An M.T.B. swung away from the sweeping arms of the loading jetties, and crept carefully out into the stream, feeling its strength, then having made up her mind, she gathered way and headed for the Royston. As she turned her wet, shiny sides towards him, he read her large, white numbers quite clearly. It was Watson’s boat. With her huge engines purring magnificently, she cruised gently past, too close as usual, her sweeping fo’c’sle barely five feet clear. Benjy’s red face, rising from a peculiar yellow flying suit and red scarf, was a tonic, and made up for the day’s lack of sunshine.
“’Ow do, chum?” he bellowed. “Coming up to the White Hart tonight?”
“Rather. Haven’t been up there for ages.”
The M.T.B. coasted round, the seamen professionally standing by with wires and fenders, and Benjy raised his megaphone. “Don’t look so envious. We can’t all have good crews!”
Royce shook his fist, laughing. It was good to be back.
The White Hart was crowded that night, and already the air was thick and friendly when Royce, Watson, Deith, and Murray strolled in. They somehow found an empty table and sat surveying the scene, and their glasses.
“Who’s going out first on this crazy patrol stunt?” asked Murray absently.
“Guess,” smiled Deith. “The Guvnor himself, of course, just to be sure that it’s quite safe for us!”
Royce put down his empty tankard, and darted a quick glance at them. “D’you think I can book a room here? Round about Christmas, for a friend, I mean.”
There was an ominous silence, then Murray leaned across with an air of assumed confidence. “Is it a wee bit of fun you’re contemplating, me boy?”
Royce grinned uncomfortably. “No, it’s nothing like that, you’ll be sorry to hear. As a matter of fact I met a girl, but then you know her. What the devil am I trying to explain it to you for?” he exploded.
“Come, come, it’s a Christmas wedding we’ll be having!” Benjy was jubilant. “Drinks all round!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, you’re like that Cox’n of mine. You can’t tell him anything about personal matters without getting a peculiar look!”
It turned out, however, that the hotel boasted six rooms to be exact, and the landlord, after studying Royce carefully, said he would keep one vacant until further notice. That wasn’t too difficult for him, as he rarely had any paying guests at all, but somehow he made it sound like a gracious favour. As he said later to his wife, it was most unusual for a sailor to book a room for one. Ah, well, things were changing all the time.
By the time Royce got back to his table, he found Benjy in earnest conversation with two well-painted, and somewhat middle-aged ladies, who were sipping large gins, and giggling loudly, flashing their eyes round the bar, as if to announce their new conquest to all and sundry.
“Blimey, dear, you are the bleedin’ limit, you are!” cooed the first, whose make-up appeared to have been applied with a paint brush. “What d’you take us for?”
Benjy shot a broad wink at the others, and patted her plump knee. “Ah, here he is. I was just telling them you’ve been trying to find two bridesmaids for your wedding!”
Deith grinned wickedly. “One of ’em was Miss Chatham of 1918 too!”
“Saucy little bugger, ain’t he?” sniffed the second lady, who was definitely swaying a little.
But, like all women of their type, they took the rough humour like a kitten takes cream.
As they rolled happily back to the pier, Royce was still being ragged unmercifully, and was almost thankful to feel his own deck under his feet once more. He would have to protect his Julia from all that, he decided. She might get the wrong impression.
Early morning showed a trio of corvettes, and three Asdic trawlers, slipping their moorings, and making their way to the boom-gate. The local escort group were on the move, quite unaware that Intelligence had forecast their routine task as being the mainspring of the trap. Somewhere out across the grey, mist-shrouded horizon, perhaps even now, the fast minelayers were loading their deadly eggs in readiness. Royce watched them go, listening to the slap of their wakes against his boat, and then resumed his breakfast. We shall see, he mused.
The morning was uneventful, except that an air of eager readiness hung over the flotilla. All the boats were fully ammunitioned, stored, and had fuel tanks well topped up. Only essential work took any of the men ashore, and then only within the dockyard.
Royce and Carver stood side by side on the tiny quarter-deck, smoking their pipes, and watching the sea-gulls, swooping and screaming as the cook emptied his gash-bucket over the side.
