The other event occurred in North Africa beside the Qattara Depression, near a place nobody had ever heard of. It was called El Alamein, where for the last time, at the very gates of Egypt, the battered Eighth Army turned and stood fast. Like the thin red line, some said. The retreat was over.
As Howard had thought. There was hope after all.
Part Two—1943
1 | Victors and Victims
“STARBOARD watch closed up at defence stations, sir.” Lieutenant Finlay’s voice was sharper than usual, a sure sign that he was on edge about something. Lieutenant-Commander David Howard licked his lips and savoured the last cup of coffee until morning. It was midnight, the middle watch standing to their various stations while the destroyer rolled easily from side to side at reduced speed.
Howard looked up at the heavy cloud layer, the rare glimpse of a star. It was mid-April, and already the Atlantic was reluctantly showing its mercy after the winter gales. Around and beneath the gently vibrating chair he could sense his ship’s mood and that of her company. Just another year; a few months since his father had been killed in the hit-and-run raid, and yet everything was different. Even the ship was changed in some ways, but that was to be expected, he thought. He was lucky to have held on to Treherne as his Number One, and of course, the ship’s core, Evan Price, the Chief.
But he would soon be losing Finlay, although the gunnery officer had as yet not mentioned he was seeking a transfer to another ship. It was largely due to the bad feeling between him and Bizley, who after receiving his coveted DSC had used every opportunity to cross swords with Finlay, so that Treherne had been forced to stand between them on too many occasions. The wardroom was predominantly a young one still. Old Pym had gone at last to a shore job at HMS Vernon, the torpedo school, and was probably boring his recruits to death with his well-worn tales of Jutland. He had quit Gladiator as he had served her, a complaint on his tight mouth, a scowl for the growing intake of green and untried sailors. He was not missed. The new Gunner (T), only recently promoted from chief torpedo gunner’s mate, was a different sort entirely. Bill Willis was round and jovial, and had a fund of yarns which had even forced Bizley to silence.
Midshipman Esmonde had left to be promoted to sub-lieutenant, although Howard found it hard to imagine him in any sort of real crisis where people would be looking to him for leadership. Treherne had described him as “a squeaker.” A squeaker he would probably remain. His replacement was a midshipman of a very different kind. His name was Ross, a pale-faced youth who kept very much to himself in spite of their enforced mingling. Howard had spoken to Midshipman Ross when he had come aboard and had decided it would take more than a few months to make him relax. He rarely slept below when the ship was at sea, even in the worst weather, and at action stations he was usually the first at his station on the bridge. He had been serving in a big fleet destroyer called Lithgow, a powerful class of vessel much the same type as Captain Vickers’s Kinsale. The ship had been in the Mediterranean, trying to force the convoys through to beleaguered Malta. A lucky ship, they had said. Until the day she had been attacked by a dozen aircraft all at once. When a rescue vessel had been sent to assist there had been just seven survivors on a Carley float, surrounded by oil and flotsam. Ross had been the only officer out of a company of over two hundred. But he was good at his work and eager to learn; together they probably served as his lifeline. How long, only time would tell.
Gladiator had also got rid of her doctor, much to most people’s relief. The newly appointed surgeon-lieutenant, John Moffatt, a Dorset man born and bred, looked every inch a countryman, with rosy cheeks and what Treherne described as a turnip haircut. He was already very popular, and many swore he had once been a vet.
Howard stifled a yawn and thought of the two-month course they had been ordered to complete to their masters’ satisfaction by the end of March, only days ago.
Howard had never believed they could have achieved so much or had so much to learn. It had been like going to school all over again. Tactical training ashore in classrooms, and periods at sea which had made the war almost preferable by comparison.
Admiral Max Horton, the new C-in-C Western Approaches, not only lived up to but surpassed all the stories previously told about him. In a few months the whole command was feeling his personal drive and demanding enthusiasm. He soon made it known that he believed in co-ordination, and the use of longrange aircraft with both the Navy and the RAF playing a full role. With extra fuel tanks they narrowed the Atlantic gap even more, and many U-Boats had been forced to run deep when they had discovered hostile aircraft where once the ocean had been theirs alone.
