Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Smith nodded, climbed down from the chair and stretched like a cat waking from sleep. He stalked across the bridge and back again. He was stiff and still tired, ready to sleep for a week, but his back was straight and he was alert, equally ready to fight. Galloway and Harry Vincent noted it and this time the glances they exchanged were relieved. Buckley, tucked away at the back of the bridge, grinned.

  The alarm rattlers were sounding, filling the ship with their raucous din. Galloway left the bridge at a run, heading aft to his station in action. Kelso came to take his place, swearing at having his breakfast interrupted. The guns were already manned, as they had been since sailing from Bergsund. They swung on their mountings so the long barrels pointed at the target, obeying the orders from the director above the bridge where Sandy Faulknor and his gunnery team stared at the ship shoving out of the murk to the north. They recognised her as Brandenburg, and like the rest of Cassandra’s crew as the “buzz” ran through the ship from mouth to mouth, they knew they faced death. Sandy, like all of them, thought, No way out this time. And then, like all of them, he concentrated on his job.

  Appleby had run up the ladder to the bridge before the alarm rattlers ceased their clangour. His eyes sought out Smith where he stood at the front of the bridge. This time Appleby did not hide.

  Smith ordered, “Open fire!” Then: “Port ten! Full ahead!” And to the Signal Yeoman, “Make to Ailsa Grange and Wilhelmina: ‘Take evasive action.’“ He just got the last words out before the salvo from Brandenburg roared overhead like an express train and Cassandra’s guns slammed and recoiled, hurling back her reply. Her bow was swinging around and steadied now to point at Brandenburg as Smith ordered, “Midships…steer that!”

  The orders cracked out without him barely pausing to catch his breath. He had been ready for this, among other, anticipated situations. It had been possible he would meet an enemy, and if he did it would be inevitable that he would have to fight her and tell the transports to run. “Starboard twenty!” Wrenching his ship towards the huge water-spouts thrown up by Brandenburg’s last salvo, banking on her shortening the range for the next one because that last had gone over.

  So had that of Cassandra. Smith, glasses to his eyes, saw the plume of foam-topped, dirty water lift beyond Brandenburg as Kelso, also peering through binoculars, reported it: “Over!”

  Smith also saw the three flames lick out as one from the guns in Brandenburg’s forward turret. He stooped over the voice-pipe and ordered, “Port twenty!” To haul Cassandra back onto her original course. She was firing rapidly now, Brandenburg marginally slower but her nine guns to Cassandra’s five were an awesome threat to Smith’s thin-skinned light cruiser. As the two ships manoeuvred to avoid the shells from the enemy there were times when only the forward guns of either would bear, “A” gun in Cassandra or Brandenburg’s forward turret. But these occasions balanced each other out. Brandenburg had a huge advantage in fire-power.

  “Port twenty…twenty of port wheel on, sir!” That was Taggart, the cox’n now at the wheel, acknowledging the order and then confirming he had complied with it. Cassandra had only just returned to an even keel after that last tight turn to starboard. Now Smith felt the deck tilt sharply under his feet as she swerved the other way, bow swinging to point again at the enemy. She was working up to full speed now and the seas broke in over the bow to sweep aft and wash around “A” gun just below the bridge.

  Cassandra was still heeled in that turn when Branden-burg’s salvo roared in and plunged into the sea close off the starboard bow. Spray from that upthrown water fell on the bridge as Cassandra steamed through it and Smith smelt the cordite stink of it. Then his ship straightened up out of the turn, ran level except for her pitching to the seas and the guns slam-banged! again, shaking the hull and the bridge under his feet. And he ordered, “Starboard twenty!”

  Jinking again — and towards that last salvo again. Cassandra was outgunned and could not run because Brandenburg was faster by three or four knots. Besides, she had to fight to protect the transports and the thousand and more men aboard them. But not a straight fight because she would never survive it. Smith had to use cunning, outguessing the gunnery staff aboard the big enemy cruiser. So far he had been successful. On his success or failure in the next few minutes depended his ship, what was left of his career and probably his life. But he swung up into his chair again and settled himself comfortably as Cassandra heeled over in the turn.

