Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  Not high-octane creak. High-octane slosh. Fortunately inaudible.

  Thinking then – escaping the realms of fantasy – if the shadower was still with them, following in the convoy’s combined and seething wake, would one have any hope at all of spotting him, end-on?

  Well – once the moon got up, maybe…

  ‘Tell you what, though, Holt.’ Old Man again – surprisingly. ‘First light or soon after we’ll be on zigzag. Being where we are.’

  On 30 west. Might have started a zigzag after the turn last evening, Andy had thought, kept it up until the light went; but – guesswork again – as like as not the Commodore’s priority would have been to shift his convoy northward a certain distance before accepting a reduction in its speed of advance. And there was a possible solution in that to an earlier puzzle: Commodore making his turn not to throw off any close shadower astern – not convinced maybe of any such close presence – but in response to intelligence of U-boats gathering somewhere ahead.

  Which was what one dreaded. Silently, in one’s heart of hearts. Although if he was being kept informed, and was taking avoiding action…

  Getting colder. He wasn’t surprised when Dixon came in from the bridge-wing, pulling on an oilskin over his other gear before returning to the looking-out.

  * * *

  By 0400 this 5 September there’d been no more U-boat chatter, or none that Quilla’s Marconi team had heard, and Andy remarked to Harve Brown when handing over to him that it could have been a false alarm. ‘We’re not the only convoy at sea they could’ve been talking about. This one might’ve given ’em the slip.’ Seeing the sardonic look developing, adding, ‘Could be you were right, is what I’m saying. Might get away with it, for once.’

  Not actually believing in this: only more whistling in the dark. And Harve in fact denied having made any such optimistic forecast.

  ‘Mentioned it as a possibility, was all. Obviously could happen, but…’

  Pigs could fly.

  Faint lightness in the southwest, where the moon would be rising soon. And wind down a little, sea less boisterous: sea-change on the way, general weather-change maybe. Commenting on this, Harve had growled, ‘A calm would suit those sods better than it would us. Myself, I’d settle for a force eight.’ Then: ‘All right, Andy, I’ve got her.’

  Zigzag was commenced at 0700, diagram number fifteen, the Commodore having timed it with daylight and the convoy’s ability to read his flag signal. And three quarters of an hour later, the SS Brechonswold – number twenty-three, third from the right in the second rank – signalled to him by light that she had machinery trouble which obliged her to fall out in order to stop her engine for about four hours. The Commodore replied, also by Aldis, telling the master that he intended altering course early in the afternoon to 075 degrees, so that if by chance his repairs took longer than he was expecting he should allow for this, cut the corner, in order to rejoin as soon as possible. Only snatches of this exchange had been picked up on Quilla’s bridge, mostly by Merriman in the wing – there’d been a zigzag alteration in the middle of it, which hadn’t helped – but that was the gist of it as relayed to Andy when he arrived back in the bridge at eight-thirty.

  The Brechonswold was several miles astern by then, a black smudge halfway to the horizon. Waller told him she’d dropped back between columns three and four – the near-side of the Aurelia – and that she was distinctly long in the tooth, a three-island steamer with a tall, thin funnel and a raised foc’sl for the accommodation of her crew, a feature not only of antiquity but also of discomfort for that crew. Her machinery would no doubt be fairly ancient, too. It wasn’t a good time for a breakdown, but having come this far without any – well, you’d been lucky. One could only hope her repairs could be completed in as little as four hours.

  Wind and sea were down. Light breeze, sea classifiable as slight, patchy cloud: about as much cloud as there was clear sky. Zigzag clock ringing every twenty minutes, Samways following the set pattern and using fifteen degrees of rudder; there was a slight loss of station in the columns here and there, but by and large they were getting it about right. Andy got a morning sunsight while it was still possible to do so, although chances of pairing it with a meridian altitude later looked pretty slim.

