An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Read online

  Fingal recognised the single gunner manning the Oërlikon. AB Henson, the Yorkshireman with the missing tooth, had carried Fingal’s suitcase aboard. “Afternoon, Henson,” Fingal said. “I thought your station was on one of the six-inchers.”

  “Normally it is, sir, but CPO Watson—”

  Fingal remembered that Henson had said there was friction between himself and the petty officer.

  “He reassigned me to up here last week so the bloke that normally mans this gun could go on a gunnery course at HMS Excellent, the lucky duck.”

  “Any chance you’ll go next?” He knew of Henson’s ambition to specialise in gunnery and attend the course on Whale Island near Portsmouth.

  “Dunno, sir. Depends on my CPO.”

  “Well, good luck.” But the man sounded discouraged, and there really wasn’t much Fingal could do. He nodded and said, “Carry on, Henson.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Fingal moved to beside Tom. The early December day was clear and crisp rather than bitterly cold and he’d not bothered to put up the hood of his duffle coat so he could relish the fresh air tousling his hair. He grabbed the railing. It would take some time to become fully accustomed to the ship’s motion as she rose and fell to the long slow Atlantic combers.

  Tom Laverty stood, clearly at ease with the ship’s slow rolling. This was the first opportunity they’d had for a chat since the night they’d met in the wardroom anteroom ten days ago. Fingal was free and Tom had come off watch after piloting the great ship away from Tail of the Bank and down the Firth of Clyde; past Holy Loch to starboard and the Cloch Point light to port, on between the Isle of Bute with its snow-dusted hills and Great Cumbrae and Little Cumbrae Islands, then dropping the Isle of Arran to starboard and rounding the Mull of Kintyre.

  Now the battleship, her escorting destroyers, two light cruisers, and a fast convoy of forty-eight merchant ships, had begun to steer a prearranged zigzag course. The first jog to port had brought the leading ships to within two miles of Rathlin Island. In four minutes it would be time to turn onto the opposite zag. They were heading across the wide Atlantic for Halifax, Nova Scotia, and on the next leg the Mull of Kintyre would drop beneath the horizon and the ships would be a widely spread phalanx ploughing west through a boundless sea.

  Warspite herself was vulnerable to submarine attack and so was stationed in the centre of the columns of merchant ships. The escorting naval vessels were posted ahead, on the flanks, and astern of the columns of ships. No matter which way Fingal looked, ships stretched to the horizon. Over the churning of Warspite’s propellors, the never-ceasing rumble of the turbines, he could make out a rhythmic, high-pitched pinging. The ship’s ASDIC operators, like those of every escort, would not cease their constant probing with sound waves for an enemy lurking below. In this war, from day one when a U-boat had torpedoed and sunk the SS Athenia near Rockall in the North Atlantic, it had become apparent that the Nazis were going to wage unrestricted warfare against British merchant ships and that naval escorts were, of course, fair game too.

  Apart from searching, Warspite herself was much too cumbersome to be an antisubmarine vessel, unless by some fluke she surprised one on the surface and engaged it with gunfire, but the very real possibility of encountering German pocket battleships like the Scharnhorst or the Gneisnau that were bent on commerce raiding meant that the convoy must be accompanied by what the navy called “a ship of force.” And Warspite was most certainly that.

  Tom had to speak loudly to be heard over the low rumble of the ship’s four propellors turning the sea into a tumbling, frothing wake immediately beneath where he and Fingal stood. Above them a blue sky that should have looked freshly washed and scrubbed was sullied by the smoke from fifty funnels, and even here in the open there was a smell of fuel oil.

  “That’s home over there,” Tom said, nodding to Ireland. “We’re not far from Cushendun on the coast. There’s a young sub-lieutenant on board, Wilson Wallace. He’s a gunnery officer on the starboard six-inch battery.”

  Fingal glanced at AB Henson. The six-inch guns were his normal station. If Fingal had a word with this Wallace about Henson and his CPO … He shook his head. He wasn’t in the Liberties anymore. It was none of his business—and yet …

  “He’ll be feeling homesick if he knows where we are. Portstewart, his hometown, is only about thirty miles from here.”

