Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  The Old Man had repeated, ‘All right, Holt.’ Meaning he had the weight. Waller was there too, reflection of the burning Norwegian in all their faces – from a mile and a half away, floating inferno passing between the Blackheddon Hills and the one with the peculiar name – Maglemosian – then on the far side of the Aurelia’s blocky silhouette, at that range toylike, miniature, but still clear, straight-edged, with the brilliance behind her, leaving her or she leaving it – the tanker not so plainly ship-shaped now, more a bonfire on what could have been black sewage, the flames so much lower than they had been that in the circle of his glasses it looked more like an acre or two of the ocean itself on fire.

  Could be, too. Convoy pushing on, ships in the columns that had been disrupted no doubt making efforts to regain station, but in the course of it all over the place, at any rate in that quarter. U-boat or boats still in amongst them somewhere, or out of it for the moment while deciding on their next line or lines of attack? All initiative entirely in their bloody hands. He was at the chart table with its canvas surround pulled together to allow for a light over the chart itself: pencilling on a DR position for the Norwegian. Come dawn, one might be sent back: not that there could have been survivors in that inferno. Couldn’t have launched boats: wouldn’t have been time, even if any of them could have lived long enough to do it or the boats not gone up in flames right at the start – as they would have, the way that had been. Smashed into kindling. Marking the time of it, 0255, and checking again on the convoy plan, wondering about the direction of the attack, where the bastard might have sprung from. Toss-up, though, especially as one hadn’t seen the actual hit, impact of the torpedo either port or starboard side, only the flash and explosion then vertical leap of fire. Most likely, though, it would have come in from that starboard side and close to the van – looking for a tanker, and that one the first he’d come across. There were two others in the third rank, and if the German had come in the other way he’d more likely have picked on one of them, the San Marino or the Anglo Crescent, or coming up from astern might have gone for the British Destiny in rank four astern the San Marino.

  Imagining it. Moving at any speed, in the prevailing near-calm sea-state an attacker’s wake or bow-wave would surely catch some lookout’s eye? Even with the boat trimmed down so that not much more than the conning-tower would be visible, it would still be carving that white trail. Except that from ahead it might more or less just drift in?

  Alternatively, coming up from astern, have the nerve and skill to pass so close to ships in column that the submarine would be virtually in water already whitened?

  Explosion – torpedo hit. Same underwater tonk you’d heard a few times in the outward convoy. Not close, but still unmistakable. So this was it now – what you’d hoped might be avoidable, pretending you knew better than to entertain such hopes but still nursing them in your heart of hearts. As likely as not, every man on board doing that. In his case, less on his own account than Julia’s, his own desperation on her account: seeing this now as the plain and total truth which as long as she lived he’d never let on about – his own damn business in every sense, no-one else’s. He was in the forefront of the bridge now – there’d been a bark from the Old Man of ‘Port column there!’ – looking in that direction for either a distress rocket or a red light at a masthead. Red lights had been discussed at the conference as an alternative to rockets, of which the primary purpose was to alert escorting destroyers, sloops, corvettes, etc., which could be at more or less any distance around the convoy, to the fact there’d been a casualty; so when you had no escort, a red light at the masthead would be as much as you’d need, letting your neighbours know so they’d steer clear of you as you dropped astern or swung off course, whatever.

  Distress rocket streaking up – closer than he’d expected. The ship ahead of Quilla was the Mount Ararat, on her port beam was the Faraday James, and outside the Faraday the Kelvin something-or-other. Kelvin Drummond. As in Bulldog, Sapper’s hero. She was in the outer column, and was the victim this time. There was a haze around her image in the lenses of his glasses that would be the falling saltwater rain from the spout of the torpedo hit, and she seemed to have turned out to port. Which figured: the French Belle Isle astern of her would have starboard wheel on, one might guess, would be closing in on the Sir George – for whom one needed to keep an eye out now in case she put her helm over.

  Old Man doing that, for sure. And Waller had gone out into the port wing for some reason. Old Man having taken over, of course, one wasn’t much more than a spectator here. But thinking of the Belle Isle and outer columns and general vulnerability, Quilla’s stern and starboard quarter – starboard side, even – were very much open to infiltration from astern. There were lookouts in the bridge-wings, of course, and down aft on the gun-deck quite a few pairs of eyes that should be well and truly – if Merriman and Patterson were keeping them up to it.

