HMS Saracen

by Douglas Reeman

  The ship trembled, and he heard a man curse as an ammunition belt jangled sharply against the steel plates. The monitor’s crew was at Action Stations, and had been for several hours. During the Dog Watches they had first sighted the faint purple smudge along the horizon. As the daylight had faded, and the stars had picked out the clear sky, the ship had felt her way slowly and purposefully towards the coast, every man waiting for discovery and the touch of battle. Nothing happened, and the slow minutes dragged into hours. The same pace. The same sounds. But there was a new smell in the cool air. The scent of land. The smell of dust and smoke.

  `Starboard ten. Steady. Steer one-seven-five.’ A hushed order, and an uneasy movement of feet on the gratings.

  Erskine tried to relax his taut stomach muscles. His whole body felt cramped and strained. Why was this time so different? he wondered.

  He heard Chesnaye say evenly, `Looks like a fair bit of activity in the desert tonight!’

  Just words, thought Erskine. He’s worried. He could find no consolation in the fact.

  It was amazing the way things changed in war, even for individuals. In Alexandria Erskine had reported to the flagship to discuss some arrangements concerning the coning voyage. Quite by chance, it seemed, he had met the Vice-Admiral himself. Beaushears had insisted that he take drinks with him in his quarters, and, flattered, Erskine had accepted. Now, in the darkness, it all looked different. As he relived those friendly, casual moments it almost seemed as if Beaushears had been questioning him, as if the meeting had not been by chance at all. He had not asked direct questions about Chesnaye, yet he was rarely absent from the conversation. Beaushears had shattered Erskine’s normal reserve and caution by announcing casually, `You’ll know in a few days’ time, but I’d like to be the first to tell you the good news.’ Beaushears had smiled, and waited for a few more seconds. `I think you’ll be getting a very pleasant surprise shortly. I happen to know that you are earmarked for a command in the very near future.’ He had watched the surprise changing to pleasure on Erskine’s face. `A destroyer, as a matter of fact.’

  There had been more drinks, which, added to the heat, had made Erskine dazed and openly overjoyed. He could not believe it was happening to him, after the confusion and slurs of Saracen’s behaviour and the threat to his own career.

  Beaushears had chatted amiably and at great length. `We

  need your sort, Erskine. The Navy has got mixed up, slack. We have to put up with every sort of misfit imaginable, but, then, I don’t have to tell you that, eh?’ They had both. laughed, although Erskine was only half listening.

  Beaushears had continued : `I wouldn’t like to see your career damaged in any way because of a superior officer’s ambition or: pigheadedness. It would not be right. I can be blunt with you. I know your record and your family. There was a time when we didn’t mention such things, but things have changed. One man’s behaviour reflects on all those around him. Either way, as local commander I want to know what is happening in the ships under my control. Incidents, actions by my captains, can give me a clear-cut I picture of the over-all efficiency, if you see what I mean?’

  He had questioned Erskine about the Saracen’s inability to help the stricken convoy, even about the man lost overboard. Beaushears had ended by saying offhandedly, `I daresay you might have acted differently were you in command, eh?’

  Erskine had been confused, and tried to reassemble his thoughts. He still could not recall exactly if he had given the Vice-Admiral the impression that he disapproved of Chesnaye’s actions or whether Beaushears had put the words into his mouth. In any case, he was glad to leave the flagship, to get back to his cabin and think about the piece of news Beaushears had given him. A command at last. The waiting and marking time were over. Soon the Saracen and all she represented would be a thing of the past. Like the disinterested wardroom and the endless, futile tasks the ship was called to perform.

  A new ship would mean another change, too. He would have to return to England, and a new life which must exclude Ann. He stirred uneasily at the thought. Perhaps she would understand. Maybe she had guessed that their lightning affair would not last. In spite of his insistence, he could not console himself, or remove the vague feeling of guilt. Inwardly he knew that it had been his indecision and not duty which had stopped him going ashore to tell her the news.

  `Ah, there is is!’ He heard Chesnaye’s voice very close.

  A faint blue lamp stabbed across the water.

