The U-boat, its engines stopped now, was slewing broadside on; and its bow was lifting, the long forecasing rising to point like a gleaming, accusing finger at the last starshell’s dying light. Range closing fast, since the enemy was no longer running: was in fact finished, by the look of him.
“Port ten. One-eight-oh revolutions. Searchlight on … Midships.”
Just enough of a turn to expose the light. It sprang out like a knife, a silver lance that caught the U-boat—a speared fish, dying. Men were coming out of it in a ragged stream, diving or sliding over, puppets that appeared, struggled with the blinding light and the sea breaking over, then vanished. Their ship wasn’t allowing them much time: its bow was nearly vertical now and it was visibly slipping back, stern-first. There’d be a lot of men still inside that thing.
“Cease fire!”
X gun hadn’t fired at all. Warrimer intoned, “Check, check, check …” He still had his glasses on the U-boat, and saw it disappear in a quick, drowning slide: the white turmoil where it had vanished lasted only a few seconds. The skipper was telling Carlish to take over at the binnacle, and he’d already moved to the viewing slot that looked down on the plot table and the 271. “What have we got, pilot?” Scarr told him, “They’re all over the place, sir. Nearest bears two-three-oh, seven thousand eight hundred yards, and Paeony must have it on her screen—this blip here is her, moving to intercept it.”
“So we’ll leave it to her.” He raised his voice. “Pack up that searchlight!” Back to Scarr and the PPI … “What’s that to the southeast of us?”
A TBS message from Astilbe about losing one contact and moving to intercept another was interrupted by an explosion from the direction of the convoy. On its heels, white rockets soared. Warrimer thinking for a moment—as the searchlight beam cut off, seeming to withdraw inward along its own length as if it was being sucked back into the ship—about the Germans in the water, the ones who’d got out of the U-boat before it sank. And obviously with the convoy under attack, your people’s lives being lost and every ounce and minute needed in their defence—and that had been another torpedo hit—there could be no question of risking British lives for German … “Sub—three-four-oh revs, come to starboard to one-two-oh!”
Warrimer was telling A and B guns to train fore-and-aft, clear the decks of empty shell cases, refill ready-use lockers. More white rockets fizzled up, a few miles south. The skipper finished his conference with Scarr and took over at the binnacle while Harbinger was still under helm, turning to a south easterly course. Distantly, a rumble of depthcharges … Chubb was muttering at Timberlake over their private line, “Certainly the bastard sank!” Then, “Of course not, for Pete’s sake, their pals are all over the bloody shop, didn’t you hear those two whumpfs?”
There was another whumpf now: the third torpedo hit in as many minutes. It was the sharp edge to the sound that distinguished it from others, usually; a knock, like a hammer on iron, contained inside the boom of the explosion, all of it muffled by distance and submersion.
And another …
TBS call, Eagle, this is Fox. I have no contact now. Convoy is under attack astern of me. Resuming station. Out …
Wanting permission, obviously, to turn back and help. But by the time he got there it would be too late, and in the meantime new attacks could be coming in from ahead. “Where is he, Sub?”
Carlish, learning to comprehend cryptic questions, passed it to the plot. Harbinger steadying on 120 degrees, wind and sea astern, funnel-fumes following and hanging over the bridge—acrid, irritating to eyes and lungs. The skipper had interrupted some confusion between Carlish and Mike Scarr: “What I want is the range and bearing from Astilbe of the contact ahead of us now.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Back to the fount of all knowledge … While a new TBS call came in: it was Paeony reporting she was in asdic contact and attacking a U-boat which Opal had engaged on the surface and forced to dive. Opal had reported having hit the U-boat’s periscope or standards with her forefoot as she ran over it, but apparently sustaining no damage to herself. Warrimer heard Chubb telling Timberlake, “Jesus, Guns, it’s a bloody rough-house!” Chubb would have to be sat on, Warrimer decided. But you could understand the skipper’s frustration, his wanting to be in six places at once: with so many holes to plug, and so few ships to do it with … Carlish told him, “From Astilbe the bearing’s oh-one-three, range eight thousand two hundred yards.”
