by Jay Garnet
Twice he slipped away to talk to a mate of his in the wireless cabinet near the bomb-room.
‘I dunno why, Cocky,’ he said when Mike asked him what he was up to. ‘Just to be near it, I suppose.’ Once he said, ‘’Ere, Cocky, you know one of them bars would pay my wages for an ’undred years?’ And another time, ‘You know the first thing I’d do with that bar of gold, Cocky? I’d buy myself a new face.’
Somehow, something insidious had entered this particular hidey-hole in the Edinburgh’s maze of rooms, cabins, offices, passages and companion-ways. From Mike’s mess deck it spread. The gold cropped up in comments and conversation, like recurring symptoms of a disease. Nothing to put a finger on, but there was a new mood to the ship, a feeling of insecurity of which the gold became an unconscious symbol.
For instance, on the day before departure, Mike overheard a conversation between two of the galley staff serving at the other side of the aluminium counter with its countersunk food containers.
‘A few more days now and we won’t have no night at all.’
‘Yeah. Then Jerry can have a clear run at us twenty-four hours a day.’
‘He’s sure to, ain’t he, if he knows about this bleedin’ gold . . .’
The Edinburgh left the Kola Inlet at the head of a thirteen-boat convoy, QP 11, on 28 April. Sailing with the Edinburgh were six destroyers, four corvettes, a trawler and, as temporary local escort, four British minesweepers, together with two Russian ones. On board the Edinburgh were Captain Hugh Faulkner and the convoy’s commander, Admiral Bonham-Carter.
For two days the convoy made slow and uneventful progress. The only sign of the enemy was reconnaissance planes circling at a safe distance. The Edinburgh, the prime target in the empty convoy, forged ahead, zigzagging at about twenty knots. Her manoeuvres were designed to outfox any predatory German submarines, and to get her as rapidly as possible up near the pack ice, where U-boats found it difficult to operate. However, this sound reasoning was nullified by pure bad luck.
U-456 was waiting, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Max Teichert, who spotted the Edinburgh on the morning of Thursday 30 April. Unwittingly, the Edinburgh zigzagged towards him and, with a final turn, offered a perfect broadside target.
Just after four that afternoon, Teichert fired three torpedoes.
Aboard the Edinburgh, there was no warning at all.
On several of the mess decks hundreds of seamen, among them Mike, were having their tea. Peaches was nowhere to be seen. Mike, wondering if he had gone to the hospital for some reason – seasickness perhaps – had no sooner stretched out on top of some lockers, when one of the older sailors, a man known for his surliness, had claimed the billet as his own.
‘That’s my spot, Cocky. I’m off to get my tea, and when I come back I want you off of there. If you’re not gone, there’ll be trouble.’
Mike remained where he was. He didn’t like to yield to pressure. For one, two minutes, he lay there, his eyes closed. He had no idea what action the sailor would take, if any, but experience with the man had led him to expect the worst.
He was not utterly taken by surprise, therefore, when the lockers beneath him heaved and his universe exploded. But it was only when he landed on the deck that he realized the reason. The whole ship boomed and shook from the explosion. The lights went out. At the same instant the mess doorway was lit by a lurid flash. The lockers from which he had just fallen shook and banged crazily; some flew open and spilled their contents. The deck tilted. When recalling his sensation later, Mike liked to say it was as if they were held in the hand of a giant, who tipped them slowly to port. All around, tables and chairs left their mountings. Men at their tea were thrown from their chairs on to the deck, against bulkheads, against tables and against one another.
Mike found himself under a table. It was dark. Everywhere there were shouts, curses and hangings. His right ear hurt where he had hit it against the table leg. He felt hot liquid on one hand and something sharp. Blood? No, tea and a broken cup. He was disoriented and shocked, but like most of the men, not badly hurt by the explosion.
