H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It means in simple language that the powers-that-be have lost interest in a quick victory. For all we know they may have written off the whole operation already!’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Hogarth broke off as a telephone buzzed in the darkness by his elbow. In a strained voice he said into the mouthpiece, ‘Upper bridge, Officer of the Watch speaking.’

  Far below Pringle’s voice replied: ‘Rounds completed. All correct, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ He dropped the handset and said absently, ‘I think this assault business is much more serious.’

  Travis turned away. ‘You would!’

  ‘There’s no need to be like that, old man.’

  Travis moved closer and tried again. ‘Look, just think about what I’ve been saying. If the Gallipoli landings have been a waste of time, we should know about it. You can’t just leave a whole army to rot away and do nothing!’

  ‘I have always done my duty and nothing more,’ Hogarth answered stiffly.

  He sounded so hurt and pompous that Travis laughed, his teeth white against his beard. ‘Well done, Guns! Spoken like a true gentleman!’

  Hogarth did not smile. ‘No, seriously, I feel very strongly about that. We must maintain our standards even in war. I think the Captain was wrong to ignore Chesnaye’s behaviour, even if Pringle is a fool.’

  ‘He’s that, all right!’

  ‘But he must be upheld. The Commander is quite right in his resentment.’

  ‘Oh, has he spoken to you about it, then?’ Travis sounded interested.

  ‘A little He’s pretty fed-up, actually.’

  ‘Too bad. But in the meantime we’ve got a very nasty job on our hands at daybreak.’

  ‘Oh that!’ Hogarth sounded scornful. ‘We’ll manage the bloody Turks well enough, you see!’

  Pringle appeared in the gloom and moved to one side of the bridge.

  Travis said quietly but unfeelingly, ‘How’s your jaw, Sub?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ Pringle sounded furious.

  ‘Well, I think you asked for it!’ Travis turned his back. ‘I’m going to snatch an hour’s sleep, Guns. Call me if the ship capsizes!’

  He disappeared from the bridge and Hogarth was left with his thoughts. Travis was probably right, he thought. Few campaigns ever succeeded unless they got off to a good start. It was true that the more modern and useful ships were being withdrawn with unseemly haste, and even the Saracen’s future role was uncertain. Still, very soon they would be too occupied for conjecture. At first light his big guns would be needed again, and Major De L’Isle’s mad marines would be hitting the shore for the first time. It would be quite a party. But suppose Travis was right too about Whitehall? To be killed in battle was one thing. To die for no purpose was another entirely.

  Sub-Lieutenant Pringle, on the other hand, was not thinking of battle or the shortcomings of this campaign. He could still hardly believe the deliberate cruelty of the Captain’s words when he had seen him in his cabin. Pringle had been so sure of his ground, so outraged at the deliberate affront to his position, that he had almost expected Royston-Jones to compliment him on his self-control. Instead, the Captain had gathered force and momentum like a small hurricane, his words stripping away Pringle’s composure like the skin from his bones. He still felt the echoes of the little man’s last words ringing in his ears.

  ‘Remember this, Pringle! In war the demands will soon outgrow the supplies. Young and junior regular officers will be worth their weight in gold. Even this ship will have to take on Reserve officers and untrained ratings as soon as we return to Base, and every professional, no matter how inferior in rank and ability, will have his work cut out to make the simplest routine run smoothly!’ The Captain had paused to run his cold eyes over the sweating officer. ‘Even you will probably have a command of some sort within a couple of years, if you are careful! But I will not have you behaving is this irresponsible manner, do you hear? You insulted this midshipman and he reacted in the only way he knew at that time. He has lived under strain and in no little danger for some weeks, doing a job for which a much more responsible officer had been selected. I will not tolerate any such behaviour in future!’

  Pringle still cursed himself for his own inability to justify himself. He had only managed a throaty and servile, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  The Captain had dismissed him with a few more terse sentences, ending with: ‘I think you might have promise if only you can think a little less about yourself and a lot more of your duty. You will have that chance tomorrow when we reach the enemy coast. When the main landing is carried out you will take charge of the seamen employed ashore, is that understood?’ The cold eyes flickered with something like menace. ‘Be warned, Pringle. The light of forgiveness is short in its duration!’

