A Prayer for the Ship

by Douglas Reeman

  Emberson shouldered his way through the crowd. “Ah, Grace, my beloved,” he called, “could my friends and I have three large pints, and three halves of your very best cider.”

  Grace beamed. “Oo, sir, I thought you’d be out tonight, what a nice surprise.”

  “So much for security,” said Emberson, with mock sadness.

  Royce eased his way through the crush, and plucked at his sleeve. “I don’t like cider; thanks, the beer’ll do.”

  “Shurrup, nitwit!” hissed Emberson. “It’s Scotch! What do you want to do, start a riot in here?”

  They found a small table, conveniently abandoned by the R.A.F., and sat back, stretching luxuriously.

  Harston drank deeply. “The friendliest joint in the town,” he smiled, “and with Artie’s influence over the queen there, we are more or less well in for the duration.”

  “Dear me,” replied the lawyer. “A most unfortunate expression. When will you realize that my feelings for the wee Grace are just platonic.” He regarded Harston solemnly. “You, sir, have no soul. How can you keep the respect of young Clive here, if you can’t learn to moderate your approach to the fair sex.”

  Royce relaxed in his chair, enjoying the wrangling of his companions, and feeling for the first time accepted into the close fraternity which he had chosen a year—a lifetime—ago.

  The evening wore on, and the bar filled to its uproarious capacity, while from the radio Vera Lynn did her best to comfort the nation’s young men elsewhere. Here in the White Hart her efforts seemed wasted. Royce’s mind swam happily, and he seemed vaguely unable to prevent his face from slipping into a vast smile of good fellowship. His detached thoughts were shattered by a mighty slap on the shoulder which made him cannon into the table, nearly causing a disaster.

  Benjy Watson’s shiny pink face floated over them, and behind him two other officers of the flotilla struggled manfully with a large parcel.

  “My dear old soaks!” he boomed. “I’ve had the most ghastly night; these two dreadful characters have been leading me astray.” He silenced their protests with a wave of a huge fist. “You know I wanted the ‘Save for Victory’ banner from the post office to go round my bridge? Well, these silly baskets got me so flustered, I got the wrong one. It’s all about a Dog Show! I ask you, a Dog Show! I haven’t got a dog!” He pulled a bottle from one jacket pocket, and a glass from the other, while the others howled with laughter at this latest crazy episode.

  “You lunatic!” roared Harston. “No wonder we’re always at sea, this town isn’t safe from you!”

  With the arrival of the irrepressible Watson and his accomplices, the quiet party was shattered, and Royce’s sides ached, as he found himself caught up in an act that would have made a small fortune on any variety stage.

  The lights had just been dimmed to herald “Last Orders”— shouted announcements would have been useless—when the curtains parted, and above the milling bodies, a blue steel helmet, with the word “Police” painted on the front, could be seen making its way to the bar.

  Benjy’s jaw dropped, and a look of complete horror crossed his face.

  “Christ! I’ve been rumbled at last, and caught with the loot too!”

  He wheeled rapidly to his grinning companions. “Don’t stand there like a shower of silly oafs, get rid of that banner, and let’s get out of here!”

  As one man they downed their drinks, the parcel skidded beneath the legs of two startled airmen, and in a compact, if unsteady, body they forced their way to the doors. Even as they reached the curtains the policeman yelled out above the din, “An air-raid warning has just been sounded, so be careful you don’t show any lights when you leave.”

  Benjy was hustled protesting up the street.

  “But what about my banner?” he implored. “All that trouble for nothing. I’ll do that silly copper if I ever see him again.”

  Harston chuckled. “Time for bed, little man, it definitely was not your day for carrying the banner.”

  Still laughing, they arrived at the barbed-wire enclosure of the harbour area, and automatically straightened themselves as they produced their identity cards to the weary sentries. Benjy was still muttering and bewailing his loss when they reached the windswept pier, and only when they split up and went to their cabins on the Depot Ship did he start to smile.

