‘From a certain point, sir, yes. My statement — ’
‘Yes, I know. You got there — at that certain point. You couldn’t really say what had gone on up to then — that’s to say, how it came about.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘You know what Mr Portway’s saying?’
‘No, sir. I’m not party, sir, to Mr Portway’s statement.’
‘No, quite.’ Pemmel fiddled with a pencil on his desk. ‘Then you don’t know — and this is strictly between you and me, Crump — you don’t know that he’s trying to make out Miss Ord led him on?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’ Crump stared back at the purser, shaken. ‘That’s a lie, sir. A dirty lie, and — ’
‘Of course it is. But can you shoot it down, Crump? In your fuller evidence, shall we say, if it came to an enquiry by the Captain?’
Crump seemed to consider; then he said reluctantly, ‘No, sir, I can’t. I only came upon the scene ... later as you might say. Result of Miss Ord’s bell, sir.’ He paused. ‘That bell, sir. Wouldn’t that be enough? If the young lady had been a willing party, she wouldn’t have pressed the bell, sir.’
‘Not good enough if Mr Portway takes his line further, Crump. She could have changed her mind ... and that doesn’t shoot down the lie that she led him on in the first place. We need something more substantial than that. I want the nearest thing possible to proof positive — something to stop Mr Portway.’ Pemmel looked down at his desk, avoiding Crump’s eye. ‘A statement from you, Crump. It could save all the unpleasantness. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
‘I think I do, sir, yes.’
‘Well?’
Crump made a business of clearing his throat. He said, ‘A statement, sir, that I saw Mr Portway ... make a grab, sir, if I may put it that way.’
‘Something like that.’
‘A false statement, sir.’
‘Not all that false, Crump. That’s what happened in actual fact. That is, if we believe Miss Ord. Which we do — don’t we?’
‘Yes, sir, of course we do.’ Crump was looking really distressed. ‘I’d like to help all I can, sir — ’
Pemmel pointed out, ‘I’m giving you the way to do just that.’
‘I know, sir. But it’d be a lie, sir! Bad as Mr Portway, sir. That’s not right.’
Pemmel sighed: he knew he’d lost. He said, ‘Only a technical lie, Crump.’
‘Same thing, sir. And even if I did, Mr Portway might bowl it out. It’s hard to tell a lie, sir, and not show it.’
Yes, Pemmel thought, it is, for a patently honest man, very hard indeed. Crump’s face was too open. But that wasn’t the point: as he’d already hinted, all Pemmel wanted was a lever to threaten Portway with. Maybe he was being too devious: and there was nothing devious about Crump. A little thick, perhaps: Pemmel couldn’t get him to take the point. Perhaps he didn’t want to, Jackie Ord notwithstanding. Lies were not in his character: obstinate old fool! Pemmel realized now that he should have known. And he had a feeling he’d fallen several notches in Crump’s estimation. He dismissed the nightwatchman; there was another way and he would use it. Portway, it appeared from what Jackie had said, was a womanizer who’d just been caught out by his wife. It might be hard for a known womanizer to make anything stick about being led on in innocence ... after Crump had left his cabin Pemmel suddenly wondered why he was bothering. All everyone wanted was to have the whole thing hushed up. Portway certainly wasn’t going to press for anything like an official enquiry. Pemmel knew that he was being propelled by his own obstinacy: he wasn’t going to have the second steward believing he’d got the purser to back down, caught in the cleft stick of threat, of statements being made about his drinking habits. Portway was the one who had to be forced to back down.
***
After the decyphering of the Admiralty’s signal, the orders had been passed by lamp from the Rear-Admiral commanding the cruiser squadron and from the Commodore. The new course was indicated; and a new zig-zag pattern was put into effect once the vast body of ships had steadied on its southerly course and, after much backing and filling and some anxious moments as one ship cut across another, was back in its steaming formation under cover of the warships. The orders were that the convoy should head due south for four hours and then alter to the eastward. Kemp was doubtful about the effectiveness of the manoeuvre. As he said to O’Halloran, who was back on the bridge with him, the packs would be well extended to north and south of the track.
‘You mean they’ll be expecting an alteration, Commodore?’
