‘Come now, Andy? Please – couldn’t you? Spare one? An hour? I can’t talk over the wire, but’ – voice dropping to a whisper – ‘second month. Please, must talk to you. Only you. Couldn’t tell you sooner – distracting you, and – couldn’t be certain, see – in fact even now—’
She’d met him at the station hotel in Newcastle. Hadn’t told her mother, said she simply couldn’t, and his sudden appearance might have blown the gaff. All right, her mother would get to know, obviously, they all would, but by then—
‘Ten weeks, say, we’ll have ’em reading the banns.’
But what sort of a hole would she be in if he did not get back?
2
‘Second mate, sir—’
He groaned.
‘Seven bells, sir!’
Light on – for a moment dazzling in the small, white-painted cabin. It was supposedly a two-berth, but he had it to himself. Recollecting in his somewhat muzzy brain that there’d been no more losses, or even, so far as anyone knew, attacks. Either the U-boats had called it a day or they’d been thrown off the scent by that emergency turn, with only the five ships lost. The Commodore had turned his convoy back on course at just after 0400, by which time dawn had been a brightening orange glow in the summer sky. Now – checking his watch, seven-thirty – Andy was blinking at Cadet Merriman – lanky, cadaverous, seventeen but you’d have guessed nineteen – who’d have been sent down by officer of the watch Harve Brown to shake him, ensure he’d be up for breakfast at 0800 so as then to relieve Waller on the bridge for half an hour in order that he, Waller, could get his breakfast, squaring the account by spelling Andy for half an hour at lunchtime. There’d been no such routine in PollyAnna, but he remembered it had been the way they’d done it when he’d been a cadet in the Burntisland, and it made a certain amount of sense, in particular fitting in with the routines of sight-taking.
Merriman was dithering. ‘All right then, sir?’
‘I don’t reckon to drop off again, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Ah. Aye, sir…’
‘Cut along, then.’
He slid off the bunk: might otherwise have snoozed off. Had not enjoyed any surfeit of repose just lately. And think about Julia one minute, in the next you’re dreaming of her. Reminding oneself what an absolute peach she was; but in other states of mind less than enthusiastic at the prospect of marriage. Not in any sense in relation to her: if one was going to be married at all – well, one had had it in mind as a possibility, a hope, the glimpse of a distant, post-war future that wasn’t clearly definable because the war effectively blocked it out… But that was how he’d thought of her: as something extremely valuable, long-term, and to be treated accordingly.
An intention to which he had not adhered as strictly as he should have.
But marriage, at twenty-one, knowing darned well that he was not and never had been a one-girl man…
Any more than his father had been, or expected him to be. Recalling, as he padded aft to the washplace with a towel round his neck, the old man’s advice a year or two ago: ‘Get your boozing and whoring done before you’re thirty, boy!’ Advice which the old man had been happy to dish out when in his forties, but which he had clearly not been guided by when, at the age of twenty-four, he’d married Andy’s mother, who’d been pregnant with what had turned out to be Andy.
Not all that different from doing the same at twenty-one. The old man would make the most of it, no doubt, grind his teeth and so forth, when he heard about it, but it was near enough a case of following in father’s footsteps. The two of them did get on very well, as it happened – tended to think alike, and certainly looked alike: Andy was a few inches taller, as well as twenty-five years younger, but they were both dark, with strong features which included full-sized noses. He wouldn’t willingly have swapped the old boy for any other father. Got on fine with his mother, too – loved her, certainly had no criticism of her for her early indiscretions, if that was what they’d been. She and Charlie Holt, who when they’d married had been a lieutenant-commander in the Royal Naval Air Service, had been helplessly in love, and empathising with them as one did, having gathered from their own exchanges and reminiscences how it must have been with them in those days, there was no question of taking any snooty view of the circumstances or the timing of this or that.
