Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  ‘Pit-props smashed down on them?’

  ‘Smashed-up the boat an’ all. Never seen nothin’ like it. Me an’ Stone got to what was left of it – an’ them. We got this raft away port side aft, see. Bayliss wasn’t stayin’, he went in over the stern – landed on whatever it might’ve been, screaming like a stuck pig when we got to him. Then we was paddling around when we found – well, Mr Newton there first, then you, sir. You was face-down in it – could’ve been dead, but—’

  ‘Thanks to you I’m not.’

  He decided not to say anything about damage to his head, something or other having belted him quite hard on the back of it – back and top. Blame that on a pit-prop, maybe? Putting a hand up gingerly: finding no wound, only extreme sensitivity, leaving it. Thinking of the Norwegians – who’d have been better left in their boat, as would the Dutch and the Garthsnaids. Realising then that both Fellaby and Stone were watching the sea all the time, presumably for bodies – swimmers, floaters: could still be swimmers, he thought, the water was cold but not Arctic cold. Depending on how long they’d been in it, and their state when they went in. In fact, coming out of that holocaust, as far as one remembered it, as well as what Fellaby had said about a rain of pit-props, you’d guess nobody’d have lived even minutes. Miracle that as many as five had.

  The blow he’d taken to the back of his head couldn’t have been a falling pit-prop. Wouldn’t have had a head.

  And as for a whole shower of them: bloody terrifying…

  The mind drifted, went off at tangents. Thinking of the convoy and that escorts were supposed to be joining it tonight, and what might be the Commodore’s likely reaction to Quilla’s non-appearance. In practical terms, he thought, there’d be none at all. He still had two-thirds of a convoy on his hands and the duty of getting as much of it as possible into UK ports. He’d be sorry, that was all, anxious for them. What more could you expect?

  Change of subject: the U-boat that had done it might have been using the two boats with their easily-spotted red sails as stalking-horses, on the off-chance of a rescue attempt? In which case, would by now have gone on its way? Or might have been on passage, purely by chance happened on Quilla?

  That was the more likely answer, he thought. No reason they’d have expected a rescue ship. Who’d even heard of rescue ships?

  Or coming up the convoy’s track to become a shadower or take over from a shadower already there?

  Fellaby said, ‘They was a fine lot, was the Quillas.’

  ‘Certainly were.’

  ‘Good a crowd as ever I sailed with.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Stone nodding, flat eyes scanning the sea around them. ‘Yeah.’ A scowl. ‘Don’t make no fucking sense.’

  ‘Doesn’t, does it.’ Pushing himself up for a longer view of empty, tumbling ocean, he amended that. ‘Except we were getting a lot of blokes inboard, you know, they weren’t complaining.’

  ‘And likely ain’t now.’

  Ignoring that. But make a list of the Quillas, he thought, remember them. All your damn life, remember them. Remember all of this, every detail that isn’t actually sickening, to tell Julia. And tell all of it to the old man, let him know how right he was a couple of years ago.

  * * *

  His watch had stopped at 1029. When he’d gone into the sea, he supposed. Maybe half a minute after that, when its works had flooded. But how long ago all of that might have been…

  Noon now?

  Sun in and out of cloud, which was sparser now than it had been then. Could be noon, or thereabouts. They hadn’t said how long after the torpedoing they’d found him and fished him out, but it couldn’t have been long or he’d have drowned. Had been face-down, Fellaby had said, presumably more or less submerged, wouldn’t have been long before he’d have filled up and gone down. But then again, how long he’d lain unconscious since they’d pulled him out…

  He asked Fellaby, ‘How long would you say since she blew up?’

  ‘Might be – hour?’

  ‘What I guessed. Hour, hour and a half.’ He tapped his wristwatch. ‘Stopped, of course.’ It had cost him five bob in Marks and Spencer’s in Glasgow and had a luminous dial – black dial, green figures. If you called it noon now, anyway – well, if they’d turned back at 0930, as had been his advice to the Old Man, at fourteen and three-quarter knots they’d have been nearly forty miles east of here by now. And a lot of men who were now dead would be alive. Not that you’d blame the Old Man for that: his reasons for holding on had been to save as many lives as possible. Having got into the thick of it, what you might call the rich pickings, and wanting to justify the risk he’d accepted back in Halifax.