‘Very likely, yes. And it only needs a couple of U-boats to play merry hell.’
‘How many have they out there?’
Kemp shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, Hitler has plenty and to spare.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Follow orders, Brigadier. Nothing else we can do.’
O’Halloran said, ‘Well, I guess that’s right. But once again, talking about orders ... ’
Kemp said, ‘Yes.’ He knew what was coming because they’d had it out already, before the Ardara’s captain had made his broadcast, but O’Halloran was a sticker and as obstinate as a mule, a mule that wouldn’t let things rest or take no for an answer. ‘We’ve been into all that, Brigadier — ’
‘I know we have. Now we’re going into it again, all right?’
‘Not all right,’ Kemp said, bristling beneath his bridge coat. ‘Orders at sea must be given by seamen.’
‘My officers — ’
‘I’ve nothing against them. But they’re not seamen, Brigadier.’
‘You’ve denigrated them by telling their own troops not to take their orders.’
‘Not exactly what Captain Hampton said. And remember I don’t come into that. Hampton commands the ship, not I.’
‘You told Hampton — ’
‘I advised Captain Hampton — or would have done had I needed to. As it happened I didn’t even need to do that. Hampton has sailed in plenty of convoys.’
O’Halloran persisted, as dogged as ever. ‘I still say it’s my officers and NCOs who know how to control troops. I’m not having you or — ’
Kemp’s interruption was crisp and authoritative. ‘I repeat, Captain Hampton commands the ship. He also commands you while you’re aboard. Your time will come after you’re disembarked. Currently you’re a passenger. I suggest you remember that, Brigadier. And I’ll tell you something else: if you complain when you’re safe in Britain, you’ll get no support from any quarter at all. The conduct of convoys and of the individual ships in the convoys is very clearly laid down as a wholly naval responsibility under the orders of the Trade Division of the Admiralty.’
He almost felt like adding, so there. But he grinned to himself when O’Halloran, as if in anticipation of some such suffix, said angrily, ‘God, how childish can you get!’ and stumped away to the bridge wing on the other side.
Kemp thought good riddance and wondered which of them was being childish, though it didn’t take very much wonderment in fact. And he thanked God he’d gone to sea himself. He was sorry for the troops, destined for bloody battle against Hitler’s Third Reich under O’Halloran’s command. He’d watched them embark in Halifax: they were young and eager, a fine-looking lot, leaving for the unknown but not letting the fear of it dampen their spirits. Kemp hoped they would manage to survive such as O’Halloran ... ’
‘Kye, sir?’ The voice came from behind him: Williams. Kemp swung round. Kye, the navy’s term for a steaming hot cup of cocoa, was always welcome.
The mug in his hand, Kemp said, ‘Thank you, Williams. You can turn in for a spell so long as you keep an ear and a half listening out.’
‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll stay.’
‘Just as you like.’ Kemp’s tone was noncommittal but he was pleased by his assistant’s sense of duty, even though it was unnecessary — in Kemp’s view no attack was likely while the convoy was on its southerly course. The U-
boat packs would wait on their possibly extended station for the ships to steam into the net. That was how it usually went, when you didn’t know where the net was. They were a shower of bastards, loosing off their tin fish from the depths against helpless merchantmen, but a shower of bastards who were only doing their duty. Kemp wouldn’t want their job. To be beneath the surface in a steel canister under depth-charge attack, lying deep in the hope of avoiding the shattering explosions that would spring plates and open seams, damage the batteries to bring poisonous fumes to claw at throats — such a life was not, in Kemp’s view, one for any man of the sea. Too claustrophobic, too confined. One of Kemp’s own reasons for having gone to sea was his love of open spaces and the feel of wind and weather on his face. To watch the sunrise and sunset in all their differing moods, to see the scud of cloud before the wind, racing across a blue sky. Much as he loved his home he sometimes found even Meopham claustrophobic. Thoughts of home and family obtruded ... day-dreaming as the night came down into full dark.
