HMS Saracen

by Douglas Reeman

  Ballard coughed at his elbow. `Permission to lower dead light, sir? We’d better darken the wardroom. before we start dinner.’

  Erskine turned away from the circle of sea and sky without comment. Yes, he thought savagely, let us get on with the game. Calm and cool. Cheerful and offhand abou~ everything. Who the bloody hell are we fooling!

  3

  Face from the Past

  John Erskine held up his hand to shield his eyes from the light which seemed to be burning into his brain. One moment he had been deep in an exhausted sleep, and the next he was struggling in his bunk, his body still shaking from the messenger’s violent tugging.

  `What is it, man?’ Erskine peered beyond the torch at the seaman’s shadowy shape. His brain still rebelled, and every muscle called out to him to fall back on the bunk. He was still partly under the impression that he was dreaming. His mind cleared with startling suddenness as he realised that the reassuring beat of the ship’s full power was muted and feeble.

  `Captain’s compliments, sir. ‘E wants you on the bridge at once.’

  Erskine fell out of his bunk and switched on the small table lamp. No wonder he was tired. He had only been off his feet for a few hours. The Morning Watch had not even been called yet.

  Being careful to keep his voice normal, he asked, `What’s happening up top?’

  The seaman was looking round the cramped and untidy cabin with open interest. Perhaps he had expected something better for the ship’s second-in-command. `Stopped the port engine, sir. Trouble in the shaft, I think.’

  Erskine’s mind began to work again. That’s all we need, he thought. One bloody engine. `Tell the Captain I’m on my way.’

  He followed the man briskly on to the upper deck, blinking his eyes in the deep darkness. By the time he had climbed to the upper bridge, past the dozing gunners and peering lookouts, his mind had been further cleared by the crisp night air, and only the soreness of his eyes and the kiln-dryness in his throat reminded him of his complete fatigue. He groped his way to the forepart of the bridge, where he could just discern the Captain’s tall figure against the screen.

  `Good morning, John.’ Chesnaye’s , voice was calm enough, but more abrupt than usual. `Bit of bother in the engine room.’

  `Bad, sir?’ Erskine tried to gauge Chesnaye’s mood.

  `More of a nuisance really. The Chief has been up to tell me that a bearing is running hot. Might be a blocked pipe.’ He laughed shortly. `He was very insistent that I stop that screw to give his men a chance to look round.’ He added bitterly : `It’s an after bearing. A bit tricky to get at. Still, it might have been worse, I suppose.’

  Erskine nodded. If they didn’t stop the shaft it might seize up completely for lack of oil. There could be no dodging the bombers with only one screw, he thought. His tiredness made him suddenly angry and despairing. All Chesnaye’s desperate manoeuvring had done this. If only this was a thirty-knot destroyer, he thought. One screw or two, you always had a few thousand horsepower up your sleeve then

  He said, `Shall I call the men to quarters, sir?’

  `No, let half of ‘em get their sleep. They need it.’

  Chesnaye had spoken unconsciously, but his words brought the sudden realisation to Erskine that the Captain had been on the bridge almost continuously since the ship and slipped her buoy in Malta.

  Erskine asked : `Can I relieve you for a bit, sir? The ship’ll hardly make headway in this sea.’

  `I’m all right. I just wanted to put you in the picture.’

  Erskine leaned against the cool plates and looked at the black sea. `Very quiet, sir.’ A slight breeze fanned his face and rattled the signal halyards overhead.

  Chesnaye grunted. His arm moved like a dark shadow towards the starboard beam. ‘Tobruk’s over there. Less than a hundred miles away. I wonder how the Army are managing?’

  Erskine stared at him. The Captain was concerned about his ship, yet he found time to worry about the nameless men in the desert. The ship trembled beneath his shoes, and he felt thankful that he were here and not lying out on the sand and rocks, waiting for the dawn to uncover the advancing enemy.

  `You’re not married, are you, John?’

  The question was so sudden that Erskine was momentarily confused.

  `No, sir. That is, not yet.’

  `Thought about it?’

  Erskine had a fleeting picture of Ann’s face and felt even more unsure of himself. `Not really, sir. In wartime it’s hard to make such a decision.’

