“So you just ordered this man…what’s his name…Gordon to …”
“Not ordered …no, sir… You have to use, what’s it called… psychology. His nickname’s ‘Galloping’, you see, so I said. ‘Galloping’, ‘You’ll do nicely as a runner’. Once his mates laugh, Jack don’t like to look as if he ain’t got a sense of humour, not in front of his mates. You can get more out of your people with a joke or a bit of friendly abuse then a direct order. But no, you’ll never get them to volunteer, sir. Not without the rum…”
* * *
“A lot steadier than that last lot, PO.” Grey and Stone stood side by side watching another half platoon of the Guard’s Brigade march smartly towards the Whitshed’s gangway.
“ ‘Taffies’ sir…Welsh Guards, talk the hind leg off a donkey your Welsh.”
“The crew of the ‘Whitshed’ seem to know them.”
“I think it was them what brought them here from Holland a week or so back…How long are we staying here for, sir, any idea?”
“I simply don’t know P.O. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“And what’s your best guess, sir?”
“The way things are going… I doubt if we will be here tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t let the lads hear you say that, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“What? …Why?…We’ll simply cadge a lift off the last warship, sometime today.”
“Oh!..Right you are, sir. I thought you meant…”
“Meant what?”
“Oh…nothing, sir…it don’t matter.”
* * *
There were close to two thousand men left on the jetty, mostly Guardsmen with wounded from the rearguard arriving every few minutes. The ‘Nishga’s’ berthing party were exhausted from a day of hard work and of raw fear. They hadn’t been able to get away on the ‘Whitshed’ after all, instead, throughout a long night, they had been employed tying up destroyer after destroyer. A long procession of ships that entered harbour guns blazing and left loaded to the gunwales with men. The last one had sailed at around twenty two hundred hours. As night fell the fighting had died away to spasmodic sniper and machine gun fire, but, despite their exhaustion, they were unable to sleep for long. Fitful cat-napping would be interrupted by a fresh flare up in the fighting and they’d be wide awake again.
Grey had not slept at all; it had begun to prey on his mind that the ten o’clock ship had been the last. An officer on her fo’c’s’le had called jokingly ‘ Don’t worry, there’s another one coming along behind,” but that had been two long hours ago. He pulled his greatcoat up around his legs. It had got colder now, the wind had veered more to the west. He scratched at the stubble on his cheek, what he wouldn’t give for a shave. Out the corner of his eye he caught a movement. Shadows were moving out there in the harbour itself. A flare suddenly burst in the hills above the town. There! The flare’s glow reflected from something. He was looking at a ship’s bridge window. He shook Petty officer Stone. “I think there’s something moving out there…there see it.”
“Wake up you lot,” whispered Stone, kicking out to right and left, “Ship coming in. Get ready to take her lines and keep the noise down, we don’t want Jerry alerted.”
But the army had seen it too, “Guards! Stand To!” The ‘alert’ blared out across the harbour from the guard’s bugler.
“Can you believe these Pongoes,” said Stone. No point in being quiet now, sir.”
Another German flare soared into the air, drifting slowly down, its parachute glowing a ghostly white in its trail. In its ghostly light a ‘V’’ class destroyer could be seen edging in towards the jetty.
Two Jerry machine guns opened up from the ruins of the town, their hesitant beat echoing across the water. Around the destroyer’s stern the debris strewn water churned into life. Men, standing by her mooring wires, dived for cover behind the fo’c’s’le breakwater. A Lewis gun on the port wing of her bridge opened up, tracer ripped away from her and then seemed to slow, dropping onto one of the enemy’s gun positions.
Suddenly there was a mighty crack and smoke and flame flashed from her for’ard turrets, lighting the harbour for hundreds of yards around her. It was followed immediately by an enormous explosion. Two-hundred pounds of high explosive, accelerating at 2500 feet per second, slammed straight into the shoreline. The four barrels trained slowly towards the second enemy machine-gun, trailing wisps of grey smoke like slow burning cigars. Ashore, by the dying light of the German flare, figures could be seen running in all directions abandoning the M20 to its fate and that wasn’t long in coming. There was another crack and it too vanished behind a firewall of orange and red flames. As the noise of the big guns died away a thousand voices could be heard cheering the ‘Vimiera’ in alongside.
