Convoy Homeward (John Mason Kemp Thriller Book 6) Page 15

  Holmes gave it ten minutes during which time the progress of the troops could be heard: crashings and bangings of equipment along the alleyways and heavy boots clumping up ladders for the embarkation deck. Then they emerged from their cabin, two elderly people, both rather frail and hesitant in a crowd, liable to stumble and fall if pushed. Holmes found himself thinking once again of Arse-end Portlock, wondering if he was now as decrepit as he was and then remembering, with something of a shock, that Arse-end Portlock had been killed by a bomb at Paddington.

  As the Holmeses reached the embarkation deck something large was seen approaching the Aurelian Star’s port side, coming in from aft. Mildred clutched at her husband’s arm. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  Holmes looked. ‘It’s one of the tankers, my dear, that’s all, nothing to worry about. They’re evidently fuelling us first. The Commodore’s ship, you see.’

  *

  ‘Here she comes, lads,’ Petty Officer Ramm said. He and Petty Officer Biggar, Biggar for’ard and Ramm aft, were under orders, along with their gunnery rates, to assist the troopship’s deck party with the handling of the fenders, wires and ropes as the big tanker manoeuvred alongside. ‘Brambleleaf,’ Ramm said. ‘Med Fleet before the war — seen ’er often enough.’ He was all set to reminisce now, impress the hostilities-only men with his memory and his service. ‘Commander-in-Chief, ’e was Admiral Sir William Fisher, flying ’is flag in the old Queen Elizabeth. The battleship, not the Cunard liner. Flag Lieutenant was a bloke called Duckworth … poor old Fisher died a year later, caught a chill taking the salute at the King’s birthday parade on Southsea Common, when ’e was C-in-C Pompey. Buried off the Nab, along with a load of other admirals what ’ad gorn before. Coffin aboard the Curacao, light cruiser. An’ what’s the matter with you, may I ask, Able-Seaman Sissons?’

  Stripey Sissons smirked. ‘Department of useless knowledge, PO. Them days is over.’

  ‘More’s the pity, and take that grin orf your face, Able-Seaman Sissons, or you’ll be up before the Commodore on a charge of Weedin’ impertinence, you’ll see.’

  ‘Sorry I’m sure, PO.’

  Ramm grunted. ‘You may know it all, Stripey, in fact you do, but there’s them as can do with a spot of naval ’istory.’ Ramm’s tone altered. ‘Right, lads, stand by now, Brambleleaf’s coming on and there’ll be lines flying around.’ He bent over the guardrail, checking the fenders. Stripey Sissons, standing by to take the first of the heaving-lines, thought about pre-war. True, it was over and done with, but there had been some good times. Stripey had seen a good deal of the world — West Indies, China-side, Singapore, Home Fleet in the days, back in the twenties, when it had been designated the Atlantic Fleet. But, looking back, his commission with the Mediterranean Fleet, also back in the late twenties, had been the most memorable. He hadn’t been married then, which meant among other things no mother-in-law; and life when ashore from the battle-cruiser Renown had held plenty of promise. Nights in Alexandria, nights in Gibraltar and other places, most memorable of all the nights ashore in Malta. Down Strada Stretta, better known to generations of roistering British seamen as the Gut; plenty of booze in the many bars, plenty of women in the rooms above the bars, a wee bit sleazy but never mind, you could always see the quack when you got back aboard after dipping your wick. The RN surgeons had had any amount of experience in that branch of medicine, you should just see the queues outside the sick bays of the fleet, every morning …

  Stripey’s dreams of heaven were cut short when a heaving-line from the Brambleleaf whizzed through the air, the monkey’s-fist at its end only just missing his head. Stripey, who was agile enough never mind his age, caught it expertly and began heaving it in, hand over hand, until the weight of the attached rope hawser came on and with the assistance of Ordinary Seaman Featherstonehaugh he struggled with it across the deck to place the eye over the troopship’s bitts. When the eye was in position Stripey shouted ‘All fast’ and seamen aboard the tanker hauled in on the sternrope. When Petty Officer Biggar, up for’ard, had secured the headrope and the springs were hauled taut, the hands aboard the troopship were fallen out to stand by their guns, the two petty officers keeping an eye lifting on the securing lines.

