Convoy of Fear

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Is that the last stage?’

  ‘It can be and often is. But if a favourable reaction takes place, the patient goes into a natural sleep, a deep one, and then there can be a rapid recovery. On the other hand, if the reaction’s not complete, there can be a relapse into a typhoid state, that’s to say a condition resembling typhoid fever though it’s not strictly typhoid.’

  ‘And the prognosis after that?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty. The attack can start and end in less than twelve hours — death or recovery. That’s the actual cholera … but if there is this typhoid state, it can be up to around ten days before death. If the patient holds out beyond that, well, one can expect recovery.’

  ‘Expect?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s by no means certain.’

  ‘You’ve talked more of death than recovery, Doctor.’

  ‘That’s often the way of it, sir.’

  ‘And that’s what those girls have to face. I think that’s diabolical.’

  ‘I’m sorry —’

  Kemp held up a hand. ‘All right, Doctor. I’ll say no more. I know you’ll be doing your best and that’s what counts now.’

  iii

  Petty Officer Perryman was in a state of jitters, Ramm saw. On their first meeting off Malta Ramm had put his fellow gunner’s mate down as a hypochondriac without, then, any real reason for doing so. It had been just an impression because of the anxious look on his face whenever he did one of his belches, as though he feared for the basic condition of his gut. Now the hypochondria was coming out, and the ship barely into the canal.

  ‘Bloody flies,’ Perryman said, swatting wildly. ‘Got crap on their feet, they have. Gyppo crap.’

  ‘Not worried yet, are you?’

  ‘Course I am! So should you be. First sign o’ the squitters, and I’m off to the quack double quick.’

  ‘Well, I s’pose you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Course you can’t. Stands to reason, nip it quick and you got a chance.’

  Ramm scratched beneath his chin. He reckoned they were safe enough, having had the inoculation. But Perryman wasn’t so sure. Inoculation, he said, didn’t always work. He’d known a bloke in Freetown, Sierra Leone, at the start of the war when the naval base had been set up for the escorts of the South Atlantic convoys. Been inoculated against everything under the sun, the bloke had — blackwater fever, yellow fever as well as TABT — and went down with yellow fever. ‘Pegged out inside the week,’ Perryman said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Bloody mosquitos, see.’

  ‘Nothing like looking on the bright side,’ Ramm said.

  ‘Stuff that! With all these perishing flies?’

  Ramm left him to it and went below, where the troops were still battened down. The air was thick, stifling. Sweat poured; the troop decks were hell. The stench from them seemed to spread throughout the ship. So did something else, something even more pervasive, as the day’s orderly officer, having made his rounds, reported to the brigade major in the orderly room.

  ‘The smell of fear, Major.’

  The brigade major lit a cigarette and blew smoke. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, old boy.’

  ‘I’m not, sir. It’s real enough.’ The orderly officer’s khaki-drill was dark with great patches of sweat. ‘It’s not all that surprising, is it? Battened down below with no air and the threat of cholera! There’s a feeling of claustrophobia around and that’s not good. I tell you, I didn’t like it.’

  The brigade major shrugged. ‘They’ll have to put up with it for another — what — 12 hours at least.’

  ‘Could be 12 hours too long, sir.’

  ‘H’m? What are you suggesting, old boy?’

  The answer came without hesitation. ‘Trouble.’

  ‘Mutiny? Don’t be —’

  ‘Not full scale mutiny, no. But there could be a break-out from confinement, which some people might see as a sort of mutiny.’ The orderly officer paused, tapping his cane against a thigh, ‘OC Troops for one. And if he reacted, well, it would be damned unfair.’

  The brigade major was about to speak again when the sound of briskly marching footsteps was heard along the alleyway outside and RSM Pollock entered and slammed to attention.

  ‘Stand easy, please, Mr Pollock.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You’ve appeared at an opportune moment, Mr Pollock.’ The brigade major repeated what the orderly officer had been saying. ‘What’s your view, Mr Pollock?’

  Pollock blew out his cheeks. ‘My view, sir, is that I shall go and take a look. If there’s to be trouble, sir, it’ll not last long. With your permission, sir.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Pollock, of course.’

