‘Port wheel, Cox’n.’
And still less throttle. An approach from the quarter would be a more practical proposition now. First step being to get in as close as possible unseen… ‘Ship’s head?’
‘South fifteen west, sir!’
‘Steer due south.’
Explosion—back in the mêlée around the Heilbronne, a percussion you felt through the sea and the boat’s hull. A flash—vertical streak of flame. Where the target had been, anyway—and a torpedo hit, for sure. There was a whole mass of tracer and gun-flashes in that area now. If the Heilbronne had been polished off—as she might have been, to sink a ship her size didn’t necessarily take more than one hit—well, Torpedoboote were well worth torpedoing, when nothing larger offered. Or ‘M’s—there were two of those…
2355, the time of that hit.
Chisholm and Heddingly, if they hadn’t disengaged already, surely would have by the time one got in there. So press on in—now.
‘Steer for that tracer, Cox’n!’
Telegraphs to full ahead, throttles open. The thought in mind that Lyon was taking his time over it down there, that there had to be some problem. But this was the moment, you couldn’t pussyfoot around all bloody night–
Starshell—for God’s sake…
One’s own—yellowish, and right over the top. One had assumed the starshell exercise was over. If Stack had tried, he couldn’t have done better—or worse… And the tracer was finding her now—multi-coloured, blinding in the start of its trajectory, thinning somewhat as it lifted seemingly slowly then cracked overhead in brilliant streaks. Not all of it so far overhead either—definitely finding her now, in this brilliance.
‘Hard a-port—’
‘Captain, sir—’ Lyon fetching up hard between him and the coxswain—‘Port tube support’s smashed, Garfold’s dead and—’
A shell-spout lifted close to starboard. And another hit, then. Right aft—a flash, and a heavy jar right through her. Revs decreasing sharply, engines stopping.
Chisholm was at 562’s torpedo-sight, sighting over it with his binoculars.
‘Come five degrees to port, Cox’n.’
On his way back in. He’d circled away at high speed, gaining enough bearing in the process; was moving in now at lowish revs—circumspectly enough to stand at least a chance of eluding that sweeper.
Heddingly was somewhere astern or on his quarter: having disengaged at roughly the same time—however many minutes ago that had been—and come back in more or less in company for his second shot at outwitting the defence… Bob Stack’s last starshell was dimming up there: had now flickered out. Until only a minute or two ago the gunboats had kept them overlapping—one fading, another replacing it before it died. Not this time, though. Not when you bloody needed it… Action had all died away on the bow too—had apparently transferred itself to the convoy’s other side. Mike F. looking for an easier way in, obviously.
Stooped at the torpedo-sight: having his work cut out to separate A from B and Y from Z: especially without the backing of Stack’s starshell. 562 rolling hard, meanwhile.
‘He’s woke up again, sir!’
Shout from PO Martin—one hand up from the wheel, pointing towards tracer lifting, soaring this way—from the Heilbronne, then from the ‘M’ too—which one was passing astern of—had passed astern of, and closer than one should have risked, maybe—although in fact there’d been very little option, with the other one as well—the one still pushing up from the quarter. He’d had to steer to pass about halfway between them: no option, really… Distance to the target now—six hundred, six-fifty? Explosive 37-mm shells thwacking over—the sounds of their passage as regular as heartbeats—while he opened the throttles to revs for about fifteen knots. The concentration of tracer was blinding but thank God the shooting wasn’t all that accurate.
As yet, it wasn’t.
Known as flying half-blind. Jolting, rolling, sea flying white and the tracer coming closer, now. Some closer than that, even—in that moment he’d felt at least one hit. Head down, grin and bear it. Grins, in fact, were optional… He yelled at Eden, ‘Stand by!’
‘Stand by!’
Raikes on the port side—Henry Raikes, sub-lieutenant, spare officer—yelled the same thing down to the torpedoman on that side. Chisholm shouting urgently, his eyes squeezed half-shut against the continual, flashing brilliance of the tracer, ‘Three degrees starboard, Cox’n!’