  Waller came back up, smelling of bacon; Andy asked him whether he’d seen her in his dreams again and he said no, regrettably he hadn’t. As he took over, Andy spent a few minutes tidying up the deck-log and the chart, and while he was doing it, Shaw – RO/3, looked a bit like a tadpole – came with a message from CRO Foster to the effect that they were hearing German transmissions now ‘from all over’. When the Old Man asked him angrily what that meant – on the principle, one recognised, of shooting the messenger who brings bad news – he stammered that the calls had been coming from virtually all directions except north.

  It was bad news, all right. Didn’t in fact bear thinking about. Any case, one didn’t have to – the Commodore was there to do the thinking. This time the Old Man didn’t bother reporting it. He’d be listening to the same stuff anyway – or his signal staff would.

  How might it be for the poor bloody Brechonswold – lying stopped back there, listening to it?

  Andy went below. He had an inclination to write to Julia, was also aware that doing so would be pointless. Would be the nearest he could get to talking to her, was the origin of the urge.

  Like reaching for a hand to hold?

  Instead he went through the contents of his panic-bag, discarding a few items in order to cram in a wool hat and a second sweater. Despite the wind being down, it was definitely colder than it had been. Checking through paperwork – his mates’ certificates and so forth, odds and ends – he came across Samantha’s aunt’s address in Devonshire. With Julia in mind he was on the point of ditching it, then reminded himself of his promise to send her a postcard when he got back, the fact she’d be expecting one.

  Wouldn’t be right to let her down, he thought, or have her thinking he might have come to grief. She was a friend, and a man didn’t ditch his friends just because he was getting married.

  * * *

  By midday the overcast was solid, no question of getting a meridian altitude, and the convoy’s noon position by dead reckoning was established as 55 degrees 50’ north, 29 degrees 15’ west. Andy had marked the Brechonswold's position, where she’d been about four hours earlier, thirty-five miles to the south of that. Four hours was the time she’d expected her repairs to take: touch wood, by now she might be on her way.

  Steering northeast, although the convoy was still on due north?

  Waller, relieving Andy for his lunch, muttered over the chart, ‘Wouldn’t give a lot for her chances. Least, if she doesn’t rejoin by dusk.’

  Stragglers weren’t good news. He remembered the Commodore’s remarks on that subject at the conference. Although there’d been nothing anyone could have done about the Brechonswold: a ship that had to drop out, dropped out. He said, ‘No reason to think she won’t.’

  Except that being the old crock she was, she wouldn’t have the speed to do much catching up. One had thought that from the start.

  He went on down. Lunch was toad-in-the-hole – Canadian or American sausages in batter – with baked beans. The only way the Brechonswold might get away with it, he guessed, would be if all the U-boats currently in this part of the Atlantic knew of this convoy, and in concentrating on intercepting it somehow managed to pass the old crock by.

  Pray for that?

  In the saloon, Harve Brown asked him, ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘All’s quiet all round, I gather.’

  Frank Verity said, ‘A few hours ago, I’m told, seemed like the tribes were gathering.’

  ‘Dare say they were. Are.’

  ‘In other words’ – Harve, finishing his coffee – ‘we may be in for it.’

  Andy saw his toad-in-the-hole coming, Steward Chumley’s thumbs as usual well inside the plate. He said, ‘One thing certain is
we’re better off than the poor old Brechonswold.’

  ‘I know her well, as it happens.’ Verity had pushed his chair back, was lighting a cigarette. ‘Know her chief engineer and her master. Knew her master in the last schemozzle.’

  ‘Be damned.’

  ‘Good blokes. Good as any. She should’ve gone to the breakers’ yard long ago, but if anyone could bring her through, they will.’

  ‘Given the luck.’

  ‘Well, sure…’

  * * *

  The Commodore hoisted Cease zigzag at two-fifteen p.m. Easy order to comply with, since a minute earlier they’d turned back on to the mean course. The Old Man had been below, enjoying a ‘one to three’, which Andy had been obliged to interrupt, cessation of zigzag at 2.20 when the signal was hauled down almost certainly presaging the alteration of course about which he’d warned the Brechonswold. And sure enough, a minute later a new hoist ran up ordering Alter course 075.

