The Destroyers

by Douglas Reeman

  Slightly to starboard Lomond was being bracketed with shellbursts, and she was replying as best she could, although her gun crews must have been blinded by smoke from the shore and burning harbour craft alike.

  Wingate exclaimed in a choking voice, “God, will you listen to that!”

  An M.L. was thrashing clear of the side, her deck crammed with troops, some of whom were already firing Brens and other light automatic guns towards the shore. Above the insistent, earscraping clatter came the jubilant skirl of bagpipes.

  Wingate said, “How can he play the damn things in all this?”

  More metal clattered over the bridge and a lookout cried

  sharply, “Oh, Jesus!” Then he fell down on his face.

  Ives snapped, “Dead. ” He dragged the body to the rear of the bridge, adding to one of his signalmen, “Well, don’t stare, lad! Take his bloody place!”

  Drummond heard it all. The first of his company to die.

  He levelled his night-glasses on the great mole and tried to find the command vessel. The blue light had gone, and the whole stretch of water seemed to be alive with darting M.L.s, drifting wrecks, a few men swimming towards the land.

  “Direct hit on Ventnor, sir!”

  An M. L. was already speeding after the destroyer which had slewed off course in a great curtain of falling spray and sparks.

  Drummond let out a sigh as Ventnor swung drunkenly back on course. Nothing could prevent her from hitting the caisson now, unless her packed charges exploded prematurely. He watched the M. L., wondering briefly if she would be able to lift off Ventnor’s small steaming party.

  A great flare exploded directly overhead, blinding him, and holding the ship between the glaring clouds and bright water like a vessel made of ice.

  “Hard a-starboard!” He heard Wingate shouting in the voice-pipe. “Midships!” He winced as a shell exploded in the water alongside, raking the hull with splinters.

  Aft, by X gun, Sub-lieutenant Tyson was clinging to a stanchion and straining his eyes through the smoke when the shell burst. Water and snow burst over him, choking him with salt and the stench of H.E. The communications rating was crouching beside him, pressing his headphones against his ears as he repeated what Rankin was telling him from the director.

  “Shift target, sir! Shore battery at Red one-one-oh!”

  A splinter slammed him in the chest and he sprawled over his seat, choking and gurgling, while Tyson stared at him with frantic horror.

  The gunlayer swung his brass wheel and yelled, “Red oneone-oh!”

  Another man slammed a shell into the breech and jumped clear as the gun roared back on its mounting, the bright shellcase clanging away unheeded amongst all the others.

  The gunlayer paused in his efforts to look at Tyson. “That’s all we bloody well need now!” he shouted to his friend the trainer. “Dick’s gone for a burton and the sub is spewin’ ‘is guts out!” He tensed, his eye pressed to the sight. “Layer on!” He held his breath. “Shoot!”

  Sheridan ran with his damage control party to check the towing gear. To make sure the last shell had not blasted it away. He mopped his face. Like the rest of his body, it was burning like fire, and yet there was thin ice forming on guardrails and along the depth-charge racks. He squinted at his luminous watch.

  “God, we’ve only been under fire twenty minutes!” He shouted aloud, unable to believe that the battle had not been raging for hours.

  He was thrown against the shield of Y gun, feeling his skin pushing over his jaw like a mask as a tremendous explosion tore the night apart.

  A seaman called, “Ventnor’s blown up, sir!” But his voice was lost in the unending roar of the combined charges.

  Men crouched like animals as the air became filled with flying fragments, and some were knocked senseless by metal and lumps of concrete which rained down through the glowing red ball of fire which had been the Ventnor.

  Sheridan shaded his eyes against the glare, feeling the deck swaying this way and that as Drummond conned his ship wildly through the tell-tale waterspouts and criss-crossing tracer.

  His brain was still able to record everything. The M.T.B.s snarling past the ship, guns hammering, as they charged into the attack, the leaders already firing their torpedoes towards the pens where the midget submarines were said to be moored.

  He could see the Victor quite close by, her side glowing red and orange in the reflected explosions, her guns high angled as she fired again and again towards the warehouses and the riverside jetties of dockland where the Germans’ resistance was visibly strengthening.

