“Bearing one-seven-eight, fifteen miles!”
He thought the recce flight would have been sent north—this one and perhaps others too—because that large strike had failed to locate its target. They’d hardly have sent off another full-scale strike without first locating the convoy. Fifty bombers burnt a lot of gas. This reconnaissance, he guessed, would be aimed at pinpointing the target so that new attacks could be launched at dawn.
He had his glasses on what looked more like cloud than fog. Sea-hugging murk with the ice somewhere inside it.
“One-seven-five, range thirteen!”
Drawing slightly left, but near-enough steady to be sure that unless the snooper gave up and turned for home in the next few minutes, he was bound to find this convoy. So—make it worth his while? Make use of him?
There wasn’t time to sit and think about it. You either did it or you didn’t. And the passive line—waiting, and accepting punishment—never got anybody anywhere worthwhile.
“Chief yeoman—make to the commodore. ‘Request immediate emergency turn starboard.’ “
He saw Treseder trying to fathom it. He was a direct, rather simple man, and his thoughts—puzzlement, now—showed in his face. Ellinghouse had put his leading signalman on that job: Nick told him, “Now to the Carrickmore. Tell him, ‘Hurricane stand by. Target a snooper closing on bearing one-seven-oh range twelve. Do not launch until further order.’ “
The Tacora’s siren wailed, ordering the turn. Nick told Harvey-Smith, “Bring her round.” Then to the chief yeoman, “TBS to Tinker. Captain to captain.” Ellinghouse called Moloch and got Trench on the line, then handed Nick the microphone.
“Tommy, and Rabble, listen to this. This emergency turn starboard is for the benefit of a snooper coming in on bearing one-seven-oh. I want him to think our mean course is south-east. So move Laureate and Legend from the port wing to the starboard wing—now, passing astern of the convoy … Second point: this snooper is not to be fired on. I want him to get his report out, before I set our tame bird-man on him. D’you understand? Over.”
Shifting those two to the other wing of the screen would help to make the course look like south-east. The emergency turn wasn’t as good as wheeling would have been; it was simply the quick way to get them round. It had to be done quickly because otherwise the recce plane’s pilot might see the bend in the convoy’s wakes, and decline to be bamboozled.
Bruce Christie was wearing an enigmatic highland smile as the convoy steadied on the course of 130 degrees. Treseder reported, with his glasses on the Carrickmore, “Pilot’s in his Hurricane, sir.”
“Good.” The commodore was flying the signal for “Commence zigzag.” A lookout shouted, “Aircraft—green four-oh, angle of sight ten!”
Zigzag recommencing now: the first leg would be to starboard, putting the convoy on a course of 170. The pattern of ships would be confusing to the airmen, but they’d be sure to settle for a south-easterly mean course. Nick watched the Dornier as it came in closer: it might have been the same one that had visited them this morning.
“Swanwick—tell radar to watch for any new formations.”
Because this might be a scout heralding the arrival of an attacking force …
He’d be transmitting now, anyway. Circling up towards the bow. Could they recognise a CAM-ship when they saw one, Nick wondered? The fighter on its launching gear was very noticeable—from here. Perhaps less so from the air than in this low profile view.
Treseder asked diffidently, “Might have sent his message out by now, sir?”
“Yes. But I want him astern, where he won’t see the launch.”
He wondered how the Hurricane pilot would be feeling. Sitting there waiting, knowing his flight could only end with a swim in ice-cold sea. It wasn’t usual, to send CAM-ships with Arctic convoys.
“Pilot’s got out. He’s going aft to the bridge.”
“Chief yeoman. Make to the Carrickmore, ‘Dornier now bears—whatever true bearing is—circling anti-clockwise. I will order launch when target is astern. Following destruction of enemy, Hurricane should ditch close to starboard wing destroyer, who will be ready for pick-up.’ “
Ellinghouse scribbling it down on his pad, one shoulder braced against the ship’s side for support against the roll … “Give me the microphone, will you. What’s Lyric’s codename?”
“Richman, sir.”
