by Alan Evans
They were becoming used to the dive into the smoke now, though it was not so thick here and dispersing on the wind, so their emergence into the open came sooner. Walküre had turned and was heading south again, so she had closed the range as Dauntless had done. She loomed so large that each of her turrets was distinguishable and Smith saw she still had a fire aft. As the 6-inch guns fired the ripple of Walküre’s salvo ran along her side. Smith waited for the guns to fire again and, as the shudder of them laid Dauntless over, he ordered, “Starboard ten! Steer two-six-oh!”
But as the stem began to swing the salvo from Walküre came in.
They did not hear it coming. There was only the shock of it, a glimpse of the sea lifting right under the bow and a camera-blink later a blinding light as the end shell of the salvo burst forward of the bridge. If her turn had been delayed for a second then Dauntless would have steamed under the whole salvo and probably that would have been the end of her. It was almost the end of Smith. He never lost consciousness, was clearly aware as he was lifted from his feet and hurled backwards. Though blinded by the flash, he felt the cushioning bodies behind and beneath him as he hit the back of the bridge and then the air was agonisingly driven out of him as someone crashed on to his chest. He was still for only a second as he whooped for breath, then shoved at the man on top of him, thrust him aside, saw it was Jameson, now sitting on the deck and lifting a hand that dripped blood. Smith climbed to his feet, lurched to the front of the bridge and fetched up against the screen.
He looked around him. The coxswain lay on the deck and was dead, there was no doubt of that, but the quartermaster, who had stood behind him, was now at the wheel and Dauntless was still turning in accordance with Smith’s last order. Even as he watched she came on to the bearing and steadied on the new course that would take her back to the sheltering smoke. The quartermaster reported, “Course is two-six-oh, sir!”
There was not only the screening smoke ahead now. It poured also from the fore-deck where the 6-inch lay askew on its mounting, its crew scattered around it. A damage control party came running under the wing of the bridge, dragging at hoses, a bawling petty-officer at their head. Smith looked out to starboard and saw Walküre fire again as there came the shudder and slam of the gun firing aft, the only 6-inch left to them.
The smoke was looming. Smith told the quartermaster, “Keep her at that.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
There were huge holes in the splinter mattresses around the bridge screen, torn by ragged lumps of steel as they smashed on across the bridge. But the heap of bodies at the back was pulling itself upright as one after the other the men crawled to their feet and staggered back to their posts. Buckley swearing in thick Geordie, Midshipman Bright blinking uncontrollably, Henderson hanging on to the frame of the chartroom door, pale but seemingly unhurt.
Ackroyd came on to the bridge and said hoarsely, “Forward 6-inch is a wreck. The fire is still burning but under control. How are things up here?”
Smith glanced around at the quartermaster at the wheel, at Henderson, Bright, Buckley. “We’ll cope.” He asked Jameson, “How’s the hand?”
“I’ll be all right, sir.”
Then the smoke whipped around them but Walküre hit Dauntless again. It shook them on the bridge so they all staggered, and Smith stared past Ackroyd and saw the smoke soaring aft and the debris in it, the leaping flames. Almost immediately he felt the ship’s speed fall away. He told Ackroyd flatly, “Let me have a report as soon as you can.” And to Jameson, “Ask the chief as well.” Jameson went to the engine-room voice pipe as Ackroyd slid down the ladder and ran aft.
Smith thought Dauntless could barely be making ten knots now as she limped away from the smoke that was shredding on the wind. He heard the shriek of Walküre’s next salvo and snapped his head around to see the shells fall close ahead off the starboard bow. He swore. This limping progress had saved them. But neither smoke nor poor visibility could hide Dauntless for long while the fire roared aft to mark her position for Walküre’s guns, a pillar of flame bent by the wind of passage. Only distance would save her now.
He began ordering changes of course to try to evade the German salvoes that fell with awful regularity every thirty seconds. For a time he could not see the enemy ship and the salvoes screamed down as if simply hurled from the sky. Then Bright shouted, “Enemy green one-oh-oh!”