Williams stood silent by the Commodore’s side. He had earned a rebuke from Kemp the morning after he’d staggered up the accommodation ladder with the ship’s doctor, bawling out ‘Old King Cole’ at the top of his voice. Bad for discipline, Kemp had said. Officers didn’t get so disgustingly drunk in the full view and hearing of ratings. Kemp was no killjoy and he’d said so. But some steam was best let off in private, and noise was an abomination wherever it took place. Always aboard a ship, there was a watchkeeper, many watchkeepers, trying to sleep during their watch below, and such excruciating dins carried. Williams hadn’t tried to excuse himself and had apologized and Kemp had found a new liking for his assistant, who had obviously been suffering from a filthy hangover, looking like death warmed up.
Now, up there on the Ardara’s bridge, Kemp said suddenly, ‘A penny for ’em, Williams.’
‘Sir?’
‘You’re unusually silent.’
‘Am I, sir? I didn’t ... I thought perhaps you didn’t want to be bothered.’
Kemp laughed. ‘A kindly thought, but misplaced as it happens. I wasn’t thinking about the convoy, though no doubt I should have been. Thoughts of home, nothing more ... I’m perfectly human beneath my brass hat, Williams. Just like any OD.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No doubt you think of home. I don’t know much about you — another example of my remissness. Where’s home to you?’
‘London, sir. Hounslow.’
‘H’m. Family?’
‘Parents, sir, that’s all.’
‘Your father in the service — or retired?’
‘Neither, sir. ARP warden.’
‘I take my hat off to him,’ Kemp said, and meant it. ‘Those chaps have had a bellyful, all slog and plenty of danger. No doubt you worry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Williams said, and sounded what he was: surprised. In point of fact he hadn’t worried at all. Kemp’s words made him realize something — that his father could be killed in an air raid over London. Strange he hadn’t thought of that before, but he hadn’t, his thoughts being all of women and his urgent desire to have someone he could regard as a girlfriend, worrying about him every time he went to sea. Silence fell again between the Commodore and his assistant; Kemp once again went through the actions of lifting his binoculars and scanning the darkened ships of the convoy and the water to port and starboard. Speed of spotting the tell-tale feather of water from a periscope scraping the surface was vital, though of course the Asdics would, or should, spot the presence of a U-boat long before the human eye. Tonight the sea was moonlit, very unkindly, and the weather was just right for attack, an almost flat sea with the wind having dropped away, but something of a swell that wouldn’t bother the enemy much though it kept the Ardara rolling fairly heavily. Williams said, ‘I’ll make rounds of the guns, sir. Just to keep them on the hop.’
‘Right. But not so much of the hop, Williams. Alert’s a word I like better. Don’t make good men hopping mad!’
‘No, sir.’
‘I trust you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Off you go, then.’
Williams left the bridge, a little puzzled and ruffled. Old Kemp ... one moment he yacked about discipline, the next he didn’t want the hands chivvied. To Williams, discipline meant chivvying and being the efficient, soft-soled officer who caught ratings out. He had the idea Kemp would clump round in clogs, just so that the lower deck would know he was coming and crush out their fag-ends and get their arses off the deck. Williams saw no point in that. There was a lot of satisfaction in a sudden pounce and it was always effective. The men had a respect for you when you appeared suddenly and bowled them out, the officer with the eagle eye over whom nothing could be put ...
‘Watch it,’ Petty Officer Frapp said to his gun’s crew. ‘Johnny-come-lately’s on the loose again.’ He had caught a glimpse of an RN cap badge as a moonbeam slanted across the deck, a cap badge emerging from behind a big bell-mouthed ventilator. ‘Daft bugger — looking for birdshit again, I s’pose.’
That episode still rankled with Frapp: young Williams, he’d be better off and less of a liability if he spent the whole war on the parade ground at Pompey barracks, done up in sword and gaiters and marching matloes around and back again, practising ceremonial drill. Plenty of the RNVR officers, the Wavy Navy as they were known on account of their wavy gold stripes, were very good indeed and had done wonders in adapting quickly from civvy life to the war at sea, and all honour to them in Frapp’s view. But Williams struck him as just a mobile uniform, a tailor’s dummy with gold lace. Or maybe he was simply prejudiced — that birdshit again.
Williams halted, ‘Well, Frapp.’
