Convoy of Fear

by Philip McCutchan

  He caught his assistant’s eye. He believed young Finnegan understood what was going through his mind. He said abruptly, ‘Finnegan, you have my home address.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If I don’t come through, I want you to go and see my wife.’

  ‘Sure I will, sir.’ Finnegan hesitated. ‘Are there any special messages, sir?’

  ‘Oh, just say I did my best, Finnegan. We all did. That’s all. And my love — of course.’

  He was obviously embarrassed. Finnegan said, ‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll do just what you want. But I guess it won’t come to that. I guess we’re going to get picked up. We’re not all that far out from Aden.’

  Kemp didn’t answer. He was staring out to sea, staring at nothing, many things going through his mind. Bracewell too was silent now as the muster went on along the open decks, the shouts of officers and NCOs coming up to the bridge as though the troopship was a safe, shore-side parade ground with a brigade falling in for some sort of ceremonial. It all seemed like slow motion; but when the end came it came with terrifying suddenness. There was a curious noise from far below, a sort of growling as though from an angry giant caught in a trap of steel, and the ship lurched and seemed to shake herself, the stern going down, the bows lifting towards the sky.

  SEVENTEEN

  She lingered a little in her undignified position and a number of boats were got away in safety. The rafts were released by the seamen and shot down the slides into the water. Then three lifeboats, lowered hastily and clumsily, were upended before they took the sea, and their occupants spilled out, legs and arms flying. From the canted decks other men jumped, went deep, came up again to swim for the boats and rafts. Petty Officer Ramm was one of the jumpers and he was lucky: he swam for a lifeboat and was hauled aboard. In the boat he found PO Wren Hardisty. No sign of any other of the WRNS; and Miss Hardisty was crying.

  Ramm more or less collapsed on the bottom boards. He wasn’t as fit as he once was. He heard PO Wren Hardisty going on and on. He gathered she’d been manhandled into the lifeboat against her will by Nightwatchman Parkinson. She’d told him she wanted to stand by her girls, but he’d been quite brutal. He had said he would see to them after she was aboard, but there had since been no sign of Parkinson or the girls.

  On the bridge Bracewell had hung onto the guardrail with Kemp and Finnegan, waiting for all hands to get clear. Yeoman of Signals Lambert had been ordered to leave and had obeyed with tears in his eyes. Finnegan refused point-blank to leave the Commodore’s side. When the last moment came the three of them were still on the bridge. They watched as the stern slid further and the water rose from aft to the Master’s deck, watched and steadied themselves as the canted bridge came closer to the sea. There was a sound of tearing metal as the smokeless funnel was broken off by the force of the sea, and soon after this the water was lapping the bridge.

  Kemp said, ‘Time to go. No bloody silly heroics, Bracewell. You’re more use as a ship’s master than a dead hero.’

  Bracewell didn’t answer. His lips were moving silently; Kemp believed he hadn’t heard a word. When the waters began to fill the bridge and wheelhouse, Kemp followed nature and struck out and away, he and Finnegan acting as one in laying hold of Bracewell and taking him with them. After all, there was now nothing left to stand by for. Useless tradition could be carried too far.

  ii

  From the boats and rafts they had watched the end, watched as the great ship slid away, shedding more and more men as she went lower. When she had gone there was a big sucking whirlpool and a number of swimmers were taken down by it into the depths. The sea was full of men, full of Neil Robertson stretchers carrying the worst of the cholera cases and being towed for the lifeboats by the medical orderlies and any others capable of assisting. Many of the swimmers, those cholera victims who were still in a weak state, never made it. One by one they vanished beneath the crowded surface.