“What sort of photography did you do before you joined, Number One?”
“Oh, all sorts: free lance, dress models, anything really. If I could have done some of this stuff,” he waved towards the ships, “I’d have made a packet.”
“I suppose you met plenty of women on that work?” Royce was casual.
“Oh Lord, yes, I’ve had my moments!” He laughed bitterly.
“Nice, were they?”
Carver turned towards him, his eyes glinting. “Some of them. But if I may say so, none of them compared at all favourably with your Wren, from what I could see through my glasses!”
Royce looked astounded, and coughed hastily. “Oh, er, yes.”
Carver grinned unhelpfully. “The sun is over the yardarm, sir, allow me to buy you a gin!”
Leach was slumped in a chair reading yesterday’s paper.
“Two pinks, Mid, and make it snappy. And have a lemonade yourself!” said Carver affably.
“Soon be time to get the wardroom decorated, chaps,” said Royce, making himself comfortable. “I think we’ll have a few guests aboard.”
They were discussing the possibilities, when the Quartermaster appeared at the door. “General recall, sir. All boats to report when all hands on board.”
Royce put down his glass carefully, digesting this information. “Very good. Have we anyone ashore?”
The Quartermaster, a raw youth from Plymouth, with the peculiar name of Sax, frowned. “Only the postman, sir, an’ he’s due back now.”
So this was it; something more than rumour was on the wind.
One by one the boats reported “Ready for sea” to an impatient Kirby, and after a further exchange of signals they slipped quietly, and fell in line behind the Leader, making for the open sea. Once clear of the boom, they opened up their throttles, and snarled away from the local traffic, making an impressive and much-resented wash.
On the bridge, Royce was making last-minute arrangements for all emergencies which might arise with his unblooded crew.
Carver was making a great show of station-keeping, and taking careful note of the other boats. As junior ship, they held the position of last in the line; quite satisfactory really, as it meant that at night you only had to keep station on the next ahead, without the additional panic of some ambitious skipper hitting you hard in the rear. Royce smiled to himself, as he knew from experience that Carver was watching his every action, so that when left in sole command of the bridge he would overlook nothing. So long as I don’t forget anything as well, he mused.
Eight shining hulls, keeping perfect formation, they scudded along the choppy, grey surface, throwing back a dirty yellowish spume, which rose crisply from the sharp bows and rolled away on either beam, flattening and mingling with the uneasy waters. Kirby, in his newly arrived boat, 2002, led the flotilla, and Watson, as Second-in-Command, was fifth in the line. Royce levelled his glasses ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of Kirby’s new First Lieutenant, a young, ginger-haired fellow called Crispin, but the small forest of stumpy masts and flickering ensigns obscured everything but an indistinct blob. Poor chap, he thought, not a very nice appointment for a new boy.
“It’ll be dark in about an hour and a half,” he said, glancing round, “I expect Kirby’ll order ‘Test guns’ soon.”
“D’you think we’ll be all right if we meet this little lot?” Carver lowered his voic
e.
“Oh sure, we’ll be all right. But you must impress on your gunners to hold their fire until they’re quite sure of a target. Otherwise it’s so damned confusing for the bods on the other boats.”
Kirby’s lamp began to wink.
“Test guns, sir,” reported the signalman quickly.
Royce glanced at him sharply. This was Paynton, an undersized boy of about eighteen, his wide eyes nervous already. That wouldn’t do; so much depended on him at all times. Royce made a mental note on future morale boosting, and then nodded to Carver.
“Right ho, Number One, I want every gun to fire a short burst on a safe bearing, but until they get used to it, I want each gun to fire separately. Check ’em yourself.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
For some reason he started with the heavy Browning machine-guns aft, probably to be out of vision from the bridge. After a pause they burst into life, a muffled and insistent rattle, like a million woodpeckers hard at work. Next the port Oerlikon. A bit wild here: the burst was much too long. That was A. B. Rush, a big, pimply-faced man from Kent. Rather a sullen type he appeared to Royce. Trevor, on the starboard Oerlikon, behaved like a concert pianist. He caressed his well-greased gun like a delicate instrument, then with a final pat, he fired a short, steady burst, the tracers whistling smokily away towards the horizon. A cool enough gunner there, all right. Leading Seaman Denton performed comparatively well too on the big Bofors cannon on the fo’c’sle. It was an intriguing weapon, which had its ammunition inserted in clips like a giant rifle, and fired in a sharp, remorseless series of ear-splitting cracks. Denton would be all right anywhere. A little old for Coastal Forces perhaps, but very dependable. His crew, an A. B. named Manners, who looked for all the world like a jovial hippopotamus, especially now, in his shiny oilskin, and Larkin, a little Ordinary Seaman from Ireland, also seemed happy enough, and had already neatly christened the gun “Vera” with bold, imposing lettering.
