The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  “Yes. Your number one got the conversation round to the Conqueror.” He had looked awkward. “You know. Beaumont. The only three survivors.”

  “Yes.

  “Somebody said that Beaumont was the same aboard that old battleship. Didn’t give a toss for anyone but himself. A glory boy. I don’t know what to believe.”

  But all that had been back in Falmouth. Now, as Drummond sat lolling from arm to arm in his bridge chair, he could imagine Duvali on his own bridge away out ahead in the pitch darkness. Three days out of harbour, four old destroyers in the North Atlantic. It sounded like the start of a poem, he thought vaguely. He lifted his watch level with his eyes. Nearly one o’clock in the morning, and the motion so sickening that he was glad he had

  decided not to turn into his bunk. He heard the watchkeepers moving around the open bridge, the occasional murmur of voices over handsets and pipes as the ships played follow-myleader across an empty ocean.

  At the slow, economical speed, with a deep quarter swell, Warlock was taking it badly. She had the advantage over her three consorts, however, for being last in line she had little fear of being run down from astern. All the watchkeeping officers had to do was hold on to the next ahead. Up two turns. Down two turns. It was an eye-aching job, with the Whirlpool’s narrow stern rising up in a welter of spray and propeller froth, seemingly within feet of Warlock’s stem, and at the frantic adjustment of revs, fading just as quickly into the curtain of sea and sky.

  Wingate was officer of the watch, and Drummond could see his buttocks and legs protruding from beneath the chart table’s canvas hood where he was checking his calculations, enjoying a moment of privacy under the tiny electric bulb.

  Hillier was on the starboard gratings, his binoculars trained above the screen. He had settled in well. Even the way his legs and body were adjusting to the slow, prolonged rolls was that of a seasoned watchkeeper.

  Wingate reappeared at the side of the chair. “Quiet enough, sir. ” He darted a quick glance at the bridge lookouts. “Doc will have a few down. with seasickness tomorrow, I’m thinking.”

  Drummond gripped his pipe between his teeth, counting seconds as Warlock’s stern came up yet again and the bridge tilted out and over. He could hear the structure protesting, the clatter of steel from the Oerlikon guns as they jerked on their mountings. A man slipped and fell, cursing obscenely in the darkness. Another called, “Roll on my twelve and get me off this bucket!”

  Wingate grinned, his teeth white against the sky. “They don’t change, do they?”

  Drummond sLook his head. “I’m relying on that!”

  A bosun’s mate said something into a voice-pipe and then called, “Captain, sir. W/T have convoy information from Admiralty. “

  “Very well.” He looked at Wingate. “Better go down yourself. Check it against our signals.”

  Wingate nodded. “That’ll be the north-bound to Reykjavik.

  Fairly fast convoy, to all accounts. Shouldn’t bother us.” He paused beside Hillier and said, “All yours again.”

  Hillier moved cautiously across the gratings, feeling his way.

  Drummond asked, “Got the feel of her now, Sub?”

  “Getting better, I think, sir.” He gestured vaguely abeam. “It was something Pilot just said when we were working on the chart. The nearest land are the Faroes’ and they’re about two hundred miles to the east of us.”

  He fell silent, and the regular ping of the Asdic echoed around

  the bridge as if to give weight to his words.

  “Yes. This is a bad place. The start of the killing-ground. ” - They did not speak again until Wingate returned. He said, “I was right, sir. The north-bound is steering three

  four-zero. About forty miles ahead of us.” He sucked his

  pencil. “Ten knots”

  “I thought it was supposed to be fast?” Drummond peered at him. “Fifteen at least, surely?”

  “Signal states that convoy had a bit of bother. Attacked by two U-boats. One ship sunk, another damaged. So they’re probably slowing down to stay together.”

  There was a long pause and Wingate added slowly, “The convoy commander must be a good bloke. It’s a bloody awful place to be left on your jack.”

  Drummond looked away. Wingate was probably remembering. It could never be far from his thoughts. When he had been left behind. His friend frozen to his oilskin. Dying within touch of safety. But he never showed it. Time after time, as Warlock had driven through sleet and snow, he must have looked outboard. Watching. Listening. Waiting for that terrible explosion.

