A Prayer for the Ship (11 page)

Royce clambered down to the pom-pom, where the well-greased shells lay inert and waiting. Leading Seaman Parker, back again from the hospital, his red face criss-crossed with small, white scars, grinned confidently.

“We'll give 'em what-for nah!”

“I don't expect they'll be thinking of anything but bed,” shouted Royce excitedly. “Just as we do on our way home.”

Sure enough, three shapes could be seen approaching fast from the south-west, great bow-waves creaming away from the long, rakish bows, the silver-grey hulls low in the water, and hardly visible. The leading boat swung over to port, and a flat stream of green tracers cruised over the wave tops towards them. The other two boats took up station in line abreast of the leader and also opened fire.

Again and again the pom-pom at Royce's side banged, and they saw the shells beat the sea into a savage froth around the second E-boat, while the machine-guns got into a steady, screaming rattle. Twice he felt the hull shudder beneath him, and a smoke float aft was cut to ribbons. But the Germans had fallen into the trap, as Murray's quartet came roaring up from astern, every gun belching orange flames, and the E-boats were caught between a devastating cross-fire.

With a bang, the leading E-boat stopped dead and slowly capsized. The second one was ablaze from the bridge to the bow, and several tiny figures could be dimly seen through the sheets of rain, hurling themselves overboard.

For an instant the M.T.B.s slowed down to re-form, and seeing his chance, the remaining German captain dashed for the gap, his guns glazing fiercely. Royce saw that the torpedo tubes on the E-boat's decks were empty. Some British sailors had died during the night.

Benjy's loud-hailer boomed across the water, “Tally-ho!” and with a roar of throttle they streaked in pursuit, the tracers knitting a deadly pattern between them.

Kirby shouted down from the bridge.

“Three more E-boats ahead, Green four-five! Range about a thousand yards. Look to it, Number One!”

He was looking savage.

The newcomers were obviously from the same flotilla as the others, and had apparently taken another route home.

Now the battle became fierce, the Germans fighting a delaying action back to base, no doubt praying for help to arrive.

It was then that it happened. Royce found himself lying on the slippery deck, his head and ears roaring. Shakily he scrambled to his feet, and stared round. He had heard and felt nothing, yet the boat had received a direct hit on the port bow, a stream of shells exploding the full length of the fo'c'sle. Parker was cursing, and struggling with the gun. It had jammed solid, while the loading number knelt at his side, wheezing and retching painfully.

Already the boat had a definite list, and as Royce ran to the bridge he saw smoke pouring from the after hatch. The bridge was untouched, and Kirby was dancing up and down with impatience, while the signalman called up the nearest M.T.B.

“Get below, and deal with the damage, then come back here!”

Royce dashed aft past the tubes, and reached the choking smoke cloud, where Petty Officer Moore and his mechanic were hard at work with the extinguishers.

“Nothin' bad, sir,” gasped Moore. “It's the paint store. 'It with a tracer.”

Below it was a shambles, and as the lights flickered on, he saw jets of water pouring in through the shattered mahogany sides, the double skin of the sides bent inwards like brown teeth.

The Coxswain appeared on the scene with Weeks and two more hands, and with hammers and plugs they got to work, slipping and cursing in the icy water.

When he returned to the bridge he found the other M.T.B. coming alongside, Deith's red face peering anxiously over the screen at them.

“I'm continuing the fight aboard her,” snapped Kirby. “I've got to bag those other Jerries before they get within range of the coast.”

Royce stood dazed and not understanding.

“You mean you're leaving us?” he stammered.

“Of course I am. You make for home as best you can, we'll catch you up.”

As he threw himself down towards the other boat, he turned, a smile on his face.

“See if you can earn that other stripe!”

With a roar, and a puzzled wave from Deith, the boat turned away in pursuit of the running battle, while Royce stood helplessly on the bridge, which suddenly became a lonely and terrible place.

For some moments he stood staring after the fast-moving boat, until its shape became obscure in the curtain of fine rain, still uncomprehending, and slightly shocked by the suddenness with which his boat had been reduced from a swift, living creature, to a heavy, listing hulk, in which he was now the captain.

