Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  Although you’d still be a little wary. In discussing potential hazards surrounding this experiment, there’d been mention of a trick also dating from ’14–’18: U-boats hanging around in the vicinity of a torpedoed ship or ship’s boats, waiting for a Good Samaritan to stop, making an easy target of herself. It was a risk one had been aware of in the case of the Sarawak, although in the dark and foul weather it hadn’t seemed all that serious a threat. Some element of risk in any case had to be accepted.

  Like going to sea in wartime. Or stuffing your holds with high-octane.

  Zigzag bell: Freeman stooping to wind on starboard wheel. Time, 0710. With this plan seventeen you altered course every twenty minutes, and they’d started it at 0610. Aaidy with his glasses up, searching across the bow. So far, nothing, except that at one point they’d passed through several acres of sawn timber and pit-props. He’d been having his breakfast at that time – Harve had told him about it when he came back up – and his first thought had been of the Blackheddon Hills. But a fair number of the convoy must have been carrying timber.

  Not that one had any particularly deep anxieties for Dick Carr. Only that he was Julia’s cousin, and she’d always spoken of him and his brother affectionately.

  Anyway – getting on for two hours ago, when still in convoy and semi-darkness, Quilla actually in the process of steam-ejection, the Commodore had signalled in Morse from his masthead light that an escort of one sloop and three corvettes would be joining at noon in position 56 30’ N, 23 10’ W, and at that same time course would be altered to 095; and secondly that MV Aurelia and SS Barranquilla might now proceed as previously arranged, rejoining no later than 1900, at which time the convoy’s position by DR would be 56 20’ N, 21 30’ W.

  The only way this differed from Andy’s earlier guesswork was that the old boy was keeping them on that ‘sidestep’ course of 120 until noon, instead of just for an hour or two. And having plotted it on the chart, it did seem to make good sense. Had been encouraging news anyway about the escort, a fillip to tired brains and anticipation of worse to come, visions of those bastards flushed with success and expecting within the next two nights to sweep the board. Total destruction of a convoy, as far as one knew, was something they’d not as yet achieved, but they’d surely have it in mind as the ultimate in happiness. While now, factors that seemed to lessen their chances were (a) imminent provision of an escort, (b) that the 1900 position was sixty miles south of where the convoy would have been if they’d held on as they had been going, and (c) that that previous course, 075, would have been a perfectly reasonable one to have stuck to, in that it would have taken you to the north of Rockall, a route which HXs had been known to use as often as not.

  Discussing this over the chart after Andy had plotted it, the Old Man had commented, ‘Good for the admiral. Might well fool ’em.’

  Old Man coming off the ladder way now. He’d only been down there ten minutes.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  A yell from the monkey island voice-pipe then: ‘Aurelia’s calling, sir!’

  Andy moved towards the port bridge-wing, where the Aldis was already plugged in. Old Man nodding – go ahead, he’d take over. Outside, Andy pulled the Aldis out of its stowage, sighted on the Aurelia and gave her a flash, getting then, ‘Boats in sight port beam three miles, investigating. See you later.’

  She was already turning away. He came back inside and told the Old Man, adding, ‘Could have been more of a southerly drift than we reckoned on, sir?’

  Meaning, if that was where some boats were, why not others too? Wind was northwest all right; one might have underestimated the northerly component in it.

  Old Man evidently in agreement.

  ‘Cease zigzag. Port fifteen.’

  ‘Port fifteen, sir.’

  ‘Steer 240.’

  ‘Two four oh, sir…’

  If one was justified in assuming that there could be no U-boats around, didn’t need zigzag anyway. And one did have to make that assumption if one was going to stop and take men out of boats when one found any. The Old Man wouldn’t remain stopped for any longer than he had to, anyway. He marked-on the new course and log reading and the time – 0728. The Old Man was apparently in no hurry to hand over the con, so he started on another job that might as well be disposed of now as later: to work out the time by which they’d need to start back in order to reach that rendezvous position by 1900.

