To Risks Unknown Read online

  Crespin licked his lips. They were as dry as dust. ‘Stop engine. Let go forrard.’ He waited, counting seconds as first the head rope and then the much-tested spring were hauled dripping through the fairleads and the forecastle hands slipped and cursed amidst the coils of greasy wire which seemed to fill the deck from side to side.

  ‘Slow astern.’ Crespin had seen Shannon right forward by the jackstaff. He had not made Porteous’s mistake so perhaps Wemyss’ anger was useful.

  Gently and then more confidently the little corvette slid sternfirst away from the jetty. All at once the towering gantries and dockside sheds lost their individuality. They were part of the harbour’s general panorama. Something remote.

  Crespin readjusted the glasses around his neck. ‘Stop engine. Slow ahead.’ He watched the wind ruffling the water of the anchorage as it cruised to meet him. ‘Starboard fifteen.’ He paused. ‘Midships.’ They were moving. He heard Joicey’s voice from the wheelhouse and knew that the coxswain would need no other orders until the ship was clear of the harbour. He said abruptly, ‘Hands fall in for leaving harbour, Number One!’

  With her ensign blowing out stiffly to the breeze and making a small patch of colour against her new paintwork the Thistle moved purposefully towards the entrance. On her forecastle and quarterdeck the hands were fallen in, their bodies swaying in unison as a destroyer surged past, her backwash lifting the Thistle like a dinghy and throwing spray high over the weather rail.

  Petty Officer Dunbar and the bosun’s mates stood just abaft the bridge, and while the corvette thrashed past one senior ship after another the air was tortured by the shrill twitter of their pipes as the Thistle paid her respects to her betters.

  On and on, with Joicey guiding her from one marker to the next. Past anchored ships and imposing buildings which wore the flags of admirals, and which replied to the Thistle’s feeble piping with bugles that sounded almost patronizing.

  There was the entrance. Old Portsmouth to port and the grey walls of Fort Blockhouse, the submarine base, to starboard. Between them, like penned water in a massive dam, lay the open sea.

  Crespin said, ‘As soon as we are clear we will exercise action stations, Number One. Go round the ship and check every man yourself. There might not be much time later on.’

  When he looked again the harbour mouth was passing on either beam, and from the huddled houses on the Point he saw two women waving. Women must have waved like that when the Victory sailed for Trafalgar, he thought.

  He snapped, ‘Secure for sea. Fall out harbour stations.’ He saw Shannon waving back towards the town and added sharply, ‘Tell Shannon to get those wires properly stowed, Number One! It’s like a bloody road accident down there!’

  Behind his back Griffin looked at the bridge messenger and pursed his lips.

  High on the dockyard signal tower Rear-Admiral Oldenshaw lowered his binoculars and wiped his eyes. The wind was very keen up here and made him feel his age.

  The dockyard had done a good job, he thought, although whether the Thistle would have sailed on time without his bullying was another matter.

  He lifted the glasses again and watched intently as the little corvette turned slowly around the jutting wall of Fort Blockhouse, the weak sunlight lancing along her side and showing at a glance that she was already lifting and rolling to meet the open water outside the harbour. She appeared very small indeed, and strangely vulnerable.

  Behind him he heard Second Officer Frost say quietly, ‘She looked very well, I thought, sir.’

  The admiral nodded. ‘Crespin handled her perfectly. That’s why I sent that tug along. I just wanted to see if he’d accept any help.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘I guessed as much, sir.’

  Oldenshaw handed the glasses to a signal rating and said testily, ‘Lost sight of her now. Let’s get back to the office, eh? Crespin will be at Gib in a week and there’s a lot to fix up before then.’

  Fifteen hours after her departure from Portsmouth found the Thistle some twenty miles south of the Lizard, that last jutting tusk of Cornwall and therefore the final view of England, had it been light enough for anyone to see it.

