A Prayer for the Ship (10 page)

Royce smiled self-consciously. “I know, but I can't get her out of my mind.”

“Leave it to me. I wish you'd asked me earlier, as I happen to know their drafting type, but she's on leave at the moment. Tell you what, I'll write to her next week, and get the gen for you, how's that?”

Royce's face showed plainly how it was.

“There's one other thing I wanted to tell you.” He dropped his voice. “I think we both get on well, and I've never known old John take to a chap as he did to you, so I'd like to have you with me at Harwich, as soon as you get a command. Don't laugh; it won't be long. In fact, I think it'll be when you pick up your second ring.”

Royce was touched. “It'd be fine by me,” he said sincerely.

“I've spoken to old Wright, and he says he'll do what he can for you. I gave him a load of bull about you, of course. Seriously though, I'd ask for you now as Number One, but that'd foul your chances of an appointment. So remember, all you've got to do is pick up the stripe, don't fall foul of Kirby, whatever he does, and find Julia. I'll do the rest.”

After that, the world seemed a finer place to be in, and Royce's pent-up feelings burst forth with such enthusiasm and hitherto unsuspected gaiety that the already successful party was brought to a most happy and boisterous conclusion. In twos and threes, they ambled up to the darkened decks, and even the dismal wail of distant air-raid sirens failed to curb the full-throated, if unmelodious, singing. Having got the Wrens safely embarked upon their motor-boat, to the amused grins of the seaman on duty, they proceeded to march up the catwalks to the
Royston
's main deck, with Emberson perched shakily on their shoulders. The Officer-of-the-Day, already warned in advance, stood by the shaded police-light, at a solemn salute, as to the tune of “Don't Put Your Daughter On the Stage, Mrs Worthington,” the revellers voiced the famous Coastal Forces ditty, in honour of their comrade.

Don't send my boat out to sea, Senior Officer,
Don't send my boat out to sea.
She's a bit of a roaring gash-boat
Of that we'll all admit,
Her boost is far too phoney,
The Captain's a bit of a Twit.

For such a sad occasion, all of them had done their best to make the night a memorable one.

W
HAT A SHORT SUMMER
it seemed to Royce, so full of activity and not a little danger, that he did not have much difficulty in avoiding Kirby, who, as autumn sent her icy messengers scurrying through the rising winds of the Channel and North Sea, became more and more wrapped up in himself, rarely speaking to his crew, except in the line of duty, and avoiding his officers in their spells ashore. He walked like a man possessed of some weird driving force. Unable to trust his so-called amateur crews, he spent every moment of his spare time poring over the flotilla orders, and studying reports of other groups' activities. It was well known that he was persistently badgering Commander Wright about their patrol areas, almost openly accusing him of giving his flotilla the worst areas to cover. This was mainly due to the fact that the record of successes rarely seemed to come his way, and as he was quite unable to see it was due to the fact that his method of operations was far too fixed, and lacking in the necessary reckless dash, he and the redoubtable Wright soon began to get on each other's nerves.

Emberson had been true to his word with regard to Julia Harston, but there success ended. She had been drafted to Rosyth—it might have been Greenland for all the use it was to Royce—and as he didn't wish to open operations by writing to her, in case she stopped him dead in his tracks, he spent hours of his watchkeeping time dreaming and hoping for the chance to get leave, and make the long pilgrimage to Scotland. When he confided these matters to Deith, he nodded sagely, and merely said, sadly, “Must be love, old man.”

Around the world the tides of war ebbed and flowed, and time after time the dark clouds of near destruction seemed to hang over the British forces. While the armies of the Commonwealth fought and died in the steaming swamps, or the parched deserts, or trained and waited around the coasts of England, politicians wrangled and argued about expenditure and wastage almost as though the war was a private enjoyment of the forces, not to be encouraged unless from a political angle.

Fortunately, the majority of bomb-torn and rationed Britain faced the grim future with realism and fortitude, and found time to give a thumbs-up at any announcement of a hard-won victory, and should it be a reverse, they just shrugged, and hung grimly to the old supposition that we could always win the last battle.

The war at sea meant convoys, and still more convoys. Hard-pressed ships, many of which would have retired gracefully to the breakers' yards but for the war, battled every mile of ocean, bringing the life blood to the nation, and carrying men and material to a score of battle-fronts. Alongside the Royal Navy, the men of the merchant fleets carried on the grim struggle without complaint, the ultimate prey and target for every submarine, E-boat, and bomber that the enemy could hurl against them, while the pitifully thin escorts hunted blindly around their helpless charges, shooting, depth-charging, and dying.

