The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  He paused, watching them as they glanced at each other, smiled, or tried not to show too much concern.

  “A special flotilla of ships is going to attack the German installations in St. Nazaire on the Bay of Biscay.”

  Something like a great sigh went round the wardroom.

  He continued, “Two of our friends, Lomond and Ventnor, have been stripped out and filled with high explosives. They will proceed under their own steam, but with reduced complements of picked volunteers, all of whom have been chosen. ” He looked down. “Lieutenant-Commander Selkirk has remained with his ship. “

  There was utter silence around him, and he could feel the ship noises intruding like whispers, as if Warlock was trying to say her piece.

  “A force of torpedo boats, another of motor launches, will be employed as escort and for landing a shore demolition party. Fleet destroyers will be around to keep inquisitive Germans out of the way-” Someone, probably Wingate, gave an ironic cheer. “And air cover is being laid on. The target will be the new dock installations. The method, to ram Lomond and Ventnor into them and fire the charges. Support craft will land and evacuate as many of the shore-party as possible. We will then withdraw.”

  For a long while nobody flinched, each man immersed in his own thoughts, examining his own part of it.

  Sheridan said slowly, “I think we’re all glad you told us like this, sir. Keeps it in the family.”

  Galbraith added wryly, “Aye, like the ‘flu.”

  “What is our role in things, sir?” Rankin watched him glassily.

  “To assist the two ramming ships. ” He let his words sink in. “In any way we can. Two other destroyers will be accompanying us for some of the way, towing M.L.s, as we will, so as to conserve their fuel.”

  It seemed that Brooks and his staff had thought of everything. He looked at each officer in turn. Except of these living men, who would have to do it all.

  Rankin, closing his mind to everything but what his guns would have to achieve. Wingate, tense, alert. Resigned, perhaps? Tyson and Hillier, side by side, yet a world of difference between them. The clean-cut New Zealander was probably composing one of his enormous letters. Dear Dad. Today we were told about the big raid. He and Keyes were always writing. Tyson was sitting with his chin on his chest, eyes fixed on the faded carpet. He could be shaking. He had not recovered from the last one. He was obviously terrified. Mr. Noakes, grim and unsmiling, a man without warmth or further ambition, no matter what he proclaimed. But he would not crack. His sort never did. Maybe war was endurable only for the unimaginative. The doctor was outwardly untouched by what had been said. His pale eyes were far-away, and only his scrubbed fingers moved in a small, restless tattoo. Young Keyes had grown up a lot. But not so much that he could hide his feelings. Anxiety was there. Pride, too, at being part of it. He looked at Galbraith and they exchanged quick smiles. As the engineer had said more than once, you up there, me down here. We’ll get the old girl through. Hell or high water.

  He turned as Sheridan asked, “Will there be any leave for the ship’s company?”

  “I’m afraid not, Number One. I’ll tell them about this business tomorrow. Then they can write their letters, and the port admiral will put them under lock and key until it’s over.”

  There was a discreet cough, followed by a tap on the door, and Petty Officer Ives, the new yeoman of signals, showed himself around the curtain.

  Ives was a lean, stern-faced man, with the quick movements of a terrier. He had transferred from a light cruiser at his own request, and Wingate’s description of his being “very pusser”

  and like greased lightning with his work, had already proved correct. But it was hard not to look for Tucker’s bluff outline, his shaggy beard and ready laugh on the bridge.

  Ives snapped, “Signal, sir. Thought you’d want it immediately. “

  He did not relax or even glance at the watching officers. His hair was trimmed so short and so high above the ears that when he was wearing his cap he could have been completely bald.

  Drummond could feel them all looking at him.

  There was to be a top-level conference at the temporary H. Q. building in an hour’s time. The last one when they would see each other as faces, before the balloon went up. The final line was the only one he revealed to the others.

  He said quietly, “The flotilla will proceed to sea tomorrow at 1800. “

  Keyes’ voice broke the stillness. “But, sir, we will be away for Christmas!”

  Surprisingly, most of them grinned at his horrified face.