  The corvette was heading almost due west, and the wind which had freshened considerably throughout the day was making her progress both uncomfortable and painful. As each rank of white-crested waves cruised out of the pitch darkness the ship would lift her bow with something like tired resignation before reeling over and down into the waiting trough, her stern rising almost clear of the water as the sea thundered along her weather side and broke across the streaming deck as if to catch and destroy anyone foolish enough to be making the treacherous journey from one part of the ship to the other. It was a savage, corkscrewing motion, and the experienced men aboard knew it would get worse once the ship had clawed away from the last lee of the land and started to head south into the Atlantic and across the fringe of the dreaded Bay of Biscay.

  A few minutes before midnight Wemyss and his watchkeeping companion, Sub-Lieutenant Shannon, clambered into the upper bridge and groped their way from one handhold to the next, each man waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the leaping wilderness of spray beyond the glass screen.

  Wemyss went immediately to the chartroom to see the captain, and Shannon, having discovered Porteous still clinging to the voice-pipes in the forepart of the bridge, made his way across to him.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ Shannon had to shout above the din.

  Porteous gestured miserably with one hand. ‘Just passed the Lizard. Course is two-six-zero, and we’ve reduced speed to ten knots.’

  Shannon listened to the voice-pipes chattering in the darkness as the men stumbled on deck to begin the middle watch. He said, ‘And I suppose you’ve been sick again?’

  Porteous shook his head. ‘I’m all right if I stay on deck, Mark.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘But I hope it doesn’t get any worse.’

  ‘It will.’ Shannon seemed angry.

  Porteous said, ‘The captain let me run the watch practically on my own. I did quite well really. Just once when we altered course around two trawlers, then he had to help me.’

  ‘I suppose you put the wrong helm on?’

  Porteous stared at him through the gloom. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact.’

  Shannon turned as a bosun’s mate said, ‘Middle watch closed up at defence stations, sir. Able Seaman McDiarmid on the wheel.’

  Shannon nodded curtly. ‘Very well.’ To Porteous he added, ‘I suppose Wemyss is gassing about us to the C.O.’

  ‘I like the first lieutenant.’ Porteous staggered as the deck canted over with a sudden lurch. Then he added, ‘He’s so, er, helpful.’

  Shannon shrugged. ‘Well, if you need help, I imagine that’s all right.’

  Porteous watched him worriedly. It must be nice to be so independent and confident, he thought. Yet there was something unreal about Shannon’s attitude. He seemed to have a constant guard up, and was quick to show resentment to any criticism.

  Porteous thought back over the day and felt vaguely satisfied in spite of his several glaring errors. As he had wandered around the upper deck or shared his watch with the captain he had a feeling that at last, at long last, he had found his rightful niche in things. None of his tasks had been too difficult so far, and there always seemed to be someone nearby like a petty officer or leading hand if he appeared about to commit a real breach of discipline or seamanship. Only on the bridge did his old feeling of apprehension and doubt return to dog his every move. When it came to passing a helm order or making a fix on some vague and swaying buoy or beacon he got that same fear he had somehow made a mistake. Even when he was proved right he could find little consolation and put it down to luck rather than ability.

  He said, ‘By the way, the signalman of my watch comes from Putney, just a few streets from my home. He’s a very nice lad, and used to deliver our newspapers.’ He shook his head. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

  Shannon caught his arm and whis
pered tightly, ‘That’s another thing. For God’s sake stop chatting to the ratings the way you do. They won’t respect you for it. They’ll more likely think you’re soft.’

  Porteous looked at the deck. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And stop apologizing for everything!’ Shannon broke off as Wemyss and the captain appeared at the rear of the bridge.

  Crespin walked to the gyro repeater and peered at it for several seconds. In the shaded light his face looked much younger and showed no trace of tiredness, although he had been on and around the bridge the whole time.

  He saw Porteous and said, ‘Better get below, Sub. You’re up here again in less than four hours.’ He seemed to sense the tension and added calmly, ‘You did quite well today. Keep it up.’

  Porteous stared at him. ‘Thank you, sir. I—I will, sir!’

  Crespin’s teeth showed briefly in the compass light, then he said, ‘I’m going to turn in, Number One. Call me when you alter course at 0300. Or for anything unusual.’ Then he was gone.

