Then—torpedo-hit …
Ahead, and somewhere to starboard. And a second. Looff’s brain registered that it would be Otto Meusel’s work. Drachen Nine: one of the pair from the Brest flotilla. Also—although in the first seconds it wasn’t obvious that this was going to wreck his own plans completely—that it couldn’t have been worse timed, from his own point of view. White rockets scorched skyward, curving on the wind, away to starboard. Then Oelricher yelled, flinging an arm out to point that way, “This one’s turning!”
Snowflakes burst overhead, light-streams showering, another pair of rockets hissing up through the silver radiance. Night becoming day, and the freighter to starboard turning, its high, gaunt foc’sl looming against firework-bright cloud as it bore round. Looff had to act fast, or be trapped or run-down; certainly at any minute spotted. He shouted—whispering-time was over now—“Full ahead! Port fifteen!” U 702 crashing and hammering through the waves, smothered in her own blanket of foam. The one that was bearing down from starboard was turning to stay clear of her next-ahead, he realised, that one being Meusel’s victim.
U 702 clear for anyone to see now, as brightly illuminated as all the ships hemming her in. There was no room or time to dive: a glance was enough to tell him he’d be rammed in the attempt. He shouted, “Hard a-port!”
Increasing wheel to turn her between the ship that was now abaft his beam—he’d cross this one’s bow, in fact—and the one ahead of her. He didn’t know it, but they were the Cimba and the Archie Dukes. The torpedoed ship had swung to port as well, broaching to the wind as she slowed, slumping in the sea, others crowding on around her and this side of the convoy already well disrupted. U 702 boring through the waves: trimmed down like this she was in them, with only her bridge any higher than their flying tops. Speed now about fifteen knots and mounting. As she battered her way round through sea already churned by others Looff saw a flash from the stern of the freighter ahead, then heard the crack of it and the rush of a shell passing close: he saw what looked like dancing cut-out figures cavorting around that gun on the stern platform, under the snowflakes’ glare. U 702 was driving clear, thank God, of the Cimba’s threatening stem … He called, “Midships!” and another shell scrunched over—the third, and close enough to hear it: but with his stern pointing that way he was presenting those Merchant Navy gunners with an exceptionally small target: if they hit him it would be sheer luck—sheer foul luck … And his stern pointing that way, into the centre of the crowd of ships, meant something else as well—he had a stern tube with a torpedo in it. He shouted, “Stand by number five tube!”
Steadying her on about 210 degrees. Flat-out, sea drenching over solidly. No time to bother about a point-of-aim, a browning shot into the middle would hit some damn thing, and with luck and the help of Providence might, just might, hit one of the marks he’d been after anyway … Checking points rapidly in his mind: such as the depth setting on that fish being for sixteen feet—adequate for any of these middling sized ships or the tanker or the passenger ship—who’d both be in line for it, all right, would at least have a ticket in the sweepstake so to speak … Another snowflake burst, showering white brilliance outside the tent-like cocoon of foam; Heusinger screamed from inside the tower, “Number five tube ready!”
Glancing astern: seeing the orange-yellow flash of that gun taking another swipe at him. Ships widely scattered as they drew away, leaving two behind them, one still struggling to keep going but the other half over on her side, boats dangling and one up-ended, spotlighted, people falling out of it. A shell spout rose like a marble pillar in the snowflakes’ glare: it must have come from some new assailant, because the one who’d been shooting before had been blanked off by others. He ordered, “Fire five!”, then pushed Oelricher towards the hatch. “Dive, dive …”
As he got off the ladder in the control room she was already at forty metres and going on down steeply. Faces of men at their jobs around the compartment showed alarm and a lot of questions. Half a minute passed before at any rate one of the questions was answered—by the crash of that torpedo finding a target. Some target … Around Looff, his crewmen cheered. In his memory like a blurred photograph was a pile of foam out to starboard, a gun’s flash miniaturised by distance and flying spray, and a starshell bursting overhead. It was the last thing he’d seen as he’d thrown himself into the hatch, part of a blurr of movement, noise, the desperate importance of getting under fast: and it could only have been that trawler pounding back eastward at its flat-out speed of next-to-nothing … The torpedo-hit was a dying echo in his brain: it melted into the sound of his own voice telling Franz Walther, “One hundred metres.”
