Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  ‘German aircraft – two hundred?’

  ‘Close on. Hun’ed an’ eighty some’n. If it’s the truth, we can believe it?’

  ‘Don’t see why we shouldn’t. Lower bridge-deck, this – one to go.’

  ‘Keeps a guy fit, leastways.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Whether he wants it or fucking don’t.’ Climbing on, repeating, ‘Hun’ed an’ eighty some’n, in one day. But what I heard, squareheads is still beating the living shit outa dear old England. You seen much o’ that?’

  ‘Can’t say I have. In fact I’d say might be putting it a bit strong. Anyway, if we’re shooting ’em down at that rate—’

  ‘If you can believe it…’

  The CRO’s transcript of some recent bulletin had said the battle in the skies was now centred over the south of England, the fighter airfields in particular, but the news earlier had made mention of night bombing attacks on London, Portsmouth, Harwich, Humberside, the Clyde, Liverpool, Manchester and Tyneside. He’d crossed his fingers, thinking not all on the same night, they’d surely not have that many bombers. Please God, they didn’t. And please God, while you’re at it, have them lay off Tyneside and Clydeside anyway: the Tyne for Julia’s sake – although she was a good distance from the river and any dock area – and the Clyde for his mother’s. Mama working full-time now for the WVS, Women’s Voluntary Service, her lot dealing exclusively with convoy and other naval survivors – feeding, clothing, accommodating, arranging medical treatment, cash advances and railway warrants home.

  Plain truth of it was, everyone was in this thing, one way or another. And incidentally, if a Merchant Navy man whose ship had been sunk didn’t go back and sign on in another within two or three weeks, he stood to lose his registered seafarer classification and be called up, find himself square-bashing, then God only knew what. Well – fighting, being shot at…

  He’d written to his mother and to his father in the course of the past few days, having belatedly caught on to the fact he wouldn’t hear from either of them – or more importantly from Julia – for a while yet, since Quilla’s mail would obviously have been sent to Nuevitas. Fortnight or so, he guessed – if one got out of here in a week, say.

  * * *

  At the Quarantine Station off Staten Island, where Quilla anchored, Port Health didn’t take as long as the Old Man had expected. Sam and the doctor had the children mustered on the boat-deck in more or less orderly fashion, and the Old Man had asked the officials when they’d boarded to go easy with the kids, and if possible make it snappy: they’d had a rough time, and the sooner they could be transferred into the hands of their new guardians, the better for all concerned. He had all his own documentation ready for them – crew lists and so forth – and Sam had hers. There was no question of any infectious disease on board, and that was that – clean bill of health, rubber-stamped and autographed. Harve Brown sent Merriman to haul down the yellow flag Q and went for’ard to prepare for weighing anchor, while Andy escorted their visitors to the jumping-ladder, starboard side for’ard, at the foot of which their boat was waiting.

  There was another boat in the offing, though: had come from shore and was lying off, stemming the tide, waiting to take the Port Health boat’s place. One of the Health men told Andy, ‘Customs. They’ll take passage with you to your berth. Press, too, looks like.’

  Civilians in trilby hats: half a dozen of those, and three Customs officers in uniforms. He asked the Port Health trio, ‘Do us a favour, hang on here a minute?’, and shot up to the bridge, told the Old Man, ‘Customs launch lying-off has reporters in it, sir. I’ve got Port Health stalling for a minute, but – press might be badgering the children?’

  ‘Mightn’t they just.’ He gave it about one second’s thought. ‘Elliot – tell the bosun, shift the foc’sl hose to that ladder.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’

  Andy went down at a slower pace than the cadet’s, while the Old Man took a megaphone with him into the bridge-wing, aimed it at the Customs launch and bawled, ‘Customs, ahoy there. You’re welcome, but I’ll have no press aboard. Any try it, they’ll be washed off the ladder. Rigging a hose this minute. Don’t try it, fellers, you been warned now!’

  There was some angry shouting and gesticulating, and the launch began edging closer, poised to shoot in alongside as soon as the other shoved off. Down on the main deck the first of the Port Health people was clambering over the rail: Andy told him and the other two, ‘Please don’t hurry.’ Bosun McGrath was coming in a hurry, all right, a charge not unlike a rhino’s, with ABs Morton and O’Donnell in close support and the business end of a canvas fire-hose. The last of the Port Health team growled, ‘Guys only tryin’ to do their job?’

