A Prayer for the Ship (9 page)

They watched in silence, as if in homage to the dying ship, the old hands with a hard feeling of satisfaction, the others, like Royce, in shocked wonderment. They cruised for a while around the creeping patch of flaming oil, knowing in their hearts that there would be nobody left to save from such a holocaust, but peering into the greasy water just in case. Only the pitiful oddments remained, a life-raft, a few pieces of smouldering deck planking, and a smoking bundle of charred rags and flesh, face down, a despairing shoulder turned against the desperate land of the living.

Kirby found it difficult to conceal his jubilation, and paced impatiently back and forth, until, with a hasty glance at his watch, he ordered his flotilla to reform, and continue northeast up the coast.

“That'll show them, Number One,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Now we'll see what else we can find.”

Royce glanced at him in surprise.

“Surely we're not going to stay here, sir?” he asked. “That ship must have been waiting for her escorts, and in any case, the local support groups will have been alerted by now, and they'll be down on us like a ton of hot bricks. It's happened before like that to this flotilla.”

The pale blob of Kirby's face turned towards him for some moments.

“Getting cold feet, Royce? There's no need to go to panic stations yet, you know.”

Royce felt his face burning, and remembered his own foolish remarks to Leading Seaman Parker before that first patrol. “Certainly not, sir, it's just that we've always pulled away from this coast after an attack; there's no room to manoeuvre.”

“I think I know this business better than you,” snapped Kirby. “I would be very much obliged if, in this instance, the amateurs would stand fast, and try to learn something for a change.”

He jerked his head back in the direction of Emberson's boat. “Take him, for example. Wasted two torpedoes, mine would have been quite sufficient. And in any case, he missed altogether with one!”

“We might have missed with ours, sir, then it would have been very different.”

“Really, that's very interesting,” Kirby's voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I'm not in the habit of wasting valuable equipment. I'm not in the Service just for a lark while there's a war going on; I'll trouble you to remember that!”

Royce choked back the hot fury that made his eyes swim with rage.

“Aye, aye, sir,” was all he dared allow himself to say.

As he lay against the side of the bridge, steadying his glasses, he found it difficult to believe that anyone could be so utterly callous and pompous, to be able to give a lecture about his career, quite calmly, after having just destroyed a valuable enemy ship. It was quite fantastic, all the more so, because he was so sure of himself, so self-reliant.

For two hours they cruised through the night, the dark coastline never far abeam, and then, quite suddenly, they saw the two trawlers coming straight towards them. Royce's heart sank. It seemed inevitable that they should meet again with the “floating forts,” and that this would be another wall of destruction.

“They might be the flak-boats!” he shouted, above the increasing roar of the engines, “Covered with guns and concrete!”

Kirby paid no heed, but headed straight for the nearest vessel.

Both trawlers were flashing lights wildly, and turning away from each other, their shapes lengthening, their stumpy funnels clearly visible.

“Open fire!” shouted Kirby, and the bridge rattled and vibrated as the tracer shells clawed towards the nearest dark shape. The Oerlikons joined in with their ear-shattering rattle, and at once a flurry of splashes churned the water around the trawler into a white frenzy, moving steadily, until a ripple of flashes tore along the decks, to hover, and then hold the high bridge in a deadly cross-fire. Pieces of wood flew in every direction, and faintly the sounds of breaking glass were heard, as the wheelhouse windows flew to fragments, carving the helmsman to ribbons. She slewed round and stopped, steam pouring from her, and flames beginning to take hold of the superstructure, and as they turned round her stern, Deith's 1815 shot into view, his tracers swamping the other trawler with a deluge of fire, and like her sister, she began to settle down, a dense pall of smoke rolling over the sea towards them.

Kirby snatched the hand-set of the loud-hailer, his crisp voice carrying clearly above the crackle of burning woodwork and exploding ammunition.

“Get back in station,” he yelled, “I can finish this one off.”

Deith's speeding boat turned in a creamy circle, and the whole flotilla must have heard his angry voice boom across the water. “My bird, I think, sir!”

“Impudent young puppy,” fumed Kirby. “We'll see about that!” He flounced up and down the bridge, to the obvious delight of Collins, and then calmed himself with a supreme effort. “Steer west-south-west, and take up course for base,” he snapped. Then, as if to let off steam, “So much for your ‘Floating Fortresses.' It seems I've come along just at the right time!”

As the flotilla sped for home, and even until the horizon began to lighten, Royce stood silent and fuming beside his superior, not daring to speak, and conscious only of a helpless feeling of frustration at the unfairness of Kirby's remarks, and at the ruthless way he was so obviously determined to capture as much of the limelight as possible for himself.

He mellowed a little at the sight of the glorious, glowing ball of the sun, rising in all her splendour over the horizon, and bringing life and colour to the flat glassy sea. It was a rare experience for them to sail in the sunlight, and as they felt the little early morning warmth fan their tired faces, they felt that the fangs of the night had been temporarily drawn.

“Aircraft, sir. Red nine-oh!”

The gunner's warning cry made heads turn skywards as one, and soon the glasses of the flotilla focussed on the minute black speck which had appeared from between the high, fleecy clouds.

“There's another, and another, by God, there's 'alf a dozen of 'em!” muttered Collins.

The hunt was on, and already these planes would be calling their base for reinforcements.

The six aircraft turned in a wide semi-circle, their wings glinting, until the sun was behind them, and then in a perfect line they screamed down to the attack.

