A Prayer for the Ship (18 page)

Royce walked on air as he strode to the wardroom. He felt that now, at least, he had someone upon whom he could rely, to help the unkind process of training the crew to run more smoothly.

The very first person he saw in the wardroom was Kirby. Somehow he seemed smaller and older. He was leaning against the bar talking to Deith, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Good grief!” said the latter, with a relieved smile. “Here he is at long last.” And ignoring Kirby he shook him by the hand.

“Good afternoon, Number One; or rather I should say ‘Lieutenant Royce' now, shouldn't I?” Kirby's voice was flat. “It's all working out for you, isn't it? Promotion, and a command. Well done.”

But his tone showed no warmth. As he turned and left the room, Deith shook his head.

“God, what a man. We've just been out on a practice run, and I missed the target. You'd think I'd tin-fished the
Nelson
for all the fuss he's making!”

The other familiar faces drifted in, tired and thirsty, and upon seeing Royce, they seemed to come to life. Benjy positively beamed.

“My boy, you're a hero, you're absolutely magnificent, you do credit to us all!” he thundered.

Royce grinned, for although he, too, was proud of the blue and white ribbon on his breast, he knew that at least six of the flotilla's officers already held that decoration. Benjy was one.

“I'm back all right,” he smiled, “and I have a feeling that there is a party in the offing.”

There was indeed.

Viewed from the sea, the East Coast has probably less personality than any other part of the British shoreline, with its constant blue misty lowland, and the patchy fen district, a silhouette only broken here and there by the squat shapes of villages, church spires, and the occasional navigational aid. In winter, it becomes even more bleak, and the making of an exact landfall or fix becomes all the more difficult, especially when the compass binnacle is swinging through a jerky arc of eighty degrees or so.

Alone, on the angry, white-crested sullenness of the North Sea, with the half-hidden hump of land reaching away from the port beam, M.T.B. 9779 rose and fell uncomfortably, as she ploughed forward into the vicious little waves. Every so often, her sharp stem fell into an unsuspected trough, and there would be a flat smacking noise, and a sheet of salt spray would fling itself high over the tiny bridge, and make the decks stream and glisten. Up, down, up, down, with a correspondingly sickening motion from side to side, until it seemed as if the whole world had always been built on this crazy pendulum.

In his cabin, Royce lay fully dressed on his bunk, one foot jammed against his bookshelves, to prevent a sudden passage to the deck, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he stared moodily at the blank face of the clock. He had been in command for exactly a week now, and every day, without exception, he had been forced to manoeuvre his beloved boat back and forth across the harbour, practising his crew at all the evolutions of seamanship, and trying to make them perform all the seemingly tiresome and unnecessary details of ship ceremonial, and all to Kirby's whims and desires. Only once had he been outside the boom-gate for a practice shoot, and that had been shortened by bad weather.

It must be impossible, he told himself, but all the same, it did seem as if Kirby was going out of his way to be awkward and unhelpful, as if he didn't want him to be part of his flotilla on patrol.

Commander Wright, in all his wisdom, had watched these happenings with anxiety and distaste, and at last, in desperation, he had approached Kirby on the matter. Kirby had stood complacently in his office, his neat hands inserted in the pockets of his monkey jacket, those piercing eyes cold and sceptical.

Wright had turned his eyes away, determined not to show his dislike.

“It's like this, Kirby, we've got to get these boats out on the job, every boat we can muster, provided it'll float.”

Kirby was unmoved. “There's no point in putting an untrained crew to sea with the flotilla. They'd only be a liability.”

Wright turned, his eyes hard. “Damn it, man, they're all untrained! We haven't got time, don't you see? This isn't peacetime!”

“Some are more untrained than others.”

Was there a trace of a sneer on Kirby's face? Wright studied him thoughtfully, fully aware he was making little progress.

“As Senior Officer of the flotilla, I must take all the responsibility for my captains,” continued Kirby, speaking softly. “And frankly, the reputation of the whole Group is being damaged by this influx of second-rate seamen.”

Like an ancient knight circling an adversary, Wright saw the small chink in the armour, and mercilessly he lunged. “I've been as reasonable as I know how, but it seems to me that you're only interested in your own damned reputation,” he grated. “These are good boys, all of 'em. I should know, I've been watching them die long enough. And, quite off the record, of course, if you can't make something of your flotilla, I'll bloody well see that we get someone who can!”

He sat down heavily, breathing fast, glaring at Kirby, who had paled.

“May I remind you, sir, that what you're suggesting constitutes a threat to me, personally?”

Wright smiled, but there was no mirth. “Yes, I'm threatening you. What do you propose to do about it?”

Kirby stood stiff and shocked, like a man hearing sentence at a court martial, unwilling to yield, yet unable to find a way out of this unforeseen predicament.

Wright followed up the attack, by turning to his wall-chart, covered with coloured pins and numbered darts.

“Look here, there's a small convoy of three ships leaving Yarmouth tomorrow. They're stragglers of the last northbound. Young Royce can go as their escort. It'll give him time to break in his boat and crew, in his own way. All right?”

“Very well,” snapped Kirby, “and I'll take him with me on the next sweep.” He stood looking at Wright, his gaze now uncertain.

“All right, Kirby, carry on, and for goodness sake try to understand that it's harder for them than it is for you.”

“I hope I know my duty, sir!”

“I hope so, too,” answered Wright meaningly.

As the prompt result of that meeting, Royce was now at sea, his own master at last. With another glance at the clock, he heaved himself off the bunk, and adjusted his body to the uneven roll, then with a deep sigh he made his way to the bridge.

His head and mind were cleared in an instant by the keen air, and the sharp edge of the salt, and without speaking he checked the chart, while from the corner of his eye he saw Carver clinging to the voice-pipe, his face like death.

