20 October 1942: Prime Minister to C-in-C Middle East, General Alexander: ‘Torch’ goes forward steadily and punctually. But all our hopes are centred upon the battle you and Montgomery are going to fight… Let me have the word ‘Zip’ when you start.
Commodore Sandover touched Nick’s arm. ‘We’ll have to start without him, eh?’
Without Baillie, CO of the corvette Astilbe, he meant. All the rest were here – thirty-six merchant-ship masters, three trawler skippers, and Guyatt, who had the other corvette, Paeony. Baillie had known he was expected to be here in good time for the conference to open at 1400: and time was precious, with only this one day for getting the whole show on the road… He asked the commodore, ‘Give him another minute?’
The commodore was being very helpful – despite being puzzled, obviously aware there was something peculiar about this trip. The way the convoy of old crocks had been assembled here in dribs and drabs, and he himself kept kicking his heels for nearly a week… ‘Then they send you down to nursemaid us! Practically single handed!’ Nick had admitted – last night, over dinner in the Chauncy Maples’s dark-pannelled, worn-plush saloon – ‘I agree, it’s odd.’ He’d decided on the spur of the moment to take the bull by the horns: ‘Even odder – one point in the verbal briefing they gave me at Gib – is we’re not to divert. The route’s to be stuck to exactly, come hell or high water. I’d imagine it might be something to do with other fleet or convoy movements.’
‘No diversions?’
Sandover had stopped eating, stared at him incredulously. He was about seventy: deeply tanned under a mop of thick white hair, eyes light-blue and lively, a young man’s eyes in the seamed brown face. White eyebrows hooped: ‘What if we find a wolf-pack smack on the line of advance? Walk straight into ’em, do we?’
They’d come to some useful conclusions about that ‘no diversion’ rule. But remembering the conversation and hearing the duplicity in his own voice, Nick was uncomfortably aware of double-dealing under the pretence of ignorance and openness… Just as now, looking round the packed, smoke-filled conference room, he felt isolated again in that sense of being a Judas. He of all people, the man they all looked to for protection!
Well, they’d get protection…
Last evening, after Harbinger had filled up her fuel tanks and then moved to her buoy, he’d taken a boat ashore, visiting the naval offices with the primary purpose of finding out what ships they’d earmarked for his escort force. The answer was two corvettes, three trawlers. Attempts to get a third corvette added to the force – Scarr had been right, there were three Flowers here at the moment – had been firmly rebuffed, despite the fact that six wouldn’t have been even one too many… But there’d been no point arguing. He’d sent RPC signals instead – ‘request the pleasure of your company’ – to those five ships instead, inviting their captains to come aboard immediately. Baillie of Astilbe, Guyatt of Paeony, and Messrs Broad, Cartwright and Kyle of the trawlers Stella, Gleam and Opal respectively. They’d all arrived in the Astilbe’s motorboat, Baillie having rounded the others up. Studying them while his steward poured their drinks, Nick had wished he had a week instead of only part of one day in which to get to know them, impress on them his own ideas of convoy escort tactics, transform this bunch of highly individual characters into a like-minded team.
Cartwright of the Gleam was the oddest-looking of them. Rather like Long John Silver, except he had two legs and no parrot on his shoulder. But perhaps the most detached and different of them all was Lieutenant-Commander Baillie of the Astilbe. Nick remembered – now that the man had failed to turn up on time – that he’d had an impression of someone shut up inside himself: either aloof, or worried by private uncertainties. With an evasive quality, a way of shifting his eyes elsewhere.
A tall, red-headed skipper with a lantern jaw raised his head and voice above the racket: ‘We here to do a job of work, Commodore, or is it just a bloody social?’
He’d won growls of support from all round the long trestle tables. These weren’t people to be pushed into a classroom and told to wait. It wasn’t only the waiting, either: it was the muggy heat, stifling atmosphere… Sandover was explaining, ‘One man still to come, Captain. Sorry… If he isn’t here in one minute, we’ll get on with it.’
