Kleber's Convoy

by Antony Trew

  In the operations-room in Fidelix and in the U-boat tracking-room in Whitehall, the movements of the Kola U-boats were being studied and analysed. In the time that had elapsed between their responses to the High Command’s two signals, the ‘fourteen’ submarines had steered courses between north and north-west, and had travelled distances varying from ten to fifteen miles.

  Although the courses steered were not convergent, they indicated a general movement towards the north-western extremity of the Skolpen Bank.

  The Vice-Admiral examined the plot closely before moving across to the chart of the Murman coast and the radar displays.

  ‘Well,’ he said to his operations-officer, Rory McLeod. ‘At this stage I’d say their tactical plan is to concentrate to the north-west of the Skolpen Bank. They know the minefield’s there and that’s important for two reasons. One, they are aware that our present course takes us to the Bank. I imagine they assume – and it’s a reasonable assumption – that we’ll close it within the next six to seven hours. Then we shall have to decide whether to pass north or south of the minefield. By concentrating on the north-western rim of the Bank they cover either route.’

  From under bushy eyebrows the Vice-Admiral’s sun-wrinkled eyes switched from Rory McLeod to Cockburn, the navigating officer. ‘Agree with that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison. McLeod added, ‘You said the enemy’s knowledge of this minefield on the Skolpen Bank was important for two reasons. You mentioned the first. What was the second, sir?’

  ‘The second’s pretty obvious. Look.’ The Vice-Admiral pointed to the plot. ‘They’ve split into two groups. One, of six U-boats, is evidently steering to pass to the west of the minefield. The other eight are on courses to the east of it. If they didn’t know there was a minefield there they’d be taking the shortest route. In other words they’d be steering convergent courses. I may be wrong. When the High Command next asks for their positions we’ll know.’

  ‘And in the meantime, sir?’ McLeod watched the Vice-Admiral closely.

  ‘We hold on. Allowing a surfaced U-boat eleven or twelve knots in this weather – and that’s generous – I doubt if those with the least distance to go can get into position much before 1400. Those with farthest to go, before 1530. If we maintain this course, we’ll be all of thirty miles west of the Skolpen Bank by 1530. Provided nothing crops up in the meantime, that will be the moment to make our decision. By then we’ll have a pretty good idea where our friends are and what they’re up to.’

  He looked at the chart again. ‘You’ve done the staff course, McLeod. D’you go along with my rather potted appreciation of the situation?’

  McLeod grinned. ‘Entirely, sir. Only sorry I can’t produce folios of beautifully typed appreciations as we did at Greenwich. You know, sir: Courses of action open to the enemy. Enemy’s probable course of action …’

  ‘Etcetera,’ interrupted the Vice-Admiral who was an ex-submariner. ‘Good mental discipline that, but I’m all for looking at the chart and the weather and asking what I’d do if I were the enemy.’

  Cockburn then mumbled something under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ challenged the Vice-Admiral.

  ‘Nothing, sir. I was just thinking.’

  ‘H’m.’ The Vice-Admiral looking at him speculatively. ‘If you always mumble when you think you should see a doctor.’

  Rory McLeod saved the situation. ‘It’s clear that we’re being shadowed, sir.’

  The Vice-Admiral swung round as if shifting guns to a new target. ‘Of course we are, my dear chap, and it’s pretty obvious it’s our friend KLEBER, the phony weather reporter. His so-called weather report has been the only B-Bar transmission this forenoon. It was retransmitted soon afterwards by the German High Command. Now we know that the Kola patrol line is concentrating ahead of us. So much for that weather report.’ The Vice-Admiral snorted.

  ‘But the weather reports are remarkably accurate, sir,’ said McLeod. ‘Nothing phony about them in that sense.’

  ‘They are and that’s puzzling. But there’s something odd about those signals. The KLEBER and the four Xs and those unbreakable cypher groups. They probably tie up with something else to make a sighting report. I’m pretty certain of that.’ He blew his nose loudly, ‘Or have you gentlemen alternative suggestions?’

  ‘As you say, sir. If there’s another shadower we’d have picked up his B-Bar sighting report,’ said McLeod.

