At regular intervals the small tower revolved, first on one beam and then in a full one hundred and eighty degrees to the other, as the rating at the training controls rotated their little eyrie to allow the giant telescopes and range-finder to peer to and beyond the horizon. Of course, the sea was empty. It was just as Norris had expected, and the constant image of his comfortable bunk reawakened the irritation in him like a bad tooth.
The training mechanism squeaked and began to move again. The slight motion and the smell of sweat and oil all around made Norris swallow hard. Even with all the observation shutters pinned back it was a foul place, he thought. His stool was now pointing across the starboard beam, and through an open slit he could feel the hint of warmth on his right cheek. God! Another day in here. The fans were useless, and soon it would be like an oven.
He leaned his elbows on the telephone rest and peered down at the nearest merchantman. She seemed far below, her decks still deserted. Lucky bastards, he thought savagely. Once when he had first joined the ship, watchkeeping had been almost enjoyable. With Fox to cover his mistakes he had been able to lose himself in his imagination. He often saw himself as in a film, and thought of what those dowdy creatures in the school staff room would think if they had been lucky enough to see him too.
‘Ship, sir!’ He realised with a start that the Control Top was motionless and the rating at the big telescope by his knees was stiff in his stool like a gun-dog.
Norris released the catch on his own spotting telescope and pressed his eyes to the sight. High above the monitor’s decks, in the centre of the quiet convoy, Norris and the seamen watched the tiny black flaw on the gleaming horizon line.
He felt a sharp movement at his side, and McGowan was as wide awake as he had been fast asleep a second before. He too crouched to look, his fingers moving deftly on his sighting controls.
Norris knew what McGowan was doing without pausing to look at him. As the light hardened across his lenses he stared with fixed concentration at the far off ship. He heard McGowan say sharply: ‘Two more ships. One on either side of the first.’ Then in a more normal tone. ‘Disregard those. Concentrate on the centre one.’
How typical of McGowan’s sort, thought Norris. He could see the second pair of ships as indistinct smudges in the morning haze, but they could very likely be cruisers. The centre vessel was much smaller. Surely he was wasting valuable time? Querulously he said, ‘She’s a small cruiser, Guns, or even just a destroyer, don’t you think?’
There was a faint smudge of smoke, too, which seemed to link the three strangers together in a flimsy canopy made golden in the sunlight.
McGowan ignored him and snatched the handset. ‘Director . . . Forebridge!’ Then a second later, ‘Call the Captain to the phone!’ Over his shoulder he said with a faint grin: ‘Keep watching, my friend. Just watch your destroyer grow!’
Norris flushed, aware of the stiff backs of the ratings sitting below his legs. Damn McGowan!
He peered again through his sights, and then as he watched felt his heart falter, as if it would stop altogether. McGowan was speaking in terse, short sentences, but in Norris’s curdled brain the words meant nothing.
The centre ship, at first so small and delicate in the lenses, had indeed grown. Even as he stared it seemed to heighten with every passing second. What he had taken for a destroyer’s bridge was merely an armoured fire-control position, and as the ships moved to meet the convoy more and more of the central warship crawled up and over the horizon, as if it was rising out of the sea itself. Bridge upon bridge, and even the massive triple turrets could not be masked by distance. Norris bit back a gasp of terror. It was a battleship!
He had seen battleships before. Usually in harbour, or at naval reviews. They always appeared so safe, so impressively permanent like the legend of the Royal Navy and all it stood for. But they had never seemed as warlike or as real as other ships, and now . . . He dashed the sweat from his eyes as McGowan’s voice broke into his jumbled thoughts.
‘Yes, sir. Battleship and two cruisers.’ He broke off as a rating said abruptly, ‘Two more ships astern of the cruisers, sir.’ McGowan nodded and continued evenly: ‘Two more cruisers, sir. The whole squadron is on the same bearing of Green eight-five. Still at extreme distance of thirty thousand yards. I’ll start reading the ranges in five minutes.’ He slammed down the handset and reached for his headphones and mouthpiece. Catching Norris’s wide-eyed stare he said, ‘I think the Captain was expecting visitors!’