‘Bugger’s in the kip, most likely.’ Davies, that was, the Chauncy Maples’s master… And in this climate most of them would have been stretched out on their bunks at this time of day. In tropical routine you knocked off at midday and turned-to again in the dog watches when it was slightly cooler: but just today, there were no hours to spare for siesta. It was a case of mad dogs and Englishmen, and it wouldn’t have been at all difficult to fall asleep, Nick thought, if you’d been in a position to allow yourself that luxury. Last night’s session on board the commodore’s ship had been a long and late one. The invitation to dine had come when he’d been waiting for the escort captains to arrive; he’d signalled acceptance at once, because he’d only planned to give his own guests a drink or two, crack the social ice in preparation for a hard day’s work to come, and this chance to do the same with the commodore wasn’t to be missed.
He’d got through a lot of preliminary work with the other captains this forenoon. And Mike Scarr had been up half the night preparing material for further sessions, as well as some things for this conference. Scarr was here, and so was Tony Graves, who’d been chatting with the commodore but was leaving him now, pushing over towards Nick while Sandover joined Harry Davies: Sandover taller and slimmer than the stocky Welshman, who as usual had a pipe between his teeth, wide-set eyes narrowed through drifting smoke. Pipe-smoke and cigarette fumes hung blue and pungent in the still, hot air. This was only a hut, a prefabricated addition to the sprawl of the naval base, and its ventilation wasn’t up to coping with the climate or the number of human beings crammed into it now. At this end, where a blackboard and easel stood on a small platform, there was even a stove, a black object as grimly threatening as some instrument of torture. Graves reached Nick, and told him, ‘Commodore says we ought to start, sir, or when Astilbe’s skipper does turn up he may get lynched.’
‘Serve him right. Except we need him.’ Nick shrugged: he hadn’t wanted to start before Baillie came, because whatever was said in here needed to be heard by everyone concerned. ‘All right. Tell him I agree. In fact he’s been very patient.’
‘Captain Everard, sir?’
Turning, he found a young RNVR lieutenant at his elbow.
‘I’m Marvin, sir, first lieutenant of Astilbe. Bad news, sir – my skipper’s collapsed and he’s been taken to the base hospital. I’m sorry I couldn’t get word to you before, sir, but we’ve been—’
‘Anyone know what’s wrong with him?’
‘Some stomach thing, sir, could be appendix or—’
‘Damn.’ He looked at Graves: both of them appreciating that there could hardly have been a worse time or situation. Possible alternatives – instinctive reaction was to look at once for answers to a problem that might well become insoluble, in a place like this – might be to arrange for the CO of the corvette they were keeping here – Calliopsis – to move to Astilbe: or for Calliopsis to join the escort instead of Astilbe. Two things were certain: first, he couldn’t afford to lose one of his only two corvettes, and second, this lad Marvin, behind whose ears you could almost see the wet shine, couldn’t conceivably take over the command… Another thought was that Baillie had most likely had some illness coming on, had been in pain and trying to ignore it, keep going: so in terms of his own recent thinking he probably owed the man an apology… Nick went over to Sandover, to give him the news and invite him to set the convoy conference ball rolling.
He watched the audience, while Sandover reeled off the usual preliminary stuff – importance of effective ship-darkening at night and of keeping funnel-smoke to a minimum by day; restrictions on the ditching of gash – meaning the dumping overboard of garbage – because floating rubbish could provide a trail for a U-boat to find and follow… Then signal routines, W/T wavelengths, use of alarm rockets and ‘snowflakes’, siren signals for emergency turns, and the drill for turns, the importance of maintaining station in the convoy…
Many of the captains wore the bored, ironic expressions of men who’d heard it all dozens of times before and knew most of it by heart. The convoy system, to most of them, was an evil necessity; they weren’t the sort to enjoy being regimented. Two of the older hands were already asleep, and others dozed occasionally, waking with jerks and grunts… You could hardly blame them, in this atmosphere… Nick looking at Guyatt now, CO of Paeony: he at any rate was awake. A small, dark man with a West Country drawl. The trawler skippers sat in a bunch beside him. Broad of the Stella – an RNR lieutenant-commander, a huge man, getting on in years and grey not only round the edges – was next to him, and on Broad’s left was the piratical-looking Cartwright of the Gleam, one-eyed, sporting a black patch, and always with a black cheroot clamped between his teeth. He was a lieutenant-commander too, the RNR stripes on his khaki shirt as frayed as if a dog had chewed them. Then Kyle of the Opal, a complete contrast to that pair – slight, quick-eyed, with greased black hair, a hand-rolled cigarette damp between nicotine-stained fingers.
