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

by Alexander Fullerton

  Then the noise-level was falling. The change came suddenly, as the last two 88s swung southward, climbing out of shellbursts. Nick had seen one go into the sea, and he thought a second, just before that hit on the Galilee Dawn, and at least one German had been trailing smoke as he departed. But there were still four to come, this last section already boring down from astern: there’d been a lull, a good half minute with no guns in action, time for gunners to clear away some of the litter of empty shellcases and for ammunition-supply parties to build up stocks and refill the ready-use lockers, Oerlikons to change ammo drums, pompoms to fit new belts. Moloch had opened up again. The Galilee Dawn was still burning, a squad of fire-fighters visible in her for’ard well-deck, hoses gushing, and the mine-sweeper Rochdale was nosing in to help. The Berkeley opened fire, and Calliope, the whole deafening orchestra at full blast again. Shellbursts opened all around the leading bomber: bombs falling away only seconds before it was hit, flinging over as a wing buckled, bits flying off and the machine vertically nose-down streaming smoke. Numbers two and three coming in together, the fourth a long way astern. The Winston, rescue ship, was listing to port and falling back, alone, losing way—result of that nearmiss … He had his glasses on her and on the Arctic Prince who’d turned to stay with her, the trawler part-hidden under a haze of smoke from her own close-range weapons which had only that moment ceased firing, when Treseder—unable to make himself heard—touched Nick’s arm, pointing out on the bow to where the eighteen torpedo-bombers had swung into line-abreast, low to the sea and racing in.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  . . .

  The Heinkels were about sixty yards apart and thirty feet above the water and the destroyers were deploying to meet them in a line slanting across the convoy’s van—Lyric, Leopard, Foremost, Harpy, Laureate, Legend … Nick would have taken Calliope out to join them, but there were still two 88s to come—from astern, where Moloch had just started banging away again. With those six destroyers out of the close AA defence, Calliope’s guns were needed here, for the moment.

  One Junkers was turning away—banking to port, exposing loaded bomb-racks as it tilted. No reason clear, so far … Berkeley’s guns had opened up, after the briefest of breathers. Now he heard Calliope’s fire-gong, and her after turrets thundered, the vibration rattling her hull. There was no close-range in it yet; that 88 was still high, and its turn had taken it out to the convoy’s quarter.

  Another coming over now …

  The one who’d swung away had done so in order to go for the Winston—the rescue ship, well astern and alone except for that trawler standing by her. Listing hard to port: that near-miss must have holed her, or opened a seam, or seams. Arctic Prince opening up with all her close-range weapons—and Moloch shifting target, throwing up a defensive barrage under the bomber’s nose.

  Bombs slammed in between the Berkeley and the Russian oiler. The Galilee Dawn’s upper-deck fire was out, but she was still leaking smoke, and there might be fire below decks. The second bomb of that stick fell close to the Tacora’s stern, and a third just over her bow on the other side. Some of the destroyers ahead opening fire; and as if he’d taken that as a reminder of the torpedo threat, the commodore’s siren blared for an emergency turn to starboard.

  Time for Calliope to move out …

  “Full ahead together. Starboard fifteen.”

  AA fire from the merchantmen died away. The action was astern now: and ahead, all six destroyers were engaging the Heinkels. The emergency turn—the convoy’s helms all over to starboard as Calliope also turned but speeded, drawing ahead—would leave the ships’ sterns pointing straight at the attackers. Harvey-Smith reporting from the binnacle, “Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir, both engines full ahead.”

  “GCO” into the director telephone, “I’m moving up between Foremost and Harpy. When your range is clear, use the for’ard turrets against those Heinkels.” Over the wire, as he pushed the telephone back on to its hook, he heard the control officer shifting target and ordering red barrage—red meaning long-range fuses, as opposed to white and blue for medium or short.

  “Midships, and meet her.”

  “The Winston’s sunk, sir. Direct hit from that …”

  “Steady as you go!”

  “Steady, sir …”

  Steering her into that gap. All the destroyers’ for’ard guns in action, the whole wide front of the torpedo attack plastered in shellbursts. But it wasn’t stopping them: they were dodging, bucketing up and down, but still coming. Calliope’s three for’ard turrets about to join in: just for the next few seconds as she lunged forward, thrusting across the swell, her range was still obstructed by Foremost. He saw a Heinkel hit—flung on its side, cartwheeling into the sea. Calling over his shoulder, “Two hundred revolutions!” She was in the gap now: he heard the tinny clang just before her 5.25s crashed out—brown haze rushing over, with the reek of cordite—and rapid fire, barraging: left barrels fired, recoiled, right barrels fired, recoiled. Noise, flash, smoke, and the jarring concussions ringing in her steel, through your feet and bones. In his memory’s ear, under the racket, was an echo of a report from Christie—the rescue ship, sunk. With those survivors in her. Her loss was serious, for now and also for later, in Russia and on the way home with the bigger convoy. The Winston hadn’t been just a ship detailed to act as rescuer, she was specially fitted and equipped to look after survivors … A Heinkel climbed, pulling up steeply and banking away: two others followed suit. They’d have fired, their torpedoes would be on the way, and all the others would be dropping their fish about now.

