The Rocky (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)

Chapter One

THERE WERE TWO men. They came on to the refuting wharf at Williamstown in Melbourne and they walked slowly. They were weighed down with kit-bag and rolled-up hammock. Their nightly comfort and all their essential possessions were held in those two articles.

Destroyer Wind Rode was lying alongside the wharf, but neither man looked at her with interest, or with admiration. She was to be their new home for possibly years, but they knew too little about destroyers, or about any warships, to be professionally or technically impressed by her guns and her grey length.

They were too concerned with another thing. Unspoken, but moving deeply and strongly in them, was the realisation that in another minute they would be fitted into an utterly new world of men and customs and duties.

They had learned a little at Flinders Naval Depot. They had learned though not with any great facility to tie reef-knots, and single-sheet bends and to splice hemp and manila rope; to drill with a rifle, to pull a cutters oar, to rush around behind a six-inch gun and ram in the drill wooden projectiles.

But this was a ship. A fully-commissioned and experienced fighting ship, at war. As different from Flinders, with its "H.M.A.S. Cerberus" cognomen, as eating bread was to baking it.

So as they approached the gangway they hardly glanced at their new home. Bent forward under the weight of their gear, their eyes were fixed with interest and some slight trepidation, on the living embodiment of the strange world into which they would shortly be admitted.

The quartermaster of H.M.A.S. Wind Rode, Leading-seaman Billson, idly twirled his bosun’s call round on its silver chain and as idly surveyed the two men approaching the gangway.

Only quartermasters were entitled to wear that silver chain in lieu of a scrubbed white lanyard. Billson was one of a select group of four watch-keepers whose job it was to run from the quarterdeck the ship’s routine in harbour. When the ship was at sea he and his three colleagues steered her.

A disciplined, experienced seaman, Leading-seaman Billson. And now he placed accurately the two newcomers. Rockies, obviously—regulation trousers, narrower at the bottoms than the tiddly strides of the old hands with their 32-inch bottoms; collars still strongly blue, no time yet to scrub that colour to the faded faintness sought after by salted destroyer men; hammocks the same, still almost khaki in colour, stiff, not scrubbed to experienced whiteness.

And the caps, set straight on the forehead, bow of the tally correctly over the left ear, not rakishly over the eye, like Billson’s.

His categorising took no more than three-seconds. He shifted his gaze to the men themselves. One a big fellow, almost huge; thick waist, heavy shoulders, a tough, wind-reddened face.

His mate slighter, though about the same tall height. Billson looked at his face, and now his interest enlarged a little. The more slender man had a face that lifted him clean out of the regulation anonymity of his issued uniform. It was a fine face, intelligence alive in it; the planes, the nose, thin and refined. A public school face. Like the bloody captain’s, Billson thought automatically.

We’ll see how he goes in the messdeck. Behind a gun when the Zombies start screamin’ down ...

Two kit-bags and two hammocks thumped to the deck in front of him.

Billson nodded. They were lucky to receive even that brief acknowledgment. The quartermaster was a senior leading-hand, these two were palpably ordinary-seaman, nothing whatever on the arms of their blue uniforms, nothing to match Billson’s three good-conduct stripes and his anchor and the two crossed guns of his gun layer’s rate.

Rockies joinin’, eh?

It was statement, not query. Having delivered it, and taken the newest members of Wind Rode’s ship’s company on board, the quartermaster turned to his little desk to make a note of their names so that later he could enter their arrival in the log.

Reserves, yes, chief.

The tone of the correcting voice was pleasant, a smile in it, and of a diction to match the captain’s. But it was neither the tone nor the diction which swung Billson’s short and hefty body round, his face changed instantly from boredom to hard belligerence. It was the simple fact that this new macaroon had had the audacity to correct him.

" ‘Rockies,’ I said! And don’t call me chief."

I beg your pardon. But in Flinders we were taught ... Ah—what shall I call you?

