A Prayer for the Ship (19 page)

With five bounds he reached the bridge, and then as he scrambled up he steadied himself. No point in letting everyone see he was worried. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the front screen, where Leach's duffled figure peered anxiously forward.

By heaven, it was going to be a real pea-souper all right. He had seen it so often on this coast. One minute you have the damp, blustering wind, then a lull, and up comes the fog. The real enemy. He glanced at the other ships quickly, plodding along, confident and indifferent, but the leader had completely disappeared, wiped out by a sudden thick, swirling fence. What a dreadful business. He cursed inwardly. He could not tell the other two to anchor, and leave the
Bentaur
steaming on her own. In a couple of hours, his charges would be all over the place.

“Signalman!” he barked. “Signal both ships to reduce speed, and stream fog buoys. Port lookout, fetch the Cox'n!”

As the Aldis clattered, he assembled his thoughts. There was just a chance he could catch the other ship, and shepherd her round to the rest of the flock, before darkness fell.

Raikes appeared, imperturbable as ever.

“Take over, 'Swain. I'm going straight up the line after the leader.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

With a deep-throated roar, the boat surged forward into the gloom. In a second the fo'c'sle was hidden from them in a thick, choking cloud and reluctantly they throttled down, edging forwards jerkily, every man training his ears and eyes.

Without warning, the deep-toned squawk of a fog-siren boomed out ahead, and Royce switched on the loud-hailer. Again, a bit nearer this time.

“That's queer, Raikes,” he muttered. “He must be stopped, we're getting near to him so quickly.”

Raikes nodded, his keen eyes scanning the steep bank of yellow which surrounded them. The M.T.B. seemed to be suspended in space.

Then they heard it, the steady pulsating beat of engines, thud, thud, thud, getting louder and louder.

“Stop engines!” His throat was dry.

Gently rocking on an invisible sea, they waited, their eyes smarting in the thick vaporous clouds.

Royce saw it first, fortunately, an imperceptible darkening of the fog-bank ahead, then with awful suddenness, two anchors zoomed into view, about thirty feet above their heads, like two huge eyes peering down at them. As he jumped for the voice-pipe, he got a blurred impression of the high, rust-streaked stem aiming straight for them.

“Full ahead port, hard a-starboard!” His voice sounded strained.

The engines roared to life, and the slim hull tacked round, as the giant iron bulk of the
Bentaur
reared over them, her siren deafening them. Helplessly they watched the full length of her dull sides sheer past, missing by mere inches. Then she was gone.

Sweating inwardly, Royce remembered the loud-hailer. His voice boomed and re-echoed around them. “
Bentaur,
ahoy! Stop your engines! Anchor immediately!”

As if in answer, there was a sickening, tearing crash, and the sound of screaming metal.

“God, she's hit one of the others,” hissed Raikes.

Carver had also appeared by this time, and stood awkwardly in the background, not quite sure of what was happening.

With Royce tense and full of foreboding, the boat crept back along her course. A dark shape loomed ahead.

The loud-hailer squeaked. “Are you damaged?”

A hoarse voice floated down to them. “Nay, but ah bluidy well will be if I stop here with all these bluidy lunatics!”

They pressed on until eventually, guided by bangs and frantic shouts, they discovered the two ships, locked together, with twenty feet of
Bentaur
's stem firmly sliced into the other's fo'c'sle. Faintly they could hear the sounds of an anchor cable running out.

They scraped alongside.

“
Bentaur
ahoy! What's the damage?”

There was a pause.

“Nothing much to us. But I'm afraid the other chap's lost a bit of weight!” came the cheery reply.

Royce fumed. “Get aboard, Number One, and get them sorted out!”

Carver was relieved to be doing something, and went forward to await a rope ladder.

Royce paced up and down, deep in thought. Of all the damn fool things. It was obvious what had happened. The Officer-of-the-Watch on the
Bentaur,
seeing the fog, and realizing the others had vanished, had lost his head, and had come charging back to look for them.

Leach's face was at his elbow, almost imploring. “It's all my fault, sir. I didn't know a fog could gather so quickly.”

“Well, you know now.” He didn't trust himself to go further, and Leach slumped miserably by the compass.

When Carver reappeared, breathless and rather grubby, Royce expected the worst.

“She's not making much water,” he announced, “and the Captain says the fog's lifting already.”

It appeared to be as thick as ever.

Royce shrugged. “I hope you've gained a bit of experience from all this, Number One?”

“Rather, I wouldn't have missed it for anything!”

Royce didn't know whether to laugh or swear. “Dammit, you'll do, go back and keep an eye on things, before I lay you out with something heavy!” He shook his head. What could you say to a man who thought a predicament like this was an interesting spectacle?

The merchant Captain knew his weather lore, for within half an hour the fog began to move. It didn't lessen in density, it simply moved on, propelled by a languid breeze which obligingly wafted in from the north-east.

It was a sorry sight, like two jungle giants in a death struggle.
Bentaur
had come off best, but the other ship, an aged freighter with the strange name of
Madame Zest,
had a gap in her bows large enough to dry-dock the M.T.B.

The third ship had anchored of her own accord, and lay about a mile off, a cheerful spectator.

“Do you require a tug?”

Madame Zest
considered for some moments. “No thank you. We will be able to make about three knots. All damage above waterline.”

“I'm sorry it had to be you.”

“I'm not. We'll get a damn good refit out of this!”

Slowly and painfully they weighed anchor, and formed up in line,
Bentaur
slinking guiltily behind her wounded adversary. Night fell, but it was clear enough to make station-keeping easy, although at that speed it would be difficult to do much more damage.

