In the Line of Fire (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  He was as good as his word; within the next week Cameron was on his way from Portsmouth Harbour Station to Thurso in the far north of Scotland, to go from there by the aged ferry St Ninian across the Pentland Firth to Lyness in the Orkneys, to join His Majesty’s destroyer Carmarthen on North Atlantic convoy escort duty. Her task was to shepherd the America and Canada bound merchant ships as far as was possible, taking into account the limited availability of escort vessels, whence the convoys would chance their luck alone; and to bring in the laden vessels homeward bound. He found life in the fo’c’sle messdeck of a lurching, water-shipping destroyer to be different again from Skegness, or the Ganges, or the Pompey barracks. Life here was real and tough and largely filthy, both as regards language and the few amenities: the seamen’s heads, or lavatories, containing only five cubicles for some eighty to ninety men, were continually blocked, had no doors, and opened into a space below the break of the fo’c’sle right alongside the messdeck and the galley. The stench was foul and wrecked the appetite. The messdecks were usually awash at sea, and water swirled about below the slung hammocks and around the lockers upon whose tops those unfortunates who had no slinging billet had to sleep. Cameron was one of these: all the billets, fitted for peacetime requirements and not enough for a full war complement, had been taken long before his arrival. His accent, he found here, was against him: it yelled White Paper. The Carmarthen already had another would-be officer in the seamen’s messdeck.

  A fat able-seaman, a man with three good conduct badges on his left arm, apprised him of this. ‘WC candidate, aren’t you, Lofty?’

  Cameron admitted the fact, accustomed by now to the inversion of CW.

  ‘Join the other little sod,’ the three-badgeman, whose name was Tomkins, said with a belch. ‘Know what? When you ‘ears the pipe, ‘ands to dinner, it includes wot it don’t say, wot is, we candidates to lunch.’ He gave a loud laugh and thrust Cameron into a stanchion with his stomach as he moved past towards his locker. ‘I s’pose somebody ‘as to be officers…’

  Carmarthen sailed out through the boom to pick up her convoy before Cameron had been aboard four hours. She sailed into vicious weather, to be thrown about like a cork on vast waters that rose sheer like hillsides and then ebbed away as the destroyer lurched into the troughs, leaving her suspended while her men stared down into a great valley. Cameron, despite his experience in trawlers, was as sick as a dog for the whole ten days of the escort, out and home. He stuck to his duties because he had to, but he couldn’t eat anything beyond an occasional biscuit.

  A few hours from Scapa inward bound, during the morning watch, the weather moderated as the ship steamed into the lee of the land, and the waters lay flat. Hunger returned very suddenly. Carmarthen was a canteen messing ship, as opposed to the general messing system in use aboard big ships; this meant that each mess prepared its own food, which was then taken to the galley to be cooked. This morning there was nothing Cameron wanted so much as fried eggs, fried bread and bacon. These he acquired when he came off watch and took them to the galley with his mouth drooling in anticipation. They were beautifully cooked, and he carried the plate to the long scrubbed table in his mess and set it down beneath the bottom-bulge of an occupied hammock overhead. Before he had taken so much as a bite, a stockinged foot emerged from the hammock and plunged straight into the bacon and eggs. There was a shout of anger from above, and Able-Seaman Tomkins glared down. No matter that he had worn the sock for no less than six weeks, day and night; it was spoiled and would have to be washed.

  ‘You bloody little perisher!’ Tomkins yelled down at Cameron. ‘Jus’ look wot you gorn an’ done to me fuckin’ sock!’

  There was no come-back on that; Able-Seaman Tomkins not only had three badges but some forty-odd years against Cameron’s not quite twenty. Hunger simply had to endure; but there was always a laugh around the corner. One came that morning: a leading-seaman had gone ashore from the battleship Rodney in search of women, of. which Scapa held none. Desperation and long abstinence had driven the leading-seaman to make use, so rumour said, of a sheep, an act of bestiality which had been observed and reported. When the miscreant had been brought under escort to Captain’s Defaulters, his excuse had been that he had got drunk in the shore canteen — where in fact each man from the fleet was allowed two pints only of Brickwood’s beer sent up from Portsmouth — and thought the sheep was a Wren with a duffel-coat on.