His father had flown naval airships in that war. Floating over east-coast convoys, spotting U-boats and mines. When his engine had begun to lose power or otherwise malfunction he’d float the blimp up another couple of thousand feet, switch off – would be ‘ballooning’ then, wind-driven, simply hanging on the gas-bag – climb out of the cockpit onto a landing-skid, edge up beside the engine and hang on with one hand while using the other to change plugs or the magneto, whatever. Then swing the prop to start up again. No kind of stunt – just normal practice. Entitling him to some degree of relaxation, one might think, when on the ground. He was a commander RNR now, second in command of an AMC – Armed Merchant Cruiser – on the Northern Patrol, using Reykjavik in Iceland as their forward base.
He’d had a short leave this last May, when his ship had been in dock for bottom-scraping, and Andy had taken a weekend off from his studies in order to spend a day and a half with him at home in Helensburgh. That was when the old man had presented him with the binoculars.
Quilla declining to stand still, hot water was threatening to swill over the edge of the basin. So unplug it, let some out. Visualising the scene up top: same course, near enough same engine revs, sea conditions much the same; you didn’t have to go out on deck or even glance out of a port to know it. While also in mind was the fact that the two-hour emergency diversion, on course 260 degrees at twelve knots, on the face of it might have taken them twenty-four miles off track; but allowing for this, that and the other – wind, sea and propeller-slip – one might estimate it as nearer twenty. Anyway, there’d have to be an adjustment of course to pass well clear to the east of Rockall; the Commodore would most likely order it at midday, after noon positions had been hoisted. An alteration of ten or twelve degrees, maybe. Rockall would then be abeam during the dog watches, and one would be passing through position ‘A’ at some time during one’s own middle watch – position ‘A’ in the convoy’s routing orders being on longitude 15 degrees west, where for better or for worse the convoy would lose its escort and disperse, ships shaping courses to their own individual destinations.
Rinsing away remnants of shaving soap, reaching for his towel, washplace door opening and slamming, glancing round as Waller, third mate, came strutting in. Short, stocky, with a reddish face and curly yellow hair. Even with only a towel around him, he still had that cocky, aggressive manner.
Aggressive or defensive?
‘Morning. Sir.’ A space between the two words as if grudging the ‘sir’ – which one didn’t need anyway and would be discontinued when they got to know each other slightly. Heading for the urinals. And another entrant now. Two more – Bridgeman, second engineer, and a younger man he hadn’t met: skinny little guy, large eyes in a pale, narrow face. He told him, ‘I’m Holt, second mate. Who’re you?’
‘Shaw, third sparks.’ Meaning he was the junior of Quilla's three wireless officers. ‘How do.’
Waller was coming to take possession of one of the other basins. Andy having finished with his, backed off to let Shaw at it. Nodding to him: ‘Your CRO’s name’s Foster, right?’
CRO standing for Chief Radio Officer. So – Foster, and this Shaw, and the other one was – Newton. Respectively entitled RO/2 and RO/3: alternatively 2RO and 3RO. Newton was the one with the sideboards.
Bridgeman, the engineer – a large man, approximately Andy’s size – had a full beard that made him look older than he was. He tapped Shaw on the shoulder: ‘Telling you he’s Holt, kid – he’s the Holt. Led the PollyAnna’s boarding party into that Hun steamer?’
‘Oh, crikey! Yeah – in the papers, wasn’t it, you rescued a bunch of men and a girl, right?’
‘I was third mate, did what I was told.’ He touched the deeply indented, purple scar at the back of his neck: ‘Got this for my pains – German with a broken bottle.’
Got that and the girl, he thought to himself on the way back to his cabin. Hadn’t known it at the time, of course, but she’d have been worth far more serious injuries. Kicking the cabin door shut behind him, knowing this was the truth of it – that he was a very lucky man and would simply have to mend his ways, adjust to a new way of life. Having made one’s bed, you might say, bloody lie in it – and thank your stars it was Julia, and none of certain others which it might have been. Circumstances were awkward, here and now – especially for her, or could become so quite soon. Ten weeks being two and a half months, and two gone already – bringing the total to five months, say. He should have insisted on her confiding in her mother – had in fact proposed it, but she’d been set on keeping her condition secret for as long as possible, and he’d been in a rush to get on a train for Glasgow and the Barranquilla. Should have kept his nerve on that score, he realised now, and induced her to see the sense of it: they could have spoken to Mama together, explained as much as was explainable, and he’d have put it on record that he’d every intention of marrying her – if she’d have him and Mama would go along with it, both of which were certainties – as soon as he got back from this trip.
