Please God. A turning of the tide. From Africa, into southern Europe. And the Mediterranean open …
“Wesley and Vicious have both acknowledged, sir.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
He’d just told them to drop back, closing the defensive screen around the convoy. Its front was a width of only twelve hundred yards now, and with Harbinger moving up into the centre, those two falling back to take station on each side of her and the two corvettes as wing-ships to the resulting broad-arrow formation, any U-boat would have a very tight screen to get through.
Stella was on the move across the convoy’s stern. At such slow speed a dived attack from the quarter or the rear was not impossible. If there were any U-boats in attendance now, they could run round these tortoises like hares. But in fact, since the attacks last night, which hadn’t amounted to anything, there’d been no sight or sound of any enemy.
The rising flush of dawn colour was too pale to be called orange, or even tangerine. Gold might be the best way to describe it. A widening, brightening, fire-like glow under roofing cloud.
Asdics pinging, 271 aerial steadily revolving; half a dozen pairs of binoculars carefully examining the surroundings. Wind was down to force one, but it was from the north and very cold. Harbinger’s motion was rhythmic, leisurely, as she rocked over the long, low swell.
The new day’s brightness had spread half round the horizon when TBS crackled into life …
Eagle—Gannet—periscope in sight—attacking!
“Port twenty. Three-eight-oh revolutions. All quarters alert!”
He’d decided—any contact that was obtained, he’d go for with two or even three ships. He had the resources now and he didn’t believe there’d be more than one or two U-boats to contend with. Certainly once the news of the invasion was out, there’d be no U-boats left hanging around a piddling little convoy such as this one had become.
Harbinger was heeling to the turn, and speeding.
“Twenty of port wheel on, sir!”
“Steer three-one-oh.” He straightened. “TBS to Gannet, Chief, ‘I am joining you.’”
Chubb murmured, “With my four depthcharges.” But that message would also warn the others that they had to share the convoy’s frontal defence between them, in Harbinger’s absence from the centre.
Depthcharges exploded, out on the bow. Paeony had enough Mark VIIs left for a couple of full patterns. If they both ran out and still held the contact he’d turn it over to the newly arrived destroyers. Astern, the Dongola’s siren was ordering emergency turn to starboard. Harbinger stretching herself across the swell, taking it head-on while she was turning, but paying-off again now, leaving the rising light of day back on her quarter. Guyatt should have been regaining contact now, as the disturbance from his charges faded.
TBS … Eagle—Gannet … Unable to regain contact, as yet. Could be the deep-dive merchant. Out.
“Course three-one-oh, sir!”
“Chief—call Fox, tell him, ‘Join me. We may have use for your heavies.’” He leant down to the voice-pipe: “Two hundred revolutions.” He was slowing her to give the asdics a chance: and guessing that the U-boat would have turned away to something like a northerly course—away from trouble, but in a direction that might allow him to get in an attack later.
“Steer three-two-oh.”
He looked round, saw Chubb leaning into the asdic cabinet, communing with Leading Seaman Garment. TBS was calling again as soon as Bearcroft signed-off after his call to Astilbe. It was Gannet, reporting, Contact regained, confirmed sub contact bearing three-two-four range fifteen hundred yards!
Joy in that tone … And an amplifying report now, Target steering north speed six knots …
“Tell him, ‘Hold the contact at present range. Do not, repeat do not, try to attack.’”
Just about full daylight now. Against the brightest part of it Astilbe had the golden glow behind her as she came ploughing across the convoy’s van. All the merchantmen were swinging away to starboard.
Nick had time to talk to Guyatt now, over the radio-telephone. “Have you ever taken part in a creeping attack, or exercised it?”
Guyatt obviously didn’t know what he was talking about: he said he didn’t think he had … The creeping attack was one of the antisubmarine ploys devised by the famous Captain Johnnie Walker, most successful and best-known of all the escort-group commanders. Tony Graves knew all about it, anyway—and Astilbe had some “heavies,” deep-firing depthcharges on board, too. Nick told Guyatt, “I’ll try to take over your contact, and then direct Astilbe on to it. Graves knows this technique.”
