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

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Looks like our old friend Passenham approaching, sir.” Mike Scarr had his binoculars focused on the bow-on ship. It was a high, graceful stem, when you saw it in profile. Passenham was an old yacht that had been re-equipped for service as a local tender.

  “Squad of pongoes in her waist.” Scarr still had his glasses on her. “Coming for the prisoners perhaps, sir.”

  “Pongo” was naval slang for “soldier.” How the word had come into general use wasn’t certain; one dictionary defined it as, a large African anthropoid of singularly repulsive habits, but the term wasn’t used in a derogatory sense: rather to the contrary … It seemed unlikely, Nick was thinking, that they’d have sent the old yacht all this way just to collect the U-boat prisoners, when Harbinger would have been delivering them at the base in a couple of hours’ time.

  He was in his day cabin down aft, visiting it for the first time in eleven days, when Tony Graves tapped on the door and told him, “Passenham’s alongside, sir, and Lieutenant Boustead would like a word, if it’s convenient.”

  “Has he come for the Germans?”

  Graves nodded. “But he’s also brought a few sacks of mail—it’s being sorted now, sir—and orders, he says. I don’t think they want us up at Derry, for some reason.”

  Nick wondered what the hell he was talking about. But he was also thinking about the mail being sorted—wondering whether it would include one letter in particular. He told Graves, “Wheel him in.” He pressed the bell to his pantry, and told Foster to make some coffee.

  If Harbinger and the other destroyers were being turned round here, not allowed to stay for even one night’s rest when they’d come this close to it, having been at sea in lousy conditions for the past fortnight and now in need of provisions, fresh water and other important items, either some staff officer had gone nuts or there must be a major flap on.

  Boustead knocked, and entered, removing his cap and pushing it under his left arm. He was a man of about forty—in fact he looked the same age as Nick, which would have made him forty-six, but he’d left the Navy in 1928 when he’d been a lieutenant aged twenty-five. Which made him thirty-nine now. As Nick had also been on the beach between the wars, they had a certain amount in common.

  The smile on Boustead’s reddish face was accompanied by a few moments’ silence. He wasn’t exactly a chatterer. He mumbled, “Congratulations are due, I’m told. Three U-boats—sir?”

  “We were lucky … What’s this about orders, and not going on to the base?”

  “Ah.”

  A long brown envelope, with OHMS in large letters and BY HAND OF OFFICER in smaller ones. There was also a slip of paper for Nick to sign … “Very sorry we’re not to have the pleasure of your company this time, sir.”

  “Sit down.” He ripped the envelope open. “Coffee’s coming.”

  He was to “proceed forthwith, on completion of fuelling”: he was to take Goshawk, Watchful and Bruce with him to the Clyde, from where they would escort the cruisers Nottingham and Rhodesia to Gibraltar. All victualling and ammunitioning would be done on arrival at Tail o’ the Bank: ships were to signal their requirements ahead to Greenock immediately.

  Re-reading the order with its complicated address—it was repeated for information to a whole crowd of other authorities—it sank in that this escort group, which had begun to settle down very well and make itself really quite useful, was being broken up. The six corvettes under Charles Rose would be arriving in Lough Foyle some time tonight or tomorrow morning, by which time he’d have his four destroyers anchored in the Clyde.

  Boustead grunted, watching his face as he read, “Not good?”

  Foster had arrived with a tray of coffee. Nick shook his head. “I’d say bloody awful.”

  Whatever the reason for it, splitting the group could be good news only for the U-boats. It had been agreed at high levels, in recent months, that the principle henceforth would be to keep groups intact, as permanent teams, so far as could possibly be managed.

  He nodded to his PO steward. “Thank you, Foster.”

  “I was told to give you a private message.” Boustead looked round, to see the pantry door shut. “To the effect that the division of your group into two sections is only temporary. Also regretted, but force majeure, etcetera.”

  “Was any reason given?”

  “All I have to go on is that message. Which suggests they’re sending you off somewhere … Murmansk run?”

  He thought it was more likely to be a Malta convoy.

  “Rough trip, was it?”

  He nodded. “We got bumped around a bit.”

  “Seven losses?”

