‘We want you to go up to Glasgow, Jack,’ Linton said to Clark as he entered the personnel manager’s office, ‘to stand-by the Matthew Flinders. She’s going into dock there…’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Harry! Not another bloody shipyard…’
‘It’s a board decision, Jack, so there’s no point in trying to persuade me otherwise.’
‘The old man is trying to keep me from going back to sea, on account of having lost one son in the last war.’ Clark expressed his exasperation.
‘That’s not how I see it, Jack. The Matthew Flinders has been requisitioned by the navy. She’s to be altered and refitted as a fast fleet-support transport. Your old man wants to discuss it with you later. We’re retaining officers on board familiar with the machinery and they want one company officer with cargo-handling expertise. God knows what they’ve got in mind for the ship, but in a war you can never tell. Anyway, you’ve been selected. I think they’ll want you to double up as the navigating officer.’
Linton paused a moment to study a letter he had on his desk. Clark digested the news; several questions arose in his mind and he was about to voice them when Linton, having reprimed himself, went on.
‘Now, it seems that the company officers retained on these ships – the James Cook is to be another, incidentally… Anyway, as I say, all the company’s officers retained on board are to be given temporary commissions in the Royal Naval Reserve, so in addition to standing-by the ship you’ll go through some training programmes. I see you’ve done the Merchant Navy defensive gunnery course…’
‘That hardly qualifies me for much,’ Clark protested.
‘Well, never mind, the navy will take you up and teach you how not to eat peas off a knife and how to march…’
‘What?’
‘Look, don’t start cutting up awkward, Jack. There’s a war on. Anyway, I told them you were a chief officer in our service and they said you’d probably jump being a sub-lieutenant…’
‘That’s bloody generous of them. Christ, Harry, I’m twenty-nine and a master mariner! Sub-lieutenants are commissioned midshipmen.’
Linton ignored the protest. ‘And you’ll probably get accelerated promotion to lieutenant commander…’
‘Oh, how bloody jolly,’ Clark snapped sarcastically.
He made his way slowly back to his desk and told Miss O’Neil the news. ‘It’s worse than I thought. They’ve got me in the navy, Jenny.’
‘You’ll look lovely in the uniform, Mr Clark,’ she said dreamily, smiling up at him bravely.
She wasn’t bad looking, he thought, as an image of Magda swam into his mind’s eye. With a sigh he submitted to his fate. ‘I thought I looked lovely in Eastern Steam’s uniform,’ he said with his disarmingly engaging grin.
‘Oh, you do, but it’s not the same as the real navy.’
He stared at her for a moment, affronted by her remark, but not wishing to hurt her by showing it. Real navy? Carl had been wearing the Eastern Steam’s uniform when he had been killed in action. ‘Real navy, be damned,’ he thought to himself.
But to Miss O’Neil he said, ‘You’d better let me take you to lunch, Jenny. I may not get another chance.’
They returned from their meal a little tipsy, for Clark had splashed out on a bottle of wine and Jenny O’Neil had taken full advantage of her host’s generosity. Besides, it was not every day the son of a director several years your junior took you out to dine! She had taken Jack Clark’s arm rather familiarly on the way back to the office and had been rewarded by the dark, envious glances of a number of her fellow typists. A few minutes later she announced there was a call for him. To Clark’s astonishment it was Commander Gifford, calling from the Admiralty in London.
‘I hear you’re joining the navy, Mr Clark. My congratulations. Now look, can you be in London by this time tomorrow?’
‘Er, yes, I suppose so. But I’m not in the navy yet, you know. I’ve my hands full here at the moment.’
‘You’ll have to oblige me,’ Gifford said abruptly. ‘Now listen, report to the main gate in Whitehall and ask for me by name. Bring some sort of identification like you did the last time, your British seaman’s card’ll do. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’
He put the phone down and an expectant Jenny caught his eye. ‘That was the real navy,’ he said absently. ‘It seems I’m off faster than I thought.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, putting a hand up to her mouth.
* * *
Gifford asked him to sit down. There was a palpable buzz about the place, Clark thought, and Gifford almost immediately explained why.
