He turned away as a voice-pipe squeaked, `Main armao ment closed up !’
Wickersley’s brain was completely clear now. Main armament? He joined the Yeoman who was looking at his young signalman on the flag deck below. `What’s up, Yeo?’
Laidlaw plucked at his beard. `Battleship and four Eyetie cruisers on the starboard beam. They’re heading this way it seems!’
Wickersley peered towards the open water beyond one of the wallowing freighters as if he expected to see the enemy for himself.
The Yeoman added, `They’re about fourteen miles off at present, sir.’
As if to back up his words they heard the magnified voice of the range-taker. `Range two-eight-five!’
Bouverie looked up. `Flagship’s signalling, sir !’
A shaded lamp flickered along the lines of ships. `Alter course, sir ! Steer two-two-five!’
Chesnaye sounded cool. `Follow the next ahead, Pilot.’ `We might miss them, d’you think?’ Wickersley found he was whispering.
Fox lowered his glasses and grinned. `If we take our shoes off !’
Lifting a spare pair of glasses from their rack, Wickersley climbed on to a grating and peered vaguely across the lightening water. It was all glare, and gold mirrors. The sea was flat, yet alive with a million tiny movements and reflections. As far as he could see the convoy had the sea to itself. He felt suddenly frustrated and out of place. `Seems quiet enough P
Chesnaye was crossing the bridge and paused at his side. `The Admiral intends to steer away from the enemy. There’s always a chance, of course.’ He did not sound as if he believed it. `It’s a Littorio-class battleship. One of the new ones. Nine fifteen-inch guns, thirty knots.’
‘Aureus’s turning, sir.’
They watched the sleek cruiser fall away and begin to steam slowly round the convoy to place herself between the ships and the invisible enemy.
`How far can they shoot, sir?’ Wickersley was watching Chesnaye’s calm, unblinking eyes.
`They’ll be in range at twenty thousand. Effective shooting at ten thousand yards in this early haze.’ He shrugged. `After that it’s anyone’s guess.’
`Range two-eight-oh!’
Wickersley half listened to the regular, patient reports and the repeated orders. It was unreal and unnerving. Everything was just the same. The columns of ships, the monitor’s steady engine beat, the bright, empty sky. Yet somewhere over the horizon, steaming at full speed, was a terrible force which his mind could not contemplate. A battleship, a floating steel town of guns and armour, as well as four cruisers. Against them would be one cruiser, three destroyers and a sloop. And the Saracen. He stared round with sudden despair. The Saracen. Even at the mention of the battleship’s speed his heart had sunk. Thirty knots against six and a half. The monitor would not even be able
to join battle. With the merchantmen she would be made to wait like a patient animal outside the slaughterhouse.
All at once Wickersley felt the anger boiling inside him, driving out the misery and self-pity which had been his companions for so many days. `Have we just got to damned well sit here and take it?’
Chesnaye eyed him calmly. `We’ll have to wait and see.’
`Range two-seven-oh!’
Fox crossed the bridge. `The bearing’s changed, sir. They’re after us.’
Chesnaye nodded as if his mind was elsewhere. `Yes.’
Fox glanced at the Doctor and shrugged. He knew that he had wanted the Captain to produce some miracle, to reassure him. Just as he was certain that there was no miracle now.
Chesnaye turned his back on all of them and watched the Aureus as she swung round in a tight turn to take up station on the convoy’s starboard flank. Her four turrets were already trained on her quarter, and lie could see the tiny figures filling her bridge. He wondered briefly what Beaushears was thinking at this very moment. As far as he was concerned he was alone. The trap was sprung. There was no time for the `if onlys’ and the ‘perhapses’, this was now.
He heard a lookout say involuntarily, `Christ it’s gettin’ bright!’ as if the man was willing back the sun.
`Range two-six-oh!’
Twenty-six thousand yards. Thirteen miles. Chesnaye levelled his glasses and stared for several seconds at the faint black shapes which were already lifting above the blue and gold line.