‘All’s well, sir. Any news, sir?’
‘News, Frapp?’
Frapp was patient. ‘Of the Jerries, sir. The packs.’
‘No.’
‘Ah. Just thought something more might ’ave come through, sir.’
‘Well, it hasn’t. Keep on top line, Frapp.’ Williams moved away again. Low sounds came from Frapp and his lips mouthed the silent words: Fuck off for God’s sake and drop dead. Suddenly and involuntarily Frapp emitted a very loud belch across the open deck and saw Williams halt, stiffen and look round. Frapp had difficulty in not splitting his sides. The officer had thought for a moment a gun had gone off somewhere and had almost shit himself.
***
‘I think,’ Jackie Ord said carefully, ‘the bridge believes there may be an attack tonight, Doctor.’
‘Oh ... ’
‘If there is, we’re going to be needed.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The doctor’s hand shook and whisky slopped over from the glass. The doctor looked at it without interest; at three and sixpence net to the ship’s officers per bottle, the expense was no consideration at all. ‘We shall be ready, Sister.’
You won’t, she thought. She did her best without being too insubordinate. He wasn’t a bad old stick and she was sorry for him, for the way he was sliding down the drain: no doubt he’d been a good doctor once, young and keen and efficient, and it was always sad to see this sort of thing. She said, ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t have another, Doctor.’
‘A small one, Sister.’
‘Think of your liver, Doctor.’
‘I do. Though I try not to.’
Cirrhosis of the liver, she thought, it gets them all in the end, though gin would be worse. There was something therapeutic about whisky: perhaps the silly old bloke was practising self-therapy or something. And God knew, he did need his stiffener. Jackie sighed as the doctor reached unsteadily for the bottle and poured a shot that was scarcely small. She’d said her piece and that was that, she couldn’t be his keeper. But she had a terrible vision of a torpedo taking the Ardara and causing an explosion inboard, deep in the ship, and all the burns cases, all the shattered bodies and broken limbs, and a drunken doctor staggering about with a hypodermic and adding to the confusion and agony — but there were army doctors
aboard, of course, and army nursing sisters too. Perhaps one piss-artist wouldn’t be missed after all and he might as well make a job of it and pass out, out of the way. Jackie left him to it, tippling away in his cabin, and went back to the sick bay.
The doctor finished the whisky and poured another. He lit a cigarette, taking a long time over it, for the end of the cigarette appeared shy of the lighter’s flame, veering away from it again and again. At last he managed it, dropped the result on his carpet, fished about for it, picked it up and put it between his lips, where it trembled up and down. Why had that woman mentioned his liver? It was a sore point; he knew he wasn’t doing himself any good and despite what he had said to the girl he did in fact spend a good deal of time thinking of his liver. He read books about it, diagnosing himself after every likely, or possible, symptom — he was years out of date in his medical knowledge and he knew that too. Too many years at sea, vegetating. And drinking, of course ... frontal lobes of the brain and all that, they wore out, eroded by the constant drip of alcohol or its effect. Very nasty: he could even be in for early senile dementia for all he knew. It could have started already. He never felt too good, at any rate until he’d taken a fair amount of whisky into his system. Fortunately the diminishing of his medical expertise didn’t matter all that much: it was seldom anything difficult cropped up at sea. No childbirths, not even in peacetime since the Line always demanded to know about pregnancies before female passengers were booked. Few diseases — the days of shipboard epidemics were largely past. Gippo tummy, mal-de-mer, VD among the crew, these were the mainstays of the surgery. These and boils and so on, simple ailments that could be left to the assistant surgeon and the nursing sisters.
Of course it was different now that they were at war.
A little more whisky to drown the thought of what might happen at any moment. A stiffener was in a sense a duty ... for a moment the doctor put his head in his hands, a prey to sudden and terrible depression. He felt very much alone, alone in a ship filled with seamen and troops, a ship whose alleyways were never entirely silent. He’d enjoyed that night ashore in Halifax, when he’d encountered that friendly young fellow — what was his name? No idea. But he was aboard. Assistant Commodore — that was the young man’s job. The doctor slithered along his settee and took up his telephone.
Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 16