  “You just wait, I’ll get you something really worthwhile next time,” he promised.

  Royce was past caring. He was happy, and the Navy was just too wonderful for words.

  The flotilla swept gaily through the boom-gate, weaving and dipping in the easy swell, as they picked up their stations on the Leader. A keen breeze swept over the tiny bridge of M.T.B. 1991, as Royce listened to the hands in the various parts of the boat reporting that they were “Closed up to exercise action,” the normal practice when leaving harbour, to ensure that all sections were working correctly. As the last reported, “Port Oerlikon closed up, sir,” Royce informed the Captain that all was well.

  Harston hardly seemed to notice. He was visibly excited, and in fact, new life seemed to have crept into the whole crew, as this was not just another patrol, not another aimless battle with the weather. The sweep by the destroyers on the previous night had broken up three enemy convoys off the Dutch coast, and the R.A.F. had reported that they were making an effort to reform and press on up the coast, doubtless loaded with vital supplies for the armies in Denmark and Norway, and for the German Baltic fleet. The flotilla’s job was to intercept and destroy the rearmost convoy. All morning they had laboured with the maintenance staff to get everything in first-rate order, and extra care had been taken as the long, evil-looking torpedoes had been greased and slid into the tubes on either side of the boat, and now, as the low coastline was swallowed up in the dusk astern of them, they all knew that this was to be another supreme test of their skill in the handicraft of war.

  “Defence stations now,” said Harston, “and make sure everyone gets a good whack of food during the next two hours. And we’ll get some corned beef sandwiches laid on for the return journey too. I think they’ll have earned it by then.”

  Harston went below for his customary cat-nap, and half of the crew followed his example, in order that they could be fed in two watches. No longer did Royce tremble at the loneliness of the bridge; in fact, he enjoyed the feeling of complete power that he had over the lithe, trembling hull beneath his feet. As Harston had told him that first day, he now knew the difference between a trawler and this three-and-a-half-thousand horsepowered killer.

  On and on they went, and as the sky darkened they met a solitary destroyer on patrol, creeping along like a great grey shadow, in the hopes of surprising a raider, or assisting some convoy straggler.

  The new signalman, Collins, a stolid north-countryman, turned his head. “Signal sir, from destroyer: Should you be out alone so late? Any reply, sir?”

  “Make: If we had been E-boats, we’d have been picking you out of the drink by now! ” snapped Royce.

  There was a chuckle, as the lamp clattered away in the corner of the bridge.

  “No answer, sir.”

  An hour later they were reinforced by a strong flotilla of Motor Gunboats from Harwich, the “pocket battleships” of Coastal Forces. Their purpose was to cover the withdrawal after the attack had been pressed home. Signals flashed, and the boats jockeyed to and fro, until the M.T.B.s had formed into two parallel lines ahead, with the M.G.B.s three miles astern, then silence enveloped the flotilla, and no more signals were made or required, as each captain knew what was expected; it was all just a matter of time. The mighty engines purred obediently as they were throttled down to a minimum speed, and the tiny ships crept stealthily forward, searching, probing. Royce swung his night-glasses in a wide arc, and decided it was time to call the Captain, and seconds later Harston climbed up beside him, fresh and apparently unworried. He took in the situation at a glance. His boat led the starboard column, and Paskins in the Leader led the port column at a dist
ance of about a thousand yards.

  “Action Stations,” he said quietly, and Royce pressed the button that had called sailors from their rest, and to their deaths, the world over.

  Even before the bells stopped ringing, the last man heaved himself into his allotted space, which, for the next few hours at least, would probably decide the fate of the whole boat. The slim barrels of the Oerlikons, and the menacing muzzles of the pom-poms swung back and forth through their maximum arcs, as the crews tested them, and reported automatically to the bridge. The steel hatches clanged shut over the engine room, imprisoning the mechanics in what was at best a shaking, roaring helter-skelter of noise and fumes, and at worst a blazing hell from which there could be little chance of escape.

