Aikman called, `Damage control reports a fire on A deck, sir. Two casualties.'
`Very well.'
Lindsay raised his glasses and studied the enemy.
Nearly gone now, her shortened outline was just a murky shadow in the snow.
He had to chance it. `Port ten.' To Aikman he snapped, `Tell the gunnery officer to bring Number Three to bear.'
He watched the ticking gyro. 'Midships.' He did not wait for Jolliffe's reply but strode to the starboard side, feeling the icy wind clawing his face through the open window.
de Chair's gun reopened fire even as the enemy settled on the Benbecula's starboard bow, and the shell hit her directly abaft the bridge. This time the explosion was more dramatic, and Lindsay guessed the exploding shell had also ignited either a small-arms magazine or some signal flares.
The snow seemed to glow -red and gold as the flames licked greedily around one of the tall funnels, starting more scattered explosions to litter the churned water alongside with falling fragments.
The enemy fired again, and as before her gunnery was perfect. The shell hit Benbecula's side further aft, exploding deep inside the hull and sending white-hot splinters scything in every direction. Some burst upwards through the boat deck and cut a whaler in halves, leaving bow and stern dangling from the davits like dead fruit.
Stannard said hoarsely' `Snow's getting heavier again.' He ducked involuntarily as a shell exploded alongside, the flash masked instantly by a towering white waterspout: Bridge and wing were buried under cascading water, and Lindsay heard Jolliffe cursing one of the quartermasters who had fallen against the wheel.
Lindsay rubbed his glasses and peered after the enemy in time to see her fading completely into another squall. Only the glare of her fires was still visible, and he heard several small explosions on the wind as de Chair'ss last shell continued to spread its havoc between decks.
Aikman reported, `Damage control have A deck fire under control, sir. Second hit' was also A deck. No fire, but four men wounded.'
Another telephone jarred the sudden stillness- and Stannard said, `It's the chief, sir. He asks if he can reduce revs. Starboard shaft is overheating. Nothing serious, he thinks, but...'
Lindsay realised the Australian was staring at him and then his reeling mind recalled what he had been asked.
`Thank you, Pilot. Reduce to slow ahead.'
No sense in tearing the engines to pieces for nothing. The enemy, would not come back for another try. Not this time. It was too risky.
He added slowly, `Get a signal coded up right away. To Admiralty. Advise on our position, course and approximate speed of enemy.' He rubbed his eyes, forcing his mind to .respond. `Tell them we have engaged enemy raider and obtained two hits. Extent of her damage not known.'
Stannard lowered his pad. `Is that all, sir?'
Lindsay walked to the door and wrenched it open as thankfully the bridge messengers started to close the glass windows again.
`Mention that Loch Glendhu has been sunk, and check with the sickbay for a list of survivors.'
He heard Stannard leave the wheelhouse and leaned over the wing to watch some of the damage control team scurrying along the forward well deck, bowed against the wind. Or fearful perhaps the enemy could still see them.
He was shaking uncontrollably, yet when he looked at his hands they seemed quite steady. Perhaps it was in his mind.
There were clangs and shouts, more orders as seamen and stokers ran to deal with damage and plug up the gaping splinter holes.
Goss appeared suddenly in the wheelhouse door. `Nobody dead, sir.' He sounded accusing. `One man's lost a foot, but the doc says he'll live....'
He swung round as Ritchie pushed his way to the door.
Ritchie said harshly, `There was one killed, sir.' He paused, recalling the astonishment on the boy's face. The eyes glazing with drifting snow. He said, `Ordinary Signalman Cummings, sir. Shell splinter got 'im in the spine.' But for his body, I would have got it. `I didn't realise he'd bought it till I told 'im it was all over.'
Lindsay nodded. Bought it. What the Wren had said at Scapa.
`You did bloody well, Yeo.'
Ritchie shrugged. `It's a start.'
Goss cleared his throat noisily. `About the damage.'
`Yes?'
`It's a dockyard job, sir.'
Lindsay could feel his nerves dragging like hot wires. He wanted to shake Goss, hit him if necessary to make him understand.
Instead he said flatly, `No, it isn't, Number One. It's yours, until we hear to the contrary.'