It was this first explosion that did for the gold. The torpedo struck on the starboard side level with the foremast, just twenty feet from the bomb-room. It was a devastating blast which blew a thirty-five-foot hole through the armoured plating and through the tank of furnace fuel oil that lined the hull at that point, blowing the top off the tank. Inboard, a series of bulkheads and decks buckled outwards and upwards. The blast opened up the four-inch magazine in which Mike had so often worked, the bomb-room and the conning tower which contained the unit responsible for damage control. There, half a dozen men were on duty. Above, in the Royal Marines’ mess, the deck opened wide under the force of the blast, lifting men into the air and spilling several of them down into the sludge beneath. Instantly, water flooded the magazine and bomb-room, forcing its way into the lower conning tower.
Within seconds the next torpedo struck – so soon after the first that few realized there had been two hits. It took off a section of the Edinburgh’s stern – fifty feet detached completely, rendering the two outer propellers useless and destroying the rudder. The quarterdeck peeled back like the top of a sardine tin, rolling right over ‘Y’ turret so that the six-inch gun slammed clear through the metal.
In the ratings’ mess deck, forward of the first blast and above it, Mike wallowed on the floor, trying to regain his footing on the oil-covered lino. The emergency lighting flickered on, casting a dull glow over the scene, as fifty or so ratings slipped and struggled their way to the companion-way and the hatch above, while Mike looked around for Peaches. Where was the silly bastard? As communications messenger, he should be on his way to the bridge already. That was action stations for him, and he’d get a right bollocking if he didn’t show up.
At the top of the companion-way, Charlie George appeared, checking on damage. As it turned out, close though they were to the point of impact, there wasn’t much. The doors and hatches were closed, as they should have been, so the blast had been well contained.
‘I’d better get down the four-inch magazine,’ Mike said as the chief hauled him up.
‘Forget it, lad,’ came the reply. ‘You won’t get down there. I’ve just had a message from the bridge. Down the magazine, all round there, that’s been hit. Closed off and flooded. Best thing you can do is stay here and start clearing up.’
Mike had a funny feeling about Peaches. Where had he been when the torpedo struck? He wasn’t on duty. He should have been in the mess room.
What was the last thing he’d said? Something about the bloody gold again? He’d talked often enough about getting down there. It was as if he was drawn to the bomb-room. But surely he wouldn’t have actually gone there? He might have gone through the Royal Marines’ mess deck. But he would have had no reason . . . Wait a minute. There was a wireless cabinet down there. As communications messenger, he could have had a reason to get that far. Come to think of it, he had a mate who was a wireless rating, and he’d been down there before. Could be he’d sneaked down there again, off duty. Could be he was there now . . . but that was just above the four-inch magazine. And the chief had said the whole place was flooded, sealed off. Anyone in there would be a goner.
Not that there was anything to be done. The ship, if not stricken, was a shambles. She still had some life in her, but not much. All around there was confusion: the hiss of escaping steam, the distorted blare of loudspeakers, the shouted orders and the deck listing a few degrees to starboard with the weight of water that had flooded in. All Mike could do was help the others to set the tables and chairs upright again, and clean the food from the floor. Those able to go to their action stations had gone, leaving a dozen or so in the mess deck.
At that moment a petty officer poked his head around the door and said, ‘You and you,’ pointing at Mike and another of the ratings. ‘Down to secondary damage control. Know where that is? Shipwrights’, and double quick. You’re messengers.
They want information, fast. Move!’
Perhaps this was his chance to find out about Peaches. If there was any damage control there should be information available about casualties. He grabbed his duffle-coat and gloves from his locker in case he had to go up on deck, and ran down the companion-way and along passages still dimly lit by the emergency lighting.
He stuck his head round the door and said he’d been sent as messenger. There were two men sitting at an intercom; one was talking to the bridge. An officer arrived at the same time.
‘What about Jim Goodall?’ he asked, before Mike could say anything.
‘You from the bridge? Didn’t they tell you?’ Jim Goodall was chief of damage control. Everyone knew him because, to set an example, he did everything by the book – always wore an anti-flash helmet and gloves, always had a lifebelt partially blown up, always carried a torch and knife at his belt. ‘Jim was down in damage control in the lower conning tower. He just had time to say the bulkhead was blowing. Last thing he did was shout that the hatch was secure. They closed themselves in. They must have drowned within seconds.’
