H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Bouverie climbed up beside him and said in a bewildered tone, ‘What’s got into him?’

  Fox felt suddenly uneasy, but answered unfeelingly: ‘Do as he says! This isn’t the bloody Old Bailey, y’know!’

  Chesnaye moved his glasses carefully over the labouring freighter, across the upper bridge where a bearded captain was speaking to his mate and two seamen were fitting drums on a pair of Lewis guns. Then down past the black funnel and along the boatdeck. He stiffened. Beside one of the swan-necked davits he saw a small knot of figures. Two or three men in khaki and then four women. Three of the latter were nurses in uniform, but the fourth, in khaki slacks and grey shirt, whose hair rippled carelessly in the warm breeze was Ann.

  She was shading her eyes with one hand and staring across the strip of surging water between the two ships, and seemed to be looking directly at him. He lowered the glasses to wipe one of the lens and felt a tinge of disappointment as the clear picture shrunk to the reality of distance. Forgetting the men behind him, he stepped up on to a locker and with his binoculars to his eyes began to wave his cap slowly above his head.

  From the compass platform Fox took a quick look around the bridge to make sure that everyone was occupied, and then raised his own glasses. It did not take him long to find the small group of figures and the laughing girl who was pointing and waving towards the Saracen. So that was it, he thought. Chesnaye’s sharpness earlier had made him suspect something else. He would not have blamed Chesnaye for being rattled and uncertain with Beaushears breathing down his neck, and knowing that whatever happened with this convoy his command was soon to be ended.

  But this was something else again. He dropped his glasses hastily as Chesnaye stepped down from the locker. The girl; Chesnaye’s complete change of manner while the ship had been undergoing repairs; it all added up. He caught Chesnaye’s eye and wanted to share his inner happiness. But the Captain looked through him, his eyes distant and suddenly troubled. Fox sighed. So near and yet so far. He could guess what Chesnaye must be thinking.

  Bouverie said suddenly: ‘Signal, sir. One U-boat reported in vicinity.’

  A string of bunting broke out from the flagship’s yard, and Laidlaw said flatly, ‘Alter course signal, sir.’

  Slowly the signal was seen and acknowledged along the lines of ships. As the distant flags vanished, the slow-moving vessels wheeled heavily on to the new course. It didn’t do much good because the enemy was probably well informed of both the convoy and its destination. But Beaushears obviously intended to play the game to its bitter end.

  ‘Steady on two-seven-nine, sir.’

  Chesnaye started to refill his pipe, the movements jerky and tense. ‘Very good. Check the U-boat’s alleged position, Pilot. There may be more soon.’

  He jammed his pipe between his teeth and then forgot it. With the other ships all around the pace seemed even slower. Only the slosh of mingled bow waves and an occasional down-draught of funnel smoke gave any hint of movement.

  Laidlaw interrupted his thoughts once more. ‘Destroyer Scimitar reports aircraft bearing Green four-five, sir. Possibly a Focke-Wulf. Out of gun range and appears to be circling.’

  Chesnaye forced himself to light his pipe. It needed all his concentration to stop his hand from shaking. So the enemy was showing his hand. As in the Atlantic, the big Focke-Wulf was merely a searcher and a shadower. He would already be reporting back, homing other forces on to the convoy. ‘He may not see anything.’ Chesnaye cursed himself for his empty words. Unlike the Atlantic, where weather was often the best ally, this flat, innocent sea was as ideal for a spotting aircraft as some giant plotting table.

  He lifted his glasses. The destroyer which had made the signal was the leading escort on the starboard wing. It was almost lost in a bank of haze, but Chesnaye could see the tell-tale signal flags and the faint movement of her guns as they impotently tracked the invisible intruder.

  Fox said imperturbably, ‘Sunset in four hours, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Was it really as late as that? It seemed incredible when each minute dragged with such painful slowness.

  Erskine crossed the bridge, his eyes hidden by sun-glasses. ‘I’ve checked with the supply officer, sir. He’ll feed the men in four batches. Bag meals will be sent up to the guns first.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Chesnaye saw Erskine glance quickly towards the nearby freighter. ‘You can relieve me for the night watches, John. I want to try to snatch a few hours’ rest. I have a feeling it’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.’

