Inactivity made it worse. One had time to think. He wished he could feel more confident. And the one thing which was absolutely imperative was that nobody should be allowed to see or guess how unconfident he did feel.
He chuckled as he came back to his position on the port side of the wheelhouse. ‘Odd how engineers hate their engines being used.’
The chief buffer nodded. His eyes rose from the compass-card to glance for’ard at Lanyard’s short, punching bow.
‘Think of ’em like mothers with babies, don’t they, sir.’
The course was due south again. Nick had given up the business of altering this way and that whenever some distant exchange of gunfire illuminated the horizon. The battle fleet’s ordered course, or at any rate the last one they’d heard of, had been south, so that was the heading one should stick to. Those sporadic actions, almost surely clashes between scouting and screening forces, were sometimes in one direction and sometimes in another; there was no point zig-zagging about like a donkey constantly switching carrots.
Another aspect of Nick’s current feeling of having lost his bearings was that the sensation was entirely new to him. The start of his naval career hadn’t been exactly brilliant, but he’d never had any sense of fright or personal inadequacy in any given situation. He’d often dug his heels in, or slacked, when he’d found surroundings or subjects irksome, but he’d never thought to himself I doubt if I can see this through… To be unsure, off-balance, was foreign to him and extremely uncomfortable, and it was making him think again now, from time to time and in the back of his mind while he tried to concentrate it on the immediate situation, of David and what Johnson had said about him. Because if Johnson had been right, this might be how David had felt pretty well all his life. And what it felt like ‒ this situation, now ‒ was being on a horse which you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop if it decided it didn’t want you to.
‘Starboard—’
Nick had jerked his glasses up; since he’d seen it, CPO Glennie saved his breath.
‘Hell…’
To start with there’d been some stabs of gunfire; just three or four. But within seconds the sea and sky out there to starboard were ablaze with action; with a barrage of noise and flame, the sea spouting geysers of white water and the black shapes of destroyers darting, thrashing through them and between them, racing like greyhounds through a deluge of shellfire towards a solid line of flaming guns. The impressions – the picture which had sprung up out of nothing, out of a dark void of night and sea and mist ‒ registered and resolved themselves into the fact that a flotilla or part-flotilla of destroyers was making an attack on a line of five, or six, much larger ships… Which were in line ahead on a south-easterly course. Seven or eight thousand yards on Lanyard’s bow, and the head of the enemy line about right ahead: the gunfire was continuous, spouting and rippling the whole length of the line as the destroyers raced in towards it; one saw them in flashes and as they appeared for no more than seconds between the leaping columns of white water. They were British destroyers, obviously… Well, check… Focusing on one of the enemy he made out a battleship; she was too big to be anything else. It was misty, though, down there, one felt one should be wiping the lenses of the binoculars twice a minute, but it was sea-mist, not the glasses fogging-up. That could only be a squadron of Scheer’s High Seas Fleet beating off a determined destroyer attack.
‘Four hundred revolutions!’
‘Four hundred revolutions, sir.’
‘Garret, tell the gun and tubes to stand by. Then get ready with that lamp.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
It looked like the fiercest engagement of the night. The Germans were using every sort of gun they had ‒ turret guns and beam armament and quick-firing weapons flickering higher up. The destroyers were turning, Nick saw, to starboard, to a course opposite to the enemy’s; when they’d fired they’d be heading west or north-west. Consequently if he altered Lanyard’s course to starboard there might be a danger of collision when the shooting stopped and the night went dark again, with lookouts and captains half-blinded temporarily by the flashes of their own guns and the enemy’s.
‘Starboard ten.’
‘Starboard ten, sir.’
He was taking her round to port: to steer south-east, in order to converge on to the enemy battle squadron. They’d hardly be expecting a new attack from one solitary, shaved-off destroyer. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much of Lanyard to see now, with no foremast and no top to her bridge.
‘Midships. Steer south-east by south.’