Zigzag bell again, for a swing back to port. Over TBS to Lyric’s captain, Nick suggested warm blankets and hot whisky should be ready for the Fleet Air Arm pilot. He watched the Dornier limping round the bow, thinking that with any luck they’d be in for a much longer swim.
Long, icy-looking swells sliding in on the beam rolled Calliope heavily as they ran under her. All ships in convoy were feeling it—masts swaying like metronomes, and deck-cargoes would be straining at chocks and lashings.
“Message passed, sir.”
The Dornier was flying from the port bow round towards the beam. And the convoy was now steering 130 degrees. The next leg of the zigzag would be to port, bringing the German back from the quarter to the beam again; but the turn after that, to starboard, would put him right astern. With six minutes on each leg, say in twelve minutes.
He checked the time …
“Call the Carrickmore again. Make, ‘I expect to order launch in about ten minutes. Good luck.’ “
The pilot would be on her bridge to take in that message, and watching his target as it circled. Target so far unaware that it was a target—or victim … The Hurricane’s engine would be ticking over, warming up. Leading Signalman Merry had begun to pass that signal, and Nick ran over the plan in his mind, looking for flaws in it … First, the Dornier had to be shot down, having already reported the convoy as being on course for Archangel or Kola: so at first light the Luftwaffe would be out hunting for it a long way south, perhaps only about 200 miles from its destination. When they didn’t find it, that would be the general area they’d search. In fact, PQ 19 would have turned north—into the ice and its attendant fog. The southern area of the ice should be navigable, loose and patchy after the comparative warmth of the summer months. Up there he’d detach the Bayleaf, with a trawler as escort and if necessary ice-breaker, destination Hope Island, to anchor in the island’s lee and make those repairs she needed, while the trawler kept her from getting iced-in. The convoy would meanwhile push on eastward at twelve knots, just clear of the ice until daylight and then in it—in fog too, please God—through the daylight hours. Then at dusk tomorrow, right turn, for Archangel. If it all worked out, the enemy would have mislaid their target for something like thirty-six hours.
He explained these intentions, briefly, to Treseder, with Bruce Christie bending an ear to the explanation.
“What about the Bayleaf, sir?”
“We’ll rendezvous with her north of Bear Island on our way west with the return convoy.”
Treseder nodded. “And fuelling the destroyers?”
“Tomorrow. Under cover of fog, I hope. The Russians’ll have to improve on their performance quite a lot—we might put a few stokers on board her to speed them up.”
Christie coughed. “Might not get ’em back, sir. Half that Russian crew’s female.”
Nick had his glasses on the CAM-ship; he’d seen the pilot walk for’ard and climb into his machine, and now the convoy had completed its turn to port. Christie was asking, “One thing, sir—what if the ice is too thick for the Bayleaf to make Hope Island?”
“She could simply lie-up. Stop engines. Weather and fog permitting. The trawler would have to keep on the move, circling her. Alternative would be to make for Bell Sund, in Spitzbergen.” With an eye on the Dornier, which was now limping round to the convoy’s quarter, he checked the time …
Zigzag bell. Helms would be going over to starboard now.
“Chief—make to the Carrickmore—‘Launch.’”
He’d trained his binoculars on the CAM-ship’s foc’sl again. Calliope rolling fiercely a
s she turned: and the Dornier would be astern now. He could hear the clack of the Aldis, identify each letter by the sound. Last letter, and now the signing-off group … He saw a lick of flame, bright in the fading light, as the launcher fired: the Hurricane shot forward, and was airborne. Banking to starboard, but still low, using the ships as cover as he picked up speed, throttle wide open and flying at wavetop height across the convoy’s van: only seconds after the launch the fighter sped past astern of Calliope. The pilot wouldn’t have seen those caps being waved at him: he’d have his mind on other things entirely, mainly the Dornier—still there, completing its circuit of the convoy. Out of gun-range, of course, feeling safe, doing its best to ensure the destruction of these ships and the deaths of the men who sailed them. That Dornier crew would have no legitimate grounds for complaint, Nick thought. The Hurricane pilot would want to get as close as possible before the Germans spotted him: he’d catch them easily enough, but he wouldn’t want a longer chase than necessary. He’d swung around the Galilee Dawn and he was hard to see now, with other ships in the way. A glimpse, just for a second, as he flew across the space between the Galilee and the Republican: then after a moment he was in sight again— climbing, and heading westward. The Dornier was several miles out on that same quarter: it was turning, evidently preparing to fly up parallel to the convoy’s course at a discreet distance off to starboard.
