Tom? Which one was that? But his brain refused to respond any more.
He thought of the photograph which had been found in the Skipper’s quarters, recalling a sense of hurt and exclusion because he had not known who she was.
He could not manage more than a few strokes. He raised his head, gulping air, and there right above him was the tanker.
There were faces, too. Not many, but someone was lowering a ladder despite the deluge of sea and spray.
He heard himself shouting, “Up you go! Chop-bloody-chop!”
Figures scrambled past him, someone even croaking an apology as he trod on Fairfax’s hand.
Then, staggering like drunks from a dockside bar, they dragged themselves across the unfamiliar deck with its alien fittings. The float had already drifted away, or was being hauled back to the ship.
A voice shouted, “This way!”
Fairfax ducked beneath some glistening superstructure and made sure that his whole party was present, and felt his jaw crack into a grin. No heroics.
“They did it!” Kidd could not contain his excitement and relief. “Old Jamie’s got his lads aboard!”
“Let me see.” Martineau brushed past him, shielding his glasses from the pellets of spray while he waited for the bridge to level itself. He saw the Carley float swaying across the water, the towline rising and tightening like cheese-wire as the Buffer’s party heaved on their tackles.
He managed to train his glasses on the tanker, and thought he saw some of Fairfax’s men pulling themselves around the bridge. Several times during the attempt they had lost sight of the float in the deep troughs, as if it had been swallowed up completely.
He wiped the gyro repeater with his sleeve. “Bring her round, Pilot. We’ll keep up to wind’rd while we can.” He ignored the terse helm orders, the sudden increase of revolutions, and studied the ill-assorted collection of vessels all drawn together like the lines on Kidd’s chart. The tanker, with the small tug still attempting to hold her head on to the sea and wind. And the one rust-streaked corvette which must have been with the convoy when it first set out, as she had doubtless done countless times before. And the massive salvage tug Goliath. The contrast was at its greatest there, he thought. The little corvette, one of hundreds built for the Atlantic war and rolling off the stocks every day, was pitching like a toy boat. Lively ships at the best of times, this one was living up to their claim that they could roll on wet grass; he could see down her solitary funnel one moment, and the length of her bilge keel the next. By comparison Goliath remained like a reef, the sea surging around her and spray streaming from her derricks and upperworks like powdered snow.
There was not much the corvette could do now. Her depth charge racks were empty, evidence of the convoy’s earlier encounters with the enemy. She would be short of fuel, too. But her commanding officer had signalled his determination to remain in company. To watch my betters at work.
Martineau recalled something he had heard the King say at the Palace, about heroism and its just reward.
All these men were heroes. Someone should tell them.
“Steady on zero-two-zero, sir.” Kidd lowered his glasses. “ Jester is taking up position to the west of us. If there’s anyone nasty hanging about it’s likely they’ll come from that bearing.”
Lieutenant Arliss said, “Asdic reports back-echoes and interference to the north-east.” It sounded like a question.
Kidd said, “Isolated shallows. No real danger until the Seven Stones, but we should be well clear by then.”
Martineau eased himself into the chair. The light was holding, and even the sea seemed a little easier. Goliath would begin to close with the tanker, and Fairfax would be ready to make fast the tow if they managed to get a line across. Always tricky: it was sensible to have several ready to shoot in case of accidents.
He said, “I think we should rustle up something hot to drink,” and Kidd gestured to a messenger.
“Jump about, Tinker!”
He could sense the figures around him relaxing slightly. He gripped the pipe in his pocket again. There was water even in there. Why can’t I let things run on their own? They were doing all they could. And they might easily have lost Fairfax and his volunteers.
Maybe I was ashore too long. Maybe I lost it, back there in Firebrand.
There was a dull bang and he saw a puff of smoke from beneath Goliath’s bridge.
There was a chorus of groans and a few jeers as the first line fell short. Goliath was edging round, her bulky shape shortening, her low stern almost lost in a welter of foam from her big screws. The two hulls were overlapping, an illusion perhaps, but time was running out.
