Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  But even while answering that question, she’d barely glanced Andy’s way. His own fault, he supposed: he’d pushed it a little too hard on the bridge this afternoon.

  Grabbing her hand, and so on.

  Stupid – and quite pointless. Liked her, that was all, sympathised with her and wanted her to know it. What it actually came down to was wanting to help. Certainly had no other motive. Especially as she knew of the existence of Julia – which he’d made no bones about, would have told her about at some stage, even if Harve Brown hadn’t taken it upon himself to do so. Which was another thing entirely, old Harve’s rather annoying preconceptions.

  She was trying hard with Barclay, he noticed. So was Harve. Barclay near-silent however, giving short answers and never opening any new topic of conversation. Smiled a few times, but only a perfunctory contortion of the features, no warmth or humour in it. Sam and Harve both making the most of anything the man did say, but still not getting him to loosen up.

  Andy asked Creagh about him later on, after Sam had gone up to the children and Barclay had retired to his cabin. The doctor glanced round, making sure of not being overheard, then confided, ‘Broadly, survivors’ guilt. Not an unusual phenomenon. I saw it a few times in ’14–’18, as a matter of fact. I was doctoring in the army in that lot. Periods of action resulting in heavy casualties, you’d get individuals who’d come out of it unharmed reacting as if they shouldn’t have, were ashamed of it. No rhyme or reason – faced the same odds, just had the luck to survive. But’ – another glance around – ‘in that man’s case I believe there’s a more specific explanation. When our group got together he mentioned several times that he’d been knocked off some ladder, and my guess is he’d stunned himself. He was – you know, slightly groggy. Well, we set off in search of children who might have been trapped or lost, didn’t find any, had to clear out of it prontissimo what’s more. Well, we’d left Sam at the boat with these other children, and Barclay’s recollection is that it was on his insistence she’d stayed with them. It wasn’t, it was on mine. Point I’m making is that he was suffering from at least that one delusion and probably still is, and I’d guess what he’s most aware of is the fact that he, Chief Officer, came out of it on his feet and over a hundred children didn’t.’

  ‘He took charge of lowering the boat, I heard.’

  ‘He did. But he could do that pretty well as an automaton, couldn’t he. Second nature – as it would be with you.’

  ‘The others are all right, are they, the crewmen?’

  A nod. ‘Few problems there. One quite nasty case of burns, otherwise – well, nothing, really… I hear you gave Sam some navigational instruction during the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, she wanted to see the chart, where we were when it happened, so forth.’

  ‘I’d be interested to have that explained. Any chance?’

  ‘I’ll mention it to the Old Man. I’m sure he’ll be only too willing. You’ve met him, I suppose?’

  ‘When he so kindly offered me the use of his little cabin. “Old Man”, though – I’d say he’s half my age?’

  ‘It’s the term we use, that’s all.’

  ‘Wouldn’t “skipper” be more appropriate?’

  ‘Never. That’d be derogatory. Skipper of a trawler, drifter, dredger, so forth, but not of an ocean-going ship of the Merchant Navy. Old Man, Captain, Master, or sometimes Commander.’

  ‘If I’m invited to the bridge I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘“Captain” would be your best bet.’

  ‘Right.’ He put down his knife and fork. ‘That was really very good.’

  ‘Suet pudding smeared with treacle next.’

  ‘Oh, crikey…’

  * * *

  At the Old Man’s invitation, Dr Creagh paid his visit to the bridge during the forenoon of the 12th, escorted by Harve Brown, who with the aid of the deck-log explained the chart workings to him. Noon position that day being eighty miles southeast of Cape Race, the lower promontory of Newfoundland. Several ships on northeasterly courses had passed during the night – showing lights, Quilla too, for the first time since leaving the Clyde – and during the forenoon they met and spoke several others. During Andy’s afternoon watch they spoke two Americans, one British, a Frenchman and a Pole, all of whom were steering west or southwest – for Sydney Nova Scotia, the Gulf of St Lawrence or Halifax. Quilla on each occasion hoisting her four-letter identification, cadets Elliot and Merriman being responsible for this, making it easy for themselves by leaving the four flags bent on and ready for hoisting, taking it in turns to run the hoist up above the bridge while the other stayed with Sam, Waller and the children.

