H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  * * * * *

  Chesnaye watched the paling edge of the eastern horizon and rubbed his face briskly with his palms. Sleep seemed to be dragging him down, and he knew that if he did not resist the temptation to sit on the bridge chair he was done for. He heard a petty officer reporting to Fox: ‘The ammunition is unloaded, sir. We’ve got all hands on the other stores now.’

  Fox sounded entirely spent. ‘Very well. Get the Buffer’s party to shift that tinned food from aft first. It’ll give the stretcher bearers more room to breathe when they haul the wounded aboard.’

  Chesnaye leaned against the cool plating. ‘Has the Doc got everything sorted out down there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There are two hundred wounded expected, mostly stretcher cases. They’re going in the wardroom, the petty officers’ quarters and the forrard mess deck. We’ll keep the lower decks clear of wounded for the moment. I imagine one lot of ladders is enough to navigate if you’ve got a few splinters in your guts!’

  Chesnaye smiled. ‘I agree. I hope we can give them a quiet passage.’

  ‘Me too.’ Fox sniffed the air. ‘Half an hour and we’ll be kind of naked out here!’

  Chesnaye rose on his toes and peered down at the wreck alongside. Already he could see the ship’s outline more clearly, and the antlike activity back and forth across the upper deck. He felt the dryness in his throat and tried to control the urge to go below and hurry the men along.

  It was not enough to get rid of the petrol and the ammunition. There was still the ship, and the real danger which lay beyond the dawn light.

  ‘Have hands stationed at all wires and springs, Pilot. And make sure the Chief is kept informed of the exact position, so that he can crack on speed at short notice.’

  ‘I’ve done that, sir.’

  ‘Good. This must be a bloody awful place to defend.’

  Fox grunted. ‘Brings back a few memories does it, sir?’

  ‘A few. I never expected I should see this sort of warfare again.’

  ‘Too little too late.’ Fox was yawning in spite of his efforts to stop himself. ‘Always the bloody same!’

  The hull shuddered slightly as a landing craft came along the unoccupied side. There was the clatter of a derrick and some fierce shouting.

  White against the black water and dull steel Chesnaye could see the patchwork of bandages and could sense the suffering. With a sudden impulse he swung himself on to the ladder and began to descend. ‘Take over, Pilot. I’ll not be far away.’

  He joined Erskine by the guard-rail and watched in silence as the wounded soldiers were swayed aboard. Many willing hands reached out to steady them, to ease the pain on the last journey.

  A harassed medical orderly, his steel helmet dented and scarred, held up his hand. ‘’Ere, stop lowerin’. Let this one down ’ere!’ Skilfully the seamen manipulated the guys so that the pinioned soldier could be laid on the deck. The orderly knelt down, his fingers busy with the bandages. Half to himself he said: ‘Shouldn’t ’ave sent ’im. ’E’s done for.’ He stood up as another batch of wounded were heaved over the rail, and then turned quickly towards Chesnaye. ‘’Ere, mate! Keep an eye on this bloke for a tick!’

  Erskine stepped forward to speak, but Chesnaye shook his head. ‘All right, John, you can forget the protocol!’ Then he stooped down and peered at the soldier’s face, which suddenly seemed so small and shrunken. The man stared with fixed glassy eyes at Chesnaye’s oak-leaved cap, so that for a few seconds he appeared to be dead. Then his hand moved from the stretcher and reached out vaguely.

  ‘Where am I?’

  Chesnaye took the soldier’s hand in his own. It was ice cold. Like Pickles’ hand had been. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’

  The soldier coughed weakly. ‘The Navy. The bloody Navy. Never thought I’d see you lot again.’

  Chesnaye watched the man’s life ebbing away with each feeble pump of his heart. Who was this anonymous man? What had his sacrifice meant?

  The soldier spoke with sudden clarity, ‘It’ll be all green in Dorset now, I expect?’

  Chesnaye nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘A real picture. I wanted so much to . . .’ Then his hand tightened on Chesnaye’s and he was dead.

  A petty officer said harshly, ‘Two more boats comin’ alongside, sir!’