Almost on…
Knees bent, eyes on a level with the sight, hands on the firing-levers. Running-distance for the fish would be about five hundred yards. Fucking tracer… Blue flash for’ard, the scream of a ricochet; then, as the stream of red and yellow dazzle lifted, a section of the windscreen and deflectors on the port side virtually exploded—disintegrated, flew away.
Crouched at the sight, ignoring it…
‘Fire both!’
Eden’s shout repeated it, impulse cartridges fired—simultaneous muffled explosions on both sides: you heard the whoosh of the torpedoes’ launching then: would have seen by the light of surrounding tracer—if you’d been so daft as to stick your head up high enough—the great fish plunging out ahead, streaks of silver and blue shellac in the constant flicker.
‘Hard a-starboard!’
Jangling the telegraphs, and leaving them at full ahead: leaning on his throttles…
‘Wheel’s hard a-starboard, sir—’
‘Steer north thirty east.’
Twenty seconds’ running time, say. About eight seconds gone already. Glasses on 564, who was passing astern as 562 swung away to starboard—gathering speed, hammering her way up towards the plane. He’d changed his mind: ‘North ten east, make it!’ Martin acknowledging, easing the rudder off her.
Motive being to steer her closer in on the convoy’s quarter so as to keep at least some of the enemy’s attention, give John Heddingly a better chance… Glasses up: on Heilbronne who was turning to port—an attempt at combing the tracks. Still watching her when the torpedo struck: deep hard knock of the explosion, upward shoot of flame—but not on her, on that sweeper—which had also turned, had been on her way round while still pouring out the flak.
Invisible in smoke, now. Hiding the Heilbronne too.
‘Course north ten east, sir!’
Starshell. Gunboat starshell. First for some time… And the smoke had blown away—like the whisking off of a magician’s magic cloth under which the audience knew for sure there’d been some object although now there wasn’t… Telegraphs back to half-ahead, revs for twelve knots. Aware of one fish having missed, of Heilbronne untouched, steaming on. Aware of having cocked it up, in fact. All right, an M-class sweeper hit and sunk, but what the hell, you’d come here for the Heilbronne, not for—
Time—2355.
Glasses up, swinging round and seeing 564 at about thirty knots scooting across close astern, leaping across 562’s wake.
‘Port wheel, Cox’n.’
‘Port wheel, sir…’
An MTB that had fired its torpedoes might as well disengage and head for home, except that in some circumstances—such as now—it could assist by distracting attention from a boat that had not yet fired… He put a hand on PO Martin’s shoulder, and pointed: ‘Steer for that bugger!’
‘Aye, sir!’
Full ahead. Aiming at the M-class which until a few minutes ago had been astern of the Heilbronne, had since moved up, was more or less on her beam now.
‘Ship’s head?’
‘North fifteen west, sir!’
Tracer starting up again—at this boat, not 564. Heddingly was detouring to port, they either hadn’t noticed him or didn’t yet regard him as a threat. Wouldn’t know which was which anyway, which had fired or which hadn’t. Tracer everywhere again now, and gun-flashes, most of it coming this way.
‘Cox’n—weave between north fifteen west and north fifteen east. Constant helm.’
‘Aye, sir!’
Conspicuous—as well as safer—weaving
at high speed. Heddingly was getting a share of the flak now, but nothing like the amount he’d have had to cope with on his own. Another escort was engaging him, a Torpedoboot coming over across the Heilbronne’s bows. Had to be a ‘T’ because the ‘M’s were all accounted for—one destroyed by the gunboats, one just torpedoed by 562, and one surviving—there. Blinded again. He’d lost sight of 564 too.
‘Stand by!’
John Heddingly—MTB 564… Down to about twenty knots, with Heilbronne massive-looking on the bow to starboard, range about five hundred yards and squirting tracer out on her port quarter for some reason—as well as this way—while seemingly holding a steady course, since turning back to about south eighty west. Heddingly with eyes only for her, and his hands on the torpedo firing-levers. ‘Two degrees to port, Cox’n!’ Easing the throttles to bring her down to about fifteen knots. The escort broader on the bow had been giving him some unpleasantly close attention in the last half-minute, but hadn’t been able to keep it up without hitting this other one—the Torpedoboot, to port—which unfortunately was showing less restraint.
