A Prayer for the Ship (17 page)

“We'll have to get some gear in town, Number One, and make the place like home.”

A curly-haired seaman, in the conventional white jacket, clumped in with a tray of tea.

Royce studied the man's impassive face, as he laid the table. One of his crew. “What's your name?” he queried pleasantly, and the man jumped.

“Er, Trevor, sir, Able Seaman.” The north-country burr was strong. “Starboard Oerlikon gunner, sir.”

For a brief instant, Royce felt a chill run down his neck, as he saw again the mutilated body of A. B. Poole hanging from the starboard Oerlikon, swinging gently in the flames. He shuddered, then nodded. “Thank you, Trevor, I hope you shoot as well as you handle a teapot!”

Carver was watching him closely, and when the seaman had departed behind the serving hatch, he coiled himself down in a shining new chair.

“What's it like, sir, going into action—in one of these boats, I mean. It's hard to visualize somehow.”

Royce looked at him hard. This was the first sign of Captain Marney's words coming true. He now had to show he was able to control his own emotions, and those of his men as well.

“Don't try, Number One. It's never so bad or good as you expect anyway. I'll keep you so busy that you'll probably not even notice.”

Carver smiled, and examined the toe of an elegant shoe. “When I was training we were told about your last boat. I'm very glad to be learning under you.” He was quite sincere.

There was a scuffle, and a crash outside the door, and a youthful voice was raised in anguish. “Blast the ladder! Ouch, my blessed leg!”

A new cap flew in the door, and landed neatly on a chair, and there were further sounds of heavy packages being put down. “I say, Number One, has the Old Man blown in yet?” piped the voice.

Carver flushed, and rose awkwardly, but Royce silenced him with a wave.

“Lord, I've got so many Confidential Books to correct, I'll never be done.” And with a bang, Midshipman Leach burst in.

“I've just seen a boat all shot up on one of the slipways. I—” He stopped, his jaw dropping. “Gosh, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't know . . .”

“As you see,” said Royce drily, “the Old Man has arrived!”

At the same time he was thinking, how incredibly young; he makes me feel like a grandfather.

Leach certainly looked every inch a midshipman, but the uniform seemed to accentuate his youth. His round, pink face, blue eyes, now wide with horror, and unruly hair, gave him the appearance of a startled schoolboy.

Royce smiled. “It's all right, Mid, have some tea, relax.”

“It'll probably be too strong for him,” said Carver severely.

As they chatted, and Royce fired questions concerning the crew, he knew that this was going to be a happy ward-room, and as they would not be living aboard the
Royston,
leaving her to the cramped crews of the little boats, it was just as well.

He spent the afternoon exploring the boat, and checking the lists with Carver who, although most willing, was lamentably uncertain of practically all the normal procedure. He would have to be led for some time. Leach's duties were confined at present to correcting A.F.O.s, charts, and all the other books and papers required of even this small warship, and this he did, with an enthusiasm which made Royce chuckle.

The Coxswain had not yet joined, and a Leading Seaman called Denton accompanied Royce on his rounds. He was a burly Londoner, a peacetime R.N.V.R., and a reliable influence on the mess-deck.

He piloted Royce into that long, homely space, now deserted while the hands worked on deck, and he saw with affection the neat lockers, with the garish pin-ups already in evidence. The built-in cupboards, the lines of damp dhobying, and rolled towels, gave the appearance of packed habitation, the discomfort borne by most sailors.

Next, Royce met the Chief, a P.O. Motor Mechanic from Derby, named Anderson. A lively young man, with a long face like a racehorse, he nevertheless impressed him by his knowledge and love of his giant charges.

“They make the boat fly, sir.” He rubbed his hands. “You'll see, when we get out.”

Royce left him in the engine room, feeling confident of one other good man. But for the most part, the men he questioned were seamen by training, and not by experience. Gunners according to their badges, although they had shot at nothing but reliable and condescending targets towed by aircraft and trawlers. “Give me time!” he muttered.

Eventually he found himself alone once more in the strange surroundings of his new cabin. He was amazed that so much could be jammed into such a minute space. From the neat bunk to the built-in bureau, it had an air of quiet efficiency. He unpacked his cases, which had been spirited aboard by some unseen hand, and changed slowly into his seagoing rig, listening while he did so, to the orderly chain of noises over his head, the full impact of his grim task of training and using the boat only dawning on him as his eye caught the brief sign on the open cabin door. It stated simply, “Commanding Officer.” He sat heavily on the bunk, feeling suddenly deflated, staring at it for some moments, weighing up his chances of success, and the apparent possibilities of a horrible failure. There was now no one to give him guidance, no detached feeling that all he had to do was obey orders. He would be giving them. For once, he felt at a loss, and that he ought to be rushing on deck to see what his officers were doing.

He restrained himself, and began to think slowly and deliberately, as he was to do many times in the future. Peering out of his small scuttle, he was able to see the
Royston,
and the Coastal Forces' moorings, about half a mile away. His orders stated that he was to take the M.T.B. alongside the
Royston
as soon as he had finished taking on stores, i.e., about 1200 hours. Such a narrow piece of water, comparatively clear of shipping, as most of the harbour craft had tied up ready for the midday meal, but to him, in a strange craft, with the prospect of going alongside under the eyes of the flotilla, it may well have been the North Atlantic. He was suddenly aware of a hush in the shipboard sounds, and as he stood with his head cocked, Carver clattered down the ladder to his door. He was now clad in a bright new duffle coat, and had his cap under his arm. He was obviously more than a little worried.

“All stores aboard, and ship ready to move,” he announced breathlessly. “The Cox'n is waiting in the
Royston.
I've just had a signal,” he added.

