Voices on the Wind - Assault

Heavy pounding on the cabin door was followed by a muffled shout from the bridge messenger, “There’s been an accident, Mr Mackay! On the fo’c’sle head!”

“I’m on my way,” Stevie rumbled, even before he opened his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of his berth to stuff them into his waiting seaboots. Although he’d stretched out to get some rest after coming off watch at 8 am, he’d remained dressed in three layers of clothes from neck to foot. Now he only had to grab his outer gear: the oilskin trousers swaying on the hook on the back of the door, which he pulled over his boots, and his long “Lammy” coat. He left his peaked officer’s cap on its hook and pulled his woollen watch cap down firmly over his ears instead. Finally, he donned his cotton gloves, followed by woollen mittens and his leather gauntlets.

As he left his cabin behind, he mentally tried to anticipate what the accident might be. When he’d come below, the wind and sea had both been moderate from their starboard quarter. The slow and regular corkscrewing of the 427-foot, 6,224-ton Clan Sinclair as she comfortably rode the waves suggested that had not changed. Little chance, then, of cargo coming loose or gear breaking abruptly. Yet this was the second accident in just two days. Yesterday, one of the Lascar firemen had come on deck for a smoke and thoughtlessly touched a bollard with his naked hand. His skin had welded itself to the metal, and when he yanked his hand back at the sting, he had only bloody pulp for a palm. Stevie suspected the cold was the cause of whatever had happened now, too. Men just weren’t designed to live in cold like this, he told himself as he stepped out of the accommodation passageway onto the deck.

The air instantly stung the exposed part of his face above his beard and below the cuff of his watch cap. They were well above the Arctic Circle, so although it was almost midday, the sun sat low to the horizon. Behind a layer of heavy cloud, its weak light produced only a gloomy twilight. Stevie could barely make out the silhouette of the foremast and the fo’c’sle against the grey sky.

He paused briefly to look about, noting that the mist rising from the surface of the sea obscured not only the horizon but all the other ships of the convoy as well. The presence of seven other merchantmen and three escorts was betrayed only by the tips of masts poking out of the mist or by the churned white water marking the wake of the ship ahead. Turning his attention back to the fo’c’sle deck, he saw men clustered together; one of them was waving at him.

He waved back and stepped to the ladder leading down to the forward well deck. The steps and handrails were completely coated in ice, so he descended backwards like a landlubber. He skidded more than walked across the ice-glazed foredeck, holding tight to a lifeline, and then climbed up another ice-coated ladder to the fo’c’sle head.

As his head cleared the top of the fo’c’sle, he got a clear view of three men huddled around a fourth lying on the deck. All were bundled in oilskins and wrapped in scarves making them indistinguishable from one another in the near dark. “What happened?” Stevie called out.

“We don’t know for sure, Mr Mackay,” the answer floated on the icy air, still warmed by the melodic cadence of tropical West Africa. As Stevie came nearer, he recognised two of the four Nigerian able seamen along with the young and inexperienced Jimmy MacLeod, a lad from the Outer Hebrides. The latter was looking very scared. Lying on the deck was one of the older English deckhands, and his face was screwed up with pain as he moaned and sobbed miserably. Wilson was a tough, old Able Seaman. It unnerved Stevie to see him in this state.

“We working the steam hose,” the Nigerian continued, pointing to the hose lying idle beside the Bofors gun. To keep equipment and guns operable and the decks from getting too top-heavy, they had to systematically remove the layers of ice that formed on everything. Hammers and axes were used if necessary, but the most efficient way was a steam hose that melted the ice away. The Nigerian explained, “Suddenly, we hear Wilson cry out in surprise-like, and then he screamed like I never heard before.” He was shaking his head.

“He lost his footing,” the youngster Jimmy MacLeod added, agitated. “His feet just flew out from under him! I saw him fall over backwards onto the anchor chain and then I heard something crack.” He imitated the sound.

Stevie felt ice run down his spine. The only medical training he’d ever had was a first aid course years ago, but since becoming Chief Officer on the Clan Sinclair a little over a year ago, he’d been assisting the master at ‘sick call.’ He’d become intimately familiar with the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide and moderately proficient at dealing with common injuries like scrapes, cuts, punctures, scald wounds and the occasional broken finger or twisted or dislocated joint. This, on the other hand, sounded like a broken back, and all that Stevie could remember learning about that was that mishandling a man with a back injury might make it worse.

Yet the others were staring at him expectantly. He went down on his heels beside Wilson and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wilson, it’s Mackay. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“M’ back, sir! M’ back! And I can’t move m’ legs. Christ, I’m going to be paralysed! I’m going to be a basket case!” His eye sockets were glistening with tears.

“Calm down, man,” Stevie ordered sternly. “It’s probably just temporary. The cold and the shock.” Despite his tone, Stevie was bluffing because he didn’t have a clue. “We’ll get you to sickbay and get you warmed up. I can give you a shot for the pain there,” he promised, glad that at least that part was true.