  ‘Good old staff course,’ said the Vice-Admiral. ‘It gets you there in the end.’ He drew in his lips, puffed out his cheeks and frowned. ‘This damned weather. If we could fly off aircraft there wouldn’t be a surfaced U-boat within a hundred miles.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the navigating officer, anxious to make amends. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  The Vice-Admiral glared at him.

  The U-boat tracking-room in Whitehall had reached much the same conclusions as the Vice-Admiral. There, too, it had been decided to await further information of U-boat movements before coming to explicit conclusions.

  The timid knock repeated several times roused Redman from half sleep. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Me, sir.’ The curtain was pulled aside and Cupido stood wedged in the doorway of the sea-cabin, his drawn face unnaturally red in the gleam of the cabin light. To Redman there was something Mephistophelean about the bony forehead, high cheek bones and sunken eyes. He did not know, nor for that matter did the steward, that Cupido was suffering from a gastric ulcer. Cupido had not taken his troubles to the doctor. To him it was just a gnawing pain, the turn of a knife in his bowels. Something he’d been getting on these journeys to Russia. Couldn’t eat much without feeling sick afterwards. He’d put it down to indigestion. Meals were at irregular times because the ship’s company was so often closed up at action stations. Mostly false alarms. He blamed no one. It was just a fact of life.

  For several reasons Cupido evinced in Redman feelings of hostility. The young steward breathed garlic at him; the meals he brought to the sea-cabin which should have been hot were almost invariably cold; and he so often looked scruffy. He did now, standing in the doorway, a grey woollen balaclava over his head, a piece of spunyarn tied round the waist of his watch-coat from which buttons were missing, his seaboots several sizes too large. He dripped water like a dog fresh from a stream. Powdered snow on his eyebrows gave him the appearance of a bedraggled Father Christmas. One hand held the doorframe, steadying him against the movement of the ship, the other clutched the food-carrier.

  ‘Your lunch, sir,’ said Cupido apologetically.

  Redman looked at the cabin clock, got off the bunk, stood back to make room. Cupido came into the cabin, put the food-carrier on the deck, pulled the small folding table from the bulkhead.

  ‘Where’s your picking-up harness, Cupido?’

  ‘Under me watch-coat, sir.’

  Redman frowned at the food-carrier.

  ‘What is it today?’ The hoarse, toneless voice was the measure of the captain’s exhaustion.

  ‘Mutton, french beans and potatoes, sir. Steam pudding and treacle. And coffee, sir.’ Cupido opened the carrier, took from it the plates of food, the cup, coffee pot and cutlery, and set them into the fiddles on the table.

  Redman looked at the food doubtfully, felt it with the back of his hand. First the meat and vegetables, then the steamed pudding and finally the coffee jug. He frowned at Cupido through red-rimmed eyes. ‘Lukewarm to cold as usual.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Cupido, adding under his breath. ‘Do me best.’

  Redman shook his head, tightened his lips, said nothing. Cupido feared him most when he was like that.

  The steward sighed, gathered and steadied himself, took a last sad look at the captain and staggered into the wheel-house. There the combination of an exaggerated pitch and roll threw him against the man at the wheel. ‘Watch it, cock.’ said the quartermaster. ‘You’ll sink the bloody ship.’

  The bows of U-0153 plunged into a
head sea. A great wave leapt from the darkness, swept down the casing and broke against the conning-tower, its crest cascading on to the small bridge.

  But for the steel belts which secured them to the superstructure, Willi Schluss, Emil Meyer the executive officer, and the bridge dutymen would have been swept over the side. The icy water drained away and Schluss, gripping the rail inside the bridge screen, gasped for breath. Through the voice-pipe he spoke to Brückner the navigating officer in the control-room. ‘Wieviel Fahrt machen wir … what speed are we doing?’

  ‘Zehn Knoten, Herr Kapitän.’

  ‘Ten knots! Too much for this weather. Reduce to revolutions for eight knots.’

  ‘Eight knots?’ Brückner’s incredulity travelled up the voice-pipe.

  ‘Yes. Conditions are impossible up here.’