  “If we can pull this off all right tonight, Number One, I think we can get that refit you want so badly, plus a bit of leave, of course.”

  “That’d be really something, sir,” replied Royce feelingly, for he knew that the boat’s maintenance was becoming a little bit out of hand. A good slipway in the dockyard was what she required now.

  At the prospect of leave, they lowered their glasses and grinned at each other like schoolboys. Royce had long ago decided that Harston should have a rest from active service for a bit.

  “Enemy coast ahead!” sang out the bridge lookouts together, and as they peered across the dark, oily water, they could make out only vaguely the black finger of land which was the start of the low-lying mudflats which abounded in these waters.

  For another half-hour the boats felt their way forward, but no convoy steamed out to greet them, no targets loomed before the gaping torpedo tubes, and the tension on the decks could be felt. Here a man rubbed his eyes savagely, and stared again into the sombre blackness, and there another cursed his mate softly as their bodies touched on the gently rolling gun-platform.

  Royce was not the least affected, and he felt a childish rage consuming him, causing him to rebuke the signalman for lowering his glasses for a few seconds.

  “Those damned airmen have made a mistake,” he muttered. “There’s no convoy, and if there was, they slipped out this morning, blast them!”

  “That’ll do, Number One!” The voice was mild, almost disinterested.

  Royce swore again under his breath, and peered over towards the Leader’s blurred shape on the port beam, and then he saw a shaded signal lamp blinking astern: he must be worried too, to use a lamp so close to the enemy coast.

  “Leader’s signalled supportin’ gunboats to sweep to the south-east, and to report if there’s anything at that end of the coast,” reported Collins. His voice sounded doubtful.

  Still Harston seemed unsurprised and apparently preoccupied with his own thoughts. Royce could faintly make out his outline in the front of the bridge, leaning across the screen on his folded arms, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, which suddenly gleamed white in the gloom as he smiled.

  “Number One,” he spoke softly so that the lookouts and signalman should not hear. “Don’t let this sort of thing get you down; this war’s like a great, stupid puzzle. If we work like hell, and have lots of actions, the boats crack up, and we need boats, more and more of them. If we don’t get a shot at anything, and have month in and month out of peaceful but damned monotonous patrols, then it’s the crews who go round the bend. You just can’t please anybody.”

  He paused and studied his First Lieutenant’s gloved hand as it pounded the rail, softly yet viciously, in a steady rhythm.

  “It’s not that I’m a crack-brained, death-or-glory character, or that I don’t realize that ninety-nine per cent of finding and knocking seven bells out of Jerry is just plain luck,” explained Royce, the words tumbling out of him. “It’s just this constant waiting, and not knowing.” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  Harston moved swiftly across the bridge, with his quick, cat-like step, and gripped his sleeve urgently, pulling him close to his pale face. When he spoke again, his tone was strange, quite unlike anything Royce had heard from him before, almost fanatical.

  “Never, never feel that you’re wasting your time. Everything we do helps to tie them down, even when we’re not killing them! That’s why I rode you hard when you were sent to me. War is a hard business. Now you’ve made the grade, our grade, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this.” Here he paused and waved his arm towards the hidden coast, and when he continued, he spoke slowly as if spelling out the words: “But I hate those bastards more than any other crawling creature on this earth. I’ve seen what they can do, have done, and’ll keep on doing until we—”

  He broke away with a jerk, as a dull boom and blue flash lit the slowly cruising clouds. Immediately the R-T speaker crackled into life: “Leader calling: the M.G.B.s have struck oil, maximum speed!”

  The night split open as the engines roared into life, and Royce saw their own bow lift before him, as all boats raced off in perfect twin lines, throwing up the great, curving streams, their stems slicing through the water. He flung himself down the ladder to the gun-platform, with a brief impression of Harston hanging over the bucking torpedo sighting mechanism. He seemed to be laughing.

