He’d not been wearing a lifejacket. The Old Man had of course seen this when they’d come into his sight running forward, had looked (Fisher said) at first incredulous then furious, focusing his glasses on them. Questioned about it, the bosun said he’d asked the mate whether he shouldn’t have had one on – he and Postlethwaite had been wearing theirs, naturally – and Halloran had replied, ‘No bloody point, Bosun. Oh, skipper’s orders, sure – but not for this lark… Get on with it, shall us?’
Andy had to agree that there’d been a certain logic behind that ‘No bloody point.’ Wrong entirely in putting his own interpretation on captain’s orders, setting such an example of indiscipline, but as Postlethwaite had remarked, ‘If you was going over the side in a sea such as that, what’d you want to float around for? Bloody vanish, don’t you – ’ad your fuckin’ lot!’ A shake of the narrow, balding head: ‘Sooner have it done with, like.’
But on top of that to have cast off his lifeline – not shifted it further along but simply cast it off, for no better purpose than recovering the sounding-rod assembly, which of course had gone with him in that same sudden, overwhelming rush of sea – and right there under the skipper’s eyes, was typical of Halloran’s show-off arrogance. As Batt Collins put it – to Andy and Fisher, in an admiring tone – ‘Never give a toss for no one, that bugger didn’t.’
The immediate problem was still that of keeping the ship afloat, but with the advantage now of knowing that (a) the flooding was from submerged hull damage, and (b) the hold was full, so its effect could hardly get worse, unless – barely thinkable, true and total disaster scenario – by its extension from number two into one or three through the collapse or splitting of either bulkhead. That possibility obviously did exist, could happen in the next minute, hour or day: might in fact be put crucially to the test when she was turned across the wind, getting her round on to an easterly course with wind and sea behind her.
‘Morning’ll be soon enough for that. Long as it goes on easing as well as backing. Say our prayers for that, Holt. Eight o’clock maybe. If it looks like we’d get away with it, I’ll aim to put her on oh-seven-five about then. That’s accepting the DR we got on now. Sooner than that maybe if it shifts quicker. And revs then according to how it looks. Uh?’
Asking not for his third mate’s concurrence, but whether he’d hoisted that in. Andy had nodded – shoulder to shoulder with the Old Man at the chart, Finney up front meanwhile, maintaining lookout, and Timms on the wheel. Andy had the navigator’s job now, and Fisher had been elevated to acting mate. The Old Man was going to stand the watches that had been Andy’s, eight to twelve a.m. and p.m., with Janner in support; Andy would take over the twelve to fours with Finney, and Fisher with Gorst would have Halloran’s four to eights. Three p.m. now, so this watch was Andy’s; PollyAnna meanwhile on a course of 015 degrees, sluggishly stemming a force seven.
There were to be no obsequies for Halloran. This happened to be a Sunday, and soon after daylight the Old Man had had him – Andy – pass the word that since he didn’t intend leaving the vicinity of the bridge there’d be no Divine Service aft; and to lay on anything of the sort for him now – well, lay on what? Not a ‘burial at sea’ service: you could say he’d already conducted that, single-handed, and the fact was that it had been an utterly stupid thing he’d done, as well as a direct contravention of orders regarding lifejackets. The Old Man being a forthright, plain-speaking, as well as God-fearing man wouldn’t have found it easy either to gloss over that or to speak ill of the dead; and in the situation they were in, and thanks to that idiocy having only two junior officers to back him up, he’d told Fisher, who’d asked him about it, ‘First things first, no bloody folderols…’
The Old Man had gone down for an hour’s kip, but resurfaced at four when Fisher had come up to take over the watch; the skipper first checking the state of things then asking Fisher whether he was happy to remain in the cabin he was now sharing with Finney. The point being that in taking over the mate’s job, Fisher could really have laid claim to that guest-room cabin – which in fact he did not, saying he’d as soon stay where he was.
‘Job for you then, Holt. Get Mr Halloran’s gear together, pack it out of the way, have that room cleaned out and ask Miss Carr if she’d care to move into it. Make sure she does. Then have my little hole swept out and the cot returned to store.’
‘Aye, sir. Mate’s cash and personal correspondence, though –’
‘Personal correspondence can go with the rest of it. Cash and accounts, ship or company business – on the desk in my day cabin, please.’
The lovely Leila’s portrait, too, with a package of violet-shaded letters, would go with the rest of the former mate’s gear in two suitcases he’d had stowed for’ard. Batt Collins dug them out – incidentally crossing the fore-deck to get them – and sent them up by hand of the Chinaman, Ah Nong, who was to take care of laundry requirements. Glancing at Leila’s letters, though, Andy’s eye was caught by a faded postmark: London SE3. Whereas she was supposed to reside in Greenock, in some rented house, which the mate had complained had been costing him ‘an arm and a leg’. On the brothel evening in Calcutta he’d groused about it: about the Grant Line having done him down, all that. The Greenock address – 11 Merriwell Way – was on other papers – things the Old Man wanted. To make sure of it, though – or out of plain curiosity – fiddling the flimsy sheets out of their still slightly scented London postmarked envelope, taking care not to focus on any of the text, only looking at the top right-hand corner of the first page, he was surprised to find no address, only the words: You know where.
