The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5

by Alexander Fullerton

  He knew them all. He had pet names for some of them.

  Weather might have eased slightly, Nick thought. It was still rough, still unmistakably North Atlantic, but the gusts were less savage and there was less white streaming from the high, tumbling crests. He guessed the trough of low pressure was passing over and might soon leave them: in which case a shift to calmer weather could come suddenly, even as soon as dawn. And if those two U-boats, roughly one hour ahead of the seven-knot convoy, didn’t know how well placed they were, there certainly wouldn’t be any sense in alerting them to their good fortune by using radio. Not even TBS, at only eight miles.

  He slid off his seat, and moved to the binnacle. Mike Scarr, the young RN lieutenant who was Harbinger’s and group navigator, was there in place of Chubb now.

  “I’ll take her, pilot. Keep an eye on the PPI, will you?” The RDF screen, that meant. Checking the softly-lit gyro repeater … “Starboard ten. What are the revs, pilot?”

  He conned her out to starboard and up that side of the convoy, Harbinger lengthening her stride and overtaking effortlessly, despite an increase in the amount of sea that came inboard. A blue-shaded Aldis lamp stuttered morse, first at Bruce that she was being left to look after the rear of the convoy, alone except for Viola closer in, then at Iris and Daphne so they’d know who this was, as he moved up past them to the convoy’s front. Wind and sea were easing: you had to put your mind back to how it had been a couple of hours ago, to realise it … He called over to Wolstenholm, the killick signalman, “Make to Watchful, ‘I am coming up to starboard of you.’” Then from that southeast corner, cutting speed again so as to hold her in station, he called the commodore—the leading ship of column four—and flashed “Two U-boats eight miles ahead. Suggest emergency turn starboard to pass clear.”

  Three fifty-five … The commodore acknowledged: then his siren blared, and the turn of forty degrees put Harbinger in the lead, with Watchful and Daphne on her quarters, the whole spread of ships, convoy and escort, now in a rough arrow-head formation. Nick thought those U-boats probably did have a fairly good idea of the convoy’s present position: they’d surely have had reports from their friends who’d been in contact earlier in the night. But two hours, say, on this diversionary course ought to by-pass them: they couldn’t know they’d given away their own positions.

  “Want me to take over again, sir!”

  Scarr, at his elbow … Nick asked him, “Had any sleep yet?”

  He had. Down in the plot, before he’d come up to relieve Chubb. Graves was snoozing down there now.

  “All right. Mean course one-four-six.” The D/F bell rang: with a sense of foreboding he moved to the voice-pipe. “What is it, Gritten?”

  “More transmissions on one-one-oh, sir. And there was another, new bloke again, on one-five-oh—right ahead now, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  But thinking, Damn …

  There could be a whole patrol line, not just an odd pair but a pack, right across the convoy’s front. It had been a toss-up, which way to turn, and it seemed he’d chosen badly. He glanced over at the hunched, dark figure of the signalman: “Wolstenholm—blue light to the commodore …”

  Four forty-two. Graves had taken over at the binnacle from Scarr. Dawn was a hint in the eastern sky. Convoy course 066, forty degrees to port of the planned route at this stage of the crossing, and Harbinger was on the starboard bow of the solid mass of laden ships forging northeastward into improving weather. For four days they’d endured nothing less than gale force, and an easing of the sea-state would be welcome now—even if it did make things easier for the U-boats too … Nick was sipping another mug of kye when the deep crump of an explosion jarred ears and nerves, bruised minds …

  Twin white rockets soared. Then snowflakes, from more than one ship. He had his glasses up, looking back over the quarter and waiting for a TBS report probably from Iris or Viola: his glasses were focused on exactly the right spot when the second torpedo hit—this time with a leap of flame, then a whole blossoming, lighting sea and sky back there. He knew instantly, sickeningly, that it would be the tanker, Rio Pride. Yellow flames spreading, other ships black in silhouette against them: it was the sight, the horror, that you most dreaded—an oiler in flames, the knowledge of men in her and in the burning sea. Your hate flared with it like a long-smouldering glow suddenly fanned: loathing of the foul, murderous, lurking enemy … The tanker had been in column eight, with only one other column outside her to starboard, but on this adjusted course, steering forty degrees to port, the shape of the formation had changed so that there’d been no ship actually on her beam. She’d been fourth from the front: number eighty-four …

  “Starboard fifteen.” He thumbed the alarm button, sending all hands back to their action stations and waking those who’d been sleeping around the guns. They’d been in the second degree of readiness, a partial relaxation. Graves reported, “Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir!”