  Now the sky was criss-crossed with tracers, and a small fire blossomed into a full, orange glow, showing a small ship burning and listing on to her side. As they closed the battle, they saw the M.G.B.s circling four trawlers, firing rapidly, and even as they watched, another of them burst into flames, throwing up a fountain of sparks.

  Harston leaned over the screen, beckoning urgently, and as Royce climbed up, he shook his fists wildly. “For Christ’s sake, what are those fools doing? Look at them! They’ve broken formation, and for what?” His voice rose almost to a scream. “Four bloody trawlers! There’s your convoy, Number One! Are you satisfied? No? Well they apparently are!”

  Royce was dumbfounded. “But I don’t see—”

  “Do you want me to spell it for you? They are a decoy! A decoy, and our so-called escorts fell for it, and now we’re in the trap!”

  Royce’s heart went cold as he realized the implication of this new menace, and tried to force his mind to function, but he seemed numb, until Harston seized his arm roughly.

  “Get aft and stand by to jettison smoke floats, and get ready for some fancy shooting.”

  Paskins, too, fully realized their position, and unless he acted promptly, there was nothing to prevent the hunters becoming the hunted. Frantically, he signalled the jubilant gunboats to reform and cease fire, and then formed the torpedo boats into one line, his own boat leading, and Harston’s now fifth, with Emberson following in the rear. There was only one thing to do now, get out into the open sea as soon as possible.

  It was at the very moment of decision, even as the boats began to move off, that the trap was sprung.

  There was a sullen detonation astern of the flotillas, and many thought that it was a trawler blowing up, but doubts were short, as a star shell burst with savage brilliance in the sky at their backs. In a split second the night became day, as they were silhouetted and sharply defined to anything that lay ahead. Blinded, the gunners hugged their weapons. A lifetime passed, in fact four more seconds, then the black wall ahead of them flamed into life, a mad, whirling cone of red and white tracer shells, that screamed overhead and hissed into the churning waters around them, with such a crescendo of noise that they were stunned. Two seconds later, Paskins’s boat reached the maelstrom, and was ablaze from stem to stern, sharp little flames licking out of the bridge superstructure joining those which were eagerly consuming the upper deck. There were two sickening explosions which shattered the craft into a hundred sections, and sent flaming wreckage whirling skywards, and she was gone! Before they could recover from this awful spectacle, they were all in it, twisting and turning to avoid the probing, searching avalanche of fire which flew about their ears! Royce sent the smoke floats thudding into the sea, and soon a pall of smoke would be forming to provide cover or confusion for friend and foe alike. He scr
ambled to the gun-platform, as the twin pom-poms groped blindly for a target, his head splitting with the crash and rattle of the enemy salvoes. Then, for the first time, they all saw their hunters, for the sea seemed full of them. E-boats, their long, dark hulls gleaming with spray as they tore down towards them, and astern of them were half a dozen armed trawlers, not in the accepted sense, but floating gun batteries, protected by steel plates and huge blocks of concrete, behind which the German gunners fired and reloaded as fast as a combination of training and hatred would allow.

  “Open fire, first trawler!” yelled Royce, and the pompoms joined in the tattoo with a steady bang-bang-bang, their twin tracers lifting and dropping towards the hunched, menacing shape of the trawler. The range closed rapidly, five hundred yards, two hundred, one hundred, until they saw their shells rippling along her sides. The Oerlikons and machine-guns added their ear-shattering rattle, as if in desperation, but still the trawler came on, her decks a mass of spitting muzzles.

  Royce felt the boat lurch beneath him as white-hot metal tore into her sides, and something clanged against the gun-shield and screamed away into the night. Another violent flash illuminated the boat, and he saw the mast and aerials stagger and pitch across the bridge. Simultaneously a deafening explosion came from aft, the shock sending him spinning to the deck. He scrambled to his feet, dimly aware that the pom-poms had ceased fire. Leading Seaman Parker sat moaning softly by the ready-use ammunition locker, his face a bloody mask. The other gunners were twisted together in a distorted embrace by the guns. With horror he saw a white hand on the already darkening decks, like a discarded glove.