He wondered what would become of Reliant after this. Rumours about the rift between Stagg and the captain were rife in messdeck and wardroom alike. Evershed settled himself firmly in his seat; he never allowed himself to slouch, unlike his assistant, the spotting officer.
The lieutenant in question jerked upright, his hand to his ear.
‘Radar. Ship at zero-three-zero, range two-one-five!’
Evershed nodded. About eleven miles. How did the brute get so close?
‘Rate closing!’
Evershed was very calm. ‘All guns, with semi-armour-piercing, load, load, load!’
He felt the seat quiver and knew Sherbrooke was increasing speed. He looked at his hands, quite still, and then adjusted his sights.
‘Begin tracking.’ He glanced down. ‘What’s the wind force? Could be tricky.’
‘Wind force Four from red nine-oh.’
‘All guns loaded, sir.’
He heard the captain’s voice, clear and unhurried on the control speaker.
‘Open fire!’
Evershed smiled grimly. That was the way it should be. No bloody dramatics.
He pressed his forehead against the rubber pad and watched the image begin to sharpen, and become real and dangerous.
Blink – blink – blink.
All three turrets. The enemy had opened fire.
Evershed concentrated his mind on this moment.
‘Shoot!’
No sooner had the guns hurled themselves back on their springs than they were ready to be reloaded, men, machines, and gleaming rammers working as one to fill the gaping breeches, and fire again.
Evershed turned quickly to watch as the enemy shells exploded, flinging impressively tall waterspouts hundreds of feet into the air. He did not notice the copper glow on the cascading water and the great churning whirlpools where the shells had fallen: the appearance of the sea did not come into it.
‘Short, sir!’
The spotting officer reported, ‘Straddle, sir!’
Evershed hid his satisfaction. ‘Calm down! Check the deflection!’
Reliant was altering course again, her wake curving astern as she headed towards the enemy.
‘Ready!’
‘Shoot!’
Two to their one. Evershed was comparing them when the next salvo exploded on either side of Reliant’s bows. Even up here, it felt as though they had rammed a submerged wreck.
‘Deflection Right Twelve.’
Evershed was satisfied. Nothing else must concern them.
Like leviathans, the two great warships remained on converging courses, as if Rhodes’s pencilled lines had been transferred to the glittering, windswept water.
In the early stages of the war most people had regarded the Italian forces as something of a joke, especially after their first defeats in North Africa. There had been so many Italians trying to surrender that there were barely enough British troops available to guard them.
The Italian navy was different; their ships had distinguished themselves in several fierce actions, and even after Cunningham’s crushing victory at Matapan, their individual operations had continued. The Italians had been the first to use two-man torpedoes, and explosive motor boats against superior British forces, and there were some in Reliant this day who would not now think of the oncoming giant as a joke.
Evershed’s gunnery was excellent, largely because of Reliant’s greater agility, her ability to alter course at speed allowing all three turrets to engage together. The Tiberio had been hit several times, and had turned almost bows-on to offer as small a target as possible.
Of the two reported destroyers, there had been no sign. They had either been sent on another mission or had gone into port to refuel, not that their presence or absence would have made much difference.
When they had failed to appear on the radar, and it was accepted that this was to be a ship-to-ship engagement, someone on the bridge had groaned, ‘Is that all? Hoo-bloody-ray!’
Reliant had been straddled by two salvoes, and the damage control parties were working like madmen to shore up buckled metal and drag out any men who had been injured. There seemed to have been hours of tremendous noise from guns and exploding shells. In fact, it was only seventeen minutes after the first shots that Reliant received two direct hits.
One smashed into the forecastle deck near A Turret and ripped down into the lower deck before exploding. Seamen’s messes, storerooms, fresh water tanks, bulkheads and frames were torn apart in a confusion of flying splinters and smoke.
The second shell hit the ship further aft, penetrating the after superstructure and ploughing through the wardroom where it burst like a huge bomb. Several of the men already wounded had been carried into the wardroom to await treatment. None survived.
On the bridge, Sherbrooke felt the two blows shake the ship with incredible violence, as if Reliant had been lifted high out of the water.
‘A and B Turrets are out of action, sir!’
The first shell must have jammed the training mechanism. There was no time left.
‘Hard a-port!’ He saw Rhodes at the voicepipe. ‘Bring her round! I must bring Y Turret to bear!’ It was all they had; the smaller weapons might never be used again.
A great waterspout shot above the quarterdeck even as the helm went over. From the bridge, it was possible to hear the terrible crack and screech of deadly splinters as they crashed into the hull. Despite the danger, Sherbrooke could see men crouching and running from one emergency to the next. There was smoke now, and the acrid smell of burning.
Evershed’s voice again over the speaker. ‘Ready, marines! Shoot!’
The bridge quivered violently as more shells fell close by. Sherbrooke heard someone yell, ‘The bastard’s turning!’