‘There’s been a bit of a shake-up since you were last here, Clark. Captain Inglis has been, er, transferred. He’d been overworking, you know.’ The expression in Gifford’s eyes invited Clark to appreciate the euphemism. ‘Now, we’ve a first-class director and I’ve got some new instructions, which is where you come in. We need your help.’ Gifford paused and offered Clark a cigarette.
‘I’m totally confused,’ Clark said as Gifford, having lit Clark’s cigarette, lit his own. ‘Yesterday I was told that I was to be temporarily commissioned into the RNR and sent to Glasgow to stand-by one of our ships requisitioned for conversion. Now I find you asking for my help.’
‘Ah,’ said Gifford, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. ‘The two things are not irreconcilable. I’ll come straight to the point. Inglis gave you a difficult time but in doing so he did me a favour. He made me aware that you were an astute chap. Not only had you done the right thing with that document, but you fought your corner hard under what, to many fellows, would have been very intimidating circumstances.’
Clark shrugged. It hardly seemed the order of courage to win a war, he thought.
Gifford paused and then confided, ‘He was a difficult man. Anyway, since that little encounter, I’ve done a bit of digging about you. Partly, I admit, we wanted to check out the possible risks implied by your German parentage. Don’t be angry, it’s a necessary formality. I’ve consulted several people including Sir Desmond Cranbrooke, and I’ve learnt of your connections with the Eastern Steam Navigation Company. Rather than a potential spy,’ Gifford said wryly, ‘you would seem to be a chap with a fair insight into merchant shipping and the likely impact of the contents of your cousin’s paper. Now, what I want you to do is to write an appreciation of what you, you personally with your experience and understanding of things, make of the intelligence revealed by the document.’
‘Well, I doubt that I’ll tell you anything you can’t work out for yourself, Commander.’
‘Let me be the judge of that and don’t be diffident. Now look, I’ve booked you a room in the Regent Palace Hotel. Have another read through the paper now, then leave it with me. Come back in the morning after you’ve had a think about it and I’ll make the document and a desk available to you. You can be back in Liverpool tomorrow night.’
* * *
Twenty-four hours later he sat in the same chair and smoked another of Gifford’s cigarettes while the commander sat and read his ‘appreciation’. When he had finished, Gifford laid down the paper with a nod. ‘That’s very good, Clark. Thank you.’
‘But hardly revolutionary.’
‘No, but another man’s perspective is often useful.’
‘You seem, if I may say so, a little disappointed.’
Gifford shook his head and looked directly at Clark. ‘No, not at all. I’ll admit to being rather frightened though.’ He paused and referred to Clark’s notes. ‘I’m interested in the list you call “priorities of inherent danger”. That’s a nice touch worthy of a naval staff officer,’ he added, looking up at Clark again.
‘Thanks. I take it that’s a compliment?’
‘Very much so. But to the point: you seem less concerned about the commerce raiders than I would have supposed a master mariner to be.’
‘Well, I understand they’ll have a certain success, but I hope the resources of the Royal Navy can soon eliminate
them.’
‘It might be more difficult than you think.’
‘Yes, I admit they can hide in remote locations and use the opportunity to disguise their appearance, but I’d have thought their potence lower than the U-boat threat, and in particular, the threat of large, submarine cruisers.’
‘Yes, that is a new departure. There has been absolutely no indication of such large submarines being built by the Germans. We have known for some time that they have two aircraft carriers under construction, and their completion will have a profound effect on things in due course. We know too that they will put a lot of effort into building conventional submarines in considerable numbers, but this is the first intimation we have had of long-endurance, super submarine cruisers of the sort of size and submerged speed your cousin indicates.’
‘Well, perhaps they are still on the drawing board,’ Clark offered.
‘Yes, possibly,’ Gifford ruminated. Then he sighed and added, ‘What a pity your cousin could not tell us a little more.’
Clark nodded. ‘Yes. Perhaps he didn’t know; perhaps… Well, I know he wrote the paper in a hell of a hurry, between the time I told him I’d been ordered home and meeting me with his fiancée. If you deduct the time it must have taken him to detach himself from the shipyard, get to Altona and prepare Magda, he would have been in a tearing rush.’
