The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  By dawn, they’d be well inside the bombing zone. This quite apart from the chance that just east of Bear Island might be where Tirpitz and Scharnhorst were patrolling. At slow revs, conserving fuel, one might guess.

  He reminded himself, Remember Vian.

  “Captain, sir?”

  “Yes, pilot.”

  Christie told him, “Coming up for one o’clock, sir, and Bear Island will be abeam. We should alter to oh-nine-oh.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He’d use TBS—talk-between-ships—to pass the course alteration to the destroyers. The VHF telephone system wasn’t detectable over any great distance—over more than the radius covered now by the type 271 radar, for instance—and it was by far the best way of communicating quickly with a number of ships at once.

  “Rabble, this is Thief. Course, zero-nine-zero. I say again—course, zero-nine-zero. Over …”

  Christie was using the set himself. Rabble was the collective call-sign for the destroyer force, the five here and the pair fifteen thousand yards astern. Foremost, back there in the darkness and identifiable only as a blip on the 271 screen, would pass the order to the commodore, who’d promulgate it to the other merchantmen by fixed signal-lights at his masthead. Meanwhile the Rabble had a routine sequence in which to respond. Moloch first, with her call-sign Tinker: then Laureate, Legend, Leopard, Lyric, Foremost and Harpy, identifying themselves as Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Richman, Poorman and Beggarman.

  Nick went aft to the chart-table, to light his pipe under the cover of its hood. He heard the acknowledgements coming in; and he could visualise Tommy Trench—six foot four in his socks and broad in proportion, looming over Moloch’s jolting, swaying bridge as he listened to the same sequence of replies. Trench who in Akureyri had wrung Nick’s hand, beaming in delight at their reunion … “Heard you got spliced, sir. In Australia?”

  He’d nodded. “Yes, Tommy. Kate’s in England now, though. And we have a son, getting on for a year.”

  “Well, that’s splendid!” Trench’s broad, infectious grin … “Bit late for congratulations, sir, but all the same—”

  “Thanks, Tommy. And how’s your family?”

  “Two sprogs now—boy and a girl!”

  “Don’t you ever put in any sea-time?”

  He had the pipe going: he ducked out from the chart-table cabouche. Christie reported, “They’ve all acknowledged, sir. Executive?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Course would become due east now, rounding Bear Island and leaving it about fifty miles to starboard. That course, with the edge of the ice roughly thirty to forty miles north of their track, would be held until dark tomorrow evening. Then there’d be a turn southwards for the run down to the White Sea.

  Barring prior interference, of course.

  Kate had begged him, the last night they’d been together, “Please, be careful?”

  He’d kissed her. “I always am.”

  “Like hell you are!”

  “Nowadays. I have a wife and child, you see.”

  “Just keep us in mind, huh?”

  He’d had no answer to such an unnecessary instruction. But she’d burst out again—later when he’d been dozing and woken abruptly with her voice in his ear—“I’m scared, Nick! I hate it, I’m not used to being this way!”

  “What?” Half asleep still, having to struggle to make sense of it—not only with waking, the blurred mind and sense of alarm, but with Kate’s panic, startlingly out of character … “Darling, what are you talking about?”

  “All I can say is it’s real, and I’m frightened, and …”

  “I don’t know what you’re telling me.” Drawing her closer, tight against him. By this time she’d woken fully and so had he. She was crying—wetfaced, his shoulder damp from it. “Kate, darling what’s this nonsense?”

  Some dream she’d had? Intuition?

  He’d told her, “You must have been dreaming. Forget it, now. Everything’s all right, my darling …”

  Calliope was under helm, carving a bright curve of white in black, icecold sea.

  Dawn: radar screens still empty.

  He’d slept and dozed, hearing the watches change, the murmur of nightwatch routines, the roar of the ship’s fans and the slamming and creaking of her motion as she zigzagged eastward. Now, with her company at action stations as the light grew and no enemy showed up, he was about to turn her back to the convoy to resume the day cruising formation, which was designed for countering air attack.

