In the Line of Fire (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  *

  The weather worsened again later that day; once more the galley fires were drawn and the wind came back strongly to balloon out men’s oilskins and fill their sea-boots with a salty drench. That wind was bitterly cold, hinting at ice and snow, and it cut through to the bone. Now more than ever before, with the destroyer so low in the water, the ship’s company was constantly soaked. There was no respite from it as the increasing seas swirled aboard to carry all before them; hands and faces became blue, bristly cheeks became more haggard as the terrible voyage home progressed, hour after dragging hour with the ship yawing badly and making her pathetically slow sternway.

  Cameron felt he would never be warm again, and thought of home in Aberdeen with a coal fire burning in the sitting-room and his father worrying about his trawlers, all of them now taken into Naval service for the duration. The old man had been too old for sea service — unless you were a regular officer, the Admiralty had no use at sea for anyone over fifty — and after his trawler fleet had been taken over he’d found a management job in the port. Thus he was in touch with the sea still, and though he hadn’t liked being ashore he could at least keep warm, and fed too, so far as the ration books permitted. In point of fact the civilians weren’t having it all that easy; last time home, even though some food items were easier in Scotland, Cameron had been shaken by the small food ration and the way his mother had had to skrimp and save on basic essentials, going without herself so that the returning hero could be fed. He’d put a stop to that pronto; the Navy, he said with truth, was going short of nothing except ships themselves. But that was before he had joined Carmarthen and suffered drawn galley fires and all that went with that; right now, the shore-side ration seemed like a cornucopia. So did that cheerful fire… Cameron, his eyes busily scanning the seas, thought of Mary Anstey. She was a nice girl, if a little possessive; they’d had some good evenings down in Southsea — it was like another world now, all the difference between the seagoing Navy and the chairborne warriors of RN barracks, HMS Vernon, Whale Island and all the rest. He wondered who Mary would be going out with now; she would have the pick of many officers in Portsmouth. Like him, she had been hoping for a commission but he had a feeling that a commission would change her. Officers of the WRNS were a different breed, largely, from the ratings; and it was said that many a Third Officer WRNS turned up her nose at anyone under the rank of commander. It was also said that WRNS officers were borne on the books as officers’ mattresses. Well, it would be up to her; there was nothing much between them. They had parted friends, and that was all, really. Nevertheless, he missed her and hoped he would see her again. She was the sort of girl you didn’t forget even though there was nothing all that special in her looks. It was a case of personality: a general merriness and companionability, a ready smile and freckles. Warmth… and right now it was bloody perishing.

  Relieved at last from his watch, Cameron went below and was given news by Leading-Seaman Farrow.

  ‘Your mate Lavington,’ Farrow said heavily.

  ‘What about him, Killick?’

  ‘Gone sick. By order, like. Know what I mean, don’t you?’ Cameron nodded.

  ‘Buffer told me.’ Petty Officer Thomas, Chief Boatswain’s Mate, was known as the Buffer, as were all Chief Boatswain’s Mates, possibly because they acted as buffers between wardroom and lower deck. ‘Gettin’ a shade big for your bloody boots, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cameron said, wanting only to get his head down and find a little warmth.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not that worried. Anyway, Jimmy sent for Lavington, gave him an ear-bashing and told him off to report to the quack. We’re short-’anded enough already… now this ‘as buggered up what’s left of the bloody Watch and Quarter Bill.’ Leading-Seaman Farrow sucked at a hollow tooth, managing to look aggrieved even though his face was only partially visible beneath the wool of his balaclava. ‘I’m takin’ you off lookout and puttin’ you on three gun which will also mean seaboat’s crew if and when required. Buffer’s orders. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Cameron said, pleased enough at the shift from the never-ending eye work. Farrow went off and Cameron flopped down on the deck, so dead tired that he found sleep immediately and never mind the wet beneath his body, scarcely kept out at all by his oilskin. Not that it made much difference; like everyone else aboard, he was already soaked to the skin. He came awake very suddenly about an hour later. It wasn’t the alarm rattlers this time: it was a running man, a man who burst wildly into the galley flat from the iron-deck: Lavington, visible in the police light, bloodstained and waving a scalpel that he must have snatched up from the sick-bay.