  Erskine tore his eyes from the Cape Cod. ‘She looks very vulnerable, sir.’

  Chesnaye replied coldly, ‘They all are.’ For a moment he could find no words beyond the necessities of duty. ‘But we’ll give a warm reception to anyone who comes sniffing around!’

  Erskine licked his lips. ‘I’d like to see you privately, if I may, sir? There’s something I’d like to get off my chest.’ He removed his sun-glasses, and Chesnaye could see the deep shadows under his eyes. ‘I want you to hear my side of the story!’

  ‘I see.’ Chesnaye looked at him calmly and found that it did not seem to matter what Erskine had said or done. ‘It’ll keep. But one day, John, when you understand the loneliness of command, I hope you can learn something from all this—’

  He broke off as Fox said sharply: ‘Urgent signal, sir. Intelligence reports heavy surface units at sea approx. one hundred and fifty miles east of Syracuse. No further details yet.’

  Chesnaye climbed on to his chair and glanced towards the freighter. ‘No further are necessary, I should think!’

  So there were to be no slip-ups, after all. The enemy was ready and warned. Somehow, somewhere, there was to be a killing ground. He shifted his binoculars to the flagship. All at once she seemed to have become smaller and more vulnerable.

  Over his shoulder he said, ‘If you want to do something useful, John, go and tell the Chief Telegraphist to play some records over the tannoy!’

  Erskine stared at him. ‘Now, sir? And our talk?’

  ‘That can wait. I want our people to be relaxed when the time comes.’

  So as the sun dipped towards the horizon haze, and the watchful escorts listened and watched for the hidden enemy, the Saracen ploughed steadily through the centre of the convoy, her speakers blaring music, the feet of her gunners tapping, as they were carried forward towards the prearranged settlement.

  8

  Don’t Look Back!

  In the comparative quiet of the Morning Watch the shock-wave of the torpedo explosion was magnified beyond reason.

  Chesnaye slipped and fell from his bunk even as the dying echoes sighed against the monitor’s hull, and for a moment he imagined that he had been allowed to oversleep and that dawn was already upon the convoy. The sea-cabin door had been pushed open by the unseen hand of blast, and through it the upper bridge seemed to be shimmering in distorted sunlight.

  Even as a bosun’s mate crashed through the door, his voice calling for the Captain, Chesnaye realised with sudden chill that the light was that of a burning ship.

  Voice-pipes were clamouring for attention, and Chesnaye could hear Fox barking instructions to the helmsman.

  Erskine said hoarsely: ‘There, sir! On the port quarter! It was the old Greek!’

  Chesnaye shaded his eyes from the bright red glare and the tall curtain of spluttering sparks which mounted with every second above the ship’s black shape. Already she had fallen out of station and had lost her identity.

  A creaming white line cut across the dark water, above which Chesnaye could faintly see the rakish shape of a searching destroyer. There was a dull crack, followed in a few seconds by the snow-bright glare of a starshell.

  Several voices cried as one: ‘There it is!’

  Chesnaye tore his night-glasses from the leather case and peered at the pencil-slim silhouette outlined beneath the motionless flare. He bit his lip and took a quick look at the other ships. The U-boat must have been temporarily misled by the co
nvoy’s alteration of course. To avoid losing a target altogether, its commander had chased after the convoy and made his attack on the surface. Even now the submarine was turning away, while the destroyer increased speed to engage.

  A lookout called, ‘Torpedo passing on the port beam!’

  A faint, ruler-straight line lengthened across the Saracen’s bow wave and vanished into open water. Chesnaye breathed again. The U-boat must have fired a full salvo, but had found only one target.

  ‘She’s diving, sir!’ Every eye watched as the shadowy hull hid itself in an upflung surge of foam and froth.

  Fox said thickly: ‘The Greek’s capsizing! Poor bastards!’

  In a smaller voice Bouverie asked, ‘Can’t we do something?’

  Harshly Chesnaye snapped: ‘Keep station! Tell the lookouts to watch the other ships. If the convoy breaks now they’re done for!’