“They’ve seen him!”
Treseder was right …
The Dornier had rolled to starboard, swinging violently away. A panic reaction—but the Germans didn’t have a hope. One young Fleet Air Arm man had them at his mercy—which in the next half-minute might not be exactly brimming … The Dornier was trying to run for it—low to the sea, but with the Hurricane already there, going down on his tail in a shallow, killing dive.
No sound. It was happening too far away, and the background sound was the roar of Calliope’s fans, the slamming of sea as she rolled. There was a flash, out there: the Dornier’s nose came up in a convulsive effort to remain alive before it nose-dived into the sea. A leap of spray caught the dying light as the Hurricane swept over its kill; then it was turning, banking steeply round, perhaps looking to see if there might be survivors on the wreckage. But by the time a destroyer could have got there, any swimmer would have died of cold. A few minutes was all it took: you either pulled them out instantly, or you found Tussaud-like dummies with open, staring eyes, stiff in their life jackets, bobbing to the waves. He’d seen it, more than once: and he was thinking about the Fleet Air Arm boy now, who’d be the same age more or less as his own son, Paul.
Who was doing God-knew-what, to be so close-mouthed about it … His thoughts returned to the pilot as the Hurricane steadied on a course to fly back up the convoy’s starboard side.
Nick reached for the microphone.
“Richman, this is Thief. Your guest is about to drop in. Get him out double quick, now. Over.”
He switched to “receive,” and waited. It was only seconds before the answer came.
“Thief—this is Richman. Lieutenant-Commander Clegg speaking, sir. We’re ready for him, and the whisky’s warm. Out.”
You couldn’t see it from here—Lyric being about four miles away—but she’d have a whaler manned and low on its falls, ready to slip, a scrambling-net rigged and her doctor waiting with the rescue party.
“Chief.” Nick was looking for the Hurricane, but it was out of sight, down at sea-level and hidden behind the ships of the starboard columns. “Make to the commodore, ‘Request alteration of course to zero-two-zero.’ “
He’d explain it all to Insole later, over the loud-hailer.
The Hurricane was in sight for about two seconds before it bounced into the sea close to Lyric. On the far side of her. A sheet of foam flung up, travelled with the skidding fighter and then vanished. All you could see then was Lyric’s length shortening as she swung to starboard, losing way.
“They’ll have him all right.” Treseder talking to himself, with glasses at his eyes. “Can’t see a bloody thing …”
TBS hummed into life.
“Thief—this is Richman.” It was Clegg’s voice again. “Sub-lieutenant Jones is in good shape and tucking-in to the refreshment. Barely got his toes wet, I’m glad to say. Over.”
Nick laughed. Out of relief, more than amusement. He thumbed the switch to “transmit.”
“Richman, this is Thief. Well done. Give Sub-lieutenant Jones my congratulations. Out.”
And now—the ice …
CHAPTER SIX
. . .
From the railed Oerlikon deck at the back of Setter’s bridge, Paul watched X-12 as the Manilla rope took the strain, hauling the midget’s bow around. Tow beginning now—and a thousand miles to go … Dusk was spreading over the lower slopes of the surrounding hills, shadowing the water of the loch, and the last glow of cloud-filtered sunshine was highlighting the depot ship’s silhouette; from Setter’s bridge a bosun’s call squealed in salute, and Bonaventure’s bugle—a nobler, rounder note—acknowledged the tin whistle … MacGregor, the submarine’s captain, was at the salute, all hands in her bridge and on the casing at attention, Bonaventure’s high decks crowded with sailors. The bugle sang out again, signalling “Carry on,” and the pipe shrilled; then for the fourth time on this Saturday afternoon that crowd of men were cheering, waving their caps, shouting final “good lucks.”
