer ourselves back on to the ordered route as quickly as possible thereafter. I believe—” he held up a hand, asking a questioner to wait—“I believe the reason for that no-diversion order must be other fleet or convoy operations somewhere close to our route. So we do have to bear it in mind: and one thing that’s for sure is we can’t have any straggling. I do mean none. I know, you get told this every time you attend one of these conferences, but this time it’s absolutely vital: you must all maintain station and hold the convoy tightly together.”
It was about as honest, he thought, as he could allow himself to be. He finished, a few minutes later, with “That’s all from me, you’ll be glad to hear. Any questions now, either for me or for your commodore?”
There were a few: but none, thank God, that really put him on the spot. One he’d been half-expecting had been what would happen to a ship with serious engine trouble, total breakdown even, if no straggling was to be permitted? The answer would have been that no ship was to be left afloat astern of the convoy, to attract U-boats into waters that should by that time have been cleared of them. Ships would hold their stations in convoy, or be sunk. It would happen, because without it the whole deception plan would fall to pieces, but these men didn’t have to know it yet. And Nick’s thoughts were already moving—as the questions petered out—to concentrate on the next essential, to find a solution to the problem of Astilbe having no commanding officer. He had just over an hour now before the escort captains were due to muster on board Harbinger again: there were still points of tactics to discuss, explain, drive home, and if time permitted they’d move up to the plot, later, and play the convoy-escort game which Graves and Scarr had devised and operated for the group’s training up north. Beer-bottle tops for merchantmen, matchsticks for U-boats, paperclips for escorts … But the Astilbe crisis had to be settled first.
“Number One—if I’m not on board when they arrive, don’t let them just sit around, carry on from where we finished this morning … And one thing—get figures for each ship’s depth-charge outfit, including how many heavies, if any. The corvettes may have some … I’ll join you as soon as possible—all right?”
Astilbe’s captain was suffering from a strangulated hernia. Or rather, had been suffering from it: the base surgeon had already operated, in time to save Baillie’s life, but he’d be out of action for a long time now.
“Can I borrow Calliopsis’s captain to replace him?”
No, he could not. Calliopsis would be the only corvette remaining in Freetown, and she’d be no use without someone to drive her.
“Well, what about letting me take Calliopsis, and you keep Astilbe here?”
“Really, Everard—”
“If she’s only wanted for local patrol work, harbour defence and so on, that first lieutenant of Baillie’s might—”
“Out of the question, I’m afraid. In point of fact he’s only acting first lieutenant, anyway. And before you suggest it, Calliopsis’s first lieutenant couldn’t be transferred, either. You know what demands have been made on us just lately, Everard, though heaven knows what’s in the wind: and we’re stripping ourselves down to a handful of trawlers and one sea-going corvette, this for a major convoy port of call and with a fairly considerable U-boat offensive brewing!”
“I know … But—well, d’you have any officer on the staff here, or anywhere around, who’d be qualified to command a corvette?”
They went through the motions of racking brains, but the answer came up as a flat negative.
Nick argued, quietly and desperately, “I can’t take this bunch north with only one corvette. Even with two, and positive Intelligence reports of a U-boat concentration near the Azores—well, for Pete’s sake …”
But the convoy had to sail. He knew it. Ironically, he alone of all of them knew why, too. In fact if he’d had no corvettes at all, only trawlers, he’d still have had to start. He was stone-walling, fighting for the best deal he could get, and the man across the desk from him did know that. What he did not know—one of a lot of things he had no inkling of whatsoever—was that four days ago, 18 October, “Torch” advance convoy KX2 would have left the Clyde. Eighteen ships with thirteen escorts, bound for Gibraltar at seven knots: ammunition ships, tankers, freighters with cased aircraft on their decks. Another, smaller convoy would have left the day after. An earlier lot would already have reached Gib—which would be filling up, by now, getting busy—and today, 22 October, the first of the great assault convoys would be setting out. None of which was mentionably Nick’s or the Freetown convoy’s business: but the need to put a commanding officer into Astilbe was—since these people seemed unable to help at all—entirely his business.
And suddenly the answer was in his mind. As if it had been there all the time, had chosen this moment to surface …
There were complications, of course. Formalities—permissions to be obtained, signals to be made to various authorities—regular, recognised authorities, since it wasn’t possible to mention Wishart or A B Cunningham or that rock-lizard Cruance. But he’d pointed out that if Baillie had collapsed after they’d sailed from here, he’d have taken precisely this action without asking for anyone’s approval: so what the hell …
The muggy heat shortened tempers and patience, perhaps even baked brains a little. Which perhaps explained why he hadn’t hit on this obvious solution in the first place.
He was back on board Harbinger just as the other captains were mustering. Tony Graves was settling them on chairs around the table in the day cabin, and issuing them with signal pads and pencils while Foster offered cups of tea. Nick began to tell them about Baillie’s strangulated hernia, but they knew it already, since Guyatt of Paeony had been to the hospital and talked to the surgeon who’d operated. He hadn’t seen Baillie, who in any case would still have been unconscious.
“He’ll survive, all right, but it was touch and go, apparently. The doc said it’ll be a month before he’ll be allowed to do more than blink.” Guyatt asked Nick, “So what happens now, sir?”
“The obvious thing. Astilbe gets a new captain.”
He sat down in the armchair which Graves had positioned centrally for him. An electric fan was whirring and all the scuttles were wide open, but it was still uncomfortably hot. A wise man learnt to sit still, not think about it, reduce physical exertion to a minimum, even
desist from mopping at sweat too often. The hot tea made you sweat but in the long run its effect was cooling. Nick looked round at Graves, who’d been hovering, trying to get a private word in. “What is it, Tony?”
“Would you excuse me from this meeting, for about the first hour, sir? There are a few things I haven’t had a chance to get at yet, and if we’re sailing at first light—”
“Certainly.” He nodded. “But whatever’s on your plate, pass it to Warrimer. He’s to take over as first lieutenant immediately. Chubb had better take over asdics. While you’re handing over to them, your servant can be packing your gear. The appropriate signals are being made now, appointing you in command of Astilbe. The sooner you can get yourself over to her, the better, but you and I need to put our heads together, so if you care to invite me to dinner tonight I’ll accept with pleasure.”
Graves looked as if he’d been sandbagged. An expression of astonishment, then alarm … It was disappointing, in fact, to see him looking more shocked than pleased: he should have been wanting this, seeing the opportunity and bucking for it. Instead he was muttering over a buzz of congratulation and good wishes from the others, “Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir …” Stammering, tongue-tied: “I’ll—do my best to make a go of it. But—”
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 11