‘But my comrades.’
‘They’ll have to take their chances. First, we get that damned sub. Not in front of—’
‘You don’t have to tell me, old thing,’ Dickie interrupted him again. Without orders he swung the craft round and headed for the protection of the rear of the second column of fishing smacks. Going all out, the deck sloping sharply, throwing up a tremendous stern wave of creamy white threshing water, the Swordfish surged forwards at forty knots.
Within minutes she had slipped round the end of the second column.
‘Slow ahead,’ Smith ordered as they started to approach the spot where the Polish fishing smack was sinking rapidly. Everywhere the sea was littered with pathetic debris of a sunken vessel: casks, flat trays for fish, a chamber pot – and bodies. But not all were dead. Here and there an arm waved in hope and there were cries for help in Polish. Smith clenched his teeth and wished he could put his hands to his ears and drown out the pitiful sounds, but he couldn’t.
A Pole came into sight, completely naked, but black with smoke or burns so that his teeth gleamed a brilliant white against the black of his face. He seemed to recognise Chris for he cried, ‘Panu Baronska… Panu Baronska…’ waving one blackened arm from which strips of flesh hung, revealing the bright scarlet beneath. ‘Panu Baronska,’ he cried desperately and then the cry died on his lips as the craft sailed by, his face suddenly cold and resigned.
Next to Dickie, Chris bent her head and started to sob softly.
Seven
‘Damned shit!’ the Black Baron cursed, as the Tommy craft disappeared behind the second file of fishing boats, effectively protecting itself from the torpedo in number four tube.
‘Well, sir?’ Peters asked.
The Black Baron didn’t answer for a moment, then he snapped ‘Periscope down!’ He waited till it had slid into its tube before answering Peters’ urgent question. ‘There are two things I can do. Sink the Polacks, but that would give the Tommy enough time for finding us. Besides, that would leave us with only two “fish”. Risky. The other thing is we have it out with the Tommy.’ He gave that hideous smile of his. ‘There is another possibility. We could make a run for it back to base. But I don’t think we’ll do that, eh, old house?’
Peters smiled at the sudden warmth. The skipper wasn’t given to showing warmth save on the most exceptional occasions. So he responded with an eager, ‘Naturally not, sir. We’ll tackle the Tommy. What’s the drill?’
‘Tricks,’ the Black Baron said laconically. ‘Just tricks. Now let’s get on with it while the light holds up there. I think a storm is on its way.’
* * *
Now the Swordfish sped forwards, a bone in her teeth, to where Smith estimated the sub had fired the torpedo which had sunk the Polish fishing smack. All hands on deck were scouring the sea for the first tell-tale little white wash of a U-boat’s periscope. Ginger Kerrigan was poised behind the twin Lewis guns, while his running mate Billy Bennett braced himself behind the ten depth charges which the Swordfish carried, ready to launch them immediately the skipper commanded. All now was tense grim purposefulness, as on the horizon the storm clouds gathered and the first cold rain lashed the deck.
Suddenly, startlingly, Dickie Bird spotted what they sought. ‘There she is. One thousand… bearing green one-oh!’
Smith flung up his glasses. Dickie was right. The wash of a sub’s periscope. ‘Full ahead!’ he yelled excitedly, feeling the thrill of the chase surge through his body. Behind him Ginger swung his twin Lewis guns around, crying, ‘Lovely grub… Oh, lovely grub!’
Now the Swordfish skimmed through the water at forty knots, the engines going all out, her prow pointing to the sky, two great white arms of water flying high into the air behind her.
‘Ginger!’ Smith yelled above the roar of the engines, ‘Fire tracer at two second intervals to where you see that wash act as a marker!’
‘Ay ay, sir,’ Ginger replied happily and pressed his trigger. The drum revolved. The stink of burnt cordite filled the wet air. Tracer sped in a lethal white Morse flatly across the surface of the heaving green sea. White splashes of falling slugs started to spurt up above the wash of the periscope.
Smith turned round to Bennett, who was hanging on to the rail with one hand, the other poised on the firing lever of the depth charges. ‘Diamond pattern of four when I give the command, Billy,’ he cried.