“Take over here, Sub.” The skipper had lurched back to look down at the 271 screen. “Chief Yeoman. Call Fox, tell him ‘Surface contact bearing oh-one-three range oh-eight-two from you now. Leaving it to you.’ Pilot, where are the deep-field specimens?”
“Bearings are oh-three-seven, oh-four-one and oh-four-four, sir, ranges between six and eight miles. The nearest’s the one on oh-three-seven.”
“Come round to oh-three-five, Sub.”
Bearcroft finished passing the order to Astilbe. “Message passed, sir!”
“Good. Now by W/T to the commodore, repeated to all escorts: ‘Request immediate emergency turn port while we try to break up second wave of assault now ten miles ahead of you.’”
The train rattled and swayed through the cold German night. It was made up almost entirely of goods trucks, and even its three passenger carriages were more than it needed. They had this one to themselves—the four of them, and their escorts.
Jack observed, “Right sort of country for it. Nice grass bank to land on, lot of the time. Have to dive well out to reach it, remember.”
Trolley murmured, “Not at this speed, if you don’t mind.”
It was a slow train, but when you thought about leaping off it into the darkness its slowness was less obvious. On the other hand, the longer you stayed on it the farther you were getting from the frontier. Every clank of the wheels meant another few yards of Shanks’s mare: and yards built into miles, while the rhythm sent words whispering through his brain: With me along some strip of herbage strewn … He suppressed it: thoughts couldn’t be allowed to wander. The chance would come suddenly, if it came at all, you needed to be ready to act on the spur of the moment. Trolley would follow, all right. Frank Trolley, Jack had heard from other people, admired him for his verve and decisiveness. He was himself no sluggard: but he was disciplined, principled, which Jack was not. To Frank, prison was irksome and escape a duty: he’d think “I ought to” and “I’d like to” but not as Jack did, “I have to, now!” Partly of course because Frank had no Fiona, no daydream of arriving at her flat in Eaton Square and throwing some swine out, damaging him somewhat in the process … It was what he wanted: far better than finding her alone. You’d get it over with, she’d see the physical proof of it, it would be over, exorcised …
He and Trolley were on the right-hand side, facing the engine, while Cockup and Barmy were beyond them on the left, facing the same way. The escorts, one corporal and one private soldier, were facing them from the other bench, backs to the engine.
Neither of the Germans understood English. The prisoners had checked this quite thoroughly by insulting them in both personal and national terms, smiling pleasantly at each other while commenting on the guards’ appearance, lack of intelligence, criminal tendencies, probable sexual deviations, etcetera, and also discussing Nazi leaders in similarly offensive terms. Even if the corporal had been trying to sit it out, he couldn’t have remained so completely unmoved if he’d known what was being said. And it had provided passable entertainment for an hour or so.
Jack said, with his eyes on Trolley, “Listen, you two. Don’t look at me or seem interested. Don’t want these cretins to guess we’re planning anything … But the thing is, Frank and I are going to jump off this puffer. All we need is a soft landing and an uphill bit so the thing slows down a little. When we’re set to go, we’d like you two to oblige us with a bit of a diversion. Would you mind staging a fight and making it realistic?”
Trolley murmured, “If they’re going to start hitting each other, I’d
rather stay and watch.”
Cockup addressed Barmy. “They’ll break their bloody necks. Don’t care much, do you?”
“Not a hoot. But I’d say the best thing would be to get rid of one goon first, then lay on some diversion for the one that’s left. What I have in mind is I might decide I need to get to the PK in a hurry.”
“Do talk English, old lad.”
“The shithouse. PK stands for piccanin kaia, meaning ‘little house.’ We Rhodesians are brilliant linguists, you should realise.” He nudged Cockup. “What you could do is start peeing at the chap that’s left. That’d occupy his attention, wouldn’t it?”
“Make him a bit too cross, though.” Cockup had considered the suggestion, and dismissed it purely on practical grounds. “Tell you what, though. I could lay on one of my epileptic fits. Used to do it at school sometimes—in Scripture classes, that sort of thing. Though I say so myself, it’s pretty damn good.”
