A Prayer for the Ship (30 page)

“What about the bloody E-boats?” The booming voice was testy.

“Yes, they'll be in a covering sweep, about five miles ahead of the convoy. You're to go in, as if you were making a normal sweep, and draw the E-boats off. You're to start the sweep at oh-one-oh-oh.”

There was a pause, while the water swished and slopped between the two boats.

“Okay! I hope the Intelligence reports are right for once! Good huntin'!”

The gunboats milled round their leader and then, after much gear-changing, they prowled off into the night, in a tight arrowhead formation.

To Carver's ill-concealed relief, Royce took over the con, and when they eventually picked up Kirby's cautious signal, he breathed a deep sigh of admiration. “Jolly good, Skipper. I don't know how you manage to get the exact rendezvous like that.”

“It's dead easy, Number One. He signalled, so we know it's the S.O. If he'd fired, we'd have been at the wrong place, see?” said Royce drily.

They cruised steadily towards the hidden coastline, the engines throttled down, and grumbling throatily.

Raikes, who had been moodily studying the bobbing stern of Cameron's boat, started suddenly. “Good 'eavens, I forgot!” he exploded.

The others peered at him uncertainly.

“A 'Appy New Year, gentlemen!” he said solemnly.

Carver laughed. “So it is. God bless us, every one!”

They reached round in the darkness and shook hands. Carver called out the news to Leach, who had gone aft to his Brownings, and there was a stifled cheer.

“The last year of war, perhaps,” said Royce thoughtfully. “Who knows?”

On the horizon there was a sharp crackle of automatic fire, and an impressive display of tracer shells. The gunboats were putting on their show.

“We've struck oil!” jerked Carver excitedly. “Now where is the—”

He was cut short by Kirby's action lamps flashing urgently, and the quickening roar of engines.

“Full speed ahead! Stand by torpedoes!” barked Royce. “Okay, John, get forrard. And keep your head down!”

The convoy was completely taken by surprise, as the lean hulls tore down upon them. They had confidently watched the E-boats tear after the gun boats, and settled down thankfully behind the powerful bulk of the destroyer.

Kirby's blackboard tactics swung smoothly into operation. The destroyer was to be first, and less than twenty seconds after the first gun had fired, two torpedoes burst in her engine room, and another reduced her fo'c'sle to a flaming hell.

Frantically she fired her secondary armament at the M.T.B.s as they flashed into the gleam of her own funeral pyre, and the night was ripped apart by the clatter of machine-guns and cannon. Yet another steel fish struck home, and with an eye-searing flash, she rolled on her beam-ends, the fires hissing and shooting out great geysers of scalding steam.

Royce saw the tracers rippling and bouncing along her upturned and streaming bilge keel, and then, with a frightful scream of rending metal, she vanished, leaving a small, glittering pool of burning oil.

The two transports were turning for the coast, but the leading vessel was hit twice by torpedoes before her rudder could be brought round. She listed heavily, and was shrouded in escaping steam.

Royce brought the boat slewing round, and fired his own sleek charges into the blackness. As he altered course, the engines racing, the night lit up with a thousand multi-coloured hues, as the ship broke in two and exploded.

The remaining ship was firing her guns frantically, and appeared to be out of control.

One M.T.B. was also in difficulties, with flames flickering out of her bridge.

Another great roar, and the last of the transports lifted her bows, and slid to the bottom.

In a welter of plunging wakes, the M.T.B.s tacked back into line, the sea dark again, but for the blazing M.T.B., now two miles astern.

Benjy's boat went about, and his voice boomed across the water.

“Kirby's bought it! Nip back and take off the blokes, will you? But don't hang about, Clive!”

Royce waved, and watched grimly as Benjy took over command of the flotilla, and led them, roaring away, towards safety.

“Stand by on the fo'c'sle, Number One. I'm going alongside. Get ready to pull the wounded aboard. We won't have a lot of time. The fire's got a good hold!”

He swung to the aft rail. “First-aid party, Mister Leach! Lively now!”

Raikes sucked his teeth, his eyes fixed on the blazing boat, looming closer and closer.

“Gently does it,” breathed Royce. The stench of petrol, and the warm breath of fire on his cheek, made his throat contract.

The seamen lined the rails, and he saw Carver leap on to the other boat's slanting deck as they scraped alongside.

The bridges of the two boats were side by side, and as the other one listed over, slowly and wearily, he saw the shambles clearly revealed by the growing flames.

Men were leaping wildly across the narrow gap to safety, while others were dragged ruthlessly over the rails, their injuries making them cry out pitifully.

He saw Kirby step stiffly from the wrecked bridge, his clothes in rags, his face a torn nightmare.

He seemed to see Royce looking down at him, and for a moment he stood there motionless. Then, he slowly bent forward, in a grotesque curtsy, his torn scalp gleaming dully, and pitched over the side between the two grinding hulls.

Royce retched.

“All off, sir,” yelled Carver, and with a quickening tremble they moved clear and, with bows lifting, speeded after the others.

Commander Wright strolled along the deserted jetty, sniffing appreciatively the crisp morning air.

In the harbour, a bugle sounded sadly, and one small harbour launch scudded across the anchorage, disturbing the nodding gulls perched on the buoys. He could taste the coffee on his tongue, and he hummed absently to himself as he scanned the clear, colourless sky. It had the makings of a fine day. When he reached the steps at the foot of the Signal Tower, he stared across to the heavy bulk of the
Royston.
Her moorings were still empty. He frowned, and consulted his watch, then looked out at the glittering line of the sea, towards which a dirty trawler puffed with slow, graceless rolls. They should be back now, he thought, and strolled into the signals office. The Yeoman was sitting back in a chair, his eyes puffy from too little sleep. Wright waved to him cheerily.