  The answer was startling. Two hours from now, was all you had. It would mean nine hours’ steaming, at fourteen knots, to get you there actually at about 1830. It would be a mistake to cut it too fine. And best to reassess the 0930 deadline at, say, 0900, in the light of how much time had been spent on diversions or actually lying stopped.

  Dixon on the monkey island pipe again: ‘Ship’s boats fine on the port bow about four miles, sir!’

  Those weren’t the ones the Aurelia was diverting to. She was stern-on now and diminishing; these of Dixon’s would have been too far ahead of her when she’d spotted the others and turned south. He was back in the forefront now, with his glasses searching for Dixon’s. The Old Man meanwhile had adjusted the course to 235, which should have put them nearer dead ahead. Four miles, 8,000 yards: at twelve knots, twenty minutes – which sounded as if they ought to be easily in sight. But Dixon with that extra height-of-eye had only just spotted them: and it wasn’t at all that easy, boats being extremely low in the water and the surface as broken-up as it was now. If they had sails hoisted, it would help: they should have, and red ones at that, red being a lot easier to see than white, in all the surrounding whiteness. In the PollyAnna, they’d been issued with them in Halifax, he remembered, and Julia, seeing the boats being rerigged with them, had girlishly given tongue to ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’.

  He could as good as hear her. That sweet, clear voice. That had been the time when he’d first intimated to her that he found her attractive: and then more or less apologised for having done so – as he remembered it. A matter of a few minutes – moments one might remember all one’s life. Just sort of coming out with it, quite unintentionally – and continuing thereafter to take care not to intrude between her and young Mark Finney.

  If one docked in Glasgow p.m. 8th, might be with her in Newcastle by p.m. 10th or 11th, say?

  But speak to her on the phone before that. Evening of the 8th, surely. Day after tomorrow, for Pete’s sake!

  Believe that?

  He’d spotted the boats: had been looking right at them and not seeing them.

  ‘Half a point to port, sir. Two of ’em – about three thousand yards…’

  Fifteen minutes’ steaming. During which time the Old Man sent Merriman down to inform the mate and bosun, stand by scrambling nets port side, probably the after one. Port side would be the lee side.

  Thinking again, while watching the distance lessen, Day after tomorrow, for Christ’s sake: actually hear her voice!

  No red sails. Dirty-grey ones, and crowded boats. Harve now making himself heard in the wheelhouse behind him, reporting to the Old Man – reception party standing by, etc…

  ‘Slow ahead.’

  Andy being the closest to the telegraph, jerked it over and back to ‘Slow’, waited for ‘Stop’ or ‘Dead Slow’, and after a minute got ‘Stop’. Old Man telling Samways, who’d taken over from Freeman, to bring her a couple of degrees to starboard: ‘Want ’em inside heaving-line distance, don’t we?’ Some of those people were working to get the sails down. The typically cheerful, scruffy-looking, beat-up crowd, in shirts, sweaters, singlets. A dozen in one boat, rather more than that in the other – including one officer – at any rate one uniform jacket and peaked cap, and a third mate’s single stripe on the sleeves. Harve had started down, Old Man telling Andy, ‘Best lend a hand down there, Holt.’ Because of his star performance with the Sarawak children, he supposed. Waller moving to take his place beside the telegraph, he went rattling down, catching up with Harve Brown as they reac
hed main deck level.

  ‘Should be easy enough, this lot.’

  ‘Twenty-six, I counted.’

  ‘Only one officer.’

  ‘Drill is not to show rank – uh?’

  ‘Ah…’

  Because U-boats at the scenes of their crimes had been known to seek out the more senior men, especially masters and chief engineers, in order to take them prisoner. Captains of merchantmen had been warned of this.

