A FLOCK OF SHIPS

by Brian Callison

  ‘Blow stand-by please, Mister Kent. Have the accommodation ladder brought inboard and tell the Fourth Mate to take the boat away down to the entrance to tend the lines. We’ll pick him up outside the channel.’

  I looked at my watch for the tenth time. Just on six o’clock now. Please God, I know I ask for a lot for a bloke who doesn’t really Believe, but I promise I will if you get us out of here in time. I hauled my whistle from my pocket and blew a long blast, then turned to the ladder and nearly collided with Larabee as he came flying up it.

  I stopped dead, stunned by the expression on the Second Sparks’s thin features, too surprised even to be cutting about his unseemly haste and the fact that he should've been aft with his bodyguard and his wireless sets.

  ‘Athenian’s going out, Mate,’ he snarled accusingly, almost as if he were scared of something.

  I glanced quickly round for the Old Man’s support, but he’d disappeared into the wheelhouse. Then our telegraphs clanged as the engine room went on Stand-by and I turned back to face Larabee. ‘So are we, Sparks. Which means you’d better get back to your set, jaldi!’

  The usually sardonic eyes were disturbed as they stared past me to where the clank of Athenian’s cable could be heard over the windlass. I turned and saw it was almost up and down, the heavy links leading very slightly forward from the hawse. Her hook was nearly off the bottom and a sailor was leaning well over the flare of the bow, washing down the incoming cable with a high-pressure hose. Streams of cascading, muddy-coloured water disturbed the otherwise placid surface around her forefoot.

  ‘Get back aft, Larabee,’ I repeated irritably. ‘We’ll explain it to you when there’s time. Until then, stay off the bridge.’

  He stared uncomprehendingly at me for a moment, then shook his head fiercely. ‘Not me, Kent! I’m not goin’ out there again before the Navy gets here. We know the bloody sea’s blistering with U-boats between here and the Cape ...’

  I gripped his shoulder roughly to pull him away from the top of the ladder. The bones moved under the thin shirt as though they were only covered by a skin of tissue paper. ‘We’re sailing just as soon as I get forr’ad, Larabee, but as far as I’m concerned you can stay as long as you like. The Fourth Mate can put you ashore with a bastard axe an' a box of matches and we’ll pick you up when the bloody war’s over.’

  I swung round sharply at the snap of Evans’s voice behind me, crisp and irritated. ‘What the Devil’s going on here, Mister?’

  The Old Man was standing with one foot still in the wheelhouse doorway. Larabee cut in before I could speak. ‘I say we should stop here till the Navy arrives, Captain.’

  The bushy eyebrows met in an arc of surprise, top dead centre in the beefy red face. ‘You say, Larabee? As the Master of this vessel I shall take any decisions I think fit to ensure her safety. Do you hear me, Mister Larabee?’

  What the hell was up with the wireless operator? No one, not even a chief officer, stood on a master’s bridge and told him what to do. I dug him in the ribs and jerked my head aft encouragingly. ‘Go on, man. Athenian’s got no radio. If she’s hit going through the entrance we’ll need to get a message out bloody quick.’

  I couldn’t have said a worse thing. His face went as white as a sheet and the thin lips pulled back to show paradoxically firm, well-formed teeth. ‘Not till the fuckin’ Navy gets here, Mate. No bloody madman’s going to make me stick my neck out of this bay.’

  I stared apprehensively at Evans. What Larabee had said amounted to little short of mutiny—rank refusal to obey a lawful command. I can’t say I felt sorry about it, in fact under rather different circumstances I would probably have taken a sadistic delight in observing the outcome: in seeing Larabee collecting what had been due to him since the start of this God-forsaken trip. But right then we had to get out fast.

  Bill Henderson’s arm went into the air in a signal from Athenian’s foc’sle. A palm held sideways and slashed up and down—they were clear of the ground. Then her telegraph tinkled faintly again and a splurge of white water under her counter showed she was under way, starting to move slowly through the water. The Red Ensign that, a moment before, had hung listlessly over her stern gave a slight flap, then another. The sparkle of water rose a few inches higher under her bow. She was going out.

  By now the Old Man’s brows had inverted into a ferocious 'vee' until the grey eyes were almost lost behind the overhanging bristle. He looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic stroke and I tensed for the blast as he waved his hands angrily at Larabee.