  Chesnaye was tapping the stem of his unlit pipe against his teeth, and might have been studying him but for the darkness. `You don’t want to think like that, John.’ Then with unexpected vehemence, `No, it’s a chance that does not come very often.’

  There was a metallic clatter from aft, and Erskine heard Chesnaye curse under his breath.

  Somewhere in the darkness Harbridge, the Gunner (T), said stiffly, `The stokers are’avin’ a go, sir!’

  `Bloody row!’ Chesnaye took off his cap and ran his fingers across his hair.

  `It’s a big job. But Tregarth will be as quick as he can. He’s a good Chief, sir.’ Erskine waited for Chesnaye to answer and added : `To go back to what we were saying, sir. About marriage. I was wondering why you haven’t done so if what you say …’ He faltered as Chesnaye took a step toyards him.

  `Let us keep our minds on the job in hand, eh?’ Chesnaye’s tone was cold, like a slap in the face. `I suggest you take a turn around the decks to see that the men are aware of what is happening. We still have the A/S trawler with us, but I want a good lookout kept!’

  Erskine stepped back, stifling his resentment and his surprise. `Aye, aye, sir.’

  As Erskine walked past the tall, warm shape of the funnel where the Morning Watch was being mustered, he bumped into the lanky figure of McGowan.

  “Morning, John, is all well in the world?’

  Erskine bit back the angry words which seemed to be bursting from his lips and replied shortly : `Bit of a flap on. Nothing the Captain can’t handle, apparently.’

  McGowan watched him go and wondered. He heard hi petty officer say throatily : `Two volunteers for a nice cush;j job ! ‘Oo are they ter be, then?’

  Two voices called assent from the anonymous swayinj ranks of duffel-coated seamen.

  `Right,’ said the P.O. `Bates an’ Maddison. Get aft an clear the blockage in the officers”earls.’

  The men groaned, while their comrades sniggered with unsympathetic delight.

  McGowan said severely, `Now is that the way to ge volunteers, P.O.?’

  The hardened regular rubbed his hands and grinned. ‘1 volunteer is a bloke wot’s misunderstood the question, sir Either that or ‘e’s as green as grass. But the officers’ ‘ead ‘ave got to be cleaned afore you gentlemen gets up in th, mornin’ !’

  ‘Er, quite. Carry on, P.O.’

  The men shuffled away into the darkness, and McGowal started to climb towards the bridge.

  For the rest of the night the ship pushed her way at snail’s pace, while down below, right aft and beneath th waterline, Tregarth and his mechanics worked and sweatee to trace the one tiny injury which was making every ma, aboard apprehensive and irritable.

  Morning passed, and with it came a stiff north-east win which whipped the flat water first into a mass of dancin whitecaps and soon changed the whole sea to a pitchin~ panorama of long, steep rollers. The Saracen slowed eve”, more, until eventually it was only possible to retain steerage wav. The monitor took the mounting sea with obvious dig like. The long diagonal swells cruised rapidly to hit he, below the port bow, each jagged crest crumbling beneatl the force of the wind, so that the men off watch felt th surging power of water thunder against the hull like a ro~ of drums, and then waited as the ship staggered and heavei, herself bodily over and down into the waiting troughs, and so to the next onslaught. On watch it was even worse. The gunners, signalmen and lookouts were always in danger losing their footing and handholds. Equipment and amm
unition rattled and banged, men cursed as their boots skidded on the heaving decks, and their eyes and binoculars were blinded by the long streamers of shredded spray which seemed to cruise over the hull and superstructure like birds of prey.

  in the near distance the trawler pitched and yawed, showing first her bilge and then her open bridge, upon which her watchkeepers in shining oilskins clung like seals on a rock.

  Chesnaye forced himself to stay in his chair. Occasionally, when off guard, his eyes strayed to the engine-room telephone. The handset was temptingly near, but he knew it was futile and a waste of time to call Tregarth to speak to him. He was doing his best. That had to suffice.