His scattered thoughts were interrupted by the Coxswain, and Petty Officer Moore, who appeared at his shoulder.

“I've just finished me rounds,” announced Raikes calmly, “and I've got all the bad leaks patched up, except for those more'n a foot or so above the waterline. I'm afraid the automatic pump 'as been sheared right off by a splinter or something. That'll be a dockyard job to put it right.”

“Yessir, but we've got the hand pumps goin' like a fiddler's elbow, so provided you can keep 'er down to about five or six knots, we might be all right,” added Moore.

Royce pulled himself together, and studied their competent faces with a feeling of new confidence, and inner warmth, but he knew that the responsibility, given to him by the thin wavy line on his sleeve, was his alone, and that they were waiting for his own deductions and orders. Unbe-known to them possibly, they had made his burden considerably lighter.

“The fact is,” he said with a rueful smile, “we have to get the hell out of here before it gets too hot for us, and fast as we can with safety. We're very much alone, I'm afraid, and mustn't depend too much on the rest of the boys finding us again.”

He led them to the chart, and they stood politely watching while he outlined their approximate position. When he had finished, Moore pushed back his greasy cap and scratched his thinning hair with an oily finger.

“I dunno much about navigation an' all that lark, sir, but I must say there seems to be an awful lot 'er North Sea between us an' the old
Royston!
”

They laughed, and each felt relieved that the situation still allowed them such licence.

Raikes, a professional seaman, craned forward, and tapped the stained chart with a pencil.

“If you don't mind me saying so,” he said in his clipped and forthright manner, “it'd be better if we forgot all about the others, who as you say'll probably miss us anyway, and took the plunge due west, straight across to Blighty, and hope to be picked up by a patrol.”

Royce saw the logic immediately. If they kept to their present course the enemy would probably pick them off as stragglers, whether they were with other M.T.B.s or not, whereas the lonely route would quite likely bring them into contact with a destroyer to cover their painful withdrawal.

So due west they went, slightly down by the head, and listing to port, the engines roaring and thudding as they pushed the hull along at a snail's pace, the uneven trim making their task doubly difficult. From either side came the monotonous clank, clank of the heavy pumps, as half the hands toiled to keep the bilges free, and the engine room safe from the relentless waters, while the others, now fully alert, stood against the wind and rain, fingering their guns, and peering at each horizon.

Alone by the pom-pom, Parker laboured with his tools to get his clumsy charge unjammed and ready for firing again.

His assistant, who had been flung against the ammunition lockers by the force of the explosions, lay quietly behind the bridge, freed from the pain of his shattered ribs by the Coxswain's morphia, and wrapped carefully in two lifejackets. He slept the sleep of one who has already departed from the fears of battle. Old Petroc, resting for a moment from the pumps, shook his head dolefully, as he jammed a rolled pair of overalls under the injured man's head.

“'Ee's a lucky un, 'ee is. Recon 'ee done it for the purpose. Loik 'ee as not knew the bloody pumps'd fold up!”

Then, spitting on his blistered hands, he turned back to his job.

Royce, alone on the bridge—he had sent the signalman to help on deck—lay across the screen, the glasses gripped in his wet, chafed hands, while the icy trickles of water explored the only warm place in the small of his back. Already it seemed as if they had always sailed this sea alone, and that there was no foreseeable end to the voyage.

Clank, clank, went the pumps, while Parker's hammer beat out a steady tattoo below him. His senses became dulled by the noises, while his shivering body seemed to cringe at the onslaught of the rain. He forced his tired eyes down to his watch, and marvelled at the fact that three hours had already passed since Kirby had gone off to search for fresh laurels.

An oilskinned figure, barely recognizable as Able Seaman Roote, appeared at his side, guarding something under his streaming coat. He peered uncertainly at Royce's face.

“Me an' the boys thought yer might like a bit of Chinese weddin' cake, sir,” his cockney twang sounded eager and somehow comforting. “We nipped in the galley an' warmed it up a bit, an' thought you might like a bit an' all.”

