JAMES PATTINSON
Soldier, Sail North
Contents
Title Page
1
Embarkation
2
Coastal Convoy
3
Homecoming
4
Nightmare
5
Outward Bound
6
Arctic Convoy
7
Promised Land
8
Murmansk
9
Wondrous Life
10
Tinsel
11
On Russian Soil
12
Lame Duck Lagging
13
Tempest
14
Bar the Shouting
15
Survivors’ Leave
Also from James Pattinson on Kindle
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Embarkation
As the Army lorry ground to a halt at the dockside nine men in battle-dress and greatcoats jumped down from the rear and stood for a few moments gazing up at the ship they had come to join. They saw a tramp steamer, somewhat old, somewhat battered, her grey paint blending with the grey mistiness of that December afternoon and her funnel blackened with soot.
She was a ship of some five thousand tons, and had had her fill of wandering about the sea-lanes of the world long before the War started. Now, after more than three years of dodging mines and torpedoes and bombs, she looked infinitely weary. She was like some aged charwoman condemned to work on long after she should have gone into honourable retirement. Grime had crept into her skin, and there was no getting it out. Nobody troubled any longer to chip the rust from her ironwork; it was painted over, and after a time it broke free from its covering and came out in red and yellow streaks, washed down by rain and sea-water.
At this moment her holds were empty and she stood high, her decks well above the level of the quay, so that her gangway rose at a steep angle and the men who were to leave Tilbury in her had to look upward to read her name.
They were silent, forming a little huddle of khaki, each one gazing at the ship and attempting to gauge her possibilities from that first brief inspection. The ship was important to them because it was to be their home—and their prison. In this ship they would live—eating, sleeping, working, playing, quarrelling, grumbling, laughing—their little world bounded by the iron walls of her hull. When they stepped aboard this ship they would set their feet upon the road to death, and the ship would be all that barred the way. If the ship died they would be likely to die with her; that was why they were there—to help the ship avoid death, to guard her through a perilous journey.
They were all men of the Maritime Royal Artillery, a branch of the Army of whose existence the general public was scarcely aware. Even some ship’s officers still confused them with Royal Marines, a confusion which, though perhaps excusable, was resented by these soldier sailors in whom regimental pride was rendered none the less active by the fact that they were seldom with the regiment. Scattered across the liquid surface of the earth in small self-contained groups, usually free of commissioned ranks, they had developed a sturdy independence of outlook which at worst could make them embarrassingly impatient of authority and at best could imbue them with those qualities of hardihood and resourcefulness which distinguished the old soldiers of fortune. Soldiers they might be, but they had taken to the sea as men who had at last found their true element, as men of this island nation always will.
So they gazed up at their ship, their drab, weary ship; and suddenly one of them laughed.
“The Golden Ray! The s.s. Golden Ray! Damned if she don’t look it! Proper ray of sunshine an’ no mistake!”
The s.s. Golden Ray of Liverpool was silent and motionless, made fast to the quay by wire hawsers looped over bollards, the oily flotsam of the dock crowding around her water-line. Giant cranes hovered over her like grotesque birds of prey waiting to peck at her entrails, and out of the opaque sky a flake or two of snow drifted waveringly down to fall lightly upon her cluttered decks.
“A rotten coal-burner! Everything covered with soot; you’ll see.”
“Golden Ray! My word, don’t the name suit her!”
The sergeant stopped further comments, breaking in with his curt, incisive voice.
“All right! All right! Stop nattering and get the kit off. Let’s have a bit of action.”
The group broke up as the men moved to obey him, pulling kitbags and hammocks from the lorry and throwing them to the ground.
“Sergeant Willis!”
A young lieutenant wearing a trench-coat and peaked cap had walked round from the front of the lorry. He had a smooth, boyish face and a nervous manner.
“Sergeant, you’d better come on board with me and take a look at things.”
Willis said, “Very good, sir,” and followed the lieutenant up the gangway. A moment later he was stepping lightly down upon the iron deck which was to become so familiar to him in the months that lay ahead. It was a deck which had become overlaid with dock fungus—all that miscellaneous gear and refuse which, as soon as the ship was at sea, would be stowed away or thrown overboard. Willis looked around him, whistling softly through his teeth, waiting for the lieutenant to make a move.
For Willis this was to be the fourth voyage. His first ship had been a grain freighter; she had sailed in a North Atlantic convoy, had floated up the St Lawrence to Montreal, and there had taken on five thousand tons of wheat. The wheat had flowed into the holds like a yellow river, and dust had risen from it in a fine cloud that penetrated to every corner, lying thick upon bunk and chair and table. It had been hot in Montreal, and it had been good to see the lights again; in England one had almost forgotten what it was like to be without the black-out. But the stay in Montreal had been brief; three days and they were away again, dropping downstream past Sorel and Three Rivers and Quebec, past the mud-banks, the jetties, and the countless little wooden churches that looked so much like toys. At Halifax they had joined an east-bound convoy; three weeks later they were home. They had not seen a submarine or an enemy aircraft during either crossing.
