A FLOCK OF SHIPS

by Callison, Brian

  He dodged from side to side and yelled, ‘Gunfire!’ while I tried to make it past him like a scrum-half with no one to pass the ball to, and roared, ‘I know, so gerrout the bloody way youstupidbastard!’ then, breaking through, pounded the old familiar trail to the bridge.

  The Old Man was up there before me this time, though it took me a few moments of night blindness before my eyes adjusted from the glare of the accommodation lights to the blanketing solidity of the night, and I could see him properly. It wasn’t all darkness though. Not on the horizon.

  Evans was fully dressed and, together, we stood silently watching the fantastic display of pyrotechnics ahead. Red and green flares swarmed slowly into the night sky, while the steely blue-white of tracer shells streaked almost flat along the line of the distant sea one moment, then curved lazily and nearly vertical the next. All the time, rolling towards us over the sparkling reflections in the glassy water, came the sullen thunder of gunfire punctuated by the sharper cracks of light weapon bursts.

  And we were heading almost directly into it.

  ‘Gunpowder, treason and plot,’ murmured the Second Mate as he stood slightly behind us.

  The Captain swivelled, ‘Keep an eye on Mallard, Mister Shell. If she doesn’t give us a course alteration away from that bloody Brock’s benefit within three minutes, either Braid’s a fool or they’re all asleep on the fancy boat.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  Evans turned to me worriedly and the flashes ahead illuminated his lined features. ‘What the hell is it, Mister Kent? There doesn’t seem to be any sense to it. Look!’

  I saw what he meant. There was no apparent pattern in the lines of fire as you’d expect from two ships which were, presumably, firing at each other. Instead, the vari-coloured streamers seemed to sprout from one central core, fanning out as they rose into a gigantic, exploding vase of flowers.

  ‘Maybe the war’s over and we’re celebrating,’ I said, trying to be dryly British and humorous in the face of fear.

  The Old Man wasn’t laughing very hard. ‘Or perhaps the war’s over and the bloody Nazis are celebrating,’ he answered grimly, still trying to focus his Barr and Stroud 8 x 50’s on the source of the display.

  He let them go in disgust and they dropped on their straps to swing against the barrel chest. ‘Goddam fools doing that must be well below the horizon—say ten, fifteen miles? I can’t see a blasted thing other than the Fifth of November stuff going up.’

  ‘Should I get a man up to the masthead, Sir?’

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, Mister Kent. He wouldn’t see much anyway and I have no intentions of steaming very much farther on this heading, either with or without the Royal Navy’s permission.’

  I began to feel a bit better. It was reassuring to think there were at least two cowards on board, and we carried the rank. I knew, though, that Evans wasn’t scared for himself—not in the way I was. It was just that he intended to carry out his duty with the minimum possible hazard to ship and crew. My train of thought was interrupted by Charlie Shell lifting the Aldis expectantly, ‘Escort’s signaling, Sir.’

  We watched the tiny, flickering light from the black sliver that was Mallard. It was very dim, shaded for obvious reasons. Braid must have been dead worried to have risked showing a light at all, even though the illuminations lit up the seascape for miles around. It was fast, too. The signalman was in a hurry this time, but it didn’t bother me. My morse was nearly up to professional operator standards as it was one accomplishment I’d always been interested enough in to practise rather more thoroughly than the average merchant navy officer.

  The rumble of the guns was getting louder and I had to raise my voice slightly. ‘COMESCORT TO MASTER CYCLOPS: REPEAT TO MASTER ATHENIAN: SUGGEST THIS IS ONE PARTY WE DON’T GATECRASH COURSE ALTERATION PORT TEN DEG TO 143 DEG T REPEAT 143 DEG ON MY EXECUTE SIGNED BRAID END.’

  Evans wasn’t any more impressed at the Commander’s attempt at dry British humour than he had been with mine. He looked at me expressionlessly and the peak of his cap threw flickering shadows across his eyes. ‘We’re bearing farther east at last, Mister Kent.’