Momentarily Billson was stumped. He knew well enough that in the training depot even some three-badge able-seamen were titled chief by new entries still wet behind the ears. But afloat, the only man entitled to be called that was a chief petty-officer—the coxswain, the chief gunner’s mate, the chief bosun’s mate. He himself, though a leading-hand, was often called Shorty by privileged able-seamen. But these two were far from privileged.

You call me Leading-seaman Billson, he decided at last, and correctly.

Very well, Leading-seaman Billson. I’m sorry if I offended protocol.

Billson stared at him suspiciously. But the tall slender man stood there waiting respectfully. And he was quite unruffled by the quartermaster’s look.

Where’re you from? Billson asked, and was annoyed with himself as soon as he put the question. He knew damned well where they were from, but there was something about that calm face which threw him.

We’re from Flinders, the polite and cultured voice answered him. My name is Paul White, and this is Rodney Yards.

Your mate can’t speak for himself? Billson demanded.

I’m sure he can. I’m sorry if I ...

Stow your gab! His hard stare trained on the big man. Well?

The big man could have picked Billson up in one great fist. But Billson was a leading-seaman, and the quartermaster, and obviously any disproportion in physical size worried him not in the slightest. It seemed the big man realised this. His voice was oddly subdued when he answered:

Yes. Leading-seaman Billson. Ah—Ordinary seaman Yards, joinin’ from Flinders.

That’s better. Billson growled, and his glancing look at White said plainly that that was the sort of answer he wanted in future. No bloody fancy pansy nonsense on my quarterdeck! And no know-all messdeck lawyers, neither!

Slowly, deliberately, Billson turned away from them and took up his pencil. He finished his scribbling and said over his shoulder:

Right! Report to the cox’n. Through that door there at the break of the foc’sle. First door on the right inside the passage.

They took up their gear and moved forward along the iron-deck, past the ten torpedo tubes They were abreast the funnel when a voice spoke behind Billson:

New hands, Q.M.?

The voice was deep and quiet but it jerked Billson round, at the same time as his hand came up in salute. In front of him stood Randall, the first-lieutenant.

Yes, sir. Coupla rockies, joined from Flinders.

I see. They look healthy enough.

This was query, not statement. And the words bore no relation to the actual physical condition of the men under discussion. Randall knew that you learn a lot from a man’s attitude on first joining a ship. And now he wanted to know what Billson had learned.

Er—yes, sir.

Randall did not question further. He just looked at the quartermaster.

Well, sir, I dunno. The big blokes all right. But the other feller ... I called him a rocky and he came back with ‘reserve.’

Oh? Randall’s eyes narrowed a fraction. An ordinary-seaman joining his first ship would normally be too confused to object if a quartermaster called him a piebald mopoke. In what way did he object?

Billson scratched his head with the mouthpiece of his bosun’s call. He was sure of himself, this three-badgeman, and he was not by any means a tyrant. He was also honest.

It’s hard to say, sir. He didn’t actually say nothing I coulda clamped down on. I said somethin’ about a coupla rockies joinin’, and he just comes back with ‘reserves, chief,’ somethin’ like that. Don’t worry, sir. I’d’ve slammed him down hard if he’d been cocky!

I’m sure you would have, Randall murmured, hiding his smile. He seemed rather well spoken?

I’ll say he did, sir! Just like the flamin’ … Ah, yes, sir.

M’mm. Right! Randall ended briskly. The two new men were relegated to their proper limbo of things inconsequential. The captain wants a boat to Prince’s Pier in half an hour, I’ll be landing with him.

Captain, boat, half an hour—aye, aye, sir!

The first-lieutenant walked away towards the wardroom hatch and the quartermaster scribbled a reminder on a signal pad.

Wind Rode’s latest accretions paused for a moment before stepping over the coaming into the dimness of the long passage which led forward into the messdecks. White glanced at his companion. His face wore a small smile.

