Within a short time a power boat was seen to be coming off from the port. In the interval before it came alongside, Kemp went down to his cabin for a wash and to change into a clean white uniform. He had just entered the cabin when his sound-powered telephone whined.
Wearily he took up the handset. ‘Kemp here.’
‘Surgery — Crampton, sir. I thought you’d want to know … Miss Forrest —’
‘Is she —’
‘Nothing to worry about, sir. She’s come out of the collapse. She’s sleeping. That’s a very good sign. I have every hope.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Kemp said. ‘Thank you.’ He put back the handset and found a shake in his fingers. He felt dizzy, almost light-headed. It had been an enormous relief. He sat down rather violently in his chair and passed a hand over his eyes. Jean Forrest had been much on his mind. As he looked up his gaze lit on the photographs on his desk, three silver frames, Mary his wife, his two seagoing sons, the latter fighting their own destroyer war somewhere in the North Atlantic, escorting the convoys. He looked hard at Mary. Suddenly it came to him that he’d not given her or home a thought since Jean Forrest had been struck down by the cholera.
He was ashamed; he must watch it, must be very careful. But he sent up a prayer, on his knees beside his bunk, giving thanks for a delivery. Then, after his wash and change of uniform, he went along with Finnegan to Bracewell’s day cabin. The shore people had been brought up from the starboard gunport door a couple of minutes earlier: KHM in person, an RN captain accompanied by a paymaster lieutenant RNVR, a surgeon commander RN, and two scruffily-clad civilians of Asian aspect who had come in connection with the stores required by the chief steward, to whom they were despatched, OC Troops did not put in an appearance, but the army was represented by one of the battalion commanders and by the senior RAMC officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Munro. There was much discussion about the cholera. The disease had not yet struck Aden and very well might not; the surgeon commander had brought with him such vaccine as he could supply. He confirmed Crampton’s already stated view that the vaccine didn’t, in fact, confer much immunity but at least it gave a degree of confidence to the layman.
He asked Crampton if he had any special problems. Crampton said he had not. Munro said the same. The disease was simply taking its course and many more would die yet. It was a fact of life, especially under war conditions of overcrowding and poor sanitary arrangements. And suspect foodstuffs. And the ubiquitous flies.
The King’s Harbour Master asked Kemp how long he intended staying in the port.
‘As short a time as possible, Captain. Just long enough to embark the fresh food. Then we’ll be away.’
KHM nodded. ‘I understand Valiant is joining the escort.’
‘That’s right. Off Gardafui. Are there any intelligence reports that I should have, movements of the enemy and so on?’
‘You’ve had nothing from Admiralty, no cyphers?’
‘None. Total silence.’
‘H’m. Well, perhaps the news hasn’t yet penetrated, though I’m surprised I must say. We’ve picked up a report … perhaps report’s too strong a word, let’s say a rumour, that there’s a surface raider at large, the Neuss. We passed it on a couple of days ago — you should have been informed. Probably some WRNS cypher queen in Whitehall was late for a date —’
‘Where is the Neuss said to be, Captain?’ Kemp broke in.
KHM shrugged. ‘Uncertain, but the rumour suggests she’s cruising in the northern part of the Indian Ocean. Could be in the Arabian Sea. I can’t be precise. Do you know the vital statistics of the Neuss, Commodore?’
Kemp was about to say he didn’t when Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan took over. ‘I guess I do, sir. I’ve kind of made a study of the raiders —’
‘Canadian efficiency,’ KHM said. ‘Am I right?’
‘Not Canadian, sir. American.’
‘Ah, so you’re one of those who joined the RCNVR. Rare birds, and very welcome. But go on.’
‘Yes, sir. Neuss, 14,000 tons, carries four 6-inch guns plus ack-ack, two 21-inch torpedo tubes. Maximum speed nineteen knots, cruises at fourteen. Oil fuel capacity means she can stay at sea for four weeks at economical speed. That gives her quite a lot of scope.’
