The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

Beaumont cleared his throat. “He has a point, Keith.”

  Drummond brushed past him to peer down at the iron deck.

  “I believe that this is what you came to get, sir. ” He glanced bitterly at the dying flames on the water. “Even if we did not know what we were looking for at the time.”

  Sheridan said, “Radar has contact with the other destroyers, sir. Now closing to six thousand yards.”

  “As soon as we get under way again, they’ll know it’s over. The fewer signals made today, the better.” He glanced at Beaumont. “Right, sir?”

  The other man nodded slowly. “Yes. We will return to Falmouth. ” He seemed to shake himself from his inner doubts. “With the catch.”

  “Decoy’s going under, sir!”

  With a great hissing roar the burning ship rolled over and slid

  beneath the surface in a welter of bubbles and corkscrewing flotsam. It was suddenly very quiet.

  Beaumont said, “You can go aft if you wish, Keith. I’ll take over while you assess the situation, eh?” He forced a grin. “You’ve earned a break from all this.”

  Drummond nodded to Sheridan. “When I pass the word, get under way. Course and speed to rejoin the others by dawn. “

  He lowered himself down one of the outer ladders, past a hooded Oerlikon gunner, and further still until he reached the iron deck and the empty motor boat davits.

  Figures passed this way and that, and he saw the S.B.A. gently putting a dressing on a man’s face. There was a stench of burned oil, of vomit, of survival.

  The thing was already alongside the quarterdeck, held clear by some spare fenders which Noakes must have been saving for his own part of the ship. It looked very much like a torpedo, except now that it was just. below his feet, Drummond could see it contained a small perspex dome, rather like the ones they used to cover pies and sandwiches in railway buffets.

  Noakes flashed his torch carefully along the rounded shape as the hastily rigged tackles took the strain.

  Drummond looked at the dome again. It contained a staring, petrified face, the head of which was covered by a sort of rubber helmet.

  He said quietly, “Midget submarine. No wonder we got no contact. “

  “Hoist away!” Noakes stood back as the seamen laid on to the tackles. “Take up the slack!”

  As the strange, torpedo-shaped cylinder rose above deck level it tilted to Warlock’s swaying motion. Inside the little dome the helmeted head lolled, and Drummond saw water slopping from its mouth.

  Noakes muttered, `Rum do, sir.”

  “Yes.” Behind him he heard a man scream with sudden agony. “I only hope it’s worth all this.”

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. ” A marine sergeant held open the door. “They are waiting for you now. “

  Beaumont threw his cigarette into a white-painted tin and snapped, “About bloody time!”

  Drummond followed him from the tiled waiting room and into a long passageway. His body felt chilled to the bone, although whether it was the actual building or the fact he had hardly snatched more than two consecutive hours’ sleep for six days, he was not sure.

  Warlock had tied-up in Falmouth that afternoon, and he had been surprised at the reception committee which had swamped the upper deck, whisking away their strange capture on a carefully disguised trailer, with a full escort of marine and military police.

  Drummond had waited aboard to see the decoy’s survivors safely into the waiting ambulances, a small, silent procession of bandaged, limping men, the less fortunate being carried on stretchers. The man who had had most of his face burned away had not survived after all.

  Drummond thought of Frank, the accusation in Helen’s eyes. Perhaps it was just as well that one so mutilated should have been saved the embarrassment of living.

  The immediate aftermath of their attempt to lure the spy-ship into betraying itself, the horror of the two burning vessels, and the totally unexpected discovery of the midget submarine had been further livened by an air attack as they had altered course for the last approach to Falmouth.

  A German bomber had come across them almost by accident, it seemed. The pilot had probably been making a quick hit-andrun raid along the coastline, when diving out of low cloud had sighted Warlock and the other three destroyers immediately in his path.

  At any other time, and especially with a ship’s company comprising largely of new and inexperienced hands, it could have been a disaster. It was a known fact that many sinkings were caused on the way home after a mission or patrol, with gun crews thinking more of wives and girl friends than of watching the sea and sky around them.