Raikes was humming softly. “With your permission, sir, I'll carry on below to check that the ship is properly darkened.”

It was a polite way of reminding Royce that he should not still be on the wheel. Royce grinned, and as the Quartermaster took over the helm, he remembered Leach. “Good God, Mid. You're quiet.”

Leach stammered: “I thought I'd said enough, sir.” He faltered.

“Forget it. I have. And when you've been at it a bit longer you'll come to expect this sort of thing every day of the week!”

Leach's face filled with gratitude. “Gosh, thank you for saying that, sir, you don't know what it means to me.”

“But that's just it, I do. Now go and rustle up some cocoa,” said Royce gruffly. As the small figure scurried below, he chuckled. “You're getting pompous already.”

“Pardon, sir?” queried the helmsman.

“Oh, er, I said keep an eye on the leading ship,” muttered Royce, flushing.

This was proving to be a better test for the ship's company than Commander Wright had visualized, apparently. Throughout the boat, there was a brittle air of jittery expectancy, as the seamen pondered and voted for what was going to happen next. Royce observed, with grim amusement, that few of his amateur crew would pass the port torpedo tube on their comings and goings, where, in the dim light, the dark canvas-covered bodies of the airmen lay lashed together, comrades to the bitter end. They will have to learn.

A pinpoint of light flickered ahead. The leading merchantman was making an announcement.

“Southbound convoy ahead, about two miles,” repeated the signalman.

“How the devil,” began Royce, then he remembered that from the freighter's lofty bridge, on such a comparatively calm sea, the dark shapes would be clearly discernible.

“Quick, make the challenge!” he snapped, but already the leading escort was creaming towards them, flashing menacingly.

As the lamps clattered, Royce reflected how different this type of procedure was to his normal round, where every ship seen in the night was an enemy.

Soon the silent, dark shapes had passed, and they had the sea to themselves again, and when dawn found them, cold and stiff, they were all longing to be rid of their heavy companions, who ambled so comfortably abeam of them.

Royce decided it was time to get a little sleep.

“Call me if anything happens, Mid, anything, you understand?”

It seemed as if the bunk had barely taken his weight, when the voice-pipe whistled again.

“Sorry, sir, but there's a destroyer coming up fast.” The voice was nervous.

Again he mounted the bridge. The sea was a dull grey, tinged with blue blotches, sullen and heavy, but in contrast, the sky had cleared and had been left drained of any colour whatever. The destroyer was approaching fast, and when only a cable clear, she slewed round, making an impressive wake, which made the M.T.B. roll heavily.

The metallic voice boomed across to them.

“Come alongside. I have fresh orders for you.”

Royce came to life, putting off tiredness like an old coat. “Leading Seaman Denton, stand by to collect orders! Cox'n report to the bridge. Mid, Starboard Watch stand by with fenders, we're going alongside.”

The orders fell from his lips automatically, it seemed, without thought.

With engines growling, Raikes steered the boat under the lee of the dark grey hull, while Royce hung anxiously over the screen, watching the gap of water narrow between them. One good bang and a lot of written reports would be called for.

At the destroyer's rail, a Sub-Lieutenant waited with a canvas bag, which he lobbed neatly at Royce's feet as he passed.

The voice of authority boomed once more. “I am detaching one of my corvettes for your little brood; you proceed to Rosyth and refuel. I understand you've got to take the Press to sea on your return trip. Cheerio, we must get on with the war. It's still on, you know!”

Royce was at a loss for a witty answer. His mind was in a whirl. Rosyth, it was a miracle. Julia. A miracle! Feverishly he tore the envelope open. It stated baldly that he was to return to base after refuelling, and join the flotilla without delay. In order not to waste a journey, however, three war correspondents were to be given a ride down. To gain the right “atmosphere,” no doubt.

Royce hummed gaily, as he bent over the chart. All his worries seemed unimportant now. Julia, at last.

“Steer north forty-five west, half speed. Yes, what is it, Mid? What's the matter?”

Leach was hopping. “It's Number One, sir, he's still aboard the
Madame Zest!
”

Carver was still quivering when he swung aboard from a dangerous-looking ladder.

“Strewth, I thought you were cross with me,” he laughed. “Strewth! Didn't fancy stopping with those chaps. They're
real
sailors!”

With paintwork still gleaming, and the hands fallen in at their stations, the M.T.B. cruised easily alongside the oiling wharf, between a grubby corvette, and two M.L.s.

As the last rope snaked ashore, and the boat trembled to a halt, Royce called his officers to the bridge, and informed them of his new orders. “The point is, that we've got to get down to it. Drill them till they drop if necessary. You saw how they reacted to those airmen?” He could have added, “and you too.” “I have a feeling that we'll be seeing quite a bit of action when we rejoin the flotilla, so get 'em down to it.”

“What time do the Press arrive, sir?” Carver's face was quite straight.

“Any time now, so you look after them till I get back. I'm just going up to the Signal Station.”

“Would you like me to go, sir?” Leach was eager.

“Er, no, this is something special.”

Was there a glimmer in Carver's eye? I'll stop that. “Right, Number One, you can start now while you're waiting to fuel. Turn the hands to Damage Control Drill, and see if you can knock five minutes off the Fire Drill, too!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” But he still smiled.

In feverish haste, Royce shaved, and flung on a decent uniform, then hurried ashore, in search of the signal station. After a somewhat agonizing route, between oil pipes, mountains of wooden crates, and a squad of Home Guard drilling, he eventually found the lofty, whitewashed building, overlooking the graceful sweep of the anchorage.