“Can I take over, sir?”
Kidd felt the spray in his beard. Somehow it helped.
He said, “Stand by, Sub. Course to steer is . . .”
Martineau walked across the bridge and glanced at the cruiser as Onslow called, “Execute!”
Martineau smiled. “Carry on, Mr Tyler. Take the con.”
He gripped the back of the chair and waited while Tyler gave his orders precisely and clearly to the voicepipe. Just a few degrees, and he heard the response from the wheelhouse even from here. A few degrees, but to Sub-Lieutenant Tyler it was doubtless like the breadth of an ocean.
He felt the pipe in his pocket and recalled what Fairfax had told him about the delay in Kidd’s marriage arrangements. He would be thinking of it now, as the land dipped away. And young Barlow down aft with the depth charges, with no home to come back to. And Seton who had died because of his secret, and Arliss who had fallen just here, another stranger.
And all the others who had become a part of memory.
He climbed into the chair and heard somebody hammering shackles into place. The forecast was not bad, but that meant nothing up here.
He saw his reflection in the salt-smeared screen and thought of Anna. The girl with rain in her hair, walking with the dog named Ahab.
Like a dream.
“Port watch at defence stations, sir.”
“Very good.”
It was beyond their control now. They were all victims.
17 | “Flag 4!”
Five days after leaving Scapa Flow, Lucky Bradshaw’s support group and the cruiser Durham were steering north-east, some two hundred miles west of the Lofoten Islands. A gale which had been forecast to follow them in from the North Atlantic changed direction, and left in its wake long, unbroken banks of glassy rollers, rank after rank which lifted the ships almost playfully before fading into the distance. At times a roller would create such a trough that even the cruiser appeared to be sinking, with only her bridge and upperworks visible.
The sky was clearer for longer periods, the air intensely cold, so that even the briefest contact between bare skin and metal fittings offered a real chance of frostbite.
Men stood on watch, taking the motion with straddled legs, or braced in gun mountings, their breath freezing into scarves and balaclava helmets, while others peered through their binoculars, faces completely hidden by the special fur-lined Arctic clothing.
Martineau sat in his bridge chair with a thick scarf wound around his throat and mouth, the ends wedged into his duffle coat. Like most sailors he disliked having his head covered when he was on watch, and contented himself with his cap, on which the oak leaves were already tarnished beyond recognition.
Signals were rare, brief and, of necessity, vague.
The convoy’s sailing day had been delayed by that same gale, and so the group should rendezvous with the covering escort a day earlier than originally planned. Martineau shifted his buttocks on the chair. They felt numb. He heard Onslow, the chief yeoman, speaking with two of his signalmen. No slip-ups; be ready for anything. Durham had already made some witty signals when the veteran destroyer Harlech had lost station on her.
In a rare show of anger Onslow had snapped, “It’s all right for them big ship wallahs—dry decks and a place to swing a hammock! I’ll bet they bake fresh bread every day, too!”
“Aircraft! Green four-five, angle of sight three-five!”
The nearest gun muzzles swung on to the bearing, as if the movement was automatic and not controlled by stiff, freezing fingers.
Someone managed a cheer. “Stringbag!”
A bright green flare drifted lazily towards the dull, heaving water, but all eyes were on the Swordfish torpedo bomber, the familiar “Stringbag.” Not unlike the biplanes of the Great War, and with a personality all their own: pilots who flew them swore they would never change. Slow, with open, windswept cockpits, it was impossible to imagine how the crew felt in this weather. Even now, as the aircraft dipped and tilted its wings, Hakka plunged her nose into another roller, the spray bursting up through the hawsepipes, more like steam than water. The deck up there would be like glass.
It was Fairfax’s watch, and he said, “Bang on time, sir.”