  He had not seen Chesnaye since his interview with Royston-Jones and he wondered how he had fared. The Captain had probably buttered him up instead of putting him under arrest, he thought savagely. They were all the same. All trying to get at him, just because he was better than they!

  A voice shattered the silence. ‘Driftwood on the starboard beam, sir!’

  Hogarth strode to the screen and peered into the darkness. A few pieces of waterlogged timber bobbed down the monitor’s bulging flank and vanished astern. It was odd how all sorts of driftwood and wreckage meandered around the coast, he thought. An endless journey in tideless waters.

  He watched a faint red glow far on the monitor’s beam where a momentary flash of sparks betrayed their escorting destroyer. No doubt her stokers were busy with the never-ending misery of fire-trimming. Thank God the Saracen was oil-burning. That at least was some comfort.

  He said wearily: ‘I’m just going to check our position, Sub. Take over.’

  Pringle moved to the front of the bridge, his blood running hot as he relived each separate humiliation.

  Almost bored, the port lookout’s voice interrupted, ‘Object fine on the port bow, sir!’

  Pringle, caught off guard, snapped, ‘Well, what is it, man?’

  A pause. ‘A piece o’ driftwood, I think, sir.’ The lookout sounded aggrieved at being asked an unfair question.

  ‘Well, keep your eyes open for important things, damn you! Not this everlasting bloody driftwood!’

  The man answered sulkily, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Pringle breathed out hard and groped for his glasses. Damned useless fools, the lot of them. He trained his glasses across the port side of the gently corkscrewing bows. The white arrowhead of the bow wave, the undulating water, and then . . . he stared aghast at the shining black shape with its vicious horns which moved so calmly and deliberately towards the monitor’s hull.

  The frantic orders were torn from his throat. ‘Hard astarboard! Mine dead on the port bow!’

  He was almost knocked from his feet as Hogarth flung himself at the voice-pipe.

  ‘Belay that order! Port fifteen!’ Viciously over his shoulder he added to Pringle: ‘You’d swing the stem right across it, you idiot!’ Then he ran to the screen, his lanky frame bowed to watch for the small deadly object. He punched at a gaping petty officer. ‘Clear lower decks! Jump to it!’

  The mine curtsied past the bridge even as the monitor swung ponderously in response to the rudder. Once it seemed to brush against the massive anti-torpedo bulge, but a freak of current thrust it away, so that a watching seaman sobbed with relief.

  A marine bugler sent the alarm call frantically across the sleeping ship, whilst messengers and bosun’s mates scampered down ladders and hatches, pipes, shrilling, voices raised in hoarse urgency. ‘Clear lower deck! Close all watertight doors and scuttles!’

  Captain Royston-Jones was on the bridge even before the bugler had drawn breath, but as he crossed to Hogarth’s side another freak current encircled the drifting mine and cradled it inwards towards the Saracen’s stern. Another few feet and it would have vanished in the ship’s white wake. Gently it bumped a
gainst the rough plating, the motion making the horns gyrate gaily . . . until one of them made contact and broke

  * * * * *

  Richard Chesnaye could hardly remember how he came to be on the upper bridge. The previous minutes had been merged into a desperate scramble made worse by the blare of a bugle and the insane twittering of pipes. One second he had been lying in his hammock, the next he had been running barefoot for the nearest ladder, clad only in drill trousers with his jacket somehow wedged beneath his arm.

  Then there had been the explosion. For one long moment the whole hull had quivered like an oil-drum struck with a massive hammer. Running men had faltered or fallen with the shock, that had been followed at once by a long-drawn-out shuddering which had seemingly gripped the ship from stem to stern. Every piece of loose gear had cascaded on to the dazed men, and as they had started running once more the hull had been plunged into darkness, so that Chesnaye was suddenly reminded of the two decks he must scale before he reached the open air.

