A Prayer for the Ship (4 page)

Royce nodded.

“Call me when you sight Outer Spit buoy. That'll be about 0500.”

He paused as he passed to the bridge ladder. “It's all so bloody futile, isn't it?” and then he was gone.

Royce checked the course, and leaned against the screen, his chin pillowed on his hands, suddenly desperately tired and cold, his face stiff with salt spray, and the towel wrapped around his neck soggy and raw against the skin. On and on thundered the boats, and still he stood as if in a trance, only once stiffening when he heard the Coxswain supervising the removal of Mead's body, his watch- keeping companion of how long ago? Only four hours; it seemed like a lifetime.

Far ahead he saw the steely grey fingers of the dawn creeping almost cautiously across the horizon, and the dim shapes of the other boats took on a hard realism. Up and down the weaving line, red-rimmed eyes peered out for friends, and weary, muffled figures waved and sighed with relief. As far as Royce could see, Emberson's boat was the only one with visible damage. A line of holes above the waterline, and one larger gash in the deck just aft of the port torpedo tube, not too bad, in fact.

“Outer Spit buoy on the starboard bow,” reported the lookout, and Royce peered at his watch, 0445.

He leaned to the Captain's speaking tube. “Captain, sir,” he called. “In position, Outer Spit ahead.”

Harston joined him, and silently, side by side, they stood and watched the landmarks taking shape in the growing light. First the dull hills at the back of the port, then, more sharply defined, the long, low harbour walls, the boom-gate, now open to receive them, and a couple of outward-bound trawlers, jauntily thrusting their blunt bows into the choppy sea, their spindly funnels belching smoke, their tattered ensigns fluttering defiantly as any cruiser. The hands fell in for entering harbour, silently this time, only dimly aware of their surroundings, and only thinking of sleep, the sailor's cure for everything.

Through the harbour mouth, and up the stream, past the heavy cruiser
Leviathan.
On the cold morning air they heard the shrill notes of a bugle sounding Reveille, “Wakey, wakey, lash up and stow,” and as they threaded their way between the moored vessels, unnoticed, except by the vigilant signal tower, the anchorage roused itself for another day.

First to the petrol jetty to take on fuel, then, while the other boats made for the Depot Ship, they pulled over to the railway wharf, where Royce saw a khaki ambulance waiting to take young Mead on his last trip. They watched it drive away, then slipped once more, and in the harsh, bright morning sunlight they tied up alongside the
Royston
's catwalk. Seven o'clock exactly.

The Depot Ship's maintenance men, wide awake and freshly shaved, hurried aboard and went to work. Royce dismissed the hands and sleepily watched them scramble up the steep side and disappear. Then, together, the two officers went over the main gangway, where Harston handed his brief, scribbled report to a messenger, and they were confronted by Artie Emberson, his reddened face creased into a smile. He slapped two hands on Harston's shoulders, and pulled him towards him.

“So you're still here, you old devil, and I thought I'd be able to have your breakfast this morning!” But his obvious relief shone in his eyes.

Breakfast was a hurried, silent meal, as the grubby officers mechanically warmed their chilled insides with the carefully prepared food, and then, with a tired smile here, and a pat on the shoulder there, they dragged themselves to the sane, quiet privacy of the little cabins. As Royce closed his door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked at the grey, lined, and suddenly aged face which stared back at him. He didn't remember undressing, or dabbing his sore skin with the steaming water. He just managed to heave his body between the gentle sheets and switch off the light, and the next instant he was safe from the sea, from patrols, and from himself.

I
N THE MONTHS
that followed, the war at sea, as far as Royce was concerned, pursued a regular, wearying pattern. Night after night they patrolled their scattered areas of the North Sea, covering the vital convoys which crept up and down the East Coast, and sometimes there was the variation of the hit-and-run dash across to the mud flats of the Dutch coast in search of the enemy's supply ships. Like the men who manned them, the little ships knew every stress and strain as the momentum of war quickened, and the carefully laid rules were overlooked or savagely broken. Often in foul weather, and always at faster speeds than their engines were expected to tolerate, they pushed into the night, their wooden hulls twisting and bucking, while the cold North Sea winds moaned through every crack and crevice, making the watch below groan, and clutch their damp blankets closer to their chilled bodies. On watch, these men fought against sleep, and off watch, rest was denied them by the cold nights, and the uneven motion of the mess-decks, which took every opportunity to bombard them with crockery, wet clothing, and the ever-penetrating sea water, which slopped about them, and made their lives a misery. Even the prayed-for refits became scarcer and shorter, as the cry went out for more ships, and more men. In the middle of these confused circumstances, Royce grew up, and became a useful and efficient member of their little world which was cut off from the rest of the fleet, and, in fact, from any other way of life. He now knew the life history of every member of the crew, their likes and dislikes, and their weaknesses. Their hopes and fears he shared.

