Convoy Homeward (John Mason Kemp Thriller Book 6) Page 13

  ‘Sorry to hear it, love, very sorry. Only a dream, though. Best forget all about it now, eh?’

  ‘I can’t, it’s still on my mind. It was really vivid, I see him go in, hear the door bang shut, hear the torpedo. I see him struggling like in vain, see his face, all cold and all twisted up with fear.’

  ‘What you might call a frozen expression?’ Cocky suggested, grinning.

  She turned on him, fag breath and all, beat at him with small clenched fists. ‘Don’t bloody make a joke of it, it was reel. To me it was.’ She added, turning away from him, ‘Like an omen. Just like an omen.’

  ‘No,’ he said reasonably. ‘Couldn’t have been. Dreams are like that, daft mostly. Like I said — just forget all about it, love.’ He cuddled her, for there was more he wanted before once again taking up his satchel from its hook and pounding what he called his book. But she stiffened in his groping grasp and said no, she didn’t want it, not after that awful dream. She just couldn’t. Not just yet, anyway.

  ‘Tonight, love?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I’ll come round anyway, usual time, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ she said in a voice that to Cocky Bulstrode seemed somewhat small, frightened even. ‘I’m ever so worried,’ she said. ‘It’s made me think, like. Anything can happen at sea, any time. Here one moment, gone the next. I never really thought about it like that, never. Not till now. I’d be all on my own, see. Lost. On me tod with a war on. Wouldn’t I?’

  Cocky was by nature cautious. ‘Well …’

  ‘That’s what would happen. There’d be just you. I … I’d like to feel you were, well, around.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I understand, love. You can rely on me if the worst happened.’ The worst, in Cocky’s view, would be if hubby survived and came home when he wasn’t expected, which could be very awkward indeed even though Cocky had a ready tongue. It would depend, of course, on what he and Roxanne happened to be doing at the time, just having a friendly drink, or — well. If it happened to be the latter then it wouldn’t be funny. Cocky Bulstrode had seen photographs of Chief Steward Chatfield: he was big, a real heavyweight. Never, so far as Cocky knew, been a boxer but he certainly did have the build. It wasn’t only Cocky’s physical form that would be at risk, either: his insurance company had a reputation to keep up and wouldn’t go much on agents who dallied with the clientele. Conversely, if hubby never did turn up, if he did get sunk like in the nightmare just ended, then Cocky might get stuck for life, which was definitely not his idea. Cocky was accustomed to roam with his book: Fareham, Cosham and down into Pompey where there were any number of lonely wives with husbands at sea, just like Southampton itself. No, he really wouldn’t want a wife.

  It might be prudent to stand off just a little. He might not turn up after all, come the evening. He could always plead pressure of work.

  Having washed and dressed and had a good breakfast of Roxanne’s ration of one egg and a rasher of bacon, plus toast and marmalade and ersatz coffee, he took up his moneybag, kissed Roxanne, circumspectly, in the hall and departed on his rounds, picking up the Morris Eight in the anonymous street a safe distance away.

  *

  In a different part of the United Kingdom worry of another sort entirely was taking place. In Kemp’s home in Meopham not far from the port of Tilbury, peacetime home of the Mediterranean-Australia Lines’ ships, Mary Kemp, lonely in the house now that John’s old grandmother had died, waited for the telephone to ring and tried to control the shake in her hands. Early that morning there had been very bad news. A telegram had come from the Admiralty: one of their two naval sons, Harry, had been reported missing after his ship, a light cruiser on convoy escort duty in the North Atlantic, had been engaged and sunk by German aircraft as the convoy had come into the danger zone of the Western Approaches, ‘MISSING BELIEVED DROWNED’ the telegram had said. Waiting in despair until nine thirty when the Mediterranean-Australia Lines London offices would be open, she had spoken directly to the Chairman. Sir Edward had been very concerned: he would do his best to obtain more information from the Admiralty, where he had a number of contacts. He would telephone the moment he had any news.