Goss spoke between his teeth.. `If the snow hadn't eased at that moment we might have run straight into that German!'
Lindsay swung on him. `Well, at least we'd have sunk the bloody thing! Now, for God's sake get on with those repairs!'
He turned to watch some seamen carrying a limp body aft from the forecastle. Cummings. Was that the man's name?
Dancy poked his head through the door. `The chief has said everything's all right, sir.'
Lindsay looked at him. He had forgotten all about Dancy. But he seemed steady enough for his first action.
`Thank him for me, Sub. And fall out action stations.'
He realised Dancy was still there, staring at him as if for the first time in his life. `Well?'
Dancy flushed. `I-I'm sorry, sir. It's just that I wouldn't have believed it possible.' He seemed quite oblivious of Lindsay's grave face or Ritchie's despairing glance. `To handle a ship like this, to outmanoeuvre that German.'
Lindsay held up his hand. `Write about it one day, Sub. Tell your mother if you like, but spare me, will you?'
Dancy withdrew, and seconds later the upper deck tannoy- grated, `Fall out action stations. Starboard watch to defence stations.' The merest pause, then `Up spirits!'
Lindsay looked at Ritchie, feeling the grin spreading across his face, pushing the despair aside like the wind had laid bare the enemy.
`Good advice, Yeo.' He walked towards the wheelhouse again. -'I think we deserve it!'
Ritchie watched him and then shook his head. You'll do, he thought. For me, and this poor old ship. You'll do.
Sub-Lieutenant Michael Dancy pushed aside the heavy curtain and stepped into the wardroom. With only half the deckhead lights in use the wardroom looked cosy and pleased with itself, the oak panelling gleaming softly in welcome. Just over an hour to midnight, and as Dancy had the middle watch he saw no point in trying to sleep.
By the fat coal stove he saw Barker in conversation with Boase, the doctor, although the latter's face was so expressionless it seemed hardly likely he was doing more than listening.
Barker was saying, `We had some very rich passengers, of course, None of those save-up-for-the-cruise-of-alifetime types. Real class.'
Boase eyed him wearily. `Good.'
The ex-purser lowered his voice. `Like this ship today. I'm not saying that some of these temporary chaps don't mean well.' He winked. `But you know what they say about the sow's ear, eh?'
Boase yawned. `Nobody's more temporary than I am.'
Barker shot him an ingratiating smile. 'Ah, but you're professional, it's quite different!'
Dancy turned away. Quite apart from disliking Barker, he could not bear to watch him and the doctor sipping their drinks by the fire.. Normally Dancy did not drink much. Before the war he had been unable to afford it, except at Christmas time, and in any case his mother disapproved, hinting darkly at a nameless uncle who had gone off the rails. After being commissioned and sent to the' armed yacht he had been involved in several minor drinking bouts, most of which had ended in dismal failure and agonising sickness.
But tonight he did feel like it. A celebration all of his own.
He sat in a deep chair with his back to the others and stared unseeingly at the swaying curtains which partitioned off the dining space, half listening to the wind sighing against the hull. It was difficult to accept that only this morning they had been in action. Had fired and been fired
upon. Had buried a young signalman, their first. real casualty, and he had lived through all of it.
Dancy felt as if his lungs were too large for his body, that he wanted to shout or laugh out loud. What did that old woman Barker know about it anyway? He was more concerned with corned beef and, the issue of clothing than the business of fighting. While Barker had been hidden below, he, Michael Dancy, had been up there beside the captain, seeing it, feeling it, and not breaking as he had once thought he would.
He heard the bell go and knew the others were ringing for more drinks. But he must go on watch soon, and had been left in no doubt by the first lieutenant what would happen to a watchkeeping officer who drank. -
He tried to assemble his memories into order, to capture each moment. He smiled. As a writer should. But it was still difficult. It had been so swift, with the din and smells all mixed together in his mind. And all the while this great ship, and she was enormous after the armed yacht, had wheeled and pounded through the snow, guns blazing and He turned his head angrily as Fraser entered the wardroom and threw himself into a chair, prodding the bell-push in the same movement.
