To Risks Unknown (5 page)

Crespin saw Sub-Lieutenant Porteous, flushed and obviously over-anxious, cup his hands and yell, ‘All clear aft, sir!'

Wemyss sprang across the bridge like a tiger. ‘Not yet! Wait until you've got 'em both aboard! They'll wrap around the screw if you don't watch out!' He came back breathing heavily and lapsed into silence.

Crespin nodded. Wemyss was more anxious than he thought.

‘Slow ahead.' Crespin craned forward and watched narrowly as the jetty began to sidle past. The long wire spring which ran from the forecastle to a bollard almost level with the quarterdeck lifted and tightened until it was like a steel bar. Unable to go any further ahead because of the restraining wire, the bows moved inwards towards the jetty. To his relief he saw Petty Officer Dunbar and a handful of men already waiting with heavy fenders at the point of impact, so that when the hull snubbed against the jetty the stern automatically began to swing outwards into the stream. Wider and wider, until the ship stood out from the wall at an angle of forty-five degrees. Even the eager wind was unable to stop the
Thistle
from swinging clear.

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 whispered 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.