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

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘I am, sir, yes.’

  ‘Right.’ Matthews was still shaking and his face was an unhealthy colour. He licked at dry lips and looked away from Farrow’s accusing eyes. ‘I’m acting for the best.’

  ‘I don’t think you are, sir.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you.’

  ‘No, sir. I believe we can get her home, sir. We’re sure to be found before long… we’re not far off the convoy routes, can’t be.’

  Matthews said, ‘That’s as may be, Farrow. I’m now ordering you to make contact with that German ship. You’ll fire rockets, until she alters towards us, all right?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ll not do that, sir.’

  ‘I repeat my order,’ Matthews said in a stony voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  The Engineer Officer turned to Cameron. ‘You heard that, lad. You’re a witness to an act of mutiny, all right?’

  Cameron made no response to this; Farrow spoke again. He said, ‘There’s no mutiny in my mind, sir, none at all. I’m just not going to see surrender, that’s all. If Cameron’s a witness to anything, it’s to the fact you wanted to ditch the ship, sir.’

  Matthews’ face had gone a deathly white and he seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing. He began to mouth incoherent words, and spittle ran down his unshaven chin. Then, suddenly, he seemed to crumple. He put his head in his hands and staggered backwards. Farrow caught him before he fell. ‘That’s it, then,’ Farrow said. ‘Go down and fetch the Surgeon-Lieutenant, Lofty.’

  *

  Wallowing so low in the heavy seas, Carmarthen remained unseen as the enemy vessel passed them to the north and faded into the approaching night. But a little before the next day’s dawn, heavy gunfire was heard distantly, and then an almighty explosion, the flames of which lit the northern horizon for many minutes before they died away.

  ‘Convoy under attack,’ Tomkins said. ‘Probably that bleedin’ raider.’ U-boats wouldn’t mount an attack in the current weather conditions. Over the next hour gunfire was heard almost continually: there was quite a battle in progress, and it ended in another violent explosion with more flames to light the sky. Speculation proliferated: how many ships would have gone? Why had that last explosion ended the gunfire — had the convoy escorts managed to get in under those six-inch guns and sink the German? Such ships were certainly vulnerable enough, with their high freeboards and unprotected hulls. They didn’t, in fact, normally attack escorted convoys, preferring to hunt for the lone ship or the straggler. Yet on this occasion the raider must have been lying in wait for an unexpected target, the passage of the convoy. Uneasily, Carmarthen’s company awaited the dawn, fearing what they might find: survivors, most probably, wounded men beyond their reach. It would come hard, not being able to help. The faces of the men were blank from sheer weariness; there had been little sleep and no release at all from tension for so long. As for Matthews, he was lying wrapped in a blanket on some pillows placed on the wardroom pantry’s servery; the cabins were still occupied by the burns cases and the deck still held its surging slop of seawater. Matthews was securely lashed with rope against the destroyer’s lurching movement and he lay with his eyes open but his face expressionless, saying nothing but looking haunted by his thoughts. Farrow, in the wheelhouse with Cameron, was now indisputably in charge. Cameron asked what was likely to happen in regard to his refusal of Matthews’ order.

  ‘When we get home, Lofty?’ Farrow scratched his chin and gave a harsh laugh. ‘I don’t reckon much is going to happen, somehow. There’s only you and me — and Matthews — knows, eh? It’ll all come out in the wash — you’ll see!’

  ‘How?’

  Farrow laughed again and said, ‘Me, I don’t want to be charged with mutiny. Matthews won’t want it known that he was meaning to hand over to the Jerries. Nothing’ll be said at all. And I’ve already had a word, quiet like, with the doctor. He’s going to say Matthews wasn’t fit to exercise command even in his own engine-room. He was right on breaking point, was Mr Matthews.’

  ‘So —’

  ‘So you needn’t bother your arse about it, Lofty. All right?’

  Cameron nodded, much relieved. He was well aware he had been placed in a potentially tricky situation. To have had to give evidence against Farrow at a Court Martial would have gone strongly against the grain; to have had to give evidence against an officer might have prejudiced his chances of a commission — the armed forces were in many ways curious institutions, class-structured and rigid to the point at which to acquire notoriety however blamelessly could count against promotion. He was about to speak again when there was an exclamation from Farrow, who was staring northwards through his binoculars.

