‘I’d guess would have, if her skipper’d been on board.’
‘Reason to think he wasn’t?’
‘Some reason to suspect it. Why else didn’t the bugger chase us?’
If not Arabella, he thought, what about Manuela, who’d have been at something of a loose end?
* * *
At Halifax now, PollyAnna having steamed virtually due north for a week, Andy had another letter from his father – a single-sheet Air Letter Form mostly congratulating him on having taken part in the rescue operation, news of which must just have reached him when he wrote. He wanted answers to various questions, most of which Andy had already supplied in the letter he’d sent from St Lucia: he’d had very good reason to write, since the old man’s letter which had reached him there had had a birthday cheque for £50 in it. A huge amount of money – plus a tenner from his mother, so sixty in all, the largest sum he’d ever possessed at any one time in his life. There seemed little point in cashing or depositing the cheques, seeing as he’d be able to do so in England in a few weeks’ time, and especially as he had enough left over for immediate needs in any case – former cruzeiros that he would have splurged on Manuela but which had now been changed back into pounds, shillings and pence.
Might get ashore tomorrow or Wednesday, he thought: see the town, have a few beers and a meal. He’d have liked to take Julia with him – she was ashore now as it happened, with Dixon and Finney, looking for clothes again; but those two were the problem – she barely moved a yard without them, and if he’d suggested it he might have found himself lumbered with them as well. They’d gone ashore today at the skipper’s invitation in a launch that had been sent to bring the skipper and the masters of some other recently arrived ships to Admiralty House to discuss the HX (Halifax homeward) convoy of which they’d be a part. Departure was set for Friday, final and full-scale convoy conference Thursday, but for PollyAnna, who hadn’t sailed in convoy before, and her master, who hadn’t since 1918, a lengthier and more leisurely introduction was essential. There was a mass of detail to go into: formation, routeing, station-keeping, emergency procedures including tactics if or when attacked by surface raider, U-boats, and – closer to home – aircraft. Plus convoy routines, signals, navigational cooperation, etc. At the final conference, involving masters and navigators of about sixty merchant ships, plus the convoy’s Commodore and Escort Commander, all under RN chairmanship and packing out a very large room or hall, you wouldn’t want to be asking too many daft questions.
Foul weather was predicted. There were no broadcast or published weather forecasts now – they’d been stopped on the first day of the war as being helpful to the enemy – but a rough passage was to be expected, apparently. The prognosis of gale and storm conditions must have been mentioned in some signal, or in the welter of official bumf delivered on board soon after PollyAnna had dropped her hook and the cacophony of sirens and steam-whistles had petered out; in any case, Halloran and the skipper had been discussing it in the saloon last evening – a virtual certainty of storm-force winds out there in the middle, easterlies at that, both unseasonable and unwelcome, would surely slow them down – and preparations to be made before departure – details such as extra lashings on boats and hatch-covers. A jollier note had been struck by the skipper telling them he’d had a letter from the owners absolving him of blame for ‘what might in other circumstances have been seen as somewhat rash or intemperate actions in Vitoria, or for the minor damage incurred.’ He’d read the letter’s final paragraph then: ‘The chairman and his fellow directors indeed congratulate you and your officers and crew on having contributed significantly to the good repute of our Company.’
He’d glanced round the faces at the table. ‘So there you are – we’re good lads, all of us. Mind you, no mention of the ore we left on the quayside. May not have rumbled that yet.’
* * *
Julia and her escorts returned on board in the afternoon with sackfuls of winter-weather gear. By this time the bent stanchions had been removed, straightened and replaced, and the ship’s side was being attended to by men working on slung staging. Andy, meanwhile, with Janner’s and Gorst’s assistance, had been sorting the contents of the flag-locker, at the after end of the bridge deck. In convoy there’d be numerous flag-hoists called for, and if any International Code flags or pendants were missing this was the time to replace them. In peace-time tramping one didn’t use all that many flags, so some might well have gone astray: in fact none had, but they did need sorting, and it wasn’t a bad thing for himself and the cadets to familiarise themselves with individual flags and the system generally.