  You could see them, splashing in. But others were holding on: getting in close to make more certain of their shots. It would take some nerve, he thought, to hold on into that barrage.

  “One-sixty revolutions.”

  Leopard and Lyric diverging to starboard—countering a diversion by a group of Heinkels at that end of the line … Another one hit—the third he’d seen—on fire before it hit the water in an eruption like a shallow depthcharge. Torpedo exploded there, he realised. The attack was breaking up—two still coming, but the others splitting away right and left, some climbing as they turned, others at sea-level … “Torpedo tracks port side!”

  But the torpedoes themselves would already have passed: the tracks rose to the surface astern of them. Some would be getting to the convoy any moment now: and not a damn thing anyone here could do, except hope.

  “… starboard, sir!”

  It was all he’d heard of a strident yell. An open mouth, pointing arm—and a single white track ruler-straight, converging: and too late, too bloody …

  A clanging impact, from somewhere aft on the starboard side.

  Nothing else. He’d felt that jar as well as heard it. Faces tense, breath held …

  No explosion, though. Calliope dipping her shoulder into greenish sea and digging out white foam. That torpedo’s warhead had not exploded. Treseder shouted, “Glanced off us, sir!” Arms spread—and a guffaw of a laugh picked up and echoed by others—“Bounced off her!”

  An explosion farther astern, though, wasn’t anything to rejoice in. It was the semi-smothered but hard, knocking thump one had heard all too often. Christie shouted with his glasses trained back on the convoy, “I think that was the Papeete …”

  A second hit came like a duplicate of the first.

  Guns falling silent, seeping smoke. A telephone buzzed, and the chief yeoman was there answering it—listening … He reported, “Engineer Commander says something walloped the ship’s side abreast the after boiler room, sir, but no damage.” And that would be Calliope’s full ration of luck for this trip, Nick thought. It was the glancing angle of the impact that had saved them. The quiet, as gun-fire ceased altogether, was startling: you’d been living in noise, encased in it. The sound of yet a third torpedo finding a target was shocking—like a dirty punch after the bell had rung to end a round.

  No aircraft targets now. Two Heinkels had flown down the convoy’s starboar
d side but they’d been circling away, getting out of it.

  TBS calling: and it was Tommy Trench’s voice … Thief, this is Tinker. Minesweeper Redcar’s gone, sir. Blown to bits. Arctic Prince is looking for survivors. I’m standing by the Caribou Queen: doubt if she’ll float much longer. Papeete’s crew is abandoning her: Northern Glow’s with her. I have fourteen survivors from the Winston. Over …

  1710. The Caribou Queen and the Papeete had both gone down. Survivors from them and from the Winston were on board Moloch and the two trawlers. When time permitted he’d get some transferred into Calliope, who had more room for them. There’d been no survivors from the minesweeper.

  In the past forty minutes, in this lull which was still lasting, Nick had conferred with the commodore and then re-formed the convoy into four columns. Calliope was leading now, on her own between the block of merchantmen and the destroyer screen, which as usual was spread across from bow to bow in an arrow-head formation. He’d put two of the minesweepers into vacant billets at the rear of columns one and four, while the third, Rattray, was astern between the two trawlers guarding the assembly’s rear. The two oilers were in the middle, well surrounded and with the AA ship right astern of them.

  Fog a few miles to the north looked dense, but there’d be ice there too. His prayer was for the fog to spread south. But to be of any value it would need to happen quickly: the Luftwaffe would be as aware as he was himself that there were only a few hours of daylight left, and they’d be keen to take advantage of the light and of these calm conditions while they lasted.

  Some sort of mix-up developing astern. He swung round, with his glasses lifting …

  Bayleaf, in trouble again?

  Focussing on the oiler’s stubby, rather old-fashioned shape—bridge superstructure separate from and some distance for’ard of the upright, solid-looking funnel—which at this moment was leaking black smoke. The Bayleaf was no juvenile: she’d been launched in 1917, with triple-expansion engines to give her fourteen knots—which was more than most currently available oilers could claim, and would explain her inclusion in this convoy. He remembered that bomb bursting within a few feet of her side: and plainly the repair job hadn’t lasted, so here was a major problem back again … Swanwick the ADO chose this moment to present him with another one as well.

  “Radar has bogeys on bearing one-eight-four, sir, nineteen miles, closing!”

  “Flag-hoist, Chief.”

  “Large formation, sir—fifty to sixty aircraft!”

  He murmured, “Better and better.” Watching the Bayleaf still dropping back, smoke coming out of that funnel in black gushes that would be visible for miles.

  Flags rushed bright and fluttering to the yardarm.