  ‘It’s a bloody cruiser! Sod me if it’s not the old Emerald… I did a commission up the straits in her years ago.’ Farrow left the wheelhouse at the rush and climbed to the compass platform. Cameron followed. The cruiser, scarcely visible to the naked eye through the filthy weather, appeared to be turning to the east. Farrow, using his binoculars again, reported the ships of the westbound convoy in sight now. Handing the glasses to Cameron, he took up a battery-fed Aldis, climbed fast to the compass platform, and began flashing the general call-sign towards the Emerald. To Cameron he said, ‘Get on the phone, Lofty. Have a bunting-tosser sent up pronto. I’m no bloody signalman!’ Before the signalman had reached the compass platform, Emerald’s acknowledgement was seen. Carmarthen’s pennant numbers were flashed across to her and inside three minutes Farrow, through his glasses, saw the cruiser’s stem swing round to starboard.

  He gave a whistle of relief: she was coming in.

  The Emerald swept up to them, cutting through the heavy seas and flinging great gouts of water back from her bows. The signal lamps grew busy; Emerald would stand by until the weather moderated enough for a tow to be passed. When the towing pendant was sent across, back-up hands would also be sent and these would include a shipwright’s party to help seal leaking plates. Medical assistance would be provided and the sick taken off to the cruiser’s sick-bay if necessary. The cruiser’s captain added words of congratulation: Carmarthen’s depleted company had achieved a near miracle. She would be brought back to the UK if it was the last thing the Navy ever did. Relevant news was also passed by lamp: the German raider had despatched three ships of the westbound convoy before being sunk herself by the destroyer escort. Emerald had been in the vicinity on patrol and had heard the gunfire, but had arrived too late to add the weight of her armament to the battle. She was now proceeding to Rosyth, which was where Carmarthen would be taken.

  *

  Six days later Carmarthen was approaching May Island off the Firth of Forth. Once in safe waters, Emerald had broken wireless silence to send her report ahead. That report included the names of the survivors. Almost disbelievingly by now, Mary Anstey saw the name Carmarthen appear again on the plot in the operations room. The news had already swept the dockyard and the Navy was jubilant; and it was not long before the officers and men and the dockyard mateys were able to give exuberant voice to their feelings.

  As Carmarthen passed under tow beneath the great bridge, the cheering started; as she was turned off the dockyard to be handed over to the care of the tugs for placement between camels — big deep-draught floating pontoons that would be pumped out to act as lifts — the whole yard went mad. Mary Anstey was there with the rest, her face tear-stained. It wasn’t entirely with relief and joy: there was the worry that Donald Cameron mightn’t be as delighted to see her as she would be to see him. The possibility had to be faced. In any case, his qualifying sea-time for his commission was just about finished now. He wouldn’t be long in Rosyth.

  *

  After the wounded men had been brought ashore the dock-yard took over and the ship’s company was marched to the depot ship to be accommodated prior to entraining for Portsmouth barracks and re-draft after leave. Until the fresh draft chits came through from the Drafting Master-at-Arms in Pompey, those that were left would rema
in together, then they would go their separate ways and might never meet again.

  Cameron took his leave of the ship with real regret: his first ship, brought to safe harbour after much ordeal and bloodshed. He would never forget her; nor would he forget the men he’d shared the ordeal with, particularly Farrow and Stripey Tomkins. On arrival aboard the depot ship, various matters were sorted out. Nothing was going to be said about mutiny or a wish to surrender, just as Farrow had forecast; and Matthews was removed to hospital for observation. Ordinary Seaman Lavington was not so easily disposed of, even though he had been killed: his victims had had families, after all. And nothing on God’s earth could prevent the ship’s company talking about what had taken place out in the Atlantic.

  The staff officer who had taken the reports from Matthews and Farrow had a brief word in Cameron’s ear afterwards.

