Kleber's Convoy (2 page)

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Redman went through the door into the after deckhouse, down the steep ladder to the officers' flat, and along it to his day cabin. It was well furnished and comfortable, the chairs and settee covered with chintzes, a blue-and-white pattern like Dresden china which reminded him of his aunt's house in East Horsley where he'd spent so much of his time. Off the day cabin, on the port side, was the sleeping cabin he used in harbour. He took off the wet cap and raincoat and, as if waiting for this moment, Topcutt, the able-seaman who was his servant, came in. ‘Take those and dry them for you, sir?'

‘Thank you, Topcutt. I should have taken an oilskin. More rain than I thought.' Topcutt had been with him for two years. They'd survived a sinking together and the
able-seaman
did much to make Redman's life more comfortable.

Too old, though, thought Redman as Topcutt left the cabin. Must be every bit of forty. Too old to be on a job like this. Redman felt old too. He was thirty-four. The
first-lieutenant
was twenty-four. There were only two officers in the ship older than its captain. Emlyn Lloyd, the
engineer-officer
, and Baggot the torpedo gunner.

Redman looked round the cabin, yawned, stretched
himself
into an easy chair and stared at the coloured photograph on his desk. A flaxen-haired girl sitting on a farm gate, a
field of corn behind her. In spite of the smile there was a wistfulness, a certain tragic beauty about her. The photo reminded him of two things: a gendarme's shrill whistle, the shriek of brakes, an urgent throng through which he'd broken, a crumpled figure at their feet, a man leaning over her, an Alpine crevasse, the glacier beneath a slope, broken skis and blood, a tall fair man smiling as he took his hand.

To have the photo there at all was a contradiction. It recalled two of the worst moments of his life. A time when he'd been overwhelmed by tragedy and guilt. A time before that of fear, pain and desperation. But there were things one could do and things one couldn't, and to do away with the photo was unthinkable. An act of betrayal. The least he could do was keep her memory alive. He drew his hand across his eyes. I'm tired, he thought, bloody tired. There was a knock on the door. Gavin Strong, the first-lieutenant, came in with a signal sheet in his hand.

‘What is it, Number One?'

‘Signal from Greenock, sir. From Captain (D).
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About Leading-seaman Tregarth.'

‘What's the trouble?'

‘His wife died in labour yesterday. Captain (D) wants us to land him if we can.'

‘Can we spare him?'

‘I think so, sir. I think we must.'

‘Right, do that Number One.'

There was an attractive ugliness about the first-lieutenant; smiling grey eyes and a nose on one side, like the face of a much-punished boxer. His manner was direct and his
lopsided
smile warm and friendly. He had an assurance, an air of confidence, an enthusiasm which infected the ship's company. This strongly recommended him to his captain.

Apart from Redman, the only Royal Naval officers in the ship were the first-lieutenant and Pownall, the navigating officer. The rest, but for Baggot the torpedo gunner, a warrant officer, were Royal Naval Volunteer Reservists. On the whole a good bunch of officers who made for a cheerful wardroom. He had reservations about Pownall. The
navigating
officer was competent but often supercilious at the
expense of others. Then there was Sutton the new doctor. A queer fish. Pale, apprehensive eyes. A serious, joyless, detached sort of man. He'd joined the ship a few weeks back. Redman had his doubts about him. But he was sure of
Vengeful.
She was a good ship. Her chiefs and petty officers were all RN – some of them Fleet reservists – sound men, the hard core around which the ship's company functioned. She was a Chatham-based ship, the majority of her crew ‘hostilities only'; mostly young Londoners in their late teens and early twenties. Life on the messdecks of a V and W destroyer in northern seas was hard and appallingly uncomfortable. But these youngsters, pitch-forked into the Royal Navy by the fortunes of war, endured it all with a stoicism which Redman admired. Of course some of them annoyed and worried him at times. Did stupid things like going absent without leave, usually because of some girl, and getting into other unnecessary trouble. And there was Cupido, the captain's steward. Small, dark, taciturn. He worried Redman. Somehow he couldn't get through to the man. They had a bad effect on each other. Cupido seemed unable to bring a hot meal to the sea-cabin. And he smelt of garlic.

