Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He took it. ‘Rayner.’

  ‘Captain. Come to the bridge, please.’ The line went dead.

  Rayner said quietly, ‘It was the Skipper. Not one of his minions. Can you beat that?’

  Buck sealed an envelope and popped it into the little box.

  ‘He must like you. Probably thinks we colonials are a bit quaint.’

  Rayner picked up his cap, recalling Sherbrooke’s old-young face when they had first met. Waiting for the same ship. Externally, his experiences had left no mark. Except, perhaps, in the eyes. But how much could any man suffer and seal away, and remain unchanged?

  Eddy said, ‘When we finish charging about the bloody ocean for a while, we’ll do a run ashore together. I’ll get you fixed up. A nice girl, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I can just about remember.’

  The subbie grinned. ‘Okay, Dad!’

  It was a long climb to the bridge, and on his way Rayner saw all the preparations for action, the gun crews in duffle coats, with their helmets and anti-flash gear close at hand. Six fifteen-inch guns in three great turrets, and twenty four-inch guns, some in triple mountings, to form a massive cone of fire against aircraft and fast enemies on the surface.

  He had reached the flag deck, where oil-skinned signalmen were staring across at the nearest destroyer. The fog had almost gone, but there was still low mist clinging to the deep swell now visible alongside, where the bow wave creamed away like half an arrowhead.

  Into the bridge itself, with its murmuring voicepipes, and a sense of intense watchfulness as figures trained their glasses on the leading destroyer’s stern light, a misty blue eye reflecting in the leader’s own frothing wake.

  Lieutenant Frost, with his absurd beard, glanced toward him. ‘Never fear, Biggles is here!’ Nobody laughed.

  Sherbrooke turned in his chair. ‘Long climb, isn’t it?’

  He looked and sounded quite relaxed, although from what Rayner had heard, he had been on the bridge for hours with hardly a break.

  Rayner stood beside the chair, and stared at the great forecastle rising slowly and then dipping again, tossing up spray like pellets.

  The captain said, ‘No more news of Minden. Might have lost her in the fog. But no news of the convoy, either.’

  He could have been discussing the weather, Rayner thought. He studied his profile, youthful and clean-cut, the cheekbones high, and well formed. A face you would see in a crowd, and remember.

  ‘The fact is, there was a signal.’ He twisted round in the chair, his eyes questioning. ‘A U.S. Airforce plane has ditched. Iceland Base reported it when they got the Mayday. Probably the mail run from there to Scotland.’

  Rayner nodded, seeing it. ‘Probably a Dakota, sir. Most of them are. Pretty good kites, reliable . . . but then . . .’

  ‘Crew?’

  ‘Four, sir. Might be passengers, too.’

  ‘There was no mention of any.’

  The screens began to squeak again and Rayner watched as Sherbrooke thrust one hand into his pocket. A reaction? A habit? Perhaps a memory.

  He said, ‘They wouldn’t last long in this, sir.’

  ‘I know.’

  Rayner almost flinched as the blue eyes searched his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I only meant—’

  Sherbrooke grasped his arm, the four new, bright gold stripes seeming strangely out of place.

  ‘I understand what you meant. I was wondering.’ He looked at the screens again. ‘In this visibility.’

  Rayner heard himself reply, no hesitation, no doubts. ‘Yeah, I could do it, sir.’ He thought of his father again. Why did they volunteer? ‘The sea’s not too bad, is it?’

  Sherbrooke released his arm. ‘Good lad. Go and get ready.’ He looked at him in that direct way again. ‘No heroics. But if they are here . . .’

  He watched Rayner leave, some of the watchkeepers turning to share it.

  He heard Rhodes rasp at his lieutenant, ‘If your face was where your arse is, I’d kick it right through that bulkhead!’ He saw Sherbrooke looking at him, and said, ‘I’ll send down all the info I’ve got, sir. Possible bearing and search area. It’s not much, but it might help.’

  Sherbrooke nodded his thanks. Stagg wouldn’t care. He had already written off their chances of catching Minden, if indeed she was anywhere in the vicinity, or ever had been.

  ‘Take it down yourself, Pilot. He’d appreciate that. So would I.’