Smith saw Walküre distantly off the starboard quarter and she was headed southward. No doubt her captain had deduced from the opening range that, although damaged and on fire, Dauntless was still running away from him, and thought he could not catch her. He would also have concluded that if she had broken off the action she was probably too badly damaged to continue it. He would not engage in a pursuit drawing him northward because he had easier meat waiting for him in the south at Gaza, Deir el Belah, and all along that coast. Smith watched Walküre bitterly, tasting defeat as she drew farther and farther away, still firing her after-turret so that Dauntless had to keep swerving and the howling, plummeting shells kept following her.
The chief’s voice came metallic up the voice pipe from the engine-room. “It’s a right mess down here, sir. To start with—”
Smith cut in, “Details later, chief, please. For now, what speed can you give us?”
“Maybe another couple of knots. It’ll take -a dockyard to —”
“I know nobody could do more than you, chief. My thanks to all of you.”
Smith shut the cover on the voice pipe and wondered what it must be like for the chief, his engineers and stokers trapped far below deck when Dauntless was hit like that, expecting any moment that the sea would burst in on them or the engine-room become a flaming coffin.
Ackroyd reported over the voice pipe, “We took two hits aft, sir. Luckily neither holed us below the waterline but that’s all the good news. The engine-room is a shambles and the 6-inch is wrecked. So are the gig and the motor-boat, the 3-inch and the searchlights mounted forrard of them. And the starboard torpedo tubes; the training and firing gear is all smashed to bits.”
These reports from the chief and the damage control officers meant that though Dauntless survived as a ship she was written off as a threat to Walküre.
The shells continued to harass Dauntless, came close sometimes though Walküre herself disappeared, lost on the rim of that rain-blurred horizon. But finally the shells ceased screaming in and there were some minutes of blessed peace. The flames aft ebbed away, were gone and Ackroyd climbed on to the bridge, his face soot-blackened and his jacket burned down one sleeve. He reported huskily, “Fire’s out, sir.” He looked at Smith, that look asking, “What now?”
And what, Smith thought, of Blackbird and the sub-chaser, lying somewhere in Walküre’s path? His orders had been, once the Germans had been drawn away, for them to circle out of range. He could only pray that they had survived the first brief minutes of Walküre’s attack.
12 — Make or Break
Dauntless was running northward. Smith ordered, “Port five! Steer one-six-five!”
“Five of port wheel on, sir! ... Course one-six-five degrees!”
Dauntless edged around on to the course that set her in hopeless pursuit of Walküre. They would never catch her.
The bridge had been hurriedly swept and swabbed, the debris cleared away. But as he looked along the slim length of Dauntless it hurt him to see the wreck the battle had made of her. He saw Bright, a dirty dishevelled small figure, puff-eyed with weariness, and thought Adeline Brett would mother the boy if she was there and give Smith the edge of her tongue because of him. That set him grinning and he called, “Buckley! See if you can get us some coffee, please! I’ve still got the taste of that smoke in my mouth!”
His grin had an effect on them all and the bridge became a more cheerful place. He told himself that they should be cheerful for they had done all that men could. If anyone had failed it was himself. Now he must send a signal to Braddock telling him Dauntless was crippled and Walkür
e running loose, another repeating that to Blackbird and calling her to maintain radio silence and join him. And he must hope.
Dauntless crept southward as the signals stuttered out from the wireless office. Smith stood pressed against the torn screen, chin rested on his folded arms and his face impassive but his mind filled with black despair. He pictured the anchorage at Deir el Belah, Morning Star with the men of Taggart’s battalion, Jackson’s Australians in the lighters and the other ships that in a few hours would be penned there under the guns of Walküre. While Dauntless limped southward and he stood helpless on her bridge.
*
The report came down from the control-top high above the bridge: “Ship bearing red one-oh!”
Smith set the glasses to his eyes; every pair of glasses on the bridge was in use now. He searched on the bearing, thought —
Ackroyd said slowly, “I think — it’s Blackbird, sir.”
So did Smith. The square boxy shape, even seen dimly through the rain could not be Walküre, had to be the seaplane carrier. The look-out in the top confirmed it. “Ship is Blackbird, sir, and that sub-chaser is with her.”