  He felt the Warlock shuddering as if in a great tide-race, and stared with amazement at the complete stern-half of a German supply ship which was being carried past on a torrent of seething water. The dock area must have been blasted wide open.

  A man was shaking his arm. “Sir!” He was waving a handset. “Captain wants you!”

  He pressed it to his ear, covering his other ear with his glove. Drummond sounded miles away. “We’re pulling out, Number One. General signal to break off the action immediately.”

  Another great bang, and a section of the quartermaster’s

  lobby buckled inwards like wet cardboard.

  Sheridan shouted, “What about Lomond?”

  “Engine trouble. ” He sounded almost matter of fact. “We’ll

  grapple her and take her in tow if we can.”

  Sheridan shifted his smarting eyes to the clutter of towing gear on and around the quarterdeck. It was just as if Drummondhad known all along.

  Drummond added tersely, “Quick as you can. Ventnor’s done her part. The M. L. s are taking off the landing parties.” Sheridan asked, “Did they pick up any-“

  “No. Ventnor received a direct hit as she rammed. Both she and her M. L. bought it.” The line went dead.

  Sheridan saw the chief boatswain’s mate crawling towards him.

  “Right, Buffer. Jump about. Towing job!”

  Petty Officer Vickery gripped a bandage between his teeth and tightened it round his wrist.

  He said, “I’ll get the lads, sir.”

  Sheridan stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it, his fingers shaking badly. It didn’t matter now, he thought. What with bursting torpedoes hurling shattered piers, hunks of metal which had been midget submarines and towering banks of flame right up to the clouds, one more light would not make much difference.

  Men blundered past him, groping for wires and tackles, and he hurried to join them. He saw a man crouching by two inert bodies. It was Tyson, rocking from side to side, sobbing and whimpering like a child.

  Someone gripped his sleeve, but when he looked down he saw it was not a human touch. A splinter had ripped through his clothing, laying bare his arm from shoulder to elbow without even bruising the skin.

  Bullets hammered sparks from the side and deck plating, and he saw his men falling back.

  He felt strangely calm, even elated, and found that he could walk right aft without stooping. He was going mad. It had to be that.

  He turned his back towards the clattering machine guns and yelled, “Move yourselves! Nobody lives forever!”

  18

  Reunion

  SEVERAL great fires had begun to explore the immediate waterfront and jetties, so that the falling snow gleamed in bright orange hues, as if each flake was hot to the touch.

  Drifting smoke, the confusion of spitting tracer helped Drummond considerably as he brought his ship alongside the crippled Lomond.

  Wingate shouted, “If her charges go up, we’ve all had it!”

  Drummond ignored him. The charges would have exploded by now if things had gone as planned. Lomond should have been wedged into the nearest overhanging concrete cliff, her small passage crew speeding to safety in one of the M.L.s.

  “Stop starboard!”

  Shadows danced through the glittering snow, and he saw some of his men clambering across to Lomond’s deck with heaving lines as Warlock nudged firmly in
to her bulging fenders.

  “Stop port!” He craned over the screen to peer aft. “Tell number one to get a move on!”

  He felt something fan past his shoulders and smack into the forward funnel. He found he could ignore most of it, concentrate on the immediate situation.

  Cable and wire hawsers were clinking across decks, and several men fell sprawling on the slush and ice.

  He thought he saw Vaughan climbing on to the ship alongside, and gritted his teeth as a motor torpedo boat surged abeam and fired her fish towards the dock area.

  The explosions roared back, and more debris, pieces of wood and metal rained down on every side.

  Ives said imperturbably, “Signal from senior officer M.T.B.s, sir. All torpedoes fired. Am proceeding to assist ingeneral evacuation. “

  “Tell him. Many thanks. “

  He forgot Ives and his small winking light as Hillier yelled,“All secured aft, sir!”

  “Very well. Slow astern port.”

  He watched the ships angling apart, the apparent tangle of wires and shackles dropping into place as Lomond’s bows slewed round to follow in Warlock’s wake.