Ten minutes later, Harbinger’s asdics found the U-boat, guided to it by Paeony. Garment reported, “Confirmed sub contact, range fourteen hundred, right ahead, closing!”
“One-two-oh revolutions.” He told Bearcroft, “To Gannet, ‘Many thanks. Resume station.’” Astilbe was waiting a few cables’ lengths on Harbinger’s quarter. The convoy was drawing away eastward, almost into the rising sun. He saw Paeony turning, and her bow-wave rising as Guyatt increased speed.
“Range twelve hundred yards, sir!”
That was all right. He’d already cut Harbinger’s revs, to give about six knots, same speed as the target. Ideally he wanted one thousand yards between them—that was the Walker prescription. The object was to stay out at this distance, simply hold the contact at arm’s length. You could hear the asdic impulses bouncing back loud and clear: it was unmistakably a submarine down there. Like having a big fish on your line, and deep. You had to play it exactly right, or lose it.
“Eleven hundred yards, sir, still right ahead!”
He ducked to the pipe. “One hundred revolutions.” Then—“TBS to Astilbe ‘Target is right ahead of me on course three-six-oh, range one thousand yards, speed six or just under six. Start your approach now.’”
Graves would have switched off his asdics. He’d be as quiet as he could, just paddling up towards the target while Nick stayed clear and directed him. The German would be listening to Harbinger’s pings bouncing off his hull; he wouldn’t be enjoying it, but he wouldn’t see any menace in it either. He’d be feeling cosy, unreachable, down there. The quiet approach of a second hunter from right astern would be masked from his hydrophones by his own propeller noise.
Astilbe slid by, very slowly overhauling, and passing within a stone’s throw. A stock figure in the front of her bridge came briefly to the side and saluted, was already disappearing as Nick gave him a wave. He said, still watching the corvette pass—on a converging course, coming in to put herself immediately ahead of Harbinger—“Navigating officer on the bridge, with the distance meter.” Scarr came up at a rush; Nick told him, “Creeping attack. I’ll want ranges on Astilbe.” He accepted the TBS microphone from Bearcroft.
“Fox—Eagle—Captain to captain only now. Nothing except emergencies from anyone else, please. Are you there, Tony?”
Yes, sir. All set.
“How many heavies?”
Only twenty-six, sir, I’m afraid.
“Use them all in one solid stream, starting at the order ‘fire.’” Aye aye, sir.
Mike Scarr moved up behind him. He’d set the Stuart Distance Meter to the masthead height of a Flower-class corvette: if he didn’t have the figure in his head he’d have looked it up. The distance meter was a little hand-held rangefinder: you put it to your eye and turned a milled knob; you saw two images of the ship ahead, and adjusted until one’s masthead was at the waterline of the other. Then you read off the range from the distance-scale. It was used mostly when flotillas and squadrons were steaming in formation, for maintaining distances apart.
“Bearing has drawn one degree right, sir. Oh-oh-one.”
That came from Garment, on asdics. Pings were singing out, reverberating loud and sharp, echoes coming back exceptionally clearly. Asdic conditions were, conveniently for once, very good today. Nick said into the microphone, “Target bears oh-oh-one from me. Probably just bad steering
, I don’t think he’s altering. Come two degrees to starboard.” He was sighting on Astilbe with the gyro bearing-ring; when she was back on the same bearing as the target he’d correct again as necessary. Scarr told him, “Range now a hundred and seventy-five yards, sir.”
Chubb pulled his head out of the asdic cabinet. “Target speed five point three knots, sir.”
“Fox—speed by rev count is five point three. You could come down a little.”
Aye aye, sir.
Except for a slight buzz in the speaker, Tony Graves might have been standing here beside him. As he had so often. He’d be reducing speed by up to half a knot now. The slower the better. If you tried to rush it, you’d muff it.
“A hundred and eighty yards, sir.”
Chubb called, “Target bearing is three-six-oh, sir!”