Bang.
“I think so!” Kidd was standing on his toes to watch. “Got it!”
Martineau wiped his glasses and tried again. Goliath was moving across the tanker’s outline, cutting it in half like a giant gate, but not before he had seen the scurrying figures on the red-leaded plating, and a line rearing over the side like a serpent before being manhandled through a winch. The heavier towing wire would follow immediately. Without Fairfax’s party it was unlikely they could have managed it.
Somebody cried out, “Bloody hell! Man overboard!”
Martineau caught the briefest glimpse of a tiny figure flinging out his arms, perhaps trying to regain his balance, before vanishing over the tanker’s side.
Kidd said softly, “Poor bastard!”
Cavaye’s voice intruded. “ Jester reports a contact at two-eight-zero. Investigating. ”
“Very well. Retain contact with Jester. ” He turned away, sickened that he could close his mind to what he had just witnessed. Jester had reported a find on her Asdic. A submarine, a submerged wreck, a back-echo from some freak formation on the seabed. No chances. It seemed very unlikely that a U-boat had been standing off all this time, when a fanned salvo of torpedoes would have despatched the tanker without difficulty. There had only been the corvette, and she was toothless as far as U-boats were concerned. A straggler, then?
Arliss called, “Tow’s secured, sir. Goliath is getting under way.”
It might be too much. The tow could easily part under the strain. The sky was darker, and he had scarcely noticed it. They would have to stand by all night.
“From Jester, sir. Still in faint contact.”
Kidd said, “Shall I signal the corvette to close with Goliath, sir?”
Martineau stared at him. “So that we can join Jester and do a box search?”
Kidd looked at the sky. “Might save time, sir.”
“No.” He heard the sound of a shot, probably another line being fired. It did not seem important, or real. “Those shallows, Pilot. Show me again.”
He leaned over the chart table, watching Kidd’s brass dividers trace the area to the north-east of their position.
He could sense Kidd watching him, feel his heavy breathing through his duffle coat. Was not this the very mistake they had always been taught to recognize and avoid? He felt unable to move, unwilling to believe it.
Then he said, “Then that’s the route he’ll use.” He pushed the dividers down on the chart. “And I nearly missed it.”
And still he felt nothing, neither emotion nor doubt.
He said, “Close up depth charge crews, and pipe Action Stations.” He caught his sleeve. “No alarms, Pilot. No noise. Just have it piped around the ship.”
Kidd was staring at him, hanging on to every word, although he probably thought his Captain had cracked at last.
“Sir?”
He straightened his back. “Then we will begin the attack.”
It was only a few seconds before anyone moved, but it felt like an eternity. Martineau climbed into his chair, his mind only half aware of the sudden stammer of voicepipes, the terse acknowledgements from the bridge team.
Suppose I am wrong?
“Ship at action stations, sir.” Even Kidd’s voice sounded different. Or was it that he had become so used to Fairfax?
<
br /> “Tell Asdic to belay transmissions.” He sat forward in the chair and studied the flickering phosphorescence on the radar repeater. “Tell Lovatt to take nothing for granted.” He thought he heard Kidd’s intake of breath. Surprised that they would be without their Asdic sweep, or that he had managed to remember the senior operator’s name. It was always like that. It started on the bridge, with the team, then it felt its way out through voicepipes and along wires to every section of the ship, eventually to all the various departments. The cooks and stewards, the supply assistants and stokers, the sickbay, and the nerve centre, the transmitting station and fire control systems. He was astonished that he could smile. And finally, to the faces across the table as requestmen or defaulters.
He gripped the arm of the chair, feeling the engines pulsing through it. And he had been determined not to allow himself to get so close to a command again. Different faces, dialects from Glasgow to Penzance, all held together by a ship, and by their trust.
How must it have been for those other men when they had heard his last command? Stand by to ram!