  `Make the reply, Yeoman!’ Chesnaye turned in his chair. `The M.L. is here to guide us in.’ He sounded fully awake and relaxed, although Erskine knew how rarely he slept.

  The motor launch’s low shape cut across the bows and then straightened on course, a faint sternlamp glittering to guide the monitor’s helmsman. From inland came the muted rumble of artillery, followed by tiny white peardrops in the sky. Very lights. Erskine shivered. This operation had to be all right. If anything went badly this time, Beaushears would be quick to change his mind about his appointment.

  He heard Fox grunt with alarm as a bulky freighter loomed out of the darkness and seemed to hang over the monitor’s port rail.

  But Chesnaye said calmly : `A wreck. That M.L-skipper certainly knows his harbour in the dark !’

  Sure enough, the little launch glided between scattered wrecks, leading the cumbersome monitor like a dog with a blind man.

  Chesnaye peered at the luminous dial of his watch. `Right, John. Get forrard and prepare to let go. We’ll be up to the anchorage in two minutes or so.’ His teeth shone in the darkness. `Probably find we’re in the middle of a blasted sand-dune when the sun comes up!’

  Erskine grunted and heaved himself over the side of the bridge. He’s actually enjoying himself, he thought. Still doesn’t realise what it’s all about.

  He reached the fo’c’sle breathless and nervous, and two minutes later the Saracen’s anchor crashed into the sand and shingle of Tobruk harbour.

  Within half an hour of dropping the anchor Saracen was required to move again. Guided by briefly flashing handlamps and her own power boats, she sidled blindly and warily nearer the shattered remains of a crumbling stone jetty. Another listing wreck barred her passage, and with more hushed and urgent orders she moved alongside the broken ship and was secured for final unloading. Using the wreck as a quay, and aided by three battered landing craft as well as her own boats, the monitor began to unload.

  Hours passed and the labour continued without pause. From nowhere, and with hardly a word being spoken, came a horde of unshaven, tattered soldiers, who handled the drums and cases with the practised ease of men who have become accustomed to anything. Occasionally their faces showed themselves in the cold glare of a drifting flare, but otherwise they remained a busy, desperate collection of shadows.

  Lieutenant Norris was stationed aboard the wrecked ship with a working party of some thirty seamen. At first he tried to assist, even speed, the unloading, but his orders seemed superfluous, and he himself inevitably got entangled with a knot of scurrying figures.

  Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie was with him, as well as the young midshipman Danebury. That suited Norris, they were both his juniors, and both were amateurs like himself.

  Once he tried to start a conversation with an army lieutenant who appeared briefly on the wreck’s listing foredeck. Norris said with &al orate coolness : `Hell of a job getting here. Gets harder all the time!’

  The soldier -had stopped dead in his tracks. `Hard? You must be bloody well joking ! Christ, I’d give my right arm to live your cushy life !’ He had vanished before Norris could recover his dignity.

  Out of curiosity he climbed a rusting ladder and found the comparatively undamaged charthouse. He lit a cigarette and was just settling himself on a small swivel chair when Bouverie clattered up the ladder and joined him.

  Norris peered at him through the gloom. `Everything all right, Sub?’ He disliked Bouverie’s casual manner, his complete ease with his betters. In his other life he
had always feared men of Bouverie’s calibre, their acceptance of things he was denied, the vague references to a world he could never join.

  `Going like a bomb.’ Bouverie squatted on a table and craned his neck to look through the shattered windows towards the Saracen’s dark outline. `The Skipper seems to know what he’s up to. I wouldn’t care to con a ship alongside in pitch darkness!’

  Norris forced a yawn. `When you’ve had a bit more experience you’ll get the hang of it.’

  `Really?’ Bouverie’s voice gave nothing away. `I would have thought otherwise.’

  `What’s the snotty doing?’ Norris curbed his annoyance with an effort. He knew Bouverie was laughing at him again.

  `Oh, just keeping an eve on things. He’s got a good P.O. with him. He’ll be better without us breathing down his neck.’

  `Damned snotties !’ Norris drew heavily on the cigarette so that his face glowed red in the darkness. `Think they know it all!’

  `He seems a nice enough lad to me. A bit quiet, but then he was at school only a few months ago.’

