Moon padded across the cabin with a jug of ice which was already two-thirds water.
Fairfax asked quietly, ‘D’you still believe in this raider, sir?’
‘We’ve heard nothing. Not a single report of a sinking which was not verified. Submarine, collision, bombing, nothing out of the ordinary.’ After four years it was easy to see each casualty as a cross or a tin flag on a chart. Not as agony, as flesh and blood.
Fairfax took his drink gratefully from Moon’s tray. ‘The commodore’s always been a bit wild.’ When Blake said nothing he added, ‘He had a bad time from the Japs before he escaped. The German captain who sunk his command probably had no choice but to hand him over to his little yellow allies. Quite likely he had enough on his own plate at the time to care about a few prisoners.’
Blake had thought about it a lot. He had used the time when he should have been resting to sort through every intelligence folio which Captain Quintin’s department could lay hands on.
The German officer in question was a remarkable man. Kapitän zur See Kurt Rietz, holder of the prized Ritterkreuz, had already commanded two commerce raiders and had successfully sunk or captured over one hundred thousand tons of Allied ships. His daring and infuriating sorties against solitary ships or small groups of unescorted vessels had given the Admiralty headaches from the Atlantic to the Tasman Sea.
He was also an enigma, with just the bare details of his background in Quintin’s files on which to build a picture of him. There was always the risk of admiration creeping in to weaken a man’s vigilance. Like an old-time pirate, Rietz’s deeds were too often remembered for their impudence rather than their cost.
Rietz had once run down on an old cargo liner which had almost turned the tables on him. An impostor, like his own ship, she had shown her true colours as an armed merchant cruiser, and had given the German such a raking that it had taken all of Rietz’s skill to creep back to Germany without foundering on the way.
But in all the reports, the eye-witness statements from released prisoners and survivors, there had been no mention of a single atrocity beyond the demands of combat.
Blake turned his mind back to Fairfax’s comment. He obviously disliked Stagg. It would probably come out later on. Right now there was too much to do for idle speculation, raider or not.
A midshipman, his round face peeling painfully from sunburn, tapped at the lobby door and then stepped carefully over the coaming.
‘Yes, Mr Thorne?’
Blake was once more grateful for his knack of remembering names. The cruiser carried eight midshipmen, ‘snotties’, most of whom had joined the ship after the last battle. To most of them, newly appointed to their first ship, Andromeda must have seemed awesome with her scars still plain to see. The gunroom had lost three of its members in the fighting. Thorne had replaced one of them.
‘The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and there is a visitor from the Navy Office.’
Fairfax stood up violently, buttoning his crumpled shirt.
‘Hell, at this time of the day!’
Blake smiled. He had noticed that about Fairfax. Any sort of intrusion, anything which he thought might be seen as a diplomatic breach of some kind, he was quick to intervene. It was as if he were defending his whole country from criticism.
‘Send him in.’
The youth stared round the day cabin, his eyes recording everything for later, or for a letter home. The captain’s quarters would seem palatial after the gunroom.
‘It’s a her, sir. Second Officer Grenfell.’
Fairfax relaxed slightly. ‘Quintin’s aide, sir. You met her, I expect?’
Blake stared at his reflection in the mirror and pushed his hair roughly from his forehead. He recalled the Wren officer vaguely. Cool and in control.
She stepped into the cabin and looked at him calmly.
‘Captain Quintin sent me, sir.’
Moon bustled forward with a chair, but when he hovered over her with his tray she shook her head.
‘No thanks. Too early for me.’
Blake sat down and cleared his throat. It had sounded like a rebuke.
She said, ‘I apologize for coming down like this, sir.’ She flipped open her shoulder bag and took out a narrow envelope. ‘For your intelligence pack.’ She looked round the cabin for the first time. ‘Hard to believe there was a battle here.’
Fairfax opened his mouth but shut it as Blake replied, ‘There were fifty men lying around here actually. The sick-bay was too full to take any more. But it was too late for most of them.’ He felt unusually irritated. With her casual appraisal, with his own hasty reaction.