Anyway it would all work out. And he’d spend the rest of his life thanking God he had got her out of that Hun ship.
Motor vessel Glauchau. The Huns had had their prisoners in the ’tween-decks of number three hold, with German martial music blaring day and night to cover any noise the poor sods might make – at least while at anchor in Vitoria. His own achievement had been to spot the indications of something fishy going on, then the luck to have it confirmed by the barman in that joint where little Manuela worked. Manuela with whom he’d had a red-hot date, and tragically had had to stand her up the night of the Glauchau action. He still sometimes dreamt of Manuela.
He started breakfast on his own on the dot of eight. Porridge, boiled egg, toast and marmalade, served by Assistant Steward Chumley – ratty-looking, aged about twenty, deft as a card-sharp in his handling of plates and dishes. Andy asked him whether he’d learnt his trade at sea – might have started as a galley-boy, for instance – but he shook his head, said his father had an hotel, he’d waited on tables since he’d been a nipper. Roadhouse like, more than hotel. How did Andy want his egg – three minutes, four? The answer was four; and the next question, was it the truth what they was saying down aft, that he was the bloke what boarded the Germans in that port – what was it called—’
‘Vitoria, Brazil. Yes.’ But he explained – again – that he was only one of those who’d boarded her, had no idea why the press had singled him out as they had. ‘Fact is, I’d as soon we all forgot it.’
‘OK, sir. No sweat…’
Claymore now, third engineer. Balding, with a nose that must have been broken at some stage; he came from Belfast. He dumped himself in a chair across the table from Andy, asked him how goes it and shouted for porridge. Back to Andy then: ‘Disperse tonight, do we?’
‘If the Commodore so decides. We’ll be in position to, anyway.’
‘Fifteen west.’
He nodded.
‘What’s to stop bloody U-boats operating further west than that?’
‘Was mainly their range – distance from bases. Now they’re working out of Lorient, on the Biscay coast – saves ’em about five hundred miles each way, so—’
‘So likely we’ll get the benefit.’ A bark of laughter. ‘Lucky us. How long’ll it take us to bloody Cuba?’
The answer would have been best part of three weeks, minimum seventeen, eighteen days, but he’d had enough of the interrogation. Glancing round as others arrived: Foster, the CRO – thickset, mid-twenties, prematurely balding, came from Dundee, played a concertina – and Dixon, the cadet who for the time being was Andy’s assistant, would handle his chart corrections for him, for instance – and a straggle of others. Breakfast was never a very convivial or conversational meal at sea, but Andy being a stranger came in for a certain amount of polite attention; he didn’t encourage it or take any longer than he had to, was on his feet and heading for the door when the chief engineer pushed in. Name – he remembered it as they nodded good morning to each other – Frank Verity. Mid-forties, with greying hair, and according to Captain Beale a veteran of the Great War. Pausing now to ask him whether he was settling in all right. Andy told him yes, beginning to, thanks. He’d met him in the Old Man’s day cabin when he’d come to sign on, Quilla by that time swinging round an anchor at Tail of the Bank, Old Man remarking after introducing them, ‘See this feller, Chief. Second mate at twenty-one. Have his own ship before he’s thirty, eh?’
Verity had said, ‘Or be dead before he’s twenty-two.’ He’d caught himself up on that, turned back. ‘Apologies, Holt. Any luck, you’ll get to be ninety-two.’
Andy had said, ‘Not sure I’d want that.’
‘Me neither. You’re the one got ’em out of the prison ship, right?’
‘Helped get ’em out, sir. Captain planned it, mate was in charge of the boarding.’
‘And you were near decapitated with a bottle.’ A nod. ‘Dare say you’ll live it down, in time. See you later, Nat.’ As the cabin door shut behind him, Beale had said, ‘Likes to act the cynic, does Frank Verity. Never mind that, he’s a top-notcher, we’re lucky to have him. Sunk twice in ’14–’18, would you believe it?’