Martineau nodded, and winced as the scarf scraped his neck like broken wire. The escort carrier Dancer was with the convoy escort. In this kind of sea those little makeshift carriers could rise and fall thirty feet or more; he had seen aircraft trying to land in those conditions, the deck rising like a wall, or falling like a giant slide at the very moment of approach. Usually they made it. Some did not.
He stared abeam and watched the Swordfish turn away and skim over the cruiser’s mastheads.
He had pictured the giant operation in his mind. The convoy, thirty-seven ships packed to the deck beams with weapons and supplies, with more stowed and lashed outside in the weather, the escorts, small and large, ranging from sloops and corvettes to fleet destroyers like Hakka and her consorts.
They had seen and been seen by the bigger aircraft based in Iceland, Liberators, Catalinas, all drawn together like Kidd’s pencilled lines on a chart. There was a cruiser squadron at sea also, just in case Scharnhorst took this opportunity to leave the security of Altenfjord, the last lap of the convoy’s route before North Cape and the Kola Inlet.
But now, at this moment, here on the edge of nowhere, they had the sea to themselves. They had broken formation twice to investigate possible U-boat contacts, but they had proved worthless. They all had to be investigated, exactly as if it was a genuine threat of attack, phase by phase, by men so drained by the sea and the cold that the possibility of failure was always a lurking fear.
Lookouts shifted around, a quick grin here, a thump on the back with a fur-lined glove there, a new voice up the pipe from the wheelhouse as the helmsman stepped down for a break. Hot, sweet tea, or gut-clinging pusser’s kye, a touch of rum in it if you could pull some strings. Sandwiches as thick as boards, corned beef or spam, tinned sausages, “snorkers,” and layers of mustard; you could even forget that the bread was already five days old. No wonder Onslow hated the big ship wallahs.
Martineau rarely left the bridge, and despite the constant movement, the routine which carried all of them with the ship, he had found himself able to doze in this chair, his body pressing this way and that, until some sudden, unexpected sound intruded to drag him back to reality.
Once he dreamed of Anna, walking with her, perhaps reliving that one moment of freedom in the New Forest.
He had thought of the letter he had written to her. So many things he had wanted to say, to share. What would she think about it now that they were separated again? He stared at the spray as it drifted so slowly aft from the raked stem, to spatter across the glass screen and there transform itself into diamonds of ice. This hated ocean. He shook himself, and saw Slade, the baby-faced signalman, turn to look at him. Two red-rimmed eyes peering out of a shapeless hood. What would his family think if they could see him right now?
Or Tyler, the new subbie, who was helping Kidd with the charts. If he lived through this he would not need to act like a true veteran. He would be one.
“Time to alter course, sir.”
“Very good.” He stifled a yawn. “Watch Durham, Number One. We don’t want to annoy Father!”
Fairfax grinned and bent over the voicepipe, poised as Onslow and his team watched the cruiser’s yards.
The signal flags made the only touches of colour against the grey and the black-sided troughs, he thought.
“Starboard ten. Midships. Steady. Steer zero-six-zero.”
Martineau shifted in the chair. It was so damned uncomfortable. He acknowledged it. It was not the chair. He wondered if the doctor had spoken with his friend at Haslar Hospital.
Someone said, “Wow, where’d you get that fancy pencil from, Bunts?”
The baby-faced Slade replied, “Mister Seton gave it to me. It’s a good one, too.”
Martineau turned away.
So even Seton was here, in this sea of ghosts; he had not left the ship after all.
That evening they made contact with the convoy, although only the radar and the blink of signal lamps gave any hint of its size, and the enormous area of water such an armada required.
Could a convoy like this one change the course of the war? The Russians thought it would; the Admiralty did not question it.
He imagined Lucky Bradshaw on the opposite wing of the group in Zouave, waiting for a chance to prove or distinguish himself, or was it a need to even some old score, with Commodore Raikes, for instance?
He heard Kidd’s heavy seaboots clumping across the deck, and the edge in his voice.
“Look at that bloody sight, Number One! Miles and miles of bugger-all, and all those ships out there somewhere! After this lot’s over I’m going to swallow the anchor for good!”