  Wemyss walked to the voice-pipes, his long legs splayed out to hold the deck as it lurched from one angle to another. Then he glanced at Shannon’s outline against the screen. ‘All right, Sub?’

  Shannon shrugged. ‘Thank you, yes.’ He waited until the duty signalman had moved to the opposite side and then asked quickly, ‘Will we be going into action as soon as we reach the Med, Number One?’

  Wemyss yawned. ‘I’ve not been told. The captain will tell you when he’s ready, I imagine.’

  Shannon did not notice the gentle rebuff. ‘He seems a bit edgy, don’t you think?’ He waited for a comment, but Wemyss remained silent. ‘But I suppose that if half I’ve heard is true it’s not surprising.’

  Wemyss wanted to shut him up, but something in Shannon’s tone made him prick up his ears. After all, Crespin was certainly not confiding in him beyond the necessities of duty. That was unusual aboard the Thistle.

  Shannon continued, ‘He was leading some motor torpedo boats along the North African coast. They were jumped by German E-boats and shot to pieces apparently, and our captain had to swim for it.’

  Wemyss broke his silence. ‘It happens.’

  ‘Maybe, but this time the survivors were machine-gunned in the water, several hours after the boat was sunk. Crespin managed to get ashore with three survivors, and one of them died later.’

  ‘Go on. Get it off your chest.’

  Shannon sounded angry. ‘Well, that’s about all of it. The captain and his two remaining men had to walk across open desert for three days. They were eventually found half dead by an army patrol.’

  A light winked feebly through the leaping spray and Wemyss said sharply, ‘Check that buoy on the chart, Sub, and be quick about it. Fixes will be hard to get in this weather.’

  When Shannon had gone he walked to the front of the bridge and hoisted himself into the steel chair which was bolted to the deck for the captain’s use at sea. He had been wrong to let Shannon rabbit on about the captain, he thought. Crespin was hard to reach and his suffering probably explained that. But deep down Wemyss believed there was more to it than that.

  He settled more firmly into the chair, his ears recording the familiar shipboard sounds without conscious effort. The monotonous bleep, bleep from the asdic shelter, the scrape of feet from invisible watchkeepers and the steady vibrating beat of the engine. Like a thousand other times, and always the same sight through the salt-caked glass screen. The common enemy.

  Again his thoughts returned to Crespin. He was quick to find fault, but he could still take time to drop a word of praise when it was most needed.

  Like his remarks to Porteous, for instance. Wemyss smiled in spite of the leaping spray which had already turned the towel around his neck into a sodden rag. Porteous was so awkward and bumbling. He tried hard enough, perhaps too hard, but how he came to be here, or even in the Navy at all, was quite beyond understanding. Wemyss had learned that Porteous’s father was a judge. Probably just as well, he thought. Without backing of some sort it seemed unlikely that he would find any job at all.

  He heard Shannon’s voice, low-pitched and threatening as he laid into one of the lookouts. He was another sort of man entirely. Wemyss was rarely given to snap judgements but he guessed that Shannon’s resentment came from some sort of inferiority complex. Taking it all round it was a very rum ship’s company indeed, he decided.

  A voice-pipe muttered, ‘Permission to bring up a fanny of kye for the middle watch, sir?’

  Wemyss craned over. ‘Carry on.’

  And so the Thistle went back to war.

  3. Briefed to Attack

  ONE WEEK AFTER leaving England, almost to the exact hour, Thistle dropped her anchor in the busy roadstead beneath the protective shadow of the Rock. After the rain and greyness of Portsmouth dockyard and the savage squalls which had dogged them across the Bay of Biscay it seemed to the corvette’s small company like entering another world. Everywhere was bustle and a great show of purpose and preparation. There were stately troopships, their rigging bedecked in khaki washing and decks crowded with half-naked soldiers whose skins were already changing from pink to pale tan. There were cruisers and destroyers with at least two battleships, and the waters of the crowded harbour were churned and crisscrossed by countless launches and pinnaces as if to emphasize the importance of this, the gateway to the Mediterranean.