  Inwardly he felt a kind of agony as he watched the dying ship. The tug Goliath was clearly outlined against the searing flames, but was held at bay by the force of the blaze. Chesnaye could even see the Greek’s hull changing from black to glowing pink as the fire tore at her inside. Every ship in the convoy gleamed and shimmered in the reflected fires, like paintings come alive.

  Then the blazing ship dipped her bows and with startling suddenness began to dive. The hissing roar of exploding boilers merged with the triumphant inrush of water and the tearing crash of steel as the engine tore itself free from its bed and smashed through the white-hot bulkheads. Like a candle extinguished she was gone, and only the drooping starshell showed the end of the drama.

  Once more the Saracen’s hull boomed and reverberated to magnified explosions as the destroyer’s depth-charges thundered down. Tall pyramids of spray marked each charge, and as the destroyer finished her attack, one patch of torn white water showed clearly the shining hull of the U-boat as it was blown to the surface. Like a beast gone mad the destroyer slewed round, every rivet and plate groaning as her forty thousand horsepower and a full rudder threw her over.

  Above the crash of gunfire and hoarse bellow of orders they all heard the solid crunch of tearing steel as the destroyer’s knife-like stem bit into the wallowing hull. Then she was through and over, while the broken U-boat writhed in a great bubbling cascade of black oil.

  The victorious destroyer, her bows crumpled like cardboard, ploughed to a halt, her narrow shape rocking gently in the life blood of her victim.

  Some of the Saracen’s men cheered. It was a cruel, desperate sound, and Chesnaye said sharply: ‘Keep those men quiet! Tell them to watch their front!’

  Someone else on the bridge started to say excitedly, ‘That’s one less of the bastards!’

  But Fox added dourly: ‘One less escort, too! She’ll be no more use for a month or so!’

  The escorts increased speed and dashed around the merchant ships like watchful dogs. As if for greater protection the two leading freighters had turned slightly inwards, and the milling vessels astern of them followed suit. It took over an hour to restore order and establish discipline. By that time the dawn had found the convoy once more, and when the sun climbed free of the brightening water it showed clearly the shortened line of ships, and of the destroyer there was no sign. She was already limping back to Alexandria. Beaushears could not spare another ship to accompany her, so she must make the lonely voyage unaided.

  Chesnaye slumped in his chair, his mind still filled with the reddened picture of the burning ship. There were no survivors. But the other ships still headed westward and no one looked back. Close the ranks. Do not stop for anyone or anything. When it’s your turn you must accept it.

  Chesnaye swore aloud, and Fox looked across at him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing, Pilot!’ Chesnaye watched the Cape Cod’s crew washing down the boatdeck with hoses. ‘Not a damned thing!’

  * * * * *

  Just before noon the first bombers appeared high in the clear sky. This time they were not Stukas but twin-engined Italian aircraft which cruised in six neat arrowheads with such calm indifference that it almost seemed as if they would pass over and ignore the convoy completely.

  The Saracen stirred into readiness, the gunners almost glad that the tension of waiting was over at last.

  Chesnaye wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand and ran his gaze briefly over the monitor’s defences. The four-inch guns were already tracking the tiny silver specks, and he could hear the clatter of the breech blocks as the first shells were slammed home.

  ‘They’re splitting up, sir!’

  Chesnaye lifted his glasses again. Yes, the small flights of bombers were separating, and half of them seemed to be diving in a shallow sweep towards the escorts on the starboard wing of the slow-moving merchantmen. Chesnaye wondered briefly what would happen if the ammunition ship received the first salvo. Surely no one in the near vicinity could escape the blast? Her crew too must be thinking just that.

  ‘Signal from Flag, sir! Retain station. Stand by for alteration of course.’

  Fox said to Bouverie, ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do!’

  ‘Three aircraft Green four-five! Angle of sight two-oh!’

  Chesnaye kept his ear tuned to the flat, dispassionate voices from the voice-pipes, and watched the approaching aircraft with narrowed eyes. In spite of being prepared, he tensed automatically as two of the destroyers opened fire. The small brown shell-bursts mushroomed across the bright sky and seemed to drift past the purposeful intruders.

  ‘Aircraft closing! Two hundred and fifty knots!’