  Bosun McGrath was down there, with stalwarts including Patterson, Selby, Pettigrew and O’Donnell. Heaving-lines soared, fell across both boats, were caught and turned-up and the boats hauled in alongside. It wasn’t necessary for Quilla men to go far down on the nets: seven of the twenty-six were injured in some way, but their mates brought them up and they only needed helping over the rail. Dutchmen, all of them: didn’t understand when the Old Man shouted down to remove the boats’ plugs and puncture buoyancy tanks if any, but had it repeated by one of their number already on board who had some English. That was done, and the lines cast off by the last ones out, Quilla by that time getting under way again, steering west-southwest. Lessons had been learnt when getting the Sarawak crowd on board, but it had been a lot rougher then, and dark – this had been easy. There were three officers: a bald, fat man in a pink-striped sweater introducing himself as the master – Captain Jan Stikker – of the SS Mallemock; she’d been torpedoed in her engine room at about 0430, and only an hour ago had rolled over and sunk, he thought when the bulkhead of number three had gone. None of her black gang or engineers had survived. She’d been carrying a mixed cargo of machinery, bulk wheat, bagged barley, sugar, canned goods and dried fruit.

  There had now to be a reshuffling of berths and cabins, including Waller moving to share Andy’s and the cadets clearing out of theirs again. Harve muttered to Andy, ‘Where we put the next lot if there is one – don’t ask me…’

  ‘Bound to be some more.’

  ‘Want to help with the First Aid now?’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Then saw Harve’s expression, and shrugged. Harve looking fairly haggard in any case. ‘All right. If the Old Man doesn’t want me up top.’

  ‘No reason he should, he’s got Waller.’

  ‘One thing I do need to tell him, though. Where’ll you set up shop?’

  ‘Down aft, where the patients will be anyway. Issue of tea and a meal of sorts first, any road.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He needed to talk with the Old Man about the 0930 deadline for starting back. It was close on 0800 now, didn’t give one all that long.

  * * *

  He wasn’t keen on the patching-up business, First Aid, but had felt he had to support old Harve, who was looking as if he could have used a bit of patching-up himself. In some ships the medicine-chest and rough-and-ready doctoring was down to the second mate, and he’d been glad to find it wasn’t so in Quilla. Hadn’t been in the old PollyAnna, either; he’d had his own neck wound sewn-up in heavy-handed fashion by the Anna’s mate, who’d later gone over the side in heavy seas. Anyway, these injuries were all within the scope of the Ship’s Captain’s Medical Guide, and he and Harve were assisted by the Dutch third officer, whose English wasn’t bad. It was mostly a matter of splints and binding-up, and a couple of them needed morphine; all the injuries had been sustained at the time of the torpedoing – men being flung around, one down a ladder from top to bottom, and so forth. The Mallemock’s mate, bosun and two ABs had been killed – drowned, whatever – when soon after she’d been hit they’d tried to get down a fiddley into her machinery spaces in search of trapped black gang survivors; there’d been a secondary upheaval – bulkhead going, it had sounded like – and Captain Stikker had barred further efforts of that kind.

  Harve had his hands full with what he called hotel management – accommodation and catering – after the doctoring, and Andy returned to the bridge. It was half eight: low sun still only a brightness filtering through cloud, but it might clear by mid-forenoon, allowing a sunsight – on their way east by then, of course. A good noon position would be reassuring.

  Quilla was on 260, he saw, steering a straight course, zigzag clock switched off. Old Man wanting to cover as much ground as possible with so little time left. When Andy had broached the subject of the deadline he’d shown surprise, then gone to the chart to check it out: was absorbed in calculations for several minutes, and on his way back to the forefront gave Andy a hard look, growled, ‘Need to check your figures, Second.’

  It was pretty obvious, when you put your mind to it. Shockingly bloody obvious. Convoy heading east, Quilla west, distance between them opening at the sum of their respective speeds: fourteen plus eleven – twenty-five. Three and a half hours’ steaming, by 0930, or not much less, making the distance apart close on ninety miles; and the rate of overhauling could only be the difference between their speeds, say three and a half knots.

  No question of making any 1900 rendezvous. Nothing like. Catching up was going to take about twenty-six hours. Rejoin tomorrow around mid-forenoon, maybe.

  Certainly no sooner… He put a new DR on the chart and went to apologise to the Old Man.

  ‘Should’ve seen it hours ago, sir, I’m sorry.’