One hour later the first torpedo exploded astern of the convoy.
There was no longer room for doubt. Or hope.
The convoy’s first casualty was the fleet minesweeper Sesame. She had been acting as Tailend Charlie, some three miles astern of the main body of ships, to render assistance, round up stragglers, and as a last resort pick up survivors.
She had been zigzagging at the time when a single torpedo had exploded amidships, flooding both engine and boiler rooms and rendering her helpless: a lone U-boat trying to stalk the convoy, perhaps to determine the strength of its escort and the speed and course at that given time, so that a signal could be sent to Group North. Probably one of a full salvo fired at extreme range to avoid detection; they might never know.
Sesame began to break up almost immediately, and although the forward half remained afloat for an hour, by the time an armed trawler arrived to take off her company it was already too late for most of them. Out of eighty officers and men only five were rescued, one being her commanding officer.
The next day was the last time they could rely on land-based aircraft. The little escort carrier Dancer, with her own guardians, four fleet destroyers, was their floating airfield for the long haul to the Kola Inlet.
Aboard Hakka, the size of the convoy became apparent with the coming of an indefinite daylight: four long columns of ships, with a big cargo-liner, Genoa Star, wearing the Commodore’s flag.
Martineau took time to study the nearest ships as the group hastened past to take up station ahead and to the north-west of the convoy, between Jan Mayen and Bear Islands where several attacks had been launched in the past. Within range of German aircraft as well as the Norwegian naval bases, it seemed the likeliest choice for an all-out attack.
The sea was calmer now, with a hint of ice in the bitter air. On watch there was no time to brood. With the group zigzagging or fanning out to investigate an uncertain echo or blur on the radar, any lack of vigilance could leave the ship open for a collision. The cruiser Durham exercised her main armament of twelve six-inch guns, the four turrets moving smoothly as one, her Captain making quite sure that there was no possibility of something icing up, common enough up here despite the anti-freeze and the grease.
It was halfway through the forenoon watch, the sea stretching away to an invisible horizon, fragments of ice still adrift to jar against the ships as they surged amongst it.
Dancer flew off two aircraft, the snarl of engines making the air cringe. There was a smell of some kind from the galley funnel, and the Buffer had chosen the moment to take a working party to check the boats in their davits, the Carley floats and scrambling nets, a twice-daily precaution. It was not unknown for rafts and life-saving gear to be frozen solid when they were needed.
Martineau was standing by the voicepipes, holding the rack and bending his legs to restore the circulation. It was on the far side of the convoy, out of sight in the haze and wet mists, that the torpedoes exploded. A big freighter directly astern of the Commodore’s ship began to fall out of line, smoke bursting from a well deck as if it was under pressure.
The U-boat had either worked around the leaders during the night, or more likely was one of a line of patrols lying in wait.
Signals flew back and forth, and escort vessels on the starboard wing of the outer column speeded to intercept the target.
Depth charges hurled columns of water into the air, the explosions pounding against Hakka’s flank as if she was in the thick of it.
Martineau walked to the side of the bridge and trained his glasses on the stricken freighter. She was showing a list, but not much, not enough to reveal the terrible damage torpedoes could inflict on an overloaded ship. He and many others here today, on this godforsaken ocean, had seen it before. It made it no easier.
The big ship was stopped now, and falling out of line, the other vessels altering course slightly to avoid collision, politely it seemed, as if it was the way to behave. Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Yes, it was old enough.
Armed trawlers were hurrying through the columns, the undertaker’s men, as they were known, but all attention was on the sudden flurry of activity on the far side: more depth charges, and then, unexpectedly, the crash and crackle of gunfire.
Kidd said flatly, “They’ve hit the bastard. He must be blowing his tanks.”
But his eyes were on the freighter, passing the last ships in the columns now, the list more pronounced, small fragments spilling through and over her side. Only through binoculars could you see that they were armoured cars and tanks, like toys at this distance, going down to litter another seabed.