Unlike the army, they rarely saw their enemy. He was just another menace, like the howling gales which scattered the convoys' straight lines, and made navigation on a pitch-black night a screaming nightmare; or the hidden mine, lurking in the grey waters, inert and still, until touched by an unwary ship, with the terrible aftermath of the thunderous explosion, inrushing seas, and the pitiful cries of doomed sailors trapped within. No, to the men of the Navy, the enemy rarely had a personality. He was everywhere and nowhere, the constant menace, who made them think only of the next minute, of the next hour. Tomorrow was too improbable.

News from the other sea battle-grounds seemed bleak. In the Atlantic, the mounting fury of the U-boat assault was taking a terrible toll. In one month, over a quarter of a million tons of allied shipping had been sent to the bottom, and while British yards were building more and more sorely needed escort vessels, corvettes, frigates, and destroyers, so too the enemy pushed a stream of underwater killers across the sea routes. At night the Royal Air Force gamely endeavoured to bomb all sources of production, as well as the bases, but their efforts bore little fruit, for apart from the fact that all such places were strongly defended, the German war machine now had the choice of a vast coastline stretching from Norway in the north, to the Bay of Biscay. So, as usual, the brunt was falling on a handful of rust-streaked ships, held together by the determination of their crews, and driven by the fierceness of those who knew their backs were to the wall.

In the Mediterranean the story was the same, too few ships, too many of the enemy. And yet here, too, they were somehow holding their own. Fighting the convoys every mile of the way to beleaguered Malta, and covering and supplying the army in the desert, pausing only to pray, or die.

With increasing pressure by enemy heavy units in these spheres, it was obvious that it was just a matter of time before they tried a new method of attack in the restricted waters of the narrow seas. Intelligence reports had brought the disquietening news that many new E-boats and destroyers were being harboured in Ostend, Flushing, and Calais, possibly with a view to making the movement of coastal convoys impossible, and thereby pave the way for an invasion. Already, by day and night, heavy guns fired at regular intervals across the Channel, causing casualties and destruction in and around Dover, and occasionally destroying a slow-moving coaster.

Fortunately, these grave matters rarely caused much concern amongst the seamen, whose duty it now befell to face all these fresh dangers, and their intimate worries usually proved more absorbing.

The 113th Flotilla was no exception, and as the winter broadened into a grim reality, Lieutenant-Commander Kirby fussed and grumbled, until the main worry—of the sailors at least—became that of keeping their kit clean and properly marked and worn, regardless of what operation their boat might be engaged on, or the problems of drying damp clothing on the tiny, overcrowded mess-decks. As for the officers, they struggled on, bearing the main responsibility, and hoping that Kirby would drop dead.

On this cold autumn morning, the little wind-swept boats cruised bumpily over the steep, sand-flecked waves of the Belgian coast, although that unhappy country lay invisible just under the horizon. To make matters more uncomfortable, a fine, penetrating drizzle was blowing gustily in grey sheets, reducing the visibility to about two miles, and making watchkeeping a nightmare. As was his custom, Kirby refused to allow any man a break from his action station, with the result that everywhere Royce looked he saw his men crouched miserably by their guns, trying to take advantage of any scanty cover available.

His plight was probably the worst, for as he stood on the open bridge, bracing his legs against the boat's uneasy motion, he was a free target for anything the weather could throw at him. He shuddered, as he felt the first icy trickle penetrate his left boot, and his thick sock, recently received from his mother, was soon a soggy mass. About his neck a tightly wound towel was heavy and cold with rain and spray, and his glowing cheeks stung with the drizzle, which pattered across him like needles.

Kirby was perched on the stool in the corner, the hood of his oilskin suit shrouding his face, like a brooding monk, his sharp eyes darting ahead, and then back at the other boats, as they weaved forward into the grey seas.

Royce gently patted his face with the back of a glove, and peered at his watch. Eight-thirty, and they had been at sea for about ten hours. He smiled miserably at the thought of the warm glare of the bar in the White Hart, a hot meal, and bed, and then winced again as a steely needle of water penetrated his collar, and between his shoulder blades.

“Could I dismiss one watch, sir?” he asked. “Could get some cocoa on the move and a bite to eat.”

The hunched figure appeared not to have heard, so he started again.

“Come over here, Number One. Look at that fool on the Port Oerlikon, what's his name?”

Royce leaned over, resigned to no cocoa. “It's Weeks, sir, only joined two days ago. He's an Australian.”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Kirby testily, “I remember. Well he's asleep!”

He bent over the voice-pipe.

“Cox'n, come to the bridge, and bring Weeks with you!”

The tinny voice rattled up the brass tube: “Is he ill, sir?”