  After this interlude, and a run ashore in the Orkneys’ bleak desolation, it was back to sea again. And again after that, in continuously filthy weather. Again and again, until Cameron’s necessary sea-time was almost up. There had been some action, but nothing very spectacular; there had been the rounding-up of stray merchant ships whose engines had failed them, or whose steering was erratic. There had been false alarms from the Asdic, and false sighting reports from the lookouts that had sent the ship’s company to action stations and caused plenty of sour comment and swearing. And now, on this current run out of Scapa, it was apparently as peaceful as ever even though a highly important convoy was due to cross eastward with valuable cargoes from Halifax, Nova Scotia, a convoy that would be escorted home by Carmarthen and the other destroyers of her flotilla — an exceptionally strong escort that had drained other convoys of their protection — once the outward-bound merchantmen had passed beyond the area of attack. Placidly, in their eight columns — five of four ships each, three of five, the longer columns steaming in between the shorter ones at the convoy speed of seven knots — the ships advanced. With five cables between columns and three cables between individual ships in each column, the mass covered some five square miles of the Atlantic.

  No attack until now: not until the busy Asdics had spoken and Cameron had sighted that feather of water made by a periscope. Carmarthen hurtled on under full power, Cameron still on lookout since his action station as per Watch and Quarter Bill happened to be the same as his three-watch cruising station, still sweeping his arc as the Asdic continued with its ghostlike wailing pings.

  A moment later, nightmare burst.

  With her captain, Lieutenant-Commander Hewson, now in charge on the compass platform, Carmarthen was streaking up to overtake one of the merchantmen on her way to engage the sighted U-boat with depth charges, and passing close, when a shout from the captain of Number Two gun on the fo’c’sle, looking like a daylight ghost in his white anti-flash gear, indicated a torpedo coming in from starboard, slap across Carmarthen’s hurtling bow. Just as the shout came, the torpedo struck the great wall-sided merchant ship. There was a huge explosion and a blast of super-heated air swept the destroyer’s bridge, bringing with it more lethal matter: slivers of blasted metal moving at the speed of light. Cries came from the decks, from the compass platform itself. Something bounced off Cameron’s steel helmet, which went spinning out into the Atlantic wastes. Hewson sagged in a corner with the top of his head missing; on the deck the Yeoman of Signals lay with his neck spouting blood, his head nowhere to be seen. Stephenson, Officer of the Watch, was lying across the guard-rail with his entrails spread wide. As Cameron looked in sheer horror, the body slid away into the sea, leaving its bloody trail.

  Cameron looked all around in disbelief, then took in the fact that no officer was now on the compass platform; no petty officer either. Below in the wheelhouse, the quartermaster would be able to see events through the ports, but would be in need of orders. The other bridge lookouts had a dazed, uncomprehending look. Cameron went, shaking in every limb, to the binnacle and the voice-pipe. In action, the Torpedo-Coxswain would be at the wheel, and thank God for it. Cameron spoke down the voice-pipe. ‘Cox’n, it’s Ordinary Seaman Cameron here. Both officers are dead, and I —’

  ‘All right, lad, I’ll keep her clear of the convoy. You just stay where you are and act as a communication number. I’ll send a messenger and get Jimmy on the bridge pronto.’ Jimmy was the time-honoured lower-deck name for the First Lieutenant. And for Cameron’s money he couldn’t get there fast enough.
As Cameron looked across towards the stolidly-steaming merchantmen of the convoy, a deafening noise and a blast of flame came from Carmarthen’s fo’c’sle. Jags of metal glowed red where the breakwater had been, and Number One gun leaned drunkenly to starboard.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Petty Officer Thomas!’

  Thomas, Chief Boatswain’s Mate, turned as he heard the First Lieutenant’s shout. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Damage Control report, fast as you can.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Thomas doubled for’ard, sea-booted feet sliding on the iron-deck’s slippery metal. Seymour, the First Lieutenant, followed, making for the bridge ladder. Reaching the compass platform, he paled as he met the carnage, but controlled himself as he saw Cameron’s eyes watching him.