‘Was he, sir…’
‘But you’re here to sign on. Cut it fine enough, didn’t you?’
* * *
Dressed and with his glasses slung by their strap around his neck, he went up by the internal ladderway from main deck level to that of the Old Man’s quarters – day cabin, sleeping cabin and facilities, and abaft that the ‘owners’ suite’ that was shared by Harve Brown and the chief engineer – lower bridge deck, that was called – and then up to the bridge itself – bridge, chartroom – more accurately, chart space you might call it, the partitioned-off starboard after corner of the bridge – and wireless office.
Bright day, with high white clouds fast-moving in a fresh southwesterly. A lively sea and the sun well up – as it would be, in August and on 57 north. Lovely sight, he thought: ships fairly romping through and over the ranks of dark-blue swells, smashing and carving into them and flinging the white stuff away down-wind in sheets and streams sparkling in the sun. Quilla in her natural element and revelling in it, enjoying every moment of it – you could see it, feel it – and a mutter in the mind, Please God, more days like this – more weeks – months? Well – best not ask for too much. With his glasses on the SS Byalystok, their next-ahead, then switching to the Cedarwood abeam, and leading her, the Montreal Star. Astern of Cedarwood, the Princess Judy, and tailing Quilla the broad-beamed grain-carrier Harvest Queen.
One thing you could be sure of was that not all of these would enjoy another month of it.
Another night, even?
The Princess Judy was making rather a lot of smoke, he noticed. Would no doubt be in for a wigging from the Commodore when the old boy surfaced from his breakfast.
Lowering his glasses and turning inboard he saw that young Elliot – cadet, assistant officer of the watch – was at the chart table, working out a sunsight Waller must have taken since the beginning of this watch. Elliot was a Glaswegian. Skinny youth, but boxed a bit, apparently, and had scrum-halved in his training ship’s rugger fifteen: info courtesy of Harve Brown over a game of cards in the saloon last evening. The boy had finished his calculations, was putting the resultant position-line on the chart. Later, Waller would run that up to noon, the meridian altitude he’d take then completing a midday EP or Estimated Position. Andy would be doing the same, and according to how it looked when it was run-on would decide whether his or Waller’s was the better bet, to be adopted as the official noon position. Within a few minutes of noon,
every ship in the convoy was required to hoist flags giving her own conclusions on this subject, and it was then up to the Commodore to decide which he liked best.
He asked Elliot, ‘Mr Brown’s stars on, are they?’
‘Oh – yessir…’
Shifting out of his way, Andy moving in to check on Harve’s morning starsight. Fix, not EP, as he’d be the first to point out, meaning that it was more reliable. And the night’s diversion had indeed shifted them west of the pre-ordained track by about twenty miles. In fact one knew now, as near as damnit, where one was, but custom required a noon position to be logged and used as the starting point for the next twenty-four hours’ run, noon to noon. It had often enough been argued by outsiders that Red Ensign ships tended to be overnavigated, and the answer was that every deck officer was first and foremost a navigator and expected to exercise that basic skill, if possible improve on it.
‘OK, then…’ Checking the deck-log now, Harve’s entries from the previous watch – courses, revs, weather, distance-made-good. It was all there – and as the navigator, his own responsibility to ensure that it was.
He asked the cadet, ‘This your first ship?’
‘No, sir. I was in the Cromarty a year – and Burntisland—’
‘Yeah? Served my cadet’s time in that old crock.’ Such an old crock that she still had her crew accommodation up for’ard, in the foc’sl. Leaky, stinking, rat-infested, incredibly noisy in any sort of a blow. Shaking his head at the memory of her as he moved out into the bridge and to its forefront. Waller lowering his glasses, turning expectantly, no doubt looking forward to his breakfast. The helmsman’s name was – Andy asked him, ‘AB Samways, is it?’
‘Got it in one, sir.’ Friendly grin.
Andy said, ‘Half the time can’t remember my own name.’ He nodded to Waller: ‘All right, Gus, I’ve got her.’
Non-Combatants Page 3