Blast! thought Royce savagely. Not even an experienced Coxswain, but to Carver he said as evenly as he could manage, “Stand by to slip.”

Pulling on his duffle, and slinging his glasses round his neck, he climbed to the bridge, where Leading Seaman Denton stood stolidly by the wheel. Unlike the other boats, this type had the steering position on the open bridge, and although it meant that the Coxswain was more prone to injury in action, it had the advantage of allowing the Captain to be able to direct operations with the minimum of wheel orders, which was so essential when a vessel of this nature was employed twisting and turning at high speed, and the Captain was required to supervise and control the firing of torpedoes. He nodded to him briefly, and noted with satisfaction that the bridge was clean and sensibly laid out. A young signalman was fiddling with halyards behind him, and on the fo'c'sle he could see the hands taking the slack off the wires. He checked with the engine room, and rang down “stand by,” and was startled by the immediate roar of the giant engines, which settled down to a steady confi-dent rumble. The air was faintly tinged with exhaust fumes. Only when there was absolutely nothing more to do on the bridge, did Royce steel himself to begin the operation of actual movement.

“Let go forrard!” he bawled, and he saw a dockyard worker heave their bow rope into the water, and Carver seemed to be coping all right there.

He craned over the screen. “Let go aft!”

Vaguely he saw Leach nod, his face anxious, and then scurry right aft to watch the dripping wire snaking aboard.

When satisfied that there was no wire in the water to foul the screws, Royce rang down for “Slow ahead.”

The strong current which was eddying round the end of the jetty had swung out the bows just nicely. Royce had allowed for it without conscious thought, and as the engines snapped into gear, the boat thrust purposefully out into the open.

“Steer straight for the Depot Ship,” he said, not wishing to complicate matters.

“Aye, aye, sir,” And Denton spun the wheel in his hard hands, his eyes squinting against the glare on the water.

Royce's heart had stopped pounding quite so horribly, and he felt instead a wild sensation of elation. He had actually started the ship himself, his own craft. He rubbed his hands.

Carver was looking up at him for instructions.

“Hands fall in fore and aft for entering harbour!”

Carver saluted, in a rather theatrical manner, and a second later Royce heard the twitter of the pipe, and the padding of feet on the wooden decks, as the hands fell in.

To the onlooker, she made a brave sight in her new paint and gleaming guns, with the white-jersied figures standing in two neat lines on deck. From beneath her cut-away stem, twin rolls of foam creamed away behind her, while from the gaff a starchy new ensign flapped in the slight breeze.

Carver stood in the eyes of the boat, staring ahead, and thinking goodness only knows, while little Leach stood aft, dwarfed by the seamen.

On down Fenton's Reach, to the destroyer flotilla leader, bearing the broad black band of Captain (D).

As they drew abeam, Royce yelled “Pipe!” and again the shrill notes of the call echoed across the water.

They paid their respects to the Senior Officer. She, too, replied with a clear, trilling precision.

Royce beamed with pleasure, and wished he could confide with someone about his childish delight. At that moment the signalman shouted, and pointed over the port quarter.

“Ship closing, sir!”

Royce swung round, and saw with amazement the lumbering hulk of an ancient freighter, with black smoke gushing from her spindly stack, steering straight for him. She was still a good fifty yards away, and must have steamed round the point while they had been busy with salutes. Royce checked the marks, and found that he was in the correct channel, and had the right of way.

“Bloody fool,” he muttered, and Denton grinned.

The M.T.B. held her course for some moments, until in fact it became obvious to everyone on board that either Royce broke the rule of the road, or there would be an unpleasant collision.

“Hard a-starboard, and cut across her wake,” he snapped, and then switched on the loud-hailer. He noted that the paint was hardly dry. He heard it squeak into life, and directed his attention to the towering, rusty bridge of the freighter.

“
Flying Lantern
ahoy!” The harsh vibrations brought two little heads to the bridge rail, one wearing a battered, gold-braided cap, and the other a rakish trilby.

“Don't you know your regulations?” roared Royce, and waited.

The trilby vanished, then reappeared with a megaphone, which was handed to the Captain.

“What's the matter? 'Fraid we'll scratch your wee yacht?” Some of the seamen tittered, and Royce flashed, “No, we're scared you'll capsize in our wash!”

The captain called back an unprintable word, and went into his wheelhouse and slammed the door.

Royce felt better, and realized that he was practically up to the
Royston
's buoys. More piping, then the delicate touch astern on the engines, as the heaving lines went to the waiting seamen on the pontoons. “Stop engines.” It was over.

As the boat shuddered into silence, and creaked against her fenders, he swung down to the fo'c'sle.

“I'm going aboard, Number One. Don't forget what I told you about Dress of the Day. Commander Kirby is probably watching even now. I see that the rest of the flotilla are now back. I'm going to find our new Cox'n, P.O. Banks, or whatever his name is.”

“What shall I do now?” Carver sounded lost.

“Feed the brutes, and see that they get their tots,” grinned Royce, and started up the catwalk.

The first person he saw was the familiar, stocky figure of Raikes.

“Petty Officer Banks, reporting for Cox'n,” he said without a smile.

“What? Have you gone up the wall?”

Raikes smiled, and Royce felt a glow of friendship.

“Well, sir, this Banks chap did a silly thing. He found that some rotten perisher had mixed up the draft chit, an' he got 'imself sent to Scapa; cruel, ain't it, sir?”

Royce laughed loudly. “Now I wonder what rotten perisher did that? It's good to have you back. Quite frankly, I need your services badly.”

“I watched you come alongside, sir, and quite frankly, I think the Navy's gettin' some very queer seamen nowadays. Still, we'll soon lick 'em into shape.”