Zouave was still afloat; there was no sign of Kangaroo. He knew that Durham was firing again, but with longer gaps between salvoes, and only one turret at a time.
The convoy would be able to hear this last fight, and perhaps would know what it had cost them.
He said, “Tell Harlech to make smoke. The wind might help. Until the next turn at least.” He did not need to see it. He knew they were doing what he required. He was their Captain. They had nothing left but trust now. Harlech would be trying to lay a smokescreen, and Jester, Java ’s sister ship, would be working around to take up position for the attack. He thought of the old house in the New Forest, the girl in his arms, while his mother and her Reverend were preparing to listen to the B.B.C. news.
The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of HMS . . . He pressed his forehead against the frozen metal. And Anna would know before anyone.
He looked up, suddenly angry, sickened by the inevitability, the waste. And there was the enemy. Even without the glasses he would have known her. How could he forget? So many times he had seen her in his wakening moments, heard the grinding scream of tearing steel and felt the terrible destruction when he had rammed the cruiser.
Because of tradition, duty, a matter of honour? All, and none of them. Because of Alison and his own stupidity, when he had known that Mike Loring, his friend, had not been the first one to be tempted?
He said, “Tell Number One to stand by. Local control if all else fails.” When I am killed. “I want the depth charge party to follow orders.” He thought he could taste the foul odour of Harlech ’s smokescreen; it was moving past the ship now, keeping pace.
The depth-charges would be seen and heard by the enemy. With luck they might think it was a faulty fall of shot, or that some U-boat commander was mad enough to interfere between the committed juggernauts.
Water rose silently beside the bridge, and seemed to fall incredibly slowly. As his hearing returned Martineau measured the force of the explosion. Too near.
“Depth charges, now! ”
It was a stupid ruse. He looked at Kidd and grinned. Insane, but it was all they had. He could hear the voicepipes reporting damage, splinters, nothing fatal. The muffled roar of the depth charges was matched almost immediately by more shellbursts from the invisible foe. They had shifted their sights slightly. Driscoll might still get a chance to use his precious guns. And Cavaye too, down there now with the forward weapons; to him it must feel like rushing headlong towards the enemy with nothing to sustain him. And young Tyler on the opposite side, with Wishart near him, a broken pencil between his fingers. He must have snapped it without noticing. He heard more gunfire. Kangaroo, he thought, having a go now.
More shells screamed overhead, Durham ’s or the enemy’s it was impossible to tell. Like tearing canvas, and then the sharp, savage bangs. More splinters. A voice called, “From T/S, sir! Standing by! ”
Only four torpedo tubes. Perhaps, after all, the designers had been wrong. Even Harlech mounted ten.
He saw them all in his mind. Malt the Gunner (T) and his chief torpedo gunner’s mate, Harry Glover, would be ready by now. They would only get one chance.
He felt the plating jerk against his hip, knew that the ship had been hit.
To the voicepipe he said, “All right, Swain?”
And Spicer’s calm reply. “Right as ninepence, sir!”
The bow wave was still folding away from the stem like something solid. They were going in. Going in.
Down aft, Sub-Lieutenant Barlow heard the tinny rattle of the bell and saw his depth charge party jerk their lanyards, saw the charges roll from the stern and lift away on either beam before dropping to add their noise and disturbance to the madness. Hakka was going at full speed now, her stern digging so deeply into the churned wash that it seemed she was submerging. As the charges exploded, decoys this time, Barlow shook his fist, his mind full of hate, and the memories of his parents and his sister.
“That’s the lot, sir!” The leading seaman stared at him with sudden disbelief, and even as Barlow skidded to help him he fell.
For a few moments more Barlow tried to hold him, to cushion him from the wildly vibrating deck. There was blood everywhere.
“I’ll get help!” He was shaking, shocked and furious that he could not remember the man’s name. He repeated, “I’ll get help!”
