Ship of Brides Read online

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I can’t guarantee it’s spreading in that direction, sir.’

  Caught early enough, an engine-room fire could have been put out with extinguishers and, at worst, a hose. Even caught late, it could usually be contained with boundary hosing – spraying water on the outside walls to keep the temperature of the room down. But this fire – God only knew how – had already gone too far. Where were the men? he wanted to shout. Where were the extinguishers? The bloody drenchers? But it was too late for any of that. ‘You think it might be heading towards the machine control room?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘If it blows out the machine control room, it will reach the warhead and bomb rooms.’

  ‘Sir.’

  That plane. That face. Highfield forced himself to push away the image.

  ‘Get the women off the ship.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lower the lifeboats.’

  Dobson glanced out of the bridge at the rough seas. ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘I’m not taking any chances. Lower the lifeboats. Take a bloody order, man. Green, grab your men and equipment. Dobson, I need at least ten men. We’re going to empty the bomb rooms as far as possible, then flood the bloody thing. Tennant, I want you and a couple of others to see if you can get to the passage below the mast pump room. Get the hatches open on the lub oil store and flood it. Flood as many of the compartments around both engine rooms as you can.’

  ‘But it’s above water level, sir.’

  ‘Look at the waves, man. We’ll make the bloody seas work for us for a change.’

  On the boat deck, Nicol was trying to persuade a weeping girl, her arms wrapped round her lifejacket, to climb into the lifeboat. ‘I can’t,’ she shrieked, pointing at the churning black seas below. ‘Look at it! Just look at it!’

  Around them, the marines struggled to keep order and calm, despite the sirens and piped instructions emanating from other parts of the ship. Occasionally a woman would cry out that she could see or smell smoke, and a ripple of fear would travel through the others. Despite this, the weeping girl was not the only one unwilling to climb into the boats, which, after the solidity of Victoria, bobbed precariously like corks in the foaming waters below.

  ‘You’ve got to get in,’ he yelled, his tone becoming firmer.

  ‘But all my things! What will happen to them?’

  ‘They’ll be fine. Fire will be out in no time and then you can re-embark. Come on, now. There’s a queue building up behind you.’

  With a sob of reluctance, the girl allowed herself to be handed into the boat and the queue shuffled forward a few inches. Behind him the crowd of several hundred women waited, having been marshalled out of the hangar deck towards the lifeboats, most still in their evening dresses. The wind whistled around them, goosepimpling the girls’ arms; they clutched themselves and shivered. Some wept, others wore bright, nervous smiles as if trying to persuade themselves that this was all some jolly adventure. One in three refused point-blank to get in and had to be ordered or even manhandled. He didn’t blame them – he didn’t want to get into a lifeboat either.

  In the floodlit dark, he could see men who remembered Indomitable; they eyed each other while trying not to reveal it in their expressions, kept their attention focused on getting the women down into the relative safety of the waters below.

  The next female hand was in his. It was Margaret, her moon face pale. ‘I can’t leave Maudie,’ she said.

  It took him several seconds to understand what she was saying. ‘Frances is down there,’ he said. ‘She’ll bring her. Come on, you can’t wait.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Margaret, you have to get into the boat.’ He could see the anxious faces of those swaying in the suspended cutter. ‘C’mon, now. Don’t make everyone else wait.’

  Her grip was surprisingly strong. ‘You’ve got to tell her to get Maudie.’

  Nicol peered back through the smoke and chaos below the bridge. His own fears were not for the dog.

  ‘You get into that one, Nicol.’ His marine captain appeared behind him, pointing to the one alongside. ‘Make sure they’ve all got their jackets on.’

  ‘Sir, I’d rather wait on deck, if that’s—’

  ‘I want you in the boat.’

  ‘Sir, if it’s all the same I’ll—’

  ‘Nicol, in the boat. That’s an order.’ The marine captain nodded him towards the little vessel, as Margaret’s lifeboat disappeared down the side of the ship, then did a double-take. ‘What the bloody hell has happened to your face?’

