A FLOCK OF SHIPS

by Brian Callison

  ‘You have the watch, Mister Kent,’ he said.

  Very softly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was well past midnight before we were finally squared away after the collision. I’d gone forward to join the Fourth Mate and Chippie as they sounded the wells, finding our forepeak was making water fairly fast. Mallard obviously hadn’t gone down without any protest as, somewhere below our waterline, she’d lain us open too. This, in itself, wasn’t too serious and, after discovering all our other forward compartments were dry, I reckoned we’d been lucky. Thank God the corvette had been a wooden ship .

  Still more than two days out of Cape Town. Another fifty hours of running the gauntlet of whatever lay ahead. Another fifty hours of walking the decks, subconsciously keeping your knees slightly bent in case the sudden vertical lift of the ship over the smash of a torpedo shattered your hip joints.

  I knew then that it was unreasonable—that the death of Mallard had nothing to do with the enemy—but suddenly I became certain that they were watching us. Watching and waiting and, somehow, shepherding us into an area of their own choosing. That we weren’t a group anymore—we were a flock. A flock of ships.

  But why? Why, in that case, didn’t they just sink us? They couldn’t possibly hope to capture our precious confidential bags without the Admiralty taking immediate steps to render the information valueless. Hadn’t the Old Man said that, even if we were sunk without trace, the information would still be regarded as captured? The questions battered unceasingly at my restless mind.

  I brought it up again with Evans after we’d settled down on zig-zag three seven again, this time with Athenian steaming a good, safe, mile astern, and both of us going like bats out of hell. It was two a.m. and the night, for a blessed change, was black as the inside of a tar barrel. Charlie Shell had the watch, with Cadet Breedie and an extra hand as lookouts on the bridge. They were tired—we all were— but they were scared too, and fear provides its own adrenalin. Any one of the officers would have stayed up there for the next fifty hours if need be.

  I was in the master’s cabin where we had gone to decide our next move. I sensed Evans would have much preferred to discuss the matter with Bert Samson, but Bert was ten cables away on Athenian, so he had to settle for me.

  He didn’t laugh when I told him of my suspicions, but I could see he didn’t agree with me either. Shaking his head slowly he dismissed my argument, ‘Damn it all, why, John? Why should they want us farther south? Any plan they may have could equally well be carried out here, at this spot.’

  Which was just what I’d been asking myself. Nothing made sense any more. I shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. But there were those bloody queer lights, and the shot into Athenian. And that U-boat we sank. She was well south of where we might have expected her—usually they hang around the regular shipping lanes.’

  He shook his head again. ‘Coincidence, John. And lack of sleep, eh? Strain makes you start thinking out of all proportion.’

  I still felt doubtful. ‘Maybe.’ Then I grinned wryly, ‘It’s ironic, but I guess the best thing that’s happened so far is that we were the target for that torpedo. Otherwise I’d probably be conjuring some deep-laid plot to dispose of the other ships first and isolate Cyclops—perhaps so as to get at those bags in the strong-room.’

  The Old Man paced the carpet thoughtfully for a few moments, then swung abruptly. ‘Can you recollect where the escort was lying at the time those torpedoes were fired?’

  Frowning, I thought back to our mad scramble up the bridge ladder as Cyclops heeled over under her emergency turn. The only thing I really remembered seeing was Curtis’s excited white face waiting for us, and our swinging masts broadsiding across the horizon.

  ‘Mallard?’ I queried doubtfully. ‘No, I can’t say I noticed right then. Does it matter?’

  Evans shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I registered, as we arrived topside, that she was broad on our port bow—and we were turning to port.’

  I stared at him miserably, suddenly seeing it all again. The Third Mate’s incredulous, ‘A torpedo, Sir. A bloody torpedo for Chrissake,’ and the helmsman’s hands still spinning the wheel as we careered crazily round, and the corvette—also swinging hard—well out in a line with the break of our foc’sle. Yet if she’d been in that position relative to us at that stage of the manoeuvre, then ...?

  ‘The escort was steaming directly abeam of us when the attack came, wasn’t she?’ I muttered, starting to feel sick again. ‘Which means she was smack between us and the U-boat. That bloody torpedo was fired at her, not us.’

  So we were back to square one—and I’d invented another possibility. That we were, indeed, the specifically targeted ship. But a target for what? If they didn’t mean to sink us, then what? I couldn’t see them boarding us before we could destroy the bags. The crew then ...? Could one of them be in on it? Impossible. The Old Man thought so too when I diffidently suggested it.