  Ten minutes later, after a preliminary misfire, the Walrus was hurled from her catapult.

  Sherbrooke stood on the bridge wing, oblivious to the cold as he watched the top-heavy flying boat with the solitary engine, the pusher, as it was nicknamed, lurching above her own murky reflection as if about to drop hard alongside. Then she was climbing, her engine like an express train in a cutting as she slowly gained height and ploughed sedately above the nearest destroyer.

  Someone gave a cheer. The risks to Walrus and crew were not hard to imagine.

  But at least they were doing something. All of them.

  He slung his binoculars around his neck and returned to the bridge.

  And somebody, maybe only one survivor, would hear the Shagbat coming, and know he had not been forgotten.

  He tightened his grip on the unused pipe in his pocket.

  A lifeline.

  5

  Rendezvous

  There was no other feeling in the world quite like it. Flying on and on, seemingly into nowhere, with occasional glimpses of the sea, at first like black, molten glass, and then, as the Walrus lost height for a few moments, another change, to a hard, shark-blue which reached out on either beam. Forever.

  Rayner sat comfortably, and quite relaxed, at home in his own private world. They were still heading due north, but for one quick alteration of course to investigate what he had thought was drifting wreckage. It had risen, no doubt screaming a noisy protest: a flock of gulls resting until full daylight, outraged by the flying-boat’s unexpected appearance.

  Rayner glanced at his watch and saw Buck turn his head to look at him. He smiled. It was a very expensive watch, a birthday gift from his parents before he had left for England. The youthful New Zealander probably imagined, like some of the other young members of Reliant’s wardroom, that he was just another spoiled son of some rich tycoon. If only they knew what it had been like. Even he did not really understand how his father had come through, when so many of his friends and their businesses had gone under during the depression.

  His father had once tossed out a hint that not all of his ventures had been completely within the law, and Rayner knew that at one time he had used his small fleet of trucks to run booze down to the parched Yanks during Prohibition. Risky, but it had paid off.

  He said, ‘Time to alter course in a few minutes, Eddy. We’ve been out here an hour.’ He tried to make light of it. ‘Don’t want to lose the ship now, do we?’

  Buck leaned forward in his harness to peer at the water. ‘Ah, daylight, at long last!’

  Rayner listened to the dull roar of the big Pegasus Radial engine, above and behind his seat. The pusher was a real deterrent against baling out without taking full precautions. You could be chopped into mincemeat by those formidable blades.

  He sensed the other two crew members moving restlessly behind him. Rob Morgan, a pug-faced ex-milkman from Cardiff, was a telegraphist air gunner, and the other, a trainee gunner, was James Hardie from London. The Smoke, as he called it. Rayner had never asked about the previous pilot, and nobody had ever spoken of him. It was the navy’s way.

  He imagined the great battlecruiser steaming along as they had left her. With the radar out of action, the Walrus was an extension to the captain’s range of vision. Another eye, even if only in the forlorn hope of finding some ditched airmen.

  He spoke into his mouthpiece again. ‘O.K., Eddy, open the thermos. Then we’ll alter course.’

  He thought again of the ship, the very size of her, the chain of command. He had met the rear-a
dmiral on only one occasion, after they had left the Firth of Forth. Stagg had appeared to be conducting an unannounced, personal inspection, accompanied by his flag lieutenant and Frazier, the Bloke. He smiled again. They really did have some weird slang.

  Stagg had walked around the catapult and asked Rayner a few questions about himself, his previous experience and personal background. He had had the feeling that Stagg had known most of it already, just as he had sensed that the visit to the flying area had been no spur of the moment decision.

  Stagg had displayed an immense knowledge about the aircraft and the Fleet Air Arm in general, the strategy of attack and defence, and the growing deployment of small task-forces, in the American style.

  During a brief pause, Commander Frazier had commented mildly, ‘I’m surprised you never became a flier yourself, sir.’

  Rayner had seen the rear-admiral’s eyes fasten on him in an unwavering stare.

  ‘Too busy. Never had the time!’

  Buck said, ‘What d’you think, Dick?’

