HMS Saracen

by Douglas Reeman

  Chesnaye smiled to himself. Am a barrister, he thought. Not was. That accounted for much in the man’s apparent ease and confidence. In the old Navy it had been so simple to get a man’s measure. Rank and family background had usually sufficed to weigh a man’s worth and prophesy his future. Provided there were no unfortunate interruptions, he added grimly.

  `Do you like this life?’

  Bouverie looked at him with open surprise. ‘ really hadn’t thought, sir. But it is better than the Army, I suppose.’

  Chesnaye sat down in the chair and took a deep breath. No, you could never tell from first appearances any more.

  `Aircraft bearing Red one-orie-oh ! Angle of sight twooh!’

  Chesnaye swivelled in his chair as Fox bounded across the bridge and stabbed at the red button below the screen. The gurgling scream of klaxons echoed below decks, followed immediately by the rush of feet as the men poured through hatches into the sunlight. Chesnaye had to grip the arms of the chair to control the rising edge of excitement which was making his heart pound so painfully. He knew it had to come, but out here in the bright sunlight and placid sea it did not seem right or even real.

  He lifted his glasses and moved them slowly across the port quarter. Once as he searched for the intruders his glasses moved across the Saracen herself, so that some of his men’s faces sprang into gigantic focus, distorted and inhuman. He saw too the slim barrels of the Oerlikons already probing skywards and the short stubby ones of the two-pounder pompoms as the gunners whipped off the canvas screens.

  Then he saw them. Tiny silver specks, apparently unmoving, like fragments of ice above the glittering water.

  He heard Fox say, `Ship at Action Stations, sir!’

  `Very good, Pilot. Increase to maximum revolutions.’

  The Yeoman of Signals, a bearded Scot named Laidlaw, peered round the steel lockers at the rear of the bridge. `Escort requests instructions, sir?’

  `Take up station in line ahead.’

  He half listened to the clatter of the lamp as the signal flashed across the calm sea. There was no point in the trawler being impeded by the slower monitor. The enemy would be after the Saracen. The trawler could wait.

  The mounting revolutions transmitted themselves through the tall chair, so that he imagined the ship was shivering. As he was doing. The sudden stark prospect of losing the Saracen had momentarily pushed everything else from his racing thoughts.

  `Six aircraft, sir ! Dive-bombers!’

  Chesnaye gritted his teeth and turned to watch McGowan, who with handset in fist was watching the aircraft through his glasses. His voice was sharp, edgy. `Stand by

  short-range weapons !’He looked across at Chesnaye, but did not seem to see him. In his mind’s eye he would be seeing his plan of anti-aircraft guns throughout the ship, each unit an individual weapon, every crew dependent upon its own ability and experience. In their huge turret the two big fifteen-inch guns still pointed imperiously across the blunt bows. They had no part in this type of warfare, and their size seemed to emphasise the ship’s unnatural element.

  Chesnaye watched the six small aircraft climbing higher and higher, their shapes drawing apart in the lenses of his glasses as they turned in a wide half-circle and swam across the pale blue sky. Higher and higher, and faster as they flashed along the monitor’s beam. Well out of effective range. Marking their target. Drawing ahead, until in a moment of near panic Chesnaye imagined they were going for the trawler, after all. He blinked as the sunlight lanced down the glasses and made his eyes stream. Of course, they were getting the sun behind them to blind the gunners. Also, most of the monitor’s A.A. guns were abaft the beam, they were taking the minimum risks.

  `They’re turning, sir !’A nearby bridge lookout was shouting at the top of his voice, although Chesnaye was almost touching him.

  Chesnaye said sharply, `Open fire when your guns bear!’

  The first aircraft began to dive. Silhouetted against the sun like a black crucifix, it plunged steeply towards the labouring monitor. It seemed to be flying straight down the forestay, as if drawn inevitably to the bridge itself.

  Again Chesnaye heard the unearthly scream as the batshaped bomber hurled itself into its dive. The sound he had heard in that Malta convoy. A prelude to death and destruction. But this time it was his ship. They were after Saracen!

  In sudden anger he barked, `Starboard twenty!’

  Shaking at her full speed of seven knots, the monitor wheeled heavily in obedience to the repeated order. The ship’s port side swung to face the screaming bomber, and in those frantic seconds opened up with everything she had.