  Perhaps Warlock’s company were still shocked, still smouldering at seeing the nearness of death, at having the gasping, burned survivors living amongst them for the passage back to Falmouth. Whatever it was, Drummond had been surprised at the ferocity of the barrage from pom-poms and Oerlikons, the accuracy of the very first time which his new company had fought together in earnest.

  They might have clipped the German’s wings, or equally they might have missed him altogether. That did not matter. Just seeing the bomber speeding away within feet of the sea, pursued by occasional shots from the other destroyers’ main armament, had been something like a tonic.

  Beaumont had gone ashore immediately, having been picked up on the jetty by an imposing Humber staff car. That, Drummond had thought, was the end of it. He had gone around the ship, speaking with the men who had suffered burns when Warlock had grappled with the blazing decoy, examining the damage, telling Sheridan his plans for repainting the blackened scar along the starboard side of the forecastle.

  He knew now that Vaughan, the doctor, had been right when he had insisted, “You should be resting, sir. It seems to me, you’ve done far too much of this sort of thing.”

  Vaughan was a strange fish, he thought. Distant, very cool. Impossible to measure. Inexperienced or not, he had proved he was good at his work. The fact that only one of his charges had died spoke volumes. He had also been very right about Drummond.

  At the end of his inspection he had been about to go aft for a bath and change of clothing, when a messenger had hurried aboard with a summons to the local mortuary, which had apparently been commandeered by the military.

  Now, as he followed Beaumont beneath one enamel-shaded lamp after another, he was aware that the other man was none too pleased at being kept at arm’s-length while experts examined their catch.

  “Bloody eggheads! What do they know of new weapons?”

  It was an illogical comment, but Drummond could appreciate his feelings.

  .The marine threw open a door and they walked into what had once been the room where post-mortems were carried out. In the centre, propped on stout trestles, the midget submarine looked even larger in this confined space. Close by, naked under powerful lights, lay the corpse of its luckless commander. On another table, his rubber suit, helmet and various pieces of equipment were displayed in neat rows, like exhibits in a museum. There was a strong stench of disinfectant, which refused to merge with the other smells of oil and death.

  There were about two dozen people present. Some in army battledress, and several naval officers of various ranks and ages. Two grave-eyed men in white coats were walking around the miniature submarine, followed at a discreet distance by a plainlooking girl in A.T.S. uniform who was taking down notes in shorthand.

  The taller of the two white coats said, “Ah, here you are then. “

  He shook hands warmly with Beaumont and nodded to Drummond. Across the room Drummond saw himself in a mirror, above which were the words, Wash your hands afterwards. Afterwards.

  No wonder the man in the white coat had all but ignored him. Once more, Beaumont’s elegant appearance had made him look like another survivor.

  “Please find yourselves some seats.”

  The white coat was obviously important, and all the people in the room were sitting down in seconds. The girl sat, with legs crossed, her back against
the table within inches of the corpse, her face completely expressionless, even bored.

  “This must all be kept as top secret, naturally.” The white coat darted a searching glance around the room. “It is a great find. A discovery which will certainly disturb a few brains in Whitehall. “

  “Didn’t know there were any!”

  The second white coat was obviously the light relief, Drummond thought wearily. Several people laughed.

  “To continue. We know that there has been quite a deal of success with two-man torpedoes in the past, by us, and, of course, the Italians. The `chariots,’ however, differ greatly from this.” He paused to lay his hand on the black metal. “Inasmuch as they were used to carry a warhead, which could then be attached to an anchored vessel’s bilge keel or other underwater protrusion, inside an enemy’s harbour. A time fuse would be set, and the remaining part of the chariot would carry the two, er, riders back to a rendezvous with a conventional submarine. “

  Several people shuffled their feet, and when Drummond looked at Beaumont he saw that he was sitting exactly upright, fingers tucked between his reefer buttons. He could have been thinking about anything.

