by Dudley Pope
‘I’d be glad of some help, Captain,’ Yorke said. ‘We are a bit short-handed, as you mentioned, but thanks to your chief sparks, my two signalmen are working decent watches, instead of watch and watch about. But for the time being I’m damned if I know what kind of help I need.’
‘Well,’ Hobson said tactfully, ‘you just tell me what you think I should know, and no more.’
Yorke shook his head. ‘It isn’t that! We don’t know much. I’m here just to keep an eye on this particular Swede. When the next Swedish ship applies for a convoy, another naval officer might be on board her next-astern – that is, if I haven’t…’
‘I see. Well, what’s all this radio business for, then?’
‘So I can keep in touch with the senior officer on frequencies neither the Swede nor the German are likely to be using.’
But you haven’t used the sets yet, have you?’
‘There’s been nothing to say! Wait until the insider starts – if he does.’
‘“Insider.” Aye, that’s a good name for him; come to think of it, he usually attacks from inside. Do you reckon we’ll get one?’
‘From your point of view, I hope not; from mine, yes!’
‘Do you think this Swede is – well, controlling a U-boat? Telling him when to attack?’
‘No – how would he do it? He’s not using his radio – we know that for sure. How else could he pass a signal?’
‘By Aldis lamp in daylight?’ Hobson asked. ‘If he knew where a U-boat was steaming on the surface – out on one of the quarters, for instance – he could use an Aldis to pass a message. If he signalled down a long tube, aiming it accurately, no one would see it unless he was directly in line.’
Yorke had to admit it was a possibility, but a slender one: the chances of the U-boat being in an exact position – and relying on getting the message when there might be a British escort in between – was slight. But Hobson’s idea could not be ignored. Right at the moment Yorke knew he would be prepared to accept that the Swede wrote a message and put it in an empty cherry brandy bottle and slung it over the side for a U-boat lurking astern to find and read.
‘We’ve no idea,’ Yorke admitted, ‘and that’s why we must watch the Swede day and night for anything that’s even slightly unusual. I’d be glad if you’d tell your officers, especially the cadets, who have less responsibility while on the bridge, to call me for the slightest thing. And I’d like to have a DEMS gunner on the bridge too, doing nothing else but watch. The point is a DEMS gunner doesn’t know enough about the routine in a merchant ship to spot anything out of the way, and the mate of the watch and the cadet might have other things to do. Still, between the three of them – and myself some of the time…’
‘And me too,’ Hobson said.
‘Thanks. Well, between us we should be able to keep an eye on them, and I’d like you to have your people call me immediately there’s anything.’
‘You could move up here,’ Hobson said, pointing to the settee running athwartships across the after part of the cabin, between two large sets of drawers in which charts were kept. Above the settee was a large, glass-fronted cupboard in which a dozen or so rifles could be seen clipped to a rack. ‘They’d be more inclined to pass the word about something if you were near. They might be a bit chary of sending down to your cabin. Or you can use the settee in my day cabin. You’re more than welcome to that.’
Yorke shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer but sending someone down one deck to your day cabin is only slightly less trouble than going down one more deck to mine, so I’ll use this settee, at night anyway. Then whoever it is has only to stick his head into the wheelhouse and call.’
‘Good,’ said Hobson, ‘and I’ll warn the chief steward. Cocoa,’ he added when he saw Yorke’s puzzled expression. ‘The stewards leave out mugs of cocoa already mixed, so that in the middle of the watch the cadet nips down, adds hot water and brings the mugs up to the bridge. But he can’t carry four mugs, so we’ll keep mugs up here and the stewards can leave out jugs of cocoa.’
‘Such comfort!’ Yorke joked, but Hobson shook his head.
‘A cold man is an inefficient man. A shivering man can’t keep a sharp lookout. All he’s thinking about is getting to the end of his watch and the warmth of his bunk or hammock. Put something warm in his belly and he realizes that if he misses seeing a U-boat he’ll be cold and wet in no time!’
