Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  After the pilot had left them, the Old Man had summoned Harve Brown and Chief Verity to his day cabin, presumably to divulge the contents of the sealed envelope, and shortly afterwards Harve announced that there’d be no shore leave on the grounds that the ship was under sailing orders. As an exception to this, an HDML – Harbour Defence Motor Launch – would be alongside within about the next half-hour to take the Old Man ashore, to a meeting in Admiralty House.

  Andy asked him, ‘Convoy conference?’

  ‘That’s in the morning. Ten a.m. MLs collecting masters between eight and nine. Masters and navigators, including you.’

  ‘Sailing Tuesday, then?’

  ‘They’ll tell you at the conference, I imagine.’

  ‘Meaning you don’t know?’

  ‘Doubt even the Old Man does. Or he’s been told to keep it to himself.’

  ‘Walls having ears, all that?’

  ‘Have been known to, haven’t they.’

  ‘Spies ashore here, is that it?’

  A shrug. ‘Who knows? But if it was you carrying the can, would you take a chance on it?’

  He supposed not. Remembering warnings of shifty characters in bars insisting on buying drinks and asking questions without seeming to. This would pre-suppose that they had means of getting information out by radio: a sailing date and the number of ships in convoy, say – which here there’d be no need to ask, all they’d have to do was perch up there somewhere with binoculars and a view across this basin. Maybe a scouting U-boat in range of any such transmission, relaying it back to U-boat headquarters or to its brethren in mid-ocean.

  But if the convoy conference was taking place tomorrow, Monday, probably would be filing out of that boom gate on Tuesday 27th; and banking on a fourteen-day crossing, home before the middle of the month.

  The motor launch for the Old Man chugged alongside within half an hour of that conversation with Harve, and Chief Verity was going along for the ride. Both in civvy suits and soft hats, although this was most certainly not a neutral port and it was the naval authorities they were visiting. How they preferred to be dressed when ashore, was the answer to it. Merchant Navy style – MN philosophy even. How they’d turn out for the conference tomorrow too, he guessed. Crowd of non-combatants getting together to cross an ocean.

  The Old Man told Harve before jamming his hat down so it wouldn’t get knocked off on the ladder, ‘Back before sundown, likely.’

  ‘Sneakin’ ashore for a smoke, eh?’

  Quiet voice from an onlooker on the after well-deck, as the boat sheered off. Smoking was banned in all parts of the ship except crew’s quarters, saloon and owners’ suite – and the Old Man’s quarters, obviously – forbidden altogether during steam-ejection intervals, and might be further restricted if for any reason that seemed necessary. There’d been very little grousing about it. Nor for that matter had anyone been talking much about the high-octane, not since departure from New York. You had the stuff down there, and you knew that in certain circumstances it had the potential to explode, but there was no point going on about it.

  * * *

  At one point towards the end of the convoy conference next day, Andy thought it might usefully have been mentioned, but the Old Man had kept his mouth shut, and it wasn’t a second mate’s business to speak out. He was only there to take notes, mainly on navigational matters, for which purpose he’d brought along a notebook and a few pencil-stubs. And in fact a lot of it was already known and on record, the Old Man having returned on board last evening with a file of documentation, much of which was probably standard, common to all HXs, on such subjects as communications, zone times – alterations of ships’ clocks – zigzag plans and navigational routines, domestic routines even, such as approved times for the ditching of gash, and so forth; as well as the convoy plan itself – eight columns of ships, columns 1,000 yards apart and ships in column 600 yards – the pattern as before, in fact, with six ships in each column except for the two centre ones, numbers four and five, in which there were to be only five. This was to leave Quilla, as rearmost ship in column six – her convoy number therefore sixty-six, i.e. sixth rank from the van and sixth ship from the right – with two empty billets on her starboard side, consequently a gap of 3,000 yards between her and her nearest neighbour on that side, which was to be a cargo-liner by name of Aurelia, number sixty-three.