  Drummond said, “Never mind. We’ll make up for it later on. “

  Sheridan asked, “Will you stay and have a drink with us, sir?”

  “No. I have to go ashore.” He smiled. “But thanks. Have one for me. ” He left the wardroom.

  Vaughan crossed to Sheridan’s side and held out a glass.

  “Here, you should be congratulated.”

  “What the hell for?” Sheridan was still thinking of Drummond’s eyes. Like a man under sentence.

  Vaughan smiled. “I was talking to my Wren. About this andthat. “

  “I can imagine!”

  “Seriously, old chap. She told me that the skipper has recommended you for command.” He stood back, enjoying Sheridan’s astonishment. “So here’s looking at you, eh?”

  Sheridan drew a deep breath. “Well I’m damned.”

  “Most probably.”

  Drummond had reached the brow, and pulled up his greatcoat collar as more sleet probed across the darkened deck towards the jetty. Rankin, who was O.O.D., had somehow managed to beat him to the gangway, and stood with the quartermaster to see him over the side.

  Another officer was waiting with him. North of the Victor, who had just crossed the deck from his own ship which was on the outboard side.

  He said, “I’ll walk with you, sir?”

  He was a serious-looking man, very slim and contained. In peacetime he had been a solicitor as well as gaining recognition as a first-class yachtsman. He had even found time to join the volunteer reserve, and to get married to a stunning-looking girl called Elinor.

  Drummond nodded. “Glad of your company, Roger.” They walked through the clinging sleet, hands in pockets, heads down.

  North said suddenly, “Pity about Christmas. Still, I’ve not had one at home since the war.” He laughed, the vapour spurting from his mouth like steam. “God, this is going to be quite a show!”

  Drummond replied, “It is. How did your officers take the news?”

  The other man chuckled. “Reluctantly. My number one is convinced he’s going to get the Victoria Cross””.” He added quietly, “Just so long as it’s not a marble one.”

  In due course they arrived at that same dreary-looking building. It was still like a mortuary. Armed sentries, sandbags and bustling personnel did not seem able to change it.

  They were ushered into a crowded room. Drummond flicked down his collar and shook his cap on the floor. They were all here. Not the planners or strategists. The ones who were going to fight.

  Then from across the room he saw Beaumont. He was staring at him, his pink features set in concentration.

  He nodded curtly, “Ah, Keith. Take a pew: We’re all here now, I think.”

  His eyes did not leave Drummond for an instant. A question, a warning? It could have been both.

  Beaumont said loudly, “Sorry about the weather, chaps. Even I couldn’t fix anything up there!”

  Drummond sat back in his chair. The main act was beginning at last.

  The following evening, anyone who was foolish enough to brave the worsening weather, or still employed in the dock area would have seen the ill-assorted flotilla getting under way.

  With Warlock, followed by Victor, in the lead, the motley collection of motor launches, two small Hunt class destroyers and a heavy salvage tug slipped from their moorings and pushed into a diagonal downpour of grey sleet.

  Drummond buttoned his oilskin more
tightly around his throat. Beneath its collar he had already wrapped a clean towel. It was wringing wet before they cleared the harbour precinct and turned south-west towards the Lizard.

  Sheridan lurched across the heaving bridge and reported that he had checked the blackout and been round all parts of the ship himself.

  He said, “We will be meeeting the others tomorrow then?”

  “Yes. The M.T.B.s are coming round from Bristol where they’ve been exercising for their part in things.”

  Sheridan watched him narrowly, seeing Drummond’s face shining in the sleet and falling spray.

  “I’m sorry for the blokes in the M.L.s, sir. They’ll be bobbing about like corks before much longer.”

  Drummond lifted himself on his chair to watch the bows wallowing deeply in a trough, almost as far as the bullring. Around B gun the oilskinned seamen were crouching like pieces of black statuary. He had already thought about the small craft. Crammed with commando and marines, they might find it easier once they were in deeper water where the troughs were further apart. He hoped so, for all their sakes. Men keyed up to fightingpitch were one thing. But to arrive at their objective bruised and demoralised by heavy seas would lessen their chances even more.

