Convoy North (A John Mason Kemp Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Theakston said. ‘There’s no call for anger.’ He waited for a moment; Kemp, restraining his temper, said nothing. Theakston gave him a long stare and then marched away, back to the wheelhouse. Kemp heard the ring of the telegraph, followed by the repetition from below, and then the Hardraw Falls began to shudder to the full stern-thrust of her engines. Kemp let out a long breath: Yorkshiremen, he told himself firmly, had sterling virtues...

  II

  Amory had the hands hard at it, his own crew and the naval ratings. The shoring beams had been brought out and mostly set in place against the collision bulkhead, all ready to be wedged down with the chocks and blows of the carpenter’s sledgehammer. Amory was in an impatient mood: Petty Officer Napper was as much use as a flea at a bullfight and managed to get constantly under everyone’s feet at the wrong moment.

  ‘Never set up shoring beams before, have you?’ Amory asked.

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t,’ Napper answered in an aggrieved tone that suggested that RN ships never got themselves into a situation where they needed to shore up, an attitude that infuriated Amory by its sheer nonsense. Napper was all thumbs and a loud voice, but fortunately the junior ratings had him weighed off and weren’t taking too much notice of him, following the chief officer’s orders instead. Napper didn’t like that, and was fizzing like a fuse. He went on, ‘Anyway, we do things different in the Andrew, see.’ He added in a pained voice, ‘That apart, sir, I’ve me injury. It don’t help.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does,’ Amory said unsympathetically. ‘Per-haps you’d rather go away and nurse it better.’ He turned his back on Napper and lent a hand himself in the hefting of the final shoring beam into its place against the collision bulkhead, noting as he did so a small trickle of water forming a pool at the bottom of the bulkhead: not very serious so far but it might mean they wouldn’t be able to resume moving with headway. Even if the bulkhead was only very slightly sprung Theakston couldn’t risk bringing heavy pressure to bear. And then God alone knew how long it would take them to reach Archangel.

  Napper’s ears had burned red: nurse it better! Who did Mr bloody Amory think he was? Regarding the chief officer’s words as a dismissal, Napper took himself off in a huff, glad enough to get to hell away from the collision bulkhead, the vicinity of which was a potentially dangerous place. If the bulkhead should go suddenly, it would be all up with the hands nearby — they’d be engulfed, not just by water but by flung beams and breaking timber as well. Napper climbed ladders aft of the collision bulkhead and emerged from the starboard door beneath the fo’c’sle, coming into the fore well-deck and leaving the wreckage of the seaman’s quarters behind him. He spared a fleeting thought for the deck-hands, now with most of their gear gone for a burton and their living quarters with it. From now on they would have to doss down where they could; it wouldn’t be comfortable in the alleyways and storerooms. Napper moved on. They had daylight in the sky now, dim and murky, and he saw Commodore Kemp looking down from the bridge, and at once he smartened his bearing so as to look as though he was going about his duties, and marched left-right-left while keeping a hand on the lifelines until he disappeared from view into the midship superstructure feeling like a moving icicle, even his lips cracking with frozen spittle. It came to him suddenly that he’d been talking to himself all the way up from the depths of the ship, first sign of madness, or in his case just a furious reaction to what Amory had said. Not that he hadn’t enough to drive him crazy, what with Able Seaman Grove’s cheek, and the perishing cold, and the bloody awful danger of being half disabled in the Barents Sea of all places, and the fact that he should have been sitting comfy in Pompey barracks drinking a cup of char while the matloes carried out part-of-ship duties around the parade and blocks.

  On his way to the chief steward’s office for another look at The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide Napper passed the foot of the ladder leading up to the officers’ accommodation and became aware that his name was being called.

  He halted and looked up: the armed seaman who was sup-posed to be guarding the Nazi’s cabin was at the head of the ladder. ‘Po?’

  ‘Yer. What are you doing, deserting your place of duty, lad? Bloody Jerry could break out, couldn’t he? And then what, I’d like to know!’

  ‘Sorry, Po. It’s the prisoner.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Says he’s ill.’

  ‘Ha! Ill, is he?’ Napper lifted his cap and scratched at his thinning hair. ‘What’s he got?’ he asked hoarsely, his own interest in medical matters coming to the fore.