The proof of that pudding, Nick thought, would be at sea, where all of them belonged. But however good they might be as seamen, as convoy escorts their contribution was likely to be small. You’d often find one trawler, even two, as makeweight in a screen, but to have half the force made up of them was – well… He switched his attention back to Sandover, who was referring his audience to the convoy plan, a diagram of which was in each captain’s sheaf of papers. Detailing rescue ships: they’d be the Timaru, number 35, and the Leona, number 65. The figure 65 meant the Leona’s position in convoy would be fifth (rearmost) ship in the sixth column from the left. The convoy would be disposed in eight columns, each five ships long, except that in the whole chequerboard diagram there’d be four vacant billets.
The master of the Leona was the red-headed individual who’d complained about the delay in starting. He’d begun complaining now about being saddled with the rescue duty, but others were shouting him down. Even one of the two grey-headed captains who’d slept until now had opened bloodshot eyes to rasp ‘You might as well lump it an’ like it, old son!’ – then relapsed into what appeared again to be sleep. It might have been only a way of detaching himself from the crowd while he listened. Sandover announced, ‘Vice-Commodore’ll be Captain Stileman, Dongola, number five-one. All right with you, Captain?’ A crewcut, greying head nodded: it had obviously been agreed earlier. ‘And Rear-Commodore will be Jack Osborne of the Ilala. That’s number seventy-one.’ Osborne, a bald man with a paunch; raised a hand in acknowledgement. Scarr was taking notes, for Nick, of anything that wasn’t already in the duplicated orders. Vice and Rear commodores were substitute leaders, reserves who’d take over the job if it became vacant – if the Chauncy Maples, then Stileman’s Dongola, should be torpedoed.
‘Now, gentlemen – before I hand over to Captain Everard, our very distinguished escort commander, I want to mention that it’s likely there’ll be U-boats somewhere around the Azores-Canaries stretch. That’s going by current Intelligence. So we need to be ready for a dust-up, and I’m warning you here and now that when we get out there—’ he waved a hand seaward – ‘I’m going to drill you until you can manoeuvre like a platoon of bloody guardsmen. We’ll stick to it until I’m good and sure you’ve got the hang of it: so how long it lasts will be entirely up to you.’
Groans. A grumble from the carrot-headed man, the Leona’s master… Nick was on his way up to the stand. He introduced himself and then the other escort captains individually, and pointed out on a diagram, which Scarr had prepared on the back of an old chart, the station each ship would occupy in relation to the convoy. With the spread of escorts – for instance, Harbinger would be four thousand yards astern of the convoy’s rear, Paeony and Astilbe six thousand yards ahead of its van – the total width of the assembly would be five and a half miles, depth nearer six. More than thirty square miles of sea would be occupied by the advancing convoy. Trawlers would assist in rescue work when necessary and practicable: but the corvettes would not…
‘I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick and think you’re being neglected. I’ve only my own destroyer and the two corvettes – I hope I’ll have as many as two – to act as strikers, hit out at the enemy before he’s in a position to hit you. This is the tactic that will be basic to all our movements.’ He saw some nods, some shrugs. He went on, ‘Commodore Sandover told you it’s likely there’ll be U-boats in the Azores area or thereabouts. I’d say it’s more than likely, it’s damn near certain. On the other hand I’ve been warned that the convoy must hold to the planned route, with no diversions. The commodore and I discussed this last night, and we decided we’ll interpret it as meaning we can take evasive action when we have to, but each time we’ll steer ourselves back on to the ordered route as quickly as possible thereafter. I believe—’ he held up a hand, asking a questioner to wait – ‘I believe the reason for that no-diversion order must be other fleet or convoy operations somewhere close to our route. So we do have to bear it in mind: and one thing that’s for sure is we can’t have any straggling. I do mean none. I know, you get told this every time you attend one of these conferences, but this time it’s absolutely vital: you must all maintain station and hold the convoy tightly together.’