Of course he’d have known where – seeing that he was paying the rent. There was an allotment form among his papers – none of Andy’s business and he wasn’t prying, but the stuff had to be looked through, sorted. The Old Man would know of this one anyway; in dealing with advances against pay, he’d have to. It was a surprisingly large allotment, something like three-quarters of the mate’s pay that was being remitted directly to Mrs Halloran by the owners. He himself presumably making do with funds arising from whatever other source – legacy or somesuch, he’d referred to it as a bit of luck he’d had, some windfall that had saved him from disaster when Grant Line had declined to renew his contract. Andy imagining some old aunt’s or granny’s life savings permitting young Dave to patronise Queeny’s in Calcutta and the Casa Colorada in Vitoria – to name but two of them – while still doing the right thing by Leila.
Which undoubtedly he had, financially.
There were some other items, though, which might have surprised her, when she came to sort through the contents of these cases. Might, but then again might not: Leila did have a racy look about her. Part of her attraction. Anyhow – best do the decent thing, take charge of these oneself.
He found Julia in the washplace laundering underwear. Presumably not entrusting such a personal chore to Ah Nong.
‘Sorry to intrude. Old Man wanted me to ask if you’d mind moving to a larger room.’
‘You mean to Mr Halloran’s?’
‘Right. It and the one Chief Hibbert has were intended for the owners or their valued customers. It’s roomy, you’ll be more comfortable, and the Old Man’d get his own bunk back. D’you mind?’
‘Course not. It’s been very kind of him to let me have it. He is a kind man, isn’t he. Of course I’ll move.’
‘Fine. I’ve been packing Halloran’s gear away, and Benson’s doing the room out now. Clean sheets, so forth. Give him half an hour, then it’s all yours.’
‘All right. But, Andy, how could a man like him – experienced, Master Mariner for God’s sake – how he’d be so crazy –’
‘Perhaps he was slightly nuts. Had a tendency to show off, anyway. Odd chap, in some ways.’
‘Married, wasn’t he?’
‘Was indeed. The one who wrote to him on that violet paper?’
‘Oh, yes. But – tragic, anyway. Stupid – such a waste… Will your owners notify the wife?’
‘In due course, I suppose. When they get to hear about it. We won’t be breaking wireless silence just for this, though.’
‘No – of course.’
‘Wind’s slowly dropping, anyway. Notice the difference?’
‘Still plenty of bumping around. But – yes, I suppose…’
‘We’re adjusting course all the time, keeping her head into it. Once it’s round to the west or northwest we’ll be turning for home and cracking on a bit. With that hold full as we now know it is – she’s managing all right, and it can’t get any worse –’
‘Can’t?’
‘Can’t get any fuller. And the Old Man reckons by morning we’ll be steering east with wind and sea astern.’
‘How long then before we’re in U-boat waters?’
‘Can’t say exactly. Don’t know where we are, for one thing. Just guessing, though – say, two or three days. To latitude twenty west, that’d be – mightn’t be any that far west anyway.’
Might indeed not, if U-boats didn’t like foul weather. Dewar produced a BBC report later that evening to the effect that in the past week Britain had been subjected to the worst storm of the century, with an accompanying cold front that had frozen the Thames for the first time since 1888. Part and parcel of the rough stuff PollyAnna had been through – and since the BBC had been allowed to mention it one might assume it had blown itself out, which if the U-boats had been off-station, might now bring them back. There was a lot of unidentifiable chatter on the airwaves, Dewar said, all in cipher, some of it maybe of Hun origin. He’d shrugged: ‘We’ll learn to know it when we hear it, by and by. Right now being new to it we’re guessing.’
‘Can’t tell where it’s from – how far or which direction?’
Jock Howie had asked that. Earlier the talk around the table had been mostly of Halloran, but they’d been avoiding that subject after Steward Benson had chipped in, moaning that he thought Mr Halloran might have been allowed a prayer or two; it had been McAlan who’d shut him up. Dewar’s jowls wobbling now as he shook his head, ‘Strength of signal isn’t necessarily –’
‘Sooner not know, anyway.’ Julia, eyes down on a game of Pelmanism she was having with Finney, Andy and Willy Gorst. ‘Sooner be like the three wise monkeys.’
‘Hardly be like all three of ’em.’ Finney. ‘But with that whole convoy to go after, why bother with little old us?’ Scooping up a pair of Jacks and asking Andy, ‘Sea’s quite a bit down, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Feels easier, doesn’t it? What other news on BBC, Bill?’
