A FLOCK OF SHIPS

by Brian Callison

  I felt Bill grinning sardonically but didn’t dare risk a grin back. We both knew that Bert Samson was as capable of taking Athenian out of Quintanilha as the average bloke is of getting his car out of the garage in the morning, but Bert was Bert.

  I tried to look subdued and solicitous. ‘We thought ... er, with Cyclops that is of course ... that we might run a line ashore from our inside bow to hold her, then heave our stern round with a wire from the starboard quarter to the opposite knuckle of the channel. Then we won’t have to turn the shafts as she swings round against the shelf.’

  Of course he knew that perfectly well, but he was laying the doggedness on thick this time. Perhaps this war of nerves was penetrating even his armour-plated skin. He stabbed a bony finger at the air around. ‘That may be all right for Cyclops, Mister. For some reason you seem to be the star turn in this act. But then—you’re not carrying ammunition, are you?’

  I stared at him. No one ever told me anything. And he’d brought Athenian through that cleft without even turning one of the few hairs he’d got left. Did Evans know? Somehow I didn’t think so, or he’d never have made the decision to come in here without consultation in the first place. But that was bloody typical of Bert Samson as well. Accomplish it superbly first, then moan like hell about it for the next six months.

  Bill confirmed the news expressionlessly. ‘Numbers two, three and five holds, John. General cargo for Adelaide, then sea mines, cased grenades and ball ammunition for Sydney. Twelve hundred tons, roughly.’

  I swallowed and suddenly felt a lot happier about being in Cyclops. If a torpedo hit us, all we could do was sink. If Athenian caught one, they’d be flying. Penetrating Quintanilha was, for us, the lesser of two evils, but for Bill Henderson and Bert Samson it was a deadly risk, scraping twelve hundred tons of high-explosive over those clutching shapes that had risen so terrifyingly towards me from the dark green water. I shivered, and that old bastard Samson grinned slyly. He'd made his point.

  ‘So, perhaps you would be good enough to fully explain why this farce is so necessary, Mister Kent?’ he said, slightly mellowed. ‘Please remember that restrictions on communications between our two vessels have, to this moment, prevented me from doing anything other than what I have been told to. From now on, however, perhaps I may be considered as an equal partner? Along with my dear friend and colleague, Captain Evans.’

  The sarcasm now. I didn’t mind, though. The Old Man had given me complete freedom to tell Samson about our cargo in the Cyclops’s strong-room—not only the currency consignment but also the secret bags—and to explain as best I could why we were content to wait for an escort rather than try to run the blockade alone. They listened intently as I went on to say that, while we suspected an enemy plan to force us farther south, there was no real proof and we had decided to follow the remote Admiral Tryst’s instructions accordingly.

  When I’d finished Samson leaned back and chewed his thin underlip pensively. I just stared gloomily at the carpet and hoped he wasn’t going to get all bloody-minded and independent again. Finally he glanced at Bill and then, challengingly, at me. ‘So your only justification for suspecting an enemy plot is the angle of attack from the two U-boats and those damned fireworks we saw ahead of us? Oh, plus the possibility that they might have been trying for the escort that time rather than what should normally have been their primary targets ... us merchantmen?’

  I nodded, as he continued, ‘On the other hand, we have certain proof of enemy activity between us and the Cape through that message from the Kent Star ... which couldn’t have had any bearing on plots imagined or otherwise.’

  I frowned. There was that indefinable warning bell at the back of my mind as soon as Samson mentioned the Kent Star. What was it that worried me about her? What was so unsettling about the name ... Kent Star? Kent? John Kent ...? Here I was again on the vicious, negative circle that had kept recurring in my head since poor old Foley had brought that distress call to me on the bridge.

  Bill was frowning inquiringly at me, ‘Something wrong, John?’

  ‘I don't quite know, Bill. It’s just ... oh, probably nothing in it anyway.’

  Samson leaned forward over his desk. ‘If you have any doubts, Mister, then perhaps you’ll be good enough to bring them to my attention.’

  I looked at the little captain.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, sir,’ I muttered.

  The bony knuckles tapped the walnut desk top impatiently. ‘Listen to me, Mister Kent. And you too, William. The whole conduct of this voyage has been based on assumptions regarding the disposition of the enemy in this area. Every time we have seen a sign of other activity we have scuttled away, usually farther south, with the utmost expedition. Am I correct so far?’