  To port, at some indefinable distance, fog lay like a rolled blanket along what would be the beginning of the ice, the loose litter of its fringes perhaps twenty miles away. Fog was to be expected, where air warmed by its passage over the long northerly drift of the Gulf Stream suddenly found itself on ice, and reacted in white vapour. It might hang there all day, or you might come to an edge where it abruptly ended. Or you could run into and through patches a hundred miles deep, slowly drifting.

  It looked fairly clear ahead and to the south. Daylight entrenched now, and in Calliope’s bridge wind-whipped, stubbled faces were clearly visible to each other. Nick slid off his seat, and stretched. Glancing round, seeing bridge staff at their action stations—Treseder with his glasses up, feet straddled against the roll, Swanwick the ADO farther aft near the port target-indicator sight and his panel of communications to the close-range weapons. Harvey-Smith was at the binnacle: an unhappy man, ambitions disappointed years ago. Pennifold the torpedo lieutenant—roundfaced and double-chinned despite the fact he wasn’t thirty yet. The tin hat on his head made him look even rounder: and Pennifold might be persuaded to take some exercise, Nick thought. Not that he was going to be able to do much with this crowd, as a new arrival and expecting to stay no more than a month or two … Bruce Christie had binoculars up and sweeping the blind side, the fog-bank to the north: close to his elbow was the chief yeoman, CPO Ellinghouse, squat and frog-like with that wide, heavy jaw.

  Nick told Treseder, “Fall out action stations. Better send them to breakfast right away.”

  So as to get the meal over quickly, while things were quiet. This peace couldn’t last much longer. If it lasted the whole day, so that tonight PQ 19 would be starting the southward run still without having been detected, that simpleton of a staff officer in Akureyri would have been proved right— which seemed, to say the least, unlikely.

  At 0740 there was an “Immediate” from CS 39 …

  Am being shadowed by Focke Wulf. My position 74° 12’ North 18° 40’ East, course 060 speed 15. Convoy is approximately 60 miles to the north. Intend turning south and west if air attacks develop.

  That “if” was somewhat superfluous, Nick thought. If Kidd was being shadowed, it wouldn’t be long before he came under attack. The message ended with a weather report and was addressed to Admiralty, repeated AIG 311—meaning all ships and authorities concerned with PQ 19—and to SBNO, North Russia.

  “I’m going down for a shave. Who’s PCO?”

  “I am, sir.”

  Spalding, the gunnery officer. “PCO” stood for Principal Control Officer: he, Treseder and Christie shared the job, when Nick himself was off the bridge.

  The cruiser squadron’s position was twenty miles southeast of Bear Island. Kidd’s present course of 060, northeasterly, was bringing him up closer to the convoy’s track. He must have passed well south of Bear Island during the night, but his intention as indicated in this signal was to turn away from the convoy rather than draw attackers up towards it.

  The wild card was still the Tirpitz.

  “Ready for your breakfast sir?”

  Percy Tomblin, back again. The ship’s company had already fed, but Nick hadn’t wanted it, earlier; he’d been conning her back into the convoy formation when Tomblin had last suggested it.

  “Yes, please.” Wiping foam from the razor. “Up here, right away.” But he needn’t have rushed it. It was an hour and a half before CS 39’s next signal came in …

  Under attack by
Ju 88s. My position 30 miles SE of Bear Island, course 130.

  Evidently Kidd had changed his mind about altering to south and west; he must have decided that the battle group was still potentially a threat to the convoy. He was increasing his distance from PQ 19, but in fact only cutting the corner of the convoy’s planned route, so he was keeping his squadron in the general area where he could hope to take a hand in any surface action that did develop.

  Nick thought about it, and arrived at two conclusions. One, the Admiralty was unlikely to sanction CS 39’s continued presence in such extremely dangerous waters, not for much longer or unless there was some solid expectation of a meeting with the battle group. Two, the air activity down there would surely extend itself northwards soon, at least in terms of reconnaissance initially; the Germans weren’t all stupid, they’d realise that a cruiser force wasn’t subjecting itself to air attack for no purpose. He told McLoughlin, yeoman of the watch, “By lamp to the commodore—‘In view of enemy air activity in the south, propose altering mean course to north for about two hours.’ ”

  Use of the word “propose” was a courtesy to the commodore. “Intend” would have been more accurate. As escort commander he, not the commodore, was responsible for PQ 19’s defence, and whether Insole liked the idea or not he was going to get closer to that fog, close enough to make use of it if he needed to.

