Sheridan appeared on the bridge, his cap dripping, his face raw with blown salt.
He managed to grin. “Happy Christmas, everyone!”
As time wore on the other ships and small craft took on shape and personality, and although no signals were exchanged, Victor had hoisted some kind of green garland to her foremast as a defiance to their circumstances.
Drummond thought of his sea cabin, the chance of rest. Even a shave. But it was not the time. Not yet. He munched a soggy corned-beef sandwich and drank more tea than he could remember doing before.
The watches changed, weapons were checked and tested as the little force headed slowly but purposefully south-west into the Atlantic. On either beam, out of sight and beyond contact, two separate groups of powerful fleet destroyers would be carrying out sweeps in case a solitary U-boat was trying to keep tabs on the strange flotilla.
Drummond looked at the sky. It would take another day to work into position. And then … He sighed and dabbed his sore face with a towel. The chiefs of staff were certainly doing them proudly, he thought. A force of bombers would make a strike to the south of St. Nazaire, another would cause a diversion further north towards the U-boat pens at Lorient. Heavy, but not unusual. Enough to keep the Germans busy, Christmas or not.
He thought about the letter he had written for Sarah. The hardest thing he had had to do in his life. If he were killed she would have to read it. It was more like a last will and testament, he thought.
It did not get much brighter, even during the forenoon. The patterns of grey merely got paler.
“Signal from Victor, sir! Ships in sight to the nor’-east!”
Down the lines of vessels the guns swung on their mountings, although like Drummond everyone was expecting the rendezvous.
A light winked briefly through the sleet and Ives said, “From Ventnor, sir. Nice to be back.”
Drummond thought about Christmas, but decided against anything flippant. It would not help Selkirk at a moment like this.
“Tell him. Good to have you in the family again. “
But as the two other destroyers loomed through the grey murk everything else seemed to fade. For a moment Drummond thought it was a trick of the light, or that he had been too long on the bridge. But as the destroyers drew nearer he was aware of a sense of discomfort, something akin to the embarrassment you felt when you were confronted with a disfigured or badly burned man.
Sheridan was the first to break the stillness.
“What have they done to them, for God’s sake?”
Ventnor was in the lead, but her outline was entirely changed. Extra metal plates had been welded to her bridge, and her unequal funnels raked right back from the foremast. The forward gun was missing, and had been replaced by a small pair of twenty millimetres. Astern of her, the Lomondshowed the same sort of crude surgery.
Drummond said quietly, “The attack will be in semidarkness. They will have all the outward appearances of German escort destroyers. “
The explanation did not really help.
He added heavily, “Make the signal, Yeoman. Take station as ordered. “
He lifted his glasses to watch the two ships manoeuvring to follow Victor’s lead. In the misty lenses he saw Selkirk’s face above Ventnor’s screen, some others just behind him.
A Sunderland flying-boat, glinting like a wet whale, circled slowly overhead, dipped its wings and started back towards England. The pilot had watched over his charges and delivered the goods, while two screens of fleet destroyers had done the rest.
Hillier remarked, “If the Jerries get the jump on us before we make our attack, it will all be wasted.” He sounded strangely moved. “I’ll never forget’ this. Never. “
Wingate gave a crooked grin. “I’m sure we’re all glad to hear that, Sub. Now go and fetch the next chart for me, eh?”
“Signal from Captain (D), sir.” Ives had his glass trained
astern. “Reduce flotilla speed to ten knots. Execute Plan Baker. “
Drummond felt for his pipe, although it would be impossible to light it.
“Acknowledge. Tell the chief. ” He looked at Sheridan. “At seven o’clock tomorrow morning we will be in position to begin the final run-in. “
Wingate said, “I’ve got the charts set up, sir.”
Drummond tried to consider his feelings. Not what he had expected? Perhaps even to the last he had imagined Beaumont would delay the attack. The weather and visibility were poor. But if it got no worse it might act as an ally. Then, as evening closed in they would go about and steer south, and then east, deep into the Bay towards the Loire estuary. Just like that.