Julia came on board fairly glowing from the cold. Even for the time of year and latitude 45 degrees north it was exceptional. She loved Halifax, she told him, meeting him on the ladderway en route to her cabin, he coming back up to the bridge deck.
‘Meaning you had a whale of a time shopping?’
‘It was fun, yes. Marvellous to have found everything one wanted. And the people are so friendly!’
‘You ever find anyone unfriendly?’
‘What d’you mean?’
He’d held back on it. Might have blurted out something to the effect that looking as she did, being as she was, no one in his senses could ever be less than – ‘friendly’. But Finney was with her, carrying parcels, and one didn’t want to overdo it, maybe put her on the defensive, spoil what was an enjoyable but necessarily cool relationship.
Why necessarily?
Partly because she was still in the process of recovery from the ordeal of recent weeks, and Finney and Dixon were the supports she needed, had been through it with her. He was an outsider: an admiring one who’d do best to keep his admiration under tight control.
Write again to Liza, he thought suddenly. Actually he more or less did have to, having promised he would when he knew he was on the way.
Julia had dumped her purchases, came to join them at the back end of the bridge, asking Gorst, ‘What’s this one?’
‘Flag ‘Z’. ‘Z’ for Zebra.’
‘Pretty.’ A shrug: ‘Bright, I mean.’ Black, yellow, blue and red, four contiguous triangles with their apexes in the centre. ‘Oh, but it’s torn, look – here…’
‘Not much of a tear –’
Janner cut in with, ‘But if you did happen to have a needle and cotton –’
‘I do have!’ As if the prospect of making herself useful delighted her. ‘Some of the things I bought in St Lucia I’ve got to alter, so I invested in what you might call a repair kit. And look there!’
‘Answering pendant. Gets more use than any of ’em.’ Andy nodded. ‘If you really wouldn’t mind?’
* * *
He was having second thoughts now about writing to Liza. She probably wouldn’t have left home yet in any case; an even better reason was that he didn’t have all that much to say to her. No more than he’d have to say to any of the others – Sheila Gilchrist, for instance, or Paula – Paula West – or Susan Shea, whose father was an Aintree vet. He’d seen a lot of her, first when he’d been finishing at Conway and then again when he’d been down there on Merseyside sitting for his second mate’s ticket. A consideration in having told Liza that he would be in touch was that after this fairly long time at sea one would have quite a bit of leave due. They’d upped it recently: an officer got two and a half days for every month he was away. Supposing PollyAnna made it home the first week in February, having sailed from Cardiff last 6 August, he’d be entitled to – oh, fifteen days. Long time to sit around doing nothing, might get around a bit…
He’d stay on in PollyAnna if he could. Would have to sign off when she docked – because at the end of a voyage one had to – but could sign on again immediately, if the Old Man was agreeable.
* * *
The Old Man came back from shore in late afternoon – light already fading, grey drizzle driving in from the sea, wind like serrated knife-blades – with his old attaché case stuffed full of paperwork on
all aspects of sailing in convoy, all of it to be studied and complied with by watchkeeping officers. There were a number of jobs to be seen to immediately, ranging from an overhaul of lifeboat equipment to checking out the zigzag clock which had been installed in Calcutta, checked then but never used; and tomorrow PollyAnna would be moving into the dockyard for bunkers, fresh water and 12-pounder ammunition, and while alongside embarking various extra stores that would be ready for them: additional lifebelts, and flares of two kinds, one variety to be carried in the boats – ditched, they floated and burnt brilliant orange, theoretically visible for miles – and the other for launching as distress rockets. Also smoke-cannisters, which in the event of surface attack would be dropped over the stern – on the orders of the Commodore or Escort Commander – to create a smoke-screen. The Commodore being a retired rear-admiral, who’d be embarking with his own staff of signalmen in the MV Empire Quest – lying at the far end of this anchorage, not visible at present from this berth – and the convoy’s escort was to be the armed merchant cruiser Kilindini.
