Sheridan shrugged. “I just can’t believe it, sir. It’s like a bloody nightmare.”
“Signal from Admiralty, sir.”
“Read it.”
He saw Sheridan hovering at the top of a ladder, one foot swinging in space.
“Moltke and escort reported as being to north-west of your estimated position. Weather clearing in same vicinity. Air cover will be despatched as soon as possible. “
“Phew.” Wingate rubbed his chin. “Let’s hope the high-fly boys get to us before she does!” He looked round the bridge. “Two old ladies against that big bastard! Not for me, thanks!”
Drummond was thinking busily. He must keep to the original plan as much as possible. Otherwise the supporting ships and aircraft would lose valuable time looking for them. And those overcrowded craft from Light Coastal Forces, many of them crammed with wounded troops, despite the order to leave them behind to the enemy’s mercy, could be wiped out in a single broadside.
If only they had some M.T.B.s with their tubes still full. At least they might then tackle the two German destroyers. They would be fast and powerful. But that was normal enough. They had been fighting those sort of odds for years.
But the Moltke. Nothing could shift her. Damaged or not, she was a formidable fighting machine.
Sheridan had been right. It was like a nightmare. Each piece seemed to be linked to something else, a tiny incident, a fragment of memory.
Like the man Carson. Their visit had not been in vain after all. Perhaps the fact he had taken the trouble to accompany Sarah to his bedside had helped the man to rally. Enough to make a fresh statement, enough to have someone like Brooks believe it.
Drummond had worked some of it out for himself, and guessed the rest. Beaumont had not denied it this time. Not in his usual style. It would be interesting to see which way the Admiralty jumped when they were back in the cool sanity of Brooks’ bunker.
He thought of Selkirk dying in his ship. Of the colonel with a sandwich in his fist as he had gone ashore with his raiders.
Suppose he himself had been killed? To whom would control of the operation have been handed then? he wondered.
He looked up, off guard. The snow was passing away towards the starboard quarter, leaving the bridge and rigging shining in the gloom like icing on a giant cake.
He peered at his watch. It was four-fifteen in the morning. When daylight came to them again, it was impossible to know what might be waiting.
Drummond wiped the rail with his glove, feeling the snow crisping into ice.
Who touches me dies. A good many had discovered that, he thought grimly.
Wingate called, “Bosun’s mate wants permission to bring some cocoa to the bridge, sir.”
“Never more welcome.”
He walked aft to watch the Lomond’s narrow hull veering back and forth across the stern.
Lomond’s engineer might even be able to raise steam soon. It would help considerably.
He sat in his chair swallowing the thick, glutinous cocoa, his body aching, his face raw from the cold.
Beaumont would probably be transferred to some obscure shore duty where his actions would pass unnoticed. It would not do to drop him altogether. Unless the question of Sarah’s brother was reopened.
Drummond rubbed his sore eyes with the back of his glove. It all seemed remote and unreal.
The first hint of daylight came with a gradual streak of grey far astern where land had been. As it strengthened, and the weary men at guns and lookout stations rubbed their eyes and tried to keep warm, Victor’s lithe silhouette took on shape again, her battle ensigns still flying, very white against the full-bellied clouds.
Drummond left his chair to make a full sweep from horizon to horizon. The Bay was lined with endless, unbroken rollers which cruised down from the north-west, lifted each ship in turn, held her uncomfortably for a few moments before allowing her to sway upright again.
He walked to the rear of the bridge, seeing Lomond’s bows pale and sharp in the growing light, the lines of splinter holes which marked her forecastle from waterline to bridge.
The Bay was theirs. Somewhere, far beyond the destroyers, the M.L.s and M.T.B.s were pushing ahead on their own. If they failed to make contact with the Hunts and the big tug, they would be as helpless as Lomond.
He took a searching look down the length of Warlock’s iron deck. At the men, still anonymous in their heavy clothing, as they crouched behind their gun shields or waited patiently on the quarterdeck watching over the towing wires. Tired out. Their resistance would be very low now. Cold, and remembering the night’s work. The sights and the sounds. It was a pity they could not be given more than stale sandwiches and mugs of tea. They deserved a banquet.
