A Prayer for the Ship (13 page)

Desperately, he turned his mind to home, and he imagined his mother getting the telegram. And Julia, he had not seen her again, to tell her, to tell her what? He lifted his head in his anguish, and there in front of him lay the trawler.

She was motionless, and barely half a mile away, her shiny sides reflecting and glistening with the white-capped waves, the menacing muzzle of the gun still trained on him, and several figures lining the decks. Gritting his teeth, and smearing the tears from his smarting eyes, he peered along the sights. Behind him, a sudden burst of machine-gun fire made him cry out, but it was only an ammunition belt burning. A great hissing roar came from below, as the seas poured in to quench the fires in the tiller-flat. There was a crack as the plate glass of the chart table succumbed to the heat, and the carefully folded charts were reduced to ashes. But slowly and remorselessly, the trawler drifted into the sights, the raking stem, the gun, with its vigilant and victorious crew, then the tall bridge, and the arrogant swastika flag, the emblem hated the length and breadth of enslaved Europe. His breath hissed, and with a silent prayer he squeezed the triggers. There was a puff of smoke, a dull thud, and the two slim shapes slid from the tubes, hardly making a splash, so close was the deck to the sea. Fascinated, he crouched, and watched the puffs of foam as the little propellers bit into the water, and the well-greased and intricate mechanism guided the two monsters down to the depth of ten feet. Suddenly there was a frantic flurry at the trawler's stern, as the engines roared into full speed; slowly she swung round, gaining speed, while Royce shouted curses to the winds.

Then it happened. One minute he saw her clearly ahead of him, escaping the M.T.B.'s final challenge, then there was a deafening roar, and a blinding flash, that sent great shock waves rolling towards him. A vast pillar of water rose two hundred feet in the air, and when it had settled, falling slowly like majestic white curtains, there was not one stick or spar to be seen. Shakily, he staggered to the side, deafened and half blinded, his clumsy fingers fumbling with his lifejacket. He didn't remember jumping, only the great, icy, choking water closing over his head. Vaguely his spinning brain recorded the bitter taste of salt and petrol, and a terrible pressure on his lungs and stomach, as an underwater explosion tore the clothes from his body. Then a great, engulfing blackness swept over him, shutting out everything.

T
HE THRIVING
naval base of Harwich lay cradled by the twin arms of the rivers Stour and Orwell, the great concourse of turbulent water, never still or easy at any time, now shimmered and heaved in the watery sun of the late afternoon. Whichever way you cast your eye, could be seen the vast numbers of lean, weathered grey shapes of destroyers, moored in twos and threes at their buoys; paunchy little corvettes in their breathtaking dazzle paint; overworked minesweepers; and scores of tiny harbour craft scurrying about on their urgent business. At the far end of the anchorage lay the lithe hulls of the local submarine flotilla, watched over by the ugly hulk of their Depot Ship, whilst to the south, around Parkeston Quay, a light cruiser was enjoying an overdue boiler clean.

The pale glow glittered around the pierheads of the huge naval training establishment, HMS
Ganges,
whose towering mast dominated the harbour. Around the piers, the heavy, clumsy cutters were pulled by their sweating young amateur crews, while leather-lunged Petty Officers strode up and down between the oarsmen, shouting, watching, and hoping for the best. These were the Navy's raw material, who now under the eyes of the main East Coast striking force, struggled manfully with the mysterious commands of “Oars” and “Give way together!” Carrying out these orders was even more of a mystery to most of them, at the moment.

Up and behind Landguard Point lay Felixstowe, its sheltered waters looking like a sheet of tarnished pewter, and here nestled the hornet's nest of the Coastal Forces Group: M.T.B.s, Motor Gunboats, and the Motor Launches, maids of all work. Most of them were painted in the popular bizarre stripes and waves of dazzle paint, while one flotilla sported black hulls, with red shark-like mouths and gleaming white teeth painted around their stems. Not “pusser” perhaps, but very effective by night.

From all these points and creeks of bustling activity, one landmark could always be seen with ease and clarity, the imposing red-brick buildings of the Royal Naval Hospital at Shotley. Once past the wrought-iron gates and the naval orderly in white gaiters and belt, and up the wide gravel drive flanked by the air-raid shelters, a feeling of great peace and business-like calm pervaded the very air.

The long wards, with their neat rows of iron beds, stood like soldiers on a polished parquet parade ground. All seemed to be occupied. Some of the inmates lay quietly sleeping, or gazing at the ceilings, and some hobbled painfully along the floor on sticks or crutches, their pale blue jackets clashing with a variety of pyjamas. Behind screens at one bed, an Able Seaman lay in a coma, moaning very softly: two of his shipmates, conspicuous and uncomfortable in their blue uniforms and gold badges, sat quietly watching, waiting for him to die.

