Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  Gun-flash to the left, beyond it. Sound then, a little pop-gun crack. Had come from the steamer on that tanker’s beam – next-ahead of the Baron Delamore, must be. Couldn’t see the U-boat now, though. Submerged? Even part-submerged you’d lose it at this range, especially if it had slowed, which maybe it would have. Second gun-flash, though: they must still have it in sight. The snowflake’s circle of radiance closing-in as it drifted lower, and two gunshots then – so close together, had to be two ships at it now. Maybe the tanker: but he’d seen no flashes. Could have been from the tanker. From whichever, please God might one of them have hit the sod. Darkening, though, and – a strange lighting effect quite suddenly: kind of subdued but general lighting up, seascape upwards. And – Christ, thunderous percussion, with damn-all to see, account for it. The lighting phenomenon seemed then to be a result of the snowflake still being airborne, and some layer of obscurity rising until you were looking at the remnants of that light through either smoke or low cloud. Hardly made sense. What did – seconds later – was a surge of fire rising swiftly through it, cloud now like a mushroom with a burning centre, solution to this being that the tanker – or a tanker – had been hit, torpedoed, and those flames now spreading outward and upward were lighting up a couple of square miles of convoy.

  Although the core of it was now being shut off behind Quilla’s forepart.

  Glasses down for a moment, checking round, eyes resting from that dazzle. Realising Quilla had now to be back on course in her new station. To starboard – yes, the Aurelia. With the blaze up ahead – unknown tanker – it was getting to be prayer-book reading time again: with a U-boat probably still inside the convoy’s spread? Maybe more than one? Having a good light to see by, ships in silhouette or simply floodlit, just about all over, whichever way a carefree Hun might choose to look? Thump of a torpedo hit at that moment – as if in confirmation. Sickening – and the gun’s crew shocked into silence. He’d called to Merriman to keep looking out astern and port side, port quarter. Trying to make out what might be happening ahead, as he himself had been doing in recent minutes; was (a) impossible now the ship was back on course – except broadly on the bows where in that patchwork of radiance one could identify the Blackheddon Hills out to starboard and the Baron Delamore to port, and (b) pointless, since this gun in any case couldn’t be brought to bear on any target for’ard of the beam. (By international law was not permitted to, being only for purposes of defence, i.e. for use when running away, the non-combatant’s only lawful reaction to assault.)

  But – close to the Delamore now, another – very close, too close, surely out of proper control. Might have been the victim of that last hit – to the left of the Delamore, the gap between them widening, Delamore maybe under helm to achieve that: had passed each other, therefore, the newcomer was another casualty falling back between the columns. A steamer about Quilla’s size, down by the bows and with a red light at her mainmast head. And – starboard bow – shifting again to improve his view of it – gradual reappearance of the burning tanker, out to starboard of the Delagoa Bay. Beyond the Blackheddon: biblical phrase in mind Column of fire by night, though doubtful she’d survive to become a column of smoke by day. The Blackheddon blacker than black in silhouette against it, and even the steamer on her beam – Maglemosian, supposedly in column two, probably therefore more than a mile distant, lit up now, might have been visible even to the naked eye. Out of station, he guessed: surprising any of them were anywhere near in station… Shifting again, focusing on the unidentified bow-down casualty still just for’ard of the beam to port. Bow-down to the extent that her screw and rudder would be high and dry; couldn’t see that, but her angle in the water made it inevitable. They’d abandon, surely…