  Several minutes later, Nicol’s boat hit the waters with a flat wet thud that made several girls shriek. Fumbling with safety straps and the problem of getting a lifejacket round a particularly hysterical bride, Nicol scanned the boats already on the water until he spotted Emmett. The young marine was gesturing at his single oar. ‘There’s no bloody ropes,’ he was shouting, ‘and half the oars are missing. Bloody ship’s a floating scrapyard.’

  ‘They were half-way through replacing them. Denholm ordered it after the last drill,’ said another voice.

  Nicol searched for and found his own oars – he was lucky. They were safe. They could float all night for all it mattered. Around them, the sea churned dark grey, the waves not high enough to induce real fear, but sizeable enough to keep the women’s hold firm on the sides of the little boats. Above, through the whistling in his ears, he could hear the increasingly rapid piped instructions, now joined by the siren. He stared at the creaking ship; the faint but distinct plume of smoke that had emerged from the space below the women’s cabins.

  Get out, he told her silently. Get to somewhere I can see you.

  ‘I can’t keep close to you,’ shouted Emmett. ‘How are we going to keep the boats together?’

  ‘Get out. Get out now,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Here,’ said a woman behind him, ‘I know what we can do. Come on, girls . . .’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  Frances had hold of Avice now, no longer caring what the girl thought of her, no longer caring how any physical contact would be received. She could hear the sound of the lifeboats hitting the water, the shouts of those leaving the ship, and was filled by the blind fear that they would not get out.

  She tried to convey none of this to Avice who, she suspected, was beyond sensible thought. She hated the stupid girl, too shallow even to recognise the threat to their lives.

  ‘I know it’s hard but you’ve got to go now.’ She had kept her voice sing-song light for the past ten minutes. Sweet, reassuring, detached, the way she used to talk to the worst-injured men.

  ‘There’s nothing for me now,’ said Avice, and her voice rasped like sandpaper. ‘You hear me? Everything’s ruined. I’m ruined.’

  ‘I’m sure it can be sorted out—’

  ‘Sorted out? What do I do? Unmarry myself? Row myself back to Australia?’

  ‘Avice, this is not the time—’ She could smell smoke now. It made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  ‘Oh, how could you possibly understand? You, with the morals of an alleycat.’

  ‘We’ve got to get out.’

  ‘I don’t care. My life is over. I may as well stay here—’ She broke off as, above them, something crashed on to the deck. The shudder it sent through the little room seemed to knock Avice out of her trance.

  A man’s face appeared round their door. ‘You shouldn’t still be in here,’ he said. ‘Leave your things and go.’ It seemed as if he were about to come in, but he was distracted by a shout from the other end of the passageway. ‘Now!’ he said, and vanished.

  Frances stared in horror at the door, just long enough to see the back legs of the little dog disappear through it. She toyed with the idea of going after her, but a glance at Avice’s wild expression told her where her priorities lay.

  There was another crash and a man’s voice at the end of the hangar deck
yelling, ‘Secure hatches! Secure hatches now!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Frances’s grip was strong. She grabbed an arm and a handful of Avice’s dress and pulled her out of the cabin, conscious that she was at last movable. The corridor was full of smoke. Frances tried to duck below it, a hand over her mouth and nose. ‘Gun turret,’ she yelled, pointing, and they stumbled, half blinded, their lungs scorched and protesting, towards it.

  They fumbled with the hatch door, and fell outside, gasping and retching. Frances made her way to the edge and leant over, so relishing the clearer air that it took her a minute to register the scene below: a web of boats spanning beneath them, linked by knotty brown lengths. She glanced up at the empty gantries and saw that all the boats were in the water. She knew there must still be men on deck – she could hear their voices filtering downwards. But she could not work out how to get to them.

  Someone saw them and shouted. Arms gesticulated from below. ‘Get out!’ someone was shouting. ‘Get out now!’

  Frances stared at the water, then at the girl beside her, still in her best dress. Frances was a strong swimmer: she could dive down, emerge among the lifeboats. She owed Avice nothing. Less than nothing. ‘We can’t head up to the flight deck. There’s too much smoke in the corridor,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have to jump.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Avice.