  But for the darkness Willi Schluss would have seen the near frozen face of the executive officer beside him crease into a painful smile. Emil Meyer knew that Hugo Kolb in the engine-room would reduce to the revolutions ordered but later, without the captain’s authority, he would slowly increase them again. Brückner – like most of the officers, he was in league with Kolb – would, as he had just done, understate the speed by a couple of knots when the captain next complained. And he certainly would complain, reflected Meyer. He was a frightened little man. Of course conditions on the bridge were impossible. What did he expect them to be when a submarine drove hard into a force 7 Arctic gale. But this was war. Not a training exercise in the Baltic.

  Emil Meyer knew that Schluss had set a course ten degrees farther to the southward than Brückner reported as necessary to reach KLEBER’s position. Brückner had objected but Schluss reprimanded him, pointing out that Plan X stressed the need to keep well to the southward in making the approach.

  Brückner protested that the course he’d given already allowed for that. Schluss, with some sharpness, had reminded Brückner who was in command.

  For his part Willi Schluss, though he suspected that his officers operated some sort of cabal against him, felt relieved though only temporarily. If he could delay the approach of the submarine sufficiently, they might not be able to reach Kleber’s convoy by 1530, the time set by High Command for completion of the concentration. With luck U-0153 could still be too late for the battle.

  Chief Petty Officer Barnes, Vengeful’s coxswain and senior CPO, knocked on the open door of the first-lieutenant’s cabin. The first-lieutenant looked up. ‘Come in, coxswain.’

  The coxswain brandished the manilla file and book he was carrying. ‘Defaulters and requestmen, sir.’

  ‘Good – or rather bad. What have we got?’

  ‘Nothing much, sir. Mostly requestmen. A few defaulters.’

  The first-lieutenant leant back in his chair and regarded the coxswain with a friendly smile. Barnes was a first-class chief-petty-officer, the most important cog in the upper deck’s non-commissioned wheel, the smooth operation of which was so vital to the life of the ship.

  ‘One awkward case, sir. AB Farley. We can stand him over until tomorrow if you wish. We’ll be in harbour then.’

  The first-lieutenant groaned. ‘Not him again. What’s he been up to this time? Peeing into a messmate’s seaboot last week, wasn’t it. Taken short in the night and hadn’t time to make the heads.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s what he said.’ The coxswain’s expression conveyed his disbelief of Farley’s defence. ‘Bit more difficult this time, sir. He’s come up against Petty Officer Tanner again.’

  The first-lieutenant frowned, ‘Petty Officer Tanner charged him last time. You don’t think …’ He hesitated. ‘You don’t think Tanner has it in for him, do you?’

  ‘No, sir. Loot’nant O’Brien is Farley’s divisional officer. He’ll bear me out, sir. It’s just Farley. Got a chip on his shoulder, sir. Looks for trouble.’

  The first-lieutenant sighed. ‘I expect you’re right. Tanner’s a good petty officer. What happened?’

  ‘Well, sir. It begun Monday. Down in the seamen’s mess-deck. Petty Officer Tanner tells Farley to get a bucket and scrubber and brighten up the mess-table.’

  ‘Farley was cook of the mess that day, was he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The coxswain shuffled the papers in the file and cleared his throat. ‘Well, then, sir, Farley doesn’t say anything. Just makes this objectionable noise.’

  ‘What sort of objectionable noise, coxswain?’

  ‘Passes wind, sir.’

  ‘In other words, Farley farted.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But that’s not an offence, coxswain.’

  ‘The way he did was, sir. There were witnesses. Men on the messdeck. Watch below. Long and deliberate, they said it was.’

  ‘I don’t really see how anyone can decide that a fart is deliberate, coxswain. Even if it’s long.’

  ‘That’s not all, sir.’

  ‘After the first one, sir …’ The coxswain looked pained. ‘… after that Petty Officer Tanner says, “Watch it, Farley. I’m not standing for that.” Farley doesn’t answer. Just lets off another long one again, sir.’

  ‘Must have had a lot of wind stored up somewhere, coxswain.’

  ‘Must have, sir. He does it twice more after that. Four times in all. Bach time Petty Officer Tanner speaks to him. Deliberate, sir. Doesn’t say a word. Just passes wind.’

  The first-lieutenant was thoughtful. ‘Remarkable achievement. I must talk to the doctor about it sometime. What’s he charged with, coxswain?’

  ‘Well, sir. Petty Officer Tanner laid a charge of dumb insolence.’

