The other cadet, Janner, was to be Halloran’s ‘doggy’, running messages or errands as required.
Andy went on, ‘Draw battens from the carpenter. If he runs out of timber he’ll provide lengths of hawser or standing rigging-wire. Near the same weight, I’d guess, might even be handier. The wire’d be fairly lethal. Now listen – Ingram here’s my back-up: if I get clobbered he takes over. And if he’s done in, Edmonds.’
‘What if I buy it then, sir?’
‘We’d be in trouble.’ He shook his head. ‘But none of us is going to buy it – please God. Anyway, my job’s to get in and down to the ’tween-decks and bring up the prisoners. Inside the hatch there must be a vertical ladder as in a fiddley, at least as far as the ’tween-decks where the prisoners are. May have some of it partitioned off, boarded-up, whatever: that’s what the axe is for, and the crow-bar – Parlance with the axe, Edmonds with the bar. You two come in behind me, then Ingram and Crown. That should be as many as we’ll need inside; the rest of you keep the hatchway area clear of Huns so we can bring the prisoners up and across to PollyAnna. Distance of maybe forty feet – her beam must be about the same as ours, fifty or fifty-five, say. The other two teams of eight’ll join in if Mr Halloran sees we need it. He won’t send more than are needed – all got to be brought out of it when we finish; fewer the better really. For the same reason, stick together, support each other – right?’
He wondered whether the Germans might not have guns – on the bridge-wings, for instance – machine-guns, even. If this was – or had been – a Graf Spee support-ship – as she almost certainly was. The skipper had revealed only this afternoon that among War Intelligence Reports he’d received in recent days was one to the effect that the Spee’s well-known support-ship, the MV Altmark, had made what was believed to have been her final rendezvous with the battleship on 27 November in the vicinity of Tristan da Cunha, and had been ordered back to Germany on 7 December; the signal recalling her had been intercepted and deciphered, and she was now being hunted over a wide area. Glauchau might well have been sent south as her replacement. A secondary point the skipper had made was that 27 November, date of the Spee’s last fuelling from the Altmark, had been the day PollyAnna had come across the boatload of corpses – also within spitting distance of Tristan da Cunha. The Anna’s second escape by a mere whisker, therefore.
* * *
Now 0140, or near as dammit. Creak of a derrick as the gangway was swung inboard and set down with only the faintest of thuds. Batt and his wingers had rigged the forward-leading wire and then taken the other ropes and wires off her quickly and quietly – rubber-soled shoes and whispers instead of the usual shindy – and Andy now had his team here on the port side for’ard, squatting behind the cover (from the Germans’ angle of sight, if any of them were looking) of numbers one and two hatch coamings, and dressed more or less as he’d advised – dark-coloured trousers and sweaters, or boiler-suits. Most of them would have had a couple of hours’ kip – as he’d had himself. Had in fact considered writing a letter to his father, but sleep was really a more sensible use of the time; and letters written before action had certain implications, whether or not one was writing them in that spirit – which he would not have been.
(Hadn’t the least notion where or when any such letter would be posted, either. Or when they’d get any. Non-arrival of mail was beginning to rankle slightly.)
Thrum of the engine. Steam up and – yes, big old screw churning, PollyAnna on the move, deep-laden with her bellyful of ore. Fisher was up there with the skipper, AB Shuttleworth on the wheel, Harkness manning the telegraph, and spare hands – odd-job men or errand-boys – OS Curtis and galley-boy Starling.
Moving. And the rasp of the steel-wire rope as the foc’sl party knocked a slip off and the wire slid willingly away. Ship now clear of the quay with the flood tide’s force helping to turn her bow out into it: and still no lights moving or changing out there in the anchorage, no lights at all that the Germans hadn’t shown every night this week. A dimly lit patch on the south bank of the river were illuminations on and around the Frenchman. If the Huns didn’t see you coming, they wouldn’t hear you either, with that dirge blaring away as usual. Skipper on the bridge would have his glasses on her: if the bastards did see, hear or otherwise suspect, might get a sudden flood of light and noise other than music; on the other hand, if they’d been drilled to it you might not – orders might be passed quietly, upper deck filled silently with Huns standing by to repel boarders.