  So Mary waited. Waiting, she thought about the terrible state granny would have been in had she been still alive. Harry had always been her favourite, and he had been fond of her as well, her bedroom — she’d been bed-bound for years — always what he called his first port of call after arriving home from school or, more recently, on leave. Thinking of granny now, she found herself wishing her back alive so that they could be some comfort to each other. Loneliness was a scourge, the more so in wartime. As John Kemp, half the world away, had suspected, Mary missed even the peremptory thump of granny’s walking-stick on the bedroom floor, the thump that announced some want or other to be instantly met. Granny had been a nuisance and a tremendous burden to a wartime housewife coping with rations and shortages of all manner of things and queues and bombs and a lack of help in the house, but she had been basically strongly supportive, kind and generous. She had also been someone to turn to when a couple of years earlier in the war another telegram had come, similar in content to this morning’s, also announcing Harry missing presumed drowned. That had ended happily: Harry’s destroyer in the Mediterranean had also been sunk whilst escorting a convoy, but Harry had turned up safe that time on the island of Pantellaria off the North African coast to become a POW and later had managed to escape.

  The telephone didn’t ring. Mary occupied her mind by writing out a list of chores for that morning: butcher to pay, rations to be bought there and at the grocer’s, try for some fish, a pair of shoes to be soled and heeled, clean the kitchen range which used to be cleaned by Mary’s version of Mrs Mopp but which wasn’t any longer because Mrs Mopp had gone into munitions and was now rather hoity-toity … get her hair done because it was a mess, and see the local builder about some loose slates after a bomb had landed in a nearby field.

  At a little after noon the telephone rang. There was, Sir Edward said, no further news.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how very sorry I am … but you must not lose hope. I’m told by the Admiralty that there’s every hope Harry will have been picked up by another ship. It’s just that up to the time I spoke to them, there hadn’t been any lists available — naturally they have to wait for the full reports to come in.’

  Sir Edward refrained from saying that, Harry’s convoy having come under attack, there would be little likelihood of a sea rescue. But Mary said, in a dead-sounding voice, ‘They never do stop to pick up survivors. I know that.’

  ‘There are always exceptions, Mrs Kemp. It has to depend on the particular circumstances. I repeat, you must not lose hope. I really mean that. There is hope. You must believe me.’

  She asked, ‘Will my husband have been told? I’d really sooner he wasn’t. Not while he’s at sea, with so much to worry about.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sir Edward said. ‘In fact he’s not been told yet … the Admiralty has a human face, Mrs Kemp. They’ve considered the impact on a Convoy Commodore.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I did tell them … said I’d ask you —’

  ‘Tell them not to tell him, Sir Edward, please. I — I’ll do that myself when he gets home. That is, if I have to.’

  Putting down the receiver, Mary Kemp went straight to the kitchen to start on the range. It was always better to keep busy. And of course there was always hope. Granny would have said the same.

  *

  After the sea committal the Nazi POWs were in a belligerent mood. They were accorded their exercise period as usual, under a heavier guard today, Sergeant Tapapa having reported that the prisoners were truculent whilst being escorted up from their accommodation.

  ‘Sah!’ he had reported to his Adjutant. ‘They have called me unpleasant names and have only slowly and with menace obeyed my orders.’

  ‘What sort of menace, Sar’nt Tapapa?’

  ‘A waving of fists, sah.’

&nbs
p; ‘But you were not struck?’

  ‘Not struck, sah. Threat only, and noises. Loud voices, and some laughter at me, and things I did not understand.’

  The Adjutant nodded. ‘Very well, Sar’nt, I’ll ask the RSM to add to the guard detail and I’ll report what you’ve said to the Colonel.’

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Carry on in the meantime. And watch it — watch carefully that the Germans don’t try to get their hands on the men’s rifles for instance.’

  ‘Sah!’ Sergeant Tapapa saluted and executed an about-turn that was as smart as any guardsman could produce. But he marched away an anxious man: the Germans had looked and sounded very hostile indeed, as though they were blaming him personally for the death of their compatriot. And, although he had not understood the words — and the riflemen under his command had understood even less, for none of them spoke even English — Sergeant Tapapa had known very well that the Germans had been jeering at the black skins.

  In the office used for the trooping staff, the Adjutant of the rifles spoke to his RSM, asking for the guard to be strengthened.