Squinting over the bearing-ring, crouching to put his eye to it, he saw Astilbe right in line. He said into the mike, “Fox—resume course three-six-oh.”
“Asdic range one thousand yards, sir!”
Scarr said, “A hundred and eighty-five, sir.”
Softly, softly …
You could visualise the Germans down there—quiet and comfortable, probably guessing this British escort was only aiming to keep them down and out of the way while the convoy passed. As the merchantmen were only making four knots, the U-boat captain would anticipate no difficulty in overhauling it again when this nuisance ended.
“Time now?”
Warrimer told him, “Just on oh-seven-double-oh, sir.”
“Range one-ninety yards, sir …”
Here is the first news for today, Sunday, the eighth of November, and this is Stuart Hibberd reading it.
United States troops have landed at several points in French North Africa. General Montgomery has issued an Order of the Day to the Eighth Army calling on them for a supreme effort to remove the Germans from Italian North Africa.
Home-based bombers of the Royal Air Force were over Italy again last night.
In the Far East, Allied Forces—including troops recently flown from Australia—now control all of New Guinea except for the coastal area near Buna. In Russia, the Germans are still barred on all sectors.
Stuart Hibberd paused, then read on …
Shortly after two o’clock this morning the news came in that United States troops had landed on the Atlantic and Mediterranean shores of French North Africa. The first announcement was in what was headed Communiqué Number One issued by the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Expeditionary Force. It said: “United States Army, Navy and Air Forces started landing operations during the hours of darkness this morning at numerous points on the shores of French North Africa. The operation was made necessary by the increasing Axis menace to this territory. Steps have been taken to give the French people, by radio and leaflets, early information of the landings. These combined operations of United States Forces were supported by units of the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force. Lieutenant-General Dwight D Eisenhower of the United States is Commander-in-Chief of the Allied force …
In Harbinger’s wireless office, a telegraphist was scrawling it down in longhand. The ship was at action stations, so the bulletin was not being broadcast over her loudspeakers.
Paul Everard heard it, though, in Ultra. She was heading northeastward on the surface; a dived passage would have been dangerous, on account of the heavy concentration of Royal Navy ships close offshore, and as the RAF and Fleet Air Arm had complete command of the air over all the Mediterranean beachhead areas there was no overhead threat anticipated—except from the RAF, which was a danger submariners were well used to.
Ultra’s crew were all listening to the broadcast. They knew already, from plain-language signals intercepted, that at 6:40 am the Maison Blanche airfield had been captured by American troops. They did not know, yet, that at about this moment the other airfield, near Blida, was being taken by Fleet Air Arm fighters from the Victorious whose pilots would hold it until commandos arrived. But from other signals they’d learnt that only a few miles away HM Destroyers Broke and Malcolm, attempting to penetrate Algiers harbour to prevent the scuttling of French warships, had run into fierce opposition. Malcolm, semi-wrecked, had been forced to withdraw, and Broke, who’d charged the boom and smashed her way in and landed her assault troops at about 0530, was now under heavy artillery fire.
Jack Everard heard the broadcast in bed—sliding an arm round Heidi to calm her and keep her quiet while he listened. She had the jitters again: that nonsensical fear of the English voice being overheard …
Next, a message from the United States and British Governments addressed to the people of France itself: The landing of the American Expeditionary Force in French North Africa is the first step towards the liberation of France. The object of the present operation is to destroy the German and Italian forces in North Africa. Our forces arrive in French North Africa as friends. The day when the German and Italian threat no longer weighs on French territories, they will leave. The sovereignty of France over French territories remains unaffected. We enter today into the offensive phase of the War of Liberation. This is the beginning …
Outside, rain deluged. The wireless had to be turned well up in volume to be audible over the incessant drumming. It wasn’t all that loud, but there was a lot of static in it and Heidi was panicking—it was silly, and beginning to annoy him: he wanted to hear this news, and she was acting like a restless, fractious child.