‘I see.’ Gifford looked at Clark. ‘There is just one other consideration, Clark. One that I think you may have overlooked.
‘Oh? What is that?’
‘It is just possible that, if your cousin is no Nazi-lover, and if he thinks this war may go badly for Germany, the submission of this document may act as, well, shall we call it an insurance policy?’
Clark frowned. ‘No, I hadn’t thought of that.’ He paused, then said, ‘But then, does that actually matter?’
‘It would if this was a tissue of lies.’
‘Well, we know it’s not; you yourself said we know about the aircraft carriers and I’ve as good as clear evidence of a commerce-raiding programme with the seizure of the Ernest Shackleton.’
‘Yes, but all those facts are known to us. Only the super submarines remain enigmatical. He may have made them up so that, if he is caught by his own side, he can claim he was spreading disinformation to confuse us and, perhaps, to make us waste resources.’
Clark shook his head. ‘This gets more and more bizarre. It didn’t strike me that the concept of super submarines was not at least feasible.’
Gifford pulled a face. ‘Perhaps. The French have built one, the Surcouf, and I can tell you that we’ve toyed with the notion again since we built the M-class with their twelve-inch gun in 1918. All the same, I’d like confirmation. It’s a pity we can’t get in touch with your cousin.’
‘I really can’t help you there, Commander.’
Gifford paused. ‘No, of course not, it is unfair to suggest that you should.’
There was a brief pause and then Clark said, ‘Irrespective of whether or not these super submarines are a figment of the imagination, on the drawing board or being built yet, if this war goes on for long, the probability is that they will be.’
‘Yes,’ Gifford agreed, ‘like the aircraft carriers Graf Zeppelin and Peter Strasser, they could alter the whole balance of sea power in the North Atlantic. It is something we must bear in mind.’
‘Surely time will tell, one way or the other?’
‘Of course. Well, thank you.’ Gifford stood and held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’
They stood and shook hands. Gifford rang for someone to escort Clark out of the building and, while they waited, Gifford said conversationally, ‘Whilst I was ferreting among the skeletons in your personal cupboard I discovered you had been with Worsley in the Arctic.’
‘Yes,’ responded Clark, his eyes widening with enthusiasm. ‘Commander Worsley was a fine man.’
‘You obviously enjoyed the experience.’
‘Oh, very much; very much indeed. It’s an extraordinary, beautiful place.’
‘I don’t suppose His Majesty’s Transport Matthew Flinders will be going anywhere near the Arctic,’ Gifford said with a laugh.
‘I’ll take that as a hint not to pawn my tropical kit,’ Clark quipped back.
‘Probably very wise,’ Gifford said.
A few moments later Clark hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to head for Euston station. As the vehicle swung round Trafalgar Square, Clark looked up at the statue of Nelson and wondered what assistance he had personally rendered the war effort by the fruits of his odd duty that day.
‘Not joined up yet then, mate?’ called the taxi driver over his shoulder.
‘Yes I have,’ Clark said wearily.
‘I went all through the last lot. Royal Navy. Finished in the old Lion. Battlecruiser. Marvellous ship. Scrapped the fucker though. Stupid bastards.’
HMS Daisy
March 1940–December 1941
There was one further intervention fate made in order to propel Clark into his unusually personal war. Curiously enough it at first seemed to set him upon a course which, for most of his fellows in the Royal Naval Reserve, would have proved conventional. History has given the Battle of the Atlantic a glamour, largely from its attenuated nature, as an epic struggle that lasted from the very first to the very last day of the European war; but for those who endured it and survived, it consisted largely of unremitting discomfort interspersed with intermittent desperate and nerve-wracking action.
The fatal intervention in Clark’s life was entirely circumstantial. A smart young reserve officer whose name is irrelevant, but who occupied the post of first lieutenant of a relatively new corvette, HMS Daisy, fell down an icy bridge ladder one morning in the spring of 1940. His corvette was not at sea, but about to leave the James Watt dock in Greenock, and his trip to the bridge had been for nothing more exciting than to check the vessel’s gyrocompass repeater, but the ice of a raw Scottish morning caused him to slip, and in falling he struck his head. Concussed and with a suspected fracture of the skull, he was sent to hospital in Glasgow.