  He said, ‘If you’re worried about your Captain’s recommendation, don’t be. It’ll go through even though he’s been lost. From what I’ve heard you showed all the right qualities for a commission, and I’ve no doubt at all you’ll get it — I’ll be having a word with the Admiral as soon as possible, and you can take it you’ll be drafted to Portsmouth for the Admiralty board.’ The staff officer grinned. ‘It must surely be the first time in history that a U-boat’s been blown up by an ordinary seaman with a hand-grenade!’

  *

  Mary Anstey had her ear to the ground and was outside the dockyard gates when, twenty-four hours later, after a weary ship’s company had almost slept the clock round, local overnight leave was piped for the men ex-Carmarthen. Cameron saw the WRNS uniform; he had to look twice before he recognized Mary, since he hadn’t expected her to be in Rosyth, Carmarthen’s mail having not yet been sent down from Scapa, but he was pleased to see her. He said as much, and she smiled in relief.

  He said, ‘We’ve got just tonight, that’s all. I’m for Pompey tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. What shall we do?’

  ‘How about Edinburgh?’

  She fiddled with the black silk bow of his uniform jumper, the black silk worn in perpetual mourning for Nelson. ‘What about a film in Inverkeithing?’

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Some old pre-war thing, I expect. Does it matter?’

  He grinned. ‘Not in the back row. All right, come on, then.’

  They went to a cinema and Cameron was quite unconscious of what was showing. He didn’t see it; all he could see was Carmarthen’s lurching, half-under decks and the gun-flashes and the dead faces, and the imagined carnage in the U-boat after the grenades had been thrown. That, and Lavington and, in his mind’s eye, the opening up of Carmarthen’s fo’c’sle messdecks and the retrieval of the submerged bodies. When the film ended he realized he must have been a disappointing companion and so he remained for the rest of their evening together; he hadn’t the stomach, yet, for socializing. The bloody awful war kept obtruding.

  If you enjoyed In the Line of Fire you might be interested in Drums Along the Khyber by Philip McCutchan also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Drums Along the Khyber by Philip McCutchan

  One

  “Mr. Ogilvie!” It was Black’s voice, sharply critical, coming up in his rear. “Can you, or can you not, read a heliograph?”

  James Ogilvie turned with a start, cursing under his breath as his right hand rose towards his Wolseley helmet. He had failed to see the winking field heliograph, its mirrors reflecting the sun, for the simple reason that it was coming from behind him. No doubt, however, subalterns were expected to have eyes in the backs of their heads; and it would not have occurred to him to pass the blame to his men for being no more vigilant than he. His face scarlet, he read off the message. It was from the Colonel, who was currently resting the main body of the regiment back along the cruel pass that ran through out of India. Ogilvie had been sent ahead with a corporal and three recruits to scout. This would, Black had suggested to Ogilvie’s company commander and the Colonel, be excellent experience for a young officer and green soldiers.

  The message told James Ogilvie that Ahmed Khan had scouts out too, that the party had been spotted and was about to be ambushed if they went ahead. They were therefore to remain in cover while the regiment advanced and overtook them, after which the expeditionary force would press forward under covering fire from the sharpshooters on the flanks.

  Black, the adjutant, snorted. “Damn you, Mr. Ogilvie, we’ve been trying to raise you for the last fifteen minutes. Kindly remember in future not to neglect your rear. The Colonel’s not at all pleased about this—and as for me, I’m damned if I’m pleased at having the regiment saddled in action with boys fresh from Sandhurst!”

  “I’m sorry,” Ogilvie said awkwardly, but Black had already turned away and was making his retreat towards the main body, his horse slipping and sliding on the atrocious surface of the track, disapproval in every line of his ramrod-straight back. There had been something in the adjutant’s sallow, discontented face, however, that had said he wasn’t especially sorry to be able to speak adversely to Lord Dornoch about Ogilvie, and Ogilvie was uncomfortably aware that he, as the scout, should have seen the enemy before the Colonel. But there wasn’t time to worry about that for now. Already there was the distant sound of rifle fire and bullets snicked off the mountainside ahead of Ogilvie’s party. At the moment, they couldn’t be reached; they were in some sort of cover, more by good luck than good judgment, but there wouldn’t be much more of that as they advanced. As Ogilvie waited for the regiment to come up he heard across the unfriendly, watchful spaces of the rough terrain of the Sufaid Koh the curious noise that accompanied the first few puffs of wind into the bagpipes; and a moment later they burst out in the full throat of their savage but exultant notes, playing Pipe-Major Ross’s own fairly recent composition—A Farewell to Invermore. A phrase from the past slipped suddenly into James Ogilvie’s mind, even though he himself had never failed to respond to the sound of the pipes: ‘C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre.’ Still, they’d been seen already, as the helio had said, so they might as well advance with spirit and with dash…