  Drummond said, “They’ll get air-cover tomorrow if the cloud lifts.”

  Wingate muttered, “Like searching for a …” He did not finish.

  The bosun’s mate called, “W/T again, sir. They have Warden for you.”

  Drummond slid off the chair and waited for the deck to sway upright again. Duvall was using the short-range radiotelephone, which was unusual. Probably wanted to discuss the convoy report. He reached the little steel shack below the radar platform and lurched through the door. As the light automatical

  ly came on again he saw the crouching figure of the Asdic operator, a man pouring cocoa into a line of chipped cups, another fumbling with a lifejacket. He jerked the handset from its case.

  “This is Yoke Seven.” He waited, imagining Duvall’s beard on the other end of the sound-wave. “Come in Yoke One.”

  A hissing roar of static, and a clatter of mugs from elsewhere as Warlock’s hull tilted savagely into another trough.

  Then Duvall’s voice, surprisingly clear. “This is Yoke One. I will be brief. I have a strong radar echo, directly ahead of us. Eight miles. Same course and speed.”

  Drummond licked his lips. The radar sets supplied to these old ships were a tremendous advance on nothing. But compared with all the latest equipment they were already well out of date. Eight miles. It was about the maximum range in this sort of weather.

  Duvall added, “Too small for a straggler.” He was thinking aloud. “Too far astern for Tail-end Charlie.”

  Drummond waited, feeling his stomach dragging violently as the deck fell into another abyss. “Submarine.”

  “Yes.,,

  Drummond looked over his shoulder, seeing the Asdic operator’s eyes glowing above his screen and dials like twin marbles.

  “Get the first lieutenant up here. Chop chop!” To the handset he said, “We will have to stay clear. Disregard.”

  He could imagine Duvall’s agony of mind. To increase speed in the hope of stalking a possible U-boat, or to stay within the letter of his orders and keep out of trouble until otherwise instructed. To signal the Admiralty and get them to pass the information to the convoy commander, or remain mute and allow men to be slaughtered.

  Duvall’s voice again. “This is Yoke One. Over and out.”

  “You want me, sir?” Sheridan was forcing himself through the tight mass of equipment and people.

  “Yes. Get your best radar and Asdic teams closed up.” He looked past him. “Warden’s got a firm blip. Same course and speed. Range eight miles.”

  He heard Sheridan’s stubble rasp against his collar.

  He said, “Sorry to drag you out, Number One.” It was almost the first contact they had made.

  Sheridan shrugged. “I have the morning watch anyway. ” He smiled. “Could do with a hot drink.”

  “I’ll lay it on while you get your people moving.” He dragged open the door, seeing the dials glowing like eyes as the main lighting went out. “I’ll be on the bridge until … ” He did not have to end it.

  Wingate was waiting for him. “A kraut, sir?”

  “Looks like it. ” He thrust his head under the chart hood and peered at the neat pencilled lines and bearings. “What is the convoy escort? Do we know?”

  Wingate joined him under the screen. He smelled of salt and oil.

  “Four corvettes and an Asdic trawler.” They glanced at each other.

  Drummond sa
id flatly, “Not too much. I’ll bet that bastard is following them, homing the rest of the pack to intercept at first light.” He groped for his watch. “Not long now.”

  Feet skated across the metal decks and voices murmured outside the screen. Muffled, but obvious in their discontent. “What the hell’s wrong now? “Can’t a bloke get any kip when he’s off watch?” Another voice, more hushed. “Careful. The old man’s under the screen.” Then silence again.

  Clang. Like a wreck buoy’s bell as someone carried a heavy fanny of cocoa across the bridge, pausing between the sickening rolls.

  Hillier’s voice. “Our radar has nothing yet, sir. “

  Drummond thought of the three ships in direct line ahead. It was not surprising. He was sorry for Duvall. His was the only useful radar. His the only information available.

  He ducked out from the chart table and waited for his vision to return.

