It was Turnbull, clad in a black oilskin, like an additional shadow, as if he was about to take over the wheel.
He said, “I was awake, sir.” The oilskin creaked; he must have shrugged. “Just wanted to be on hand.”
The helmsman said, “You can take my place anytime, ’Swain!”
Somebody laughed, but Ainslie could feel the tension like something physical.
Spiers moved toward the ladder. “It’s a fast convoy, so unless there are any foul-ups, we should make our estimated contact as stated.” He swung round. “I’ll be in the galley if you need me. I shan’t be sorry if …”
Ainslie gripped a handrail and watched Spiers’ eyes as they lit up like two tiny flares, then he pulled himself around to stare ahead and saw the horizon come alive, a fiery sunset instead of dawn.
A few seconds, but small, trivial items seemed to predominate. Smears of salt spray on the screen like frost; one of the lookouts pointing toward the glow, his mouth a black hole in his face but making no sound. Then the explosion. It was more of a sensation than a sound, a thunder which seemed to reverberate, reaching the hull, holding it like a threat before passing on.
Just as suddenly the fire was gone, snuffed out, so that even the faint compass light seemed to invite retaliation.
“Check with the engineroom. Sound Action Stations.”
It was Kearton. Ainslie had not seen or heard him arrive on the bridge.
“Not that anybody will be asleep!”
Somebody even laughed. “Me neither, sir, after that!”
Spiers called, “Engineroom standing by, sir. The Chief is in charge.”
Ainslie listened to the brief reports and sensed the urgency. Like the coxswain, the Chief had been on the job. And the Skipper, snatching an hour or two in the chartroom, trying to clear his mind of responsibility and the risks that might lie ahead—how did he stay and sound so calm?
Like now, speaking to Turnbull as if this were part of an exercise, some drill to keep them all on their toes.
“What did you make of it, ’Swain? A tanker?” A pause. “Poor devils!”
“Something heavier, sir. Could have been loaded with ammo, explosives.”
Ainslie loosened his grip on the rail. His hand throbbed, as if he had been using all his strength. His nerve.
He heard the click of the R/T handset and tried to imagine the other boats, out there in the darkness. He bunched his aching fingers into a fist again. He could see the next boat astern, pale against the black water, bows thrusting across her own waves, and maybe the one following closely in her wake. It was not so dark any more.… In an hour, perhaps less. He tried to shut his mind to it. He was here. He was ready … Brace yourself, Mark One.
“All acknowledged, sir.” Even the man’s voice seemed hushed, almost lost in the engines.
“Growler to all units. We will increase speed as ordered.” Kearton paused, and Ainslie wondered if he would add something, advice or encouragement. Kearton had waited for some static to fade. “Together!”
He stepped down from the grating and handed the instrument to another shadow. Except that it now had the outline of a face.
He held up his watch. “Ten minutes, Number One! By the book!”
Then he moved to the forepart of the bridge. He could see the top of the chartroom, a life raft lashed across it, and the twin, power-operated machine-gun turrets on either side. Beyond was the two-pounder mounting, its shield pale against the sea and the horizon. That, too, was visible, the delineation of sea and sky. Most of the stars were gone. And there was a hint of low cloud, or mist.
He readjusted the strap of his binoculars so that they would not bang against the bridge when he moved.
It was neither mist nor cloud. It was smoke.
Like a signal, or as if he had shouted the command himself, the sound and sensation of the engines took on a stronger beat, and he felt the deck lifting in response.
He could see them in his mind’s eye. The three M.T.B.s, 992 in the lead, and by now the motor gunboats would have increased speed to take station, one on either beam. Ready to offer extra firepower once action was joined. But when he stared directly ahead he could have been standing quite alone.
He was not. Ahead lay the enemy.
Turnbull stepped clear of the wheel and waited for his helmsman to take over, then rested both hands on the flag locker and began to perform a series of knee-bends. He felt he had been standing so long stooped over the compass that every muscle had seized up.
“Must be getting past it!”
