She finally came alongside, nudging and bumping in the gentle swell and we roped together, starboard to port. Joe and I were hunkered in on the furthest side from her, so I had difficulty in seeing exactly who made up their number. I stood up, craning to see over the heads of the other men in our boat who had also risen, shouting and laughing, jubilant at the reunion. It was as if the presence of these other men meant that we were not alone. Two was better than one, and other survivors – in the same boat as it were – were an enormous relief. Such ebullient joy was ludicrous given that we were a couple of cockle shells, lost in the night, somewhere, anywhere, in the middle of the vast Atlantic Ocean. But in the circumstances, it was equally natural. There is comfort to be had from company.
I scanned the faces of the men in the other boat anxiously. And finally, glimpsing through the heads and bodies of the crowd, I spied Jamie. The only member of their crew of seven still seated, he held sombrely on to his oar. Clearly, he didn’t feel there was anything much to celebrate.
I flopped back on to my seat and breathed out emphatically. Joe, still standing, ruffled the top of my head with delight. The responsibility of having left Jamie behind was something that I knew would have burdened me for the rest of my life. That is the way it is with me: I hold on to things. And seeing him sitting there, as gloomily as ever, immediately alleviated the misgiving that had already begun to plague me.
As the occupants of both boats settled down a little, Henderson, standing in the bow of the other boat, began to call some order. His voice was stronger and carried more weight than that of Captain Edwards, so it seemed quite natural that he should be the one to take control. Certainly on board ship he had been able to command as much, if not slightly more respect among the men. He had treated Edwards as an equal and Edwards seemed not only to accept this but actively to encourage it, seeking out Henderson’s advice and intervention when he required it. There had been no rivalry between them; the two were friends. Besides, Henderson was a canny seaman who had survived a torpedoing before, and Edwards was no fool. He recognised and rewarded ability. He must have been highly relieved to see that Henderson had made it.
‘We need to distribute men more equally. I’ll take Calhoun. And Roberts. You and you. And a couple more. Right, yes. You two. All right with you, Captain Edwards?’ he queried, as men clumsily began to stumble across others to take their places in the other boat, causing ours, weighty and unstable, to rock disconcertingly. I was sorry to see Calhoun leave. He might be tough and uncommunicative, but he was stalwart. He could be relied upon to make the right decision, which perhaps explained why Henderson wanted him.
‘We should maybe go over with ’em. Could ask to,’ Joe whispered, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Calhoun’s good in trouble. And Jamie’s there.’ And when I didn’t answer, he pushed me on it. ‘Should we?’
I hesitated. To follow Calhoun was tempting; he was twenty years or more younger than the skipper and therefore appeared much stronger. Of the two, physically, he looked the more likely captain, and he and Henderson together had both confidence and capability. But Captain Edwards, with his gnarled and knotted hands and slightly stooping body, exuded quiet experience, a steady thoughtfulness which resisted rashness. He had led on ship, not from out in front but by taking his cue from in among the crowd, listening to opinion and then acting accordingly. His inclination was apparently for moderation, and his lenience, which could sometimes look like weakness, made him the more likeable. Besides, Jamie was no company. He’d have the lot of us hopelessly forsaken and forgotten before we’d even sat down next to him.
‘I’ll keep Fraser if you don’t mind,’ Captain Edwards returned to Henderson, holding on to Fraser’s shoulder and pushing him back into his seat. ‘I need an engineer this side. And Mick. You stay this side, please. You two,’ he pointed at two of the firemen a couple of places in front of Joe and me, ‘you two move across. How many’ve you got, Walter?’
There was a short pause as the men settled themselves and Henderson weighed it up. I shook my head at Joe. It would suit us both to stay with Mick. Though radio officers fell outside his jurisdiction, he had been as industrious as he was cheerful as the bosun, and much more tolerant of the younger members of his deckhand crew than were the older ones among them. An able and experienced seaman, he was keen for them to learn and thus had been patient in imparting knowledge. But being neither lazy nor incompetent, to find these traits in others astounded and annoyed him and his intolerance of both was well known. Fortunately, once provoked, he forgot offence almost as soon as it was taken and Joe and I, in teasing him, had made the most of it. And his readiness to laugh away our cheek, coupled with the evident playfulness with which he mocked the sedentary nature of our work, had made me think he liked us. I suspected he’d be glad of our company.
