Mr Portway did it for similar reasons: the galley was the primary producer as it were, and their chagrin would reflect upon the head waiter.
Somewhat the same with the overtime. Overtime was in the second steward’s gift and a lot went down, in fact, that had never been worked at all. Mr Portway knew that the stewards called him a fat-arsed bastard who put most of the overtime down to his blue-eyed boys but he wasn’t worried by that. No one ever liked second stewards, and he knew that the best way to get efficiency was to encourage the good hands and then, when the message penetrated, add some of the improvers to the overtime bill. It worked. Other things worked too: the chief steward was accustomed to receiving a bonus at the end of each voyage based to some extent upon the muster of crockery when back in Tilbury. One of the lowest of the low categories aboard a liner was that of dishwasher, a lazy lot and inclined to chuck huge quantities of dirty china into the hogwash via the gash chutes rather than wash it up. That cost the Line money and it was cheaper to grease the palm of chief stewards — not only cheaper, it also meant that the passengers didn’t have to go without plates, since a lot could go overboard between Tilbury and Sydney. The next stage in the game, of course, was for the chief steward to farm out his bonus so that next voyage he didn’t lose the lot.
Wheels within wheels, all of them turning over very nicely, even in wartime. You didn’t often come across a penniless chief or second steward. Mr Portway, the overtime totted up, pushed himself back from his desk, reached into a drawer, and brought out a bottle of whisky and a glass.
He was pouring out his tot when the balloon went up. Or anyway, the alarm rattlers sounded. Bloody Jerries around, evidently. Mr Portway put the bottle back in its safe stowage and lumbered to his feet. In action — or defence stations, in the case of a virtually unarmed troop transport — Mr Portway had a place to go to, in charge of the stewards’ fire parties. He put on speed, shouldering his way through a rush of men, eager to get higher up in the ship before the bridge shut the watertight doors.
***
Captain Hampton was on the bridge again within thirty seconds of the alarm being sounded, and found the Commodore staring into the sky astern, using his binoculars.
‘Aircraft report, Hampton. Picked up by the rearguard.’
‘How many, sir?’ Hampton brought up his own glasses as the close-range weapons’ crews doubled up the ladder to man the machine-guns in the bridge wings.
‘They think just one. So far unidentified. I’m thinking of the Stephen Starr.’
‘Yes indeed. But it’s very likely a recce Condor.’
Kemp nodded. ‘Could be, at this range. But some of the Condors have cannon, Hampton. All the Stephen Starr’s got is Oerlikons and a 3-pounder.’
Kemp said no more; they all listened for the sound of aircraft engines. Kemp swept a glance around the convoy, still keeping good station, the ships large and small steaming in apparent unconcern through the increasing waves. The warships of the escort were at action stations, their ack-ack armament trained on the reported bearing. Two destroyers had turned, following upon signalling by light between them and Captain(D) in the flotilla leader. Hampton said, ‘It looks as if they’re going back to stand by the Stephen Starr.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ In such circumstances, so long as the straggler was still close enough, the orders could be ignored. The two destroyers were now making back at speed, throwing up great swathes of North Atlantic from their bows, the White Ensigns nearly rigid in the wind. They were joined by a corvette, already astern of the convoy. The cruisers and the rest of the destroyers maintained their station as close escort, and astern of the centre column the old ‘R’-class battleship came on ponderously, like some huge, camouflaged block of flats, surrounded by foam as the sea surged along her anti-torpedo bulges.
A report came from the battleship a few moments later, flashed by light, the all-round masthead lamp, addressed to all ships. Leading Signalman Mouncey reported, ‘One aircraft, sir, Condor, bearing green one-seven-oh.’