Thank God! Smith rubbed at his eyes and looked around to meet Ackroyd’s stare, knew what he was thinking. Smith said, “Make to Blackbird: ‘Where is the enemy?’” He waited while the searchlight’s shutter clattered and Dauntless slowly closed the gap between her and Blackbird, saw the light blinking back her answer.
The signal yeoman reported, “Enemy not sighted, sir.”
Ackroyd said softly, “Hell!”
It was no more than Smith had hoped for. The sea was huge and it was easy enough for two ships to pass without sighting each other. It was quiet on the bridge, they were waiting for Smith to make his decision, give his orders. He stared out across the sea, head turning as if looking for Walküre and so he was but only with his mind’s eye. Some might think she had a dozen courses to choose from but Smith knew she was racing for Gaza and Deir el Belah.
He pushed away from the screen and shifted restlessly about the bridge, the others sliding unobtrusively out of his way. He saw Buckley watching him from the back of the bridge, worried. He always knew now when Buckley was worried about him, recognised that accusing scowl. Blackbird was close now, the little chaser keeping station astern of her. Petersen had done magnificently all the way through, but so had they all, every man. Now at the end there were just the three ships ploughing through a choppy sea under a weeping sky.
He swung on the signal yeoman. “Make to Blackbird: ‘Is aircraft now available and pilot prepared to attempt reconnaissance?’”
The searchlight clattered and Ackroyd said doubtfully, “It’s foul weather for flying.”
Smith pushed past him into the charthouse and worked over the chart, laying off a course. He stood still and looked at it a long moment then went out on to the bridge. The signal-lamp was flashing aboard Blackbird and men were crowding around the hanger in her stern. The signal yeoman read: “Affirmative. Pilot and observer ready to fly.”
Smith said shortly, “Belay that! Tell him to load one big bomb — and I’m going as observer.”
For a moment there was silence except for the clatter of the lamp then Ackroyd said, “Sir —” But there he stopped.
Smith stared out at the sea, the long waves and the spume whipped from the tops of them on the wind, and wondered if a Short could get off in this weather. “Well?”
Ackroyd went on, “I don’t want to question your decision, sir, but I don’t think you should go.”
“I want to see for myself.” And he would send no one else on this flight.
“Maitland is a good observer, sir.”
Smith said drily, “And I’m not?”
“I didn’t mean that, but Maitland could do it.”
“No.” He was so bloody tired. He had scarcely slept since long before the raid on Lydda.
“Any attempt to take off in this sea will be risky, sir —” Smith shook his head and Ackroyd stepped closer, lowered his voice. “You’ve done enough, sir! Too much!”
Bright said, “They’re bringing out Delilah.” That caused on uneasy stir on the bridge. The plane’s reputation had not been forgotten.
Smith ordered, “Call away my boat.” He started towards the ladder but Ackroyd clutched at his arm and Smith swung around, startled.
Ackroyd held on. “That bloody thing has killed five men already that we know of and damned near killed a few more! I’m not superstitious but there’s something wrong about that Short. It’s a bad luck —”
“Balls!” Smith pulled away and glowered at Ackroyd, saw him about to try again and, Smith could not believe it, saw Buckley hovering and even more incredibly about to back up Ackroyd, Smith could read it in his face. “That’s enough! Good God Almighty! I never heard anything like it! And on my bridge!” For a moment he glared at them and they stared back but woodenly now after his outburst. He rubbed at his face and told Ackroyd, “We’ll fly a course of one-six-five degrees. Follow us and report to the admiral.”
He ran down the ladder from the bridge, strode aft to where they were lowering the cutter and in the waist he saw Adeline Brett. She stood amid the wreckage, huddled into a bridge-coat someone had lent her, probably Merryweather, and it hung to her ankles. He halted and stared at her white face under the short curls that fluttered on the wind, into the wide eyes that watched him.
He remembered how he had held this girl in her cabin aboard Morning Star, but he could find nothing to say.
