Hammond Innes: Atlantic Fury

‘Sure. It was in most of the papers.’ He was riffling through the bunch of cuttings. ‘That all you read about the Duart Castle?’ ‘That’s all there was, as far as I know. Papers were small and a lot of ships were being sunk. They’d plenty of other news …’

‘Then you didn’t see this?’ He handed me another clipping. ‘It’s from a Stornoway paper of March 14.’

‘Stornoway’s in the Outer Hebrides,’ I pointed out. ‘I’d hardly be likely to see a copy of that.’

‘Sure, it’s way up north and this is a local story. No other paper seems to have printed it. You read it. Then I’ll tell you why I’m interested in your brother.’

The cutting was headed: ORDEAL BY RAFT — Terrible Story of Lone Survivor: On Tuesday evening Colin McTavish, seventy-two-year-old lobster fisherman of Tobson on Great Bernera, whilst rowing out in his boat to visit his pots, came upon a Carley float lodged amongst the rocks of Geodha Cool. The figures of two men lay on the raft, both apparently lifeless. The raft belonged to the Duart Castle, sunk by torpedoes some five hundred miles out in the North Atlantic on February 18th. They had, therefore, been adrift on the raft for twenty-two days. Colin McTavish took the bodies into his boat and rowed back to Tobson. There it was discovered that despite the long time at sea, one of the men was still alive. His name is George Henry Braddock, 2nd-Lieutenant Royal Artillery, aged twenty. The terrible story of his ordeal cannot be told yet for a Merciful God has wiped it from his mind. He has been transferred to the hospital at Stornoway suffering from exposure and loss of memory. But we all know what he must have suffered out there in the open sea exposed to bitter cold and severe storms with no protection but the tattered remnants of a sail and his only companion dying before his eyes. The dead man is Pte. Andre Leroux, a French-Canadian from Montreal. He has been buried at the old cemetery above the bay at Bosta. Colin McTavish’s rescue of 2nd-Lieutenant Braddock brings the total of survivors of the Duart Castle to thirty-six and this doubtless writes finis to the tragic story of a ship that was transporting Canadian reinforcements to and the fight for freedom.

‘I didn’t know about it,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see what that’s got to do with my brother — or with me.’ ‘Your brother was on that raft when the ship sank.’ ‘Well, he’s dead,’ I said. ‘What difference does it make?’ He didn’t say anything; simply handed me one of the photographs from the envelope. It showed a man in a light suit walking along a street — tall, black-haired, with a dark moustache and what looked like a scar running down the centre of his forehead. It wasn’t a very clear picture, just a snapshot taken in very bright sunlight. He passed me another. The same man getting out of a car. ‘And here’s one taken with a telephoto lens.’ Head and shoulders this time, the face heavily shadowed by sunlight. ‘You don’t recognise him?’ He was watching me closely.

‘Where were they taken?’

‘Famagusta in Cyprus.’

‘I’ve never been to Famagusta,’ I said.

‘I asked you whether you recognised him?’

‘Well, I don’t. Who is he?’

He sighed and took the photographs back, sitting there, staring down at them. ‘I guess they’re not very clear. Not as clear as I would have liked. But …’ He shook his head and tucked them away in the envelope together with the cuttings.

‘They’re pictures I took of Braddock. Major Braddock.’ He looked up at me. ‘You’re sure they didn’t strike some chord in your memory?’ And when I shook my head, he said, ‘They didn’t remind you of your brother, for instance?’

‘My brother?’ I stared at him, trying to think back, remembering Iain’s dark, handsome face. ‘How the hell could it be my brother?’ The face in those photos, lined and scarred. ‘There’s no resemblance at all. What are you getting at?’

‘Think what he’d be like now.’ The small eyes stared at me, cold and with an obstinate look.

‘He’s dead,’ I said again, angry now, wondering what the hell this wretched little man was trying to dig up. ‘And the past, that’s dead, too,’ I added.

‘Okay, Mr Ross. If that’s the way you feel. But do something for me, will you. Draw me a picture of your brother — as you think he might look now.’

‘Damned if I do.’ I wasn’t going to help him or anyone else rake up the past. ‘Why should I?’

‘I’ll tell you why.’ His voice had a sudden bite to it.

‘I don’t believe the man I saw in Famagusta was Braddock.’ The eyes, staring at me, still had that obstinate look. ‘And if he wasn’t Braddock, then who was he? That’s what I want to know, and that’s what I intend to find out.’ He dived into his breast pocket and came out with a diary. ‘I’ve got a list of five names.’ He turned the pages quickly, spreading the diary open on his knee. ‘Five men definitely identified. That’s in addition to Braddock and Leroux, the two who were still on the raft when it was washed ashore in the Outer Hebrides.’ He looked up at me then. ‘That makes seven we know for sure were on the raft at the time the Duart Castle went down. No doubt there were more, but those seven have been identified by witnesses I consider absolutely reliable. Your brother was one of them, Mr Ross.’

I didn’t see what he was driving at. Whether Iain was on that raft or in the water didn’t seem to make much difference. It didn’t alter the fact that he was dead. ‘Who told you?’ I asked. ‘Braddock, I suppose.’

‘No, it wasn’t Braddock. Braddock says he doesn’t remember. What you might call a mental blackout, I guess. Very convenient. No, your brother’s name was given to me by a man I saw in Lyons on my way back home from the Middle East — Tom Webster, an English textile buyer. He came ashore in one of the boats.’ He closed the diary. ‘I’ve seen altogether eight of the survivors, in addition to Braddock. The first seven were Canadians, I interviewed them before I left for Europe. Only one of them remembered seeing the float. He gave me two possible names. Webster gave me a further three, and he was very positive about them because he was thrown into the water and clung to the float for a time before swimming to the boat.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘The three men Webster was positive about were the Master-at-Arms, the second officer — and your brother. I’ve checked on the first two. Neither of them had any reason to change their identity. But your brother had. Did you know he was being brought back from Canada under escort to face a number of very serious charges?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know that. But he’s listed among those lost and it’s over twenty years …’

‘He was presumed dead.’ His emphasis was on the word ‘presumed’, his voice flat and hard and very determined. ‘There’s a difference. His body was never recovered. He wasn’t identified. And that brings me to the reason I’m here. The Duart Castle was a troopship. Most of the boys sailing in her were young Canadian conscripts. A hundred and thirty-six of them were officers, newly commissioned. Braddock was one of them.’ And he went on to tell me Braddock’s story.

I wanted to throw the man out. This monstrous, fantastic suggestion of his … But he went on talking — talking in that flat Canadian monotone. It was like a river in spate and I listened to it because I couldn’t help myself, because the seed of doubt had been sown and curiosity is a universal failing.

Braddock had been born in London. His father was English, his mother Canadian. When he was two the family had moved to Vancouver. That was in 1927. In 1938 they had returned to England, the father having been appointed London representative of the Canadian firm he worked for. On the outbreak of war a year later, George Braddock, then a boy of fourteen and their only child, had been evacuated to Canada. For the next four years he’d lived with his aunt, a Mrs Evelyn Gage, on a ranch in northern B.C. ‘A lonely sort of place out on the old Caribou Trail,’ Lane added. ‘And Evie had just lost her husband. She was alone there except for the stockman. She’d no children of her own and … well, I guess it’s the old story. She came to regard young George Braddock more or less as her own son, particularly after his parents were killed. They died in the bombing — a direct hit on their flat. Now this is where I come into it. When the boy went off to join the Army she made a Will leaving everything to him ‘in love and affection for the boy who was like a son to me’ — those are the actual words. She died last year, aged seventy-two and that Will still stands. She never made another.’