  I nodded silently, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry. We had to try for the African coast some time and the way we were heading meant we should hit New Schwabenland in the South Polar Regions in about two weeks. I didn’t relish the thought of trying to skin past the U-boats that were reckoned to be between us and Cape Town, and we still weren’t all that far past the area where the unlucky Kent Star had screamed from, but what was the alternative? To keep on veering west until we either ran out of fuel or, at the very best, lost so much time and distance that the critically important cargo in the strongroom ceased to have any value in terms of lives saved and ships kept clear of our own minefields?

  Another blip from Mallard and the Second Mate said sharply, ‘Execute, Sir.’

  Evans nodded. ‘You have the watch, Mister Shell.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’ Charlie Shell stepped into the wheelhouse and we felt the ship heel over to starboard as we swung on to the new course. I was watching the pretty lights as the black silhouettes of the foremost mast cut across them when suddenly, without the slightest warning or even a gradual diminishing of intensity, the thunder stopped and they went out. Just like that! As if someone had switched them off. It was bloody crazy, the whole thing.

  The blackness seemed very intense after that but, despite the unknown hazards it concealed, I felt a sense of greater security. Then Mallard spoiled the whole thing by going into competition with whatever had been on the horizon. Her shaded Aldis now seemed like a searchlight, beckoning U-boats like some lantern left in a window to entice a recalcitrant lover. Braid cut out the flannel this time, though. Just a few quick A’s to catch our attention, then INCREASE TO EMERGENCY REVOLUTIONS END.

  I wasn’t much of an asset up there in my pyjama bottoms so I tactfully asked the Old Man’s permission and scuttled down the ladder, leaving him to do the dirty work and tell McKenzie about the new increase in speed. It was going to be like asking the Chief to volunteer as a blood donor in vampire country.

  This time I felt the vibration under my feet creeping up so grudgingly slowly it was almost painful.

  *

  I had just got back to my cabin, and was inhaling my first mouthful of much-needed tobacco smoke, when the gunfire rumble started again.

  This time the Third Mate stood well back in anticipation as I took off down the alleyway—and without my bloody hat. If the Company wanted to fire me for such an extreme breach of etiquette then that was OK by me. I was quite prepared to leave the ship immediately, with or without references.

  At the top of the bridge ladder I ground to a halt and stared at the sky ahead in baffled horror. Almost dead in line with the bows, practically bisected by the jackstaff up in the eyes of the ship, the same crazy carnival of spraying lights and colour was being re-enacted on the black edge of the horizon. The blazing illuminations were almost an exact second-house showing of the pyrotechnics that had chased us off course half an hour before.

  But we were still headed straight for them.

  This time it seemed that every officer aboard had found his way to the bridge for a grandstand seat, and Curtis wasn’t the only one wearing a lifejacket either. I shouldered my way through the silent silhouettes, feeling the soft breast of kapok nudging me as they stood back, still perplexedly staring ahead. In the wheelhouse I stopped beside the nervously gum-chewing quartermaster at the wheel and peered anxiously at the course board, praying to God we’d changed back to our original heading for some reason while I was below. But we hadn’t.

  ‘How’s her head?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘Steady on 143, Sir,’ the man at the wheel answered, confirming what I already knew. I glimpsed his white, scared eyes shining in the green-washed face as I turned sharply to meet the Old Man who had entered the wheel-house behind me.

  ‘Aye, Mister Kent ... It’s got to
be a different bloody ship that’s doing that little lot,’ he said quietly.

  I nodded numbly. For the original firework exhibitionist to have moved through a ten-degree arc from us to the horizon meant the anonymous ship travelling some twenty-five to thirty miles in half an hour, or at sixty knots, which was impossible. Ergo—there were two separate ships. At least! My stomach started to churn acidly as I realised the implications. Our gateway to Cape Town, continuing from our present position, was clamped firmly shut.

  ‘I wonder what clever remark Mister Braid’s going to have up his sleeve this time?’ Evans grunted sourly, turning to face the corvette running slightly ahead of us, lit up like a Christmas tree in the glare from the distant spectacular. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  COMESCORT TO ... PARDON MY SLIP IS SHOWING ... COURSE ALTERATION STARBOARD TWO FIVE DEG TO 168 DEG T REPEAT 168 DEG BEING WEST LEG OF REPETITIVE ZIG-ZAG PATTERN ... STANDBY FOR FURTHER FIVE DEG PORT ALTERATION EIGHT MINUTES FROM NOW EXECUTE IMMEDIATELY SIGNED BRAID END.