KHM nodded. ‘Spot on, sub. Of course, you’ve got a good cruiser escort. Nothing really to worry about.’
iii
Nothing really to worry about …
Kemp thought about the Valiant. One of the Queen Elizabeth class battleships, laid down before the last war. Of 31,100 tons, those battleships carried eight 15-inch guns in four twin turrets, two for’ard, two aft, plus twelve 6-inch in broadside batteries, four 4-inch AA and close range weapons, two submerged torpedo tubes. They were protected by thirteen inches of armour plate at the waterline and around the heavy gun turrets. The Valiant’s speed was problematic. She might manage twenty-two knots with everything but the kitchen sink thrown into the furnaces, but it was unlikely. However, she had the gun power; she would stand and fight with her massive main armament, whatever was encountered.
Kemp, on leaving Bracewell’s quarters, went to the bridge where Yeoman of Signals Lambert was busying himself around his flag locker and his signalling projectors.
‘QE class battleships, Lambert.’
‘Yessir?’
‘Ever served in them?’
‘Not the QE class, sir, no. Resolution, R class. Very similar, sir. Bit younger, like.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Like, sir?’ Lambert reflected, pushing back his cap to scratch at his head. ‘What they was like, sir, some years ago now … leaky, parts not working at full efficiency, that sort of thing, sir. Hard to keep clean below, rats and cockroaches in the galleys.’
‘That’s rather what I’ve heard about them. More so now, I suppose.’
‘Very likely, sir. Take the old Royal Oak what went down in Scapa back in ’39, sir. Said to be almost unseaworthy, leaks everywhere, watertight doors not working, trouble with the shell supply to the turrets, all sorts o’ things that shouldn’t have been.’ Lambert paused. ‘You thinking of the Valiant, sir?’
‘Yes.’ No mention yet of the possible proximity of the German raider.
‘A bit of a bucket, sir, but she’ll be all right. In their way, they’re good old ships, sir. Never see the like again, I reckon.’
Kemp smiled to himself: it was just like the British seaman of the lower deck. Moan, but in the end there was nothing like the old days, the old ships. They were less technical and thus more lovable and what they lacked in modern refinements was made up for by the spirit of the ships’ companies. The poor old Valiant would be all right if the moment came.
iv
Miss Hardisty, possessor of a single-berth cabin since she was the only Wren of her rank aboard, was left in it. There was in any case virtually no space left in the sections of the ship that had been converted into sick quarters. She lay and tossed about, feeling deathly cold, attended by the army’s medical orderlies and, for her more private needs, by one of her own WRNS ratings.
She wanted to die, she felt so poorly. She began to have terrible cramps in her legs and arms and stomach. She was violently thirsty, she was restless and became more and more exhausted as the sheer fact of the restlessness took its toll of her strength. Her skin became blue-tinged, her eyeballs seemed sunk in her skull and she developed the vox cholerica. Her pulse was weak, her temperature high.
She was aware at one moment that Commodore Kemp was there. Through the pain and the discomfort and a gradual onset of non-awareness, she was yet aware of being paid an honour. Tears came to her eyes at the thought that the Convoy Commodore himself had taken time and trouble to come down and see her.
In that husky voice, she tried to speak. ‘You shouldn’t have, sir, not really.’
‘I wanted to, Miss Hardisty.’
‘Oh, sir!’
He said gently, ‘Don’t talk. Just rest. They’re going to get you better. Like Mis
s Forrest. She’s a lot better, so will you be.’
She looked up at him as he bent over the bunk, saw the gleam of gold from the shoulder-straps. Somehow the fact that a very senior officer was taking a personal interest in her helped. She didn’t know why; but it did give her the feeling of not being alone, and also the feeling of being perhaps needed so that it was up to her to get back to duty.
Kemp went from Rose Hardisty’s cabin direct to the bridge. The fresh food had been brought aboard from lighters and stowed in the chief steward’s storerooms. Now it was time to get back to sea and rejoin the waiting convoy. With the bridge personnel at their stations and the engine-room awaiting the first movement order, the anchor was weighed and Bracewell passed the word for slow ahead on the engines. A little before dawn the Orlando moved outwards and no-one aboard was sorry to be leaving Aden behind as the convoy and its escort re-formed and continued on passage south for Cape Gardafui and Socotra.
