For Valour

by Douglas Reeman

  At least you could see her, and you had the impression that if only the clouds would break there would be full daylight again. It was almost noon, after all. He watched the ice shimmering like jewels from Java ’s rigging and halyards, spray freezing as it drifted back from the bows. The hull and super-structure were almost white, and there was ice on the sea, patches of it on or below the surface, occasionally breaking and turning over in the deeper troughs, more like frozen snow than anything dangerous.

  Sometimes it parted across Hakka ’s stem, and drifted abeam on either side. He let the glasses fall to his chest and wanted to rub his eyes; the lids felt as if they were sticking together.

  One more day at the most. Surely a tug would arrive by then. He gripped his glasses and raised them yet again to watch more tiny figures which had suddenly appeared on Java ’s forecastle, getting rid of the ice, clearing away the gun mountings, checking the boats and Carley floats. Just in case.

  He heard Kidd clumping from the chart room to the bridge and then back again. He was a fine navigator, and one who never took anything for granted. At this pitiful speed he might be miles out already, but somehow he knew he was not. The youngster Wishart was with him, carrying his instruments or some extra chart. It was to be hoped he was learning something from all this.

  Midshipman Seton handed a note to the duty boatswain’s mate and swung round as the seaman asked him something.

  “I just told you, man! Are you bloody deaf?” He seemed to realize that he had been overheard and hesitated as if about to apologize, but instead almost ran for the bridge.

  Cracking up? It seemed unlikely. He was young, and had everything ahead of him. Promotion might mean getting away from this sea, he thought.

  Fairfax might know what was wrong.

  “Aircraft! Bearing Green one-one-oh! Angle of sight two-oh!” It was pointless to ask why the lookout had seen it and the radar had missed it. The cloud, the nearness of ice, there were a dozen reasons.

  “Action stations!”

  He heard the alarms, muffled by watertight doors and sealed hatches, imagined the men rushing to their stations, some glancing back at their messes, wondering if it was the last time.

  “Radar—Bridge!”

  Kidd was there. “Bridge!”

  “Two aircraft, sir. Same bearing.”

  Kidd grunted. About time. But he kept it to himself.

  And there it was, low down over the water, suddenly real against the clouds and the wet mist.

  Martineau watched it, holding it in the lenses until his jaw cracked with concentration.

  Someone said, “Java’s seen it, sir.”

  Driscoll’s voice, metallic over the gunnery speaker.

  “Junkers 88. Turning away.”

  Martineau moved along the slippery gratings, never losing sight of the aircraft.

  Moving with deceptive slowness, indifferent. So familiar to Martineau that he could watch it without surprise. The Germans’ maid of all work, bomber, fighter if need be, a ground-attack aircraft, and used for reconnaissance as well. It had proved itself in every role, and with a maximum speed to match most conventional fighters it was always treated with respect. The second aircraft would be up there in the clouds.

  It was turning again, moving right, probably trying to work out what the two destroyers were doing.

  Martineau said, “Tell Guns to open fire with X and Y guns. Not much chance of hitting him, but it’ll show him we’re awake down here!”

  The four after guns fired almost immediately, the flashes painting some drift ice with flame as if they were being heated from below.

  Kidd watched the patches of smoke as the shells exploded, the JU88 rocking its wings as if to signal its invisible companion. To him, it looked like a contemptuous gesture.

  “Shoot!”

  The guns banged out again, and the aircraft turned fully away, its twin engines making dirty smears across the clouds.

  “Cease firing!”

  They might return to their base or they could fly on and look for the rest of the group, or the convoy. They had range enough for either. Two more hours perhaps, and then darkness would close in. And tomorrow?

  Fairfax’s voice, turning away from the speaker, possibly to glance at the sky.

  “Fall out action stations, sir?”

  One of the lookouts muttered, “Too right! Time for grub soon!”

  Somebody else even laughed.

  “Belay that, Number One.” He rubbed his eyes with his glove. What was the point? The two aircraft probably had their own orders. Hakka ’s company were doing well, especially when you considered that most of them had served in the warmer climate of the Med before Fairfax had brought the ship home for repairs.