The active and aggressive use of hunter-killer groups was the basis of all new training, and Gladiator, with her consorts, had been in the thick of it. With a couple of elderly submarines playing at Germans they had evolved an entirely new method of attack. No longer used only as close escorts for the desperately needed convoys, they worked independently in small groups, sent to seek out the enemy in advance of any convoy due in any area, before a U-Boat pack could be mustered to attack and slaughter it as so many had been.
In some ways, at the beginning, it had been humiliating, and Howard had found himself resenting the bland instructions, the ruthless criticism after an exercise had gone wrong.
Slowly but surely, their instructors had won them round. The U-Boat, after all, had the whole ocean in which to hide. The old method of using depth-charges which took so long to sink and explode at the required depth was not enough. New ahead-throwing mortars with three barrels on each mounting, code-named Squid, were being developed and installed as fast as possible. The new pattern produced meant that the attacking warship could shadow a submerged submarine and still not lose contact if a salvo failed to encircle the enemy. Destroyers and frigates had previously lost vital minutes after they had dropped the old-style pattern over the stern, and had to turn as fast as possible to make another strike.
Until Max Horton’s appearance at Western Approaches the theory on sinking submarines had changed little since peacetime, but the effect of the old-style depth-charges had been wrongly estimated. With the German hulls now being constructed of welded pressured steel, it was necessary to get a charge closer than sixty feet to do any lasting damage.
On Gladiator’s bridge one day after a fruitless attack, the tall, severe-looking commander who had been Howard’s referee had remarked calmly, “You see, old chap, Jerry’s got six hundred feet to play with whenever he feels things are getting too hot.”
Howard had conned his ship slowly round for another attack, remembering all the other times—the lost echoes, the depth-charges killing nothing but fish. His tormentor had added, “Remember, at four knots a U-Boat can travel six hundred feet while the charges are falling.” He had smiled at Howard’s resentment. “Now let’s have another go, eh?”
Howard slid from his chair and crossed to the ready-use chart table. It seemed quiet enough. He smiled. Spring in the air. As he leaned over the chart and switched on the tiny shaded light he thought he heard Sub-Lieutenant Ayres humming to himself by the magnetic compass. He had been paired off with Finlay for watch-keeping duties, mainly so the first lieutenant could keep an eye on all of them. A sort of trouble-shooter, allowing his captain to keep his distance.
Ayres had certainly changed for the better. Like the news from North Africa, it was not just the continued advance of the Eighth Army against Rommel’s invincible Afrika Korps. In their retreat the Germans had allowed one of their prison cages to be overrun. Ayres’s brother had been found in it, wounded and still in a state of shock, but alive. The Red Cross had sent word to Ayres’s home as soon as they knew.
Howard forgot him as he studied the worn chart, the one with a dark ring left by a cocoa mug like an ancient compass-rose in the corner.
One hundred miles south-southwest of Ireland’s Bantry Bay and a convoy would be due to enter St George’s Channel in two days’ time. All being well. There had been many losses on the Atlant
ic run, but the deployment of new escort groups had managed to stop the score from rising like last year’s brutal testimony.
He could picture the rest of the small group clearly in his mind, as if it was broad daylight. Three other destroyers, all veterans like Gladiator, steaming abeam in the new strategy to cover as much sea as possible with both radar and Asdic. One ship to the north of Gladiator, the other two equally spaced to the southward.
He was surprised that he could feel so relaxed. It was the first time he had been back in the field since their training had begun, and apart from exercising with the whole group they had covered just one small convoy until it had been met by other escorts from Gibraltar.
The training was over. He had to make certain that nobody forgot, even for a second.
They would patrol their beat, one giant rectangle, until the next convoy was safely passed through their area, unless they were required to offer support to another group or assist the air patrols. It was that flexible.