  Norris grunted irritably. `How some of these people get commissions I’ll never know.’

  `I’ve wondered about some.’ Bouverie changed the subject as Norris peered at him more closely. ‘Dawn’ll be up soon. Things might get lively then.’

  `Now don’t get windy, Sub!’ Norris sounded angry. `It’ll be the Captain’s fault if anything goes wrong!’

  `I’m not windy, as you put it. Not yet, anyway. I’ve not had a lot of experience of the Andrew as yet, but if I have to learn there’s no captain I’d rather have as a teacher.’

  `He choked you off a while back!’ Norris felt that the conversation was getting out of hand. This knowledge only made him angrier. `I suppose you think because you’ve had a soft upbringing he’ll take you under his wing!’

  Bouverie smiled. `You really are being rather offensive, you know ! Why the enormous chip on the shoulder?’

  Norris choked. `What the hell d’you mean?’

  `Well, just that you seem to think the whole damned world owes you something. I’d have thought you’d have settled down very well in the Navy.’

  `I will!’ Norris was confused. `I mean, I have ! I didn’t ask to be sent to this old relic. In fact, I think someone had it in for me. Some of these regulars can never forgive the fact that we can earn a better living outside!’

  `Teaching, for instance?’

  `Damn you!’ Norris was standing. `Yes, teaching, if you put it like that!’

  Bouverie nodded solemnly. `A very rewarding task, I should imagine. A kind of challenge.’

  `You don’t know what it’s like!’ Norris was completely lost now. `You’ve had an easy life, and now that you’ve found your way here you seem to expect the rest of us to carry you!’

  Bouverie laughed quietly. `As a lowly sub what choice do I have?’

  There was a scrape of feet, and Norris swung round to face Danebury, the midshipman. `Well? What are you skulking up here for?’

  Danebury was a slight, fragile-looking youth, with pale eyes and a wide, girlish mouth. Strangely enough, he was well liked by the ship’s company, who seemed to think that he needed protecting rather than respecting.

  `All the petrol is clear, sir.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. `The hands are starting on the ammunition now.’

  `Well, what d’you expect me to do? Give you a bloody medal?’ Norris was shouting. `Get down to the foredeck and try to set an example!’

  The boy fled, and Norris felt a little better.

  Bouverie stood up and brushed_ at his jacket. `You really are a little bastard, Norris !’

  He turned to go, and Norris yelled : `How dare you speak to me like that? Stand still when I’m addressing you!’

  `There are no witnesses, Norris, so forget it!’ Bouverie’s drawling voice had gained a sudden edge. `I’ve watched you for weeks. You don’t seem to know what you want to get from life, and really it’s rather sad. I don’t know why you worry so much about your station in life, when in fact you don’t seem to belong anywhere!’

  Then he was gone, and for several minutes Norris could only choke and gasp for breath. He felt halfway to tears, yet his anger refused to be quenched. How dare that bloody ex-barrister, with his casual references to Eton, his maddeningly offhand treatment of superior officers, speak to him as he had just done? When we get out of this place I’ll wipe that smirk off his stupid face !

  He was still muttering to himself when hours later the first greyness of dawn touched the desert, and in their dis,tart emplacements the German gunners rubbed the too brief sleep from their eyes and turned their attention to the battered harbour.

  Chesnaye watched the paling edge of the eastern horizon and rubbed his face briskly with his palms. Sleep seemed to be dragging him down, and he knew that if he did not resist the temptation to sit on the bridge chair he was done for. He heard a petty officer reporting to Fox : `The ammunition is unloaded, sir. We’ve got all hands on the other stores now.’

  Fox sounded entirely spent. `Very well. Get the Buffer’s party to shift that tinned food from aft first. It’ll give the stretcher bearers more room to breathe when they haul the wounded aboard.’

  Chesnaye leaned against the cool plating. `Has the Doe got everything sorted out down there?’

  `Yes, sir. There are two hundred wounded expected, mostly stretcher cases. They’re going in the wardroom, the petty officers’ quarters and the forrard mess deck. We’ll keep the lower decks clear of wounded for the moment. I imagine one lot of ladders is enough to navigate if you’ve got a few splinters in your guts!’