  Waller making a bit of an idiot of himself, Andy thought.

  Being now in safe waters, the Old Man had radioed to the sea transport officer in New York giving ETA as 0800/16th, telling him that he had thirty-seven survivors of the SS Sarawak, including twenty-seven children on board, British consul please to be informed, and requesting dry dock facilities in order to refit the stern gland. The request had been acknowledged. A shaft bearing was still overheating, Chief Verity had said – though not dangerously so, or at this stage getting any hotter – while as for the stern gland, there had been vibration in it, seemingly wasn’t now, but clearly both did have to be attended to, otherwise a spell of dirty weather could see old Quilla in bad trouble.

  Over the past twenty-four hours, noon to noon, she’d made-good 270 miles.

  The STO and consulate in New York would probably have been notified already about the survivors, as a consequence of Quilla’s signal in the early hours of the 8th, but it had been as well to make sure of it, so that the US immigration service and the families receiving the children would be geared up for their arrival. The consulate would presumably have been in touch with everyone concerned.

  At supper in the saloon that evening, Samantha had put herself between Andy and Searle, the Sarawak’s former RO/3. She’d chosen that chair herself, having had a choice: evidently he’d been forgiven, or was supposed to have learnt his lesson. He’d written another letter to Julia during the dogwatches, had told her that this and earlier ones would be posted in just a few days’ time and he hoped might not take too long getting to her. He’d number the backs of the envelopes so she could open them in the right order. All was going well, they were up to schedule, might even be back with her a little sooner than anticipated.

  Touch wood. Or as they say in certain other parts, knock on wood. In other words, don’t count on it; delays can crop up suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Julia darling, there’s a newish moon up there, just a sliver, I was looking at it last night and thinking only one more moon after this one, and we should be together!

  Should be: but not counting chickens. Some way to go yet, and not all of it by any means plain sailing. HX convoys were in fact battlegrounds; you all knew it, only by and large chose not to talk about it.

  Small-talk instead: like asking Sam, ‘Doc enjoy his visit to the bridge?’

  ‘Very much. The chart stuff especially. Unlike me, he’s seen charts before and even worked with them, used to sail quite a bit, apparently.’

  ‘He’s a great chap.’

  ‘Isn’t he just.’

  ‘And you’re a great girl.’ She glanced at him sharply, and he defused it with: ‘Doc and I agreed on that last evening.’

  8

  Heavy mist as Quilla nosed her way in towards New York. Flat calm too, the lack of motion on her contributing to the eerie quiet which so often accompanies a curtaining of fog. The sun wouldn’t take long to burn it off, but meanwhile it had her down to about five knots, and the St Ambrose lightship moaning as if in pain; closer sounds were the swish of sea washing along the ship’s sides and the regular thrashing of her barely submerged propeller. The Old Man was in his usual corner with his glasses on a small passenger steamer, American, that had overhauled them in recent minutes and seemed to be altering now to starboard. Andy checking all round for any other ship
s or potential hazards, having already checked ship’s head, engine room telegraph at slow ahead and the distance-off from Sandy Hook and the Ambrose.

  He lowered his glasses, nodded to Waller. ‘OK.’

  Half an hour to go at these revs. Waller would be up to take over again before they got there. Earlier than usual start to this 16 August, Waller having relieved Harve Brown at 0700 instead of 0800, Andy breakfasting at that time too in order to allow Waller this breakfast break. Seven-thirty now, and ETA off Sandy Hook, where Quilla would be stopping to embark the pilot, 0800 New York time, Zone +5, ship’s clocks having been adjusted in easy stages during the past few days so as to even out the hours on watch. Keeping the right time for Cuba now as well.

  Ship right ahead. Smack on the bow, red and green navigation lights pinpoints in the haze, masthead lights above them even less distinct – fog thicker of course at that level. He told Selby, ‘Come ten degrees to starboard.’