  A sudden burst of gunfire from astern of the convoy told Chesnaye that the other bombers were trying to draw the escort’s firepower from the approaching trio. It was a good attack, he thought coldly. They would cross the convoy’s line of advance at forty-five degrees, and would gain a bit of protection from the Aureus’s firepower by diving above the ammunition ship.

  A gong jangled below the bridge, and in the momentary silence which followed Chesnaye heard McGowan’s voice distorted by his microphone. ‘Commence, commence, commence!’

  The four-inch guns spat out orange flame and hurled themselves back on their mountings. Their ear-piercing cracks seemed to penetrate the innermost membranes of the men’s ears, and more than one seaman cried out with pain. The guns swung like oiled rods and fired again. The barrage was thickening, and the air was already pock-marked with their mingled shell-bursts. Even some of the merchantmen had joined in with their ancient twelve-pounders.

  Still the bombers came on, their cockpit covers glinting in the sunlight, their engines lost in the barrage.

  Chesnaye watched the range falling away. Half a mile, and the three planes swept over the first zig-zagging escort. At last they were in range of the short-range weapons, and before the jangle of bells had died away the pompoms and Oerlikons clattered into life. Darker shell-bursts, long pale lines of tracer, it seemed impossible for anything to live in it.

  One of the bombers swung out of line and dived whining over the flagship, a straight black smoke-trail marking its passing. The Aureus’s gunners pounced on the unexpected prize and followed it down, the savage tracers cutting away the fusilage like skin from bones, even as two small parachuts blossomed in the smoke-stained sky.

  ‘Bombs falling, sir!’

  Not a single one this time. As the leading aircraft swept over the convoy’s centre Chesnaye saw the glittering stick fall with apparent carelessness from her belly.

  The sound of the barrage changed, like thunder deflected by a sudden wind, as half of Saracen’s armament swung astern to cover the oiler from another attack from aft. Three bombers had side-stepped the screening barrage and were already large and stark in the madly vibrating gunsights.

  Chesnaye felt his mouth go dry as the falling bombs gathered momentum and shrieked towards the ammunition ship. He felt his chest jar against the screen as the bombs exploded. The ammunition ship still steamed ahead, her stained hull neatly bracketed by the hundred-foot columns of water. B
ut the remaining bomber was overhead and the next salvo was already falling.

  ‘Alter course, sir!’

  Chesnaye shook himself as the air split apart to the screeching roar of bombs. They had missed again, but he could hear the whiplash crack of splinters as they slashed at the passing ships. Too damn’ near.

  Laidlaw reported calmly, ‘Signal close up, sir!’

  Chesnaye watched the ammunition ship ahead of the monitor’s bows, and waited.

  ‘Down, sir!’ The small flag hoist disappeared from the flagship’s yard, and obediently the convoy plodded round after her curving wake.

  ‘Christ, a hit!’ The words were torn from Bouverie’s throat, and Chesnaye stared past him at the sternmost ship on the starboard column. In the middle of her turn the bomb had caught her right behind the bridge. Boats, mainmast and half of her superstructure flew skywards, and from the smoking crater Chesnaye could see the first licking tongues of flame. The freighter staggered like a wounded animal and began to swing inwards, her bows almost pointing at the oiler. A collision now would be fatal.

  Chesnaye snapped, ‘Signal her to keep station!’

  Laidlow nodded, and seconds later the big projector began to clatter.

  Three more aircraft were attacking from port, but Chesnaye ignored the fanatical clatter of automatic weapons and continued to watch the freighter. Her upper deck was well ablaze, and some of the crated deck cargo was also alight. But through the swirling smoke came an answering signal.

  Laidlaw said in an awed tone, ‘She says, “Mind your own bloody business”, sir!’

  Chesnaye smiled tightly as he saw the freighter’s battered stem feel its way back on course. ‘If they can talk like that they’re all right!’

  Fox said, ‘That was close!’ A long line of bomb-bursts churned the sea skywards in tall white waterspouts, and once more the air echoed to the whining splinters.

  The four-inch gun immediately below the starboard wing of the bridge fell silent, and a voice yelled stridently: ‘Still! Misfire!’ A few moments later the voice came again, harsh with relief, ‘Carry on!’