  We both nodded assent as he continued. ‘Very well. Now, Mister Kent has a theory that we are unwittingly conforming to some, as yet obscure, plan of the enemy’s to shepherd us into this immediate area ...’

  ‘A theory only, Sir. I’ve no proof that such an intention exists,’ I broke in anxiously. ‘Just a few lights in the night that seemed to be ahead of us whichever way we altered ... except south.’

  Samson eyed me probingly. ‘Aye? And because the bloody Navy ordered us to do the same thing we’re here, in this rat trap. Now!’

  Bill scratched his head uncomfortably. ‘But as John’s just said—there’s no evidence to show that we aren’t doing the logical thing. The lights were fact, after all, and us both having intercepted the Kent Star's distress transmission was fact. Solid, undisputable fact.’

  The wrinkled brows clamped together in a frown. ‘Oh aye? But were they, Mister?’

  Bill and I looked at each other blankly. I was starting to get irritated but Bill couldn’t even afford that luxury in front of Bert. What, in Heaven’s name, was Samson driving at? He must have seen the glances passing between us.

  ‘Mister Kent.’ The stabbing finger was aimed at me like a loaded gun.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Let us assume, for the moment, that there is some rational explanation for the occurrences which took place aboard Cyclops. I refer, of course, to the inexplicable disappearance of your Chief Wireless Operator ... ah, Foley?... followed by that shot at us from your stern chaser ...’ He raised a warning hand as he saw me open my mouth. ‘Wait, Mister. I don’t propose to enlarge on that at this moment, I merely mention it in passing. Now—for the purpose of hypothesis—we shall forget them. Right?’

  Dutiful chorus. ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  ‘... which leaves us with the extraneous incidents only to analyse. The actual reasons for our coming here.’

  He was really getting into his stride now. I just wished Evans had come over himself and left me aboard Cyclops. Bert Samson in one of his analytical moods was more than I could face right then.

  He started ticking off the facts on a skeletal hand. ‘One—the Kent Star distress call. Two—the sinking, from the coastal side, of the Frog boat. Three—them still-anonymous buggers wi’ their illuminations. Four—yon U-boat you were lucky enough to help sink, Mister Kent ...' the bushy eyes challenged me to take him up on that but I let it go '... and five, gentlemen; the orders from some admiral five thousand miles away.’

  He sat back and stared at us penetratingly. We didn’t say anything because neither of us could see what he was trying to prove. With a sigh and the patience of an elementary schoolmaster, he proceeded: ‘Number five we can discount seeing the signal came from the Grey Funnel Line and they’re supposed to be on our side. Numbers two to four inclusive could be attributed to purely coincidental enemy activity - meaning that each of those incidents considered separately could have happened to any ship at any time and do not, viewed in isolation, prove any ulterior motive. Do you still agree, both of you?’

  I was beginning to catch up at last. ‘Yessir.’

  He poised, ready for the Great Deduction. This was Bert in full, Holmesian cry. ‘Which leaves us, therefore, with number one—the Kent Star distress
. The only factor which involves a ... a third party. The only incident, prior to the Admiralty orders themselves, which might reasonably be assumed to have a British source.’

  He swivelled round to me. ‘Do you see now why I consider the authenticity of the call from the Kent Star a matter of vital importance, Mister? Do you?’

  And I did, too. The whole thing revolved round the garbled message poor old Foley had picked up from a sinking allied freighter. If its origin was genuine and my doubts about it unfounded, then we had probably done the prudent thing in coming to Quintanilha de Almeida. If, on the other hand, it was a fake ...?

  Samson read the concern dawning in my face and nodded surprisingly gently. ‘Aye, John. If the call from that casualty of yours was bogus—then we’ve run just the way whoever put it out wants us to, and that means the bloody Hun.’

  ‘And that, in its turn, means they could be right outside the entrance at this moment. Just waiting for us,’ I muttered, suddenly feeling very, very frightened again.

  ‘... with the best part of three days still to go before the Navy arrives,’ Bill supplemented succinctly.