  A tanker: she too altering to starboard. Quilla amazingly steady on this mill-pond – as if she’d forgotten she was in ballast and supposed to cavort around.

  ‘Course 285, sir.’

  The tanker’s starboard light no longer visible. She – the tanker – was probably what that passenger steamer had been altering for. They’d pass well clear, in any case.

  On his way out of the saloon after early breakfast, Andy had bumped into Harve Brown on his way in, had asked him, ‘Paperwork done with?’, because it was what he’d been relieved early for. There was always paperwork on arrival anywhere, but this time there’d be more than usual on account of the passengers, the unusual nature of this unscheduled visit. Harve, Barclay and Samantha had all been at it, the mate having a lot of routine stuff to attend to anyway.

  He’d nodded. ‘If Port Health want to know which of the kids have had mumps, measles, chicken-pox or scarlet fever, etcetera, it’s there for them.’

  That sort of question, one imagined, might be asked either at the Quarantine Station or by Immigration after berthing. One could assume the children would be spared any Ellis Island immigration procedures, arrangements for their coming here having been made months ago, Sam had said. For 131 of them, not just twenty-seven. She’d also listed the names and addresses of the people who ought to be here to meet them: had had the documentation in her boat bag – that satchel – for all 131. She’d said last night, ‘Dare say some of those others will be meeting us too. Either on the off-chance of having been misinformed, or simply not believing in anything so awful.’

  ‘In which case—’

  ‘Have to convince them, that’s all. Preferably without hysteria in the sight or hearing of these children. But thank heavens Tommy insisted each of us should have a copy of the register, as she called it. Without it we’d really have had problems.’

  ‘Think she foresaw some such possibility?’

  ‘Must have. Can’t say I caught on to it.’

  ‘I doubt there’s much you don’t catch on to.’

  The light blue eyes on his, speculatively. Small smile. ‘You’re an unusual man, I think. Say nice things but actually mean them.’

  ‘Well.’ Cocking an eyebrow at her. ‘I don’t say things I don’t mean. Do speak out of turn, on occasion. As you’ve noticed, a couple of times. Get carried away, just sort of blurt.’

  Smiling again: ‘Tell your fiancée I think she’s a lucky girl.’

  They’d been on their way up to the lower bridge-deck at that stage, Andy escorting her because this was her last evening on board and Harve for once hadn’t claimed the privilege. She’d neither objected nor commented when he’d left the saloon with her.

  But Julia lucky?

  He’d told Sam, ‘As a matter of honest truth, I’ve serious doubts of that. Not sure I’m doing her any favours at all.’

  She’d stopped at the top of that section of the companionway. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Well.’ He’d started now-blurting again. Hadn’t meant to, but having started, could hardly just leave it in the air. Realising, or semi-realising, that the reason he’d burst out with it was that it was something that had been building up inside him, despite efforts to suppress it, and Sam was someone he could share it with – or burden with it… ‘For one thing, one’s away at sea four-fifths of the time. Another is that a second officer doesn’t get paid much. As in fact Julia knows very well – she has two cousins who’re both second officers, her family background’s all Merchant Navy.’

  ‘The cousins not married?’

  ‘Neither of ’em. But right now, you see, she’s content enough, works in her mother’s dress business – they’re diversifying into uniforms and working clothes, overalls, whatever – and OK, for reasons best known to herself she’d sooner I didn’t drown, but if I did – well, her life wouldn’t be stood on its head exactly, as it would – up to a point – if we were married. And facing facts, the odds on living for ever aren’t all that good, you know. We’ve been losing a heck of a lot of ships lately.’

  Looking at him steadily. ‘You’ll come through, Andy.’

  ‘Do my best to, naturally, but—’

  ‘You will Some are bound to, and you’ll be one of them.’ On her toes, she’d kissed his cheek. ‘Will, Andy. I’ll say prayers for you. And listen, I’ll give you an address – my aunt’s, in Devon?’

  ‘I’d certainly like to have that.’

  ‘When you get back, send me a postcard, admit I was right?’