  The weather was foul everywhere. The met reports had gloomily prophesied that the heavy snow which was now falling in the North Sea and English Channel would reach the Bay by tomorrow.

  He tried to push his apprehension aside. They had been wrong plenty of times in the past.

  “We will exercise action stations in fifteen minutes, Number One. Make a signal to Victor to that effect.”

  After which it will be in deadly earnest, he thought.

  Ives snapped, “At once, sir!” It sounded as if he were c icking his heels.

  Down on the messdecks the off-duty watch sat or crouched in their seagoing gear, knowing the alarm bells would soon be sounding.

  Leading Seaman Rumsey, the chief quartermaster, went methodically through his own arrangements. Tin of fags, well wrapped in a bit of oilskin. Matches. Bar of nutty. He grinned lazily. And a lifebelt.

  From the opposite mess, Leading Telegraphist “Dolly” Gray called, “You’ll be going up to the wheelhouse, won’t you, Harry?”

  Rumsey glared. “Where did you expect? To the bloody wardroom?”

  The telegraphist grinned. “Keep your hair on, mate! It was just that there was a message about your Q.M., Jevers. Has he been up to something?”

  Rumsey pricked up his ears. “Why?”

  “Oh, maybe nothing to it, but the harbour police were making enquiries about him. On behalf of the London coppers and the American provost marshal. ” He shrugged and tightened his belt. “We didn’t tell them much, of course. Signals department was restricted until this lot’s over. “

  Rumsey stood up, gauging the distance to the vertical steel ladder to the deck above.

  “I’ll tell him anyway.”

  The tannoy squawked. “Hands to exercise action!” Rumsey was the first up the ladder and through the small oval

  hatch before anyone had moved. He had never missed yet. A few minutes later Sheridan reported, “Ship at action stations, sir.”

  Drummond had been listening to the staccato voices coming into the bridge from guns and magazines, from each section of his ship. Beyond them he had heard the regular ping of the Asdic, the surge and plunge of Warlock’s stem across the bustling whitecaps. Sleet and leaping wavecrests, while astern he could just make out the dull blobs of the other vessels. Beaumont was back there in one of the accompanying Hunt destroyers, ready to transfer to a motor gunboat which was to be used as a command vessel once they had joined Lomond and Ventnor. Far abeam he saw a winking green eye. Wreck buoy to mark some unfortunate encounter in the past.

  “Thank you, Number One.”

  They had gone to their stations quickly, considering it was only the usual exercise. They were behaving well. As they had when he had spoken to them about their part in Smash-Hit. Every captain thought his own company was different from all others. To everyone else Warlock’s people were probably very ordinary. In a street, or in their home towns, they would not even stand out. He ran his hand along the ice-cold rail below the screen. Nevertheless, this company seemed different.

  He said, “Fall them out. Port watch to defence stations. “

  In the sealed compartment below Drummond’s chair, Leading Seaman Rumsey stepped up on to the grating and relieved the coxswain at the wheel.

  He peered at the gyro repeater and said, “Course two-twofive, ‘Swain.”

  Mangin grunted. “I’m off then.”

  As the men pushed away from the various action stations in response to the tannoy, groping irritably with each plunge of the deck, Rumsey said to Jevers. “There was a call about you from the boys in blue. From London. ” He watched the ticking gyro but heard Jevers’ quick intake of breath. “Something to do with the Yanks.”

  Jevers scoffed, “Gorn, you’re makin’ it up!”

  “No. On the level, mate. Leading Tel. Dolly Gray took the message. Ask ‘im, if you like.”

  Jevers replied, “I’m not bothered. Why the ‘ell should I be anyway?”

  Rumsey groped with one hand for his chocolate bar. He heard Jevers staggering down the internal ladder, his oilskin scraping against the wet metal.

  He called up the voice-pipe, “Wheel relieved, sir. Leadin’ Seaman Rumsey.”