  On the bridge Maconochie and Kemp watched the lie of the RFA vessel closely. Maconochie, having the direct responsibility for his ship, would remain on the bridge throughout the operation. So would Kemp, though with the convoy hove-to he would be handy enough catching up on some much-needed sleep in his cabin immediately below the bridge, ready within half a minute if and when required. If there were U-boats in the vicinity, plenty of early warning would come from the guardships currently steaming up and down in protection of the convoy. But with the rest of the ship at boat stations he would not go below himself.

  As the two of them watched, RFA Oligarch was seen approaching the ex-liner next astern of the Aurelian Star. As in the case of the Brambleleaf she already had her own fenders rigged along her starboard side to supplement those of the receiving ship. Also as in their own case there were no hitches. Aboard the Commodore’s ship the oil pipelines were already being connected and shortly the discharge into the troopship’s tanks would begin. Kemp took a look all round the assembly of ships, using his binoculars in a slow sweep. Luckily the weather had held; there was a flat calm and scarcely any swell, just enough to make it essential for all the wires and ropes to be watched closely in case there was any heave that could put enough strain on the lines to part them. Kemp knew that it would be an anxious time for the masters of the tankers. Very fast action would be needed on their part to prevent a collision if a heavy surge should happen to come whilst fuelling was in progress.

  *

  Brigadier Pumphrey-Hatton was at the same boat station as Colonel and Mrs Holmes. He was dressed in his khaki-drill uniform with a heavy khaki pullover beneath his cork life-jacket. He seemed distrait, nervous, walking up and down his section of the embarkation deck below the lifeboat hanging from the davits with steadying lines rigged fore and aft until such time as it had to be lowered for taking its passengers aboard.

  He halted alongside the Holmeses.

  He said, ‘Ascension Island.’

  ‘Er-yes, Brigadier.’

  ‘Lucky it’s close. If anything happens.’

  ‘Yes, quite. Very handy. It might not have been.’ Holmes gave a chuckle; he had made a joke of a sort.

  Pumphrey-Hatton said irritably, ‘What d’you mean, it might not have been? If we hadn’t been here, neither would it. Stands to reason I’d have thought.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Holmes felt bewildered, as though he’d possibly missed something of military significance, thereby showing his age. ‘I take your point, Brigadier.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Colonel, very glad. It is necessary to make an assessment of any situation, an appreciation don’t you know. Good practice. Always tell my chaps that. No doubt you yourself did in your day.’

  ‘Er … yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘Which was your war, Colonel? South African — the Boers?’

  Holmes felt shock. ‘As a matter of fact, no. The Great War —’

  ‘Ah. Well, same thing. You’re all out-of-date now. In this one, you know. Agree?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ Holmes thought of good old Bill and Arse-end Portlock, who had both contributed to the war. ‘I believe we do still have a useful role — or some of us do, some who are a little younger than I. I —’

  ‘You’re disagreeing with me?’

  ‘Yes, I —’

  ‘Don’t, then.’

  Holmes gaped. ‘I beg your pardon, Brigadier?’

  ‘You heard what I said. Don’t damn well disagree with me. I happen to be right. There are too many damn disagreements and too many people not listening to complaints. I have had trouble with my bath water, did you know that?’ Pumphrey-Hatton had pushed his face close to Holmes’ and was staring belligerently. The old man took an involuntary step backwards, saying that
no, he hadn’t been aware of that.

  ‘I spoke to that purser feller. Didn’t do a damn thing about it! I told him my complaint was to be forwarded to the Captain for immediate action. Result, still no damn water coming through, either salt or fresh. You’d never think there was a war on. I shall represent it to that Australian — Harrison.’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘I doubt if you do. However — good luck to you. I hope you reach the Clyde, but I doubt if you will or your good lady either. If a convoy commodore can’t regulate a damn bath, how in heaven’s name was he ever given charge of a convoy?’

