Westbound, Warbound

by Westbound, Warbound (retail) (epub)

  Andy went ashore in the Liberty Inn launch at about seven with a crowd of others, including the two cadets and Halloran. They were all in civilian clothes, as was de rigueur in a neutral port; identifying themselves only by wearing on their jackets the new Merchant Navy lapel badge – silvered letters MN under a crown – which had been issued to them during the ship’s stay in Durban. At the Inn, which had formerly been some kind of warehouse, the four of them had beers and Janner’s customary soft drink together, Halloran paying for the first round and Andy for the second; Halloran holding forth on the fact he’d never had the kind of start they were getting, had never been a cadet, only a poor bloody apprentice, thirteen years old and five foot fuck-all, given all the filthiest jobs and no damned instruction, no help of any kind, whatever you’d wanted to know you’d had to find out for yourself. Interrupting this by jerking a thumb towards a grey-haired English-woman at a desk with a notice on it reading ENQUIRIES AND LOCAL INFORMATION, and challenging the cadets with a muttered, ‘Half a crown to the man who asks her where’s the red-light district.’ Neither of them was keen to take him up on it. He jeered, ‘I’d tell her. In the old town – Ciudad Vieja they call it – vicinity of Piedras y Juan Carlos Gomez. If you can get your tongue round that.’ Soon after this he announced that he was off; had wanted to give this place the once over, was all, and as church halls went, he supposed it wasn’t bad. To Andy then: ‘Don’t care to tag along?’

  ‘No. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Once a year’s your lot, eh?’

  Andy gave him time to get clear, then told the cadets he’d see them later and went for a look round on his own. Spent no money, enjoyed the bright lights and carnival atmosphere, politely declined a couple of invitations and got an idea of the layout of the town – this end of it at any rate. Then back to where the beer was cheap and not too bad – it was American, came in screw-top cans not unlike Brasso tins – and food came in such forms as baked beans with sausages, fish and chips, sardines on toast, apple pie and ice-cream. This time he joined Batt Collins, who had the carpenter – Postlethwaite – with him, and trotted out the old chestnut about beer being sent for analysis and the report coming back: ‘this horse is not fit for work’.

  * * *

  Wireless reception was erratic, in the Antepuerto anyway, and no listening watches were being kept. It was Todhunter who brought the news, on 7 December, of yet another sinking by the Graf Spee. Andy saw the agent’s launch coming out to them, and the diminutive, now familiar figure in its pork-pie hat in the sternsheets; he sent a man up to warn the Old Man that he had a visitor, and was at the gangway himself to meet him and take him up.

  ‘Well, Mick?’ The Old Man, buttoning his shirt, emerging from his cabin doorway. He’d dined ashore with the Todhunters last night, and had obviously been enjoying a ‘one-to-three’.

  Todhunter said, ‘Came to tell you the Graf Spee’s been at it again. Here, see this.’

  Transcription of a distress call. ‘RRR – SS Streonshalh – under guns of Graf Spee in 25 degrees 1 minute south, 27 50 west. Abandoning –’

  ‘Cut off at that point. Want to see it on your chart?’

  ‘Yes. Yes…’

  Up to the bridge and to the table, where Andy spread out the appropriate Admiralty chart – number 4007 – and marked that position on it. The Old Man muttering, sliding steel-framed glasses on, ‘Martin Vas islands, vicinity of. Still making for this coast, not a doubt of it.’

  ‘And’ – Andy, pointing at the mainland – ‘due east of Vitoria, our next port of call?’ He checked it with dividers against the latitude scale. ‘Six hundred miles east.’

  ‘December seventh today. If we finish here on the twelfth – then four days’ steaming – sixteenth. But (a) the bugger won’t hang around twenty-five south for ever, and (b) we might have the Royal Navy with us by then – please God.’ A glance at Todhunter. ‘Know anything about this Streonshalh, Mick?’

  ‘She was up-river here at Rosario ten days ago. Took on five thousand tons of Argentinian wheat for London. She’s – was – three-eight-nine-five gross, owners Marwood of Whitby, and they’d routed her to Freetown to join a homebound convoy.’

