The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  The yeoman stepped forward. “Signal, sir. We are to berth alongside Lomond upon entering harbour. Captain (D) requires our E.T.A.”

  “Very well.” He looked at Wingate. “Give the yeoman the time of arrival and make out a reply.”

  Sheridan said ruefully, “Lomond’s the flotilla leader, I take it. It’d be a good beginning to ram her as we go alongside.”

  “An end, more like.”

  Sheridan moved away. “I’ll get on with my work, sir.” He climbed over the side of the bridge.

  Wingate said, “I wonder if we’re going back to the old job, sir?” He frowned. “Bloody east coast convoys get on my wick. “

  Drummond shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  He settled down in the chair, his eyes distant as he watched the channel swimming slightly across the screen under the helmsman’s hands. Reflected in the glass he could see the steel gate through which Sheridan had just departed. It was clipped open to avoid the constant rattling. It was a new gate. But, like the other one, was a quarter of an inch thick.

  The German E-boat had been moored to a navigation buoy, some miles east of Flamborough Head. It had been raining at the time, and the night had been as black as a boot. Warlock had been senior escort to a slow north-bound convoy. Fifteen assorted ships, some of which had been many years older than this one. The escort, apart from Warlock, had been a sloop, two trawlers and an armed yacht. You had to make do with what you could get.

  That was the trouble with convoy work. Strain. Fear of running down the next ship ahead. Even more fearful of losing her as you steamed without lights between the protective minefields. The east coast was lined with protruding mastheads. Forlorn memorials to vessels lost to enemy and minefield alike.

  The radar operator had picked up the blip, but perhaps they had been too long on the same job and saw only what they expected to see. The plot had reported the blip as the buoy. It was where it should be.

  The convoy had sailed on through the sheeting rain.

  The E-boat’s powerful diesels had roared into life spontaneously with her cannon fire, and as she tore through the ponderous merchantmen she fired her torpedoes for good measure.

  It was all in the report. Almost commonplace. A cultured newsreader on the B.B.C. had eventually announced, “.During the night, enemy E-boats attacked one of our convoys. There were some casualties, but one enemy E-boat was sunk. “That had been the sloop’s work. She had almost been rammed by the thirty-knot E-boat as she had loped along at the rear of the convoy. Tail-end Charlie. And she had slammed two shells into the other vessel within minutes of the original attack.

  But that one burst of cannon fire had swept over Warlock’s bridge like hammers of hell. One signalman and a messenger who had been carrying a fanny of cocoa to the bridge had died. Without effort Drummond could see the blood and cocoa thinning in the torrential rain, see Frank’s eyes glinting in the reflected glow from the blazing E-boat.

  Both legs. He shuddered. It would be better to die.

  From the opposite corner of the bridge Wingate watched him thoughtfully. He guessed what he might be thinking. How close the skipper and Frank had been.

  He smiled wearily. Like that bloody girl in Maidstone where he had spent his leave. Kept going on about the war. What was it like? Have you ever had to kill anyone? When all he had wanted to do was …

  He leaned over the voice-pipes. “Port ten.” Pause. “Midships. Steady.”

  Quite a girl. He had managed it in the end, but she had burst into tears. His smile spread to a grin. Silly cow. “Aircraft, sir! Green one-one-oh!”

  An instant’s chill. The creak of metal as the slender muzzles swing towards the washed-out sky.

  Then, “Disregard. A Beaufighter. Carry on with the sweep. “

  Drummond relaxed again, seeing two grubby Asdic trawlers heading up channel. He felt the pressure of the chair against his ribs as Warlock lifted slightly in a sudden swell. Open water ahead. She seemed eager to get back, too.

  During the last dog watch, as Warlock moved slowly between the lines of moored escort vessels, trawlers and all the motley collection of ships which went to make the Harwich Force, Drummond was certain he had never known a finer evening. The sky was salmon pink, and it had all the makings of a fine sunset. No breeze, and even the turbulent current caused by the entwining of the rivers Stour and Orwell, so often the nightmare of less experienced captains, was barely noticeable.