I didn’t know that much of Fraser. The chief engineer had kept largely to his engine room where he was reputed to have maintained a strict but judicial order. Tight-lipped and stern, he was reserved, but, I had it from Big Sam, intelligent and resourceful too. ‘Let’s stick with Mick,’ I murmured quietly back at Joe. ‘Besides, I don’t think they even have an engine.’
‘Fifteen now,’ Henderson said, surveying his new crew. ‘Could do with some oarsmen. You’ve an engine, haven’t you? We’re just oars and sail.’ I tilted my head triumphantly at Joe, certain now I’d made the right decision while Henderson picked out two more deckhands and signalled for them to come over. Their mate jumped to his feet as they got up, ‘Me too, sir. Can I go with them?’
‘Fine. Eighteen, I’ve got. That about do it?’ he asked, and Captain Edwards nodded.
‘We are twenty,’ he said, after a swift head count. ‘Given that we’ve the engine, I think the best thing for us to do would be to tow you, Walter. Mick, what do you think? We should do our best to remain together if possible?’
‘It’ll be a better use of resources, sir, if we stick together,’ Mick nodded his agreement.
‘Speaking of which – Cub? Where’s Cubby Clarke? Is he here?’
‘Sir?’ I rose, but he signalled for me to sit.
‘Did you get the emergency radio?’
‘Couldn’t locate it, sir. Sorry.’ There was a murmur of disappointment among the men. ‘It wasn’t there.’ I shrugged, trying not to mind.
‘Ought to take a roll call.’ Captain Edwards had regained composure and reverted to procedure. ‘Sit down men. All of you.’
Our boat, relieved of eleven extra bodies, was now much more comfortable. I was able to budge up and Joe could sit down for the first time. We listened in relative silence to the list of names called, answering when appropriate and avoiding each other’s eyes when no answer came.
CHAPTER 5
KILL ME WITH KINDNESS
‘Never seen that Jim Mackingtosh move so fast as when he took to the water,’ laughed Mick, standing up to stretch and daring more than most in crowing down the boat at Mac. ‘Except maybe for his food.’ Mac looked up quickly but, perceiving nothing other than exuberant relief on Mick’s face, began to smile despite himself.
‘He don’t ever move that fast for my food,’ grumbled Big Sam, feigning indignation. To produce fine fare from the ingredients he had generally been expected to work with would have required the kind of culinary wizardry Sam clearly did not possess. He knew as well as we did that his food was sometimes awful and on ship he’d responded to our merciless ribbing by revelling in and even courting it. His huge, broad shoulders would shake with low, good-natured laughter, as he brushed away our mockery with flagrant disregard.
‘Well, nobody does that, now, Big Man, do they?’ Joe queried, grinning widely. Sam made a vague attempt to swat him roughly across the top of his head but Joe ducked down and Big Sam swiped at air.
‘Anything to avoid his cooking,’ Mac pulled a face. ‘Never had such punishing muck! Christ, can’t hardly wait to see what he does with… wait,’ he opened one of the cupboards nearest to his feet, which contained some
of the lifeboat’s food supplies and he shone his torch inside, ‘… a couple of ship’s biscuits and a tin of pemmican!’ Some of us groaned but Big Sam just threw back his massive head and, dispensing with all insult roundly, laughed his generous, throaty laugh.
The roll call complete, the excited chatter of men, relishing their apparent deliverance from a fate that at times had looked worse than catastrophic, rose in volume accordingly. Spirits were high. We had made it to an albeit relative safety and we were alive. The banter crisscrossed between the boats and our voices must have carried in the comparative silence and darkness. Apart from two or three hastily snatched-up torches, the stars afforded us our only light. They shone as a concession in an otherwise indifferent sky whilst the vast tracts of the Atlantic rolled out immeasurably beyond us, equally unmoved by our ordeal and by our premature celebration. We had no expectations as yet for our future; we were merely rejoicing noisily in our salvation.
Without warning, we were stunned into an abrupt, spine-stiffening silence by a cavernous voice, booming out across the darkness, through a crackling megaphone.
