Ex-Colour Sergeant Parkinson went into his nightwatch-man’s cubby-hole at the end of the Wrens’ alleyway and brought out a photograph from a drawer. It was a depiction of the parade-ground at Eastney Barracks, with himself saluting the Colonel at an inspection. There was a mirror in the cubbyhole; using it, Parkinson saluted his own image. The salute, he decided, was still as smart as in the photograph.
vi
Kemp slept like the dead and was woken abruptly by the whine of the voice-pipe from the bridge and, simultaneously, the sound of the action alarm. Getting out of bed he looked at the clock on the bulkhead: 0234. Having turned in half dressed, he had only to pull on his duffel-coat and shoes and grab for his steel helmet. He was on the bridge within 60 seconds, just in time to find the sky lit like day and a cruiser of the escort burning furiously.
TWO
‘Aircraft, sir,’ Finnegan said.
‘So I see.’ In the red glare from the cruiser, the Belize, Kemp could see the dive-bombers coming down on the convoy. As ever, the response of the aircraft-carriers had been swift: the Seafires were in the air and attacking. As Kemp watched, two of the Germans spiralled down, pouring flame and smoke, to plummet into the sea. They hit the water astern of the Nelson wearing the Admiral’s flag. Everything was firing, all the ack-ack from the escort and the merchant ships; the sky was full of bursting shrapnel. From monkey’s island above the Orlando’s wheelhouse and chart room, the close range weapons blazed away at the Stukas as they came close. The sea’s surface was pock-marked with bombs that had missed their targets. Kemp ducked as a stream of machine-gun fire bit into the troopship’s bridge and boat deck. As he did so he saw from the corner of his eye a man in military uniform coming up the starboard ladder to the bridge. Short and spare with a bristling moustache: the OC Troops.
Blood was coming down from monkey’s island. Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton moved clear as some spattered his uniform. He approached the Captain with a curiously jerky gait and there was some conversation. A few moments later the attack pulled away. It had been short but sharp and the Stukas had barely left when the Belize blew up with a deafening roar. Debris was hurled into the air along with bodies whose whirling arms and legs could be seen clearly from Orlando’s bridge. Another explosion came: the magazines going up. Clouds of steam poured out. A third explosion racked the cruiser and then she was gone, broken in half, stern and bows both pointing up to the sky for a matter of seconds before she vanished. There would be few if any survivors.
‘Bad show,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said. ‘Damn bad show.’ He caught sight of Kemp, anonymous in his duffel-coat and steel helmet. ‘You. Who’re you?’
Bracewell made the introduction. ‘Commodore Kemp, Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton.’
‘Oh, so you’re the Convoy Commodore — I see.’ Pumphrey-Hatton’s tone was brisk, a no-nonsense man. ‘Lost one ship and transferred. Hope you’re not a jonah!’
Kemp was furious. ‘I did not lose my ship, Brigadier. The Wolf Rock entered harbour as a result of a lot of courage on the part of her crew —’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ There was no apology. ‘Well, it’s not important now, is it? I’ll see you in the morning.’ The OC Troops turned away, nodded at the Captain, and went back down the ladder.
Bracewell said, ‘Don’t take that to heart, Commodore. The man’s a stinker.’
‘Perhaps. Have you carried the Convoy Commodore before, Captain?’
Bracewell looked surprised. ‘No, I haven’t —’
‘I thought not. I was slow to be called. I like to be on the bridge the moment anything’s picked up on the radar or is reported from the escort. I’d be obliged if in future you’d see to that.’
‘I will, of course. I’m sorry.’
Bracewell’s response had been frigid. There was silence for a moment then Kemp gave a short laugh and laid a hand on the Captain’s shoulder, already ashamed that he had allowed his fury with the OC Troops to be vented on the liner’s Master. ‘That’s all right, Bracewell. I should have made it clear from the start. My fault.’ He gave himself a shake: he was getting old for his job. ‘I’ll remain on the bridge, at any rate until you have your reports in.’
