H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Until the bombers were sighted Norris had been watching the slow approach of the enemy minelayer. As Spotting Officer he had been mentally rehearsing his duties, even looking forward to the moment when the guns would begin to pound the injured enemy to fragments. His task would be to guide the groping guns directly on to their target, a feeling which at a safe range gave him the satisfaction of immeasurable power.

  McGowan was saying sharply: ‘Exploded in lower messdeck! The damage control party is on its way!’

  For something to say, Norris asked weakly, ‘Is the turret safe?’

  McGowan shrugged and looked at Norris for the first time. ‘Quarters Officer reports several injuries. Concussion mostly!’ He laughed harshly, as if unable to understand that he was alive. ‘The other bombers have buggered off!’

  Erskine was already making his way below to the roaring inferno of fire and black smoke. Around him men fought with hoses and extinguishers to control the feelers of flame, while others dealt with the menace beyond the glowing watertight doors. Messengers came and went, while Erskine passed his orders almost in a daze. He still did not know the full extent of the damage, but what he had seen was bad enough.

  A petty officer and two seamen who had been pulped to a purple mess by the force of the explosion. An Oerlikon gun complete with gunner and magazine which had been torn from its mounting and hurled over the port rail with the ease of a child’s toy. A nameless rating, stripped naked by blast, who had dashed past him screaming, his body flayed by foot-long wood splinters from the deck at the base of the turret.

  The Chief Bosun’s Mate said in his ear: ‘We’ll soon ’ave the fire in ’and, sir! Must get some of the wounded moved a bit sharpish afore they get roasted!’

  Erskine shook himself. ‘Yes. Very well, Buffer, you get your men on to it.’ He broke off, coughing as more smoke funnelled its way through the avenue of shattered mess tables, shredded clothing and smashed crockery.

  The Chief Bosun’s Mate wiped his sweating face and gestured towards a pin-up which still remained seductively in position above a smouldering locker. ‘I couldn’t even manage ’er at the moment, sir!’

  Erskine tried to smile, but his jaws felt fixed and taut. With a groan he began to retrace his steps as another messenger ran towards him through the smoke. I must report to the bridge. His brain rebelled, but he forced himself to concentrate, the effort making him sway.

  There was so much to do. And there was still the minelayer to be pinned down and sunk.

  * * * * *

  ‘Here, sir! Let me help you!’

  Chesnaye felt Fox’s hand beneath his elbow and staggered to his feet. His head felt as if it was splitting in half, and as the smoke billowed over the lip of the bridge he knew he was near to collapse. It was as if the bomb had been aimed at him. He had actually seen it, a dark smudge against the bright sky, before it struck the steel behind him and hurled him to the deck with its searing shock-wave. Everyone seemed to be shouting, and each voice-pipe and telephone was demanding attention.

  ‘Bombers making off, sir!’ Fox was still holding his arm, his dark face tight with concern. ‘Damage reports coming in now.’

  Chesnaye nodded vaguely and limped to the forward screen. Broken glass crunched beneath his shoes, and he felt a cold hand on his heart as he looked down at the deck below. The teak planking had been jack-knifed by the explosion, and from the jagged tear in the foot of the barbette he saw the unbroken spiral of black smoke. There were mixed cries and shouted orders, and he could see the stretcher bearers already groping their way towards the ship’s wound.

  He must not think of it. The others would do their job. He had to control the ship. To find the enemy.

  He blinked his streaming eyes. ‘Alter course two points to starboard.’ Must get this damned smoke clear of the bridge.

  He stared for several seconds at the raw scar on the edge of the steel left by the bomb. It must have missed me by inches, he thought. A few feet this way and the wheelhouse would have been knocked out. A bit further forward and the turret might have been wrecked.

  Fox said, ‘Eight of our people killed, sir. One missing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Missing? That must have been the Oerlikon gunner.

  Fox was holding a handset. ‘The Gunnery Officer, sir.’

  Chesnaye took the handset, his eyes still on the clouds of smoke. With the slight alteration of course the ship was being kept clear. ‘Give me the target range, Guns.’ He felt some of the tension draining from him. They had survived again. They had been attacked, but had hit back in spite of the enemy’s determination.