The binoculars swung. ‘Recce,’ Kemp said. ‘Got it!’ They could hear the engine beat now. Hampton picked it up: it was at a distance, and high, but he believed it was losing height. That could be to come down on the straggler, arse-end Charlie. Hampton glanced at the Commodore: Kemp was thinking the same. There was a haggard look in his eyes, as though, foolishly, he was blaming himself. As the convoy moved onward, the sharp crack of anti-aircraft gunfire was heard. Puffs of smoke appeared in the sky. Lieutenant Williams, still wrapped in wool, was alongside Kemp, giving what he considered a useful commentary.
‘High but losing height, sir — ’
‘I’ve seen that.’
‘Gunfire, sir, heavy. But having no effect.’
‘Ditto.’
Williams gaped. ‘Sir?’
‘I mean I’ve seen that too. We can all see it. Save your breath.’ Williams looked put out. ‘You’re not covering cricket for the BBC,’ Kemp added with a grin. He watched out astern. The Focke-Wulf had come a good deal lower, obviously over its target, and the fire from the destroyers was hairy to say the least, going nowhere near the aircraft. A moment later there was something else to worry about: Captain(D) reported a contact. His Asdic had picked up an echo. Leading Signalman Mouncey read off the lamp.
‘Submarine bearing red three-oh, sir!’
Already the escorts on the port beam of the convoy were swinging round.
THREE
The attention of the bridge staff was now on the coming underwater attack — coming, unless the speeding destroyers could intercept and frustrate. Mr Portway was supervising the laying out of the fire hoses along the alleyways that in peacetime had seen nothing more lethal than the involuntarily-ejected contents of passengers’ stomachs in bad weather. That, and at other times the smartly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, or the inevitable cabin-crawlers, mostly east of Suez, in pursuit of sex. There was none of that now, it was in the past for both passengers and crew: no women aboard beyond the two nursing sisters, officers for the use of. Not that Mr Portway cared. There never had been much opportunity for a fat, middle-aged second steward whose only hunting ground had in any case been the tourist end of the ship: second stewards were not permitted the freedom of the first class other than on duty, and the tourist end was never quite the same. Their morals were different, they weren’t so forthcoming, even to the brassbound ship’s officers who had the run of the whole ship including the first class ... and anyway Mr Portway had his own arrangements made at either end of the run and in some of the ports — if ever there was the time en route. Mabel in Grays, near Tilbury — Mrs Portway was frigid and lived in Thurrock — Daphne in Melbourne; Lou in Sydney, down by the Cross and desperate for it: she wasn’t too good-looking, it had to be admitted, and it was a case of any port in a storm for both of them, but Mr Portway got by and it didn’t cost him anything beyond the odd meal in a café. While he carried out his defence duties his mind roved ahead of the convoy’s track to Halifax. They would be in port the best part of a week, or so he believed, and with luck he might get fixed up fast. Mr Portway hadn’t been in Halifax before so had no organized up-homers.
When a broadcast throughout the ship from the bridge told him there was now a U-boat in the offing as well as an FW, he forgot about his sex life. The bowels of a liner was a poor sort of place to be if a torpedo should hit.
***
From the bridge of the Ardara, in the lead of the centre column behind the extended escort, they could only watch, wait and pray. A troopship had no part in submarine attack other than to be attacked. All she could do was to take appropriate avoiding action at the right time, which could only be when the torpedo’s trail was seen approaching. Under certain circumstances the convoy could be ordered to scatter so as to diffuse the target. But scattering was never something you did other than as an extreme measure. Ships of all sizes, of all speeds and with varying manoeuvrability, could be an awesome sight when scattering. This way and that, a diso
rganized rabble in effect, with collisions being avoided by a hair’s-breadth or not avoided at all. And afterwards they had to be shepherded back into formation again, a job that could take a very long time and cause oil fuel problems to the escorts, who had only a certain range at the best of times.
Captain(D) was signalling again: only the one contact so far.
