He climbed to the boat deck, one deck up from the embarkation deck that was crammed with troops. The boats had been swung out earlier on, their gripes cast off and the lowerers standing by the falls ready for such orders as might come from the bridge. Again, no one had seen the doctor. Pemmel shrugged: the old soak could be anywhere and Jackie was panicking. In Pemmel’s view one of the heads was the obvious answer; Doc had done that before, he could do it again. Lavatories meant privacy and a cloak against having to perform duties, a cloak against decision and a drunken state. But this wasn’t a time to mount a search of all the heads in the ship — there were so many of them. Another point: suicidal doctors had better means of self-disposal than jumping overboard.
Or had they?
To get at drugs or whatnot would mean a visit to the surgery. The doctor might keep a stock in his cabin but that was unlikely to be the case without his staff knowing of it. There were such things as drug checks, and keys to drug lockers.
Pemmel blew out his cheeks in uncertainty. He looked out from the boat deck, past the naval gunnery rates at the close-range weapons mounted before and abaft the funnel casing and at the after end, looked out at the moonlit sea that covered the menace below, the submarines that even now might be coming to periscope depth to line up their torpedo-tubes on the Ardara. Along the deck came Petty Officer Frapp, making contact with his close-range gunners.
Pemmel stopped him. ‘Have you seen the ship’s doctor, by any chance?’
‘No, sir, not that I know of. Wouldn’t know him by sight, not unless I saw his uniform like.’
‘Oh, well ... ’ Pemmel shrugged.
‘What would he be doing up here, sir?’
You didn’t say the doctor was being half regarded as a potential suicide. Pemmel said, ‘I wouldn’t know. Taking the air, perhaps.’
Frapp nodded and turned away. Then, suddenly, he turned aside and went at the rush to the port guardrail. Pemmel followed, his heart beating rapidly. ‘Christ Almighty,’ Frapp said.
‘What is it?’
‘Man overboard, port side aft.’ For the second time that night Frapp raised his voice in a bellow to the bridge, repeating what he had just said.
‘Lifebuoy,’ Pemmel said, looking about him.
‘No, sir.’
‘No? Why? What the devil d’you — ’
‘Prolong the agony, sir, that’s all it’d do. Skipper won’t stop engines, nor will any other ship, stands to reason. Anyway, likely he’ll have been drawn into the propellers by now.’
Feeling sick, Pemmel looked out astern. He couldn’t see anything. Frapp said, ‘You was asking about the quack, sir.’
‘Yes ... ’
Frapp jerked a hand aft. ‘I reckon that was him. I just see the gold stripes. Don’t know about the red cloth. Not enough light.’
Pemmel turned away and climbed to the bridge. The Ardara was still moving ahead — as Frapp had forecast, no checking of her way to look for a man gone overboard. War was war. Pemmel made his report to the acting master. Kemp was listening when Pemmel told the story, and he said, ‘Frapp was right. And if what you feared was right, then he wanted to go. If it was the doctor. How sure can we be?’
They couldn’t; but Pemmel was certain in his own mind. Staff Captain Greene said that a full search of the ship would be made as soon as conditions permitted and if the doctor was found aboard then there would be a roll-call against the crew list. The army units embarked would be told to carry out their own muster.
But that was not to happen.
SIXTEEN
The King was in his counting-house, counting out his money ... the line from the nursery rhyme was going through Pemmel’s mind as he returned to his office and walked past the bagged cash in the main office. Why had he bothered, why did anyone ever bother? It was only money and if it was lost recompense would presumably be made by the Admiralty. But you still didn’t lose the Line’s money if you could avoid it. Pemmel had looked in at the surgery and told Jackie what had happened and he’d left her very upset and blaming herself. If only she’d reported to Barnes, or done something to ensure that the doctor hadn’t been left alone. Pemmel said if he wanted to go, why not let him? He was better off now than if he’d lived to get the push, the push into a living death with no money to keep himself boozed up. Jackie hadn’t liked that; she was dedicated to saving life. So often, Pemmel thought, the medical profession simply didn’t use their imaginations.