Three men, lead by Able Seaman Gordon, ran forward from behind the remains of a crane to take the warship’s head rope. A heaving line snaked its way lazily through the air towards them.
There was a sudden long burst of machine gun fire. The three seamen started to twitch and jerk violently, in a gruesome and disjointed dance they staggered backwards before dropping to the deck like abandoned rag dolls. The destroyer’s port Lewis gun opened up in reply and, too late, the enemy gun fell silent.
Petty Office Stone, even before the firing had stopped, was up and running towards the three still forms. He fell to his knees beside them, quickly he felt for signs of life. An ashen-faced Grey reached his side as the P.O. rose slowly to his feet. Sadly he shook his head to Grey’s unspoken enquiry.
A sudden thump followed by a loud explosion sent a shock-wave of men rippling out from the explosions epicentre. A German mortar team had woken up to the arrival of the destroyer. Another explosion and a wooden shelter at the shore-end of the jetty disappeared in a spray of splinters, sparks and choking smoke. The third round was nearer, but fell in the water. The explosions were creeping ever nearer to the gangway where a mass of soldiers were scrambling on board the old destroyer.
“We’d better get aboard quick, sir, I’ll get men to bring our dead.”
By the red glow of the burning jetty, a duffle-coated seaman dragged Grey unceremoniously over the guard rails saying “Don’t, worry, mate, the Navy’s ‘ere!”
“We’ve been here for some time,” replied Grey dispassionately.
Again the mooring lines were sacrificed as the destroyer went full astern, chased by the explosions from the enemy mortar. The port engine stopped, the whole ship began to tremble, as if in fear. The port engine burst back into thrashing life and the ‘Vimiera’ seemed to spin on a sixpence. With her bows now pointing at the harbour entrance, both her screws biting deep into the oily water she shot ahead. Working up to her full speed, she roared out of the harbour mouth, trailing black smoke in her bubbling wake. The last the ‘Nishgas’ saw of Boulogne were the ghostly harbour walls as the final flare hissed itself into extinction.
* * *
Grey was still unable to sleep as the ‘Vimiera’ tore her way north towards Calais. He sat up on the canvas camp bed and looked around the darkened wardroom. Just about everyone seemed to be snoring it was no wonder he couldn’t sleep. His throat was parched and he badly needed a drink. He stood up and picked his way through the mass of men littering the deck. He reached the pantry hatch and looked through, but even that small space was awash with sleeping men. He squeezed through the door and out into the wardroom flat. That too had become a temporary dormitory. He pulled the blackout curtain to one side and opened the watertight door leading to the boat deck. The wind snatched at it, almost dragging it from his hand. It was windy but warm, as he walked aft.
Because of the large number of casualties aboard, the boat party’s deck locker had been requisitioned as a makeshift medical annex. Outside the bodies of the dead lay in neat rows. The dead soldiers and a few dead civilians were to be taken back to England for burial. The dead seamen, including the ‘Nishgas’, were to be given the normal burial at sea, it was due to take place before first
light.
As Grey approached the sad line of dead men, the locker door swung wide and a seaman pushed aside the blackout curtain. Inside Grey caught a glimpse of Petty Officer Stone’s craggy profile; someone else who couldn’t sleep. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped quickly over the coaming into the brightly lit interior. The smell of rum hit his nostrils, Stone was crouched over a strip of canvas laid out on the deck. Palm and needle in hand he was sewing a round seam.
The ‘Vimiera’s’ coxswain stood watching from a corner. “Evening, sir,” he said.
At this Stone looked round, a strange expression on his face. The overhead light reflected in his eyes; they glistened with tears.