  The bridge structure shook and vibrated as pompoms and Oerlikons and then the long four-inch guns joined in frantic chorus. All at once the narrowing distance between ship and bomber became pitted with brown shell-bursts, the empty sky savagely crossed with gay tracers.

  Chesnaye forced himself to watch as the big bomb detached itself from the aircraft which now seemed to fill the sky itself.

  He did not even recognise his own voice any more. ‘Midships!’

  The bomb seemed to be falling very slowly, so that he had time to notice that the small trawler had joined in the fray, her puny guns lost in the roar of the Saracen’s own defences.

  The dive-bomber, having released its load, pulled out of its nerve-tearing plunge, the scream changing to a throbbing roar as the pilot pulled his plane out and over the swinging ship. For another moment Chesnaye saw the spread of wings, the black crosses, even the leather~helmeted head of a man who was trying to kill him.

  The tracers whipped across the trailing wings, gs, but the bomber was past and already turning away.

  The monitor shuddered, and a few shreds of salt spray dropped into the bridge. Chesnaye swallowed hard, his mouth dry. The bomb had missed, he had not even heard it explode.

  `Here comes the next one P

  Again the inferno of gunfire and savage bursts, the scream of that merciless siren, and then the roar of the bomb. Another miss. Chesnaye found that he was getting angrier with each attack.

  `The bombers are splitting up, sir !’Bouverie sounded steady but different from the young man of ten minutes earlier.

  `Three aside.’ Chesnaye watched them with hatred. `I am going to swing the ship … now!’ In the same breath he barked. `Hard a-port !’

  Leaning heavily the old ship began to pivot, the distant trawler swinging across the bows as if airborne. Instead of a semi-defenceless wedge, the diving pilots saw the length ening shape of the Saracen swinging across their paths. As they dived she continued to swing, a wild surging froth beneath her fat stern as one engine was flung full astern to bring her about. Too late the air men realised that their ponderous adversary was not just turning to avoid the next bomb. Before, she had side-stepped each attack and hit back as best she could. The airmen had split up to take care of this irritating manccuvre. One section to make the ship turn, the second section to catch her out. But this time the ship did not steady on course. With her protesting engines and rudder threatening to tear theselves adrift, and aided by her shallow draught, the Saracen curtsied round until every gun in the ship was brought to bear.

  The first bomber staggered and fell sideways, its grace lost in an instant. Trailing black smoke, it dived over the heeling bridge and ricocheted across the water in a trail of fiery fragments. The leader of the second attack pressed on and down, he was committed, he could not reverse his engine. The tracers knitted and joined in a vortex of fire, so that the forepart of the aircraft seemed to disintegrate even as it plunged towards its target. With one blinding flash it vanished, while the clear water below was pockmarked with falling wreckage.

  One bomb fell almost alongside the ship’s anti-torpedo bulge, a shattering detonation which would have stove in the hull of a light cruiser with little effort. Saracen shook herself and steamed unscathed through the falling spray, her guns still chattering defiance.

  Then the sky was empty. As suddenly as they h
ad arrived the survivors of the would-be assassins planed towards the horizon, their engines fading and futile.

  `Bring her round on course, Pilot!’ Chesnaye kept his face towards the sea. `Resume cruising speed, and fall out Action Stations.’

  Fox’s voice was husky. `Aye, aye, sir!’

  Chesnaye rubbed his palm along the screen. She had done it ! Together they had shown them all, doubters and bloody Germans alike !

  Erskine appeared at his elbow. His face was streaked with smoke from the guns he had been directing from aft. `No damage or casualties, sir.’

  `Good.’ Chesnaye turned to see the watchful surprise o; Erskine’s features. `I thought the port Oerlikons were :i little slow in coming to grips. Have a word with Guns about it, will you?’

  `I will, sir.’ Erskine seemed at a loss for words.

  Chesnaye rubbed his hands. Two bombers shot down Not bad.

  Below on the signal bridge he heard an anonymous voio. say : `Handled the old cow like a bleedin’ destroyer ! I thought we’d bloody well ‘ad it!’