He walked back to his chair, his legs taking the uneven rolls without conscious thought or effort. He nodded to Wingate, who lounged against the voice-pipes, and to Hillier, who was wiping the gyro compass with his sleeve. Around him the others took shape for another day. Ives, like a thin ramrod, his cap worn at the perfect angle. His signalmen and the lookouts, a bosun’s mate and a spare seaman who was cleaning away the bits of broken glass and the dark stain where a man had died.
Drummond leaned forward to look through the screen. The men on B gun were banging their hands together, while one poured tea or cocoa into their filthy mugs. Below on the forecastle he could just see the muzzle of A gun moving very slightly as its crew tested the mechanism. And far, far away he saw the dull blur of the Atlantic horizon. It never seemed to get any closer. Like a fool’s landfall.
Midshipman Keyes stood beside Sheridan on the quarterdeck with Petty Officer Vickery and some shivering stokers. He watched the tow dipping and tautening while the Lomond continued to follow in their wake. The strain of the night action, followed now by a sort of dull acceptance of survival, left him limp and excited. He thought of Georgina. How she would look at him. How she would feel as they embraced and clung together.
Vickery said wearily, “Lomond’s calling us up, sir.” He squinted at the small stabbing handlamp. Then he exclaimed, “She’s got steam up, sir!”
Almost immediately the quarterdeck telephone buzzed, and a seaman called, “First lieutenant, sir! The cap’n says to prepare to slip tow. Volunteer passage crew to be sent over by Carley float as soon as you’re ready. “
“Thank you. ” Sheridan gripped the midshipman’s shoulder. “Get those blokes aft on the double. With the sea and wind as they are, a float will drift across with very little sweat needed.” He found to his astonishment’ that he could joke about it. “I think we’re going to be all right. “
Able Seaman Jevers hurried aft with the other volunteers. He looked neither right nor left, but concentrated instead on what he was going to do. When he had heard that a helmsman was required for the Lomond he had started to make plans. This additional move might help him when the time came. His mind was blurred, his thoughts overlapping like loose pages. He kept telling himself that nothing had altered. The Yank was dead. Nobody on this bloody earth could touch him. And yet … it was just possible. He felt the sweat running over his neck again.
Sheridan shouted, “As soon as you are across to the Lomond, secure the raft. It might come in handy if you have to bale out. “
A seaman said dourly, “We could paddle all the way to Blighty, lads!”
Lieutenant Rankin had turned himself on his steel chair to watch as the Carley float was warped alongside, bobbing up and down in the wash like a toy boat. High in his director position above and abaft the bridge he could see just about everything. The Victor steaming calmly abeam, the men below on the iron deck, like busy moles as they ran with lines to guide the float further aft. It was nearly over. Help was on the way. They would get a well-deserved rest after it was finished, he thought.
It would mean seeing his wife again. He sighed, so that one of the spotting ratings below his chair turned to glance up at him curiously. She was definitely being unfaithful to him. Not the casual af
fairs like before. Someone more permanent had come into her life. It had to be true. She had barely tried to conceal the fact. Had even laughed at his confusion.
His mother had exclaimed angrily, “Why don’t you knock the little slut’s head off?”
He leaned further over to watch Beaumont’s familiar figure striding aft to the quarterdeck. He had picked up most of the gossip about him within seconds of the confrontation on the bridge. It must be a hell of a lot worse than he had imagined for Drummond to risk his career by clashing with a man like Beaumont. He sighed again. Perhaps that was what was wrong with his own life. He did not take risks. He was a “hoper.” He hoped that his wife would somehow change. That he would so impress her she might start all over again. It must have been all right once, surely?
He heard raindrops pattering against the wet steel like pellets. Christ, it was cold.