  RSM Pollock gave a swinging salute and turned about with a crash of boots. The brigade major murmured a remark that such parade-ground activity seemed out of place aboard a ship, but Pollock, on his way out of the orderly room, didn’t hear. He marched along the alleyway, down the main staircase towards the troop decks. Going lower in the ship, the pong, the staleness, grew worse and Pollock felt as though he were advancing into a steam bath or such. Entering the troop deck and its clouds of cigarette smoke he marched slowly along the aisles between the bunks, saying nothing but eyeing the men, who stood to attention as he passed by. All except for three men, one a lance-corporal, of the RASC. These men, lounging on their bunks in a swelter of perspiration, stayed put.

  RSM Pollock halted. ‘You,’ he said. He pointed his cane at the lance-corporal. ‘On your feet, laddie, sharp!’

  The lance-corporal, taking it deliberately slowly, stood up. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Who else?’

  The lance-corporal failed to meet the RSM’S eye; he glanced aside, saw the other two men get to their feet as well. Pollock said, ‘Slackness will not be tolerated. Watch that chevron, laddie.’

  ‘It’s the conditions, sir.’

  ‘Aha.’ RSM Pollock, like a policeman resting from the beat, rocked a little back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘Makes you tired, do they? The conditions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s better. What a shame that you feel tired. I am so sorry. So do I feel tired, seeing after such as you. Day after day! That gives me a very great feeling that I want to lie down and die, so tired do I get. But I stays on my feet because there’s a war on. So do you. Do I make myself clear, laddie?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The tone was surly, but RSM Pollock disregarded it. He turned about and marched back to the entry to the troop deck, where once again he turned and raised his voice loudly. ‘Now listen to me, all you men. You’re hot and smelly. I know that. So do the officers. Breathing’s a torture. I know that too. I know, because I’ve been this way before, that when a boat’s in the Suez Canal not much fresh air comes down the ventilators. Can’t, when the boat’s moving slow. But the canal doesn’t go on forever — not it. Once we’re clear, things’ll improve. Meanwhile, the orders are the orders and remain so. No men to show on deck. It may sound daft but there’s sense behind it. We don’t want Hitler to know we’re here. And whatever you think you know about that, the high command knows better. All right?’

  A voice, an unknown one from half-way along the central bank of bunks, said, ‘Sod the air. What about the cholera?’

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  RSM Pollock raised his voice again, quelling a hubbub. ‘Yes, the cholera. I don’t deny that’s bad. But moaning won’t help. And the conditions down here won’t make the chances of the cholera any worse. The doctor’s already broadcast, right? It’s not caught by contact. It’s not caught by breath. It’s not caught by someone sneezing in your face. Care with the latrines, cleansing with carbolic as already ordered, that does the trick. You don’t need to worry about the cholera. Not any more than if you was on deck.’ RSM Pollock paused. ‘Any specific complaints, genuine complaints, put them to your platoon sergeants and they’ll go to the orderly room for consideration. I can’t say fairer
than that.’

  Pollock turned to make his way to the remaining troop decks and repeat his performance. When he was a short distance off he heard the sound of singing. With it someone was playing a squeeze box. The words followed him, loud and clear. ‘When this bloody war is over, Oh how happy I shall be … no more bashing the parade ground, no more asking for a pass … I shall tell the sergeant-major to shove his warrant up his arse!’

  Mr Pollock gave a sharp tug to the front of his khaki-drill tunic and went on his way. After making the rounds of all the troop decks, and hearing from each something similar by way of song to mark his departure, he returned to the orderly room to report the soldiers behaving much as might be expected. No trouble, he said. Just a handful of skrimshankers here and there.

  iv

  For the catering staff, as well as for the medics, the day had been a busy one. There were so many arrangements to make, so many precautions to be put in hand, and not only put in hand but checked continually to make 100 percent sure the orders were acted upon. As Purser Rhys-Jones remarked to the chief steward, it was a case of life and death.

