On the bridge, Kemp, also formal, had returned the Nazi officer’s salute and uttered formalities. ‘What’s the meaning of this? What do you want with me?’
‘You have a bag, with intelligence.’
‘No.’
‘Do not try to delay, Commodore. The facts are known.’
Kemp laughed. ‘They may be. I accept that. But you’re too late. Do you take me for a fool? The bag has gone overboard. I’m afraid your journey wasn’t really necessary.’
The German stared back at him: the moon was once again shedding its light, and the angular, bony face, thin-lipped, arrogant, could be seen quite clearly. Another thing the moon had shown Kemp was that the U-boat had submerged again, down to periscope depth: where she had been on the surface was a thin feather of spray from the periscope as she kept level with the Coverdale’s bridge. The German said, ‘I do not believe you, Commodore Kemp.’
Kemp gave a start. ‘You know my name?’
‘Yes. And mine is Cramm. Lieutnant Cramm. This will not have been known to you.’
‘Is it significant?’ Kemp stared the Nazi in the eyes. ‘How do you know my name?’
Cramm shrugged. He held a revolver loosely in his hand, and behind him, covering all the bridge personnel, were two of his armed seamen. He said, ‘Our German intelligence is good, that is how.’
‘Agents planted everywhere —’
‘Precisely, yes. Everywhere, Commodore Kemp. And our allies, the Italians…they also make reports on certain matters, and certain things have been relayed to my submarine. You understand?’
Kemp said, ‘That bag. I say again, you’re too late.’
‘Not the bag — that too, yes, of course — but other things.’ The Nazi brought up his revolver and levelled it at Kemp’s chest. ‘There is need to hurry, you will understand that. To search the ship will take time, but this will be done if necessary. You will not have disposed of what is in that bag, Commodore Kemp, of this I am certain. Now I have something else to tell you.’
‘Go on, then.’
For a moment or two Cramm remained silent, staring back at Kemp. Then he said, ‘Your son’s life.’
‘My son?’ Kemp felt the sudden lurch, the thump of his heart. What was this man talking of? How did he know, what did he know? The urge to ask many questions was almost overpowering, but Kemp resisted it. He had to remain calm, in control of himself and his emotions. It was a time for waiting. All he asked was, ‘What is my son to do with you?’
Cramm spoke steadily. ‘A destroyer in the Mediterranean, sunk in combat. Many men lost. Two of them swam away after the destroyer went down. They reached the island of Pantelleria. One of them was your son.’
Kemp swallowed hard. ‘My son — is alive?’
‘He is alive, yes. He was taken prisoner by the Italian garrison. Lists are rendered to Berlin of prisoners taken by our allies, Commodore Kemp. When your name became known as Commodore of this convoy, orders were issued from Berlin. Sub-Lieutenant Kemp is being transferred to Germany.’
Kemp’s voice was hoarse now. ‘In heaven’s name…what for?’
Cramm smiled. ‘Certain things are required of you, Commodore Kemp. Not just the bag.’
III
‘I’ll be buggered!’ Petty Officer Rattray pushed his cap back from his forehead and scratched at his head, glancing up at the close-range weapons aft as he did so. The Nazi gunner was on the ball, watching closely, and the look on his face said he would scarcely wait for an excuse to open fire. ‘Just you keep it right where it is, Leading Seaman Sinker, all right?’ Stripey had hidden the bag inside the top of his workings overalls and in the general fatness the bulge was not particularly noticeable. ‘How did you get your hands on it, eh?’
Sinker said, ‘Just ‘appened to be passing, like, when the ship give that lurch. Something come down from the bridge…got caught up in the falls o’ the seaboat. I grabbed it — that’s all. Then the panic started, with the bloody Jerries coming across from —’
‘All right, all right, I got the picture.’ Rattray looked for’ard, up towards the bridge. The officers were still yacking and no orders had been passed from either side, British or Nazi. The Coverdale was continuing on course. On the flanks the British counterattack was also continuing, but Rattray had no idea as to how the destroyers were doing. As he looked ahead he saw a shaded blue lamp flashing from what he believed was the Nassau: a signal from the senior officer to the Commodore? If that remained unanswered, help might soon be on the way. He turned back to Stripey Sinker. ‘You’re valuable property now, Leading Seaman Sinker. Or what you got is.’
