Rendezvous-South Atlantic

by Douglas Reeman

  `I want to meet my officers today, too.' He glanced up quickly, seeing the shot go home. Goss looked suddenly uneasy. `I've read all I can about them, but that is as far as it goes.'

  'I'll arrange it, sir.' Goss sounded in control again. `Eight bells?'

  `Good.'

  More calmly he continued, `If the war gets' no worse things are going to be bad. If it does,' he shrugged, `then we'll be hard put to keep the sea lanes open. It's as simple as that.'

  Almost to himself he said, `Once I thought otherwise. Now I know better. War isn't a game, and it's time we started breaking a few rules, right?'

  Goss eyed him unblinkingly. `Right.'

  A telephone buzzed on the bulkhead and Lindsay seized it from its hook without leaving the chair.

  `Captain.'

  The voice said, `Signal from shore, sir. Guardboat arriving with sealed orders forthwith.'

  Lindsay looked at Goss's heavy face and thought about the voice on the telephone. What did he look like? What was his name? There was so much to discover. So little time.

  `Thank you. Inform the O.O.D. please.' The phone went dead.

  To Goss he said,. `Perhaps we shall know now.'

  Goss looked around the cabin, his face suddenly desperate. `They'll not be sending us to fight surface ships. Not after all that's happened, surely?' When Lindsay remained silent he said, `One of our sister ships, the Barra, has got a nice billet at Singapore. She's an A.M.C. too, like us, but out there she'll be safe enough from these bloody U-boats.'

  Almost, gently Lindsay replied, `Maybe you're right. But it's best to face the worst thing which can happen and plan from there.'

  He turned away to hide his eyes, as the mental picture rose in his mind like some hideous spectre. The pale arms waving under the water. The soft, limp bodies pressed against his chest.

  Goss opened the door. `I...I'll carry on, sir.' Then he was gone.

  Jupp entered the cabin by the other door and said, 'Guardboat's shoved off from the jetty, sir. I'd better start packin' up some of the glasses. They're hard to replace nowadays, and we don't want none of that issue stuff from naval stores.'

  Lindsay relaxed slightly and smiled at Jupp's doleful face.

  `What are you expecting?'

  Jupp pouted. 'Sailin' orders they'll be, sir. We're off very soon now.'

  Lindsay stood up. He was well used to lower deck telegraph and false buzzes, but the steward's tone made him ask, `Have you heard something?' He smiled. `You've a relative at H.Q. maybe?'

  Jupp moved to another scuttle, his face grave. `Look 'ere, sir.'

  Through the steady downpour Lindsay saw a small boat chugging across the anchorage, several oilskinned figures crammed together for comfort like wet seals on a half-submerged rock.

  Jupp said, `That's the 'arbour-master's mob,: sir. Earlier on I seen 'em checkin', our buoy and measurin' the distance to thee next astern.' He glanced at Lindsay, his voice matter-of-fact. `They'll be needin' it for another; bigger ship, I reckon. Stands to reason, don't it, sir?'

  Lindsay nodded. `Yes.'

  Jupp asked, `Will you be wantin' any letters taken ashore? If I'm right, that is.'

  He shook his head. `No. No letters.'

  He walked towards his sleeping cabin and did not see the sadness in Jupp's deepset eyes.

  The Benbeculds wardroom, which was situated forward of the promenade deck, had once been the main. restaurant for the passengers, and had been her pride and joy. It ran the whole breadth of the hull, and was panelled in dark oak. Most of the furnishings were drawn from the original fittings, and the chairs around the long polished table all bore the company's crest, as did the deep leather ones grouped by the stately coal stove at the after bulkhead. A few additional concessions had, however, been made. Officers' letter rack, a picture of the King, and a stand containing pistols which did little to alter the general appearance 'of well-being and comfort.

  Sharp at noon Goss had arrived to accompany Lindsay to the wardroom and had said nothing as they passed two seamen who were busily removing the glass sign which proclaimed it to be a Restaurant - First Class Only. Lindsay doubted if the sign had ever been needed, for he had learned that Benbecula had never carried anyone but first class passengers. Except, that is, for emigrants to Australia, and it was hardly likely they would have misunderstood.the rules.