Rankin felt the chair biting into his spine as a great explosion rocked the ship drunkenly to one side, and felt the hull quiver from keel to bridge as a vast column of water shot above the starboard side before cascading down across the forecastle like a tidal wave.
Below on the bridge Drummond pulled himself across the gratings, his boots slipping in inches of seething water. He heard men shouting, the buzz of telephones, and above all the tell-tale swoosh of another great shell falling, it seemed from the sky itself.
He shouted, “Get me the first lieutenant on the telephone.”
He groped for his glasses, sweeping them over the screen where Victor was steaming as before. Only her four guns, swinging with sudden agitation towards the leaden horizon, showed that everything had changed.
A man gave him the handset, and he had to count seconds before he could trust himself to speak.
“Number One. This is the captain. Tell Captain Beaumont to transfer with the volunteer steaming party forthwith. Lomond has enough power now to fend for herself. Tell Beaumont to scuttle the ship and stand off in a Carley float. I’ll not risk men’s lives on the top of that floating bomb.”
He tensed, gritting his teeth, as yet another massive projectile burst abeam. The opposite side, and well away this time. The invisible enemy was shooting blind.
He heard murmurings on the line and then Beaumont’s voice. Very calm. Completely at ease.
“I shall, of course, take command of Lomond. There is only a sub-lieutenant aboard her at present. “
Drummond cut him short. “We might be able to slip past. If not, you will fire scuttling charges and abandon ship.”
He felt the pain pricking at the back of his eyes. Beaumont would survive this way. It was ironic. As a prisoner of war he would receive more kudos than at the hands of Admiral Brooks. It was strange that the Beaumonts of this world always prospered.
Beaumont said suddenly, “By the way. I did not know about Lomond’s original hull state. ” He sounded as if he was stifling a laugh. “I wanted Warlock to be used in the ramming job. ” The line went still.
Drummond swung round, his face uplifted as another shell ripped above the masthead like an express train. He wanted me
dead. It had meant that much to him.
He felt the ship surge forward and down and a man yelled, “Tow ‘as bin slipped, sir!”
Then Rankin’s voice on the intercom. “Enemy in sight. Capital ship bearing Green one-one-oh. Range one-two-oh.”
Drummond glanced up at Rankin’s steel perch. Six miles. When the light strengthened still further the Germann gunnery officer would pick them off at leisure.
The voice of the senior radar operator was already confirming Rankin’s assessment. Except that despite the bad conditions he had located two smaller blips on his screen. The destroyers. Not that numbers meant anything now.
He said, “Make to Admiralty. Enemy in sight to the north of our present position. “
He walked aft again and saw Lomond steaming away very slowly, her hull rocking drunkenly on a steep roller. She would be an onlooker after all.
Ives watched him sternly. “That all, sir?”
Drummond shook his head and looked up at the two streaming ensigns above the bridge. How white they were. The only clean things today.
He said, “I am engaging.”
He turned to look at Wingate. “Increase to maximum revs. Alter course to two-six-five. He found that his mind was suddenly clear, although it could see nothing, feel nothing beyond this single moment. “Signal Victor to take station astern.”
Drummond strode to the table and threw the screen to one side. “By altering course we might head the enemy off long enough for the M.L.s to get clear. Those Jerry destroyers could catch ‘em in no time, or drive them into the Atlantic until they run out of fuel.”
Two tall waterspouts shot into the air directly ahead of Victor’s bows as she turned steeply to obey his signal.
She made a fine sight, he thought. Like we do from her decks. Dazzle-paint shining with flying spray as she worked up to full revs, her out-of-date lines momentarily lost in speed and purpose.
Beaumont intruded into his mind. He wanted me dead. Now, if he stayed out of range, he might be able to watch it happen.
He lifted his glasses, and for just a brief instant he saw the bright stab of gunfire through the horizon murk. Seconds passed, and then came great double explosions. He felt the ship buck beneath him, and tried not to think of the Moltke’s armament. Nine eleven-inch guns, ten five-point-nines. A heavier armament than the whole of the Scrapyard Flotilla put together. And now there were only two of them left to show defiance.