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ Bennett yelled back. Veteran of the war that he was, the fat three-striper was also carried away by the thrill of the chase.
Now the distance between the white wash and the falling slugs and the Swordfish narrowed rapidly. Smith could see that the U-boat skipper had spotted them. The periscope was disappearing. In a moment it would be gone altogether. But he had marked the spot. And at two second intervals Ginger kept on firing his bursts of tracer.
‘Stand by, Billy!’ Bird gave the order now, as he swung the boat round in an elegant curve. He flashed a look at Smith. Smith nodded. ‘Pattern of four!’ Dickie yelled.
The fat cockney needed no urging. He pulled the lever. The round drum of high explosive reared high into the air at the stern with a burst of white smoke. It struck the surface of the sea. Next instant it was gone. Another followed, as Dickie swung the flying boat round and round again, water flushing high over her sides, as she heeled back and forth. And another… and another.
Dickie straightened out and flashed forwards at forty knots. Behind them the first depth charge exploded. The sea erupted. Crazy white water mushroomed upwards. Another followed. Suddenly all was noise and the flying wild water.
Again Dickie flung the Swordfish round, but this time he reduced speed while the lookouts, their oilskins dripping wet and gleaming, their faces crimson from the spray-lashing, craned their necks for the first signs they had been successful.
* * *
Down below, his face, hollowed out to a death’s head in the garish red light of silent running, Peters looked at the skipper. Everywhere gauges and dials had snapped under the impact of that horrifying bombardment. Leaks had sprung up everywhere and the men at the hydroplanes were sitting at the wheels, their feet submerged in seawater.
The Black Baron nodded.
Peters reacted at once. ‘Fire the tube,’ he commanded. There was the hiss of escaping compressed air, followed a moment later by a thick obscene belch of oil being let out of the tanks. He looked again at the Black Baron. But all the latter did was hold his finger to his lips for silence. Peters knew what that meant. All they could do now was to keep quiet and wait.
* * *
‘Sir,’ Ginger, perched higher than the lookouts, sang out. ‘To starboard, sir! Something’s coming up!’
Smith swung round, glasses raised to his eyes immediately. There was a sudden bubble on the heaving surface of the sea. It burst the next instant with a soft obscene belch. Thick black oil started to stain the water.
At the steering wheel, Dickie turned the Swordfish to starboard and started to head for the oil, slowly and cautiously.
Now other objects were beginning to float to the surface – a soaked jacket, what looked like a crate for holding tomatoes, a couple of bottles bobbing up and down in the water, a nailed seaboot of the kind the Germans called an ‘altona’.
At the stern a happy Billy Bennett called, ‘Time to splice the mainbrace, sir?’ It had always been the custom in the Swordfish to issue an extra ration of rum when they had made a kill.
‘No Nelson’s blood just yet, Billy,’ Smith answered, face thoughtful. ‘Not till we’re quite sure.’ He focused his glasses again on the floating objects. Why weren’t there any bodies, he asked himself.
‘What do you think, Smithie?’ Dickie asked.
‘Don’t know. You know the tricks the Huns played in the last show?’
‘You think they’re up to something, old bean?’
Smith shrugged.
Chris, her face still stained with tears, her eyes red, said, her accent more pronounced than norma
l, ‘What is that supposed to mean, Lieutenant Smith?’
He noticed the use of his rank and felt she was making her dislike quite clear. But he didn’t mention it. Instead he said, ‘The Boche, during the last business, used to play all sorts of tricks with subhunters. One of them was to swill out oil from the U-boat’s tanks and a few odd bits of clothing. What you have to look for when a boat has really been hit is bodies.’ He shrugged easily. ‘Where are the bodies?’
She looked at the floating debris, as if she were searching for bodies among it. Then she said, ‘Well, what do you do?’
‘Easy. We play tricks on them. The Hun has no monopoly on dirty tricks, you know.’
‘Such as, Lieutenant?’
There it was again. Smith told himself. His rank. ‘Well, for starters, let us pretend we’ve bought their dodge. We turn about and sound our siren. The signal we’ve had a kill. Sound carries a long way under water, especially if the sub’s close, which I suspect it is at this moment. All right, Dickie, you know what to do.’
‘Right you are, old bean,’ Dickie replied cheerfully and swung the Swordfish around effortlessly. He pressed the button and the siren gave off its shrill hooting, which made Chris jump. At half speed they appeared to be on their way back to the little convoy, where on the decks of the smacks, the suddenly animated – and relieved – Poles had begun to cheer, thinking that their escort really had destroyed the German submarine.
Chris looked expectantly at Smith, but he continued to stare ahead at the cheering Poles, as if she were not there. She started to sob again…
* * *
The Black Baron ordered the periscope lowered swiftly and turning to the expectant crew said urgently, ‘They’ve fallen for it! They think they’ve sunk us. Up there they’re cheering their stupid heads off. Grossartig!’ He slapped his hands together in delight like a child who had just been given an expensive present.
‘Now, sir?’ Peters asked.
‘Now we go in for the kill. No more cat and mouse. Number One, full ahead!’
‘Full ahead it is, sir.’ Peters reacted enthusiastically. Once this business was over it would be Fehmarn and wine, women and song. His heart leapt at the thought. A bath, a change of clothing and a woman. That was worth fighting for. Inside his head a hard, cynical little voice asked, ‘Or dying for?’ But he ignored that voice of doom.
At seven knots the U-23 set off for the convoy. Up above, the wind rose even more. A gale was beginning to blow and the wind struck the little ships like a bludgeon. Every timber, every rivet howled with the strain. The tops of the waves were whipped to a white fury. Spume flew through the air. As the Black Baron cautiously raised his periscope just above the heaving, tossing surface, he told himself the weather was in his favour. It was ideal for the attacker. Visibility was so reduced now that the Tommy would have to be right on top of him to spot the little wave the raised periscope made as the U-23 came in for the kill.
But the Black Baron was taking no chances. ‘Prepare one and two tubes,’ he called to the torpedo hands. It was worth wasting two ‘fish’, if he could knock the Tommy escort out. The rest could be done with the deck gun.
‘One ready… two ready, sir,’ the harsh cries came back.
Now the U-23 was just a kilometre from the little convoy. With the periscope just above the surface, the image obscured time and time again by the leaping wild waves, the Black Baron could see the Polacks were fighting in vain to keep proper convoy distance from one another. Driven by the raging storm, they were constantly being packed together like sheep entering a pen: a perfect target for his deck gunners, once he had dealt with the damned Tommy escort. But where was the Tommy? Again he whirled the periscope through a 180-degree arc, turning up the intensifier to make sighting easier. But he couldn’t make her out. Was she hiding in the middle of the convoy now? The fishing smacks were huddled so close together in the heavy, heaving sea that it would be almost impossible to make out her shape among them.
‘Number One,’ he said urgently. ‘Over here. Quick!’
‘Sir.’
Peters turned his battered cap back to front and bending, squinted through the periscope. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he snapped, knowing without being told what the skipper wanted him to find. ‘Not in sight.’
‘Great crap on the Christmas Tree!’ the Black Baron interrupted him with a roar. ‘I know where the bastard has gone.’ He pushed Peters to one side and grabbed the handles of the periscope. With a gasp and heave of his shoulder muscles he swung the periscope round in a 360-degree angle. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. He had been right. The Tommy hadn’t been taken in by the old trick. He had appeared to have headed back to the convoy and then he had swung round and sailed at top speed to get behind where the oil slick had appeared on the surface. Now the motor torpedo boat was coming at them at full lick, a great white bone in her teeth. She was only a matter of a couple of hundred metres away. ‘Prepare for depth charges!’ the Black Baron shrieked and then, ‘Down periscope.’
Not a moment too soon. There was a dull boom. Next moment a giant fist buffeted the U-23. Glass splintered. Water, freezing cold, poured into the bulkhead. The lights went out. A man shrieked in pain. ‘Emergency lighting!’ the Black Baron yelled as men sought to stand on their feet as the boat heeled back and forth under that fearsome impact.