  Meanwhile – starting again, torpedo hit up ahead, probably in column seven or eight. And a second, on that one’s heels. Two hits on one ship maybe: almost certainly in one salvo, one U-boat’s spread of the bloody things. And another. Again, in the van and a port-side column: guesswork, but that direction, and some distance. One salvo, torpedoes running on and finding other targets? Must happen, probably quite often. From the port side of the gun-deck, swivelling left, glasses back on the nameless, bow-down steamer now well abaft the beam; conscious that the lighting generally was being – had been – much reduced. First thought being of the tanker on her way down or having gone down, drowning her fires: hard to be sure of anything much – except seemingly all smoke, and an oily reek of it even against the wind, smoke like heavy cloud with occasional flare-ups in it, low on the sea, glowing here and there at its base – seeing that now. Well – oil burning on the surface there: the Blackheddon Hills and the Aurelia would have to either alter course or plough straight through it. Drive a load of high-octane through sea that happened to be on fire? Fanciful as that thought might have been, a word in and out of one’s mind at this stage was massacre. Rejecting it – trying to – as a concept because it implied total or near-total disaster, defeat, destruction, and this wasn’t, was probably not even all that exceptional, only that was how it felt, about as bad as it could be. He’d lost count, thought maybe they’d lost up to about a dozen ships, and a dozen out of forty-six was roughly twenty-five per cent, whereas one had heard of an HX losing fifty percent or more.

  Linking in memory to a phrase he’d overheard in a conversation at Ma Shepherd’s in Liverpool: ‘Convoy torn to bloody ribbons’; he remembered dismissing it as line-shooting by some chancer wanting to impress, but actually that was exactly how this felt.

  Partly because all you could do was see it through, to whatever form its logical conclusion might take. Like Quilla joining those twelve. As far as you were concerned, that might conclude it.

  Yet another recollection – one that came to mind quite often – that one of his father telling him before the war began that it was going to be bloody awful before it got to be any better. For the Merchant Navy especially, he’d been saying – grinding an axe of his own, admittedly, but not far wrong in his predictions generally. Admit that much, he thought, next time I see him.

  If I do.

  ‘Weathering the storm then?’

  Harve Brown. Getting Merriman’s ‘More or less, sir’, and a general growl of similar response from others. Pettigrew, with his apparently one-track mind, coming up with, ‘Seeing as we’re a lucky ship – accordin’ to Mr ’Olt, that is –’

  ‘We are, too.’ Andy was close enough to clap the little runt on his shoulder. ‘Afloat – alive – pointing the right way – and thanks to Bayliss here, spotted one of the buggers that was subsequently engaged—’

  ‘Bayliss, was it?’ Harve peered at him. ‘Yeah, when we were shifting billet. And we’d spotted it – Old Man did.’ Speaking as if he might be having difficulty remembering it, as if it was something that had happened weeks or months ago, not just minutes. Old Harve, with his grey face and dicky heart – for which his doctor would not have recommended many nights like this one. The tanker in its cloud of wreathing, jet-black smoke was a fair distance on the quarter now, surroundings consequently darker again than they had been for a while. Harve observing, ‘Must have been scoffing raw carrots, Bayliss.’

  Meaning, to have such good eyesight, and Andy cutting in – the cook having had more than his due now, in the way of limelight – ‘Several hits, last few minutes, three up front somewhere?’

  ‘Three in a row, you mean.’ A wave eastward. ‘Leaders of columns six and seven – or thereabouts.’

  ‘There was a Belgian there, small motor-vessel—’

  ‘If you say so. Gone, anyway. Two of ’em went down like bloody ninepins – carrying ore, I’d guess – and t’other hauled out to port, big list on her. Might’ve got boats away – for rescue in the morning, who knows. Won’t be all that long now, daylight. Gone four, so—’

  ‘That all?’

  He’d have guessed five – except you’d have had early signs of dawn: at least some lightening of the overhead. Four-thirty though, surely. That, or it
had been the longest hour in history. Couldn’t read his watch’s dial…

  Torpedo hit, close by. To starboard somewhere.

  Blackheddon Hills. The spout of the hit, white-topped, streak of fire like a match sparking but failing to ignite – failing initially, then flame spreading aft and all that deck-cargo of sawn timber flying around like leaves blowing off a bonfire. She’d been hit on this near side and amidships, just for’ard of her midships superstructure. She might float, on the timber that was in her. Unless she had ore or somesuch in her lower holds. Dick hadn’t said. Or if he had, one hadn’t taken notice. Telling Harve, ‘She was berthed astern of us in St John, remember?’