  Chapter Six

  ‘What the hell!’

  Cameron was on his feet, leaping over the recumbent bodies. Lavington fell back against a bulkhead, his eyes blazing madly. Cameron grabbed for the hand holding the scalpel, but Lavington squirmed away. Blood was all over him, he was waving the scalpel, and now he was screaming out obscenities. Stripey Tomkins scrambled up, swiped at Lavington, missed, and fell flat on his face on the deck. The destroyer lurched, sagging into a heavy sea, and the savage whine of the wind outside the galley flat came like the very sound of doom. As Tomkins got up again and charged towards Lavington, the scalpel sliced across his right arm, cutting through the sleeve of his duffel-coat, and blood spurted. Cameron got a grip on the man’s shoulder and forced him back against the bulkhead, hard, flattening him with his own weight and then gripping both upper arms so that Lavington was helpless.

  ‘What the bloody hell!’ he said furiously. ‘What have you done, you bloody little fool?’

  Lavington shook in his grip; tears were streaming down his cheeks. There was no fight left in him now; the scalpel dropped to the deck, and another seaman picked it up and stared at it wonderingly. Lavington moaned. Thickly he said, ‘I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t go on.’

  Cameron gave him a violent shake. ‘What have you done, for Christ’s sake?’

  Lavington’s lips trembled. ‘The SBA.’

  ‘What about him?’

  Lavington said, ‘He… laughed at me. He taunted me. I couldn’t take any more… everything went red, I don’t know if you understand that, but it did. Then I saw the scalpel. I’d used one often in the dissecting room.’

  ‘What did you do with it, Lavington?’

  Lavington said unsteadily, ‘I think I killed him. Oh, God. What’s going to happen now?’

  Cameron gave no answer; the answer was only too plain. He thought to himself, the bastard hadn’t even the guts to go overboard afterwards and put a quick end to it. From now on, Carmarthen was going to be a marked ship in the Scapa base, the ship where murder had been done. And worse was to follow fast: Cameron was moving at the double towards the sick-bay when the urgent pipe was heard along the upper deck:

  ‘Away seaboat’s crew and lowerers of the starboard watch! Man your boat!’

  *

  It was a case of man overboard: afterwards, when the whaler had been hoisted again on the falls and secured at her davits, the victim unrecovered, Lavington was taken by the Torpedo-Coxswain into the engineers’ store and grilled. When the Torpedo-Coxswain emerged, Lavington was locked into the store and a man of the watch on deck was armed with a rifle and detailed as sentry; Carmarthen’s cells were, along with the seamen’s and stokers’ messdecks, submerged. The Torpedo-Coxswain, his face grim, went immediately to the compass platform to report to the Captain. Seymour turned from his cold, windswept corner.

  ‘Well, Cox’n?’

  ‘The man’s made a full statement, sir.’

  ‘Let’s have the facts, then.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Coxswain spoke formally as if at Captain’s Defaulters. ‘Ordinary Seaman Lavington, sir, was interrupted by the Surgeon-Lieutenant whilst attacking the Sick Berth Attendant, sir. He brandished the scalpel at the Surgeon-Lieutenant, who retreated out of the sick-bay. The Surgeon-Lieutenant was followed by Lavington to the quarter
deck, sir, where he was attacked. He was washed over the side whilst attempting to disarm Lavington.’

  Seymour swore. ‘A double murder!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sick Berth Attendant Platten, sir, did not die immediately. He crawled out from the sick-bay and witnessed what happened, sir. It was he that gave the alarm, before he died, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain paused. ‘As soon as the alarm was given, the seaboat’s crew and —’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that, Cox’n, thank you. I take it Lavington’s in close custody?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Seymour nodded. ‘He’ll remain in close arrest, of course, back to Scapa… if we ever get there!’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Defaulters, sir?’