The reports came quickly: three of the ship’s own ack-ack gunners killed on monkey’s island. They would be replaced by men from the Commodore’s party. There had been a near miss just aft of amidships and some riveted seams had been sprung alongside the engine-room but the chief engineer had reported no worries and all power was intact throughout the ship. When, as was routine, the troops had doubled to their assembly points to be ready in case of abandonment, a corporal had slipped on some vomit on the lower troop deck and had broken a leg.
That was all.
‘Long may it be so,’ Kemp said. The Belize was much on his mind; as ever, the main convoy had not stopped for survivors, and there could have been a few. But you didn’t take chances with so many thousands of troops going to their war destinations. Ten minutes later there was a report of a destroyer closing the Commodore’s ship and then a loud-hailer came alive. The destroyer was the Probity. She had closed the area of the Belize and had lowered nets and jumping-ladders and kept a sharp lookout for anyone alive. She had not stopped engines and she had found no men. It was at best inconclusive but war was war.
ii
When the sun was up Kemp snatched a couple of hours sleep and was then woken by the Captain’s steward who asked about breakfast.
‘Yes, please,’ Kemp said. ‘Plenty of it.’
‘Fried eggs and bacon, sir, sausages, mushrooms, tomato. Toast and marmalade, coffee. Corn flakes if you wish them, sir.’
‘No corn flakes, Macey, but all the rest.’
‘Coming up, sir.’ From force of long habit Macey flicked a yellow duster over the desk alongside the bunk. On the desk he saw three photographs. One of a pleasant-looking woman still pretty even though she must be over middle age; two of young men in naval uniform. The Commodore’s family. Macey had no family and, in wartime, was glad of it. Hostages to fortune, were families, always in line for Hitler’s bombs whether they were civilians or in the forces. He went along to his pantry and got on with the Commodore’s breakfast.
Kemp lingered for a while over his coffee and a cigarette, then climbed to the bridge. Bracewell was below, the Orlando’s first officer, the senior watchkeeper, was studying the sky and the horizons through his binoculars.
Kemp said good morning and asked the first officer’s name.
‘Renshaw, sir.’ Name and face were unfamiliar; it was quite a while since Kemp had exchanged ship visits in Sydney. He became aware of Finnegan approaching.
‘Morning, Finnegan. Anything to report?’
‘Only OC Troops, sir.’
Kemp lifted an eyebrow. Finnegan went on, ‘He sent up a message, sir. He’d like to see you in his suite as soon as convenient.’
‘He would, would he? What did you tell him, Finnegan?’
‘I said you were having breakfast, sir.’
‘And then?’
Finnegan grinned. ‘He didn’t exactly say so, but I reckon I got the idea he thought commodores didn’t need to eat.’
‘I see.’ Kemp turned away, took a walk along the bridge wing and back again. He hated pomposity in anybody and that included himself. But there were times when you had to put somebody in his place. He said, ‘Finnegan, I’d like you to take a message in the reverse direction: To Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton, with my compliments. The Convoy Commodore does not leave the bridge at sea other than at his own discretion. If OC Troops care’s to report to the Captain’s spare cabin in fifteen minutes’ time, I’ll be pleased to see him. I don’t propose to dance attendance on stuffed shirts.’
‘Yes, sir. All that message, sir?’
‘Use your common sense, Finnegan. Censor at your discretion.’
iii
A knock had come at Jean Forrest’s cabin door. PO Wren Hardisty entered.
‘If I might have a word, ma’am?’
‘Yes, of course. Sit down, Miss Hardisty.’ She indicated a chair. Rose Hardisty sat, knees together and skirt pulled well down over them, back straight. Thus she had always been accustomed to sit in her nanny days, when sent for by the mistress to discuss little Master Donald or Miss Rosemary. Now, she gave a cough.
‘What is it?’ Jean Forrest asked.
‘It’s the girls, ma’am.’
‘Well, it would be, of course. Petty Officer Ramm again, and his language?’