‘Sou’east by south, aye aye, sir.’ Glennie sounded as calm as ever, not in the least excited.
‘Garret. Tell Mr Pilkington we may be firing his torpedo at a battleship in five or ten minutes’ time. I can’t say which side.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Garret did sound excited.
‘And tell him the gun is not to open fire without my order.’
He caught his breath…
In the middle of that display of fireworks, he’d seen a sudden splash of dark-red flame on one of the battleships; the third in the German squadron’s line. The flame gushed upwards; now it had shot back the whole length of her, and in its savagely bright light he saw that she had three funnels and a large crane-derrick between the centre one and the third. She was German, certainly, and he thought Deutschland-class. The red blaze leapt higher, a soaring mass of incredibly bright fire, and sparks were flying out of it like rockets; sparks, and burning debris tracing arcs into the darker sky. Smoke grew at the fire’s base and billowed upwards, folding itself outwards and around the ship, engulfing the brilliant flames, darkening the night by stages until it was all smoke and the shooting from the other ships had stopped dead, totally, as if at one signal ‒finis.
Nick still had his glasses at his eyes, but all he could see now was the thick, grey blanket of the mist. CPO Glennie allowed himself a comment.
‘They done ’er, all right, sir.’
‘Let’s see if we can’t get another.’
Glennie nodded, with his eyes on the steering-compass. ‘Never know till you try, sir.’
On this slightly converging course, Nick reckoned, he ought to pick up the Germans at about thirty or forty degrees on the bow and at reasonably close range in perhaps five minutes. He’d first seen them at about three-and-a-half miles; the next meeting should be at a distance of perhaps one mile. Allowing for a further slight closing of the range, he might be able to fire the torpedo at something like fifteen hundred yards. This, of course, depended on the battleships having held their course, not turned away to avoid the other torpedoes which must have been fired at about the same time as the one which had hit.
What would Mortimer have done, or be doing now, if he was in command?
Nick put his mind to it. The only alternative to going after the enemy as he was doing now would, he thought, have been to try to join that flotilla after they’d fired and broken off the action. But they’d vanished ‒ to start with in a north-westerly direction, but they could afterwards have gone round astern of the enemy, or northwards, or any other way. But the Germans had been on what had looked like a straight, determined course.
Why did one have that impression? Because their course had been south-east ‒ the same course as that of the battleship which had blown Lanyard’s bridge off. And south-eastward was the course for Germany via Horns Reef.
Nick wiped his glasses’ lenses and put them back up to his eyes. At any second, those battleships might reappear. He decided he’d fire to starboard: close in, turn away to port, firing on the turn. But if he’d miscalculated and they should turn out to be abaft the beam, he’d turn towards, close in to a good killing range, and then put her round to starboard, firing to port as those others had done.
He was pleased to find that he could think coolly and logically. It would surely make it a lot easier, when one saw the enemy, to have the alternatives clearly in one’s mind.
Still
nothing in sight. He was beginning to think that the squadron must have altered course, after the torpedo hit.
Well, which way?
South, most likely. But he decided he’d hold on, steer this course for another five minutes. If by that time he hadn’t—
There they were!
0n the starboard bow, and in line ahead, steering just east of south. So Lanyard was coming up astern of them, but with about one point of difference between their course and hers, so that if she held on without any alteration she’d cross their wakes.
Peculiar. How they’d got into this position, and on that course…
‘I’ll be damned!’
He’d seen it suddenly. He’d assumed these were the ships he’d been expecting to find, and he hadn’t until this moment looked at them at all closely. These weren’t battleships at all, they were destroyers. This was the bunch who’d carried out that attack!
Whatever the Germans had done – and it was still puzzling ‒ these five ships must have swung around to port, right round, and then steered due east, and had now altered to something like south by east. They must have been searching for the Germans, too; most likely had torpedoes left, and aimed to make a second attack ‒ encouraged, no doubt by having knocked out one battleship half an hour ago.