  ‘Range is ten thousand yards, sir.’ McGowan sounded strained. ‘I should like to clear the turret, sir.’

  Chesnaye’s mind snapped back to the immediate problems. ‘Clear the turret? The Quarters Officer has reported no serious damage!’

  McGowan said flatly: ‘He has just reported to me, sir. The bomb passed through the working chamber below the turntable compartment and has sheared off a section of the lower roller path.’

  Chesnaye tried to drive the sense of unreality from his brain. ‘D’you mean the turret won’t train?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. The guns are quite intact and fully operational. But the turret cannot be moved.’

  Chesnaye felt as if the bridge was closing in on him. A strong eddy of wind cleared the smoke from the fo’c’sle, and for a few moments he was able to see the black silhouette of the Italian ship fine on the port bow. The minelayer’s shape was already lengthening. She was sheering away.

  Controlling his voice with an effort. Chesnaye said, ‘If we can’t use the training gear, what about operating the turret by hand?’

  McGowan sounded almost gentle. ‘No, sir. Until the shore artificers can fix the roller path the turret is fixed.’

  ‘Very well. Keep me informed.’ Blindly he handed the receiver to Fox and walked to the front of the bridge.

  Like an additional mockery he heard a messenger repeat. ‘Fire under control, sir! Damage Control report no damage to hull.’

  The density of smoke faded, and Chesnaye lifted his glasses to stare again at the distant minelayer. He could see the ship quite clearly and the two trawler-type escorts which hovered on either beam. The Italian captain must be wondering what was happening. A powerful ship, its tall turret so easy to see with binoculars, had suddenly appeared in his path. Death and destruction must have seemed inevitable. Even the timely entrance of seven dive-bombers had failed to remove this new and threatening shape.

  But now, as the Italian coaxed the last ounce of steam from the damaged engines and altered course away from the enemy, he must have become aware of something even stranger. Those great guns remained stiff and unmoving. As the bearing changed, the guns stayed pointing impotently at some point far astern.

  Chesnaye said at length, ‘Ask McGowan if we can try a sighting shot if I swing the ship by engines alone.’

  He waited, aware that every man on the bridge was avoiding his eye.

  Fox said quietly: ‘Negative, sir. It could do the turret irreparable damage, and in any case it would be almost impossible to get a close shot under these circumstances.’ Fox looked past Chesnaye and followed the enemy ship with hatred in his eyes. ‘Goddamn, she was so near too!’

  Chesnaye walked to his chair. Without looking, he knew that Erskine had joined the others behind him. At length he said: ‘Fall out Action Stations. Resume course for Base.

  He heard Fox swear, and then stiffened as McGowan joined him on the bridge. McGowan said, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Chesnaye could not tear his eyes from the smudge of smoke which marked the place where the minelayer had dipped over the horizon. ‘So am I, Guns.’

  From far away he heard Erskine’s voice, ‘There will have to be a signal, sir.’

  Damn you! Chesnaye knew that Erskine was watching him, waiting for him to crack. To admit his mistakes.

  Coldly he replied: ‘Make a signal, then. We are returning to B
ase. Lost contact with enemy.’

  Erskine persisted, his voice heavy, ‘You could add that we have been damaged and require escort, sir?’

  Chesnaye half turned, his eyes bitter. ‘That’s how you would do it, I suppose? Well, I don’t need any damned excuses for my ship!’

  A shutter fell across Erskine’s troubled features. ‘Very well, sir. I’ll have the signal sent off now.’

  Chesnaye stared ahead over the bows. Yes, you do that. Get ready to save yourself when I am being crucified!

  Later in the charthouse McGowan said softly: ‘Well, it was only a Wop minelayer. We were lucky to get away with the bloody bombing!’

  Fox stared at him and then shrugged. ‘It’s not just a Wop minelayer to the Skipper. It was a chance for him and the old ship. In the eyes of your bloody admiral he’s made a cock of it, an’ that’s all there is to it!’

  McGowan frowned. ‘I don’t see it that way at all.’