  “Might as well be on the far side of the moon,” Fingal said, aching in the knowledge that Deirdre was only fifty miles away as the crow flies. “How was your leave?”

  Tom looked at Fingal and said, “Wonderful. I can fully recommend marriage.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to your wedding last year, but it’s a bit of a trip from Ireland to Malta.”

  “Carol and I understood and we did appreciate the canteen of cutlery.” Tom looked at the grey seas. “Malta was wonderful, Fingal. Magnificent scenery and history, warm weather, inexpensive. But we got there much later than we expected.”

  “Oh?” Fingal took a long pull from his pipe and chuckled. “What happened? Don’t tell me the navy played havoc with your wedding.”

  “On this old ship, things don’t always go according to plan. I think you know Warspite was almost rebuilt in the mid-’30s. She was an old lady then, launched in 1913, and long overdue for a refit. She was supposed to be recommissioned in June 1937. I was with her then. Everything seemed to be going all right, but a month later we ran manoeuvering trials at high speed and the steering jammed.” Tom laughed. “It’s been the bane of Warspite’s life. She’s rammed more than one ship because her steering failed, and I know it got stuck at Jutland in ’16 too.”

  “I read about that,” Fingal said. “Can’t have been much fun steaming in circles while the whole German High Seas Fleet used the ship for target practice.”

  “I’m told it wasn’t. And things got worse after the refit. Nobody was shooting, but it was breakdown after bloody breakdown. We finally got everything sorted out and reached Grand Harbour in Malta in January ’38, six months late. Carol joined me and we got wed.”

  “But she’s home now?”

  “Well, in Greenock anyway.” Tom got a dreamy look on his face. “When it looked like war might break out and Admiral Cunningham moved the Med Fleet from Malta to Alexandria in Egypt, I was able to get Carol home from Malta to Bangor, and the minute it looked like we were going to be based in Greenock instead of Pompey…”

  “Pompey?”

  “Sorry. Sailor talk for Portsmouth. I was able to get digs ashore in Greenock. You know it only takes a couple of days to get there from Ulster, so I sent her a telegram and she arrived the night you did. I was on watch that night, but the skipper’s pretty decent about letting married officers sleep ashore if the ship’s orders aren’t for imminent departure. He gave me leave.” Tom glanced at AB Henson, who appeared to Fingal to be minding his own business, then said, “We’ve been trying to make a baby, if you know what I mean?”

  “I am a doctor,” Fingal said, and chuckled, as much to disguise a certain amount of embarrassment—such things were rarely talked about openly—as to hide the ache in him when he knew how much he longed to make love to his Deirdre.

  Sharp cracking noises sounded overhead and Fingal looked up to see strings of coloured flags soaring up the halliards. At the same time, signalling lamps on the bridge began flickering.

  “That’s the ‘prepare for course change’ signal,” Tom said. “We’ll give every ship time to read them and acknowledge, then the minute the flags are hauled down—that’s the ‘execute’ signal—all the ships will simultaneously turn ninety degrees to starboard.”

  Down they came and immediately Warspite and every other vessel began to swing, the great battlewagon heeling slightly into the turn as she came round. The wakes curling behind met and tossed in a tumult of waters that Fingal knew would soon disappear, and the sea would go about its business as untroubled as if the ships had never passed.

  He took a
long look astern at Rathlin Island. “That was where, in 795, the Vikings first raided Ireland, Tom.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said, looking thoughtful. “I sometimes wonder you didn’t become a scholar like your old man, Fingal. I was so very sorry to hear about his passing. And I’m glad you made your peace with him. I was based in Trincomalee in Ceylon when your letter came.”

  Fingal nodded and looked out to stare at an oil tanker making her turn. She was clearly empty by the way her red antifouling paint made a bright, sharp contrast to the grey seas. “Thank you, Tom.” A streamlined white bird with a cream head and viciously pointed beak was flying level with him, but about fifty yards away. It closed its wings and plummetted down like, like one of those bloody stukas he’d seen on a Pathé news reel. Father had been right—the year before he died he’d predicted that war with Nazi Germany was inevitable.

  “Gannet,” said Tom, interrupting the silence between them. “What amazing fishermen they are.”