“You know what they say, ’Swain, never volunteer, ’specially in this regiment!” The bridge machine-gunner was looking on, giving a grin, as if daring to relax for the first time.
They had sighted the convoy, “almost to the cross on the chart”, as Turnbull had heard Ainslie describe it. Less one, torpedoed by a U-Boat which had slipped through the escorts, three destroyers and a sloop. The force of the explosion must have taken the U-Boat commander by surprise, and either damaged his boat or made him drop his guard. Depth-charges had blown him and his crew to the same fate as their target.
Signals were exchanged, and the Skipper had received one himself from the Boss; and the little convoy had divided. Two ships had altered course in company with two of the destroyers and the sloop, which had apparently developed engine trouble and might require a tow for the last leg to Malta. Jock Laidlaw knew the sloop in question from his Atlantic days. She was over twenty years old, like so many of the hard-worked escort vessels.
Turnbull stretched again and shaded his eyes to peer at their only guardian. The third destroyer, Natal, was big, fast and modern, and no stranger to the Mediterranean. Her captain sounded courteous enough over his loud-hailer, but Turnbull had the impression he harboured doubts about the necessity of the additional protection.
Turnbull had borrowed a lookout’s binoculars to see for himself. Oak leaves on his cap, like Captain Garrick, and one of ‘those voices’. He smiled to himself. He was being unfair. But he knew.
The real cause of all the excitement was a new, sleekly designed freighter, more like a liner than a vessel for carrying cargo. Swedish-built and probably scarcely painted or equipped when war had been declared, she could boast a speed of twenty-five knots. She was named Romulus, and appeared to carry her own anti-aircraft guns and the D.E.M.S. personnel to man them. He had overheard the Skipper saying Romulus also had a separate identity and recognition code. So why was she so important?
Even Kearton did not seem to know. “Explosives, something like that,” and he had shrugged.
Turnbull looked toward the destroyer again, leading the pack, as Bliss the helmsman might say. She had radar too, an added protection or warning. Number One would have seen that: he was always beating the drum about radar.
He was here now.
Spiers said, “Go around the boat, will you, Cox’n? They’re getting too sloppy and idle, now they think it’s all going downhill.”
He did not raise his voice, he rarely did, but it sounded like a personal admonishment.
Turnbull straightened his back, wincing. “We’ve been promised air cover for the last bit, sir.”
“Just do it, right?”
So Spiers was worried, too.
Turnbull climbed down to the deck and made his way forward. He was glad to be moving again; it would get his circulation going. Otherwise, he knew it was a waste of time, an irritation. Nobody would fall asleep, no matter how weary he might be.
He watched the water creaming along the side, spray drifting over the deck and glistening in the sunlight. But no warmth, not yet, and he was thankful for his oilskin.
A few nods, or a hand raised as he checked each position and huddled figure. Little else. They all knew why he was passing. At the two-pounder gun, even Cock Glover had little to say, which was unlike him. Wrapped in a duffle coat with a lifejacket tied loosely around it, he had pointed vaguely in the direction of the Romulus and muttered, “I’ll bet the
y’re ’avin’ bangers an’ mash, an’ all th’ char they want, just by snappin’ their fingers!”
Then Turnbull met Laurie Jay, who had been making a few adjustments to one of the torpedo tubes, seemingly oblivious to the spray that burst over the side with each plunge of the stem.
He gave a quick smile as he picked up his little instrument box.
“Twenty knots, they tell me, ’Swain? Suits me!”
Turnbull liked him, although he still barely knew him. Helpful, good at his work; that would suffice. He had seen him go ashore with Glover. A more unlikely pair it was hard to imagine.
“Not long now, d’ you reckon?”
Jay glanced at the sea, not the sky, like most sailors.
“A few scares maybe.” He nodded. “Sunset. After that, they’ll lose the edge.”
Turnbull was still thinking about it when he returned to the bridge. Kearton was there, an unlit pipe jammed between his teeth.