  A nod. ‘You should, I should.’ Putting his glasses up. ‘Commodore should’ve, maybe.’ A shrug. ‘Say our prayers an’ get on with it, is all.’

  Cool customer, Nat Beale. Truly was. Hadn’t maybe seen him all that clearly, until now.

  * * *

  At 0840 Dixon reported a raft three points on the starboard bow, distance about two cables. Quilla’s course being 260, the Old Man told Samways to bring her to starboard to 295. Then asked Andy, ‘How long’s Dixon been on the island?’

  ‘About two hours, sir.’

  ‘Have one of the others relieve him.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He looked at Elliot. ‘Up you go.’

  Quilla swinging to her new course, putting herself bow-on to wind and sea. Wind force three rising four, sea a little steeper than it had been but still classifiable as moderate. The next category up from ‘moderate’ was ‘rough’, and you couldn’t call it that. Not yet, anyway.

  Old Man glancing at Waller: ‘Ring down Slow Ahead.’

  Andy had the raft in his glasses now. It was just about right ahead, and he was making out – just – a slumped figure in it.

  A heap of something, anyway.

  The Old Man had his glasses on it too. As did Waller. Dixon at this moment lurching in from the starboard wing, looking cold. ‘Looks like one man in it, sir. Or body.’

  ‘Go on down, tell Mr Brown and the bosun to stand by port side.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He went down. Andy wiping the front lenses of his glasses with his thumbs, then putting them up again. It was very hard to make out. But if you were looking at a man and confusing it with a heap of something, the odds had to be that you were looking at a corpse.

  Might simply be unconscious, though.

  ‘Holt – tell Mr Brown if the feller’s dead we’ll leave him. Third – telegraph to Stop.’

  McGrath had sent one of them to get an oar out of one of the boats, with an idea of climbing down on the net and using it as a boathook somehow to get the raft in alongside. Andy gave Harve the Old Man’s message, and he grimaced. Andy then offered, not having given it a moment’s prior thought, ‘I’ll go down and fish it in.’

  Having to do some damn thing, not just stand and watch people poking around with oars. That really didn’t seem a very practical suggestion. Surprising, from McGrath. Quilla with the moderate sea thrashing along her sides, the raft coming closer all right but not close enough: although the Old Man had stopped her now – engine vibration had ceased – with port rudder turning her across the direction of the wind. He thought that in the Old Man’s shoes he’d have brought her up to leeward of it, since having no keel it would be more susceptible to wind, would be blown down on her. But maybe not, having no upperworks either. In any case, he didn’t think much of this bu
siness with the oar. He was on the outside of the rail by this time, getting down on to the net, the raft washing in really close – might even be scraping alongside if things continued as they were. Quilla still with some forward way on, though, as well as the turning motion: in fact – OK, truth was it couldn’t have been done better. But you couldn’t leave a man for dead when there might be life in him, you had to be sure of it one way or the other. And he didn’t want the oar McGrath was offering, yelled instead, ‘Line! Heaving-line!’

  They’d swung the business end of one down to him, the weighted end, which he caught one-handed about a second before he jumped. Less scary than it might have been, the raft being right under his trajectory, actually washing in still closer. He landed in it on his hands and knees, partly on the occupant’s soaked bulk, but stable enough then to be able to use both hands, taking a round turn with a long bight of the line around an edging timber and putting two half-hitches in it. In one’s own interests entirely. Shoving the man’s head over with the heel of one hand: big head, thick neck. He was dead, all right. In a dark singlet and fearnaught trousers: a trimmer or a fireman, he’d have guessed. Solidly built, thick-armed, eyes wide open and mouth slack in the heavy, unshaven jaw. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to get him over the raft’s side, but in fact did manage it, taking advantage of its tipping away from Quilla’s side as she rolled and a wave mounted: heaving him up and over. The Old Man up there in the bridge-wing, watching – to see him back on the net no doubt, so he could get her on the move again. McGrath and others were hauling the raft in, and he was poised for the next bit – now – grabbing the net above him, clambering up, yelling at them to cut the line.