That was as far as he had got. Fairfax had sounded unusually angry.
“We have not joined the flotilla yet, in case you hadn’t noticed! And in this ship we don’t carry passengers!”
But Kidd had to admit they had all done well. It was two hours since they had cleared Plymouth Sound, and with the Jester following astern had butted out into grey and worsening weather, which was nothing new in these parts.
Jester was also part of the new flotilla, one of the J Class destroyers. She made a fine sight with her single raked funnel, and her bow slicing through the offshore swell like the thor-oughbred she was.
The bridge chair was unoccupied. The Captain had gone down to the chart room to study the next chart for himself. The task they had been allotted was an important one, an emergency. Listening to Martineau’s calm voice, Kidd had been able to see it all, perhaps more clearly than any of the others.
An eastbound convoy had been attacked twice by U-boats; that was nothing unusual. But one of the ships was a giant tanker, fully loaded with fuel, and on the final approach via the south of Ireland she had been singled out for attack by a long-range bomber. The tanker had been damaged and her steering put out of action, but her cargo was apparently intact. The convoy had included a rescue tug, but she was obviously no match for such an unmanageable charge. It was always the hairy part, with the end of yet another hazardous convoy almost in sight, and warships were no different. Many were sunk when their crews believed the worst was almost over, and they were returning to base and home. A momentary lack of vigilance could bring disaster. Like right here on this bridge.
At Falmouth lay the one hope, the huge salvage tug Goliath, the only vessel near enough with the capability and the experience to do it. Kidd did not need to consult his soiled chart again: Falmouth was somewhere up there, beyond the starboard bow. Thirty miles since they had put to sea, and two hours. Not bad at all.
A boatswain’s mate coughed significantly and Kidd turned as the Captain’s head and shoulders appeared through the gate.
Martineau climbed on to the gratings, and studied the other destroyer.
“Taking it well, Pilot. But we’ll have to reduce revs once we’ve got Goliath in company.” He was thinking aloud. “The tanker will be drifting in this little lot. The south-westerly wind is strengthening, and that other tug will be hard put to keep her under command.” He looked up as spray drifted over the bridge.
Like someone measuring an enemy’s strength, Kidd thought. Looking for a trick.
“She’ll clear the Scillies with any luck. Swansea Bay is the best bet. There’s more shelter there and they’re used to handling lame ducks.” He smiled briefly. “Should be, after three years of it.”
He put one hand on the chair as the deck lifted and then dipped again.
“If the weather worsens the job will get harder.” He shrugged. “But of course if it was a perfect day, the enemy would arrive in force. The sea may be an ally this time.”
Sub-Lieutenant Cavaye said, “Time to alter course, sir.” But not for Arliss’s benefit, Kidd thought. It was merely to show the Captain that he was on the ball.
He realized that Martineau was watching him, his eyes very clear. Like the sea itself.
“What d’you know about Goliath, Pilot?”
So casually asked, but Kidd was a seaman to his fingertips.
“She can manage fifteen knots with a following wind and all the stops pulled, sir.” He tilted his head as more spray bounced off his cap. “But in this I’d give her ten.”
Martineau nodded, and felt in the pocket of his duffle coat. “It will be dark early. Very early. We must make contact before that. Otherwise it will be too late.”
Kidd waited. No ifs or buts. Or they should have thought of this earlier. There was nobody else.
“St Anthony Beacon at two-nine-zero, sir!”
Fairfax had appeared on the bridge, his tanned face reddened by the wind.
He said, “You did it again, Pilot! I thought we were lost!”
Martineau had heard them talking, friends, long before he had stepped aboard. He steadied his binoculars and waited for the bows to climb again, wondering how the new hands were managing in their as yet unfamiliar quarters. Like mine.
He stiffened and said, “And there she is, gentlemen!”
He ignored the clatter of the signal lamp, the bright winking eye of the great tug’s acknowledgement. Huge indeed, one of the largest ocean-going tugs in service, and always in demand. In tonnage she was not much less than Hakka, but she seemed to stand out of the leaping waves like a rock.