  As before, the newly joined officers were grouped in one corner of the bridge, trying to see everything, and at the same time endeavouring to keep out of everyone else’s way, as with careful deliberation Drummond conned his ship towards Parkstone Quay and the moored flotilla leader, Lomond. Despite her familiar dazzle paint, the other destroyer looked almost orange in the warm glow, and Drummond saw the duty watch gathering along her decks to receive heaving lines when they nudged alongside.

  The passage up from Chatham had been uneventful. Just as if the enemy was giving them time to get settled.

  Drummond glanced quickly at the small group below the compass platform. One more exciting moment, he thought. All these ships, old and new, scarred and worn from constant service around one of the war’s most dangerous pieces of coastline. Within reach of air attack and the more hated sneak raider which swept inshore, dropped bombs and was away before a warning could be sounded. Mines, E-boats, even German submarines, had been tempted to hunt in this busy and vital area.

  “Port ten.”

  He heard Mangin’s calm acknowledgement, imagined him watching the nearby ships and jetty through his wheelhouse scuttles.

  “Midships. Steady as you go.”

  Fore and aft the hands were fallen in again, the wires laid ready to be released and then made fast. For how long this time? he wondered. Sheridan was in the bows, his head slightly turned to watch a trio of motor torpedo boats growling throatily towards the sea. Low-lying, their tattered ensigns flapping impatiently, as if they were irritated at being throttled down by harbour regulations. Once clear of the base they would be off, perhaps to the Hook of Holland. Tomorrow, if they survived, they would return, their tubes empty, their young crews only then beginning to realise it was all over for another short while.

  Drummond studied the Lomond, thinking about Captain Beaumont, and what the change of control might bring. The previous Captain (D) had been a veteran of destroyers, but had begun to show the signs of exhaustion. He had been appointed to a training depot in the north. To make sailors out of milkmen and solicitors, to help feed the ever-hungry fleet with its greatest need.

  Leading Seaman Eaden was poised at the forecastle guardrails, a heaving line in his gloved fists. Sheridan was taking no chances. Aft, and on the iron deck by the unmatched funnels, others waited to move when ordered. He leaned over the screen and saw the gunner (T) on his quarterdeck, one foot on a depth-charge rack, hands on his hips, making him look almost deformed. Noakes was square in shape and had no visible neck at all. His cap, as always, was worn flat on the top of his bald head, like a lid, screwed down to contain the working furies within the man until some safety-valve in the shape of a clumsy rating presented itself.

  He turned towards the ships moored ahead of the flotilla leader. Old, familiar, their similarity in outline and design did not deceive him one bit. In pitch blackness he could find his way about any of them, and yet each had become an individual over the years. Or perhaps ships were born with varying characters, he thought vaguely. It was odd that one destroyer might bring fame to a man. The same ship could ruin another. Everyone scoffed about it, of course. Coincidence, luck, bad management, or an ever-changing scale of odds, but inwardly many thought otherwise and took no chance.

  “Stop starboard. “

  He watched the Warlock’s shadow creep across the Lomond’s quarterdeck. She was typical of her class, and somewhat larger than Warlock. Better armed, too. Two men crouched on her searchlight mounting, paint brushes poised while they watched Warlock’s careful approach.
Working on a Sunday. They must be under punishment. A cook in shirtsleeves and apron scurried along her iron deck with a heavy enamel bucket. Some delicacy for the wardroom, or his dirty underwear, it was hard to tell.

  “Starboard ten.” He craned over the screen. “Midships. Slow astern starboard. “

  The water between them had lost the sunlight, and he saw Eaden’s arm going back, and then watched the first heaving line soar across to the waiting hands. He could sense Keyes and one of the sub-lieutenants watching him in those last moments. They would learne more by keeping their eyes on the deck below.

  “Stop port. Half astern starboard.”

  He controlled the edge in his tone as the flared forecastle swung too sharply towards Lomond’s hull, and then, caught by the sudden thrust astern, hesitated and came under control again.

  The headrope was already being hauled across on the heaving line, and when he peered aft he saw the men scrambling to follow suit with sternrope and spring.