  To the skirl and beat of the pipes and drums, the 114th Highlanders, The Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, came on in column of route, kilts a-swing below the khaki-drill tunics, to face the sporadic rifle-fire from the crests, to assure the enemies of the Queen-Empress that the British Raj responded with fire and sword to every tweak of the lion’s tail. And to ensure that it was known far and wide that wherever the flag waved rebellious natives would, in the greater interest of the majority, be put down with that same fire and sword so that the Pax Britannica would not long be broken.

  *

  This was to be James Ogilvie’s first experience of fire and he felt a disturbing looseness in his stomach as he waited to take his party into the column of advance, wondering how he would be likely to conduct himself when they came within range of the rifles and more, how he would conduct himself when they reached Jalalabad, if ever they did without being cut to pieces on the way, and came under the guns of the fortress. He thought, too, about the past; thought about his year at Sandhurst, which he had to admit had been no shining example of a successful start to a military career. It wasn’t that he had done anything wrong, but certainly he had never been singled out for honours. His instructors, his officers, his Company Sergeant-Major, his section Colour-Serjeant—had regarded him as a burden to be borne, stoically if not cheerfully, and, to some limited extent, as a butt for their not-unkindly-meant wit. After many years spent, on his mother’s insistence, at a private tutorial establishment instead of a public school, he had had difficulty in adapting himself, in spite of the military traditions of his family, to the rush and bustle of a Gentleman Cadet’s life. He had been bewildered by the constant parades and the constant shortage of time which, among other things, had entailed being dismissed daily from the last parade at 7.25 p.m. and being expected to be in the Mess, washed a
nd in full mess order, at 7.30 precisely. Other aspects of life had not appealed, either—among them the ceremonious but vicious unofficial treatment accorded to the new entrants, when for instance they were forced in a body at bayonet-point, by senior cadets, to descend a steep iron staircase cluttered with tables and chairs, at the rush. This had before now resulted in broken arms and legs. The ducking in the lake on the first occasion on which a cadet wore his mess uniform could prove costly, too. Of course there had been the lighter moments in this, the unofficial side of Sandhurst life—such as the senior term’s passing-out ball soon after he had joined, when at dusk the great lake had been covered with hundreds of chamber-pots from the Gentlemen Cadets’ bedrooms, each of them carrying a single lighted candle to entrance the military ladies of Camberley and Aldershot… but such moments had been few and didn’t really appeal in any case to Ogilvie, whose Scottish ancestry had tended to make him more serious-minded and sensitive than many of his fellow Cadets. Now, through the blare of the pipes moving closer along the remote frontier pass, voices came back to James Ogilvie, the voices of men whose drill movements were as precision-perfect as machines and who couldn’t comprehend what motivated a young Gentleman Cadet who, after a full year on the square, was still virtually unable at times to force a decent military control upon his limbs. Or even to keep his ears open…

  *

  “Mr. Ogilvie, I really do believe you have got cloth ears. Sir! Will you kindly pay attention to the orders! They are given in a well-thought-out sequence as laid down by minds greater than your own.” The Company Serjeant-Major of A Company, purple in his sweating face, bristled a ginger moustache close to James Ogilvie’s nose. “Did you ’ear what I said, Mr. Ogilvie, you terrible Gentleman Cadet, you?”

  “I’m sorry, Staff.” Ogilvie looked, in accordance with Queen’s Regulations for the Army, straight ahead—neither up nor down, right or left. He was aware of very blue eyes bulging beneath the gold-rimmed peak of C.S.M. Apps’s cap. Apps, on long-suffering detachment from the Grenadiers for service as an instructor at the Royal Military College, was as tall as himself.