“Evening, coxswain,” said Grey, his eyes and attention still on Stone. “Don’t you ever rest, PO, you must be …” he stopped in mid sentence, through the narrow gap in the seam Stone was sewing, Grey could see the dead face of Able Seaman Gordon. He stood there his mouth open in shock. He had never seen a man being sewn up in a hammock before. It was like a door slowly closing never to be opened again. While a silent Stone continued his gruesome task, he watched mesmerised simply unable to turn his eyes away. The well known face of Gordon was stitch by painstaking stitch slowly disappearing leaving only the grey and featureless canvas.
“I thought you never volunteered, Petty Officer,” said Grey strangely annoyed by the man’s silence, “or doesn’t that apply to Petty Officers.”
“It applies to all of us,” said Stone breaking his silence and sounding more than a little drunk. “You don’t volunteer for anything for nothing. Me I get this.” He lifted a chipped enamel mug from the deck beside his foot. “One for each of these poor buggers. Have a ‘gulpers’, do you good. Made from sugar that is. They’re right when they say you can do anything on a tot of good rum.”
Grey took the mug as Stone turned back to his stitching. He raised it to his lips, the fumes heady, strong, rich with the smell of fermented molasses. He sipped at it, coughing as the raw spirit hit the back of his throat.
It was as well that he’d taken something to fortify him, for the next stitch brought the bile clawing up into his mouth. Stone gave a grunt of effort as he pulled the three inch steel needle through Able Seaman Gordon’s canvas covered nose. Grey downed the rest of Stone’s rum in one swallow.
Stone took the mug from Grey’s shaking hands and held it out to the ‘Vimiera’s’ coxswain, “That’s another one you owe me ‘swain. The old sailor produced a wooden keg from the table behind him and splashed an unmeasured gill or two into the pint mug, shaking his grizzled head in silent admiration as he did so.
* * *
A lightship rose and fell gently in the westerly swell, her light waxing and waning with the crest and the trough. A faint light already painted the eastern horizon. The warship too rose and fell, mirroring the lightship’s movements in a slow and rhythmic pas de deux.
Her lower deck had been cleared and her ship’s company stood bare heads lowered. The chill dawn breeze lifting their collars, sending ripples of blue down their swaying ranks.
The captain, closed his prayer book and stood to one side. The last of the destroyer’s own dead had passed shrouded into the deep. Petty Officer Stone stepped forward to take his place. Only the ‘Nishga’s’ fallen lay there now, three lonely and silent bundles, like three canvas cocoons. Stone opened his prayer book and took from it a slip of paper.
“This is a very old seamen’s version of Psalm twenty three, given to me by my father before he died. I read it at his funeral and I would like to read it over my shipmates now.” In a low deep voice he commenced to read from the slip of paper as it flapped in the fitful breeze.
The Lord is my pilot; I shall not be lost.
He lighteth me across the dark waters. He leadeth me through deep channels.
He keepeth my log. He guideth me by the star of holiness for His name’s sake.
Yea, though I sail through the storms and tempests of life I will fear no evil;
for He art with me; His love and His care shelter me.
He preparest a haven before me in the home port of Eternity;
He quieteth the waves with oil; my ship rides calmly.
Surely sunlight and starlight shall be with me wherever I sail,
and at the end of my voyage I shall dwell in the port of my God for ever.
The words drifted out over the swell, like the departing ghosts of the dead seamen, lost forever in the eternal sea.
Chapter 15
Confusion to the enemy
Abruptly the ‘Eddy’s’ bridge team were jerked from their middle watch lethargy by the lookout’s cry.
“Green one five!… Ship!… Near!”. Binoculars shot to tired eyes as fast as a gun from a cowboy’s holster.
To starboard of the lowered and lashed jack staff, the stern of a stubby coaster ducked in and out of the swell.
“Slow ahead!” Grant turned to check that the other boats, astern of him, had cut their speed in turn. The third boat in the line, Kendel’s Dirty Five, swerved violently out of line, just managing to avoid smashing into the stern of Crosswall-Brown’s boat. Kendel’s crew would have to buck up; he’d have a word.
“There’s two of ‘em now,” called the lookout.
He trained his glasses ahead… but the ‘Eddy’ had dropped astern with the speed reduction and both coasters had disappeared back into night’s black shadow.