  The white coat dropped his voice. “This midget submarine is designed to carry a normal type of torpedo slung beneath it. Observe the brackets.” He tapped the rearmost ones like a schoolmaster. “The torpedo was released, fired if you prefer, at a target while at sea.” He looked impassively at Beaumont. “As you will know better than any of us.”

  Beaumont did not blink. “Quite so.”

  “We will know more once we can move all this to our proper location. “

  Drummond recalled his own uncertainty before the attack, his need to get away from Salter’s questions. To think. It had all been there for everyone to see. The sequence of past attacks, the pattern. Fine weather. Calm sea and good night visibility. He looked at the corpse. The skin was gleaming in the lights like wax. He had seen plenty of dead men. Too many of his own sort. This one should have left him unmoved, so what was the matter? Embarrassment? It could not surely be pity for a man who had burned so many, and had probably killed himself by accident? But it was wrong. The way they were staring at the body. Bored, disinterested beyond a piece of factual evidence. Even the girl, who had risen to follow the white coat to the table, was looking at the corpse as she might at a piece of dead fish.

  “Note the man’s arms.”

  The voice brought them closer. Drummond saw that the corpse had several garish tattoos on either forearm. His eyes were slitted half open, as if he were listening.

  “A ranker, I would think. No German officer would consider tattoos quite the thing.”

  Someone else laughed.

  Beaumont murmured savagely, “Stupid sod.”

  The white coat wheeled round. “But an important point! Only one man needed to navigate and steer, to aim and fire the torpedo. And not even an officer! Just imagine what the enemy will achieve with these weapons, if they can manufacture and perfect them by the hundred!”

  A voice asked, “No other identification, I suppose?” He was turning over the rubber suit with a pencil.

  “None. “

  Beaumont asked shortly, “Where do we come in?”

  “We?” The man smiled politely.

  Beaumont gestured with his free hand. “LieutenantCommander Drummond commands the ship which carried out the operation. I expect he’d like to know, too. ” He did not hide the sarcasm.

  “In due course I am sure that the proper authority will be requiring further reports on what you saw at the time.” He looked blandly at Drummond. “Your surgeon was sensible to keep the body intact in its cockpit. The photographs which have just been taken will be helpful. It would appear that the torpedo was released too close to the target. Panic, probably.”

  Drummond walked slowly towards the table, feeling the onlookers, senior and junior alike, falling back to let him through. He stood looking down at the dead face. Young tanned by off-duty hours aboard his base ship.

  He said quietly, “The wind had shifted slightly. ” He recalled the feel of it on his cheek, the roar of fans as Warlock had charged to the rescue.

  Around him there was complete silence, as if they wer ; afraid to disrupt the picture he was creating.

  “I noticed how the swell was getting up. I had to watch it because of dropping a boat. I couldn’t risk it capsizing. This man must already have been well away from his base ship. Alone in this little pod, a floating test-bed, in all probability. It looks big enough in here. Try and picture it at sea, yourselves at the helm.” His voice had grown harder. “I expect you were right, sir. He did fire too close, in that swell, and with the little dome only a foot or so out of the water, he would be nearly blind. He tried a bow shot, but hit the tug instead. The explosion probably ruptured the casing and flooded his cockpit.” He reached out and dragged a soiled sheet over the man’s nakedness. “But panic? I don’t see that at all.”

  They were staring at him, as if he had just shouted some terrible oath or obscenity.

  They don’t understand a bloody word. How can they? Their minds were suited to detection, and discounted the human element completely. It was totally alien to his own world. He had seen the flaw even though he had not the experience to recognise it. But once it was in his mind, it would not shift. Observation-Conclusion-Method. He would be ready if there was a next time.

  The white coat said quietly, “Thank you, Commander Drummond. You must be very tired.”

  Beaumont looked at his watch. “Of course he isn’t tired. My commanding officers are ready at all times.” He touched Drummond’s arm, a bright grin on his face. “Right, Keith?”

  He nodded, angry with himself at his outburst. Maybe he was not as fit as he had imagined. Bomb-happy. Round the bend. It had happened to plenty of people.