  Then, without warning, the hand froze in mid air and the suffused features went a different colour as he focused on a point past Larabee and myself. He stood like that for a long time, not moving, and when he did finally speak the voice was much quieter than I’d prepared for.

  ‘The point at issue appears no longer to exist, Mister Larabee,’ he said, so low that we could hardly hear him.

  The frozen hand gained control at last, pointing behind us, over towards the entrance.

  ‘The Navy has arrived.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first lean shape slid slowly into the inland sea from the cover of the entrance channel, then a second followed right astern. Long, low silhouettes seen as they were from almost two miles away, out past the bulk of the slowly moving Athenian. We watched in stunned silence as the first warship seemed suddenly to telescope in length, then I realised she was swinging towards us, helm hard over to anticipate that waiting shelf, almost as if she already knew of its existence. Behind me I heard Evans draw a long breath. He'd been absolutely correct. The Navy had arrived.

  ... except that it was the wrong Navy!

  ‘Ohhhh, shit!’ I whispered, as we both grabbed for the binocular box. At the top of the ladder, Larabee remained unmoving, staring at the submarines as they steadied on a course to bring them up to our anchorage. I felt the dull bruise of pain as the eyepiece of the Barr and Strouds came up against the bony protrusion of my eyebrows, then forgot all about it again as the focusing wheel spun the ships into stark clarity. Two German Atlantic class oceangoing U-boats, still glistening with a varnish of seawater after their recent submerged passage. There were men on their casings, too, closed up round those wicked looking 4.1 inch guns on the narrow foredecks while, right in the bows, the serrated net cutters projected evilly like shark’s teeth from the stems.

  Someone said ‘Bugger it!’ in a shocked voice behind me and, swinging round, I saw we’d been joined by Curtis and Brannigan. Then Charlie Shell came whistling cheerily up the ladder, took one incredulous look past Athenian, shouted ‘Christ ALMIGHTY!’ at the top of his voice, and tumbled back down the ladder to the boat deck en route for his beloved gun on the poop.

  The Old Man barged past me to the after end of the bridge and shouted after him, ‘Mister SHELL!’

  The Second Mate skidded to a halt and swivelled back nervously, ignoring his cap which had fallen off his head. ‘Sir? Those are U-boats, Sir. I’d better get ...’

  Evans’s voice was flat and emphatic. ‘You will make no move to man the gun until I give you an order, Mister Shell.’

  Charlie just stared at him in disbelief. ‘But - they’re U-boats f'r Chrissake ...’

  We looked tensely at the Captain. This wasn’t like him, not even to attempt to fight. They had guns, all right, but so did we and ours was as big as theirs. He didn’t keep us in suspense long. ‘You will have the gun crew assemble under the break of the poop, Mister Shell, out of sight of the enemy. No one is to be seen making any move to attend the gun platform unless I send you a direct order or they actually open fire on the ship. Do you understand?’

  Shell stood looking very white for a moment, then kicked his cap viciously, sending it high into the air to clear the rails. This wasn’t the Old Man’s day for unquestioning obedience. I hoped he wasn’t going to forget the main issue for the sake of having a go at the Second Mate but, to my relief, Charlie gritted, ‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ through his teeth
and trailed disconsolately aft.

  Evans turned back to me, looking grim. ‘Those subs are heading straight for us, Mister. Our gun is mounted aft, meaning we will have to swing the ship to bring it to bear, and that will make us an even easier target. Any suspicion that we are preparing to fire on them, they could put torpedoes into each of us just by pulling a lever. If we can wait till they turn away even a couple of points, then we may possibly have a chance.’

  I had difficulty in suppressing the note of relief in my voice. I didn't want Charlie's gung-ho enthusiasm to kill us all. Over Evans’s shoulder I caught a glimpse of Curtis staring expressionlessly at the submarines ... or was that a trace of relief I could detect in his brown eyes too? And if it was, did it mean he was a coward as well? Or something more sinister? It wasn't the first time I'd questioned our third officer's motivation, but this wasn't the time to allow my paranoia to run riot.

  Instead I made like a frustrated martyr. ‘Does that mean we do nothing, Sir? Not a bloody thing?’

  The Old Man seemed to sag for a moment, then squared his shoulders and shook his head determinedly. ‘No, by God it doesn’t. But there are more than sixty men aboard this vessel. I don’t intend to throw their lives away over a pointless gesture of defiance ... Mister Curtis!’