  But old Harve, for one. And young Waller. Who would not be sending Samantha any Christmas cards. No more than one would oneself, come to that, since her aunt’s name and address had been in his panic-bag.

  Maybe just as well.

  Address was Exeter, anyway. Name, no recollection whatever. Might come back, of course, at some later stage.

  Newton’s eyes were still shut but his mouth had dropped open.

  Leaning forward to look more closely: Fellaby seeing him do it, and grimacing. ‘Not too good, sir.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Looks dead, from ’ere.’ Stone had said that. He’d been on his feet, balancing against the raft’s erratic motion while gazing round: from time to time you did need the longer view, not only for the obvious practical purposes, but as if it offered some kind of escape. Crouching again now though, staring at Bayliss, who’d groaned and said, ‘Wish I was.’ Fellaby shouting at him, ‘No you don’t, boy! Bloody daft, that kind o’ talk!’ Newton did seem not to be breathing, though. Andy crawled to him and squatted, felt for a heartbeat and couldn’t find one. Wrist, then, for a pulse.

  No pulse.

  ‘Not a spark.’

  ‘You sure, sir?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Put him over then, should we?’

  ‘Well…’

  Bayliss had his head back and his eyes shut, face running with sweat. They were all soaking wet, naturally, but that was sweat, not least from the way it shone. Like glycerine, welling from the narrow forehead and around the eyes. The question in Andy’s mind meanwhile, relating to Fellaby’s proposal, wasn’t why, what for, so much as why not. It wasn’t doing Newton any good to keep him with them: his body took up space, and mightn’t be the best thing for morale. Especially in the case of Bayliss, whose morale wasn’t all that outstanding anyway. All right, so he was in pain – with a smashed elbow and constant, quite violent movement, maybe excruciating pain. If so, one had to admit he wasn’t doing at all badly. Wasn’t for instance screaming, as he might have been. Scared of Stone, who obviously had it in for him? If he did break down, lose control, Stone wasn’t likely to give him much rope, you could have real trouble on your hands.

  As distinct from what? A small spot of it?

  Not, in any case, that ditching Newton’s body was going to stop any of that happening. Hadn’t even had two hours of it, as yet.

  Fellaby suggested, ‘After dark, maybe?’

  Thinking about that now. The man was dead, burial at sea nothing out of the ordinary for seamen, so why funk it?

  Hadn’t earlier on. Hadn’t hesitated for one second with that stranger. Maybe that was the difference, that this one had been a shipmate? But also the thought of doing it under the eyes of this close group, whose own lives were clearly on the line?

  That was unquestionable. No prospect whatsoever of rescue, no fresh water, no food, and sea conditions more likely to worsen than to improve. One’s brain might be working erratically, in a somehow damaged head – skull, maybe? – and other shock effects, but one might say with some reason that apart from being alive at this moment, one wasn’t that much better off than all the rest of them.

  Poor girl. Didn’t bear thinking about. Poor darling girl.

  So don’t give up. No bloody right to give up or even think of giving up.

  He�
��d begun – to Fellaby – ‘I don’t know…’ and Bayliss cut in – surprisingly in touch with what they’d been contemplating – ‘I’ll go over with him. I will. Fucking mean it, I—’

  ‘Hell you will. Listen, Bayliss – you may not realise it, but you’re doing well. Just stick to it, man. They’ll be coming for us, don’t think they won’t, Commodore’ll send the sloop, I’d guess, when we don’t rejoin as he’s expecting. He knows within a mile or two where we’d be, and two things a sloop has which a corvette may not – I’m not certain of that, but a corvette’s smaller – one’s the range she’d need, and the other’s a doctor. I’d guess soon after first light tomorrow – or early forenoon maybe. All right, means sticking it through the night, but you can do it, you’re showing us right now you’ve the guts—’

  ‘Fuckin’ agony’s all I got. You don’t know the half—’

  ‘We do, lad. Even Stone ’ere’

  ‘Fuck ’im. Fuck ’im.’