  Insole concurred.

  “Right. Yeoman—by TBS to Rabble …”

  Time, 0920.

  At 1019, CS 39 signalled:

  Large formation of He 111 torpedo bombers and Ju 88s approaching from south. My course 290 speed 18.

  Kidd shouldn’t have been allowed east of Bear Island, Nick thought. Hindsight, of course; but that message reminded him of Crete in 1941, when such alarms had been commonplace and as often as not the preliminaries to much worse news. Ships operating without air cover close to enemy air bases—it was an old, old story. That signal said it all: and having been there oneself, on occasion, no description of what it would be like for those ships was necessary.

  Treseder murmured, “Afraid they’re in for it.”

  At least the convoy was ten miles farther from the bombing than it had been an hour ago. Pretty soon they’d catch a sight of the ice: then he’d turn, head east again. He asked Treseder, “You were in the Crete thing, weren’t you?”

  “I was sunk in Fiji sir.” The commander nodded. “Picked up by Kandahar. At least we had a warmish sea to swim in.” He nodded again, catching Nick’s meaning. “Yes. There’s a familiar ring.”

  It rang worse at 1034.

  Minotaur hit on “B” turret. Attacks continuing, mostly highlevel Ju 88s. Two He 111s and one Ju 88 destroyed.

  Ice was visible ahead at 1050. A blue-green, fiery shimmer under lowlying haze; but the fog had rolled back, piled and driven by a freshening southwest wind. The ice-edge was farther south than one might have expected at this time of year. It meant the fog wasn’t going to be quite the ally he’d been looking for—except as an obscuring background against which these ships would be less easily visible from the south.

  “Yeoman—make to the commodore, ‘Propose resuming mean course 090.’ And by TBS to Rabble, ‘Stand by to resume mean course east.’ “

  The Aldis began to stammer out the message, while Clark, signal yeoman in this forenoon watch, passed the stand-by order over the radio-telephone. Nick asked Christie, “What’s our distance from the cruisers?”

  “Plot makes it ninety miles, sir.”

  Better than he’d thought. And as Kidd was now steering west, convoy course of due east would widen the gap fast. And then of course, if you ran into the Tirpitz you’d be sorry … But PQ 19 might stay lucky, for a while … The W/T office bell rang: Christie answered the voicepipe, and listened grimly.

  “Very good. Send it up.”

  He came over to Nick’s corner. “Signal from CS 39, sir. Simultaneous bombing and torpedo attacks in progress. Four more aircraft destroyed and further minor damage sustained by Minotaur. Then he gives a position, course still two-nine-oh and speed eighteen.”

  PO Clark suggested, “Executive, sir?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The executive order was being passed, and that signal was arriving in the bridge; destroyers were racing to adjust their stations. Swanwick the ADO called from the after end of the bridge, “Bogey on one-six-oh, range fourteen, closing!”

  “One single aircraft?”

  In other words, a single reconnaissance plane, or an attack on its way? For just a snooper, he wouldn’t call the ship’s company to action stations … “Yeoman—hoist ‘aircraft bearing’—whatever it is … Pilot, have the W/T office stand by with a position and ‘am being shadowed by aircraft.’ “

  Christie kept Bliss and the padre—who did their cyphering job in the plot—supplied with regularly updated position, course and speed data. It was to the plot he was talking now, through its voicepipe. And that flag-hoist was whisking up—the aeroplane flag, a red diamond on white background, surmounting the bearing pendant and three numerals—one, six, zero.

  Swanwick had confirmed this was a single aircraft approaching. You’d know when the pilot sighted the convoy, because the right-to-left movement—which he’d also just reported—would cease as he turned towards.

  A new range now, new bearing. The ADO’s communications were to the radar offices, the director tower, guns and close-range weapons; and his target-bearing indicators, one each side of the bridge, could put either the director or the guns on to a target first spotted from the bridge. It was a very flexible system.

