Mackeson was trying to get a boat alongside for them, Thornton had told him, and Brill had been trying to find a way of moving them. They were very badly burnt, and it wasn’t easy; there was no possibility of getting them up to this end of the ship.
The Montgovern’s own boats had been incinerated, but there might have been some rafts intact, and the wounded could have been floated off in them, Paul thought. Fit men would be all right: the sea was low, the ship was taking her time about going down and the destroyer was close at hand. As long as no fresh attack developed, while they were in this vulnerable condition … He’d wondered about going aft to lend a hand: he was a very strong swimmer and might have made himself useful. But only the wounded needed help; Mackeson was taking charge of it and his orders to everyone up here were to clear out as fast as possible.
Thornton said, “Go on, Everard.”
Action, emergency, had seemed to improve the cipher man. Paul had climbed over, stood for a moment with his heels hooked over the second rail and the top one against his calves, and judged his moment to jump for the ladder. A few seconds later he’d been on the destroyer’s foc’sl, with Thornton clambering over behind him. They’d been the last and the destroyer had already been backing off, getting clear.
Brill and old Bongo must still have been with the wounded in the saloon when the Montgovern had tilted her bow up and slipped down. The doped-up wounded mightn’t have known all that clearly what was happening to them, but Brill and Mackeson would have. They’d be inside her still, in several hundred fathoms. People you’d talked to only a few hours ago …
He said, “The doctor drowned, with the guys he was looking after.”
Beale looked surprised. “Doctor?”
“Army man.”
He strolled aft again, getting a good ration of fresh air before returning to the stuffy wardroom. Beale’s surprised query, “Doctor?” was a new sore in his mind. As if Dennis Brill had never existed.
There were some Montgovern survivors hanging around on the destroyer’s quarterdeck; and torpedomen were hunched, muffled in coats and balaclavas, on watch near the depth charge chutes. The crew of the after four-inch gun was one dark mass trying to keep itself warm inside the gunshield: and it wasn’t so very long ago that he, Paul Everard, had kept a watch on deck like that. It did seem a long time ago … There was quite a lot of rise and fall on the ship: here on the quarterdeck you saw it as well as felt it, as the destroyer’s counter rose and fell against the pile of white froth astern. Aboard the Montgovern he’d been thinking of the sea as more or less flat: except, remembering again, for the way it had come slopping over into the scuppers, like a live creature reaching to get at Withinshaw’s body. Poor old Withinshaw, who couldn’t swim and wouldn’t have had to, either …
He went back up the starboard side, in through the door in the foc’sl break and through to the wardroom. The same crowd was in there, and the air was heavy with cigarette and pipe smoke. It was a space about twenty-seven feet long—the full width of the ship at this point—by twelve wide: the starboard half of it made a dining area, the rest was furnished with chairs and a sofa. Paul saw Pete Devenish, John Pratt and Harry Willis, and Cluny and Harrison, both engineers. Most of them had had to swim, and were in borrowed gear, dressing-gowns and blankets, while their own clothes dried out on the engine-room gratings. Thornton was here, and the RAF man, and some others. He guessed that Humphrey Straight, who’d been given the captain’s day cabin, would already have turned in. When Paul arrived they were all listening to a young, cheerful-looking RN lieutenant: and he’d just said something about joining up with the Caracas Moon at first light.
But the Caracas Moon was the tanker, which when last seen had looked more like a floating bonfire than a ship.
“Excuse me, sir. Did you say the Caracas Moon’s afloat?”
“Astonishing, isn’t it? After she left the convoy she was torpedoed, and it let in a rush of water that put the fire out. Then she was near-missed again yesterday, when we were with her, and it stopped her, but her plumbers are reckoning to get her fixed up during the night … Anyway, we left her to it, and came to round up your ship and the Yank. Who are you, by the way?”
He’d glanced at the single wavy stripe on the shoulder of Paul’s greatcoat. Paul told him, “My name’s Everard. Taking passage to Malta to join HM Submarine Ultra.”