‘What ship are you?’ We froze. Absolutely still, every one of us.
Again, ‘What ship are you?’ and again there was silence, broken only by the gentle breaking of the waves against our softly bumping boats. About thirty yards off, silhouetted against the skyline, I could just about make out the shadowy malevolence of a submarine hull, and as my eyes adjusted to the murky middle distance, the 4-inch gun mounted on its deck. The ship had stolen up almost right beside us, unnoticed.
There was some sudden, silent movement in the bow of our boat. Captain Edwards had risen quietly and crouching, he began picking his way through the men, slowly and gingerly, down the length of the boat. Nothing was said but all eyes were upon him and men bowed and bent sideways to let him pass. About halfway down, he stopped and signalled to Calhoun in the other boat. Calhoun immediately stood up. On reaching the stern sheets, Edwards ducked down and out of sight. We were all aware that the captain and quite possibly the first mate of any vessel seized would, in all likelihood, be taken aboard an enemy submarine and interrogated – that, or worse.
The submarine, silkily smooth, had lessened the distance between us now and was almost on top of us.
‘Jesus Christ. He’s gonna shoot us. Gonna shoot us all outta the water. Christ,’ muttered Mac, panicky, in my ear.
‘Shut up, Mac,’ I breathed.
‘Got through all that… for this. Jesus Christ,’ he murmured.
‘For Christsakes, shut up, Mac,’ Joe leant across me. ‘Leave it to Calhoun.’
The voice, in impeccable English, tried for a third time, ‘What ship are you? An answer please.’
Calhoun cleared his throat. ‘SS Sithonia. Bound for South America.’
‘Thank you. Your cargo?’
‘Coal.’
‘And you are the captain?’
‘No, I am not. The captain went down with the ship.’
‘And you are?’
‘Second Officer Calhoun.’ Calhoun’s voice was steely, impressive. He was a brave man.
‘Tell him not to shoot us. Tell him we’re not armed,’ Rawlins hissed up at him. ‘Go on!’ Some people, I noticed were beginning to edge themselves down, between and even under the wooden seats. Moses, one of the younger firemen on our boat and his friend, Jack Parnell, had almost disappeared altogether.
Calhoun ignored them all.
‘How many ships in your convoy?’
‘About fifteen.’ Calhoun’s ability to lie under pressure struck me as tremendous. He was so calm. Had it been me, I felt sure I’d have blurted out the truth and thrown in that the skipper was alive and well and hiding in the stern sheets for good measure. I couldn’t have helped myself. I doubted even that the captain would have made so good a job of it. Weathered by long years at sea and no longer young nor daring, his inclinations erred on cautious. But Calhoun: he was undaunted.
‘He’ll know he’s bloody lying, for Christsakes. Bastard’s gonna shoot us now for sure. Bloody hell, Calhoun,’ Mac kept up a running commentary in my ear, which made me sweat. By now, I could just about discern a figure, visible from the shoulders up, in the conning tower of the sub. Occasionally, a sliver of light glinted from the edges of his loudspeaker as he moved it up to speak and down again to listen.
‘Mac, will you shut up. You’re scaring the kids,’ Joe whispered fiercely across me, nodding towards Moses and Jack and some of the other deckhands who were now huddling together, curled up with fear, as far down in the bottom of the boat as they could slide. ‘He isn’t gonna kill us. He’d’ve done it by now.’
‘Are there any injured men among you?’ This next inquiry, which showed such surprising consideration for our welfare, seemed an unlikely preamble for murder and so, breathing out slowly, I began to relax, though Mac did not let up. ‘Wha’ the fuck does he care?’ he muttered incredulously, pausing for one second before racing to his own conclusion. ‘Fuckin’ damn sight easier to shoot if he reckons he’d just be doin’ us a favour.’
Calhoun answered that there were none.
‘Did you get a distress signal away?’ Even Calhoun was not expecting this and for a moment, he looked confused. He looked down at his feet and then half turned around, looking for a radio officer among his crew. He found Jamie.
‘Did you, Jamie? Were you in the shack?’
