Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  The Commodore might wait a while before he increased to eleven knots, give them time to settle down.

  Time now 0727, convoy to all intents and purposes formed: two Dutch, two French, one Belgian, two Norwegian, thirty-nine Red Ensigns. Four tankers in the centre, three of them British and one Norwegian. Quilla’s own explosive contents unknown to anyone but herself, the steam-ejection display having been queried only once so far, one of their neighbours asking by Aldis yesterday morning whether she required assistance; the Old Man had replied that it was a routine steam-ventilation of bilges on account of some noxious cargo. Not saying whether it was a cargo they were carrying now, or one they had carried. Bilges could and frequently did become foul with odorous substances – rotting vestiges of bulk cargoes for instance, dead rats and so forth – so the explanation couldn’t have been dismissed out of hand, although it didn’t explain the multiple jets of steam, and the neighbour would have smelt the high-octane all right. Everyone within half a mile would have. Anyway, there’d been no further enquiries. The Old Man seemed determined to keep it dark – as if it might have been some infectious disease they’d picked up. Even when the Chief of Staff, checking through some notes, had murmured, ‘Grain and pit-props, you’re carrying’, he’d only nodded and turned a warning glare at Andy. And later, back on board, when Harve Brown had shown surprise at their having been offered and accepted the role of rescue ship, his comment had been, ‘Gotta be done, why not by us?’

  Quilla now had rafts as well as boats. One of the naval staff who’d been present at that meeting with the Commodore and who’d raised various practical suggestions, had asked both captains whether they had space enough in boats and/or rafts for survivors of other ships if they had a crowd of them on board and were themselves torpedoed. The Old Man had told him not for a whole crowd, no, and they weren’t carrying any rafts at all: with the result that she now had four, each capable of supporting about a dozen men – ‘at a pinch’ – and currently lashed to her foremast and mainmast shrouds. On the outboard side of the shrouds, so that launching them might be effected simply by cutting them loose. They’d been delivered yesterday forenoon by a dockyard tug, as had two additional scrambling nets and a consignment of the latest kind of swimming waistcoats, life-jackets that were fitted with lights and whistles, enough for all hands plus a dozen spares.

  * * *

  At midday, when Andy was ready to take over the watch from Waller, a flag signal ran up on the Commodore ship ordering course to be altered to 080. An hour earlier he’d increased speed to eleven knots, the first general signal he’d made, and compliance had been pretty good – or about as good as it ever could be, in an assembly of close on fifty ships, all with different responses through variations in hull shapes, propeller sizes and degree of ‘slip’, etc. None of the foreigners had seemed to be at any disadvantage either: they had their own-language signal manuals, of course, as well as lists of the flag-signals most likely to be used – course and speed alterations, both ordinary and emergency, and such orders as ‘Make less smoke’ and ‘Keep closed up.’ But a course alteration was slightly more complicated than a simple alteration of speed, as ships had to keep station on each other while making the turn, in this instance the port-side columns cutting revs slightly and starboard-side increasing: all of it commencing when that signal was hauled down.

  As now. Quilla following astern of the Mount Ararat: Waller at the voice-tube ordering, ‘Down two’ – which might need to be increased to four, if you found you were closing up too much, and not actually putting on wheel any more than might be necessary to tail your next-ahead while keeping an eye on the ships on your beams – in Quilla’s position, only on the Sir George, a thousand yards to port.

  Going nicely – almost unnoticeably. No helm on, at this early stage: Waller had only told Samways to keep her in the centre of the Mount Ararat’s wake. With 3,000 yards, a mile and a half, to be covered before the convoy should be in its correct formation on 080 instead of due east as it had been all forenoon.

  Andy told Waller, ‘I’ll take her when you’re ready.’

  A nod, and a glance at the Old Man, who might have insisted on the turn being completed before the control of it changed hands, but who in fact showed no great interest in the matter. So having completed the handover, Waller could go down to an early lunch and come back up in half an hour’s time to relieve Andy while he had his.