“I’ve had a signal from H.Q. There was another attack on the rest of our convoy. No damage that time. The change of course must have caught them on the hop. Not for long, I’ll bet.”
Turnbull glanced across the bridge. Spiers was at the voicepipes, gesturing as he spoke to someone, probably the Chief, as if he could see him. Ainslie coming up from the chartroom, yawning hugely as if caught unawares. A youngster again.
Everyone was busy, but the Skipper had still found time to tell him about the W/T signal.
He said, “If we can keep this up, sir …”
Kearton shifted the pipe to the other side of his jaw.
“We can. We will.” He pulled his cap lower across his eyes and stared astern at the other vessels. Then he said, “Open the galley. Something hot.” Their eyes met, and Turnbull sensed that Spiers had looked around from the voicepipes to listen. Maybe to be a part of it.
Kearton had turned away from the sun. Somewhere else.
Turnbull heard him say as if to himself, “While there’s still time.”
Kearton felt something brush against him and pushed himself away from the side of the bridge. He was on his feet, fully conscious, but it was as if he had been rudely awakened. It was dark, and the sound of the engines was regular and monotonous, but it seemed louder because of the stillness and the night. He shook himself.
“What is it, Pilot?”
Ainslie said quietly, “It’s the Chief, sir.”
“Trouble?” He had not heard the voicepipe. And it was about midnight, a warning in itself.
Ainslie must have shaken his head. “No, he just wanted to know if he could ditch some empty fuel cans. Keep his place tidy!”
Kearton reached down to rub his leg, as if the injury was still there.
“No. Tell him …” He stared past him at the tiny green light, the emergency buzzer drowned by the Chief’s Packards.
The W/T office, next to his own empty cabin.
He pressed the instrument to his ear, one hand covering the other.
“Bridge.” He could feel the silence now. “Something for me?”
He heard him clear his throat. “Yes, sir. Natal, repeated H.Q.” It was the other telegraphist, not Weston; the name escaped him, and nothing else mattered now. He imagined him in his small compartment, the signal pad under the solitary light, very aware of its importance, and his own.
“Maintain course and speed. Two bandits closing from due north.” He cleared his throat again. “I am engaging.” He ended with the time of origin, but Kearton scarcely heard him.
‘Bandits’: usually fast attackers, probably Italian, but could be E-Boats. The Germans had been moving them down into the Med and the Adriatic. Natal had been warned. He thought of Spiers again. Radar … She was well armed, with six 4.7s, and a cluster of other short-range weapons, and depth-charges. And two sets of torpedoes, if he could remember clearly.
One of the lookouts broke into his thoughts.
“There goes Natal! Boy, she’s in a rush all of a sudden!”
Kearton waited. “Thank you. Well done. Acknowledge, will you?”
He straightened up and said aloud, “Unidentified fast craft closing from the north.” He saw Spiers’ white scarf beside Turnbull’s shapeless oilskin. “Pass the word, Number One. The waiting’s over.” The destroyer, backed up by Red Lyon’s M.G.B. on their flank, should be more than a match for the ‘bandits’. From Sicily or the Italian mainland; it might take too long to muster an additional attacking force. And at first light there would be air support, if need be from Malta itself.
He rubbed his chin, and only then realized that he still had the pipe jammed between his teeth.
But to be on the safe side … He reached over and encountered Ainslie’s arm, and felt him jump.
“Chartroom, Pilot. Fix our position as best you can in all this flap, in case we have to lay off another course.” He could feel his arm; it was rigid. “A diversion, to keep our prize intact.”
Ainslie said, “They left it too late.” As if he was telling himself, or searching for some flaw.
Spiers said, “I’ve spread the word, sir. A few wisecracks, of course, but I’ve got a good memory for voices.” He walked to the side and stared in the direction of Romulus. “They’ll be damned glad, anyway. I can take over while Pilot’s doing his stuff.” He hesitated, and Kearton could see him, his head cocked on one side. “If you still think—”
He never finished it. There was a thin, high-pitched whistle, which ended abruptly in a scream and a sudden explosion. The night was transformed into searing detail, stark and glacial, all sound quenched by the starshell. The little green light and its attendant buzzer were both trying to raise the alarm, like the starshell, which Natal must have fired immediately after her first sighting.