‘Thank God for that,’ Kemp said heavily. He and all the bridge personnel were watching the bearing where the U-boat had been reported. In the breaking waves the periscope would be almost impossible to pick out; it would be raised only just far enough and just long enough to give the U-boat captain a sight of his target. In a flat sea the feather of spray should be visible if the lookouts were alert, but not now. They were watching the bearing when the destroyers reached the point of attack and Kemp saw the depth-charges ejecting from the throwers and being dropped from the racks, but it was a little late. Without warning a loud explosion came from half-way down the port column of the convoy and a flash appeared over the port bow of a former Clan Line cargo vessel and she began to dip by the head.
Williams consulted a list which he had ready in his hand. ‘Clan MacWishart, sir. Captain J. R. Rawlings, master — ’
‘Thank you, Williams.’
‘P.V. Dunhill, chief engineer.’
Kemp nodded, his attention on the damaged ship and on the huge spouts of water coming up from the explosion of the depth-charges on the port beam. Hampton glanced at Williams, still scanning his list. Captain Hampton had an urge to ask the RNVR lieutenant for the name of the ship’s cat but knew this wasn’t the moment. More explosions came from the attack area, now drawing astern as the convoy continued on its course. The Clan MacWishart had slowed and her stern had swung out to starboard. She was causing confusion to the next astern and the next abeam to starboard, but not for long.
‘She’s going,’ Kemp said suddenly.
She was, and quickly. The bow went down, the sea could be seen climbing the fo’c’sle towards the island superstructure, the stern rose high in the air, the screw still spinning, and there was a rush of steam from somewhere aft, and then she was gone, a steel finger lifting to the sky and then going down with a rush.
Kemp said, ‘Mouncey?’
‘Yessir?’
‘Make to the Clan MacWishart’s next astern, you may ease engines to pick up survivors.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Mouncey got busy with his Aldis lamp. While the signal was being made the lamps were busy between Captain(D) and the attacking destroyers, and soon after the message came for Kemp. Commodore from Captain(D): Got the bugger.
Kemp rubbed at his eyes and blinked: getting old, he thought, binoculars were becoming a strain. He said, ‘Well, one for one.’ He didn’t add that it was also one up for the convoy in a sense: a U-boat was a more valuable kill than the Clan MacWishart since if it had lived, that U-boat would no doubt have sunk a good many more cargo vessels in the future. That was the way to look at it, though the survivors wouldn’t be looking at it like that. Kemp watched as the Clan MacWishart’s next astern slowed right down, put out nets and cast heaving lines attached to lifebuoys. Like anglers from a pier, Kemp thought. Unlike the majority of lines cast from piers, however, these made their catches. When the report came in for the Commodore it indicated twenty-three survivors out of a complement of thirty-two, none of them injured. Kemp remembered the Stephen Starr. He asked, ‘Any word of the straggler?’
Williams said, ‘Detached escorts rejoining now, sir.’
Kemp turned to look aft. The two destroyers and the corvette were coming up fast, the corvette taking up her station astern and the destroyers weaving through the convoy to their own positions, a lamp flashing as they came. Mouncey read it off for Kemp’s benefit. The FW Condor had got away but before turning for home had come down to strafe the decks of the Stephen Starr, killing the semi-trained merchant guns’ crews manning the ship’s pathetic armament, sweeping the bridge and colandering the helmsman — the actual signal was a good deal briefer but that was the picture Kemp received. The master had a flesh wound; medical assistance had been offered but refused. The ship herself was sound. She was carrying on for Halifax. Or staggering on.
Kemp said, ‘You know what the Scots’ toast is, Hampton?’ Hampton raised an eyebrow. ‘Which one?’
‘The one that goes: here’s tae us, there’s nane like us. Boastful ... but why not? I feel the same way. Master mariners, Hampton — all mariners, come to that. We’ve lost too many men like Captain Redgrave.’
The convoy moved on; there was no further attack. Defence stations were fallen out but Kemp made a warning signal to the convoy masters, even though they probably didn’t need it. The Condor, he said, would already have reported their position and their anonymity as it were was gone. Any number of U-boats could be in the area and could be moving in to attack. Extra vigilance and alert lookouts were the order of the day.