‘Steady as you go, Cox’n. Lovely—spot-on… Stand by, Farrow!’
Hits on the port side, somewhere. 20-mm, probably. Port side aft. Fuck ’em…
‘Fire both!’
Echoes in other voices, port and starboard—and both fish gone. He’d heard it, felt it too, and 564 was suddenly three tons lighter. Needing speed now, you’d get it—she’d be almost airborne. Telegraphs at full ahead: throttles wide open: ‘Hard a-starboard!’
‘Hard a-starboard, sir…’
Heilbronne was beginning a turn to port, damn her.
But—she’d left it a bit late—he thought. Please God… And on the plus side, 564’s own turn between her and the ‘M’ was silencing them both—for some brief but blessed interval while they couldn’t shoot without potting each other.
Over his shoulder: ‘Open fire!’
On the ‘M’—at close range, a blast or two in passing. With only about fifteen seconds’ running time left for the fish to get there, though. Surely by now…
‘Steer due east, Cox’n!’
Hit!
Solid underwater thump: column of muck soaring twice the height of her own masts. Right for’ard—even right on her stem—as it looked from here. Another yard to the left—or if she’d started her turn a second earlier—that hit-by-a-whisker would have been a miss. With his glasses still up—tracer still lacing the sky, back there—looking back over the beam and then the quarter—564 getting up towards the plane, leaning hard into her disengaging turn-away—he knew he’d missed with the other fish, damn near missed with both. Because they’d (a) seen him coming (b) timed that turn almost to perfection. The one hit didn’t seem to have done her all that much harm, either: the muck had cleared and he could see her—down by the bow, maybe, but not by much, and still under way, making at least a few knots through the water.
Mike Furneaux had heard that torpedo hit. Second one—making one each for Chisholm and Heddingly; a fair assumption therefore was that the Heilbronne would have been done for. Closer to home, though, had been the near-certainty that MTB 560 had come to the end of her road—so he’d thought half a minute ago.
A very long half-minute, at that. Long and by no means happy. But then—now—pushing the engineroom telephone back on to its hook, PO Motor Mechanic Coates having astonished him with the news that the centre engine could be used, it was like waking from nightmare.
Centre engine ahead. Easing the throttle open… ‘Steady as you go, Cox’n!’
‘North fifty east, sir…’
Keeping the wind astern, and keeping her close to the smoke. Not right in it where you couldn’t breathe, but close enough not to want to breathe too deeply. Working up to about fifteen knots. That engine’s fuel supply from the after tank compartment had been severed, Coates and his staff had connected it to the midship’s section of tanks within—well, within thirty seconds, for God’s sake… At the time of the hits which had stopped all three engines, though—hits which must have come from the Torpedoboot which had then been astern, having been in the deep field earlier—Furneaux had turned her to port, relying on the residual way she’d had on her to get her round—and sent young Flyte aft to start making smoke—which without the engine wouldn’t have been any long-term solution, only an instant reaction—in preference to being blown to matchwood in those next few seconds.
Now, to sneak away. Then, establish communication with the rest of the unit and with Bob Stack. Get Lyon’s report on damage and casualties first, though…
Chapter Nine
‘Pack up starshell!’
Barclay passed the order forward via the gunnery telephone: ‘Starshell cease fire.’ There’d been some disruption of the starshell firing anyway, a misfire with ensuing complications and they’d only got a couple of rounds away since then. The last one was still hanging up there, though low and fading, on the beam as 875 swung away to starboard, engine-noise building, increasing to revs for twenty knots, battering through a stiffly choppy sea, wind about force 3 from the west. A lot of white on the sea now and the wind still rising. All four engines were in commission again. The port outer had had its exhaust outlet punctured in several places and Bluett had had to stop it until repairs had been made; alternatives would have been to evacuate the engineroom or be gassed. A lot was happening at once though—not all of it entirely clear. There’d been torpedo hits down there to the south—two, widely spaced, a minute and a half between them, roughly—but no reports yet—and radar had chosen this time to come up with a double contact, Wheeler reporting two ships on a west-nor’-westerly bearing at a range of about five thousand yards. Hence the alteration of course and increase of speed. They could be R-boats—which had been in the vicinity not long ago—but whatever they were they’d be in a position, or might be, to intercept the MTBs as they withdrew. Had therefore to be intercepted themselves—dealt with, driven off, whatever.