It was about as honest, he thought, as he could allow himself to be. He finished, a few minutes later, with ‘That’s all from me, you’ll be glad to hear. Any questions now, either for me or for your commodore?’
There were a few: but none, thank God, that really put him on the spot. One he’d been half-expecting had been what would happen to a ship with serious engine trouble, total breakdown even, if no straggling was to be permitted? The answer would have been that no ship was to be left afloat astern of the convoy, to attract U-boats into waters that should by that time have been cleared of them. Ships would hold their stations in convoy, or be sunk. It would happen, because without it the whole deception plan would fall to pieces, but these men didn’t have to know it yet. And Nick’s thoughts were already moving – as the questions petered out – to concentrate on the next essential, to find a solution to the problem of Astilbe having no commanding officer. He had just over an hour now before the escort captains were due to muster on board Harbinger again: there were still points of tactics to discuss, explain, drive home, and if time permitted they’d move up to the plot, later, and play the convoy-escort game which Graves and Scarr had devised and operated for the group’s training up north. Beer-bottle tops for merchantmen, matchsticks for U-boats, paperclips for escorts… But the Astilbe crisis had to be settled first.
‘Number One – if I’m not on board when they arrive, don’t let them just sit around, carry on from where we finished this morning… And one thing – get figures for each ship’s depth charge outfit, including how many heavies, if any. The corvettes may have some… I’ll join you as soon as possible – all right?’
Astilbe’s captain was suffering from a strangulated hernia. Or rather, had been suffering from it: the base surgeon had already operated, in time to save Baillie’s life, but he’d be out of action for a long time now.
‘Can I borrow Calliopsis’ captain to replace him?’
No, he could not. Calliopsis would be the only corvette remaining in Freetown, and she’d be no use without someone to drive her.
‘Well, what about letting me take Calliopsis, and you keep Astilbe here?’
‘Really, Everard—’
‘If she’s only wanted for local patrol work, harbour defence and so on, that first lieutenant of Baillie’s might—’
‘Out of the question, I’m afraid. In point of fact he’s only acting first lieutenant, anyway. And before you suggest it, Calliopsis’ first lieutenant couldn’t be transferred, either. You know what demands have been made on us just lately, Everard, though heaven knows what’s in the wind: and we’re stripping ourselves down to a handful of trawlers and one sea-going corvette, this for a major convoy port of call and with a fairly considerable U-boat offensive brewing!’
‘I know… But – well, d’you have any officer on the staff here, or anywhere around, who’d be qualified to command a corvette?’
They went through the motions of racking brains, but the answer came up as a flat negative.
Nick argued, quietly and desperately, ‘I can’t take this bunch north with only one corvette. Even with two, and positive Intelligence reports of a U-boat concentration near the Azores – well, for Pete’s sake…’
But the convoy had to sail. He knew it. Ironically, he alone of all of them knew why, too. In fact if he’d had no corvettes at all, only trawlers, he’d still have had to start. He was stone-walling, fighting for the best deal he could get, and the man across the desk from him did know that. What he did not know – one of a lot of things he had no inkling of whatsoever – was that four days ago, 18 October, ‘Torch’ advance convoy KX2 would have left the Clyde. Eighteen ships with thirteen escorts, bound for Gibraltar at seven knots: ammunition ships, tankers, freighters with cased aircraft on their decks. Another, smaller convoy would have left the day after. An earlier lot would already have reached Gib – which would be filling up, by now, getting busy – and today, 22 October, the first of the great assault convoys would be setting out. None of which was mentionably Nick’s or the Freetown convoy’s business: but the need to put a commanding officer into Astilbe was – since these people seemed unable to help at all – entirely his business.
And suddenly the answer was in his mind. As if it had been there all the time, had chosen this moment to surface…
There were complications, of course. Formalities – permissions to be obtained, signals to be made to various authorities – regular, recognised authorities, since it wasn’t possible to mention Wishart or A B Cunningham or that rock-lizard Cruance. But he’d pointed out that if Baillie had collapsed after they’d sailed from here, he’d have taken precisely this action without asking for anyone’s approval: so what the hell…
The muggy heat shortened tempers and patience, perhaps even baked brains a little. Which perhaps explained why he hadn’t hit on this obvious solution in the first place.