  “I’ll take her.”

  Leaving Graves to look after the asdics and the depthcharges. Harbinger flinging herself round—heeling hard a-port, and pitching to the head sea—but her motion wasn’t nearly as stiff and violent as it had been earlier in the night. Iris came up on TBS, at last, reporting that the first ship that had been hit, the Dogger Prince, was stopped and sinking. She was one of the tiddlers of this collection, only about two thousand tons: she’d been in column nine and on the Rio Pride’s bow, so it was obvious the two hits had come from one salvo of torpedoes—from somewhere on the beam, since they must have passed astern of Daphne. The Rio Pride gushing flame and falling back: the corvette in silhouette against that inferno would be Iris.

  “Steer one-four-oh.” Asdics pinging … He could see the Dogger Prince: ironically, she’d been designated a rescue ship, detailed as a picker-up of survivors if called upon to perform that task—and she’d started out at the rear of that column, had been moved up in some reshuffle a couple of days ago. Lying at a steep bow-down angle now, on the edge of the circle of flickering orange light surrounding the burning tanker. Flames spreading across the water too, as burning oil spilled out of ruptured tanks. He’d seen it before, seen swimmers not only chased by it and caught but also ambushed by pockets of oil that rose to the surface from below and immediately burst into flame ahead of the swimmers or among them: onlookers seeing it from a distance, incapable of helping … Iris would be nosing in as close as she dared, to get to any survivors that could be reached. The group of casualties and rescuers was well astern of the rest of the stolidly advancing convoy, and there was a second corvette there—he saw it suddenly—which must be Daphne. He told Bearcroft, “Call Daphne—tell her resume station forthwith.” “Forthwith” meant “jump to it,” and implied criticism. “Iris collect swimmers from the Rio Pride then embark survivors from the Dogger Prince. Bruce to cover Iris.” Because Iris was in danger: it wasn’t beyond the capacity of U-boats to torpedo ships engaged in rescue work. He dipped to the wheelhouse voice-pipe: “Port ten. Three hundred revolutions.”

  340 would be the maximum. But it was still too big a sea for that flat-out speed, unless there was some positive reason for taking the risk of knocking the ship to pieces. Like the sight of a surfaced U-boat and a chance of getting at it. He was going to make a cast out on the convoy’s quarter now, in the faint, long-odds hope of catching that bastard still on the surface, perhaps keeping pace with the convoy so as to get in another attack by and by. You never knew your luck: instinct plus a few disjointed pieces of evidence told him that this most likely was the northern end of the U-boat line, so that any attackers would be on this side of the convoy … “Steer one-eight-oh.”

  One mile on this course. The picture—theoretical, and his scheme for dealing with it—was in his mind like an imagined PPI screen. Casting south now: then he’d come round to port and return towards the convoy on a wide curve so that if there should be a U-boat shadowing or encroaching on this flank he’d be approaching it from the directio
n its captain would least expect.

  If …

  But the German or Germans in its bridge would have that burning tanker in sight in the northwest, as well as the convoy ahead.

  Two and a half minutes on 180. Then edging round to port: to 090 first, due east, which would still be a divergence, widening the gap between Harbinger and the convoy.

  “Course oh-nine-oh, sir …”

  The tanker was a distant glow now, a long way out on the port quarter, a yellow glow and a long shine on the sea—which was lower, more regular, an ocean gradually becoming tame. The asdic set was pinging away steadily, and there’d be some point in it now, with conditions so much easier. “Port ten. Steer oh-seven-oh.”

  “Port ten, sir—”

  “Surface contact oh-eight-three range one thousand eight hundred, sir!”