Sometime during the night the motor torpedo boats would come growling out of the darkness as additional support, and tomorrow they would move in for the kill. He gripped the pipe hard between his teeth until his jaw ached.
Owles appeared on the bridge, his features pinched in the bitter air.
“I’m makin’ some nice stew, sir. Just the thing to keep out the cold.”
Drummond looked at him and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll have it in the sea cabin.”
Owles seemed surprised but pleased. “That’s the ticket, sir. ” He grimaced. “With all them squaddies down aft, you’ve got to watch every blessed spoon!”
He was referring to a platoon of grim-faced commando who had been put into the wardroom and passageway. Tough, heavily armed, their heads covered in khaki stocking-caps, they looked for all the world like bandits. Throughout the small force of vessels there were about three hundred soldiers and marines. Specialists.
Drummond said to Sheridan, “I’m going down. For my Christmas lunch. “
They all ducked automatically as a great wash of spindrift sluiced into the bridge, and Wingate said, “I wonder what I got in my stocking this year?”
Later in the tiny sea cabin Drummond stared at Owles’ stew with something like nausea. His stomach contracted violently to the motion, but he knew he had to eat before something happened. He also knew it was not the motion which was
making him the way he was. It was fear.
Drummond left the upper bridge just once more the following morning to check his calculations in the isolation of the chart room. As promised, the M.T.B.s had made contact, and the whole collection of vessels were now moving on schedule. He looked at the stained chart spread between his hands. Fortyseven degrees north six degrees- west, and the coast of France some two hundred miles ahead of the corkscrewing bows. It was incredible that they had got this far without any sign of discovery.
The regular signals from the Admiralty suggested that the weather was too bad for German air patrols. They did not mention that the R.A.F. ‘s Bomber Command might also be grounded.
As Wingate had remarked, “They won’t want to spread alarm and despondency!”
He returned to his chair on the bridge and considered their situation. They had formed into their new formation. Lomond and Ventnor in the lead, steaming abreast, about half a mile apart. His own ship and Victor followed closely in their wakes, while the launches and M.T.B.s made two large arrowheads even further astern. The two Hunt class destroyers and the heavy tug had steamed purposefully to the south. Would-be rescuers, undertaker’s men, their roles could change very quickly.
He turned to watch the command vessel, a motor gunboat, streaking up the starboard side, making a superb wash as she dashed past. He saw Beaumont’s oak-leaved cap on her small bridge beside her commanding officer. He looked vaguely theatrical, he thought.
The sleet had changed to flurries of snow, much as the met men had promised. It seemed almost warm after the wet, soaking downpour.
He heard footsteps behind him and saw the senior commando officer, a trim lieutenant-colonel, watching the M.G.B. carrying Beaumont to the head of the procession.
“Good morning, Colonel. I hope you slept well.”
The soldier smiled bleakly. “I spent most of the time trying to identify the creaks and bumps. Give me a field any
time.” He grinned and looked about ten years younger. “Different from North Africa!”
Drummond turned to look for Beaumont’s command vessel. He should be transferring to the Lomond before dusk. The M.G.B. would be needed by the marines’ senior officer to watch over and control the demolition party.
The colonel asked, “How do you rate our chances?”
“Evens.” He tried to smile. “It’s all a matter of timing.”
“Isn’t everything, old boy?” The colonel yawned. “I’m going to have some breakfast. In that sphere the Navy does have the edge on us.”
Down in the wheelhouse Midshipman Keyes heard the colonel laugh, the clatter of his boots on the ladder, and then turned his attention back to the plot table. Like the navigator’s yeoman, it was new, and it was only too easy to recall Rigge lying with his head smashed against the side, the bodies sprawled in the smoke.
The new man said brightly, “There, sir, that’s fixed it.”
