by Alan Evans
The convoy would be very late into the Firth of Forth. Empire Journey was a big, new ship and in spite of the weather could make twice this speed if left to herself. Conforming to the convoy’s crawl at the speed of the slowest ship was irking her master. Ward shouted, “Make: ‘Affirmative. Which war?’”
He saw Krueger grin, Charlie Barnwell laughing as he lifted the lamp to send the reply.
There was no moaning aboard Boston, but plenty of swearing. They groused too, because ‘you had to grouse to keep a good job.’ Except that it wasn’t really their job—nine-tenths of Boston’s crew were civilians who had signed on for ‘hostilities only’. There were butchers, bakers, clerks—a score or more of trades and one telegraphist who spent every spare moment studying for a degree in chemistry.
Ward thought he was damned lucky to have them. He was different and things weren’t the same for him. This was his job; he had chosen it. He supposed he was rich. So what? He grinned. He was cold, hungry, wet, unshaven and unwashed. He was captain of Boston, shabby, cantankerous, a bitch in bad weather—and that too was what he wanted:
It was as well he did not know that he was soon to lose her.
*
The watches changed and the convoy crept northward. Night fell and in the mouth of the Forth when Boston’s crew thought they were home the engines of one elderly coaster gave up the struggle. While the rest of the convoy plugged on Boston went through the laborious process of passing a tow and then hauled the cripple into port.
Boston was alongside her own berth just before midnight, her engines finally still, the ship at rest. There were no baths aboard her so Ward stood under a hot shower to ease the chill and ache out of his bones. Even this was a luxury only obtainable in port. At sea when Ward washed he did so in a basin and by halves. Strip top half, wash, dress, strip lower half…so that if he was called to the bridge he only had to drag on half his clothes as he ran.
He fell into his bunk. Inspection and reports showed no damage to Boston that rendered her unfit for sea, but they had no sailing orders so they might have all tomorrow night in, too. Sufficient unto the day, however; he turned over. Catherine Guillard…Quartermain…the red glare of the burning tanker…that bloody E-boat, Dirty Bill…CHARIOT?
He slept the sleep of exhaustion.
6: “Enemy in sight!”
Joe Krueger came to Ward in his cabin. “Wireless signal, sir.”
Ward took the sheet from him and read it. ADMIRALTY TO BOSTON REPEATED C. IN C. NORE, C. IN C. PORTSMOUTH, COMMODORE HARWICH. PROCEED FORTHWITH TO HARWICH AND REPORT TO COMMODORE HARWICH TO COME UNDER DIRECT ORDERS CAPTAIN D21.
Ward said, “What the hell?”
Joe scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Twenty-first Flotilla. I thought they were based at Sheerness, making sweeps across the Channel? Captain Pizey?”
Ward nodded. “That’s right.”
“So what does he want with us? He’s a torpedo man, isn’t he? You reckon something’s up?”
“Could be, Joe. Could be.” But what?
Boston joined the 21st Destroyer Flotilla at Harwich on 11th February. The six destroyers swung to their buoys off Parkstone quay in the river Orwell. When Boston was secured to her own buoy her motorboat was lowered and Ward crossed to the leader, Campbell, to meet the man who commanded the flotilla. Mark Pizey, the Captain (D), was a man of middle height who looked shorter because of his breadth of shoulder. With Ward he was cheerful, brisk and welcoming. In his cabin he said, “Take a seat! Good to see you! How’s Boston these days?”
Ward lowered his long frame into the chair. “We think she’s in pretty good shape for an old lady, sir.”
“Well, there are no spring chickens in this flotilla.” Not one of his ships was less than twenty years old. Pizey grinned. “Do you think Boston might frighten Scharnhorst?”
Scharnhorst! Ward blinked, cleared his throat. “Well, she frightens me, sometimes.”
Pizey liked that and roared with laughter. Then: “Well—” With that word the conversation became serious and Pizey said, “We are part of Operation Fuller…As you must know, Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen are down in Brest and have been for some time. Admiralty think they are going to try to get back to Germany, making a quick dash through the Channel under cover of darkness. If they do, then we are to be really a sort of longstop. What with submarines lying off Brest, mines being laid by submarines, aircraft and minelayers, Bomber Command and Swordfish torpedo-bombers set to make strikes, M.T.B.s—well, in theory they won’t get as far as us. But if they do, then maybe—” He let that hang for a moment, then finished, “So we’ll be ready. And that’s why I’m glad to see your torpedoes.”