  ‘It’s not that far. Look – I’ll hold on to you.’

  ‘I can’t swim.’

  Frances heard the crack of something giving outside, the hint of an inferno she did not want to face. She grabbed Avice and they struggled, Frances trying desperately to drag her towards the edge.

  ‘Get off me!’ Avice screamed. ‘Don’t touch me!’ She was wild, scratching and pounding at Frances’s arms, her shoulders. Smoke was seeping under the hatch. From somewhere far below, Frances could hear women’s voices calling up to them. She smelt something acrid and her heart was filled with fear. She grabbed a handful of Avice’s silk dress and dragged her on to the gun turret. Her foot slipped, the rubber sole of her shoe sliding off metal, and she thought suddenly: What if no one rescues me? Then she heard a scream and, entangled, they were falling, arms and legs flailing, towards the inky black below.

  The captain had the wrench in his hands, and was struggling to get the bomb off its clamp on the wall. ‘Get out!’ he shouted at the men who, three strong, were carrying the penultimate bomb from the magazine. ‘Get the hose! Flood the compartment! Flood it now!’ He had removed his mask to be better heard, and his voice was hoarse as he tried to speak and breathe.

  ‘Captain!’ yelled Green, though his mask. ‘Got to get out now.’

  ‘She’s not going up. Got to be safe.’

  ‘You can’t get them all off, sir. You don’t have time. We can flood it now.’

  Afterwards, Green thought Highfield might not have heard him. He did not want to leave his skipper there, but he knew there was only so much a man could do before the need to keep the other men safe overrode his concern.

  ‘Start the flooding,’ Highfield was shouting. ‘Just go.’

  He turned, and as he did so, he heard something fall. He threw his smoke helmet blindly towards the captain, hoping it would reach him, that somehow he would see it through the smoke. His heart heavy with foreboding, he was out, pushing his men before him.

  Frances broke through the surface, her mouth a great O, her hair plastered over her face. She could hear voices, feel hands pulling at her, trying to heave her out of water so cold it had knocked the breath hard from her chest. At first the sea had not wanted to relinquish her: she felt its icy grasp on her clothes. And then she was flopping, gasping, on the floor of the little boat like a landed fish, retching as voices tried to reassure her, and a blanket swiftly wrapped round her shoulders.

  Avice, she mouthed. And then as the salt sting in her eyes eased, she saw her being hauled like a catch over the other end of the cutter, her beauty-pageant dress slick with oil, her eyes closed tight against her future.

  Is she all right? she wanted to ask. But an arm slid round her, pulled her in tightly. It did not release her, as she expected, but held on, so that she felt the closeness of this solid body, the intensity of its protection, and suddenly she had no words. Frances, a voice said, close by her ear, and it was dark with relief.

  Captain Highfield was laid out on the flight deck by the two stokers who had carried him there. The men stood around him, hands thrust in pockets, some wiping sweat or soot from their faces, spitting noisily behind them. In the distance, under the dark skies, there were shouts of confirmation as different parts of the ship were deemed to have stopped burning.

  It’s out, Captain, they told him. It’s under control. We did it. They half whispered these words as if unsure whether he could still hear them. There would be other conversations later, about how ill-judged it was for a man of his standing, of his age, to throw himself into the firefighting efforts in such a reckless manner. There would be nodded observations of how bad he was at delegating, how another captain might have stood back and seen the bigger picture. But many of his men would approve. They would think of Hart, and their lost mates, and wonder whether they wouldn’t have done the same.

  But this was hours, days ahead. For now, Highfield lay there, oblivious to their words and reassurances. There was silence for a whole minute, as the men watched his slumped figure, still in his good dress uniform, wet and smoke-stained, eyes still fixed on some distant drama.