  The Third Mate blinked, ‘Sir?’

  ‘You will have all deck hands and any engine-room personnel not urgently required below assemble along the port side of the midships accommodation. Life jackets will be worn. If there is any gunfire they’ll stand a better chance down there, away from the enemy.’

  I heard the Third Mate clattering down the ladder behind me as I turned to take another look at the U-boats. The last one in appeared to have stopped behind to guard the entrance but the lead boat was much closer now, still bows on to us and about one and a half miles away. It was almost possible, through the binoculars, to make out the blurred faces of her crewmen grouped around the deck gun. A movement on the conning tower of the leading submarine caught my attention and I felt my hands starting to shake—the bastards were rigging a heavy machine-gun in a mounting on the grey painted rails forward of her one-pounder A.A. gun. I started to lower the Barr and Strouds to quiet the growing acidity of despair in my belly. Then I froze.

  Athenian! What the ...?

  She was still moving, yawing round towards the exit channel as if the approaching U-boats didn’t exist. I suddenly realised that only a very short time had passed since the long predatory silhouettes had first appeared. But still ...? Samson had had plenty of time to stop engines and put the hook down again. The white water was kicking up high under her stern now as it swung towards us, showing the bright Red Ensign flapping more actively over her taffrail. When in God’s name was Bert going to stop her?

  Larabee found his voice at last and I glanced round in surprise as the thin features looked queryingly at the Old Man. ‘I’ll put out a distress call, Captain.’

  I could see Evans was struggling with indecision. Whatever the U-boats intended they wouldn’t tolerate our screaming for help while they were boxed in this bloody deathtrap of an island along with us. And Larabee? Now he was acting the hero again. Why? Where was the mutinous radioman of a few minutes before? The man who had refused point blank to venture out into the open sea was now volunteering to go to almost certain death in a steel box that was a one-off shot for any experienced gunner aboard the enemy vessel.

  I found myself unconsciously shaking my head as Larabee spoke again, the now animated face looking as keen as mustard on seizing the chance to become a posthumous hero. ‘I’ll get aft to the shack, Captain. Put out an “all ships” call before they realise I’m on the key at all.’

  The submarine was closing fast now. I felt the tension mounting on our sun-washed bridge. What was Evans going to do? I started to get sick spasms with fright. One bleep from our W.T. could bring the smashing fury of white-hot Krupps' ordinance crashing into our superstructure, atomising the radio room and bridge. The bridge ... where we were all standing. The primary target.

  I closed my eyes as I anticipated the shrieking hell of oblivion that would come. Please Captain. Please? Don’t let Larabee be a martyr. Not when it means he’ll have company.

  Brannigan’s excited shout cut through my fear. ‘They’re signalling, Sir. The nearest boat.’

  We watched as the bright beam of her lamp flickered from the conning tower. Out of the corner of my eye I was dimly aware that Athenian was still forging ahead but, right then, I was more anxious to know what those submarine wolves had in store for us. Behind me the now calm tones of the Second Sparks read out the slowly stuttered message. ‘It’s in English. More or less anyway ...'

  ACHTUNG ... REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE ... VESSEL UNDER WAY WILL STOP ENGINES IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TRANSMIT WITH WIRELESS BOTH SHIPS ... GUN PLATFORMS MUST BE ABANDONED IMMEDIATELY ...

  Someone seemed to be shouting down aft and I looked to see the distant figure of the Second Mate gesticulating vigorously at the dumpier shape of our army bombardier, Allen. Apparently the gun commander wasn’t taking too kindly to the idea of our giving up without even a cough from Phyllis. Then, to my relief, they both moved away under the shelter of the poop and I could concentrate on Larabee’s voice again.

  The tone was still flat and matter of fact. ‘... YOU ARE WARNED THAT NOT TO CONFORM WITH MY ORDERS IS VERBOTEN ... I REPEAT ANY SHIP ISSUING WT TRANSMISSION OR ATTENDING ARMAMENTS WILL BE FIRED ON .’

  ‘Mister Kent!’

  I swung round startled, until I realised the Captain was calling. He continued, without taking his eyes off the closing U-boat, ‘A word, please.’

  Turning abruptly he walked towards the wheelhouse, out of earshot of Larabee and Brannigan. I followed nervously, not liking to lose sight of the approaching guns even for a brief moment. When Evans stopped, his voice was low and urgent. ‘The confidential bags, John.’