“Don’t go!” He stared up at the young officer, and thought he saw Barlow nod, understanding at last that there was no help. He could even ignore the spray and the freezing cold; it helped to numb the pain which had frightened him at first.
Barlow clung to him, able to ignore the clash of splinters against and into the hull, like the one which had cut down this dying man.
Kidd saw it from the bridge, and when Barlow got up and stood quite still, his body angled to the deck while he looked down at the dead man, he thought it was the most moving thing he had ever seen.
Someone was yelling like a maniac, “A hit! Kangaroo got the bastard!” The echo of the explosion still hung in the air like thunder across the hills. The larger German cruiser, which someone had identified as the Dortmund, had been hit twice, and was in a bad way.
Martineau heard and saw most of it. The rest was stamped in memory. A quick change of helm, Spicer down there with his own little team, the wheelhouse shuttered and bolted, with only a voice coming down to guide them. Or to destroy them.
The wind seemed to be changing but he knew it was Hakka ’s alteration of course. The smoke was pulling away, dragged aside by the wind like some great obscene curtain.
Slowly and deliberately he lifted his binoculars again. It seemed suddenly much clearer, although he knew in his heart that the light was no better or worse than before. What did he feel? Despair, anger, disappointment, because he had given in to the folly of hoping?
Anna, I love you so.
But his voice said, “Stand by to engage! Start the attack!”
And he heard Kidd say hoarsely, “That’s Lübeck, right enough!”
Martineau watched the sudden sparkle of flashes, the cruiser’s blurred outline already shortening as she prepared to take avoiding action while she kept up rapid fire with her secondary armament.
Onslow said, “Durham ’s losing way, sir. But she’s still firing!”
The youth Wishart swung round and stared at the Captain, unable to believe what he had heard. As if he had been reading his own thoughts when he had stampeded with the others at the first scream of the alarm bells.
Martineau said, “It’s us, Yeo. Something we have to do. Why we’re here.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Together.”
Lieutenant Eric Driscoll sat squarely on his steel chair in Hakka ’s gunnery control position, his ears and eyes taking in every sound and movement around him. As always on these occasions, he was very conscious of the wires of communications which connected him to each link of this, his own world.
He could picture them all clearly in his mind, as the ship shook and swooped beneath his armoured pod, the gun crews fore and aft, barrels swinging obediently to the unending stream of instructions, bearing, range, course and speed, while down below decks in the Transmitting Station the control team would keep the information moving. Radar, rangefinders, down to the human element, the lookout with his binoculars.
But everything related to Driscoll, the gunnery officer. Even his hands were moving, as if independent of the man himself. An adjustment here, a switch there, a terse acknowledgement to one of his two ratings who were jammed in the pod behind him, his eyes and ears.
He felt his heart pounding steadily against his ribs, but accepted it. It was not fear, or doubt, it was genuine excitement, which never left him at times like these. Mounted directly in front of him were the massive stereoscopic binoculars, the final touch, like a sniper’s hairline sight, or the tip of a lance in some bygone cavalry charge.
And he knew he looked the part. His fair hair was neatly cut, his headphones at a slight angle
so that he could hear the vital information, and still be able to listen to the outside noises, the creak and rattle of steel, the surge of water against the hull. Driscoll wore his immaculate white scarf tucked into his jacket. He knew they talked about that, too. Imagined that some girl had given it to him, when in fact he had bought it himself.
A bit flash, they thought. But it did not bother him. They noticed him, they remembered him, and more to the point they obeyed him.
He was twenty-five years old, and for reasons he scarcely remembered he had always wanted to be in the navy, an officer, of course. But his parents had been against it, and his naval training had been confined to lectures and drills with a unit of the supplementary reserve. And always, always, gunnery had been his consuming interest. When war had broken out, and even before that as a reservist, he had been accepted for the real thing. Eventually at the gunnery school at Whale Island he had managed to win the respect of even the most sceptical instructors. An R.N.V.R. officer, a gunnery expert? It had been hard for them to accept.