Willi Heusinger suggested, smirking at him, “Your liner, sir, perhaps?”
Grins all round, as they waited for his answer. A minute ago, they’d been scared enough to wet themselves. Looff, seeing clearly through the façades because he’d lived behind his own for a long time now, was contemptuous of them all, except for Walther. He and that evil-smelling, tramp-like object were the adults here, in a crowd of kids. He told the helmsman, “Port twenty. Come round to oh-three-oh.” The night’s action didn’t have to be over yet.
In the middle of that mess of action Nick had been on the point of telling Paeony to discontinue her persecution of the noisy U-boat and rejoin, when Guyatt had piped up and reported, Target believed destroyed. Resuming station. So that at least was satisfactory: that alone, rather. He’d left Stella to organise rescue operations astern; he and Tony Graves had their hands full with the dual tasks of screening the convoy against further attacks while also bullying surviving ships back into columns and urging those in column to close up into newly-created gaps. Some had strayed outwards, and had to be shepherded back into the herd: and all the time, every minute, you were clenching your mind against the shock of the next explosion.
It felt very much like disaster. Four U-boats only—in fact three—creating this much havoc, with another five about to join the pack?
The last casualty had been the commodore’s ship, the Chauncy Maples. She’d been holed right aft, and had her rudder and screw blown off at the same time. Her number six hold was filling and her engine room was flooding through the shaft tunnel. She’d dropped a long way astern by this time, immobilised and doomed even though she might float for an hour or two yet. Her crew were abandoning her, and the Mount Trembling was standing by to receive them, having already embarked the Primrose Bank’s. She and the Asswan had been hit in that salvo fired from the convoy’s starboard side. The Asswan had been in column six, the Primrose Bank in number five; there’d been another U-boat inside the columns at that time, according to ships who’d seen it and particularly the Archie Dukes who’d loosed-off half a dozen rounds of four-inch at it, and the Cimba who’d been hit on the foc’sl by one of them when she’d been close to the line of fire.
Commodore Sandover was all right; he was on board the trawler. The vice-commodore, the master of the Dongola, had taken over the running of the convoy, and had moved over to the centre, ahead of the Burbridge. The Asswan, hit at the same time as the Primrose Bank, had kept going and tried to maintain her station, but she was falling back now and had just signalled that the bulkhead between numbers one and two holds was in danger of collapsing.
Guyatt had amplified his report on the destruction of that U-boat. It had been damaged by his first few patterns, which had slowed it and also produced sounds of pumping and blowing tanks. He’d had no difficulty maintaining contact with it, because of its high level of underwater noise, but after his final attack all sounds had increased abruptly. His asdic operator was certain the last pattern had put paid to it.
So you could reckon there’d be eight of them, by this evening.
At dawn, as the remnants of SL 320 forged northeastward with an orange glow flushing the sky on the bow, Harbinger was out on the port wing, Astilbe three miles to starboard of her, both zigzagging and searching with asdics and 271s, while astern Paeony and Stella escort
ed the Mount Trembling and her load of survivors up the convoy’s wake, overhauling at a rate of about three knots. The Chauncy Maples had sunk and the Asswan, who’d been taking her time about it, had been sent on her way with a few shots into the waterline from Paeony’s four-inch. It would be mid-forenoon before the group astern could rejoin and then distribute survivors into ships that had room for them. The sea had gone down quite a lot during the night: wind was now about force four, stars were visible through patchy cloud and Mike Scarr was standing ready with his sextant, gazing up while he decided which stars he’d use and waiting for the horizon to harden.
Nick had sent Paeony to do the job astern because with her defective RDF she was less use than either Harbinger or Astilbe in the van.
Warrimer said, “Be out of the air gap by this time, I’d guess.” He yawned, and asked Scarr, “Aren’t we?”