Andy, Halloran and Fisher had waited to hear what other escorts they might be getting. Old Man pausing in his extemporary and sketchy briefing, glancing round at them: might already have told them more than he’d have thought necessary at this stage, having started naturally enough on the ship’s immediate programme when they’d met him on deck at the ladder-head, and continued on the way up here to his day-cabin. They were outside it now, on the flat where one ladder ended and another continued upward to the bridge. It seemed that was all they were getting on the subject of convoy escorts, anyway, but having pushed the cabin door open and stumped in, he gestured to them to follow; dumping the attaché case, explaining further: ‘The AMC – Kilindini – is protection against surface attack. Won’t be any submarine attack this side of fifteen or twenty west. These last few weeks there’s been damn-all U-boat activity around the UK, even. Except minelaying, apparently.’
Halloran queried, ‘Saying there is U-boat activity now, sir?’
‘Seems so. Started up again. But before fifteen west we’ll be met by escorts out of UK ports.’ Lifting a hand and tapping his forehead: ‘Reminds me. In the dockyard tomorrow forenoon they’ll be mounting machine-guns in the bridge wings. A double mounting in each, things called Marlins. It’s all they’ve got spare, machine-guns being in short supply, it seems. They’re for use against U-boats at close range, or low-flying aircraft. Belt-fed, American-made, not as modern as they might be, but better than nothing, eh?’
‘Never saw a Marlin.’
‘Nor did I, Mister. Any road – guys who fit ’em’ll be staying on board to show us how to use ’em.’ Pointing: ‘Out there.’ Meaning, in the open sea; and adding to Fisher, ‘Might get a few rounds off from the twelve-pounder, Second. Long time since we did, eh?’
Fisher agreed. ‘For want of shells, mostly.’
‘By tomorrow you’ll have plenty. The Marlins, by the way, are more reliable than Lewis guns. A Lewis tends to jam, and these don’t – or not so often. So I’m told. Snag is they don’t have much range. Any luck we’ll have no use for them and get something better when we’re home.’
‘Any timing on that, sir?’
‘No. Routeing won’t be discussed until the conference, Thursday. It’ll be an eleven-knot convoy, though; we’ll have a knot and a half in hand.’ Shake of the grey head: ‘Eleven depending on the weather we meet, mind.’
‘And – sixty ships?’
‘Looks like it. Ten columns of six. Thousand yards between columns, six hundred between ships in column. Means four and a half miles wide, one and a half deep. That’s if we all keep a nice, tight formation, which in foul weather, as is expected –’
‘None too easy –’
‘– fog, too. Not as you’d expect it, this time o’ year and the winds we’re told we should expect. Reminds me again, though – Postlethwaite’s to make us a fog-buoy. I’ve a sketch here of one.’ Snapping the attaché case open. ‘With all the rest of your homework. This lot here.’ Looking up again: ‘Another thing – visits for those who want it to a doctor – includes you, Holt, get some o’ that cordage out of your neck? Tomorrow when we’re in there, there’ll be an ambulance alongside. Make us a list of who else, Mister…’
13
Friday, 19 January 3 p.m. PollyAnna two miles offshore with her engine thumping at slow ahead, pitching to a northeasterly swell as she closed up in column four – fourth column from the right, becoming number three in that column and therefore flying in one flag-hoist the numeral pendants four and three. Four-two, on which she was closing up, was a French motor vessel by name of Soissons. With the Old Man’s permission Andy had Julia and Finney with him on monkey island; hearing now the clang of the telegraph as the helmsman or spare hand rang down for dead slow ahead – only just enough revs to keep steerage-way on her, and to hold her at about this distance astern of her next-ahead. He told Julia, ‘That’s us in station on the frog – or near enough.’ Pointing out on the port quarter then: ‘Tankers coming up. Four of ’em. We’ll have one abeam to port here and two beyond that – meaning columns five, six and seven – and the fourth astern of the one in column six. Standard procedure, I’m told, hiding ’em as it were in the middle of the herd.’
‘Is like a herd, isn’t it. Getting more so every minute.’ Lifting her head: ‘Moo! Moo!’
Finney said, ‘Because tankers are the U-boats’ prime targets, I suppose.’