With guns in their hands. Guns against sticks. He thought it was distinctly possible. Skipper dismissive of it because there’d be nothing he could do about it – it was part of the risk he was having to take.
Halloran coming aft now, bosun with him. Through the darkness Halloran tallish, bosun like a medium-small ape bounding bow-legged at his heels. Andy stood up, identifying himself; the Anna by this time twenty feet clear of the quay and gathering way, vibration building as revs gradually increased. The skipper had said he’d try to get her out there speedily enough to have a fair chance of not being seen, since once she was under way every minute of exposure added to that risk. All portholes and weather doors had been shut and she wasn’t showing navigation or steaming lights; to the Germans she’d been a darkish mass on that quayside for the past six nights, and with luck that was all they’d be seeing now.
‘Holt. All right?’
‘All set.’
‘I’ll join you, starboard side, as you go over. Or on impact, say. Second team will move into your place here, then join me.’
‘Aye aye.’
They’d been over it all about forty times, for God’s sake. Mention of ‘impact’, though – at this speed, maybe eight knots through the water, meaning four or five made good, there would be impact. Bloody great crash, in other words. He’d warned this lot, ‘Get there and crouch, hold on, hope to God we stay in contact – or jumping distance anyway.’ There’d been discussion of that potential source of very unpleasant casualties – jumping when you shouldn’t – or clumsily – falling between two ships each of about 9,000 tons deadweight which might then close in again.
Still no movement and no visible disturbance. Music steadily gaining strength. A lot of them would have their heads down, saving their energies for the 0500 departure. Time now – no, couldn’t read it. Not much short of 0200, in any case. And revs decreasing: you could feel it in her steel. He said quietly, ‘Won’t be long now. On your marks…’
Slower still. You heard the river, saw PollyAnna in your mind’s eye as if from the Glauchau: black shape almost bow-on, looming closer every second and surely visible to anyone with eyes who as much as glanced this way. PollyAnna in, say, quarter-silhouette against the soft radiance of the town?
Manuela grinding her teeth? Or just her hips? Some lucky sod…
Engine slowed. Keeping way on her, not much else he guessed, revs calculated just to get her there, against the tide. Glauchau’s riding lights vivid white, superstructure and funnel clear-cut against the stars. Frothing of the tide visible too now under and around her stern.
And – impact.
A lot bigger than he’d expected after that reduction. Old Man should have reduced sooner, maybe. Long, iron-scraping, rail-bending side-swipe, and the German actually rocking away from it. They’d remained crouched through those few seconds – as well they had, would have been knocked flying if they hadn’t – but were up now and running, over number two hatch and between it and the derricks; PollyAnna’s forward way still holding her alongside, nuzzling the German. Andy was over, others with him, into a glow of light that lit the forefront of the Glauchau’s superstructure and one white-shirted German on his feet – had been down, knocked over by the impact, was now up and another of them coming, shouting and stumbling out of the weather door at that corner.
First time I ever hit a Hun…
Hun on his knees again, Ingram kicking him in the face and two others taking on the second one. Andy had shoute
d, ‘Keep ’em from coming out that door,’ seen one German bounce off the top of the starboard-side rail and go cartwheeling, bellowing; didn’t hear the splash because he was in the shelter to the hatchway, ’tween-deck entrance, the shelter from any distance looking like a squat ventilator. Now had the grating open – a hinged hatch replacing a hatchboard that had been removed – glow of light from below, didn’t need the torch as he’d thought he might – was on the ladder, less climbing down than free-falling with his palms slapping the iron rungs, and other men’s feet and legs coming down on top of him. The source of light from below was a bulb in a cage above a timber door with a grille in its upper part, from the other side of which he had an impression of men shouting – as far as he could make out, over the racket from above, it could have been wishful imagining – and – glory to God, two large, ordinary bolts, one at the top, one near the bottom. Jerking the top one back and then stooping to the other he realised he was standing on a hatch: get back on the ladder and pull up that lid, you’d find ladder-rungs continuing into the lower hold – from which even with the hatch shut there was an odour that told him fairly plainly what the access might be for. He pulled back the lower bolt, put his shoulder to the door and shoved – Parlance at his side – and a few feet back from the door as it banged open a dozen or more faces: glaring eyes, snarling mouths, bearded or part-bearded faces distorted by alarm or anger or both, but – extraordinarily – silent…
‘You British? How many?’