  Which meant that, instead of using any fancy zig-zag plan involving several alternate headings at varying, predetermined intervals we were settling for a happy medium by sailing a compensating zig-zag with only five-degree swings at firm, eight-minute intervals. We would lose less ground but the safety factor was proportionately smaller. In the chartroom the Old Man braced himself against the vicious heel of the ship as we tore round in a wide, two-point arc and settled on the new course. He deftly snatched the pencil up as it rolled across the chart and, using the parallel rules, drew a faint line from our present dead reckoning position along 170 degrees, this being the approximate mean of our new heading. We were now running well away from the West African coast, with our only possible landfall several thousand miles ahead in the region of the Norwegian island of Bouvet, around 54 degrees south. I looked gloomily over his shoulder. In the glaring light of the Anglepoise lamp our marked course over the past twenty-four hours looked like a deformed dog’s hindleg.

  Evans threw down the pencil irritably and glared at the chart for a long time without speaking. Then he looked up and shook his head. ‘It’s not bloody good enough, John. A few more hours on this heading and we’ll be so far out we’ll never make good the time lost.’ He shrugged. ‘And there’s another factor to consider . Any extension of our sea time automatically increases our risk. Commander Braid may be wrong in his assumption that all the danger lies between us and the coast.’

  I looked as I felt—dubious. ‘I suppose there is a time when the advantages of steering away are outweighed by the disadvantages, Sir, but ...?’

  He waved his hand at the chart. ‘Look at our track, man. We’re buggering about over the ocean like a man scared stiff of his own shadow. Nearly every time something’s happened it’s forced us to swing farther west. Another few imagined spectres like those and we’ll end up in bloody South America!’

  ‘Those lights we saw out there weren’t imagination, Sir, I said anxiously. ‘They established one solid, incontrovertible fact ... that there are at least two, maybe even more, vessels between us and the coast. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen. More significantly, if it had been a Royal Navy stunt we’d've been informed, while merchantmen just don’t carry that kind of illumination, so ...’

  He switched the light off and opened the door. The horizon had reverted to a dim, black, unbroken line on the edge of the world again, while the unexplained cascade of colour had died away as suddenly as its predecessor, leaving the darkness of the night and the twinkling stars and the only sound the rush of water past our vibrating hull. We stepped back inside and Evans switched on the Anglepoise again. He tapped the pencil thoughtfully against his teeth as I reached up and brought two cigarettes out of the old tar’s tin.

  The smoke tasted good on my palate as Evans looked at me strangely and snapped the match in two. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, John, that there seems to be some kind of pattern to what’s happened recently?’

  I frowned, ‘Pattern?’

  ‘Some form of intent, of deliberate provocation, to drive us farther and farther west. Away from the coast.’

  It didn’t make any sense. ‘Why?’ I said, inhaling nervously. ‘What possible reason could anyone—the Bosch, presumably—have for doing that? I mean, even if they can anticipate our movements, which that would presuppose, then surely it would be more logical for them to sink us here and now.’

  I couldn’t see it but, at the same time, something Larabee had said in another context back in the radio room after old Foley had died, jumped into my mind. I looked at the curving, erratic line on the chart again. Larabee had used the expression ‘Sheepdog’ and, from the way the lines had almost continuously veered westwards, they could be construed as the tracks of an animal being driven deliberately along some pre-determined track. We were the sheep, and the assorted U-boat scares, the Kent Star message and the mysterious displays of distant lights, the collie dogs.

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ I said again, shaking my head with a certainty I didn’t feel, ‘it looks more like coincidence to me. I can’t see it as being anything deliberate, I can’t even begin to imagine any motive behind it, for a start.’

  ‘Neither can I, John. Not one that stands up, anyway. But, in that event, surely it’s equally likely that there could be ships farther to the south-east as well? That, to my mind, indicates that all we’re doing is chasing round in circles, putting off what will eventually be inevitable—the need for a breakthrough to the Cape.’