  Tom looked ahead. “We should be settled on our new course soon. It’s pretty straightforward from here on unless we hit a storm or U-boats, so I’m happy to leave the nav to one of my juniors, at least in the daytime. Rank has its privileges.”

  “You’ve done well, Tom,” Fingal said. He nodded at Tom’s shoulder straps, two wide stripes separated by one thin gold one. “Lieutenant-Commander Laverty, your professional life is on track. Thirty-two and navigating officer on a bloody great battlewagon.”

  Tom blushed. “I’ve been lucky—”

  “I don’t believe it,” O’Reilly said with feeling. “I’m damn sure you earned it.” He looked down. “I’m afraid,” he said, “I wasn’t as good as I might have been about keeping in touch after I left HMS Tiger. Sorry.” He looked at his old friend. “Ten years? Where did they go? Mind you, as they’d say in our part of Ireland, you’re sticking the pace rightly, oul hand.” And Tom was. Same full head of fair hair, blue eyes. Maybe more crow’s-feet at the corners and deeper bags beneath. Cheeks as ruddy as those of an Ulster farmer. Living a life exposed to the elements would do that.

  “I was hard to keep track of,” Tom said, “but there’s no need to bore you with my various postings. I’m sure your career kept you busy too. I’m happy at what I do, my career is moving ahead, and I told you I like being married even if the bloody war does get in the way.” He looked ahead. “That’s us on course.” And as he spoke Fingal noticed that the ship was back on an even keel, and coincidentally his pipe had gone out. He stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  “What about you, Fingal? I know you qualified in ’36, but what happened after?”

  Fingal shrugged. “I qualified, fell in love—” For a moment he wondered if Kitty O’Hallorhan was still in Tenerife. “—Dad died, Ma moved to the North to be closer to Lars. I, well, I fell out of love, tried GP in Dublin, tried specialising, went back to GP in Ulster—and I love it. Got called up.”

  “There is a war on.”

  “I had noticed,” O’Reilly said. He hesitated then said, “It put a bit of a spanner in my works too. I got engaged this year. Deirdre Mawhinney’s a wonderful girl.” He closed his eyes and saw her, heard her laugh. “She’s a midwife. We’ve had to postpone the wedding.” He didn’t want to tempt Providence, but then said, “Surgeon Commander Wilcoxson may be going to send me back to Pompey”—it was so easy to slip back into the naval jargon—“for a three-month course. I hope we can get wed then.” And to use Tom’s term, try to make babies too.

  “I’d like to meet her,” Tom said, “and I wish you luck, Fingal, but it won’t be soon. Skipper’s told me to get my North Atlantic, Canadian, and American seaboard charts up to date. I reckon we’re in for a lot more convoy work after this one and then scuttlebutt has it we’ll be headed back to the Med.”

  Fingal shrugged and sighed. “Can’t be helped,” he said, “but I reckon I will get my chance. Richard Wilcoxson strikes me as someone who keeps his word.”

  “He is that,” said Tom. “One remarkable man.” He smiled. “The crew call him Hippocrates, but not to his face. You should have seen him on our last convoy. We left Halifax on November eighteenth with convoy HX 9. About fifty merchant ships and a naval escort. Took us six utterly miserable days to get to the southern tip of Greenland, and then we were detached to search the Denmark Strait between Greenland and Iceland.” He lowered his voice. “Our armed merchant cruiser Rawalpindi had been sunk the day before north of the Faroes, poor devils, by a German surface raider. No armour and little six-inch pop-guns against something chucking eleven-inch bricks?” He shook his head. “Admiralty thought the German pocket battleship Deutschland was loose, but we never found her.” He shuddered. “I’ll tell you, chum, the North Atlantic and the Denmark Strait in the winter are not for kiddies.”

  “I’ve heard the rumour,” O’Reilly said, vividly remembering a trip from Scapa Flow to Saint John’s Newfoundland in 1929 on Tiger.

  “We’d some pretty serious injuries what with severe lacerations, bones broken, two stokers scalded, a ham-fisted gunner’s mate who amputated his own left thumb by closing a breech block on it, paralysing seasickness. Even one of the MOs bust a leg. If Hippocrates slept for any time for more than an hour on end I’d be surprised.”