  ‘Very good, sir. Permanently, or just for this morning, Captain Harding?’

  ‘Let’s see how things develop, Mr Nunn.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  Harding asked, ‘What’s your view, Mr Nunn?’

  ‘As to the Nazis, sir?’ RSM Nunn was a very British RSM, seconded from the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, the 60th Rifles. His back ramrod straight, he tweaked at the end of a waxed moustache and gave his opinion of the Nazis. ‘Scum, Captain Harding, real scum. That cheering when the ammunition-ship blew up. It takes scum to do that, Captain Harding, sir.’

  ‘Yes. But I think we shouldn’t regard them all as scum, Sarn’t-Major. Dangerous … prisoners, you know —’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Captain Harding, very aware of that. The Nazis will be treated properly, scum or not scum, and we shall incur no complaints from those what regard the Geneva Convention as the equivalent of the ’Oly Bible or the blocks of stone brought down from the mountain by Moses. But I’ll be keeping my ear to the ground, Captain Harding, sir, and my eyes front, back, and sideways.’

  Harding concealed a grin. ‘Meaning you expect trouble, Mr Nunn?’

  ‘Trouble, sir, yes, that is what I expect. And now if you’ll pardon me, sir, I’ll see about giving extra backing to Sar’nt Tapapa ’oo’s a good little bloke if black.’

  The RSM marched away, left-right-left just as though on parade at the Winchester depot of the 60th Rifles. Harding hoped he wouldn’t be putting a big sergeant-majorly foot in it. RSM Nunn had lost a brother serving under General Auchinleck in the western desert — a Desert Rat, blasted by the guns of Rommel’s Afrika Corps.

  Chapter Eleven

  The convoy had slowed some while earlier in order to accommodate the damaged cruiser, the Okehampton having been forced to reduce speed so as not to bring too much pressure of water on the torn fo’c’sle plating. She had reported some casualties; and the damage had included the rendering unfit for use of the two seamen’s messdecks situated in the fore part of the ship. Kemp watched her progress from the bridge of the Aurelian Star.

  ‘We’ve lost more time than we allowed for,’ he remarked to Finnegan. ‘We’ll be around fourteen hours adrift on our ETA at Ascension.’

  ‘Meaning we arrive after nightfall, sir?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. I don’t fancy hanging around with engines stopped in the dark hours. Nor do I fancy taking oil fuel at night. We’d need yardarm groups — too much damn light to home the U-boats onto us. That’s not on.’

  ‘Not on at all, I guess …’

  Kemp grinned. ‘Have another guess, sub?’

  Finnegan lifted his cap and scratched reflectively at his forehead. ‘Guess as to what, sir?’

  ‘What we ought to do about it.’

  ‘Simple,’ Finnegan said. ‘Make a signal to the senior officer, suggest the convoy and escort steam in circles till daylight, then start fuelling. How’s that, sir?’

  ‘Two minds with but a single thought, sub, to coin a phrase, apart from the circles. No reason why we shouldn’t steam up and down in our present formation. I don’t know why the senior officer hasn’t thought of it for himself.’

  ‘It takes a citizen of the good old USA, sir —’

  ‘Come off it, Finnegan, it’s my idea too. I’m going to stick my neck out.’ Kemp turned. ‘Yeoman?’

  Yeoman Lambert came across. ‘Yessir?’

  ‘Make, from Commodore to CS23, in view of delay in forthcoming ETA suggest convoy and escort maintain formation under way after arrival and throughout dark hours.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lambert had been writing the message down on his signal pad. Moving away, he began making the senior officer’s call sign on his Aldis lamp. There was a speedy acknowledgement from the cruiser. Kemp awaited for the reply. It came within a couple of minutes. Lambert approached the Commodore and read from his signal pad.

  ‘Commodore from CS23 sir. Your 1436. Do not propose to accept delay involved. Ships will take fuel on arrival and leave soonest possible. Time of origin 1440, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, yeoman.’ Kemp blew out a long breath. ‘Well, it’s his decision … his responsibility too. He’s taking a damn big risk in —’ He broke off as the senior officer’s signal lamp began winking again towards the Aurelian Star. Lambert made the acknowledgement, took down the signal, and once again read it off to Kemp.

