A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  Fiction by Douglas Reeman

  Published by McBooks Press

  BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

  Badge of Glory

  First to Land

  The Horizon

  Dust on the Sea

  Knife Edge

  Twelve Seconds to Live

  Battlecruiser

  The White Guns

  A Prayer for the Ship

  BY ALEXANDER KENT

  Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight!

  The Flag Captain

  Signal–Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  For a complete list of nautical and military fiction

  published by McBooks Press, please see pages 282–285.

  A Prayer for

  The Ship

  DOUGLAS REEMAN

  MODERN NAVAL FICTION LIBRARY

  MCBOOKS PRESS, INC.

  ITHACA, NEW YORK

  Published by McBooks Press 2005

  Copyright © Douglas Reeman 1958

  First Published in the United Kingdom in 1958 by

  Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Requests for such permissions should be addressed to

  McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St.,

  Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover illustration : Chris Mayger

  Every effort has been made to secure permission from copyright holders

  to reproduce this image.

  The paperback edition of this title was cataloged as:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Reeman, Douglas.

  A prayer for the ship / by Douglas Reeman.

  p. cm.

  Originally published: London : Hutchinson, 1958.

  ISBN 1-59013-097-9 (trade pbk : alk. paper)

  1. World War, 1939-1945—Naval operations, British— Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6068.E35P73 2005

  823’.914—dc22

  2004019291

  The e-book versions of this title have the following ISBNs:

  Kindle 978-1-59013-444-3, ePub 978-1-59013-445-0,

  and PDF 978-1-59013-446-7

  www.mcbooks.com

  | Author’s Note

  A Prayer for the Ship is the story of the Royal Navy’s Light Coastal Forces during the last war. A lot of it must necessarily be my own story too, and the events which I saw and shared I can never forget.

  The world we knew was fast-moving and violent. The men who fought and often died in the English Channel and North Sea were young. Some were very young. So immediately after the war had ended, and that small desperate world had gone forever, the memories were still too real, the circumstances often too vast, to interpret without bias. Recently, as I read proof of the book for the American edition, I realized that, had I left it any later, my viewpoint might have been similarly distorted.

  I found myself asking: were we really like that? How in a space of weeks or months could untried amateurs become professionals—men who carried war into the enemy’s territory, usually with little regard of the risks involved? Maybe the story chose its own time, when memory and substance had become clearly blended—like a gunsight, blurred to the eye on either side of the correct setting, which all at once becomes stark and vivid.

  Some of the relationships and ideals included in the story seem simple and out of touch with the world around us. But in those times life did become simplicity itself. Someone with whom you had shared your hoarded rations or discussed home and family was gone in the blink of an eye. A handshake, a brief smile, and the next day he might be dead.

  To the little ships and their crews, this story is humbly dedicated.

  DOUGLAS REEMAN

  1973

  1 |

  THE WHOLE of the naval anchorage seemed subdued and cowed by the relentless, sleety rain which drove across the estuary, whipping the grey waves into a turbulent, white-capped frenzy. As the wind moaned through the mean little streets around the port, and swept the soaking jetties, the various ships-of-war strained and tugged at their cables and wires, while huddled figures in glistening oilskins sought cover and protection behind the gun-shields or flapping canvas dodgers. Across and beyond the boom-gate, a few barrage balloons plunged and staggered like drunken whales, as their cursing crews somewhere in the muddy fields fought with the creaking moorings. The sea itself looked even greyer than usual, and it was difficult to discern the break with the racing clouds which was the horizon, where a lone trawler fought into the teeth of the gale, one minute hidden by the steep, jagged waves, and the next instant showing her streaming keel, more concerned with staying afloat than listening for a prowling U-boat.

  The tall, rust-streaked sides of the Coastal Forces Depot Ship Royston shuddered as the gale punched her, but she remained the steadiest vessel in the harbour, her cables fore and aft stretched bar-taut, and her deck-planking patterned with little humps of blown salt. Her charges, Motor Torpedo Boats and Motor Gunboats, were strung in uncomfortable trios around her, banging and lurching together, rope fend-ers and old motor tyres doing their best to ease the jolting motion. Up on the main deck, the Quartermaster peered out towards the railway wharf, and cursed unsympathetically at the ship’s motor-boat which had just left the shelter of the wall, and was bounding over the stream towards him. He saw the Coxswain lift his hand in a half-hearted sign and then withdraw into the tiny wheelhouse.

  The Quartermaster turned to the other figure sharing his vigil, the Officer-of-the-Day, who was endeavouring to read a signal, already soggy with rain, in the shelter of his oilskin. “Motor-boat returning, sir,” he yelled. “One officer aboard.”

  Lieutenant Pike waved the tattered signal in acknowledgement. “Turn out the Duty Watch, I am going to bring the boat aboard, no more trips today.”