Redman lunched early and alone in his day cabin. He had just finished when the first-lieutenant reported that the ship's company was assembled in the seamen's messdeck. When Redman got there he outlined to the ship's company in straightforward, simple language the operation on which they were about to embark: the escorting of convoy JW 137 to Murmansk. He drew on a blackboard a diagram of the convoy. For the first twenty-four hours
Vengeful
, with the rest of the Fifty-Seventh Escort Group, would be on the close screen. Off the Faeroes the carrier, the cruiser and the Home Fleet destroyers would join and the Fifty-Seventh Group would then move to the outer screen, eight miles ahead of the convoy. Distance apart of ships on that screen would be three thousand yards and it would cover a front of twelve miles.
Vengeful
would be the port wing ship.

There were a few quiet good-o's. Norway lay to starboard.

Redirian turned from the blackboard. ‘Don't forget where we'll be on the return journey.' The dark shadowed eyes smiled. ‘Norway'll lie to port then.'

That produced some coo-ers.

On the last convoy, on the journey north,
Vengeful
had been starboard wing ship, one of two destroyers detached to sweep the Norwegian coast between the Ofoten and Alten Fiords during a long Arctic night. Their task had been to find and sink ships hugging the coast with supplies for German air and naval bases in Norway. Navigating the Norwegian coast with its straggle of offshore rocks and islets, without shore lights and in frequent blizzards, was not an experience anyone was keen to repeat And they hadn't found any enemy shipping.

With firm strokes Redman rubbed the chalk from the blackboard.

‘JW 137 is a big convoy. Thirty-six ships. But we've a large escort force – twenty-six of us including the carrier and a cruiser. Worst problem will be the weather. There'll be U-boats and enemy aircraft, of course. We'll have to be on the top line. But we're a good ship in a good group – and we know how to fight her. We can't ask for more. So,' he hesitated, ‘the best of good luck to you all.' He turned to the first-lieutenant. ‘Right, Number One. Carry on.'

Down in the wardroom not long afterwards they were
discussing
the captain's talk. O'Brien, a burly Irishman with tousled red hair and beard, said, ‘I suppose the Old Man's fireside chats do some good?' O'Brien was next in seniority to the first-lieutenant.

‘They add a touch of drama to the mundane,' said Pownall.

The first-lieutenant swallowed the last of his sherry, ‘I think they're good. The Old Man takes the ship's company into his confidence. They understand the object of the exercise. Know what's expected of them. Much better than the remote sort of skipper. Tight lips, sealed orders, a grim look, and tell the ship's company nothing.'

‘Hear, hear,' said Rogers, one of
Vengeful
's two
midshipmen
. A thin youth with mousy hair.

‘The young should be seen and not heard,' said Pownall. ‘And say
sir.
'

‘Yes,
sir.
'

A dark man in overalls, wearing a greasy cap and
gauntlets
, came into the wardroom. It was Emlyn Lloyd, the
engineer-lieutenant. He had crowsfeet at the corner of his eyes and seemed always about to smile.

The first-lieutenant suggested a drink.

Lloyd nodded to the steward. ‘Sherry, please, Guilio.'

‘You're not sitting down to lunch with us in that rig, are you, Chiefy?' Pownall raised a disapproving eyebrow.

Lofty Groves, the sub-lieutenant, went to the dartboard, took the darts and handed three to the engineer-lieutenant. ‘Give you a start of ten,' he said.

‘No respect,' said Emlyn Lloyd, shaking his head. ‘No respect. That's the trouble nowadays.' He flicked a dart into the board. Wilson, junior of
Vengeful
's three lieutenants, picked up his cap. ‘Better show myself on the upper deck.'

‘About time,' said the first-lieutenant. The
officer-of-the-day
should be available on deck at all times,' he quoted.

‘Article one-one-five-two,' said Pownall. ‘King's
Regulations
and Admiralty Instructions.'

‘Holy Saint Patrick,' growled O'Brien.

‘What's the trouble?'

‘Nothing, Number One. Just the punishment returns.
Forgotten
to send them in.'

‘Dereliction of duty, is it?' said Emlyn Lloyd. ‘Forget them, lad. Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Indeed, we may be sunk and they won't be
necessary
at all.'

‘Now that's a fact,' said O'Brien, ‘That's a really practical attitude.'

There was a burst of laughter from the two midshipmen in the corner, Rogers and Bowrie. Lofty Groves turned on them. ‘Pipe down. Can't hear myself throw a dart.'

‘He's losing,' said the engineer-officer.

O'Brien went over to them. ‘And what's amusing the children?'

‘N-nothing, sir,' Bowrie had a slow stammer. ‘Rogers was telling me what he d-did on leave.'

O'Brien shook his head. ‘What midshipmen do on leave. Bless my soul.'