Turning to the three men around him, he was about to order the Nigerians to fetch the stretcher when he remembered that Wilson had been the forward lookout. They were now almost due north of North Cape. Massive ice floes to the north and west forced them to hold a course less than a hundred miles from the Norwegian coast. The latter was infested with Germans whose sole purpose in life was to kill them in order to stop supplies from reaching the Soviet Union. There was no time on the whole voyage that they needed lookouts more than now, particularly in these five to six hours of eerie twilight when they were more visible than in the remaining hours of complete darkness. Directing himself to the senior Nigerian, he ordered, “Obi, take the lookout.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Musa, you and MacLeod go aft to the sickbay and fetch the stretcher. If you don’t know where it is, find Chief Steward Derry—and tell him about Wilson.” Derry doubled as sickbay attendant. The two deckhands nodded and set off together, leaving Stevie crouched beside Wilson. The seaman was lying very awkwardly, partially twisted. Stevie would have liked to make him more comfortable but was afraid of doing more harm. Wilson rolled his head back and forth, whimpering and blubbering from pain. His injuries were excruciating, Stevie thought, and he felt his own nerves fraying. Helplessly, he patted Wilson on the shoulder and promised pain relief. In between, he combed the icicles out of his beard so that when he went back inside they would not melt and drip water inside his roll-neck sweaters. Slowly, Wilson slipped into unconsciousness, leaving Stevie to his thoughts as he waited for the stretcher.

On the northbound trip, the temperatures had been brutal, and the weather had been exceptionally clear and calm. The days were cloudless, so they had watched in astonishment how rapidly the days lengthened. At first the sun had only peeked over the horizon at noon, little more than a golden dot. Already on the next day, it appeared as a tiny bump, and the day after it was a larger lump, then a semicircle and finally, nearly a complete orb. It had turned the surface of the ocean coppery and the Arctic mist pink. It had been bizarrely beautiful — and deadly. The clear, calm weather made visibility during those periods of light ideal for the Luftwaffe.

They’d been hit five days straight, always during that short—but lengthening—period of sunlight. Two ships had taken direct hits but managed to keep steaming and had limped into port. Another ship had been partially crippled when she swerved to avoid a bomb and had collided with a drifting mine. She, too, had made it to Murmansk. Although the Clan Sinclair had not been struck by a bomb, she had been repeatedly strafed. Three of their gunners had received shrapnel wounds, one in his abdomen. To Stevie’s unspeakable relief, Captain Sommers had taken responsibility for treating him. More importantly, two days later they reached port and had transferred him to the escorting destroyer, which had a doctor and a proper sickbay on board. There was no chance of that now; they would not make port for another ten to twelve days.

If only they’d been able to get some rest and relaxation in Murmansk, Stevie reflected After that hellish voyage, they had all needed to relax. Instead, the Russians put soldiers with machine-guns at the foot of the gangways and wouldn’t let the crew ashore except in ‘escorted’ groups. They were not allowed to move freely but were restricted to areas the Soviet authorities designated. The only alcohol offered was some kind of poison they treacherously called ‘vodka,’ and the primary ‘entertainment’ consisted of films documenting either Soviet achievements, the life of Stalin or Nazi atrocities—or all three rolled into one. The situation had been so bad the crew had been eager to put to sea again.

Yet while they sailed willingly, none of them were ready for it. They were still exhausted from the trip up—from the cold and the darkness and the endless expectation of imminent attack. Stevie turned his gaze to scan the horizon. Nothing but white mist rising from grey-black water and the bubbling white wake of the ship ahead of them. Yet in his bones, he felt danger. U-boats were out there, lurking in the mist and the noonday dusk. They were looking for a chance to strike.

Eventually, Musa and MacLeod returned with the stretcher, and together they lifted Wilson onto it and strapped him down. They had to first lower it to the forward well deck, cross that, and then haul it up the ladder of the midships island—all while keeping a firm hold on the lifelines themselves to avoid slipping on the ice. Although Wilson was only partially conscious, he cried out whenever they inadvertently jarred or bumped the stretcher against something. It was a slow and harrowing journey.

Finally, they made it to the cramped sickbay. They transferred Wilson to one of the narrow berths, and Chief Steward Derry heaped blankets over him. Stevie administered a shot of morphine and then left Wilson in Derry’s hands while he reported to the Captain.

As he entered, Stevie heard the chronometer strike seven bells; it was already 11.30 am and the watch would soon change. The wireless was crackling as he went by the radio room, but there was so much static he could make no sense of what was said. Then again, since the convoy maintained strict radio silence, it was probably in Russian, German or Norwegian anyway.

Except for the portholes letting in a weak, grey light, the bridge was as dark as in the middle of the night. The only artificial light came from the compass binnacle and a dim red glow that fell through the open chartroom door. Captain Sommers and Third Officer Davy Granger stood at different portholes looking towards the bows of the ship. Both had binoculars around their necks and raised them to their eyes now and again to scan the swirling mists that enveloped them. Behind them, the coxswain had the helm and the messenger stood slowly smoking a cigarette. Stevie felt the need for a smoke himself, but he’d left his pipe in his cabin when he’d rushed to help Wilson.

Passing the coxswain, Stevie automatically checked their heading: 258. Still more westerly than southerly, and that meant they were standing out towards the ice floes. As he came up beside the Captain, the latter turned to look over his shoulder. Captain Sommers was a stocky but fit man, dressed now for the bridge in a double-breasted greatcoat with four gold stripes on the sleeves and his peaked cap on his head. “Well, Number One?” he asked.

“Wilson slipped and fell onto his spine. I fear he may have broken his back. I’ve given him morphine, but there’s really nothing more I can do,” Stevie admitted.

Sommers sighed audibly. “Bad business. We’re ten days out of Liverpool—assuming we don’t run into trouble.”

As if the word had been some sort of signal, a whistle blew furiously and a voice barked over the loud hailer: “Torpedo off our starboard bow!”

Sommers and Stevie spun about while Granger crashed out onto the starboard bridge wing. An instant later, a detonation rocked the entire ship, knocking both Stevie and Sommers against the bulwark as the Clan Sinclair, riding high in ballast, rolled hard to port and her bows reared upward. Then, just as violently, they plunged down again.