  ‘Did your homework, then.’ Old Man patting his pockets, then giving up – pipe left in cabin. Gesturing towards the chart: ‘Freetown, though. I wouldn’t’ve routed her that way, knowing what was out there in the middle.’

  ‘Well,’ Todhunter protested, ‘no one could have known, Josh –’

  ‘After the Doric Star and the Taroa?’

  ‘Doric Star sinking was December second, Taroa on the third. As I said, she started out ten days ago, so –’

  ‘All right. Point taken. Thick-headed this afternoon. Something I had to eat last night, maybe. Any road, we know now, don’t we. Hope and pray the Royal Navy does, too. Thanks for coming out, Mick.’

  5

  On 12 December the last of the coal was out of her by noon, and within a half-hour a tug had come for that half-filled lighter. Deckhands were casting it off now, frayed old ropes flopping over, and the tug’s tall, slim funnel belching smoke as it dragged the barge off the ship’s side. Hoses had been running for some time, sluicing down decks; the next day or day and a half on the way up-coast would be spent washing and scrubbing out the holds, preparing for the load of iron ore they’d be embarking at Vitoria.

  Graf Spee permitting. There’d been no distress calls and no reports of her since her destruction (presumably, destruction) of the Streonshalh five days ago, and there was intense speculation, afloat and ashore, as to where she might be by this time. In five days, shifting her ground at, say, twenty knots, covering something like 500 miles a day, by now she could be almost anywhere. The Old Man’s theory – in discussion mainly with Chief Engineer Hibbert in the saloon on Sunday – had been that as the Streonshalh had managed to put out that distress call including her position, and the Graf Spee’s captain would have been very much aware of it, might well have retreated into mid-ocean, be dwelling a further pause out there before starting back in again to these rich hunting grounds.

  ‘Could have reckoned on the Andrew being hereabouts by the time he’d’ve been. So he’d sheer off…’

  ‘The Andrew’ was a colloquial term for the Royal Navy. Of whose likely movements, presence or absence, there’d been rumours galore. Most of them concerned a cruiser force which the STO in Cape Town had told the Old Man had been deployed at some earlier stage between Port Stanley, Rio and the Plate. This would have been the South American squadron, which Todhunter too had known about but had no idea of its disposition now. Another rumour was one Todhunter had picked in the English Club, where he’d overheard a visiting nabob from the USA asking Mr Eugene Millington-Drake, British Minister at the Legation in Monte, whether it was true that the battlecruiser Renown and aircraft-carrier Ark Royal were due here shortly. The Minister had shown considerable surprise, then exclaimed, ‘If they are, my dear fellow, by Jove won’t we have a party!’

  You could interpret that in half a dozen different ways. Millington-Drake was, Todhunter said, by no means as light-headed as that might have indicated – might have been intended to indicate. In fact he was an astute and well-liked diplomat, and as it happened a personal friend of long standing of the Uruguayan Minister for Foreign Affairs, Dr Alberto Guani. While the men he’d been entertaining in the club that lunchtime, Todhunter had discovered afterwards, were a Royal Navy captain by name of McCall, naval attaché at the embassy in Buenos Aires, and a man by name of Ray Martin who was generally believed to be ‘some kind of cloak-and-dagger merchant’ also linked to that embassy. Between the three of them, Todhunter had surmised, they might well have had an answer to the Yank’s question; on the other hand, maybe they hadn’t – this argument being advanced by Hibbert, the engineer, who as well as being exceptionally large, was a slow-spoken man who read a lot and Andy thought was cleverer than he looked. He’d queried why diplomats, spies or even naval attachés ashore should be provided w
ith information about ships or squadrons at sea, intelligence that would surely be closely guarded and which no one in the Legation, let alone the English Club, could really need. Mightn’t that get-together have been more or less routine hobnobbing, a mainly social business? If they’d had secrets to discuss, wouldn’t they have done it in the Legation – or on private premises?

  Todhunter had shrugged – maybe, maybe… As a ships’ agent, he admitted, while he had frequent dealings with the Consulate, he had no business at all with the Legation, was not either functionally or socially in that league.