He turned away and went down into the cutter where Buckley sat in the sternsheets, the tiller under his arm. The sea threw them about as they made the crossing and he saw Buckley glancing sideways at him, knew he was thinking that the odds were against the Short getting off, that the wind and the sea would wreck it. As they ran alongside Blackbird, stopped to take Smith aboard, he saw the Short on its trolley outside the hangar. Its propeller was a spinning disc as the pilot warmed up the engine. A little crowd of riggers and fitters hung on to the Short to hold it down against the tearing wind, looking like black finger strokes on the red-washed skin of Delilah.
Smith climbed aboard and up to the observer’s cockpit, seeing the single big bomb slung under the fuselage, a 264-pounder. He settled into the cockpit, pulling on the leather flying helmet and goggles he found on the seat and tossing his cap out to one of the fitters. The pilot stood up to hook the derrick purchase on to the ring on the centre section. It was Pearce, of course, because the Gang was virtually destroyed. As this was the sole remaining aircraft, so Pearce was the only surviving pilot. Smith flew with him in Delilah or not at all.
Chris turned, his face drawn and the eyes dark in their sockets. He shouted, “Course, sir?”
Smith peered at him, the driven rain cold on his face. “Fly a mean course of one six-five degrees.” That meant Pearce would search in dog-legs along that line. But they were not in the air yet. The faces of the men holding on to Delilah were strained and not only because of the physical exertion of stopping the wind from tearing her away, there was worry also. This was filthy weather to try to fly off a seaplane.
Pearce reached down and the engine cut out. Smith said into the silence, “You know what I want you to do.”
Pearce only. nodded, turned back and dropped into his seat. The winch hammered, the hands stood back from Delilah and she lifted from the deck, swung briefly and jerkily on the wind as the derrick swung out, then plummeted towards the waves.
As the floats smacked into the sea Pearce opened the cock on the bottle of compressed air and the Maori engine kicked over and fired. He yanked at the toggle and the derrick purchase snapped away, Delilah was free of the ship and pushing away from Blackbird’s side as the note of the engine rose. The seas were huge and the wings rocked under the thrusting wind, the floats at the wing-tips smashing into the sea. Pearce fought her into the wind with bursts of throttle and kept her there. Smith could see his face as his head turned, the concentration on it and the lips movin
g. He realised Chris was talking to the machine he held in his hands. Now he looked back at Smith and shouted, “Ready?” He grinned recklessly and was for a moment the old Chris Pearce that Smith had first known.
Smith shouted back, “Right!”
Pearce swung away and opened the throttle. Delilah hammered across the rutted surface of the sea, bucking and rocking as the spray burst up from the floats and flailed over the open cockpits. Through the water that streamed across his goggles Smith saw Pearce shoving forward the big wheel on the control column and felt the tail float lift off. Delilah tried to slide sideways and one wing dipped but Pearce yanked her into the wind once more, straightened her up. He hauled back on the big wheel, and she lifted off.
Smith hardly dared to believe it. Delilah tilted and soared as the wind shook her, the murderous sea close under them, but they were airborne and climbing. He thought that only Pearce could have done it; Chris was the best pilot of them all. He peered behind him and down at the ships falling away below, the boot-shaped Blackbird with the patch on her side marked by the raw new paint, Dauntless with her upper deck devastated, a ravaged beauty now.
He faced forward, reached down and turned the wheel that let the wireless aerial unreel and trail out below and astern. He switched on the set and tapped out on the Morse key “D-L-L-R ...”, until a signal-lamp acknowledged from Dauntless. The wireless could send but not receive. He switched off and reeled in the aerial.
Five minutes later they levelled off at a thousand feet, and when the ships were lost from sight astern Pearce started flying the dog-legs of the search.
*
He did not look at his watch because time meant nothing, the light everything and there was little of the day left. They should turn back soon if they were to find Blackbird again but he was still certain Walküre lay ahead of them, would not turn back while there was yet light. He had to find her, would find her along this course. His eyes were slitted, bleared behind the goggles as they strained to search the sea on either hand. He shifted in the cockpit, checked because for a moment he thought ...