He tugged his cap more firmly over his hair and stood on the top grating so that the Goliath ’s master would be sure to see him, and would know who was making the signal.
He called, “Ready, Bunts?”
“Aye, sir.” But it was Onslow, the chief yeoman, as he had somehow known it would be, even though the ship was at defence stations.
“To Goliath from Hakka. Time is the enemy. At thirteen knots we will do it. ” He knew that Kidd was beside him, watching for an irate signal, or an outright refusal. There was none. “Follow father.” He raised one arm towards the massive tug and said, almost to himself, “Lucky thirteen. This time.”
Fairfax and the bearded navigator both heard it. Neither understood.
Onslow called, “From Goliath, sir. Remember what happened to David!”
Martineau heard the sudden laughter, even from those who had not comprehended the signal.
“Take station ahead, Pilot. Then alter course as plotted.” He peered aft as a downdraught brought the acrid tang of smoke from the big forward funnel. “Jester’s Skipper has his orders, he can take over the sweep astern.”
Arliss sounded surprised. “U-boats, sir?”
But Martineau was bending over the chart again.
Kidd brushed past him and murmured, “What d’you expect? This is Western Approaches, remember?”
With one elbow wedged against the table to lessen the violent motion, Martineau checked the pencilled calculations and compared them with his own. There was always hope, but there was a lot of that scattered across the bottom of the Atlantic. A valuable cargo of fuel; for Spitfires or tanks, it was not their concern. Every drop was vital. But all he could think of were the men who would be out there now, with nothing to cling to but the hope of rescue. Like me. And the thirteen who were with me that day.
It was barely possible to believe that just a few hours ago he had been looking at the photograph, and contemplating breakfast. A better dream, but a dream nonetheless . . .
He shook himself angrily. Even if they made a perfect rendezvous, there would be next to no time to grapple with the helpless tanker and get some way on her.
Kidd had merely confirmed what he already knew about the area. The tide would be bad enough, but if the wind rose any more Goliath ’s master would never dare to risk his ship in a senseless collision.
He made up his mind and pushed himself away from the chart table, and covered it with its waterproof hood.
“We could try something which will give us a bit more time.” He had their attention, the wind and the tumbling grey waves momentarily forgotten. “We have the speed, the agility.” He knew Fairfax understood that it was for him alone. “It’s a risk, of course.”
Fairfax said without hesitation, “A boarding party, sir? Be ready for Goliath ’s first attempt.” Surprisingly, he smiled. “I’d ask for volunteers.” He seemed to take Martineau’s silence for doubt, and added firmly, “I can do it!”
Martineau touched his sleeve. Lightly, the way the girl had touched the ribbon.
“I’d not ask anyone else.”
Martineau crossed the bridge, the steep motion testing his stomach like a taunt.
“I shall want signals made to Jester and separately to Goliath. ”
Onslow was busy with his pad. “Admiralty, sir?” Martineau faced him and smiled. “Not at this stage, I think.”
Kidd said in
a fierce whisper, “What the hell are you thinking about, Jamie? You know the bloody risks in that sort of caper!”
But Fairfax was watching the Captain, recalling how the strain had dropped away after he had made his decision. Young again, like the man who had married an unfaithful wife. In wartime, what did that mean? Or was it the one he had been with at the officers’ club?
He turned, startled out of his thoughts, as the Captain said, “Twelve men should do it. Don’t expect too much help from the tanker’s crew. They’ve been through enough already.”
There it was again. Sharing it, or blaming himself for something.
The hand on his sleeve once more. “No heroics, Number One.”
Fairfax looked at the sea. He had never been afraid, or so he had told himself often enough. It was all part of it. Destroyers, the madness and the exhilaration when it was at its worst.
But this was different. He said, “Right, sir.” It was too late anyway.
Fairfax gripped the handrail of the bridge ladder and waited for the deck to surge up beneath him. Down here, below the bridge and forward funnel every sound seemed louder, more violent, the sea closer to the deck itself.