‘Russians versus Finns, mostly. Russians launching new attacks through Karelia, Finns holding firm, reckon they’ve killed fifty thousand of them. Russians all at sixes and sevens, apparently.’
The weather was still easing during Andy’s midnight to four watch. Wind down to about force five but variable in direction, shifting frequently between north by east and north by west, sea confused and PollyAnna corkscrewing, scooping up the solid black and tossing it back streaming white. The Old Man feeling the roll in her motion came up twice, both times went back down to his regained bunk, muttering, ‘Give it until daylight.’ Andy had her on due north when Fisher took over at four: sunrise would be at about seven-thirty and it made sense, he thought, to wait for daylight. It might be tricky, making that alteration; as well to be able to see immediately how she reacted to the new conditions. Stemming the weather, OK, she was holding up, but when you put wind and sea astern and increased revs, she’d be as it were in new surroundings, all bets off. Simple truth being that she wasn’t in any natural state to be afloat: and the vision of her suddenly sliding under was a background to all the rest of it – including the fact you had only two boats for more than fifty men and a girl.
Not that boats were likely to come into it. If she was going to slide under, that was what she’d do. Wouldn’t give advance notice. You could be on watch on the bridge or asleep in your bunk, and next minute – whoosh, hello Davy Jones.
Nobody’d ever know. One or two of the ships in convoy might have seen her dropping out and recognised her as the PollyAnna of Vitoria fame, but that would have been the last anyone would hear of her.
He was in the bridge soon after six-thirty. Had slept and dreamt of Manuela, woken in surprise, and resolved that with the thought Horses for courses… Next surprise being the amount of roll on the ship. Steering across the weather now? Thoughts of navigation following: sunrise according to the Nautical Almanac being due at 0729; and a possibility of broken cloud, stars or the odd planet visible maybe. He’d prepared a notebook for use as a Sight Book – which all navigators (and most deck officers) kept, recording every sun, moon and star-sight they took, all in neatly pencilled figures and capitals. Don Fisher’s was a model of neatness and clarity. Andy had started one for himself on his first voyage as third mate, but it had got a bit messy and he’d scrapped it; now in the capacity of navigator he had to start again.
Arriving in the wheelhouse he yelled to Fisher, ‘Come up in the hope of stars.’
‘No hope. But it’s practically a millpond – eh?’
Some millpond. Heavy swell from – he checked the compass, grunting a good morning to Edmonds – eight- or ten-foot swells rolling at and under her from a point or two north of west. PollyAnna being on due north still was consequently rolling like a drunk.
Black overhead. Certainly no chance of stars. Ice in the wind.
‘Skipper know we’re steaming across this swell?’
‘No, he did not!’
Speak of the devil: the Old Man himself. Fisher quick to explain, ‘Your orders were hang on until first light, sir – not far to go for that, and you wouldn’t want us steaming west, so –’
‘How long like this?’
‘Very rapid change, sir. Less than an hour. Still backing.’
‘Should’ve called me.’
‘I thought you’d feel it, sir, and if you didn’t – well, with first light about seven –’
The Old Man had grunted, turned away: looking all round, assessing sea-state, wind, sky, PollyAnna’s motion and the amount of ocean she was shipping over her frighteningly low freeboard. Wind was from west-nor’west, say; Andy thinking she wouldn’t be any less comfortable on an easterly course, as long as these swells didn’t overwhelm her from astern. The Old Man turning to him then, having apparently reached a similar conclusion: ‘From the DR we have, what course to clear Bloody Foreland?’
‘I’ll check, sir, but near enough oh-eight-oh.’
‘Check it. Second – warn the engine room I’ll be calling for revs for ten knots.’
After days and nights at these low revs, just as well to warn them. Trimmers and firemen having had a comparatively easy time of it through several days of fairly minimal coal consumption would be having to put their backs into it again. Poor sods. Except it was the life they’d chosen – presumably… At the chart, Andy laid the parallel ruler from the three-day-old DR to clear Bloody Foreland – northwest corner of Ireland, which one had heard from gossip in the Liberty Inn canteen in Montevideo was an area much frequented now by U-boats – and the course to clear it by, say, twenty miles. He ran the ruler to the compass rose, and lo and behold – 080 degrees. He went back and told the Old Man.
‘Second – revs for ten knots.’
Waiting. Wanting to have a bit more way on her before putting the wheel over, bringing her stern around. Voice-pipe whistle: Fisher answered it and McAlan confirmed the increase.
But although the engine would be providing that number of revs per minute, propeller ‘slip’ meant she’d still take a few minutes to reach the desired speed through the water. Old Man still waiting, therefore, although you could feel the increased vibration.
‘Gorst – ask Mr Hibbert please to come up.’
‘Aye, sir…’
‘All right, Edmonds. No more than ten degrees of rudder, bring her to starboard to oh-eight-oh.’