“Submariner, eh? Well, I’m Simpson, first lieutenant of this tub. How d’you do.” They shook hands. “Did you say your name was Everard?”
He nodded.
“Any relation?”
It was ridiculous, really. The middle of the night, enemies thick all round them, and a few miles back men who’d been your friends were dead, drowned … Mackeson saying, Bongo, they used to call me. I dare say he’ll remember … Simpson had turned back to the others: “Now here’s the point I was about to raise, gentlemen. The Caracas Moon people are just about dead on their feet. I suppose you’ve had a rough time too, but you can get a few hours’ rest now, so—my CO suggests—how about some of you, or better still all of you, volunteering to move over to her when we find her?”
Dawn: with Ainsty zigzagging ahead of the Santa Eulalia, both ships rolling to a sea that had risen during the past few hours. The wind was force four gusting five, still from the northwest. White wave-crests streaked the darkness, and spray flew over the destroyer’s port side and bow as she dipped her shoulder into them. Paul was on the upper deck, on the lee side of the funnel, with a group of the Montgovern’s officers. Thornton and the RAF man were both prostrate with seasickness, and had refused breakfast. It didn’t matter: the meal had been laid on early for the benefit of those who’d be transferring to the tanker when they found her. Finding her shouldn’t be difficult—if she was still afloat—as Ainsty was equipped with RDF.
Simpson had told Paul last night that Defiant had, indeed, been sent out to the East Indies. A friend of his had been in Alexandria when the cruiser had left for Port Said and the Canal.
“I didn’t know your father had become a cruiser captain, though … Bad luck for you, anyway—you’d have been hoping to see him, I imagine.”
“Yes. I’d hoped to.”
Nobody could count on seeing anybody. From time to time, things happened to remind you of this simple truth. You had to register it, be aware of it, and then shut your mind to it. He’d woken with the uncertainties in his mind, though: uncertainties here in the Mediterranean, others more distant. The sleeping or half-sleeping mind had no defence, it was only the waking one you could hope to take charge of.
He asked Harry Willis, “What odds, d’you reckon, on getting Santa Eulalia and the tanker into Malta?”
Willis shifted his feet, balancing against a sudden bow-down lunge. In a destroyer, particularly a little one like a Hunt, when the wind got up you really felt it. That was something else Paul had forgotten about lately. The fourth mate suggested, “Three to one against?”
“Steeper than that, I’d guess.” John Pratt chipped in, “You’re forgetting the Eyetie cruisers.”
Paul asked him, “Eyetie cruisers?”
“A bunch of them’s supposed to be coming to head us off from Malta. Now there are so few escorts left I suppose they reckon it’s safe for them.”
Out of Cagliari, he remembered. But that had been days ago, and Mackeson had said they were probably going east, lured by some dummy convoy. This was the worst of being a passenger: you heard only bits and pieces, scraps of information that happened to come your way. The sense of ignorance and confusion was annoying and frustrating.
“You mean the two cruisers that were seen leaving Cagliari, Sardinia?”
“They’ve joined up with others.” Pratt said, “Your pal Simpson was telling us.”
Willis said, “Call it five to one against, then.” From above them, the pompom deck, an alarm rattler was sounding. And someone was shouting at them from the foc’sl ladder. It was a sub-lieutenant shouting through cupped hands over the racket of
wind and sea, “Passengers go below, please! Clear the upper deck!” Paul joined in the unwilling shuffle to the screen door, into the enclosure of the foc’sl. If it was true that an enemy cruiser force was coming, you could reckon the chances of reaching Malta as nil, he thought. Another thing Simpson had mentioned last night had been that the third cruiser, the last of three who’d been intended to escort the convoy on to Malta, had been knocked out on that night when the Montgovern had been hit and left the convoy. The cruiser had been torpedoed, and he thought they’d had to abandon her and sink her. So there was only a handful of destroyers now—most of them Hunts, escort destroyers with no torpedo armament. The sort of odds Italians might rather go for, he thought … In the wardroom, Devenish was just hanging up the telephone: he told them, “Air attack coming. They’ve got the bastards on RDF.”