‘Steer five degrees to starboard. Three six-oh revolutions.’
Glennie was repeating the orders. Nick’s slight adjustments of course and speed were designed to add Lanyard to the tail-end of that flotilla.
‘Garret, tell Mr Pilkington we’re approaching friendly ships. Train the tube fore-and-aft.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Then stand by with your lamp.’
In a minute, they’d have to identify themselves. Lanyard was closing-up and edging-in, still a bit out on the other destroyers’ starboard quarter About half a mile between her and the boat she was going to tag on to.
Garret had passed that message aft. He told Nick, ‘Ready with the lamp, sir.’
‘They’re bound to challenge soon.’ He was surprised they hadn’t before this. He kept his glasses on them. Three-four-oh revs.’
‘Three-four-oh, sir.’
A light flashed: from the head of the destroyer line. Lanyard wasn’t tucked-in astern of them yet; in another minute she would have been, and that challenge wouldn’t have been visible.
‘Give ’em the answer, Garret.’
‘Sir, that can’t be one of our—’
From about sixty degrees on the starboard bow, an answering light flashed. Garret was right: all Nick had seen was the letter ‘K’. He hadn’t thought about it… But they hadn’t been challenging Lanyard; they’d been talking to that other ship ‒ whatever ship it might be ‒ almost on the beam now. Nick swung his glasses on to her.
Not ‘her‘. Them. There were three ships, closing-in at right-angles, more or less. Meanwhile Lanyard had fallen into station astern of the main bunch.
‘Three-two-oh revolutions.’
‘Three-two-oh, sir.’
Nick’s mind seemed suddenly to jump, to come alive… Inside his skull, a voice screamed protest.
Holding his breath ‒ his hands had begun to shake and his breathing had become rapid, short ‒ he focused on the new arrivals as they came slanting in under helm to add themselves one by one to the line astern of Lanyard.
He’d seen the possibility when he’d realised that the challenge was that single letter ‘K‘, the long-short-long; then Garret’s cut-off cry had put substance to the wild suspicion. It had still been a long moment of resistance before he’d surrendered to the truth of it.
Now he saw each of the three ships clearly, in profile as they turned to slip in astern. The first was a destroyer with two funnels rather far apart, the for’ard one seeming to be almost a structural part of the stunted bridge. The second funnel was set much farther aft ‒ almost as far as the mainmast, which was just about amidships and had a boom-derrick mounted on it. He looked at her bridge again; there was hardly any foremast.
It made her a ‘G’ class destroyer. One of the Krupp-built boats. And the second ‒ turning now behind the leader ‒ was another of the same class.
The third ship was a three-funnelled light cruiser. Rather a pretty ship, with delicate, yacht-like lines. Twin search-lights on her foremast, at funnel-top height above the bridge, and another pair on the mainmast, a bit lower.
A Stettin-class cruiser.
All three of them had formed astern now. And the destroyer ahead of Lanyard seemed to have accepted her without question. Nick realised ‒ guessed ‒ that they wouldn’t have been examining her closely because they’d known they were being joined by other ships anyway: and to the newcomers Lanyard would have been just one of that flotilla who’d fallen slightly astern of station. Also, with her shorn-off foremast, low bridge superstructure, cut-down funnel and clean-swept stern she might well, to a careless eye, pass for one of the German ‘G’s.
His heart was beating so hard that he thought Glennie, beside him, might be hearing it.
‘Three-one-oh revolutions.’
Might as well keep good station. The last thing one wanted was to attract the attention of the other ships.
This was a nightmare. The worst he’d ever had…
‘Three-one-oh revs on, sir.’
Chief Petty Officer Glennie’s voice was low and even. Nick looked at him, wondering if he’d caught on to the situation. Glennie must have seen his head turn; he glanced at Nick fleetingly, expressionlessly, before his eyes went back to watching the stern of the German destroyer ahead. He murmured. ‘Bound for Wilhelmshaven, are we, sir’?’