‘But’ – Julia, quickly – ‘no U-boats anywhere near –’
‘No.’ Andy assured her, ‘Won’t be for about three weeks, either. Longitude twenty west or even fifteen west’s about their limit. So we’re told.’
‘How far from here?’
‘Couple of thousand miles. You warm enough?’
She nodded. Wearing a duffle-coat with its hood up and a wool scarf wound round inside, loosely covering her mouth. And sheepskin gloves. They’d weighed anchor and left the Basin in a sleet shower; it was clear again now except for a murky area to starboard obscuring the horizon, but bitterly cold. Exceptionally low temperatures were prevailing in mid-Atlantic, according to the notes Fisher had made yesterday at the conference, to which as navigator he’d accompanied the Old Man, taking with him his notebook and a rolled up chart 4009, North Atlantic Ocean, northern portion. Storm-force winds had been predicted – as the Old Man had mentioned, and at that northeasterly, which was itself exceptional – and on top of this, what was called ‘evasive routeing’ – evasion of U-boat concentrations – might take them as high as sixty north, out there in the middle: sixty north being the latitude of Cape Farewell on Greenland. It wasn’t going to be any pleasure cruise. Not that anyone was making much of it in Julia’s hearing – Andy telling her instead, ‘One good thing about foul weather – if we get it – is if it extends east of fifteen or twenty west we may well not see hair nor hide of ’em. U-boats, I’m talking about. They can’t operate in really rough conditions, apparently. Night attacks on convoys are made on the surface, storm or gale-force would make that impossible, and in daylight a periscope can’t see over the big ones – big seas, that is. Submarines can’t keep their trim near enough the surface even to use a periscope. I’m quoting what was said at the conference – courtesy of Don Fisher – the RN team included a submariner, who gave ’em a talk. What it boils down to is the best thing for us would be storm-force all the way to Loch Ewe – and on around the top.’
Loch Ewe in northwest Scotland – Ross and Cromarty – being the initial destination, convoy there dividing into sections for west- or east-coast ports, PollyAnna being bound for London continuing up around Cape Wrath and through the Pentland Firth, then south into regions where convoys frequently came under air attack, these days; Julia ignoring that – if she knew of it, which she might not – only insisting, ‘I’ll be so sick I won’t care about damn U-boats!’
‘You’ll have found your sea-legs long before that. A few days is all it takes.’
�
�I’m feeling it now!’
‘Sooner it starts, sooner you’ll be over it. Same applies to a lot of us. Haven’t had any really rough stuff in months, have to get used to it again. Off South Africa – the Wild Coast as they call it – it was a little bumpy, but –’
‘A little’s more than I need.’
‘Well – tight belt, don’t drink more than you have to – dry biscuits –’
‘Mind if we don’t talk about it?’
‘Won’t last long, anyway.’ Pointing: ‘That’s our Commodore. Lead ship in column six, cargo-liner Empire Quest. And the empty billet this side of him – column five – is where the AMC’ll be parking itself. HMS Kilindini. Time being, she’ll be wandering around somewhere back there, chivvying the others up. I tell you, I never saw this many ships all in one place!’
‘From the way you talk, I thought you knew all about it.’
‘I know how it’s supposed to be, because we’ve had it all on paper, and Don was at the conference.’ He told Finney, ‘It’s to be a ten-knot convoy, by the way.’
‘Thought they said eleven.’
‘One or two masters or their engineers had doubts of maintaining more than ten. In fact, if the weather’s going to be as bloody as they say –’
‘May not even manage that.’
‘And station-keeping’s no fun at all. If a ship’s going to straggle through lack of power she’ll still straggle, no matter what the rest of us are making good. Because we’ll all be doing our level best, and if some bests aren’t as good as others – see what I mean?’ They were on their way down now, Julia having had enough of the icy wind. Restless, threatening wind, Andy thought – muttering to itself, gusts now and then like snorts. Getting set to run amok? Finney asked him, ‘Subject of station-keeping, how do we know when we’re six hundred yards astern of our next-ahead?’
Westbound, Warbound Page 20