Nursing her round. PollyAnna rolling heavily, her deep-sunk forepart wallowing in the swell. She was answering all right. At this stage, broadside-on to it, shipping it more or less continually – forepart submerged, swells simply rolling over. One had foreseen this as a hazardous manoeuvre and of course it was: if she shipped enough ocean at any one time, a weight of it six or ten feet deep over the full length of the well-deck from bridge structure to foc’sl-head – weighing her down even further while the screw’s thrust drove her already down-angled bow into the troughs and the rising slopes beyond them…
Cut revs until she’s round?
He didn’t suggest it. Third mates kept their mouths shut and their misjudgements to themselves. Was a misjudgement too: she needed that much engine-power to get her round.
‘Chief engineer’s on his way, sir.’ Gorst: of whom no one took the least bit of notice.
PollyAnna leaning her shoulder into the depths of a trough: would drag herself up out of, please God – please, PollyAnna…
Was doing so – laboriously enough. Into corkscrewing again, swells racing in on her quarter, lifting her stern, forepart slumping while listing hard enough to send you staggering if you’d not been holding on. With that huge weight in her – in terms of which at an earlier stage he’d guessed that if the hold filled she wouldn’t float. The swells were driving in from directly astern now: angle of approach would be just a few degrees on her quarter when she was on her new course.
Course for home. Although distant, and the odds fairly heavily against her getting there. Doing her damn best, was all…
‘Hibbert here – sir.’
Huge figure detaching itself cautiously from the ladder. Old Man telling him, ‘Hang on, Chief,’ while leaning across to check where her head was at this moment, Edmonds putting reverse rudder on to meet and check the turn as her bow rose slowly, well-deck’s scuppers near as dammit level with the frothing surface. Edmonds intoning, ‘Course oh-eight-oh, sir.’
‘How’s she feel?’
‘Awkward, sir.’
‘Think flooding the after deep-tank’d help?’
‘Reckon it might, an’ all.’
‘So we’ll risk it, Chief. Not shipping all that much for’ard now, are we.’ He had his glasses focused on her bow, was seeing more of it than Hibbert could, Hibbert therefore not commenting, only waiting for his old friend to make his bloody mind up: aware of the dangers but also that the only way to be sure it was the right thing to do was to do it and see what happened. A mound of ocean ran in under her counter, lifting her and powering on, PollyAnna riding the tail-end of it like a goose landing clumsily in heavy surf, forepart risen at first but then – as it finished with her and ran on – falling, sagging, even the foc’sl-head awash. It was the broken sea you saw, the whiteness as it engulfed her and closed over, seemingly held her down while you wondered, Coming up out of that, or going on down? Hearing close to his ear Fisher’s involuntary, ‘Christ…’ and the Old Man’s bellowed repetition of, ‘Not all that much, are we…’ and then Hibbert’s contribution, the engineer finally expressing his view, ‘I’d say she’d go easier with that deep-tank flooded, Josh.’ By ‘go easier’, Andy interpreted to himself, meaning something more like be less likely to founder than she looks to be right now…
He told them in the saloon, ‘We’re flooding the after deep-tank.’ Amplifying that to Julia then: ‘Get the stern down deeper, level her a bit. Because’ – restraining himself from resting his palms on her shoulders for a moment as he passed behind her chair – ‘we have wind and a biggish swell astern, are now – believe it or not – on course for home.’
‘Sure of that?’
‘Hah.’ Moving on past her and Finney to pull back a vacant chair. ‘Good question.’ A wink at Finney. ‘Smart cookie, eh?’
‘Say that again.’
‘Should have said heading more or less homeward. Course to be adjusted when we get a sight of the sun or stars. Must get a clear patch some time.’ Nodding to the assistant steward: ‘Morning, Watkins. Porridge, please. Sleep well, Julia?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Crunching toast. ‘In my stateroom – did indeed. Very well. How about you?’
‘Had a couple of hours. Get a couple more during the forenoon, touch wood. Had to be up top early in case of stars.’
Tommy Shaw – who to his credit hadn’t mentioned having been proved partially right in his theory about hull damage – asked him, ‘What revs on now?’
‘For ten knots.’
‘Did you say they had flooded the after tank?’
‘Probably doing it right now. Your boss went down to see to it just before I left the bridge.’
A shrug: ‘Still plenty of movement on her.’
‘Flooding that tank won’t stop it, either.’
Julia asked, ‘Are seas still breaking over us, where poor Mr Halloran –’
‘No. Flooding over when she digs her snout in – over the whole length of that deck – but not breaking over. Swells about ten feet high running up from astern are what’s rocking us about.’ Feeling the downward lurch then: ‘There – like that.’
She asked him later, when they were to all intents and purposes – audially at any rate – on their own, ‘Would you say we’re out of danger now? I mean, apart from U-boats?’
‘Well…’
‘Whole truth and nothing but, please?’