  Kemp had parted company from Bracewell and Finnegan. They had been torn apart soon after they’d started swimming, hit by the foretopmast yard as it had been dragged down onto them by the plunging motion of the ship. Kemp had been temporarily knocked out; he knew nothing of his immediate future, wasn’t aware of being taken in tow by Nightwatchman Parkinson, late the Royal Marines, wasn’t aware of being taken to a boat where hands reached down to heave his inert body aboard. When he did come to an awareness of his situation, he found Jean Forrest’s arms around him.

  iii

  They drifted, the overcrowded boats and rafts keeping together with scores of men clinging to the lifelines around each side. The Commodore’s boat made its way around the fleet of small craft, Kemp using all his efforts to encourage the soldiers, giving them hope that rescue would come, getting singing started, something he half regretted when he heard the loudly sung words of some of the songs.

  He caught Jean Forrest’s eye and smiled at her. ‘Pay no attention,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. It’s not as important as keeping them going, is it?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s certainly not. You too.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Keeping you going. But not too much. You should rest.’ After all, she’d had the cholera and must still be weak to some extent quite apart from the current privations and uncertainties.

  She said, ‘Oh, no. I’ve got the Commodore to look after! That’s quite a responsibility.’

  He gave a grim laugh. ‘Commodore of what?’

  She said seriously, ‘A very brave convoy that’s had everything but the kitchen sink chucked at it. Don’t denigrate yourself. You’re being an inspiration now. You’ve still got a convoy, Commodore.’

  He knew what she meant: the brigade major had gone round the survivors just as Kemp had done, and some sort of nominal roll had been called by the NCOs. A surprisingly large number of soldiers had come through: out of the whole brigade strength, around two hundred men had perished, not counting those already dead from the cholera, and sad though any casualties were, it could have been very much worse. The brigade would live on as such to help the fight against the Japanese forces in Burma. One of the survivors was Pumphrey-Hatton, who ordered his boat to be propelled towards the Commodore. He had a complaint to make: those suffering from the effects of cholera, of whom he was one, should have had cushions provided: the thwarts and bottom boards were hard. Kemp shrugged this off: all the cholera cases had their blankets and he saw that Pumphrey-Hatton also had his silk dressing-gown and that there was a flask in its pocket.

  They floated, and for the rest of the day, when strength permitted, pulled under a blazing sun on a course to take them closer to Cape Gardafui and the approaches to Aden. As night fell they were growing more and more hungry and thirsty, the boats’ rations being meagrely doled out; and there had been more deaths among the residue of cholera cases when just as the sun came up next day the ship’s bosun reported smoke on the horizon. There was wild excitement; distress rockets were sent up and when the ship came closer Kemp saw that it was one of the armament carriers from the convoy, and that there was another behind her.

  iv

  Picked up to cram the decks and living spaces aboard the two big merchantmen, the troops gave three resounding cheers for the Commodore. Kemp acknowledged with a wave, but felt that Bracewell was the more deserving of recognition. Or would have been: Sub-Lieutenant Finnegan, like Kemp knocked out and subsequently picked up, had reported a lost contact, and Bracewell had not been seen again. Aboard the freighter to which Kemp was transferred he was given news. The Admiral Richter, finally hit by accurate and heavy fire from the Valiant, had settled with her main deck awash within minutes of the typhoon striking the convoy. She could not have survived it. Valiant and the cruisers of the escort were reported safe though damaged; two of the destroyers that had gone in with their torpedoes had been lost. The freighters were currently steaming for the rendezvous position. There, it was hoped they would re-establish contact with the escort and would then ste
am on in company for Trincomalee.

  ‘Nice to have engines again,’ Kemp remarked to Jean Forrest.

  ‘We’ve been very lucky,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And well led.’

  ‘Rubbish! Don’t flatter, Miss Forrest.’

  ‘An order, Commodore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled somewhat enigmatically. They were sitting close together — they had to in the crowded conditions, far more crowded than ever it had been aboard the Orlando. Cabin accommodation would be organized somehow, the freighter captain had said, for the Commodore and the ladies, the latter being Jean Forrest and two of the Wren ratings who had after all been picked up along with most of the others. With the rest of the surviving girls, Miss Hardisty and OC Troops had been taken to the other ship, as had Petty Officer Ramm and Yeoman of Signals Lambert.