  ‘All right if I pay a visit aft, sir?’

  ‘Uh?’ Then a similarly loud grunt signifying ‘yes’.

  The Kelvin Drummond was away back on the quarter, down by the bows – one might hope getting boats away, but at the distance couldn’t make out that much detail. Pausing for a binocular sweep of this whole sector, and drawing blank. Another few seconds’ study of the Drummond then: she didn’t seem any lower in the water than she’d been two minutes ago. Maybe she’d float, would surely have had time to lower her boats. Candidates for rescue in the morning, maybe – if other factors permitted any such attempt. If she did remain afloat and a U-boat with a torpedo to spare came across her, for instance. But there’d still be men in boats to rescue. If the rescue ship herself made it, of course. He went down the port-side ladder to the boat-deck, had a word with Dixon and Elliot who were standing by the snowflake rocket apparatus, and with lowerers at the boats who were doubling as lookouts, then on down to the main deck aft. The gun’s crew deserved a visit, he thought, were his own responsibility in any case. Merriman was to all intents and purposes in charge back there, as had been arranged a few weeks ago, although Andy had warned him recently – after that last practice shoot – ‘Don’t feel obliged to throw your weight about. We’re putting you here for spotting fall of shot, mostly – if ever we’re into that kind of action – but Patterson’s a good hand, knows his stuff, and the same goes for Pettigrew. OK?’

  Merriman had a head on his shoulders – he’d handle it all right. Was aware that a cadet was not an officer, even if in some circumstances he might be called upon to function like one, and therefore needed to watch his step.

  On the gun-deck now: wondering if the wind might be coming up a little. Patterson had greeted him with a shout of, ‘Buggers turning nasty again, sir’, to which he’d replied, ‘Never did think they were nice.’ Merriman had somehow equipped himself with binoculars, he noticed. Pettigrew remarking – shouting, as was necessary to be heard: even in comparatively calm conditions Quilla’s progress wasn’t quiet, exactly – ‘Takes you back, don’t it – four weeks, darned near, could’a been like yesterday.’ Another of them – either Fox or Stone – commented that this was a slow start compared to what that little lot had been. ‘What was the score this far – three, was it? In what – forty-five minutes, a bloody hour, even? Five got their packets in the hour that night, uh?’ He wasn’t addressing Andy particularly, only like his mates adopting strange ways of keeping spirits up. Andy agreeing with him anyway, ‘Five the first night, wasn’t it, seven the night after.’

  ‘Us being a lucky ship, an’all.’

  Pettigrew again, raising an easy laugh – obviously at Andy’s expense, that theory he’d aired. And let them laugh – good that they’d remembered it, might even believe in it, or half-believe. Especially as it might prove true, he thought. He asked Merriman, ‘Where’d you get the binocs?’

  ‘Fourth engineer, Dan Hobbs, sir. Paid five bob for ’em in a pub in Birkenhead, he said.’

  ‘Do they work? Lenses in ’em, and everything?’
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br />   More amusement – in the course of which the Sir George was hit. Familiar thump of a semi-drowned explosion, black plume of salt water lifting like Nelson’s Column – well, seemingly, at a distance of 900 or 1,000 yards – this side of her, abreast about four or five hold. You gritted your teeth: knowing some would have died in that warhead’s explosion, others be drowning in these ensuing moments. Both Andy and Merriman initially with their glasses on her, then shifting to search the sea astern and on that quarter. The Sir George, a smartly modern refrigerated motor vessel crammed with food for the British populace, had lost all her way and tilted stern-down so steeply and fast that one guessed the hit might have ruptured both numbers four and five, flooding both, in which case she was a gonner for sure.

  And Quilla now pretty well on her own. Really, very much exposed, had better be a lucky ship. Although the little frog, the Belle Isle, now Quilla’s nearest companion on that side, was just as much on her own. All this without a glimpse of any bloody U-boat: although this one could only have fired from somewhere not far from Quilla’s stern – on which at the time this crew had been exchanging pleasantries, pretending they weren’t wondering how long before they got it. Pettigrew in fact as a change from joking, now cursing foully and luridly for about half a minute, Patterson advising him, ‘Save it, ’Arry, there’ll be more…’

  You could bet there would be. Andy and Merriman searching the slightly broken sea astern and on the quarters and starboard beam, others doing the same all round – bare-eyed, no glasses, which since any U-boats infiltrating could show up between columns at virtually point-blank range could well be as good or better than the narrower searching with binoculars. Resting his own effort for a moment on what he knew to be as much as was left of the Sir George, now barely visible even with the glasses’ aid – well back astern, the size of a squashed fly, blacker than the surrounding dark and as far as one could interpret its shape – well, vertical – final move imminent, namely to slide under. Binocular search resuming – having seen a few do that and knowing how it felt to watch it, visualising even though one tried not to the subsequent descent through – oh, a thousand fathoms maybe, hereabouts – above all, hoping to God they’d have got boats away, and men into them…

  On which subject, with the Aurelia in his glasses now, another small dark-grey shape all of 3,000 yards on the beam but oddly distinct at this moment, with the intervening mile and a half of ocean surely livelier than it had been half an hour ago – wind coming up a little, but still seemingly empty. Thoughts on the Sir George’s and other ships’ boats, and that come first light – well, he’d marked on the chart where the Brechonswold had been when she’d got hers, and if Quilla or Aurelia were sent back on a rescue mission at first light or soon after, the Old Man would only have to set a course for that position, searching for survivors along the way. But also – an issue one had meant to work out earlier, a question of distances and the time available – the Brechonswold had been torpedoed at nine p.m., and if you started back at, say, six a.m., you’d have come around ninety miles and have maybe twelve hours of daylight to get there and back: so, wouldn’t cover even half that distance, with stops for rescue operations included and being bound to rejoin by dusk. That was the answer – training his glasses slowly and steadily clockwise around Quilla’s stern and up her port quarter – the best you could hope for would be to scour through about half the night’s trail of wreckage. And that, only if—

  Belle Isle. He had the glasses on her when she went up. Flame, this time, an upward streak of brilliance simultaneous with the sound – brilliance expanding and growing skyward, thunderous explosion in it, through it. She was engulfed in fire, end to end and way above masthead-height, internal explosions then with her hatch-covers soaring, blazing, blown off by the eruptions in her guts.

  Greenish tinge to the flames now. Chemicals? Ammunition? Cased petrol in her?

  ‘Holy cow!’

  ‘God bloody help us…’

  ‘Help them, more like!’

  ‘There’s no bugger alive in that, mate!’

  ‘Yeah, well – no. Christ almighty…’

  You could almost have read a newspaper by the light of her. Or the Book of Common Prayer, he thought. Meanwhile ploughing on because there wasn’t a damn thing else you had to do or could do. Plodding on, might say, because that was how it felt – donkey-fashion, beast of burden stuff – and actually what you were bloody well for.

  With whatever you had inside you.

  Merriman asked him, ‘Emergency turn might help, would you say, sir?’

  ‘Hardly lose ’em when they’re in such close touch, would it.’

  ‘Suppose not. No.’ Then: ‘Fired from her other side, I suppose.’

  ‘Not sure. Blinding…’

  Still was, if you put your glasses on it – burning hulk still burning, back on the quarter. Not as fiercely as she had been, but still burning. Those explosions – you’d have thought she’d have blown her sides out, but she looked to be still highish in the water. There’d be no boats, no halyards or rigging, no paint on her anywhere above the waterline – and no frogs, at least not live ones. Floating hulk, was all, wouldn’t board her if you came across her in the morning; the Royal Navy’d punch a few holes in her waterline, was all.

  If they happened to turn up at some stage. Or came across her later.

  Meanwhile, Quilla was on her own: must have the Mount Ararat ahead of her but nothing on either side. She’d have been well illuminated to any happily watching U-boat too, at the height of that, the newspaper-reading stage. He’d had his glasses up again for several minutes now – searching, almost expecting the damn thing to come for Quilla next. Merriman searching, too. And the gun’s crew… But the three ships who’d comprised what you might call the bottom-left corner of this convoy were all gone. Gun’s crew still discussing the situation, agreeing that it was worse than last time, much worse: Bayliss almost screaming, in that plaintive tone of his, ‘Don’t stand a fuckin’ chance, do we?’, and Patterson growling, ‘Course we do, you stupid ullage!’