  ‘The crowd, John?’ He shook his head positively. ‘They’ve nearly all been with us since Voyage One in ’38. This is a happy ship, man; we don’t lose our sailors every pay-off like some. And they’re British to the last.’

  Yet someone had fired that bloody gun back there. Someone who wasn’t quite as British as Evans liked to think, so who had joined us only recently. Who ...? Then it hit me. Larabee! Our obnoxious little Marconi replacement, Larabee.

  I must have spat it out loud because the Old Man looked at me in surprise. ‘Larabee?’ he said, raising his bushy eyebrows. ‘What’s the Second Operator got to do with it, Mister Kent?’

  I noticed the disapproving ‘Mister,’ but I was committed now. ‘Larabee, Sir? Well, there’s just something about the man—he joined just before we sailed, he’s not an old hand like the rest. ’

  ‘Somebody had to replace Buxton, Mister.’

  That was true. Buxton had been our previous Second, and he’d certainly needed replacing, having taken a dive under a Liverpool Corporation tramcar while navigating from one pub to another, but ...

  I shrugged. ‘Larabee also seemed to have a lot of sympathy with the idea of our heading farther south when I spoke to him.’

  Evans cut me short. ‘You spoke to him? When? By God, but you didn’t talk about what we have in the strong-room, man? If I ...’

  But my nerves were in tatters as well. It was my turn to interrupt angrily, ‘No, Sir, I did not. And you’ve no goddamned right to suggest that I’d act in breach of your confidence, or the Official bloody Secrets Act. But I’ll tell you one thing now, and that’s that Larabee seems to be a helluva sight more interested in where we’re going than a second sparks should be. Sir!’

  For a moment I thought he was going to blow his top, then he got a grip on his frayed nerves and, this time, his tone was more conciliatory. ‘I apologise unreservedly, Mister Kent. You’ll perhaps understand.’

  I nodded, feeling a bit ashamed. I didn’t have to bear the final responsibility for what had happened a few hours before. I hadn’t had to ring for ‘Full Ahead’ while men died horribly in the water alongside us. I also remembered that Germany had been preparing for this war for a long time. Their agents must have been infiltrating our society for years, insidiously blending into all our spheres of life—whereas whatever else I thought of him, Larabee simply didn’t blend.

  Suddenly a memory of Curtis flashed into my mind. An image of the Third Mate’s expression when he'd realised that some U-boat was actually trying to torpedo us. But why? Why such surprise? This was total war, the enemy could be expected to shoot at us—or, in the Third Mate’s case, was it the enemy who were shooting? If I was a German agent I guess I’d have been a bit discommoded too, if I'd suddenly found my oppos trying to cancel my contract with a torpedo. I swallowed and, clutching desperately to reason, forced a change of subject before I landed myself with a defamation of character case as well.

  ‘Now we’ve lost Mallard, shouldn’t we call RN Simonstown, Sir? Ask for instructions and another es
cort?’ I suggested tentatively.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘We’re under strict radio silence, you know that. If we risked transmitting even one short message, it could home in every U-boat within a hundred miles.’

  I looked at him. There were two ways of arguing that one. ‘But if I’m right? If the Jerries already know where we are - which they must do, because that last U-boat would've lodged a contact report - then we’re a sitting duck that our own side haven’t even got marked on the chart. None of us—Mallard included—sent out our positions over the past few days because of the need for radio silence, which means we’re so far sou'­west of our expected course that the Admiralty wouldn’t even know where to start looking.’

  I sat forward and stared at him earnestly, willing him to understand. ‘The likelihood is that U-boat Command already have our exact position plotted, Captain. While our own people don’t even know if we’re still afloat.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully, then opened his mouth to speak, but I never did find out what he would have done had the situation remained as it was up to that moment.

  Because the sullen rumble of distant gunfire ahead started us running for the bridge again. This time without even picking up our caps.

  *

  The inexplicable pyrotechnics appeared even more impressive this time, reflecting as they did from the low cloud ceiling that had formed in the early hours of the night.

  We stood gazing over the bows for what seemed a very long time, watching silently as multi-coloured tracer streams climbed gracefully into the black sky almost directly in line with our foremast. It was mad. It was sheer crazy improbability that a thing like this could be happening— but it was happening, and in less than an hour we would be right there on top of it.

