Back to Battle

by Max Hennessy

  As Impi turned, a small wooden schooner appeared ahead from the darkness, filled with a sea of white faces.

  ‘Ram the bugger, William,’ Kelly said, and Impi’s bows swung.

  They saw open mouths yelling, and waving arms, and men started to jump overboard, then Impi’s bows carved through the wooden sides of the schooner with hardly a shudder, crushing wood and metal and flesh and bone. As the two ends of the vessel leapt up, one of the soldiers was flung in the air and, for a second before he disappeared, they saw him on a level with the bridge, his eyes wide in startled horror, his fingers clawing, his legs working as though he were running. All round the ship, men were rolling and tumbling in the wash of the bow wave and the wake, turning over and over in the turbulence, the air full of their shrieks. The schooner’s mast slid along the ship’s side, scraping over it with a scream against the steel, then it snapped off and, as Impi’s stern came round, they could see only disturbed water, a few broken planks and half a dozen bobbing heads.

  Nobody on Impi’s bridge spoke. The schooner seemed to have disappeared with all her cargo of men as if she had never existed. It was an appalling slaughter and, as they dragged a few soaked survivors aboard, they realised they had annihilated a battalion of a mountain regiment.

  Almost as soon as it was daylight, the dive bombers found them and they had to fight off a spirited attack which, though it brought no casualties, caused slight damage from a near miss to Ashby.

  ‘Ask all ships to report remaining ammunition,’ Kelly said. ‘We must be running low.’

  The replies were disturbing. Impi and Indian reported forty per cent remaining, while Verschoyle’s ships reported only thirty.

  ‘I suppose we’re doing some good,’ Kelly observed. ‘If only by attracting enemy aircraft away from everybody else.’

  ‘I’m not sure we are, sir,’ Latimer observed. ‘Force A reports being under heavy attack, and Carlisle’s been damaged. Force C’s also been attacked and they’ve hit Warspite. The two forces are now in company. ‘He looked serious. ‘The war at sea seems, as the fiction writers put it, to have blazed into life. The BBC reports Bismarck and Prinz Eugen are also at sea and heading into the Atlantic.’

  ‘God help the Atlantic convoys,’ Kelly said. ‘I’ll bet there are a lot of loins being girded up at home just now.’

  They were still digesting the thought of the two great ships getting among the merchantmen struggling across from America when they intercepted a signal announcing that the destroyer, Greyhound, and the cruiser, Gloucester, had been sunk.

  ‘Our turn tomorrow,’ Latimer said.

  Almost immediately Rumbelo sang out. ‘Aircraft! Dead ahead!’

  ‘Earlier than that, William,’ Kelly said. ‘Now.’

  As the ships drew closer together to give mutual support, the Stukas came in. Indian was hit by three bombs at once. Two of them blew the after boiler room and the engine-room open to the sea and the third detonated her after magazine. There was a tremendous explosion and as the smoke cleared they could see the ship hanging in the water in two blazing halves, surrounded by bobbing heads.

  Their guns still firing, Impi, Chatsworth, Hallamshire and Ashby moved among them, their scrambling nets down, dragging shocked, dazed and oil-soaked men from the sea. Some of them were weeping and it didn’t seem possible that they could take much more without respite. The human system could absorb only so many shocks before it broke down, and courage was a resource that could be drained away by the constant shattering of the nerves.

  As they swung south a signal arrived ordering them to sweep inside Kissamo and Canea Bays. There was no time to transfer Indian’s survivors and, as they entered the Antikithera channel, Ashby began to fall behind.

  ‘Ashby has “Not under control” balls up, sir.’

  The signals officer joined in. ‘Ashby reports steering defective,’ he said. ‘Helm jammed twenty degrees to starboard.’

  The damage, trivial at any other time, was a portent of disaster and Ashby was studied with dismay. With the constant threat of air attack without any effective defence, with every near miss the bomb with their number on grew mathematically closer, and Kelly could feel tiredness drain away his resolution. It was almost easier to lie down and let things occur as they would.