  ‘I’ve seen it before, Mr Bliss. Cholera.’

  ‘You have, sir?’

  Rhys-Jones nodded. ‘Not in this company. Years ago, when I was an assistant purser with Hiley Fergusson Lines, cruise ships. Here in Egypt it was. The passengers went on a shore excursion to the pyramids; that’s where it came from, I think. Some dirty food perhaps, or maybe it was the flies, you know. You should not allow the flies to settle on your lips, tell your stewards. They are dirty things. Well, the first cases hit us just as we reached the Bitter Lakes, and it was very bad, very bad indeed.’

  ‘Many dead, sir?’ Chief Steward Bliss asked.

  ‘Oh yes. They nearly all died. The doctor, I am afraid, was not up to it. There was a big fuss in the papers, I can tell you, and the company got much of the blame.’

  Bliss said, ‘I reckon I remember hearing about it, sir —’

  ‘Yes, I am sure you did, and I was there, you see. So now we must be very careful.’ Rhys-Jones wagged a finger. ‘Once bitten, you know, twice shy, isn’t it? So you will make sure everyone does his duty and attends to the instructions from the doctors.’

  ‘I’ll do that all right, sir.’ Bliss had gone down to his office with sheaves of instructions in his head to talk it over with his deputy, the second steward. Of course, it wasn’t like having a ship full of passengers all in a state of twitter. The army was responsible for the troop decks; but the ship’s crew was the chief steward’s worry to a large extent. There were the lavatories, which had to be kept scrupulously clean since they could be the main source of transmission of the cholera. A lot of carbolic would have to be used. There would have to be the greatest care in the washing of cups and dishes, knives and forks and so on. And then there were the galleys, where the food for all on board, the army included, was prepared and cooked. Vegetables to be washed in permanganate of potassium; meat to be very carefully cooked, everything to be protected from the flies. Water for drinking to be boiled, likewise milk, and fruit to be off the menu until they could obtain fresh supplies in Aden at the bottom end of the Red Sea, some days ahead after clearing away from Suez, which itself wouldn’t be until latish next day. While they were in the canal the whole catering department would be fully instructed as ordered by the purser, who had had his orders from the Staff Captain personally.

  v

  Kemp left the bridge after the ship had anchored in the Great Bitter Lake to allow the northward passage of the convoy coming up from Suez: two lines of ships could not pass in the narrow confines of the canal proper, and a wait was necessary in the wider waters of the Bitter Lakes. Kemp went below to his cabin for a salt-water bath and a change of clothing: he was sticky with sweat and felt his mouth to be full of dust. After the bath he felt more human, and settled the dust with a whisky and soda. He believed he could allow himself that; there was not likely to be any emergency in the Bitter Lakes, though perhaps a sortie of bombers from Crete couldn’t be entirely discounted. Just because of that possibility the whisky was weak. He had drained his glass when a knock came on his doorpost.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Jean Forrest. ‘I hope I’m not intruding, Commodore?’

  ‘By no means. Care for a drink — gin?’

  She shook her head. ‘I won’t, thank you. I’ve been hearing rumours, medical ones.’ She smiled rather tiredly. ‘Those who drink are the most likely to get it, Commodore.’

  Kemp laughed. ‘Drink means just that — drink. Boozers, Miss Forrest. Not us.’

  ‘No. I know, but still. I won’t. Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘I won’t have more than the one. What’s up?’

  She said, ‘Nothing’s up. I’m just being a nuisance, I’m afraid. It’s … really not the hour for calling, is it?’

  ‘Never mind, Miss Forrest. Something’s bothering you. Is it your young ladies?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is. I’ve been pretty worried. This business of no inoculations —’

  ‘I know. That’s unforgivable. Someone’s going to get it in the neck, you can be sure.’

  ‘That won’t help us for now, Commodore.’

  Suddenly Kemp realized he hadn’t asked her to sit down. He did so and apologized for his manners. ‘I’m not much of a drawing-room man, Miss Forrest.’