It was true; the Tiberio’s shape was already lengthening, turning at last to give all her big guns an opportunity to finish it. Not knowing that Reliant’s guns were out of action, the Italian captain probably imagined that the enemy was standing away, running for it.
Sherbrooke gripped the rail until his fingers throbbed. It must be that. It had to be. It was all they had.
The two long guns lifted slightly and settled.
‘Shoot!’
A shell burst alongside like a fireball, and more fragments jagged against the bridge and punched holes in the funnels.
No wonder the Italian captain thought they were making a run for it. He could see the ship, his ship, as if he were behind the enemy guns, with several fires burning, fanned and urged on by the wind, and with great rents in her plating which, even at a range of eight miles, would be plainly visible in those powerful lenses.
Y Turret fired, and Sherbrooke counted the seconds, his eyes watering as he tried to keep his glasses steady.
‘A hit!’
He saw the violent explosion on the Tiberio’s massive superstructure; it seemed wrong that he could scarcely hear it above all the other noise. Then another, a great gout of dark red fire, swirling up and over the bridge, carried on the same unexpected wind. Another explosion, perhaps a magazine, or more likely some ready-use ammunition near one of the gun mountings. It was enough. The battleship was swinging round, almost hidden in a smoke screen, heading away.
Rhodes said, ‘The left gun is jammed in Y Turret, sir.’ He held the telephone, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherbrooke’s face. ‘That last shell, sir.’ He did not want to prolong it. ‘Director Control was hit, too.’
‘Tell them to fire.’
There was a pause and then the turret began to move again, only one gun rising slightly as the range was adjusted: Y Turret, which was manned entirely by marines. Just one gun.
He saw it recoil, the other gun still smoking from the previous shot, as if they had fired together.
There was so much smoke that the spotters could not see the fall of the last shot. But there were no replies from the enemy.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Report damage and casualties.’
He made hi
mself walk to the bridge wing, what remained of it. Yorke, the yeoman of signals, was on his knees with one of his young signalmen in his arms. He seemed to sense his presence, and when he looked up, Sherbrooke was moved by the tears in his eyes. Yorke was a true professional and had been in the navy since he was a boy. But he, too, had his limits.
He peered up at Sherbrooke and murmured, ‘Why him, sir? He’s only a kid!’
Then he lowered the youth to the deck and covered his face with a signal flag.
Lieutenant Frost said, ‘Will the Tiberio come back?’
Rhodes was watching the captain. ‘They might.’ He looked around at the jagged splinter holes, the stains, the blood quivering to the engines’ unbroken vibrations, as if it had outlived its owner.
The reports were coming in, some by messenger, as even the T/S was all but disabled. They had relied on messengers at Jutland too, he thought.
A fire here; a fire there; damage below the waterline. But the Chief had the pumps going. And they were still afloat. He braced himself and went out into the smoky sunlight.
‘Commander Frazier’s dead, sir. They’re still searching for some of the others.’
Sherbrooke turned, and saw Frost staring from the bridge, his face ashen.
‘Take over, Pilot. You’ve done it before.’ He gripped his arm. ‘Tell me when you know.’
There had been many casualties. Some died as they had lived, like Frazier, organizing, encouraging, filling the gaps, until a shell splinter had killed him instantly, while he had been helping his men. Others had died in anger and bitterness, cheated without knowing why. Chief Petty Officer Price, the admiral’s steward, had been wounded during the first exchange of fire. His friend Dodger Long had helped to carry him to the wardroom for treatment. Price had not believed that Stagg would leave him behind after he had served him so faithfully, and had drawn his last breath cursing Stagg’s name, with Long self-consciously holding his hand.
Friends, but entirely different people. The shell was impartial, and had killed both of them.
A few had died quite alone and in terror. Lieutenant James Villar had been assisting one of the working parties, slipping on foam and trapped water as they sought out fires and quenched them before they could reach anything vital. When the shell had exploded in the wardroom he had thought that the ship had taken a mortal blow. As if in a daze, he had seen his office, the door ajar, and had blundered into it. Papers were scattered everywhere; water spurted occasionally from the ventilation shaft and somehow changed into steam as it fell, which was not possible. He had clung to his desk and stared, wild-eyed with disbelief, at the steel bulkhead. The white paintwork was alive, puffing out like something obscene. He had no knowledge of such things. He had not realized that the metal was melting.
There had been a muffled explosion and fire had burst through the hole like a flame-thrower. He had fallen, clutching at his face and eyes, to stop the agony and hold back the new darkness.
When the damage control party had smashed in with their crowbars and axes, Villar had been dead.
The youth, Alan Mowbray, had been one of them. He had ignored the drenching hoses and the extinguishers, the frantic cries of men he had come to know and respect, and had knelt down to cover Villar’s terrible injuries.
A leading seaman had looked at him. ‘All right, my son?’
And all that Mowbray had been able to remember was what Villar had said about his hands. He had looked at them then.