  ‘I dunno, just ill.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Napper climbed the ladder and accompanied the sentry back to von Hagen’s cabin door. He thumped on it. ‘Petty Officer o’ the Guard here,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘What’s the trouble, eh?’

  There was no answer. Once again Napper scratched at his head, pondering. What was the Jerry playing at? Could be dead for all Napper knew, or could be dying, and if he was allowed to die then somebody would be sure to blame Napper for losing a valuable source of information. On the other hand, Napper was buggered if he was going to open up the cabin door, notwithstanding the sentry’s rifle and bayonet. Nazis were slippery customers and up to all manner of tricks, like monkeys. ‘Hang on,’ Napper said once more, and went fast for the bridge to report to the Commodore.

  Kemp asked, ‘How genuine do you think this is?’

  ‘No idea, sir. The prisoner, ‘e didn’t utter after I got there, sir.’

  Kemp looked at Cutler. He said, ‘Something I didn’t think about but should have. Agents...they’re said to be supplied with lethal tablets, keep ‘em in their mouths or something ready to swallow.’

  ‘I doubt if it’s that, sir. He’d have taken it back in Norway, when he was nabbed. Or aboard the submarine.’

  Kemp grunted. ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  Napper said, ‘If it had been that, sir, he wouldn’t have said he was ill.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Cutler agreed. ‘They act fast. Instantaneously.’ Kemp said, ‘We’ll have to investigate. I’ll go down myself. You’ll stand by with the sentry, Napper.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Kemp went along the ladder, followed by Cutler and Napper. He approached the cabin door and knocked on it. ‘Kemp here. What’s the trouble, von Hagen?’

  Again there was no response; Kemp banged again, with no result. He stood back, and nodded at the sentry. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Aim for the doorway. I’m going to open up. Hand me the key. If there’s any trouble, shoot — but not to kill him. Just to disable.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The sentry passed the key to Kemp, who put it in the lock and turned it. As he did so he felt pressure on the door and started to call a warning to the others. Before the words were out of his mouth the door came open with a crash, sending Kemp flat on his back as von Hagen emerged like a bullet, fists flailing. The sentry fired and missed, just before he too was bowled over, and the bullet singed past the German into the cabin. A fist connected with Napper’s jaw and he lurched back against a bulkhead as von Hagen ran along the alleyway for the door at the end, the door to the open deck running alongside the officers’ cabins. Kemp was up and in pursuit as fast as he could make it; he and the sentry went through the door to find von Hagen climbing the guardrail. Below, the cold sea rose and fell as the ship rolled. Kemp reached the guardrail, calling out to von Hagen, got a grip on the German as he jumped and was himself lifted to the rail. Before he could let go his grip, he had lost his balance and was plummeting with von Hagen towards the sea’s freezing cold. The sentry reached the rail and reacted fast.

  ‘Man overboard starboard!’ He yelled the words up towards the bridge and at the same time grabbed a lifebuoy from its stowage on the rail and threw it, with its securing line running out behind it, towards the heads visible in the water close by the ship’s side.

  As the lifebuoy took the water, the sound of aircraft engines was heard coming in from the direction of the Kola Inl
et.

  THIRTEEN

  I

  Theakston was leaning out over the water from the bridge wing, his face angry. ‘Damned idiot! Why didn’t he let the German go, for God’s sake?’ He had stopped engines and was about to order a boat to be lowered from the falls when the sound of the aircraft engines came and he left the open bridge and doubled into the wheelhouse to press the action alarm. Strident din echoed through the ship. For’ard at the collision bulkhead Amory ordered the naval gunnery rates to their close-range weapons, remained himself with half a dozen of the crew to tend the beams. Any fresh strain coming on the bulkhead could mean total disaster unless men were handy for instant response, not that they would be able to do a lot if the shoring beams themselves should crumple.

  On the deck outside the officers’ accommodation, Petty Officer Napper was in a state of dither: should he lend a hand with rescuing the Commodore or should he get to his action station pronto? ‘Christ,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘this bloody would go and happen!’