“No, you fool, he's bloody well asleep!”

There was a scraping of feet as the Coxswain handed over the wheel, and a minute later he appeared on the bridge, followed by Able Seaman Weeks. The latter was a tall, gangling individual, what the average person pictures as the typical Australian. His face, which now stared sulkily from beneath a woollen cap, was deep-lined and tanned, quite out of place in such a climate, and the wide grey eyes, which had once checked countless sheep on a Queensland farm, glowered rebelliously at the Captain.

Kirby didn't waste any time.

“Weeks, you were asleep on watch. That makes you useless to me, and a potential danger to this ship!”

The tall figure stiffened. “That's a damn lie!” he retorted hotly. “I was restin' me head on the blessed magazine!”

His lazy drawl struck an unnatural note in the tense scene.

Kirby went white.

“Silence!” he shouted. “Don't be so impertinent. I know your type too well: in and out of the detention barracks, and proud of it I suppose!”

Royce felt sick.

“Excuse me, sir,” he pleaded, but Kirby spun on him.

“Attend to your duties, sir! Don't interrupt!”

Weeks took a step forward, and stuck out his craggy chin. “I come umpteen thousand miles to fight the Jerries, and I'll damn well fight you an' all if it comes to that,” he said slowly. “This is a crook ship, and fer your information, you are the worst god-damned Pommy bastard I've yet had the pleasure of meetin'!”

“That's enough of that!” barked the Coxswain, and stepped smartly forward.

For a moment there was complete silence, but for the steady patter of rain across the chart table, and the signal-man's sharp intake of breath. The main figures of the drama stood facing each other, like actors who have forgotten their lines: Kirby, white-faced and quivering with rage, and Weeks, now relaxed and defiant. Royce and the Coxswain stared helplessly at both of them.

Kirby shook himself, as if unable to believe his ears. “Get back to your station, Weeks.” His voice was almost inaudible. “Cox'n, I'll see this man when we return to base—dismiss!” He shouted the last order almost wildly, and Royce prayed that Weeks wouldn't start anything more.

Surprisingly, he saw the two figures shuffle from the bridge, Raikes in front, obviously shaken, and the Australian on his heels, his face expressionless.

Royce's discomfort at the weather was quite forgotten, and he peered hastily through his glasses, but his mind was so much of a whirl that he saw nothing.

When he heard the voice again, it was flat and toneless. “In all my service, I've never seen such an insolent, mutinous lout. Just wait until I've had time to deal with him!”

And that was all. Royce gave an inward sigh of relief.

The boats turned in a half circle and continued the eye-aching search for prey, the wind and rain now beating over the starboard quarter, and causing them to roll and twist uncomfortably.

“By the way, Number One, you'll be surprised to hear that your second stripe has been recommended,” remarked Kirby casually.

Royce jerked out of his reverie, startled. “Gosh, this is a surprise, sir,” he gasped. “Thank you very much.”

He hadn't thought a great deal about promotion, but now that it was so close, he found himself grinning like a schoolboy.

Kirby permitted himself to smile thinly. “As flotilla leader, I think I should have a full lieutenant with me. Although I'm not saying you've earned it by any manner of means,” he added.

Even such a dampening remark was lost on Royce, and he hummed happily, waving to Watson's boat astern for no apparent reason.

Kirby shrugged, and shook his head. “Really, Number One, perhaps I shouldn't have told you.”

Royce smiled, “Sorry, sir,” and to himself he said, it's taken you nearly a whole day to tell me anyway!

“Aircraft, dead astern!” yelled the signalman, and they saw the warning lights flickering along the line of boats.

The deck throbbed as they increased speed, and the slim muzzles swung round to cover the approach of the plane, which could be seen vaguely through the scudding clouds.

A voice piped up from the waist. “Sunderland, sir!”

And they relaxed, as the fat, friendly shape of the Coastal Command aircraft took on a sharper line through the driving rain. Having seen them and exchanged recognition signals, it began to circle, an Aldis lamp busy.

The signalman lowered his lamp.

“Three E-boats coming up astern fast,” he reported. “About eight miles.”

They waited, while Kirby quickly pored over the chart. “Hmm, they're making for Flushing, I don't doubt. Must have been in the Channel raiding our shipping. Hoist Flag Five. We'll attack in two groups as planned.”

Jock Murray's boat led three of the M.T.B.s away to the west, turning in line abreast in a flurry of foam, while the others worked up to full speed abreast of Kirby. On every boat the men tensed at the signal, Flag Five,
Attack with guns,
and for most it would be a new experience to get to grips with E-boats in broad daylight. Usually they were but fleeting grey shadows, spitting death through the darkness.