‘The Nazis’ll bloody —’
‘Skin you alive — yes. Not that we know what’s in the bag, but we can make guesses. Secrets, right? What those buggers come aboard for. All as clear as flippin’ day, it is, now. So what do we do, Leading Seaman Sinker?’
‘I — I dunno.’ Stripey chewed at his lip. ‘Chuck it over the side. That’s maybe what the bridge intended.’
‘Yes. No doubt they did, unless someone was flippin’ careless when that lurch came. Either way, it’s not a decision I can take. Apart from which, Leading Seaman Sinker, unless you or me wish to commit immediate suicide, it wouldn’t be exactly bloody wise, now would it?’ Rattray jerked a thumb towards the hawk-eyed Nazi behind the gun. ‘Hang onto it for now. Then we’ll see. Maybe we can hide it away safe, pending orders from the bridge.’
‘Hide it where?’ Sinker asked dismally.
‘Search me,’ Rattray answered, looking around. He caught the eye of the Nazi gunner and swore beneath his breath. It was a question not only of where but also how. He looked again towards the bridge. A signal was being made, the message from the senior officer being acknowledged, presumably. Wool being drawn over his eyes, by order of the Nazi lieutenant? Rattray surveyed Stripey Sinker, looking more than jaundiced. ‘You bloody would,’ he said witheringly, ‘wouldn’t you, fat bag o’ lard!’
IV
As Rattray had surmised, the Nazis on the bridge had dictated the response to the signal from the flag, which had been merely to convey information: six U-boats were believed to have been destroyed by depth-charge attack or by gunfire after surfacing following damage. Not surprisingly, this news was badly received by the German officer. But he said, ‘You will signal your congratulations, Commodore. That only, very briefly, the one word, “Congratulations”. If there is trouble, your ship will be sunk. You will be the first to die, you and all the others on the bridge.’ He prodded with his revolver. Kemp passed the order to Leading Signalman Goodenough.
He said, ‘Exactly as ordered, Goodenough. Nothing more.’
Goodenough obeyed the Commodore. Kemp could be presumed to know best, though Goodenough had an idea that if he signalled not ‘Congratulations’ but ‘Bollocks’ then something would be known to be amiss aboard the Commodore’s ship. Command wasn’t all that simple and straightforward and Kemp had the ship and her company to think about — and, it seemed, his son. Goodenough had heard all that and if Kemp was going to lean over backwards so far as possible for his son’s sake, then it was wholly understandable. Goodenough was certain Kemp wouldn’t lean over far enough to go arse over tit. Even a son wouldn’t finally stand between him and his duty.
So the signal was made; there was no further exchange. The Rear-Admiral in the Nassau was well known to be one who gave commodores their heads and didn’t interfere unnecessarily. And the convoy was still in its formation, minus the Asian Star, abandoned and left behind to sink, many of her troops picked up by other ships in convoy, many cramming the lifeboats to await succour when the attack had been beaten off. Until then, until he had to redispose the convoy columns when the attack was over, there was in fact nothing for the Commodore to do other than to plod on. Which, under German orders now, he was doing.
Once the congratulatory signal had been made, the world, for Kemp, seemed to have been stood on its head. The Nazi expounded: the U-boat pack was under orders to destroy the
convoy; that was normal enough, of course. The particular U-boat shadowing the Coverdale was under orders to take possession of the sealed bag from Australia. Also a facet of war, though Kemp believed that Berlin had been misinformed and was reading much more into the bag’s contents than was the actual fact.
But that was not all.
The Coverdale was to detach from the convoy and steam for the port of Brest in Occupied France. A prize of war, a big fleet oiler with a part cargo of valuable fuel oil in her tanks. And, that apart, the mere fact of taking out a ship from a convoy and delivering her to the Fatherland would be a pinnacle of achievement, a glowing beacon in the German Navy’s annals, a feather in the Führer’s monstrous cap, a blow to the morale of the British.