‘No, ma’am, no. Though he does lurk. It’s that they’re scared. Not all of them, but some. The bombs, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I saw that myself.’ First Officer Forrest had mustered with her WRNS ratings at their boat station during the attack, and one or two had been hysterical when the Belize had blown up. ‘It’s inevitable, really. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It’s what they’ve been through. On the Wolf Rock.’ Once again Rose Hardisty was seeing the big bomb that had lodged, unexploded, in the after part of the Commodore’s former ship right above the WRNS accommodation in what had been spare cabins in the engineers’ alleyway. She couldn’t free her mind of the dreadful sight of Third Officer Susan Pawle pinned by her legs beneath the iron girder that had been dislodged and that bomb suspended only inches from her. And the other young lady, head and chest shattered and neck broken. She referred to this now. ‘They keep seeing it, ma’am.’
‘They’ve got to stop.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Easier said than done, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Of course it is.’ Jean Forrest sat forward, a worried look in her eyes. ‘Have you any ideas?’
‘Well, no, ma’am, I haven’t, not really.’
Jean Forrest thought for a moment, shaking hair from her face. ‘What did you do in your nanny days … say in a thunderstorm at night … when your little horrors were frightened?’
‘Oh, ma’am, not little horrors, they were never that. Master Donald, he’s a major in The Blues out in Africa.’ Miss Hardisty paused, remembering how once little Master Donald, aged two and a bit, had called her a fuckum bloosance and she had been very embarrassed when she’d had to ask cook what fuckum meant. ‘Well, they did have their ups and downs, that I don’t deny.’
‘But what did you do?’
Miss Hardisty looked embarrassed. ‘Well, ma’am. I used to sing to them sometimes.’
‘Lullabies, to get them to sleep, that sort of thing?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I see. Not suitable for a Wren draft. All the same, it’s something to think about, isn’t it?’
‘I s’pose so, ma’am.’ Miss Hardisty was doubtful. But she had nothing else to offer in its place and Jean Forrest didn’t seem to have any ideas either. Miss Hardisty, getting up to go, remarked that she was going to have her hands full, watching the girls all the time. In a ship with so many men, you couldn’t be too careful and the girls’ parents would expect no less of her. Jean Forrest smiled to herself after the PO had left her cabin. The old girl was still a nanny at heart and in the eyes of old-fashioned nannies their charges never did grow up.
iv
The WRNS draft was on other minds as well, that of the ship’s purser among them. Purser Rhys-Jones was a large, bald-headed man approaching retirement; like Rose Hardisty he had old-fashioned views. He knew from long experience what women could be like at sea. So often they threw discretion to the wind. When he had first gone to sea as an assistant purser he had had two very firm rules impressed upon him by his chief: one, there were two ‘m’s in ‘accommodation’; and two, never sleep with a woman when her husband is aboard. Purser Rhys-Jones had observed over the years that this rule was frequently broken by passengers. There was so much leisure, so much drink, so much proximity and so much opportunity for cabin crawling. A wife could be anywhere in the ship and could not be constantly watched. What took place could be achieved remarkably quickly when necessary. Purser Rhys-Jones had developed a sixth sense that told him infallibly who was transgressing and who with. Many secrets were locked away in his mind, which was full of disapproval. Rhys-Jones was not only Welsh, but was also, when at home on leave, a devout man, a pillar of his local chapel. And now he was faced with something different from the normal run of passengers. Twenty or so service-women, all but a couple of them young. Rhys-Jones had run his eye over the draft list that had come aboard with the Commodore. All of them Miss. In the ship’s own crew, there were two other women, both nursing sisters. That was all; and they, not being part of the military draft which had its own medical staff, kept aloof from the troop-decks. They were safe enough. But the WRNS draft was of a military nature … twenty young girls, among a whole infantry brigade. Once East of Suez … that was when trouble always started. Purser Rhys-Jones, along with the Captain, the Staff Captain, OC Troops and the Commodore, was in possession of certain knowledge not shared with anyone else aboard other than the senior second officer responsible for navigation and the chief engineer responsible, among other things, for the oil fuel bunkers.
