‘First dog watchmen closed up at defence stations, sir. Able Seaman McNiven on the wheel.’ He looked through a clearview screen. ‘I guess we’ve arrived.’
Lindsay nodded.: ‘Yes.’
An invisible dot on the ocean. The starting leg of the patrol area. Area Uncle Item Victor. A sprawling parallelogram which measured five hundred by three hundred miles. As far north as the Arctic Circle between Iceland and Greenland. It had been impossible to get an accurate fix, and their position was obtained by the usual method, described by navigators as ‘by Guess and God’. Dead reckoning. Except that in this case you could not afford to be too casual, or you might end up dead in another sense.
‘Very well, Pilot. Bring her round to three-five-zero. Revs for ten knots.’
He heard Stannard passing his orders, the instant reply from the engine room bells to show that Fraser’s people were wide awake.
When the ship turned slightly to port the motion became more unsteady and violent, the waves piling up against the starboard bow before exploding high over the rails and hissing viciously across each open deck. Below there would be more wretched sufferers retching and groaning at this added onslaught, he thought.
He watched a tall greybeard of a wave surging down the starboard side, taking its time, as if to find the best place to attack. Just level with the bridge its jagged crest crumbled and broke inboard, the shock transmitting itself through the whole superstructure like something solid. It was almost pitch dark beyond the bows, with only the wavecrests to determine sea from sky.
Lindsay ran his fingers over the arms of the chair and recalled Goss’s face when he had told him what he required. Goss did not seem to understand that it was no good trying to act as if everythingwas normal and routine.
The watches changed, the relieved men scampering thankfully below to cabins and messdecks for some brief respite, but Lindsay had been on the bridge almost continuously since leaving the Flow. ‘I want: a good strong chair, Number One.’ That had been the first day out, and the shipwrights had built it during one watch from solid oak which had lain hitherto unnoticed, in a storeroom. Bolted to the deck it gave Lindsay good vision above the screen and was within reach of the bridge tele., phones. But Goss had stared at it with something like horror.
‘But, sir, that timber was being saved! You just can’t get it any more.’ Like Jupp and his damn glassware.
But if he was to keep going, to hold on to the vital reserve which might be demanded in the next hour or minute, he needed a good chair.
It was strange how Goss avoided facing the truth about the ship and her new purpose.: Or maybe he wanted the captain to crack under the strain so that he, after all, could take command.
Lindsay thought too of the practice drills he.had carried out on passage to the patrol area. In spite of the severe weather he had put almost every part of the ship through its paces. Gun and fire drill. Damage control and antiaircraft exercises, until he had seen the despair, even hatred on the faces around him.
Maybe Goss had some justification for expecting him to crack, he thought bitterly. Once or twice he had heard himself shouting into a telephone or across the open wing to some unfortunate man on the deck below.
The gun drill had been the worst part. Pathetic, he had called it, and had seen Maxwell’s rigid face working for once with something akin to shame. While mythical targets had been passed down from the so-called control position above the bridge, the crews of the six guns had endeavoured to locate and cover them with minimum delay. But each gun was hand-operated, and valuable time was lost again and again while Maxwell and the assistant gunnery officer, Lieutenant Hunter, had shouted themselves almost hoarse with frustration and despair. In most warships, and certainly all modern ones, it was possible to train all major guns, even fire them, direct from the control and rangefinder above the bridge. One eye and brain, like that of a submarine commander at a periscope. But Benbecula’s firing arrangements had not even begun to reach a stage where some hope was justified. The six-inch gun crews had no protection from the weather, and had to crouch behind the shields, shivering and cursing as ranges and deflections were passed by telephone and then yelled to them above the din of sea and wind. And having no power at each mounting it also meant that the big shells and their charges had to be manhandled and rammed home with sheer bodily strength. If the deck’chose to tilt the wrong way at the moment of loading it could mean disaster for an unwary seaman. The massive breech block of such a gun could swing shut, despite the normal precautions, and bite off a man’s arm like a horse snapping at a carrot. It was hardly likely to encourage the gun crews to take risks, but.on the other hand it reduced the speed of loading and firing to a dismal crawl.
A telephone buzzed at the rear of the bridge and the bosun’s mate called, ‘Number Three Carley float is comin’ adrift, sir.’
Stannard opened his mouth and shut it. He crossed to the chair and said quietly, ‘Can’t very well send the lads out in this, sir. Shall I tell the buffer to scrub round it until daylight?’
Lindsay tried to answer calmly. ‘Do it now. The boat deck is miles above the waterline. Pass the word for lifelines to be rigged. That should do it.’
Stannard remained beside the chair, his dark features stubborn. ‘In my opinion, sir
Lindsay swung round, seeing in those brief seconds the pale faces in the background, watching and listening.
Sub-Lieutenant Dancy, Stannard’s assistant for the watch, the signalman, the men at the telegraphs, all parts of the ship. Extensions of his own thoughts and interpretations.
Just do it, Pilot!’ He could not control it any longer. ‘With the sort of results I’ve been getting since I took command, I think liferafts are about the most useful things we’ve got! By God, do you imagine this is bad?’
Stannard stood his ground, his face angry: ‘I merely, meant….’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He did not sound it.
,Well, listen to me, will you?’ He kept his voice very low. ‘The weather is going to get worse, much worse. Before long we will have both watches on deck with steam hoses to cut away the ice. We are up here to do a job as best we can. It does not mean being battened down below and weeping for mother every time it bloody well rains!’
Stannard turned and beckoned to Dancy. ‘Co yourself, Sub. Tell the buffer to take all reasonable precautions.’ He kept his back to Lindsay. ‘No sense in killing anyone.’
Lindsay leaned back in the hard chair, feeling its arms pressing into his ribs on one side then on the other as the old ship rolled heavily in the troughs. He wanted to go out on the wing in spite of the weather and watch the men detailed to replace the lashings on the Carley float. At the same time he knew he must stay where he was. Let them get on with it. Allow them to hate his guts and so work better for it, if that was what they needed.
He peered at his watch. In fifteen hours they would officially relieve another armed merchant cruiser from this patrol. They would not see her, however, which-was probably just as well. It would do no good for some of the ship’s company to see what the other A.M.C. looked like at close range. How they would be looking themselves after a few weeks of this misery.
The telephone buzzed again. ‘Float’s secure, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Lindsay rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles rasp against his glove. He felt strangely relieved, in spite of his forced calm.
Dancy entered the bridge, his figure streaming, his face glowing with cold. He sounded pleased with himself.
‘Not too bad, sir.’ He clung to the voicepipes as the deck tilted and shuddered sickeningly beneath him. ‘But by God it’s parky out there!’