  ‘Right. And I’ll give you my address at Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire so you can let me know when you get some terrific part.’

  ‘It’s a deal!’

  ‘Also Christmas cards?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And when you get yourself engaged or married.’ That steady look again, then almost to his surprise, a nod: ‘When, or if.’

  He kissed her, this time. ‘Night, Sam.’

  * * *

  They’d passed the tanker – French flag, and a wave from some frog in the bridge-wing – and he brought Quilla back to 275, then on second thoughts 273. There was a clutter of small ships on the bow to port: might be trawlers, but well clear in any case. Visibility was improving. He was searching for the Ambrose light vessel now, and thinking again about that exchange with Sam: that if he’d said Julia’s life would be stood on its head if he drowned, it would have been the understatement of the year, but of course had not been sayable.

  Another that hadn’t was in a way an extension of the point he had made about being away at sea for something like four-fifths of every year: the fact that one was perhaps more than usually susceptible to the attractions of the opposite sex, and in foreign ports couldn’t help coming across them now and then. All right, Sam was in a class of her own – one wasn’t likely to meet others of her stamp – but none the less, after weeks and months at sea, especially in bloody convoy – and being one’s father’s son—

  That especially.

  There were also the Manuelas of this world. Likely to be one or two in Nuevitas, for instance.

  Liking them, was most of it, and finding it difficult not to show one’s liking.

  Scent of porridge, though: and Waller down there at his side. ‘All right, then?’

  ‘Can see a few yards, anyway.’ At that same moment spotting the Ambrose: realising it had ceased its bleating in recent minutes, although it was still showing its light. Mist thinning, of course, which was how one had spotted it so suddenly, and could also discern a greyish low-lying hump to port, which had to be the coastline running about north-by-west to Sandy Hook. He pointed it out to Waller. ‘And there’s the Ambrose. Some little widgers out there on the bow – see ’em? Fog’s breaking up anyway, and we’re on 273.’

  ‘Right.’

  He told the Old Man, ‘Third mate has her, sir. Might do without lights now, d’you think?’

  ‘Yes. Switch off.’ Then: ‘Know this city, Holt?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Here only once, as a cadet in the Burntisland, short visit and
I didn’t get ashore.’

  Hadn’t gone ashore on that occasion, largely on account of having been stony broke. And for a similar but not identical reason, might not land this time either. Had funds, of sorts, but needed to conserve them – having Julia in mind, and not wanting to arrive back home without a bob or two.

  * * *

  Off Sandy Hook the Old Man turned her to stem the flood tide with the telegraph at ‘dead slow’, while the pilot boat flying its red and white flag came creaming out to run alongside, where the bosun had put a jumping-ladder over abreast number three hatch. There was no sign of Harve Brown, who’d normally have been there to receive a pilot, so Andy, who’d been on the boat-deck keeping an eye out for Samantha, went down for’ard and did the honours.

  ‘Morning, pilot!’

  ‘Morning to you.’ Climbing through the rail, breathing hard from the climb: elderly, small, three-quarters bald, face like a walnut; white trousers, reefer with a master’s four stripes on its sleeves, naval cap of sorts, bony hand out to shake. ‘Jake Large.’

  Andy told him, ‘Andy Holt, second mate. Captain Beale said to welcome you aboard, sir.’

  ‘Crowd o’ kids you bringin’ us, outa some ship got sunk?’

  He nodded. ‘There’ve been a few lost, these last few weeks.’ Better than admitting that British and Allied ships were being sunk in droves. Ushering the pilot to the starboard side door, adding, ‘Kids have come through it well, though.’

  ‘Shipping ’em out safe from the bombing, that it?’

  ‘The intention, sure. Frying pan into fire, you’re thinking. Safe enough now, though, this lot…’ He secured the weather door behind them. ‘Care to lead on up?’ Vibration increasing as engine revs mounted, the Old Man turning her upstream again, gnarled old pilot shouting as he started climbing, ‘Germans ain’t gettin’ it all their way. News on radio this morning, your boys downed close on two hun’ed yesterday.’