They had barely moved into their columns when Kemp’s leading telegraphist came to the bridge to report an urgent cypher received from the Admiralty. This was prefixed Most Secret; and it was passed to Finnegan, one of whose duties was the decyphering of such signals. When broken down the signal, as Kemp had already suspected, confirmed the report from the King’s Harbour Master: the Neuss was out, and was believed to have moved north into the Arabian Sea.
‘So we could meet her between Gardafui and Colombo, sir.’
Kemp grunted impatiently. ‘Where else, Finnegan, since that’s the way we’re going.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Finnegan paused. The signal doesn’t say … I wonder if the Neuss has got word of the convoy? And that we have troops aboard.’
‘Don’t let OC Troops hear your prognosis, Finnegan!’
‘You mean the uniforms could have been spotted in Port Said or Suez, sir?’
‘Unlikely,’ Kemp said. ‘The confinement order was obeyed to the full. But I’ve an idea I’m in for a session of I-told-you-so.’
‘I guess you’re right, sir,’ Finnegan said sympathetically. ‘That stuffed —’
‘All right, Finnegan. That signal — it was addressed to the Flag in the first place —’
‘Repeated Commodore and Captain (D), sir, yes.’
‘And the other ships of the escort will be informed by light.’ Kemp paused, looking back across the night-dark waters towards the receding rocks of Aden. ‘I’ll have to pass it to the troops. They have to know the score. But first, there’s that brigadier.’
He went down the ladder to the Master’s deck and on towards Pumphrey-Hatton’s stateroom.
v
During the forenoon Kemp broadcast to the whole ship over the tannoy, putting them all in the picture as he liked always to do. Captain Bracewell had agreed, as had Pumphrey-Hatton. OC Troops had surprised Kemp, who had expected an ear-bashing about who knew best in regard to the confinement of uniformed soldiers. But Pumphrey-Hatton had taken the news calmly, had just seemed happy to have been vindicated; he agreed with Kemp that it was unlikely any troops had been seen in the circumstances and left it at that. Word of the convoy could have leaked from many other sources; Hitler had plenty of listening ears throughout the Mediterranean and the Middle East.
After the broadcast, RSM Pollock marched along the boat deck and halted alongside Petty Officer Ramm who was checking the close range weapons mounted at the after end.
‘Good morning, PO. NOW — what about this Neuss. Know anything about her, do you?’
‘Not personally. Never heard of her to tell the truth, Sar’nt-Major.’
‘Ha. Got heavy guns, the Commodore said.’
‘Yes. No heavier than our 6-inch, o’ course. But they’ll shoot better.’
‘How’s that, then?’
Ramm laughed cynically. ‘Cos they’re a sight younger, that’s how. Ours, they’re bloody obsolete, in their second childhood. Dug out from a scrapped cruiser of the last war. Best they could do — all the DEMS-equipped merchant ships have the same sort of thing.’
‘H’m.’ RSM Pollock rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘What are the chances do you suppose, PO?’
‘Chances of what? Sinking her? She won’t have it all her own way, what with our cruisers and destroyers. We got more total gun-power. I’m not worried about no Neuss.’
‘I meant, chances of meeting her.’
Ramm said, ‘Dunno. Sea’s a big enough place, Sar’nt-Major. Needle in a haystack, could be. Like I said, I’m not worried. All the time you’re at sea, you take the risk. Not like the pongees if I may say so without offence. When you’re not in action, you’re somewhere nice and safe.’
RSM Pollock stiffened and went red. ‘Don’t talk bloody daft,’ he said, and marched away. The very way he moved showed the offence, showed that he was thinking the Navy took things too lightly. Ramm lifted two fingers behind the retreating ramrod back. Ramm had one thought uppermost in his mind: if they did happen to meet the Neuss, and if Perryman wasn’t yet back to duty, he would be in charge of the guns. His moment of glory might come. He thought about heroes from the recent past, Captain Kennedy of the armed merchant cruiser Rawalpindi, Captain Fogarty Fegen of the Jervis Bay. He thought of the gunnery rates who had kept their guns in action in both those outgunned ships and he reflected that maybe he would one day be spoken of in the same breath, even though the simile was not exact — these old ex-liners had been operating on their own, no escort. Poor old Perryman, he’d give his eye teeth for the chance, but it looked like being one up for Pompey over Chatham.