  Eyes wide open for a second, then he slumped. Head back, and breathing in short gasps through his open mouth. The three of them watching him but seeing no further change, only the fact he’d passed out – and for the time being, some relief in that. Fellaby meeting Andy’s eyes then, nodding towards Newton, and a gesture miming the act of putting him over. Andy nodded. Stone moved as if to help but they didn’t need him, did it between the two of them.

  * * *

  Given pen and paper, tell her something like With you in a matter of days, my darling. I swear it. Only a matter of sitting it out, we will be picked up – not necessarily by any sloop, that was only the first thing came into my head, giving the lad here something to hold on to. Right away what he needs is morphine. But the last thing the Commodore’d think of would be to deprive himself of any part of the escort he should have had days ago. In any case, he’d have no authority to detach any one of them, his job’s to run the convoy in collaboration with the escort force commander. Sure, he was an admiral in the Royal Navy, but he’s a commodore in the RNR now, can’t order White Ensign ships around. There’ll be other escorts though, other convoys, even long-range patrols by Sunderland aircraft – rare enough, but one’s heard they come out this sort of distance, twenty degrees west or thereabouts, survivors in boats and rafts do get spotted and ships sent to pick them up. OK, after a while maybe, might get worse before we’re out of it. Well, it will. Could even be a week or more. Just hope to God it won’t come to the worst with Bayliss. Imagine it, an elbow actually crushed – who wouldn’t moan? All I’ve got’s a pain in my head, which isn’t helped by the way the raft’s throwing itself around. Bayliss’s problem too, poor devil, and his is a lot worse than mine. The fact is I was very, very lucky, could have had my face burnt off, been blinded too. When number three went up I was trying to get a sunsight, had the sextant up in both hands in front of my face, must anyway have been facing away from that great rush of flame. Although it’s a fact I saw it. Anyway, that’s how I recall it, all I know. One thing, my darling, is although I’ve got off lightly, when we’re home I may need attention to the old nut – unless it’s mended itself by then, which it may well have done. After all, this only happened a couple of hours ago. And a great thing – ill-wind thing, you might call it – is I’ll be entitled to survivors’ leave, ought to be around long enough to see out the period of reading banns, getting spliced and even – dare I say it – having a bit of a honeymoon somewhere or other. Oh, I do love you so…

  ‘Mr Holt, sir!’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘You’re not goin’ to credit this, sir!’

  ‘What? Oh – Fellaby—’

  ‘Mr Holt – long as they see us – and she’s bearing down on us all right—’

  ‘Long as who what?’

  ‘The other one on the rescue lark, sir – name like Orlia, or—’

  ‘Aurelia. Sixty miles east by now.’

  ‘Where you’re wrong, sir. She’s – mile, maybe two mile—’

  * * *

  Dizzy again – although a better word might be ‘bleary’ – and with it, this weird feeling of none of it being real. He’d joined Fellaby and Stone waving and shouting – not easy, keeping your balance upright on the raft with so much movement on it, but scared stiff you’d not be seen – obviously wouldn’t be heard, but still yelling – expecting her to turn away, the rather squat, squarish bow-on view of her at any moment begin to broaden as she swung, zigzagging or simply altering away. Knowing how tricky spotting boats even with sails on them could be, let alone this thing, and only too well aware that if you missed this chance, mightn’t get another.

  Not for a week, someone had said. And not a hope in hell you’d survive a week. So Julia, then—

  He’d sat down. Head pain really quite bad at that stage. Was sitting, following events only through Fellaby’s excited commentary as the Aurelia cut her speed and gave them a toot on her Willet-Bruce.

  If that was what she had. Steam-whistle, or siren. Stopping anyway, turning across the weather to provide a lee, Fellaby and Stone by this time busy with the paddles.

  Happening?

  OK, now – get yourself together…

  It was the Aurelia, all right. Men all over her decks and bridge-wings, and a bunch waving from her main deck starboard-side rail where there’d be scrambling nets. All still quite hard to believe in. Distinct possibility you’d wake and find it was some kind of mirage – a scene you might have dreamed-up, given half a chance – at least until a heaving-line came arcing across the gap of partly sheltered but still lively sea and fell close enough for him, Andy, to grab, the other two dropping their paddles, chuckling like maniacs, taking the line over from him, and Bayliss saying weakly, ‘You was right then. Can’t believe it, ’ardly.’