  On Sunday, though, in that debate in the saloon, the Old Man had elaborated on his own suggestion that the Graf Spee might have turned back into the deep blue yonder; what if she’d done so not only to evade hunters who might have picked up her trail by then – in fact surely would have – but also turned on to what had been the SS Streonshalh’s route from the Plate to Freetown. Since he might well not have known that British tonnage was being routed that way, but having by chance come across the Streonshalh, could have reckoned on there being other potential victims on the same route. If his boarding party had found the Streonshalh’s papers, for instance – in other words, if her skipper hadn’t got rid of them before a boarding party reached her. Several British steamers had left this place homebound during the week PollyAnna had been here; one had sailed only that forenoon. And if the battleship was out there – staying well out of sight from shore, of course, on the great-circle route from the Plate to Freetown, and doing his damnedest to ensure that his victims did not get out any calls for help…

  ‘Like a bloody great shark waiting for its dinner!’

  Shaw, third engineer, had said that, and for a moment it had hung in the air somewhat chillingly – until the Old Man defused the notion, pointing out that the Anna would not be shaping course for West Africa. Far from it – he intended hugging the coast all the way up to Vitoria.

  That German freighter, incidentally, had shifted yesterday from the Antepuerto to a quayside berth in a section of the docks called Darsena 1, allegedly to embark general cargo. Whether she’d been waiting for the berth or for the cargo to arrive wasn’t clear. But Halloran had queried whether she mightn’t be a supply ship for the Graf Spee. She’d arrived in ballast after all, which suggested she’d have discharged a full cargo elsewhere on this coast, but mightn’t she have discharged it into the raider? And now come in for replenishment which would no doubt be manifested to some German port but might actually get no further than a rendezvous in mid-ocean?

  * * *

  A tug brought a water barge alongside during the lunch hour, and Tom McAlan went to ensure that pumping it into PollyAnna’s fresh-water tanks commenced immediately. Fresh provisions had already been embarked, bunkers filled, and the deep tanks forward and aft flooded: standard practice, when the holds were empty, trimming her down both to reduce the tendency to roll and ensure the propeller was at least submerged.

  Sailing time was set for six p.m.

  * * *

  Andy wrote to Liza,

  When I have reason to believe I may be home in the reasonably near future I’ll write again. I won’t be able to say anything in the letter about getting back – there’s a lot one isn’t allowed to say, for obvious reasons – but simply getting a second letter from me will signal that with any luck, crossed fingers etc, it may not be many weeks before I’ll be home. What I’d suggest is that when you next hear from me, if you’re being shipped off to some wrennery, you might let my mother know where you are or will be. Tell her I’ve suggested you might do this. Otherwise I wouldn’t know where to find you, and if it took very long to get together – heck, I might be gone again. As people keep saying, there is a war on. But listen – after you’ve had that next letter, if some time goes by and you don’t hear from me, don’t imagine I’m up there learning to play the harp. I might have guessed wrong, been too optimistic – or some higher authority changed its mind and sent us off somewhere else. It was sweet of you to write – lovely surprise, when I’d been thinking about you so much in any case…

  Another piece of advice his father had given him – never admit to anything on paper. No harm in telling her he’d thought about her – that was simply paying her a compliment – but better to stay clear of ‘lovely memories of last summer’ that she’d mentioned, for instance.

  * * *

  Todhunter came on board with the ship’s Customs clearance and other business documents at about four p.m., spent some time with the Old Man, then said goodbye and good luck to the rest of them. No, no news of the Spee, not a whisper. ‘Shouldn’t meet her on the route you’ll be taking anyway. Sure you won’t. Give my love to Blighty when you get there, eh?’ The sack of last-minute mails that he was taking ashore with him was already in the launch; by what route it might be sent that would be quicker than PollyAnna in getting home was anyone’s guess, but you could be sure it would. By air via the USA was probably the answer.