  Erskine looked swiftly at Chesnaye’s kneeling figure. ‘Shall we tell them to stand off, sir? We should give ourselves more sea room!’

  ‘Carry on with the loading, John.’ Chesnaye stood up and walked back towards the bridge. ‘We’ll slip when we’ve taken on the last available man!’

  Erskine watched him go, his mind torn apart with emotions. All at once he felt that he hated the unsteady, groaning figures who were coming aboard with such maddening slowness. Each man represented precious minutes. Each minute brought more light to the harbour and the desert beyond.

  He found, too, that he hated Chesnaye for refusing to listen. For that and many other reasons which he could no longer define. He had become a symbol, an outlet for all his pent-up anxieties. Yet he knew, too, that all this was inevitable, just as he understood with sudden clarity that he was afraid.

  * * * * *

  Daylight showed the vast undulating rollers of the desert and the pitiful shambles which had once been a dusty and untroubled town. The harbour itself was littered with wrecks, some only marked by a solitary masthead, others by listing bridges and bomb-scarred superstructures.

  With the pale light came the first bombardment, probing and slow at first, and then with the fierceness of a tornado. There were few good houses left to fall, so that the screaming high-explosives ploughed into the rubble and churned the torn remains into a living ferment.

  Alongside the wreck the Saracen still lay imprisoned by her mooring wires, her decks littered with broken packing cases and discarded equipment. One landing craft was alongside, and the tired seamen worked in a living chain to carry or guide the last of the wounded aboard.

  Erskine ducked involuntarily as a shell exploded in the centre of the harbour and sent a stream of splinters whining overhead. The landing craft sidled clear, her hold for once empty.

  Erskine broke into a run, but skidded to a halt as the tannoy speaker blared, ‘Clear the upper deck, stand by to slip!’ He stared uncomprehendingly as the big turret began to swing slightly to starboard, the twin guns lifting with purposeful menace. Erskine could not believe his eyes. Surely Chesnaye was not going to open fire! The enemy did not know of the Saracen’s presence as yet, otherwise he would soon have called upon his dive-bombers. Yet Chesnaye intended to betray his presence, to throw away those last vital moments. He had ordered the upper deck cleared so that the guns could blast away the moment the monitor was under way. The last of the seamen were already leaping from the wreck alongside, and Erskine could see the men by the mooring wires already slackening off and getting ready to slip.

  A trail of dark smoke blossomed from the funnel, and beneath his feet Erskine could feel the impatient rumble of engines. From the bridge a voice echoed through a megaphone. ‘Get those men aboard!’ The last of the seamen from the wreck looked up, startled, and then jumped for the guard-rails.

  Erskine climbed rapidly to the bridge where Chesnaye was hanging impatiently over the screen, a megaphone in his hand. ‘All working parties aboard, sir. Boats hoisted and secure. Ready to proceed.’ The words dropped from Erskine’s mouth as he watched Chesnaye signalling vigorously to the side party.

  ‘Good. Let go aft. Slow ahead port!’ Chesnaye walked briskly to the front of the bridge to watch as the monitor moved cautiously ahead and nudged her weight against the one spring which held her to the wreck. Using one engine the Saracen pushed until the wire was bar-taut, until her stem began to swing slowly away from the listing ship.

  ‘Stop port! Let go forrard!’ Chesnaye’s red-rimmed eyes were feverishly bright.

  A rating with a handset looked across at him. ‘All gone forrard, sir!’

  Chesn
aye seemed to force himself to stand quietly in the forefront of the bridge, his shoulders squared against the bright blue sky. ‘Slow astern together!’

  Very slowly the monitor gathered way, her rounded stern pushing through the oil and scum which covered the harbour in a fine web. Overhead the director squeaked on its mounting as McGowan and his plotters adjusted their sights and weighed up their target.

  Chesnaye said coldly, ‘When we pass the last wreck we can open fire.’

  Erskine felt unsteady. So that was why they were leaving sternfirst. Chesnaye had every intention of using the guns to best advantage. He seemed to have thrown reason to the winds.