  I didn’t like it but I couldn’t disagree. The suggestion of deliberate intent was obviously too far-fetched to be considered seriously. He seemed to come to a decision and reached for a message pad. I watched silently as he furrowed his brow then, abruptly, slid open a drawer under the table and brought out a tattered, thick old book. My eyebrows shot up in involuntary surprise as I recognised it. It was the Holy Bible.

  He must have caught the look on my face because he grinned, and the big red face crinkled up into little white lines round the corners of his eyes. ‘Our friends in the Royal Navy don’t have the monopoly on humorous signals, Mister Kent,’ he murmured.

  I watched him as he leafed through the pages with a deft hand. ‘I thought you said you weren’t a religious man.’

  He smiled again, softly. ‘I’m not. But the Bible makes a bloody good story-book anyway, you know. There’s a lot of sense to it, even for an agnostic.’

  He found what he wanted and, with a satisfied grunt, picked up the pencil and started to write MASTER CYCLOPS TO ...

  Then he hummed a bit and, crossing out the line, started again. I smiled this time despite myself. The message read:

  COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT: SUGGEST YOU CONSULT PROVERBS 28: 1 AND ACT ACCORDINGLY WITH COURSE ALTERATION EAST SIGNED EVANS END.

  I picked up the heavy book and looked at it curiously. The small print jumped into sharp focus.

  ‘... the wicked flee when no man pursueth; but the righteous are bold as a lion.’

  *

  When a curious Charlie Shell handed the reply in it was with an alacrity which indicated that Evans wasn’t the only skipper in the group who knew his way through the Good Book. The Old Man read it, frowning, then handed it to me and I frowned too. This ecclesiastical repartee was way above my head, COMESCORT TO COMCONVOY ... The heavy irony of the first part didn’t escape my notice ... WHILE ACTING ON YOUR SUGGESTION ALSO CAME UPON PROVERBS 16: 28 ... PROPOSE MAINTAIN PRESENT ZIG-ZAG AND SPEED UNTIL DAYLIGHT SIGNED BRAID END.

  The Old Man was thumbing back through the bible with a comical mixture of impatience and frustration on his face. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He gritted eventually, with a brutal irreverence that confirmed he was purely a reader and not a believer.

  I watched with furtive interest, ‘Sir?’

  He glowered for a few moments, then started to grin. ‘Cheeky bugger! It says—“A violent man enticeth his neighbour, and leadeth him into the way that is not good”.’

  CHAPTER THREE


  At two bells in my watch I was on the bridge, talking in a low monotone to Brannigan as we watched the first streaks of reddish-coloured daylight exploring over the distant horizon.

  Aboard Cyclops it was still blackness broken only by the green glow in the wheelhouse and the occasional spark wafting back from the great funnel above and abaft the bridge deck. I hadn’t bothered to use up the rest of my watch below trying to sleep; instead I’d just slipped down to my cabin to change my rather ill-used pyjama bottoms to a clean set of whites. When I came up again I hadn’t forgotten to bring my lifejacket with me either.

  Young Conway moved at my elbow and I jumped nervously. All through the past hour I’d been seeing U-boats move surreptitiously through the shadowy sea around us, only to find almost immediately that the threatening shadows were caused by sullenly rising waves. I noticed the wind had veered three points until it was blowing almost directly from aft, and groaned; now we weren’t even going to have the consolation of a cool breeze fanning over us from the dodgers. Glancing at the cadet I could see, even in the darkness, that I wasn’t the only one under strain, and I should have been better equipped to cope than a little boy who ought still to have been going walks with his Mum and Dad instead of scuttling about the Atlantic like a frightened mouse.

  ‘Yes, Conway?’ I asked softly.

  ‘Coming up to zig-zag time, Sir,’ he answered smartly.

  I nodded to Brannigan and he moved off into the wheelhouse as I looked back to the lad. ‘Thank you. Er, have you had your smoko yet, son?’

  He shook his head, ‘Not due ‘til four bells, Sir.’

  I jerked my chin aft, ‘Nip off down to the half-deck for a few minutes anyway. Put your feet up and relax.’

  He stared at me for a moment as if I were some kind of reformed monster, then mumbled thank you and scuttled off down the ladder, no doubt to spend the next ten minutes trying to convince himself that I’d only slipped temporarily and was still the steel-hard bucko Mate of his story books at home.