  Chesnaye smiled. `I agree. I hope we can give them a quiet passage.’

  `Me too.’ Fox sniffed the air. `Half an hour and we’ll be kind of naked out here!’

  Chesnaye rose on his toes and peered down at the wreck alongside. Already he could see the ship’s outline more clearly, and the antlike activity back and forth across the upper deck. He felt the dryness in his throat and tried to control the urge to go below and hurry the men along.

  It was not enough to get rid of the petrol and the ammunition. There was still the ship, and the real danger which lay beyond the dawn light.

  `Have hands stationed at all wires and springs, Pilot. And make sure the Chief is kept informed of the exact position, so that he can crack on speed at short notice.’

  `I’ve done that, sir.’

  `Good. This must be a bloody awful place to defend.’

  Fox grunted. `Brings back a few memories does it, sir?,

  ‘A few. I never expected I should see this sort of warfare again.’

  `Too little too late.’ Fox was yawning in spite of his efforts to stop himself. `Always the bloody same!’

  The hull shuddered slightly as a landing craft came along the unoccupied side. There was the clatter of a derrick and some fierce shouting.

  White against the black water and dull steel Chesnaye could see the patchwork of bandages and could sense the .suffering. With a sudden impulse he swung himself on to the ladder and began to descend. `Take over, Pilot. I’ll not be far away.’

  He joined Erskine by the guard-rail and watched in silence as the wounded soldiers were swayed aboard. Many .willing hands reached out to steady them, to ease the pain on the last journey.

  A harassed medical orderly, his steel helmet dented and scarred, held up his hand. “Ere, stop lowerin’. Let this one down ‘ere!’ Skilfully the seamen manipulated the guys so that the pinioned soldier could be laid on the deck. The orderly knelt down, his fingers busy with the bandages. Half to himself he said : `Shouldn’t ‘ave sent ‘im. ‘E’s done for.’ He stood up as another batch of wounded were heaved over the rail, and then turned quickly towards Chesnaye. “Ere, mate ! Keep an eye on this bloke for a tick!’

  Erskine stepped forward to speak, but Chesnaye shook his head. `All right, John, you can forget the protocol!’ Then he, stooped down and peered at the soldier’s face, which suddenly seemed
so small and shrunken. The man stared with fixed glassy eyes at Chesnaye’s oak-leaved cap, so that for a few seconds he appeared to be dead. Then his hand moved from the stretcher and reached out vaguely.

  `Where am 1?’

  Chesnaye took the soldier’s hand in his own. It was ice cold. Like Pickles” hand had been. `It’s all right. You’re safe now.’

  The soldier coughed weakly. `The Navy. The bloody Navy. Never thought I’d see you lot again.’

  Chesnaye watched the man’s life ebbing away with each feeble pump of his heart. Who was this anonymous man? Whathad his sacrifice meant?

  The soldier spoke with sudden clarity, `It’ll be all green in Dorset now, I expect?’

  Chesnaye nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘A real picture. I wanted so much to …’ Then his hand tightened on Chesnaye’s and he was dead.

  A petty officer said harshly, `Two more boats comin’ alongside, sir P

  Erskine looked swiftly at Chesnaye’s kneeling figure. `Shall we tell them to stand off, sir? We should give ourselves more sea room!’

  `Carry on with the loading, John.’ Chesnaye stood up and walked back towards the bridge. `We’ll slip when we’ve taken on the last available man!’

  Erskine watched him go, his mind torn apart with emotions. All at once he felt that he hated the unsteady, groaning figures who were coming aboard with such maddening slowness. Each man represented precious minutes. Each minute brought more light to the harbour and the desert beyond.

  He found, too, that he hated Chesnaye for refusing to listen. For that and many other reasons which he could no longer define. He had become a symbol, an outlet for all his pent-up anxieties. Yet he knew, too, that all this was inevitable, just as he understood with sudden clarity that he was afraid.

  Daylight showed the vast undulating rollers of the desert and the pitiful shambles which had once been a dusty and untroubled town. The harbour itself was littered with wrecks, some only marked by a solitary masthead, others by listing bridges and bomb-scarred superstructures.