‘Rather sad, really,' said Pownall. ‘Caught between
childhood
and adultery.'

‘Anyone seen Huff-Duff?' asked the first-lieutenant.

‘In his c-cabinet calibrating h-his …'

‘Steady lad,' said O'Brien. ‘Speak no evil.'

‘H-his set, sir,' finished Bowrie.

Huff-Duff was the wardroom's name for Sunley, a
specialist
branch RNVR lieutenant who maintained and operated
Vengeful
's high-frequency direction-finding apparatus – HF/DF, known in the Navy as
huff-duff
– a key weapon in tracking U-boats.

A man with a horse-like face, pale eyes and
straw-coloured
hair came into the wardroom. He went to the notice-board and took from it an OHMS letter addressed, ‘Surgeon-Lieutenant E. B. Sutton, RNVR.'

He sat down on the padded seat round the Charlie Noble, the wardroom's coke fire, its circular iron body topped by a shining brass chimney.

The first-lieutenant said, ‘Ship's company fit, Doc? Clean bill of health?'

The doctor frowned, looking up from the letter he was opening. ‘Beer, please, Guilio. Yes, Number One. I think so. Common cold, VD. A few old friends. Nothing operable.'

‘L-lucky for someone,' murmured Bowrie. The doctor's pale eyes regarded him with distant contempt.

The wardroom steward brought the beer. The doctor finished the letter, looked thoughtful and put it in his pocket. While the others laughed and chatted he worried. Redman had at the doctor's request visited the RN hospital at Bridge-of-Weir for examination. The captain had stalled, postponing the visit to the day before the ship sailed from the Clyde. The OHMS letter was from the consulting physician. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Redman,' it reported, ‘is suffering from bronchial asthma brought on by nervous exhaustion; too long at sea, too much stress, too little sleep. There is a childhood history of the complaint. With a suitable period of rest and freedom from anxiety it will probably disappear. The patient makes light of it and is not amenable to any suggestion of leaving the ship. He has particularly requested that no medical report be submitted to Captain (D) until
Vengeful
returns to the Clyde in three weeks' time, and then only if the complaint persists. Since the X-ray plates only became available the day after the examination, Lieutenant-Commander Redman was not informed of the diagnosis.'

The consulting physician's diagnosis did not surprise Sutton – at least not the part about stress and nervous exhaustion.
It accorded with his own. But Redman hadn't told him of any previous history of bronchial asthma. That had been unhelpful of him.

Stress and anxiety symptoms were not uncommon among escort captains in the Western Approaches, but the doctor's problem was what to do about the letter. When Captain (D) Greenock, the group's administrative authority, received the medical report he would no doubt act. Put the captain ashore for a rest whether he liked it or not. The doctor decided it wouldn't help to tell Redman the result of the examination now. He'd probably blame him for having organised the visit to Bridge-of-Weir. The doctor was unsure of Redman. Sensed that the captain had not yet accepted him.

The Maltese messman reported that lunch was ready. The first-lieutenant said, ‘Come on. Let's get cracking. We haven't much time.'

The wardroom officers of HMS
Vengeful
sat down to what promised to be their last normal meal for many days.

In his cabin Redman was preparing for what lay ahead. At least the next eight days would be spent on the bridge and in the tiny sea-cabin adjoining the wheelhouse. There would be little sleep, frequent alarms, appalling weather, almost continual darkness – the exception being a couple of hours of feeble twilight during the forenoon – no change of clothing, cold or at best lukewarm food, no comforting gins or whiskies – captains did not drink at sea in wartime – and few opportunities to ease his bowels. There would be
explosions
in the night and sudden disaster. And having got one convoy to Russia they would have to bring back another. The gauntlet had to be run twice. He'd done six: three
outward
, three homeward. Others in
Vengeful
had done more. He wondered how long the ship's luck would last. With these thoughts he changed into the clothing he would wear until they reached the Kola Inlet. Thick, loosely-knitted grey wool underclothing provided by the Admiralty; then a flannel shirt,
over it a heavy wool jersey; uniform trousers, well-worn; an old uniform reefer; woollen socks, seaboot stockings and felt liners to the leather seaboots which he pulled on last of all. Slowly and methodically he tied the Mae West – the inflatable life-belt – round his waist, secured the tapes, tested the survival light, slipped a rope picking-up harness over his shoulders and adjusted it. He hated the harness but wore it in accordance with Admiralty Fleet Orders to set an example to the ship's company. There was another reason. He knew that if he'd paid more attention to these things in his last ship fewer lives would have been lost. He thought of that night – the agonising reality of icy water, the knowledge that one was weak from injury. Worst of all, Patterson's cries for help. Cries to which he'd made such a feeble response. He tried to shut the picture from his mind.

