“When will you learn, Tom, all officers are bastards,” was Moore’s only comment.
Royce did find out, however, that the flotilla was engaged in assisting the two other main East Coast groups operating from Harwich and Yarmouth, with the result that their patrols were more varied and uncertain, and the whole base was kept on a mobile footing.
Eventually they arrived back at the tiny, open bridge. The Coxswain pointed to a speaker in one corner.
“That’s our latest bit of gear, sir, an R.T. link between the group. It enables the Senior Officer to get right on to you at once about the form of attack, etc. It’s a big help at night, I can tell you, ’specially when you can’t use lights, and most likely can’t even see the next ahead.”
“Have any of the boats got Radar yet?”
“Blimey, no, sir!” laughed Raikes, “there’s a queue from Pompey to Benghazi for that lot. The next war’ll be over before we even get a smell!” He suddenly tensed, “C.O.’s coming aboard, sir, I’ll be off after the guns’ crews, the starboard Oerlikon is bloody bad!”
Harston stepped briskly on to the bridge. “How’s it going, Number One?” he drawled. “All buttoned up?”
“Yes, sir,” said Royce coldly, “I’m trying not to make an ass of myself.”
He received a searching glance. “Take it off your back, Number One, we’ve all got to learn. Now shove off to the Depot Ship and get your issue of special clothing, and then report to the Flotilla Commander’s office at eight bells. He likes to meet all his new boys. Before they make asses of themselves,” he added drily.
The office was situated in what had been the Purser’s room, and he was shown straight in to the presence of Lieutenant-Commander Arnold Paskins, R.N.V.R, ex-author, yachtsman, and mountaineer, and now in command of the flotilla, with twenty skirmishes and two D.S.C.s to his credit. He rose from his desk, littered with signals, serial photographs, and charts, a tall, lanky, but wiry figure, topped by a sharp-featured, well-formed, aristocratic face, with clear, steady eyes.
“Sit down, Royce,” he offered. “I thought that it would be only fair for you to get to know as soon as possible the sort of job you’ve landed in. There’s no other branch in the Service where so much responsibility falls on the most junior officers, chaps like yourself, who only a few months ago were at home doing respectable jobs, or going to school, or like me,” he grinned, “just enjoying life. I’ve studied your reports and I’m satisfied with what I’ve read, so provided the Hun gives you time, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t make the grade. As you know, we’re going out tonight, and if anything goes badly, you might find yourself in command by morning. Could you do it?” Those piercing eyes bored into him.
Royce thought to himself, After this morning’s episode, I think it would be comparatively simple! But he could only answer: “I’ll do my best, sir.”
The interview was ended. As he left the cabin, Paskins returned to the endless mass of the paper war.
The Operations Room in Royston was crowded and noisy as was usual before every sailing-time, and the chairs which were lined in front of the big wall-maps and charts were already filled with Commanding Officers and their “Number Ones,” chatting, or shouting lustily to each other, or making notes and alterations on their own charts. Harston and Royce found a couple of chairs at the front, and having greeted everybody and settled down, the former pointed out the patrol areas on the big master chart. A hush fell on the gathering, and the officers rose to their feet as Commander Wright, Paskins, and an R.A.F. Officer entered the room.
“Sit, gentlemen,” boomed Wright. “You may smoke.”
There was renewed rustle of scraping matches, and clicking lighters, and when all were settled and the pipes were going well, Wright continued: “This is the patrol area for tonight.” He pointed with a long cane. “You will observe that at approximately midnight the local coastal convoy passes the main northbound convoy about here, and as it shows every sign of being a dark and cloudy night, you can expect some trouble.”
The R.A.F. Officer was next. Royce discovered that he was the representative from Coastal Command who gave details of the local flying and air cover in the area. He had a dull, uninteresting voice, and as he droned on, Royce thought over the events of the day, and in spite of himself, he had to smile. The C.O. had been more than helpful and friendly all the afternoon, and had apparently forgotten the morning’s clash of temperaments, and he now sat hunched forward on the edge of his chair, listening intently to everything the officer on the rostrum had to say, his face alight with boyish enthusiasm and keen understanding, apparently unaware that he had nearly caused Royce to lose faith in himself.