  As they entered all the officers rose to their feet, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, apprehension and expectancy. It was plain that Goss had already arranged them ip some sort of order, while in the background two white-coated stewards hovered in readiness to serve drinks once the formalities were over.

  Lindsay knew better than to expect a complete analysis at so brief a meeting. Some faces stood out more than others, however. There was a Lieutenant Stannard, the navigation officer, a lean, beanpole of a man with a skin like leather. A reservist, he was also an Australian who had served with the company before the war.

  As Lindsay shook his hand he drawled, `I sure hope we're going back on the Far East run, sir. The old ship can find her own way there by now.' He shrugged. `Otherwise I'm not too optimistic!'

  Maxwell was present of course, rigid as ever, and slightly apart from the professional seamen and the amateurs, like a disapproving referee at some obscure contest.

  The ship's doctor, Surgeon-Lieutenant David Boase, returned Lindsay's handshake, and in answer to a question said, `First ship, sir. I was at Guy's.'

  Despite the red marking between his wavy gold stripes, Lindsay guessed that like so many of his contemporaries Boase was little more than a glorified medical student. But better than no doctor at all.

  There were four sub-lieutenants, very new, and all but one of whom had never been to sea before except as ordinary seamen doing their obligatory service prior to going to King Alfred, the officers training establishment. The exception was named Dancy, a serious faced young man who said quickly, `Actually, sir, I have done three months watchkeeping before joining this ship.'

  Lindsay eyed him curiously. `What ship?'

  `The Valiant, sir.'

  Lindsay was surprised. `I'd have thought this is a bit of a change from a big battleship, Dancy.'

  Dancy flushed. `Oh no, sir. Not that Valiant. Actually she was an armed yacht at Bristol.'

  The laughter helped to break the ice, and Goss said ponderously, `Shall I call the stewards over now, sir?'

  Lindsay nodded and let his eyes move round the faces which would become so familiar,. given luck and time.

  As Goss bustled away he saw Tobey, the big boatswain, talking with the two elderly warrant officers, Emerson and Baldock, and wondered what they thought about this appointment after their peaceful retirement.

  Lieutenant Mark de Chair of the Royal Marines, a slim, elegant figure with a.neat clipped moustache said .suddenly, `I expect you're, wondering why I'm aboard, sir?'

  Lindsay smiled. `Tell me.'

  `I was put here with my sergeant and thirty marines to man the ship's armament when we were trooping, sir.' He shrugged. `The troops have gone, but their lordships 'in all their wisdom thought fit to forget us.'

  `I've arranged for you to continue manning the after guns.'

  Lindsay took a glass from a steward and waited until they were all silent again. A mixed wardroom, he thought. Like most ships these days, and yet....'

  He said quietly, `Well, gentlemen, I am sorry this has to be brief. I will have to get to know you better,' he paused, `when we are at sea.' He felt the sudden expectancy move around him like a small wind. `Our sailing orders have arrived.' He thought of Jupp by the scuttle. How right he was. `We will slip from our buoy at 0800 tomorrow and proceed on independent patrol.'

  He could see his words hitting. home, affecting each and every one present in the way it would touch him. Fraser's relaxed indifference, his second engineer, Lieutenant (E) Dyke, frowning slightly as if going over his own watch-bill of stokers and mechanics. Barker biting his lip, squinting behind his glasses, seeing each s
ea mile steamed as so many sausages and tins of corned beef, rum and gallons of tea. Stannard, the navigation officer, balanced on his toes, thinking of his charts perhaps, or returning to his far off homeland. Maxwell, stiff and sphinxlike. And some of the rest, so young, so unsure that it made you feel sorry for them.

  Lindsay continued, `We will patrol the south-western approaches to Iceland, to extend when required into the Denmark Strait.' He had to steel himself to say the words. In his mind's eye he could see the raging desert of tossing whitecaps and dark-sided rollers; of shrieking gales, and ice. The Denmark Strait..

  Stannard was the first to break the stunned silence. `Jesus, sir, they sure believe in pitching us into the deep end!'

  Goss muttered, `We've had no time. No time to get things ready.' His voice trailed away.