  Again Seymour nodded. ‘It’ll be done by the book, Cox’n. All the way… he’ll have to be brought before the Officer of the Watch and put formally in the First Lieutenant’s report. Then I’ll see him at Captain’s Defaulters.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And there’ll need to be a full transcription of all statements and evidence. Word for word.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘That’s all, thank you. See to the charge, Cox’n.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain saluted and clattered down the ladder from the compass platform. Seymour turned wearily and stared out across the surging, hostile seas. Neither he nor the Torpedo-Coxswain — nor anyone else aboard probably — had encountered a charge of murder before. It was an open and shut case, of course, but with such a serious charge King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions must be followed to the letter. When, within the next few minutes, Lavington was brought in handcuffs to the compass platform to be charged, Seymour withdrew. As Captain he must in due course hear the formal case for the first time at his own Defaulter’s table and should not be present at the first proceedings. He felt a pang of sympathy for the RNVR snotty, Officer of the Watch, who would be watching his P’s and Q’s and hoping desperately to get it right. Going back to the compass platform when the initial statements and evidence had been given, Seymour’s mind was filled with the thought that now they had neither doctor nor SBA and there was a hell of a lot of unfriendly ground to cover yet. Any further, unattended, deaths from wounds in action, or from the sea, could also be laid at Ordinary Seaman Lavington’s door.

  *

  Next day one of those further deaths became a distinct possibility: a leading-stoker named Crucible developed severe stomach pains. He reported, more or less bent double, to the sick-bay where Midshipman Robens had been detailed to study the quick-reference manuals supplied to all ships, especially intended for the use of those not carrying medical officers. He had coped reasonably easily and efficiently with a number of cut hands, boiler-room burns (fortunately perhaps for themselves, the worst burn cases from the convoy had died) plus some sea-sores and boils, when he was faced with Leading-Stoker Crucible and his obviously serious complaint. Conscientiously, manual at the ready, he asked all the set questions and was able to eliminate both diarrhoea and constipation. The cure-all at sea was a liquid known as Black Draught, which worked wonders. But, Robens thought, not this time. As a youth, he had himself suffered from appendicitis and he played safe.

  ‘Trousers down, Crucible, and lie on the settee.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. If I can, sir.’

  ‘Just try.’

  Crucible did; but lay with his knees drawn up, in obvious pain. Sweat-beads formed on his forehead and he said, ‘It’s bloody agony, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but we’ll do what we can.’ Midshipman Robens felt gingerly around the stomach. He couldn’t identify any swelling or obstruction by touch and wasn’t sure whether or not he should be able to; but Crucible left him in little doubt. The man yelled in extreme pain as Robens’ fingers probed and the sick-bay was filled with obscene language uttered in a very heartfelt manner. The makeshift doctor gave a brisk nod intended to instil confidence, told Crucible to remain on the settee, tucked him firmly in with blankets, put a lashing round his body to keep him intact against the destroyer’s roll, and then went at once to the compass plat-form. He approached Seymour.

  ‘Captain, sir.’ He saluted.

  ‘What is it, Snotty?’

  ‘Acting as Medical Officer, sir.’

  Seymour gave a tired grin. Robens, beginning to see himself as a real doctor, noted the signs of strain and felt the Captain, acting like himself, was not so far off cracking up. Seymour said, ‘All they ever get is VD. Can you cope?’

  ‘It’s not VD this time, sir. I believe it’s an appendix.’

  ‘God!’ Seymour blew out a long breath. ‘Bad?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. It could be burst, sir. That makes it peritonitis, and that’s very serious indeed.’

  ‘I know.’ Seymour grinned again, but with no humour at all. ‘I suppose it’s no use ordering you to operate, Snotty!’