The Air Force officer sat down, and the irrepressible Commander Wright jumped to his feet. “Any questions, gentlemen?”
One by one the various Commanding Officers rose and fired their queries. Weather report, enemy shipping movements, recognition signals, and a score of other details, which Royce and the other “second-hands” scribbled on their pads. Eventually the conference ended, and in groups they hurried back to the boats which now rode easily in the gentle swell, as if resting before their ordeal.
As Royce changed into his one-piece waterproof “Ursula suit” he felt himself trembling with excitement, his mind awhirl with the instructions and taut with a determination to give his C.O. no new cause for complaint. There was nobody he could turn to for advice or guidance now, all that was behind him, this was it, the “front line,” and right at that moment he would not have changed places with any other living creature, even considering the great overshadowing sinking feeling caused by fear. Fear of what? He couldn’t be sure whether it was of death, or of not making the grade. He gave the zip-fasteners a final jerk, clapped on his cap, and stepped out on deck.
Harston leaned over the side of the bridge, having a shouted conversation with Artie Emberson in 1993, moored alongside. The latter waved a copy of the Daily Mirror.
“I see that some chappie in the House of Commons says we are expendable, so we will have to keep our petrol engines, diesels are too expensive for us apparently. So in future, old man, when you burst into flames, remember, nobody loves you!”
Harston grinned: “I’d like to have had some of those perishers with me on the last trip, they might have learned what it’s like to float about on top of a time-bomb!”
“Come, come,” drawled Emberson, “you really mustn’t be so bitter, don’t you realize there’s a war on?”
Harston’s next remarks were drowned by a deafening roar, as Emberson’s engines came to life, and Royce smelt the powerful fumes of the high-octane spirit, as smoke enveloped the boats, then the roar toned down to a steady pulsating throb as they ticked over confidently. Emberson wound a bright yellow scarf about his throat, and giving the thumbs-up sign to Harston, he turned away to make final preparations for sea.
“Right,” snapped Harston, as Royce appeared. “Single up to springs and stand by to slip.” He smiled briefly: “Old Artie’s got the fastest boat in the flotilla, and won’t let you forget it, but we’ll show him when we get out.”
On the cramped fo’c’sle, Leading Seaman Parker, a tough, capable man in oilskin and thick leather gauntlets, was supervising the business of preparing the wires for a quick get-away, as he had done so often before, and he shot a steely glance at the new First Lieutenant as he came forward. Like the Coxswain, he wondered how the new boy would behave.
Royce returned the casual salute: “You’re Parker, I believe,” he said. “Carry on and single up to springs, and stand by to slip.”
He was going to add that he wouldn’t interfere with Parker’s routine task, but at that moment he felt the boat shake, and with a series of coughs and snarls the main engines shook themselves awake. He had no idea that these frail craft would stand such a shaking, and he noted with some amusement that Parker’s whole burly frame quivered like a jelly on a plate.
Parker waited until the engines settled to a steady rumble, t
hen shouted: “Is it right we’re goin’ to get a refit after this trip, sir?” His hoarse, cockney voice easily drowned the din, and Royce was even able to appreciate the slightly anxious note in his tone.
“Worried, Parker?” laughed Royce, and the three other seamen who lounged against the guard-rails chuckled.
“I’ve been in this boat long enough to be bleedin’ worried,” answered Parker defiantly, and spat over the side.
Royce coloured at this unexpected outburst, and saw the other seamen tense with expectancy.
“That’s enough of that,” he barked, surprised at the sound of his own voice. “You’ve obviously not been in it long enough to learn to control yourself, now just you stand by those wires!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Parker heavily, and turned his angry eyes away.
Royce turned to the bridge, where the C.O. was peering through his glasses at the signal tower, furious with Parker, and himself. It was becoming more and more obvious to him that there was a great deal more to being an officer than just wearing the uniform. How could he show he wanted to learn, without appearing stupid, and how could he adopt Harston’s easy manner with the crew if it only made him seem weak?
His jumbled thoughts were cut dead by the insistent winking of a powerful lamp from the tower, and Harston’s terse orders.
“Let go springs, bear off forrard,” and to the voice-pipe at his side: “Slow ahead together. Starboard ten.”
As Royce watched, the greasy wires were released by the Depot Ship hands and splashed briefly into the water, from where they were eagerly snatched, before they could wrap themselves around the churning screws, and with a quickening vibration at his feet, the boat swung away from her moorings in a wide arc, to take her place at fifth in the line of the eight boats which were all manoeuvring into an orderly procession heading for the boom-gate. Lieutenant-Commander Paskins, the Senior Officer, led in his newly painted craft, her bold 2001 shining in the setting sun. Royce could see him scanning the flotilla through his glasses, and felt vaguely reassured by his presence. As he returned to the bridge, and reported that the boat was fully secure for sea, the R-T speaker crackled into life.
“Hallo all Captains, this is Leader calling. Keep close station on me, and watch for convoy recognition signals round about midnight. No moon tonight, so don’t creep on to my quarter-deck!”
The speaker popped and went dead. Harston grinned. He seemed more at ease now that he was at sea again.
“What a useful gadget, much better than the lamp. The blessed signalman always gets excited in action anyway, and squirts the signals all over the place!”
The boats slid over the full but gentle swell, into a glorious blood-red sunset, that painted the glittering waters with a million rich and changing hues, and as it grew darker, the boats became dull, uneven blobs on this heaving tapestry of colour.
“I’m going to get a couple of hours shut-eye now,” said Harston. “That’ll give you time to get the feel of her, and I’ll be fresh later on when I’m needed.” He smiled: “All right, Number One, she’s all yours.” And suddenly the bridge was a lonely place.
Royce peered over the darkening fo’c’sle, where the pompom crew, in their bulky clothing, hunched around the gun, and away over the bows, at the twisting stern of Emberson’s boat, and the white froth which seemed to link all the boats together.
From out of space, a tinny voice rattled: “Able Seaman Lewis relieving on the wheel, sir.” Royce groped his way to the now invisible voice-pipe, and acknowledged the message. That meant that the reliable Coxswain had left the wheel and handed over to the usual Quartermaster.
“Cocoa, sir?” A youthful murmur at his elbow steadied the wave of nerves which threatened to make him recall the Captain to his aid, and the Signalman, Mead, a slender, seventeen-year-old who had joined the boat only a month before, thrust a steaming mug towards him. Royce drank gratefully, and felt the thick chocolate radiating through his whole body.
“I needed that, ‘Bunts,’” he smiled. “You’re new here too, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, finished my training last month, and came straight here. I had hoped for a chance to get a commission, but I suppose nobody thought I was the right type,” he grinned ruefully.
Royce, determined to make a success of this encounter, reassured him hastily, and was on the point of promising to take the matter up, when he happened to look ahead again, and with a sickening shock, realized that Emberson’s boat had vanished from view. With a hasty glance at the compass, which told him that they were on the correct course, he yelled down the voice-pipe: “Full ahead together, and watch your course!”
To the horrified Mead he barked: “Make to the next astern: Increase speed and keep station on me .”
Even as the lamp began to clatter, the boat leapt forward with staggering force, throwing up twin banks of foam from either bow, as the high-speed hull lifted from the water like a dolphin. He peered out ahead into the darkness, straining his eyes, and sweating with fear. If he lost the rest of the flotilla on his first trip out, Harston would definitely get rid of him. Damn the cocoa, and the signalman, if only he had . . . a frantic shout came from the pom-pom.
“Boat dead ahead. Dead ahead!”
And there it was, fine on the port bow, with the distance shortening at an alarming rate. His head was suddenly clear, and he felt strangely resigned.