  He moved the stick slightly, his eyes on the compass. ‘Doesn’t look too good. We’ve been up here an hour. We’ll try another leg and then go back to the ship. The Skipper won’t want to hang around while he’s hoisting us inboard.’

  He leaned over to watch the cloud streaming beneath the wings, the first glint of sunlight on the water, some four thousand feet below. A cold, hard light, and across the gently heaving surface there were still traces of departing fog. He was glad about the increased visibility. The Shagbat had a range of six hundred miles; it sounded a lot, but it was little enough when you were searching for your parent ship. His crew seemed relaxed and at ease, the mugs being carefully prepared for the thermos and some hot, sweet tea.

  It would be strange when they eventually got together with the escort carriers and he finally met the others. All the bright, boastful types, the fighter pilots, shooting lines about how good they were, probably looking with pity or sarcastic delight at his ungainly Walrus.

  Buck snatched up his binoculars and strained against his harness.

  ‘What is it?’ Rayner swore to himself as more cloud enveloped the wet perspex.

  Buck looked at him, his eyes bright, confused.

  ‘A light. A flash. I’m not sure.’

  Rayner shrugged. ‘Ready, you guys – I’m going around!’ He added, ‘Hold onto the tea, Rob!’

  It was probably nothing. No survivor would have a light strong enough to be seen at this distance, even if he had the strength to aim it.

  He was reminded of the captain’s face when he had mentioned the chances of finding anybody alive. He would know better than any of them. One of eight survivors, they had said. Everything lost, wiped out in a second.

  ‘Coming on course again, Dick.’ Buck was speaking through his teeth, unusually on edge. Uncertain.

  It was still worth a try. He tilted the aircraft, and saw the first real sunlight on a hostile sea.

  Buck shouted, ‘Aircraft! In the drink!’

  Rayner eased the controls again and watched the scene fade away into another bank of bumpy cloud.

  ‘On it, Eddy. Not in it.’ He was surprised that he sounded so calm. But for Buck’s alertness, they could so easily have missed it. Just seconds, but Buck’s warning had given him time to pull out his powerful glasses even as they completed their turn. Just seconds . . . that was all it took. The flash Buck had seen must have been sunlight reflected from the wing as it tipped and rolled on the uneasy swell. A float plane, single-winged, edging slowly past a small yellow dinghy. Seconds. He had seen the twin black crosses on the shining wing. He had met one before. An Arado 196, the kind carried by large German warships. Ships like the Minden.

  Buck asked hoarsely, ‘What should we do?’

  Rayner said, ‘He hasn’t seen us, and with his engine going he won’t have heard us, either. When he does, he’ll come after us.’ He saw the sudden comprehension in Buck’s face. ‘He’s a hell of a lot faster than we are, and he has twenty-millimetre cannons, and machine-guns. We’d never make it.’ He twisted round to involve all of them, so that they should understand. ‘He’d have us for breakfast.’ He thought of his brother Larry, going down in the Med. Quickly? Slowly? Had he known? Had he suffered?

  He heard Morgan, the ex-milkman, clear his throat on the intercom.

  ‘Then the old Reliant would never know about it.’

  Rayner tried to ease his fingers on the controls. Morgan had spoken for them all. The German float plane had put down to investigate the drifting rubber dinghy. For reasons of intelligence, because of the fellowship of one pilot for another? It must not matter now. This plane and these men were his responsibility. The rest was a myth, as his brother must have found out for himself.

  He said shortly, ‘Stand by depth charges. I’m going in. We’ll only get one chance.’

  Buck said in a small voice, ‘All set!’

  Hardie, the trainee gunner, murmured, ‘Steady the Buffs!’

  It was unreal, hurtling through the cloud, the engine’s roar rising to a scream, protesting like those disturbed gulls. Then the bright, hard sunlight, and more cloud, ripping through the wings and struts like pressurized steam.

  And then there was only the sea. It seemed to be hurtling to meet them, even though the Shagbat’s top speed was a hundred and thirty knots at best.

  It was all there. The float plane, no longer swaying uncomfortably in the swell but already moving, the twin floats cutting razor-sharp furrows as it continued to gather speed. The abandoned dinghy was already drifting away, its solitary occupant lying over one side, as if he had fallen asleep.