  As the Quartermaster pulled out his silver call and switched on the Tannoy microphone, Pike watched with narrowed eyes as the motor-boat swung up to the main gangway and hooked on with its usual precision. His glance shifted to the nearest Motor Torpedo Boat, the only one showing a sign of life, as a handful of the Depot Ship’s maintenance party scurried round repairing and replacing the scars of a running battle two nights before, when the young First Lieutenant had been killed, as so many had been from this flotilla.

  As usual the replacement was arriving in the motor-boat. Pike returned the salute of the slim officer who stepped over the gangway, his too-new greatcoat gleaming with rain.

  “Sub-Lieutenant Clive Royce, come aboard to join,” he shouted.

  They shook hands, and Pike ushered him to the first doorway, while two disgruntled members of the Duty Watch collected the baggage of the latest arrival.

  “Go below to the wardroom,” said Pike. “The Commander is in there at the moment and he’ll want
to see you right away.”

  Royce nodded, and stepped into the passageway. Immediately, the sounds of the storm were muffled, and a feeling of security surrounded him. He stripped off his greatcoat and cap, straightened his uniform, and had a quick glance in the mirror outside the old-fashioned door marked “Wardroom.” He had a pleasant face, with eager, grey eyes, and a firm but generous mouth. His hair, now flattened by cap and rain, was dark almost to the point of being black. Taking a deep breath, Royce slid the door to one side and stepped in. The wardroom had once been the first-class saloon in the old ship’s early days as a small passenger and cargo vessel, and had a prosperous, rather Edwardian look about it. The sides and deckhead were oak-panelled and carved in ornate designs, and a long, polished bar completely lined one end. The whole room was littered with dumpy, red-leather chairs and sofas, all well-worn but comfortable looking, and most of them were occupied by youthful officers who lounged about reading magazines, listening to the radio, or just dozing.

  A round-faced, cheerful-looking Commander leaned against the bar listening to a serious Lieutenant, who kept pounding the bar as if to emphasize a point that was beyond anyone else’s comprehension.

  Royce coughed nervously. “I was told to report direct to you, sir. My name is Royce.”

  “Well now, I’m Commander Wright, and I do all the ‘crewing’ of the boats here, so I’ll get you fixed up right away.” He beamed. “And this is your Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Harston, so I’ll leave you to get acquainted, while I arrange your orders.”

  At twenty-three, Harston was already a veteran of the East Coast and Channel warfare, and the first signs of strain were beginning to show on his pale, rather artistic face. Coolly he offered his hand in a surprisingly strong handshake.

  When he spoke, it was with a soft, careful deliberation. “I’ve taken the trouble to look up your particulars in advance, because in this racket we don’t seem to find the time as we go along.”

  He paused while he made a gesture to the barman with his glass, which was ignored in favour of two elderly officers at the other end of the bar.

  With a shrug, he continued, “Terrible service here. Now, let me see. You’re twenty years old, been commissioned three months. Sea experience, three months in an Asdic trawler. You’ll probably notice the difference when you find three and a half thousand horsepower under your feet. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you were beginning to be a marine draughtsman before you joined, any connection?”

  “Well, I’ve always been keen on the sea, small boats, and that sort of thing,” finished Royce lamely.

  “What you mean is, you haven’t a clue, but you’re a hardworking boy, and willing to learn. I only pray you get longer to learn than your predecessor,” he added grimly.

  At the sight of Royce’s crestfallen expression, he relented, in fact his whole personality changed, and a warm, friendly grin spread across his face. “Never mind, tomorrow morning I’ll take you over the boat, and tomorrow night I’m afraid we go out again. In the meantime, we’ll grab this blasted steward and drink to War Savings, or something!”

  As that first evening wore on, Royce had plenty of time to study his superior, and to observe his quick, breathtaking changes of mood and manner. He would re-tell some of his experiences in the flotilla on the East Coast convoy routes, or the mad dashes through the night with the enemy coast only a few yards abeam, telling how and why each operation was a success or a failure, speaking in his soft, precise voice, his blue eyes distant and apparently unseeing, then with a jerk, he would become a boy again, as he recounted incidents like the occasion when he and his friends stole a fire-engine and drove it madly round the town, hotly pursued by the military police. He lay back in his chair and gave his queer, high-pitched laugh. “There was hell to pay over that. But they never caught us. In fact, old Benjy over there has still got a hose in his cabin.”

  Every so often he introduced Royce to his new team-mates, as they drifted in and out of the bar, and he appeared satisfied with the way that he answered the very mixed selection who made up the flotilla’s Commanding Officers. There was Ronnie Patterson, a young, red-faced north countryman, whose language was apt to appal strangers, but who was obviously a great favourite with everybody. Artie Emberson had been a barrister, and looked it. When he spoke in his drawling voice to the steward on the question of drinks, it sounded as if he was questioning a rather dumb witness. “Benjy” Watson was the inevitable practical joker, who had missed many a court-martial by sheer good luck—the last occasion being when he dressed in a captured German officer’s uniform and went to a local cinema. His pointed, pink face split into a beaming smile as he re-told the story.