And Kemp was to assist. Kemp would know how to do it without arousing suspicions. He could drop astern, making reassuring signals to the warships to keep them from intruding, and could deal with any allied convoys or escorts that they might meet as they came further north. Kemp could get them safely through as they neared the Western Approaches to Britain.
Knowing what the answer was going to be, Kemp asked, ‘And my son, Lieutenant Cramm?’
‘Your son will be well treated if you assist us. We do not wish to harm your men — and for you and the senior officers in particular we have a use, since the ship must be steamed. You as Commodore, I repeat, know the proper routines and requirements to deal with interference. You are indispensable. Your son is not. I think you will understand, Commodore Kemp.’
SIXTEEN
I
‘No surrender,’ Dempsey said. His face was set hard; steel was showing. ‘I’m sorry, Commodore. I know the — fix you’re in. If it was my son —’ He threw up his arms. ‘Who’s to say, until it happens? But you must see my point as well. I’m in command —’
‘I’ve never disputed that.’ Kemp felt his nails dig into his palms as he did his best to keep his tone level and reasonable. The Nazi officer was behaving very properly, so far at any rate. Although he had disposed his men about the ship so that all vital areas were covered by the sub-machine guns, although the officer of the watch and the helmsmen were under constant surveillance, although two Nazis had taken control of the engine-room, the Commodore and the Captain had not been unduly interfered with. Kemp had asked for some time alone with Captain Dempsey; and this was allowed. Hot cocoa was brought to the chart room by Porter, whose fresh worry about being a prisoner of war for an indefinite period was making him all thumbs. There was an armed guard on the door to the wheelhouse and that was all. But Kemp was now under immense pressure: he had understood very well what Cramm had meant: he, the Commodore, could assist; but he could also act the other way and give the alarm to the senior officer while appearing to fake a reason to detach the Coverdale. And he could do the same all the way to Brest if they encountered a British ship. Kemp’s son was the guarantee that he would not do this.
To Cramm, he had invoked the Geneva Convention, the proper treatment of prisoners of war. That had cut no ice. And Kemp knew that the Nazis would have many ways of covering up when they were brought to book after the war was over. Porter spilled some cocoa. ‘What’s up with you?’ Dempsey asked testily.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Porter was shaking like a leaf in a gale, and his face was pinched.
‘We’re all in it, Porter.’
‘Yes, sir, I know. But for some it’s worse. Them bastards — they don’t know what they’re doing, sir.’
Dempsey gave a short laugh. ‘On the contrary, Porter. They know very well indeed. Now then — what’s worse, in your case? Better come out with it.’
Porter did; his tray and glasses rattled and he set it down on the chart table. The story poured out; Dempsey listened without expression. He didn’t say a word but when Porter had had his say there was a difference. The steward said, ‘It’s better for talking about it to you, sir. Thank you for listening, sir. I’d got all sort of bottled up, like.’
‘All right, Porter.’
When the man had left Dempsey said, ‘What a time to choose! My fault, of course. And it’s done some good. Now: where were we?’
‘You said you’re in command. You said no surrender. I go along with you, of course I do.’ Kemp was sweating freely, and not from the chart room’s closeness alone. ‘All I’m asking for is time. Frankly, it’s inevitable now. Suppose I make some sort of warning signal. What does that U-boat do, the moment the escort’s seen to react? She’s still got us all under periscope watch.’
Dempsey rasped at his chin: the question needed no answer. He sighed, heavily. ‘You’re right on that,’ he said. ‘So what’s your proposal, Commodore?’
‘We appear to accede, that’s all. We’re seen to realize we have no option. Then we bide our time.’
‘We don’t go all the way to Brest?’
‘We do not. That’s a promise, Dempsey. We’ll not surrender the Coverdale. Far from it — we’ll get her back.’ Kemp took a pull at his cocoa, emptying the mug. ‘One thing — we’ve got rid of that damn bag. Now it’s time to tell Cramm we’re co-operating.’ He went to the door and with Dempsey pushed past the German sentry.