Carver came back smiling. “All right, were they? I thought they were quite good really.”
“Bloody awful!” answered Royce cheerfully. “Now you take over the con. I’m going to have a word with the torpedo crew.”
And relishing the open-mouthed expression of dismay on Carver’s face, he lowered himself to the deck.
The L.T.O., Currie, saluted. “Tubes correct, sir.” He was a ruddy-faced young man, with the easy confidence of the mechanically minded. His two assistants, Barlow and Ash, both very new and very young, stood silently watching their Captain, as his quick glance took in the long, slender tubes poking out from either side of the bridge, their intricate mechanism coyly shrouded with little canvas spray hoods.
“Very good. I just wanted to impress on you that, although the guns do a helluva lot, you are the chaps I want to carry right up to the Jerry’s front door, where you can get rid of your babies.”
He let his words sink in. He remembered the trawler crossing his sights, the noise and the pain. God preserve these three from all that.
“Where d’you come from, Ash?” he asked suddenly. The short figure in the sturdy Ursula suit stiffened. “From Surrey, sir,” he faltered.
“Oh, what part?”
“Dorking, sir. I was a delivery boy at the big butcher’s there, sir.”
“I’m a Surrey man, too,” said Royce pleasantly. “And what about you, Barlow?”
“I was a runner, sir,” he grinned apologetically.
“A what?”
“’E means a bookie’s runner, sir,” explained the L.T.O. “A good skive before the war.”
Royce returned to the bridge. What a delightful occupation, a bookie’s runner, but what would be shown at the labour exchange, I wonder?
Leach had joined Carver, and they both turned to greet him.
“It’s getting awfully cold,” observed Leach, wrinkling his freckled nose distastefully. “I wonder if I could arrange some kye?”
“Yes, and fix it for all hands, on and off watch, while you’re at it,” added Carver.
Royce nodded approvingly. The lessons were being learned.
Leach scurried below to organize the glutinous mixture beloved by all British sailors, and Royce stood by the screen, narrowly watching the next ahead—2003, another new Fairmile, commanded by a hatchet-faced Lieutenant named Mossbury. He had been transferred from Harwich, and was already showing signs of strain. A bit “bomb-happy” they said. He saw with interest that his crew were exercising at the smoke floats or something. Didn’t believe in slackness anyway.
Whatever lay ahead, on the sullen horizon, the boat felt good, growling away beneath him, making all the bridge fittings chatter in harmony. Sax, the Quartermaster, gripping the wheel in gauntletted hands, whistled softly through his teeth, his mind elsewhere, while Paynton was clumsily splicing a new flag halyard, apparently engrossed.
“Going to be a clear night, Number One,” he announced at length. He looked at his watch. “We’ll split into pairs at sixteen-thirty. Kirby and Page are going in first, to smell out the ground.”
Carver rubbed his hands vigorously. “Let’s hope something starts soon then.”
More cocoa, more signals, and they found themselves beginning to lose sight of details on the next ahead: the ominous signs of a sudden nightfall were making themselves apparent.
At the prearranged time the boats split up and, like the tentacles of an octopus, they moved from a central pivot, reducing speed, and coasting smoothly over their allotted areas. Their own companion was to be Deith, in 1815, and as the others faded like shadows into the deepening gloom, the latter swung his boat parallel and hailed them.
“We’ll keep about two cables apart! If anything happens it’ll come from the south-east.”
That was now on their port quarter.
“Just the night for them, too!” shouted Royce. “Three local convoys out, no moon, but nice and clear!”