  ‘It’s my first time, too,’ he said. ‘They say you get used to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Seymour stepped to the binnacle and the voice-pipe. ‘First Lieutenant here,’ he said. ‘Stop engines, Cox’n.’

  ‘Stop engines, sir.’

  Bells rang below as the telegraph handles were pushed over. Seymour said, ‘Warn the engine-room, I may go astern.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Engines repeated stopped, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘Do I take it you’ve assumed the command, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Cox’n. Get the Leading Signalman up here pronto, will you — the Yeoman’s bought it.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Seymour moved away from the binnacle and stared down at the wreckage of the fo’c’sle, at the dead and wounded seamen gunners, the latter being attended to by the Surgeon-Lieutenant, then away to port at the convoy where more shattering explosions were taking place and where the other destroyers of the escort were carving wide swathes with their wakes as they raced to drop their depth-charge patterns on the attacking U-boats. Seymour clenched his fists in frustration: if only they could join in! In fact all they could do was to retreat; as a merchantman loomed on the destroyer’s port side Seymour passed the word to put the engines half speed astern, in order to take his broken command clear. As Carmarthen gathered sternway, Petty Officer Thomas came up to report.

  ‘It’s a shambles for’ard of the collision bulkhead, sir, all gone in fact. The bulkhead’s leaking, but it’s holding.’

  ‘Not well enough to go ahead?’

  ‘No, sir, definitely not, sir.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  Thomas wiped the back of a hand across his forehead: he was sweating despite the intense cold. ‘Number One gun’s crew, sir, all dead. Two dead on Number Two gun, and three wounded. No others, sir.’

  Seymour nodded: with the ship closed up at action stations, there would have been no one below for’ard of the collision bulkhead, which was something on the credit side. He said, ‘I may have to abandon…’

  ‘Yes, sir. Let’s hope not, sir.’

  ‘It all depends on that bulkhead.’

  Thomas said, ‘Shipwright’s doing his best, sir, rigging shoring beams.’ Seymour reflected that no shoring beams would be likely to permit headway being made and if they didn’t sink then they would complete the escort stern first. By now Carmarthen was on a safe course astern, clear of the merchant ships, and Seymour passed helm orders to turn the ship and keep her on station abeam of the convoy. From now on, he would be virtually unable to leave the bridge: with the Captain and the senior sub-Lieutenant dead and Carmarthen having sailed short of one officer landed sick at the last moment — he was left with a sub-Lieutenant RNR and a midshipman RNVR. The RNR Sub could be relied upon, but the RNVR snotty had held his rank for six weeks only and before joining the Navy had been a bank clerk.… As the Leading- Signalman, replacing the dead Yeoman, clattered up the ladder and saluted, Seymour, with the whole responsibility of the ship now on his shoulders, gave himself a physical and mental shake. He must ask for orders in the first place.

  He said, ‘Signal to the Senior Officer of the escort, repeated for information to the Commodore of the convoy, from Carmarthen First Lieutenant. My Captain is dead and I have assumed command. Damage to the fo’c’sle by torpedo leaves me able to move astern only. Request instructions. I do not require assistance at this stage.’ He paused. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Make it by Aldis immediately.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Leading-Signalman took up the Aldis lamp, already plugged into its socket on its wandering lead, identified the Senior Officer’s vessel away ahead of the convoy, and clacked out the call-sign allocated to the leader. The acknowledgement came quickly and Seymour’s message was passed. Seymour, reflecting on his own responsibility so suddenly assumed, took some comfort in the knowledge that the leader’s responsibilities were infinitely heavier: not only had the Senior Officer in Raglan to guard and chivvy the valuable merchant ships and their crews, direct the escort and supervise the current counter-attack on the U-boat pack, but he had to worry about the damage to individual ships, both merchant and Naval, make an assessment from necessarily scanty information, and issue orders accordingly after a fast decision. And after that again, if anything should go wrong, he would have to justify his decision to the Admiralty in London, to high-ranking, largely costive officers who could take days or weeks to arrive at a judgement on a man who had had little more than seconds to make the on-the-spot decision… and indeed the Senior Officer’s answer was received aboard Carmarthen within five minutes of Seymour’s signal being made. Carmarthen was ordered to leave the convoy and make independently for Belfast. Hard on the heels of the order a message from the W/T office, where a listening watch was maintained constantly, brought the weather report: gale force winds were imminent ahead of the convoy’s westward track. The Carmarthen would be well out of that lot, Seymour thought as he took his departure from the convoy. The North Atlantic, having relented thus far, was once again back to its full winter fury.