  Pumphrey-Hatton turned sharply and walked away. Holmes shook his head in sheer bewilderment. It was unforgivable for anyone to doubt their safe arrival home in front of largely scared civilians mustered at a time of danger at their boat stations. Holmes reassured his wife. ‘Don’t pay any attention, my dear. The man’s as mad as a hatter. All that disjointed talk.’ He shook his head. It was all very sad.

  *

  RSM Nunn was surveying the Germans assembled in the lounge beneath the blue police lights. He was doing so through the glass screen, from the deck outside. ‘They appear docile enough, Mr Treddle,’ he said, tweaking at his moustache.

  ‘Could be deceptive, Mr Nunn.’ RSM Treddle had lost the battle and had abandoned ‘mate’. ‘Can’t always go by appearances, eh?’

  ‘There’s truth in that, Mr Treddle, that I don’t deny.’ RSM Nunn expanded. ‘Take your lot, like. Very good fighters. Reliable in action.’

  ‘Dead right they are. If they weren’t, I’d be right up their arses. And don’t get me wrong on that. You know what I mean. But so what?’

  ‘So what, Mr Treddle?’

  ‘So what, yes. I mean, I get the idea you were about to make a comparison. About appearances being deceptive, right?’

  RSM Nunn, who had in fact been about to say that the Australians looked a right bunch, sloppily turned out and a sight too free-and-easy, refrained. It might cause offence since they were a touchy lot, especially if criticized by what they called pommies, or poms, which always put RSM Nunn in mind of a Pomeranian dog. So he disregarded RSM Treddle’s last query and instead drew attention to a POW lounging in a chair and smoking a cigarette. ‘Tobacco, there,’ he said, pointing with his pace-stick. ‘Contraband! Passed by one of the ship’s crew, I’ll be bound. That must be dealt with, Mr Treddle.’

  ‘Not by me,’ RSM Treddle said at once. ‘Now’s not the time, mate.’ That had slipped out past his guard. ‘It can be investigated later, when they’re back below. Not now. We don’t want any trouble while they’re up here, do we, eh?’

  ‘Proper discipline must be maintained, Mr Treddle. I am aware of course that this is principally an Australian draft and that you personally are responsible to OC Troops. But if you will not take action then it is up to me. I shall speak to Sar’nt Tapapa.’ RSM Nunn, replacing his pace-stick beneath his left arm, marched towards the entry to the lounge, his boots banging the deck, left-right-left, right arm swinging. Treddle shrugged; if old starcharse wanted to stir things up, it was his loss. Treddle himself had had his say, cleared his own yardarm as the poms put it.

  RSM Nunn had reached the entry when the Tannoy came on from the bridge. Captain Maconochie announced a contact by the A/S screen. Boat stations were now for real. To give point to his words and to alert any passenger or crew member who might have gone below in defiance of orders, the alarm rattlers sounded throughout the ship.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maconochie called the engine-room. ‘Disconnect, Chief. How much have you taken?’

  ‘Around three-quarters full —’

  ‘We’ll resume later if all goes well. Meanwhile I’m casting off the tanker.’ Maconchie banged the voicepipe cover down, then went at the rush to the port bridge-wing. Using a megaphone he called across to the RFA master. ‘I’m casting you off, Captain. Hope to see you again when the panic’s over.’ He used the megaphone again to call down to his own decks. ‘Unberthing parties stand by fore and aft. As soon as the pipeline’s disconnected, cast off all ropes and wires from Brambleleaf. Tend all fenders as she goes.’

  He met Kemp’s eye. ‘Just what I feared,’ Kemp said, his face set hard. The naval command in Simonstown had made a boob that might cost the convoy very dear. He watched as the tanker slid away astern, her twin screws sending up a kerfuffle between the ships that helped to keep them apart. Along the troopship’s decks the fenders were hauled back aboard. In charge of the naval party aft, Petty Officer Ramm was more outspoken than the Commodore had been.

  ‘Bird-brained admirals, that’s what, don’t know there’s a war on, half of ’em.’ He paused, noting the tremor of the deck and the surge of water astern. ‘Under way already — and thank God for it. Bridge didn’t take long to get moving, I’ll say that for ’em. I tell you —’ He broke off suddenly. There had been a sharp crack from for’ard, followed a moment later by two more. ‘Now, what the hell was that, eh?’

