Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Cassandra’s head came around, her deck tilting as she heeled over in the turn. Smith thought that Sandy would be cursing at this change of course when “A” gun forrard was almost on target. But: “Midships! Steer that!” Cassandra righted herself, settled on the new heading and now the guns aft of the bridge would bear — just. But while Cassandra had been changing course the enemy cruiser had not and her guns had flamed seconds ago. Now Cassandra’s four guns replied in one racketing blast of flame and smoke that whipped back over the bridge. And Smith shouted above the last echoes, “Hard astarboard!”

  On Brandenburg’s bridge Paul Brunner had burst out, “By God! I don’t believe it! It’s that same cruiser, I’m certain of it!”

  Gustav Moehle ordered, “Open fire!” He studied the other cruiser and agreed reluctantly, “It looks like her. Might be another of the same class.” But he did not think so. And he had hoped to have a straight run.

  Kurt Larsen said quietly, “I think it’s her, sir.”

  Gustav Moehle shrugged, “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” She was two thousand tons or more lighter than Brandenburg, smaller, nearly twenty years older and outgunned by her. Brandenburg’s guns fired now, all nine of them in a broadside that rocked her over onto her beam ends. And when their thunder had died away Moehle went on, “Because we aren’t stopping to fight her. Maintain course and speed.” They would brush her off and leave her astern. Brandenburg was faster, too.

  Kelso voiced Smith’s thought, “About thirty seconds.” That was the time of flight of the shells fired by Brandenburg. He held up his watch, eyes on its dial and the second hand ticking around. “Now!”

  They heard the cloth-tearing sound as the shells ripped through the air and then they came down, lifting huge water-spouts off the port quarter. Smith ordered, “Port twenty!” And held on as Cassandra leaned hard over in the turn, held her in that turn until he had brought her back to her previous course plus a little more adjustment to meet the answer to his triangulation problem. He would have to make more adjustments, forced on him by any change of course Brandenburg might make and those he certainly would. Because he had to avoid those broadsides from the bigger cruiser by always turning towards the last one to fall. Just one of those 9-gun broadsides bracketing Cassandra could cripple her, possibly sink her.

  He barked out the orders for changes of course so that Cassandra swerved first to starboard then to port, only on an even keel for seconds at a time. Her own guns hammered again and again while the shells from Brandenburg fell to port and starboard and the range closed by the combined speeds of the two ships, two hundred yards every ten seconds. Smith stood at the bridge-screen, binoculars lifted and lowered as he watched for the fall of Cassandra’s shot, looked for the fall of Brandenburg’s as he heard the rasping roar and the shells came in.

  He found time to glance at the men sharing his bridge: Ben Kelso, young Appleby, the signal yeoman and signalman, a bridge messenger and Buckley hovering discreetly at the back. Smith grinned at them. He looked over his ship. Spray broke high over her knife-edged stem to be flung into his face, icy cold, as she raced towards the enemy. Her big battle ensign cracked on the wind and laid out on it flat as a board. He looked beyond her to the distant snow-capped mountains and the cruel coast. He saw the black shadow darkening the sky to port that marked yet another snow squall sweeping in. Then his eyes went back to the big cruiser looming bigger with every minute.

  Cassandra was first hit right aft. The broadside swooped in and fell in the sea to port, except for one shell. Smith and all of them on the bridge felt the leap of the gratings beneath their feet as they were deafened by the shellburst. Kelso yelled, “Hit aft, sir! Looks like ‘X’ gun!”

  Smith ordered, “Hard aport” And demanded, “Get a report!”

  Kelso supplied that a minute later: “‘X’ gun took a direct hit, sir! Total loss! Two of the crew have been taken down to the wardroom but there’s no hope for the others!”

  After a direct hit any survivor of the gun crew could consider himself lucky to be alive. Or could he? Smith thought there were worse fates than dying. To live on, horribly mutilated … He shuddered.

  Now Cassandra was reduced to only three of her 6-inch guns. She had lost one in the previous action, forty-eight hours ago. And the wounded had been taken to the wardroom because …

  ***

  The big and burly young Surgeon-Lieutenant Matthew Kilmartin was aft in the wardroom, his post when Cassandra was in action. His Sick Berth Attendants were manning a dressing station in the sickbay forward. His assistants in the wardroom were the messmen, cooks and stewards. They were already occupied with wounded from the exposed upper deck and the two from “X” gun.