  But it soon became obvious to everyone aboard that if the Thistle was momentarily with part of a great fleet she was not of it. A launch came alongside with fresh despatches, and almost before the weary seamen could feast their eyes on the shore the corvette was moving again, this time to an oiler. While all hands turned to and rigged fuel hoses, Crespin was whisked away in the launch with hardly enough time to change into another uniform.

  Wemyss had seen him over the side and had asked, ‘Any orders, sir?’ He had gestured towards the white waterfront buildings which shimmered in a heat haze as if coming alive. ‘A drop of liberty would do our people a world of good.’

  Crespin had stared at him for a few moments. ‘No leave, Number One. As soon as we’ve taken on fuel we are to move out to the anchorage again.’ He had felt like adding that there was nothing he could do about it anyway. It was all in the despatches. But something in Wemyss’ eyes made him keep his resentment to himself. He had merely added, ‘They can buy their damned souvenirs later. When they’ve achieved something.’

  It had been unjust, and as he sat moodily in the launch’s cockpit he knew he was only voicing his own disappointment.

  The lieutenant who had come out in the boat said, ‘Nice little ship you’ve got there, sir.’ He was smartly dressed in whites and looked as if he had never set foot aboard a ship in his life.

  Crespin eyed the other officer calmly. ‘I suppose you don’t know what’s happening?’

  The lieutenant stared at him and then grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry, sir. Hush, hush, and all that.’

  Crespin relaxed slightly. As I thought. He knows damn all.

  But it was good to be back in the Med. He had half-expected to feel the rebirth of fear, but so far he was all right. And the clear sky, the healthy-looking sailors aboard the anchored ships and, above all, the crushing burden of defensive tolerance you found in England which was so alien here made it seem like a homecoming.

  His escort appeared to assume that Crespin’s silence was a kind of rebuke, and ushered him ashore and into the waiting car without another word.

  As the vehicle ground slowly through the narrow streets past gay cafés and open-fronted shops, Crespin marvelled at the normality of it all. The only thing you really noticed was the absence of women. But the streets were jam-packed with servicemen of every kind and of many nationalities.

  Wemyss had been right all the same. After the hasty departure from England and the voyage south his men could do with a sight like this.

  The Thistle’s company had settled down quite well, too, in spite of the terrible weather and the un
certainties which always came with a new venture. And the little corvette was not the best sort of ship for starting from scratch. There was never enough room. Men ate and slept herded together in a single messdeck, which did nothing to improve tempers. Stokers and seamen, signalmen and quartermasters, each used to their own ways, were expected to live in each other’s pockets, so that men only just in their hammocks for a few hours sleep were awakened by others being called for duties elsewhere, cursing and staggering against the swaying hammocks while the ship dived and reeled through every maddening gyration.

  The weather had been bad, although it was hard to see it with the same eyes through the window of a slow-moving car. In the wardroom it had been uncomfortable enough, with chairs lashed together when not in use and everything damp and jerking about with a mind of its own. In the crew’s quarters it was much worse. Water slopping around the steel deck while the men sat hunched at their tables trying to eat food already cold and flavourless after its precarious journey from the galley.

  The Thistle had kept well clear of land and away from the convoy routes. Her purpose had been to reach Gibraltar and not to get involved in the affairs of the Atlantic. If ships could think then she must have wondered at the behaviour of her masters. Even when the W/T office had reported a heavy U-boat attack on a convoy barely thirty miles away Crespin had held down his personal feelings and had maintained his set course.

  There had been one disturbing incident to mar the short voyage. Or two, if you stopped to consider the aftermath.

  Four days out, with the weather beginning to change in their favour, they had suddenly sighted a man in the water. It had been quite impossible of course, for the corvette had the sea and sky to herself. But as Crespin had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and run quickly on to the bridge he had seen the lonely figure for himself. Not a corpse drifting and forgotten from some massacred convoy, eyeless and without meaning like so many in the past, but a living, and at that moment, wildly excited human being.