  Unless ...?

  The Captain turned slowly away from the silent group of officers and stepped into the chartroom. I followed and shut the door softly. As he looked up at me the glare from the Anglepoise threw his lined, exhausted old face into sharp, craggy relief. I didn’t say anything, just reached up and handed him a cigarette from the Old Tar tin, then lit it for him as he leaned over and listlessly dragged the signal pad towards him.

  I still didn’t say anything as he started to write, but what I read made me feel a bit better. The lights out there had convinced me finally, and I think him too, that we were under constant observation—that the enemy alone were monitoring our every move and were waiting. Just waiting. Dear God, please let the Navy get to us first.

  The pencil moved slowly across the paper and I noticed blue veins standing out on the backs of the Captain’s hands—old man’s hands. Tired, almost defeated old hands. Occasionally he stopped writing to check the chart, twice he twirled the brass dividers as he marked off various positions. When he’d finished he picked what was left of his cigarette out of the ashtray and pushed the pad across to me.

  It read COMCONVOYH24S, our Naval Control group designator, to COMSAW - Commander-in-Chief, South Atlantic Waters ... he was really going right to the top ... COMMANDANT JOFFRE SUNK 0540 hrs 26 5 STOP ESCORT MALLARD SUNK 2120 HRS 28 5 STOP PRESUMED NO SURVIVORS ... OUR PRESENT POSITION P36 50S P2 45E COURSE 085 TRUE SPEED 19 DECIMAL FIVE KNOTS STRONG ENEMY ACTIVITY SUSPECTED AHEAD ... PLEASE ADVISE INSTRUCTIONS QUERY URGENT URGENT REPEAT URGENT SIGNED EVANS MASTER CYCLOPS.

  He could've added ‘Help’ for my money.

  The gunfire stopped abruptly as I finished reading the signal and we stepped outside into the cloying darkness. Evans spoke softly in my ear, almost as if he were afraid the U-boats might be listening too. ‘I’ll be down in my cabin encoding this, John. Send a quartermaster down in ten minutes to take it aft for transmission, please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ I said, then hesitated. ‘The lights ahead. Do you want to continue on our present heading?’

  I saw his mouth smile softly in the darkness. ‘Not particularly, Mister Kent. Unless you’re terribly curious yourself, perhaps you could swing round and notify Athenian of the change. We should get an answer to this before very long, until then ... let’s hear all, see all, but do nowt.’

  Which was just what I had hoped he would say.

  *

  I stayed up on the bridge until the answer came back, less than an hour later. Thank God they weren’t all in bed in Simonstown Naval Control. Larabee brought it to the bridge himself and waved it at me. It was a long one and, in the form he’d received it, simply a jumbled mass of coded letter groups.

  I frowned. ‘You should be at your set, Larabee. There’s blokes awake all over the ruddy ship right now to run messages for you.’

  He grinned in the dim light of the wheelhouse. ‘Jus’ couldn’t live a minute longer without seein’ you, Mister Mate.’

  I felt my nerve ends grate like the jagged edges of a torn tin can, but I merely grabbed the signal form from his slender, delicate operator’s fingers and pushed past him to the ladder. Larabee and I, we’d said it all before and I was too anxious to know what hopes of salvation we had to pray for, hidden as it was in the handwritten mass of code in my hand.

  ‘You have the watch, Mister Shell,’ I flung over my shoulder as I slid down the sloping handrails to the master’s cabin, knocked on the door, then entered without waiting. It was silly, but even after I'd closed the door behind me and pushed through the green black-out curtain I could still feel Larabee’s stare somehow penetrating the thick cabin steel, digging and boring into my back. I shivered involuntarily, it was an eerie sensation, especially when connected with such a scruffy, unprepossessing little bastard. God, but my imagination was really excelling itself this trip.

  Evans was in the middle of an early morning shave as I entered his day room. He struck his head round the bathroom door and I held the signal form up to him while noticing, somewhat wryly, that he really didn’t shave with his hat on after all, and he wasn’t in the nude this time either. He’d only been half-way through the operation but, right away, he came out of the little tiled area wiping flecks of lather from his face with a big fluffy Company towel.

  ‘In code, I hope?’ he grunted through the enveloping white folds.