Keyes nodded. He was thinking of that last leave. Georgina’s perfect body above and below him, consuming him until he had been like a man possessed. He had written to her several times while the ship had been at Greenock, but had only had a postcard in reply. But then she was a star. She would be working all hours. He wondered if she was thinking of him at this moment. What his mother would say when he took her home on the next leave. He would soon be eligible for promotion, too. The picture built up in his mind. The veteran sub-lieutenant, and, all eyes turned to watch him pass with this dazzling girl on his arm.
Tyson staggered through the door and rasped, “Get down aft. Number One wants you to help Mr. Noakes with the heavy towing gear. It’s got to be ready for emergencies.” He glared. “Well, don’t just stand there, chop bloody chop!”
A signalman was busily cutting open a large canvas sack, tumbling bright bunting all over the wheelhouse deck.
Tyson asked sharply, “What’s all that?”
The signalman did not bother to look up, but spread out the uppermost flag. A big naval ensign, scarlet, with black cross and swastika.
He said, “All ships will hoist German colours in fifteen minutes, sir.”
He said it so importantly that Rumsey, who was on the wheel, muttered, “An’ God bless us, every one!”
Tyson stared, his eyes bulging from his head. Each thrash of the screws, every dragging minute was clawing at his entrails like hooks. The sight of the enemy flags, here inside their defences, was like finding the Germans right amongst them. He felt the bile in his throat, an icy chill on his skin.
Rumsey darted him a glance and snapped, “I’d get up to the forebridge, Bunts, afore the new yeoman starts -a-barkin’ for you! “
He did not like the look of Tyson. Toffee-nosed little bastard. Rumsey had seen plenty of supposedly hard-cases crack open after their first taste of battle.
Drummond watched the flags breaking at masts and gaffs throughout the flotilla. They made the only patches of colour in the formation against the sea and the swirling flurries of snow.
All that day they had headed towards the French coast, but apart from sighting the conning tower of a British submarine they had the sea to themselves. The submarine had been positioned as a final marker. Once contact had been confirmed, she had flooded her tanks and dived deep, her part completed.
They were right on time, and despite poor surface visibility were keeping in their tight formation like Roman troops on a field of battle.
Towards dusk Sheridan stood beside Drummond on the gratings, moving his sea boots restlessly and dabbing his wet face with a piece of rag.
Drummond said, “They’ll be setting the time fuses aboard the Ventnor and Lomond.”
Even as he said it he was conscious of the finality. One of the officers on each ship would be down there now, squatting amidst their tons of high explosive, putting the whole thing into operation. Acid upon copper, like the ticking of a clock.
He added abruptly, “Hands to action stations. Section by section. Check them yourself. Then come back here.” He hesitated and said simply, “If anything happens to me, Number One, I want you to do your damnedest for the others.” He avoided Sheridan’s eyes. “Right?”
“You can rely on me, sir. ” He added firmly, “This time. “
It was almost midnight when the lookouts reported flashing lights dead ahead. But in fact they were the bursts of anti-aircraft fire reflected and distorted by snow and low cloud, many miles away. The R.A.F. had managed to do part of their work anyway. It was strange. Eerie. With the engines pounding away and the fans giving their confident purr you could hear nothing outside the ship. The snow was like a great damp curtain, so that the ripping red pin-pricks of the flak were without menace or substance.
Sheridan peered at his watch. It was nearly time.
He said quietly, “We’re in, sir. I don’t know if we’ll get out again, but the Germans have been caught napping up to now. “
Drummond looked at his own watch. It was just after one in the morning. What the hell was Beaumont doing? He should have left the M.G.B. and boarded Lomond for the final run-in. Drummond found he was sweating badly, fearing he was right, dreading the possible consequences. If Beaumont stayed in the command vessel, de Pass would have to take Lomond in on his own. Just thinking about it made him feel sick. De Pass could never do it. Not in a thousand years. Selkirk would be all right, but even he needed instructions.
He heard the colonel say, “I’ve got my lads ready to disembark.” He was carrying a Sten gun and chewing on a sandwich. “By God, it’s thick up ahead.”