  They had shaken to the shock when “X” gun was hit. A minute or two later the two wounded had been brought down. As Kilmartin bent over them a shell burst in the cabin flat next door. The impact threw every man of them to the deck in a torrent of spilt instruments and dressings. Splinters sprayed through the wardroom and ricocheted off the bulkheads.

  Kilmartin shoved to his feet cursing, an angry giant. Blood trickled down his face from a jagged tear in his scalp where a splinter had almost killed him. He shouted, “All right! Let’s get on with it!” His assistants picked themselves up, lifted some of their mates who now lay senseless and tended to them.

  Kilmartin stooped his big frame again over the two men from “X” gun. He had little hope for them and the men working with him knew it. But you tried, you couldn’t give up.

  That hit was also felt on the bridge and reported to Smith through Ben Kelso. He acknowledged it but his eyes were on the big cruiser off the starboard bow. The range was now down to four miles and closing rapidly. He told Ben, “Tell the TG we’ll be engaging to starboard.” The Torpedo Gunner was aft with the tubes, would swing them out on that order.

  He took a turn across the bridge, strolling, then returned to lean on the screen again. He set his binoculars to his eyes and Brandenburg came up close, a hard, sharp image. She looked to be making twenty knots or more. She, too, had been hurt. Smith had seen the hits and she trailed smoke from a fire amidships now. She was taking avoiding action, swerving to avoid the fall of shot, but not turning away because there was nowhere for her to run in this narrow fjord — except to escape to sea. It was clear that was her intention and Smith had to stop her.

  He saw the prickle of flame that marked the firing of her broadside and ordered, “Starboard ten!” The time of flight of the shells at this reduced range would be about — fifteen seconds? He counted them, lowering the glasses to hang from their strap, ordering, “Meet her…Steady…Steer that!”

  He glanced out to port and saw the snow squall closing in, a pewter-coloured wall rushing towards the ship. He looked forward again, seeking Brandenburg, still counting: “Fourteen…” Then the world exploded in a white lightning flash and a wind that plucked him from his place behind the screen. He fell into the darkness.

  Snow was chill on his skin, flying on the wind past his upturned face. He was lying at the back of the bridge. He started to move, rolling onto one elbow, and now Buckley’s face appeared above him, Buckley’s hands pressed on his shoulders. He was squatting on his heels beside Smith, face anxious. “Hold still, sir! We’ll get you down to the doctor!”

  What was he talking about? “Doctor be damned!” Smith batted the hands away and grabbed at Buckley’s shoulder instead. “Give me a hand to get up.” Buckley rocked back on his heels then stood, hauling Smith to his feet. He staggered and held on to Buckley for a moment as the deck swayed beneath him. Cassandra was tearing through a blizzard once again, the unending cloud of whirling white flakes seeming to part to fly past on either side of the bridge.

  He looked around the bridge, taking in the carnage, then pushed away from Buckley and weaved forward to the screen on shaky legs. Kelso and everyone else were down, except — young Appleby, white-faced and big-eyed, was getting to his knees, lifting his head to peer up at Smith.

>   He looked first of all for the enemy but Brandenburg was hidden somewhere out there in the blizzard. That was why Cassandra’s guns were silent; Sandy Faulknor up in the director tower couldn’t see a target. But equally Brandenburg could not see them. There were no shells coming in.

  He spoke into the voice-pipe, “All right down there, Cox’n?”

  Taggart’s voice came back, metallic and imperturbable as always, but this time with a hint of relief in it? “Yes, sir! Got shook up a bit but we’re O.K.”

  There was no point in telling him about the shambles up on the bridge. Smith said, “Very good.” Which it was not. He knew now how he had ended up at the back of the bridge, what had caused the damage here. “A” gun right forward of the bridge had taken a direct hit. The blast and splinters from that had beaten the bridge staff to the deck. Stretcher-bearers were at work behind and around him now.