  What he’d said about rescue by a sloop: referring to that, presumably. He nodded to him, told him, ‘See, you did stick it out. Well done.’ A mental note to suggest they gave him morphine double-quick. His own head seemed to have cleared again, and he could see it wasn’t going to be easy for Bayliss on the net. Looked like they’d lashed a second net to the bottom of the top one, the Aurelia having about twice the freeboard old Quilla’d had. Wasn’t going to be at all easy for young Bayliss, no matter how many were on the net to help. Half a dozen were clambering down it, others watching from the rail, calling jocular things like get a move on, boys, put some bloody muscle in it! And Fellaby yelling back at them, ‘Begun to think you was never coming!’ Getting in close now, though, close enough to recognise the master watching from the bridge-wing – big man with a beard whom they’d met at the conference. He himself hauling Bayliss up by his good arm: ‘Let’s start you over first’, Bayliss doubled over, whimpering, and Fellaby shouting to the reception party, ‘Smashed elbow on this one, go careful with ’im!’ Stone helped with getting Bayliss over – hurting him, obviously, but no other way to do it – Fellaby then offering, ‘Give you a hand, sir?’ but he waved him on: ‘Go on. And you, Stone.’

  Thinking, what if you find you can’t? More or less daring himself to try… Then somehow he was on the thing and climbing.

  * * *

  The mate, name of Bennett, thin-faced and hard-eyed, cap aslant on the back of his head, stared at him unbelievingly. Andy had introduced himself, Bennett had asked how did they happen to be on their own, where Quilla’s boats might be, and he’d told him, ‘We’re all there is.’

  ‘No boats?’

  ‘No. She blew up. With a whole crowd on board we’d rescued.’

  ‘Christ. Christ.’ He looked at the man beside him: second officer, who’d been at the conference in Halifax but seemed not to know him. Thickset, with a wide, strong-boned face. Bennett telling him – Brice, his name was – ‘Tell the Old Man, no other survivors. I’ll be up there in a minute.’ To Andy then: ‘Hell, U-boat obviously—’

  ‘Right. We were stopping for another boat-load—’

  ‘You said blew up?’

  ‘We had high-octane petrol in drums in three lower holds
with ammo on it. Took it on in New York, no option – the Ministry, and the STO. Old Man didn’t like it – who would – but—’

  ‘And you were hit in one of those lower holds?’

  ‘In number three. I was in a bridge-wing getting a shot at the sun, and she just – exploded. Oh, a cadet on monkey island spotted the track a second before the thing hit. I heard him yell, he was pointing, but – all just in seconds. Torpedoes run some distance ahead of their tracks, don’t they… Anyway, I must’ve been blown overboard: the guys on the raft found me floating face-down and hauled me out. Look, one thing – young assistant cook name of Bayliss, smashed his elbow, thinks he landed on a pit-prop. Anyway he’s really suffering. If you had morphine to spare—’

  ‘Sawyer – hear that? See to it, I’ll be down in a jiffy.’ Turning back: ‘Are the rest of you all right? I can only offer you a cot in the saloon, cabins are all full, including deck-space.’

  ‘A cot in your saloon’d be fine.’

  ‘And sustenance, of course. Soup to start with. And – yeah, medication. Mind coming up top a minute first, brief word with the Old Man?’

  ‘I’d like to. I met him in Halifax, at the conference. How come you aren’t halfway back to the convoy? I mean, thank God you aren’t, but—’

  ‘We kept seeing more boats. One hundred and thirty survivors on board, would you believe it? Then we did start back, heard this fucking great bang – which you’ve now explained – hour and a half ago, maybe—’

  ‘Taking a heck of a chance. Won’t come anywhere near making the 1900 rendezvous.’

  ‘The Old Man guessed it could only be your Barranquilla. Felt he’d no choice.’

  ‘God bless him.’

  ‘Between you and me, Holt, he’s a rumbustious old sod, but bloody marvellous in his way. Not all that amenable to – you know, orders and procedures. Except his own, of course.’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned—’