  Rayner felt his jaw crack with concentration. He’ll have us for breakfast. His own words echoed back to mock him.

  Fifteen, ten seconds . . . they roared over the moving plane, the Walrus’s crooked shadow blotting out everything.

  ‘Now!’

  He felt the aircraft jump as the two charges were released. Thank God for a good crew to check every small detail. If only one charge had jammed, it would all have been too late.

  ‘Come on, old girl!’ He felt his seat lean over, and was in time to see the other plane altering course violently as pilot and crewman realized their danger.

  They had missed. With one eye on the compass, he swung the Walrus into another turn.

  He stared down, startled, as Buck’s gloved fingers fastened on his arm like a vice. He was shouting into his mouthpiece, but no sound was coming through.

  Rayner watched, the moment frozen in his mind as the two depth charges exploded almost simultaneously. Not that near: any U-Boat commander would have merely crossed himself and grinned. But close enough for the finely balanced float plane. The explosions had blasted off one wing completely, so that the plane was turning over onto its side, the sea thrashing around the propeller until it, too, came to a sudden stop. Like a dead bird. No menace. Nothing.

  Buck was switched on again. ‘You did it, Dick! You clever old bugger!’

  Rayner allowed his nerves to settle. ‘You’re not so bad yourself, kid.’ He added more sharply, ‘Now give me a course to steer. We’ll head back.’

  What the hell is the matter with me? They could have shot us down without a thought. Would have, if they hadn’t been so curious about the dead airman in the dinghy. Or were they just doing what he himself would have done, out of humanity?

  The thoughts disturbed him, and he dismissed them.

  They climbed steadily into the cloud again, each man reliving privately what they had seen and shared.

  Hardie was crouching beside the controls, a mug of tea in one grimy fist.

  ‘Char, sir?’ He watched as Rayner dragged off one glove with his teeth.

  Then, almost shyly, he said, ‘Nice to have you as skipper, an’ no mistake.’

  Rayner leaned back in his hard seat and sipped the tea. It was the finest he had ever tasted. Later on, maybe much later, they would set up the drinks and celebrate, and somebody would paint a li
ttle symbol on the side below the cockpit to represent their kill. After this, he would be accepted. One of them. And later, he knew how much it would mean to him.

  But now, all he wanted to do was find Reliant and report what they had found, and where. At the same time, he knew he would never forget how he had felt.

  ‘Aircraft’s hooked on, sir!’

  Sherbrooke walked to the extreme side of the bridge and peered down at the surging water, so far below, after his last ship. He could see little of the Walrus but for the tips of the wings, but the great arm of the aircraft hoisting crane was turning slowly inboard, where the handling party would be waiting to secure the plane to the catapult again.

  The Walrus pilot had done well, and he sensed the relief all around him when the garbled signal had been received and the plane was sighted, flying within feet of the water. It had all taken time. Slowing the ship and turning to provide some sort of lee while the Walrus had manoeuvred carefully alongside. One false move, or a sudden change in the weather, and the aircraft could have been smashed against the hull like a toy.

  Once, Stagg had called up from his own private bridge beneath this one, a small nerve-centre which was connected to the main communications systems and transmitting station, and complete with its own radar repeater.

  When Sherbrooke had told him that the Walrus was ready for recovery, Stagg had said tersely, ‘Taking long enough!’

  ‘All secure, sir.’

  Sherbrooke walked past his chair and looked through the forward screen. It was misty: perhaps more fog was on the way. If so, Rayner was luckier than he knew.

  ‘Resume course and speed, Pilot. Inform Captain (D) that we have recovered our aircraft.’

  He could picture the senior destroyer captain very well, a stocky, almost square figure, who had been in destroyers for most of his service, from picking up terrified White Russians at Odessa after the revolution, to the battles of Narvik and the bloody evacuation of Crete. Sherbrooke liked what he had seen of him, although he had sensed that Stagg was less than enthusiastic. The Captain (D) had been tipped for promotion to flag rank, and possibly that was the rub, although Stagg surely had no reason for jealousy.