II
Dempsey’s face was still hard as the mendacious signals went out to the flag: he detested allowing the Nazis their gloat, and he saw little prospect of Kemp’s being able to bring off any recapture of the ship. True; the Nazis were outnumbered, but they had the U-boat — which, still at periscope depth, had shifted back into Coverdale’s wake for security from the asdics aboard the destroyers — they had a full U-boat’s crew to call upon; and there would always be the big threat of the torpedoes.
In the meantime it was going to be a hard job to let his own crew and the naval gunners know the true score: indeed it might be better to keep them in ignorance for the time being, in case mouths were shot off. Rattray for one: Rattray was never slow in coming forward and might not be able to restrain himself from having a jeer in advance. That was something that must yet be discussed with Kemp. Dempsey watched as the leading signalman flashed the Commodore’s signal: ‘Flag from Commodore, am turning back to pick up any survivors from Asian Star.’ The Rear-Admiral might have his objections, although the escorts appeared by now to have the attack held despite their own losses — two of the destroyers had gone, so had the two ballasted armament carriers, and another of the transports had been hit although she was still seaworthy and limping along. Kemp would disregard the senior officer’s objections: as Commodore he could decide his movements for himself, and to have a regard for survivors might be foolhardy but would be seen as perfectly natural. So the Coverdale would drop astern and would not rejoin the convoy; she would alter course to Cramm’s orders and head for the port of Brest, to take service under the German ensign, her crew transferred to the Fatherland as prisoners.
Within two minutes of the signal being made, the Rear-Admiral’s reply came back: ‘Commodore from Flag, you will proceed at your own risk. Cannot spare an escort.’
As expected, Dempsey thought: Kemp had worked that one out for himself. An escort would be unwelcome to the Germans. ‘Excellent!’ Lieutenant Cramm said.
Under orders, Dempsey brought the ship round to a reciprocal of her course. He called the engine-room. Evans answered from the starting platform, sounding what he was — under duress.
‘Reversing course, Chief. All well below — within limits?’
‘Within limits, sir, yes.’
‘Keep your chin up, Chief.’ Dempsey slammed down the voice-pipe cover. He was aware of having uttered a platitude, but what else could you do? And it just might give a hint that all this wasn’t being taken entirely lying down…Dempsey recalled his own earlier doubts about letting anything be known. He’d believed in a clamp-down, but you had to allow hope.
Dempsey went out to the starboard wing and joined Kemp as the Coverdale steadied on her new course. They stood together, not speaking, each according the other silence in which to sort out his thoughts and emotions. After a
few minutes Cramm came up behind them. He said, ‘After dawn, Captain, your radio room will send out a signal, a Mayday call which will of course not be answered by your convoy. You are under attack. The transmission will be suddenly broken off.’
Dempsey said nothing. That signal would finally dispose of the Coverdale in British minds. In the, by then, far distant flagship, there would be visions of a last-gasp radio message before the big bang that closed the matter.
III
From the decks the hands watched as the convoy vanished astern: the buzz had spread, the rumour that the Commodore was co-operating with the Nazis and pulling the ship out. Dempsey too: they were in cahoots. The opinions polarized: Kemp and Dempsey were shit scared and saving their own skins; alternatively, they’d had no option.
Whichever view was right, there was a loneliness now. Just a solitary ship, with that U-boat escort. Once the convoy was safely out of the way, the U-boat would presumably come to the surface and remain immediately handy with her gun and her torpedo-tubes. Chief Steward Lugg had come up for a look-see: he was thinking of his new grand-daughter…he wouldn’t be seeing her for bloody years, if ever. If the Nazis won the war, and it was on the cards they might even though deep down in your heart you knew they never could win against the whole British Empire’s might plus the men and munitions from the United States…if they did win, then you could kiss the past goodbye — his wife, his daughter, his home, the baby, the lot. Freedom, too. No freedom under the Nazi jackboot, not for those British who came through in the POW camps or anywhere else. Hitler, triumphant, driving along Whitehall and the Mall to Buckingham Palace, heiling himself like all-get-out, that daft-looking arm raised and the moustached face one bloody big gloat as he hustled the King and Queen out. They wouldn’t surrender. They wouldn’t co-operate.
Convoy South Page 18