With a few more comments, they drew apart, and settled down on their lonely patrol. Somewhere behind them, Kirby would be manoeuvring into position to get behind any enemy vessel which ventured into this area of the Channel.
“If they come out, won’t they be heavily escorted?” Carver’s face was a dark shadow by his side.
“No, they depend on speed. If they’re spotted they beat it without dropping a thing. They don’t want half the sweepers in the Home Fleet up here undoing all the good work.”
Leach appeared. “Well, how far in do they expect to get?”
“Oh, they’ve managed to get pretty close to the coast before now I understand. It’s not so much the number of ships they sink, in actual fact, it hasn’t been many, but they tie up every blessed thing while the poor sweepers are going over the whole blessed area.”
“Hmm, what a waste,” observed the thoughtful Carver. “I suppose if we catch them, they’ll send out some more?”
“Maybe.” Royce sucked on an unlit pipe. “But if we don’t catch ’em, well, it might mean that the Mid here’ll miss his Christmas in harbour!”
“And my C.O.” said the Midshipman quickly. They laughed.
“Split up, and check all the guns. I know it’s been done, but I want to be sure that the loading numbers keep a steady flow of ammo, if required, that is.”
Having got rid of them, he turned his attention to the signalman. “How d’you feel, Bunts? Bit different from the Signal School, eh?”
“Yes, sir, but I think this is just fine. It’s just that actually being on active service is rather queer. I mean, sir, it’s so unlike any other sort of feeling, isn’t it?”
Royce could sense the boy staring at him through the gloom. “Yes, indeed. You should be quoted in the House of Commons, my lad. I can just hear the Honourable Member for Somewhere-or-Other saying, ‘Active service is rather queer!’ Yes, I think it would go down very well.” He laughed.
“Oh, I’ll be okay when I’m doing something,” said Paynton earnestly. “I’ve got to be.”
“’Course you will, Bunts,” said Royce c
asually. “I’ll have the hide off you if you run up a dirty ensign, or something!” He turned to the dim compass. He’ll be all right. I don’t wonder at his being jumpy, he thought. You feel so naked and unprotected on an open bridge.
“Aircraft about somewhere,” muttered Sax, glancing overhead at the vast ceiling of stars.
“Not much good, even if it’s a Hun,” observed Royce. “We can’t fire at anything but our special target, I’m afraid.”
“Glad they don’t know that too,” said the Quartermaster dourly.
A brisk breeze had arisen, whipping the black, heaving carpet around them into uncomfortable, hard little waves, whilst above them the velvety sky was sprinkled with millions of pale stars, which seemed higher and smaller than usual. Not even a puff of cloud was to be seen, and no moon pointed her finger across the dark surface to guide them. It was perfect for aircraft, but a naval game of hide-and-seek would be extremely chancy. As he ran a gloved hand along the port screen, Royce felt a crunchy crispness under his palm. A sea-frost was forming early, in readiness to make the gunners lose their feet, no doubt. Those gunners, would they keep their heads? he mused. It was comforting to see the brief wake of Deith’s boat in company.
Overhead, the aircraft droned hollowly, as if lost, and then slowly faded away. There was a flurry of foam, as Deith’s boat moved closer again.
“We’ll drift a bit, I think!” he shouted. “We’re most likely to hear something than see any blasted ship in this blackout!”
The motors died away, and they jogged up and down, the silence only broken by the slap of the waves against the hulls, and the rattle of loose equipment on the invisible decks.
Carver had taken up his station on the fo’c’sle, and on both boats the hands were closed up at first degree of readiness. Raikes, who had taken over the wheel, drove one fist into the other, and said nothing. Paynton, his face an oval blob, leaned purposefully over his locker, focusing his glasses astern. Occasionally there would be a cough, or a nervous laugh from the deck beneath them, followed by a quick rebuke from some equally well-hidden authority, then there would be only the sea noises once more. A large fish jumped violently out of the water close to the boat, and fell with a heavy plop, before any comment could be made. The flag halyards shook and rattled in the keen breeze, and a pencil rolled off the chart table with the clatter of a tree falling.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 18