‘I see,’ said the officer, and then was silent.
‘I think I got a mate down there,’ Mike ventured.
‘A mate, eh? In damage control?’
‘No, I don’t think so. What about the wireless cabinet?’
The two men looked at each other. One of them scratched his chin.
‘Wireless cabinet? Yes, there are a couple of blokes in there. Sealed off. Watertight. All right so far.’
‘Can they get out?’
Another exchange of looks.
‘Not at present, old son. That wireless room’s just next door to the four-inch magazine and the lower conning tower. And that’s full of water.’
‘Two blokes in there?’
‘That’s what the captain said. One will be the rating on duty. I don’t know who the other one is.’
‘I think I do, sir. Me mate, Derek ’Oskins. Can I talk to ’im?’
‘Not yet, son. There’s work to do. We want you to get aft. Find a party attacking a fire below “Y” turret. No phones. See if they need any help and report to the bridge, communications officer. Anyway, you won’t get through to your mate down here, but you might from the bridge.’
Mike, being from the top-deck division, had never been aft. He made his way up to the flight deck and then back past the derricks that had lifted the gold, past the three four-inch gun mountings and down to the quarterdeck, where he saw at first hand the extraordinary effects of the second torpedo.
He was blocked by a wall of metal bent like a wave rising twenty feet above him. Below him the remains of the quarterdeck hung over empty space. There was no fire that he could see, at least not here. He retreated, up the companion-way to cross the ship by the aft funnel, and snatched a chance to look about him.
The wind sliced at him, a Force Four north-easter. The Edinburgh was wallowing along at walking pace, listing at ten degrees. Despite the terrible damage to the stern, she was still under some power. There was no other vessel in sight, though the rest of the convoy couldn’t be far away.
From the other side of the ship there came the sounds of hissing steam, roaring flames, men shouting, running. As he emerged from behind the control tower, he collided with an AB running towards the front of the ship. Behind, he saw a petty officer.
‘Messenger from damage control,’ he said. ‘What about the fire?’
Behind the PO, down the port companion-way, smoke and steam billowed. The man’s face was black and his gloves were singed.
‘I was just on my way there. Tell them it’s OK up here. It’s the engineers who’ve got the real problems. A few casualties, no deaths – unless there was anyone in the admiral’s or captain’s quarters. Tell the bridge. I’ll check the fire. My name’s Davis.’
He turned and, grabbing the companion-way rails, vanished, his feet not touching the steps.
Mike ducked back along the deck and up to the bridge, to the communications office with its packs of radio and telephone equipment. Half a dozen men sat or stood before an incomprehensible confusion of speakers, dials and switches. There were two other messenger boys nearby.
‘Report on quarterdeck fire . . .’ he said to the first officer he saw.
Two officers, one sitting at an intercom, heard his report. Even before he had finished, the officer at the intercom was relaying his information to the bridge and to damage control. Mike overheard snatches of conversation. Priorities had emerged. Captain Faulkner was now in direct contact with secondary damage control. Situation in both strike areas stable. Some power. Rudder gone. A dozen dead. Forester and the Russian destroyers on their way. Any news of primary damage control? The four-inch magazine?
‘I got a mate down there,’ Mike put in.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said the communications officer, looking up from his console. ‘Secondary damage control said you might help out. Wireless cabinet, was it? There’s something odd down there. Can’t get any sense. Mate of yours, eh? We’ll patch you through . . . Hello? Hello, wireless room? Can you hear me down there? Can you hear me?’
There was a long pause. Then a small, tired voice came through, distorted by the speaker.
‘Yeah, I can ’ear. What’s ’appening?’
‘That you, Hoskins?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell us what happened, Hoskins.’
‘Tired. Can’t seem to . . .’
The officer covered the microphone with a hand and said: ‘It was the same last time. He wouldn’t say.’ He removed his hand. ‘Come on, Hoskins, lad. Do your best. Where’s the wireless rating?’