  Sheridan said, “Senior operators closed up, sir. ” He tapped the voice-pipe at his elbow. “Cox’n’s on the wheel, too. He has a nose for trouble.”

  They sipped at the thick, sickly cocoa. Gathering time. Waiting.

  ` `W/T office reports the Warden is still in contact, sir. Course and range constant.”

  “Very well.”

  Drummond walked to the forepart of the bridge and gripped the teak rail below the screen. By the time they had worked up to full speed it would take twenty minutes to get within useful range. He raised himself on his toes and peered down at the square outline of the nearest gun. Star-shell. U-boat on the surface. Rapid fire. But suppose … ? He shook himself and staggered back to his chair. Duvall would never break his cover. No matter what he might be feeling. He was too professional. Too hardened by past events.

  A telephone buzzed like a trapped wasp.

  “Forebridge?” Hillier sounded very tense. “It’s the chief calling from the wardroom, sir.”

  Off the chair again, half wondering what Galbraith was doing out of his bunk.

  “Captain. “

  “Chief here, sir. I was wondering … “

  “Thanks, Chief. I’d appreciate a bit of weight in the engine room just now.”

  He replaced the handset, knowing Hillier was staring at him, mystified. And he could tell him nothing. Like the coxswain and some of the others, Galbraith just knew. There was no proper explanation.

  He peered through the stained glass screen, seeing the faint white blur of Whirlpool’s wake. The other destroyers would have been listening, too, and wondering.

  “Captain, sir. Warden is calling you up again.”

  He knew what Duvall was going to say even before he had reached the Asdic compartment and the handset which was connected to the W/T office below.

  “This is Yoke One. Are you receiving me, Yoke Seven?”

  Drummond replied, “Loud and clear.”

  “You will assume lead. Retain course and speed. Acknowledge. “

  Drummond could picture the others listening to his voice.

  “Acknowledged and understood.” A pause. “Over.”

  “Am engaging. Over and out.”

  He stared at the handset and then replaced it very slowly. Bloody, stubborn, brave fool.

  The air seemed much colder when he regained the bridge chair.

  He said, “Stand by to increase revolutions. We will pass the other ships to starboard. Inform the engine room and wheelhouse.”

  “We’re going to attack, sir?” Wingate sounded hoarse. “We are assuming the leader’s position, Pilot.” “Radar to bridge, Warden’s increasing speed, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  They were all looking at him.

  He said, “Commander Duvall is going after the submarine. It is his decision.”

  Wingate called, “Ready, sir.”

  “Very good. Port ten.” He saw the other ship’s wash easing away to starboard. “Midships.” How quiet it seemed. There should be the sound of Warden’s engines, a background chorus like they had in films. “Starboard ten. Meet her. Steer threefour-zero. Increase to one-one-zero revolutions.”

  The deck vibrated more insistently and steadied against the thrust of screws and rudder. Whirlpool’s lithe shape was already sliding abeam, her length shown only by her sluggish bow wave and steep rolling. And there up ahead was the other one, Whiplash, the blackness of her funnel smoke making a long streak against the clouds. Or perhaps it was getting lighter already?

  “How long is it now?”

  “Fifteen minutes, sir.” Sheridan cleared his throat. “I don’t see that Duvall should be left to cope on his own.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “He’s left us, by the sound of it.” Rankin’s voice.

  So he’s come up, too. Drummond replied quietly, “That’s enough!”

  “Radar-Bridge.” The call echoed tinnily from the little microphone at the rear of the compass platform.

  “Bridge.” Wingate had the handset almost against his lips.

  “Have picked up the echo now, sir. About eight miles.”

  Drummond crossed to his side and took the handset. To Wingate he said, “Bring her round ahead of Whiplash and resume course and speed. ” To the handset he said, “This is the captain. How is Warden getting on?”

  “Closing very fast, sir. Approximate range is oh-eightfive. “

  “Very well.”

  He tried to clear his mind, wipe it clean of despair and doubt.

  It was not unknown to catch a U-boat on the surface. One so intent on following a convoy that its lookouts failed to watch I astern.