He said, “Get me the gunnery officer.” He did not recognize his own voice.
Driscoll sounded clipped and formal, as usual. It was easy to picture him at his fire control position, headphones over his cap, and probably wearing the white silk scarf Martineau had heard about.
Driscoll listened without interruption, then he said, “Starshell, sir. Another if necessary. I’ve told B Gun. Then, rapid fire.”
No questions. No doubts. It was better to be a Driscoll in this sort of warfare, he thought.
Kidd said, “Jester’s just dropped a couple of depth charges, sir.”
The explosions had been muffled by the fans and the creak of metal.
“Depth?”
“Thirty fathoms, sir. For a while yet.”
Martineau nodded. Like a complex puzzle. A falling tide and a treacherous current, but the wind dropping as if to compensate. No word from Goliath, so the tow was holding. They would be on their way.
Unless. Suppose Jester had found a firm contact? A U-boat which was even now making a final strike at the tanker.
It was taking too long. “Check, Pilot?”
“Five miles, sir.”
He pressed his spine against the unyielding chair and tried to clear his thoughts. Too long . . . too long. He had fallen into the oldest trap of all, and had left the door wide open. Jester too far away to offer assistance, the corvette unable to attack.
It was like hearing Alison, that first evening when he had taken a few days’ leave.
“The ship! The ship! Is that all you can think about, Graham? They can manage without you, you’re not God!” And much more. Maybe that was when it had all started to fall apart.
He did not look at his watch. There was no point.
“Course to steer to rejoin Goliath, Pilot?”
Maybe that was why Lucky Bradshaw had sent Hakka. To test him out, so as not to damage his own reputation by leaving it until he had joined the new group.
“Radar—Bridge!”
He bent over the tube. “Bridge.”
It was Lovatt, concerned but definite. “Strong echo, sir, dead ahead of us, zero-three-zero.”
Martineau peered at the repeater, holding his breath in case he missed something.
There it was, like a tiny winking eye.
Lovatt was saying, “About eight thousand yards, sir.”
Martineau heard the click of metal and knew that Driscoll was already setting his sights on the estimated bearing. He crouched over the compass.
“Starboard ten . . . Ease to five . . . Midships . . . Steady.” He heard Spicer’s acknowledgement as he added, “Steer zero-three-zero.”
He stared at the repeater. A lot of interference, and for a moment he could not see the elusive blip on the small screen. Maybe the U-boat was fitted with a radar reflector and had already seen through their silent approach. He wanted to clear his throat. It was bone dry. Maybe there was no submarine at all.
Then he saw the blip again, clear and bright, as the interference pulled away like weed. Too small for anything else. And on the surface, trimmed down to offer the smallest contact.
Any second now and the U-boat commander would realize what was happening. He might turn away and run for it on the surface; he might even risk diving in these dangerous waters. Either way they would lose him.
“Steady as you go, Cox’n!” Unconsciously, he had dropped his voice, but Spicer heard him well enough.
Without taking his eyes from the radar repeater he reached out for the red handset.
“Chief? This is the Captain. When I ring for it, give me everything.”
He could picture Trevor Morgan down there in his white boiler suit, listening intently, his eyes alive in the reflected lights and dials. Like Malt, the Gunner (T), he had risen from the lower deck, to become a senior engineer in one of the navy’s finest ships. He was owed an explanation.
“Sub on the surface, Chief.”
He heard Lovatt report, “Target’s altering course, sir!”
Martineau slammed down the handset and called, “Full ahead both engines! Fire, starshell!”
Not an echo any longer. A target.
He felt the bridge jerk violently as one of the guns recoiled and the crash of the shot ripped into the darkness.
The second gun in that mounting would be ready and waiting.
Martineau lifted his glasses, then winced as the starshell exploded against the low clouds and lit up the sea like some eerie glacier landscape. The waves, their crests unbroken now, looked solid, like molten glass, and the glare held the scene until it seared his vision.