  “Radar—Bridge! Ships bearing one-two-zero! Range one-double-oh!”

  Martineau gripped the chair as the deck heeled slightly. Lovatt, the ex-schoolmaster, was on the ball.

  Ten thousand yards, five miles. Like that U-boat.

  He heard Driscoll again. “All guns, with semi-armour piercing, load, load, load!”

  “Second ship on same bearing, sir!”

  Martineau stared at the mist. Java was almost invisible in it.

  Hayworth was ready; his radar was working well too.

  Martineau shut the other sounds from his mind. The click of breech blocks, the rattle of ammunition hoists, someone shouting orders to the secondary armament, probably to keep their heads down.

  Two ships. Perhaps another would appear soon. Thirty-six knots, Fairfax had said. He made himself look over at Java again.

  “Signal Java, Yeoman. Take evading action when ready. ” He looked at the mist once more. “Good luck.”

  Onslow lowered his lamp and said, “From Java, sir. Negative.” He sounded unsure, but continued, “We will never give in.”

  Lieutenant Arliss, who had donned a steel helmet, snapped, “What the hell does he mean by that?”

  Kidd did not look up from his table. “Java’s motto.”

  Martineau thought the mist moved slightly as if taken by a sudden wind. Then he saw the first waterspouts burst from the sea, green like the water itself, followed almost instantly by the echo of gunfire.

  Firing blind. Otherwise . . .

  He said, “Full ahead both engines! Starboard twenty!” To Arliss, somehow alienated by the steel helmet, he added, “Have the signal ready. Note the time in the log.” He felt the ship quivering as the revolutions mounted. Did it matter? Who would ever read it?

  Then he looked across at Java . She appeared to have increased speed, but it was an illusion caused by Hakka ’s sudden, sharp change of course. We will never give in. Hayworth considered that two could disobey orders, and had said so in the only way he knew.

  At one of the last meetings with Lucky Bradshaw, he had heard Hayworth say quite seriously that he would have quit the navy if he could not have been in destroyers, long before he had been given command of one. The air cringed and more great spouts of water burst through the mist. Closer now. He imagined that he could taste cordite in the spray.

  Hayworth might be remembering it right now.

  He leaned forward and said, “Open fire, Guns!”

  Then he peered at the compass, his mind like the edge of a knife.

  “Midships! Steady!”

  They seemed to be rushing headlong into something solid; the mist was probably the only protection left them at this stage.

  Thirty-six knots. The Chief had once told him that Hakka had managed forty on her trials. But she had covered a few thousand miles since then.

  He gripped the voicepipes and felt them shuddering, like heartbeats. Flash. Flash. The mist swirling again, brightly orange, the fall of shot unseen but felt like body blows.

  He saw ice being shaken from the anchor cables and sent flying across the forecastle deck like broken glass. The jackstaff, where he had watched the flag lowered when they had left Scapa, was like a pointer, or Kidd’s pencil on his chart. Into the mist at full spe
ed: she would make a fine sight if there was anyone to see her.

  He dashed the spray from his eyes but knew it was sweat, and when he looked up he saw them. The enemy.

  “Shoot!”

  Midshipman Seton slipped and almost fell as the ship turned suddenly and violently to port. He clutched a stanchion and saw solid water surging up and over the side, before receding just as quickly as the rudder went hard over again.

  And all the time Hakka ’s forward guns were firing, and during the last turn, the after four-point-sevens were brought to bear. Seton had felt the shells ripping past the ship, the guns trained as far round as they would bear, the noise making thought impossible.

  He felt more explosions, and knew that they were enemy shells, near or far he could not tell. Gasping for breath, he threw himself into the break of the forecastle where one of the damage control parties was crouched down, already soaked in spray and barely able to cling to their tools and extinguishers. Spare hands, some of them stokers. One man, Leading Seaman Morris, he recognized.

  “I was told to report to the first lieutenant!” He had to shout above the intermittent crash of gunfire and the din of racing machinery.