  Appleby told the two who came to him, “Leave me alone. I’m not hurt.” At least, he didn’t think he was badly hurt. He, too, had blacked out when the shell burst on “A” gun and had been tossed to the back of the bridge like a bundle of rags. Now his back and shoulders were one huge bruise and his legs felt weak. But he saw his captain on his feet at the bridge-screen and got his own legs under him.

  Smith used the telephone to speak to Sandy Faulknor in the director tower: ‘A’ gun took a direct hit and we’ve had casualties on the bridge. How are you up there? Anything seen of the enemy?”

  Sandy’s voice squawked distantly in Smith’s ear and he realised he had been deafened. “We saw the gun catch it, sir, and we collected some splinters ‘up here but nobody was hurt. Can’t see anything at the moment. This bloody snow —”

  “You’ll see something soon.” These snow squalls only lasted a few minutes. “And I think you can look for her off the starboard bow. We’ve held our course and if she’s held hers —”

  “Clearing now, sir!” Sandy cut him off.

  Smith could see it for himself now, the sky above him lightening, the white horizon retreating around him. When Brandenburg appeared there would not be much sea-room left between her and Cassandra.

  Ben Kelso said beside him, “I’m here, sir.”

  Smith shot a glance at him, saw his beard bloodied, saw him wipe more of it from his nose with the back of his gloved hand. “So I see, Ben. Can you function?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Visibility was stretching out with every second and now Sandy’s voice came over the loudspeaker on the bridge, “Enemy in sight bearing Green Four-Oh, range Four-Two-Double-Oh!”

  Smith lifted his glasses to his eyes but for a moment saw only a distant grey haze. Sandy had a better viewpoint high in the director tower. But then the haze thinned and he saw her big and clear. She was still trailing smoke from her fire but if anything he thought her speed had increased. There was a big, white bow-wave thrown up as she raced for the open sea.

  He snapped at Ben Kelso, “Torpedoes starboard side!” And bent to the voice-pipe as Ben lurched over to the torpedo sight. “Hard aport!”

  “Hard aport, sir!”

  Cassandra’s two remaining guns fired and then the deck tilted as Taggart put the helm hard over. Smith swung Cassandra around until she was almost broadside to Brandenburg. Ben Kelso’s voice came, baritone lifted to tenor as he intoned, “Fire one!…Fire two!…” All four torpedoes leapt from their tubes in the waist and plunged into the foam kicked up by Cassandra’s bow wave.

  Smith ordered, “Starboard twenty!” Bringing her round again onto that original course with Brandenburg off the bow. He thought, prayed, that one of the torpedoes might strike her, but without much hope…In an action like this you needed a wide spread of ‘fish’ to give a chance of hitting and four just wasn’t enough. “Meet her…Steady…Steer that!”

  “Torpedoes!” The lookout’s call came high, almost a shriek. Moehle heard it, head turning, sweeping with his binoculars and finding the lines of phosphorescence marking the tracks of the torpedoes. He gave his helm orders calmly, watching his ship’s head come around, steadying it when he saw she would “comb” the tracks of the “fish”. They passed either side of her and then he brought Brandenburg back onto her original course.

  The three guns in the turret just forward of the bridge fired and as the echoes died Kurt Larsen said, “The after guns won’t bear now, sir. We’re too close. It looks as though she will run across our bow!”

  “And fire right into us with what guns she has left.” Moehle nodded. He knew the enemy had been badly mauled, could see smoke from where she was burning, had noted that only two of her guns had been firing. But he knew he would be staring into the barrels of those guns in barely a minute. “That will be the last chance she’ll have. After that we’ll leave her astern.” Brandenburg had also been hurt, suffered casualties and was on fire. Paul Brunner had reported the mounting toll of damage. But she was still intact as a fighting ship, had all her main armament and was working up to her full thirty knots. He would take her back to Kiel.

  Cassandra was back on an even keel and her two remaining guns fell silent. Sandy Faulknor stared out over her bow at the enemy cruiser and called to the bridge through the loudspeaker, “Range Two-Four-Double-Oh but guns won’t bear!” Smith heard that, knew it already. Just as he knew that, as the two ships closed the gap between them, Brandenburg’s two after turrets would no longer bear and only that forward of her bridge could now fire on Cassandra. He saw the three guns in that forward turret flare now. He did not hear Sandy, off the speaker and shouting at his crew in the director top, “We’re going to run across the bugger’s bow! We’ll be able to shoot right into her!” Then Sandy was thrown from his chair as Brandenburg’s salvo struck.