Hobson had been twiddling with the dividers and finally put them back in the rack, his eyes following the kinks in the line that showed the convoy’s zigzagging course so far.
He looked up at Yorke, catching his brown eyes watching him. ‘Tell me, what happens when we find this Swede’s a wrong ’un?’
‘If, not when. Well, I’m damned if I know. Depends what he’s doing. It might be us or it might be the escort that has to do something.’
‘I’ll ram him if need be,’ Hobson said quietly. ‘I’d need to catch him on the quarter. Those Baltic ships,’ he explained, ‘often have their bows strengthened for the ice. Hit him in the quarter and I’d probably throw one of his propeller shafts out of alignment so he could manoeuvre only on one screw, with his rudder hard over. Or I can really wallop him amidships and tear him open so he sinks. You just say. But don’t expect me to go back for survivors.’
Hobson’s voice was so low that Yorke knew he was speaking under a considerable emotional strain. Then he realized that officers and masters in the Merchant Navy had much the same kind of bond, or brotherhood, that knitted the Royal Navy: as boys, many of them had started off together at one of the nautical training colleges, like Pangbourne, Conway or Worcester; they had over the years met in distant ports, knocking back strange drinks in smoky bars, come together again for the few months spent at nautical school to swot before sitting for a higher certificate of competency. Obviously there were friendships going back twenty or thirty years which people like Hobson had seen cut short when a ship was torpedoed and sunk, drowning men he had known since his teens.
He watched Hobson make an entry in the log and a minute or two later the second officer poked his head round the door. ‘All right if I wind the chronometer, sir?’ he asked, and Hobson nodded. The man went to the varnished mahogany box, opened the lid and took out the key. He counted to himself carefully as he wound, then put the key back and carefully shut the lid. The day’s ritual of winding the chronometer was over, and the fact would be recorded in the log, along with how fast or slow it was.
The cloud was thickening now and getting lower; another depression coming up fast. The swell pushed ahead of it was already low, making the ship roll. Tonight would be very dark with a cold, lumpy sea. Good conditions for an insider to attack? Marginal, judging from the previous attacks, except for the few U-boats which had attacked on the surface in much worse weather. But if the depression kept south, passing near the convoy instead of turning up to the north-east, tomorrow night would probably be too bad even for a surface attack. So if the insider was already inside the convoy, the first attack would be tonight.
Yorke saw that Hobson had unlocked the safe to one side of the chart table and taken out an unbleached canvas bag which had brass eyelets round the opening and through which ran a thick cord. Hobson undid the knot, slacked it off and opened the bag enough to slip the big log inside. ‘The secret papers – just in case,’ he said. ‘Not that we have many – Mersigs; zigzag diagrams, and the log for good measure. And a six-pound lead weight to sink it all…’
Hobson looked at his watch. ‘Would you like to join me for lunch? After that I’m going to get my head down for an hour or two; the way things look, it might be a long night.’
Yorke was on his second copy of Blackwood’s when Cadet Reynolds knocked at the cabin door and came in with an excited: ‘Captain’s compliments, sir: that Swede, the Penta, is making some funnel smoke and talking to the Commodore by lamp.’
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As Yorke grabbed his duffel coat and cap he asked: ‘Much smoke?’
‘No, sir – course, she’s a motor ship. Before the signalling Captain Hobson called the chief engineer up to the bridge to look and he says it’s probably just sooting up because we’re only making six knots. We’ll be doing the same in a few days, he says, unless we work up to full speed for a while to blow out the carbon.’
By now they had reached the bridge and Captain Hobson handed Yorke a piece of paper.
‘That’s what the commodore said in reply; of course, we couldn’t read what the Penta was flashing.’
Yorke read the hurriedly written words, jotted down letter by letter as someone, probably the third officer, read out the Morse letters flickering out questions from the Aldis lamp an the commodore’s bridge: ‘Is it serious… How long for repairs… Rejoin convoy before darkness, if necessary on one engine.’