  The Old Man muttered, ‘Taking us clear of ’em, let’s hope.’

  Smoke was issuing from the Blackheddon Hills and a couple of others in the starboard columns: due perhaps to their having reduced by a knot or so in order to remain in station during the turn, but with so little wind now the smoke was rising more steeply than any had before this, would be visible for miles.

  All forty-five of them were round on the new easterly course within about ten minutes. And sure enough one of them was being hauled over the coals by Aldis from the Commodore ship. Not the Blackheddon, whose funnel-top was now clear. Anglian Prince, he thought, or the Orcadian – consulting the convoy plan – or maybe the Ezekiel White. He’d buzzed the engine room, told Charlie Bridgemen who’d answered, ‘Down four.’ Having come up four revs for the turn and evidently not reduced again quickly enough, finding himself too close now to the Mount Ararat. Old Man refraining from comment, only demanding suddenly, ‘Where’ll this course take us if we hold to it?’

  ‘Dixon—’

  ‘Sir.’ He went to the chart. Andy was watching out for the next commodorial edict, which would be Resume zigzag. Dixon called, ‘North of Rockall, sir’, adding after a few seconds, ‘Three days’ steaming.’

  Three days. Three nights, the bits that counted most. But before that – in about two days maybe, vicinity of 20 west – might be joined by escorts. And then from Rockall onward, say, another two days. September 5th today: maybe the 10th?

  * * *

  He was on the bridge at 1900, to be ready for stars if gaps in the cloud-cover made it possible. There were clear spaces here and there, and from time to time, although no general clearance seemed likely, especially with so little wind; but if there was a fleeting chance he’d grab it, preferring not to go too long without a fix. He set the star-globe and listed suitable stars and planets well spread around the compass, went out in the wing with his sextant, watching for useable combinations as twilight deepened, Merriman standing by to note down times and altitudes.

  Steam-ejection had been running, was in the course of being shut down. As they were steering now the Mount Ararat would no doubt have been getting a good whiff of the high-octane vapour. But the overcast was if anything solidifying again, he realised. There’d be no stars shot this evening. Try again at morning twilight, maybe: or suggest to old Harve Brown he might have a stab at it, if he had the chance.

  He went back inside, and en route to restow his sextant in its cupboard told Harve, ‘No luck. Thicker again, if anything.’

  Zigzag bell: Freeman putting on port wheel. Forty-five ships under helm on the darkening seascape. Old Man with his glasses up, Merriman on his way out into the other wing. Harve had mumbled something that had sounded like, ‘At it again, astern and to the south.’

  He’d stopped, looking round at him, realising that might have been exactly what he’d said.

  ‘U-boats?’

  A nod. ‘CRO was here a minute ago. Nothing much else it could have been, he said. One outburst to the west of us and two replies – acknowledgements, whatever.’

  ‘Well. There we are, then.’

  Carefully replacing the sextant in its box: thinking that one might as well face up to it, it could only be a matter of when, how soon.

  13

  The Brechonswold was torpedoed soon after nine p.m., and news of it was brought to the saloon by RO/2 Newton at about half-past. Foster had taken in her distress signal – SSSS, signifying Have been torpedoed, with her identifying four-letter group – at 0907, and a few minutes later Torpedoed amidships, filling rapidly, abandoning in position 55 20’ north, 29 00’ west.

  Andy and Harve went up to the bridge, Harve to consult with the Old Man and Andy to check that position on the chart – which showed that the Brechonswold hadn’t moved, must have lain stopped all day, easy meat for some Hun who’d happened to come across her. Now her boats, with an unguessable number of survivors in them, had to be about eighty miles southwest of Quilla’s present position; Quilla and the rest of them on course 075 and, the zigzag having been discontinued after sunset, making eleven knots again.

  ‘What would be of interest’ – Harve, joining him at the chart table – ‘would be to know which way the U-boat might’ve been going. Whether they might have thought we were still steering north.’

  ‘Might…’

  ‘Which case, we might be lucky.’