“Well, Number One,” he said eventually. “How's it going?”

“I feel ghastly. And I've not picked out the ships yet.”

Royce swung his glasses shorewards. “Hmm, where was your last fix?”

“Er, Lowestoft lighthouse.”

“Well, that should be all right. Give them another ten minutes or so then we'll turn in a bit, and see if we can pick them up.”

It was like listening to another person, just to hear his own voice giving orders, making prophecies, with a calm, confident manner he had not believed possible. He chuckled to himself. “How are the hands shaking down?”

“Fifty per cent are fighting seasickness, I'm afraid. So am I,” added Carver miserably.

“Right, go below, and have a warm. I'll hang on here for a bit.”

When the grateful Carver had departed, Royce leaned happily across the screen, humming to himself, completely disregarding the retching of the helmsman's stomach.

Sure enough, just a few moments later, the signalman reported three ships closing from the north-east, so increasing speed the M.T.B. steered to intercept. To any seasoned Captain they appeared the usual sweepings of the Convoy Pool, but to Royce, the three battered coasters represented his first personal convoy, and for the next quarter of an hour he weaved around them, jockeying them into a semblance of order, and generally getting them sorted out.

Then they steadied down on the starboard side of the little procession, and the awful motion started again. When Carver returned, still looking slightly green, Royce went below once more.

Half concentrating on the latest Admiralty Fleet Orders, and half on a corned beef and pickle sandwich, he sat in his solitary chair, wedged in one corner of the cabin, a feeling of contentment and confidence making his tired body relax. Eight bells, young Leach would be taking over his first watch at sea from the First Lieutenant. He cocked his head back, the sandwich poised in mid-air, imagining the scene. The hurried confidences, the whispered instructions, then the eighteen-year-old boy would take over command of the bridge, with the care and protection of the M.T.B. and three merchantmen in his hands alone. A frightening thought, although on this route, through the swept channel of the vast East Coast minefields, there was not a great deal of sudden danger. Too light for E-boats, too dangerous for submarines. Aircraft were the main worry. Royce shook his head when he remembered the shooting of his gunners. They would have to get in a lot more practice.

He jumped nearly out of his skin as the voice-pipe at his elbow whistled urgently.

Leach's voice was shrill: “Sir, there's an object in the water. 'Bout a mile on the starboard bow!”

Royce didn't wait for a lengthy description; he flew up the ladder. He trained his glasses round, while Leach fidgeted nervously at his elbow. It was a small, yellow shape, barely visible above the little waves. A rubber dinghy.

Lifting to the full throttle, the boat tore down to the fragile craft, the sailors momentarily forgetting their seasickness, and curiously gathering at the guard-rails. They slowed and circled warily.

The three airmen sat bunched in the pitching circular dinghy, their legs entwined in the centre, their heads jerking and nodding to the waves' cruel rhythm. Facing the M.T.B., one of the leather-clad figures stared blankly, his mouth hanging open.

A seaman shouted, his voice breaking the silence: “'Ere y'are mates, catch a line!”

The fools, thought Royce savagely, what a lot they've got to learn. Then to Carver who had appeared hatless below him on the fo'c'sle: “Get them aboard, quick as you can. Lay them out by the tubes!”

Leach caught his breath sharply. “Are they . . . ?”

“Yes, dead as mutton,” said Royce shortly. “Exposure.” In shocked silence the seamen watched, while Raikes supervised the grisly task. Eventually they had finished, and with a roar the boat tore off in pursuit of the coasters. Royce sighted the bridge Lewis gun and squeezed the trigger angrily. The bobbing dinghy vanished in a cloud of spray and bullets. No trace remained of yet another small part of the nation's sacrifice.

He sighed, and looked at Leach, who was standing staring back across their creaming wake. “All right?” he queried sharply.

“Yes, sir, it shook me a bit, that's all. I've never seen—I never realized they looked like that.”

Royce softened. “Forget it, Mid. I'm afraid there'll be others, before we're finished.”

The hours dragged by, with little to take the hands' minds off that little drama. Two weary trawlers passed them, heading for the Channel, and in the far distance a corvette patrolled her allotted beat. Otherwise the sea was theirs.

The three merchantmen kept in their steady, ponderous line, moving through the water at less than five knots, until eventually the novelty and tension of Royce's new authority began to sag, and he decided that the opportunity was ripe for getting through his impressive pile of ship's correspondence. Also, with him absent from the bridge, the other officers would be able to practice their capabilities as seamen.

He took a last look round the wintry scene. “I'm leaving you in charge, Mid. Call me if there's any difficulty with navigation, or handling the boat”—he knew full well that he'd rather die first—“and I want to know about any strange aircraft, or ships. All right?”

“Oh yes, sir, I'll be all right now.” The young face was eager.

With a smile Royce clumped below, and as he spread the papers across his desk, he noted with relief that the violent motion of the boat had eased considerably, and there was now merely a heavy roll, and a slow-moving M.T.B. will roll on wet grass.

Every so often he heard the soft creak as the rudder was put hard over, and he smiled, knowing that Leach was cautiously practising altering course, just as he had once done, when standing his first watch alone.

“Captain, sir!” The voice-pipe rattled.

“Yes, what's the trouble?”

“Wind has dropped, and there's a bit of a mist coming up from the east.”

Royce digested this information carefully. “Very bad is it?”

“Well, sir, I can't see
Bentaur.
”

“What!” Royce leapt for the door.

Bentaur
was the leading ship of the line.

As soon as his head cleared the hatch, he saw the thick, yellow mist billowing like smoke across the water on their starboard bow. This was no mist—this was the real thing.