In a calmer tone he asked, ‘Shall I read this despatch now, or will you tell me what’s in it?’
She looked at him directly. She had nice even features with steady grey-blue eyes. Beneath her tricorn hat her fair hair jutted forward like two pale wings. It was like seeing someone watching you from behind a mask, he thought.
She shrugged. ‘Nothing definite, sir. But reports are coming in about a possible incident. A ship called the Bikanir, two and a half days out of Cape Town, on passage for Adelaide. An American patrol picked up a garbled distress signal and part of the ship’s position.’ She touched her upper lip with her fingers, it was moist with perspiration.
Fairfax exclaimed, ‘This might be the one, sir.’
The girl said, ‘Commodore Stagg is sailing in Fremantle this evening. You’ll be sent a rendezvous in due course.’
Blake ripped open the envelope and read quickly through the neatly typed paragraphs.
The Bikanir was carrying chemicals for industrial use. She was in no state to cross swords with a raider.
His eyes fastened on Quintin’s scribbled comments beneath the final paragraph.
Andromeda would be required to proceed to sea without further delay.
Blake could feel the girl watching him. He thought suddenly of Diana, her laughing mouth, her various ways of driving a man wild.
He said, ‘Ask the Chief if he can spare a minute, Victor. Better tell Number One to be prepared to recall the libertymen. Just in case.’
It was very quiet after Fairfax had gone, and Moon in his pantry seemed to be holding his breath.
There was a sudden whirr and cool air spilled into the cabin from the fan ducts.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I needed that!’
She said, ‘I wish you luck, sir. You and your ship.’
Blake got to his feet. He had wanted her to leave, but her casual simplicity made him want her to stay.
She said, ‘Must be strange out here for you. After the Mediterranean, and England.’
He nodded, feeling dirty and uncouth before this tall, unsmiling Wren.
‘Like being a tourist.’
She adjusted her hat and closed her shoulder bag with a snap.
‘I’ll be off then.’
Blake made to accompany her to the companion ladder but she said, ‘I know the way, but thanks.’ She looked round at the painted steel, the lights which glowed from a circular hatch to the deck below. As if she were searching for something. A reason, or an explanation.
Fairfax came back and watched the girl’s legs until they had vanished through the hatch to the quarterdeck.
‘Bitch!’ He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Sorry, sir, but she’s got one hell of a nerve coming here like the Queen of Sheba or something!’
Blake smiled. ‘I suppose you know her, too?’
Fairfax sighed. ‘After a fashion. She stays her distance. Hands off.’ He hurried on, ‘Not that it matters to me, of course. I knew her brother quite well. But he’s dead now. Bought it off Libya eighteen months back.’
‘I see.’
Blake saw Weir’s freshly laundered overalls approaching the door. They were already black with grease to mark the extent of his tour around the engine and boiler rooms.
‘Be ready to move, Chief. Early tomorrow is my guess. What’s still missing will have to wait.’ He thought of Stag
g’s make do. ‘If there is a raider, we’ll have to keep our wits about us. We’ve two cruisers for the job, but one hell of a lot of ocean to cover.’
Weir placed a newspaper over one of the chairs and sat down gingerly.
‘It wouldn’t be the Navy if we weren’t expected to do the bloody impossible.’ He caught sight of Moon through the hatch and nodded. ‘Thank you, a dram would suit fine.’
Blake watched him affectionately. He would never really know Weir. Not in a thousand years. But they suited each other well. More to the point, they both suited the ship.
Fairfax saw their quick exchange of glances. He felt excluded, cheated in some way.
Blake said, ‘You can go ashore if you like, Victor. I can ring your home number if a flap starts.’
Fairfax picked up his cap. ‘No, sir, I’ll stay. I’ve things to do.’ He put his glass on the table and left.
Blake shrugged. ‘What did I say?’
Weir showed his teeth. They were uneven and spiky, like a terrier’s.
‘Give him a chance. He feels out of it. He’ll fit in. Eventually.’ He tossed back the whisky. ‘Hell, I’ve even learned to put up with Number One after all this time!’