  Andy told him, ‘Happens the captain doesn’t want ’em upsetting the kids, it’s his ship and she’s not open to the public, he has given ’em fair warning.’

  ‘Yeah…’

  Unconvinced. Jamming his cap down so as not to lose it while climbing down; over the rail then, looking glum.

  McGrath had the hose’s long brass nozzle on the top rail, aimed down at the water: he yelled back over his shoulder, ‘Stand by. I’ll sing out when.’

  One Port Health man was off the ladder: now the second, third with only a rung or two to go. He’d stumbled into the launch’s bow, one of the others had cast off and the boat was surging away. Sounds meanwhile from Quilla’s foc’sl of the steam capstan beginning to clank around, taking up some of the cable’s slack: they’d heard it in the launch, one uniformed man pointing, alerting the pressmen to what was happening. Andy suggested to McGrath, ‘Best get it running, let ’em see it’s for real.’

  Drenching Customs officers might not be seen as a friendly act. Boat approaching now: all faces including that of the man at the helm gazing up. A shout from McGrath – ‘Here we go, then!’ – and the hose convulsing as it filled then gushed. Morton was with McGrath at this end of it: it was a powerful hose, a good pressure of steam driving the pump that fed it, a heavy stream of salt water plunging into the bay’s calm surface not all that far from the ladder’s foot. Launch still coming – having to pass only a few yards from that cataract. Slowing: engine chugging astern to take the way off, Customs men crouching ready to jump for the chain ladder with its wooden rungs. And the Old Man up there using the megaphone again: ‘Bosun – let the Customs up, but any press try it, wash ’em off!’

  ‘Aye aye, Cap’n!’

  ‘Customs – save us all a load of trouble, tell your cox’n to let you off then clear off quick?’

  The man at the helm had raised a thumb. One reporter shaking a fist, and a shout of, ‘You’ll be sorry, Limey bastards!’ There’d been a couple of camera flashes. Launch thumping alongside, first of the uniformed men on the ladder, civilians wisely staying put, gesturing and arguing amongst themselves. Andy gave the Customs a hand over the rail, telling the front-runner, ‘Captain doesn’t want ’em badgering the kids, is all.’

  ‘No skin off my nose, Mister.’

  Second and third men over, and the launch already clear, gathering way. From the foc’sl-head then – perfect timing – Harve Brown’s yell of ‘Anchor away!’ telling the Old Man he’d seen the swing of the cable as the hook itself broke out of the mud. McGrath had shouted for the hose to be shut off, remarking to Andy, ‘Be needin’ us up there now.’ Hose needed up for’ard for washing mud off the cable as it rose. You didn’t want stinking mud going down with it into the cable-locker. As a cadet in the Burntisland he’d been stationed in her cable-locker often enough during the weighing to see the cable flaked down properly, didn’t pile and jam. Stinking as well as dangerous, those great links rumbling down. He nodded to McGrath, ‘Did the trick all right, Bo.’ From the moment of Harve’s report that the anchor was out of the ground, Quilla’s steel had been humming to the vibration of her shallowly churning screw – at slow speed, then revs increasing to turn her across the flood tide and take her on over to the Coney Island side for safe entry to the Na
rrows.

  * * *

  From the Narrows, following around the bulge of the Brooklyn shoreline, something like five miles into the middle of Upper Bay, then passing Liberty Island with the statue on it, Governor’s Island off to starboard in the approaches to East River, and Ellis way over to port, inshore; she had the Hudson’s mile-wide entrance ahead then, a few more miles of continuing flood tide to her allocated berth, Pier 59.

  Opposite West 18th Street, the old pilot had said.