  ‘Well, Jesus, look—’

  ‘Shut up, Bayliss.’ Andy told him, ‘Patterson’s right, we stand as good a chance as anyone, maybe better. Captain’ll shift us over, is my guess – to column four. Shut your face now, keep it shut!’

  He thought the Old Man would be bound to do that, rather than stay here isolated and really extremely vulnerable, an obvious, easy target. He’d edge her over – steer five or ten degrees to starboard and come up a few revs to pass through the wake of the Baron Delamore and end up astern of the Delagoa Bay, with the Aurelia then on the beam to starboard.

  And Bayliss could swap jobs with one of the galley-boys, Stephens or Mclver, in the ammo chain below. Not now, at the height of things, but when this little lot was over.

  Merriman interrupted his looking-out a few minutes later: ‘Believe we’ve altered to starboard, couple of points…’

  He’d seen the bend in her wake, apparently. Spoken a bit soon, though, the turn was still in progress – more like four points now, forty-five degrees: Old Man not only shifting station but moving to get there quickly, would need to increase by more than a few turns, more likely by a couple of knots, to maintain the set distance astern while shifting some twelve or fifteen hundred yards to starboard. Which was fine: not only great minds thinking alike, but would feel a lot more comfortable when you got there. Having a neighbour half a mile on your beam was no guarantee of safety, but being completely on one’s own as she was now might almost guarantee being picked off. Glasses up again now, searching to starboard where the bastard very well might be, and remembering the high-octane.

  There was a stippling of white on the moving surface now, the beginnings of a chop that could only be to the enemy’s advantage.

  Making for even happier Huns.

  And screeching suddenly from Bayliss: ‘U-boat! Christ – truly is, bloody U-boat!’

  Being Bayliss, one didn’t immediately take
him seriously. He was on the port side of this raised steel deck, well clear of the gun, outside and for’ard of its shield’s outer edge. Andy joining him there and by luck getting his glasses straight on to it – glittering black object in a surround of broken white, wouldn’t have been in sight from here if it hadn’t been for Quilla’s four-point turn to starboard. Not in the least helpful from the point of view of gunnery – the gun being trainable only on after bearings – but there all the same, the enemy, the killer. He yelled to Hardy – sight-setter, in the telephone headset – ‘Tell the bridge U-boat two points on the port bow, three or four hundred yards!’

  Hardy had to buzz them first, get someone on the line. Waller probably. Andy keeping it centred in his glasses: stern-on, foam streaming back, going flat out he guessed, as much like a motor torpedo-boat as a submarine – which was how Bayliss had happened to spot it, had his eye caught by the disturbance. Flat out, up between columns four and five…

  ‘U-boat two points on the port bow, sir, it’s—’

  He’d been interrupted. ‘Aye, sir. Aye.’ Voice up then, looking towards Andy. ‘They’re on it. Mr Waller said they’re—’

  Gunshot-like departure of a rocket. Snowflake: the scorching sound of its ascent. To light up the U-boat, obviously, which – also obviously – they would have seen first, from the bridge or bridge-wing, bloody should have. Snowflake opening now way up ahead, brilliant great chandelier-like thing high above and beyond the sudden black silhouette of mainmast, funnel and bridge upper-works, and lighting a wide acreage of sea and ships and the U-boat’s conning-tower and – oh, periscope standards, he supposed – shining glassy-black under the flood of light, pretty well central to the lit-up area – much more by chance than skill, since it would have been Elliot and Dixon who’d fired it off, simply aiming the thing slightly forward and jerking the lanyard that fired it. But there it was, one brilliantly illuminated U-boat, with the Baron Delamore to the left and the Delagoa Bay right, in sight from this point solely because of the course currently being steered. Might be going for the tankers again, he guessed: with a choice of three, nearest being the Delagoa Bay’s next-ahead; it would be coming up on that one’s port quarter, and she – the tanker – would have a gun on her stern, twelve-pounder like this one, or a four-inch, surely to God in that snowflake’s light, which from here was actually blinding, you had to shield your eyes.