There was a silence. Then Trolley suggested to Jack, “We need to see our spot coming from quite a distance, if Barmy needs time to lead his stooge away before Cockup gives his performance?”
“Good point. We’ll need a long uphill stretch.”
“Essentially uphill. And with a sharp eye out for telegraph poles. If you’ve noticed the way they flash past?”
“That’s all fixed then.” He told Trolley, “If I say ‘Golly, but I’m as tired as hell,’ Barmy gets the ball rolling at once. Then when we’re down to one goon, and if the terrain still looks right for it, if I let out a loud yawn then Cockup does his act. If the position’s changed I won’t yawn, so Cockup must restrain his natural instincts until he does get that signal—because if we postpone, Barmy could get another belly-ache later. Now total silence from all concerned will tell me you all agree.”
The silence lasted long enough. After a while Jack said, “Good. Thanks, you two … But I’m afraid we’ve lost our grass bank now, Frank.”
“Too fast anyway.”
It was about an hour before there was a similarly promising landing ground beyond the rails. And a bit longer still before he realised there was an incline coming. He decided to stop looking out of the window, to ration himself to just an occasional glance. He sat back, shut his eyes. It was an uphill section, all right. But there was no way to be sure it was going to last. You could see the ground in the immediate vicinity of this carriage, but for only a short distance up the line. The rhythm of the wheels undoubtedly was slowing, though; and if you waited for absolutely perfect conditions you might never move at all. Except into the Straflager.
The train was beginning to labour on the gradient. Jack stretched. “Oh, golly, I’m as tired as hell!”
He saw a flash of fright on Trolley’s face. Barmy was staring in front of him, wide-eyed, as the penny dropped. Now he’d clasped his hands to his belly, gasping as he half rose. The corporal moved too, lifting his rifle.
“I gotta go, me old Kraut.” He groaned, made gestures, pointed …
“Help!”
Cockup had been dozing. He was visibly in the early stages of catching-on to what was happening.
The other guard escorted Barmy away, on the corporal’s instructions. Barmy moaned as he mooched away without looking round, “Good luck, you chaps.” The train was crawling. Jack sweating, with his eyes shut, knowing it might reach the brow of the hill at any moment and pick up speed down the other side; but he had to give Barmy time to take that soldier well away. He opened his eyes, and Trolley, looking a bit white around the gills, nodded to him. Jack squinted sideways, saw the grass bank still there. Have to clear the down-line to reach it, unfortunately. And jump right after a telegraph pole flashed by, otherwise you’d be smashed by the next. He yawned, loud and clear. Cockup wailed, slipping forward on to his knees on the dirty floor: then he was on his face, writhing, flailing with arms and legs, high-pitched animal sounds coming from between clenched teeth, eyes bulging. The corporal looked scared; he got to his feet, rifle in one hand, obviously having no idea what to do. Cockup was slobbering, banging his forehead on the floor and making sounds like cats fighting. The German began to shout down at him: then he was banging his rifle-butt down repeatedly near Cockup’s head, presumably in an attempt to attract his attention. Cockup’s arms whipped up, wrapped themselves around it, clung to it: there was a tug of war going on and Cockup still screaming, spittle flowing down his chin, as Jack moved fast, flung the door crashing back into rushing, cold, dark night, heard the whoosh of a telegraph pole rushing past, and dived … The night revolved and the noise in his ears was as if the train was passing over him, then something hit him in the face with carthorse strength while another agency tried to prise his left arm out of its socket. He thought as he somersaulted with bright lights bursting in his skull that his back might have been broken. He had his hands linked at the back of his head, forearms jammed against his ears: pain burnt like fire in that left arm. He was on his back, across a low wire fence which he hadn’t noticed before the jump: the train’s noise was dwindling, the lights in his head had stopped exploding and the world came joltingly to rest.
