Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2

by Alexander Fullerton

  Port side aft: a burst of flame and smoke, and the Stuka was flying out of all that concentration of close-range weaponry, escaping landward. There was another one too, going for her now, approaching in a shallower dive from the other quarter, astern of Huntress. The Dutch ship was still plugging on and seemed not to have slackened speed. Clutterbuck had directed Carnarvon’s two after four-inch to go for the shallow-diving Stuka, and Napier had come to the binnacle himself: he called down, “Port twenty-five!” He was staying there: Irvine had moved over, off the step. The pompoms were roaring away at a new one coming in from the port bow, diving steeply across Highflier, screaming down with its sights obviously on the cruiser’s bridge. The for’ard and midships four-inch were pumping a barrage into the sky right in front of that yellow nose: for a moment you couldn’t see it for shell-bursts, but then it was in sight again and still diving on its target—this target. Napier called down, “Midships and meet her!” His object was to steady her on a course directly towards the diving bomber: if its pilot was to have a chance of hitting with his bomb he’d have to steepen his dive, take it even nearer to the vertical and thus to suicide: he’d chosen not to, he was pulling out prematurely—which was his only alternative—and the multiple pompoms’ concentration of two-pounder shells was reaching eagerly towards him as he levelled across the stream of it: and shells were hitting … Clutterbuck’s voice came urgently from the speaker: “Shift target right, green one hundred, Stuka over Gelderland …”

  The one the pompoms had hit had gone into the sea in a sheet of flame. The other, the last to come, had dropped its bomb short of Gelderland and broken away landward, pursued at first by shell-bursts and machinegun fire from Huntress.

  Now it was quiet again and the sky was empty. Smoke leaked thinly from the Dutch ship’s stern, but the fire was out and the bomb didn’t seem to have hurt her much. The convoy was maintaining its previous course and speed: they were two-thirds of the way across the twentymile half-moon formed by the coast of the Elos Peninsula. In about twenty minutes Cape Malea would be abeam to starboard, and from there roughly three hours’ steaming would see them into the Antikithera Channel, at the western end of Crete. But long before that, Jack guessed, with any luck at all and if there were any RAF or Fleet Air Arm planes at all left in Crete …

  It was a lovely thought. Too lovely, and dangerous to reckon on. The odds were, he told himself, that before they saw a Hurricane they’d see a lot more Stukas. The German airfields were so close that the bombers had only to fly back and land, refuel and refill their bomb racks, and come back for another go. Over and over again: yellow-nosed bastards in pursuit of Iron Crosses.

  Bell-Reid had gone for a tour of the ship. He’d chat to guns’ crews and ammo-supply and damage-control parties, look in at the marines in the TS, have a word to the engineers and give the pongo passengers news of what was happening up top. Guns’ crews meanwhile would be clearing away the clutter of empty shellcases, replenishing the racks with fused shells, relaxing tired muscles, lighting cigarettes, and drinking the dark brown liquid that sailors called “tea;” the pompom and point-five gunners would be re-ammunitioning, oiling, and cleaning their somewhat temperamental weapons.

  It might start again at any moment: that it would start again before long was inevitable. So far they’d been lucky. Only poor Huntress had suffered any casualties: two dead and one wounded at her “B” gun-mounting. Jack had a feeling that Carnarvon’s and Gelderland’s luck couldn’t last: sooner or later the other side would get some. But looking round the bridge he noticed the snotty, Brighouse, scratching like a dog and looking bored, and beside the bridge shelter the Marine bugler—Sykes, that one’s name was, and he looked even younger than the midshipman—was laughing at some remark made by Durkin, the leading signalman. Jack thought, If they can stand it … But there was no question, none at all, of not standing it. Not to be able to stand the stress of action because of some defect in oneself had been the fear, the nightmare of the recent years: if one could give it the boot, there was no fear.

  Like hell there wasn’t.

  Well, not real fear: not that deep, recurrent dread …

  No, he assured himself, not that kind. He smiled, making a private joke of it to himself: Just pure terror, that’s all.