  His mind, jolted: in astonishment, then acceptance … “Steady on oh-eight-three, Cox’n!” And it was necessary now to get this right … “All quarters alert. B gun load with SAP. Depthcharges shallow settings—stand by …” Eighteen hundred yards was less than one sea mile: he guessed the U-boat must have just surfaced—in which case he’d be closing on it fast. He called into the pipe “Steer oh-eight-oh!” Then binoculars again, straining his eyes into the faint beginnings of dawn light. Harbinger would be coming at the U-boat out of the dark sector and she’d have it well placed against the lighter section of the sky.

  “B gun ready, sir.” Warrimer was alerting the point-fives now, the quadruple machine-gun mounting in its circular nest between the funnels. A rather unsatisfactory weapon, better than nothing but please God to be replaced before long by a two-pounder pompom. He warned, “Searchlight stand by!”

  “Standing by, sir—”

  “U-boat fine on the port bow, sir, stern-on!”

  Bearcroft had spotted it …

  “Open fire, sir?”

  “Wait.”

  He was close enough to stand a good change of ramming. But ramming, although in these circumstances it was about the simplest and surest way to make sure the bastard didn’t slip away, invariably caused damage to one’s own ship, sometimes very serious damage: and there was still a long haul ahead, a convoy to be nursed home …

  Range would be roughly fourteen hundred yards now. Maybe twelve-fifty …

  “B gun open fire! Steer—oh-seven-five …”

  Warrimer had passed the order: the gun barked, recoiled, you heard the crash of the brass shellcase hitting the steel deck. Graves on the intercom, readying his team aft. The U-boat seemed hardly to be moving, it almost certainly had just surfaced and hadn’t got its diesels going very quickly: you’d guess the roughness of the sea had deafened its hydrophones to Harbinger’s propeller-noise. It was sheer luck to have happened on it at just this moment: but then, some small proportion of gambles did pay off—else bookmakers would have had no customers … Nick had the burning tanker in the back of his mind and cold hatred as an overlay to the picture, plus a determination not to waste this chance, not to make any mistake that could waste the opportunity. The gun had fired a second time, and the first spout had gone up short, a white plume that lifted, hung with the wind blowing its top away, quickly subsided. Warrimer wasn’t correcting the range-setting because Harbinger’s fast approach was shortening it anyway. And—hit! A flash of orange and a blossom of black smoke instantly disintegrating on the wind, from the back of the U-boat’s conning-tower: it had probably been his first intimation of the destroyer’s presence, and a fairly abrupt way of getting the news, at that … Warrimer had bellowed “Down one hundred, shoot!” while Nick sighted over the repeater’s bearing-ring and adjusted course ten degrees to port. He saw the plumes of spray which were the telltale signs of the enemy diving, vents opening in the tops of his ballast tanks: that shot had missed, badly aimed and out of line, raising a white splash to the left of the German as he nuzzled down into the waves.

  Another small course adjustment …

  “All yours now, Number One!”

  Graves’s spray-wet face nodding: he knew damn well the rest of it was in his lap. Five hundred yards—four hundred … Warrimer had passed the order “Check, check, check!” to B gun. Harbinger plunging and rearing, charging with the silvering dawn in her eyes, Nick aiming her at the froth of sea where the U-boat had slipped down: they’d be passing over from astern, on the same track, and Graves had to judge his moment, pick the spot on which to centre his pattern of explosive. He was about as good an A/S officer as there was anywhere: he’d done reservist’s time at the A/S school at Portland before the war—and a refresher, updating course since—but he had an instinct for it that no-one could have taught him, and two solid years’ Atlantic experience. He was Nick’s second-in-command but also Group A/S Officer, responsible for the performance of nine ships besides this one. Before the war, he’d been a miller: actually an assistant miller …

  Instinct? Or experience that had come to feel like instinct? Either way, it was a concentration so intense that it became a kind of transference, put his mind virtually inside that U-boat—over which Harbinger would be passing about—now …

  “Fire one!” Counting, and with his eyes on the sea … “Fire two!” There went the charges from the throwers, and just enough light now to see the dark shapes lobbing out on either side … “Fire three!”

  You could visualise the frantic haste to reload, back aft. Mr Timberlake dancing around like a foul-mouthed, crazy ape. Fifteen seconds was the drill-book interval for reloading, but on a wet and heaving deck it took some doing.