Scarr was still sorting out heavenly bodies. “Just about.” He corrected: “Yes—well out.”
Chubb observed, with surprising percipience and without lowering his binoculars, “An air gap is where there are no patrolling aircraft. If we get some air cover today, we’re out of it; if we don’t, I’d say we bloody aren’t.”
“We have a sage among us.” Scarr lifted his sextant. “Rough-hewn though he may be.”
Nick thinking that Chubb had hit the nail right on the head, despite his ignorance of the circumstances. He was hunched on his high seat, with his glasses up—as always—part-hearing some of the sporadic mutters of conversation behind him. Another half-dozen pairs of glasses were searching the white-streaked seascape just as intently, and the 271 was circling, asdics singing their dismally monotonous note into the depths of green ocean. Harbinger zigzagging irregularly—at action stations, her guns manned and loaded while the light of a new day, Friday 6 November, spread its streaks of brilliance from the east.
All the assault convoys would have crossed astern by now. The Casablanca force, direct from US ports, would have swung eastwards around Madeira during the night just passed. Other sections of the great armada would have been progressing in silence and darkness into the Mediterranean: the last of them would be filing through the Straits tonight.
Scarr, behind him in the bridge, called down to his time-keeper in the plot to stand by. Carlish ordered starboard wheel, keeping her under almost constant helm, which was about the best way to be safe. Carlish had grown up a lot during this trip: you could consider him a watchkeeper now. Nick decided that when it was daylight and they fell out from dawn action stations he’d take Harbinger back for a chat with the vice-commodore, in the Dongola. The seventeen surviving ships would have to be re-formed now, with the Burbridge and the Redgulf Star enfolded in a reduced rectangle. When that had been accomplished, Harbinger and Astilbe could top up their fuel tanks: and Paeony later, when she rejoined. Also, Harbinger’s RDF mechanic, who was still on board Astilbe, might usefully be transferred to Paeony.
He jerked forward on his seat, jarring the binoculars against his eyes. Torpedo hit—astern …
“It’s the Tolworth Tide, sir!”
Chubb’s raucous yell …
Leader of column one. Chubb must have had his glasses on her at that moment and seen it. Unless you’d had glasses on her, in this halflight you couldn’t have. But he took Chubb’s word for it: “Hard a-port, full ahead together!” Displacing Carlish at the binnacle, getting close-up impressions as he moved there of shocked expressions in tired, stubbled faces in the greying light. Distress rockets soaring now—from the Tolworth Tide as she swung outwards from her column. The shock was worse for the fact they’d begun to ease off, believe the hours of respite were coming now as they routinely did with daylight … Warrimer was passing orders to the sightsetters at the guns, waking them all up in case they needed it, and Chubb was talking to Mr Timberlake back aft. Scarr, forgetting stars, had disappeared down to his plot. Harbinger heeling to her rudder, engine-room telegraphs clanging through the voice-pipe and CPO Elphick droning in that flat tone of his, “Twenty-five of port wheel on, sir …”
Sixteen ships left, now.
She’d left him one half-slice of bread.
Jack stood in the kitchen, staring down at it. She was out, as was usual at this time of day, and the child had gone off to school earlier. Jack had just hobbled downstairs, deciding on his way that an idea he’d had of moving on today wasn’t so hot, that the ankle hadn’t yet recovered to the extent he’d hoped. He’d wanted to get away, though, because of yesterday’s strange events—the food she’d left, and her peal of laughter when she’d come back and seen how much—or how little—he’d taken. The next thing might be the arrival of that Wehrmacht circus, or police. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. There was some reassurance, also, in the fact that last evening at her egg-collecting time he’d seen her checking the outside of the house, each window in turn. He’d only seen her at two of the front ones, but she’d obviously been going all round, window to window, checking on whether or not they’d been opened and also examining the ground below them—for spoor, of course. She must have thought an intruder had been getting in that way to steal her food: so if she did report it to the authorities they’d be looking for someone hiding in the woods, not up here.
The half-slice of bread was the same size as the piece he’d taken yesterday. As if she was teasing him, saying, If this is as much as you can manage—here … Damn her!