  He heard the harsh tone of some invisible leading seaman. “Grab that fender! Move yer bloody selves, or Number One’ll lave yer guts for garters! An’ I’ll weep meself if you scratches our lovely new paint!”

  “Stop starboard.”

  The deck shuddered as the backwash from the starboard

  screw surged noisily along the ship’s side.

  Fenders screeched, and as more lines were passed across and

  turned quickly on to bollards, Warlock came to rest.

  He heard the New Zealand sub-lieutenant, Hillier, say quiet

  ly, “Hardly felt it. We could have cracked an egg that time. ” Drummond returned the wave from an officer on Lomand s

  bridge and said, “It isn’t always that easy.”

  There was bustle everywhere while wires were slacked off or tautened until the trim was to Sheridan’s satisfaction. A small brow was being hauled across from the other ship’s deck, and he saw a postman from the base standing by the guardrail waiting to come aboard. Back mail perhaps which had at last caught up with them. Parcels from home. A birthday cake for someone, lovingly made from carefully hoarded rations by a wife or mother.

  He smiled gravely as he watched the foreshortened shapes of seamen hurrying back and forth below the bridge. Mostly mothers. The average age of Warlock’s company was about twenty-three, at a guess.

  “All secure fore and aft, sir!”

  “Very well. Ring off main engines.”

  He watched the hurrying figure of Lieutenant-Commander Dorian de Pass, Lomond’s Number One, and therefore Captain (D)‘s right-hand man, striding towards the brow which had only just been made fast. Thin as a stick, he had a huge nose which he moved from side to side as he walked. As if searching for some unidentified smell or gas leak. Fastidious and fussy, he was known as the Informer by most of the flotilla.

  Within minutes he had reached the bridge, the nose seeking out the group of new officers, examining and then discarding them as he saw and saluted Drummond.

  “Welcome back, sir.” He was always formal. Even when drunk. “Everything in order, I trust?”

  Drummond smiled. “But of course. How are things here?”

  De Pass threw up his hands. “A madhouse. But I-that is, we, Captain (D) and myself, have got some semblance of order.” He shook his head worriedly. “Big changes afoot.” His eyes moved over Drummond’s faded reefer and scuffed sea boots. “He’d like to see you as soon as convenient.”

  Drummond handed his binoculars to a bosun’s mate.

  “You mean now, I take it.”

  “Well, yes.”

  Sheridan appeared on the bridge and saluted.

  “Any instructions, sir?”

  Drummond looked at de Pass.

  “Well?”

  The other man glanced at Sheridan, the nose hovering for a few extra seconds.

  “No shore leave. Not tonight anyway. Otherwise … ” He shrugged.

  “Carry on, Number One. I’m going across to the leader right away. “

  De Pass followed him down to the iron deck where, mercifully, Vickery, the chief boatswain’s mate, had mustered a side party.

  De Pass said irritably, “Your new Number One. Another temporary. Dear me.”

  Drummond grinned. “Better watch out. One of them might get your job.”

  The calls shrilled and salutes were exchanged as Drummond walked briskly across the small brow to the other ship. He nodded to the Lomond’s O.O.D.

  “How’s the wife?”

  The lieutenant grinned. “Another kid, I’m afraid, sir. ” He could feel de Pass’s disapproval but did not care. It was like a homecoming.

  Before entering a screen door he paused and glanced back at his own ship. They were still busily stowing wires, clearing up the tangle. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted from both funnels, and he saw Lieutenant Rankin climbing up to X gun, followed at a discreet distance by an ordnance artificer. How he loved his guns. Even expensive cars might seem dull after the war, he thought.

  Between decks it was noticeably more roomy than Warlock, for the leader carried extra accommodation for a variety of officers who managed the flotilla’s affairs. He heard the buzz of voices and laughter from the wardroom and the clatter of glasses. Sunday in harbour always carried some heavy mess bills. Visitors from other ships, old friends. Anyway, the Sunday supper was usually the same, and needed something to ease it along. Cold Spam, pickles and dehydrated potatoes.

  De Pass said, “Go right in. ” He hung his cap carefully on a hook outside the wardroom. “I expect he’ll have a lot to tell you.”

