Free Back to Battle by Max Hennessy Page B

sonnets. He’d buy him a drink when they got home to show there was no ill feeling.

 
     
Five
    Inishtrahull and Kintyre vanished into the mist astern and dawn was just breaking over the mountains of Argyllshire as Feudal led the convoy into the Clyde. The channel opened in front of them, with the silent pinnacle of Ailsa Craig, the jagged summit of Arran and, beyond, the softer outline of Bute. Strung along the shore were the coastal resorts of Ayrshire and Dumbarton, then they passed the Cloch light into Greenock. To the north the tawny and purple mountains lifted, and finally the coast crumbled into a rubbish heap of ugly tenements and warehouses.
    Mail came aboard, mostly bills, but there was a letter from Hugh to inform Kelly he hoped to see him shortly. He had joined the Fleet Air Arm before the war was a fortnight old and he was now finishing his training on Sea Gladiators. He’d not swerved in his belief in air power, but it had pleased Kelly that he’d chosen the Navy.
    Below decks, the sailors were still swearing to the Customs men that the nylons they’d bought in New York were personal gear, and a furious stoker was drinking himself silly on bourbon rather than let the government officials have it, when the Rear-Admiral (D)’s barge was seen approaching from the pier.
    ‘Hello,’ the Sub said. ‘Something in the wind!’
    The Admiral was in a hurry and not inclined to mince words. The prevailing mood as they’d tied up to the buoy had been light. They were due for a boiler-clean and a boiler-clean meant leave, and the feeling of relief had been clear throughout the ship. The first lieutenant had had his little joke with the coxswain and the cook with Jack Dusty, and somehow they were all together. But now suddenly, the sky had clouded over, because an admiral didn’t appear alongside a ship at full speed and scramble over the side just to inform them that a boiler-clean was all right with him. There was something unpleasant in the offing, and in a moment, the light-hearted jokes became bitter, and the word ‘bastard’, which had been a term of affection up to that moment, suddenly had a sharper edge.
    The Admiral pulled no punches. ‘You’ll have to put off your boiler-clean,’ he said. ‘It’s hard, I know, but there it is. We’re short of ships. Between ‘em, the politicals have just about done for us and I don’t know which I detest most – the ancient glittering eyes of the reactionaries or the joyless dogma of the left wing intellectuals.’
    Rumbelo passed over a drink and, as the Admiral swallowed it, Kelly probed gently. ‘What’s the job, sir?’
    The Admiral grunted. ‘We suspect the Germans are up to something in the North. Max Horton stationed his submarines down the Norwegian coast weeks ago and they were in a position to stop the Germans, but those asses in Westminster wouldn’t have it and they’ve been withdrawn.’
    ‘And us, sir?’
    ‘We’re making up a new flotilla. You’ll lose Sappho and Sanderling but you’re getting Freelance. They’re sneaking ore ships down the Inner Leads and we think there’s going to be trouble because we have reports of capital ships moving in Kiel and Wilhelmshaven. You’re to take station off Narvik and keep watch. And while you’re there, you’re to keep a look out for Kölndom. She’s an old freighter but she’s believed to be carrying German naval and military experts from the Argentine. They’ve been there ever since we got Graf Spee in December, and some of them are important. She’s probably even armed and we think she’s making for home, because she was reported up near the Denmark Strait, heading for Bergen. Admiral Whitworth’s up there with Renown and four destroyers and the Twentieth Destroyer Flotilla’s been ordered to join him. You’ll be attached for orders.’
    ‘When do we leave, sir?’
    ‘At once. Freelance will join you from Scapa en route.’
    The nylons remained on board as the Customs men were