  Half-brother Nick, he knew, expected him to lose his nerve. Nick had a private theory about Jack being a reincarnation or facsimile of the older, dead half-brother, Nick’s own elder brother David who’d gone into a blue funk at Jutland—gone mad at Jutland, and then drowned … Nick had told the story, years ago, to their father Sir John Everard. He’d apologized for it since, or half-apologized, admitting he’d only burst out with it in a rage, stung by the old man’s goading. All anyone knew for certain was that David’s ship had been sunk and that afterwards the ship’s chaplain, a survivor, had told their uncle, Admiral Sir Hugh Everard, that David had died a hero’s death trying to save wounded men. Sarah, Jack’s own mother, swore this must be the truth. She’d known her stepson David and admired him, adored him. Nick had spoken out of spite, she said, because he’d always resented David for being the older son and their father’s heir. It was the shock that Nick had given her husband, Sir John, with that pack of lies about poor David, that had given the old man his first heart-attack and finally killed him. Jack had been only a little boy, then, his half-brother Nick already a grown man.

  Sarah had added, “In any case, you aren’t really at all like David!” But he was: there was an oil painting at Mullbergh of David in naval full-dress, and some old sepia snapshots that she hadn’t wanted him to see. She’d persisted, “If there’s some superficial resemblance, that doesn’t mean you’re …”

  “No.” He’d tried to make it easy for her. “No, of course not.”

  The second lot of Stukas, the ones who’d arrived just when the convoy had been altering course to 170 degrees, had made their attacks and been beaten off; Highflier had been near-missed, stopped for about one hair-raising minute and then got going again, to everyone’s intense relief. Napier had signalled to her: Are you all right? and she’d flashed back: Never better, thank you, it was just a temporary indisposition. And in Carnarvon three men of “Q” gun’s crew—“Q” was the midships four-inch mounting—and Sub-Lieutenant Ramsden, RNVR, who was the officer of the quarters there, had been hit by machine-gun fire from a Junkers strafing them. That had been the end of it so far as the 87s were concerned, but just as they’d finished and the last of them had winged away, a crowd of 88s had appeared, coming from the same direction—from over the land on the quarter. They’d made their shallow-diving runs, a few quite low but mostly fairly well up, and the action had been quite hot for a while but ended with the convoy still intact and plugging on, no ships damaged and no aircraft hit. Then there’d been a breather—quite a good one, ten or twelve minutes—before this last Stuka attack had started. Now it was eight minutes past nine and there’d been a whole quarter of an hour of peace. Carnarvon was back where she belonged, close astern of the Dutch ship, and the destroyers were in station ahead and on either beam. The sea’s surface was ruffled by a light wind on the quarter; it was coming to them through the Elaphonisos Channel, the gap between the mainland and Kithera Island. The lighthouse on Anti Dragonera bore 243 degrees, nine miles away; he could still see Cape Malea, and the 0900 fix using these two landmarks showed they had 35 miles to cover, to reach the Antikithera Channel.

  Bell-Reid suggested, puffing at his pipe of pusser’s best—Admiraltyissue tobacco—“Shot their bolt, d’you think, sir?”

  “Doubt it. If I know anything about ‘em they’ll be grinding their teeth with fury, by this time, and mad to get back at us.” He was looking at the sky over the Grecian mainland. He added, “Although it’s conceivable we might get some help from our own air boys before much longer.” He’d sent a request for air support, after that first attack. He shrugged: “Conceivable … Pilot, how far are we from Maleme airfield now?”

  Jack went to the char
t and measured the distance. Maleme was in north-west Crete, about ten miles west of Suda Bay.

  “Fifty-three miles, sir.”

  “Close enough, you’d think.” Bell-Reid pointed with the stem of his pipe at the Gelderland. “And by this time, mark you, we’d be clear out of it, if it hadn’t been for that bloody woman.”

  A telephone buzzed: Midshipman Brighouse, who was nearest to it, snatched it off its hook. “Bridge.” Then: “Hold on, sir.” He looked at the captain: “PMO would like to speak to you, sir.”