He had seen all kinds of action since he had been sent to Hakka. Exchanging fire with shore batteries along the North African coast, fighting off E-boats, as well as aircraft in a dozen different situations.
He knew he was not popular, either with his gunnery ratings or for that matter in the wardroom. He was pleased about that. He hated weakness more than anything. And in an officer, wanting to be liked, popular, was something of a crime in his view.
Like Hakka ’s previous Captain, for instance. Everything for effect, shallow behind the good looks and bonhomie. Fairfax Driscoll respected, and was surprised that he had not seen through their lord and master.
And that day when Hakka had been raked by German aircraft, he had known that his gunnery team had been blameless. And the Captain had paid for it.
He pressed one earphone to his head, if only to shut out the rapid-fire stream of orders to the torpedo tubes.
They were going in now. He could feel the urgent thrust of the screws, imagine the tubes being trained into position for firing. An expensive and overrated form of attack, except perhaps for submarines which had the stealth to get away with it.
“Now, sir!”
Driscoll pressed his forehead on the rubber pad and made a slight adjustment. Again, he could feel the excitement taking over. Like seeing the flags go up to announce the first direct hit at target practice under training. Or watching a Junkers spiralling down in flames when moments earlier it had been diving like a hawk over the ship.
Ship and aircraft recognition, “Ours and Theirs” as they described it at Whaley, had always been one of his strongest points. He concentrated every fibre of his being as he stared through his sights, one elbow taking the strain as the ship swayed over violently. He thought he heard the measured thuds as the torpedoes leaped from their tubes. To perform this Hakka had made a sharp turn to port, the four pairs of four-point-seven guns moving in unison to compensate for it. As he had trained them to do, again and again until they loathed his guts.
He watched the other ships slide into view, although it was the destroyer’s swift turn which made it look so fast. Just like the silhouettes and the aerial photos. Her guns all trained on the same bearing, her grey hull and superstructure dominating everything, filling the sights.
He pressed his switch. “Shoot!”
He felt the instant recoil of Hakka ’s guns, their first challenge to “the Captain’s cruiser,” as Lübeck was nicknamed by the older hands.
The Captain would be watching right now. His own guns, hitting back. He was a true professional; he would not forget when the time came.
He covered his ears again. As one instructor had said wryly, “You never hear the one with your name on it, so why bother about the others?”
Driscoll never had time to know the truth. He did not hear the shells which blasted his control top and radar to fragments, and ploughed into the W/T office before exploding.
He might have heard a brief scream. But it was his own.
Martineau peered around the bridge, barely able to breathe in the smoke and the stench of charred paint and explosives.
“Starboard fifteen!” He felt the hull sway upright again and heard Spicer shout, “Starboard fifteen, sir!”
“All right, Swain?” He had to know. With the helm gone . . .
Spicer fought down a fit of coughing. “Few dents, sir. We’re all on our feet!”
Voicepipes were beginning to recover, and he heard Kidd calling to someone to fetch help. For a few seconds more he stared around the bridge. A signalman lay in one corner, head pillowed as if asleep, although he was bathed in blood. The youngster Slade was twisting a signal flag around his own leg, his eyes squinting with pain and determination.
Onslow was on his feet again, taking charge, and he saw Wishart getting up very slowly, looking around as if unable to believe he had survived.
Kidd saw him and yelled, “Wheelhouse! Get a couple of hands to assist in the W/T office!”
Martineau said, “Give me your glasses, Sub!” His own had been torn from his neck by the blast. But Tyler, the brand-new subbie, stayed where he was in a corner by the table, as if he was searching for a chart. As Martineau dragged the binoculars from beneath his body he saw the splinter hole in his back. Death must have been instantaneous.
He made himself listen to the reports. Hakka had been badly hit, but the engine and boiler rooms were intact, giving their best, the pumps adding to the strain.
He heard the roar of an exploding torpedo, and saw a jagged column of smoke lift above the chaos. He was in time to see Jester turning away, her tubes empty, and every gun which would bear spitting fire at the cruiser.