  On deck the packed ranks of stumbling figures had fanned out in every direction, while harsh voices called names and repeated orders, goading them on, stopping them from thinking. Chesnaye had been conscious of the smell of seared paintwork and the fact that the engines were stopped.

  He reached the bridge, breathless, and suddenly cold. As he fumbled with his jacket he heard Royston-Jones say sharply, ‘A complete muster of all hands, and then tell the Bosun to have the boats swung out and to check all rafts.’

  A voice said, ‘Port whaler destroyed, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Captain added, ‘Tell me the moment a report comes in from either the damage-control party or the engine room.’

  Chesnaye was aware of the great pall of smoke which hovered over the after part of the ship and the sluggish movement of the hull itself.

  Lieutenant Travis, who was by the wheelhouse voice-pipe, reported: ‘Wheel not answering, sir. Way off ship.’

  The Captain nodded. ‘Hmm. Stopped engines in time, I think. You acted promptly, Guns.’

  Another voice. ‘Damage Control reporting from aft, sir!’

  Royston-Jones walked quickly to the proffered handset. ‘Well?’

  Muffled by depth and distance, a voice he recognised as the Commander’s reached his ear. ‘After steering compartment and lower storeroom flooded, sir. Fire party dealing with outbreak in secondary paint store. All watertight doors holding and secure.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Chesnaye strained his ear for some expression or hint in the Captain’s tone, but there was nothing to show his inner thoughts.

  There were said to be many hundreds of drifting mines in the area, but it seemed incredible, even impossible, that one had reached the Saracen.

  A voice-pipe squeaked, and Royston-Jones bent his head to listen. ‘Captain here!’

  Far below, in the gleaming jungle of brass and powered steel, Innes, the Chief Engineer, adjusted his words for that other world of open sea and fresh air. ‘The pumps are all working well, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t let you use the port engine.’

  Royston-Jones remained crouched by the speaking-tube, his eyes half closed as he translated Innes’s brief words into their full meaning. ‘The shaft tube is badly damaged, then?’ He waited, forcing himself to keep his voice level.

  ‘Can’t tell for sure, sir. My lads are clearing away the mess, then they’ll be able to get a better picture. My immediate guess is that the port screw is badly damaged too, might even have lost a blade.’ Then, more firmly: ‘Either way, it’s a dockyard job, sir. We’re lucky the mine didn’t blow the guts out of the stern!’

  ‘Lucky, Chief? It depends which way you look at it!’ He snapped down the tube and stood up.

  Travis, who had been waiting nearby, reported quietly: ‘Damage Control have extinguished the fire, sir. And the intake of water has been contained.’

  Chesnaye listened intently and tried to fit the terse pieces of information into the pattern of the ship. The monitor seemed too large, too vital, to be affected, yet she was noticeably heavier aft, and without power was yawing heavily in the small cross-swell.

  When he had climbed wearily into his hammock Chesnaye had been unable to think of anything but his short interview with the Captain. His words had been harsh, cutting, but, Chesnaye knew, well chosen. Now all that was momentarily forgotten and the events which led to that interview made small and petty by comparison with this new disaster. He was more conscious of the weight of the Captain’s immediate problems than he was of any sense of danger. The little man who now stood amidst chaos and disorder, whose mind was their only weapon, whose wrong word could only add to the ship’s misfortune.

  ‘Signal from escort, sir!’

  ‘Well?’ The Captain did not look up.

  ‘Request instructions, sir. Will prepare to take you in tow at daybreak. Request permission to signal for further assistance. Signal ends, sir.’

  Beaushears, who had appeared unseen at Chesnaye’s elbow, whispered, ‘That’s the end of the landing, then!’

  Chesnaye did not hear him, but watched fascinated as the Captain turned yet again to speak to Mildmay, the Surgeon.

  ‘Ten casualties, sir.’ The Surgeon sounded brisk and fully awake. ‘Also one man missing. Probably lost overboard.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Royston-Jones sounded distant.

  ‘An Ordinary Seaman named Colt.’

  ‘Hmm, yes. Fo’c’sleman. Bad luck.’

  Chesnaye breathed out slowly. How in heaven’s name did the Captain find time to remember a mere face at such a moment?