  Napier slid off his seat and went across the bridge; PMO stood for Principal Medical Officer. Jack Everard was thinking that the attacks might be over: the Germans might reckon they’d be under their own air cover by now. So even if the RAF didn’t show up soon, the Stukas might stay away. Napier said, “I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Jack thought about the Stukas not coming back. Pigs might fly, too … Napier told Bell-Reid as he went back to his chair and got up on it, “Ramsden’s dead. The loading number, Richardson, has only a slim chance. The other two will be all right.”

  “Aircraft, right astern!”

  Number three look-out on the port side had yelled it. Napier reached down for his telephone to McCowan: before his hand had closed on it Clutterbuck’s voice came sharply from the speaker: “Alarm astern! All guns follow ADP, aircraft, angle of sight two-five—red barrage, load, load, load!”

  Then he came through again: “Aircraft astern are Stukas.”

  Napier murmured, settling his tin hat on his head, “On battle bowlers.” He beckoned: “Pilot, let’s concoct another signal. Pad?” Jack got one from the chart table, and a pencil. Napier began, “Same addressees as last time. Prefix ‘Most Immediate.’ Start—Since my—time of origin of the last one—”

  “Oh-seven-ninteen.”

  “Since my oh-seven-ninteen I have been under almost constant air attack. New force of Stukas is now arriving. My position—whatever—”

  The two after four-inch mountings had opened fire: Clutterbuck was ordering “A” and “Q” to load with the shorter, blue barrage settings.

  Napier went on quickly, “Put in the position: then, course one seventy speed 16”—he paused as the guns fired again—“and time of origin. Fix that up and send it in plain language.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Jack yelled for the chief yeoman as he ducked to the chart, filled in the missing bits and added time of origin 0921. Hegarty was waiting: he tore the top sheet off the pad and passed it to him. All the guns were firing now: coming up from the chart table, Jack saw Stukas overhead and on both sides, shell-bursts under them and all around them: one bomber diving now at Gelderland, and the pompoms had opened up just as it turned its snout down. He recalled a thought he’d had earlier, about luck changing, the unlikelihood of having a monopoly of it: and it was as if he’d seen it before it happened, knew beyond doubt that it was about to happen: a hit on the Dutch ship, in her bridge superstructure … Then another in the sea just over, a near-miss, but already her bridge was a mass of flame, and she was swinging out to port with a third bomber going for her, dropping on her in shrill cruelty. Every gun—Carnarvon’s, Halberdier’s, Highflier’s and Huntress’s— was in action to shield the transport from this fresh attack, but she’d been hit again, a column of smoke and flame bursting upwards from her forepart as she circled, out of control. Highflier was turning outwards to give the Dutch ship sea-room, Huntress beginning to turn too, in towards her. There were Stukas everywhere and the sky was plastered with shellbursts, laced with tracer. Napier had taken over at the binnacle: Irvine moved around to stand beside his vacated seat within reach of the telephone to the ADP.The noise of the pompoms was head-splitting as they fired vertically at a diving bomber and the bridge caught all the sound of it. Gelderland was still circling, with smoke and flames pouring out of her. Napier was stooping to the voicepipe to pass a helm order and at the same time looking upwards, seeing the Stuka coming down at them—vicious, horrible …The pompoms were hitting him or it was the Stuka’s guns firing, or both, there were flame-spurts anyway in that blur of movement: flames expanding suddenly, whooshing out: but the thing, still diving, still had its bombs … Noise a crescendo, mind-numbing: there was a moment’s passing, scorching heat and then the Stuka had plunged into the sea a dozen yards from the cruiser’s side and exploded as it went in: sea cascaded across the ship.

  The Dutch ship must have got her rudder centred because she’d stopped circling, but she was going the wrong way, back along the convoy’s tracks so that she was steaming into the wind and it was helping to drive the flames aft, spreading the fires along her decks. Carnarvon was under helm, turning to stay with her: Highflier had gone right round to port and was beyond her, on her starboard beam, and Halberdier had also gone about. Halberdier was having to defend herself at this moment, speeding up and zigzagging to dodge a Stuka in its dive, but her foursevens were still contributing to the barrage over Gelderland. Gelderland was slowing—stopping …Jack focused his glasses on her and saw that the only section of her not on fire was her stern part, roughly one-fifth of her at that end, and both tiers of deck there were thronged with men. Some of them were trying to get her boats away: only four boats, if there were two intact on the other side, where he couldn’t see; the others were in the flames. The two he could see, still high in their davits, were already full—too full … Stukas were diving on her again: and now one racing across her stern with its machine-guns blazing, and men in khaki jumping from that stern into the sea. He saw a Stuka diving now to bomb, straight into the barrage, through it: bomb falling away and the plane curving out and away below the shell-bursts: behind it the bomb struck Gelderland amidships bursting inside her, the ship’s guts spilling skywards. More men were jumping from her stern into the sea as the flames spread back towards them: she was listing to starboard and at a standstill and another Stuka plummeting down above her.