  It was a big conference hall – had to be, with the shore staff of British and Canadian naval officers as well as two Merchant Navy men from each of forty-six ships. Not in fact as many ships as one had anticipated, but this was still a crowd: RN and RCN officers moving around, Merchant Navy personnel crowded at long tables, and the big white chief – Commodore Westerwood RNR, formerly Rear-Admiral Westerwood RN (Retired) – together with an RN four-stripe captain who was chairman of the conference, British chief of staff presumably, and like the Commodore wearing WW1 medal ribbons – those two on a raised platform with chairs available to them but a lot of the time on their feet. They had two blackboard easels up there, one with the convoy plan on it – ships’ names in columns – and the other displaying a chart of the North Atlantic.

  What they were getting into now was mostly secret stuff that would not have been duplicated on paper for general distribution and possibly careless handling: the intended route, emergency diversions from it which might be anticipated, and known or suspected dispositions of the enemy – recent sightings by patrolling aircraft, interceptions of German radio, and Intelligence interpretations of all these.

  Escorts: initially, one Canadian AMC – armed merchant cruiser – and one destroyer – Canadian, formerly American, very recently acquired. In point of fact, the Commodore admitted, these would do little more than see the convoy on its way; a close escort would rendezvous with it in the region of longitude 20 west, would consist most probably of sloops or the new corvettes, which would be transferring from a westbound convoy.

  A hand had been put up; the Commodore paused, waiting for whatever this might amount to, Andy meanwhile catching on to the probability that the interrupter was the master of the Blackheddon Hills, since he had Dick Carr beside him. Carr grim-faced, dour as ever, and his captain red-headed, tall on his chair, challenging: ‘Sloops or corvettes, ye say – may we know how many?’

  ‘Probably two. Possibly three.’ There was a general murmur: not exactly protests, more like gloomy repetitions of those words. The Commodore – a small man with thinning grey hair, aged about sixty – adding, ‘That’s the probability. May I add, this is not an ordeal that I’m inflicting on you, as one might put it, as usual I’ll be one of you.’ Turning to point at the convoy diagram, its upper centre: ‘In the motor vessel Yorkdale, by courtesy of Captain Nichol. But let me explain – at risk of boring you with what many of you must appreciate already. The air battle over Britain is at a crucial stage, the enemy have invasion forces concentrated in and around French, Belgian and Dutch ports, and our need of minor warships, destroyers in particular, for anti-invasion purposes far outstrips the number available to us. I know, you have heard this before, but the plain truth is we’re in a state of crisis – invasion threat at its height, own forces available at their lowest. The best I can tell you is that this situation may not continue for much longer. The RAF has been performing wonders, despite incurring frightful losses, and we may hope that what our Prime Minister has dubbed the Battle of Britain will soon be decided in our favour. We also do have an extensive building programme – of destroyers and corvettes – and when that really comes on stream, as they put it nowadays, well, different kettle of fish entirely. Meanwhile, once the Luftwaffe can be seen to have been defeated—’

  ‘Won’t happen in the next two, three weeks, uh?’

  ‘Not quite that soon, no, probably not. But you must know it’s not for want of effort. Might even say heroic effort. And what I was about to say, gentlemen – once the RAF has won the Battle of Britain for us, we can get down to winning the battle of the Atla
ntic – in which your efforts, I may say, even though most of you’d probably sooner I didn’t, have been and still are no less heroic. Let’s get on with this, now…’

  First of all, with what he knew would come as a surprise to them, a departure from what had become standard practice, and had hitherto been rigorously insisted on. Taking a radically new look at it now would, he realised, be all the more controversial. It was the matter of rescue ships in convoy. Plans were afoot, had been agreed and were being implemented, to convert a goodish number of small, handy ships for this purpose: they’d need a good turn of speed and manoeuvrability and would be specially equipped for the rescue of survivors, with built-in hospital facilities and small operating theatres, each of them carrying a doctor and ancillary medical staff. Adapting and fitting-out even the first of them was likely to take several months, and in the meantime it had been proposed that unconverted but otherwise suitable ships might serve a similar purpose, saving at least some lives while also providing insight into special needs that might otherwise not be foreseen.