  Chesnaye peered astern, his cap tilted to shut out the mocking glare from the water. The turret was still swinging, the guns rising towards the sun. He forced himself to watch the ship’s slow passage between two sunken ships, his mouth a tight line. ‘Starboard ten. Midships!’ He held his breath as the monitor’s fat flank almost brushed a forlorn mast which still had a tattered flag trailing across the unmoving water. Soon now. He could still feel the soldier’s cold hand and he moved his fingers with sudden anger.

  A light stabbed from amongst the shattered town, like sunlight reflecting from a telescope. He heard a signalman spelling out the signal, and then Laidlaw called, ‘They say “good luck”, sir!’ The light flashed again, even as a brown shell-burst exploded beneath a last defiant minaret. ‘And “Many thanks”!’

  Chesnaye kept his eyes on the stone breakwater. ‘Tell them “It was all part of the service!”’

  Surprisingly, a man laughed, and another lifted his cap to wave at the long line of sun-dappled ruins.

  The breakwater sidled past, and a small wave-crest surged eagerly beneath the Saracen’s counter.

  Chesnaye lifted his glasses and looked towards the shell. bursts and listened to the distant chatter of machine-guns. Something stirred inside him like an old memory, and he found the he was momentarily able to forget the ship’s nakedness and the open sea which awaited him.

  He turned and met Erskine’s stare and the watchful silence which seemed to hang over the bridge.

  Almost challengingly he said, ‘Stop engines.’ And as the rumble died away, ‘Open fire!’

  5

  Stuka

  In spite of the steady breeze the air was without life, and seemed almost too hot to breathe. The watchkeepers stood listless and heavy, each man careful to keep his body clear of the steel plates and shimmering guns as the sun ground down on their solitary ship. A fine blue haze hid the horizon and added to the sense of complete isolation, and a million tiny mirrors danced on the flat water to add further to the discomfort of the lookouts.

  Chesnaye slumped in his chair, forcing himself to remain still as a thin stream of sweat moved down his spine. His clothes felt rough and sodden, so that even taking a breath became sheer discomfort.

  The bridge throbbed to the tune of the two engines which in spite of all else maintained a steady six and a half knots, and made the small bow wave gurgle cheerfully around the ship’s stem. On the decks nothing moved, although Chesnaye knew without looking that the ship’s company was at Action Stations. Men were relieved in small batches to enjoy brief respite in the messdecks, or to help tend the long lines of army wounded. Between decks there was a smell of pain, so that the seamen were soon back on deck, as if uneasy at what they had seen.

  Chesnaye glanced at his watch. Five hours since the short bombardment and their departure from Tobruk. It still seemed incredible that nothing more had happened. The shoreline had faded into the morning mist and the sun had risen high as if to pin them down on this pitiless sea. But nothing happened.

  At first he had been almost unable to remain still under the mounting tension. Now, with each cheerful turn of the screws, he found a few moments to hope. In spite of Erskine’s doubt and open resentment, the watchful eyes of the others and the very real fear of his own abilities, Chesnaye could feel a glimmer of pleasure, even pride.

  A bosun’s mate placed an enamel mug at his elbow. ‘Lemon juice, sir.’ Chesnaye nodded and sipped it gratefully. His eyes felt raw and gummed with fatigue, and any distraction, no matter how small, helped to hold him together.

  As he sipped at the already warm liquid he glanced at the bridge party. The Officer of the Watch, Fox, and his assistant, Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie, were standing elbow to elbow on the central gratings, their reddened faces turned to either bow as they took occasional sweeps of the horizon with their glasses. Two bosun’s mates and a messenger stood at the rear by the charthouse entrance, eyes heavy and listless, waiting like terriers to pass the word of their master. Just to the rear of the bridge Chesnaye could see the slim Oerlikon barrels pointing skywards, the gunners already strapped in position, their half-naked bodies deeply tanned and immune to the probing rays.

  McGowan would be at his station, keeping a watchful eye on the ship’s defences, while his mind was no doubt still thinking of the short attack on the German positions.