Bob Stack’s view, this was. Ben’s was that they might be well enough clear—and perhaps on course for Cherbourg—could as well have been left to their own devices. Like any other red herrings. He wasn’t being asked, though: there was no reason he should be, come to think of it.
'Course north sixty west, sir!’
Checking astern now: seeing 866 tucked in neatly there, Monkey not having needed any signal to follow round and adjust revs, maintaining his distance-astern. He’d worked with Bob Stack for so long that the connection was almost telepathic. There were only the two of them now; Baldy Worbury’s hope of getting another engine going had not been realized—or realizable, his motor mechanic had told him—and he’d had other serious damage, as well as men killed and wounded. Stack had ordered him home to Newhaven, via the R/V position fifteen miles northeast of Pointe de Barfleur.
‘Radar, bridge!’
‘Bridge.’ Ben would have got to it but Barclay was there ahead of him. Wheeler reporting, ‘Right ahead, sir, range 048, moving right to left.’
‘Make anything of ’em yet?’
‘Not really, sir. Small, like—’
‘R-boats?’
‘Could be, sir.’
Stack had heard it, and had ordered port wheel. He had his glasses up, searching ahead. Ben too, on this port side where whenever anyone passed through the companionway with its black-out screening—as Barclay had just now for instance, checking on the condition of AB Merriman—who was comatose, apparently, heavily sedated—the wind howled up like owls screeching, through the damaged wheelhouse. He was thinking, with his left elbow hooked over the clamped twin Vickers 303, that things might not have been going all that well for the MTBs. Standard procedure was for them to fire both their torpedoes at once, and from those two widely-separated hits the inference was that (a) there’d been two attacks made and two misses, (b) one MTB had either not yet attacked or had missed with both its fish.
The second hit had been at 2356. It was a minute past midnight now.
OK, so no reports yet—Furneaux might be waiting for his third boat to do its bit before he came on the air. That was a possibility. There was another too, though.
875 making all of twenty knots. A couple of minutes, at most, should bring her into visibility range of the radar contacts.
‘W/T office, bridge!’
He got to it, this time. Barclay was on the telephone to the guns, alerting them to the fact there were new enemies ahead, probably two R-boats.
He’d cracked the bridge of his nose on the voicepipe’s rim. Stifling appropriate language in favour of the standard, toneless answer: ‘Bridge…’
‘Signals from the MTBs in the pipe, sir!’
Meaning the message-carrier, the little bucket you pulled up on its lanyard. He called to Stack, ‘Going down to the plot, sir’, and went below. Signals, plural, the telegraphist had said. Leaning over the chart-table, he pulled the cannister up, extracted a sheet of large-size signal pad and smoothed it out.
Two messages on the one sheet, in Telegraphist Ordway’s blue-pencilled, copperplate hand…
MTB 560 from MTB 562. Attack completed, one hit on M-class sweeper which got in the way and has now sunk. Disengaging northeastward, no casualties or damage. Are you all right? Time of Origin 0002.
MTB 560 from MTB 564. Attack completed, one hit right forward on main target which however continuing westward at low speed. No casualties or damage, disengaging northeastward with 562 in sight. Do you require assistance? T. O. O. 0003.
Voicepipe again, from the W/T office: ‘Plot, sir?’
‘Yes, Willis?’
‘More coming in, sir.’
‘All right.’
In fact—thank God… If there’d been continued silence from Mike Furneaux—as one’s forebodings had suggested there might be—well, two, then. The boss and the new boy gone missing.
He’d forgotten to send the bloody bucket down. Dropping it in the pipe now, hearing it rattle through. Getting the reek of stale cigarette-smoke through the pipe and visualizing them in that cramped little office, the air blue with it, Ordway with a fag-end in his mouth no doubt while he scribbled away, the leading tel. probably smoking too while he waited for it. Everyone smoked too much. Ben lit one of his own. Wondering about Furneaux—the fact that both Chisholm and Heddingly had had reason to suspect he might be in trouble. And so far only the two hits, two attacks that one knew of.
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