‘Fact is, there still are problems – that hold’s still flooded, obviously – but we’re coping – the Old Man is – and, OK, it’s by no means an ideal situation, if she was badly handled, could be quite nasty. As it is, weather’s improving, Old Man’s got it all in hand, and – long as nothing else goes wrong –’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, nothing, really, just –’
‘Andy –’
He took a breath, shook his head. ‘If the damage was to spread, for instance. Whatever it is – just rivets loosened, or – see, this is a different motion now, on the face of it less violent – but – not knowing what new stresses might be set up, such as water-pressure in there cracking the bulkhead into number one or three.’ Looking into the lively, obviously concerned but seemingly unfrightened eyes: maybe for his benefit determinedly not showing fright, or maybe just her own natural, built-in self-control. Either way, to be admired… Telling her, ‘You want the whole truth and nothing but – and that’s it. More or less enough, I’d have thought.’
‘We just keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Put it that way, if you like. What I was going to ask you, though – d’you live right in Newcastle?’
‘Just outside. Short bus ride or brisk walk. Why?’
‘May I visit you there some time?’
A silence – not of the ship around them, but between them. Flickery light-brown eyes questioning, and lips not moving but for a second or two with that almost imperceptible tremble, as if in search of words – such as yes, no, better not, or something scornful like what for? Another second – then quietly, ‘I think I’d like that.’
‘You would?’
‘Think I would. Forget it until we’re on terra firma somewhere?’
All-over cloud again meant no meridian altitude, which Andy’d hoped he might have got if it had been really breaking up. The cloud was high and grey instead of low and black, but it still wasn’t letting any sun through. He’d had his bread-and-cheese lunch early so as to take advantage of any such clearance and still be on time in relieving the Old Man, consequently was up there at ten minutes to the hour, explaining, ‘Had false hopes of a mer. alt., sir.’ Looking around – nodding to Helmsman Bakewell – ‘Force four, about?’
‘Four gusting five. We’ve revs on for twelve knots. Came up just gone eleven. It’s noted in the log.’ Glancing skyward again: ‘Stars tonight, maybe. All well, below?’
‘Much as usual, sir.’
‘Miss Carr happy with her quarters?’
‘And grateful for having had the loan of yours, sir.’
A grunt: nodding towards the foc’sl-head, the heavy rise and fall, protracted virtual immersion and slow recovery about twice a minute; and even then the fore-deck still awash, foam flying ahead down-wind. Old Man growling over the racket of her jolting, slamming progress, ‘Taking these revs well enough. Needs watching, though.’
That ‘needs watching’ was a give-away, belying the calm tone. It wasn’t news that the flooded forepart needed watching, or conceivable that watching it was going to save her if or when she gave up the struggle, allowed it to drag her down.
There were no stars visible at dusk, no moon either – at this stage the moon was keeping daylight hours – but around 0300 – 29th now – the cloud began to break up and at 0650 in the starboard wing, with Gorst noting down the times for him, he got a planet and two stars, which when he’d worked them out put PollyAnna sixty-five miles SSE of the extended dead-reckoning position. The Old Man’s instruction to Fisher had been that if Holt got even a half-decent observed position he should reshape the course – to clear Bloody Foreland and Malin Head by a safe margin – and course was therefore altered from 080 to 068 without disturbing him. Position then, at 0700/29th, 51 degrees 12 minutes north, 28 degrees 21 west; distance to cross longitude 20 west, supposed limit of U-boat operations, 330 miles. At 9.8 knots, which was what she’d been making since that last increase, say thirty-four hours, arrival in the U-boat zone therefore tomorrow evening.
Tuesday, 0700/30th – good stars again, and as daylight hardened you could see she was comparatively dry for’ard. Wind and swell had been decreasing during the middle watch, the frightening swooping motion easing significantly, and although when he’d gone down at four the well-deck for’ard had still been intermittently awash, hatch-covers had been mostly clear of it. Now – better still: and the stars for which he’d come up at six-thirty had confirmed that despite her handicap she’d been making-good ten and a half knots.
The Old Man was lingering at the chart, tapping a pencil against tobacco-stained front teeth. He looked better for having had a few hours’ rest – and had better feelings, probably, about his ship’s chances. Threat still present, obviously: you couldn’t expect those bulkheads to hold out for ever, and there wasn’t a soul on board who didn’t know it, but at least the weather was giving her some chance now.
Decision-time, therefore: a nod to his own thoughts, and a clearing of the throat… ‘We’ll make for the Clyde, Holt. Londonderry’s nearer, but – Clyde facilities, dry-dock essentially… Last night I was thinking Londonderry, but – hundred miles more, is all. They’ll tranship the ore – or rail it.’ A glance round: ‘Get Fisher, will you.’
Leaving the forefront to Gorst, Fisher came back with Andy, and the Old Man told him about making for the Clyde.
‘All for it, sir.’
‘Three days – if she holds up and the bloody U-boats leave her in peace. See here – I’d guess our convoy’ll have held on north of Rockall, then around the Butt into North Minch. If that’s the case, U-boats might’ve been drawn up there too.’