  Back into routine. You’d be on 080 for the next four days.

  * * *

  On the 29th there was news from London of a deal by which America would give Britain fifty old destroyers in return for the use of several British-owned bases in the Caribbean. In the saloon that evening it was hailed as definitely good news: not only would fifty destroyers come in handy in protecting convoys like this one, but the deal and the public announcement of it seemed to indicate a hardening of American pro-British inclinations.

  Foster, the CRO, had suggested, ‘Take that a step further, might even have ’em as allies!’

  Chief Verity had been cautious. Whatever the basis of his knowledge, he’d said he guessed the destroyers must be what the Yanks called four-pipers – pipes meaning funnels. Adding, ‘Flush decks and four thin stacks. Came to sea at about the end of the last war, as I recall.’

  Foster said, ‘Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, then.’

  ‘Oh, anything that floats is that.’

  Harve put in, ‘Flush deck, if I recall correctly, includes a rather short, low foc’sl. Not what you’d cheer about in Atlantic winters.’

  Claymore had shrugged. ‘Not our concern.’

  ‘Except if they’re rotten sea-boats—’

  ‘Plug the gap, anyhow. While the yards are churning out these so-called corvettes.’ Andy explained, ‘Commodore was on about them at the conference. A handful at sea already – in fact we might have a couple for our close escort after twenty west, he said – but coming soon in large numbers.’

  The Armed Merchant Cruiser the Commodore had promised them was not in evidence, this far. The Old Man had said earlier that he guessed it might be a distant escort – as distinct from close – might be keeping pace with them a few miles seaward. The destroyer had shown up, however: during the forenoon had circled the convoy a couple of times, presumably to let them all have a sight of it and feel reassured.

  In fact you didn’t need any escort in these Canadian home waters. That evening Cape Race and its light were no more than thirty miles abeam to port, and by 0200, when it was well abaft the beam, you were in fog-drifts which thickened steadily, soon became solid enough to totally obscure it. Eyes skinned and steam-whistle shrieking, extra lookouts posted on bridge-wings and gun-deck. The Mount Ararat’s blue stern light was at times difficult to find: stern lights in convoy had been half-power white ones, but there’d been some new edict on the subject, and blue bulbs had been distributed in Halifax. In these conditions and less than total confidence in how one’s neighbours might handle themselves while practically stone blind, watchkeeping was hard work, and Andy wasn’t sorry to have the Old Man with him in the wheelhouse. He thought the Commodore would almost certainly have ordered a speed reduction, guessed the only reason he hadn’t already done so would be a fear of some of them failing to realise what was happening and running up each others’ sterns – with resulting chaos, whole damn lot out of station – but also that they should have streamed fog-buoys, even without being told to. A fog-buoy being a sort of floating kite or paravane which you towed on a long line astern to scoop up a six-foot waterspout for the guidance of your next-astern. And as it happened – thought-transference, maybe – just minutes later the Mount Ararat streamed hers. It was a help – a lot easier to see than that faint blue glimmer. Then, searching for it, he found one astern of the Baron Delamore as well. She was the somewhat antique Hogarth Line steamer whose master was a chum of the Old Man’s: they’d exchanged greetings outside St John NS a few days ago, and again at the conference. Then the Fa
raday James streamed hers, to the relief no doubt of the Sir George.

  ‘Relieving at the wheel, sir…’

  Selby, taking over from Freeman. Time to send Dixon down to shake Harve Brown.

  * * *

  Speed was reduced to six knots at steam-ejection time – first light on the 30th. That revs had been reduced had been obvious from the feel of things when he’d woken, and while shaving and showering prior to his usual early breakfast, Dan Hobbs, fourth engineer, fresh up from the engine room, gave him the detail. Six knots, though. All dreary day. Losing about 120 miles a day. And in view of the drastically reduced visibility having to postpone a practice shoot for which he’d obtained the Old Man’s sanction, expenditure of half a dozen rounds on a target of the kind they’d used before, a couple of vegetable crates lashed together and chucked over the stern. The gun’s crew had had no practice since before the Sarawak rescue, were therefore overdue for some; and having the advantage of being at the convoy’s rear, might just as well make use of it.