It was not, as he repeatedly told himself, quite as they had said it would be when he left the training establishment at Hove. Apart from that breath-taking encounter on his first patrol, he had not caught even a smell of the enemy. His war so far had mainly been against the weather, plus a steadily mounting struggle with the boat's technical and domestic affairs, of which the latter was becoming rather out of hand. It was, as far as he could see, a case of a good crew overworked and pushed to breaking-point, with little prospect of improvement. His opposite numbers in the flotilla assured him that all would be well in action, but as that seemed a cruel justice to him, he painstakingly carried out his duties ashore and afloat, in a great effort to avoid a queue of defaulters at the Captain's table, or the miserable collection of leave-breakers and deserters, which some First Lieutenants were having to contend with. The result, although not startling, was gratifying, and was not unnoticed by Harston, who left more and more tasks to his assistant, in the safe knowledge that they would be carefully and intelligently carried out, without the fear of an aftermath of furious signals from base, or disgruntled comments from the Coxswain. The other result was that Royce's social life was now at a standstill. With the exception of brief visits to a giant Nissen hut in the harbour limits, lavishly called the Officers' Club, he had confined his activities to the Depot Ship. With these thoughts in mind, he sat in his cabin half-heartedly concocting a letter to his parents. He found it difficult to write in a matter-of-fact way that would please his mother, and yet find suitable information about the war, of which he knew little, for the sake of his invalid father, who was, in his own way, a keen strategist. In addition, he knew that any one of these letters might well be his last. Both the other East Coast groups had been encountering heavy opposition of late, and it seemed likely that their turn would come again soon.

He finished the letter with a flourish, and a sigh, and reached for his pipe. At that moment, the door slid open, and Harston and Artie Emberson were framed in the light.

“Well, well, well,” drawled the latter, “so this is where your little slave hangs out!” He surveyed the spartan cabin, which resembled all the others in the ship to an exact degree.

“Hmm, most tastefully furnished too. As you have stated, John, this is a very adaptable lad.”

Harston grinned. “Sorry to upset your solitude, Number One, but you'll doubtless be horrified to know that S.O.O. has granted the flotilla a night in harbour. Apparently they want the whole area cleared of small fry so that our larger friends can get in some sea time!”

Emberson interrupted. “And as the junior partner, we thought you might be interested in having your education extended by a run ashore to the old White Hart with us. You like?”

Royce was already buttoning his jacket, and searching for his respirator. “Thanks very much; two pieces of good news in one evening is more than I can resist.”

Emberson winked. “Not only a keen lad, but eager!”

The White Hart was situated half-way along the port's High Street, between the food office and a musty-looking restaurant, its high, ornate façade giving the appearance of vulgar opulence amongst the other neglected and weather-beaten buildings. As the three officers pushed open the swing doors and fumbled through the heavy blackout curtains, the brassy, cheerful noise, coupled with the mixed aromas of beer and tobacco, overwhelmed them. The evening was young, but already the bar was half filled with early drinkers, mostly naval officers from the local flotillas, with a pale blue sprinkling of the Air Force Coastal Command base nearby. Here and there, in the odd corners of the vast lounge, were the seemingly misplaced regular customers, their dowdy suits making a sharp contrast with the uniforms. They too were mixed, either elderly, sitting quietly with their friends and watching the young sailors' friendly horseplay, or young and loud-mouthed, the product of the port's reserved occupations. These latter were usually overpaid and, therefore, overconfident of their new surroundings.

The long bar of dark wood, shiny with bright lights and spilt beer, was ably controlled and easily dominated by a cheerful barmaid of supreme proportions, who scurried to and fro with pots and glasses, her plump face split into a permanent grin, and her speedy service punctuated with giggles and nods to her thirsty court, and a hurried, “Sorry, love, no spirits,” to any strange face which hovered near her domain. The landlord, a rotund and grizzled little man, in a shabby tweed suit, remained at the end of the counter, passing the time with his cronies, and keeping a watchful eye on the busy scene.

Emberson shouldered his way through the crowd. “Ah, Grace, my beloved,” he called, “could my friends and I have three large pints, and three halves of your very best cider.”

Grace beamed. “Oo, sir, I thought you'd be out tonight, what a nice surprise.”

“So much for security,” said Emberson, with mock sadness.

Royce eased his way through the crush, and plucked at his sleeve. “I don't like cider; thanks, the beer'll do.”

“Shurrup, nitwit!” hissed Emberson. “It's Scotch! What do you want to do, start a riot in here?”

They found a small table, conveniently abandoned by the R.A.F., and sat back, stretching luxuriously.

Harston drank deeply. “The friendliest joint in the town,” he smiled, “and with Artie's influence over the queen there, we are more or less well in for the duration.”

“Dear me,” replied the lawyer. “A most unfortunate expression. When will you realize that my feelings for the wee Grace are just platonic.” He regarded Harston solemnly. “You, sir, have no soul. How can you keep the respect of young Clive here, if you can't learn to moderate your approach to the fair sex.”

Royce relaxed in his chair, enjoying the wrangling of his companions, and feeling for the first time accepted into the close fraternity which he had chosen a year—a lifetime—ago.