  It was Cutler who solved his problem. ‘Bugger off, Napper, and get shooting — I’ve got the line and the fish is on the hook.’ He’d seen Kemp reach out and grasp the lifebuoy, pull it in to his body so that he could take a turn of the line itself around his waist. Kemp’s other hand was fast on von Hagen’s collar. So far, so good, Cutler thought. They could both be hauled aboard just as long as Kemp’s frozen fingers could retain his grip on the German. If they couldn’t — too bad; at least Kemp had the line fast, and now a heavier line was going down to him. It was a question of speed, of getting them out from the water and into the warm. The Commodore was no longer young and the submersion could be enough to finish him off. As Cutler hauled in, assisted by the sentry, there was a rattle of gunfire above his head and bullets spattered the gray-painted bulkhead behind him.

  II

  ‘Fighters,’ Theakston said as he ducked down behind the bridge screen. A line of bullet holes dotted the deck planks and panes of glass shattered in the wheelhouse. From monkey’s island above, the Bofors and Lewis guns cracked out, a sustained return of fire towards the belly of a German fighter, which missed its mark. Petty Officer Napper, feeling dangerously exposed so high up in the ship, his stomach loosening fast, saw the bigger shapes of ju 88 bombers: the Nazis had evidently been carrying out an attack on the Russian military and naval installations in the Kola Inlet, probably concentrating on Murmansk where, for all Napper knew, a homeward convoy could be assembling. Deciding that the ship’s master might like to know his prognostications, Napper made a dive for the vertical ladder down to the bridge as two more fighters came in from the south. And just in time, he reckoned a moment later as the fighters came in again and cannon fire swept monkey’s island and there was a scream of agony from one of the gunnery rates. Another second’s delay and he would have caught that lot up. Napper had felt his bravery seeping away with every knot made, this trip...

  He approached Captain Theakston in the lull that followed. Theakston said, ‘No bombing. I wonder if they’ve been warned about the German aboard us.’

  ‘Maybe, sir. Maybe it’s just that they’ve already dropped their load on Murmansk. If that’s the case —’

  ‘We can consider ourselves lucky! They may not bother overmuch with us, if they’re bound back to base.’

  ‘Well, sir, I dunno.’ Napper wiped the back of his glove across his face. He wanted to keep Theakston talking; if he remained with him, the wheelhouse was handy to dodge into when the next attack came. ‘They’ll be bound south for Norway, see. That means they deviated out, special like, when they picked us up.’

  ‘We shall have to see,’ Theakston said. He turned as Cutler came up the ladder, his duffel coat stiff with frozen seawater. ‘Well, lad?’

  ‘Both aboard, sir.’ Cutler was breathing heavily. ‘Being stripped and given brandy by the chief steward. Blankets, hot-water bottles. I don’t think they’re too bad, considering. Commodore wanted to come to the bridge.’ Cutler grinned. ‘Afraid I took your name in vain, sir. Said you’d have him removed by force — your personal order.’

  Theakston gave a thin smile, about the first time Cutler had seen his face relax. ‘He took it?’

  ‘Like a lamb.’

  ‘That doesn’t speak too well for how he’s feeling, does it?’

  Cutler said, ‘As a matter of fact, he did try to come up. But his legs gave away. I still don’t think he’s too bad, sir, all the same.’

  Theakston nodded; he wished Kemp well but was not dis-pleased to have his own bridge to himself for as long as it took Kemp to recover. Cutler looked at Napper, hovering by the wheelhouse door. ‘Everything under control?’ he asked.

  ‘Yessir. Casualties on monkey’s island, but —’

  ‘And you, Petty Officer Napper?’

  Napper stared and felt uncomfortable. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you. What precisely are you doing?’