  The first-lieutenant shook his head. ‘Won’t wash, I mean he wasn’t exactly dumb and anyway that was scrubbed from K.R. and A.I.1 years ago. You know that, coxswain.’

  ‘That’s what I told Petty Offices Tanner, sir.’

  ‘So what’s the charge?’

  The coxswain thumbed the file of papers, swaying from side to side to counter the movement of the ship. ‘Conduct prejudicial to the maintenance of good order and …’

  The end of his sentence was drowned by the action alarm bells.

  1 King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The echoes became blurred and faint, the extent of target grew rapidly and then faded until there was nothing. From the asdic cabinet Lofty Groves reported, ‘Shoal of fish, sir.’ Vengeful’s action alarm had turned out to be, like so many before, a false one.

  Redman said, ‘Resume normal sweep,’ adding for the benefit of no one in particular, ‘Damn and blast the bloody fish.’ To the yeoman he said, ‘Inform Bluebird that the contact was non-sub.’ He turned to the first-lieutenant. ‘Secure, Number One. Resume normal war cruising stations. See that all hands get a hot meal as soon as possible. We’ve a busy time coming.’

  The first-lieutenant said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ but he thought, for God’s sake – as if I hadn’t already thought of that.

  To Pownall, who was officer-of-the-watch, Redman said, ‘She’s yours, pilot. Take her back into station.’

  Pownall said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and went to the compass platform.

  Redman stood at a clear-view screen gazing into the darkness ahead. Not that he could see anything, but he could think. He was nearer to exhaustion than he realised. Lack of sleep, attacks of bronchial asthma and a nagging headache were wearing him down and his thoughts were a confusion of reality and fantasy.

  To get back into station Vengeful had to steam into the gale. Solid seas came over her bows and broke against the fo’c’sle breakwater and ‘hedgehog’, clouds of spray sweeping the bridge, the heavy elements sluicing away the snow which lay everywhere, the lighter freezing where they fell.

  Redman stood with legs straddled, mittened hands on the bridge rail, steadying himself against the movement of the ship. He scarcely noticed the scream of the wind, the slap and roar of the sea, but his subconscious registered each ping of the asdic, every word relayed by the TBS bridge-speaker as escorts spoke to eac
h other. It did so while odd unrelated thoughts drifted through his mind-like the fact that he’d not changed his clothes for eight days, that he was acutely conscious of the odour of his body, that a rash had developed inside his thighs – ‘Captain’s Crutch’ they called it – that JW 137 was due at the Kola Inlet at 1000 the next morning: time now close to 1300: twenty-one hours to go. What would they bring?

  Ahead of the convoy lay the Skolpen Bank and the minefield. With heavy-lidded eyes he peered into the darkness and on the screen of his mind saw fourteen U-boats driving through the gale towards the Bank. Conditions on the small bridges above their conning-towers would be appalling – worse than on Vengeful’s – but that would not deter them.

  His thoughts switched to the enemy’s signals. The German High Command in ordering U-boats to concentrate for an attack on a convoy invariably used the name of the U-boat captain who was shadowing it as a reference. Yet there had been no B-Bar signals other than the KLEBER weather reports. Was the weather reporter the shadower? The latest High Command signals had referred the Gruppe Osten, and HF/DF bearings of the fourteen U-boats acknowledging indicated that they were making for a position to the northwest of the Skolpen Bank. It was all too much for his tired mind, but he decided the weather reporter must be the shadower. Somewhere to windward, then, within ten or twelve miles, in steep seas and howling wind, hidden by darkness and blizzard, a surfaced U-boat was shadowing them. On the bridge there would be men, among them Kleber, the captain. He, too, would be peering into the darkness, but down-wind, towards the convoy, knowing that he would see nothing but impelled always to look towards the sector from which the radar impulses came.

  Redman moved across to the PPI and watched the sweep of its arm as if, among all those pips of light, he might see the shadower far to the south-west. But he knew it was not possible in that weather. Conditions for both radar and asdics, were bad, and with so much wave-clutter on the screen there would be no hope of isolating the momentary blip of a distant trimmed-down U-boat. While he watched the PPI he tussled with the insistent question … which Kleber? Could it be Hans? No, it couldn’t, he would reassure himself. The coincidence was too remote. Then doubt would return, and with it misery.