  “Slow ahead together. Port fifteen.”

  Sheridan dashed on to the bridge, his face streaked with sweat in the reflected fires.

  “De Pass’s gunnery officer broke the fuses, sir. Just in time.

  She’s holed below the bridge, but the pumps will be able to cope if they can get the engine room cleared. “

  He seemed to realise that the bulk of the fires were swinging away across the starboard beam as Warlock continued to turn towards the open sea.

  “Good. “

  Drummond raised his glasses, searching for the command vessel. Maybe it had sunk with some of the M. L. s, and Beaumont killed.

  “Midships. Steady. Steer two-five-zero.”

  Sheridan watched him. He was remembering his brief visit to the ship which was now following obediently astern.

  De Pass, teeth bared in agony while Vaughan did what hecould, seemed to have lost most of one leg and was cut about the face in a dozen places.

  He had said between groans, “Beaumont should have beenaboard. He knew what to do. I signalled for assistance when wegot disabled, he acknowledged, and that was all he bloody welldid do!”

  The pain and the morphia had mercifully released him from his despair.

  Drummond said, “De Pass did well. Better than I gave him credit for.”

  Ives called sharply, “W/T office have urgent signal from Admiralty, sir. “

  “Must be for Beaumont.”

  He listened to the steady thump of gunfire through the snow and smoke, and wondered how the little boats were getting on with the evacuation. The wounded would have to be left behind to spend the rest of their war behind barbed wire. It was to be hoped they knew that their suffering was not for nothing.

  Ives said, “No, sir. Restricted. To you.”

  Sheridan remembered the wounded who had been brought off the Lomond.

  “I’ll see to it, sir. Doc’s busy.”

  Drummond nodded. An urgent signal in the middle of hell. He had the sudden desire to laugh out loud. Probably an announcement about clothing issue for Wrens.

  He saw Victor steaming abeam, her guns firing up and over the nearest M.T.B.s which were heading out from the land. They would have to get a move on. Their fuel must be running out fast.

  When he looked at his watch he saw it was barely half past two.

  Ives called, “Command vessel closing to port, sir.”

  “Tell the buffer to get a side party to haul Captain (D) aboard.”

  If he wants to come, he thought bitterly.

  He gripped the vibrating screen and threw back his head to let the clinging snow cover his face. It helped to steady him. To realise that the gunfire was less rapid now, the pale waterspouts further away. They had gone in with little hope of completing the mission, still less of getting away. The snow had saved them. That, and a whole lot more.

  He heard the snarl of engines alongside, the scrape of wood against steel as the M.G.B. surged along the hull before lurching away again, her skipper waving his hand towards

  Warlock’s seamen.

  Beaumont clambered on to the bridge, his face glowing in the strange reflections.

  He shouted, “Why didn’t that fool de Pass get closer to the pens?”

  “It was too late. He cut the fuses just in time. My doctor says he’s dying.”

  Beaumont moved restlessly round the bridge, his feet catch ing on broken glass and some severed halliards.

  Drummond watched him calmly.

  Beaumont swung on him. “I think most of the troops are away. Had some losses, of course.” He glared as Sheridan appeared by the chart table. “What d’you want?”

  Drummond listened to his voice. He could barely recognise it. Flat, toneless. “Urgent signal from Admiralty. ” He looked at Sheridan’s dull shadow. “Read it under the chart screen.”

  Even Sheridan sounded different. “To commanding officer Warlock. Discontinue the action immediately and withdraw as planned. Due to weather conditions, no air cover is at present available, but surface support is on way. “

  Beaumont rasped, “In God’s name! Now tell us something we didn’t know!”

  Sheridan continued, “Yesterday off North Cape the battlecruiser Scharnhorst was sunk by units of the Home Fleet under command of Admiral Fraser. During recent bad weather in English Channel remaining battlecruiser Moltke passed unobserved westward towards Brest. She was damaged by Bomber Command but still able to maintain ten knots. She is now believed to be somewhere in your vicinity with two destroyers in company. “

  Beaumont murmured thickly, “In God’s name! After all this time! “

  Sheridan reappeared from beneath the chart screen and said sharply, “There’s more yet, sir.” He was looking at Drummond.