Drummond looked at Wingate. `-`Have the battle ensigns hoisted. Get those Jerry flags down!”
A light blinked feebly from somewhere on the port bow. A challenge.
Drummond heard the squeak of halliards as the flags soared to the yards. By the time it was light enough to see them, the ship might be on the bottom.
Another light gleamed against the snow as Lomond flashed a quick reply. De Pass had put out his recognition signals as ordered. He was keeping his head so far. They were all largely guesswork, but would give the flotilla time to get that little bit closer.
A searchlight licked out from starboard, swept like a scythe over Lomond and Ventnor and then, surprisingly, vanished.
Drummond snapped, “Carry on, Number One.” He heard him run for the ladder, and added, “They’ll be on to us any second now.”
A blue light winked brightly from water level, and Drummond knew that the command vessel was in sight of the main objective, the great concrete wall and iron caisson which
formed the centre-piece of the dock area.
On either beam the M.L.s were moving forward like dark wings, their machine guns and cannon swinging to cover the darkening mass of land which was at last showing itself through the snow.
Drummond said tightly, “The M.G.B. will lead us through the outer defences. Ventnor will take the caisson, Lomond will sheer off for the submarine pens.”
Tracer crackled over the masthead and whistled away through the snow.
In the shuttered wheelhouse Mangin gripped his spokes and muttered, ” ‘Old on, me lads!”
Behind his heavy curtain Keyes turned his head slightly to look at the navigator’s yeoman. His name was Farthing, and he seemed a nice chap.
Farthing was fiddling with the plot, and said between his teeth, “Christ, I’m bloody scared, sir. ” He forced a grin, which only made him look worse. “I’m not like you, sir, this is the first real scrap for me. “
Keyes heard the impartial mutter of machine gun fire, and then an insistent thumping sound which puzzled him.
Farthing said hoarsely, “Heavy mortars, sir. There used to be an army range near my home.”
Mangin and the others looked up at the deckhead as the first shells exploded close by. The detonations were muffled, but beat against the hull like hammers wrapped in sacking. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Rumsey, Jevers and the others stared at each other, eyes gleaming in th
e compass lights.
A loud bang rocked the ship violently, and somebody cried out with alarm. _
Then Mangin heard Drummond’s voice, “Full ahead together! “
A piece of metal struck the bridge and rattled down on the deck below.
Mangin listened only to the engine room bells, and then shouted up the voice-pipe, “Both engines full ahead, sir!”
Reaching out on either bow the land was at last coming alive, like a great beast awakening to an impudent intruder. Red and green tracer lifted and slashed down through the snow, and from further inland came the heavier bark of artillery. Shells shrieked overhead, and one exploded aboard an anchored tender, setting it ablaze from stem to stern and lighting up the scene like a picture of an inferno.
Some of the M.L.s had already landed their shore parties on the mole and along one of the great concrete slipways and were heading towards Warlock and Victor at full speed to collect the rest of the troops. One M.L. was listing badly, her low hull partly concealed in a mass of red sparks and smoke. The air was alive with gunfire, the Warlock’s four-inch weapons adding to the din as they poured a regular barrage into the defences beyond the submarine pens.
Drummond watched the nearest M.L. swinging round to run parallel.
“Half ahead together!”
He heard Sheridan yelling through a megaphone, and prayed that none of the soldiers would slip and fall between the pitching hulls at the one, brief contact.
Very lights and flares drifted overhead, and Drummond saw fresh lines of tracer probing down from the tops of warehouses and the pens themselves.
Rankin’s voice was harsh on the intercom. “Pom-poms and Oerlikons shift target. Machine gun at-” His words were lost in the immediate crack and thump of cannonfire as his crews poured a devastating fire towards either bow.
“Ventnor’s cracking on speed, sir!” Hillier was yelling like a madman. “Twenty knots at least!”
The old destroyer with the strange outline was pushing well ahead of the others, her churning wash and bow wave giving testimony of her increasing efforts to reach the target.
The Destroyers Page 32