Lindsay followed him from the cabin. ‘Would you like to see your son, sir?’
Kemp did not turn. ‘When he has achieved something worthwhile, yes. Then I’ll see him with pleasure.’
Lindsay saluted as Kemp hurried down the gangway and then turned abruptly towards the bridge. The commodore had a new appointment and expected everyone to. work, or die if necessary to make it a success.
He stopped and looked up suddenly at the masthead pennant flicking out to the wind. He had just remembered Goss’s words. I don’t think we’ll ever get back.
Then he thought of the commodore and quickened his pace again. I’ll get them all back, if it’s only to, spite that pompous fool, he thought.
And if Commodore Martin Kemp was coming along for the ride he might at last realise what he was up against. Or kill all of us.
Jupp was waiting for him and said, ‘South Atlantic then, sir?’
Lindsay sat down wearily. ‘Who says?’
Jupp showed his teeth. ‘Some fur-lined watchcoats’ave just arrived, sir. The pusser ‘as ‘ad ‘em on order for weeks.’ He spread his hands. ‘If they sends us that, then we just lave to be goin’ to the sunshine, it stands to reason.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Except for the word reason, Jupp, I’m inclined to agree.’
12
Convoy
Forenoon watch closed up at defence stations, sir.’ Stannard saluted formally and waited for Lindsay to comment.
Lindsay glanced at the gyro repeater and then climbed on to his chair and stared at the grey horizon for several seconds.
‘Very good, Pilot.’
He waited for Stannard to move away again and then lifted his glasses to study’ the regularly spaced lines of ships. The convoy had been at sea for four whole days and as yet without a sign of trouble. The first two days had been very rough with gale force winds and visibility down to four miles. Maybe the U-boats had run deep to stay out of the savage buffeting which such seas could give their slender hulls, or perhaps they had just been lucky. The convoy was small but weighty nonetheless. The ships were. steaming in three columns, the centre one being led by a modern heavy cruiser mounting twelve six-inch guns, a formidable looking vessel which represented the main escort. She was followed by two oil tankers and then the most hated member in the group, a large ammunition ship which steamed directly ahead of the Benbecula. The two outer columns were led by troopships, followed at prescribed intervals by freighters, the decks of which were covered by crated aircraft and armoured vehicles of every kind. They were well down in the water, and Lindsay guessed their holds were also crammed to capacity.
The destroyer escort was impressive. Six of them, none more than a year old, an unusual state of affairs with so many shortages elsewhere, and evidence of the importance placed in the convoy’s safety and protection.
It was strange how the weather had eased. That too was rare for January. The horizon was sharply defined and very dark, and as Lindsay steadied himself in his chair he thought it made Benbecula’s list all the more obvious. The horizon line appeared to be on the tilt with the ships balanced on it and in danger of sliding uncontrollably abeam.
He readjusted the glasses to watch one of the escorts zig-zagging some five miles ahead of the convoy. He could see the great white surge of her bow-wave creaming away from her raked stem, the lithe hull almost hidden as she sped protectively across the convoy’s ponderous line of advance. Just the sight of her plucked at his mind and made him remember his own destroyer and the others which he had served before her. Fast, aggressive and graceful. They’ above all had managed to retain the dying art of ship design. The cruiser on the other hand was like some grey floating fortress. Bridge upon bridge, her triple gun mountings and secondary armament giving her an air of massive indestructibility.
Some signal flags broke from the yard of the troopship leading the starboard column. The commodore was urging some unfortunate captain to keep station or make better speed. He could picture Kemp up there, revelling in his new power. It was to be hoped he was equally aware of his great responsibility.
All around them the horizon was bare, with the enemyoccupied coastline of France some thousand miles away on the port beam. Apart from the distant shapes of the prowling destroyers the sea was theirs alone. Not even a gull, let alone a spotting aircraft to break the dull overcast sky as a warning of impending danger.
Seventeen ships in all. He saw some anti-aircraft guns aboard the cruiser swivel skyward, their crews going through the daily drills. Unconsciously he touched the gold lace on his sleeve. She was the Madagascar, nine thousand tons, and capable of tackling almost anything but a battleship. Had things been different he might have been on her bridge right now, or one like it. Doing what he had been trained for. What he had lived for.
He looked round the bridge, seeing the worn panelling, the usual scene of watchkeeping monotony. Quartermaster on the wheel, telegraphsmen swaying with the easy roll, their eyes lost in inner thought. A signalman was sitting on a locker splicing a worn halyard, and Ritchie was leafing through the morning watch reports with little on his face to show what he was thinking. A bosun’s mate, a messenger gathering up the chipped enamel mugs, everything as usual.
Dancy was out on the open wing, his glasses trained on one of the ships. Stannard leaned against the screen, his face set in a tight frown.
Lindsay eased forward to watch some seamen who were working on the well deck, taking the rare opportunity to dab on some fresh paint under C.P.O. Archer’s baleful eye. It was very cold, but after the ice and the constant hazards of working on a slippery deck with seas breaking over their numbed bodies they would find it almost normal.
He lifted his glasses and trained them on the commodore’s ship. She was the Cambrian, a handsome twinfunnelled liner which had once plied between England and South America. Commanding the Benbecula had made a marked difference where merchant ships were concerned. Before, Lindsay had seen them as charges to be protected. Names on a convoy list to be chased or reprimanded as the occasion demanded. The slow ones, and those which made too much smoke. The ones who strayed out of their column or crept too close on the next ahead. With so many ex-merchant service people around him every day and night he was seeing them differently. They spoke of their past records, their cargoes and passengers. The carefree cruises or months in harbour without charter, and the dockside thronged with unemployed, hungry seamen. Rogue ships and bad skippers. Fast passages or valuable time and freight lost while searching for some other ship in distress. Shifting cargo in a Force Nine gale, miserly captains who kept their crews almost on starvation diet for their own ends. It was so remote from the regulated world of the Royal Navy. It was like re-learning everything just by listening to others.
Stannard had worked in a whaling fleet and on the frozen meat trade before joining the company. The second engineer, Lieutenant Dyke, had originally gone to sea in a Greek ship running guns to the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. To them the ships they met in convoy were like old faces, old friends, with characters to match.
Stannard was studying the next ship ahead. ‘Down two turns.’ He looked at Lindsay and gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t want to be too near that joker if she gets clobbered.’
Lindsay nodded. He had seen an ammunition ship go up. She had been two miles away, yet the noise, the savage pressure on his ears had been almost unbearable. One great ball of fire, rising and expanding like another sun. When the smoke and steam had faded there had not even been a stick or spar to mark where the ship had been. What sort of men were they, he wondered, who would go to sea again and again knowing they were the targets?