He frowned thoughtfully. The seaman ratings had been very badly hit. Very heavy casualties… and no stokers or tiffies had been lost, not yet. Farrow wished them long life but had to face the fact that without them his fighting capacity would be sadly small, not to say negligible. He pulled at his jaw and glared towards Lieutenant (E) Matthews, who was talking to his Chief Stoker, a little fat man named Peters. Chief Stoker Peters didn’t seem to be liking it any more than Farrow. It would reflect badly on the department afterwards. You couldn’t keep buzzes at bay, and word always spread like lightning round any naval base. Carmarthen’s engine-room complement would come in for any amount of crap and Peters knew it.
Farrow, his nails digging hard into his palms as he waited for the sound-powered telephone to whine again with orders, decided that he might have to stick his neck out. He was very unsure of his ground, but he did remember the Captain’s remark just before he’d left the wardroom flat, and he remembered the appeal that had seemed to be in it. Mr Seymour, with command suddenly thrust upon him, was doing his best. It was up to the rest of them to give him proper backing and sod Matthews. Farrow, in advance of the expected orders which still hadn’t come, was about to start to stick out his neck and make a formal approach to the Engineer Officer, who strictly speaking had no executive authority at all, when he saw a man make a dash for the ladder leading up to the deck hatch: Lavington, with a rifle in his hand.
Farrow came out from the open door of the pantry, yelling. ‘Stop that man! Get him before he makes the muckin’ hatch!’ He was moving fast himself as he spoke, running as fast as was possible with all the impediments both structural and human, but was beaten to it by Able-Seaman Tomkins. Farrow had seen murder in Tomkins eyes and he pushed forward to stop tragedy, tragedy that might — indeed would, once Lavington was through the hatch — wreck any plans the skipper might have to continue hoodwinking the Jerries. Farrow was too late: ahead of Tomkins, Lavington made the quarterdeck and began a mad, pointless rush for’ard along the iron-deck towards the sunken fo’c’sle. Tomkins had enough sense not to pursue him once he had been spotted from the U-boat’s conning-tower; Tomkins stopped and took cover in the lee of the after screen, and it was Lavington alone who ran into the Germans’ machine-gun fire. He lurched, his rifle clattered to the deck, and he went overboard with his brains spilling.
Shaking like a leaf, Tomkins went below.
‘Tried to stop the stupid bugger,’ he said to Farrow, but didn’t meet the Leading-Seaman’s eyes. Everyone in the wardroom flat knew what he’d intended to do. In the circumstances he might have got away with it, and anyway he hadn’t stopped to think it through, not really. ‘’E bought it from the Jerries.’
Farrow nodded. The machine-gun fire had been heard. He said, ‘Well, that’s that, then.’ It was the best way out for Lavington, without a doubt… The sound-powered telephone from the wheelhouse was whining again. Tomkins answered, then reported to Farrow.
‘Wheel’ouse says the buggers look like boarding — they’re coming alongside and a party’s mustering on the casing. You’re to act in execution of previous orders.’
As Tomkins finished the message there was a bump along the destroyer’s port side and a noticeable lurch. Farrow lost no time. He called, ‘All hands, up on deck. That includes the engine-room.’ He caught the furious eye of Lieutenant (E) Matthews and said, ‘By my reckoning, sir, the Captain meant me to take charge aft as the senior seaman rating left. So I’m taking charge, sir. And afterwards I’ll take my chance that I acted right.’
He turned away for the ladder, ordered the seamen and stokers to fix bayonets, and climbed fast. Out through the after screen and on to the quarterdeck, he heard rifle fire coming from the wheelhouse, heard it being returned, and then saw the U-boat’s crew jumping in swarms from the casing to the iron-deck whence some moved for’ard and the rest aft. Farrow fired round the angle of the after screen in an attempt to hold the Germans until he had all his men on deck: he was successful. The rush aft halted, and a body went over the side to be pulped between the two hulls. The Germans, as Farrow fired again and scored another hit, became much more circumspect, seeking cover. The fire was being kept up from the wheelhouse too, though Farrow fancied it was coming from one rifle only; and the moment all the seamen and stokers were mustered behind him, Farrow ordered the counter-attack.
Half his force ran for the starboard side of the iron-deck under Chief Stoker Peters, while Farrow himself took the port side, doubling from behind the after screen with all rifles blazing away. The U-boat crew seemed taken utterly by surprise: the attack was much stronger than they had expected.
While the bullets from Farrow’s seamen thudded into flesh, the starboard-side attack came at the boarding-party from over the shattered remains of the searchlight platform and the midships superstructure. As Farrow came to close quarters he reversed his rifle and smashed away with the butt, grinning like a bloodstained demon. At his side Able-Seaman Tomkins did the same and appeared to be enjoying every moment. Aboard the U-boat, an attempt was being made to man the gun; but Cameron in the wheelhouse was in an excellent position to stop this happening. From cover, he was able to pick off each man as the gun was approached. Bullets pinged around him, ricocheting off the wreckage of the bulkheads. Blood poured from a near miss that sliced a lobe from an ear. From the upper deck came screams of agony as wounded men slid over the side to become fenders for the U-boat. The German Captain, keeping prudently below the lip of his conning-tower, was shouting orders through a megaphone, but no one seemed to be taking any notice as the slaughter continued. Cameron believed that most of the casualties were German; the destroyer’s seamen and stokers were fighting like maniacs, giving no quarter at all, determined to save the ship and themselves. After a while it looked as though the Germans were retreating: as their commander’s megaphone shouts continued, they began jumping back across to the casing, which was slippery with blood, some of which had dripped over from the conning-tower.
Second thoughts were in the air now; the U-boat would probably withdraw and attack from a distance by gunfire. That must spell the end.
Then Cameron remembered something: the grenades. They had been stowed in the ready-use ammunition locker aft, by Number Three gun. They would still be there and there might just be time. He went down the starboard ladder to the iron-deck, ran like lightning towards Number Three gun-mounting, and opened up the ready-use locker. There they were, a box of them, lethal pineapples. As he lifted the box out and clambered back down to the iron-deck he found Tomkins kneeling on a German seaman and struggling to pull his bayonet out from the chest.
Cameron said, ‘Leave it, Stripey.’
Tomkins looked up, his face smeared with blood. ‘’Oo’s givin’ ‘oo orders, then?’
Cameron grinned and said, ‘Simple request, that’s all. Something more important. How about a coconut shy… down the conning-tower? As many as possible, in as short a time as possible before they get away. Two hands are better than one — right?’
‘Right,’ Tomkins said, and got to his feet, leaving his rifle and bayonet to sag from the German’s rib cage. Together they ran for the wheelhouse and from there into the port wing with its now useless close-range weapons. Here they were almost immediately above the conning-tower: it was just too easy.
‘Ready,’ Cameron said, and began counting as he released the lever of the first grenade. Tomkins did the same. Both were thrown together, both found that easy, impossible-to-miss target. One landed in the conning-tower itself, the other fell straight through the hatch into the U-boat’s control-room. Before the first two had exploded, four more had gone down. The results were horrible: the conning-tower looked as though a bacon slicer had been at work, strips of bloody flesh hanging everywhere. Below it must have been far worse. Smoke came up through the hatch, and with it the death screams of mangled men. Somewhere, an electrical fire had probably started. It was highly unlikely that the U-boat would be able to submerge until the fires h
ad been dealt with.
Tomkins said as much, in tones of awe. ‘Poor soddin’ Nazi bastards! They’ll fry. I reckon they’ve had it good an’ proper now. Won’t have done the periscope much good an’ all, eh?’
‘I rather think not, Stripey. Nor the circuits. I think we can call it a victory.’ Cameron, now in cover behind the mangled metal of the destroyer’s control tower, took a cautious look down to the iron-deck. Farrow’s hands were in full control and the deck was littered with bodies. The U-boat was bumping the side plating and lurching about as though she was no longer under command. Cameron said, ‘Well, that’s it. Let’s get down.’
He went into the wheelhouse, followed by Tomkins. For the first time Tomkins seemed to realize that there was no one else present and he asked, ‘Where’s the skipper, then, eh?’
Cameron pointed. ‘There, Stripey. And the Cox’n.’
‘Strewth!’ Tomkins appeared shaken as he saw the bodies. ‘’Oo did the orders come from, then?’
Cameron said quietly, ‘Someone had to give them.’
‘You, eh?’ Tomkins screwed up his eyes. ‘Bloody little OD, makin’ out ‘e’s the skipper! Just you wait till that Matthews get to ‘ear, then watch out. Cor! Muckin’ we ratings… you even said “Cox’n” like a bleedin’ officer.’ He minced the word; to the lower deck, the Torpedo-Coxswain was customarily the ‘Swain. Just one of the differences… Tomkins went down the ladder to the iron-deck, muttering.
Chapter Twelve
The hands remained ready to return any further fire, but no fire came as the U-boat continued lurching against the side plating. The remainder of the grenades were ready too, ready to be lobbed across if the need should arise. From the compass platform Farrow could see that the conning-tower hatch was open still — it looked as though its closing mechanism had been fouled up by the first of the grenades. Netting had been rigged over it to prevent the ingress of more grenades but Farrow didn’t reckon that would help the Jerries much; it could be blown away, he thought. As he looked down, he saw the kerfuffle starting below the U-boat’s counter; the main engines were turning over and she was buggering off at last.
That was something; it remained to be seen whether she could use her surface armament, her gun. With any luck, the firing circuits would be out of action… but even so, she could probably still fire by local control.
Hearing a step behind him, Farrow turned. Matthews had come to the compass platform. The Engineer Officer looked sour. He said, ‘I’m taking over command, Farrow. It’s my entitlement.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘You’ll obey my orders or you’ll face trouble.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t sound so damn defiant!’ Matthews said loudly.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to.’
Matthews, breathing hard, swung away, then swung back again. ‘As Damage Control Officer, I know the ship inside out, know her capabilities. In this situation, that’s what counts, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any fool can be a seaman especially in a ship without power.’
Farrow held on to his temper and said, ‘It’s a matter of opinion, is that, sir.’ He wanted to smash a fist into the Lieutenant (E)’s face but that would never do. ‘The hands haven’t done all that badly, sir. Ordinary Seaman Cameron —’
‘Yes, quite. That lad’s in for trouble, Farrow. He passed orders as from the Captain, who was dead. Those orders resulted in a good many men being killed — my ERAs and stokers among them. That’s something you have to answer for as well and I give you fair warning you’ll do so.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Matthews was in a foul mood, a highly dangerous and far from sane mood in Farrow’s opinion, but something had to be said and Farrow said it. ‘Ordinary Seaman Cameron, sir. Maybe he did exceed himself… but I reckon he’s saved what’s left of the ship, sir. He crippled the U-boat, sir, him and Tomkins between them —’
‘That’s enough, Farrow.’ Matthews was shaking.
‘Yes, sir. And I intend to state all that, sir, to Captain (D) when we get back to base.’
Matthews’ fists clenched. ‘Get below, Farrow. Get below before I lose my temper. When you’re wanted, you’ll be sent for.’
*
When the U-boat had pulled away clear, which was shortly after Farrow had been ordered below, she went into action with her gun. The aim was poor, and the shell went well over. After that, there was no more firing. Farrow believed that the gun had probably jammed. Whatever it was, the end came suddenly and spectacularly: the U-boat blew up, torpedoes and all, a tremendous blast that sent shock waves ringing through the destroyer. Brilliant flame, red, white and orange, lit the area like day for a brief while after which even the moon seemed to have lost its brilliance. The hands on deck stared in awe.
Farrow said, ‘They won’t have known much about it.’ His guess was that the electrics, damaged by the grenade explosions, had caused further fires. Those fires had reached some vital part, maybe a torpedo warhead. Anyway, it was one U-boat less to harry the convoys and it could be chalked up to young Cameron, whose idea it had been. Farrow grinned to himself: U-boat destruction by grenade was a damn sight cheaper than using depth charges, less of a strain on the munitions factories, but it was never likely to happen again, not in this war. The Nazis would have learned a lesson now, if the facts ever penetrated back to the Fatherland: never put your boat alongside anything that still floated, no matter how beaten it appeared to be. Adolf Hitler would be biting a few carpets when he heard, and taking it out on Grand Admiral Raeder, the bastard. In the meantime, the old Carmarthen could settle back into her new routine, the routine of being closeted out of sight below in the wardroom flat. That, and waiting for the base staff to pull their fingers out and send a tow. Farrow spared a thought for Lieutenant (E) Matthews, solitary on the compass platform or more likely in the wheelhouse. He had a word with Cameron, a word of warning of what might come when they made port.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, though,’ he said. ‘The Navy doesn’t come down too hard on success, never mind how it’s brought about.’ He paused. ‘Initiative… that’s part of Officer-Like Qualities, isn’t it?’
Cameron smiled. ‘So they say!’
‘They say right, Lofty.’ Farrow laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll make out all right, and it’ll take more than Matthews to stop you.’
*
Now that Lavington had gone, the atmosphere in the ward-room flat was a good deal easier. Carrying a virtually condemned man, a murderer, had cast a blight; Lavington had indeed been a jonah. Yet the fact of the Engineer Officer’s sour-tempered reactions, and his taking over the command, affected the ship’s company in various ways that could lead to renewed tension. There was argument as to whether or not Matthews was entitled to take over. True, he was, apart from the Surgeon-Lieutenant, the only officer left, and that presumably gave him some rights. But the belief among the seamen at any rate was that when all executive officers were dead, the command devolved upon the senior lower deck rating of the seaman branch, which was Leading-Seaman Farrow, who happened to be a good hand and a popular one, one who carried authority well and didn’t chuck his weight about unduly. Engineers were all very well, but they weren’t seamen and didn’t think and react as seamen; they had a job to distinguish port from starboard, said some. Tomkins was one of these; and Tomkins was incensed that his and Cameron’s grenade-throwing efforts had come in for criticism because they hadn’t been authorized by an officer.
‘Black gang bleeders,’ he said bitterly as he lit a fag. ‘Useless lot, they just don’t savvy. Me and me mate did the job an’ that’s wot counts, ain’t it, eh?’
Farrow grinned to himself: me and me mate… quite a change, was that! Tomkins had accepted Cameron now; they’d done a job together and it looked as though they might both go down in naval history, for what they had done was certainly unprecedented. The night, what was left of it, passed amid a bedlam of snore
s from weary men. At a little after 0800, when the officers’ cook was preparing the breakfasts, the sound-powered telephone whined from the wheelhouse. Tomkins answered.
‘Wardroom flat, sir. Able-Seaman Tomkins.’
‘Send Leading-Seaman Farrow to the compass platform,’ came Matthews’ voice, followed by a bang as the receiver was replaced. Farrow, who was asleep, was woken and went straight up.
‘Ah, Leading-Seaman Farrow.’ Matthews looked frozen, and was throwing his arms about his body in an attempt to find some warmth: compass platforms were less comfortable than engine-rooms, Farrow thought uncharitably. ‘First, burial of the dead.’ Matthews stared around vaguely, as though looking for the bodies of Seymour and the Torpedo-Coxswain; they had been taken below immediately after the action against the U-boat and were lying in the tiller flat aft of the wardroom. ‘Hands to muster at four bells and I shall read the religious service.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Next, I intend to pump out aft. Or try to. Not pump exactly — that’s not possible. Bale.’
‘Bale, sir?’
‘That’s what I said, Leading-Seaman Farrow. Bale. By hand.’
‘Bale out the after magazines, sir?’ Farrow stood there amazed.
In the Line of Fire (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 14
