My feet were already running as they hit the deck. One hand clutched at the cord on my pyjamas while the other grabbed my cap off the hook as I went through the door. I skidded to a stop in the alleyway, looked down at my bare feet and shot back into the cabin to slip into my deck shoes. Then back out again to collide with an equally fast-moving Third Mate Curtis, also in gaily striped pyjama bottoms but without even the dignity of a hat. As we tangled with each other I couldn’t figure for a moment in my sleep-dulled mind why he looked so like a pregnant woman, then I realised he had his bright blue and orange Board of Trade lifejacket on. But Curtis always was a pessimist — and maybe a lifejacket was more use than a hat for a swim in the South Atlantic.
He dodged from side to side and yelled, ‘Gunfire!’ while I tried to make it past him like a scrum-half with no one to pass the ball to, and roared, ‘I know, so gerrout the bloody way youstupidbastard!’ then, breaking through, pounded the old familiar trail to the bridge.
The Old Man was up there before me this time, though it took me a few moments of night blindness before my eyes adjusted from the glare of the accommodation lights to the blanketing solidity of the night, and I could see him properly. It wasn’t all darkness though. Not on the horizon.
Evans was fully dressed and, together, we stood silently watching the fantastic display of pyrotechnics ahead. Red and green flares swarmed slowly into the night sky, while the steely blue-white of tracer shells streaked almost flat along the line of the distant sea one moment, then curved lazily and nearly vertical the next. All the time, rolling towards us over the sparkling reflections in the glassy water, came the sullen thunder of gunfire punctuated by the sharper cracks of light weapon bursts.
And we were heading almost directly into it.
‘Gunpowder, treason and plot,’ murmured the Second Mate as he stood slightly behind us.
The Captain swivelled, ‘Keep an eye on Mallard, Mister Shell. If she doesn’t give us a course alteration away from that bloody Brock’s benefit within three minutes, either Braid’s a fool or they’re all asleep on the fancy boat.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir.’
Evans turned to me worriedly and the flashes ahead illuminated his lined features. ‘What the hell is it, Mister Kent? There doesn’t seem to be any sense to it. Look!’
I saw what he meant. There was no apparent pattern in the lines of fire as you’d expect from two ships which were, presumably, firing at each other. Instead, the vari-coloured streamers seemed to sprout from one central core, fanning out as they rose into a gigantic, exploding vase of flowers.
‘Maybe the war’s over and we’re celebrating,’ I said, trying to be dryly British and humorous in the face of fear.
The Old Man wasn’t laughing very hard. ‘Or perhaps the war’s over and the bloody Nazis are celebrating,’ he answered grimly, still trying to focus his Barr and Stroud 8 x 50’s on the source of the display.
He let them go in disgust and they dropped on their straps to swing against the barrel chest. ‘Goddam fools doing that must be well below the horizon — say ten, fifteen miles? I can’t see a blasted thing other than the Fifth of November stuff going up.’
‘Should I get a man up to the masthead, Sir?’
He considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, Mister Kent. He wouldn’t see much anyway and I have no intentions of steaming very much farther on this heading, either with or without the Royal Navy’s permission.’
I began to feel a bit better. It was reassuring to think there were at least two cowards on board, and we carried the rank. I knew, though, that Evans wasn’t scared for himself — not in the way I was. It was just that he intended to carry out his duty with the minimum possible hazard to ship and crew. My train of thought was interrupted by Charlie Shell lifting the Aldis expectantly, ‘Escort’s signaling, Sir.’
We watched the tiny, flickering light from the black sliver that was Mallard. It was very dim, shaded for obvious reasons. Braid must have been dead worried to have risked showing a light at all, even though the illuminations lit up the seascape for miles around. It was fast, too. The signalman was in a hurry this time, but it didn’t bother me. My morse was nearly up to professional operator standards as it was one accomplishment I’d always been interested enough in to practise rather more thoroughly than the average merchant navy officer.
The rumble of the guns was getting louder and I had to raise my voice slightly. ‘COMESCORT TO MASTER CYCLOPS: REPEAT TO MASTER ATHENIAN: SUGGEST THIS IS ONE PARTY WE DON’T GATECRASH COURSE ALTERATION PORT TEN DEG TO 143 DEG T REPEAT 143 DEG ON MY EXECUTE SIGNED BRAID END.’
Evans wasn’t any more impressed at the Commander’s attempt at dry British humour than he had been with mine. He looked at me expressionlessly and the peak of his cap threw flickering shadows across his eyes. ‘We’re bearing farther east at last, Mister Kent.’
I nodded silently, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry. We had to try for the African coast some time and the way we were heading meant we should hit New Schwabenland in the South Polar Regions in about two weeks. I didn’t relish the thought of trying to skin past the U-boats that were reckoned to be between us and Cape Town, and we still weren’t all that far past the area where the unlucky Kent Star had screamed from, but what was the alternative? To keep on veering west until we either ran out of fuel or, at the very best, lost so much time and distance that the critically important cargo in the strongroom ceased to have any value in terms of lives saved and ships kept clear of our own minefields?
Another blip from Mallard and the Second Mate said sharply, ‘Execute, Sir.’
Evans nodded. ‘You have the watch, Mister Shell.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir.’ Charlie Shell stepped into the wheelhouse and we felt the ship heel over to starboard as we swung on to the new course. I was watching the pretty lights as the black silhouettes of the foremost mast cut across them when suddenly, without the slightest warning or even a gradual diminishing of intensity, the thunder stopped and they went out. Just like that! As if someone had switched them off. It was bloody crazy, the whole thing.
The blackness seemed very intense after that but, despite the unknown hazards it concealed, I felt a sense of greater security. Then Mallard spoiled the whole thing by going into competition with whatever had been on the horizon. Her shaded Aldis now seemed like a searchlight, beckoning U-boats like some lantern left in a window to entice a recalcitrant lover. Braid cut out the flannel this time, though. Just a few quick A’s to catch our attention, then INCREASE TO EMERGENCY REVOLUTIONS END.
I wasn’t much of an asset up there in my pyjama bottoms so I tactfully asked the Old Man’s permission and scuttled down the ladder, leaving him to do the dirty work and tell McKenzie about the new increase in speed. It was going to be like asking the Chief to volunteer as a blood donor in vampire country.
This time I felt the vibration under my feet creeping up so grudgingly slowly it was almost painful.
I had just got back to my cabin, and was inhaling my first mouthful of much-needed tobacco smoke, when the gunfire rumble started again.
This time the Third Mate stood well back in anticipation as I took off down the alleyway — and without my bloody hat. If the Company wanted to fire me for such an extreme breach of etiquette then that was OK by me. I was quite prepared to leave the ship immediately, with or without references.
At the top of the bridge ladder I ground to a halt and stared at the sky ahead in baffled horror. Almost dead in line with the bows, practically bisected by the jackstaff up in the eyes of the ship, the same crazy carnival of spraying lights and colour was being re-enacted on the black edge of the horizon. The blazing illuminations were almost an exact second-house showing of the pyrotechnics that had chased us off course half an hour before.