  He heard Sheridan breathing heavily beside him. He sounded j bitter as he said, “I wish to God we were with him!”

  A pinpoint of bright orange flickered across the sea’s face, parting the horizon and then fanning out into one great fiery ball. Seconds later came the explosion, sighing and then thundering against the hull like a solid thing, making the steel jerk violently in protest.

  “Got it!” Hillier yelled wildly. “He got it!”

  “Asdic-Bridge.” The merest quiver in his normally steady voice. “Ship breaking up. Dead ahead.”

  Drummond brushed past Sheridan and someone else he did not even see.

  “Bridge-Radar. This is the captain. Is the first echo still there?”

  “Yes, sir. But fading. “,Somebody in the radar compartment let out a long sigh. “Target is diving, sir. “

  “Very well. ” He handed the instrument to the bosun’s mate.

  The U-boat must have timed it perfectly. Her commander had realised that he was being stalked, might even have picked up Warden’s radar on his reflector. One, or perhaps two, torpedoes fired from the stern tubes. At her maximum speed, her old hull straining to full power, Warden would plunge headlong for the bottom, breaking up as she went.

  “Asdic reports no contact, sir. “

  In the twinkling of an eye.

  He put his hand in his pocket and felt for his pipe. It had been snapped in two, yet he had not felt himself doing it.

  He said, “Keep a good lookout for lifejacket lights and wreckage. Pass the word to the doctor. “

  Drummond could feel his limbs shaking badly, although when he touched his thighs they felt like metal, cold and unmoving.

  Sheridan said in a tight voice, “And for what?”

  Drummond regarded him for several seconds. “For a gesture, Number One. I suggest you remember it. “

  Sheridan walked unsteadily towards the bridge ladder. “I will, sir. I’ll never forget tonight, of that I’m certain.”

  Rankin gripped the screen and said dully, “Bloody bad luck.” He looked sideways at Drummond and added, “Makes us the half-leader though.”

  He walked away, his mind already grappling with whatever new duties would now come his way.

  Drummond could barely breathe. Perhaps it was better to be like Rankin. Without imagination there could be no pain. And no guilt.

  8

  Missing Persons

  GALBRAITH climbed to the
upper bridge and waited until he had caught Drummond’s attention.

  “Oil intake complete, sir. ” He gestured to the rust-streaked tanker alongside where some stokers were already grappling with the great dripping hoses. “Whirlpool’s next.”

  Drummond nodded and glanced at the sky. It was still cloudy, but there was a hint of sunshine which was already feeling its way across the houses by the harbour and the strange, pinkcoloured landscape beyond. The quaint houses with their Scandinavian-style windows and coloured, corrugated-iron roofs were as different from Falmouth as they could be. But the harbour could have been almost anywhere. Reykjavik was jammed with all the usual mixture of minor war vessels, trawlers and motor gunboats, armed drifters and corvettes. The latter were the escort from the convoy. He glanced across the tanker’s littered deck at the busy jetty. Ambulances had been and gone. It had probably been a familiar job for them

  They had picked up thirty survivors all told. Gasping, shocked and half choked by the filthy oil. Some had been so badly scalded by escaping steam it was a miracle they had got this far. Now they were somewhere beyond the town, in the naval camp or at the R.A.F. hospital. He had sent Vaughan with them. It was all he could do.

  At the time he had been almost grateful to have picked up as many as he had. While the other two ships had kept a constant watch for submarines, Warlock had made a slow* and careful search. The great patch of oil had been their marker. It usually was. Corpses in various attitudes of restful abandon. The living splashing feebly like dying fish, obscene in their skin of black oil.

  But now in harbour, with normality and efficiency on every hand, it did not seem so many. Thirty out of a whole company. Over a hundred gone. There had been only one officer survivor. The ship’s eighteen-year-old midshipman. He had been in the wheelhouse with the plot operator. He had heard the coxswain shouting something, then felt a great pain in his back. The latter must have been caused by his hitting the sea as the ship turned turtle and exploded like a bomb in their midst. The torpedoes, the actual sinking, the horror of total destruction was mercifully wiped from his memory.