I’m afraid I very nearly blotted my copy-book back there. He seems quite annoyed.

Yards nodded, seriously. One look at his face would have enabled Randall to judge him precisely—a big, amiable man, impressed by his extremely novel environment; good material, amenable to discipline.

I reckon he was. Listen, matey—you mind bein’ called a rocky?

Good Lord, no! It doesn’t worry me in the least. I was—well, simply trying to be pleasant. But apparently one doesn’t try to be pleasant with august personages like quartermasters. I’ll know better next time.

Yeah. We gotta watch our step here, I tell you.

A brisk voice behind them made them jump aside.

Gangway for a naval officer.

They leaned back, making more room. A seaman in a ragged pair of paint-spattered overalls went past them, whistling tunelessly.

Well, I’m astounded, White grinned. I must remember that one.

They moved through the door into the passage. It was about half-past four of a warm afternoon, and the ship was quiet but for the muted hiss of the air moving through the ventilating channels. She had sent two watches of libertymen ashore into Melbourne.

They found the door easily enough. First on the right, the only opening in the clean white wall of steel. Yards hung back, content to let his friend of a few weeks take the lead. White looked in through the door.

He saw a tiny office, and a man seated at a small bench of a desk. The coxswain’s profile was presented to him—a sharp, lean, cutting-edge of face, and the hair ... White’s gaze fastened on that hair. It was quite white. The coxswain looked up.

Yes?

White had no qualms about how to address that authoritative face.

Just joined from Flinders, chief.

Then came again what White had never quite got to—involuntary narrowing of the listener’s eyes, the look of disbelief, almost suspicion, at the sound of his voice.

But Chief Petty-officer Rennie’s wonder was short-lived. You got all sorts thrown at you from the wide-grinding mills of recruitment in war, and these two men were to him precisely what they appeared to be—a draft-in from Flinders, ordinary-seamen. Raw, green, homesick possibly, bemused certainly. Though there seemed little bemusement in that calm voice ...

He looked at the face behind the first man’s. And found normalcy. A hulk of a man, about twenty five, abashed at this scrutiny, not long before he was rated able-seaman. A handy oar-puller, or shell-rammer …

The coxswain turned back to the immediate business of victualling these men in.

Name, religion, next of kin, age …? The questions were delivered and answered, and written down. In less than two minutes White and Yards became accredited and paid members of the ship’s company of H.M.A. Destroyer Wind Rode, subjects of the multitude of requirements in King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, the Financial Regulations, the Articles of War.

The coxswain leaned back. He was in no doubt whatever that these two would fit into the ship’s disciplinary structure, for which he was directly responsible, but there was nothing to be lost in showing himself to be human.

He wanted to question White first, but deliberately he addressed himself to the big man.

Yards, eh? Western Australia? Not, by any chance, ‘Bomber’ Yards, the League front-row forward?

Rennie knew the answer before he asked it. He had seen that amiable and tough face many times on the sporting pages.

I reckon that’s right, chief. Yards grinned. He did not, and could not, hide his pleasure. Recognition by this martinet seemed more significant to him now than if the Westralian Premier had shaken his hand.

Nice to have you with us. There’ll be a few blokes up forward will remember that dial. Though you won’t get much football here. One jump and you’re over the side. Eh?

Yeah, I reckon so.

And you ... White, isn’t it? with a sideways glance at his notes. What job were you in?

The hesitation over his name was unconsciously deliberate, and White knew that it was. But he answered respectfully:

I’m afraid I wasn’t in any job, chief.

Eh? You’re too old to be bludging on your old man’s bank roll.

The tone was not offensive. White said:

"Unfortunately, he agrees with you. I was doing architecture at Sydney Uni when I thought I’d better get into things. My father’s an architect and I imagine that he wanted …

Yes, yes. Well now ... pulling a list towards him. I’ll put you two in the same mess. How’s that?

This time Yards answered. The brotherhood of sport,