‘Leaving the run through to North Passage clear for us.’
A sniff. ‘Be nice, wouldn’t it. But –’ Pencil-tip on their track, 065, a 3-degree alteration resulting from the 0700 star-sights, to where it intersected longitude 20 west. ‘Midnight – any time then, might have ’em at us. And two boats is too few – even if we got ’em both safe in the water. Call it fifteen men to a boat, still leaves twenty – say four rafts.’ Jerk of the grey head: ‘Dry down there now – we’ll take a chance it stays dry, use hatchboards from number two. Alternate ones, not adjacent – and planks across the gaps before lashing-down again. Or whatever they got. Rafts with rope strops all round for swimmers, and coir between ’em when they’re launched. Rafts and boats too – always best to stay in company. All right, Second? Collins and Postlethwaite and however many hands they need – I want it done and the rafts secured on deck before sundown. Two for’ard and two aft – eh?’
Fisher was also to allocate men to boats and rafts. Miss Carr to a boat, of course, with young Finney to look after her. Better have an abandon-ship drill then, all hands to know where to go and what to do.
‘Another thing’s lifejackets. Eight slabs of cork in a canvas weskit – same as they give us last time, and same applies – jump in from a height, fair chance it’ll break your neck. So tell ’em – jump with it under your arm and dog-paddle while you put it on. Got to be jumpers, see, with rafts – rafts over the side, lads jump in and swim to ’em. Which side the rafts go over depending where the damage is.’
‘Otherwise lee side.’
A glance at Fisher, shrugging at such a statement of the obvious.
Late in the forenoon Andy met Julia on the railed walkway outside her cabin, starboard side. He’d been checking the state of the flag-locker and its contents and the halyards there, after the spell of bad weather, was on his way down for an early pre-watch snack. Julia was out there in her duffel-coat with its hood up, enjoying the brilliant seascape and some lungfuls of fresh though knife-like air. PollyAnna pitching a little, rolling a little: heavy, waterlogged, nothing you could be sure of yet. But the sun was getting through now and again and she’d had her face raised to it.
‘Isn’t this marvellous, Andy?’
‘Think so?’
‘Certainly do – after how it’s been. I was wondering if I’d ever see that thing again!’
‘Might never have, too.’ Pausing beside her: and not putting an arm around her. ‘You’ve been aware of that, I suspect.’
‘Well – I’m not a complete idiot –’
‘Ask me – I know, I said it before – you’re a bloody marvel.’
‘Mark and I will be in number two boat, we’re told.’
‘If the worst came to the worst –’
‘Where’ll you be?’
‘On a raft, for sure. Won’t come to that, though. Heck, only three days to go –’
‘I’m not worrying unduly. We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we – more or less. It’s kind of you to worry for me, but –’
‘Kind?’ He moved the edge of the hood aside by a few inches so he could look in there and see her better. ‘It’s not just kindness!’
A frown: small shake of the shrouded head. ‘Mark is quite a sensitive soul, Andy.’
‘But you’re just – close friends – companions –’
‘We’ve been through a bit together. As you know. And as I say, he’s – well, he may think it’s something more than that.’ Brown eyes quiet, serious. ‘I’m very fond of him – and he’s been marvellous; I can tell you there were times I couldn’t have done without him. What I’m saying is I certainly wouldn’t want him hurt.’
PollyAnna crossed 20 degrees west longitude that evening. Sunset had been at eight minutes past five and he’d had another good set of stars. The rafts had been completed and lashed down on the hatch-covers of numbers three and four holds, two on each, and Fisher had presided over lifeboat drill in mid-afternoon. Julia had taken part, mustering with Finney and others abreast their boat; Andy had been on watch, but was told by Fisher that if/when it was for real he was to take charge of the two rafts for’ard, getting them over the side and the men down on to them.
Wednesday, now. The Old Man recorded in the log when Andy took over from him at midday: Jan 31 noon position 54 05’ N., 15 30’ W. Sea moderate, wind W. force 3, vis. poor. Except for the restricted visibility, conditions would be favourable for U-boats, too; and PollyAnna was now entering water more likely to have U-boats in it than those she’d been in for the past eighteen hours. Lookouts had been doubled and the two boats turned out – davits turned out, boats still bowsed in against the griping spars, but even that would save a few minutes in the process of lowering them, minutes having importance in terms of lives and deaths, getting away or not getting away. Julia understood it all, and on the day after the drill – first day of February, days and nights tending to run together now – when the skipper invited her to visit the bridge at midday and questioned her on the subject, she’d impressed him, apparently. He’d shown her the chart as well, with the new noon position marked on it by that time; Andy meanwhile in the wheelhouse, quartermaster Parlance altering course to due east, Malin Head at that stage bearing about 115 degrees, distance fifty-five miles and Bloody Foreland only thirty miles away, but in this damp haze not a shadow of land visible, not even through Fisher’s telescope from monkey island. Skipper telling Julia as they came back from the chart, ‘Five hours to dusk now, see. Be off Malin Head by then – in what they’re calling the War Channel – kept clear of mines by sweepers out of Londonderry. It’s U-boats been laying mines – them and aircraft too, so they tell us.’