  “Deep settings now!”

  Staring aft …

  With luck, at least no bad luck, having caught the German with his pants down, this first pattern—coming on top of a direct hit with a four-inch shell—might do the trick. If it didn’t, you could bet he’d be down deep by the time you threw the second lot at him.

  The sea astern erupted. Geysers of sea lifting …

  “Port twenty!”

  Warrimer had all his weapons ready, and he was itching to use them: weapons and searchlight, all the crews just as eager. This was the moment you waited for, the seconds that justified the months of foul weather, cold, acute discomfort … Harbinger leaning to the turn as her rudder gripped and hauled her round.

  “U-boat surfacing, sir!”

  Wragge yelled it: Wolstenholm, the leading signalman, whooping an echo to the shout. Warrimer snapped, “Searchlight on! Open fire!”

  X gun crashed: the point-fives opened up: the twenty-inch searchlight from its platform aft had the target brilliantly illuminated. It had come up at a steep bow-up angle. All guns scoring hits … “One-eight-oh revolutions. Midships the wheel.” Keeping her at a distance from which all guns could reach, could depress enough to score. Smoke poured black across the searchlight’s beam: a man had appeared in the conning-tower and gone over the edge in a sprawling dive, shells bursting and tracer lashing all around. Then another—several—a group piling over as if trying to get to their gun—and another hit … Nick had taken his eyes off them for a moment while he steadied Harbinger on an adjusted course, and when he looked again that group of Germans had scattered or taken to the sea: a newcomer in the U-boat’s bridge was waving a white cloth.

  “Stop firing!”

  It was a few more seconds and a few more shots before the order took effect. He told Warrimer, “Keep all guns trained and loaded, and keep the searchlight on them.” Into the voice-pipe: “One hundred revolutions.” And port helm again, to circle the enemy, which was still hanging in that up-angled position, he guessed with stern compartments flooded. Seas were rolling right over its afterpart and seething high around the conning-tower: there’d be a certain amount of flooding through the hatch, even, and you could be sure it wouldn’t last long, at that rate. Men were flocking up, diving over—expecting a greater element of mercy, Nick thought, than the Rio Pride’s men had met with. He’d reduced speed but he was keeping her moving, circling, for the time being, because there could,
conceivably, be another of them hanging around. Asdics pinging, searching, probing into deep, cold water … He’d glanced over his shoulder towards Graves, about to say something about asdics and improving conditions, and Graves asked him, “Scrambling net, sir?”

  He nodded. He certainly wasn’t going to put a boat into this sea, risk his own men’s lives for those creatures.

  “Port side, please.” He told Chubb, who was wearing a fixed and savage Australian grin, “Go down and see to it, Sub. Keep ’em all on the iron deck. And I don’t want anyone risking his neck for ’em. Nobody’s to go down on the net—right?” Chubb nodded, understanding and agreeing too. Nick said, “Make it quick. I’ll allow two minutes.”

  He kept her circling. Cutting speed again, but still moving round them, letting them sweat a little … Not that “sweat” would be the word for it, in that stuff … But also waiting for them to collect, bunch together, so that the picking-up could be effected swiftly and all in one place. The U-boat was slipping down by the stern now: after the tower went under, it took only seconds.

  “Searchlight on the swimmers.”

  “The net’s rigged, sir.”

  He slowed her to a crawl, edged in closer, then finally stopped the engines, and had the twenty-inch aimed downwards at the ship’s side where the netting waited for Germans to grab it and climb up it. There was still quite a sea running: stopped, and broadside to the weather so as to give the floundering men a lee, Harbinger rolled drunkenly from one beam to the other … Down on the iron deck, sailors were tossing lines to swimmers, hauling them in to the destroyer’s side.

  The U-boat’s captain was a stockily-built man of about thirty, dark-haired and blunt-featured. He was a lieutenant, and his name was Neumann. Nick had sent for him, and then kept him waiting—at the after end of the bridge, bare-footed and shrouded in a blanket, guarded by the heavyweight Gunner’s Mate, PO Hacket. Nick settled Harbinger on course to rejoin the convoy at twenty-five knots, and then came aft to question his prisoner.