Still at her berth, her shadow leaning over with the dying sunlight, Andromeda was content to wait. For her next chance. Her return to the killing ground.
3
Evidence
THE SS ARGYLL CLANSMAN, twenty days out of Sydney on passage to Cape Town, faced another bright morning and an empty sea. The water was calm with just a deep swell like heavy breathing to change the hues of its dark blue water. In spite of her clean lines, the ship was pushing up a great moustache of foam at her bows, with the wake streaming away from her powerful screws like something attached to her hull. For the Argyll Clansman was a fairly new refrigeration ship, and her holds were packed from keel to deck beams with frozen carcasses, which with luck would be broken into rations for the people in Britain.
The first mate stood on the starboard bridge wing, puffing at his pipe, his nose twitching to the aromas of frying bacon which drifted from the galley funnel. It was still very early, but the boatswain was moving around the hold covers with a party of seamen, getting some of the work done in time to beat the scalding heat of the day.
God, he thought grimly, we’ll feel the difference in England. It was winter there, and a bad one too, from all accounts.
The quartermaster said softly, ‘Old Man’s comin’ up, sir.’
The mate turned as the master stepped on to the freshly scrubbed gratings, his binoculars slung around his neck. That was unusual.
‘All quiet, Mister?’
The mate nodded. ‘Making good twelve knots, sir. We’ll be at anchor on time.’
The master grunted. ‘I’ll not be sorry to see Table Mountain again, believe me.’
A seaman brought mugs of tea to the bridge, and from the radio room came the usual stammer of morse and static.
The master said, ‘No more news of the Bikanir, I suppose?’
The mate smiled. The Old Man would have been the first to be told. They had had an Australian sloop as escort, but after the garbled distress signal from the Bikanir she had gone off somewhere. Just like the Navy. Always dashing about the ruddy ocean and making a show. He sensed the deck’s steady tremble under his shoes. The ship felt safe, confident. But with a raider about you could not take anything for granted.
‘Smoke, sir. Port bow.’ The masthead lookout was wide awake.
Master and mate bustled across the wheelhouse and out on to the opposite wing.
The master said, ‘Ship, right enough.’ He lowered his glasses, his face worried. ‘What was Bikanir’s position again?’
The mate said, ‘Longitude thirty east. That was all they could pick up. Two and a half days out, that’d be about right.’
The master glanced up at the lookout and down at the main-deck where others had stopped work to peer at the distant smoke. It stood against the sky, unmoving, like a black feather.
‘Keep a good watch out.’
Then with the mate behind him he strode into the chartroom.
They stared at the stained chart, the fragile line of their long haul from Sydney to this last pencilled cross of their dawn position.
‘We’re four hundred and twenty miles nor’ nor’-east of the Prince Edward Islands.’ The master rubbed his chin. ‘Can’t be that raider. Couldn’t possibly have got down here in half a bloody day.’ He looked at the mate. ‘Could it?’
The mate shook his head. ‘No chance. Even if there is a raider, it’s unlikely she’s going to hang about and be sunk by the boys in blue. Anyway, she couldn’t get down here, as you say.’ The Old Man was rattled. Been at it too long. Convoys to America, convoys to Russia, sunk three times already. It was more than enough for a man of sixty-four who should have been at home in his garden.
‘Masthead lookout reports that the ship is stopped, sir, and apparently on fire.’
The two officers looked at each other. Just a few days more and safety before the other passage to Britain. There would be U-boats and bombers in plenty for the last part. But in convoy you were with friends, not bloody well alone.
‘What d’you think, sir?’
The master’s eyes vanished into deep crinkles of flesh. ‘Think? Alter course, Mister, but tell Sparks to prepare a signal, just in case. Have the guns manned, and pass the word to all hands.’
He picked up a handset and cranked a handle. ‘Chief? This is the captain. Get ready to shift yourself. There’s a ship on fire. Might be a victim of an attack. I’ll see what I can do.’
Later, as the sun made the ship’s bow-wave gleam like yellow foam, a light stabbed through the smoke.