  He saw Appleby watching him, remembered the young midshipman stealing glances at him ever since the action started and recalled that the youth had done all that was asked of him at Bergsund and Heimen. It had been worth the risk of taking him along. Appleby had helped himself. Smith grinned at him, and after a moment while Appleby blinked in surprise, the grin was returned.

  But Cassandra was still heeling, tilting the chair and Smith in it. He felt it, forgot Appleby, set glasses to his eyes and trained them on Brandenburg. She had also turned, a point or two away from Cassandra, so now all three of her turrets, all nine of her guns would bear.

  Smith saw sparks of light run along her hull as she fired and this time they seemed brighter against the greyness from which she had come. That background was now darkening to purple.

  Cassandra’s salvo fell and Kelso called excitedly, “That was close to her! A near-miss!”

  “Yes.” Smith had seen the shells burst alongside Brandenburg, the water-spouts briefly hiding her until she steamed clear of them. Hit her? Not likely. But possibly the salvo had done some damage to plates in her hull. He used his telephone to tell Sandy Faulknor in the gunnery director above the bridge: “Good shooting.” It would do Sandy and his team good to have their efforts appreciated, and it was lonely and exposed up there.

  Cassandra had straightened up out of the turn. He was about to order another when Brandenburg’s broadside howled in. The shells burst in the sea around his ship, one of them so close on the port side that he felt it as a hammer blow on the hull. It had him grabbing at the arms of the chair to hold on and sent the staff on the bridge staggering. In that same instant the shrapnel from the bursting shell lashed the ship’s upperworks. This time it was not stinking spray alone that hissed across the bridge but steel splinters. They cut halyards and smashed through the thin armour of the bridge. A bo’sun’s mate fell, and Nisbet, the signalman, there as a messenger. He was always grousing, but not now as Appleby knelt over him.

  Smith, thrown sideways in the chair, pulled himself upright and as he did so saw a huge tear on the inside of the left sleeve of his bridge-coat. A sliver of steel like the blade of a knife had sliced through between sleeve and body and embedded itself in the back of the chair. An inch or two to the left and it would have severed his arm. Another inch or two to the right and he would have been a dead man. It stuck out now as if waiting to impale him. He got down from the chair, swearing, and beckoned Buckley then pointed to the splinter. “Get that damned thing out, please!” Then he bent to the voice-pipe and ordered, “Port twenty!”

  He had not outguessed Brandenburg’s gunners that time. Her broadside had straddled Cassandra. The next salvo from them might score a direct hit — or more than one. In the minutes since the action started the range between the two ships had closed to a scant three miles. He swept the edge of visibility — it could hardly be called a horizon — with his glasses. He saw the transports were gone from sight, hidden in the greyness between Cassandra and the unseen shore. He lowered the glasses and waited, holding the ship in this turn until she was turned broadside to Brandenburg and only then did he order, “Midships.”

  “Midships…wheel’s amidships, sir.”

  Brandenburg had not altered course, her captain presumably thinking Cassandra was still zigzagging. Now he knew differently. Cassandra could now fire all five of her 6-inch guns and her broadside thundered out. At that moment Brandenburg could only fire from her fore-turret — but now she, too, was turning so that all her main armament would bear. Smith had turned his sh
ip away from Brandenburg’s last salvoes but now he thought, When she starts to fire her broadsides again…

  Buckley said, “There y’are, sir.” He had dug the steel splinter out of the back of the chair and now held it out to Smith.

  Who told him testily, “I don’t want the bloody thing! Get rid of it!”

  Then he glanced around as he heard the voice: “No, sir! I’m OK. I can carry on. Just help me ‘to get on me feet!” That was Nisbet, arguing and demanding as the bearers lifted him onto the stretcher.

  And Appleby, pale and shocked, voice a tone higher than normal but still firm, “No. You’re bleeding from two or three places.” He stood back and told the bearers, “Take him below.”