  The motorboat had been hoisted and secured – and provisioned, its essential contents as a lifeboat checked, as had been those of the three other boats – but the gangway was left in place for the convenience of the pilot, who was late, finally arriving at about six-twenty, by which time the cable had been shortened-in and the Old Man was muttering about not needing any bloody pilot anyway, another five minutes and he’d leave without the bugger. In fact it was compulsory to employ one, and the fine for not doing so would certainly have cost Dundas Gore more than the standard pilot’s fee; what was more, the diminutive ‘cruiser’ Uruguay was lying at anchor just off the naval harbour on Punta Lobos, 3,000 yards distant across the neck of the bay; if the port authorities and/or the Uruguayan navy had opted to stand on their dignity, it might have led to considerably greater delay. In any case, the red pilot boat was coming now: Andy saw it come into sight around the end of the stone jetty called Muella A, reported, ‘Pilot’s coming out, sir!’ and the Old Man signalled to Halloran to weigh anchor.

  It wasn’t the same pilot – not ‘Flash Harry’, as that one had been nicknamed. Similar white uniform but less immaculate, and an older, heavier man inside it. As soon as he was on board – the Old Man had sent Andy down to meet him, Halloran being busy on the foc’sl and Fisher looking busy at the chart – Batt’s men were slinging the gangway up and inboard, dropping a Jacob’s ladder over in its place. PollyAnna on the move by then, southward at dead-slow towards the gap between the two stretches of breakwater, men on the decks of other merchantmen waving goodbye and good luck as she slid past them. In all their minds, Andy realised, at each departure, was the question of whether this one might fall in with the German lurking out there.

  Very much like a damn great shark.

  The entrance/exit between the ends of the breakwaters was about 300 yards wide, with light-structures on both, and on the one to port, marked on the chart as Escollera Sarandi, half a dozen men were fishing over its seaward side. Some of them stood up and waved their hats, and the Old Man moved out into that wing, waved back to them. Sea dead calm, sky a milky haze; at this point you were still in full shelter of the land. Pilot directing the helmsman to take her straight on down the channel now – the channel being marked at approximately half-mile intervals by pairs of light-buoys set well back from its dredged centre. He also rang down for slow speed ahead – as distinct from dead-slow speed – so she’d be coming up to four or five knots, with the red cutter following astern. Four knots was the maximum permitted in the channel, although Flash Harry had brought her up it a week ago at nearer ten. It took about fifty minutes anyway, to the Whistle Buoy, was seven-twenty when they stopped to drop the pilot, seven-thirty when they got under way again, with Halloran as officer of the watch, course east by south and revs for twelve and a half knots. Halloran asking the skipper, ‘Steaming and navigation lights, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Old Josh was hunched in the forefront with binoculars at his eyes, scanning the estuary and its outer approaches while there was still some light
to see by, rose-tinted light with the colour deepening as evening faded into dusk. Lowering his glasses, glancing round at Halloran: ‘No, Mister – no lights. Double-up lookouts, end of this watch.’

  So much for that assurance of immunity in inshore waters. Might have given it further thought, Andy guessed, decided that during the hours of darkness the raider might chance his arm and dash in ‘on spec’, as it were – as sharks had been known to do. Navigationally there’d be no problems, since coastal lights were all functioning. One on Isla de Flores, for instance, which would be coming up to port soon after Andy took over the watch at eight, then a couple of hours later Punta Negra, and Punta del Este after that. In Fisher’s watch, Punta del Este would be. But the Graf Spee had RDF – radar – so one had heard.

  He went down to the saloon for supper – a bit late to be called ‘tea’ – which was hake caught on handlines off Montevideo early that same morning, bought directly from the boat on its way back in, and in the past half-hour or so fried in batter. Perfection, absolutely. He was back up top shortly before eight, by which time there was even less light left – a rust-red smear of afterglow astern, and ahead no clear horizon. A white light just discernible to the naked eye and giving two flashes four times a minute on the bow to port had to be Isla de Flores; he went to the chart to check on this, and while he was there freshened his memory of the track and DR positions laid off by Fisher; then he took over the ship from Halloran, who’d smelt the fried fish and was keen to get down to it. The Old Man had already gone down for his – in his day cabin – extra lookouts were closing-up at their stations, and Crown had taken over the helm from Edmonds. PollyAnna merging into the night now: from a distance of even a cable’s length she’d be visible only as an interruption to the dark gleam of the sea’s surface – the stars applying that polish to it – and by the swirling phosphorescence of her passage through it. With the propeller as close under the surface as it was, you could hear it, a regular thrashing beat clearly audible over the engine’s thrum.