Ward took the point. He was not a torpedo specialist like Pizey, but he was well aware that in a destroyer attack with torpedoes a ‘zone’ was essential. The chances of scoring a hit on a single target with one or even three or four torpedoes, were minimal. By the buckshot principle, however, the more you fired, in a ‘zone’ to cover the target, the better were your chances of a hit. Boston could add three torpedoes to Pizey’s ‘zone’.
By that evening Ward had also taken the point about being ready. The flotilla had steam up and was ready to slip at five minutes’ notice. Pizey had his six captains aboard Campbell for the meeting he held every evening to discuss all possible eventualities and how they should be met.
Ward contributed little, but asked several questions and learned a lot. Pizey had joked about his first appointment as a sub, how his new captain greeted him: “He glared at me and said, ‘Your predecessor was a bloody fool so I got rid of him!’ I thought I would be next!”
There was laughter. But Ward thought it might well be a parable, for him to hear and digest.
The forenoon of the following day, a typical February day with lowering clouds, driving rain and a rising sea, found the flotilla exercising individually off Orfordness. Ward stood on the bridge of Boston, balancing against her savage pitch and roll, wiped rain and blown spray from his face and said, “Beautiful morning, and doesn’t she love it.”
Joe Krueger answered placidly, “I guess it’ll be worse before it gets better.”
“Thanks for them cheering words.” Ward lapsed into silence. 12th February. And now only six weeks were left in which to mount an operation against St. Nazaire. He had heard nothing from Quartermain but, of course, he would not. The admiral had already told him plainly that he would have no part in CHARIOT.
“Signal from Campbell.” Joe Krueger’s quiet voice jerked Ward back to the present and he needed to be on his toes. The other ships of the flotilla were exercising individually but Boston was carrying out evolutions in company with Pizey’s ship, Campbell. For the obvious reason: since the Captain (D) wanted to find out what kind of ship and captain he’d acquired, Ward and Boston were now performing under his watchful eye. Any mistake would be seen—and pointed out forcefully. Pizey wanted his captains ready for anything.
The Captain (D) did not suffer fools gladly—ready for anything meant just that. It was now five minutes short of noon and throughout the morning Pizey had been dreaming up situations for Boston to deal with, ranging from dive-bombers through attacking E-boats to a U-boat surfacing right astern. Now Joe muttered, “What’ll it be this time? Prepare to repel cavalry coming over the bow?”
Ward grinned. “With your Colonel Custer at the head of them, I expect.”
But Charlie Barnwell the signal yeoman was reading the flickering light: “Exercise-ends-signal- VA Dover-Enemy-battle - cruisers - passing- Boulogne - speed - about - twenty -knots- proceed- in -execution- of-previous- orders. Follow - me.”
Joe Krueger said, “Oh, boy!”
Campbell was already turning. Ward stooped over the brass mouth of the voicepipe and ordered, “Port fifteen.”
The voice of C.P.O. Adams came hollowly up the pipe from the wheelhouse. “Port fifteen…Fifteen of port wheel on, sir.”
“Meet her…steady.” Boston was on a course to fall in astern
of Campbell. “Steer that.”
“Course oh-five-oh, sir.”
Ward paused a moment, picturing the coxswain below. The buzz would not have reached him yet. Ward said, “We’ve a signal reporting German battle-cruisers in the Channel, Coxswain. We have to stop ’em.” Or try to.
Silence. Then Adams said, “Bloody hell!” And Ward knew it would be.
Joe Krueger was waiting with another signal from Pizey. This one was wireless, calling in his flotilla and ordering a course for Number 53 buoy, that lay twenty miles east-south-east of Harwich.
Ward handed it back to Joe, thought about it and said, “Jerry’s pulled a fast one, sailed in the night and taken his chance on this passage through the Straits in daylight.”
Krueger chewed his lip. “What about the submarine ring? The M.T.B.s and bombers?”