Paul realized, looking around for somewhere to sit—and seeing Humphrey Straight arriving, standing glowering in the doorway because there was nowhere for him to sit either—that he’d never been below decks during an action before.
Ainsty began to heel to port: and stayed there, hard over. Altering course, under a lot of rudder, jolting and thumping her way round against the sea. He grabbed a cushion and sat down on it, on the deck in the corner near the pantry hatchway. Straight had done better: someone had surrendered the best of the armchairs to him. Devenish was stooping with a hand on the arm of it while he and Straight talked. Then he’d straightened, glancing round, and he was coming over to this corner.
“You with us, young Everard?”
“What d’you mean?”
“The old Caracas Moon. About half our DEMS blokes are coming over to her, but we’ll be a bit short-handed. Might be useful to have you help organize ’em.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“Fine.” Devenish looked round at Straight, and nodded. Straight, pleased-looking, nodded to Paul.
Christ. I’ve joined the Merchant Navy.
The four-inch opened fire. The mounting on the foc’sl was above this wardroom and only about thirty feet for’ard. When the guns fired, you heard them. There was no reason, he thought, not to go over to the tanker. Being a passenger with no job to do wasn’t enjoyable. It was highly unenjoyable here, now, sitting and guessing at what was happening. It would be far less unpleasant in the open, and much less so if one was busy. Behind that feeling was a sense of enclosure, of being trapped—as Brill and Mackeson had been … There was a lot of gun-noise now, shaking the ship, but it was still all four-inch. He saw a new face in the doorway, hesitating, looking round genially as if it was about to introduce itself. It was a red face under brown curly hair, and the uniform had RNVR lieutenant’s stripes on it. Then he saw there was red between the stripes. A doctor, surgeon-lieutenant.
“Hello … Captain Straight, is it? I’m Grant. I’m the sawbones.”
The pompoms had joined in now. Grant was a Scot, and he’d be about thirty, Paul guessed. Those thumps had been bombs bursting in the sea not very far away. The doctor was telling Straight, pitching his voice up over the noise, “Well, we have three twin four-inch, you see, because we’re a second-generation Hunt. The group one variety only had two twin mountings, you’re right, they had a four-barrelled pompom where our number three gun is. Our pompom has its own deck up by the funnel. We have Oerlikons too, though, one each side of the signal bridge. You’re safe as houses, you see, with us!”
She’d heeled again. You could hear the Oerlikons, as well as the pompoms and the four-inch. On the port side more bombs were exploding: he’d counted five, probably one stick. The doctor said, “These are Junkers 88s annoying us. But there’s good news too—we’ve a surface contact on the RDF and the skipper’s pretty sure it’s the Caracas Moon.”
One isolated, very loud explosion, somewhere astern. Grant said, “Missed again. Never seem much good in the mornings, do they?” He looked at Straight: “Rotten luck, sir, losing your ship.”
Straight glowered at him, and didn’t answer. Humphrey Straight might not have been at his best in the early mornings either. And he had just lost his ship. Also, this doctor was a garrulous, socially ebullient type of man, the complete opposite to Straight, whose reaction to chitchat was to clam up, back off. The doctor had obviously been told by the destroyer’s captain to come down here and entertain the passengers, and he was working hard at it too … Only four-inch now, and Ainsty was on an even keel for once, steering a more or less straight course, bucking and plunging to the sea. Straight was thumbing shag tobacco into his pipe: it wouldn’t improve the quality of life for the seasick members of the party.
The four-inch ceased fire. The silence was ominous, leaving the imagination loose with no guidelines for guesswork. Then she was beginning to heel again: right over, turning in a tight circle with her starboard gunwale in the sea, by the feel of it. Juddering round: and everything suddenly letting loose again—four-inch and close-range guns all opening fire at once. Devenish yelled at Grant, “Do they get air and surface contacts on the same RDF set?”