  Drummond said, “Let’s have it then.”

  He was thinking back over the months and years. Now, with Scharnhorst sunk, Tirpitz trapped and impotent in her Norwegian lair, there was only the Moltke. She was coming south to the dock which now lay astern, shattered and out of action. The German battlecruiser was rendered as helpless as her consorts. She had nowhere else to go.

  Sheridan’s voice touched his mind like a hot wire.

  “Commander Keith Drummond will take all steps to evacuate landing parties without delay. He will assume overall control of Smash-Hit until otherwise instructed. ” Sheridan

  stared at him. “End of signal.”

  Beaumont spoke first, his voice brittle with doubt and anger.

  “What in hell’s name do they think they’re doing? Why, that would mean-“

  Drummond said flatly, “That you are relieved, sir. As of now. “

  He sought out Ives. “Make to Victor. Follow my instructions. “

  He watched Beaumont, half expecting him to attack him. He felt neither elation nor surprise. Everything seemed planned and inevitable. They all had parts, and he wondered what Beaumont’s lines would be next.

  Beaumont shouted, “You can’t do it, Drummond! How dare they treat me like this! After all I’ve done!”

  “Victor’s signalling, sir. M.B. T. s withdrawing now. Six M.L.s in company. Remainder sunk or captured. “

  Drummond nodded. To Beaumont he said, “We will tow Lomond clear and if possible make contact with the salvage tug. She’s not too badly damaged. “

  Beaumont seemed unable to grasp what was happening. “The Moltke is coming! I’m not running away, even if you are!”

  Wingate and Sheridan watched silently as Drummond swung round and replied bitterly, “Nobody’s running, sir. After the way you left de Pass to do your job, I’m surprised you’ve got the gall to suggest it! That’s your ship we’re towing back there! While you were dashing about in the M.G.B. and looking grand, men were dying. Like they did in the fjord because you stayed outside.” He took a quick breath. “Like they did in the Conqueror when you adv
ised your admiral to scatter the convoy and escort. “

  He knew the others were staring at him but could not stop.

  “You thought that a German cruiser was coming between the screen and the convoy, didn’t you? That Conqueror would smash her to scrap before her captain knew what had happened? You didn’t bargain for a bloody battlecruiser!”

  Beaumont’s mouth was hanging open. He stammered, “It’s a lie! You’ve been conniving with that woman, with that lying rating Carson. The ungrateful-“

  Drummond snapped, “Yes, we know. After all you’ve done. “

  A great explosion rolled out of the darkness and made the

  snow swirl up and around the dripping lookouts like steam. Another of the commando’s charges must have burst to add to the general havoc.

  When he looked at Beaumont again he saw that he was standing very stiff and straight on the gratings.

  Drummond said quietly, “The pity is that so many had to die because of your folly in the first place, and so many afterwards to cover your deception.”

  Two motor torpedo boats scudded between the destroyers, decks black with exhausted troops and marines.

  Wingate cleared his throat as they all caught the brief intrusion from the solitary piper.

  “I’m glad he made it okay,” he said.

  Drummond said, “Pass the word to keep a close watch for small surface craft until we get clear. E-boats, anything. Although I doubt they’ll be hereabouts. More likely they’ll be following the Moltke to see her safely to her dock.”

  Hillier said, “Well, we spoiled things for that one!”

  Sheridan said, “Lomond’s wheelhouse is a shambles, sir. Most of the hands were wiped out by shell-splinters.”

  “Ask for volunteers. Just enough to manage her until we know what’s happening.”

  His mind strayed elsewhere. Weather and distance. No aircover as yet, but surface vessels on way. But what and how many?

  Beaumont said dully, “I’m going aft. ” He flipped the peak of his cap very casually. “It’s not over yet. Not by a long chalk. “

  “Carry on, Number One.” Drummond could feel the exhaustion sapping him down. “Now it’s done, I can almost feel sorry for him.”