  “Well, he ain’t here!” Morris glared up at him, his eyes red from strain. “Gone back to the T/S, most likely!”

  Seton gathered his thoughts. He disliked Morris, who was said to be a bully, but careful to stay within the limits of discipline when he could. He could feel the man’s contempt, even now, when the ship was under fire. No sir, for instance.

  One of the stokers peered over his shoulder. “’Ow many of ’em, sir?”

  “Two. So far.” Seton recalled the snap of orders, the instant response from the gunnery control. And through it, the Captain’s voice, tense but controlled, handling the ship, finding the enemy.

  How I wanted to be.

  “Here we go again!” They clung to anything they could find, pressed against steel plating which was barely thick enough to stop a bullet. Seton felt the ship buck beneath him and realized that he was lying face down, his fingers like claws on the plated deck. No sound, more of a sensation, like being sucked under water.

  He saw the great column of water hurl itself up and over the forecastle ladder, then falling across the hull like a cliff. Through and above it he heard small, sharper sounds, almost incidental to the surging water. He stared with disbelief at the big forward funnel, at the jagged splinter hole just below the half-leader’s stripe. There was smoke seeping from it, and he rubbed his ear as he realized that the blast had made him deaf.

  He felt a hand drag at his ankle. It was the stoker wearing a headset, his mouth like a black hole as he yelled, “Main mess-deck, sir! Badly damaged!” He screwed up his face and tried to listen again. “’Nother hit aft!”

  Seton pulled himself to his feet. There was no one else, not even a petty officer.

  He said thickly, “Fire party, follow me!” He saw them staring at the heavy watertight door; there was smoke spurting around it like steam. “I said move it! ”

  In those few seconds, all doubt and fear were gone. More like one more boring drill than the real thing.

  They knocked off the clips and opened the door, staggering like drunks in a dockside bar as the ship heeled over this way and that.

  There was a fire right enough, and as the foam and water were sprayed over the mess space Seton saw some rolled hammocks standing in their nettings charred and smouldering.

  He had accompanied the O.O.D. on Rounds several times. The first lieutenant he especially remembered, remarking on one occasion, “Remove your cap, Mid. It’s their home, remember?”

  It was hard to see it like that. Smashed tables and broken crockery, a nude pin-up still pinned defiantly to someone’s locker, although that had been blasted apart. Worse still, he could see the water through one of the holes, surging past, the buckled plating bent inboard like wet cardboard, framing it. The nearness of it.

  “That’s done it, sir!” The tall stoker with an extinguisher peered slit-eyed through the smoke, his face blackened by it. “Hope our mess is OK!”

  Seton clung to a ladder and peered around. Every thought was a physical effort. He could even recall the instructor’s voice, explaining patiently about the risk of fire breaking out through forced ventilation.

  He said, “Close the vents. Try and pack those holes with—” He stared at some scattered clothing. “That’ll do!”

  Then they backed away, holding on to one another while the deck swayed over and then reared up again.

  They wedged home the clips and Seton said, “Tell T/S, messdeck fire is out. Request instructions.”

  Another small party of men dashed into the forecastle, Sub-Lieutenant Barlow in the lead. He stared at the sealed door and then at Seton.

  “You did it! Bloody good!” Then he seized his arm. “What is it? Were you hit?” Over his shoulder, he said sharply, “First aid party, chop chop!”

  Seton wanted to clutch his groin, crush the pain, destroy it. But all he could say was, “No! I’m all right! Leave it!”

  They all threw themselves flat as more shells exploded, seemingly on either beam. A straddle?

  Seton pulled himself to the side and pressed his forehead on to the freezing metal. He felt splinters cracking into the hull, or maybe higher up, and another terrible sound. Someone screaming on and on, scraping his brain. Until, just as abruptly, it stopped.

  Barlow straightened up. “Follow me! Mid, you can stay here.” He hesitated, not the competent officer but more like the schoolboy again. “If you’re sure, Alan?”