Parlance growling, ‘Course oh-nine-oh’; Andy grunting acknowledgement, glasses up to probe the haze – which was thickening, might by evening qualify as fog – in which U-boats wouldn’t be able to see much either. The skipper had pointed this out to Julia, adding, ‘No reason any of ’em’d be sitting off Malin Head waiting for us, mind. Or between there and the Mull. You’ve only to keep your fingers crossed one more night and day, Miss Carr.’
She said afterwards – at supper, after Andy’s taking of evening stars – ‘He’s a nice man, isn’t he? Does look tired, though.’
‘Keeping regular watches and tabs on everything else between whiles. No chicken, either.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Pushing sixty. Fifty-nine, I think.’
‘And how old did you say your father is?’
‘He’s – forty-six.’
‘Just a nipper. Second in command of a cruiser, you said?’
‘Of an AMC. Armed merchant cruiser. Like the Kilindini in our convoy. He’s RNR – a commander.’
‘You sound proud of him.’
‘Do I… Well, dare say I am. He’s a great guy. Only thing gets between us is he’d like me to have switched to RNR like him.’
‘You won’t though – will you?’
‘No.’ Smiling at her: liking that assumption. ‘No, I won’t.’
Off Malin Head at sunset they altered to starboard to 100 degrees, and when Andy took over at midnight were approaching Rathlin Island. The supposedly mine-free War Channel here wasn’t much more than a mile wide, and the haze had thickened into fog; anything you sighted would be close enough to spit at. The natural and proper thing, conforming to Rule of the Road, was to stick to the channel’s southern edge, the Rathlin side; stay as close to it as one could be without risk of straying into unswept water. Any westbound traffic should similarly be holding to starboard, the channel’s northern side.
Might not, though. Not having been warned by the routeing officer of any rogue straggler coming this way, might be tempted to cut the corner.
‘Finney?’
‘Yessir.’ He’d just come back in from the starboard wing. The Old Man – who understandably had stayed up and still had the ship, although Andy had been ready to take over from him half an hour ago – asking him whether he knew which switches controlled the navigation and steaming lights; Finney confirming that he did, and Andy appreciating that the Old Man had in mind lighting the ship up if necessary, in any sudden close confrontation with another ship or ships.
Not having taken over the watch, he – Andy – had put himself in the wheelhouse’s starboard fore corner, with that window lowered – for the sake of visibility, not wanting misted glass in the way as well as fog, but also to listen out for the fog gun at Altacarry on Rathlin Island. The thick glass window dropped like those on the doors of railway carriages, on a leather strap: turned the wheelhouse into an ice-house, but –
There – the signal gun’s double crack. And welcome. You knew where you were, within, say, 1,000 yards, but when some feature failed to come up when it should have done, in this case a double boom as from a cannon somewhere out there to starboard – where there was no horizon, no difference at all between sea and moonless sky – moon having set at about ten-forty – well, you felt a need of that confirmation, a touch of anxiety until you got it. He was moving to the door out into the wing, to get some notion of Altacarry’s bearing next time it went off, when Finney burst in from the other side, howling, ‘Small vessel three and a half points to port, sir!’
The Old Man had lurched out – sending Finney staggering – and Andy was back at his open window, putting glasses up. Wouldn’t have needed them, though – dark shape steering to pass extremely close: small, stubby, single funnel, high foc’sl that would have a gun on it. Armed trawler. Couldn’t have seen PollyAnna, extraordinarily enough: other things having their attention, no doubt. Fair turn of speed, though: if it had been 40 degrees on the bow when Finney had reported it, and already coming up abeam – passing – then out of sight from here, although the skipper in the wing might still have his glasses on it…
Now a much larger shape out there, though – Andy reporting it while wiping his glasses’ front lenses and putting them up again – this new one finer on the bow and well clear, closer to mid-channel. Tall funnel, and a wide gap between it and the bridge/accommodation island. Steamer about the size of this one. One of the old Clan ships, could be. Biggish, but he wouldn’t have picked her up without the glasses at that distance in the fog-thickened dark.
Looking for others ahead now – if this was a convoy you were running into…
Nothing anywhere close ahead at this moment. That one – Clan McWhatsit – had been about two points on the bow. Broader now, of course: two and a half maybe… Swinging back and sweeping to starboard – not that you’d expect to find anything outside the channel, in water that couldn’t be guaranteed clear of mines; but if PollyAnna wasn’t as near the channel’s edge as he’d reckoned – which might account for how close that trawler had been –
Christ!