  `Your oilskin, sir!’ A bosun’s mate was holding it out to him, so that Chesnaye realised with sudden shock that his uniform was dripping from the spray and blown spume. He nodded with a brief smile and pulled it across his shoulders. As he leaned forward in his chair to tuck the coat behind him he caught a glimpse of Erskine and the Chief Bosun’s Mate, followed somewhat reluctantly by a small party of seamen, making their rounds of the fo’c’sle and anchor cables. He noticed how the men’s bodies stood at nearly a forty-five-degree angle as the wide deck canted against the weight of water which piled up beneath the bows. Spray burst across the guard-rail and drenched the groping men, and Chesnaye saw Erskine turn to shout something, his collar flapping in the vicious wind.

  Chesnaye sat back and thought about his conversation with Erskine during the night. I was wrong to speak to him like that. Stupid, and cowardly.

  He was glad he had been unable to see Erskine’s face when it had happened. But even that was small comfort. How was he to know about Helen? Chesnaye cursed himself once, more. By bringing up the subject of marriage in the first place, he and not Erskine was to blame.

  He ducked his head as more water deluged across the screen and ran down his stubbled face’ and through the soggy protection of the towel he had wrapped around his neck.

  The Mediterranean. Calm and inviting. Or wild and i:rJ responsible. It had all happened here, he thought. Meeting Helen Driscoll in Gibraltar. The Dardanelles and thei misery which followed. He remembered the long journey back to England in the hospital ship. So full of hope in spite of his feeling of loss and despair. Robert Driscoll had never left his side, and even afterwards in that Sussex hospital he had visited him often.

  But the rest of the dream had never materialised. Helen Driscoll had stayed in Gibraltar, and had been there when the Saracen had eventually dropped anchor en route for’ home waters and the final battle for France.

  Even now, after all these years, Chesnaye could not accept what had happened so easily. He knew he had nc rights, no first call or demands over her. Nevertheless, he had felt real pain when Robert Driscoll had met him witf the news.

  Helen had become engaged to Mark Beaushears, one midshipman of the Saracen’s unhappy gunroom, then act ing lieutenant and en route with the monitor for a ne ship. An up-and-coming young officer, they had said, an Chesnaye had written to him to wish him luck. He ha written the letter while the misery was fresh in his heart and the hatred very real in his mind.

  In all parts of the world and on many occasions he hac told himself : If only she had waited. Why Beaushears? Bu he had known well enough that it was just another de lusion which, like the Saracen’s memory, never left him.

  Lieutenant Fox lurched across the bridge and saluted `Signal, sir. Priority. Small convoy being attacked. Reques immediate assistance!’

  Chesnaye pushed himself off the chair and limped to wards the charthouse. `Is there more of it?’

  `Yes, sir. Still coming in on W/T. Two Italian cruiser and some destroyers have dropped on the convoy frorr Piraeus. The bloody Eye-ties must have pushed down the Greek coast during the night.’

  He watched Chesnaye’s eyes flicker from the signal pac to the chart, and the almost desperate speed with which ha, moved the parallel rulers and dividers. He knew wel enough what Chesnaye was thinking. Crete to the north the Libyan coast to the south. The small convoy must have skirted the island of Crete on the mainland side to keep as covered as possible from surface attack. Then it had turned south with the intention of wheeling eastwards to Port Said. It was one of the many urgently needed convoys of supplies for the British troops in Greece. The enemy were obviously aware of the importance of every ship in the area. They intended to finish off this convoy, and only the Saracen by a stroke of fate was in a position to help them. That is, she would have been in a position to help them, thought Fox grimly as he watched the anguish on Chesnaye’s face.

  The dividers clicked across the chart once more, as if Chesnaye had not trusted his first impression. Slowly he said, `But for this breakdown we would have been right amongst them.’

  Fox glanced at his personal log. `Yes, sir. We would probably have sighted the convoy wing escort at eleven hundred.’ He sucked his teeth. `Bloody bad luck!’

  In a strange voice Chesnaye snapped : `Bring her about, Pilot. Lay off a new course to intercept.’ He hurried past the astonished Fox. `Bosun’s Mate ! Get the First Lieutenant for me at once!’ His mind was in a complete whirl as he picked up the engine-room handset. `Captain speaking. Get me the Chief !’

  At that moment Erskine pushed his way into the charthouse his eyebrows raised questioningly as he saw Fox’s troubled face.

  Fox shrugged and gestures towards the signal pad. `Local convoy under cruiser attack. They’re requesting assistance.’

  Chesnaye’s voice came from the bridge, sharp and urgent, `Have you got that new course yet, Pilot?’