Chesnaye felt his fingers buttoning his jacket, as if the agonising wait was too much for them. He had to control and regularise his breathing to stop his anxiety joining the white-hot anger which he felt for Beaushears and everything which he had known was going to happen. He could even foretell Beaushears’ next move. He would wait until the enemy was within range and then go in to the attack. A brave, useless gesture. The battleship would pound him to pieces before his little six-inch guns could even splash her paintwork. There was no hope of air cover, and the supporting cruisers of Beaushears’ squadron would take a day to find the convoy. By that time…
`Signal from Flag, sir. Maintain courses and speed!’
Chesnaye did not turn round. The signal made him feel sick. It was as if Beaushears was issuing signals merely for something to do. Perhaps his nerve had gone and he was unable to think beyond his normal routine.
Chesnaye concentrated on adjusting his mind yet again. It was just possible that Aureus could hold off the attacking ships long enough. The merchantmen still had the destroyers and one sloop. If they could hold out for another day, and increase speed, there might be time to get help from Malta. Submarines perhaps?
`Range two-double-oh!’
A ripple of orange flashes mingled with the sunlight, and Chesnaye found himself gripping the screen with sudden doubt.
`The enemy’s opened fire, sir!’
Every eye on the bridge watched the flagship, a slender outline above her glittering reflection.
With the sound of tearing silk the first salvo came screaming down from above. It seemed to take minutes; to some the wait was like an hour, but there were cries of surprise and horror as the first six waterspouts rose with magnificent and terrible splendour not around the flagship, but across the starboard line of merchantmen.
Chesnaye could only stare with disbelief as the nearest merchantman received a direct hit from one of the great fifteen-inch shells full on her maindeck. The blast was like a thunderclap, and the great searing tongue of flame seemed to cut the ship in two.
The battleship had turned on an almost parallel course, so that her third turret could be brought to bear, and within seconds the next salvo was on its way. The stricken freighter seemed to topple over as some internal explosion rocked the hull and brought the bridge tottering into the great flaming crater left by the shell.
The flagship turned towards the enemy, the froth mounting beneath her counter as she increased to maximum speed. Beaushears had expected to be the target, to die doing his duty. But the Italian commander had no inten
tion of being side-tracked by any noble gestures. He was after the convoy. The convoy would go first.
The Yeoman ducked as a tall column of water rose less than half a cable from the Saracen’s bows. `Signal from Flag, sir ! Scatter!’
Chesnaye tasted the salty spray hurled by the explosion, and stared at the signal flags on the Aureus’s yard. Scatter. Beaushears had taken the only solution he knew. Every ship for itself. Instead of being destroyed together, they would be sunk one at a time by the speedy cruisers.
Fox said sharp, `The Cape Cod’s been hit!’
Chesnaye spun round as if he had been struck. The big freighter had never faltered, had never lost station even under attack. Now as he watched he saw the smoke pouring uncontrollably from her foredeck, and realised with sudden shock that the front of her tall bridge had gone completely. Cape Cod was momentarily hidden by another three tall columns of water. Each falling shell threw up a waterspout some hundred feet in the air. Even the noise of their falling made his ears sing.
Fox said : `Their steering’s gone, sir. They’re trying to s
teer from aft!’
A lookout called, `Direct hit on the destroyer Brigadier, sir!’
Chesnaye tore his eyes from the burning freighter and the tiny figures which were running aft to the emergency steering position. One of the escorts was already sinking, her stern high in the water like the arm of a drowning man.
Through his teeth he barked : `Request to re-form convoy ! Make that signal to Flag, Yeoman!’
They must keep together. It was their only chance.
Fox threw up his hands to shade his eyes as the flagship’s upperworks burst apart with one deafening roar. Her control top and upper bridge seemed to slide sideways, and even the main topmast, with Beaushears’ own flag still flying, staggered over the great pall of black and yellow smoke which surged to meet it.
Laidlaw, who had been about to flash the signal himself, lowered the lamp and stared at the cruiser, which in a second had changed its shape and form to a blazing hulk. The Aureus slewed round, the smoke blown across her impotent guns which had still not fired.