He was back on board Harbinger just as the other captains were mustering. Tony Graves was settling them on chairs around the table in the day cabin, and issuing them with signal pads and pencils while Foster offered cups of tea. Nick began to tell them about Baillie’s strangulated hernia, but they knew it already, since Guyatt of Paeony had been to the hospital and talked to the surgeon who’d operated. He hadn’t seen Baillie, who in any case would still have been unconscious.
‘He’ll survive, all right, but it was touch and go, apparently. The doc said it’ll be a month before he’ll be allowed to do more than blink.’ Guyatt asked Nick, ‘So what happens now, sir?’
‘The obvious thing. Astilbe gets a new captain.’
He sat down in the armchair which Graves had positioned centrally for him. An electric fan was whirring and all the scuttles were wide open, but it was still uncomfortably hot. A wise man learnt to sit still, not think about it, reduce physical exertion to a minimum, even desist from mopping at sweat too often. The hot tea made you sweat but in the long run its effect was cooling. Nick looked round at Graves, who’d been hovering, trying to get a private word in. ‘What is it, Tony?’
‘Would you excuse me from this meeting, for about the first hour, sir? There are a few things I haven’t had a chance to get at yet, and if we’re sailing at first light—’
‘Certainly.’ He nodded. ‘But whatever’s on your plate, pass it to Warrimer. He’s to take over as first lieutenant immediately. Chubb had better take over asdics. While you’re handing over to them, your servant can be packing your gear. The appropriate signals are being made now, appointing you in command of Astilbe. The sooner you can get yourself over to her, the better, but you and I need to put our heads together, so if you care to invite me to dinner tonight I’ll accept with pleasure.’
Graves looked as if he’d been sandbagged. An expression of astonishment, then alarm… It was disappointing, in fact, to see him looking more shocked than pleased: he should have been wanting this, seeing the opportunity and bucking for it. Instead he was muttering over a buzz of congratulation and good wishes from the others, ‘Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir…’ Stammering, tongue-tied: ‘I’ll – do my best to make a go of it. But—’
‘But?’
‘Well, I’m sorry to be – well, leaving you, sir, even for such a—’
‘You won’t be leaving me, Tony. You’ll be very much with me. The great advantage for me, in fact, is I’ll have one CO in this group who’ll know exactly what I expect of him.’ Nick told the others, ‘That’s no reflection on the rest of you. The fact is we’re still strangers to each other. Which, come to think of it, is why we now have to get down to some more hard work…’
It was past midnight when Astilbe’s motorboat returned him to Harbinger’s gangway, at Number Two buoy. It had been a well-spent evening: his presence had lessened the potential awkwardness of this sudden arrival of a brand-new CO, and he’d seen to it that his own confidence in Graves became obvious to Astilbe’s wardroom officers. Then, alone with Graves after dinner, they’d had a useful session, tying-up various loose ends.
Back in his own ship, he paced the quarterdeck for a while with his new first lieutenant, who’d been at the gangway to meet him. It was no surprise to him that Warrimer, whose elevation had been just as sudden and unexpected as Graves’, was taking to it like a duck to water. Warrimer needed no reassurance at all, he was plainly revelling in his greatly increased responsibilities.
Mike Scarr might find the change a bit difficult at first, Nick thought, after he’d sent Warrimer down to turn in. Scarr being RN – as distinct from Warrimer with his temporary commission – and only junior in seniority as a lieutenant by a matter of weeks. Nick realised he’d need to keep an eye on that.