Deep down in the ship, Mr Portway was seeing the fire hoses returned to their normal reel stowages. This done and some of the watertight doors opened up, he returned to his cabin and his bottle of whisky and after a couple of measures he returned to his ponderings on sex. He didn’t know much about Canada or Canadians, still less about Nova Scotians in particular. Cold country, warm women — or not? All done up in fur, parkas and all, you wouldn’t get a fair summary just by looking, no idea of the figure beneath. Mr Portway ticked off names on pudgy fingers: Mabel, Daphne, Lou, not to mention Mrs Portway and the en route popsies. Quite a lot to miss him if that Jerry U-boat had struck. But he’d always been lucky and he reckoned his luck would hold.
He put the bottle away again and went up top to the purser’s office, clutching his overtime sheets.
***
The night fell. There had been no further attack. With the ship’s first officer and senior third officer on bridge watch, with Lieutenant Williams strutting from one wing to the other in the role of Commodore-of-the-Watch as he regarded it (though Kemp didn’t), Kemp and Hampton took it easy for half an hour once dusk action stations had been fallen out. They went to Hampton’s day-cabin and eased dead-weary limbs in comfortable chairs beneath shaded light behind the blanked-off square ports that looked out on the Captain’s deck. Two years earlier this had been Kemp’s cabin. On joining the Ardara as Commodore of the convoy he had been offered Hampton’s accommodation. He had refused. He would not, he said, turn out the ship’s master. He never did. So he had taken up the spare cabin and was comfortable enough — he was seldom able to use it in any case, for his place was mostly on the bridge when at sea. But, the day he had joined in the Clyde anchorage, he had been attacked by a strong nostalgia for his old quarters. He had made no less than five Australian voyages in the Ardara and there were many memories. Like Captain Redgrave aboard the Stephen Starr he had brought his family to his quarters on many occasions. Now, at sea in wartime, he could see Mary sitting in the chair he himself was sitting in, could see her pride in him, aboard his own ship with the four gold rings on either cuff, the brass hat chucked into another chair. Very nearly the senior master of the company, in line one day for Commodore — of the Mediterranean-Australia Steam Navigation Company, not of a convoy. He could see the boys, having a whale of a time rushing about the decks, yarning with the bosun, old Frank Bush who was still, this day, aboard the ship, still bosun. The younger boy, coming up for Pangbourne, had been overawed the first time he’d visited his father’s ship and had treated all the officers down to the junior fourth officer almost as God.
But it wasn’t only the family: it was the different voyages too. Each one had been just that — different. Different problems, different passengers, different crew members. When Kemp thought of crew members he meant his officers and senior ratings rather than the rank-and-file, not from any sense of superiority but simply because inevitably in a ship carrying some six hundred crew he never met some of the categories other than on Captain’s Rounds: the scullions, the dishwashers, the kitchen porters, the firemen and
greasers in the engine-room. It had to be a case of the chef and second chef, the engine-room storekeeper and his number two, and so on. Even so ... the master was always Father to his officers, as in the RN — just a handy sobriquet but it had always meant, to Kemp, much more than was intended, and he extended his fatherhood to every man in his crew, whether he knew them or not. He was always available to them through their heads of department and often without the benefit of the proper channels — he was never stuffy or stand-offish and frequently passed the time of day with ratings on deck or along the alleyways or on the bridge. They were all doing the same job in basis, taking a great ship half across the world, and each man did his job — for the most part — with pride. Each had to be accorded his own dignity in Mason Kemp’s book. Many of them had been with the Line, even in the one ship, for years, and even now when trooping under war conditions and government charter so many of them were there still. But now that he was Commodore, they were no longer his responsibility or of his seafaring family. They were Hampton’s, and thus in good hands.
Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 3