The clock on the bulkhead showed 1350. Ten minutes to go.

He put away those things on the desk which would roll off. The last of these was the photo of the flaxen-haired girl. Before putting it in the drawer he looked at her face, trying to recall the sound of her voice, but failing. He picked up his duffel coal, uniform cap; mittens and night glasses and stood uncertainly, looking round the cabin wondering what would have happened by the time he next saw it – during those eight or nine days that must pass before they reached the Kola Inlet.

Topcutt came from the sleeping-cabin with an anorak suit, fur cap, fur-lined gauntlets, spare jersey, steel helmet, handkerchiefs and a bag of shaving and washing gear. He said, ‘I'll be taking these up to the sea-cabin, sir.'

‘Thank you, Topcutt.'

The able-seaman popped his head back through the door. ‘Be back shortly for the bedding, sir.'

‘Yes,' said Redman absent-mindedly.

Topcutt hesitated. ‘The – the bronchitis. Better, sir?'

Redman said an irritable ‘Yes.' Topcutt took the hint and left.

When he'd gone Redman looked through a navigating notebook, checking data he'd recorded before they left the Clyde. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Ready for sea, sir.' It was the first-lieutenant.

After the first-lieutenant came the engineer-officer, Emlyn
Lloyd. ‘Engines ready for sea, sir,' he reported. Next it was the gunner (T). When he'd made his report Redman said, ‘That starboard depth-charge chute all right, Mr Baggot?'

‘Yes, sir. We've got it fixed.'

‘Good. We shall need it.'

Then came Pownall, the navigating officer, to make his reports: radar tested and in order; master gyro running, repeaters checked and found correct. He was followed by Lofty Groves, the asdic control officer.

‘A/S equipment tried, tested and in order, sir.'
1

‘Thank you, Groves. Dome housed?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Redman was referring to the asdic dome from which sound waves were transmitted and received when searching for a submerged submarine. It protruded from the bottom of the hull in the forepart of the ship and could be raised and lowered. In harbour it was normally raised – ‘housed' – but lowered at sea.

When steaming into head seas at speed the dome was housed to avoid weather damage. The asdic search
equipment
could not function with it in this position.

Finally Sunley, a thin grey-faced young man, reported that the HF/DF equipment had been tested and found
correct.

‘Good,' Redman looked up from the desk. ‘We couldn't do without your Huff-Duff, Sunley.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Sunley blinked, then withdrew, closing the door in slow motion as if apologising for the intrusion.

Five minutes to 1400. Redman went to the door of the cabin and took a last look round. At the back of his mind was the thought that he might not see it again. He shut the door and made for the bridge.

At 1400 the shroud of silence over Loch Ewe was broken by the sound of windlasses turning and the squeak and groan of anchor cables coming home. The ships in the loch had begun to weigh. The Fifty-Seventh Escort Group was first to leave, led out by the senior officer, Ginger Mountsey, in the sloop
Bluebird.
The sloop
Chaffinch
followed, then
Venge
ful
,
after her
Violent
and the remainder of the group. The south-westerly wind continued to gust and eddy, driving the rain before it under a lowering sky.
Vengeful
steamed out into the North Minch between Rubha nan Sasan and Ploc an Slagain, the two headlands looming through the rain, the monotony of their greyness relieved here and there by the russet of dried heather. As she left the shelter of the land the destroyer began to move about in the seaway.

A group of men in oilskins were clustered together on the small bridge: Redman, Pownall, Burrows, the yeoman of signals, the first-lieutenant and the lookouts. On the
forecastle
other oilskins glistened wetly in the fading light as the cable party put the final touches to securing anchors and cables under the watchful eyes of O'Brien.

Redman stood in the forefront of the bridge searching the sea with binoculars. Away to port he could see the lighthouse at Rubha Reidh, a thin grey pencil poking into the wet sky. Moving to starboard he looked astern to where
Vectis
, the last ship of the group, was clearing the headlands.

The movement of the ship, the slap of water at the bows and along the sides, the whirr of the turbines, the
ping
of asdic transmissions relayed on the bridge-speaker, the steady sweep of the radar scanner on the tower – these things reassured him. The ship was alive, her equipment was at work in capable hands, for him the party had started and the worst of the tension had gone. And so, oddly enough, had the wheeziness which had troubled him.