‘No, sir. I mean yes. Yes, sir. I was in the shack but the kit was damaged. In the blast. So I didn’t get a signal out.’
Calhoun turned back to his faceless inquisitor and looked up, clearing his throat again.
‘No. No, we didn’t,’ he shouted.
‘I will send one for you. Give me your call sign. You will be picked up sooner.’
‘Ahh, for pity’s sake. Don’t go and give ‘im it!’ Mac’s voice was getting too loud and Calhoun, distracted a moment, glanced across at us, annoyed. But Mac, garrulous in his fear, was apparently oblivious to Calhoun’s displeasure. ‘He’s only wanting to make sure we’re not lyin’ about the ship. He’s jus’ toyin’ with us. Bastard.’
Joe, losing patience, slapped his hands down on his knees and shot up, stepping roughly over me and sandwiching himself down heavily in front of Mac, effectively cutting him off from the cluster of cowering figures in middle section of the boat. His huge frame formed an invaluable barricade. He didn’t say any more and neither did Mac.
My blood began to run more freely through my veins and I found that I could breathe.
Offering to send a distress signal out for the survivors of a ship you had just destroyed in an effort to help conclude their suffering was not an act of animosity. The man was clearly doing what he could to make some amends within the confines prescribed by his nationality and loyalties. Calhoun obviously agreed with me, for he gave the call sign over.
More solicitous still, the next enquiry proved Mac’s fearful apprehensions groundless.
‘Do you know your exact position?’
Calhoun replied that we did not. There was a short pause. The figure vanished momentarily, only a tiny slice of light from the rim of his megaphone still visible and then he was back.
‘25 north, 24 west. You are about 350 miles from the Canary Islands. Do you have enough blankets? Cigarettes?’
Surprise registered even on Jim Mackingtosh’s face. Calhoun looked vaguely about him. ‘Cigarettes. Get cigarettes,’ someone muttered hoarsely from somewhere behind in the other boat.
As we were just north of the equator, the nights were warm and blankets seemed superfluous. We knew nothing of what was to come – how skinny bones and wasted muscle would shiver with the cold and how those burning up with fever might cry out for the comfort of some extra layers. Calhoun turned the blankets down.
‘We are a little short on cigarettes though,’ he wavered.
Again the figure disappeared, megaphone and all. He was gone for longer this time, minutes maybe, and when he returned, he sounded rueful.
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‘I am sorry. We too are a little short. Well, good luck.’ He gave a cheery wave. ‘Bon voyage,’ and he was gone.
We watched, speechless, as the submarine glided off into the darkness, effortlessly folding back the black and yielding water.
Joe gave a long, low whistle. ‘What a guy!’ he hooted. ‘Kill me with kindness, why don’t ya?’
The collective exhalation on our two little boats was almost visible. It was as if we had all been sitting tightly upright, fists and stomachs clenched, rigid with fear, and as the U-boat moved off and out of sight, everyone expanded and relaxed. Moses, Jack and the others reappeared and I heard Jack, wide-eyed and breathy with relief, yabber to his friend, ‘Did you think we was gonna die? I thought we was definitely gonna die.’
‘We weren’t never gonna die,’ Billy Rawlins butted in, all nonchalant now. ‘Should’ve known Calhoun’d nail it, eh Calhoun? Shame about the fags though.’
Calhoun didn’t answer him. He was sitting down, looking out into the darkness after the U-boat. I saw Henderson go over to him and shake his hand and when Captain Edwards, who had re-emerged from his hiding place, had made his way back up to the prow of our boat, he saluted him. I have never seen that done by anyone within the Merchant Navy before or since.
Talk gradually dwindled out as people began to drowse. It had been a long night and both physically and mentally we had taken a battering. Nevertheless, it was hard to find a comfortable position to settle in. There wasn’t enough room to lie down and the upper half of my body, pyjama topless, chafed against the rough and splintery wood of the boat’s lining. Sleep seemed barely possible. Some men had managed to bring along their hurry bags, Joe included, and so they were able to use them as rough pillows but I had nothing. I must have squirmed and fidgeted and tried to readjust my long body and legs so many times that Joe eventually sat up, huffing, and rummaged furiously in his bag.
Making Shore Page 6