  Ashby’s trouble raised the problem of what to do with her and how to protect her and, for safety, he left her at the entrance to Canea Bay. As they probed into the darkness, almost running down a large caïque which they left burning, she reported her steering defect repaired. By this time every man aboard was exhausted and Kelly couldn’t remember when he had last left the bridge. His muscles ached and he had smoked cigarettes until his mouth felt charred. Most of the duty men, waiting with slumped shoulders at their guns, had remained at their positions through three watches, sustained by food prepared by cooks released briefly from their action stations. On the bridge they were no different, eating stale corned beef sandwiches and dipping dirty mugs into buckets of cocoa.

  As they picked up Ashby, they were warned by radio of approaching aircraft and soon after daylight high level Dorniers appeared.

  ‘Gets a bit like those old Douglas Fairbanks pictures, sir, doesn’t it?’ Latimer said. ‘You’ve no sooner leapt down the stairs and skewered a couple of bandits when you have to swing from the chandeliers on to a table to skewer two more.’

  The guns crashed out to keep the bombers high but they were persistent and Kelly saw the bombs falling towards them, a bunch of small black objects coming down in a shallow arc.

  ‘Hard a-port!’

  The ships scattered and, as Impi swung, the whole salvo fell between them. The aircraft circled for a while and they guessed they were calling up their friends and, sure enough, forty minutes later three more Dornier 215s appeared. Their bombs all went wide but Ashby reported that her steering gear had gone again. By this time the sun was well up and it was a perfect day, with the water glittering as the sun caught the waves.

  ‘Fuckin’ Mediterranean!’ some disgusted and exhausted sailor said below the bridge.

  ‘Christ, man–’ Siggis’ cheerful voice came up in reply ‘–old ladies pay ’undreds of pounds to come ’ere!’

  ‘Aircraft green five-oh!’ Rumbelo yelled. ‘Many aircraft!’

  ‘It gets monotonous,’ Latimer said. He was smiling, but it was a smile full of tiredness and strain.

  ‘There they are, sir. They’re dive-bombers.’

  ‘Enemy aircraft! Enemy aircraft! Green five-oh! Angle of sight three-oh! All close-range weapons load and commence tracking!’

  The yammer of the alarm bell mingled with shouts as the distinctive flat W of the Stukas’ wings became clear. With their fixed undercarriages, they looked like huge eagles with their claws down, stooping for a kill. Coming out of the rising sun, they were beginning to separate into two groups.

  The first group caught Ashby as she swung to port, all her guns firing, and Kelly saw the bombs crash into the sea all round her. Then a flight of six separated from the second group and started their dive. Without waiting to give orders, Kelly put the telegraphs to ‘Full ahead’.

  ‘Hard a-starboard!’

  The turn brought the ship back on its tracks underneath the diving aircraft and two of the bombs missed to port while the third aircraft failed to pull out of its dive and crashed into the sea with a tremendous splash.

  ‘One!’

  ‘Two!’ Latimer yelled. ‘Siggis got one!’

  One of the climbing machines was trailing smoke. A parachute blossomed below it just before it exploded in a flare of flame.

  ‘Hard a-port!’

  ‘They’ve got Ashby!’

  Swinging round on his stool, Kelly saw that Ashby, on fire amidships, was slowing to a stop and settling rapidly. Her loss would force the rest of them to stop to pick up survivors and every man aboard knew they’d be sitting ducks.

  ‘Here they come again!’

  ‘Hard a-starboard!’

  Imp
i was turning at full speed as the Stuka came in low over the stern. The barrage of flak seemed overwhelming and impenetrable. The guns’ crews were working like madmen, their weapons blotching the sky with shell bursts, but the aircraft still came on.

  ‘Midships. Steady.’ The navigator’s voice was quite calm. ‘Hold her there.’

  The bomb seemed to hang below the aircraft as it was released, poised over the ship for what seemed an age, growing larger and larger as it came nearer, as if it were a balloon being blown up by a child.

  Siggis’ guns were hammering away and they saw the Stuka lift away with pieces falling off the wing. With everybody else’s eyes on the aeroplane as it began to tilt to one side in a sideslip towards the sea, Kelly was watching the bomb. Half-consciously he saw the splash in the corner of his eye as the aeroplane went in, then the deck jarred under his feet as the bomb struck with a shattering explosion that jarred his spine and made his teeth feel loose.