The evening wore on, and the bar filled to its uproarious capacity, while from the radio Vera Lynn did her best to comfort the nation's young men elsewhere. Here in the White Hart her efforts seemed wasted. Royce's mind swam happily, and he seemed vaguely unable to prevent his face from slipping into a vast smile of good fellowship. His detached thoughts were shattered by a mighty slap on the shoulder which made him cannon into the table, nearly causing a disaster.

Benjy Watson's shiny pink face floated over them, and behind him two other officers of the flotilla struggled manfully with a large parcel.

“My dear old soaks!” he boomed. “I've had the most ghastly night; these two dreadful characters have been leading me astray.” He silenced their protests with a wave of a huge fist. “You know I wanted the ‘Save for Victory' banner from the post office to go round my bridge? Well, these silly baskets got me so flustered, I got the wrong one. It's all about a Dog Show! I ask you, a Dog Show! I haven't got a dog!” He pulled a bottle from one jacket pocket, and a glass from the other, while the others howled with laughter at this latest crazy episode.

“You lunatic!” roared Harston. “No wonder we're always at sea, this town isn't safe from you!”

With the arrival of the irrepressible Watson and his accomplices, the quiet party was shattered, and Royce's sides ached, as he found himself caught up in an act that would have made a small fortune on any variety stage.

The lights had just been dimmed to herald “Last Orders”— shouted announcements would have been useless—when the curtains parted, and above the milling bodies, a blue steel helmet, with the word “Police” painted on the front, could be seen making its way to the bar.

Benjy's jaw dropped, and a look of complete horror crossed his face.

“Christ! I've been rumbled at last, and caught with the loot too!”

He wheeled rapidly to his grinning companions. “Don't stand there like a shower of silly oafs, get rid of that banner, and let's get out of here!”

As one man they downed their drinks, the parcel skidded beneath the legs of two startled airmen, and in a compact, if unsteady, body they forced their way to the doors. Even as they reached the curtains the policeman yelled out above the din, “An air-raid warning has just been sounded, so be careful you don't show any lights when you leave.”

Benjy was hustled protesting up the street.

“But what about my banner?” he implored. “All that trouble for nothing. I'll do that silly copper if I ever see him again.”

Harston chuckled. “Time for bed, little man, it definitely was not your day for carrying the banner.”

Still laughing, they arrived at the barbed-wire enclosure of the harbour area, and automatically straightened themselves as they produced their identity cards to the weary sentries. Benjy was still muttering and bewailing his loss when they reached the windswept pier, and only when they split up and went to their cabins on the Depot Ship did he start to smile.

“You just wait, I'll get you something really worthwhile next time,” he promised.

Royce was past caring. He was happy, and the Navy was just too wonderful for words.

The flotilla swept gaily through the boom-gate, weaving and dipping in the easy swell, as they picked up their stations on the Leader. A keen breeze swept over the tiny bridge of M.T.B. 1991, as Royce listened to the hands in the various parts of the boat reporting that they were “Closed up to exercise action,” the normal practice when leaving harbour, to ensure that all sections were working correctly. As the last reported, “Port Oerlikon closed up, sir,” Royce informed the Captain that all was well.

Harston hardly seemed to notice. He was visibly excited, and in fact, new life seemed to have crept into the whole crew, as this was not just another patrol, not another aimless battle with the weather. The sweep by the destroyers on the previous night had broken up three enemy convoys off the Dutch coast, and the R.A.F. had reported that they were making an effort to reform and press on up the coast, doubtless loaded with vital supplies for the armies in Denmark and Norway, and for the German Baltic fleet. The flotilla's job was to intercept and destroy the rearmost convoy. All morning they had laboured with the maintenance staff to get everything in first-rate order, and extra care had been taken as the long, evil-looking torpedoes had been greased and slid into the tubes on either side of the boat, and now, as the low coastline was swallowed up in the dusk astern of them, they all knew that this was to be another supreme test of their skill in the handicraft of war.

“Defence stations now,” said Harston, “and make sure everyone gets a good whack of food during the next two hours. And we'll get some corned beef sandwiches laid on for the return journey too. I think they'll have earned it by then.”

Harston went below for his customary cat-nap, and half of the crew followed his example, in order that they could be fed in two watches. No longer did Royce tremble at the loneliness of the bridge; in fact, he enjoyed the feeling of complete power that he had over the lithe, trembling hull beneath his feet. As Harston had told him that first day, he now knew the difference between a trawler and this three-and-a-half-thousand horsepowered killer.

On and on they went, and as the sky darkened they met a solitary destroyer on patrol, creeping along like a great grey shadow, in the hopes of surprising a raider, or assisting some convoy straggler.

The new signalman, Collins, a stolid north-countryman, turned his head. “Signal sir, from destroyer:
Should you be out alone so late?
Any reply, sir?”

“Make:
If we had been E-boats, we'd have been picking you out of the drink by now!
” snapped Royce.

There was a chuckle, as the lamp clattered away in the corner of the bridge.