  Drummond tapped on the door, pushed it open and stepped into the broad day cabin. All the lights were on, for with the jetty on one side and Warlock’s hull nestling against the other, the space would be like a crypt without them.

  Captain Dudley Beaumont was standing at the after end of the cabin, one hand behind his back, the other hooked around the buttons of his reefer. Medium height, thick build which might show overweight but for the superb cut of his uniform, Beaumont made an imposing figure. Early forties, but had a face which would now remain much the same for a long while, Drummond thought. A pink face, very smooth and clean. Fair hair, cut short and brushed straight back. He looked as if he had just emerged from a shower or hot bath.

  Beaumont said warmly, “Good to see you, Drummond.” He thrust out his hand. “The last of my brood, eh?” He chuckled.

  Drummond watched as the other man pushed a chair across the carpet. Everything about Beaumont was perfect. The shirt cuffs which shone below his sleeves with the four gleaming stripes were exactly equal, and each had a heavy link which looked like a gold nugget. He had a way of moving, holding himself, as if he was very conscious of each action, like a dancer, or actor. It was difficult to picture him relaxed.

  He sat down opposite Drummond and laced his fingers across his stomach. Powerful, large hands, but with pale, almost delicate skin. Manicured.

  He said, “De Pass will have told you we’ve had a few changes since you were last here.” It was a statement. “The commodore will be holding a commanding officers’ conference tomorrow, but I like to tell my chaps myself. First. ” He unlaced his fingers and examined one of them carefully. “I’ve been given this appointment to make something of the flotilla. ” The hand shot up like a traffic policeman’s, as if Drummond had just started to interrupt. “I know what you’re going to say, Drummond, and I don’t blame you. You’ll tell me that the record of our ships is first-rate, that they’ve done all, no more than could have been expected of such, er, senior vessels. It is true, of course. But the flotilla has in the past acted as a lot of cantankerous old veterans, as individuals, or part of a larger pattern. ” He leaned back in the chair and regarded Drummond calmly. He had very clear blue eyes. Like a child’s. “I am to alter all that. These destroyers are being given a new role. More like that for which they were conceived.”

  Drummond cleared his throat. Before the other man he felt like a tramp. Perhaps that was Bea
umont’s policy.

  He asked, “No more east coast convoys, sir?”

  Beaumont patted his pockets absently. “Correct. I’ve made a study of these ships. Ever since I was told what their lordships had in mind. They call them the Scrapyard Flotilla round here, don’t they?” He frowned. “I intend to change all that, too.”

  Drummond had never -thought of their nickname as a slur. It had a sort of affection, an admiration which anyone has for a ship which keeps on going. No matter what.

  Beaumont shot out one starched cuff and looked at his watch.

  “Can’t stop now. Dinner with Nick Brooks tonight. Always has a good table. “

  Drummond stood up. “Then I’ll see you at the conference, sir. “

  Nick Brooks. So casually mentioned, or was it? To everyone else, that particular being was known as Admiral Brooks. A very important person indeed.

  “Good. Just wanted to meet you. Straight off the dock, so to speak.” Beaumont rose and flicked his jacket into place. “You’ve changed a bit since the old Agincourt.” He smiled, showing a set of small white teeth. “Still, command sits well on your shoulders.”

  “Seems a long while ago, sir. “

  “I’ve an excellent memory. ” Beaumont regarded him bleak

  ly. “I hear that your new Number One was in Venture?” Drummond tensed. Nothing casual about this one.

  He replied, “Yes, Sir. He’s settling in with me very well.” “Hmm. Early days.”

  Beaumont walked to a scuttle and bent as if to seek out the sky between the two hulls. He did not speak again, and the sudden tension was almost physical. Beaumont seemed to have switched off, like a machine. He was still by the scuttle, the fading sunlight playing across his hair and shoulder, one pale hand resting against the cabin side. Motionless.

  When he did speak, his voice came from a long way off.

  “I’ll not forget that day. It leaves a scar, you know.” He straightened and turned to face Drummond again. “But at least they died knowing they were meeting impossible odds.” His eyes seemed to shine more brightly. “God, I was so proud, so damned proud!”