Willis’s second ship had been a tanker. They had sailed in convoy across the Atlantic, then alone down the American seaboard to the Gulf of Mexico. There had not even been shore leave; the ship had lain off-shore, and the oil had flowed out to them through a pipe-line. After two days they were away again to join a Halifax convoy and move eastward once more.
That had been a bad journey: ten ships had been sunk; two other tankers had gone up in flames. Willis had been thankful when it was over.
His third voyage had taken Willis to Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. He had enjoyed that trip. The ship had been good, a Blue Star meat liner with a speed of seventeen knots. She had sailed on her own, relying on speed to keep her out of danger. Willis had had a fine time in Rio, that city of sunshine and gaiety, and though there had been a submarine scare on the way home, it had come to nothing. Willis had been disembarked when the ship docked at Avonmouth; he had returned to regiment and thence gone on leave. It was the usual routine.
Now he was embarking again, and this time he had a feeling that the going would be tough.
He remembered the words of the battery sergeant-major: “You’ve bought it this time. You’re booked for the Russian run. Chance of a D.S.M., though. Malta and Russia for D.S.M.’s—no doubt about that.”
Willis was not interested in medals; he took a realistic view and preferred a whole skin. But the prospect of a Russian convoy did not worry him. As a professional soldier he performed the duty assigned to him without fuss or bother, whatever that duty might be. It wa
s his job.
The lieutenant, standing on the deck of the Golden Ray among the coils of rope, the paint-drums, the piles of rubbish, seemed at a loss. He was unsure of himself, hesitant. Willis waited; his face, bony, rather sunken below the cheek-bones, was expressionless, hiding his thoughts. Secretly he was contemptuous of the officer, a mere boy who had still been in the nursery when Willis was stamping out his lessons on the barrack square.
The lieutenant was looking for some one from whom he could obtain information; he kept slapping his leg with his cane and pulling nervously at an almost invisible moustache. His anxiety was relieved by the sight of a ship’s officer who appeared from a doorway amidships and ran lightly down the ladder to the main deck. He came down the ladder sideways, his left hand, slightly above and slightly behind him, resting on the handrail. He was a young man, having two gold rings on the sleeves of his blue jacket with a gold diamond between them. The lieutenant saluted him perfunctorily.
“Could you tell me if the captain is aboard?”
The ship’s officer shook his head. “The captain went ashore an hour ago and hasn’t come off yet.”
“Is the gunnery officer aboard?”
“I am the gunnery officer.”
The lieutenant appeared relieved. “I’ve brought your new gun-team. Sergeant Willis is detachment commander.”
The gunnery officer, who combined the duties attached to that post with the more normal ones of second mate, nodded to Willis. “I hope your men are good, sergeant. The last Bofors crew shot down a Heinkel. Think you can beat that?”
“Depends on whether we have the chance, sir.”
The gunnery officer smiled somewhat wryly. “I’m afraid there’s not much doubt that you will.” He turned to the lieutenant. “I expect you’d like to see the gunners’ quarters. They’re aft. I’ll show you.”
He led the way along the deck and climbed a ladder to the poop. There were two guns mounted aft—a four-inch anti-submarine gun and, above it, on a tall mushroom-like pedestal, the Bofors. Both guns had their covers on and looked a little forlorn, like abandoned children.
The gunnery officer stooped to enter a small accommodation hatch, pulled aside a black-out curtain of heavy canvas, and began to descend a steep iron ladder. The lieutenant followed, and Willis, following the lieutenant, observed that they were going down into a deep, narrow hold whose length was roughly equal to the width of the ship at that point. The ringing of their boots on the rungs of the ladder echoed hollowly from the sides of the hold, and it seemed to Willis as though they were lowering themselves into a gigantic steel tank. The atmosphere had the cold clamminess of a tank and the odour of damp iron. On one bulkhead hung the spare propeller, looking immense at such close range, and it occurred to him to wonder how it had ever got there, and how, if it should be needed, it could be got out.
“This,” said the gunnery officer, when they reached the foot of the ladder, “is the gunners’ wash-place.” He indicated a row of galvanized-iron basins ranged along one side and fitted with cold-water taps and waste-pipes. Then he pointed to two wooden cubicles thrust away in a corner. “Those,” he said, “are the lavatories. We shall try to keep them from freezing with the help of hot water, but”—he raised his shoulders—“things have a habit of going wrong. They’ll probably freeze.”
A bulkhead separated the wash-place from the other part of the gunners’ accommodation. There was a doorway between the two, but no door, the opening being closed by a black-out curtain of the same heavy canvas as the one above. Stepping over a high threshold, the three men passed through this doorway, and immediately came face to face with a round iron stove, the smoke-pipe from which led up through the ceiling. This stove was close to the starboard side of the ship, and in that side a port, tightly closed, let in a glimmer of daylight, a light which fortunately was augmented by an electric bulb set in the deckhead. By the aid of these two sources of light Willis was able to examine the cabin.
It was a long, narrow room formed by partitioning off a part of the hold. The compartment thus formed was some eight or nine feet wide and about forty feet long, its length being divided into three parts to provide a cabin for naval gunners on the port side, one for Army gunners on the starboard, and a common mess-room in between.