  ‘That’s what is wrong with you regulars! You don’t see anything beyond K.R.s and A.I.s. It explains why you’re so bloody callous with each other!’ With sudden rage Fox slammed down his ruler and stamped back on to the bridge.

  Why should I care? he thought angrily. They’re all the damned same! Why get involved with something which has always been the same, and probably always will?

  He felt his eyes drawn to the Captain’s shoulders and knew he was deceiving himself. Nothing could ever be quite the same in future.

  6

  Ann

  ‘Ship secure, sir!’ Erskine saluted formally and waited as Chesnaye stared down at the long, dusty jetty. Already parties of Saracen’s seamen were running out the long brows, watched incuriously by the drivers of the silent convoy of khaki ambulances which had been waiting for the ship to come alongside the wharf.

  Alexandria was much the same as usual. Anchored ships, dust and the over-all heat haze. But it was Sunday morning, and in spite of the threatening news from the Western Desert, and the painful withdrawals from Greece, the vessels of the Mediterranean Fleet which were lucky enough to be in harbour were observing the ceremonial of the Day of Rest. Church pennants fluttered from ship’s yards, and from a towering battleship which had once seen service at Jutland came the strains of a marine band. ‘For those in peril on the sea . . .’ Bared heads, best uniforms, and here and there the flutter of a sailor’s collar, although there seemed to be no breeze.

  Only the Saracen provided movement and an alien air of untidiness. Two tall cranes had squeaked along their miniature railway and now stood poised like ungainly herons as they inspected their prey. The ship’s own derricks clattered into life and began to swing some of the more seriously wounded troops ashore, and Erskine could see Wickersley and his two sick-berth attendants conferring with some of the army medical orderlies on the jetty.

  The engines had fallen silent, and groups of unemployed seamen were moving wearily around the upper deck as if seeing the scars and damage for the first time.

  Erskine waited. He had nothing planned any more. He felt uneasy and unsure, as if he was on the brink of a new phase in his life. His orders might already be on their way to the ship. This time tomorrow he could be en route for England. Involuntarily he glanced towards the white houses above the harbour and wondered if Ann was already watching the ship and waiting for him. This time there could be no excuses. He would have to try to explain to her. The ship would need a good deal of attention from the repair workers, and even with speed and priorities the work would take more than a week, perhaps longer. In that time he would have to make a decision.

  Chesnaye said, ‘Keep both watches at work until midday and then pipe Make-and-Mend.’

  ‘Shore leave, too, sir?’ Erskine turned to look at the Captain’s tired, stubbled face and tried to keep his own mind from becoming involved with Chesnaye’s problems.

  ‘Yes. There’ll be little done today if I know the authorities here. Just keep the duty part of the watch aboard. The rest have earned a breather. They’ve done well.’

  Erskine said suddenly, ‘I thought we might have a wardroom party while we’re here, sir?’ He was almost surprised to hear his own suggestion. Deep down he knew it was just another excuse. Surrounded by familiar faces it might be easier to explain to Ann. ‘We could get a few friends from the Base, some of the nurses and so on?’

  Chesnaye nodded, his thoughts far away. ‘You arrange it if you want to.’

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Get the hands out of working rig as soon as possible. There’s no reason for the ship’s company to look like a lot of pirates.’

  Erskine sighed. Across the water on the battleship he could see the lines of white-clad seamen, the flash of sunlight on the band’s polished instruments. By comparison the Saracen looked a wreck. Smoke-stained and battered, with her splintered deck and gashed turret adding to the appearance of shabbiness.

  Chesnaye looked around the bridge and said, ‘I’m going to my quarters to complete my reports.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on things.’ Erskine hated this game with words. The Navy made it so easy. Question and answer. Challenge and password. In this manner you could speak to superior and subordinate for months and yet say nothing.

  There was a slight cough, and Fox appeared at the head of the bridge ladder. ‘Signal from Flag, sir.’ He held out the pad, his eyes anxious.