These, and many more, were the harvest of the unsung war at sea, who were now fighting their greatest battle.

Down yet another airy passage, identical to all the others, but for its numbering, where two young nurses sat sewing up a rent in a blackout curtain, to the small wards, where the post-operational cases were watched and treated, where a wounded man's slender life-line could be strengthened, or cut. The window of one of these rooms looked out across the harbour, and an elderly naval sister, her face lined and worn, stood idly watching a fussy frigate manoeuvring towards her buoy, where the two half-frozen buoy-jumpers sat waiting to receive the picking-up rope. On the fo'c'sle, tiny figures in shiny oilskins waited stolidly, while upon the open bridge, her captain eased the ship forward against the treacherous and powerful tide. Behind the sister, in a darkened corner of the white-walled room, a still figure lay straight and stiff on the bed, his chin resting against the neatly turned sheet; his skin pale and transparent. Above the eyes, and covering the rest of his head, was a complicated crisscross of bandages, whilst at waist level, the bed blossomed out in an ungainly bulge, where wire cages protected the motionless body from all contact. The sister shifted her weight to the other foot, and sighed deeply, and, as if in sympathy, the frigate hooted impatiently on her siren.

Noiselessly, the door opened, and a tall Surgeon-Commander, with bushy black eyebrows and heavy jaw, strode purposefully to the bed, his stethoscope glinting in the fast-fading light.

At his elbow the duty sister reached for the record card and chart from a shelf, and for some moments there was silence, but for the rustle of the papers, and the chink of bottles as the other sister tidied the small bedside table.

“Hmm, not much progress here, sister,” said the Commander at length, rubbing his chin with his thick, capable fingers.

“It's 48 hours now, sir, and Doctor Anderson said we should have seen some change, one way or another, by today.”

The gold and red braided sleeve reached under the sheet, and felt the pulse.

“Hmm,” he said again. “Have his parents been sent for?”

“Yes, sir. Mr and Mrs Royce will be arriving some time this evening. The Wardmaster has just finished arranging transport at the station.”

The Commander sighed deeply; it was all conforming to the too-familiar pattern. Their torn, burned, shocked, and shattered bodies came to him in a steady stream, but he was still unable to view the situation with the callous indifference often expected of his trade. This one, for instance, a mere boy, who had done heaven knows what deeds out there in the North Sea, now lay like a piece of stone before him, the mechanism of life ticking only feebly. He sighed heavily. He had just finished one surgery case when the Matron had bustled in to his office in her usual brisk manner, with news of more survivors landed by a destroyer at the base. The usual pathetic procession had followed, led by the shock cases, their hair matted with oil, their shivering bodies covered by heavy blankets; then the stretcher cases, including this one, with his hastily bandaged body and blackened skin. He studied the chart again: severe burns to arms and chest, head injuries, and an aftermath of shock. If there was to be an aftermath.

As if he had come to some decision, he straightened and glanced at his watch. “I'm going for tea now. Call me at once if there's any change at all. Anything.”

And he strode out of the room. As he passed one of the wards, he heard the strident voice of one of the sisters, obviously rebuking someone.

“I don't care, do you hear?” she snapped. “You just get back to bed while I get your tea. I'll jolly well report you if you don't behave!”

The Commander stepped into the ward, now brightly alight, the long curtains drawn.

Sister Adams smiled wearily. “Good evening, sir. I wish you'd have a talk with Bed Five; he keeps wanting to go out. But he'll have to see the doctor in the forenoon tomorrow before I can let him move.”

He walked slowly across to the offender, who sat defiantly upright against his pillows. “What's the trouble, my lad, and who are you anyway?”

“Petty Officer Raikes, sir, Cox'n of M.T.B. 1991. I just wanted to see my officer.” He paused, his face creased with worry. “Will you tell me, sir, is he going to be all right?”

The Commander was touched, and his frown faded. “I've heard about you, Raikes,” he said, and squatted on the edge of the bed. “You went back for him didn't you? The Captain of the destroyer told me all about it; how you took a raft through blazing petrol to save that officer's life.”

Raikes flushed and squirmed with embarrassment. “Is he going to live, sir?” he persisted.

“You've done your part, and now we'll do ours. Try to rest for a bit, and leave the worrying to us.” As he got up to leave, he turned: “Raikes, I'm proud to have met you.”

Raikes lay back, heedless of Sister Adams, who clucked impatiently as she straightened his sheets and patted his pillows, and let his mind drift back to that moment of decision.