  ‘If you give an order, sir —’

  ‘I know, and I don’t. God, this would go and happen on top of everything else!’ Seymour clenched his fists in something close to despair, and turned away so that the Midshipman should not read that despair in his face. Of all people aboard, the Captain must remain serene, at least outwardly. So many lives depended upon him… as did the man with the appendix. That was his duty and his alone; in the old days of sail, the merchant shipmasters had had to cut off arms and legs and mend gashed stomachs, all with the sole aid of a medicine chest and a publication known as The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide. Yes, it was the Captain’s job; and, as Captain, he had to choose between one of his ship’s company and the ship herself. An operation, which he would almost certainly botch, would take time; and he should not be absent from the bridge of his wallowing command. He temporized; the decision would not be made immediately. An operation might not become necessary.

  ‘Morphia,’ he said abruptly. ‘Or whatever’s in the medical stores — the drugs cupboard, isn’t it? The pain must be stopped. Can you cope?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir. For a start… may I find out if there’s any medical knowledge among the ship’s company?’

  It hit Seymour like a blow in the guts. Lavington, who was responsible for the loss of the doctor and the doctor’s assistant, had done two years as a medical student. He would know something — he would know his anatomy, if that could be considered a help. From what Seymour had seen of Lavington when he’d been brought to the bridge to be charged, he wouldn’t be fit to operate but at least he might be able to advise the hand that made the incision. It wouldn’t make any difference to the charge against him — or would it? It would be open to Lavington’s defending officer at the Court Martial to plead diminished responsibility and it might be a sound enough plea in the circumstances; but could you plead diminished responsibility in the case of a man who had subsequently advised on an appendectomy? Would not Lavington’s defence be automatically voided? Seymour had a duty to be fair and not prejudice any man’s case whatever the facts might be; on the other hand, another man’s life was at risk.

  He made his decision. ‘Yes, you may. If there’s no one else, and I’m pretty sure there’s not, try Lavington.’ He turned to face aft again as the Midshipman left the compass platform. The weather had no look of moderation about it; the North Atlantic was not a kindly sea when roused and it held no compassion for the sick or injured. The cold, made worse by the keen, icy wind, was like a knife. At least Crucible would be reasonably warm in his sick-bay blankets, but the weather and the resulting motion of the ship would make an operation that much harder and more risky.

  *

  The vessel was sighted just as Seymour had made up his mind that he must turn the compass platform and the ship over to Sub-Lieutenant Humphries, and go below to operate. Robens had come again to the bridge: Crucible was worse in his view. He was sweating, was deathly pale, had a high and rising temperature and Robens had no idea how much morphia he should give to douse the pain — with the result that he had probably not given enough and the
agony was showing through. Well, you wouldn’t leave a dog like that; Robens had gone through the ship seeking medical knowledge and had found none. Seymour was about to give the order to have Lavington taken under armed escort to the sick-bay when the report of the sighting was made and Seymour brought his binoculars up on the bearing. Through poor visibility he was able to make out the vessel, which he fancied was lying without way on her. He saw the Red Ensign aft, saw one funnel and two masts, and saw too that the ship was listing heavily to starboard and was down by the stern.

  ‘Probably a straggler from the HX convoy,’ he remarked to Robens.

  ‘Another sitting duck for attack, sir?’

  Seymour nodded. ‘No doubt… when the weather moderates.’

  ‘What do we do, sir?’

  ‘Do?’ Seymour’s harsh laugh blew along the icy wind. ‘What the ruddy hell can we do, Snotty?’ For a while he delayed going below; in the last resort, the ship came first and the lame duck ahead could spell trouble if some submerged U-boat decided to go for a kill despite the weather. Within the next half-hour he was able to see her upperworks clearly through his binoculars: she was a three-island merchantman, a dry-cargo carrier, probably of around ten thousand tons. And she was undoubtedly in a bad way; her list to starboard must be affecting her stability seriously in the heavy sea that was running. Seymour turned to the Leading-Signalman, already expectant at his side. He said, ‘Call her up, Yeoman. Ask who she is and what happened.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The signalling projector clacked out busily while Seymour and Robens waited. The reply was a long one taken down by the signalman of the watch from the actin Yeoman’s dictation, it was handed to the Captain on a signal pad. Seymour read: