In the Line of Fire (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  Matthews smiled. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir.’

  ‘I see. How’s the First Lieutenant?’

  ‘Captain, sir.’ Reproof showed.

  ‘All right, all right. I asked, how is he?’

  ‘Captain’s all right, sir. Tired, but plenty of fight. And that’s what we need.’

  ‘I doubt if he is all right. I doubt it strongly. No man can keep going day and night indefinitely.’ Matthews paused, stroking his jaw and looking a little sideways at the Torpedo-Coxswain. ‘I’m not too sure… in regard to Admiralty law, that is… how would I stand to take over?’

  ‘Watch on the bridge, do you mean, sir?’

  ‘No, no. Command — if necessary, that is. As an Engineer Officer. You’re well versed in that sort of thing, or should be.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain spoke briskly. ‘I am. As an Engineer Officer, and this I think you do know very well, you cannot have any executive authority —’

  ‘But in special circumstances? What I’m asking is this: would I be able to count on your support if —’

  ‘Against the Captain, sir? Most certainly not, sir. And now, if you don’t mind, sir, I have matters to attend to.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain pushed unceremoniously past, his face scandalized. Bloody black gang. The Captain would have his full loyalty and never mind his daft stiff-necked attitude about sharing the watch. Funny that the Chief should have come out with it now, just when he himself had been having a go at the skipper… and of course Matthews knew the score well enough and hadn’t in fact been seeking any information at all — it had just been an attempt to line up allies.

  Behind the Torpedo-Coxswain, Matthews scowled and turned away. In his view, Seymour was a danger to those of them that by some miracle were still left alive. Fighting back now, when another attack came, would be nothing short of suicide. Far better to call it a day and throw themselves on the mercy of the Germans the first time a U-boat surfaced. That wasn’t disloyalty; it was prudence. The ship was a bloody wreck. You could go too far in keeping the flag flying. Matthews glared towards the White Ensign, blowing in the diminishing wind from the ensign staff aft. High time it was replaced by a plain white one.

  *

  ‘Leave it, Tomkins,’ Farrow said. Tomkins was on again, on about jonahs. Farrow fancied the man might be starting to go round the bend as a result of what was fast becoming an obsession with Lavington and his presence aboard. Tomkins had been hanging about around the door of the engineers’ store, looking threatening and muttering away like all hell. God alone knew what he expected to gain by it all; but Farrow had seen to it that the guard on Lavington, when the man was taken out for his exercise periods, was on the alert for trouble. As it happened, Tomkins hadn’t tried to interfere with him — yet, anyway.

  Tomkins said, ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Watch it,’ Farrow warned, his long, gloomy face hardening. ‘You and me, we’re long service… we sets an example, right?’ He added, ‘Now more than ever. It’s important, is that. Try and remember it.’

  Tomkins sniffed and flapped his arms against the penetrating cold. The weather was better right enough, but the perishing cold was as bad as ever. If ever he got back to Scapa… but if ever he did, it would be out again next run with the next perishing convoy, time after time, world without end amen. The seas wouldn’t leave a man alone, not in wartime. It was a dog’s life. Tomkins was about to slope off and never mind the killick, and dodge into the galley flat for a burn if he could find a fag that wasn’t wet through, when he heard the throb of more aircraft engines. Then the alarm rattlers went and Tomkins saw a sight that at first angered him and then pleased him: Lavington was being brought out from the engineers’ store.

  Chapter Ten

  Once again it seemed to be a case of attempted attrition; Carmarthen would be showing a very small target to high-level bombers, and raking machine-gun fire seemed to appeal more to the Focke-Wulf pilots. Down they came, risking the return fire from the close-range weapons. Puffs of smoke from the pom-poms filled the sky but the Focke-Wulfs penetrated and roared parallel to the destroyer, peppering her decks and superstructure, killing, wounding. Three of them this time, but soon reduced to two: Cameron, now at one of the Lewis guns, found the aircraft slap in his sights, more or less by sheer chance, and fired a burst that shattered the perspex of the cockpit and killed the pilot. As the Focke-Wulf veered right across the destroyer’s decks, the pilot’s blood could be seen spread like a red mist across the remains of the perspex shield; and as the plane took that course across the decks, Leading-Seaman Farrow, his face murderous, swung his pom-pom to follow her and pumped straight into her belly. Smoke poured from two of the four engines and the Focke-Wulf twisted, losing height until her port wing took the sea. The starboard wing came up and she turned over, to sink within a couple of minutes, some half mile from the destroyer. There were no survivors. There was no time for cheering their first victory; the ship’s company were at once engaged by the two remaining aircraft.

  Seymour, dodging bullets along the iron-deck, made his way aft as Carmarthen’s fire slackened: neither the machine-gun nor the pom-poms were in action. The last of the ready-use ammunition had been expended. As he contacted Leading-Seaman Farrow, the Lewis guns also fell silent.

  ‘Get all hands below, Farrow. Wardroom flat. Quick as you can,’ Seymour ordered.

  ‘Sit it out, sir?’

  ‘Right!’

  Seymour looked up at the sky, bitterly: no British aircraft. It was always the same old story. Where the hell was the RAF? Never there when they were wanted… yet that wasn’t quite fair. The pilots and aircrews wouldn’t have held back; there simply weren’t enough planes, that was all. And when there were, some solid-brained bastard at the Air Ministry usually decided that there were better uses for them than supporting the Navy. Carriers were what was needed, more carriers; just now, the Navy had all too few. Keeping in cover, Seymour remained on deck until the Torpedo-Coxswain and Leading-Seaman Farrow had shepherded the men below to the wardroom flat, then he went down himself. Water slopped around; there was nowhere dry, not even in the officers’ cabins or in the wardroom itself, but at least the German bullets couldn’t reach them. The bombs might, if the Focke-Wulfs decided to climb and drop their bomb-loads. This, Matthews pointed out sourly.

  ‘Nothing we can do by remaining on deck, Chief,’ Seymour answered. ‘There’s no ammo left. None at all.’

  ‘Except in the flooded magazines.’

  Seymour flushed; by now he would have tried to pump out, but that, too, was impossible. Along with the bent stern tubes, the pumping system was buggered. He said, ‘Let’s keep to practicalities, shall we?’ Disregarding angry mutterings from the Engineer Officer, he turned to the assembled men. ‘We stay here,’ he said, ‘and ride it. There’s no other way.’ He knew he had no need to remind any of them of the stark facts: no engine power, no fighting capacity, no means of communication. Those few facts had to render a warship totally useless and now it was a simple matter of survival until, as they drifted the seas like a ghost ship, someone found them.

  ‘Suppose it’s a U-boat?’ Matthews asked. ‘What then?’

  Seymour said, ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  Matthews fished around for a cigarette and lit it. He said, ‘Isn’t it best to have a plan for all eventualities? Isn’t that what Commanding Officers normally do?’

  The tone had been sarcastic; the atmosphere became tense as the ship’s company took in the overtones of hostility, of wardroom factions coming out against each other. The men looked anywhere but at Seymour, lifting eyes to the deck-head, waiting to see what might now develop. Seymour said quietly, ‘You’re right, Chief. Let’s say, it depends what the U-boat captain does… if you follow?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Then I’ll spell it out. He may decide to attack. If he does, then we’ve had it. Just like when a submarine’s under depth-charge attack, you sit it o
ut and hope for the best. We’re in no position to fight, Chief — I’ve already made that point.’

  ‘Yes. And if he doesn’t attack? I’m not sure what you mean. If he doesn’t attack, what the hell does he do?’

  Seymour said, ‘He’ll see for himself what sort of state we’re in. We’ll look abandoned, right? So it’s on the cards he may decide to board. If he does, well, then we’ll be ready for him. We fight to the last man if that happens. I’ll be watching. We won’t be taken unawares, Chief.’

  ‘Watching? From here?’

  Seymour said, ‘No, I’m going to the wheelhouse. You’re in charge here, Chief.’ He caught the eye of the Torpedo-Coxswain. ‘Yes, Cox’n?’

  ‘I’ll come with you, sir. To the wheelhouse, sir. That’s my place in action.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain added, ‘On your own, sir, you’ll not be able to keep awake. We can share the watch.’

  Seymour nodded and smiled. ‘All right, Cox’n, you’ve got your wish at last. Leading-Seaman Farrow?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re the senior seaman rating left below. Remember that.’

  ‘I’ll remember it, sir.’ Farrow was puzzled, uncertain what the Captain meant by his remark, which could in a sense be considered an order. Cameron, watching him, saw his uncertainty; in Cameron’s mind there was no such uncertainty at all: he was convinced that the Captain had passed a warning that the seaman branch must if necessary act independently of the engine-room. It would be up to Farrow to decide when that moment might come.

  *

  Before the Focke-Wulfs turned away for France they dropped their bombs in a farewell gesture. They scored no hits, but some of the bombs dropped close enough. Seymour, from the wheelhouse, watched them fall, helpless to do anything about them. In the wardroom flat the detonations were felt like the thuds of sledgehammers and Cameron believed that more leaks had started; the water seemed to be gaining even though Farrow, his long face gloomier than ever as he pondered that remark of the Captain’s, had set the hands to bale out, using any utensil they could find — cups and bowls from the wardroom pantry, even the chamber-pots from the officers’ cabins — and emptying them through the opened wardroom ports. Cameron had been detailed by Farrow to stand by the sound-powered telephone from the wheelhouse so that any word from the Captain could be reported without any delay. Lavington was being employed to assist the Surgeon-Lieutenant in the cabins, using his embryonic medical knowledge to keep the tanker survivors and Carmarthen’s own wounded as comfortable as possible. Most of the burns cases would have been better off dead; some had little visible flesh left and the eyes seemed to scream with pain that ate even through the morphia. Lavington moved like an automaton, a person quite without volition. His face was virtually expressionless, his mouth hung slack, the lips parted. He looked like walking death.

  Soon after the bomb explosions had died away, the sound-powered telephone whined. Cameron took the instrument from its hook.

  ‘Wardroom flat, sir.’

  ‘Captain here. Is that Cameron?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The aircraft are leaving. How’re things down there?’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ The line went dead. The destroyer rolled and wallowed, heavy, soggy, all but waterlogged now. The water rushed from side to side as she rolled, slopping and dirty, carrying odds and ends from the cabins and other spaces. In the pantry the officers’ cook prepared a makeshift meal: fish-paste sandwiches made from stale bread, cold bangers and tinned tomatoes that looked like red lead.

  ‘Sandwiches, all nice an’ bleedin’ dainty,’ Tomkins grumbled none too quietly. ‘Officers’ grub! Officers’ wives ‘as pudden and pies, while sailors’ wives ‘as skilly.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Farrow ordered.

  ‘Soddin’ class distinction.’

  Farrow loomed angrily. ‘I said, shut up, Stripey. So you shuts up or else.’

  ‘Else what?’ Tomkins responded with a jeer.

  ‘I’ll have you before the Officer of the Watch.’

  ‘What Officer of what Watch, may I enquire?’

  Farrow breathed hard. ‘Just shut up. Just watch it, that’s all.’

  There was a sardonic laugh from Matthews. ‘All right, Farrow, he has a point, you know.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’re all on a level now, Farrow. I think you’d do well to bear that in mind.’

  ‘If you says so, sir.’

  ‘I do, Farrow, I do.’

  Leading-Seaman Farrow wiped the back of a hand across his nose and frowned. He thought the officer was talking balls; officers and ratings were never on a level till they were dead, then they were accorded the same burial unless they were admirals who died ashore heavy with honours and decorations. In the meantime those present in the wardroom flat were not dead, though they might well be close to it. Until they were, the conventions held. And Farrow didn’t like having his own authority eroded, which was what that Matthews had done. For an officer, Matthews was a bloody bolshie, though Farrow had a shrewd idea that if he failed to come up with the ‘Sir’ each time he opened his mouth, the bolshie aspect would vanish fast. Anyway, he didn’t open it again; you didn’t argue with officers if you valued the hook on your left arm, the fouled anchor that gave you your authority, whether or not you were on a level.