It was quite a moment, Paul thought. Conceivably, historic.
Jazz Lanchberry took a plainer view. He growled, “We really gone an’ done it, now.”
“Unless anyone wants to jump off and swim.” Brazier pointed astern, at Louis Gimber erect on X-12’s casing with an arm hooked round the induction trunk. “I wouldn’t blame that poor sod if he did.”
Nobody envied the passage crews. Setter was quite a small submarine and her wardroom was going to be uncomfortably crowded, but it would be like living in the Ritz, compared to the eight days’ close confinement facing Messrs Gimber, Steep and Towne in that tin sardine-can two hundred yards astern.
At least the weather forecasts had been good. At this time of year it was a toss-up whether you’d have fair weather or force ten gales, and the prospect of a tow across the Norwegian Sea at its worst, or even half-worst, was not a happy one. But for the next few days the outlook wasn’t at all bad.
They were about to pass the other depot ship, Titania. It still wasn’t quite sunset, so the piping ritual was starting all over again. After sundown, you didn’t have to do it: but now—salutes, followed by more cheers, a sea of waving caps … That small, dark object astern—Gimber saluting with his free right hand as he faced the old depot ship’s upperworks looming above him—looked ridiculously small, even in the confines of the loch. In open sea it would look and feel like a toy.
As lethal as it was miniature. But not necessarily lethal only to the enemy. Brazier murmured, as the “Carry on” sounded for the second time, “D’you think we’re all nuts?”
Dick Eaton nodded. Beside Brazier he was like a whippet in company with a Great Dane. Paul said, “Think how good it’ll feel when we’ve done it.” He waved his cap for the last time, settled it back on his head; Lanchberry observed, “Like banging your Swede on a wall so it’ll be nicer when it stops?”
Setter and X-12 were the third team to sail. First out had been Don Cameron’s X-6, in tow of Truculent. Willy Wilson had the passage command. Then Kearon’s X-9, behind Syrtis. Now X-12; and later—with the last of them not leaving until tomorrow, Sunday—would be X-5, whose operational CO was Henty-Creer and towing ship Thrasher, X-8 towed by Sea Nymph; Godfrey Place’s X-7, passage crew commanded by the South African Peter Philip, towing ship Stubborn; Hudspeth’s X-10 with Sceptre, and X-11—Dan Vicary’s boat—towed by Scourge.
Eaton said, “You could shut your eyes and believe this was just another bloody exercise.”
Paul had the same feeling—difficulty in grasping that this was it, the real thing at last. After so long, the long peri
od of training first at Blockhouse and then in the Firth of Clyde at Port Bannatyne and Loch Striven, and then finally up here in Sutherland … It had seemed at times like interminable preparation for something that might never happen.
Even until yesterday there’d been no certainty. Then the news had broken like a clap of thunder—Tirpitz and Scharnhorst back in their anchorages. A preliminary report of it had come early in the forenoon, from some intelligence source, and later it had been confirmed by Spitfire reconnaissance from North Russia. The Spits’ photographs were being flown down from Russia by Catalina flying-boat, but in advance of their arrival the decision had been taken immediately by Flag Officer Submarines: Operation Source was to go ahead, on schedule and with departures commencing next day—today, Saturday 11 September. The admiral himself had flown up to Port HHZ to see them off.
Sunset now: from astern, bugles sounded as ensigns were ceremoniously lowered. Setter was passing various other Twelfth Flotilla craft now, and astern of her X-12 was towing easily in the sheltered, darkening water. There was some more waving and shouting: if you allowed yourself to feel it, there was a touch of emotion in this farewell—but not much to be heard over the rumble of the submarine’s diesels. One last contact with the shoreside lay ahead, where Admiral Barry, accompanied by the two flotilla captains, had put out in the Bonaventure’s motorboat to bestow a final blessing on his children as they left home. He’d given a dinner party for them last night, on board Titania: it had been a lively evening, with a lot of shop-talk but good food and drink as well, and the admiral on top of his form, clearly delighted by the cheerful confidence around him. The party had continued later—for some—back on board Bonaventure.
The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6 Page 11