  Featherstonehaugh said, ‘Rifle fire, PO —’

  ‘God give me strength, Featherstonehaugh, I bloody know that, thank you very much! What I meant was who and why, and I reckon it’s them bloody Germans. You and you,’ he said to Leading Seaman Purkiss and the OD, ‘get up to the bridge, at the double, stand by the Oerlikons. And remember, no firing without orders.’

  Ramm was aware, as Featherstonehaugh started for’ard, of a kind of glitter in the OD’s eyes and he remembered the lad’s dad had been knocked off by the Nazis.

  *

  RSM Nunn had gone into the B deck lounge, pace-stick beneath his arm, cap on square as ever, very regimental, to sort out the crime of smoking and contraband. He had halted just inside the door from the open deck and had used his parade-ground voice.

  ‘Now what’s all this, then? That man there.’ The pace-stick had been pointed. ‘Smoking by POWs is not permitted, the more so as POWs do not have access to tobacco! Right! Now, extinguish that dog-end, that man, and then we’ll see.’

  He waited. The Nazi blew a long trail of smoke, grinning. Then he reached into a pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He handed this to the man next to him, who took one and lit up. RSM Nunn’s eyes bulged with anger. ‘Matches,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Likewise not permitted. Well?’

  ‘Not well, British pig,’ the first smoker said calmly. ‘The fat murderer Churchill smokes cigars. We smoke cigarettes. The monster Churchill is also a pig.’

  RSM Nunn advanced a few paces. ‘Do you know what you are saying?’ he enunciated. The speaker seemed to have good English but he might simply be mouthing what he’d learned back in his own country. He had to be given a chance.

  ‘I know what I say,’ the German answered. ‘I speak of the mad Churchill, who is a wicked warmonger and will shortly be made to answer for his crimes against the Third Reich and the German people.’ Then he stiffened to attention, clicked his heels, raised his right hand in the Nazi salute and said,’Heil, Hitler.’

  This was echoed by the whole POW contingent.

  ‘Right,’ RSM Nunn said. ‘That does it. I’m going to ’ave your guts for garters.’ Armed only with his pace-stick, the Regimental Sergeant-Major advanced, pushing his way through the Germans, who were now jeering and cat-calling, fast becoming an undisciplined mob.

  ‘Sar’nt Tapapa,’ RSM Nunn called.

  ‘Yes, sah!’

  ‘Where the devil are you, man?’ Sergeant Tapapa was so far invisible.

  ‘Here, sah.’ Sergeant Tapapa appeared in the doorway to the open deck, looking frightened out of his wits.

  ‘Get your men in here, Sar’nt Tapapa, you booby, with bayonets fixed and a round up the spout. Then follow my orders very closely, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sah —’

  ‘Right! First thing. Send a man to the orderly room and the bridge to report the state of affairs. That done, come up alongside o’ me with your revolver ready. No one’s to open fire, however, till I give the word. Or one of the offi
cers does if they ’appen to get here in time. Now then, got that, have you?’

  ‘Yes, sah!’

  ‘Right, get to it, then. Pronto!’

  RSM Nunn stood his ground stolidly while the mêlée went on around him. Within half a minute he was joined by the native riflemen, their black faces gleaming in the blue police lights that were the only illumination.

  *

  Harrison had gone at once to the bridge, where he was joined by Colonel Carter of the Rifles. They conferred with Maconochie and the Commodore.

  ‘The situation’s electric, I reckon,’ Harrison said. ‘I took a gander. My adjutant’s gone along to take charge in the lounge. I reckon that RSM of yours,’ he added to Carter, ‘has kind of gone loony or something, bellyaching about a bloke smoking —’

  ‘Mr Nunn’s a first-class warrant officer,’ Carter said crisply, ‘but we’ll not go into that now.’ He turned to Kemp. ‘In my opinion, sir, the POWs should be marched back below right away. My riflemen are in control so far but that may change quite quickly. I believe the Germans’ll take a chance that no one’s going to open fire, and try a break-out.’

  ‘We certainly don’t want shooting,’ Kemp said, ‘but I’ll not have anyone shut down below when we’re likely to come under attack at any moment. I —’