  “Not a blessed soul took any notice of me,” he roared, “and if I hadn’t given a Nazi salute when I passed two army types, it would all have been a waste of a run ashore!”

  Jock Murray was another whom Royce liked instantly. A small, hard-faced ex-fisherman from Aberdeen, whose family had been trawling the North Sea for generations, he was a man of few words and only one interest, the sea.

  One thing they all had in common, they were old before their time, aged by experiences that Royce could only guess at, and imagine.

  When the bar-shutters fell with a bang that brought a roar of protests, Royce floated, rather than walked, down to the tiny, box-like cabin which was to be his home while in harbour. A newly cleaned and emptied place, where his predecessor had once slept and thought and hoped, and although only dead 48 hours, the last of his earthly traces had already been swept away.

  So Clive Royce went to war, and with the relentless rain lashing the side of his cabin, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Royce’s first morning with the One Hundred and Thirteenth Flotilla dawned fresh and clear, the gale had blown itself out during the night, and only the smell of damp oilskins and a few puddles on the canvas awnings gave a hint of the torrential rain. The whole harbour bustled with activity, as if to make up for a lost day, and as motor-boats and harbour launches scurried to and fro between their parent vessels, ships’ companies and base staff got down to the daily business of preparing their charges for sea.

  As he swung himself down the catwalk from the Depot Ship on to the first M.T.B., Royce was aglow and eager to start, inspired perhaps by the easy confidence of the other officers at breakfast, plus a somewhat ponderous speech delivered by the base Operations Officer about the “nation depending upon these young men in its hour of need,” while Royce shifted impatiently at the top of the gangway. Ah, there she was! Low, grey, and sleek, Number 1991 painted in large numbers on her bow, her decks crammed with overalled figures, one of whom straightened and saluted. A short, chubby, little man, with a battered Petty Officer’s cap tilted rakishly over unruly ginger hair, he put down an enormous wrench.

  “Petty Officer Raikes, sir, Cox’n. I expect you’ll be the new officer?” He had a faint Liverpool accent, and seemed amused by Royce’s immaculate uniform. “The Captain’s aft at the moment, sir, I think he’s expecting you.”

  Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? Royce couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was the hidden bitterness of a junior professional to a senior amateur.

  “Very well, Cox’n,” he nodded, and stepped aft. That was it, he thought, be brief and to the point.

  He found Harston sitting on a smoke float, deeply engrossed in a conversation with a large man in a bowler hat, the sign of dockyard authority.

  Royce smiled, “Reporting for instruction, sir, and a fine morning it is too, after the drenching I got yesterday.”

  Harston stood up quickly, like a cat: “When I want your views on the weather, I’ll let you know,” he snapped. “It may interest you to know that I’ve been here since 6:30, trying to get these repairs finished, and while you no doubt have been indulging in a bit of gossip, and enjoying an excellent breakfast, I’ve also been arranging your duties for you!”

  Royce flushed and stammered, completely taken aback by this unexpe
cted attack. “The Operations Officer stopped me, sir, he was telling . . .”

  “I’m not interested. If you want to be a big pin in a little ship instead of tea-boy in a battle-wagon, you’ll have to get down to it, and forget this barrack routine stuff. We don’t start at nine here, with three hours for lunch, we keep going till the job’s done, and the job right now is to get this boat ready to go out at 2000 tonight!”

  He swung back to the stolid dockyard manager, who had taken a sudden interest in the guard-rails during this tirade.

  His voice now sounded heavy and tired: “Righto, Angus, you’ll do that for me, then? Bless you.” And without a further word, he strode to the catwalk. As he heaved himself over the other M.T.B., he turned and called for the Coxswain.

  “Get those men at work on the guns as soon as you can, I don’t want any more jamming. And get some overalls for Sub-Lieutenant Royce, and then show him the boat, every bit. I’m going to have breakfast, if there’s any left now.”

  Royce watched him scramble up the ladder and out of sight; he was completely shattered. “Phew, was that the chap who told me last night not to worry,” he muttered. “Well, I can see this is going to be just fine.”

  The portly Angus coughed at his elbow. “I’m off, just got to see about some new bolts, an’ that. Now, don’t you worry about him, son, he’s the best that comes, I’ve seen a few, too. Trouble is, he’s been at it too long. I think the poor bloke’s just about had it.” And with a heavy thud on the shoulder, he too disappeared.

  For the next hour, Royce and the Coxswain crawled and scrambled over every inch of the M.T.B.’s 85 feet, the latter pointing out this and that he felt would be of immediate interest, but reserving his more personal observations until he found out with what sort of an officer he had to deal.

  As he confided to the Petty Officer Motor Mechanic, “Pony” Moore, later in the morning over their “tots,” “You never know with these Wavy Navy types, some of ’em listen like babes while you try to stop them making fools of themselves, and the next thing you know you’re on Defaulters ’cause you haven’t done the job to their liking!”