  ‘I could get forr’ad to the strong-room and try to ditch them over the side,’ I suggested reluctantly, not being at all brave but feeling I had to make the gesture.

  He shook his head. ‘No point. Why do you think those U-boats are here? This is a deliberate trap, John, and we’ve run right into it like a flock of bloody sheep. Even the blasted Admiralty helped, thanks to their orders to shelter in here. My God, but if I didn’t know any different I’d think that they wanted us to be captured.’

  It was beginning to fit together now. Ever since I’d realised that the Kent Star message was a phoney, the pieces of the jigsaw had slowly been knitting together. First, the firm establishment of intent to drive us south, towards Quintanilha de Almeida, and then our own blind stupidity in not realising that we were penning ourselves in the one spot in almost the whole of the South Atlantic where we didn’t have the advantage of speed over the U-boats. The one area where they could board and search us at their leisure instead of having to settle for a quick kill at sea along with the inevitable loss of our compromising strong room bags.

  I prayed that Rear Admiral Tryst, RN, would rot screaming in Hell. His orders had been the final clincher that not even the most optimistic member of the Nazi High Command could have hoped for.

  Evans was peering down at the glassy water around us and I realised then what he’d meant by it being useless to jettison the bags over the wall. Eight fathoms below the surface the wavering sea bed showed every detail as clearly as through a magnifying glass. Exotic fronds of varicoloured weed waved gently over the submarine contours of the boulder-strewn bottom, while myriads of tiny fish darted hither and thither like shooting stars. Any object lying down there would be as obvious as a sequined dress in a shop window— and just about as available to any navy diver.

  ‘We could try to burn them, Sir,’ I muttered, racking my brains desperately for ideas.

  ‘Don’t have enough time, John. And a lot of the stuff will be in book form. Have you ever tried to burn books? We could never be sure they were sufficiently destroyed to be indecipherable, especially the c
entre pages and down the spines. And another thing. If that is what they’re after, what do you think they’ll do when they see smoke?’

  I could guess—Bang! So what the blazes were we going to do about saving all those other ships that were depending on us? I shivered at the obvious answer: to send a signal out to the Admiralty advising them of our capture which would at least render them useless to the enemy too. A trickle of sweat ran into my eye, making me blink painfully. I couldn’t bring myself to suggest committing suicide. Maybe Larabee had found a hitherto dormant source of courage but the sight of those wicked shapes bearing down on us had made me lose any pretensions I’d ever had to be a hero.

  And then I said it anyway, hating myself all the time for being such a goddamned fool. ‘We have to get a signal out, Sir. The Navy’s got to know what’s happened.’

  He smiled grimly for a moment at my obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘Don’t be in too much of a sacrificial hurry, John. At least you’ll finish the war as a P.O.W. - better than being a name on a war memorial, I suppose. You’ve forgotten that, in the event of no signal at all being received from us, the Admiralty will assume we’ve been captured anyway. All we’re surrendering is time ... and the Cyclops.’

  I looked at him in relief, mixed with concern at the expression of defeat on the lined, tired face.

  Then everything happened at once.

  And the real horror had begun.

  *

  Evans’s eyes had strayed back towards the entrance and suddenly he stiffened incredulously. I whirled, then simply froze to stare along the line of the Old Man’s gaze: barely aware of Evans’s voice, even gruffer than before with the shock of disbelief.

  ‘My God, John. What in hell’s he trying to do?’

  Athenian had veered right round on a direct heading for the entrance and the approaching U-boats. The white water under her overhanging stern had now increased to a boiling maelstrom streaming well astern of her while the blue-tinged diesel fumes from her tall funnel jetted high in the clear evening sky. Aft on her poop, under the now wind-torn Ensign, her gun crew were moving feverishly to traverse her own antiquated 4.7—Phyllis’s sister—as far forward as it could bear against the safety stops designed to prevent them from blowing their own bridge and funnel off in the excitement of battle. Swinging it to bear at the first opportunity on the enemy submarine closing on them but masked, at present, from their view by the centrecastle superstructure. She was already roughly midway between us and the leading Nazi, about three quarters of a mile each way, but the steadily increasing throb of her giant engines and the constant splash of her cooling discharges carried clearly through the enveloping silence of Quintanilha.