  Lindsay looked round their faces again, knowing it would be like this. He lifted his glass. `To the ship, gentlemen.' As they drained their glasses without a word he added, `And remember this. Our people will be looking to you after today. As I will. So let's not have too much despondency about, eh?

  He let his eye fall on Fraser. `I'd suggest a party tonight.'

  He turned as a figure stepped into the wardroom. It was Kemp, the midshipman, the only officer he had not met. Kemp had been acting O.O.D. during the meeting, and his face was pink with cold from the upper deck.

  Kemp said, `Signal from H.Q., sir.' He proffered a soggy sheet of pad. `Would you report there at 1600, sir.'

  Lindsay glanced at the signal; aware 'of all the eyes watching his face.

  `Affirmative.' As the boy turned: to go he added, `You'll be allocated to dealing .with ship's correspondence on top of your other duties.

  Kemp stared around the other officers and nodded. `Yes, sir.'

  Lindsay said, `We're sailing at 0800 tomorrow. Iceland patrol, if you're interested.'

  As the boy hurried away Lindsay noticed that one of the stewards had also gone. The news would be all over the ship by now, and., perhaps it was better so. It would help prepare them for the formalities of getting under way.

  He put down his glass. It was time to leave them to sort themselves out.

  He said, `There will be no shore leave, so inform your departments accordingly. Arrange for mail to be dropped tonight. After that,' he forced a smile, `we are in business.' He nodded to Goss. `Thank you. Carry on, please.'

  Despite the rain and chill wind he made himself walk around the boat deck, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed against the weather. Part of the deck still bore the faded marks where handball had once been played in the Pacific sunlight. He walked past the hooded Oerlikons and climbed slowly up to the bridge. It would be strange to con a ship with the helmsman right there with you, he thought vaguely. It was a spacious bridge, the brass telegraphs and binnacle, the polished wheel deserted, as if waiting for the place to come alive again. Once the time came it would never be quiet, nor empty.

  On either side of the wheelhouse the open bridge wings stretched out over the side, and he walked to the port gratings, his shoes squelching in rain puddles as he peered across at the murky shoreline.

  A petty officer was leaning over the wing, the rain bouncing off his oilskin and cap like hail as he stared at the water far below.

  He swung round and saluted as Lindsay crossed to his side and said, `Ritchie, sir. Yeoman of signals.'

  He had a round, homely face, and Lindsay knew from experience that a yeoman of signals was just about one of the most important members of any bridge, no matter what ship.

  `You've heard the news, Yeo?'

  He nodded. `Aye, sir.' Ritchie seemed oblivious' of the rain. 'I'm not bothered.'

  There was something strange about him. Remote.

  Lindsay asked quietly, `Had any leave lately?'

  Ritchie looked away. `Last month, sir.' When he faced Lindsay again there were tears running unheeded with the rain. `Bloody street was gone,. sir!' The words were torn from him. `Nothing left.'

  Lindsay stared at him. Helpless. `Did you have...'

  `Wife an' two kids, sir.' He brushed his face with his sleeve. `All gone.' He recovered himself and said, `Sorry about that, sir.'

  `Yes.'

  He remembered one of the children stirring in the lifeboat on the last night before the corvette found them. Dreaming perhaps. Like Ritchie's kids when the bomb had come down.

  Ritchie said suddenly, `You'd better get under cover, sir.' A smile creased his face. `You'll be wanted on the bridge, not in the sickbay.'

  Lindsay touched his arm. `Yes.' As he turned to go he added, `If you want leave I'll see if I can arrange it.'

  Ritchie was looking skyward towards a slow-moving Walrus flying boat, his face like a mask.

  `Thank you, sir, but no. You'll need a good signals department, I'm thinkin'.' He hesitated. ''Sides, I'd like the chance to get, back at those bastards!'

  Later when Lindsay went ashore to see the Chief of Staff and to receive his patrol intelligence he remembered Ritchie's words and wondered if he too might be influenced by what had happened.

  The Chief of Staff, a serious faced, urbane captain, was brief and to the point.

  `Things are bad, Lindsay, very bad. There is talk of more German raiders breaking out, probably from French ports. However,' he glanced up at the great wall chart with all its coloured ribbons and flags, `it is not unlikely they might try the longer way round.'

  `The Denmark Strait.'

  `Correct.' The captain eyed him distantly. `I want no heroics. Any sighting report can be used right here in Scapa.'

  Again he looked at the chart, and Lindsay saw the great clusters of crosses, each mark representing a ship sunk by enemy action. There must be hundreds, he thought.

  The captain said, `I know something of your experiences, and I'm sorry you've not been offered a command more fitting to your rank and knowledge. However,' there was that word again, `in war we accept orders without question.'

  A quick handshake, a fat envelope from a tired looking lieutenant, and it was over.

  The staff car was waiting to take him back to the jetty, but there was a different Wren behind the wheel. She was pale and thin, and spent most of the journey sneezing into a handkerchief. When he asked her, she had never even heard of Wren Collins.

  Between sniffs she complained, `I've only just arrived at the base, sir. It's not fair really. Most of my friends have got draft chits to Ceylon.'

  Lindsay thought of Ritchie and all those others like him. `Yes,' he replied coldly. `It really is too bad.'

  On the way to the ship in the motor boat he thought of the next day and the days after that. How they would manage.

  A motor fishing boat packed with libertymen on her way to Lyness wallowed past in the gloom and he heard the sailors singing above the din of rain and wind.

  `Roll on the Nelson, the Rodney, Renown, this onefunnelled bastard is getting me down.'

  He watched them in the rain and recalled the Chief of Staff's warning. No heroics.

  But if these men could sing like that, there was still some spark of hope. For all of them.

  3

  Raider

  Lindsay sat in his cabin, his legs thrust out in front of him, and peered at his watch. Half an hour to go. He made himself reach out for another cup of black coffee, sipping it slowly to clear his thoughts. ,

  The ship around and below him was not so quiet as before. From the moment the hands had been called until the muffled pipe over the tannoy system, `Special seadutymen to your stations!', there had been a feeling of nervous expectancy. As there always seemed to be when l about to leave harbour. You never got used to'it.

  The cabin was dark, for the deadlights were still tightly shut, as they probably would be for most of the time. He glanced at his leather sea-boots and at the duffel coat and binoculars waiting on another chair. How often had he waited like this? he wondered. It would be strange to take Benbecula out of the Flow for the first time. Not that Lindsay was unused to handling big s
hips. He had served as navigation officer in a cumbersome submarine depot ship in Malta for two years, even though at heart he was still a destroyer-man. No, it was not that. It was going back. To, the Atlantic and all it had come to mean to him.

  The deck gave a nervous tremble, and he pictured' Fraser far below in his inhuman world of noise and , greased movement. Mouthing to his men in that strange engine room lip language, his eyes on the great dials above his footplate. It was lucky Benbecula was twin-screwed. Many ships built between the wars had only one propeller. Sufficient in peacetime perhaps, with tugs always on hand when entering and leaving harbour. He smiled grimly in spite of his tense nerves. It would put a swift end to everything if he lost control in the Flow's perverse tide-races before he had even got her clear.

  More sounds now. Wires scraping along the forecastle, the distant bark of orders. That would be Maxwell preparing.to slip the final wire from the ring of their buoy. The last boat had been hoisted inboard, the shivering seamen picked up from the buoy where they had fumbled to unshackle the massive cable while the spray had tried to pluck them into the Flow.

  Bells clanged overhead, and he guessed Goss was testing the telegraphs, watching every move to make sure the captain would find no fault with his precious ship.

  He replaced the cup and stood up,,patting his pockets automatically to make sure he hadall he required. Pipe and pouch. And a small silver compass. He turned it over in his hands under the deckhead light. Inscribed on the back was, `Commander Michael Lindsay. H.M.S. Minden 1914. 'It was just about all he had to remind him of his father now. He thrust it into his pocket, feeling the newness of the jacket. Like everything else, his old clothes were on the sea-bed in Vengeur.

  There was a tap at the door and Goss looked in at him. `Ready to proceed, sir.'

  `I'll cone up.'

  He slipped into the duffel coat and slung his glasses around his neck. As he' picked up his cap he took a last glance round the quiet cabin. It was time.

  Goss followed him up the bridge ladder, between the W/T office with its constant stammer of morse and crackling static and the austere chart room, the deckhead lights trained unwinkingly on the table and instruments.