Ward said grimly, “It sounds to me, Joe, as if we’ve been caught with our trousers down.” But when he switched on the loudspeaker his voice, echoing through the ship, was cheerful. “We’ve just heard that Scharnhorst and Gneisenau are out and we’re going after them. It’ll make a change from Dirty Bill; they’re a bigger target.”
He switched off, turned away and told Joe, “I’m going to look at the plot.”
In fact there had only been one submarine and the German squadron had slipped past her. From then on a succession of errors and mischances allowed them to steam northwards unobserved for several hours, until belatedly sighted by a Spitfire patrol.
Ward dropped down the ladder, ducked in at the door of the chartroom abaft the wheelhouse. Mason the navigator stood by, curious, while he leaned over the chart, measuring, calculating times and distances. Enemy speed only twenty knots and this flotilla working up to twenty-eight. He could feel the vibration running through Boston’s hull.
Down in the engineroom Bailey, the Warrant Engineer, watched his gauges and muttered, “Come on, you old cow. Don’t pull any of your bloody tricks now. Please!”
Ward climbed back to the bridge and Mason followed, ventured, “When d’you think we’ll be in action, sir?”
Ward snapped, “How the hell would I know!”
Mason turned away, startled.
Krueger glanced sidewise at Ward, now back in his place behind the screen. Ward caught his puzzled glance and knew the reason for it. He said quietly, “We won’t be going into action because if I’m right we’ll miss them. Oh, I know—if we could keep this up and if their speed stayed at only the twenty knots reported, then there’d be a chance.” He eyed Krueger. “But if you were in their position would you be content with twenty knots when you could make a damn sight more?”
“Like hell I would. I’d pull all the stops out.” Joe stared out over the bow at Campbell. “What do you think he’ll do?”
Ward shook his head. “I’m damn glad it’s Pizey’s decision and not mine.”
The seven ships of the flotilla were formed in two divisions, the first led by Campbell with Vivacious, Worcester and Boston, the second by Mackay with Whitshed and Walpole. They hammered along at twenty-eight knots, all the old ships feeling it and Boston worst of all. Their course was from buoy to buoy marking the channel swept of mines. They looked for those buoys and made sure of each one because death lurked outside them. And beyond the minefield, far to starboard, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau…
The steward climbed to the bridge and staggered forward to the screen. He was the youngest, and smallest, rating aboard. At Christmas he had made the rounds of the ship in Ward’s jacket and cap, the jacket hanging on him like an overcoat and the cap balanced on his ears. Now he wore oilskins like a tent and they ran with seawater from his passage along the deck. He brought sandwiches in a tin and Ward’s stein filled with coffee. The other officers would take it in turns to eat in the wardroom but Ward would not leave the bridge. He would not lose much thereby. In this weather, the galley could not operate so there would only be sandwiches and coffee for all hands.
The yeoman said, “Campbell’s signalling, sir.” Ward saw the flags run up to Campbell’s yard then break out to stream on the wind. The yeoman had his telescope to his eye and the signalman stood at his side with pad and pencil poised. Charlie Barnwell read the flags: “Alter-course-in-succession-oh-nine-oh-degrees.”
Ward stood at the voicepipe, holding its brass bell-mouth in both hands. Charlie Barnwell reported, “Executive, sir!” but Ward waited. The flags were whipped down from Campbell’s yard. Campbell turned, Vivacious seconds later as she followed in the leader’s wake, then seconds later still, Worcester. And Boston with her bigger turning circle had to alter course that little bit sooner to come around and fall in astern of Worcester. Ward gauged it with a practised eye. While Worcester was still turning he ordered, “Starboard twenty!”
“Starboard twenty, sir!”
“Twenty of starboard wheel on, sir!”
Ward watched Boston’s head come around, cutting inside the white track left by the destroyers ahead. “Meet her…Steady…Steer oh-nine-oh!”
“…course oh-nine-oh degrees, sir!”
Boston settled neatly astern of Worcester once again and Ward thought, Distance about right…Might need to increase revolutions a fraction if the rest start to pull away from us. God knows what the chief’ll say then—he must be sweating and swearing already. Wait and see.
Joe Krueger said, “Jesus! Now we know how he figures to do it!”
Ward grinned wryly at him, “As I said, I’m glad it was his decision, not mine.”