Wire twanged as he rolled off it. Two strands, taut between low concrete stanchions. Signal gear, most likely. He seemed to be all in one piece, and no bones broken, except possibly on his left side where a rib or two might have gone. Or it could just be bruising. Everything seemed to work, muscles and joints obeyed under initial protest. He guessed the bruises would be agonising tomorrow. Unless it was tomorrow already. He peered muzzily at his watch’s luminous face, holding it up close: it was still ticking, and the time was 0340. He asked himself, staring round and probably only just becoming more or less fully conscious, Frank Trolley?
Even if Frank had jumped immediately behind him, he’d be as much as thirty or forty yards up the line. “Frank?”
The train was no more than a far-off murmur. Cockup had done marvellously: he’d pay for it now, they’d really have it in for him, he’d be in solitary long enough to get sick of his own jokes … Jack stumbled up the slope, keeping to the line of the wire. “Frank, you there?”
Might have knocked himself out. An alternative—Jack’s mind was clearing fast now—might be that Frank hadn’t jumped. If the corporal had seen what was happening—if Frank had given him time to …
He nearly fell over him.
“Hey, Frank, what’s—”
One hand had come into contact with what had been Frank Trolley’s head. It had smashed against one of the concrete uprights that carried the wire: the post was plastered in brains, blood, shattered bone.
SL 320, clearly visible to port as dawn surrendered to the day, was a rabble which its commodore was working to re-form. Groups of ships here and there: half a column out on its own, a scattering of individual ships over a wide area. Astilbe a cable’s length abeam of one straggler, her morse lamp winking.
They’d fallen out from action stations but the skipper was at the binnacle and Harbinger was hurrying south, because the worst straggler of them all was the Burbridge, who was now several miles astern with the trawler Stella in attendance. This information had only just come, by light signal from the commodore, and the skipper had immediately ordered the wheel over and increased to full speed. The thought of that easy target alone down there—or almost alone, and she was down to about half the convoy’s speed, Sandover had said—was distinctly scary. Wheelchair patients, women passengers … Warrimer heard the note of urgency in the skipper’s voice as he called down, “Midships … Steer one-eight-five … Here, pilot, take over, will you?”
“Sir.” Mike Scarr got up on the step. He was pale, from a whole night spent in the plot; and once again cloud-cover had made morning stars unobtainable.
Four ships had been lost during the night. The Ilala, whose master was the rear-commodore, and the Bannerman, had been the first two hit. They’d taken one torpedo each out of a salvo that must have been fired from well forward on the bow of the convoy. The Ilala had gone down quickly but the Banne
rman remained afloat but stopped, causing the first disruption to that side of the convoy as ships astern put their helms over to avoid her. She and the Ilala had been the leaders of the starboard columns. Then another U-boat altogether had given her the coup de grâce, she and the rescue ship Leona—again, two birds with one salvo—when they’d been lying close together, the Leona with two boatloads of Ilala survivors alongside. The last casualty had been the Dutchman, the Toungoo, another column leader; she’d been hit by two torpedoes soon after the convoy had made its emergency turn.
Which at least had saved it from further losses at the hands of three U-boats which had been waiting out ahead. They’d have had an easy job—the convoy in disarray, some ships isolated, trawlers already fully occupied with survivors and getting ships back into line. But now the diversion was being paid for: course was almost due east, to return to the track which according to the “no-diversion” order should never have been departed from. For three hours SL 320 had slanted away 40 degrees to port, so for the same length of time now it had to shift back to starboard. But without that diversion there mightn’t have been twenty-seven ships surviving now: it could have been nearer twenty. Even twenty-seven was bad enough: mental arithmetic made it about twenty-five percent losses, in what, three nights? With the lack of sleep and nights of constant action, much of it repetitive, days ran together and you lost track of time … But the skipper’s tactics last night, Warrimer thought, had probably been as good as any could have been, losses notwithstanding. He’d told Gleam and Opal, the flank trawlers, to increase speed by a knot or two and zigzag more widely, covering more ground and making themselves more obvious, by way of deterrence; he’d moved Stella to the rearguard station, with similar orders, and given new instructions to the corvettes, restricting each of them to a radius of four miles from her own front corner of the convoy. This allowed them to shift round to the flanks in support of the trawlers if necessary. And Harbinger on her own had become the striking force—and had scored, once.
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 22