Behind
Vectis
the frigates and corvettes of the Eighty-Third Escort Group were emerging from the mist. Astern of them the freighters would be lining up to leave the loch. He turned to Pownall. ‘Time of sunset?'

‘Fifteen sixteen, sir. Nautical twilight ends at sixteen
fifty-seven
.'

‘It'll be dark long before that in this weather.'

‘I imagine so, sir.'

Redman thought, why does he say ‘I imagine so' when he knows bloody well it will be. He said, ‘That gives us about two hours of daylight in which to get the convoy formed. I think …'

The crackle of the TBS speaker on the bridge interrupted him. It was
Bluebird
ordering the Fifty-Seventh Group to carry out an anti-submarine sweep to seaward. Redman called to Pownall who was on the compass platform. ‘Port fifteen, one-six-oh revolutions. We'll take station on
Blue
bird
's
port beam.'

The navigator repeated the orders, passing them by
voice-pipe
to the quartermaster in the wheelhouse below.

Redman spoke into the asdic voice-pipe. ‘Carry out an all-round sweep. Resume normal sweep when we're in station.'

The asdic operator repeated the order.

Vengeful
trembled as her speed increased and she swung over to port to pass astern of
Bluebird.

Before long the group had formed line abreast, the eight ships pitching and rolling, whipping up douches of spray as they swept up the North Minch under a pall of rain. Pownall had a sense of poetry and to him the ships looked like
greyhounds
casting for a scent. No such thought crossed the captain's mind. Though a U-boat in the Minches was most unlikely, he was thinking that the A/S sweep was important, A convoy was particularly vulnerable to attack when leaving harbour, before the ships had formed into columns with their protective screens of close and outer escorts.

The yeoman answered the buzzer from the W/T office. ‘Captain, sir. Signal from NOIC to
Bluebird.
Liberty ship
USS
Jonathan
Nash
has furnace trouble and will not repeat not be joining convoy.'

‘One less to worry about,' said Redman. He went back to his thoughts. It was late 1944, the Battle of the Atlantic had been won. The anti-submarine forces – sea and air – had gained a decisive upper hand. But U-boats fitted with
Schnorchels
– and so able to charge their batteries by running on diesels while submerged – were venturing closer inshore
in their search for targets. He felt that the chances of making contact with one that afternoon were remote with such powerful escort forces about, but it was like fishing for salmon on a bad day. Just as the monotonous
ping
of the asdic kept sounding on the bridge-speaker without anyone seriously expecting to hear the answering
pong
of a submarine contact, so you could go on casting a fly into pool after pool without expecting a fish to rise. Then suddenly – usually when you least expected it – there was the sudden swirl of water and the tug of a salmon taking.

Once they got going – particularly rounding Norway
between
Bear Island and the North Cape, up in the Barents Sea – there would be U-boats. And long before that enemy aircraft from German bases along the Norwegian coast might find the convoy. Much would depend on the weather. Bad weather and almost continuous darkness, for all the
discomfort
they brought, were useful aids to concealment. But even if the convoy was found the sinkings were unlikely to be heavy. Prevented by strong escort forces from getting to close quarters with convoys, U-boats now concentrated on attacking the escorts with
gnats
, acoustic torpedoes which homed on the target's propeller noises.

The escorts had counter-measures, mainly noise-makers called
foxers
which were towed astern and into which acoustic torpedoes homed and exploded. But escort captains disliked using them. Long wires trailing astern hampered manœuvring, and the noise of the
foxers
reduced the asdic operator's chances of making contact with a submerged submarine.

These were Redman's thoughts as he listened to the
ping
of the asdic and watched the PPI, the instrument which relayed the images from the screen in the radar office at the back of the bridge. Redman was not consciously doing these things. He'd done them for so many years now that it was a conditioned reflex – as was his reaction when the call-up bell from the asdic cabinet sounded three
Ps
in rapid
succession
.

‘Hard-a-port. Full ahead together,' he shouted down the voice-pipe to the wheelhouse. ‘Start the plot'

Vengeful
swung round, laying over to starboard, her hull vibrating with sudden urgency as the turbines responded to a full head of steam.

Three
Ps
was the asdic operator's emergency warning to the bridge that he had heard on his hydrophones the sound of a torpedo approaching from the port side.

Within seconds the first-lieutenant had rung a series of shorts on the alarm bells for
anti-submarine
action
stations,
and the yeoman had broadcast a general alarm by TBS.