“Half ahead, Middy… And take the con, when we overhaul them, match their speed, knot for knot, keep station on them just in sight.”
“Yes, sir; enemy coastal convoy?”
“Could be, or maybe stragglers from one… Signalman! Stand by with the hooded lamp, I’ll be wanting you to make, to the flotilla, ‘Desire to communicate.’ But wait for me to give you the nod.”
Ahead the ghost like sterns faded in and out of the darkness as the Midshipman kept station astern. “That’s about it, sir,” he looked at the rev counter. They’re making a good fifteen knots.”
Grant let his binoculars hang by their lanyard, “Fast for a convoy? Very good…Stop engines.”
The sterns of the two boats ahead disappeared into the night. “Right signalman…make your signal.” the signalman turned his duffel-coated back and there were three quick flashes of the red light.
The three boats manoeuvred in towards their flotilla leader. Grant tapped the top of his head and the four boats nudged even closer huddling together like a school of conspiratorial dolphins.
He cupped his hands around his mouth to call above the snarl of the twelve massive engines.
“It looks as if we have enemy shipping ahead of us. I propose to scout ahead, see just how many we have. Form line abreast, one cable apart, revolutions for fifteen knots course north twenty east. If you hear firing you’ll know I need help, otherwise stay back and await my signal.”
The three skippers waved their arms above their heads and Grant, his face illuminated by the faint light from the compass, called over his shoulder, “All engines full ahead…Steer north twenty east.”
“Steer, north twenty east,” called O’Neill, placing his thick sardine sandwich to one side and leaning closer to the glow from his compass.
* * *
Ahead of the ‘Eddy’ the coaster’s sterns appeared once more, drifting into blurred focus out of the darkness. “ Revolutions for fifteen knots, Middy. Match their speed again and in a bit we’ll swing around them, leave them to seaward and take a closer look ahead of them.”
Ten minutes later the enemy boats, two fully laden coal burning coasters, were abeam of Grant’s boat. They showed no signs of having noticed the E-boat against the black of the land mass. Grant took his time in a careful study of them through his powerful glasses.
“They’re Jerry coastal stuff, all right, and heavily laden, but where’s their escort?…Come to starboard Middy. Once they’re out of sight increase to maximum speed, we’ll get ahead of them and see what’s what.”
Twenty minutes later
the signalman sighted a much larger convoy. In the vanguard, as escort, they had a solitary destroyer.
“Looks as if you were spot on, sir, the other two were stragglers trying to catch up.”
The signalman closed his copy of ‘Jane’s Fighting Ships’ with a satisfied snap, She’s a Maas Class, five five inch, eight tubes and the usual AA stuff.
“What are we going to do, sir?” asked the Midshipman.
“I was thinking of playing a little game with Jerry convoys; this may be just the opportunity.”
“Game, sir?” asked the bemused midshipman. “What kind of game.”
“Hands, Knees and Bumps-a-Daisy,” said Grant.
Midshipman Hope strained his eyes to see the face of his superior, and his brain to remember the exact wording in King’s Regulations covering assuming command of one of His Majesty’s Ship should her captain become mentally ill.
* * *
Crosswall-Brown, aboard M.T.B. 34, glanced anxiously at the clock above the tiny chart table. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the open chart, “The ‘Eddy’s’ taking her time, can’t abide this waiting.” As he lifted his binoculars to the northern horizon the radio operator called from below.
“Message for decoding, sir. It’s from the ‘Nishga’. “
Crosswall-Brown lowered his glasses, “See to it, Middy, will you?--- Don’t reply, maintain radio silence,” he resumed his contemplation of the horizon. Come on ‘Eddy’ for Christ’s sake!
* * *
The ‘Eddy’ was also waiting, engines stopped, crew listening for the enemy’s engine noise. Their vigil was short, the deep throb of diesel engines washed in and out on the stiff breeze.
“Signalman! Hoist the German flag and stand by with our own ensign in case we need to open fire.”
“There they are sir!”, called Maurice. The two stragglers materialised, grey phantoms floating in a heaving black sea.
On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) Page 23