The red lights flashed on again in the same instant that the U-23 was struck again. Peters was slammed against the bulkhead by the force of the explosion so close by. He yelped with agony as his nose struck the steel wall and broke. Blood arced from it in a scarlet jet.
Another explosion hit the U-23. Its bow rose alarmingly, sending men flying off their feet everywhere. In an instant all was confusion, as men cursed and fought to get up, mugs and plates rained down from the galley, and the great salamis and sides of salt bacon they kept suspended from the roof came flying the length of the boat.
The Black Baron struggled to his feet. The altimeter was rising. They were going up! Desperately the men at the hydroplanes, whirling their wheel, the sweat blackening their singlets, attempted to keep her down. To no avail. At a crazy angle, bow first, the U-23 was rising inexorably to the surface.
The Black Baron pulled himself together. ‘Deck gun crew ready!’ he yelled above the noise. ‘Tubes five and six ready… Come on now, los ready for action stations!’
Peters shook his head. The scene of chaos and confusion came back into focus once more. Groggily, he took out his handkerchief and wiped the thick clots of blood which had formed in his nostrils. ‘I’ll take over the deck gun crew, skipper,’ he said thickly.
‘Capital fellow!’ the Black Baron cried and grabbed for his own service pistol which he always kept hanging near the periscope. ‘Break out the firearms, chief petty officer,’ he cried to grizzled old CPO Dietz, the oldest man in the crew, who had actually fought with the marine contingent during the Boxer Rebellion in China twenty years before.
Dietz spat out the wad of chewing tobacco he always kept tucked into his sunken unshaven right cheek, and growled in that schnapps-thickened voice of his, ‘Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.’
The next instant the crippled U-23 broke the surface, its superstructure swaying back and forth as the full force of the wind struck it.
* * *
Smith reacted immediately. ‘Bearing green three-oh,’ he bellowed above the howl of the wind. ‘Sub… Range one thousand… deflection zero!’
On the monkey island just behind him, Ginger squeezed the trigger of his twin Lewis guns. The nozzles spat fire as the ammunition drums raced round and round. Tracer bounced off the submarine’s conning tower like glowing ping-pong balls. The first of the German gun crew, hauling himself over the top of the tower, flung up his arms in a dramatic gesture and flopped there half hanging out of the tower, dead or seriously wounded.
At the quick-firer, Billy Bennett and another rating began pounding the stricken U-boat with their shells. In an instant the sides of the submarine were pock-marked a brig
ht gleaming silver as it wallowed in the waves seemingly helpless.
But Smith knew that wasn’t the case. Already the German crew were rallying. They had whipped off the tarpaulin from the deck gun and under the command of an officer, or so it seemed, were frantically loading their first shell.
Crackl The gun spat scarlet flame. At the controls Dickie reacted like a virtuoso. He swung the wheel hard to port. The Swordfish reeled wildly. Ginger yelled with alarm as the little mast almost touched the water. But that first shell passed right over the craft and landed in the water to their rear some fifty yards away.
‘Ranging in!’ Smith cried above the racket, as Ginger began peppering the U-boat’s bridge with bullets. ‘Keep your eyes skinned, Dickie!’
‘Like tinned tomatoes,’ he yelled back with a grin.
Now the two ships were on a collision course. There was no backing out, Smith knew that. He could well imagine the Huns below deck, sweating and heaving to get their torpedoes into position for firing. It’d be a matter of seconds before the deadly ‘fish’ came flashing their way. Before that he had to get closer. Then she wouldn’t dare attempt to torpedo the Swordfish. It would be too dangerous for the U-boat itself. ‘Give her full throttle, Dickie!’ he shrieked.
Too late. With a start Smith saw the tell-tale flurry of bubbles from the crippled sub’s stern. He was releasing her aft torpedoes, two of them by the look of it. ‘Dickie – “fish”!’ he yelled a warning.
Dickie reacted like the veteran he was. He swung the wheel to port. A moment later to starboard. The first torpedo hissed by harmlessly. Dickie did the same again. Smith felt a cold finger of fear trace its way down the centre of his spine. The second ‘fish’ was heading straight for them. Could Dickie pull it off this time?
The Baltic Run Page 14