The convoy continued southwards. In the morning watch next day under a brilliant sunrise, they were off Cape Gardafui. Upon an exchange of signals between the flagship and the Commodore after clearing Socotra, the course of the convoy was altered to the south-east for the passage diagonally across the Arabian Sea for the southern tip of Ceylon.
Just before six bells in the forenoon watch, Yeoman Lambert reported a ship hull down on the starboard bow.
‘Looks like a destroyer, sir. Another coming up now, sir.’
It was almost certainly the Valiant’s escort, Kemp believed. Just the same, he saw Bracewell’s hand hover over the action alarm. At sea in war, you took no chances. Then there was a winking light and Lambert reported the day’s identification being made.
‘Acknowledge,’ Kemp said. Lambert made the response. They waited, knowing that this was not the enemy. Five minutes later Lambert reported topmasts astern of the destroyer escort, with fighting-tops. Slowly, the old Valiant came into view. Cheering rose from the crowded decks and rang out across the shimmer of the water towards the battleship and her big guns. They were going to be all right now, if they hadn’t been before.
ELEVEN
The Valiant, under a captain’s command, did not take over as senior ship of the escort. The rear-admiral commanding the cruiser squadron remained as senior officer, with the Valiant giving independent support with her own destroyer escort. The joining ships took station astern of the convoy and a number of signals were exchanged. Valiant it appeared had no knowledge of the current movements of the Neuss.
Kemp was conferring with Captain Bracewell when OC Troops came up the ladder. He gave Kemp a stiff nod; there was still the underlying friction.
‘Good morning, Captain. The sick list — I’ve just had it from the orderly room.’
‘Bad?’
Pumphrey-Hatton thrust the piece of paper into Bracewell’s hand. ‘Read for yourself.’
Bracewell did, then passed the list to the Commodore. 73 new cases, just over 100 passed through the worst patch and expected to recover. 18 more deaths, one of them Captain Archer. Kemp remarked on that.
‘Oh, Archer, yes.’ OC Troops was indifferent. ‘I dare say somebody will miss him. What’s bad is my sar’nt-major. Sick, very.’
Kemp, somewhat shaken at the brigadier’s summary dismissal of Captain Archer, looked down again at the list and saw the name, Pollock. He failed to see that stalwart figure laid
low, unable to help himself, being treated like a baby, vomiting his heart out. Pollock would take it very badly indeed so long as he was conscious of what was going on.
‘Burials,’ Pumphrey-Hatton said briskly. ‘Same routine, I take it, Captain?’
‘No change,’ Bracewell answered. The sea committals took place daily during the afternoon watch, the engines being stopped while the gruesome business was carried through, one corpse after another flopping formlessly down into the water, all ranks together, and both sexes too: three of the WRNS ratings had died whilst on passage of the Red Sea before the Strait of Bab el Mandeb and the Aden entry. Kemp had made a point of being present each day, standing at the salute as the planks were tilted and the bodies vanished. He had been particularly saddened by the girls’ deaths. After one such heart-rending occasion he had gone below to see Jean Forrest, who was on the recovery list after her long, refreshing sleep following the state of collapse that at the time had seemed so final.
‘I hate it,’ he said in reference to the committals. ‘No families there.’
‘It’s the same for all.’
‘Yes. But I’ve always thought … well, with young girls it’s different.’
She gave a thin smile. ‘You’re an idealist, Commodore. You don’t see women as part of any war. But remember Boadicea. She was a warrior queen, wasn’t she?’
‘She was, but for her own vanity and glorification I dare say. There’s a difference. However, we’ll not go on about it — just put me down as an old fuddy-duddy who likes to think of himself as a father figure.’
She gave a quiet laugh at that and said, ‘You don’t do yourself justice, Commodore Kemp.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ she said, smiling. She didn’t pursue the subject and neither did Kemp, but long after he’d left the cabin he was thinking about the look she’d given him from behind her smile.
Convoy of Fear Page 12