  Had been, at that far-off time. Was now losing way and by the look of her filling, foundering. A moaning sound – air being forced out through her ventilators as she filled. Could be… Was, he thought, settling. Might do so to a certain extent, though, and then still float waterlogged on her timber. The Aurelia was under helm to pass clear of her. Casualties fell out, sunk or sinking, or struggling to keep going, and the rest of you pressed on across the littered ocean wondering how long before we get it?

  Harve saying, ‘Do remember, yeah. Timber deck-cargo, and a chum you went to visit.’

  ‘Second mate.’

  ‘Well. Good luck to him. I’m going back up – you staying?’

  ‘No, I’ll—’

  ‘Reckon we’ll see our escorts soon, sir?’

  Patterson putting the question, Andy guessed, as much as anything for the others’ morale as his own interest or anxiety. Harve telling them, well, he’d have hoped to have seen them before this, but if they had an outbound convoy to look after at this stage – floundering, rather. Andy cutting in with, ‘They’re supposed to switch to us when we’re on twenty degrees west longitude. Right now we’re on about twenty-four west. If we stay on this course, be about – oh, hundred and fifty miles. Fifteen hours, say, be there around dusk this evening. So – touch wood, tomorrow night—’

  Thump of a hit – ahead again. Harve having begun to say, ‘But who knows, could meet us at first light’, and Andy thinking, Or next bloody week. Glasses up, lines of sight either side of the bridge structure – dark seascape to starboard now lacking the Blackheddon: not even looking for her, counting on her having dropped astern by now. If she’d sunk he didn’t want to know it. Immediate concern anyway being to identify the victim of this latest—

  Explosion up ahead, big one, and brightness once more outlining Quilla’s forepart against a spreading glow. Another of the tankers, for sure. You shrank from it as from a kick in the belly or elsewhere, but inescapable – more dead and crippled, incinerated in yet another floating blaze building skyward to floodlight the killing-ground. Quilla afloat, intact, for the time being, killing-ground still shifting eastward at something approaching eleven knots, Quilla and others concerned only to stay with it, in it, well aware that if you dropped out you’d have no chance at all, didn’t have all that great a chance in any case. Harve had grasped his arm, yelled something, but it was lost in an absolute roar of flames from – what, a mile, mile and a half away…

  That had been the San Marino, and she’d been followed over the ensuing fifteen minutes by the Zuid-Holland, the Ezekiel White and the Glen Rannoch, all from column one, and the Casterbridge, who’d been in the front rank, close neighbour of the Commodore’s Yorkdale. There’d been considerable confusion in the ranks and columns by that time, but no further torpedoings, and he’d got back up to the bridge just after five a.m., with the U-boats’ score sixteen and the San Marino, who for what had seemed an eternity had been a gradually dwindling blaze astern, was no more than a reddish pinpoint visible only through binoculars.

  Hull as like as not still smouldering, he thought, plates red-hot, sizzling in the oil surrounding her.

  Leaving just one tanker in convoy out of the four who’d started. But for the past half-hour now, still no more torpedoings. He’d studied the convoy diagram and updated it as far as possible, from memory of ships that had been hit – Blackheddon, for instance, the Sir George, Belle Isle, Kelvin Drummond, the three tankers and the three recently out of column one – and the Casterbridge, St Luc – so forth – but the convoy wasn’t in a shape now that made it easy to tell one survivor from another. There’d been a lot of closing-up and shifting-over: any ship that had others on her beams at half-mile distances and/or was tailing another at roughly 600 yards could consider herself as being in some kind of station.

  Fact was, in two hours you’d lost sixteen ships.

  But light was coming, finally. Marking close of play?

  ‘Emergency turn starboard, sir!’