  Smith nodded absent-minded approval, his thoughts on Brandenburg, and ordered, “Starboard ten!”

  “Starboard ten, sir…”

  Kelso yelled, “That was a hit!” A shell from Cassandra’s last broadside had burst in an orange flash on the stern of the distant cruiser. Smith did not share Kelso’s jubilation, only grunted acknowledgment. On the heels of that orange flash had come the rash of yellow flames along Brandenburg’s hull that marked the firing of her broadside and she had fired all nine of her 6-inch guns. Whatever damage had been done by that hit of Cassandra’s had not lessened her striking power.

  He had evidence of that barely seconds later when the shells of that broadside fell. Cassandra seemed to check in her rush through the big, green seas and shuddered before charging on. Smith twisted in his chair to peer back along the length of his ship and saw the twist of smoke rising. He heard Appleby at his elbow shout shrilly, “We’ve been hit aft, sir!” The barrel of the 6-inch gun in the waist farthest aft sagged drunkenly, pointing at the sea.

  Smith ordered, “Port ten.”

  “Port ten, sir,” acknowledged Taggart. “Ten of port wheel on, sir.”

  The damage report, telephoned to the bridge and bawled across at Smith by Kelso, confirmed that the gun had taken a direct hit and was out of action. The crew of the gun were dead and there was a small fire. Smith could see men flitting through the smoke, fighting the flames laid nearly flat along the deck by the wind of Cassandra’s passage. He thought he saw Galloway’s tall figure among them.

  He faced forward. That gun had hardly come into action but now it was smashed and useless while the men who had worked it … Galloway and his damage-control party would have a sickening mess to clear up there. Smith had seen it before, could picture it now and he shivered, his stomach heaved. He stared out at Brandenburg. The other shells of that broadside had fallen to port of Cassandra. Only his change of course to starboard had saved her from far worse damage. But Brandenburg had handed down a death sentence.

  When he had first sighted her steaming out of the grey haze only minutes ago he had thought there was an inevitability about her appearance, that sooner or later the two ships were doomed to meet in one final, fatal confrontation.

  He saw her guns fire again but could barely see Brandenburg herself. That darkening of the greyness around her that had turned to purple was now black. It was wrapping itself around her like a cloak. Then he heard the mounting roar as the shells of that last broadside plummeted down towards Cassandra.

  14

  The shells burst close but in the sea, one near enough again to shake the ship and send shell splinters scything across her deck in the waist. That last change of course had hauled Cassandra clear once more. She was out of the turn and running straight now. Smith swallowed a sigh of relief, his eyes on Brandenburg, or rather where she had been. That blackness covered her now and he could see it sweeping in over the sea towards Cassandra.

  Ben Kelso blew out a huge sigh of relief and Smith grinned at him, “Now we see her, now we don’t.” Then he ordered, “Port ten.”

  The cox’n’s voice acknowledged, flatly imperturbable, “Port ten…Ten of port wheel on, sir.”

  On the bridge they waited for him to order the wheel amidships, the deck canted under their feet, waited in an eerie silence now. The guns had ceased firing because Sandy Faulknor up in the director tower had reported that he could no longer see the target. And his opposite number in Brandenburg would not see Cassandra either. Smith waited until she had turned right around and only then ordered, “Midships.”

  “Midships…Wheel’s amidships, sir.” Now Cassandra was headed back up her wake.

  The cloak that had loomed black in the distance as it blocked out the light had turned to the swirling white of snow as it closed on Cassandra. It swept over them and the circle of visibility shrank to a radius of less than a mile. On this course they would pass close to Brandenburg and if close enough for her to see Cassandra they would be under her guns at point-blank range. It was a desperate gamble — and her captain would know that.