  Beaumont replaced his cap at a rakish angle. “I’ll be in touch, gentlemen. ” As the door swung behind them he added, “Sooner than they bloody well think!”

  Drummond saw Salter lounging by a small telephone booth, an angry-faced military police sergeant glaring at him. Salter held out the telephone, ignoring the redcap.

  “Got him for you, just like you said.” He yawned. “Cut through all the red tape and, er, caps.”

  Beaumont stared at his reflection in the glazed tiles.

  “Beaumont speaking. Ah, yes, sir. Yes, I agree. A damn good show all round, I thought. Went like a Swiss watch!” He winked at Salter. “Tomorrow then. Look forward to it. ” He put down the telephone.

  To Drummond he said calmly, “I’ll come back to the ship with you. I feel like a very large drink, on you.”

  Drummond fell in step beside him, while Salter slouched along in the rear.

  “We are going to London, Keith.” He threw up a snappy salute to two sentries. “To get things moving.”

  Salter called, “I’ve laid my bit on.”

  Beaumont did not seem to hear him. “Tattoos, ranker, what the hell do they know! I’d like to see them get those poor devils off a burning ship like we did, eh?” He sounded angry.

  Drummond smiled, despite his tiredness. “Yes, sir.”

  Beaumont quickened his pace. “We’ll show ‘em.”

  Behind him, Drummond heard Salter mutter, “What a way to fight a war.”

  He was inclined to agree.

  6

  Not What They Were

  THE map room, which was situated in a concrete bunker below the Admiralty buildings, felt almost as cold as the Falmouth mortuary. While he was waiting to be introduced by Beaumont, Drummond let his gaze move slowly around the spartan interior, noting the many wall charts and plans, the few personnel who seemed to be needed in this very special place. He and Beaumont had been driven by a madcap marine all the way from Falmouth, pausing only for a brief lunch at a small inn before charging on again for London. And now, after a series of checks, murmured acknowledgements over telephones and further examination of passes, they were in the hub of th
e Navy’s special operations. He had lost count of the stairways and lifts, and could not begin to guess how far they were below the other living world. A world of shabby buildings scarred by bombs, yet cheerfully determined to be “Open as Usual.” Streets thronged with people, most of whom were in uniform. Poles and Free French, Americans by the hundred, Norwegians and Danes, and plenty of British from all three services. It had given a better indication of Germany’s conquests than this noiseless bunker gave of any sort of Allied gains.

  He realised that Beaumont was saying, “This is Drummond, sir.”

  A slight figure in a creased grey suit stepped from the group and held out one hand. Like the man, it was small and wizened. Beaumont said, “Vice-Admiral Brooks.”

  Drummond returned the handshake. It was surprisingly strong. Vice-Admiral Brooks. “Nick.” It was hard to picture him in a flag officer’s uniform with all its gold lace. Maybe that was why he wore a suit. The other would swamp him completely.

  Brooks said crisply, “Good to see you. I shall have to tell you a lot more than I intended at this stage. However … ” He did not go- on, but produced a cigarette from his pocket and waited for one of the duty officers to light it. He took several long pulls, displaying his upper teeth, which were very large and ugly.

  “Ready, sir.” Another officer spoke from one of the maps. His voice was hushed, as if in church.

  Brooks sat down on a table and swung one leg carelessly above a waste-paper basket.

  “I’ve been hearing all about your capture. Seen the photographs which my people took in Falmouth. ” He had a quick, darting way of speaking and moving. A compressed bundle of energy, Drummond thought. “We guessed that the Germans were up to something, of course, but they have reached a far more advanced stage than I had imagined. I have ordered immediate enquiries elsewhere,” he shot Beaumont a quick glance, “but there seems little room for doubt.”

  Drummond thought of the speed with which things had moved. They had only reached Falmouth yesterday, yet already Admiral Brooks had seen the reports, checked the pictures and intelligence data and was, it appeared, ready to make further decisions.