* * * * *
Surgeon-Lieutenant Wickersley rubbed his eyes and stared at the nearest freighter. It looked as if it was covered in a skin of fine gold, he thought, and in the dawn light the old merchantman took on a kind of majesty. Wickersley swallowed hard to clear the stale taste from his throat. He had been asleep in the Sick Bay but had decided to get up and take a breath of fresh air. His sick-berth attendants were still snoring. They were like himself in that their lack of duties made them the most envied men aboard. Apart from the Captain’s steward that is. He was answerable to nobody but the Captain, and was known to drink heavily from anything which took his fancy.
Wickersley climbed the cool steel ladders to the upper bridge and felt some of the night’s muzziness clearing from his dull brain. He was almost ashamed of the amount of gin he had consumed in the privacy of his quarters. It was odd to think of the advice and warnings he had given to others, the sad contempt he had felt for them. Because of that letter he had almost joined their ranks. Almost. He reached the bridge and was instantly aware of its alien and tense atmosphere.
Chesnaye was standing by the voice-pipes and speaking rapidly into a handset. Fox was watching the flagship through his glasses, and Bouverie leant across the chart, watched by Erskine.
Chesnaye dropped the handset and saw Wickersley for the first time. His drill-jacket was open to the waist and his hair was dishevelled. By contrast his smooth cheeks and cold, alert eyes seemed to belong to someone else. ‘Hello, Doc. Come to referee?’
He turned away as a voice-pipe squeaked, ‘Main armament closed up!’
Wickersley’s brain was completely clear now. Main armament? He joined the Yeoman who was looking at his young signalman on the flag deck below. ‘What’s up, Yeo?’
Laidlaw plucked at his beard. ‘Battleship and four Eye-tie cruisers on the starboard beam. They’re heading this way it seems!’
Wickersley peered towards the open water beyond one of the wallowing freighters as if he expected to see the enemy for himself.
The Yeoman added, ‘They’re about fourteen miles off at present, sir.’
As if to back up his words they heard the magnified voice of the range-taker. ‘Range two-eight-five!’
Bouverie looked up. ‘Flagship’s signalling, sir!’
A shaded lamp flickered along the lines of ships. ‘Alter course, sir! Steer two-two-five!’
Chesnaye sounded cool. ‘Follow the next ahead, Pilot.’
‘We might miss them, d’you think?’ Wickersley found he was whispering.
Fox lowered his glasses and grinned. ‘If we take our shoes off!’
Lifting a spare pair of glasses from their rack, Wickersley climbed on to a grating and peered vaguely across the lightening water. It was all glare, and gold mirrors. The sea was flat, yet alive with a million tiny movements and reflections. As far as he could see the convoy had the sea to itself. He felt suddenly frustrated and out of place. ‘Seems quiet enough!’
Chesnaye was crossing the bridge and paused at his side. ‘The Admiral intends to steer away from the enemy. There’s always a chance, of course.’ He did not sound as if he believed it. ‘It’s a Littorio-class battleship. One of the new ones. Nine fifteen-inch guns, thirty knots.’
‘Aureus’s turning, sir.’
They watched the sleek cruiser fall away and begin to steam slowly round the convoy to place herself between the ships and the invisible enemy.
‘How far can they shoot, sir?’ Wickersley was watching
Chesnaye’s calm, unblinking eyes.
‘They’ll be in range at twenty thousand. Effective shooting at ten thousand yards in this early haze.’ He shrugged. ‘After that it’s anyone’s guess.’
‘Range two-eight-oh!’
Wickersley half listened to the regular, patient reports and the repeated orders. It was unreal and unnerving. Everything was just the same. The columns of ships, the monitor’s steady engine beat, the bright, empty sky. Yet somewhere over the horizon, steaming at full speed, was a terrible force which his mind could not contemplate. A battleship, a floating steel town of guns and armour, as well as four cruisers. Against them would be one cruiser, three destroyers and a sloop. And the Saracen. He stared round with sudden despair. The Saracen. Even at the mention of the battleship’s speed his heart had sunk. Thirty knots against six and a half. The monitor would not even be able to join battle. With the merchantmen she would be made to wait like a patient animal outside the slaughterhouse.