‘Still asleep, sir. Can’t wake ’im up.’ The voice faded and then came through strong: ‘Water leaking through the door. Jammed. Can’t shift any of the levers.’
‘Don’t try it, son. You got a few tons of water the other side of that door. You just stay as you are. We’ll be down with you in no time.’
‘That’s all right, sir. I’m OK, but ever so sleepy.’
‘Don’t you bother, Hoskins. You go to sleep if you like. We’ll be with you in no time.’
‘Best thing for him,’ said the other officer, leaning over the console. ‘Do you want to say anything, lad? We’d like to know what happened.’
Mike licked his lips. He leant forward. ‘’Ello, Peaches. Cocky ’ere. ’Ow yer doin’, mate?’
‘Cocky! What you doing up the bridge?’
‘A bit of messenger service. What you doing down in that wireless room?’
‘Well, it was . . .’ There was a long pause. ‘Gold, the gold.’
‘I thought it was, you daft bastard. What did you think you were trying to do?’
‘I don’t know. Just ’ad this mate on wireless. Thought I could chat ’im up and work out the door. I dunno why. You know. Like we was talking about. I thought if someone ’ad left it open. I thought . . .’
‘You daft bastard! I told you you’d never . . .’
‘No. I wasn’t going to nick it, Cocky. I just wanted to look at it again. I started to chat up old Sparks here . . . I think I’m going to ’ave to go to sleep, Cocky . . . and then there was a bang and everything was all over the place and we was in the dark for a bit and then the lights came on. We thought we was all right. Then we ’eard the noises from next door and then we didn’t ’ear no more after that.’
The room seemed to have gone very quiet. Mike glanced at the officer standing by his side. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six. The man at the console said, ‘OK, Hoskins. There’s nothing more you can do. If you want to sleep, sleep now. We’ll have you out of there in no time.’
He threw the switch up. Mike was puzzled: ‘What’s up? Why is ’e so tired?’
‘Not sure. First time he said that, we reported it. We reckon it’s carbon monoxide leaking through from a freeze-box next door. That would knock him out after a bit.’
‘’Ow long will it take to get ’im out?
’
The man standing up turned away. The officer at the console looked at Mike. ‘He should have air enough for three or four hours.’
‘But ’ow long . . . ?’
‘Listen. That wireless cabinet gives on to damage control. Damage control is flooded and there were six men in there. The whole area is open to the sea. There’s a hole the size of a bus in the ship’s side. Out there, there’s a U-boat waiting to finish us off. You want me to tell you the truth, lad? Or would you like to live with a lie for a while?’
Suddenly Mike understood.
He reached forward and flicked the switch down. ‘Peaches!’ he shouted. There was no sound but the hiss of the speaker.
‘Leave it,’ said the officer behind him. ‘He’s asleep. It’s best that way.’
By the time Mike was back on his mess deck, four destroyers – two British, the Foresight and the Forester, and two Russian – had peeled away from the main convoy to provide the Edinburgh with cover. An attempt to tow her failed when the line broke, and in any case the destroyers needed to range free to provide protection.
The Edinburgh could make straight-line progress of a sort only by driving forward on both remaining screws and then reversing her starboard propeller to correct her course. For the next twenty-three hours her pace was pathetically slow: two knots. But at least she was not a sitting duck, and in addition Faulkner managed to correct her list by ordering the flooding of several compartments on the port side, thus balancing the weight of water in the damaged section on the starboard side. At the same time, however, this put the ship seven feet lower in the water.
Meanwhile the rest of the convoy had been under attack by German torpedo-carrying planes, at least four submarines and three destroyers, the Hermann Schoemann, Z24 and Z25. The destroyers sank the Russian trawler and were then ordered to finish off the crippled Edinburgh.
By then the two Russian destroyers had left for the Kola Inlet. They said they were running out of fuel, which was no doubt true; but they also pointed out that 1 May was an official holiday in Russia and that they would be unable to make an immediate return.