Under orders to join her escort group, which was assigned to a convoy already forming up off the Tail of the Bank, the corvette’s commanding officer cast about for a replacement. He was not in good odour with the escort group’s senior officer and the loss of his young first lieutenant was a severe blow. The little ship’s previous trip had been her first in attendance upon a convoy and she had not performed well; the only officer the corvette’s captain had found totally reliable was his young first lieutenant, a former second mate from the Blue Funnel Line who, like himself, wore the interwoven braid of the Royal Naval Reserve.
The escort group’s senior officer, Commander Brenton-Woodruffe, was a short-fused regular naval commander whose despair at the inept state of his group, and HMS Daisy in particular, was not improved by his own temper. In sending Brenton-Woodruffe a signal explaining his plight, the corvette’s captain, Lieutenant Commander Hewett, considered the only way of mollifying so ferocious a man was to offer a solution along with the problem.
By the grace of Almighty God, or so he consequently believed, Lieutenant Commander Augustus Hewett had been on a solitary drinking spree at Gourock two nights earlier. He had forgotten the name of the hotel in the bar of which he had run into an old friend, but he instantly recognised a former shipmate. Hewett and Lieutenant Jack Clark had been apprentices together, and shared the half-deck of the Eastern Steam’s oldest ship at the time, the SS George Bass. Later Hewett had been second mate of another of the company’s elderly steamers, the Robert Fitzroy, in which Clark had served as third. His delight was therefore genuine.
‘Jack? Good God, it is you! What in hell’s name are you doing in the uniform of the Reserve? I took you for a blue-eyed boy, Jack, what with Daddy being on the board,’ he guyed, with a familiarity that was only partly due to the drink.
‘Good God, Gus Hewett!’ Jack had exclaimed with equal pleasure. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’<
br />
‘Oh, I’ve been in this silly suit for ages, Jack, and tonight I’m drowning my sorrows,’ Hewett had said.
‘Well I knew you were in the RNR. What are you? Not in command?’
Hewett nodded. ‘Yup, ’fraid so. Their Lordships have been pleased to place a brand new corvette in my charge.’
‘Heavens! They obviously have no idea what you did in Surabaya when the old Robert Fitzroy hit the…’
‘Sod off! That wasn’t my fault, Jack, and you know it. I was only second mate and…’
‘You managed to get a mooring wire round the screw…’ Clark laughed. ‘Poor old Huggy Mandeville shoved me out of the way when the ship wouldn’t answer his orders! He nearly dismembered the engine-room telegraph before he grasped that you had a wire fouled round the prop!’
‘Well you could hardly describe it as a collision. We sort of drifted into that Dutch ship.’
Hewett gave a rueful grin and finished his gin. Clark, who recalled his old shipmate as somewhat prone to misadventures, had no idea that Hewett had not lost his habit of ineptitude and had recently repeated his sin. At least Brenton-Woodruffe held him personally responsible, though Hewett blamed one of his two sub-lieutenants, just as he had once blamed the Chinese bosun’s mate of the Robert Fitzroy.
‘The mate let the anchors go far too late,’ Hewett went on in further self-exculpation, referring to the ancient incident.
‘Oh well, at least you only make that sort of mistake once,’ Clark laughed consolingly. Hewett knew better and remained glumly silent. Then, over a few more drinks, he poured out his heart. He had been called up before the war and had been appointed as first lieutenant to a new corvette directly, before she had been completed. His pre-war experience and training with the Reserve had made him an obvious choice for command, at least on paper, and after a few months he moved on. His commanding officer had been glad to see the back of him. Gus Hewett was charming, an asset at a wardroom party, and could be guaranteed to round up some female company in the most unlikely circumstances, but he was not a particularly good first lieutenant. His commander recommended appointment to a bigger ship, where he could do less damage, though he failed to explain his suggestion on paper. Contrary to this intention, Their Lordships, mindful of Hewett’s rank and the need for corvette officers, had appointed him to HMS Daisy.
Dead Man Talking Page 8