Rankin again. “Bearing Green nine-oh. Range one double oh. “
It was no use. The range was falling away rapidly, and Warlock’s gunners could not even mark the giant.
He shifted his attention to Victor. She was directly astern now, her bows making a giant moustache of creaming foam.
More shells hurled tall columns of water beyond the two destroyers. He saw the spray reaching out in vast white circles to mark the power of each one.
The Germans would be eager to destroy them, no matter how frail they were by comparison. Moltke’s captain had spent most of his war dodging the R.A.F. or sneaking out of his base to chase and destroy a rare convoy. He had almost certainly been informed by Group West that his hope of a safe dock had been denied him, just as he would know that these two relics of the Kaiser’s war were the culprits. What he would not expect was a direct challenge.
He found he was sweating badly.
“Make to Victor. Prepare to alter course ninety degrees to starboard. ” He saw the flags darting aloft and added shortly, “Hoist Flag Four.”
Wingate looked round as Ives snapped to his signalmen, “Flag Four. Engage with torpedoes.”
“Victor’s acknowledged, sir. “
Drummond trained his glasses astern and saw Roger North standing upright on his open bridge. Would his wife, the beautiful Elinor, blame him, too, for what was about to happen?
He snapped, “Execute!”
He heard the flags coming down the halliards and Wingate say, “Hard a-starboard!”
The ship tilted violently, pushed still further as more shells exploded near the bows. Drummond felt the splinters hammer
ing along the hull and knew he had judged it to the split second.
Warlock should have been steaming where those last shells had fallen.
“Midships ! “
Wingate was having to shout above the din of engines and fans as the ship swung in a tight arc and then steadied on a course towards the enemy. But not two long targets any more. They were on equal terms. Bow to bow.
“Steady as you go!”
Wingate was peering along his gyro, coughing as spray deluged over the screen.
Drummond said, “We will engage to starboard.” Wingate stared at him, his eyes without emotion. “Yes, sir.” He was probably thinking, six torpedoes between two ships.
If they reached that far.
The sky came apart as towering columns of spray roared above
the forecastle. It was like a body-blow, the shells exploding almost as the stem sliced through the falling curtain of spray. In Galbraith’s engine room it would feel like a mine going off.
“Range oh-nine-oh. “
“Open fire!”
The two forward guns reacted immediately, hurling their puny shells through the rain and spray to burst in line with the enemy. Throughout the racing, trembling hull the men would know they were trying to hit back.
Rankin was shouting into his intercom. “Short! Deflection seven left! ” More distorted voices over the pipes and telephones and then, “Shoot!”
Abeam, her ensigns still stiff in the wind, Victor was also using her forward guns.
Drummond could see the oilskinned figures grouping around her triple-mounted torpedo tubes, the purposeful way they were even now turning athwartships.
More violent explosions announced the last fall of shot, and Drummond felt despair, in his heart as he watched the neat pattern of waterspouts.
The battlecruiser must have been using her two forward turrets alternately. Two by two. Feeling the range. Judging the moment.
Then it came, and he had to hold the rail with all his strength to prevent his being flung on his back. Choking spray and whistling fragments whirled above the bridge, and he heard the violent clatter of breaking glass as the radar lantern was blasted away. A man fell past the starboard Oerlikon, and was lost kicking and screaming in the water alongside. He could smell the stench of explosives, taste it in his lungs as if he were drowning in it.
But he could only stare at the Victor as she ploughed slower and slower into a great creaming backwash from the last shellbursts. She had lost twenty feet of her bows, and the sea was surging into the gaping, jagged hole like a high-pressure hose. If North could not stop his engines the sea would smash through the bulkheads like a battering ram and she would continue her brave charge right to the bottom.
More shells exploded on either side of her, bracketing her in a vice of iron. Holes appeared along her side, and her upper deck and superstructure seemed to wilt and shake as if in a great wind.
The Destroyers Page 34