She had a dirty face, anyway. Either dirty or sunburnt—which seemed hardly likely in Germany at this time of year. He’d noticed it yesterday when she’d been at the window right below him.
He could have wolfed up all that sausage, and the bread-slice with it, in about two gulps. He could feel his own thinness as well as hunger. In recent days the secret had been not to think about it, to turn the mind to other things—like the Swiss border, London, Fiona, poor old Frank Trolley. He’d have to see Trolley’s people, when he got back … Anyway—he was on his way to get eggs now, with a call as usual at the outside heads, and then he’d come back in here and boil them, same as yesterday. He had two hard-boiled ones left from yesterday, which he’d eat when he got back upstairs, and some of today’s would be kept for tomorrow. If one always provided for one day ahead, a Sunday when it came wouldn’t be quite as agonising.
He wasn’t going to touch that slice of bread. The hell with her little jokes … Some sausage, though—why not? She might not notice, if he only took a little … Thinking about it while he was outside made his mouth water; he found he was actually dribbling while he scrabbled around for eggs. He got four, and came back inside—through the window of her room and making sure of leaving no traces inside or out. He was also careful to bolt the shutters again on the inside. He’d put the saucepan on, like yesterday, so the water was already heating.
You fell into a routine, he thought. However bizarre the circumstances, you adapted to them and the days soon acquired a pattern. In this case, of course, it was a matter of fitting in with her routine … Waiting for the water to boil, he cut off some sausage and ate it, afterwards dipping the knife-blade in the hot water and wiping it dry before replacing it in exactly its former position. Feeling strangely and annoyingly like a trained ape, a creature imitating human ways … The water was steaming by this time, but not yet boiling. He looked at the sausage, wondering whether he could safely take another slice. And since it amused her and she thought the thief was outside there somewhere … why not eat the bread?
Because—anger stirred in him as he thought about it—it would feel like being made to jump through hoops.
He was staring into the saucepan, willing it to start bubbling, when he heard the clink of her keys on the other side of the back door.
He ran—limping, and dizzy with the shock of it—to the stairs and over the stack of junk, then up to the landing and to his room. As he shut its door—too noisily—he heard the downstairs one slam.
Then silence.
He’d left four eggs in her saucepan. By now the water would b
e starting to boil. He thought—panting, still shaken by the sudden fright and the rush upstairs, leaning back against the closed door and feeling the hard banging of his heart—that if he’d had any sense he’d have left those shutters unfastened. Then she could have imagined he’d dived out, got away … But he’d never considered the possibility of her creeping back early and trying to catch him. Which she must have done. If he hadn’t heard those keys …
She might be scared to follow up now, on her own. If she went for the police, it might give him time to scarper. Ankle or no ankle … He’d drawn a breath in so hard it had squeaked: he’d heard her coming, up the stairs. Clambering over that clutter now. He tiptoed to his mattress, lay down on it and pulled the strip of carpet right over him.
Not that there could be a hope in hell …
She’d gone the other way. But there were only two rooms on that side, and two on this, so the inspection couldn’t take very long. He heard doors being pulled open and pushed shut again.
Rush out while she’s on that side? Bolt for it down the stairs?
She was crossing the landing. Now, if he made any such move he’d come face to face with her. She might try to stop him, and then anything could happen. He didn’t want that: for a number of reasons, one of them being that he’d never used violence against any female, and the idea of having to do so was extremely unattractive to him. This was strange—he hadn’t thought about it before, but now he had to—it might have seemed peculiar to some people, in view of the fact that he was really quite a violent character, certainly had been at times …
He heard the door open.
She’d be standing there, staring at the mattress with its humped covering. He lay still, on his back, trying not to breathe hard or noisily. Although she could not, possibly, just look at it and not know—
She came over, in three quick steps, and jerked the carpet off him. He was staring up into a roundish, swarthy face. Not dirty: just dark-skinned. She had fair hair tied back in the German fashion, but with that dark skin she didn’t look German at all. Portuguese, possibly, or—
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 33