The party of volunteers was wedged together as if for comfort, maybe wondering what insane impulse had made them come forward. In the navy they always said that a volunteer was someone who had misunderstood the question in the first place, or a bloody fool. The old hands said, never volunteer for any damned thing. But they did.
He looked up as another signal flashed from the flag deck. He turned and stared steadily at the crippled tanker. For hours, or so it felt, they had watched it loom out of the drifting spray which occasionally floated above it like smoke. Now the tanker filled their horizon, huge, low in the water, and motionless. Or so it appeared.
Fairfax had gone through the last approach, step by step. The other tug was still hooked on, but acted as little more than a sea-anchor. At least they were clear of the Scillies with their treacherous rocks, the deathbed of many ships from as far back as the first sailing traders. But the whole area was pockmarked with isolated shoals and unexpected shallows, enough to break the back of any ship. Kidd had described it without dramatics. You respected it, or you paid for it.
Fairfax heard Arthur Malt, the Gunner (T), offering advice to the assembled men.
“One ’and for the King an’ one for yerself. No time for soddin’ about. Remember that, Wishart, if you want to better yourself!”
Fairfax glanced at the young seaman. He was not required on the bridge to help the navigator. The ship was at defence stations, half the company standing to, the others ready to use muscle and blood when it was needed if the first attempt failed.
Malt was reliable but unimaginative. Even in his shining oilskin he was completely square, his cap jammed flat on his head like a lid, as if to contain the temper that was his weakness, especially with new hands like Wishart. Mothers’ boys, he called them.
Ossie Pike, Hakka ’s chief boatswain’s mate and her most experienced seaman, edged closer and growled, “I ’ope they’re not all dead over there!” The Buffer, as he was always known aboard ship, had wanted to go across when the time came. Fairfax had said, “Suppose something happened to me? Who would run the ship then?” It had seemed to quieten him for the moment.
Perhaps he should have declined Wishart’s eagerness to volunteer. The boy was untried, inexperienced. But this called for the nimble-footed and the quick-witted. The master mariners would have to wait.
He steadied himself as the ship turned more steeply, the sea spurting over the deck by the whaler’s davits, looking at the big Carley float which would carry them to the tanker once the Skipper had worked round to offer a lee and to use the wind as an ally. No heroics. Just a brief moment, and the rift had gone. They trusted each other. They needed each other.
He cleared his throat. “Once in the float, secure the life-lines provided. We’ll use the paddles, but we’ll be depending mostly on the drift.”
He peered across one stooping figure and saw the tanker again, a good cable away, although from here it looked right alongside. Water pouring off the low superstructure in rivers, small breakers sweeping across the broad, red-leaded deck as if she was already going down. All that bloody fuel. How did men sail with lethal cargoes like that, time and time again?
Hakka was altering course once more, making it seem as if the tanker had suddenly gathered way. A tiny figure stood up on her deck and waved jerkily, before ducking again as the sea boiled towards him.
It was little enough, but somebody gave a wild cheer. It was all they needed.
Fairfax jabbed the petty officer’s arm. It felt like a piece of timber.
“Right, Buffer, man the tackles. Here we go!”
He tightened the strap of the Schermuly line-throwing pistol to make sure that the rocket was secured and glanced at the two men with the case containing the line. Like a piece of thread against this sea and wind. But it had been done in worse.
One of the men nodded to him. It was Forward. The wheelhouse was fully manned, and he had volunteered with a wry grin. “Might help with my promotion, sir!”
The youth Wishart was with him. An unlikely pair, but it seemed to work.
He thought of the other destroyer, churning back and forth, sweeping for any possible U-boat, although it was unlikely around here these days. Air cover, and the range of the new escort carriers had driven the wolf packs into deeper waters. But you could never be certain.
He tucked the towel more securely inside his upturned collar. He need not have bothered; it was already sodden. He could feel the St Christopher against his skin, the one she had given him after the party when they had sailed off to the Med. A pretty, laughing face, but he could not recall her name.