Fox lowered his hands. `My God !’He seemed at a complete loss. `God all-bloody Mighty P
Chesnaye stepped to the centre of the bridge, the Cape Cod was burning fiercely, the flames glittering across the water like the dawn sun. But she was afloat. If only they had more time. Like a stranger he stared round his shocked bridge. Laidlaw with the signal lamp hanging from his fingers. Fox, who could, not drag his eyes from the battered cruiser, and Bouverie, who seemed like a man under drugs.
In a strained voice Chesnaye heard himself say : `Make a signal to escorts. Reassemble convoy forthwith and proceed on course at maximum speed.’
He felt his legs shake as he crossed to the front of the bridge. Dear God, let Ann be safe. She has to be safe
He closed his mind again. `Starboard twenty!’ It was a second or two before Fox repeated the order or realised what it implied.
Then as the wheel went down and the bows began to swing, Chesnaye said sharply : `Tell the Chief I want maximum revolutions ! I want this ship to go as she did at Gallipoli !’
Laidlaw returned, shaking his head like a dog. `Signal executed, sir!’
`Good. Now, Yeoman, you can do one more thing this morning.’
`Sir?’ Laidlaw’s tired eyes were watching the merchantmen careering across the monitor’s bows as the Saracen continued to turn.
Chesnaye paused, his glasses levelled on the far off shapes. `Midships ! Steady!’ He glanced briefly at Laidlaw again. `Hoist battle ensigns!’
Above and below the bridge, gunners, signalmen and lookouts watched with awe and shock as the big ensigns broke out from gaff and yard. Even down in the engine room Lieutenant-Commander (E) Tregarth and his assistant sensed the new flood of power which pulsated through the old ship like fire. Tregarth watched the dials and wiped his hands across his white overalls. `Glad I’m down here,’ was his only comment, and that was lost in the roar of Saracen’s machinery.
Vice-Admiral Sir Mark Beaushears clenched his teeth and bit back the agonising pain. He shook his head from side to side, still unable to speak lest the waiting scream escaped from his lips. The arm behind his shoulders lowered him again to the deck, and Beaushears stared fixedly at the bright star-shaped area of blue sky which shone through the jagged hole above him. The bridge was a shambles, and above all there was an ear-splitting hiss of escaping steam. If he closed his eyes Beaushears imagined he could see himself as a young midshipman beside his tearful mother at Waterloo station. He had hated her coming with him to the train. There were other midshipmen all around him, watching, and passing knowing smiles. Over all there had been that nerve-shaking sound of steam from the engines in the station, which had made the parting even more difficult.
A shadow crossed the patch of sky, and he stared vaguely at Captain Colquhoun, who was watching him as if from far away. Beaushears tried to move again. `Harmsworth Where the devil’s my flag-lieutenant?’
Colquhoun looked at the ship’s surgeon, who was still trying to support the Admiral’s shoulders as he struggled weakly on the littered bridge. The surgeon shook his head briefly, and the Captain guessed that nothing could be done.
Around and below the bridge the air was filled with shouts and the clatter of running feet. Colquhoun wanted to dash out into the smoke and sunlight. His ship, his precious Aureus, was listing badly, and a thousand things were needed. He glanced unwillingly at the pulped corpse below the voice-pipes. Harmsworth was still grinning, his teeth white against the flayed skin.
Beaushears said thickly, `What’s happening, Colquhoun?’
The Captain listened to the steam and felt the wretched shuddering of the ship beneath him. `Direct hit, sir. Steering’s gone. I’m going to try to ‘
He broke off as an officer, his cheek torn apart in a long gash, staggered into the bridge and shouted : ‘Sir! The Saracen’s going past!’ He reeled against the torn plates as if shocked by his own words. `The old girl’s closing the enemy !’
Colquhoun stood up and walked quickly to the screen. Flotsam from his own ship floated around in the calm water, and he could see the smoke from the Aureus’s wounds streaming astern towards the scattered convoy. But for a few moments longer he forgot his own duties and stared fixedly at the monitor.
She was less than a quarter of a mile away, and seemed to be leaning forward as she thrust her blunt bows deep into the blue water, the plume of funnel smoke adding to the impression of desperate effort and urgency. He saw the great battle ensigns, and the two massive guns swinging slowly on their barbettes, their muzzles pointing protectively across his own stricken ship.