All at once Wickersley felt the anger boiling inside him, driving out the misery and self-pity which had been his companions for so many days. ‘Have we just got to damned well sit here and take it?’
Chesnaye eyed him calmly. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Range two-seven-oh!’
Fox crossed the bridge. ‘The bearing’s changed, sir. They’re after us.’
Chesnaye nodded as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Yes.’
Fox glanced at the Doctor and shrugged. He knew that he had wanted the Captain to produce some miracle, to reassure him. Just as he was certain that there was no miracle now.
Chesnaye turned his back on all of them and watched the Aureus as she swung round in a tight turn to take up station on the convoy’s starboard flank. Her four turrets were already trained on her quarter, and he could see the tiny figures filling her bridge. He wondered briefly what Beaushears was thinking at this very moment. As far as he was concerned he was alone. The trap was sprung. There was no time for the ‘if onlys’ and the ‘perhapses’, this was now.
He heard a lookout say involuntarily, ‘Christ it’s gettin’ bright!’ as if the man was willing back the sun.
‘Range two-six-oh!’
Twenty-six thousand yards. Thirteen miles. Chesnaye levelled his glasses and stared for several seconds at the faint black shapes which were already lifting above the blue and gold line.
Chesnaye felt his fingers buttoning his jacket, as if the agonising wait was too much for them. He had to control and regularise his breathing to stop his anxiety joining the white-hot anger which he felt for Beaushears and everything which he had known was going to happen. He could even foretell Beaushears’ next move. He would wait until the enemy was within range and then go in to the attack. A brave, useless gesture. The battleship would pound him to pieces before his little six-inch guns could even splash her paintwork. There was no hope of air cover, and the supporting cruisers of Beaushears’ squadron would take a day to find the convoy. By that time . . .
‘Signal from Flag, sir. Maintain courses and speed!’
Chesnaye did not turn round. The signal made him feel sick. It was as if Beaushears was issuing signals merely for something to do. Perhaps his nerve had gone and he was unable to think beyond his normal routine.
Chesnaye concentrated on adjusting his mind yet again. It was just possible that Aureus could hold off the attacking ships long enough. The merchantmen still had the destroyers and one sloop. If they could hold out for another day, and increase speed, there might be time to get help from Malta. Submarines perhaps?
‘Range two-double-oh!’
A ripple of orange flashes mingled with the sunlight, and Chesnaye found himself gripping the screen with sudden doubt.
‘The enemy’s opened fire, sir!’
Every eye on the bridge watched the flagship, a slender outline above her glittering reflection.
With the sound of tearing silk the first salvo came screaming down from above. It seemed to take minutes; to some the wait was like an hour, but there were cries of surprise and horror as the first six waterspouts rose with magnificent and terrible splendour not around the flagship, but across the starboard line of merchantmen.
Chesnaye could only stare with disbelief as the nearest merchantman received a direct hit from one of the great fifteen-inch shells full on her maindeck. The blast was like a thunderclap, and the great searing tongue of flame seemed to cut the ship in two.
The battleship had turned on an almost parallel course, so that her third turret could be brought to bear, and within seconds the next salvo was on its way. The stricken freighter seemed to topple over as some internal explosion rocked the hull and brought the bridge tottering into the great flaming crater left by the shell.
The flagship turned towards the enemy, the front mounting beneath her counter as she increased to maximum speed. Beaushears had expected to be the target, to die doing his duty. But the Italian commander had no intention of being side-tracked by any noble gestures. He was after the convoy. The convoy would go first.
The Yeoman ducked as a tall column of water rose less than half a cable from the Saracen’s bows. ‘Signal from Flag, sir! Scatter!’
Chesnaye tasted the salty spray hurled by the explosion, and stared at the signal flags on the Aureus’s yard. Scatter. Beaushears had taken the only solution he knew. Every ship for itself. Instead of being destroyed together, they would be sunk one at a time by the speedy cruisers.
Fox said sharply, ‘The Cape Cod’s been hit!’