Barker said, `Of course, Doc, that was-why the company was such a success. We only had the five ships, but there was true-devotion, a sense of service and loyalty so lacking today.'
Fraser had his eyes closed. `Crap,' he said.
Barker glared at him. `How can you say such a thing?'
The engineer opened his eyes as a steward glided into the lamplight. He said, `I wantt a treble gin.' Then to Barker he added slowly, `The reason this company was a success, and I'm not denying it, was the fact that the owners were the meanest set of skinflints ever dropped the wrong side of a blanket!'
Boase stirred uneasily and glanced from one to the other.
Fraser continued calmly, `See all this panelling, Doc?' He waved one hand and displayed the black grease on his `fingers. `All the pretty cabins? Well, it only went down as far as B deck. The rest, the crew's quarters and the poor emigrants section, was like the bloody Black Hole of Calcutta!' He looked at Barker's outraged face. `Man, you're daft if you think loyalty played any part. Men needed work,. and had to lick boots to get it. But you wouldn't know anything about that!'
The steward was just placing the brimming glass beside him when the bulkhead telephone buzzed impatiently. The steward said, `For you, sir.'
Fraser seized the phone and jerked his head to the other voice. `Yes. Yes. Oh, Jesus, not that freshwater pump again. This bloody ship'll be the death o' me!' He dropped the phone and downed the gin in one long swallow.
As he walked to the door he added, `One thing. If I run short of hot air for the boilers, I'll know where to come!' The door slammed behind him.
Barker stood up, visibly shaken. `I'll turn in now.' He looked round the wardroom. 'I might have to check some ledgers first, of course.'
As he hurried away Boase said softly, `Of course.'
Then he smiled at Dancy. `You look ready to do great deeds.'
Dancy replied coldly, `I have the middle.'
'Ah.' Boase squinted at the clock. `Think I'll go to bed, too.'
Dancy opened and then shut his mouth. Go to bed. Boase had not even learned the right terms. Funny chap. Very cool and distant, yet they said he had sawn off a man's foot and saved his life.
`Anything more, sir?' The steward yawned ominously...
'No. You can turn in.'
The steward's eye dropped very slightly to the single stripe on Dancy's sleeve. `You doing Rounds then, sir?'
Dancy looked away. `Well, no, not exactly.'
The steward slammed into his pantry muttering, `Then I'll wait for someone who is.'
The door opened again and Dancy saw it was Kemp, the midshipman. Apart from the other sub-lieutenants, Kemp was the newest officer in the ship. In addition, he was the only one upon whom Dancy could exercise his scanty authority.
The boy said quietly, `I-I was just looking to see if-' his voice trailed away.
Dancy frowned. `Sit here if you like.' He glanced at his watch for several seconds. `I've got the middle.'
Kemp nodded. He was a slightly built youth, even slender, and his even features were extremely pale. But unknown to the young -midshipman he possessed one tremendous gift, one glittering asset which Dancy could never hold or share. He was a regular and had been to Dartmouth. Dancy had already discovered that he was the son of a senior officer, one of a family of naval men. He seemed to epitomise all Dancy's peacetime dreams, but at the same time did not really fit the role.
He asked casually, `Your old man, pretty senior, I believe?' Old man sounded just right, he thought. Assured. A man of the world.
Dancy had learned his etiquette the hard way. Once in the armed yacht there had been a party and several women had been invited as guests. He had asked one very poised young lady about her father and she had replied, 'Oh, Daddy's a sailor.'
He had been horrified. `Not an officer?'
She had stared at him as if he had spoken some terrible
obscenity. `But of course, silly! What else?' Yes, Dancy was learning.
Kemp replied, `He's a captain. Shore job at Rosyth.' He sighed. `He was beached between the wars for several years.'
Dancy nodded gravely. `I'll bet he's glad to be back.' Kemp looked at him, his eyes strangely sad. `Glad? That's an understatement.'
`Yes.' Dancy was getting irritated without knowing why. It was like talking to a stone wall. `You sound as if you're unhappy about the ship or something.'
`I am.' He shrugged. `Not the ship exactly. It's the Service. I hate it.' Now that he had, begun he seemed unable to stop himself. `I never wanted to enter the Navy. Never. But he kept on at me. Kept on reminding me of my obligations, my duty.'