He had left the surgery and gone back to his office just four minutes before the two torpedoes hit the Ardara, one for’ard, the other aft.
***
The concussion, the flame and smoke, were tremendous. The two torpedoes had hit almost simultaneously. The hit for’ard was immediately below the bridge on the starboard side and a lot of the blast swept upwards. Kemp was sent flying: he had been in the starboard wing, braced against the guardrail and using his binoculars. For a moment he lay stunned, then felt Williams sitting him upright.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Painfully, his head muzzy, Kemp got to his feet with the assistance of Williams’ steadying arm. ‘Reports, Williams. State of damage. God! All those troops. Where’s the brigadier?’
‘Here,’ a voice said. The bridge was becoming enveloped in smoke and there were screams coming up from below. ‘Guess you’d better get the boats away, Commodore. Or the Captain had.’
‘We’ll assess the damage first,’ Kemp said. He gave his head a shake. ‘Signalman?’
Leading Signalman Mathias was already in attendance, waiting for orders. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Make to CS29 from Commodore ... am hit fore and aft. Will report damage soonest possible.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Mathias ran for his SP and began clacking out the Rear-Admiral’s call-sign, raising him at the extremity of VS range. CS29 would get the unspoken part of the message: U-boats in the Ardara’s vicinity. It wouldn’t be long before the destroyers altered course and began an attack. By now the reports were coming in from the various sections of the ship and to Kemp’s ears they sounded bad. There were big holes in the plating and plenty of water had come inboard; but the watertight bulkheads and doors were holding, leaks apart. There was fire fore and aft but the fire parties were in action and coping — that was something. The engine-room was itself more or less intact; the hit aft had not penetrated but it had been close and there was a heavy weight of water piled up against the fore bulkhead. Chief Engineer Burrows couldn’t guess how long it might hold. If he was forced to give an answer, it would be that it wouldn’t last all that long. The chief steward was one of those who reported by telephone to the bridge: most of the watertight doors had been shut earlier but a few had been allowed open until the torpedoes had hit, for the handling of the hoses and so on. These had now been closed by automatic control from the bridge: and a number of the chief steward’s department were shut in behind them. Was there a chance they might be opened to let through those that hadn’t drowned already?
Greene looked at Kemp. Kemp, his face a grim mask, said, ‘Very briefly, by sections. They’ll have to be fast ... we could be hit again. And if water comes through, they’re to be shut again immediately.’
***
They said that when you drowned all your past life flashed before your eyes, a sort of fast-run film show just for your personal benefit. Mr Portway just didn’t want to know if and when the time came, although it would be a way out. Thurrock, Grays and Tilbury just wouldn’t matter any more. Mabel and Mrs Portway would be left to get on with it and Mrs Portway would inherit the house. She’d be glad about that. Mr Portway, fat and flabby and very far now from being any sort of Romeo, pushed ahead of the rising water, or rather through it as it started to reach his armpits, making for the nearest watertight door, all ready to bang and bang and shout himself hoarse. Luck was with him: just as he reached the sealing door, it opened and he flung himself into the gap before it could shut again. Hands dragged him through and a gush of seawater f
looded along the alleyway before the door was once again shut. No one else made it. In the section behind the watertight door many men were trapped: soon their bodies would be forced upwards by the rising water to impact against the deckhead and all air would be displaced by the sea’s encroachment. One of them was ex-Colour-Sergeant Crump, thinking, as his last moments came, of that other war when he had manned a heavy gun-battery aboard a cruiser. He had little to remember other than his service at sea.
***
In his office Pemmel supervised the transfer of the cash and his briefcase to the embarkation deck, ready to be put into the boats. He and his staff mustered at their various boat stations, where they would be in charge of embarking the troops in their sections under the overall command of the deck officers. That was, if the order came to abandon.
Pemmel was shaking like a leaf. He wished to God Jackie was with him. He’d looked out for her in the awful confusion, the milling of too many bodies, but hadn’t found her. She had her own station, her own part to play. Again — if they abandoned.