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly. “I’ve met doctors like him before. They are to be admired.” And thought, I hope I can live up to Hippocrates’—he liked that nickname for Wilcoxson—Hippocrates’ standards.

  “I’d have to say I was pretty banjaxed myself. The weather was so foul, not a snowball’s chance of getting sun or star sights.”

  A bugle boomed from the loudspeakers. Bosun’s pipes shrilled.

  “Good Lord,” said Tom, “that’s action stations.” A voice boomed over the loudspeakers, “All hands close up to action stations. Close all watertight doors. All hands…”

  “See you soon,” Tom yelled as the two men ran for’ard, Tom on his way to the conning tower, Fingal to his place below.

  One of the ships in Warspite’s convoy, a sleek destroyer, rushed by with a bone in her teeth and a white rooster tail of wake high above her stern. Fingal saw the cylindrical depth bombs arc high into the air from the destroyer’s midships and heard the multiple cracks of her depth-charge launchers before the charges splashed into the sea about three cables’ lengths or six hundred yards away. He slowed his pace and watched another team of men on the destroyer rolling more charges off stern-mounted racks. They must have an ASDIC contact and believe a U-boat had penetrated into the middle of the convoy—probably trying for a shot at Warspite. And in broad daylight. Cheeky buggers.

  Just as the waves caused by the charges had flattened out, the sinking bombs exploded at preset depths. There was a sonorous booming against Warspite’s hull, and the ocean boiled in vast white plumes towering higher than the ships’ decks before crashing back to an ocean littered with dead fish.

  In the fifteen minutes it had taken him to reach his action station four decks down, their escort ships had loosed five more depth-charge attacks on the unseen German sub. Each time the shock waves struck, Warspite shuddered like a retriever shedding water and Fingal had to grab for support.

  He shook his head. He knew the charges were aimed at an enemy hell-bent on sinking British ships and killing British sailors, perhaps even him. That risk was over now. No U-boat skipper in his right mind would try to launch a torpedo when he knew his boat had been detected. He’d be too busy trying to escape. For a moment Fingal’s heart bled for those German sailors somewhere deep below in a stinking, damp, claustrophobic steel tube, bracing themselves and trembling at the thought of what the water pressure would do to frail flesh if their submarine’s hull were breached. Then he took a seat in the for’ard medical distributing station to do nothing—he hoped—but wait until the Warspite’s captain deemed the emergency to be over.

  He’d surprised himself by the power of his feelings for the enemy and it occurred to him that before this war was over he might well be having som
e very intense moments. He smiled, knowing he was no academic, but thinking it might be worth trying to record those thoughts and keep a kind of a shorthand diary of the war’s more important times too. One of his treasured books was Recollections of Rifleman Harris, a firsthand account of a private soldier’s experiences in the Peninsular War with Napoleon in the 1800s. For once it would be a paperwork job Fingal would not mind doing. He opened a drawer in his table and rummaged about finding a ruled notebook. With nothing else to do, today was as good a time to start as any.

  15

  The History of Class Struggle

  “If,” said Kinky from the dining room doorway, “if you’d kindly move yourself, sir, and take your coffee to the upstairs lounge, I’ll get a start made to the hoovering of the dining room, so. And take her ladyship with you, please.”

  Barry would be leaving soon to make after-lunch home visits, but he was talking to someone on the phone in the hall. Jenny had come down from Belfast this afternoon—it was a Wednesday—to run her clinic. And the empress of Number One, Main Street, was lying on her back on a dining room chair with all four paws in the air, her eyes closed and the tip of her pink tongue sticking out.

  O’Reilly stood, finished his coffee, grabbed the white cat from the chair to the accompaniment of a curt “mraah” and tucked her under his arm like a rugby football. “You carry on, Mrs. Auchinleck.”

  “Mrs. Auchinleck,” Kinky said, and grinned. “Now there’s a lovely thing.” She pushed an upright vacuum cleaner into the room. “Fine day,” she said, “for late May, and grand it is to be back in Ballybucklebo, getting my new home with Archie organised, and still being able to do most of my old job here too.” She unwound the flex and plugged the machine in.