  The men looked at him, and then, surreptitiously at each other. One wondered whether to summon the ship’s doctor, who was organising a sing-song among the occupants of the lifeboats below. Then Highfield raised himself on his elbow, his eyes bloodshot. He coughed once, twice more, and there was black phlegm on the deck. He moved his neck as if in pain. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he asked, voice gravelly, eyes full of fury. ‘Check every last bloody compartment. Then get the bloody women out of the bloody boats and back on bloody board.’

  It took two hours to make the ship safe. The Spanish fishing vessels that passed by shortly before dawn, checking that those still waiting on the water did not need rescuing, would speak for years after of the lifeboats, full of women in brightly coloured evening dresses, their limbs arranged chaotically, singing ‘The Wild Rover No More’. They were linked, like some giant cobweb, by taut brown stockings, knotted together in lengths.

  There were two marines to each lifeboat. The water slopped against the side of the cutters, buoying the discarded or torn hosiery, which floated like brown seaweed on the surface of the water. The women’s voices were low with relief and exhaustion as word spread that they would not have to spend much longer in the little vessels. That they, and their belongings, were safe.

  He stared at her, and now, as Avice’s sleeping body rested limply against her own, still wrapped in the blanket, she stared back, past the stooped bodies of the other women, silent and unblinking, as if their eyes were connected by an invisible thread.

  The captain was alive. The fires were out.

  They were to re-embark.

  22

  Remember, the army will not send you to a destination unless it has been verified that ‘that man’ is there waiting. In short, consider yourself parcel-post delivery.

  Advice contained in a booklet given to war brides

  travelling aboard the Argentina, Imperial War Museum

  Twenty-four hours to Plymouth

  It was several hours before the temperature had cooled enough to check it, but it was pretty clear once the working party got down there that the centre engine room was beyond repair; the heat had melted pipework and welded rivets to the floor. The walls and hatches had buckled, and above it half of the seamen’s messes were gone, the decks above them warping so far with the heat that several gantries had toppled over. Other ratings had donated blankets and pillows so that those who had lost bunks and belongings could sleep in relative comfort in the forward hangar space. Nobody complaine
d. Those who had lost treasured photographs and letters comforted themselves with the thought that within twenty-four hours they were likely to see in person the subjects of those precious keepsakes. Those who remembered Indomitable were simply relieved that no lives had been lost. If the war had taught them nothing else, it had taught them that.

  ‘Think you can limp into harbour?’

  Highfield sat in the bridge, watching the grey skies clear to reveal patches of pure blue, as if in apology for the evening before. ‘We’re less than a day away. We’ve got one working engine. I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Sounds like the old girl suffered a bit.’ McManus’s voice was low. ‘And a little bird tells me you were a little too stuck in for comfort.’

  Highfield dismissed thoughts of armament clamps and his raw throat. He took another swig of the honey and lemon that his steward had prepared for him. ‘Fine, sir. Nothing to worry about. The men . . . looked after me.’

  ‘Good man. I’ll take a look at your report. Glad you were able to bring it all under control – without frightening the ladies too much, I mean.’ His laugh echoed tinnily down the wire.

  Highfield stepped out of the bridge, and stood on the flight deck. At the aft end, a row of men were making their way slowly along it, scrubbing off traces of the smoke that had filtered upwards, their buckets of grey, foaming water slopping as they went. They worked around the areas that had buckled, which were not safe to walk on. Several marines had been busy constructing barriers around them. The damage was visible, but it was all orderly. When they sailed into Plymouth, Highfield’s ship would be under control.

  He had not lost a single one.

  No one was close enough to hear the shaking breath that Highfield slowly let out as he turned to go back into the bridge. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

  At least a hundred women had queued patiently by the main hatch since breakfast, waiting to be allowed back to their cabins. There had been hushed conversations about the state of their belongings, fears for cherished and carefully chosen arrival outfits now perhaps wrecked by water and smoke. Although there was no obvious damage on this deck, a brush against a wall or bunk left one with a shadow that revealed everything was veiled with a fine layer of soot. As they stood and talked, quieting for every piped instruction in case it heralded their being allowed in, more women drifted towards the queue.