‘Christ – he’s – you’re –’
All in full cry suddenly: he had a job to make himself heard. ‘Come on – up and out! Quick, before the Huns’ve got ’emselves together – OK? How many of you?’
He’d heard – thought he’d heard, in a bedlam of other shouts plus music still thumping overhead – ‘Seventeen,’ then a clearer voice correcting that with, ‘Sixteen and the lass.’
‘Parlance – get ’em moving, come up with the last of ’em, try to make ’em understand what’s wanted.’ Shouting upwards then: ‘Go on up – clear the way – Ingram, all of you!’ Grabbing an iron rung, one foot on another until those above gave him room, Parlance telling the prisoners – ex-prisoners – ‘On deck, chums, our lads’ll beat the Huns back, get you lot port side an’ into the Anna. Comprende?’
‘What’s the Anna, then?’
‘SS PollyAnna. Blood Line, out o’ Glasgow. Wanna get you aboard sharpish, see? Then –’
Then sound as well as smell fading below him as the music strengthened: he was at the top, crawling out of the shelter covering it and on his feet then in patchy, moving light and darkness and a crowd of struggling, cursing men – Ingram, Edmonds, Crown, Hughes the cook – and others, defending and widening the deck-space against encroaching Germans, some of whom were armed with bottles. Brooks and McCandle still blocking the weather door, although they – Huns – would have other exits they could use. Edmonds with his crow-bar was the most effective, others using fists as well as battens.
Andy yelled to Smythe – a trimmer – and firemen Sams and O‘Keefe – the latter’s face streaming blood – ‘Prisoners coming up, look after ’em!’ The first of them were already out, a huddle of three, four, as unkempt and scrawny as Pathans. Andy’s eye caught then by a knife in the hand of a German who was going for Cox: he charged him, fists up but kicking him in the crotch – right on target – the German doubling-up and Andy in close then with fists swinging, Cox back in it using his boots too, knife skidding away towards the starboard scuppers. Broken bottles were as bad as knives, though, were being used as missiles too, and there was a lot of blood around. One bearded ex-prisoner had acquired a batten: might have got it from Edmonds, who didn’t need that as well as his crow-bar, from which the Germans truly were keeping their distance. That one and others in a tight group had O‘Keefe and Smythe hustling them over towards the Anna, while Germans advancing across number three to intercept them had themselves been taken in the rear by the first reserves Halloran must have sent – the bosun with gunlayer Bakewell and trainer Timms, bosun wielding a two-foot section of steel-wire rope, Clover and Priestman ditto – and Bennet; a lot of those had gone for the rigging-wire. Huns scattering now – one unwisely backing into range of O’Shea’s batten then encountering Smythe’s fists and boots, finishing up crouched on the hatch with his arms covering his head. Andy dodging a flying bottle – had already been hit by one that had gashed his neck behind the ear – and charging the little squirt of a man who’d hurled this other one, kicking his heels from under him then slinging him at some of his friends.