Pemmel said in desperation, ‘Why the sod don’t they give the order?’ They would be better off in the boats; you didn’t stop the ship in the middle of a U-boat pack to pick up one man gone overboard — true; but the naval escort, and the other ships in the convoy if they were close enough, would certainly mount a rescue operation for the Ardara’s vital passengers.
***
Kemp didn’t believe the time had yet come to abandon. The ship still had power and although she was going lower in the water they might get away with it so long as there was no further attack — the pumps might overcome the apparent leak of the water through sprung plates and watertight sections damaged by the explosions. Kemp knew the Ardara and her capacities well enough; but for form’s sake he asked Greene’s opinion.
‘What d’you think, Captain?’
‘The same as I believe you do, sir. She’s not a goner yet.’
‘Right! We’ll hang on.’ Kemp lifted his binoculars to the Ardara’s starboard quarter. ‘They’re coming. The destroyers. Now we’ll see some action.’ He picked up the microphone of the Tannoy and switched on. ‘This is the Commodore speaking to you all. The destroyers are moving in. If you hear explosions, they’ll be the depth-charges. In the meantime the ship is still seaworthy and we’re going to try to bring her through.’
He switched off. His face was sombre, the lines more deeply etched than before. It was going to be a long haul to the safety of the Clyde anchorage.
Below in the sick bay Jackie Ord, hearing Kemp’s voice, taking in his words of encouragement, was thinking similarly: for many of the men who had been brought to her care the haul was going to be far too long. They wouldn’t see the welcoming arms of the land, far from it. Mangled bodies ... as on the outward voyage there had been screams as the quivering, burned flesh had been brought in. The horrible sounds had died by now; the painkilling drugs had had their effect. There were too many injured for the sick bay to accommodate; Dr Barnes and the second nursing sister, helped by the army medics, were treating people where they lay throughout the ship and the enclosed decks had taken on the air of a casualty clearing station. Soon after the Commodore had been on the Tannoy the crump of explosions was heard, close explosions that seemed to ring throughout the ship as the depth-charges reached their settings and went up. They clanged through the engine-room where Burrows and his staff were watching the bulkhead and noting the seepage, the water running down the strained seams, a few places where there was a stream of water zipping through holes left by sheared rivets. These were being plugged but Burrows feared there would be more, feared that he detected an ominous bulge that could mean the entire bulkhead might give under the weight and pressure of the water. The section immediately before the engine-room had had the pumps working but the sea was winning.
He got on the telephone to the bridge. Greene answered. Burrows reported. ‘I’m worried about the fore bulkhead. Too much strain. If that goes ... we all go.’
Greene said, ‘I’ll send assistance. Shoring-up beams might do the trick.’ Orders were passed to the bosun: as many seamen as could be spared, to reach the engine-room at the double, taking timber for the ship’s carpenter to rig shoring-up beams, well chocked down to take the strain. Just as Greene had passed the order, there was a shout from Mathias.
‘Starboard beam, sir — U-boat coming to the surface!’
They all looked. A cigar shape was breaking surface, bows angled upwards. A gun was seen on the casing, then the conning-tower with water streaming white from the washports. Kemp called for the searchlight to be switched on. When the beam steadied blindingly, men were seen emerging from below, through the hatch into the conning-tower. Some climbed down to the casing and ran for the gun. The U-boat’s stern remained beneath the water: she had damage aft. Kemp called for Williams.
‘Sir?’
‘Open fire, point of aim the gun.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The message went to all guns; at the after six-inch Petty Officer Frapp, who had already laid and trained on the emerging U-boat, opened fire on the instant of receiving the order. There was a flash, an ear-splitting crack and a stench of cordite.
‘Bloody miss,’ Frapp snarled. He brought his range down a little: the next fall of shot was short. By this time the U-boat’s gun was itself in action, and a shell went close above the Ardara’s bridge, its wind making all the personnel duck. It whined away to port, harmlessly. Kemp saw one of the destroyers moving in at speed, her 4.7-inch guns blazing away from before her bridge. The U-boat hadn’t a chance: her gun vanished in a red flash, and when the smoke cleared Kemp saw that the conning-tower, too, was shattered and lifeless. A moment later the bow’s angle increased sharply, and then the submarine slid back beneath the surface, stern first.