Kearton rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and fumbled for his binoculars. Everything was unreal: the voicepipe, and a disembodied voice, surely not still asking about used petrol cans? Turnbull struggling out of his oilskin, as if it was trapping him. And something snapping underfoot. He had dropped his pipe on the deck.
The glare was already fading, but the figures around him seemed frozen by it, incapable of movement. And it was still strong enough to see the other vessels astern, dominated by the Romulus.
He closed his mind to them. Everything had to be concentrated in the small, silent world of his binoculars.
Surrounded by froth, like some enraged sea monster, saddle-tanks shining glassily on the periphery of the glare, the submarine was alive, and moving.
“Number One!” But Spiers was already running to his station. The ex-submariner, Jay, would be with him, overtaken by events.
Kearton stumbled, but someone grasped his arm. He had the intercom in his hand and waited, counting the seconds.
“Growler to all units! Tally-ho! Attacking!”
“Ready, Skipper!” That was Turnbull, formality forgotten.
“Full ahead! Port twenty!” He felt the deck tilt, and heard the binoculars swing against the bridge armour. “Midships!”
He crouched, straining his eyes to hold on to the target, the U-Boat, smaller now without the aid of the powerful lenses.
He saw another M.T.B. sweeping past, shining in the glare, showing her number, 977. It was Geoff Mostyn, known as ‘Geordie’ to his friends; and he seemed to have plenty of those. His two-pounder was already hammering out a steady stream of tracer, and another gun of some kind was quick to follow.
Kearton realized that the submarine was fully surfaced, to obtain the best possible speed, and not only that, her deck-gun was manned and had opened fire. Daring, desperation, or cold-blooded courage, she had shown no sign of turning away or attempting to dive. She was still heading straight toward the prime ship of the convoy, Romulus.
“Steady! Easy! Steady!” He was telling himself: Turnbull, like Spiers, knew what to do. What to expect.
He felt his mouth go dry as something exploded outside his line of vision. The sound was almost swamped by the rising thunder of engines, but he knew
it was a direct hit on Mostyn’s boat.
It was now.
“Fire!”
He sensed rather than felt the slight shudder as both torpedoes left their tubes.
“Both running!”
“Hard a-port!” He watched the shadows closing in, like a vast curtain, the sea leaping over the bow as they continued to turn. He had lost count of the seconds, if he had ever begun, but he could still hear them in his brain. Like a giant clock.
“Midships!”
He saw Mostyn’s boat, still moving, but very slowly. No more flames, but a lot of smoke. Some shapes below the bridge, others standing by them. The living and the dead.
He pounded his fist below the screen. He could see the Romulus, at a different angle now, turning, trying to run, when it was too late. They had completed their alteration of course, so that he saw himself starkly against the screen, silhouetted by a livid, contained explosion. It shook the whole hull, and he thought of the Chief and his little crew in their confined world. It must have felt like hitting a mine.
He shaded his eyes, but the sea was almost in darkness again. Blasted apart by the twin explosions, the remains of the U-Boat were on their last dive, to the bottom.
“Half ahead!” The sky held a hint of colour now. The smoke was clearing away and he saw the Romulus, much nearer again; she seemed to tower over them like a cliff. There were people lining the rails, waving, cheers almost drowned out by their combined engines. Cheers …
Kearton raised his arm, and thought how heavy it felt.
Ainslie was beside him. “Shall I take over, sir?”
Kearton stared across the water, rising and falling between the various hulls. He could see a tell-tale patch of oil spreading across a few fragments of flotsam. There was never very much after a submarine had been destroyed.
He realized what Ainslie had said.
“We’ll go and help Geoff.”
Spiers was here, too, and shook his head, only once.
“We’ll stand by, anyway. He would expect it.” No name. ‘Geordie’ was dead.
The Glory Boys Page 26