  Smith called to Harry Vincent, “Pilot! I think Wilhelmina and Ailsa Grange will be heading north and inshore of us but I want a course to the rendezvous again.” Because the manoeuvring since the start of the action had taken them off course.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  And the rendezvous because Smith had given its position to the transports and knew he could not hope to find them in this blizzard. He drew a deep breath and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. When the snow had driven between the two ships, stopping the fighting, both had been heading westward and out to sea. Instead of turning back in his tracks Smith could, more sensibly and logically, have kept Cassandra on that westward course or turned to port to run southward from Brandenburg, knowing that the transports were safe in the cover of the blizzard. He had been turning to port when Brandenburg had last seen him so it was a fair bet that she would be hunting him to the southward of that last sighting.

  He would have to keep the men at action stations for some time yet because they might run into Brandenburg again, but — “Mr Kelso! I want every man to have a hot drink.”

  Kelso could give the orders to the cooks in the galley, and for every gun or department to send a man to the galley to draw the tea. And here was Buckley: “Coffee, sir.”

  Smith took the proffered mug, blew on the steam and sipped. “Thank you.” Another bo’sun’s mate and a messenger went on the bridge to replace the casualties. One of the hands was busy with bucket and mop, cleaning the blood from the bridge gratings.

  Life went on, returning to normal, but men had died and the crew of Cassandra were now heaving a collective sigh of relief. Galloway came briefly to the bridge to report the damage to the ship: the 6-inch gun in the waist was a total loss but the rest, the fire and the shrapnel, had done no harm that Cassandra’s crew could not repair or cover with a lick of paint. Apart from the loss of that one gun she was still an efficient fighting ship.

  She had collected more scars to mar her faded elegance but in Smith’s eyes she was still a lovely ship and he was relieved, could smile at Galloway. But when he spoke to the ship’s company on the loudspeaker system, besides congratulations on their conduct he warned, “Keep a good lookout.” Brandenburg would be looking for them.

  Moehle was. He hungered for a sight of Cassandra. That last shell from her that had fallen aft had torn a huge hole in Brandenburg’s deck but she, too, was still fully efficient as a fighting ship. She could destroy the lighter enemy cruiser in a few minutes if only Moehle and his gunnery staff in Brandenburg’s director tower could see her. He craned forward in his chair, head turning as he tried to probe the insubstantial white wall, seeking her.

  Kurt Larsen, like many others aboard Brandenburg, was narrow-eyed as he tried to penetrate the swirling snow as Brandenburg drove into it. Moehle had just reduced speed to a cautious ten knots, growling, “We don’t want to run into her while we’re going full ahead!” But he said it uneasily, because he was doubting the likelihood of that now.

  Before the blizzard closed around them he had seen Cassandra hit, then turn away. He had considered the options open to her, scowling in thought: She doesn’t have to worry about the transports now, knows we couldn’
t find them in this muck, and if she turns back she could wind up in our arms, So she’s continued southward or run out to sea. She had been turning southward…

  So Moehle had reached his logical conclusion and altered course accordingly — to run to the south. But that had been twenty minutes ago and Brandenburg should have overhauled her fleeing...but slower, enemy by now. Unless that cunning enemy had fooled them and had not turned southward. Moehle swore in frustration, but then he shrugged: that was pointless. He had lost the British cruiser and trying to conduct any kind of search in the present weather conditions would also be pointless.

  Besides, there had been another signal from Grundmann at Bergsund: “…seriously wounded. Require assistance

  “Grundmann had doctors to render immediate aid in the field but it had been intended that serious surgical cases would be taken to the Wilhelmina where there was an operating theatre and a surgical team. Grundmann could no longer do that because he had lost the transport. So Moehle dictated a signal to Grundmann: “Will render assistance your wounded.” And told his navigating officer, “I want a course for Bergsund again.”

  Fritsch drove the Mercedes 170V hard through the night and northward. He wore a trench-coat to cover his uniform and a wide-brimmed trilby hat. Sarah was huddled beside him in the passenger seat but pressed up against the door, putting as much space as possible between them. Fritsch saw this but was in good humour and only amused by it. He taunted her, “You may be closer to me yet. We will be getting to know each other much better.” He watched her face for some reaction but she managed to remain impassive, staring out through the windscreen at the road winding ahead.