“Hard a-starboard. Stop. Full astern together.”
The boat reeled round to starboard, and the engines screamed in protest. Vaguely from below he heard the crash of breaking crockery, but still they rushed on, until every detail was visible on the other boat. Then, when a crash seemed inevitable, the engines began to tell, and with maddening slowness she slewed round and glided up along the other boat’s starboard quarter.
Saved! He licked his lips, now trembling. “Slow ahead together, Quartermaster, resume previous station.”
Emberson’s loud-hailer clicked on: “Mother, there’s someone at the back door!”
Royce waved to him with relief, and watched anxiously as the other boats astern sorted themselves out and resumed patrol in an orderly line.
He was then aware of Harston’s dark figure below the bridge, and he stiffened for the onslaught.
Instead: “Well done, nothing like livening things up a bit!” and he was gone.
When the Captain returned to the bridge, just before midnight he found the new Number One with his eyes glued to the next ahead, his lesson learned. He smiled to himself. It would not do for Royce to know that the Coxswain had shaken him awake to inform him that the new officer was rushing at full speed into the rest of the flotilla, apparently out of control!
In the far distance, a pin-point of light stabbed at the blackness, and the Senior Officer replied to the challenge, which had come from one of the convoy’s escorts, and the next instant the slowly moving merchant ships were looming past. Coasters, oil tankers, freighters, and all the rest, huge, and yet so helpless, and dependent on the anxious escorts which dashed backwards and forwards around the convoy like ferrets smelling out a rabbit.
Harston jerked his head in their direction. “Rather them than me. Look at those blessed escorts. One destroyer, vintage about 1917, two converted trawlers. It makes you sick; you’ve got your politicians to thank for this state of affairs.”
In a few moments, the convoy was swallowed up by the night, and the anxious business of station-keeping began again, but now Harston remained on the bridge, which was now whipped by a keen breeze that removed all traces of drowsiness from the watchkeepers, and with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, he constantly swept the starboard beam through his night glasses.
“Not much to worry about with that little convoy,” he observed. “It’s the big northbound we’ve got to watch out for. They break up the convoy here to take it through the swept channel, and the E-boats sometimes have a go for the stragglers.” Then he stiffened. “Ah, there she is, right on time.”
A
nd there was another light flashing, far away on the starboard bow, and soon the familiar, hulking shapes of the groping merchantmen were gliding past, their empty hulls rising like giant forts, and their half-exposed screws churning white patches of froth against the inky backcloth. Again the escorts raced back and forth, through their cumbersome charges, but a stronger guard this time, two destroyers, and some corvettes—taking no chances.
Ship after ship rolled past, till Royce lost count, and then, with a final protesting hiss of steam from an ancient freighter, they too were gone.
The flotilla swung about to steer north-east, the “top leg” of the patrol area, slackening speed over the dark swell, so that their engines just seemed to be ticking over, and it was again possible to talk without shouting above the din.
Harston rested his chin on folded arms, as he leaned across the screen. “Sorry you joined, Number One?” he grinned.
The other looked up quickly from the dimly lit compass. “I guess I’ll be all right,” he said thoughtfully. “I must say I wish I had the knack of being fierce enough to get things done without worrying about their feelings.” He nodded towards the huddled gun’s crew. “It’s difficult to get people to look up to you without giving them the impression that you’re looking down on them, if you follow me,” he finished lamely.
“Heavens, what a complicated mind you’ve got.” The muffled figure shook with soft laughter. “But I think I know what you mean; it happens to all of us at first. Take my advice, don’t try to be too definite in your ideas until you’ve got to know the lads as individuals; you’ll be right on top line then.”
They lapsed into contented silence as a can of hot, sweet tea was heaved on to the bridge, the scalding liquid running through Royce like a fresh confidence.
One of the bridge lookouts lowered his glasses. “Leader’s turning, sir, comin’ back down the line.”
A Prayer for the Ship Page 2