He shut his eyes tightly, and once more he felt the crazy rocking motion of the tiny raft. They had seen their boat drift away in a pall of flame and smoke, with the hunched, blackened figure alone on her deck, and they had forgotten their own suffering, even their will to survive, as with shocked eyes they watched the grim drama unfold before them. Suddenly the trawler had hove in sight, like another actor making an entrance, and they had seen the torpedoes streak on their errand of death. Hoarsely they cheered and cursed, as the explosion died, and then they had been shattered by the roar as their own little ship had burst asunder and plunged down. He forced his mind back, making sure of every detail, just as he had told the destroyer's officers. It was Able Seaman Weeks who had shouted: “Jeez! Jimmythe-One's back there! I saw his lifejacket!”

For Raikes that had been the moment of decision.

“What's it to be, lads?” he had croaked, as an angry wave smote him across the shoulders.

For a brief instant they had peered across the heaving sea, at the blazing wall of petrol left by the dying M.T.B., but only for an instant.

Weeks had heaved himself up on his knees, causing the raft to rock dangerously. “Too right we go back! Now gimme a ruddy paddle!”

Frantically they made the nightmare journey within feet of the licking flames, fighting every bit of the way. Somehow they found him, and pulled him across the raft. The half-naked body, torn and bleeding, and the fearful burns, swollen horribly by the salt water. And somehow they had got clear of the fire, huddling together for warmth and comfort, singing, cursing, and holding desperately on to life. Three hours later, the riveted side of the destroyer loomed like a wall beside them, the scrambling nets, the strong arms and helping hands, and the murmured words of encouragement. He remembered the feel of a soft towel dabbing at his tender skin, and the harsh fire of rum in his throat. The destroyer had circled the spot slowly, looking for the other raft. They found it an hour later, but only one figure lay tied to its pitching frame. The ship's doctor had tried to keep them away, but they had seen Leading Seaman Parker lifted tenderly aboard. He had smiled vaguely at them, and spoken in a strange voice. As they had watched, shocked to silence, Parker said, “I'm home, Dad, I couldn't get in the cinema, so I come home early.” He started to laugh wildly, as they forced the needle into his arm.

Raikes breathed out hard, and opened his eyes. Poor old Parker, what a waste.

Faintly across the cold air drifted the plaintive note of a bugle, Sunset, and Raikes slept.

Out and across the uneasy stretch of swift-moving water, the light faded. The newly arrived frigate swung peacefully at her buoy, her engines still. On her quarter-deck, the duty signalman folded up the ensign, and made his way to the bridge, while the Officer-of-the-Day, having attended to the brief but permanent ceremony of Sunset, turned his mind to the string of details which awaited him, and every other Duty Officer in the harbour. Libertymen, Defaulters, Rounds, Darken Ship, Duty Watch, Working Parties, and all the rest. War or peace, it made no difference to his tight routine. On scores of other ships too, the vigilant Quartermasters paced their gangways, checked their moorings, and thought of home.

Threading her way in and out of the moored, darkened shapes, the destroyer's liberty tender panted her way towards Parkeston Quay, her small deck space overloaded with sailors, who were looking forward to a brief run ashore. As she grazed to a standstill alongside the slimy piles of the jetty, and long before the first lines were made fast, the noisy jostling throng were scrambling up on to the concrete ramps, lighting cigarettes, and adjusting caps at a more rakish angle, and keeping an eye open for the Customs Officers, who might not take too kindly to the packs of duty-free tobacco stored in the useful respirator haversacks. One or two of them glanced curiously at the elderly couple who stood looking small and lost by the entrance to the railway station, and so utterly out of place, but in a very short while, the blue-clad throng had split and vanished, leaving these two alone.

But not for long. There was a splutter of a fast motor-boat at the jetty stairs, and a Petty Officer's head, followed by a stocky, duffle-coated body, rapidly appeared over the edge.

He hurried over.

“Mr and Mrs Royce?” he queried, leaning forward.

Mr Royce nodded. “What a train journey we've had, haven't we, dear? Had to change three times.”

His wife smiled at him, but the Petty Officer, a pensioner, recalled to the Navy, saw that there was little mirth behind those anxious eyes.

“Well, follow me if you please. There's a nice supper laid on for you at the . . .” he faltered. “At the hospital.”

Slowly they climbed down the slippery steps, guided by a torch, to where the sleek, blue launch throbbed and squeaked against her fenders. Once settled, the Petty Officer shouted, “Let go! Shove off forrard!” And with a growl they slid into the darkness.

The passengers sat quietly in the tiny cockpit, shielded from the spray, and stared at the strange and alien surroundings of their son's world, hitherto but an unreal picture painted by the B.B.C. and Clive's regular letters.

Mrs Royce turned her head, and could dimly make out the reassuring profile, always at her side. “Do you think—” she started, for the hundredth time, and stopped helplessly.

“Don't worry, my dear. I told you before, they've asked us down just to help his recovery a bit.” He squeezed her arm in the darkness.