  News travelled on the winds. He nodded again. Boustead finished his coffee and stood up. “Darned good getting three of ’em, anyway … But I’d better push along. Many thanks for the coffee. Sir.” Boustead made a point of slipping in a “sir” now and then. He added, “I hope we see you back pretty soon.”

  “Thanks, Andrew.”

  He preceded his visitor out of the day cabin, through the flat past curtained entrances to other officers’ cabins and the door of the wardroom, then up the steel ladder and out through the port-side screen door … There was a puddle of oil on the iron deck—the middle part of the ship, where the torpedo-tubes were—and a stoker was standing by the valve of the fuelling connection. The Chief Stoker, Podmore, would be overseeing the operation: he was on the oiler’s flat, pipe-ribbed deck, talking to a fat man in green overalls. Nick turned away, crossed to his ship’s starboard side where the old yacht was secured—temporarily, with men standing by her lines, ready to cast off.

  Boustead saluted vaguely. “Good luck—sir …Whatever it turns out to be.” Graves told him, “Prisoners are all on board.”

  “Your mail, sir.”

  Carlish—proffering a batch of envelopes.

  “Thank you, Sub.” It was an inch-thick wad of letters enclosed in a rubber band. He pushed it into a pocket of his reefer jacket, kept a hand on it while he watched Passenham casting off and then sliding away stern-first. Tony Graves asked him quietly, “May I know where we’re going, sir?”

  “To start with, the Clyde … Send Hawkey along, will you? And check with Mr Timberlake, and Warrimer—we’re to signal our requirements to Greenock right away. It’ll be a fast turn-round there, and we’ll be escorting some cruisers down to Gib. So list all requirements … Then come down to my cabin.” He looked past Graves. “Sub—nip over to Goshawk—” he pointed across the tanker—“and ask Lieutenant-Commander Audsley to spare me a few minutes. Bring him down to my cabin … Oh, Number One—” Graves stopped, came back—“The quack’s stores list too.” Medical stores, from Ian Mackenzie, surgeon-lieutenant. “And send someone to find Scarr, tell him I want to see him … Bosun’s Mate!”

  Able Seaman Webb sprang out of the steel shelter where the Tannoy broadcast system was housed. “Yessir?”

  “Webb, get hold of the Chief Yeoman, and tell him I want him right away.”

  To draft a signal to Watchful and Bruce, the two who were lying-off astern, and then compile the longer ones to Greenock. And this was only just the start of it: he’d have his four ships out of the lough and on their way, he guessed, before he’d have time to read Kate’s letter.

  Ideally, she’d have written from somewhere in England, have arrived already.

  Waiting, making notes of things to be seen to in this or that department either now or when they got to the Clyde, he wondered again what kind of operation this could be if it was not a Malta convoy. Something sizeable, obviously; if it had been only a matter of transferring two cruisers from the Home Fleet to Force H there’d have been no need for this upheaval. And it might be another Russian convoy: if the cruisers had simultaneously to be taken south for some purpose, and an Arctic convoy operation was about to draw off all available fleet destroyers?

  Malta was the likely thing. The last convoy, “Pedestal,” hadn’t got much through, and the island would be desperately short of everything by
now. With Rommel’s Afrika Korps within striking distance of Cairo and the Canal, the island’s value as a base for operations against the Axis supply lines was even greater than before. It would be Malta, he thought—probably …

  “Lieutenant-Commander Audsley, sir.”

  More than an hour passed before he had a quiet moment to check on the contents of his personal mail. And when the moment came, he immediately wished it hadn’t. There was no letter from her. Disappointment added to impatience while he waited for Watchful and Bruce to finish oiling. Worry, as well as disappointment: the only reason for her not to have written would be if she was actually on her way.

  He got away, at last, and by cutting some corners he found himself leading the other three destroyers into the naval anchorage off Greenock only a few minutes after sunset. The signal station had flashed the numbers of their berths to them, and it was just as well they’d arrived while there was still some daylight: the anchorage was packed, fuller than he’d ever known it. There was too much here, he saw at once, for just another Malta run.

  The firth was grey and bleak, as well as crowded. A cold wind had followed the flotilla in, and it was freshening, getting back to normal for this area and the time of year. He heard Graves mutter under his breath, with his glasses up too, “Well, bloody hell …”

  “Are you making sense of it, pilot?”