  *

  Before contact had been finally lost, eight more ships of the convoy had gone to the bottom. Ten large vessels out of thirty-five, a good bag for the Germans, a heavy loss for Britain: ten ships whose cargo-carrying capacity could not be spared, a worrying delay to vital war material waiting to be brought across from America; and a loss of crews who were not easily replaced. No further attack was made on the Carmarthen; the U-boats evidently preferred to concentrate on the convoy and then conserve the rest of their torpedoes for the eastbound ships due through the area shortly. The weather was still good as Carmarthen began her lone stern-first voyage back to Northern Ireland and the Belfast repair yard. After the convoy and its attackers had vanished over the western horizon, Seymour had all hands who could be spared mustered along the iron-deck so that he could inform them of the position personally. Rumour was never a good shipmate; ‘buzzes’ and the ‘galley wireless’ too often got things badly wrong.

  ‘I’m reducing to second degree of readiness,’ Seymour said after he had indicated his orders from the Senior Officer of the escort. Second degree of readiness meant a two-watch system. ‘Things won’t be too bad unless the weather moves easterly faster than we do, and I’ve no information on that at the moment. God knows, we’re a slow enough target, but I don’t expect any further attacks just yet. I repeat, just yet.’ He paused. ‘The eastbound convoy out of Halifax will rendezvous with the escort in two days’ time, and the Germans will know that. They’ll be waiting — and don’t forget the FW 200s out of Bordeaux as we close the UK. Because of them and the U-boats I intend to move south until I’m out of the shipping lanes, then east.’ He turned to the Chief Boatswain’s Mate. ‘That’s all, Petty Officer Thomas. Carry on, please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Thomas detailed the starboard watch to close up and the port watch to fall out for part-of-ship duties, while Seymour went back to the compass platform and sent the RNR Sub below for a spell. Later that morning a boatload of merchant seamen was encountered, and engines were stopped whilst they were picked up. They turned out to be from a fast, independently routed tanker, sunk
some days earlier. There were some grim sights: dead men without arms or legs, men with severe stomach wounds, many of the living on the point of death from sheer loss of blood if nothing else; men cruelly burned by blazing oil fuel floating murderously on the water, men who still cried out in agony as they were brought aboard the destroyer and continued crying out until the Surgeon-Lieutenant and his sick-berth attendant brought the relief of morphia.

  *

  The day passed peacefully into night. The lookouts and the guns’ crews flailed their arms to keep out the bitter cold, everyone on deck watchful for any surfaced, battery-charging U-boat. Breakfast next morning was cocoa and tinned herrings in tomato, known to the Fleet, either with affection or disgust, as ‘herrings-in’. The mixture was a revolting one to a gourmet, if nourishing, and all CW candidates were expected to have fastidious stomachs and palates. Able-Seaman Tomkins, known as Stripey on account of his three good-conduct badges, remarked on this to Cameron.

  ‘Not wot Your Lordship normally ‘as for breakfast, I take it?’ The accent was mock middle class. ‘Not wot the bloody butler brings — wot?’

  ‘I’ve known worse, Stripey —’

  Tomkins became belligerent. ‘’Ere, wot’s this — Stripey! I’m Stripey to me proper mates, see, not to bleedin’ ODS on their first five minutes of the bloody war, all right?’

  Cameron shrugged. ‘All right. Mr Tomkins, then.’

  Tomkins looked baffled, and bafflement worsened his temper. ‘Don’t you be bloody cheeky. Not unless you want a thick ear, that is. Bloody little perishers… WC candidates my arse! Ponces, that’s what they are.’ He assumed a mincing tone. ‘Not good enough for ‘em, we common seamen ain’t. Oh, no. We bloody eats orf of our bloody knives, we do. And we eats ‘errings-in.’ He jerked a hand aft. ‘Down there the officers eats caviare all day long till it comes out o’ their bloody lug-’oles.’