  One shell fell just short, a near-miss, but the splinters driven inboard claimed a dozen casualties in the waist. A second shell destroyed the port side torpedo tubes. By a miracle not a soul was hurt but Per Kosskull’s boat was reduced to splinters. Admiralty would have to compensate him. The third shell struck the foremast and brought it down and the director tower with it. The wreckage spilt forward across the bridge. Smith and the others there, thrown down on the gratings once more, had to fight to their feet through a tangle of smashed spars and rigging.

  Smith had fallen near the voice-pipe and rose to wrap his arms around it now. He saw that Cassandra still held to her course, would pass across the bow of Brandenburg, and bent to call into the voice-pipe, “Hard astarboard!”

  “Hard astarboard, sir!” Taggart acknowledged.

  Smith saw Ben Kelso at his side and asked him, “Is the tannoy still working?”

  “I’ll check it, sir!” That was Appleby, clambering through the tangle to get to the back of the bridge and the loudspeaker system. Smith saw Buckley rising there, holding his head and glaring about him bad-temperedly, but alive. Smith sucked in a breath of relief. He stood with knees slightly bent as he balanced against the heel of the deck. But he stood very straight, hands resting lightly on the rim of the tube, eyes narrowed, judging distances, speeds and angles, working out the problem again in his head, updating it. He ordered, “Meet her…” Cassandra’s bow had swung far enough.

  “Meet her, sir!” Now Taggart was spinning the wheel the other way, to check that swing.

  Appleby shouted, “It’s working, sir!”

  Smith said into the tube, “Steady…” Kelso and Appleby were watching him now. He was not aware of it. He was intent on what he was doing but he showed no sign of tension. He seemed relaxed as he stood there, took off the steel helmet and ran his hand through the fair hair sweat-plastered to his skull, rumpling it. He replaced the hat and spoke into the tube, “Starboard a point.”

  Cassandra’s bow edged fractionally around. He saw that Brandenburg was now, too late, trying to turn away. That was all right; he had expected it and allowed for it. “Steer that, Cox’n. And hold on down there.” He raised his head from the tube but Taggart would still hear him as he called, “Mid. All hands. Stand by to ram!” An
d he heard that passed, Appleby’s voice high as he shouted into the tannoy.

  Galloway, down in the cabin flat and filthy with smoke and grime from fighting fires and clearing away wreckage, heard it and muttered, “Jesus Christ!” He shouted to Jackman and his party, “Come on!” He climbed the ladder to the upper deck then started to run forward. He could see Brandenburg ahead through the smoke and spray, was already planning what he would need.

  So was Jackman, pelting along behind him and producing an identical list: “Shores for a start, for a bloody certainty!” And to Dobson and the others forcing weary legs to try to keep up, “Don’t hang about back there! Get up here!”

  The ships were now less than a cable’s length — little more than a hundred yards — apart. Cassandra was charging in at better than twenty knots while Brandenburg was trying to turn away, making close on her full speed of thirty knots. She was coming up to Cassandra’s bow, passing it, but that sharp stem was driving in. Not at ninety degrees to bury itself in the other ship’s hull, but at an acute angle. Smith nodded his satisfaction and clamped his hands on the bridge-screen, set himself for the shock and shouted into the voice-pipe, “Stop engines!”

  Brandenburg’s steel side rushed up at him and he glimpsed faces in her bridge looking down at him. Then Cassandra struck her just below the bridge and drove down her port side. Brandenburg’s seven thousand tons heeled over to starboard under that hammer blow. Smith had been given his precept when he saw Glowworm ram Hipper. But while Brandenburg was bigger than Cassandra she was not a heavy cruiser like Hipper, did not have her thickness of armour plate. And Cassandra was not a destroyer of thirteen hundred tons but a cruiser of four thousand.

  She ran her bow down Brandenburg’s side like a tin opener. She opened her up along her length as the iceberg had opened up the Titanic. When Cassandra fell away a gap of sea opened up between the two ships. The guns were silent. Both of them were stopped. Both might have been sinking.