  Referring to earlier speculation, of course, and Andy thinking for the time being, might be lucky. Get through this night without an assault developing, maybe. That would be something. Every night that one survived was something. On the cards for tonight simply because one of the bastards had sunk the poor old Brechonswold half an hour ago and as much as eighty miles away?

  If that wasn’t clutching at straws, he didn’t know what was. Old Harve and his ups and downs… The fact there’d been a U-boat in that position at that time didn’t lessen the chances there might be another half-dozen an hour or two ahead. What was more – if the one which had sunk the Brechonswold had reason to think she was a dropout from this convoy – well, he’d surely know the bearings of Rockall, Bloody Foreland, Barra Head, etc., the general direction in which the convoy’d have to be steering?

  * * *

  He’d had another hour and a half’s sleep: dreamt of docking in Glasgow and being welcomed not by Julia but by Susan Shea, the vet’s daughter, and asking her if by chance she’d seen Samantha lately. Crazy. Better than dreaming about U-boats, but for God’s sake, why not Julia?

  Anyway – on the bridge then before midnight, realising as he checked the DR position that before the end of this watch they’d be crossing longitude 25 west. All serene, this far: wind about force two, near enough astern to give one acrid whiffs of Quilla’s own funnel-fumes, but still very little motion on her, the sea’s black surface ruffled but not even choppy, and the overhead as dark as pitch. Course unchanged, engine revs within the same range, i.e. had been up or down between two and four throughout the previous watch. Selby on the wheel, Old Man in his corner.

  ‘All right, Gus. Got her.’

  ‘Closer we get to bonny Scotland, cooler it gets, you noticed?’

  ‘Closer the better, all the same.’

  ‘Oh, no argument…’

  Only a month ago, Andy remembered, when he’d joined this ship, he’d seen young Waller as rather a stroppy little cuss. Actually he was a perfectly likeable one. It could have been his size – or lack of it – causing him to behave in a cocky manner towards new acquaintances: and perhaps especially to one out-ranking him as well as being twice his size. Odd, that – seeing that being knee-high to a dachsund hadn’t discouraged him in the least in his pursuit of Sam.

  A case of needs must, perhaps. If one woke to find that one had effectively been cut off at the knees, would one’s ardour be much dampened?

  Not for long, he thought. Not when you’d got used to it.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  A grunt: ‘Holt.’

  ‘Be on twenty-five west by 0300, sir. Might get an escort soo
n, d’you think?’

  Further grunt. And the Sir George was noticeably abaft the beam; Andy checking ahead, deciding that Quilla was maybe getting too close to the Ararat. Buzzer to the engine room therefore, and ‘Down two.’

  ‘Down two…’

  Claymore, the Ulsterman, on watch down there. Wasn’t quite the awkward sod he’d seemed to be a month ago. Watching this now: maybe should have come down four rather than two. Thing was, if you overcorrected you could end up with a sort of concertina effect, making life harder all round.

  A little before 0300, one of the tankers in the centre went up in a sheet of flame.

  He saw the flash of ignition a split second before the sound arrived, a deep crack followed by rolling thunder, by which time his thumb was on the alarm button to send all hands to their defence stations and bring the Old Man up at a run. Night had savagely, instantaneously, become day, or rather a lurid inferno, a column of multi-coloured flame reaching up from the Norwegian tanker who’d been in column three, next astern as it happened of where the Brechonswold had been; the Norsk Bensin a furnace swinging away to starboard, visible from here between other ships, stark black silhouettes, what one might see as the foot of the column of fire still on the turn, seemingly now between what had been her next-astern and the steamer on her quarter – starboard quarter – with unspecifiable disruption there as they cleared out of her way. Looking straight at it in fact was blinding, so one desisted. The Old Man bawling something, but it coincided with another explosion – on or in the tanker’s afterpart, it looked like. She was aflame from stem to stern now, the glare of it lighting the underside of cloud. The U-boat must have been inside the convoy, actually between columns – as one had heard had become a favoured tactic; could have penetrated from the van or the starboard side – or even from the rear, sneaking up between the Aurelia and the William Herschel, for instance.