  Napper said, ‘Advising the Captain, sir. About the aircraft, sir. I said like, they’ve been giving Murmansk a pasting —’ He broke off as two more fighters came in, keeping low, appearing suddenly from the murk to rake the decks once again. The noise was deafening as everything opened on them: their cannon fire ricocheted from bulkheads and stanchions, peppered the funnel and the funnel casings, slammed into the griped-in lifeboats at the falls, and left pock-marks along the length of the boat deck. From above the engineers’ accommodation aft the close-range crews pumped out bullets, firing almost vertically as the aircraft roared across, lying back in the straps to increase the angle as far as possible, but the fighters passed on unhit, vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Cutler said edgily. Air attack was a bloody business and, Cutler thought, no one ever got used to it. Probably it grew worse the longer you were subjected to it. It brought him a feeling of total helplessness: ack-ack fire, he believed, was no more than a gesture, to shoot down aircraft was easier said than done unless you were part of a big fleet with a huge flak umbrella. They came in suddenly, at high speed, raked you or bombed you, and were gone before you could lay or train with any effect. But as it turned out, they didn’t come back this time. When more aircraft sounds were heard they were from the north; and it was Napper who identified them first.

  ‘Ours, sir...Fleet Air Arm! Seafires, sir!’

  Seafires, the naval version of the Spitfire, were fast and furious. No wonder the Nazis hadn’t lingered. Cutler, looking up through his binoculars, said, ‘Carrier from the Home Fleet. Thank God!’ A cheer went up raggedly from the decks as the Seafires were recognized and as one of them detached from the squadron to circle the Hardraw Falls a lamp was seen to be winking from it. Leading Signalman Corrigan read off the message and reported to Cutler. ‘Signal, sir: “Message intercepted from Murmansk indicates heavy damage to port installations. Fairway blocked by sunken vessels awaiting QP convoy homeward. Do not attempt to enter.” Message ends, sir.’

  Theakston lifted an eyebrow. ‘That pilot’s making assumptions, I reckon, all about nowt. We’re still bound for Archangel far as I know.’

  ‘He’s seen our damage, sir,’ Cutler said. ‘He thinks we’ll alter —’ He broke off. ‘Signalling again, Corrigan.’

  ‘Yes, sir. “Do you require assistance.”’

  Cutler looked interrogatively at Theakston, who said, ‘That’s for the Commodore, lad. Best ask him.’

  ‘I’ll go down,’ Cutler said. He slid down the ladder, the palms of his gloved hands sliding on the rails thick with ice. He knocked at Kemp’s door and went in on the heels of the knock. Kemp, blue in the face and shivering, managed to give him a grin.

  ‘All right, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll survive, never fear! What’s the state of things, Sub?’ Cutler reported. He added, ‘Seafires from the Home Fleet, sir. Ask, do we require assistance.’

  At first Kemp made no comment, giving an oblique response. ‘Those Seafires...any indication of contact between the Home Fleet and the
Germans?’

  ‘No, sir —’

  ‘Ask them, then. Keep me informed — then I’ll make a final decision about assistance. I’ll probably enter Murmansk and to hell with the orders about von Hagen.’

  Cutler shook his head. ‘No hope of that, sir.’ He reported the blocked fairway as a result of heavy attack. ‘It’ll have to be Archangel, sir. If anywhere at all.’

  ‘You sound defeatist,’ Kemp said sharply. ‘Don’t. Now — up top and contact the Seafires.’

  Cutler went back to the bridge at the rush. Corrigan passed the Commodore’s message: the answer came back that up to the time the Seafires had been flown off from their parent carrier there had been no contact but the C-in-C was steaming to stand between the PQ convoy and the threat from the north. Cutler sent an acknowledgment and went down again to report to the Commodore.

  Kemp said, ‘I’m going to take a chance that C-in-C Home Fleet’ll reinforce the escort — or order ‘em to rejoin the convoy if they’ve moved north to engage the enemy as we guessed they might. And now the Home Fleet’s here, it’s only prudent to accept the offer of assistance. Make a signal to the aircraft, Cutler — my thanks and I’d appreciate a destroyer or corvette to stand by me. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Commodore.’ Cutler returned to the bridge at the double and the message was passed. A few minutes later the Seafire banked and turned away. The gunners were fallen out from action stations and reduced to two watches once again. Petty Officer Napper went round the gun positions and saw to the removal of two bodies from monkey’s island. Going aft he found Able Seaman Grove flinging his arms about his body, his teeth chattering.

  ‘Got away with it again, did you?’ Napper asked in a surly tone.

  Grove grinned, cheeky as ever, Napper thought. ‘That’s a nicely expressed sentiment from a bloke’s Po, I don’t think.’ ‘Get stuffed,’ Napper said.