  There were as yet many days before the Trincomalee arrival. Kemp was once again the Convoy Commodore, once again in a different ship. But when not required on the bridge he saw quite a lot of Jean Forrest: a night spent huddled together in an open boat had brought more than a touch of comradeship and familiarity.

  At the rendezvous the last ship of the convoy turned up, together with the escort. All the rejoining ships, scattered by order of the Commodore and by the typhoon, had headed on westerly bearings before returning east. The cruisers had been steaming back for the last reported position of the Orlando as a result of the mayday call, but, finding only empty lifeboats and rafts, had headed for the rendezvous. Now all was well.

  Something, after all, had been salvaged.

  v

  Trincomalee, in stifling heat and sunshine and with a reception committee. Once Kemp had withdrawn himself from the welcoming brass, he was driven in a staff car to naval HQ where he made his report, having worked on this whilst on passage from where they had been picked up.

  The report rendered, he was allowed the peace of a room in the naval quarters where he slept the clock round. When on his feet again, he was informed that he would be going back to the United Kingdom in four days’ time, taking over a convoy leaving Colombo for Simonstown and thence the Clyde, a case of full circle. He was to leave almost immediately for Colombo on the other side of Ceylon. He didn’t see Jean Forrest before leaving; but his allocated steward told him the lady had called while he was asleep. She wouldn’t hear of his being disturbed. She, too, was under orders for Colombo. Not for passage home, but to take up an appointment at the Colombo naval base, and she had already left Trincomalee.

  Kemp went by train to Colombo, a stifling and uncomfortable journey in a rattling carriage full of flies and heat and stale smells. It was not for a particularly personal reason that he made for the Gaulle Face Hotel; he had in any case been booked in there to await the convoy. But he knew that sooner or later all naval and military officers in Colombo would be found in the Gaulle Face. And when he went into the bar for a chota peg Jean Forrest was there.

  She greeted him, getting to her feet as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Commodore,’ she said.

  He met her eyes. He said, ‘My name’s John.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She was a little embarrassed, he thought. He suggested gin and she said she’d like that. They talked and she said she, too, was staying for a day or two at the Gaulle Face.

  ‘Then I’m in luck,’ he said. ‘We’ll do some sight-seeing if you’ve time. I used to know Colombo … though a ship’s master didn’t get all that much time ashore. Except officially — the local dignitaries. I was taken to see the Temple of the Tooth at Kandy, for instance. And other places.’

  ‘That would be nice — John. Thank you.’

  They talked for a long time, of the convoy, of home, of other things. Kemp felt he hadn’t been so relaxed for many months, for far too long. The war seemed right in the background, the bombs and shells, the torpedoes, the weather, the long slog across the seas, world without end. But now it seemed as though it had really ended, at any rate for a while. They had dinner together that night, a late dinner with drinks and romantic surroundings. After dinner, coffee and liqueurs; all the comforts of civilization were at hand. They hesitated at the foot of the main staircase. Jean was looking a little distraite and was trembling. Kemp knew the signs. She murmured something about her room, then wouldn’t meet his eye. He knew he was behaving rather like a schoolboy, not helping her out, leaving it all to her. The trouble was his mind was in a whirl, he didn’t know what he really wanted deep down.

  He took a grip. He said gently, ‘Something you’d come to regret, Jean. Or I think you would.’

  ‘Or you would, John.’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. Ships that pass, Jean. Leave it at that?’

  ‘If you want,’ she said, and turned away. He watched her going up the stairs, rather fast. He believed she was crying. He went to the bar for another drink, a long one, and slow. Then he too went to his room. He took up the silver-framed photograph of Mary. He’d taken that to the Orlando’s bridge with him at the last. It was still smudged with the water from the carafe. He looked at it for a long time before he turned in.

  Yes, he was glad he’d been firm. Quite glad …

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