  Another voice, loud with obvious relief : `What’s the use Ginger? No bastard’ll ever believe you when you tell ‘em!’

  Chesnaye smiled. His body felt weak and shaking, and he could taste the nearness of vomit at the back of his throat. But he smiled.

  Fox stepped back from the voice-pipe and watched hirr., narrowly. The other officers had been quick to voice thei opinions of the new captain, but he had been slower t make up his mind. He had served with too many eccentric or difficult skippers to do otherwise. This one was in a clas apart, he thought. He actually believed in this ship. Where as for some of the others she was a penance or a stepping stone for something better, for Richard Chesnaye it was the ultimate reward. It was incredible, slightly unnerving. Bud as he watched Chesnaye’s hand moving almost lovingly along the bridge screen, Fox knew he was right.

  John Erskine pushed the pile of opened letters away from him across the wardroom table and groped for a cigarette from the tin at his elbow. It was empty. He gave an exasperated sigh and looked over at Wickersley, who was apparently engrossed in one of the letters.

  `Cigarette, Doc? My duty-frees have run out.’

  Wickersley pushed an unopened tin towards him without taking his eyes from the letter. Eventually he said, `Bloody amazing some of the things our people write to their wives.’,

  Erskine blew out a stream of smoke. `You’re supposed to be censoring those things, Doe. Not bloody well passing; judgement !’

  Wickersley looked up and grinned. `All the same, they do make me feel as if I’ve been living a very sheltered life !’

  Somewhere beyond the wardroom a tannoy speaker crackled. `All the Starboard Watch ! Starboard Watch to Defence Stations!’

  Erskine glanced at the salt-streaked scuttle. Eight bells, evening drawing in, but still clear and bright. The horizon line mounted the scuttle, hovered motionless, and then receded with timeless conformity. The Port Watch would be coming from their stations to face greasy plates of bangers and beans, washed down with unspeakably sweetened tea. If they were very lucky the duty cooks would have skimmed the cockroaches off the surface beforehand.

  In one corner of the wardroom Harbridge and Joslin, the Gunner, dozed in chairs like two Toby jugs, while. at a writing desk Sub-Lieutenant Philpott, the Paymaster, was busy writing to his parents.

  `How are you getting on with the Old Man?’ Wickersley, stamped the letter and reached for the cigarette tin.

  `All right.’ Erskine spoke guardedly. `Why?’

  `Oh, just wondered.’ The Doctor waved the smoke away, from his face. `Seems quite a chap tome !’

  Quite a chap. Erskine wondered how the Captain really did appear to one as uninvolved as the Doctor. `Yes. But I don’t feel I have his measure as yet.’

  `He’s got a lot on his mind.’

  Haven’t we all? Erskine thought of the three days which had dragged remorselessly after the monitor’s wake. Two more bombing attacks. Constant vigilance, with the hands almost asleep at their posts. The ship’s company was working watch and watch. Four hours on, and four off, not allowing for the constant calls to Action Stations and the normal work which had to be carried out no matter what happened. Painting, scraping, repairs and endless main. tenance, with tempers and nerves becoming frayed and torn with each turn of the screws. All the time the Captain seemed to be watching him. He never actually complained about the way Erskine was running the ship, but a hint here, a suggestion there, made him wonder just what standard Chesnaye had in mind. He seemed to make no allowance for the ship’s tiredness, her unsuitability, and the general pressures which were wearing down the whole Fleet, let alone this one old ship.

  Wickersley was watching him. `His leg seems to bothe, him. I might ask if I can have a look at it some time.’

  Erskine smiled in spite of his preoccupied thoughts. `Yot do that. He’ll have you for breakfast!’

  `He got it in the First World War, I gather. Odd really.’

  `What is? Quite a few blokes got cut up then!’

  `No, I mean it’s strange the way he looks.’ He eyecr, Erskine musingly. `He’s over ten years older than you, ye’ you look about the same age. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  Erskine laughed. `It’s a bloody wonder I don’t look likf his father, the things which I’ve got on my mind!’

  Ballard, the senior steward, emerged from the pantry, ‘We’d like to lay the table for dinner now, sir?’ He eyed th( letters bleakly. ‘Er, could you … ?’

  Erskine nodded. `I’ll move.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’v lost my appetite.’