Hobson saw Yorke glancing ahead to the Swedish ship. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong – she’s smoking a bit, but I had the chief engineer up – he’s still in the wheelhouse – and he says the smoke is about what you’d expect at this slow speed.’
‘He can’t give us any other clues?’ Yorke asked impatiently, irritated by what seemed to be a superficial, shrug-of-the shoulders comment.
‘No, says we’ll be as bad ourselves in a few days. Sparking at night as well. It’s happened before; we just leave the convoy for an hour and work up to full speed: that blows the muck out.’
Cadet Reynolds said: ‘The Penta’s moving out, sir.’
And she was turning a few degrees to starboard so that she was soon between the columns of ships and obviously slowing down to let the Marynal and Flintshire overtake and leave her astern of the convoy.
‘I suggest we don’t seem too curious,’ Yorke said to Hobson, who nodded and led the way into the wheelhouse.
‘We can see all we want from in here,’ Hobson said, watching with his binoculars through the narrow horizontal slits which were like letter box slots cut in the armour plating. ‘Not that there’s much to see. A couple of mates on the bridge this side. Smoke about the same. They’re just keeping steerage way. Nice-looking ship. She’s got a couple of 40-ton jumbo derricks at number three hatch. That 20-tonner we have is useless, but the owners won’t change it.’
By now, the Penta was getting close, and Yorke could see she was well painted: she spent the end of a voyage in a Swedish port with no war, no blackout, and no shortages. There would be plenty of paint and plenty of painters – and plenty of profits to pay for the labour. The other ships in the convoy looked like the poor and ugly sisters – rust streaks because quick turn-rounds did not leave enough time for a ship’s company to get over the side and chip, scrape and paint: there’s a war on, mate…
Soon the Penta had dropped so far astern that she was on the Flintshire’s quarter, and Watkins came into the wheelhouse looking for Yorke. ‘Talk, sir, between the escorts, but nothing for us,’ he said, obviously being discreet. Yorke walked out of the wheelhouse with him and round to the after side of the bridge.
‘Just “Lancaster” telling “Cornwall” and “Kent” – the corvette on each quarter – that the Penta (they didn’t mention her name) was dropping astern to make some repairs, sir.’
Yorke nodded because it was all so routine. ‘Lancaster’ was Johnny Gower’s radio code name (chosen as a partner to ‘Yorke’), while the escort was generically known as ‘Cantab’ although each frigate and corvette had her own individual name. On this occasion the Commodore would have made a signal to the senior officer of the escort, Johnny Gower, that a merchant ship was leaving the convoy for a few hours, and Johnny would have told the corvettes and no one would mention the word ‘Swedish’…and they all knew that Yorke in the Marynal was listening. There was nothing to arouse anyone’s suspicion; no signals were being made to the Marynal. There was no deviation from the normal routine – that was something he and Johnny Gower had discussed in detail. If the Swede was up to something, there must be nothing out of the ordinary to put him on his guard. Likewise in case it was not the Swede but something else in or around the convoy, it was essential that she or they should not know that a special lookout was being kept from the Marynal. People might do something (with the escort three miles away or the commodore across the convoy) if the ships close round them – ships like the Marynal – were believed to be normal merchant ships.
Watkins went back to the hot cabin packed with radio gear – the glowing valves kept it pleasantly warm in a cold climate, but he would be grumbling about the heat long before they reached the Tropic of Cancer. Still, Yorke thought unsympathetically, he could not have it both ways. At that moment he saw the Swedish ship had stopped and her bow was gradually paying off as the wind pushed her round. In a minute or so she would be lying athwart the seas and rolling heavily. Curious…
‘That’s odd,’ Hobson said from just behind him. ‘Not making it any easier for the engineers, are they… If they’d keep one screw turning they’d head into these seas. I can’t believe they have trouble with both engines. Maybe once she starts rolling there’ll be complaints from the engine room and the bridge will let ’em keep one going.’
Yorke said nothing and Hobson, who had obviously been thinking aloud, said: ‘Don’t take any notice of me; obviously her captain wouldn’t do anything without talking it over with his chief engineer. So they must have trouble in both engines.’