  She smiled. He saw that she was studying him and he felt a flash of annoyance because he didn’t like being looked at in the light of a specimen, but he knew she was concerned about him and he knew he was beginning to look exceptionally tired and strained. There was even a shake in his fingers as he offered her a cigarette and lit both it and his own. Age, he supposed; or recent stress was perhaps more likely. She went on, ‘I suppose there’s no reason why it should come aboard at all.’

  ‘No reason at all. The only contact with the shore has been the pilot. Oh, and the other shore people, of course. Not very many of them and they all looked clean to me. Don’t worry till it happens, that’s my advice.’

  She gave him another close look. ‘You’ve been worrying,’ she said. ‘You’ve not been taking your own advice.’

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘No, I dare say I haven’t. But I do know it doesn’t do any good, and anyway it’s not just the damn cholera I have to worry about. There’s — there’s …’ His voice faltered a little, to his own surprise. He covered it with a cough; he was much embarrassed. ‘Well, never mind, Miss Forrest. You’ve come for reassurance, not to hear me moan.’

  She said, ‘You could do with getting it all off your chest, Commodore. I’m not really asking for reassurance — I know there isn’t any you can give. We just have to face up to it if it comes, that’s all.’

  Kemp put his face in his hands for a moment. Everything was catching up: the long-drawn-out war, the months of keeping the seas, the long absences from his wife and the cottage in Meopham in Kent where — unlikely dependant at his age — he still maintained his nonagenarian grandmother who had brought him up on his mother’s early death and who he knew was a never-ending drain on Mary his wife. Two sons at sea in the destroyers, the constant worry about them at the back of his mind. The responsibilities of a convoy commodore, so many men looking to him for a lead when the convoys came under attack from aircraft, submarines or surface vessels. Often appalling weather conditions, especially in the North Atlantic and on the terrible run to Murmansk in North Russia to help keep Stalin’s armies supplied and fighting on. And now the filthy threat of cholera — largely because there had been that criminal neglect of duty to provide enough vaccine to inoculate all personnel.

  He dropped his hands and gave a short, hard laugh. He said, ‘Yes, we’ll face up to it. As you suggested, Miss Forrest, we take what comes. And we come up smiling … more or less! Never say die — isn’t that what they say?’

  Jean Forrest nodded. In a soft voice she said, ‘You’re a good man, Commodore Kemp. A dependable one. And now I’d
better go and get some sleep. I hope you will too.’

  Kemp stood for a long while looking at the cabin curtain through which she had gone. Then he stripped off his white uniform shirt with the broad gold band of a commodore RNR on the shoulder straps. That gold band meant a lot; he had to live up to it. He stiffened himself, regretting a moment of weakness in front of a first officer WRNS. He admitted the truth to himself: he was scared of the cholera and of what it could turn a ship into. Fighting the enemy was one thing; fighting a disgusting bug was quite another.

  He turned into his bunk.

  vi

  After the northbound convoy had passed through, the southbound one weighed anchor and moved on towards Suez. The escorting cruisers and destroyers were in the lead, with the armaments carriers between them and the flagship Glamorgan bringing up the rear. The night had been close, hot, foetid below decks; after the dawn came the searing sun to make matters worse. Those on the bridge and in exposed positions sweltered. From the guns Petty Officer Ramm looked along decks that, being virtually deserted, appeared strangely unfamiliar. Until just before Alex, those decks had swarmed with troops. Ramm reckoned it was a load of old codswallop, keeping the brown jobs below, that wasn’t going to fool Hitler, not likely! But the ways of the brass were always weird and inexplicable. Officers were a rum bunch to start with, used different terms, talked different. Where for instance the ship’s company always called the coxswain of a destroyer the swain, officers called him the cox’n. Officers spoke of leave, the ratings of leaf, or anyway masters-at-arms and regulating petty officers, the ship’s police, did. Lots of things like that to differentiate. Officers spoke of the old light cruiser Caradoc with the accent on the second ‘a’, the lower deck put the emphasis on the ‘o’, unless they were CW ratings, those up for commissions, when they used the officers’ pronunciation. Ramm, thus reflecting when he was approached by Perryman, spoke his thoughts aloud.