Kleber's Convoy Read Free

flaxen-haired girl sitting on a farm gate, afield of corn behind her. In spite of the smile there was a wistfulness, a certain tragic beauty about her. The photo reminded him of two things: a gendarme’s shrill whistle, the shriek of brakes, an urgent throng through which he’d broken, a crumpled figure at their feet, a man leaning over her, an Alpine crevasse, the glacier beneath a slope, broken skis and blood, a tall fair man smiling as he took his hand.
    To have the photo there at all was a contradiction. It recalled two of the worst moments of his life. A time when he’d been overwhelmed by tragedy and guilt. A time before that of fear, pain and desperation. But there were things one could do and things one couldn’t, and to do away with the photo was unthinkable. An act of betrayal. The least he could do was keep her memory alive. He drew his hand across his eyes. I’m tired, he thought, bloody tired. There was a knock on the door. Gavin Strong, the first-lieutenant, came in with a signal sheet in his hand.
    â€˜What is it, Number One?’
    â€˜Signal from Greenock, sir. From Captain (D). 1 About Leading-seaman Tregarth.’
    â€˜What’s the trouble?’
    â€˜His wife died in labour yesterday. Captain (D) wants us to land him if we can.’
    â€˜Can we spare him?’
    â€˜I think so, sir. I think we must.’
    â€˜Right, do that Number One.’
    There was an attractive ugliness about the first-lieutenant; smiling grey eyes and a nose on one side, like the face of a much-punished boxer. His manner was direct and his lopsided smile warm and friendly. He had an assurance, an air of confidence, an enthusiasm which infected the ship’s company. This strongly recommended him to his captain.
    Apart from Redman, the only Royal Naval officers in the ship were the first-lieutenant and Pownall, the navigating officer. The rest, but for Baggot the torpedo gunner, a warrant officer, were Royal Naval Volunteer Reservists. On the whole a good bunch of officers who made for a cheerful wardroom. He had reservations about Pownall. The navigating officer was competent but often supercilious at theexpense of others. Then there was Sutton the new doctor. A queer fish. Pale, apprehensive eyes. A serious, joyless, detached sort of man. He’d joined the ship a few weeks back. Redman had his doubts about him. But he was sure of Vengeful. She was a good ship. Her chiefs and petty officers were all RN – some of them Fleet reservists – sound men, the hard core around which the ship’s company functioned. She was a Chatham-based ship, the majority of her crew ‘hostilities only’; mostly young Londoners in their late teens and early twenties. Life on the messdecks of a V and W destroyer in northern seas was hard and appallingly uncomfortable. But these youngsters, pitch-forked into the Royal Navy by the fortunes of war, endured it all with a stoicism which Redman admired. Of course some of them annoyed and worried him at times. Did stupid things like going absent without leave, usually because of some girl, and getting into other unnecessary trouble. And there was Cupido, the captain’s steward. Small, dark, taciturn. He worried Redman. Somehow he couldn’t get through to the man. They had a bad effect on each other. Cupido seemed unable to bring a hot meal to the sea-cabin. And he smelt of garlic.
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    Redman lunched early and alone in his day cabin. He had just finished when the first-lieutenant reported that the ship’s company was assembled in the seamen’s messdeck. When Redman got there he outlined to the ship’s company in straightforward, simple language the operation on which they were about to embark: the escorting of convoy JW 137 to Murmansk. He drew on a blackboard a diagram of the convoy. For the first twenty-four hours Vengeful , with the rest of the Fifty-Seventh Escort Group, would be on the close screen. Off the Faeroes the