Chapter 11
Pilkington’s wizened face was pale.
‘D-ye know what you bloody done?’
Nick said quietly, ‘Three-one-five revolutions.’
‘Three-one-five. Aye aye, sir.’
‘Sub—’
‘If you’re thinking of swearing at me again, Mr Pilkington, you can get back aft and quick.’
‘Sub.’ The gunner pointed. ‘Those are ’uns. Those are bl—’ He checked himself. The next bit came in a hoarse whisper: ‘Germans, Sub. We’re poncin’ along with a whole pack—’ His control broke; he ended in a shout ‒ ‘of bloody Germans!’
Nick lowered his binoculars.
‘If we’d done anything but take station here quietly as we did, Mr Pilkington, they would have looked at us. And if they had, they’d have seen who we are and blown us out of the water. That happened to be the situation we were in.’
Pilkington nodded. ‘So now we’re up the creek. What ’appens when they start signalling at us? Which way’re we bloody goin’, anyway?’
Glennie glanced sideways at Nick, as if he too had some interest in the questions. Or perhaps he was wondering how much criticism Nick would take from the warrant officer before he shut him up.
‘If you’d remained at your action station, Mr Pilkington, you’d have had orders from me by now. Don’t come for’ard again without my permission, please. But since you are here, just stop belly-aching and bloody well listen, will you?’
He’d shouted that last bit. Now he leant over, checked the compass-card. Their course was south by east; so the reciprocal would be north by west. He told Garret. ‘Warn the engineer officer that in a few minutes I’ll be calling for full power, and when I do I want him to give us everything he’s got.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
By the way Garret glanced at Pilkington, you could see he didn’t think much of him.
‘Listen. You too. Glennie. Remember that if I get knocked out, Mr Pilkington here would take command and you’re next in line. So you’d better have a grasp of what‘s happening.’
CPO Glennie nodded. His eyes didn’t leave that German destroyer’s wake.
‘When you go aft, Mr Pilkington, train your tube out to starboard and stand by, and report to me when you’re ready. When I hear that from you I’ll crack on full power and put the wheel hard a-port. We should
take ’em by surprise ‒ they’d hardly be expecting an attack from one of their own ships would they.’
Pilkington just stared at him.
‘We’ll circle out to starboard and you Glennie, will steady the ship on north by east. That’s the reverse of this present course. When your tube sight comes on Mr Pilkington, you’re to fire at the last ship in the line, which is the light cruiser. I want a report down the voicepipe as soon as you’ve fired, so I can alter course again as necessary. We’ll be close enough for you to make sure of a hit. I imagine?’
Pilkington nodded. ‘Should be.’
‘Very close… So what about the safety range?’
‘Oh…‘ Pilkington scratched his head. ‘That’s a problem, ain’t it.’
The pistol in the warhead of a torpedo wasn’t armed until the fish had travelled far enough for a small vane, propeller-shaped, to wind down, bringing the firing-pin to within one sixteenth of an inch from the detonator.
‘Only one answer. You’ll have to wind it halfway down before you train the tube out. Dangerous but—’
‘Christ!’ A yelp… ‘I’ll say it’s bloody—’
‘How long will it take you?’
‘Couple o’ minutes. But—’
‘Once we start to turn out, you’ll have to be damn quick. We’ll be in the firing position in no time at all. And once we’ve passed it that’s the chance gone, finished. Right?’
‘Aye, aye.’
The stroppy little bastard wasn’t going to say ‘sir’, Nick noticed. But that was the last and least thing he’d time to worry about now
‘Go back aft then and report when you’re ready. And tell Hooper he’d not to fire unless someone shoots at us first.’
Pilkington left. Nick asked the chief bosun’s mate, ‘Make sense to you, does it?’
‘Clear enough, sir.’
‘Garret, did you warn Mr Worsfold?’
‘Yessir. Says he’ll be ready sir.’
The Blooding of the Guns Page 25