  Negotiating this anchorage when it was even reasonably full could, to a newcomer, be rather like getting through the Hampton Court maze. He wanted to let Scarr sort it out on his own, if possible.

  “Well, sir.” The navigator lowered his binoculars, and pointed. “If we clear that starboard-hand buoy, then pass round astern of those sweepers …”

  At the side of the bridge CPO Bearcroft was using his signal telescope and showing off to Leading Signalman Wolstenholm. “That’s Jamaica— and the little ’un ahead of her’s the old Delhi, bless her heart—”

  Wolstenholm’s mutter: “Carriers, beyond.”

  “Escort carriers, lad. But look over there, now. See that lot? Them’s the big boys—Formidable, and Victorious, and—”

  “Chief Yeoman, can we have some quiet, please?”

  “Sorry, sir!”

  He’d been getting carried away, at the sight of so many old friends, and his voice had been getting louder without his realising it. Nick bent to the voice-pipe: “Starboard ten …”

  Bearcroft’s ship-recognition was not at fault, anyway, and if those and others were congregating here for one single purpose—well, it would have to be something very big indeed.

  “Midships.”

  “Midships, sir!”

  Some large-scale landing operation? And if the jumping-off place was Gibraltar, where might the assault be going? Sicily? South of France?

  When Harbinger slid into her billet and anchored, the other three dropping their hooks simultaneously astern of her—each into exactly the correct square of water—there was a motorboat lying-off near and obviously waiting for her. It had brass dolphins on its sides and a snotty at the wheel, and so was clearly a big ship’s boat. It came alongside as soon as they had a gangway down, and it was from the cruiser Nottingham. Its midshipman had brought a message to the effect that Rear-Admiral Freelling requested Captain Everard’s immediate presence on board his flagship; the boat would wait for him now and also bring him back to Harbinger later on.

  Twenty-four hours later the four destroyers and two cruisers were in the Irish Sea with Holyhead well back on the quarter. They’d weighed anchor in mid-forenoon and slipped down the Firth of Clyde past Arran and Ailsa Craig with the sea green and sparkling, a southwest wind whipping spray off the crests, the ships’ bow-waves curling high, ensigns crackling …

  His visit to the flagship had been brief. He’d had one glass of gin with the admiral, and then a briefing from his staff—route, screening dispositions, tactics in the event of submarine or aircraft attack, zigzags, wireless wavelengths … Nick had tried a slightly different question when he’d been taking his leave: “After we reach Gib, sir, shall I be staying with you?”

  Freelling had looked surprised, and said he hadn’t the least idea. Asked later by Tony Graves what this admiral was like, Nick’s answer was, “He’s a gunnery specialist.”

  “Oh …”

  A high proportion of flag officers came from the gunnery branch. They were the parade-ground specialists too, but the gun was God and they were its apostles. In effect, they were the antithesis of the Nick Everard type, which was basically a maverick. None of this made Freelling inadequate, incompetent or unpleasant: it only meant that one was serving under a man with whom one would have very little in common.

  But “maverick” was right, and he knew it. It was why he’d left the Navy between the wars, and why in days gone by he’d incurred the displeasure of more than one senior of the Freelling kind.

  Midnight saw Ushant well back on the quarter. They were steaming at eighteen knots, which allowing for the zigzag gave a speed of advance of about fifteen. Air cover was sporadic: and they were crossing Biscay now, where the Ju 88s were sometimes to be encountered. They were two-thirds of the way across, just after 0800 next morning, when Bruce picked up an asdic contact. As Nick reached the bridge she was heading westward with the flag signal, “contact confirmed,” sliding down and a new one, “attacking with depthcharges,” shooting up to the yardarm in its place. Flags for the information of the admiral: Peter Instance, Bruce’s young captain, was on the TBS to Harbinger, as usual.

  It had been made clear on board Nottingham that no lengthy A/S hunts would be permitted. Freelling wanted to keep his screen intact. Bruce would be allowed to make about one pass at this U-boat now, mainly to keep it deep and harmless while the squadron swept on southward.