  ‘Commodore from CS23, sir. My 1440. Yardarm groups will not repeat not be used. Fuelling will take place with the least possible light.’

  Kemp exploded. He said, ‘Of all the world’s constipated minds … the RN sometimes take the prize.’ He added, ‘Yeoman, just forget you heard that remark, all right?’

  Lambert grinned. ‘Cloth ears, sir, never heard a thing.’

  Kemp nodded. ‘And you, Finnegan.’

  ‘Sure, sir, Commodore. In the United States Navy —’

  ‘Save it, Finnegan, I’m not in the mood to appreciate the wonders of America.’

  Some ten minutes later the flagship’s masthead light went into action, making a general signal to all ships, repeating what had already been made to the Commodore. Kemp had the feeling that at least he had galvanized the senior officer of the escort into a decision, even though in Kemp’s view that decision was quite the wrong one. Unless CS23 was in possession of information as to the disposition of enemy forces that had not been made known to anyone else.

  *

  ‘There’s been a lot of signalling going on again,’ Gloria North way said, sitting at the bar. ‘What’s it all mean, Greg?’

  Hench shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You’re a man. Or supposed to be. Men know about these things, I always thought. Like they’re supposed to know about cars and railway timetables and choosing from menus.’

  ‘What’s the connection with naval signalling?’ Hench asked acidly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Forget it.’ After a pause she went on, ‘It’s just that I’m scared, I suppose. In case you don’t know, dearest Gregory, I’m a bloody bag of nerves. You wouldn’t notice, I suppose.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought —’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you? Men don’t, do they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hench, somewhat out of his depth, took refuge in ordering more drinks from Maclnnes. The usual in each case. The two passengers served, Maclnnes turned away and began polishing glasses, keeping within earshot while he did so. He knew what Miss North way was leading up to if Hench didn’t. Perhaps Hench did, he couldn’t be that insensitive, but preferred not to let on for reasons as aforethought by Maclnnes himself. Miss North way’s next utterance left no room for doubt, in Maclnnes’ ears anyway.

  ‘You know what the doctors recommend for women with nerves, don’t you, Greg?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Right first time. Bloody brilliant! Look, we’ve been into this before. You know we have. It’s abou
t time you did something about it.’

  Hench dithered, took a gulp at his whisky. He didn’t feel in the least ready for a romp in the hay. Once again he temporized. He muttered into his glass, ‘I don’t know what you really want, Gloria, I always —’

  ‘You know bloody well,’ she said venomously, then raised her voice. ‘You know bloody well I want to be, in your stupid phrase, taken advantage of.’

  Hench noted that the Holmeses had entered the lounge whilst Gloria’s voice had been at its highest. He also saw them both turn and leave again. As they did so, Captain Mulvaney of the Australian Army came across, grinning. He put a hand on Miss Northway’s bare shoulder. As she turned to him in sudden surprise he said, ‘Where I come from, that’s to say along by the Murrumbidgee, a man doesn’t need to be asked twice. Get me, bloke?’ he added to Hench. ‘Best make up your mind, hadn’t you?’

  Hench got to his feet, putting a hand on the bar to steady himself. ‘The lady’s no concern of yours,’ he said thickly. ‘I suggest you take your paw off her pronto.’

  ‘You do, eh? And what if I don’t? What happens then, bloke?’

  Hench gathered himself, looked belligerent. ‘I’ll deal with you.’

  ‘You and who else, eh?’

  ‘I — well …’ Hench looked around the lounge as though seeking assistance. He said, ‘I’ll hit you. Then there’ll be a scene. For the adjutant of the trooping staff to be seen fighting … it’ll be a matter for the ship’s Captain as well as your own OC Troops.’

  Mulvaney’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Just like a bloody pom, run to mummy.’ He removed his hand from Gloria Northway’s shoulder; she had made no move to remove it herself. ‘Be seeing you, lady,’ he said. Giving Hench a two-finger gesture, he turned away, grinning at the ex-planter’s discomfiture. Hench finished his drink and demanded another. He had a bad shake in his fingers, Maclnnes noticed, as he pushed the refill across the bar.