Germans were tending to stand back now, and the first of the former prisoners had reached the ship’s side, were clambering over, Janner and others helping. Halloran was there: and there had been movement between the ships’ hulls – see-sawing with the gap between them opening and closing – as the skipper had predicted. Andy was back at the ’tween-deck access with Ingram and the others, and what must have been the last of the prisoners were emerging now into their protection; Parlance was with them, so those had to be the last. Parlance was king-pin, with his battleaxe which the Germans seemed disinclined to face. Several had been hauled away by their friends after close encounters with Edmonds’ crow-bar, but the axe really frightened them. Weren’t showing a lot of fight in any case, acting more like hyenas milling around at a safe distance while watching for chances and now and again taking one, the Anna’s men still having to dodge an occasional flying bottle. Half the prisoners must have been over in the Anna by this time, and of that last group out, now halfway across, one of middle-age – bald with grey in his beard – had an arm protectively round the shoulders of a smaller, much slighter one who was shrouded in an oilskin, and behind them another young one seemingly sheltering them both, at close quarters with Andy for a moment, yelling at him out of a darkly unshaven face, ‘Blooming miraculous, sir!’ It needed some explaining, but the slim one – beardless, with bright, scared eyes – was a girl, for Pete’s sake… He remembered that answer to his question in the ’tween-decks three or four minutes ago – Sixteen and the lass… He shouted to his own group – primarily to Ingram – ‘Stay with these now!’ Because the job seemed to be damn near done, all over bar the shouting, although progress was slow at the ship’s side – ex-prisoners in a bunch, some hold-up there. Wasn’t quite finished, though: a large, bulbous German in a singlet and shorts lurching out of the screen door, the door with his weight behind it catching McCandle off-balance, sending him staggering, and the German lunging with a knife – kitchen-type, he’d be a cook maybe – breasts like a woman’s bulging the singlet, huge biceps, shaven head. Andy had started forward but Parlance was ahead of him, axe swinging up ready to split the gleaming skull – all it needed, man-mountain stopping dead, dropping the knife and lifting its great arms in surrender. Meanwhile, those last three were making better progress – the girl with the older man, and the lad protecting them. They had Ingram, Hughes, Edmonds and Crown flanking them; Brooks and McCandle back here between them and the weather door, other PollyAnnas here and there: the action was all on the port side now – and the ships were moving in relation to each other, Andy realised, might have accounted for the hold-up. He yelled to McCandle and Brooks, jerking a thumb, ‘OK, you two!’ – meaning job done here, shove off – but swivelling to face a Hun rushing at him, whirling a length of chain; an officer, no less, epaulettes on his shoulders. Andy stopped him by jabbing the batten into his yellowish-looking face, was in close then, inside the scope of the chain, landing a good straight left followed by a right cross, which didn’t connect as the man tripped backwards, went sprawling across the hatch-cover. No purpose in following up: his own orders to the lads had been to keep Huns at a distance but not on any account get in among them. Looking to the ship’s side again now: the girl and the older man were climbing the German rail, Janner courteously rendering assistance from PollyAnna’s. The Germans weren’t trying now, only pretending to, fifteen or twenty of them in an ostensibly threatening
half-circle, as if to give the impression they’d forced this withdrawal. Halloran and the bosun were summoning men back over. Andy with Ingram, Parlance, Edmonds, Crown and Hughes were going to be the last: facing the Huns still, guessing that turning their backs on them might give them ideas. But you couldn’t stand around for ever: he shouted to Ingram, Crown and Hughes, ‘Go on, you three. Bloody good job you’ve done.’ Keeping Parlance the axeman and Edmonds the crow-bar man because they were the best Hun-frighteners. Despite which, a few Huns, seeing this bunch thin out, had begun edging forward – hesitantly, though, looking round at others for support. Halloran bellowed through a megaphone, ‘Holt – finish, pack up!’
‘Give me the axe, Parlance. Off you go. You too, Edmonds.’
Holding the axe up and clearly visible, letting them know there could still be skulls split if they insisted, while giving those two time to get over. There was a lot of to-and-fro movement on the ships, grinding of hulls and lurches from time to time as the securing lines came up bar-taut. Should by rights have parted – and might yet. But OK now, maybe. Keeping the axe in view while backing to the rail – then on it – on the German’s rail and over it, heels on the iron coaming outboard of the scuppers. There was a gap between the ships’ hulls of about two feet and it was widening – very good reason not to wait for ever. Had to let go of the rail behind him – the Glauchau’s – and jump from his heels while grabbing for the Anna’s. The gap was now more like three feet and still – well, Christ…
Over. While Halloran, grabbing at his arm, had been slashed in the face by glass from a bottle shattering against a kingpost. Reeling back, hands to his face: there was a lot of glass and blood about. Two blasts on a whistle then – Halloran’s – telling the skipper all hands re-embarked: the bosun was on his knees sawing through this tether of Manila rope. They’d already cast off the other, which would have accounted for that sudden widening of the gap. Halloran, holding a wad of cotton-waste to his torn forehead, snarling at Andy, ‘Took your fucking time, didn’t you?’ Then – surprisingly – ‘Done a nice job, for all that.’
Westbound, Warbound Page 18