  Wingate’s voice, almost lost in the slashing sleet. “Very good. “

  At the foot of the ladder Jevers paused and clung to a handrail. He felt hot and ice-cold in turns, and it was all he could do to think properly. Rumsey’s casual mention of the police explained everything. That bloody Yank must have been alive. He could feel him now, as he clung to the swaying ship. The tall sergeant’s anger falling away to a choking cry of agony and disbelief as he had driven his knife into him, twisting it with all his strength until the man’s weight had pulled it clear as he fell.

  He stared round the dim companion-way like a trapped animal. Even now the wires would be humming. Perhaps the skipper already knew.

  A bosun’s mate lurched into him, and Jevers snarled, ” ‘Oo the ‘ell are you lookin’ at?”

  The seaman stared at him. “Sorry, chum, I was just takin’ the milk for old Badger. Didn’t seem right to leave him behind this time. ” He watched as Jevers blundered away into the darkness. “Bomb-‘appy sod!” he muttered.

  Back in Falmouth the town and harbour settled down for a long night of sleet and probably snow. But they were used to it, and had been since ships had first gone around the headland. To meet the Armada, to fight under Nelson at the Nile, to fish, or to carry cargo to the other side of the globe.

  Some of the berths were empty now, strangely derelict under the layers of slush.

  In the dock office, where in happier times Customs officials and harbour pilots shared vast quantities of tea, the duty operations officer yawned over tomorrow’s arrangements for an incoming fleet repair ship.

  The telephone broke into his thoughts, and on the other end of the line he heard the O.O.D. say, “Sorry to bother you, sir. But there’s a young lady from the M.o.I. here. She’s got the right passes and everything, but … “

  The operations officer said, “Put her on.”

  She had a very nice voice, he thought. She said, “I was asking about the Warlock, sir. I wanted to see Commander Drummond. I thought … “

  The operations officer recalled his own feelings as he had watched the strange collection of ships heading away from the land, the lump he had felt in his throat. And that was after four years of it.

  He said, “Wait there. I’ll come up and see you.”

  At the other end of the line she handed the telephone to a young lieutenant.

  He asked, “All right, was it?”

  She looked at him and replied, “I was too late. ” She walked to the window and lifted one corner of the blackout to stare at the streaming glass. “But I’ll wait.” S
he was oblivious to the man’s curious eyes. “I’ll be here when he comes back.”

  Drummond awoke, ice-cold and shivering in his chair with someone gripping his shoulder. It was Wingate, his eyes redrimmed in the dull light, his face squinting against the unrelenting rain and sleet.

  “Some nice hot tea, sir.” He gripped the voice-pipes as Warlock swayed heavily to one side, and watched Drummond take the first sip. Then he said cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, sir!”

  Drummond felt the scalding tea exploring his stomach and waited for his mind to level off. How could he or anyone else sleep in this? he wondered. But he had managed it. On an open bridge, and with his oilskin coat clattering to the steady downpour.

  It had been pitch-dark when he had dozed off in the chair. He looked at his watch. Six in the morning. Funny how you could forget Christmas.

  “Where are we, Pilot”

  Wingate gestured vaguely over the screen. “One hundred and fifty miles south-west of Land’s End, sir. Not bad, considering. “

  Drummond lurched to his feet, stamping his seat boots to restore the circulation. All greys. Dull or pale. Interspersed at irregular intervals with breaking wavecrests, although mercifully the sea had eased out into long, ungainly rollers. If only the sleet would go, too.

  He put the mug down and asked, “How are the others?”

  “All with us, sir. The two Hunts have had difficulty with their tows. Ours are okay so far.”

  He waited until Drummond had peered aft to where two shining M. L. s veered this way and that on their tow lines. It was still very dark and overcast, and he was ravenously hungry.

  He said, “We should rendezvous with the others at 1100.”

  “Yes.”

  Drummond wondered what Selkirk was thinking as he conned his ship through the foul weather towards her final gesture. What had they told him? That Selkirk’s ship has been loaded with some thirty depth-charges, which in turn had been sealed in concrete and supported by a mesh of steel frames just abaft her forward gun support. Lomond, being slightly larger, carried an even greater amount of explosives. Primed with special army fuses, their combined effect would be devastating.