  ‘It’s a radical departure, certainly. As you know very well, stopping to help ships that have been hit, or to rescue their men from boats, has been seen to put the rescuer in considerable danger. Can indeed amount simply to throwing away another ship. And it is not proposed that during an assault by U-boats any ship should break formation, stop engines or drop back for any such purpose. In the course of action, even escorts are not permitted to do so – and that remains the case. Only after such a night’s activity – to turn back then, when there have been casualties, take men out of boats and off rafts or foundering ships, whatever’s possible, and then – a vital point, this – catch up, regain station in convoy before dark. Which obviously means having the speed to do that. We don’t want stragglers – ever. Stragglers, as we’ve learnt to our cost in the past year, are at greater risk than any. Well – I’d like to go into some details of these proposals later, with the masters concerned. Specifically –’ turning to the convoy plan again, but then pausing. ‘Understand me, please, these are suggestions only. If a master has reason to think his ship’s unsuitable for the task, all he need do is say so, and no-one’ll think any the worse of him. So – as much as anything on account of their designated positions on this plan, I’d suggest numbers sixty-six and sixty-three. That’s to say, SS Barranquilla and MV Aurelia. Both claim speeds of over fourteen knots – and convoy speed’s unlikely to be more than eleven, so they’d have that margin when they need it – for the essential purpose of regaining station, as I’ve explained. And the Barranquilla, I understand, performed a notable rescue in mid-Atlantic very recently, managing to accommodate a good number of survivors, while Aurelia being a twelve-passenger cargo-liner has cabins galore—’

  ‘Galore, he says!’

  A big man, rotund and bearded, Westcountryman by the sound of him, halfway to his feet and then subsiding. ‘Squeeze in a few, but – see, I got naval gunners—’

  ‘Then they may have to crowd up a bit.’ The Commodore joined in a rumble of amusement. ‘Squeeze in a few’s as much as any of us could do. May I count you in, Captain?’

  Gesture of acceptance. ‘Suppose you might, sir.’

  ‘And Barranquilla?’

  The Old Man raised an arm. ‘Aye.’

  While the Commodore was thanking them both and asking them to spare him a few minutes when the conference broke up, the Old Man was looking down at his folded hands: glancing under his eyebrows at Andy then, growling, ‘Makes no odds what we got inside us, Mister.’

  11

  Quilla, following the Aurelia, was one of the last ships out, the very last of them following at slow speed in her swirling wake being the refrigerated motor vessel Sir George and the much smaller French Belle Isle. Evacuation of the basin had begun at first light – Wednesday, this was, the 28th – and as Quilla passed through the boom gate it was still a few minutes short of seven a.m. Not bad, an hour and a half to get such a great herd of ships off their moorings and out to sea, in the prescribed order and with no collisions or other snarl-ups in the process. Roughly two minutes per ship, with two motor-launches as ring-masters, getting the right ones on the move rank by rank – ranks according to the convoy plan – with the second rank weighing anchor in time to follow the rear ship of the first one without much of a pause between them, and so forth – second rank, third, fourth, fifth, and now sixth, Quilla and company. By this time the front rank of eight ships would be a couple of miles outside and have formed itself into line-abreast on course due east at five knots, while the others came up into station astern of them, reducing to the same five knots. When the six ships of this rear rank were in station and the Commodore was satisfied with the formation as a whole, he’d order eleven knots by hauling down the speed signal he was flying now – numeral five under flag K – and hoist numerals eleven under K; thereafter hold on eastward for four hours before altering course ten degrees to port, to 080. It would then be as near as damnit midday: exactly as programmed at the conference on Monday.

  Quilla was out now: Old Man in the bridge’s forefront with his glasses up, seeing the Aurelia beginning to draw away ahead, telling Waller to come up to full ahead. Clash of the telegraph: Old Man on the voice-tube then telling whoever was down there at the other end of it to put on the revs he wanted.