  “Chief yeoman—make to the Bayleaf, ‘What speed can you maintain?’ And to the commodore, ‘Request speed reduction to five knots to keep Bayleaf with us. Large formation of aircraft approaching from south.’ “

  That number of bombers against so small a convoy would be hard to cope with. He was also aware that a lot of ammunition had already been expended. With about two hours of daylight left, and then from dawn tomorrow something like 400 miles to cover—forty hours if you could make-good ten knots, but twice that long on the Bayleaf’s present showing.

  “From Bayleaf, sir, ‘About seven knots. Regret funnel-smoke temporarily uncontrollable.’”

  “Range sixteen miles!”

  “By light to the Bayleaf—‘Convoy speed five knots. Resume station before arrival of bomber formation now fifteen miles south.’ Then TBS to Rabble: ‘Speed five for Bayleaf to catch up. Radar indicates incoming bomber strength fifty to sixty.’”

  Convoy speed was already falling, and there was some bunching in the columns. The last thing one wanted was confusion just as an attack came in. Calliope’s guns were cocked up to starboard and inching round as they followed the radar bearing. Treseder grumbled, with his glasses up, under the rim of a tin hat which had three short gold stripes on it, “One escort carrier. Fighters’d be scrambling now. All the difference in the world.”

  He was right—although it wasn’t much use moaning about it. If they’d had a carrier with them, her fighters would be airborne and winging out to break up that attack before it came anywhere near the convoy.

  “Bearing one-nine-five. Range fourteen …”

  Bayleaf, shepherded by Arctic Prince, was creeping up past the AA ship while the Earl Granville edged over to port to give her more room. If she was making seven knots to the convoy’s five, the 400 yards she had still to cover would take—mental arithmetic—six minutes … Anyway she was pretty well in the fold, close under the umbrella of the Berkeley’s guns and with the sweeper Radstock on her port quarter. The minesweepers each had two four-inch AA guns, as well as Oerlikons.

  He thought, Five minutes: then we can increase by two knots …

  “Captain, sir.”

  Swanwick: looking puzzled. “Range has begun to open, sir!”

  Nick thought, Impossible. Radar’s getting it wrong again … Then he saw a possible explanation. “Probably circling away to come up astern.” Treseder was staring critically at Swanwick. Nick guessed the attackers might be making a wider sweep now because they might not be sure of the convoy’s exact position. But once they caught sight of the Bayleaf’s smoke-signals …

  “Range sixteen miles, sir!”

  “Bearing?”

  “Two-oh-three, sir …”

  So they’d be flying northwestward, roughly. Circling clockwise, they’d come to the ice and then turn east, ending by coming up astern. One factor was they’d be at the limits of their fuel-range; they wouldn’t have much margin in hand for hanging around, up here.

  Treseder said, “Bayleaf’s almost in station, sir.”

  Things were better than they might have been. But in the back of his mind was a sharp awareness of losses incurred already, depleted ammo stocks, distance still to cover, possible fuelling problems if Bayleaf’s troubles got any worse.

  “Bearing two-oh-oh, range eighteen, opening!”

  Bruce Christie said, quietly but with an air of certainty, “They’re pushing off, sir.”

  A bit too soon, he thought, to jump to that happy conclusion. He told Ellinghouse, “Ask the Bayleaf, ‘Can you maintain seven knots now?’ “

  Leading Signalman Merry jumped to the ten-inch lamp and began to call the oiler.

  “Bearing one-nine-four, sir, twenty miles!”

  They might still turn back: might realise their mistake and make a cast in this direction. He guessed they’d decided they’d been heading too far east: but whatever the reason, it seemed to be the second miracle of the day.

  “Radar lost target, sir …”

  So—all right. For the moment, count your blessings. But he couldn’t imagine the Germans not having another try, while daylight lasted. Three quarters of an hour later, when he was in the chartroom and Treseder came to tell him that radar had picked up a new incoming bogey, he was only surprised they’d been so slow about it. Drawing at a newly-filled pipe, he went up the ladder to the forebridge. He’d been studying the chart, working out how the convoy route might be altered to cope with the speed-reduction Bayleaf’s problems had forced on him; her master had said he could maintain the seven knots, with any luck, but he needed a few days with the machinery shut down, to make a proper job of it.

  Seven knots meant a thirty per cent longer exposure to bombing between here and Archangel.

  “Where are they?”

  “It’s a single aircraft this time, sir. Bearing one-seven-three, range nineteen miles.”

  He got up on his seat. One fast all-round look showed convoy and escorts all in station. He’d come up here expecting an attack to be coming in, and it seemed this must be a recce flight, a scout sent to check on how that last expedition had gone wrong.

  “Radar confirms one single aircraft, sir. Bearing one-seven-four, range seventeen.”

  An idea kindling … With the chart in his mind’s
eye, and this convoy’s position on it, and the rough line of the ice and this snooper nosing up towards them from the south … Time now being 1807: about an hour of daylight left, say. Hardly time, therefore, for a new bomber strike to be launched—unless one was already on its way this snooper out ahead of it as guide.