‘One gone at all events,’ Kemp said.
Now the destroyer was calling by lamp. Mathias reported: The destroyer was asking if the Ardara was seaworthy.
Kemp said, ‘Answer: Yes .’
***
Dawn came up: the Ardara was still afloat, the engine-room was still intact and the ship was steaming at reduced speed so as not to strain the watertight sections further. There had been no further attack: apparently it had been just the one U-boat that had despatched the two torpedoes. The escort reported no less than twelve U-boats believed destroyed. It was anyone’s guess how many more remained; contact had been lost. The Nazis could have gone deep to lie doggo with the intention of mounting another attack later, or they could have drawn off, preferring not to take further risks against the exceptionally strong escort. They had had an impressive enough bag as it was: Kemp believed, from reports received, that eighteen ships had gone or were severely disabled. The count would be made finally at the rendezvous. Before dawn had come up, the reports of casualties aboard the Ardara had been made to the Commodore: thirty-seven of the ship’s company dead, forty-one wounded. The troops had been luckier, since they had almost all been on deck at their boat stations: two officers and four NCOs had died whilst on their rounds below, checking that all men had cleared the troop decks. There was a corporal with a leg broken when he’d been knocked endways during a mild stampede along the embarkation deck when the torpedoes had hit.
Kemp had stayed on the bridge throughout the night; the ship had remained closed up at emergency stations. When the reports had come in from the escort that there were no more contacts, Kemp stood the men down and the galleys produced breakfast. Williams said, ‘You could do with some sleep, sir.’
Kemp had been almost reeling about the bridge: because of this he had wedged himself into the corner of the wing. He said, ‘I think you’re right, Williams.’
‘I’ll call you at once if necessary, sir.’
‘I’m not much use as I am.’ The effect of the benzedrine had worn off and left Kemp with something like a twitch: he was dead tired physically but mentally he was racing away on a cloud though not thinking constructively: he knew he wouldn’t in f
act find sleep but his body cried out for rest. He went below to his cabin. His steward brought breakfast: he felt better after he had eaten, but his mind was still too active for sleep. So many things to worry about ... things big and little. One of the lesser ones was the trouble with the second steward ... but Pemmel had said he could sort it out on his own. Kemp hoped he could. That young nurse; Kemp felt immense sympathy for her. Not much older than his own sons — somewhere around the early twenties, he’d have said. His thoughts went homeward, ahead of the stricken ship, covering the sea miles to the London River and a small Kent village. He wondered if the dead ship’s surgeon had had anyone to worry about him, wondered what the effect might be on someone at home when the news went through of a suicide. But that could be covered and if Kemp had anything to do with it, it would be. ‘Lost at sea’ was always a useful phrase.
***
In the engine-room Burrows stood on the starting-platform feeling rather like the boy who stood on the burning deck except that in Burrows’ case no one had fled. He looked down at a slop of water across the deck plates, water that rolled from side to side in time to the rolling of the ship. The level had increased but only a little. The pumps were just about coping. It was a matter of time alone. They might make it and they might not: the bulkhead was shaky, and it alone stood between safety and disaster. If it went, it would go fast, very fast, one fell swoop as they said. If the rate of leak continued to rise, it would be much slower but it would end the same way: a flooded engine-room. Then they would have either to abandon or be taken in tow. The Ardara, in the absence of proper ocean-going rescue tugs, would be a heavy tow. Kemp, who thought of everything before anyone else did, had already asked via CS29 for such specialist tugs to be sent out from home waters — just in case. But it was still a matter of time, Burrows knew. Time and the enemy, who would be in a position to make short work of any tugs. And of the Ardara come to that ...
The following day they made the rendezvous, the point where what was left of the convoy was under orders to re-assemble. Still there had been no further attack, at any rate on the Ardara. Something of a miracle, Burrows thought, or maybe there was a better target somewhere else — Churchill coming back across the Atlantic perhaps, or had he already made the return passage aboard the Prince of Wales? There was, of course, a massive security clamp-down on the battleship’s movements.
Convoy of War (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 19