  Wickersley rubbed his hands as some more figures driftec wearily into the wardroom. `I think a noggin is indicated.’

  Erskine shook his head. `I never drink at sea, Doc.’

  `Your loss, my friend!’ Wickersley waved to a steward `Large pink Plymouth!’ He beamed at Lieutenant Norris who had just slumped down in one of the battered arm chairs. `What about you, old sport?’

  Norris looked pasty-faced and crumpled from sleep. `A large one, please.’

  Erskine paused and looked down at him. `Watch it, Malcolm,’ he said quietly. `You’ve got another Middle Watch in four hours.’

  Norris flushed. `I can manage, thank you.’

  Erskine shrugged and walked to the scuttle. The sea waa getting furrowed with deep shadows, and the sky lost itl warmth. Three more days and they would be back in Alex,

  andria. Then what? A place full of bustling activity along’, side fear and indecision. Orders would be waiting for them; and then they would be off to sea once more.

  And somewhere in the middle of all this there was Ann; Even now she might be in her tiny apartment above thq harbour, watching the ships, and waiting for him. Or helping at the hospital. She might even be laughing over a drink with some other naval officer.

  Ann Curzon, tall, slim, so completely desirable. Erskine remembered vividly that first night when they had had a little too much to drink, and they had made love with such fierceness in that same apartment.

  Yet he knew so little about her, or what had made her leave England to join this mad world of uncertainty and chaos. She was only twenty-three, yet in so many ways seemed more mature than he. She always appeared to be laughing at him, thrusting away his caution and reserve with her own happiness. Yet he had the deeper feeling that she could be easily hurt.

  How had it all started? He thought of her wide, clear eyes, and the way her short, sun-bleached hair tossed when she laughed at something he said. Now he would have to choose. Perhaps it would be easier than he imagined. He pressed his head against the cool glass to compose himself. The radio began to blare with another sentimental song. Vera Lynn. `There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover …’ Somebody started to whistle. The clink of glasses. Small talk and age-worn jokes while the officers waited for dinner. Without looking round, Erskine knew what was happening, The exact picture, the exact moment.

  The long tableclot
h, now soiled and stained, the worn chairs, and the much-used wardroom silver. The officers sitting and standing around, legs straddled to the gentle heave of the deck, the eyes swinging occasionally to the pantry hatch. As if they did not know what was coming. As if some superb meal was to be expected, instead of tinned sausages and dehydrated potatoes.

  He toyed with the idea of going to the bridge, and imagined Chesnaye sitting in the tall chair, his face in shadow. It was a strong face, he thought. But it was almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. Like Fox, Erskine was used to conforming to the ways of various captains. To all their little mannerisms and foibles. But Chesnaye gave away nothing. He seemed completely controlled, impassive. And yet there was so much more to him than Erskine could understand.

  The way he handled the ship, ‘for instance. Calmly enough, and yet with a quiet desperation, as if he werl afraid he was going to fail in some way. When the ship haii left harbour Chesnaye had watched every detail, from th;, very moment the hands had been called for getting undel way, from the second the slip-wire had been let go. Hil seemed to nurse the ship, as if at the slightest display o1 temperament from the old monitor he would feel that hr and not this twenty-five-year-old relic had made a mistake

  At first Erskine had assumed it was because Chesnay: was unsure of his own ability after his enforced absent from active duty. After what he had seen when the bomber had made their attacks he knew differently. Even from of he had seen the effort and cunning Chesnaye had used tc elude the ruthless Stukas. Astern the ship’s wake had curves’ and waved, and the deck beneath his feet had seemed tc buck as the engines had been put this way and then that.

  He shook his head. It can’t go on. It can’t last. Sooner o later Chesnaye was going to discover that he and the shit were only essential because of a general shortage. If he put. a foot wrong he’ll be finished for good, he thought.

  He looked again at the sea. Whatever else happens, must not get involved again. He spoke the words inwardly like a prayer. Sentiment is one thing, but if I give way now. I will never get another chance. He thought again of Ches; naye’s face that first day when he had assumed command Desperate, hungry, even grateful. I could be like him, he thought. When this war’s over they’ll soon forget. There’L be plenty of Chesnayes again. Thrown out, unwanted.