“Different set for each job.” The doctor leaned towards him. He looked glad to have something to talk about. “The type 271’s for surface work, finding submarines and so on, and the 279’s for aircraft. They had a type 79 to start with, but it didn’t give ranges, only bearings … There are new types being developed every week now, you know.”
She’d steadied, level-keeled, with all her guns still blasting. Straight blurted suddenly, “D’ye know as much about doctoring as you do about bloody RDF?”
“Lord, no.” The Scotsman raised his hands imploringly. “Please don’t get anything wrong with you.”
Gunfire slackening. Grant was looking across at Paul. “You must be the submariner, I take it?”
It was a surprise, ten minutes later, to find the Santa Eulalia still afloat and apparently unhurt, butting along at seven or eight knots while the destroyer zigzagged through grey-white sea a couple of hundred yards ahead of her. A new day had been born while they’d been listening to the guns. The sky was high grey cloud, wispy and fast-moving, and the wind was whipping the wave-crests into flat white streamers. Harry Willis tapped him on the shoulder: “Other side. Caracas Moon herself!” Paul followed him in through the screen door and through to the other side of the ship: the weather side, wind gusty and laced with spray. Willis pointed: “Load of old iron. Our new home, mate.”
The tanker was under way, but listing heavily to port. She was more than a load of old iron, though, Paul thought, she was a load of high-octane spirit, the stuff the Malta fighters needed, and diesel fuel for submarines as well. According to the late Bongo Mackeson. A light was flashing from her bridge, and he read “Master and chief engineer will remain on board but assistance welcome and relief of crew members and gunners will be appreciated. Stopping my engines now.” The destroyer was under helm, heeling as she swung to pass under the tanker’s stern. Paul heard the shrill of a bosun’s call and the yell “Away motorboat’s crew!” It might be a damp crossing, he thought. But there was too much movement on the ships for them to approach each other closely. The boat would have the benefit of the bigger ship’s lee. The Caracas Moon would provide a very solid barrier against wind and sea. “Everard?”
Turning, he found Simpson, the first lieutenant, in seaboots and duffel-coat. “You’ve volunteered to go over with the DEMS gunners, that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done.” Simpson looked round at the others. “Better stand by, now. Motorboat’s starboard side. We’ll be turning that side to her when we get up in her lee, but it’ll take several trips.” He said to Paul, as they filtered away aft, “You’re a glutton for punishment, Everard.”
Paul didn’t see that it made much difference. This destroyer could be split open by a single bomb, torpedo or mine and go down in seconds. Tankers, being full of inflammable liquid, were feared: but the Santa Eulalia’s cargo—Pratt had told him—included fifteen hundred tons of high octane, five hundred tons of kerosen
e and two thousand tons of explosives including torpedo warheads. He didn’t see that it could make much difference which deck you sat on.
Ainsty had hoisted the red warning flag, and gunners on all three ships waited, watching the sky, ready for whatever had appeared on the destroyer’s RDF screen to come into sight.
In the boat—he’d come over to the Caracas Moon in the second boatload—he’d met Beale. Now, as the little convoy got under way, he had Beale in charge of all the guns aft while he himself looked after the four Oerlikons on the bridge deck up for’ard. He’d got one of them for himself, and fourth mate Willis had another. On the raised deck aft, around the funnel, there were two Bofors and two more Oerlikons. Beale had put Short and McNaught on the Oerlikons, and he was operating one of the Bofors and supervising the other one. From Paul’s point of view, since he knew nothing about Bofors, it was a good arrangement.
The tanker was fire-blackened, her paintwork scorched and blistered. She was also listing, several feet lower in the water than she should have been, and there was some talk of her back being broken—or that there was a danger of it, if she was shaken by any more near-misses. Boarding her amidships, on to her after section of tank-tops in the low part between bridge and funnel, had been simply a matter of jumping over from the boat’s own level.
However, she was making about five knots now. She and the Santa Eulalia were abeam of each other, with Ainsty weaving ahead.
All the Drowning Seas: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 3 Page 27