  The children were going to be returned to the owners’ suite before she berthed. Having seen the sights and other shipping on the move, and finally treated to a view of the Manhattan skyline, getting them back inside was aimed at making their transfer into the hands of foster parents less chaotic than it might otherwise have been. Sam’s task, of course, assisted by Dr Creagh and backed up by cadets Elliot and Merriman and the two former Sarawak stewards, who’d be laying on a meal of soup and sandwiches. Some pressmen might manage to sneak aboard – although efforts would be made to keep them off – and they might be in a hostile as well as inquisitive frame of mind; they weren’t on any account to be allowed access to the children, and Harve Brown had put the word around that the less said about the Sarawak disaster, the better.

  Andy had given Sam a note of his home address at Helensburgh, and she’d had her aunt’s ready for him on a postcard. He’d also added a PS to the latest of his letters to Julia, telling her that as a result of a change of route, although these letters to her would be on their way within hours, any that she’d written to him would be waiting for him elsewhere, and he couldn’t hope to get them in less than ten or fourteen days’ time. When he did, he’d answer them at once.

  William, whose arm the doctor had said was mending nicely, slipped away from the others when Sam was herding them below, and asked Andy whether he might be allowed to stay on deck to see the ship tie up. He and Andy had had several chats during the past week, after the doctor had introduced him as ‘the man who carried you up from the boat, young Bill’. Andy answered this request with a regretful, ‘Better not, old son. I’ll be too busy to keep an eye on you, there’s sure to be a big crowd milling around soon as we get in there, and your friend Samantha’ll have her work cut out – really does need to have you all in one spot. So just for her sake, eh?’

  A shrug. ‘OK.’

  ‘That’s the boy. But also they’re giving you a meal of some kind, you don’t want to miss that.’ He was crouching, to hear and be heard in the surrounding racket. ‘You’ll have a whale of a time here, I expect. Least, I hope you will. That arm’s nearly mended, uh?’

  ‘Andy.’ Samantha had come looking for William. ‘Fond farewells?’

  He straightened up. ‘About as fond as a farewell could be.’ She caught his meaning and took William’s hand. ‘Reciprocated. Just don’t forget to write.’

  ‘Not a chance. But saying goodbye this soon?’

  ‘Might as well, don’t you think, before hell breaks loose?’

  ‘All right. In case there isn’t another chance.’ Taking her free hand in both of his. ‘Good luck, Sam. Be happy.’ Borrowing one hand back to ruffle the boy’s hair: ‘So long, William.’

  * * *

  His job when the ship was berthing was to take charge of things on her stern, the passing of ropes and wires, so forth. There was a tug up for’ard pushing her bow in – flood tide if still running making such assistance more or less essential for a ship with only a single screw.

  Stern-line over now, anyway: Patterson and Pettigrew taking it to the winch on the centre-line abaft number five, Stone and Walker backing it up while Pettigrew put steam on the winch to warp her in. The double-decker pier looming over them was thronged with people, a lot of whom would no doubt be swarming over – or trying to – as soon as a gangway was rigged. Sightseers and reporters probably (who’d be barred, initially at any rate, by Harve Brown and the bosun plus quartermasters) as well as those who’d be welcomed – recipient families, consular staff, immigration officials, maybe the Sea Transport Officer with news of the dry docking programme.

  For Sam, the next hour or so was likely to be hectic. Her priority and anxiety would be to get the right children safely into the right hands, and with the doctor’s help ensure that those in need of specialist attention were set to get it. Consular officials might be expected to play a part in this, especially in the case of children who were being removed to distant parts of this huge country.

  Quilla was now alongside and the tug was backing off: hemp breasts secured for’ard and aft, wire springs being passed. Tide slackening, by the look of it, a comparative stillness around the timber piles, arrival alongside seemingly having coincided with the height of the flood. In any case, Quilla’s screw was now at rest, Patterson and co. taking in the slack on the after backspring, Andy at the ship’s side signalling OK, make it fast, while up for’ard longshoremen were swinging a gangway into place.

  Now for bedlam…

  * * *

  First off the ship, before the gangway was properly secured, were the Customs officers and the pilot, the latter seen off by Harve Brown, and yelling at a large, florid man in a sky-blue suit, ‘Parker, what’s your goddam hurry?’