  It had been quick, savage and breathtaking. While the Saracen pitched easily on the small harbour swell the calm morning air had been torn apart by her massive onslaught. To the German gunners beyond the battered town it must have been even more of a shock. Used to fighting artillery duels with guns of their own calibre, and confident that the Tobruk fortress was almost ready to capitulate, the sudden thunder from the harbour must have seemed unreal. Unreal perhaps until the great fifteen-inch shells had begun to fall around them. McGowan and his gunnery team had very little to go on, but with methodical determination he had laid down a barrage some five miles wide, his heart jumping as each gun hurled itself back on its worn springs.

  Then, with smoke still streaming from the two long guns, the monitor had swung about and steamed towards the open sea.

  That was five hours earlier. Five hours. Chesnaye rubbed his eyes and drained the last few drips from the enamel mug.

  There was a rustle of movement behind him. Fox said, ‘Signal, sir!’

  Chesnaye felt his stomach muscles contract, but forced his voice to remain steady. ‘Read it.’

  ‘From C.-in-C. Italian minelayer reported in vicinity. Believed north of Bardia and heading west. Minelayer is damaged and will try to reach first available harbour. Must be sunk or held until other forces available. There are two escorts.’ Fox took a breath. ‘There are a few alleged positions, sir, but that is the crux of the signal.’

  Chesnaye ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. Once again the Saracen was to forget her own immediate problems. By the moving of a small pin or flag on some distant chart she had been drawn into the over-all plan of campaign. A few seconds before he had been thinking only of getting back to Alexandria without loss. Now, in a stammer of morse, he had another picture in his aching mind.

  A minelayer. No doubt one of those fast cruiser-type ships which had been playing havoc around Malta, Crete and every piece of British-held shoreline in the Mediterranean. In hours a ship like that could lay a deadly field which if undetected would send many good craft to the bottom. Even if discovered at once, a minefield was still a menace. It had to be swept, and during that slow and painful business nothing could be allowed to move in that area. This particular minelayer had apparently been caught, probably by one of the few aircraft available for coastal patrol. Damaged, her speed might be severely cut, and her captain would think only of getting back to safety.

  Chesnaye stood up, and felt a shaft of pain lance through his cramped thigh. He tried not to limp as he led the way to the charthouse, and then he waited as Fox laid off the possible position and course of the enemy ships.

  Chesnaye leaned forward and squinted at the converging lines. ‘Not bad.’ He prodded the chart with the dividers. ‘If I were the Italian captain I would not keep too close to the coast. Yesterday we were none too sure of the enemy positions in the desert. If this minelayer has been in the Eastern Mediterranean on operations her captain’ll be no better informed than we were!’ He tapped t
he chart thoughtfully. ‘Probably keep about twenty miles off. But will follow the coast just in case of surface attack.’ He was thinking aloud, while Fox watched him with open interest. ‘He’ll know that Tobruk is closed as far as we are concerned. His only danger will be from behind him, from Alex, or from a patrol further north. The first is obviously the only likely one, as we’ll not be able to spare anything from the Greek campaign.’

  Fox said: ‘That’s what the signal meant, I expect? The “other forces available” must be pursuing him from Alex?’

  Chesnaye tightened his jaw. The Second Inshore Squadron, no doubt. Beaushears so determined to catch this sly interloper in his own area that he had even called in the Saracen. He smiled, but added in a calm voice: ‘Yes, Pilot, the Italian gentlemen will not expect a ship of our size right ahead of him! Lay off course to intercept, and send for the First Lieutenant.’ He walked back into the sunlight, his fingers tightly laced behind his back. This would make up for their inability to help the convoy, for the hints and sneers which he and the ship had been made to endure.

  He turned to see Erskine’s flushed face already on the bridge. In short, terse sentences he explained the position and what he intended to do. Erskine listened without speaking, his eyes fixed on some point above his Captain’s right shoulder.

  Chesnaye concluded: ‘Two or three rounds from the main armament should do the trick, even at extreme range. If she’s carrying mines she’ll go up like a Brock’s Benefit, but in any case she’ll be no problem.’

  Erskine asked quietly, ‘And the escorts, sir?’

  ‘Well, they say there are two. They can’t amount to much, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that, sir?’ Erskine looked mystified.

  ‘It’s hardly likely we’d have been told about the damaged minelayer if the escorts were bigger and more important, is it?’