  Eight

  The bomb had landed behind the bridge and burst in the foremost boiler room in a dull eruption of flame. An immense explosion shuddered the ship and wrenched out a vast vomit of twisted steel, splintered boats, sparks, water and smoke. A huge cloud of soot flew up from the shredded funnel with a perfect ring of smoke and came down in a spreading cloud of black. Holes appeared in the bridge plating, while a man running for shelter was cut almost in two and flung against the bridge ladder to smear it with his blood.

  When they lifted their heads, X gun had vanished as if it had never been there, leaving only a gaping hole surrounded by jagged blades of shining steel. The searchlight had also gone and among the debris lay the remains of the crew, the blistered paint of the deck splashed with their blood. Flying splinters had scythed their way through the men on the deck, until the bridge structure looked like a colander. A petty officer, his face soot-black, one eye a pit of blood, was huddled against the scarred plates looking as though someone had fired a gigantic shotgun at him, his body and face full of red holes pumping blood. One of the gunners, his face already the colour of slate, was curled up like an unborn child, moaning, and across his body was draped one of his mates, the top of his head sheered off as cleanly as if someone had used a huge chopper so that his brains were oozing down his face.

  The second wave of bombers was coming down on them now, and Latimer’s voice, cracked with shouting, lifted hoarsely. ‘Here they come again!’

  ‘Midships!’ Kelly spoke automatically, knowing that the bombers would be aiming off for a starboard turn but, expecting the ship to right herself as she came out of the swing, he realised that the deck was still canted over at an angle and, though he couldn’t see from the bridge how far the bomb damage extended, instinctively he knew that Impi was mortally hit.

  ‘Hard a-port!’

  Expecting the ship to swing the other way, he knew his suspicions about her wound were correct as she continued to swing to starboard. Then he realised the list was increasing and that she was no longer turning but was heeling over on to her side.

  ‘Stop engines!’

  The voice pipe buzzer went and Latimer answered it.

  ‘Coxswain reports ship won’t answer helm, sir,’ he reported. ‘And there’s no reply to engine-room telegraphs.’

  Kelly drew a deep breath. A and B guns and the point-fives were still pounding away and, just to port, Verschoyle’s two remaining ships were sending up a terrific barrage. One of the Stukas peeled off and crashed into the sea, but Ashby was low in the water now, her stern awash, and men were trying to throw overboard Carley’s, wooden rafts and anything else that would float.

  In the shambles of twisted steel and torn bodies, sobbing, swearing sailors were trying to clear the deck for the damage party. But it was too late and Impi was already settling. Figures were bursting through the smoke, heads down, their arms raised against the flames, when the next wave of Stukas roared down into the barrage that Impi’s guns were still sending up. The list was steadily increasing and it was only then that Kelly realised the bomb had wrenched away the starboard side hull plates under the vanished X gun and the ship was taking in tons of water.

  The whole of the stern was in flames now, terrible beyond words, and when another bomb struck her, Impi seemed to shudder like a tortured animal. The bridge screen was shattered and the compasses smashed. The bridge messenger was still clinging to it, moaning, and as Kelly, struggling to regain comprehension, turned towards him, he saw that smoke enveloped everything aft of the bridge, which was a tangle of bunting, fallen halyards and aerials. Through the voice pipes he could hear the despairing cries of those trapped below. The bridge was already tilting but men were still being dragged from the blaze. As the list increased, the wounded and dying began to slide towards the inferno, then somewhere in the smoke there was another explosion and it suddenly dawned on him that Impi was rolling right over.

  ‘Abandon ship,’ he shouted. ‘Save yourself, William!’

  Turning, he saw Rumbelo just behind him, his steel helmet gone and blood on his face.

  ‘Get going, Albert,’ he said.

  Rumbelo looked stubborn. ‘After you,’ he said.

  ‘Get going!’ Kelly roared.

  Rumbelo stared at him for a second, frowning, then he turned abruptly and scuttled down the bridge ladder.