The Buffer was here, cut and bloody, with some of his men at his back.
Kidd asked, “W/T?”
The Buffer shook his head. “Like a butcher’s shop down there. They all bought it!”
Martineau gripped the chair and waited, counting seconds. One cruiser, the Dortmund, had vanished, crept away, too damaged to continue, and the third ship had not even joined the action.
There was only Lübeck. Still firing, still moving, but her high stem already lower in the water.
He heard someone screaming and saw Plonker Pryor with his red cross bag hurrying across the scarred deck to deal with it.
He passed another order to the wheelhouse and watched the gyro compass responding. There was even a splinter scar beside that, inches from where he had been standing.
“Gunnery control is knocked out, sir!”
Martineau had already seen that. Nobody could have survived in there.
He said, “I’d like the first lieutenant up here.” He hesitated. Fighting it. “Is Number One all right?”
Kidd forced a grin through his beard. It made him look worse.
“Aye, sir. Just as well. We’re going to a wedding, remember?”
Wishart heard them laugh and somehow it steadied him. For a moment he had thought . . .
He gasped as he saw the crater left by the shell, the armour plate folded back like a pusser’s cocoa tin. And blood, not red but almost black, as if their lives had been seared out of them. The petty officer telegraphist named Rooke, the one with the pointed terrier’s face, who had been celebrating his promotion when they had left Scapa, and others he had come to know. Gone, just like that.
He heard the first lieutenant’s voice, on his way to the bridge. Even he found time to speak with someone amidst the debris and the smell of death.
“You all right, Stripey? Good man! You’re too ugly to die!”
How can he? Will I ever be able to act for others when all hell is breaking loose around me?
And then all he could think was, I am leaving this ship.
In the wheelhouse, with smoke still trapped and eddying around the knocked-out and useless air ducts, Leading Torpedo Operator Bob Forward held on to the revolution counter for support while the ship altered course for what seemed like the millionth time.
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br /> He watched Bill Spicer, shoulders as rigid as ever, the big, awkward-looking hands as gentle with the wheel as when the first shots had been fired. His wounded leg must be giving him a hard time, but he scarcely showed it. Always in charge. His own man.
Like those few moments just before the action stations gongs had changed them into weapons again, when they had both been outside this wheelhouse, each knowing the signs. That action was inevitable.
Spicer had said, quite openly, “I should tell you, Bob, I heard something. When I was checking out of hospital.” He had glanced at the deadlights, soon to be slammed shut, wondering perhaps if he had already gone too far.
But he had continued, “There was a Jaunty rabbiting on about his work with the Provost boys and the civil police. Your name came up.”
Forward had felt everything stop dead around him. Like closing a door. The Jaunty, a master-at-arms, was hated by all sailors except the Crushers in his own regulating branch.
“There’s a warrant being got for you. After what we’ve survived together, I thought it was the least I could do.”
Then the alarm bells had intervened. Forward stared at the expensive watch Wishart’s parents had sent him. For saving their kid.
The whole action had lasted less than an hour. Inuit gone, Zouave as good as, and God alone knew how many killed. Because of a convoy. Because someone at the top said it should be that way.
He heard shouting and Spicer said, “Open up, lads!”
Together they stared through the scarred and smeared glass, at the long, grey shape, silent in the heaving, bitter water. Three miles away? No more, surely.
Somebody murmured, “The bugger’s sinking!” But there were no cheers. Then he saw Wishart, his face like chalk as he made his way through the wheelhouse.
“Just a minute!” It was quite easy, once you had made up your mind. Dying was nothing.
He pulled him to one side; everyone else was either looking at the Jerry, or watching their instruments.
He gripped his shoulder. God, he was only a kid underneath the ill-fitting jumper.
“I’ve got something for you.” He held out a package and when Wishart took it he said sharply, “Not now. Later. I want your word on it. In case something else happens.” He shook him, almost gently. “ Mates, remember?”
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