The first mate read slowly, ‘Radio’s gone, fire in forrard hold. They need medical help.’
The old captain watched the distance falling away. On the poop his ancient four-inch was already manned, and the one below the bridge was trained across the bulwark, its crew standing up to watch as the other vessel took shape through the smoke.
The second mate, whose jaws were still working on the remains of his disturbed breakfast, asked, ‘What ship?’
The master replied, ‘Mont Everest, she’s outward bound from –’
The second mate jumped forward. ‘Not on your bloody life, sir! I know that French ship well, this one’s too big, anyway –’ He got no further.
The master yelled, ‘Hard a-starboard, full ahead both engines!’
The first mate stood mesmerized until the old man punched his arm and shouted, ‘Tell Sparks! Send our position! Now, for Christ’s sake!’
Telegraphs clanged, and as the quartermaster spun the spokes of the big wheel someone shouted, ‘She’s hoisted her colours, sir! Christ, it’s a Jerry!’
The smoke was thinning away even as the other ship’s length began to shorten and she turned slowly towards the Argyll Clansman.
The master’s lips moved in time with the stabbing light and the fresh hoist of flags at the other ship’s yards.
Stop instantly. Do not use your radio.
Through the door he heard the urgent tap of a morse key, the sudden commotion on the deck below.
‘Shall I call the engineroom, sir?’ The young second mate watched his superior despairingly.
‘No. Tell the guns to open fire. Hit that bastard now!’
Two long orange tongues stabbed through the thinning smoke and the enemy’s shells hit the ship’s side like a fall of rock. A great blast of searing heat burst through the bridge, and where there had been order and determination seconds earlier there was a raging inferno. A few screaming shapes, their bodies in flames, ran through the chaos until they were sucked back again, licked away like so many ashes.
More shells crashed alongside, and the master felt the pressure of the broken screen biting into his chest and knew she had started to turn turtle. Men were shouting and dying, and he heard the old poop gun fire just one shot before it was smashed to fragm
ents by another violent explosion.
There was blood all over the screen’s broken glass, and he knew it was his own, although he could feel nothing.
They would not get their meat after all, he thought vaguely. No rations.
Scalding steam shot up the side of the bridge as the sea burst into the boiler room, in the bright sunlight it looked like a fountain.
Then, like his ship, the old man died.
Fairfax stepped into Blake’s day cabin, his cap tucked beneath one arm, as he said, ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’ He could not contain his eagerness, the excitement of the ship coming to life around him. He should be used to it, able to ignore the routine business of getting under way after all this time. Sarah had pulled his leg on that score often enough.
‘Like a kid with a toy,’ she had said.
Blake smiled. ‘Good.’ He looked round the cabin. He would not see it again until they anchored somewhere. The sea cabin on the bridge was his place, his command post. From where he could reach the fore-bridge in seconds rather than minutes. ‘Has the pilot come aboard?’
Fairfax grimaced. ‘Sorry, sir, I should have told you. Yes, he’s on the bridge now.’ He ticked off the items in his mind as he added, ‘Postman’s aboard, two libertymen still adrift, but the provost-marshal has got them, er, “in his care”.’
‘Very well. Tell the shore party to remove the last brow. I’ll come up.’ He patted his pockets. A pipe man. Tobacco and matches, his wallet wrapped in an oilskin folder.
A last look at the cabin and to the sleeping quarters beyond where Moon was busily folding up sheets for the laundry.
The ship gave a tremble. The creature reawakening.
He climbed to the deck above and walked slowly along the port side, past X and Y turrets, the tier of boats, the catapult with its Seafox perched upon it like a delicate bird, the great trunked funnel, smaller guns which had dirtied many a sky with patterns of smoke and tracer. Here was the bridge, dotted at various levels with white caps, intent faces, flags to be lowered or hoisted, gunnery controls, radar, everything which Andromeda required to find her way, to seek an enemy, to kill. For if Weir’s roaring domain below the waterline was her heart, then the bridge must surely be her brain.
A Ship Must Die (1981) Page 4