Again the M.T.B.s' armament rattled into life, as every boat sent a barrage of shells and bullets to meet the attackers. Down, down, down they came, until the black crosses were clearly visible on their wings, and then the first in line, garishly painted in yellow stripes, opened fire with his battery of wing-mounted machine-guns, and a shower of woodwork and loose gear flew from one M.T.B.'s deck. But the concentrated barrage was too much for the others, and they pulled violently out of their dive, one with a light plume of smoke streaming behind it.

Marshalled by Yellow-Stripes, they re-formed and headed for the clouds, and it was only then that they saw the five Spitfires zooming low over the water, rolling their wings in welcome.

“I'm going below now,” informed Kirby. “Signal the Spit-fires:
About time too,
” and he stamped down the ladder.

Collins picked up his lamp, but Royce shook his head.

“Make:
Pleased to see you,
” he grinned. “That sounds a bit better!”

The fighters streaked off after the Germans, and the sea became an empty glassy mirror of reflected morning glory.

“Signal from 3007:
That bugger has made a mess of my new deck,
” repeated Collins with a broad smile.

Poor old Jock, but still it was a relief no one was hit.

They had a big welcome back to the base, when they cruised slowly and carefully alongside the Depot Ship, the hands fallen in at their stations, and ensigns fluttering bravely. Kirby had made signals in every direction as they had crossed the boom, so that no doubt would be left in the minds of the naval staff as to whose victory it really was.

When the Depot Ship bugler was sounding “Sunset” that evening, they gathered together in the bar, where another piece of news was awaiting them.

Benjy Watson burst excitedly into their midst, his face beaming with pleasure. “Guess what, old Artie's half-stripe has come through; the Little Admiral's got a rival now!”

Deith raised his glass, “Good old lawyer, he's damned well earned it too!”

Emberson entered the wardroom at that moment, his face thoughtful, and in seconds his back was being thumped, and a large glass put in his hand.

Royce smiled, and called above the din, “I'm very pleased, Artie; how does it feel?”

“Yes, what's it like Lootenant-Commander?” quipped Benjy.

Emberson looked sadly at each one in turn, before speaking, as if to memorise each friendly face.

“It's not as easy as all that, chaps. I'm being drafted to Harwich as Senior Officer of a flotilla of Fairmile M.T.B.s, so you see, this is the end of the road for us,” he ended quietly.

Their faces fell. It didn't seem right to break up the old crowd like this. Up to now, only death or disablement had parted them.

“Och, that's a raw deal.” Jock Murray was the first to speak. “We'll miss you, lad.”

Emberson straightened up. “I'm off tomorrow afternoon, so tonight let's have the mother and father of all parties!”

That was a cheering thought, especially as they knew that they were not required to go to sea for at least two more days.

“Right, but where'll we have it?” queried Lieutenant Cameron. “Can't have it aboard here, without Kirby and other outsiders horning in, with all due respect to your C.O.,” he added with a grin, turning to Royce.

“No,” agreed Emberson. “We'll have it aboard my boat, and Benjy's, as he's right alongside me.”

He turned to Benjy. “Now you've got work to do. Get some Wren types laid on, tell them it's a farewell party, so they don't think we're up to anything. And you, Jock, you're in charge of bonded stores. Scrounge all the booze you can. And get some beer as well from the White Hart. I think that just about covers everything.”

One hour later, the Quartermaster was treated to the happy spectacle of some sixteen officers threading their way along the catwalks to two of the M.T.B.s, each carrying an assortment of bottles, and hastily prepared snacks that the chief cook had been heavily bribed to prepare, whilst across the water floated feminine laughter, as the duty boat arrived from the signal tower. Benjy had made a good haul, somehow or other; not one presentable Wren officer now remained on duty in the port.

The atmosphere in Artie's tiny wardroom, which measured about eighteen by ten, was close, to say the least, but as the guests arrived it was evident that the cramped quarters would be a help rather than a hindrance.

Lieutenant Peter Page, Artie's Number One, had done well. In about half an hour he had folded up the bunks, put down a borrowed carpet, produced flowers, and still found time to fix up a kind of buffet, of which he was now in charge.

After the usual shouted introductions, which nobody heeded anyway, the party really got started, and very soon, with the aid of a battered gramophone, some sort of dancing was in progress, consisting mainly of swaying back and forth over the precious carpet, bumping heads on overhead pipes, and treading on each other's feet. When exhausted, it was customary to take your partner on to the upper deck and sample the cool night air, before plunging back into the fray. It was in the latter position which Royce now found himself, with a ravishing blonde Third Officer called Sylvia, who now persisted in calling him “old solemn-face.”

Royce, who by this time was feeling slightly light-headed, proceeded to marshal his thoughts, and like all men who have had one too many, broached the question of Julia Harston, with what he fondly imagined was superb cunning, but what in fact sounded as if he was comparing the romantic Sylvia with one of many conquests.

“Really, darling,” she breathed, her expensive perfume mingling evenly with the scent of one of Benjy's gin-slings, “don't tell me you're one of those awful men of the world that mother warned me about?”

Royce tried again, but it was quite useless, so after a somewhat wet kiss, he piloted his charge back to the party, where he passed her over to Cameron, who, being a Romeo of the first water, was quick to take advantage of the situation, and together they took a further stroll on deck.

Emberson shouldered his way through to him, with yet two more glasses.

“Enjoying yourself, Clive?”

“Yes, thanks, Artie. That damned girl Sylvia whatsit, I was trying to pump some information out of her, about a girl I want to find, John's sister. She was in the signals here, but went on draft, after—”

“Good heavens, I knew he had a sister, but I didn't know she was here.” Emberson was plainly amazed. “Nice, is she?”

“She's wonderful,” sighed Royce. “Hates me, though.”

Emberson laughed until he shook from head to toe. “It sounds fine. Please don't mind my laughter, old friend, it's just the way you come out with things.”