Here is the rest of the news:
An overnight despatch from Godfrey Talbot in Cairo says that as the men of the Eighth Army proceed with the job of capturing and killing Germans, they have received another Order of the Day from their commander, General Montgomery, stressing afresh that the battle just won is only the beginning of their task. “There is much to be done yet,” General Montgomery told them, “and it will call for a supreme effort and great hardship on the part of every officer and man.” The message goes on, “Forward, then, to our task of removing the Germans from North Africa. The Germans began this trouble, and they must now take the consequences. They asked for it, and they’ll …”
Heidi’s scream was ear-splitting …
Then he heard it too—the back door slamming back: a pounding of heavy boots on the kitchen’s board floor … He was half off the bed when Heidi’s door burst open: throwing himself across it, towards the intruders, while she went the other way … He saw a black uniform, a long pale face under a peaked cap, and a Luger pistol in a gloved hand. Another, different uniform behind that one—civil police he thought, and then saw the boy—the policeman’s hand grasping Otto’s shoulder. It was a confused, kaleidoscopic impression, a montage of stills and movement and faces in the crowded doorway. The mouth under the peaked cap was open, shouting in German over the noise of the wireless and Heidi’s screaming which was now continuous, like some alarm signal that couldn’t be shut off, drowning the loud British tones still emerging blandly from that fretwork facia. The Luger lifted, aimed: its three successive crashes stopped the screaming, left the newscaster droning on, a foreigner in the corner talking blithely to himself. Heidi’s mouth was open but no sound was coming out of it. She was crouched, naked, frozen in shock, terror, shame, hiding from bullets and from her son’s frank stare. The Englishman was dead. He’d fallen and rolled sideways and was on his back with blood gathering all over him, dead eyes open to the ceiling. The announcer’s voice continued: … communiqué from Australia reports that Allied forces now control all of New Guinea except the Buna-Gona area on the north coast. Strong forces of American ground troops have been transported by air from Australia during the past month … Near Oivi, on the trail from Buna to Kokoda, Australian forces are keeping up constant pressure and carrying out local encircling movements to dislodge the defence.
Finally, here is one item of home news. The Ministry of Food announces that owing to reduced supplies of liquid milk available it’s been found necessary to restrict allowances to catering establishments whic
h haven’t priority claims to one third of the quantity they’re receiving now. Catering sections and canteens—
The Luger had tilted, fired twice. The English voice cut off in flying splinters of three-ply and a tinkle of the valves’ thin glass. Heidi was on her knees, face wet and slack, staring at Otto across the tumbled bedclothes. The man with the gun holstered it on his way to the dressing-table. He picked up the empty frame, looked at it as if it amused him, glanced at the girl with the same wry expression as he put it down again—flat, on its face.
Astilbe wallowed, half a mile ahead. Mike Scarr read figures from the distance meter, “Nine-seven-five yards, sir.” “Asdic range one thousand, sir!”
Dead on track. Target course still north. Astilbe had seventy-five yards still to gain: she’d have to get to a point fifty yards ahead of her target in order to allow for the time it would take for the charges to sink to target depth.
Nick was stooped at the binnacle, sighting on her with the bearing-ring, microphone in his other hand …
“Thousand yards, sir.”
“Asdic range still one thousand, sir!”
Binoculars levelled: breaths almost held … He’d got the revs exactly right, matching the U-boat’s speed. He thumbed the switch again and told Graves, “Twenty-five yards to go. Stand by.”
Standing by, sir …
This was the crisis point. If the U-boat heard Astilbe passing over it might turn and speed away from the deathtrap. But with any luck the Germans’ ears would be filled by Harbinger’s remorselessly pinging asdics.
Way off on the quarter, SL 320’s remnants pitched northeastward across the long Atlantic swell. The Dongola’s siren had bleated again, about twenty minutes ago, turning them back to port. The two destroyers, and Paeony with them now, were across the convoy’s van, Stella doggedly plugging to and fro astern.
“About ten yards to go, sir.”
Scarr’s hands were shaking. He put the range-finder back to his eye. Nick said into the radio-telephone, “Ten yards to go.”
“Asdic range one thousand!”
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 39