  As the sea poured into the broken hull, the water rose – slowly at first, but steadily and quite distinctly – then it came in a roaring maelstrom of water and, with men struggling clear of swinging stays and falling equipment, Impi leaned over on her side at a grotesque angle in the sea. Another aircraft came in and its bomb hit the deck over A boiler room and brought the foremast crashing down across the Bofors. The deck lurched and Kelly fell to his knees, then it seemed to slew, one side lifting crazily.

  One eye on the sky, he saw Latimer leaning over the bridge rail, shouting to men below, and Siggis and his crew struggling free from the debris and the trailing wires of the aerials to drag the wounded to the side as the deck lurched again, then suddenly he realised there was water all round him and that Latimer, the navigator and the yeoman of signals had all disappeared. Climbing on to the gyro compass pedestal, he stared round him, feeling the ship cant further and further to starboard. Stokers were struggling up from below, bursting out of doorways and hatches, their eyes starting from their heads with their efforts, but there was no panic, only haste, and he could still see men pushing life rafts into the sea.

  For a while he clung on, then the sea swept him away like the breaking of a dam. As it roared over him, he kept his head enough to take a deep breath. Finding himself in darkness, his ears filled with the rush and crashing of water, he realised that the ship was upside down, still moving ahead under her own momentum, and that he was underneath her and terrified of dying alone.

  It was pitch dark, then, as he fought free of familiar objects and trailing guy wires and aerials that were dragging him down, he saw a faint glimmer of light appear. As it grew, the blackness became green and, his lungs bursting, he forced himself to keep his mouth shut, even clapping his right hand over his mouth to pinch his nostrils together. Slowly the light grew brighter and, in desperation, he had to open his mouth. The water rushed in, choking him, then, with a great spluttering, agonised gasp, he burst to surface, shooting above the water almost to his waist as he broke free. Alongside him, Impi was still moving slowly ahead, her stern sticking up, all red lead and weed, her propellers still turning in the air as she slid forward and downward, trailing a cloak of wreckage, wires, and bodies.

  Terrified he’d be dragged down with her, he swam as hard as he could to struggle clear. The ship had turned turtle so fast, not a single boat had been launched and there appeared to be only two Carleys in the sea. Everything else had gone with the ship. Then a bulk of timber shot to the surface a few yards away, leaping out of the water like a dolphin in a cloud of spray to slap back with a splash.

  Men were clustering round the raft where he recognised Latimer by the stripes o
n his shoulders standing up yelling at them. His face was black with oil and his hair was plastered across his face. More men were heading towards the raft and the yeoman of signals passed Kelly still wearing his steel helmet. It made him look like a tortoise in the water, then he suddenly became aware of its weight, wrenched it off and tossed it away.

  Swimming towards one of the Carleys, he saw a row of splashes cross the sea ahead of him and wondered what they were. Then, with a roar one of the Stukas swept overhead, her machine guns going. As the splashes approached again, he drew a deep breath and dived below the water, and when he came up, the Carley seemed to have emptied of all but lolling men and Latimer had been hit in both legs and was sprawled across the bulge of the side.

  Reaching the raft, he saw there was only one uninjured man on board and he ordered him to climb out so they could push more injured aboard. They had no sooner finished when the Stukas came again and half the men they’d just pushed aboard were killed in the new attack. Laboriously, gasping and spluttering, they lifted them out and pushed more aboard. It was an agonising experience because everybody was covered with oil and it was impossible to get a grip on the half-naked bodies. Pulling one of the stokers towards the raft, Kelly found his head bumping against a mat of dead men, and he could see the navigator trying frantically to claw his way over the slimy oil-covered side to pull men aboard. All round him he could hear the choking cries of drowning sailors, and the whole business was made more gruesome by the calm sea and the brilliant sunshine.

  A young sailor no more than eighteen clung alongside him. He wore nothing but a vest and his face and body were so charred he looked bald and black and wet-through at the same time. They tried to push him into the raft but he died as they did so and they had to let him float away and save someone else instead.

  Wild-eyed and gasping, looking like a nigger minstrel under the fuel oil that stung his eyes, Kelly stared around him. As the raft lifted on a gentle swell, he saw that Ashby had also disappeared and that there was another knot of bobbing heads about a quarter of a mile away. Then nearby, squatting on a floating spar, spitting with fury, he saw the ship’s cat, its bedraggled fur sticking up in spikes.