  Farrow moved away but before doing so met Tomkins’ eye and gave him a look that said he’d better watch it and never mind what the officer had said. Again he thought about the Captain’s stricture. Funny, that… almost as though the skipper didn’t trust the bloody engine-room. For that matter, neither did Farrow. Stokers — they were all right; they didn’t virtually join the service right off in the rating of petty officer, which the tiffies did — the Engine-room Artificers. The ERAs might be good at being tiffies, but as petty officers they were about as much use as Farrow’s left tit.

  *

  ‘Weather’s improving, sir,’ the Torpedo-Coxswain said.

  Seymour nodded; it was. The day was moving towards evening and the skies were clear and bright; the seas had gone down considerably, which eased the strain on the hull. There was little wind left; it all added up to good U-boat weather, of course. Seymour racked a tired brain, trying to remember, to assess when the next outward-bound convoy would be due to pass through the area. Not just yet, he fancied, though there might be convoys on the move to and from Gibraltar, and their tracks would take them well westerly of the direct peace-time route — the French coast had to be stood well clear of. Even if there was no convoy due, the U-boat packs could be gathering, to lie in wait submerged and then surface during the night once the ships were in their sights.

  ‘What d’you make the chances, Cox’n?’ Seymour asked suddenly.

  ‘Fair, I reckon, sir. Jerries always permitting, of course.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got this far, we should last in better weather. Someone’ll find us.’ Seymour rubbed at his eyes, which were red and swollen from lack of sleep and from constant vigilance. If ever they were found, he would be faced with the final decision: unless they could be taken in tow, which was scarcely likely except in the event of the finder being an ocean-going rescue tug, he would have to consider abandoning so as to get his ship’s company to safety. That would come hard, very hard; his ship was still technically afloat and from a seamanship point of view could certainly make it home and could be refitted. Where would his first duty lie? To a ship that could be got home but almost certainly wouldn’t be if they met the enemy again, or to men who could live to fight again another day? A captain’s decision; and much as Seymour would have liked to, he couldn’t share it with his Torpedo-Coxswain. When the decision was made, the order would be given and that was all. It hadn’t to be made yet, but it was a captain’s job to have his mind ready, to have the alternatives assessed ahead taking into account all foreseeable factors, so that instant orders could be passed. Matthews had been dead right. It was a case of weighing likelihoods and possibilities. Seymour�
�s brain was moving in circles now; his mind was as tired as his body. There were times when he would have welcomed the final blow from a torpedo: at least no more decisions would be required. Until he had assumed the command, he had never really appreciated how a captain’s day was made up of constant decisions both large and small.

  God, he was tired. So tired it didn’t seem possible that he could last out. The effort to keep his eyelids open was shattering, taxing all his strength of will. Sagged into a corner of the wheelhouse, he pulled himself upright; the best way was to keep on the move. He took a couple of steps, meaning to walk around the steering position, and was asleep before he had taken two more, asleep on his feet and in motion. The Torpedo-Coxswain caught him as he fell, and laid him flat on the deck.

  ‘Sleep it out,’ the Torpedo-Coxswain said, knowing his voice wasn’t penetrating. ‘Sleep it out. Christ, you’ve done all you can and that’s a fact!’

  *

  The U-boat, cruising at periscope depth a little before the light went altogether, had the Carmarthen in her sights; the German captain was watching carefully, frowning as he did so. It was very strange; there was no sign of life whatsoever. No one on the bridge, no one along the decks, no one at the after gun. One of the after guns seemed to have gone and the destroyer was in a very bad way. Abandoned? The British Navy didn’t normally abandon so long as a keel was afloat beneath their feet.

  The Captain moved away from his eyepiece and gestured to his First Lieutenant. ‘Take a look,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  The First Lieutenant took a long, slow look. He said, ‘There is no one visible, sir. That does not mean they’re not there, out of sight.’