Whilst perusing the stewards’ overtime sheets with his deputy purser and Mr Bliss, the chief steward, Rhys-Jones found his mind straying constantly to the WRNS; and when the other two left his office, he climbed to the deck officers’ accommodation for a word with the Staff Captain.
Staff Captain Main was drinking a gin with Mr Stouter, chief engineer. Rhys-Jones accepted a lemon squash, with ice, and stated his anxieties.
Main laughed. ‘You’re an old woman, Rhys-Jones. Let ’em look after themselves, it’s not your worry. Not like passengers.’
‘They need protection. I’d wish it for my own daughters, after all, I have to think of the position they’d be in —’
‘They’re not in the forces, are they? Your daughters?’
‘No, they are not,’ Rhys-Jones said. His twin daughters Ruth and Megan were doing war work in Barry in Glamorgan, close to home and although almost thirty were closely watched over by their mother. ‘But the principle is the same. All those men, with their desires.’ His eyes grew large as he thought about it.
Main said, ‘Normal desires, I’d say. But they’re not rapists. Besides, they have NCOs.’ He laughed again. ‘So have the girls. Have you seen their PO?’
‘Oh, yes, I have. A worthy woman, I’d say. But there is still a danger. Or will be, later on. You know what I mean, Staff Captain.’
Main nodded. He asked, ‘What do you want me to do, then?’
Rhys-Jones ticked off items on his fingers. Deck space to be roped off; an internal compartment allocated for the Wrens’ sole use; a non-frat order issued to the troops to be strictly observed with punishments for non-compliance; the girls forbidden to make any use of the troop-decks or of alleyways and ladders elsewhere in the ship liable to be used by the soldiers.
‘I don’t see,’ Main said wearily, ‘why you didn’t bring all this up before.’
Rhys-Jones pursed his lips. ‘I have had thoughts since then,’ he said. Main lifted an eyebrow but said only that he would think about deck space so long as any barriers were immediately removable in case of emergencies, and he would have a word with the army’s orderly room about warnings to the troops. When the purser had left the cabin, Chief Engineer Stouter remarked that Rhys-Jones was basically a dirty old man.
‘Chapel stalwarts,’ he said. ‘Whisky bottles under the pew. Funny goings-on with the choir girls.’
v
At the appointed time a knock had come at Kemp’s cabin door and a young army officer appeared, looking very smart and wooden. ‘Yes?’ Kemp said.
‘Orderly Officer to OC Troops, sir. Captain Archer.’ The orderly officer was pushed aside and Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton entered with his jerky walk.
‘Move yourself, Archer.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Kemp indicated a chair for the brigadier to sit in. Pumphrey-Hatton took it; Captain Archer remained standing. Kemp told him to take the other chair, and himself sat on the edge of his desk,
arms folded. He said, ‘Good of you to come along, Brigadier.’
‘The mountain had to come to Mahomet, apparently.’ Pumphrey-Hatton gave a thin smile, more of a grimace. ‘There are matters to be discussed. Important matters.’ He glanced across at his orderly officer. ‘You don’t know about this, Archer, and it’s time you and some others did in my opinion.’
Kemp started to say something but Pumphrey-Hatton lifted a hand, peremptorily. ‘I know what the orders were at Greenock, Commodore. I also know that the timing was left to my discretion. Now that Malta’s behind us, I consider the time has come.’
‘So long as it’s clear the decision’s yours,’ Kemp said heavily. ‘I didn’t anticipate any disclosures until we were nearer Alex and the disembarkation.’
Pumphrey-Hatton said, ‘I command the troops aboard this transport, Commodore, and it’s my brigade that’s affected. Understood?’
Kemp gave a brief nod. Pumphrey-Hatton was within his rights.
‘Good, so that’s sorted out. Now, Archer.’
‘Sir.’
‘What I have to say is brief enough. It’s this. As Commodore Kemp knows, the Orlando will not disembark her troops at Alexandria —’
Convoy of Fear Page 2