His voice trailed away, as he whipped out a small basin of hot rice pudding. Royce vaguely remembered it from two days before, and he took the basin in his hands, revelling in its warmth.

“Thank you very much, Roote,” he said, touched. “Just what I need.”

Roote grinned, his sharp, knowing face creased with pleasure, and as he hurried away he added, “Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but we wouldn't er' done it fer someone 'oo shall be nameless!”

He was off before Royce could think of a suitable comment. Instead, he lifted the basin to his lips, there being no spoon, or any other instrument for that matter, and as he did so, he smelt and tasted the deep, rich fragrance of service rum. He laughed aloud, and gratefully swallowed the hot, glutinous substance. The old so-and-so's, he chuckled, they didn't miss a trick. He imagined Kirby saying, “Storing rum is a punishable offence, Number One!” or “A sober ship is a happy one!”

He pondered over his recent life in the game little ship that struggled along beneath him: of how the Coxswain who now shared his every confidence, had at first openly showed his contempt for him. Harston's death had drawn them closer together perhaps. Even a character like Roote, who, until he had volunteered for Coastal Forces, had been fighting a constant war with authority in general, and officers in particular, had shown him the meaning of loyalty, and the acceptance of leadership. It was funny: he had bullied them, punished them, and driven them beyond the barrier of comfort, yet, because of his fairness, which he was inclined to take for granted, they had accepted him as their own leader, and personal property.

Another hour passed, and the unpredictable weather of the North Sea changed again. The rain broke off with an angry flurry of gusty squalls, which made the wounded boat stagger in her stride, and the wind force became stronger, veering round astern, so that the waves became longer and heavier, their great, grey peaks, unbroken as yet by white horses, rolling menacingly up under the transom in long, even ranks, each crest lifting the box-like stern clear of the water, and causing the overworked screws to screech a protest as they whirred free into thin air. Then, with a heave, they would drop again into a trough, and the boat would shudder, and lurch forward, always fighting the man at the wheel, as he tried to stop the sagging bows from broaching the boat round into the broadside position of danger. The wind, laced with salt, found its way through the damp clothing, chilling the flesh, and making their faces raw, while the ensign at the gaff grew steadily more and more tattered, blowing straight forward like the banner of a departed warrior.

Even the spirits of the seamen began to flag, as they toiled at the pumps, or stood on watch, wet, cold, and hungry. The Coxswain scurried from one end of the boat to the other, issuing a rebuke here, and a word of encouragement there, and later, a tot of “neaters” to all hands.

To reduce the rolling as much as possible, Royce had most of the unusable gear on deck heaved overboard. The smashed smoke-float, the motor dory, new but a month before, and now riddled with holes and damaged beyond repair, and countless articles which only made the boat struggle harder by their presence. The torpedoes were the main disadvantage, especially as they could no longer be fired with the bows at such an angle, but Royce decided against sending over four thousand pounds worth of machinery to the bottom.

It was about fifteen thirty when they saw a dark shape smudging the horizon on the starboard quarter, and anxiously they strained their eyes even harder to catch a glimpse of the stranger, while Royce gritted his teeth, and opened the throttles a little further, making the boat slightly steadier, but causing some of the makeshift plugs in the shot holes to weep and squirt water each time she bit into a wave.

The wind was still freshening, and the ugly, grey hills were now tinged with curved, angry white crests, and as they plunged into each trough, the boat shuddered and groaned. Then shaking the salt froth from the streaming decks, she would stagger up on the next roller, while every man peered aft at the other vessel, which was growing rapidly larger. Royce jammed his glasses against the rattling signal locker, and wedged his aching shoulders into a sharp voice-pipe cover, while he endeavoured to get a good look at the ship which was obviously overhauling them. As he angrily dashed the salt from his streaming eyes, and wiped the lenses of the glasses on a piece of sodden tissue, he saw that the faces of his men were now turned up towards him, waiting for a verdict.