  “Midships. Signalman …”

  Carnarvon was moving up on the doomed ship’s port quarter. Ringing with noise … Eardrums mercifully part-numbed, but down below in the enclosed compartments it must, he thought, be unbearable. Huntress, who’d turned in from what had been the convoy’s starboard side, was now astern of the cruiser and closing up towards her, a bit out on the starboard quarter. Highflier was on Gelderland’s starboard beam and Halberdier, circling back now, was right astern of her. A Stuka was tearing across over Halberdier with its machine-guns sparking and the destroyer’s point-fives missing astern of it, the tracer’s curve seeming to fall back on itself and the Stuka away and clear, lifting higher as it flew off northward. Napier had shouted to Durkin, the leading signalman, “Make to Highflier by light: Close Gelderland and pick up swimmers.” The order was going to her now in dots and dashes from the starboard Aldis lamp. He’d ordered port wheel and an increase in revs, and called the chief yeoman and given him a signal for the other two destroyers: Act independently while Highflier collects survivors. They would circle, dodging, using their guns to shelter the rescue operation as far as was possible. But the noise of the guns was slackening: just as he noticed it, it increased again, every weapon back in it suddenly, as one last Stuka came screaming down and every gun that could bear concentrated on that one target, one last enemy symbolizing all of them, all the ferocity of the past few hours.

  Jack Everard watched it with a kind of astonishment in his own enjoyment of it: enjoyment coming from anticipation, the certainty that the Stuka would be hit, explode, go like those others had in a flash and roar of bombs, gas-tank, human blood, and bone: watching, expectant, longing for the sight of it … The Stuka came straight as a dart, loathsome, a vulture plunging on an already dying victim: the bomb fell away and he saw the levelling-out process begin, knowing it was the stage at which several of them had been destroyed. But the plane wasn’t touched and its bomb struck, hideously, landing on that packed stern deck. Bodies and objects flying outwards from the burst … The Dutch ship was all flame now, and the Stuka was racing away north-west
ward across the blue Aegean.

  “Midships. Slow ahead together.”

  There were no enemies overhead and the guns were silent. You could hear clangs from the gundecks and splashes alongside as the crews ditched shellcases; from across the water came the roar and crackle of that giant floating bonfire. She was listing now, lying almost on her side. Napier called down, “Stop both engines.” Jack Everard was stooped against the side of the bridge in order to rest his elbows on it and hold the glasses steady despite his hands’ tendency to shake. He was counting heads, or trying to, as Highflier nosed up towards the swimmers, Halberdier joining her now in the rescue work. Highflier had a scrambling-net down on this near side; she’d slipped her whaler and she had men standing by with lines all along her sides from stem to stern. He trained his glasses left, to Gelderland herself. The whole ship was on fire: at her stern one lifeboat, suspended vertically from only one fall, was resting against the ship’s raised side, lying on it, and the boat itself was smouldering. Then he caught his breath: he was seeing arms, some bare and some in khaki shirt-sleeves, waving from open scuttles in the Dutch ship’s side. Signalling for help, rescue. But she was going. He saw the final movement start, the downward wash and froth of sea as she rolled right over, turning her keel up first and then the stern lifting before she slid bow-first into something like 500 fathoms.

  Gelderland had sunk at 0937. It had taken Highflier and Halberdier half an hour to gather the survivors, and at 1010 the force had got under way on course 170 at 25 knots, which was Carnarvon’s best speed. Highflier had 84 survivors from the Dutch ship and Halberdier had 31. At Nauplia Gelderland had embarked twelve hundred soldiers.