  I tried to sound positive. ‘We could put a signal out to Admiralty, Sir? To request confirmation of the Kent Star sinking? You could give it to your Sparks right ...’

  My solution trailed off as I recalled the twisted, superheated steel coffin on the after-end of the boat deck.

  Bert Samson shook his head. ‘This is something you’ll have to decide after discussion with Davie Evans, John. We must all discuss it. As you said earlier—even a short W.T. transmission could give them a fix and home them on to us.’

  He pushed his chair back and stood gazing through the port for a long time. The shrunken body looked even more pathetic in tropical rig, like an undersized child in his first set of cricket whites. I wondered how he managed to radiate such energy. Then he turned to face us and I saw how intense his eyes were. ‘No, gentlemen. We’re atween the Devil and the deep blue sea. If we go out we may run smack into a wolf pack. If we stay in, then the enemy could be heading this way as we speak ...’

  There came a knock on the cabin door. A signal from Cyclops: CAN I HAVE MY CHIEF OFFICER BACK QUERY HE'S NOT MUCH BUT HE'S MINE SIGNED EVANS MASTER.

  Bert broke off, looking a bit frustrated, but he still accompanied me out to the boat deck and shook hands. As I made to walk away, back to the boat with Bill, he smiled unexpectedly.

  ‘Tell yon Comconvoy of ours I’ll splice a bottle or two with him first night back in the shadow of the Liver Building, Mister.’

  I grinned weakly and nodded. Mister ... Mister Kent ... Kent Star ...? Oh, the hell with it. I wouldn’t have the opportunity to see Bill again for a long ...

  Abruptly I stopped dead in my tracks. The Liver Building? Liverpool Docks? I remembered them the last night before we sailed; the night the mysterious vans had arrived laden with boxes of currency and bags of top secret information. Standing there on the wet deck and seeing the relief on the faces of the two naval officers who delivered the cargo for the strong-room. Standing there and feeling the rain trickle down my collar as I stared miserably across the black, oily waters of the basin to where a newly arrived freighter was still making fast, laden to her marks with war cargo. Standing there feeling the sadness of a pre-sailing hour and idly noting the name on her bows, the name that made me take a mild paternal interest in her because it was the same as mine ... the Kent Star.

  Kent Star ...? Aw, Jesus ...! The KENT STAR!

  I swung on them with a terrible urgency.

  “That “S” call WAS a phoney - the Kent Star couldn’t have been in this area two days ago!’

  *

  Suddenly they had all fitted together. All the bloodstained pieces of my cerebral jigsaw.

  Samson had glanced grimly at Bill, then at me. ‘Explain, Mister?’

  ‘Because I’ve remembered now where I’d seen the name before. She was berthing across the dock from us just before we sailed, loaded to her marks. They’d have taken three weeks to clear that lot out of her.’

  The luxuriant eyebrows met ferociously. ‘You’re sure it was the Kent Star?’

  I nodded emphatically, ‘I’m certain of it. Captain.’

  He didn’t waste a moment. Half turning to Bill he spoke tightly. ‘Ring “Stand by” on the telegraphs, Mister Henderson. Whistle the hands to stations immediately and test the steering gear. And put a leadsman in the chains. I’ll need a slip wire ready starboard side bow and have the Second Mate prepare a manilla for paying out over the port quarter.’

  Bill was already moving, ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  ‘... and when you weigh anchor, Mister, don’t screw the windlass up tight: I may need it again in an emergency. We’ll need a boat in the water to tend the shore lines while we snub her round the corner.’

  ‘You can leave that, Sir.' I broke in. 'I’ll send the Cyclops’s boat ahead to serve both ships then we can hoist her inboard on the seaward side of the entrance.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you, Mister Kent.’

  I hesitated for a moment. ‘You intend to leave immediately then?’

  Samson smiled sourly. ‘You’re quick to catch on, Mister. Aye, Athenian’s going out whatever happens. We’ll take our chances at twenty knots in the open sea. If Cyclops wants to wait here like a shrimp in a keep net that’s up to you and David Evans, but I’ve got twelve hundred tons of explosives aboard that says bugger the Admiralty, an' I’m not giving the U-boats any more time to get in position to pick us off as we come out of that entrance at dead slow speed.’