And there, no more than a darker shadow against the vivid backdrop, lay the submarine.
“Open fire!”
“Port ten! Midships! Steady!” Hakka turned only slightly, but the after guns were able to open fire immediately.
“Straddle, sir!”
Martineau lowered his glasses; he did not need them now. “Steady, Cox’n. Easy.”
Kidd turned to stare at him, his face quite clear in the hard light.
It was as if the Captain was speaking to the ship.
The U-boat was diving, the sinister shape lengthening as she continued to turn away.
Martineau clenched his fist. There were still the stern tubes.
“Stand by, depth charges!”
He watched the distance falling away, the submarine’s deck alive with foam as she vented her tanks for a crash dive. Two shells burst almost alongside. In that sealed hull they would sound like hammers from hell.
“Tell Asdic to begin a sweep, Pilot!”
He strode to the opposite side. The submarine had disappeared. They would be down there trying to plug leaks, restore order, and all the while they would be hearing Hakka ’s screws roaring towards them, like an express train, one submariner had described it.
“Continuous echo! Fire!”
Hakka surged into the returning darkness, dropping her charges and firing two more as she passed over the U-boat’s estimated position.
“Hard a-port!” He recrossed the bridge and looked at the gyro. “We’ll make another sweep.”
But it was not necessary. It was more of a feeling than a sound, with the sea suddenly boiling and flinging up a great column of water like something solid which would never disperse. Perhaps the U-boat had been carrying mines.
Asdic again, quiet, very contained. “No further echoes, sir. Sounds of hull breaking up.”
Kidd shouted, “We did it, by God!” He almost clapped Martineau on the shoulder but restrained himself. “You knew, sir! I’ll never know how, but you knew! ”
The column of water had subsided, and the sea’s face was unbroken once more.
Martineau climbed into his chair. “Course and speed, Pilot. Pass the word, well done. ”
He watched the huge bow waves dying away as Hakka reduced speed and pointed her raked stem towards the other ships.
>
Men had just died. Choking, crushed, obliterated. Men who would have shown no mercy if their cards had been played in the right order.
Aloud he said, “He was a brave man.”
Kidd shook his head. He had been in the war from the beginning, but like most sailors he had never seen a U-boat before, had known only the shadow, and the sudden roar of a torpedo in the middle of a convoy. Something to fear. And out of that fear had grown the hate and the skill to hit back, and destroy the enemy.
It made Martineau’s quiet tribute to the German all the more moving.
6 | High Standards
The journey to Liverpool took far longer than she had expected, and it was almost a day and a half after leaving Plymouth before the train shuddered to a final halt. There had been one delay after another; they had been kept waiting in a siding while more important traffic went thundering past, and somewhere else a goods wagon had become derailed in a tunnel. That took even more time to put right.
The train had been packed for the last leg of the journey, but she had managed to get a window seat and was able to find some pretence of seclusion, interrupted only by an earnest young artillery Captain who had just got married and wanted to show her photographs of the event.
Much to her surprise her progress had been monitored, and she was astonished to find a car waiting for her, with a tough-looking Royal Marine driver who obviously knew the city well.
Anna Roche had heard a lot about the headquarters of Western Approaches Command, but nonetheless it was not what she had expected. Derby House, in the city itself, had been taken over shortly after the outbreak of war, and following a lengthy conversion into a bomb- and gas-proof citadel had proved its worth many times over. The choice had been due to the foresight of Winston Churchill himself, when he had been First Lord of the Admiralty, and one of only a few who had recognized the true menace of an all-out battle for supremacy waged on the Atlantic lifelines.
She glanced at the passing scene, blacked-out windows and throngs of servicemen, most of them sailors. The driver kept up a steady patter about the places she should know. Gladstone Dock, where our lads tie up. The signals station. The cathedral. It was so dark that she could have been anywhere.
For Valour Page 9