‘It’s a pity we can’t spare one of those corvettes to stand by her,’ Yorke said crossly, pulling his duffel coat tighter: it was bitterly cold out here with the wind eddying round the wheelhouse.
‘Aye,’ Hobson said, chuckling, ‘a sort of chaperone, eh?’
What were the chances of two engines breaking down? Two engines might carbon up at the same time – indeed quite naturally they would, but according to the Marynal’s chief engineer, all they needed was to be run under load for an hour. Contaminated fuel? That would affect both engines, but each had its own series of filters, and it would be unusual to shut both engines down to clean both sets of filters at the same time. Clean one set and then clean the other. But…but… Supposing a nasty old lady put round the word that the vicar was up to some nonsense which she refused to describe: then people would watch him secretly, and if the poor man paused to stare into a hedgerow, they would never consider that he might be looking at a bird’s nest; an innocent peering into the hedge round a neighbour’s garden could become a peeping Tom…
‘It’s a right bugger, isn’t it?’ Hobson commented. ‘There’s nothing to get your teeth into.’
Almost exactly six hours later Yorke stood with Captain Hobson at the same place on the after side of the bridge, watching the Penta astern. It would be dark in half an hour; already the cadet of the watch was going round the various cabins making sure the deadlights were closed and screwed down tight.
‘No, I can’t explain it,’ Hobson said, ‘but it’s like what you were saying about the vicar looking over the hedge: he might be looking at Mrs Buggins’ hollyhocks, but he might also be looking at Mrs Buggins undressing in her bedroom beyond the hollyhocks.’
‘And you agree the Penta was making fifteen knots when she came into sight over the horizon?’ Yorke asked.
‘She must have been. Just about her maximum, I’d say – why with the glasses you saw her bow and quarter waves.’
‘And how far off was she when she slowed down?’
‘Four miles? You said something at the time but I was too busy watching her through my glasses.’
‘I said that I reckoned she was between three and four miles.’
‘You want my confirmation, eh? I’ll put it down in the log if you like. Would that help?’
‘It’s worth logging,’ Yorke said, looking at his watch. ‘We might need evidence one day. And she slowed down an hour and fifteen minutes ago.’
‘As much as that? Maybe she has engine trouble again. On one screw, perhaps.’
Yorke shook his head. ‘She’s stayed exactly on course. One propeller trying to push her round in circles against the rudder would keep the quartermaster busy; he’d never hold such a straight course.’ Yorke gestured astern at the Marynal’s wake. ‘The Swede’s keeping as good a course as us.’
‘Maybe he’s nervous – look!’ Hobson gestured as a small blue pinprick of light showed on the Penta’s bridge. Yorke hurried round to the foreside of the bridge and was in time to meet Reynolds who reported excitedly: ‘Commodore calling up the Penta, sir!’
‘Read the signal and the Penta’s reply,’ Yorke said, pulling out a notebook and pencil.
Reynolds spelled out the words of the Commodore’s signal while Yorke watched the Penta for the long dash, T, showing the word had been received. ‘Take up original position,’ the Commodore ordered, and then asked: ‘Are all repairs completed?’ He too was obviously puzzled by the Penta suddenly slowing down.
‘Temporary repairs completed and hope final tomorrow,’ the Penta answered, finishing with ‘AR’ signalling the end of the message, and to which the Commodore gave a brief ‘R’. The exchange of signals was over. Did it mean anything?
‘What was all that?’ Hobson asked, and when Yorke read him the two signals he commented, ‘He can make full speed on temporary repairs…yet he’ll be dropping astern again tomorrow… It’ll be interesting to see if he goes out of sight again.’
‘More interesting to see if we get an attack tonight’, Yorke said, then found himself startled by what he had said, as though the words had been spoken by a stranger.
Hobson stared at him, his homely features becoming taut, as though just given proof of his wife’s unfaithfulness. ‘Like that, is it?’