  Chesnaye did not take the pad. ‘For the captain of Saracen to report on board the flagship forthwith?’ He smiled briefly at Fox’s discomfort. ‘I was expecting it.’ He seemed to square his shoulders. ‘Tell my steward to lay out a clean uniform while I take a shave and shower. I expect the Admiral can wait a little longer!’ There was no bitterness in his tone, in fact there was nothing at all.

  Fox stood aside to let him pass and then said to Erskine, ‘The signal requires a report from you too, Number One!’

  Erskine started from his troubled thoughts. ‘Me?’ Fox’s stare made him feel uneasy.

  ‘The Admiral apparently requires your statement for some reason or other. It seems he was rather keen on catching that damned minelayer!’

  Erskine looked away. So there was to be no escape, no easy way even from this. Beaushears wanted him to stab Chesnaye in the back. With sudden anger he kicked at the gratings. Well, Chesnaye had acted incorrectly. He should have kept clear of Tobruk once he had found that the original landing point was unusable. He had risked the ship to get rid of the stores, and by his bombardment had drawn attention to the ship’s position. His action had cost the ship the chance of sinking the minelayer. It might cost Chesnaye much more.

  Fox said quietly, ‘What will you say?’

  ‘That’s my affair!’ Erskine avoided Fox’s hard eyes. ‘It’s unfair that I should be involved in this business at all!’

  ‘So you intend to walk out on us, eh?’ Fox stood his ground.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘You think that getting promotion is suddenly so goddamned important that you can act like a bloody judge!’ Fox’s eyes were flashing dangerously. ‘I know you can log me for speaking like this, but someone’s got to tell you!’

  Erskine felt the colour rushing to his face. ‘What’d you know about it? After this war’s over you’ll run back to your damned banana boat! I’m in the Navy for a career!’

  Fox threw the signal pad on to an ammunition locker. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but we’ve not won the bloody war yet! And the way we’re going, it now seems almost unlikely!’ He stared at Erskine with calm distaste. ‘When we have won you can throw men like Chesnaye back on the beach and men like me back to earning a living from the sea. Until that happy time just remember that it’s the Chesnayes of this world who can save us, if they’re given a chance!’ He turned to leave. ‘They’re the only poor bastards who don’t think of the future!’

  Erskine knew he should have stopped Fox’s outburst, but he had been incapable of doing anything. It had been like a scourge, a necessary
punishment. Or perhaps it was because Fox was the most unlikely officer aboard to show such emotion.

  He shook himself and moved to the rear of the bridge where Pike, the Master-at-Arms, was waiting with a little procession of defaulters. It never stopped, Erskine told himself wearily, peace or war, whatever you had to torment your inner self, routine must still be observed.

  He straightened his cap. ‘Very well, Master. Let’s get it over with!’

  * * * * *

  Compared with the arctic brightness of the street outside the narrow window, the room seemed dim and somehow smaller than Erskine had remembered it. He sat heavily on the sagging sofa his hands hanging between his knees, his eyes on the girl’s back as she stood silhouetted against the white-fronted building opposite.

  Over her shoulder she said quietly, ‘Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it?’ Her voice was low and even, and it seemed to stir yet another memory in Erskine, like the return of an old pain.

  ‘I thought I ought to tell you right away, Ann. It seemed only fair.’ Already he was regretting that he was here, yet at the same time unable to stop his mind responding to her presence.

  Ann Curzon was tall and slim, and Erskine noticed with another pang that she was barefoot on the tiled floor. She had remembered that he had once remarked about her being his own height. She had been waiting for him. Expecting him. Even the small, overcrowded room looked friendly and pleased with itself, as if Ann had taken special pains for his visit. She turned and looked down at him. She was wearing a plain white blouse and narrow green skirt which accentuated the perfect shape of her body.

  Erskine could not see beyond the shadows which hid her eyes and said: ‘I hope you’ll be able to come aboard the Saracen this evening. It’ll probably be the last time we’ll all be together.’

  The girl walked slowly to a small table and ran her fingers across the unopened wine which stood with its attendant glasses. Erskine noted the rich tan of her bare legs and the way the fringe of hair across her forehead had become bleached by the sun. The old yearning stirred inside him, and he added tightly, ‘We knew this might happen, Ann.’