“Don't get up, Yeo, I'm just going to wait in the office here for a bit. The 'T.B.s'll be back soon. Any news?”

“As you know, sir, they got their objective all right. We had a signal from the gunboats two hours ago. I expect the M.T.B.s took a bit longer to find the destroyers that were going to escort 'em back.” The man yawned.

“Hmm, quite so,” mused Wright, and walked out on to the steps again.

A naval bus drew up by the gates, with a squeal of brakes, and Wright smiled, as about twenty Wrens climbed down, and made their way to the dockside canteen.

The pensioner driver called lustily after them: “Nah don't you be long, my cherubs. 'Alf an hour fer breakfast, an' we're off.”

He noted with surprise that one of the girls had detached herself from the group, and was walking uncertainly in his direction. As she drew close, his smile of admiration was replaced by one of recognition. She saluted, and he noted warmly how her jaunty cap had difficulty in controlling her delightful curls.

“And a very good morning to you, my dear,” he boomed jovially. “A Happy New Year, too.”

“Good morning, sir.” Her smile transformed her face. “I hope you don't mind, but I've got something to send over to Lieutenant Royce's boat.”

He saw she was holding a brown paper parcel.

“We're just passing through, you see,” she explained. “Going to the new Signals School.”

Wright grinned roguishly. “He told me you were coming down. The lucky young devil! But I'm afraid he's out on Ops at the moment. Should be back any time. Then you can give him the parcel yourself.”

Her face clouded, and her eyes glanced fearfully to the vacant buoys by the
Royston.
“Nothing too dangerous, is it, sir?” There was an edge to her voice.

“'Course not, my dear. Now you come into the S.D.O. and have a cup of tea, and I'll send someone to fetch you something to eat. Then we can wait for him together.”

She smiled gratefully, but he saw the haunted look in her eyes. As he leafed through the signals, he watched her standing by the windows, her slim body taut. He shook his head and sighed. If he had a girl like that, now—a bell jangled harshly.

“Captain C-F on the phone, sir,” said a rating, his hand over the mouthpiece.

“What the devil—oh, all right.” He took the instrument and listened intently.

The Captain's voice was crisp. “Had a signal from Coastal Command. You'll be getting it about now, but I can't wait. One of the boats has bought it, so you'd better arrange for all the usual stuff.”

“Was there some trouble then, sir? I thought the operation was pretty clear cut.”

The girl turned from the window, stiffening, her face white.

“Don't know anything else yet, Commander. But inform the hospital at once to get ready.”

The line went dead, and he slowly replaced the receiver. “Bad news, isn't it?” Her voice was hoarse.

“We don't know yet,” he said grimly. “Come on, we'll get up to the main jetty where they come in.”

In silence they hurried along the foreshore, the plump, red-faced Commander, and the small Wren at his side, until they arrived at the old harbour entrance. There was a strong smell of seaweed and fuel oil.

Wright tensed, a string of flags rose to the yard of the boom vessel. “Damn my eyes! They must be able to see the boats. Can you see 'em, girl?” He gripped her arm tightly.

The sea was smooth and glassy, and in the far distance she saw the fast-moving craft sweeping defiantly across the early-morning stillness, ploughing up great rollers of crested foam. The air trembled and slowly filled with the vicious snarl of the racing engines, until all other sounds were swamped, and the very wharf seemed to vibrate under their feet. Nearer and nearer they came, in a perfect formation, the ensigns flapping wildly, making a splash of colour against the sombre grey hulls.

Wright was counting, “Five, six, seven. Just one missing.”

She clenched her hands until the nails bit into her palms. It mustn't be, it can't be, her heart cried out. Not now. Oh God, spare him. Her eyes smarted, so that she could hardly see the slim shapes as they roared round the headland and into the harbour reach. The first boat bore a line of scars along her fo'c'sle, and two still shapes lay on her stained deck, covered by their blankets.

Good old Benjy, thought Wright, he's made it again.

One by one they nosed up to the jetty, where the ambulances stood patiently.

“By God!” roared Wright deafeningly. “There he is! There's your boy!”

M.T.B. 9779 screeched alongside the rubber fenders of the jetty, and the ropes snaked ashore to the waiting hands. The engines sighed away to stillness as the stretcher-bearers went aboard.

She was running now, blindly stumbling over the slimy, uneven stones, her eyes bright, and her lips parted.

Royce stepped slowly on to the jetty, his waterproof suit stained and blackened, his shoulders heavy, as he watched the wounded survivors going away.

Then, with a gasp of dazed recognition, he saw her. She didn't stop running until she fell breathless into his outstretched arms.

“Julia, what are you doing here?”

He held her tightly, shielding her from the scene behind him.

“I brought you your present, darling.” There was a sob in her voice, as she pulled the parcel from under her arm. “You're safe, you're safe,” she murmured.

With his free hand he tore open the parcel. It was a bright yellow scarf. He laughed and wrapped it round his neck, then, gently, he lifted her chin, and studied her face seriously.

“Are you happy now, darling?”

She nodded, and together they walked up the jetty.

Behind them, the little ships lay quiet and still.

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