The bunks, which were of wood, were arranged in two tiers on either side of the cabin, with a passage between. In the starboard cabin there were eight bunks, and in the port cabin ten. In the mess-room was a table covered with brown linoleum.
The stove in the Army quarters was cold, but it had not been cleaned out. It stood upon a square concrete foundation with a raised rim, but this rim had not been equal to the task of preventing the migration of ashes. The floor, in fact, appeared to be covered with cinders and dust. Willis stirred some of the cinders with the toe of his boot, but said nothing. He had seen worse quarters, and he had seen better. What he liked least about these was their position. They were too far down, and the only way out was by one narrow iron ladder. He could imagine that ladder in an emergency, jammed with gunners all trying to get out at once. It was not a happy picture.
The gunnery officer was speaking. “It’s no palace, of course; but the ship wasn’t built to carry passengers.”
The lieutenant said hurriedly, smacking his leg with his cane, “Oh, it’s not so bad, not so bad really. After all, we’ve got to remember there’s a war on, haven’t we?”
All right for you, thought Willis; you’re not going to live in it.
Aloud he said, “Do I sleep in here with the gunners, sir?”
Not that he minded sharing a cabin with the gunners; he had done it often enough; except on the bigger ships, it was the usual thing. Still, it was best to know.
“No,” said the gunnery officer, “there’s a two-berth cabin for the petty officer and sergeant at the end of the wash-place.” He smiled. “Not the end where the lavatories are.”
Willis nodded, wondering what the petty officer would be like. The character of the man with whom you were to share a confined cabin for several months mattered not a little. It could make quite a difference.
They climbed back up the iron ladder and came out on to the poop. It had left off snowing, but the air was cold.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said the gunnery officer. “No end of things to do. You’ll find your way about.”
They watched him stride away; then the lieutenant said, “We’ll take a look at the gun, sergeant.”
The Bofors platform stood about twelve feet above the deck, mounted on a slender stem. It was circular in shape, and when the barrel of the gun was depressed its trumpet-shaped flash-guard projected just beyond the three-foot shield that surrounded the platform. In the shield were ammunition recesses, and on one side of the platform, projecting towards the bridge, was a narrow extension on which the spare barrel rested. There was not much room for changing barrels, but that was not unusual.
Willis and the lieutenant lifted the cover from the gun.
“Dirty,” said the lieutenant. “You’ll have to get your men on this, sergeant.”
Willis grunted. There had been no need to tell him that. It was always the same: you brought your gun into port looking like something that had slipped out of the drill-book, barrel shining, breech spotless, paintwork all freshly touched up, and then, when you joined another ship, you took over a weapon as filthy as this. The shore crews were smart enough when it came to examining the gun you brought in—no allowance for bad weather, salt spray, and the rest; but when you were taking over a gun it was different. Still, he was used to that now; he took it as a matter of course.
The lieutenant tested the elevating and traversing gear, and the slender barrel of the Bofors lifted and fell, swung left, then right.
“A little stiff. You’ll have to put some grease in the bearings.”
“How about anti-freeze oil and grease, sir?” asked Willis.
“You’ll pick that up in Hull with your Arctic kit. Right?”
&
nbsp; They pulled the cover on again and descended to the deck. The gunners had carried their kit aboard, and now it lay in an untidy pile on the cover of number four hatch. Dirty topees could be seen dangling from some of the kitbags, and Willis smiled grimly as he thought how small a need there was likely to be for tropical kit on this voyage. Yet it had to be carried.
He realized suddenly that the lieutenant was speaking. “I shall have to go now. You’ve got all you want? As I said, you’ll draw Arctic kit in Hull.”
He thrust out his hand. “Well, sergeant, best of luck! Come back safely.”
He smiled as they shook hands, a shy, boyish smile; and in that last moment Willis felt his antagonism melting. The kid was not so bad really; just nervous; pushed into a job for which he had not been cut out.
“Good-bye, sir,” said Willis, saluting.
The lieutenant went down the gangway rather faster than he should have done and climbed into the waiting lorry. The driver let in the clutch, and the vehicle moved slowly away.
Willis exhaled a long breath. He was always glad when this moment arrived, when he had the detachment to himself and no one else to give orders. He felt freer, less irked by superior authority.
“Come on, lads,” he said. “Get cracking with that kit. I’ll show you where we live.”
He picked up a kitbag and led the way, and the men followed, each carrying a bundle. It was hard work, man-handling everything up to the poop and then down the ladder to the cabin; and there was some grumbling when the men saw their quarters.
“We had a better cabin than this on my last ship.”
“Is that all there is to heat the place—that ruddy stove?”
“Proper pigsty, ain’t it?”
Willis let them run on. He knew they would settle down and make the best of it in the end. Moving in was always a bad business; at first there seemed to be nothing but strangeness and discomfort, a feeling of being lost.
In his mind he began running over the immediate necessities. The steward would have to be found; from him they would draw their dry stores—tea, sugar, cheese, butter, jam. They would need hot water for the tea, fuel for the stove; they would have to find out about a cigarette issue.
Soldier, Sail North (1987) Page 1