‘I – I think so, Hookey.’ He had got to his feet. It was over, and he knew he would never forget.
And there were some who had expected to die, simply because there seemed no alternative as the two great ships had fired point-blank at each other, or so it had felt, at the time.
Lieutenant Dick Rayner had been leading a group of seamen and mechanics who were trying to put out fires which had spread through the deck below from the shattered wardroom, and had suddenly exploded with a vivid flash through the catapult athwartships.
The men had been frightened, or too shocked by what they had already seen and done to respond.
Rayner had shouted, ‘Come on, you guys! D’you want to live forever?’
It had almost worked, until fire had exploded amongst some stored aircraft fuel. It was pouring out as the ship tilted over in another wild alteration of course, like a burning stream, and he had felt the heat searing his uniform and hair.
He had snatched up an extinguisher and had jumped toward the flames. He was not sure of what had happened next. He had felt something like a punch, and had been flung down at the feet of the others.
Eddy Buck was not a big man; in fact he was slight, like a boy. He had dragged the extinguisher from him and yelled, ‘Not this time, sunshine!’ The ship had swayed over again, and the young New Zealander had become a human torch.
Later, when they had wrapped him in a blanket, Buck had opened one eye and had tried to focus it on his friend.
Rayner had put his face to his, hating the stench of burned flesh and of gas. He had held him closely, wanting him to die to be spared this suffering, needing him to live.
He had whispered, ‘Don’t bale out now, Eddy. I’m going to need you, remember?’
The blistered mouth had twisted into a smile. Just one word. ‘Sorry.’ And he was gone.
Rayner had been very close to Andy at that moment. She knew it better than anyone.
And up on the bridge, Sherbrooke was a part of them all.
The ship was on her new course, at reduced speed; no one would know the full extent of her damage until she was docked.
When he had told Frost to assume the new course, he had seen the hesitation, the aftermath of fear.
Sherbrooke had said, ‘Pilot showed you what to do. Do it.’
He had looked up at the director, riddled with holes in spite of its two-inch armour plate. Evershed and his team had been killed before the marines had fired that last defiant shot. Evershed would have approved: he had trained them all.
Back to Gibraltar, then. Relief for some, broken hearts for many more.
He saw Pat Drury helping an injured seaman to hop on one leg as he guided him to safety. Another survivor. Would he ever be able to write again about the war in the same way? Perhaps he no longer believed in anything. Like Beveridge, the chaplain, when Sherbrooke had seen him wandering along the splintered decks with a prayer book, repeating the same line over and over. ‘Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy.’ On and on.
Then he heard a man laugh, and others joined in. They were realizing what they had done. Tomorrow, the whole world would know.
Almost unconsciously, he ran his fingers along the screen. Reliant had done what must be done. She had also evened an old score, in some way.
He knew that Reliant would never fight again; they both did. But, as is the way with some ships, the legend would never die.
Epilogue
Operation Husky, the successful invasion of Sicily, like the landings in Italy which followed two months later, are now firmly placed in the annals of history: great events, which were to lead to and culminate in the D-Day landings, and final victory by the Allied forces.
Reliant’s desperate fight against the powerful Italian battleship, like so many single actions throughout the war, was overshadowed, a mere episode in a catalogue of inspiring events, except to those who had been there, and had survived. With the hostilities ended, and with the beginning of what is now remembered as the Cold War, like so many other ships, there was no longer a role for the battlecruiser.
On a bright, crisp day, H.M.S. Reliant left her moorings for her last passage, to the breaker’s yard. Her sister ship Renown had gone to her fate only weeks earlier, so Reliant was indeed the last battlecruiser. The end of a dream.
Under tow, she sailed without fuss or ceremony, her past deeds forgotten, except by those who had known her. Stripped of all her guns, engines and machinery, her graceful hull pockmarked with dents and s
treaks of rust, she was, to the experienced tug masters, just another hulk.
Reliant had covered several oceans, and thousands of men had passed through her in peace and war.
She was the same ship.
At the inquiry which was to follow, the same arguments were repeated which had been reported after Jutland, and in the Mediterranean before Reliant’s last fight. It simply could not happen. It was impossible. But it did.
On a calm sea, and without any power of her own, Reliant’s rudder went hard over.
The senior tug master described how she had suddenly veered away, the tow had snapped, and another tug had been hard put to avoid a collision. He also said that he had heard something like a rumble, which he was unable to explain. Another witness stated that the old battlecruiser had given a great shudder, like that first day on the slipway at Clydebank, when she had hesitated before sliding into the water.
She had taken on a heavy list, and had started to sink by the stern. There had been nothing anyone could do. In half an hour she was gone; perhaps, like her motto, she had been determined not to give in.
Now, over the years, those who remember her grow fewer. But when ships pass this place, occasionally, you will still hear a voice, bringing it all back.
‘The old Reliant lies down there. I once served in her. I tell you, she was a fine ship!’
A sailor’s tribute. None better.
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