  By noon on 1 September, in position (estimated, no sights having been possible) 200 miles east of St Johns Newfoundland, it was thinning rapidly: at any rate the convoy having been through it was steaming out of it. Eleven knots was ordered, the convoy’s station-keeping going to pot for half an hour or so, with ships increasing engine revs at varying rates, and the Commodore then gave notice that he’d be exercising them from 1400 onward in emergency turns. This continued almost to sundown and the evening steam-ejection as well as stars, and Quilla’s shoot was therefore postponed to the following morning, when Andy took charge for the first three rounds, at an opening range estimated as fifty yards, second shot splashing in close enough to be considered a hit, the third going well over, and Cadet Merriman directing the last three, two of which fell close enough to be counted as would-have-hits if the target had been anything like as tall out of the water as a bow-on U-boat; and the six rounds had been fired in less than a minute and a half.

  Not bad, he thought, although it hadn’t been much of a practice from the spotting point of view. In fact the only skill displayed had been Gunlayer Patterson’s and Trainer Pettigrew’s. But they’d worked well enough as a team – if ever they were in action he thought they’d make a passable job of it.

  Noon position 2 September, 48 degrees 40’ north, 40 degrees 40’ west. With this established after the customary flag-hoists, course was altered to 050, which accorded with the route as promulgated at the convoy conference and scribbled in Andy’s notebook. Laying the new course off on the chart now he noted that at this course and speed, in two days’ time, noon on the 4th, they’d be as close as made no difference to longitude 30 degrees west, which was generally accepted as the current western boundary of U-boat operations. There’d been some discussion of this at the conference, the Chief of Staff telling them that while most of the nocturnal wolfpack attacks had been closer to 20 or 25 west, every precaution such as zigzagging, manning of guns and posting extra lookouts should be taken well before that.

  And with any of the simpler zigzag patterns reducing the daily distance-made-good by fifteen percent, days’ runs would come down from about 250 to, say, 210. If uninterrupted… Laying this off on the chart now, this course and speed maintained until, say, the 6th – four days from now would see you about one day’s steaming west of Rockall. What you might call the heart of U-boat territory.

  He mentioned it to Harve Brown, when Harve was taking over the watch from him at four a.m. on the 3rd. Harve putting a brave face on it – grey as it was, under the thinning grey thatch: ‘With luck, won’t see hide nor hair of ’em!’

  ‘So how many HXs have got through unscathed this summer?’

  ‘Run of bad luck – or what they see as their good luck—’

  ‘Their Happy Time, don’t they see it as?’

  ‘Have to return to base, don’t they, time to time. Can’t be unlimited numbers of the vermin either, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re building escorts, won’t they be building U-boats?’

  ‘Dare say. New boys, though, second and third eleven. It’s the first eleven do the damage. Anyway – I got her…’

  * * *

  Harve was showing strain, Andy thought: almost desperately looking on the bright side – or less bad side – as if to reassure himself at least as much as others. Thinking this again when they ran into each other down aft next forenoon – the 4th – Harve making his daily inspection of crew’s quarters and Andy in conclave with the carpenter, Fellaby, on the subject of ammunition supply to the gun – which had gone well enough in yesterday’s shoot, certainly, but could hardly have not done so, seeing as they’d had only six shells to pass up. Needn’t even have passed up that many, there being eight rounds in two ready-use lockers on the gun-deck which they could have used, if Andy hadn’t wanted to exercise the whole team, Fellaby in the locker-sized magazine passing out shells to Galley-boys Stephens and McIver and Assistant Steward Chumley, who delivered them to Assistant Cook Bayliss on the gun-deck using the port-side ladder. It had looked like a bit of a free-for-all between the weather door and the ladder, and Andy’s thought now was to station Chumley permanently on the ladder while the other two did the leg-work between that point and the magazine. Chumley could have a rope’s end around himself and the ladder, a bowline in it so he could lean into it if he wanted and still have both hands free.