  Fox picked up his logbook and looked hard at Erskine. `I’m a seaman and that’s all.’ He turned slowly towards the open door. `You tell the Skipper what it’s all about. Frankly, I haven’t got the heart!’

  `What the hell are you saying?’ Erskine rubbed his windreddened face. `Why are we changing course?’

  Fox sighed deeply. `He thinks we should be there to give assistance. We would have been but for the bloody engines. I must say I’m not sorry, I don’t fancy mixing it with some brand-new cruisers, Wops or not !’

  He walked briskly on to the bridge, his solid body swaying easily to the ship’s heavy rolls. A moment later Erskine heard his voice, flat and calm once more. `Port fifteen. Steady. Steer oh-four-five.’

  Erskine swallowed hard and followed him into the wind. The ship was leaning heavily, her bows corkscrewing as she laboured round into the teeth of the gale.

  Chesnaye looked past him, his eyes distant, as if his mind was somewhere else. ‘Ah, John, here you are. The Chief has patched up the trouble at last. I am just ringing down for maximum revs.’ Suddenly his grey eyes focused directly on Erskine’s face. `The W / T office are letting me have a regular report of the situation. I-I can’t understand it. The convoy has called for air support, and nothing has happened!’

  Erskine looked away. `There isn’t any, sir. It’s been like that for months.’ He turned slightly to watch the disbelief change to helpless anger.

  Chesnaye waved his hand across the plunging white rollers. `But good God, man ! This is an emergency ! There are valuable ships out there ! Ships and men !’

  You poor bastard, thought Erskine dully. `Every available aircraft is in the desert, or Greece. If you’re caught on your own, that’s just too bad!’

  `Signal, sir.’ Laidlaw, the Yeoman, had appeared on the bridge, his beard glistening with diamonds of spray. He faced Erskine as Chesnaye read through the lines of neat, pencilled information.

  Erskine watched Chesnaye’s lips moving as he read in silence. He noticed that the Captain’s hand was shaking. Erskine knew that this was a crucial moment, but for once he felt unable to cope with it. The shock and open despair on Chesnaye’s face robbed him of controlled thought.

  `They’re relying on us.’ The words were wrung from Chesnaye’s mouth. `The Second Inshore Squadron are on way to help the convoy. We are to engage the enemy until our cruisers arrive!’

  A telegraph jangled, and mom
ents later the bridge began to throb and quiver in response to the revived engines.

  `We’ll not be in time, sir.’ Erskine hated himself as he saw the effect of his words. `They’ve a head start on us.’

  Fox called : `Signal, sir. Convoy’s scattering.’

  Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie, who until this moment had been watching in silence, said : `A bit too late, I imagine. These Italian cruisers are damn’ fast.’

  Chesnaye crumpled the signal flimsy into a ball, his eyes furious. `Hold your tongue ! What the hell do you know about it?’

  `I beg your pardon, sir. I just thought ‘

  Chesnaye did not seem to hear him. `You can’t imagine what it’s like. Waiting for help. Seeing your friends die around you and not able to do anything!’

  `Maximum revolutions, sir!’

  Chesnaye nodded. `Have the main armament cleared for action.’

  Erskine wanted to leave the bridge. To get away from the suspense and the feeling of helplessness. The Captain had proved himself so capable, so brilliant at handling the ship under the air attacks, that it had never occurred to him he was totally unaware of the true situation which faced every British ship in the Mediterranean.

  He heard Chesnaye ask in a more controlled tone, `What escorts do they have?’

  `Two destroyers and an old sloop, sir.’ Fox was holding his logbook like a bible. `They can’t spare much else at present.’

  The big turret creaked slightly and the left gun dipped a few degrees. Within the massive steel hive the gunners were already testing the controls, preparing their cumbersome charges for battle. Not a stationary target ashore or a straggling collection of troops and installations, but the cream of the Duce’s navy. Thirty-knot cruisers, most likely, each one a floating arsenal.

  Chesnaye folded his hands across the screen and rested his chin on them. He could feel the hull’s convulsions and hear the clatter of feet on bridge ladders as messengers raced to and fro and men hurried to their stations. Behind him nobody spoke but to relay an order or to answer one of the voice-pipes.