“U-boat on the surface, sir!”
More gunfire, and now the staccato rattle of machine-guns. The real war: no quarter, no giving time to surrender.
There was a muffled rumble. Down amongst his racing machinery Trevor Morgan would feel it, even if he could hear nothing. He would know. A ship’s boilers exploding, a ship dying.
“U-boat destroyed, sir!”
Once they would have cheered, Martineau thought. But not any more. He raised his glasses again, but the sea astern was empty, except for two armed trawlers and what looked like ash circling lazily around them.
And the convoy sailed on.
• • •
Anna Roche looked at herself in the mirror and touched the shadows beneath her eyes with her fingers.
She had dressed with care, remembering that Crawfie had said how important it was, although she had not fully understood the significance at the time. She was learning fast. Like this morning when the alarm clock had gone off, right beside her pillow. She had sat bolt upright in the bed, her mind reeling, until second by second she had set her reactions in order.
In her new quarters she had a room to herself. That had taken some getting used to, and it was still not gone from her thoughts. Caryl with her outrageous jokes and stories she had always sworn were true, until she had been unable to contain her amusement. Nearly always short of money. She had asked to borrow a quid that night, when the bomb had screamed down to bury them.
The new quarters were in a small group of offices once owned by a Japanese shipping company, and commandeered for the duration. For ever, more likely, she thought. And there was constant hot water here, tons of it.
She had set the alarm early so that she could have a shower without somebody switching it off, or the supply suddenly running ice-cold. The Japs obviously took such things very seriously.
A clean shirt and collar, her bag, all she might need.
And just for a moment in the bathroom, which she had never had to share because the other girl was a watchkeeper at the signal station, she had stood quite naked, had looked at herself, like now, as if someone else was with her. She had twisted round to look at her bare shoulders; there was still bruising, but it was going. Crawfie had said acidly, “Not bad for someone who had a house fall on her!” She would never forget her kindness.
She had thought of the photograph Graham had kept, the one with bared shoulders taken when she had been a student at the University of Toronto. Her mother had described it as rather daring.
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She touched each corner of her mouth and smiled. What would her mother think now?
She looked around the room, remembering the days and hours since the ships had left Liverpool. Regular reports and signals, intelligence, supposition, guesswork. She worked hard, glad of it, driving herself until there were moments like this, when she could test her endurance. Her love.
She checked her bag, although the letter was not there but in her inside pocket. She read it often, and always heard his voice, sensitive, introspective. Not at all like the man described in the newspapers, the holder of the Victoria Cross. One of the elite, the few.
In his letter it was even more intense. How he had described their walk with the dog, their touch, their parting.
Throwing sticks for the dog. Was that too much to ask for a man who had already given so much? And his words, written, but she could hear them.
I want to sit with you. To lie with you. To stay with you.
She sighed and picked up her hat. It still felt very new.
Another glance around. Lights off. Taps tightly closed. Don’t you know there’s a war on?
She was glad she had set the alarm, and that she had taken care over her appearance.
How he would want to see me.
And it was not yet four in the morning.
It was only a short walk to the headquarters bunker and Derby House, shorter still if she took the direct route. Perhaps one day . . . But she could not yet bring herself to pass the place where they had been buried together, where Caryl had died.
There were always people about, or so it seemed in this sailors’ city. A lot of servicemen going on or off duty, the Jolly Jacks on shore leave for the night. Searching for the adventure and enticement which in truth rarely showed itself.
She could ignore the wolf-whistles now; there was no point in looking for a culprit anyway. Just as she could ignore the military policeman sitting astride his motor cycle, one boot on the pavement, occasionally twisting his grip to warm the engine. She knew what he was doing, what he was waiting for. The line of camouflaged ambulances would be parked up a street somewhere, awaiting his signal to move.
For Valour Page 29