  Seton managed to nod. The pain was leaving. Releasing him once more.

  “Fine! We’re doing fine here!”

  The communications rating shouted, “Help wanted aft, sir! Wardroom!”

  Someone gasped, “Share-an’-share alike, eh, lads!”

  They ran aft, ducking as a shell burst beyond the drifting mist, or was it smoke? Seton could not be sure of anything. But he saw the flash, and swung round with shocked surprise as one of the party was hurled from his feet.

  Seton dropped beside him and gripped his arm. So short. Was that all it took?

  The man was probably a stoker; he did not recognize him. Only the face, so pale through the smoky grime, the eyes filling it.

  And just two words. “Help . . . me.”

  Someone dragged Seton away. “Bought it, sir. Best leave him, or you’ll be next!”

  Seton paused only once, as the ship heaved over yet again, her forward guns firing so closely together that it sounded like one massive shot.

  The dead man lay where they had left him, but as the deck went over his arm seemed to move, like a casual salute. In some ways it was the worst part.

  The wardroom was being used as a refuge for the wounded. The doctor, Morrison, was in his shirtsleeves, some thread in his teeth, his gloved fingers bright with blood. Others lay or squatted where they could. Plonker Pryor was bandaging a man’s hand, his expression totally absorbed.

  Morrison glanced up and said, “Shell hit the cooks’ and stewards’ mess.” He jerked his head. “Through there. See if there are any more casualties.” Then he looked at the man he was treating and said, “Well, that was a waste of time!” He lowered the man’s shoulders to the deck and crawled over to the next one.

  It was then that he realized that Seton had not moved. Even when another detonation shook the ship, he merely put out one hand to steady himself.

  Morrison said, “I gather your father is pretty big in the service. An admiral, no less!” He studied the man he was about to examine. “He’ll be damn proud of you after all this!”

  Another explosion made him hold his breath, but above it he could hear men yelling; it could even be cheering. He shook his head. Impossible. Strange, too, about the midshipman. He could have sworn that he was laughing when he left the wardroom.

  • • •

  Martineau lowered his head as spray cascaded into the bridge. This time he could t
aste the explosive.

  He stared at the gyro repeater. Concentrate. Concentrate.

  Hakka had been hit twice, with several near misses, one of which had been only a few yards from the engine room.

  The two enemy destroyers had separated after Driscoll had managed a straddle with the first salvo. They doubtless realized that Java was no real danger, that she was damaged in some way. Both ships fired again and again, while Hakka weaved back and forth, her jagged wake marked again and again by the enemy’s fall of shot.

  The range was down to three miles, even less, the visibility so bad that even when one of the German destroyers showed itself it was swallowed up almost as quickly.

  He tore his eyes away and stared aft along his ship. Splinter holes and scars, the whaler blown to fragments in its davits, blood thinning in the drifting spray to mark where someone had been cut down.

  It could not go on. Just one of those five-inch shells could alter the balance.

  He gasped as the bridge shook as if to tear itself free of the ship. Over the side he could see the port Oerlikon pointing at the clouds. Its gunner, still strapped in his harness, was headless.

  There was a lot of smoke, and he pulled himself to the screen as a voice croaked, “Wheelhouse hit, sir!”

  Then another voice. Somehow he knew it was Forward.

  “Helm’s not answering, sir.”

  Martineau called, “Switch to after emergency steering!” Fairfax would deal with it. He gritted his teeth. If he was still alive.

  “A hit, sir!” Driscoll sounded totally absorbed. “Direct hit!”

  It was taking too long. Martineau looked for Arliss, but he was sprawled by the bridge gate, a hole in the back of his helmet you could put your fist through. Kidd stared at him from the opposite side and gave what might have been a shrug.

  “Torpedoes running to port!”

  Martineau gripped the side, his body bunched up, like that other time. Waiting for the crash. He stared with disbelief as the torpedoes, which must have been at minimum setting, shot past and into the smoke. Three of them, perhaps four.

  The explosion was dull, muffled, but it was followed by another which seemed to tear the mist and smoke apart.