  All concerned were making a better job of this, Andy thought, than they had when he’d sailed from here in the PollyAnna. There’d been a certain amount of blundering around at that time, as he remembered it. Early days then, of course, the war only a few months old; in the long interim the staff here had obviously improved their modus operandi. Just as ships’ masters and deck officers had become more adept at convoy work – including this kind of evolution. But in the old PollyAnna, he remembered, when leaving Halifax he’d spent an hour or two with Julia and Finney on monkey island, Julia huddled in a duffel coat and heavy oiled-wool sweater she’d bought in the town, but still occasionally shivering with cold. Midwinter then, of course, and up on that exposed platform with the Anna wallowing and thumping into a northeaster; Julia had been anxious about seasickness, preferring to shiver than to go below, and worrying even more about how she’d stand up to it in the much rougher stuff which they’d been told was waiting out there for them. Seaman’s daughter and niece averse to letting the side down, naturally, and Andy doing his best to convince her that seasickness, to which even Nelson had been prone, wouldn’t last more than a few days, after which she’d be as right as rain; also that foul weather was if anything to be welcomed, since U-boats couldn’t function in it.

  Which was nothing but the truth. In that sense regrettable that it looked like staying reasonably fine this trip. But in PollyAnna, when things had got really bad, really exceptionally bad, Julia had been absolutely bloody marvellous.

  Might be a little anxious now, he thought. Guessing he’d be on his way, and knowing what it could be like out here. Counting days…

  Ten days, minimum. In earlier reckonings he’d allowed fourteen, but in putting the convoy’s planned route on the chart and giving it eleven knots he’d concluded that it might conceivably be done in ten or eleven days. That allowed for a diversion northward when about four days out, which most likely would be implemented, since unless this particular HX had the luck of the devil, U-boats would be lying in wait across its route somewhere on the other side of 30 degrees west. The diversion as envisaged would be triggered or modified in the light of intelligence received by the Commodore between now and then, but that was the probability. While another variable in the general outlook was that not every ship in the convoy might find it possible to maintain eleven knots: several of them were pretty ancient. By and large, and with the luck of the devil being as always a scarce commodity, you did have to allow for setbacks.

  Settle for twelve days, he thought, rather than ten, having in the last few minutes walked dividers set at 250 miles per diem clear across the chart from Halifax to Barra Head. Acknowledging to him
self that twelve might well be extended to fourteen. And that even then you wouldn’t actually be with Julia: would be reasonably sure by then of getting to her eventually, but – well, rounding the Butt of Lewis into North Minch, say, or Kintyre Head into the Firth of Clyde.

  That wouldn’t be so bad.

  He went out into the starboard wing to watch the final stages of the convoy’s forming-up. It did already have a shape: first four ranks pretty well in station on each other, the fifth still getting there, leader and three or four others in their places, numbers five, six, seven and eight crossing diagonally from right to left to take up their positions astern of the same column numbers in rank four. The Blackheddon Hills was in her billet, all right. She was number fifty-three – fifth rank, third from the right. All ships flying their convoy numbers, also as they approached their stations, speed flags – flag K and numeral five, as flown by the Commodore ship Yorkdale. At this stage, with the block of ships between here and there, one couldn’t see her, but she’d also be flying her own convoy number, fourteen – first rank, fourth column – and at her mainmast head the Commodorial blue St George’s Cross.

  Andy hadn’t spoken to Dick Carr at the conference. Would have, in an effort to clear the air between them, but by the time the Old Man and the Aurelia’s master and navigator had finished their private rescue ship session with the Commodore, Dick and his wild-looking captain had cleared off. In fact most of them had dispersed.

  Sort it out eventually in Newcastle, he supposed.

  Quilla was leading the Sir George and the Frenchman further away to port now. Number one of this rear rank – sixty-one, the Nordaust Kapp, Norwegian, who’d been a near-neighbour in the Bedford Basin – was cutting her speed as she closed up astern of the Dutch Zuid-Holland, and the second – William Herschel, number sixty-two – was falling-in behind fifty-two, which bore the name Maglemosian. Then the Aurelia pushing up into her billet astern of the Blackheddon Hills. Quilla by now well separated from the Aurelia, having to cut across the two unoccupied billets – which would have been sixty-four and sixty-five if there’d been ships in them – and nose up astern of number fifty-six, the Mount Ararat, another refrigerated motor vessel, i.e. food carrier; reducing to revs for five knots as she arrived, and with the Sir George and Belle Isle slanting up on her port quarter to their billets astern of the Faraday James and Tancred respectively.