  ‘Yessir,’ I nodded. He grunted and, walking over to the master’s small safe in the corner of the cabin, patted the pocket of his baggy shorts, fished out a bunch of keys and opened it. While he brought the lead-covered code book over to the desk—lead-covered in case we had to ditch it quickly—I noticed his orange and blue life-jacket lying on the settee instead of gathering dust in its usual place under the bunk.

  Did that make him a coward too? I remember my first captain watching me cynically during lifeboat drill in Singapore Roads many years ago. I was sweating and red­faced with embarrassment at struggling with the awkward cork vests we had in those days. ‘I feel such a fool, wearing this in a boat, Sir,’ I’d muttered self-consciously.

  He’d grinned understandingly and, getting up from the tiller, had slipped into his own. ‘You’d feel a bigger bloody fool without it, lad ... in the water,’ he’d answered.

  No, Evans wasn’t a coward. He just had good sense.

  *

  It took quite a long time for the Old Man to decode the signal and, when he threw the pencil down, he sat looking at it and frowning. ‘What the ...?’ he muttered, then shoved it across the desk towards me. When I’d read it, I had to agree with him—it seemed one of the craziest survival strategies the Admiralty had conceived of to date, and that was really saying something.

  I lifted my eyes and started back at the beginning in case I’d missed something crucial. But I hadn’t. Our future orders, planned out like a game of chess by some uninvolved desk sailor with little wooden ships on a shiny white plotting table five thousand miles away, were all there in the Old Man’s spidery scrawl.

  COMSAW TO COMCONVOY H 24 S: REPLY YOUR MESSAGE TIMED 0235 HRS 29 5 ... PROCEED QUICKEST ROUTE QUINTANILHA DE ALMEIDA ISLAND PER ADMIRALTY CHART NO. 1369ZB HEAVY ESCORT WILL RENDEZVOUS WITH YOU ETA 1530 HRS 1 6 AT POSIT FIVE MILES DUE WEST OF IS
LAND ... UNTIL THEN YOU WILL WAIT REPEAT WAIT IN IMMEDIATE AREA DESIGNATED HOWEVER YOU ARE ADVISED POSSIBILITY OF CONCEALED ANCHORAGE CENTRE QUINTANILHA DE ALMEIDA LIMITED PILOTAGE INSTRUCTIONS AVAILABLE 1927 ISSUE SOUTH AND WEST AFRICA NAVIGATOR BUT CAUTION NO RECENT SURVEY DETAILS TO HAND ... WOULD STRONGLY RECOMMEND YOUR ENTERING ANCHORAGE IF POSSIBLE BUT REQUEST YOU USE OWN DISCRETION HOWEVER MASTERS CYCLOPS SLANT ATHENIAN ARE ADVISED THEY ARE ABSOLVED RESPONSIBILITY FOR MISHAPS INCURRED SHOULD THEY EXECUTE ABOVE SUGGESTION ... FINAL WARNING DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT MAKE ANY FURTHER NORTHING OR WESTING YOUR PRESENT POSITION DUE TO SIGNIFICANT ENEMY SUBMARINE ACTIVITY CONFIRMED THAT AREA GOOD LUCK AND GOOD HIDING SIGNED TRYST REAR ADMIRAL END.

  And that was that!

  ‘Good God,’ I whispered, starting to feel numb all over.

  ‘Aye, you’ll do well to flatter Him, John,’ said the Old Man slowly. “Cause we’ll be needing His presence on the bridge pretty steady for the next three days.’

  *

  Evans pushed his chair back from the desk and walked over to the bridge voice pipe hooked above the bunk. ‘Send me down chart number 1369ZB please, Mister Shell ... And ask my tiger to bring coffee for two to my cabin, will you?’

  While we were waiting for the chart and coffee he went over to the crammed bookshelf on the after bulkhead and lifted down a heavy, red-bound volume. I glanced at it as it lay on the desk—the ship’s copy of the South and West Africa Navigator. Then he flopped back in his chair and looked at me. ‘And precisely what does that signal suggest to you, John?’

  I pulled a face. ‘It suggests we’re going to work up a proper bloody sweat trying to keep out of the way of the U-boats for the next three days, for a start. And if we can’t get into that island the Navy talks about, then we won’t even have the advantage of being able to leave the Hun behind. If we’ve got to cruise in circles waiting for the new escorts, then if Jerry doesn’t get us the first time we pass he’ll have plenty more chances before the afternoon of the first of June.’