Behind him he heard Beaushears What is that madman doing?’
Colquhoun said : `It is the Saracen. She’s going to tackle the bastards alone!’
Beaushears contracted his muscles against the pain. It was almost as if the shell splinters were gouging his chest wide open. `Tell me, Colquhoun ! Describe it!’ Each word was agony.
The Captain winced as three waterspouts rose alongside the monitor. `The enemy have found her!’ He banged the screen with mounting excitement. `By God, she’s going to open fire!’ As he spoke the two long guns belched fire and brown smoke, and the air seemed to shiver from the force of the twin detonations.
JBeaushears fell back, suddenly quiet. So Chesnaye had been right, after all. He had thought it all out, just as he did at the Dardanelles. He closed his eyes and saw with sudden clarity the boats crammed with marines and Major De L’Isle waving his walking stick. The Saracen’s spotting officer falling dead on the beach, and Chesnaye saying `I’ll go !’ Now he was steaming past. The pictures were becoming mixed and disjointed. He could see the trim, cleanpainted monitor with ensigns streaming, but Roystonones was the officer in command. Faintly he muttered `Chesnaye’Il do something today ! He’s mad enough for anything!’ Then in a stronger voice he called. `Helen ! For God’s sake!’
The Doctor stood up. `He’s dead, sir.’
‘Come over here, Doc!’ Colquhoun seemed to have forgotten his admiral. `Take a good look. You’ll never see the like again in a lifetime!’
The Doctor clung to the screen as the monitor’s guns lurched back once again. The flagship had swung slightly in the gentle swell, so that he could see the Saracen steaming away at right angles. Over and beyond her queer tripod mast he saw the battleship for the first time. It seemed to fill the horizon, flanked on either beam by two cruisers. Every gun on the battleship was firing, and the water ahead and on either side of the monitor was pitted with rising waterspouts or torn curtains of falling spray. The enemy cruisers were silent, and Colquhoun said : `They can’t reach the Saracen yet. The battleship is sharing the kill with nobody!’ Then, as if the strain was too much for him, he took off his cap and waved it wildly in the air. `What d’you think of that!’ When he tore himself away to tend to his own ship, the Doctor saw that the Captain’s eyes were streaming.
Lieutenant Norris drew his head into his shoulders as the monitor opened fire. He wanted to
tear his eyes from his telescopic sight, but the sight of the battleship held him as if paralysed. He saw the two pinnacles of silver water leap across the great ship’s outline and had to lick his parched lips before he could speak. `Short ! Up eight hundred!’ The lights flickered and a small bell rang in the fume-filled Control Top.
McGowan sat hunched on his stool his eyes on his own sight, his lips moving as he spoke into his microphone. At the other end of the communicating wires, hidden within the swivelling turret, Lloyd, the Quarters Officer, and his crew of fifty men sweated and fed the smoking breeches.
`Sights on !’
‘Shoot !’
As the switches were made yet again the whole ship seemed to lurch with the recoil. The Control Top felt as if it would tear itself from the tripod mast and hurl itself into the sea.
Norris gulped as his vision momentarily misted with spray. lie felt the sudden shock-wave like a body blow and croak : `What is it ?
He ducked away from the sights as a sheet of flame rose from the monitor’s bows.
McGowan pushed his arm and snarled : `Keep watch !;1 Report the fall !’
Shaking and sick, Norris pressed his forehead to the rubber pad. He was just in time to see the small white feathers rise beyond the other terrifying ship. He could hardly speak at all now. `Over ! Down two hundred!’
McGowan was shouting orders with wild excitement. He seemed completely absorbed, almost unaware of the danger and the fact that an enemy shell had exploded within feet of the Saracen’s stem. At last the old monitor had made herself felt. The next salvo might make an impression. Victory was impossible. But they would show the bastards.
At that very instant the air was sucked from the Control Top, and Norris jack-knifed in a fit of coughing. He felt the shudder of a hit on the monitor’s hull, and with his eyes closed against the hot smoke he pushed open one of the steel shutters, retching and moaning as he sucked at the fresh air from that other world.
The rating with the headset shouted wildly, his eyes red
HMS Saracen Page 33