  Waller, up front with his glasses up. Andy noting the time and log-reading, jotting both down on the chart’s margin. You wouldn’t turn until the green lights were switched off, and the Commodore might leave it longer than usual, allowing for slow reactions in some of his remaining thirty ships; so this note was an approximation, to be corrected when helms were actually put over, steam-whistles blasting. An emergency turn was always of forty-five degrees, four points, so one to starboard now would put this mob on a course of 120 degrees, which – running his ruler from the compass rose to Quilla’s present DR position – would if extended have taken them to pile up on Mizen Head, southwest corner of bloody Ireland. So it was a dodge, no more, a side-step that he was taking, while there was still half an hour of dark to cover it. Come daylight or not long after, you could guess he’d turn them out of echelon into columns, doubtless reform them to some extent before altering to – well, some other course, easterly or northeasterly.

  With another night ahead – actually two more, for those who survived the next one – having made this side-step, steer for the top of Ireland or thereabouts. Hoping that if the sods were reforming – which they would be if they had torpedoes and fuel remaining – they’d put themselves astride the course one had been steering.

  A fairly slim hope, he thought. But the closer you came to your destination, the fewer your options. And meanwhile, if with full daylight Quilla was to be sent back to look for ships’ boats, it was essential to have emergency turns and so on plotted accurately; also to know the Commodore’s intentions from that point on, so you could (a) steam back precisely on the convoy’s former track, and (b) rejoin before dark.

  ‘Execute, sir!’

  ‘Starboard fifteen.’

  Old Man glancing round as Samways span the wheel and then confirmed she had that much rudder on. Then: ‘Steer 120.’ Sirens out there shrieking their single short blasts. Time, 0518; and ahead, diffused beginnings of the dawn that you were turning into. Andy marking the point of turn and appending essential data, then extending the track as it might be – not marking it on, only using the rule and dividers: guessing at two hours on this side-step, then an alteration – to a course for Malin Head, say – and assuming a twenty-four-hourly distance-made-good of 240 miles. All right – early morning September 8th, could theoretically be off Malin Head, and that afternoon, entering the Firth of Clyde.

  Theoretically. And please God, touch wood, etc. Meanwhile, though – bloody tired…

  14

  Gone seven now. Since 0600, when she’d left the convoy, Quilla had been on mean course 255 at revs for fourteen knots, but zigzagging – using zigzag seventeen, the Old Man’s choice when he had one – so making-good about twelve. This was still Harve Brown’s watch, but Andy had gulped down an early breakfast half an hour ago and come back up to relieve him so Harve could get his and then return. The Old Man was also below, Waller too. Merriman was present, with his borrowed glasses, and Dixon who’d breakfasted at the same time as Andy was on monkey island, assisting in the search for boats, rafts or floating wrecks.

  Or periscopes.

  The ship was no longer at defence stations. Had been for the first hour, but relaxed from that state at seven, primarily so men could eat and sleep. Lookouts were still doubled however, on bridge-wings and gun-deck, plus young Dixon on the roof h
ere.

  Wind NW force three, sea moderate, visibility now good. Cooler than in recent days. The overhead was still about two-thirds cloud, but it seemed to be thinning and one had hopes of getting a sunsight later.

  The Aurelia was three or four miles to port, making her own zigzag. They’d agreed (back in Halifax) to stay within sight of each other, if that proved possible, in case either of them ran into trouble or needed to. But the basis of this rescue ship business, as the Commodore had explained it at the conference, was that following a night battle the U-boat pack could be expected to withdraw eastward at first light in order to regroup, maybe reload torpedo tubes and catch up on sleep, whatever, in preparation for a second dark-hours assault by those that had torpedoes and sufficient oil-fuel remaining, joined maybe by new arrivals, replacements for those who hadn’t. This would conform with their tactics as demonstrated in recent months – as developed in fact in the latter part of the ’14–’18 war, according to the Halifax Chief of Staff – and since they’d be redeploying ahead of the convoy, you could be reasonably sure the waters astern of it would be clear of them.

  Unless, the same individual had pointed out, one of them had been left to shadow the convoy. This had been discussed as a possibility, and the consensus of opinion had been that any such shadower would be (a) submerged, having seen or heard the rescue ships’ approach, and (b) within a few miles of the convoy’s rear or flank, since at any greater distance it couldn’t very well be shadowing. So after an hour’s steaming one could feel safe enough even in stopping to embark survivors.