“Right, lads! Two at a time when I give the signal!”
He saw the line-handling party ready, their oilskins like wet coal in the dim light. Ossie Pike watching the blocks and the tackles, the way each man stood, how he was balanced.
Some wag called out, “Must be cushy enough if Jimmythe-One is goin’!”
That brought more laughs, and a lump to Fairfax’s throat. In minutes they could all be drowned, or sucked into Hakka ’s churning screws. It had happened.
Wishart watched the big Carley float being swayed up and over the side. They said it would hold thirty men in an emergency. At least it was something to cling on to if the ship was going down. Against the dark waves it looked like a tiny dinghy.
He heard Forward say, “Once you’re in, just hold on. Don’t try to do anything! Got it?”
He nodded, his mouth too stiff with cold to form a reply. The Gunner (T) had been goading him again, backed up as usual by Morris, the leading hand of the quarterdeck, Malt’s division. Morris was sweating on his next move up, to join a petty officer’s course at Portsmouth. Without Malt’s backing he stood little chance, and he knew it.
It was always the same. How he talked. How he looked. Even the wristwatch his parents had given him when he had joined up. Real sailors don’t wear pansy little watches now, do they? Malt was good at it. Relished it.
When he had heard the clamour for volunteers he had not hesitated. He had not thought of danger or death. It was blind, resentful anger. And now he was here.
Eventually he managed to speak.
“Have you done this before, Bob?”
Forward came out of his thoughts and stared at him. Seeing the harm that old prat Malt had done, recognizing the fear.
“’Course. Dozens of times. Piece of cake!” He spat over the side as salt squirted into his face. “Stick with me.” He turned away to watch the first lieutenant, and to hide his surprise. It had worked. Like that day when the Channel guns had begun to fire, and the snotty had almost thrown up.
The Carley float was edging down, and down, until it was bouncing heavily on the broken water surging back from the stem.
Fairfax waited, counting seconds, watching the float rearing abou
t like a mad thing. He could sense rather than hear the changing note of Hakka ’s engines, her flared side heeling to another turn of the wheel. He wanted to lean out and look up at the bridge, but he knew his resolve would shatter like glass if he did.
He could see them anyway, big Bill Spicer on the wheel, his face a mask of concentration, his attention confined to the voicepipe and the ticking gyro tape. The Chief down among his racing machinery, yelling soundlessly to his crew, the fans and shafts joining in like an orchestra gone berserk.
Kidd with his chart and his notes, soundings, tides and currents. The enemy below. And the Captain, who carried them all.
“Ready, sir!”
Fairfax felt the deck tilting again. It looked as if he could reach down and touch the sea.
He heard himself yell, “Now!” And then he was falling, reddened faces peering after him, the breath suddenly knocked out of his lungs as he hit the curved side of the float. Half-blinded by the spray, once with his head completely submerged, then his fingers fastened on one of the Buffer’s lines and locked on to it like claws. The float was rising again, trying to dislodge him, the ship leaning right over him, with just enough speed to hold the tow alongside.
“Next!” Anonymous figures sprawled beside him, one even managing to yell an obscenity before the fight for survival took charge.
And suddenly they were all there. Packed together, numbed fingers fastening their safety lines, eyes blind with spray, peering around seeking a friend or anything familiar, for that extra strength.
Fairfax jerked a paddle out of its fastening and shouted, “Together, lads!”
The float had been cast off from the destroyer’s side but was still attached by another line, which was being paid out rapidly even as he watched.
He tried to peer ahead, to estimate their progress, or if they were moving at all. His breath was rasping, and the paddle weighed a ton. If he looked back he knew that Hakka would be out of sight, no matter how far they had come. The raft was rearing up and down, jerking at the remaining line as if to tear itself free and hurl its occupants to the sea.
Someone cried, “Hold on, Tom! Keep going!”
For Valour Page 8