Dancy, said, `I expect it was all for the best.' God, he sounded like his own father. He tried again. `But surely he knew the Navy well enough to understand, eh?'
Kemp stood up violently, a lock of hair falling across his eyes. `My father understands nothing about me, and cares less! He's a stupid, pompous bigot, so stop asking about him will you, please?'
Dancy was aghast. `There's no call to speak like that! By God, if I'd had half your chances in life-' He checked himself hastily. `What I mean is, if I'd not taken another profession I'd have wanted to enter the Service.'
Kemp's hands were shaking at his sides. `Well, you got there in the end, didn't you, sir!'
As he ran for the door he almost collided with Stannard who was carrying his cap and duffel coat and wearing his scarred sea boots. He watched the midshipman run past and said dryly, `Hell, that young fella's keen= to go somewhere.'
Dancy said angrily, `Doesn't know when he's well off.' It , was like a betrayal, a broken image. `I'll be watching him in future.'
The Australian grinned lazily. `You do that, Admiral, but in the meantime shift yourself to the bridge, chop, chop!' He gestured to the clock. `Our watch, I believe?'
Dancy's frown faded. Stannard was a bit coarse at times, but he was all right. He had been on the bridge with him. Never got in a flap.
Stannard paused by a screen door and looked at him searchingly. `Ever had a woman, Sub?'
Dancy stared at him. `Well, I -that is...'
Stannard pursed his lips. `Have to do something about that then!'
Outside the night was black. No stars or snow. Just the wind and the drifting feathers of spray above the guardrail.
Dancy buttoned his bridge coat and followed the lieutenant to the ladder. That was more like it. He was accepted.
Jupp stopped beside Lindsay's littered desk and placed a large china mug carefully on a mat before removing its lid.
He watched Lindsay and said, "Ot soup, sir. Just th' job before you turn in.
Lindsay leaned back in his chair and smiled wearily. `Smells fine.'
Feet scraped on the ladder overhead and he heard muffled voices and more footsteps clattering hurriedly from the bridge. The watch was changing. Midnight.
T
he soup was very hot, and Lindsay realised he was ravenous, that he had hardly eaten since the brief action with. the enemy. It had been a long day. Inspecting damage between decks, checking the progress of repairs, burying Cummings in another quick service at the rail. Poor Cummings, he had not even got used to living.
It was quite impossible to learn anything about the damaged raider. The Admiralty had merely acknowledged his signal. He felt vaguely bitter about it, yet knew it was because he was tired. Worn out. It was unlikely anything could be done about the other ship. It had been too stormy for flying off aircraft, and the sea was a big place. The German was probably steaming like hell for base, to some secluded Norwegian fjord where she could lie up and lick her scars.
He gripped the mug more tightly. At least she had not got completely away with it. Her captain might remember this day as he dropped his own men over the side with a prayer or some jolly Nazi song. He realised Jupp was still watching him, his hooded eyes worried.
The chief steward said, `The lads took it right well, I thought, sir.'
Lindsay nodded. `Yes.'
He recalled the great blackened areas on A deck where the shells had exploded. Buckled frames, and plates like wet cardboard. A ventilator, so riddled with splinters it had looked like one huge pepper pot. The damage was bad, but had Benbecula been a destroyer those two big five-point-nine shells would have broken her back like a carrot. He had visited the sickbay, giving the usual words, seeing the grateful smiles from the wounded men who were not too drugged to understand him. Their immediate shock had given way to a kind of pride. They were probably dreaming of that first leave, the glances of admiration and pity for their wounds. Except the one without a foot. He had been a promising tennis player before the war.
The telephone buzzed. It was Stannard.
`Middle watch at defence stations, sir. Time to alter course in seven minutes.'
The next leg of the patrol. It would be a beam sea, uncomfortable, as they were cruising at a mere seven knots.
`I'll come up, Pilot.' He hesitated. `No, you take her. Call me if you want anything:' He dropped the handset. Stannard was competent, and it did no good to have a captain breathing down their necks all the e time. Let them learn while there was still time.
Rendezvous-South Atlantic Page 9