  The Captain said sharply: ‘Signal to escort to resume station. Negative her requests. I intend to continue at reduced speed on remaining screw.’

  ‘But, sir——’ Travis interrupted and then faltered.

  The white figure moved slightly. ‘Yes, Pilot?’

  ‘Well, sir, I don’t mean to question your judgment, but our orders are exact. We have to be in position before daylight, otherwise the enemy shore batteries will have our measure before we can cope with them! On one screw we can make a bare three knots!’ His voice gained strength. ‘We shall be a sitting target!’

  ‘Quite so. Unfortunately we have no choice. Without us there is no support for the troops in that sector. They are relying on our attack on the enemy flank.’

  Travis said tightly, ‘We may not be in much shape to help anyone, sir!’

  Royston-Jones seemed to have forgotten him. ‘Pipe all hands to prepare ship for action. Then see that they have a good breakfast before dawn. I want the ship smart and efficient before that time!’

  Commander Godden climbed into the bridge, his face streaked with smoke stains. ‘She’s two feet down by the stern, sir. It’s not possible to rig collision mats, and in any case the frames are well buckled as far as I can make out in this light. When we get to the nearest dockyard we can assess the damage better.’

  ‘I quite agree.’ Royston-Jones sounded quite calm. ‘However, we have this small operation to complete first. I shall want to speak to all heads of departments in one hour, particularly to the Major of Marines. We are one whaler short, I understand, so the boats will be hard-worked when the time comes. Perhaps you will arrange to have the larger rafts ready for lowering. I think they could be safely towed ashore under present conditions with some of the marines aboard?’

  Godden sounded as if he had misunderstood. ‘You are surely not suggesting that we go through with it, sir?’

  ‘I will put your lack of respect down to strain, Commander. However, I should add that we are now committed. I have no intention of letting the disbelievers cast their scorn at this ship or her company. I thought I had already made that quite clear? If not, then let me only add that I expect every man aboard to, er . . .’ He faltered, so that Chesnaye was conscious of the tension amongst the small group of officers. But the Captain smiled and continued, ‘I was going to say “do his duty”, but I realise that another distinguished officer has already
said it rather better, and under more inspiring circumstances!’

  Below in the shuttered wheelhouse Chief Petty Officer Ashburton, the Coxswain, leaned on the polished wheel and cocked his head as a gust of uncontrolled laughter swept down the bell-mouthed voice-pipe. The starboard telegraph swung to ‘Slow-Ahead’, but still the laughter persisted. The Coxswain turned his eyes to the binnacle and said just loud enough for the mystified telegraphsmen to hear: ‘Listen to ’em! Bloody officers! All bloody mad!’

  7

  Pickles

  Richard Chesnaye walked slowly forward along the monitor’s broad fo’c’sle deck between the massive anchor cables and halted only when he stood hard against the jackstaff in the very bows of the ship. It was quiet, the sluggish bow wave hardly gurgling as the slow-moving hull thrust itself towards the long purple strip of land which lined the horizon. There was no warmth in the low sun, and although the clear bright sky hinted of the heat to come, Chesnaye’s limbs felt stiff and weary from the night’s exertions and his face a mask of tiredness. He looked back at the Saracen’s bridge which seemed to hang between the two long guns, and up at the topmast which shimmered like burnished gold in the growing power of the sunlight. The bridge was faceless, yet he knew that many eyes were watching the gentle shore as it grew from the blue and silver sea and basked beneath the empty sky. From his lonely position Chesnaye could see that the ship leaned heavily to port, just as he could see the black smoke stains on her upperworks and bridge and the splintered deck planking which had been sandwiched by the mine’s blast. The Saracen moved like an injured beast, almost crabwise, as her ungainly bulk fought against the thrust of one screw and the sweating exertions of the helmsman. He turned his back on the ship and leaned forward against the jackstaff. By so doing he could exclude the ship’s indignity and pain, and as he watched the low-lying shapes of the two destroyer escorts which were already racing ahead of their charge he felt as if he alone was drifting towards that hateful strip of prized land.