  About the pilot’s own age but twice his size, fringe of thick grey hair showing under a two-tone grey fedora. Late fifties probably, and might have known better than to encumber the gangway so these others had to squeeze around him, also inconveniencing a docker who was still setting up wire handrails, but enquiring genially of the Customs men, ‘Find enough contraband to make it worth your while, boys?’, and ignoring the crabby little pilot’s question. Stepping aboard then, telling Harve Brown, ‘Parker Lloyd, sea transport officer, to see Captain Beale.’

  English, apparently: Yorkshire accent overlaid with American. Droopy, spaniel-like brown eyes. Harve Brown had introduced himself and at the same time seen Andy, who’d come by for a word on his way up to the bridge to see to the safe stowage under lock and key of binoculars, sextants and other navigational gear. Harve telling the STO, having to shout to do it, ‘Second Officer Holt’ll take you up. Listen – might one of that lot be our consul?’

  ‘Vice-consul.’ Pointing at a youngish, narrow-headed man in a noticeably well-cut, grey-checked suit. ‘He can come up with me if he wants.’

  The big man was wearing an RNR tie, Andy noticed. Which figured: most STOs were former merchant navy masters. Shaking hands with him and waiting near the port-side weather door for the vice-consul – a very different sort, in pebble glasses and clutching an attaché case, could have been a slightly self-conscious schoolmaster, who on arrival through the gathering crowd gave his name as Wilkinson, adding, ‘And my colleagues…’ They were behind him, a red-haired woman in a hat and flowered summer dress, with a friendly, forthright manner, and a young man in a flannel suit, brown trilby, sunglasses: overweight, could have done with some fresh air and exercise. Parker Lloyd had pushed on inside and was on the ladderway, bawling down, ‘On the bridge still, is he?’

  ‘Or his day cabin, for’ard end of the lower bridge-deck. Try there first?’ Andy stood back to let the vice-consul go ahead of him, and told the woman, ‘Children are on the lower bridge-deck too, waiting for you in what we call the owners’ suite. Miss Vaughan and Dr Creagh have been looking after them, they’ll be delighted to see you. Follow me?’

  * * *

  Sam was up there looking anxious; the doctor was in the doorway of his, or rather the Old Man’s, sleeping cabin, in conversation with two small girls. Parker Lloyd had banged on the day cabin door, pushed it open and looked inside, called to the vice-consul, ‘Must be up top.’ Andy meanwhile telling Sam, ‘Consulate staff. Didn’t get their names, but—’

  ‘Ursula Wainwright, and this is Martin Hyams. Miss Vaughan?’

  ‘Call me Sam. Saves time.’ Shaking hands, then straight to it: ‘Look – only four of the twenty-seven have any sort of problem, but they’re going to need special care and I imagine psychiatric
help. Dr Creagh’ll tell you—’

  Andy went on up to the bridge, where the Old Man was telling the vice-consul he could use the day cabin for interviewing foster parents, so they’d have the whole of that deck, a bit more elbow room, and if they needed it some degree of privacy.

  ‘More than kind, captain. May I congratulate you on the rescue? Although so few survived – terribly sad—’

  ‘It is that.’ Looking towards the STO, who as well as the RNR tie wore a merchant navy badge in the buttonhole of his lapel, and was in conversation with Chief Engineer Frank Verity. Old Man looking meaningfully at Andy then, who put a hand on Wilkinson’s arm: ‘I’ll show you the day cabin and introduce you to Dr Creagh and Miss Vaughan.’ Turning him back towards the ladder. The Old Man had nodded goodbye to him, now called to Parker Lloyd, ‘What about dry dock, then?’ Andy asking the vice-consul as they started down, ‘One thing, if you can tell me – Miss Vaughan and the doctor, once the children are taken care of, what happens to them?’

  ‘All set up, I’m glad to say. Accommodation at the Barbizon Plaza, and early return passages to the UK. Same with the others incidentally – Chief Officer Barclay, and—’

  ‘Well, that’s splendid!’

  ‘What we’re for, you know. Amongst a few other things, of course.’ Smiling as they reached the lower bridge-deck. Below them, starting upward from main deck level, was Gus Waller with what looked like several sets of fosterers. Andy telling Wilkinson, ‘Captain’s day cabin’s here. But if you’d come this way—’

  ‘That’s all right, thank you, I’ll—’

  ‘Anyway, here’s Dr Creagh.’