  I glanced at my watch. 5.15 p.m., and we came in about 9.30 in the morning. ‘If we’re right in our assumption—that they know we’re in here, I mean—then it may be too late already. They’ll have had over seven hours to set us up as it is.’

  The little figure turned away to the bridge ladder, then stopped. ‘Aye, Mister Kent. So if you hear a big bang from the other end of the channel you’ll know to be careful, won’t you?’

  He swung away without another word and started to climb the ladder as casually as if he was going up to meet the pilot for an ordinary harbour manoeuvre. I watched him go, feeling that all-too-familiar clutch of apprehension back in my belly, then a piercing blast made me jump.

  Bill was standing there with the stand-by whistle dangling from his hand. He smiled softly and punched me gently on the shoulder. ‘Staying aboard to finish the trip with real sailors, John?’

  I forced a grin. ‘I would if there were any on this run-down hulk of yours, Mate.’

  We stood there awkwardly for a moment. We’d seen a lot together, Bill and I ... and big Eric. But Eric was already gone from the family, floating face down with his hair waving gently in the green water. I shuddered. It was an image I kept conjuring up too often for peace of mind.

  Bill stuck his brown hand out. ‘Time and tide, y’know ... See you in Cape Town, John.’

  I took it and squeezed. ‘We’ll wait for you to catch up, Bill. And ... keep a weather eye open on the way, huh?’

  Then he was gone and I was alone beside the obscene, gutted shell of the radio room. Time to go, chum. Like Bill said, time, tide and U-boats wait for no man. The gruff bellow from the bridge stopped me momentarily.

  ‘I’ll run east and west till you come out, Mister Kent. Then I intend to zig-zag for the Cape even if I have to run right over the bastards. Tell Captain Evans I’ll be obliged to have his company on the way, if he so chooses.’

  I waved in reply, then slid down the ladder. I knew Bert was needled about the ‘Comconvoy’ messages from Evans: this was his way of soothing his ruffled pride. For the rest of the trip Cyclops could accompany Athenian, but he was sailing independently anyway. Stuff the Admiralty, the Kriegsmarine, the Board of Trade and the British War Cabinet—Bert Samson was sailing today.

  *

  The faces that awaited my descent to the top of the accommodation ladder displayed baffled curiosity and subdued excitement. Hesitating only to gla
nce forward along the alleyway towards the foc’slehead, I could see Bill Henderson already moving among his anchor party as the windlass turned slowly, heaving the heavy cable short in preparation for weighing on a signal from the bridge.

  As soon as I had stepped from the platform into our boat, Athenian’s young Fourth Mate raised a hand in parting salute and the ladder rose jerkily while two A.B.s waited to lash it outboard along the rails, ready for sea. I glanced at my watch again. 5.40 p.m.. The U-boats had now been given eight hours to prepare.

  It seemed to take a very long time to cross the water between the two ships.

  *

  The Old Man was waiting impatiently for me at the top of our own ladder as I ran up it, noting subconsciously that rust streaks had started to blister the grey-painted surface of our hull. A pity about losing these three days—I could have had the Bosun’s crowd over the side first thing in the morning, chipping and slapping on a new coat. Ship painting was the bane of every mate's life, it was like living on the Forth Bridge—no sooner did you have everything shiny and Bristol fashion than you had to start all over again at the other end.

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to explain just what that grumpy old bugger Samson thinks he’s doing, Mister Kent,’ Evans demanded petulantly, his eyes fixed curiously on the busily moving figures on Athenian’s decks.

  I swallowed. It was like trying to negotiate a friendly agreement between Churchill and Hitler, only more difficult. ‘Perhaps we could go up to the bridge, Sir?’ I muttered, aware of the eager stare from the gangway quartermaster.

  Faintly across the water a distant tinkle carried as they tested Athenian’s telegraphs while, on her poop, we could see khaki figures moving as her gun’s crew closed up. Samson wasn’t leaving any more to chance than he had to. The Old Man watched a moment longer, then turned sharply for the ladder. ‘Aye, Mister Kent. Maybe we’d better at that.’

  It took only a few minutes to convince him too, though I could see he didn’t like Bert Samson seizing the initiative. As soon as he was satisfied that the Kent Star message had been a deliberate fake, he didn’t waste any time in analysing our, or the Navy’s, mistakes.