  The convoy was steadying on its course of east. Nick moved from one side of the bridge to the other, checking around and astern to see whether any of the ships might be letting out enough smoke to catch a German observer’s eye. There was a slight leak from Papeete, the long, low-built freighter leading column five, on the commodore’s starboard beam. But the Papeete was about a cable’s length astern of station, with the Galilee Dawn treading on her heels, and very likely the reason for that smoke would have been a terse order to her engine-room to speed up. Astern of the Galilee Dawn was the American Caribou Queen, her upperworks visible over the Soviet oiler’s tank-tops. No tell-tale smoke-trails there, anyway; even the Papeete’s had cleared now. On the other side the Carrickmore and the Plainsman beyond her were both angling outwards, adjusting for having closed in too far during the turn. The oiler Bayleaf steamed in the Carrickmore’s wake, and the rescue ship Winston trailed the oiler. A whisp of greyish smog swirled from the Earl Granville’s tall stack—she was next-astern of the Plainsman—and he focussed his glasses on it, but again it was hardly enough to make a fuss about. Astern of the Granville, the third ship in column one was the American Ewart S. Dukes—with the minesweeper Radstock veering out across her stern … Nick leant out, turning his glasses back to where the AA ship Berkeley had finished the turn very neatly astern of Calliope; astern of her the Republican, another of the US contingent, was nosing into station.

  “Nine miles, sir, true bearing one-five-five!”

  Still closing, and still moving slightly from right to left. He went back to his tall chair. Treseder, Christie and the yeoman were all on the starboard side with their glasses up. Calliope’s motion was a combination of pitch and roll, with the long swells lifting under her quarter.

  “Range eight miles!”

  “Aircraft in sight.” Treseder had got it. “Green six-oh, angle of sight— zero. It’s a Dornier two-one-seven, sir.”

  Nick was on it too. Very low to the horizon—and even with that slight degree of profile it was easily recognisable, the “flying-pencil” shape of the long-range Dornier … Swanwick called from his ADO position, “Turned towards, sir!”

  No element of profile at all now. The Dornier was a darkly hostile intruder lifting very slowly against pearl-grey sky.

  “Two-eight-one continue all-round sweep. See the lookouts do the same.”

  Otherwise they’d be watching t
he approaching recce plane instead of looking out for newcomers. Who would undoubtedly be along, by and by. Perhaps not quite immediately—since they already had one target closer to them and already damaged—but they’d be coming.

  “Tell them to get that cypher away, pilot.”

  The Dornier spent about fifteen minutes limping around the convoy in its characteristic nose-down position, the posture of a wounded dragonfly. It stayed carefully out of range while it completed its inventory of merchantmen and escorts and then turned south, dwindled, finally vanished from the radar screen.

  Treseder said grimly, “Matter of time now, sir.”

  But it always had been. Nobody could have believed in that prediction of getting through unscathed.

  At 1144 there was a new and worrying signal from CS 39.

  Nottingham damaged by near-miss. Speed temporarily reduced to 14 knots. Large formation of Ju 88s closing from southeast. My position …

  The position was twenty miles south of Bear Island, and Kidd was still steering 290. He was obviously in bad trouble, and the Luftwaffe’s interest in the cruiser squadron explained why they hadn’t yet moved against this convoy. Having hit Minotaur and now damaged the flagship, you could guess they’d be encouraged to keep up that effort.

  In the interim he’d altered the convoy’s mean course again, slanting up thirty degrees to port. Two hours on this northeasterly course would bring them as close to the ice as might be reasonably safe at present speed. It would add a few miles to the distance between the convoy and the Luftwaffe, and put them closer to the area of uncertain visibility; there was even a chance of fog spreading southward, providing real cover.

  “Cooks to the galley” and then “Hands to dinner” were piped earlier than usual, on the heels of “Up spirits,” in the hope of getting another meal over before the bombers came. Nick had his own lunch tray on his knees when at about 1215 the chaplain, the Reverend Marcus Plumb, came up with a freshly decyphered signal from the Admiralty.

  Plumb’s appearance didn’t match his name. Far from “plummy,” he was quick-eyed, brisk and muscular—a Welshman, and a rugger player of renown.