Chesnaye spun round as if he had been struck. The big freighter had never faltered, had never lost station even under attack. Now as he watched he saw the smoke pouring uncontrollably from her foredeck, and realised with sudden shock that the front of her tall bridge had gone completely. Cape Cod was momentarily hidden by another three tall columns of water. Each falling shell threw up a waterspout some hundred feet in the air. Even the noise of their falling made his ears sing.
Fox said: ‘Their steering’s gone, sir. They’re trying to steer from aft!’
A lookout called, ‘Direct hit on the destroyer Brigadier, sir!’
Chesnaye tore his eyes from the burning freighter and the tiny figures which were running aft to the emergency steering position. One of the escorts was already sinking, her stern high in the water like the arm of a drowning man.
Through his teeth he barked: ‘Request to re-form convoy! Make that signal to Flag, Yeoman!’
They must keep together. It was their only chance.
Fox threw up his hands to shade his eyes as the flagship’s upperworks burst apart with one deafening roar. Her control top and upper bridge seemed to slide sideways, and even the main topmast, with Beaushears’ own flag still flying, staggered over the great pall of black and yellow smoke which surged to meet it.
Laidlaw, who had been about to flash the signal himself, lowered the lamp and stared at the cruiser, which in a second had changed its shape and form to a blazing hulk. The Aureus slewed round, the smoke blown across her impotent guns which had still not fired.
Fox lowered his hands. ‘My God!’ He seemed at a complete loss. ‘God all-bloody Mighty!’
Chesnaye stepped to the centre of the bridge, the Cape Cod was burning fiercely, the flames glittering across the water like the dawn sun. But she was afloat. If only they had more time. Like a stranger he stared round his shocked bridge. Laidlaw with the signal lamp hanging from his fingers. Fox, who could not drag his eyes from the battered cruiser, and Bouverie, who seemed like a man under drugs.
In a strained voice Chesnaye heard himself say: ‘Make a signal to escorts. Reassemble convoy forthwith and proceed on course at maximum speed.’
He felt his legs shake as he crossed to the front of the bridge. Dear God, let Ann be safe. She has to be safe!
He closed his mind again. ‘Starboard twenty!’ It was a second or two before Fox repeated the order or realised what it implied.
Then as the wheel went down and the bow
s began to swing, Chesnaye said sharply: ‘Tell the Chief I want maximum revolutions! I want this ship to go as she did at Gallipoli!’
Laidlaw returned, shaking his head like a dog. ‘Signal executed, sir!’
‘Good. Now, Yeoman, you can do one more thing this morning.’
‘Sir?’ Laidlaw’s tired eyes were watching the merchant-men careering across the monitor’s bows as the Saracen continued to turn.
Chesnaye paused, his glasses levelled on the far off shapes. ‘Midships! Steady!’ He glanced briefly at Laidlaw again. ‘Hoist battle ensigns!’
Above and below the bridge, gunners, signalmen and lookouts watched with awe and shock as the big ensigns broke out from gaff and yard. Even down in the engine room Lieutenant-Commander (E) Tregarth and his assistant sensed the new flood of power which pulsated through the old ship like fire. Tregarth watched the dials and wiped his hands across his white overalls. ‘Glad I’m down here,’ was his only comment, and that was lost in the roar of Saracen’s machinery.
* * * * *
Vice-Admiral Sir Mark Beaushears clenched his teeth and bit back the agonising pain. He shook his head from side to side, still unable to speak lest the waiting scream escaped from his lips. The arm behind his shoulders lowered him again to the deck, and Beaushears stared fixedly at the bright star-shaped area of blue sky which shone through the jagged hole above him. The bridge was a shambles, and above all there was an ear-splitting hiss of escaping steam. If he closed his eyes Beaushears imagined he could see himself as a young midshipman beside his tearful mother at Waterloo station. He had hated her coming with him to the train. There were other midshipmen all around him, watching, and passing knowing smiles. Over all there had been that nerve-shaking sound of steam from the engines in the station, which had made the parting even more difficult.
A shadow crossed the patch of sky, and he stared vaguely at Captain Colquhoun, who was watching him as if from far away. Beaushears tried to move again. ‘Harmsworth! Where the devil’s my flag-lieutenant?’
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 33