Low, small – very small – and as distinctive as – He’d jumped past Ingram to the port wing doorway, yelled, ‘U-boat fine on the bow to starboard!’ Back out of the way of the Old Man, charging in and slamming that window down, glasses up in his other hand…
‘Starboard wheel and ram, sir?’
Aware then that he might be hanged for making that suggestion: but ahead, fine to port, the night flared up in yellow flame, a vertical leap of it that first died down then grew again, expanding laterally – and a second later the thud of the explosion – torpedo hit, but interior explosion right after it. At least, how it had seemed… Glasses back on the U-boat by then: still there, surfaced, in profile or semi-profile, still ignorant of PollyAnna’s existence, watching the approach of westbound ships, and now in the light of that burning freighter – cargoliner, stopped and burning – and the U-boat with a white feather lengthening at its stem, on the move from right to left…
‘Steer to ram the bastard, lad.’ Captain to helmsman, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice, one hand on Ingram’s shoulder and the other pointing in case he hadn’t seen it – which he had – captain now ringing down for full ahead and repeating it – double full ahead… By the flames’ light you didn’t need glasses – Ingram didn’t – putting on rudder but not a lot of it – not needing much, even with the handicap of the heavy forepart, had only to bring her round by about 10 degrees – and the submarine well illuminated, Andy’s own concept being of maybe two or three Huns in that conning-tower, maybe part-blinded by the firework display as well as looking for a new target and no reason to expect intervention from this direction. Bloody fool Huns, if so… But thinking also – the thought having struck initially within a second of rashly blurting out that suggestion – which he knew damn well would not be what had galvanised the Old Man into doing this, risking this – PollyAnna by no means needing any new damage for’ard… Happening, though, committed to it, Ingram grunting with the effort of reversing helm to check the swing that had taken a while to start and would now take some stopping. It would have been at about this stage they saw her coming – by the flames’ light and almost but not quite bow-on, aiming-off by a few degrees, and to the Huns close enough to be like something out of a nightmare, their only hope being to crash-dive, get their craft down under her forefoot’s reach probably faster than they’d ever dived before. Like a whale spouting, only from several vents, spray pluming, glittering in the rush of high-pressure air from ballast tanks, sound like ripping canvas. You were that close. Old Man bellowing to Ingram, ‘As she goes, lad, hold her as she goes!’ The U-boat’s forward way noticeably reduced in the act of diving, but its forepart already dipping under, conning-tower and periscope standards aslant and most of the hull submerged when PollyAnna’s deep-sunk forefoot struck, carved into it, heavy jolting impact jarring through her and the clang of the telegraph ordering ‘stop’. Having done the job – beyond doubt destroyed that thing – but not wanting to tear one’s own bow off if that could be avoided – which most likely it could not. Hun done for, for sure, but PollyAnna too? Hun going first, was all – filling and dragging clear, down into – what, not much more than fifty fathoms here?
‘Finney – carpenter to sound bilges, tell Mr Fisher all hands stand by boats and rafts. Then stay with Miss Carr, send Janner up here.’
‘Aye, sir!’
On his way. And that steamer on her way, sea dowsing the fires in her as she settled by the stern, raked bow lifting. There were boats in the water, a roar of escaping steam, and punctuating that the bark of the Altacarry fog gun. Old Man bawling to him, ‘Get out the Aldis, Holt, look for swimmers. No – have the wing lookout do that. You go down, see that they know they’re mustering, not abandoning. May get away with it – else she’d be on her way by now. Tell Fisher see Postlethwaite gets a wriggle on – and Dewar, I want him –’
‘Postlethwaite’s got no sounding-rod, sir.’
‘Damn it, so he hasn’t. Well – tell Fisher if there’s Hun swimmers, embark ’em for’ard, toss ’em a line and haul ’em in; don’t want boats launched unless we’re going down. Then see the chief, tell him if there’s water in the peak or deep-tank – or number one – get his pump on it, but if she’s dry we’ll be underway soon as I know it.’
‘Aye aye, sir. But’ – pointing – ‘armed trawler, sir –’
Where the boats were. Trawler nosing in towards the boats with a searchlight, or maybe it was an Aldis poking around, its beam ultra-brilliant in the fog. Looking for swimmers, obviously. German survivors, if any, PollyAnna would look after. More than they deserved – who did they ever look after? The flames were dying – had died – and the fog had the upper hand again: you could barely make out detail even with glasses, except what the trawler’s light lit up; but the main feature was the cargo-liner vertical in the water, huge-looking, heart-stopping in her isolation – that was the last he’d seen, was rattling down the central ladder and the two below it, out on to the fore-deck, looking for Fisher and wondering whether that trawler was the one that had passed them earlier, or another. The whole business having taken only about twelve minutes, and here was PollyAnna lying stopped – surprisingly, as of this moment still afloat – and the trawler and the torpedoed ship’s boats 1,000 or 1,500 yards away, fog wreathing the surface between here and there in whorls and drifts, and again, distantly, the double-barrelled blast from Altacarry.