Pizey was cutting the corner by taking his flotilla through the minefield. He would be in time to engage the enemy, or he could lose every ship in his command.
Ward said, “From now on anyone on the upper deck not actually engaged on duty will lie down with his head inboard.” If they struck a mine that precaution might possibly save a few lives. He used the end of the towel, wound around his neck inside the bright orange duffel coat, to wipe spray from his face. Boston was shipping green seas over her bow as she rammed into them at nearly twenty-eight knots. The waves broke around the 4-inch gun and foamed against the bridge. Ward added, “So long as they don’t drown lying on the deck.”
Krueger said, “That could be.” And he passed the order on over the speakers: “—with your heads inboard—where weather permits!”
Ward asked, “Pilot—how long before we clear this lot?”
“The minefield?” Mason answered, “About an hour, sir.
Ward slid up into his chair and settled comfortably. It was important that anyone on the upper deck should be able to see him there, relaxed and unworried…
Soon afterwards Walpole signalled to Pizey: “Unable-maintain-speed-bearings-running-” Boston’s yeoman spelt out the signal.
Krueger said, “There but for the grace of God…I seem to recall you said something about if we can keep this up.”
Ward scowled at Campbell, watching for Pizey’s reply. “From past experience of this ocean greyhound of ours I’ll be surprised if—” He left it unfinished but reached out to rap on the wooden rail.
Joe followed suit: “We’re coming up for a boiler-clean, I guess?”
Ward answered, “But not due. The chief did a silver nitrate test yesterday. No sign of the dreaded condenseritis—yet.”
The condenser distilled seawater into fresh water for the boilers. If it failed, and frequently it did, the silver nitrate test on a sample of the water produced would turn that sample cloudy if the salt content was too high. Steaming for any length of time with salt water in the boilers would clog them.
Pizey ordered Walpole to return to Harwich. On Boston’s bridge they watched her turn out of line and set a course for home. “And then there were six,” Ward murmured.
*
“Leader’s signalling again, sir!” That was Barnwell. “Air alert, bearing oh-seven-oh, sir!”
Ward ordered, “Action stations! Air alert!” The klaxons blared and he shouted above them, “Anyone see anything?”
All of them on the brid
ge were searching the sky with glasses, but there was no answering report. Ward was not surprised. Visibility was only about five miles and the aircraft could be seven or eight miles away and still hidden by low cloud. Campbell would have picked it up on her radar. She had a special 286 P set for that purpose. Her 271 set, like Boston’s, would only locate surface targets.
Krueger had put on a steel helmet, was holding out Ward’s. He took it, handed his cap to the signalman. “Stow that for me.” He jammed on the helmet and settled the strap under his jaw.
“Aircraft bearing red three-oh!” The yell came from the port lookout. His bearing was measured anticlockwise from the bow, and coincided roughly with the radar compass bearing. Ward saw the plane now, dropping out of the cloud base, and grunted agreement as voices chorused, “Junkers 88!” It was turning to fly a course parallel to the flotilla and discreetly out of range of the guns.
Ward lowered his glasses. Krueger followed suit, recited sardonically, “Twinkle, twinkle little goon, all your buddies will follow soon.” The Junkers, starting on a wide, circling patrol around the flotilla, would be sending a wireless signal to bring up others. Joe added, “I’ll lay aft, sir.”
He slid down the ladder to his position in action, in command of damage control, and Ward watched him make his way aft, holding on to the life lines already rigged for the promised worse weather to come. Even as it was, the sea bursting over Boston’s side swept her deck to cream around Krueger’s sea boots.
“Leader’s signalling, sir…Aircraft alert bearing oh-seven-five!”
Another one, the first now flying down the starboard side of the flotilla. Again they waited, swept the clouds with their glasses. The port side 20mm Oerlikons were training forward while those to starboard were following the first Junkers.
“Aircraft bearing red two-oh!” The lookout and Phillips the Guns bawled it together.
Ward’s glasses twitched around and he found twin specks, held them, then lowered the glasses. Two more 88s. Would they wait for more? No. The first 88 was circling around the back of the flotilla, just appearing now far off Boston’s port quarter and turning in—the silhouette changed from side to front view. The other two were coming on, making for the head of the strung line of ships.
