Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  Apart from the engine sounds and the low hum of the ventilators there was a curious silence, a night silence, until the repaired tannoy came up loud and clear, bringing the Captain’s voice to all parts of the ship.

  ‘This is the Captain speaking. There’s been a signal from Gibraltar — the main Italian battle fleet is reported on station westward of the Gap. Admiral Somerville is taking the heavy ships ahead to engage, in support of Admiral Cunningham’s battleships and cruisers, while the destroyers remain as the close escort for the convoy. The ship’s company will remain closed up at first degree of readiness until further notice. That’s all.’ The clipped tones ceased, and the tannoy clicked off.

  Cameron felt a curious sensation in his stomach: convoy escort was one thing; surface action against the immense gun power of the Italian battleships and cruisers was quite another. Back in the conning-tower he met the eye of the Torpedo-Coxswain, faintly outlined in the soft glow from the gyro repeater before the wheel. He said, ‘Sounds ominous, Cox’n.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, sir. We’ve had these scares before now. Know what happens, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Eyeties see our big ships... and they bugger off. You mark my words, sir. They’ve got the speed and they use it. It’s said they mount their biggest guns aft, ‘cos they’re always bloody retreating!’

  In the event, this proved to be the case. The heavy ships of Force H, gone from the convoy’s vicinity by the time the dawn came up, were reported by the lookouts towards noon, returning to rejoin. As they came up and turned to take station, the signal was made, general from the Flag by masthead light: ENEMY DISPERSED AFTER INITIAL EXCHANGE OF GUNFIRE. NO CASUALTIES OR DAMAGE. That was all; the rest was left to the imagination: Admiral Somerville’s ships would not have had the speed to catch the Italian fleet even if he had felt it wise, which for a certainty he would not, to jeopardize the vital convoy by detaching the main strength of the escort for long enough to be of use against the Italians; any chase could be left to Admiral Cunningham’s Mediterranean Fleet units. For similar reasons he would not have flown off his torpedo-bomber strike force of Swordfish from Ark Royal; the carrier was needed to rejoin the convoy and use her aircraft to attack any surface vessels that might appear over the horizon.

  And the convoy was not to be left unmolested: that night, still beneath a bright moon, the ships entered the Gap. Away to the south lay the rocky island of Pantellaria, to the north lay Sicily with its squadrons of dive-bombers and torpedo-bombers; to both north and south the deep minefield stretched. The aerial attacks began soon after the convoy was in the minefield. Down they came, diving through the bursting shrapnel from the ack-ack batteries, screaming in to aim their bomb-loads and their torpedoes. The sky was full of noise and menace. Cameron was called to the compass platform when the Officer of the Watch, a shoulder badly torn by shrapnel, was taken below to the sick bay: just as Cameron reached the compass platform, he saw three aircraft come down in the water not far off. Shortly after this one of the ammunition-ships went up, shattered to fragments by her own exploding cargo as she was taken by a tin fish from a torpedo-bomber that had gone screaming into her starboard beam at little more than a foot above the water before lifting to skim the decks. The whole sea seemed to be lit up with an immensity of flame that dimmed the moon, and the shock waves thudded through the destroyer like blows from a sledgehammer. It was obvious that there could be no survivors, unless some of the bridge personnel had by some miracle merely been blown clear. In any case, this was the sort of situation where survivors could not be picked up. Shortly after the ammunition-ship had gone, there was another explosion away to port and fire lit the fo’c’sle of one of the laden tankers. The fire appeared to be confined to the fore end but would surely spread aft whatever the efforts made to control it.

  Suddenly there was a shout from the Captain. ‘See that, Cameron? Fine on the port bow!’

  Cameron looked, and saw: an enemy aircraft, shot down, was still afloat; the pilot was climbing out along the wing and could clearly be seen, waving an arm towards one of the escort, whose course was a little to port of him. As Cameron watched, the destroyer’s bows came round, just a little.

  Cameron asked, ‘Do you pick up ditched pilots, sir?’

  ‘Like hell we do! Just you watch.’

  Cameron watched. The pilot was waving still — perhaps, like Cameron, expecting rescue before his plane sank under him. But the fast-moving, knifing bows, aimed dead on target now, cut through both plane and pilot like a bacon-slicer.

  ‘Bugger asked for it,’ the Captain said with much satisfaction.

  The attacks went on through the night; there were no more sinkings although hits had been scored on two of the troopships and there had been a number of casualties. A little before dawn the attackers withdrew towards Sicily and no more came out. Both convoy and escort took stock of themselves: by now the stricken tanker had burned out and was gone, sunk beneath a spreading, flaming patch of oil fuel. The survivors of the convoy steamed on; the damage to the troopships was not enough, their masters reported, to need assistance. One of the escorting destroyers had been sunk and another was sufficiently damaged for’ard to have to fall out from the escort and be taken in tow of one of her sister-ships.

  The rest proceeded at maximum convoy speed towards Malta and Alexandria. As they began the approach to the besieged island, the detaching orders came from the Flag and the Convoy Commodore: the food ships and the remaining tanker for Malta were to break off in company with HMS Foresight and enter the Grand Harbour.

  It had been quite a successful convoy. Malta was appreciative of it. By invitation of Foresight’s captain, Cameron was on the compass platform as the ships came slowly in through the breakwater and on past Fort St Angelo into the Grand Harbour. From every vantage point — from Fort St Angelo itself, from Custom House Steps, from Senglea, from the warships in the port — hands waved and cheering came. The sun was bright, and shone down on an outwardly happy island. But the happiness was no more than skin deep and was but temporary in any case. Everyone was on the point of starvation and there had been much damage, and not only to the island itself. From the water not far inside the breakwater, masts and funnel-tops pierced the blue water of the harbour, mute evidence of the bombs and magnetic mines that were dropped often enough inside the harbour entrance from enemy aircraft, to seal in the ships and prevent entry of supplies.

  The Captain had been this way before. Grimly he indicated one of the sunken wrecks, that of a destroyer. ‘She went two months ago,’ he said. ‘They haven’t got all the bodies out yet.’ As Foresight came farther in, he drew Cameron’s attention to another destroyer lying in Dockyard Creek off the Grand Harbour. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Your ship, Cameron. I wish you luck aboard her. They’re a good crowd — her Captain’s a good friend of mine.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve many illusions left about life out here being all sun, swimming and gin sessions — have you?’

  Cameron was about to answer very positively that he hadn’t when from ashore there came the sound of the air raid sirens. Immediately, Foresight was sent to action stations; and almost at once the whine of the incoming enemy aircraft was heard. They came in with the afternoon sun behind them, zooming high over the island to release their bomb-loads. The bombs were seen, dropping in clusters like eggs.

  ‘Your welcome to Malta, Cameron,’ the Captain said.

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