  Charges burst, back on the quarter and three miles away. Nick saw the geysers lift and heard the rumbling thuds of them. Instance would have lost his target now: if he regained contact quickly he might be allowed one more run over, but no more than that: if he was allowed off the leash for too long there’d be a terse signal from the flagship. Freelling was the sort of admiral who’d have suitable reprimands poised permanently on the tip of an Aldis lamp … The zigzag bell rang down in the wheelhouse: Warrimer, who was officer of the watch, checked the ship’s head by gyro as the quartermaster brought her round. The quartermaster had the zigzag manual open at the selected diagram, beside him at the wheel, and there was no need for orders from the bridge. But the alteration left Bruce almost right astern now, and the U-boat would be astern too, where it no longer presented any danger to the cruisers.

  Carlish took a new TBS message from Bruce: it was Peter Instance’s voice, reporting he’d lost contact and requesting permission to continue searching. Nick’s answer had to be, “Negative. Resume station.” As Instance would have known, before he’d sent the message … Nick’s sense of discomfort wasn’t only from having a U-boat within reach and being forced to leave it: nor was it only from the fact that what was left of his breakfast would be cold by this time. Behind the immediate irritations was the fact that an escort group was an independent command: you ran your own show, carried heavy responsibility, took your own decisions and stood ready to be judged by the results: whereas here and now, commanding four slightly antique destroyers and under another man’s orders—well, it was a chore, and a dull one, and hardly suitable employment for a four-stripe captain. Jock Audsley of Goshawk, for instance, could have handled it perfectly well.

  He climbed on to his seat, took out a pipe and began to fill it. The zigzag bell rang again: and the swing to starboard that was coming now would make it easy for Bruce to get back into her station on that wing. If Instance had his wits about him this morning, he’d have anticipated it. He’d be grinding his teeth, too, frustrated at being recalled so quickly … Nick put his glasses up, to check where Bruce had got to: the pipe was between his teeth, filled but as yet unlit … There—in sight now on the quarter as the squadron altered course: obviously young P
eter Instance had been ready for this turn, and had been steering so as to cut the corner. Nick was about to lower the binoculars and get his pipe going, when Bruce blew up.

  Initially, a vertical leap of what looked like smoke but would have been spray: then steam gushing, and with that the sound arrived, the deep knocking crash of the torpedo. A streak of jet black lined the dirt-coloured cloud for a few seconds, and then the muck was expanding, thinning, dissipating, swirling away on the wind. Within seconds—certainly less than half a minute—where a few blinks of the eye ago there’d been a ship with a hundred and sixty men in her, there was nothing.

  Except a splash: a piece of funnel or a locker, some large object landing in the sea. A scattering of others, smaller …

  “Starboard twenty-five, three-four-oh revolutions. Action stations … Sub, pass to Goshawk and Watchful ‘Take station on the cruisers’ bows.’” Graves had his thumb on the alarm buzzer, Harbinger heeling to port as full rudder came on and her screws speeded to increase the power behind the turn. Nick and others with their glasses up were searching the area of sea where Bruce had disintegrated. The torpedo had hit her somewhere amidships, and that would have been one of her boilers bursting—that steam … Speed mounting, Harbinger lying almost on her side as she turned. “Midships!” Nick had taken over at the binnacle: Scarr was on his way down to the plot and Chubb was standing back out of the way, joining in the binocular search. “Steer three-six-oh!” Graves at his elbow: “Sir, at these revs we won’t—” “I’ll come down in a minute.” Practicalities, action, held the sense of horror partially, temporally, at bay. Come down in revs, he’d meant: Graves’s reminder being that at this speed asdics weren’t operable. But the need was to get there, find any survivors there might be: although he doubted, in the circumstances as he’d seen them, that there could be any. Harbinger pounding, hurling her narrow length crashing across the undulating green, smashing through it, spray from her forefoot and blunt stem sheeting white in flying wings and an intermittent canopy whipping overhead as she tore northward. Poor little Bruce: conceived 1928, born 1930, along with—oh, the family’s names were Brilliant, Boreas, Bulldog, Beagle, Blanche: Blanche had gone in the second month of the war … Ducking to the voice-pipe: “Two hundred revolutions.” Up again: “Anything to be seen yet?”