If time permitted any such attention to domestic detail… He’d stopped his pacing, right aft beside the depth charge racks, staring out across the dark but gleaming anchorage. Still, velvet-warm night air under a brilliantly starry sky – which was what gave the flat, black surface of the estuary its shine… Well, there’d be a settling-down period, a day or two – even four or five, possibly – before the convoy ran into opposition. With a speed of advance of only seven and a half knots, it would take a week to reach the latitude of the Canaries. That rate of progress was of course dictated by the performance of the slowest ships in the convoy, but in fact the escorting trawlers wouldn’t do much better. Ten knots was as much as could reasonably be expected of them. Which meant that if a trawler lagged behind or was separated for any reason, it would take her a long time to catch up, with only a two-and-a-half-knot margin. They were supposed to be twelve knotters: but that had been years ago, thousands of steamed miles ago. The trawlers would provide the convoy’s close defence. Each was fitted with asdics, had a four-inch gun on her foc’sl, a couple of machine-guns amidships and a depth charge chute on her stern. They’d plot along in close attendance on the merchantmen while Harbinger and the two corvettes roamed farther afield to act as striking force. Not that the Flowers with their flat-out maximum of 15 knots were ideal for that role, either, when the U-boats they’d be fighting could make a good two knots more; but the Flowers were what he had, all he had, and the weaker your defence – he believed – the more necessary it became to take the offensive, smash the assaults before they could be pressed home. He thought Guyatt of Paeony fully understood this principle and how to apply it, now; and Graves certainly did.
A faint breeze momentarily dulled the surface shine. The quarterdeck sentry shifted, his rifle-butt thumping against a stanchion. Nick had exchanged a few words with him earlier. Resuming his slow pacing, he noticed the outline on X gundeck of a camp-bed that probably contained young Carlish. It reminded him – he’d meant to tell Warrimer – Mr Timberlake could stand one bridge watch per day, with Carlish to back him up, and for one dog watch each day Carlish could be on his own, although Nick would make a point of being near at hand. If that worked out, by the end of this trip Carlish might rate a watchkeeping certificate, and thereafter earn his pay more usefully than he could at present. This had been Tony Graves’ suggestion, this evening.
An interesting character, Graves. Motivated by a desire to serve, rather than by any personal ambition? Nick had seen him more clearly in the last few hours than he had in all the recent months. Graves seemed to be governed by an innate modesty, limitations he imposed on his own opinion of himself: and when you thought about this it was difficult not to see also in your mind’s eye that dumpy little wife of his. Because of the – well, ‘homespun’ quality they shared? They were very much a pair of the same breed… Which didn’t match Graves’ sharp expertise as an asdic man, or the other attributes gained through years of sea and war experience; but Graves was himself unaware of any such qualities – as yet… He’d sheltered, always, behind a leader’s shoulder: even in civilian life – assistant miller, taking little of the kudos but most likely the lion’s share of the work, in some factory churning out breakfast cereals, for God’s sake… As expert in the science of milling as in the art of submarine detection?
He’d learn now, discover talents he didn’t yet realise he possessed. Command would change him, probably for life. Nick wondered whether Mrs Graves would mind.
He still didn’t feel like sleep. In this single day an enormous amount of ground had been covered, and the echoes of it were buzzing around inside his skull – all the talking, wrangling, planning, instructing and advising… That, on top of the upheaval and uncertainties of the past fortnight. And Kate: but he didn’t want to speculate about Kate – her whereabouts, anything at all – until this thing was finished. There wasn’t room for her, not now: if he let her in at all she’d take more than her fair share. He forced a change of thinking quickly, to the fact – the handicap – that the three trawlers weren’t equipped with TBS, the talk-between-ships VHF radio link, so that communications with them could only be conducted through the time-consuming routines of visual signalling, laboriously flashing messages to each ship in turn.
Reaching the stern again, he spoke to the sentry’s dark silhouette. ‘I’m going below now, Crosby.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Goodnight, sir.’ Crosby reminded him – as if he might have been thinking it was high time his skipper did turn in – ‘Not much kip-time left now, sir.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right.’
Sailing time was set for dawn. In fact the trawlers would be on the move well before the light came, to carry out an anti-submarine sweep offshore. They’d be out there and working when Harbinger slipped from her buoy, and Astilbe and Paeony formed up astern to follow her seaward; the merchantmen would by that time be weighing anchors – steam capstans clanking, stinking black mud splashing from slowly-rising cables. As daylight flushed the estuary with colour the ships would be crowding west, out past Cape Sierra Leone and into open sea where gradually, after a fair amount of hectoring by the commodore and chivvying by the escorts, the whole motley assortment would form itself into the single entity to be known as SL 320.