  Fellaby agreed. Might improve things, especially in bad weather. ‘Don’t want him hanging hisself, mind.’

  ‘No. Best to avoid that, if possible… Hello, Harve.’

  ‘Avoid what if possible?’

  ‘Well – hanging Steward Chumley, as it happens.’

  ‘Thumbs in the soup again?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind that so much if he didn’t lick ’em before handing out the next one.’

  ‘Hanging might be the answer, come to think of it. But all else apart, Andy’ – Fellaby had gone inside – ‘wedding bells coming closer day by day, eh?’

  He nodded. ‘Almost hear ’em, can’t you.’

  Starting for’ard together, stepping over the asbestos exhausts from number five. No high-octane stink at the moment, the breeze was taking care of that. ‘Subject of getting spliced, though, d’you happen to know how many Sundays the banns need to be read out in church?’

  ‘I think it’s three Sundays running. Not certain, but—’

  ‘I thought three. Probably is, then. But whether one has to apply to the vicar in person, or if when we get ashore I could just phone Julia and she’d set it going. But then again, I’m not sure she’s told her mother yet. And not having had a single item of bloody mail—’

  ‘Not told her mother that she’s accepted you?’ Harve was astonished.

  Andy shrugged. ‘It was all last-minute – as I think I told you. And she didn’t want to make a song and dance about it – especially not knowing how long, or even whether—’

  ‘Bollocks to that, lad!’

  ‘May have told her by now. I sent five or six letters from New York urging her to. Should’ve insisted in the first place, told the old girl myself – see that now, but it was a bit of a pierhead jump for me, as you may remember.’

  They’d stopped abreast the mainmast, port side, moved on to be clear of that raft and look out towards the Sir George’s dark silhouette in its constantly expanding and contracting surround of white, a thousand yards away. The wind was from that direction – about force three, a lively sea imparting more roll than pitch to Quilla’s motion. Harve saying, ‘You’ve a problem with your banns, haven’t you? I see that. Wouldn’t normally expect to get as much as three weeks ashore, would you – and you’d need more than that, eh? Four at least?’

  ‘Have to fit it into however long I get.’

  ‘Alternatively, set it up and then make an honest woman of her after your next trip, eh?’

  He didn’t look at him. Knowing he’d be grinning, under the impression that he’d made a joke. Watching the Sir George butting th
rough it, sending the white sheets streaming. Sky lighter now, sea sparkling; earlier there’d been cloud gathering from windward, but that had all gone over, should be fine for meridian altitudes at noon. Andy recalling that he’d heard of something called a Special Licence, which he’d an idea might be a way of bypassing the routine with banns. But maybe they charged you for it?

  On the bridge at midday, having run-on the morning sunsights and got his meridian altitude now, deciding to use his own rather than Waller’s – for no particular reason, nothing much between them – and seeing the cadets run up the two five-flag hoists, one for latitude and one longitude, Quilla’s contribution to the whole convoy’s brightly-coloured bunting. It was OK, matching the Commodore’s near enough, both this one and Waller’s having in any case come within spitting-distance of the run-on EP from Harve’s first-light fix by stars.

  Noon position logged therefore as 52 degrees 20’ north, 31 degrees 41’ west. Distance to the point of crossing longitude 30 west, seventy-five miles. Seven hours’ steaming, say.

  Dixon was with him at the chart as he was checking this, and muttered, ‘In the zone by steam-ejection time, then.’

  ‘What zone?’

  ‘The could-run-into-Huns zone?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could do at any stage. More likely at twenty west than thirty, but maybe not even then.’