There was growing speculation about the new “pocket” aircraft-carriers now being built. Tiny compared to a fleet carrier, they were converted merchantmen with wooden flight decks, from which pilots were expected to take-off and land on in any conditions. If it was true and it worked, the air gap would be closed for good. Convoys would sail with air cover from shore to shore, and no U-Boat would be safe to seek and attack them while on the surface. Like the sudden change of fortune in North Africa, it had once been a despairing dream. Now when the people at home listened eagerly to the news bulletins they could find hope instead of disappointment or fear.
All the way from Alex, household names which had changed hands so many times when the Eighth Army had been in retreat, would now be read out in the reverse order. Tobruk, Benghazi, Sirte and on to Tripoli, the ultimate goals being Tunis and Bone, Rommel’s final toehold in Africa. A far cry from the crushing defeats and reverses of just a year ago. He sighed, and knew that Ayres had instantly stopped humming to listen.
What a pity the Guvnor had missed the change of luck. He switched off the light and stood up. Luck? Hardly that with all the ships sunk; all the men who had died at sea and on land, or had been hammered out of the sky. Hardly luck.
“Increase to half-speed, Guns. The others in the group will be checking the time and watching us on the radar. We don’t want to hang about now and wake up some sleepy U-Boat before we can hit the bugger, do we?”
A shadowy figure moved across the bridge, a steaming fanny of kye swinging to the ship’s motion.
Ordinary Seaman Andrew Milvain stopped dead as Howard said, “We’re losing you after this patrol, I believe?” He made it sound friendly and casual, as if he had not already written a good report for the young seaman, who was leaving to attend King Alfred, the officers’ training establishment at Hove. There, all wartime RNVR officers cut their teeth and swotted to become midshipmen like Ross or subbies like Ayres.
“Yes, sir.” He stammered, “I—I shall do my best, sir.” He glanced around him in the darkness, his shyness suddenly held at bay. “But I’ll miss the ship, and everyone …” His voice tailed away.
I would feel the same. But he said, “You’ve made a lot of friends. Just mind you remember them when you get your little bit of gold, eh?” He turned as the wheelhouse acknowledged the increased speed and the bridge began to vibrate more insistently, and the slow roll departed in Gladiator’s ruler-sharp wake.
“I’m going to my hutch, Guns.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Howard lowered himself to the next deck, past the stammer of morse and murmuring voices in the wheelhouse, on into his tiny sea cabin.
He sat down on the bunk and massaged his eyes. Just a few moments alone to think. He reached out and opened the thermos of tea he knew Vallance would leave for him and tried not to dwell on the girl who came and went with his thoughts like the sun and the moon.
He had seen her only once after the triumphant return to Liverpool. It had been unsatisfactory again, because of the brevity and also because she had had her friend, Jane, with her. Holding him at arm’s length. When he had been enduring the frustration and demands of the training course with the group, she had also been away with some senior officer on some special assignment. Or so her friend had said when he had telephoned. The one called Jane had left him in little doubt that she was more than willing to stand in for Celia if he gave the word. He had not, and was strangely glad about his decision.
He swallowed the over-sweet tea and took the telephone from its hook.
Finlay responded at once. “Forebridge, sir?”
“All quiet, Guns?” He had come to rely on most of them more than he could believe. He remembered his first command, the little V & W Class destroyer Winsby, a wardroom of recalled old salts or complete amateurs. It all seemed a long, long time ago.
He looked at his new perk, the small radar-repeater on the bulkhead, the light revolving steadily to pick out the little blips on either side. A long time ago. Now Howard as a young lieutenant-commander was the senior officer of the group, that was, until they rejoined the others, or whatever else Admiral Horton decided.
Finlay said, “Passed three sweepers two miles abeam, sir. Making for base.”
Howard nodded. Minesweeping: the most demanding job of all. Day in, day out, every channel must be swept. Just to be sure, for this was one of the main fairways of Western Approaches, with convoys putting out to sea—or making the last miles into harbour, and safety. Until the next time. The men who worked the minesweepers complained it was boring rather than dangerous. But their casualty lists were unmatched.
“Buzz me in an hour, Guns, unless …”
He heard his dry chuckle. “Aye, sir. Unless I need you.”
Howard laid back on the bunk and watched the revolving radar beam until it made him drowsy. He felt the ship lift and plunge beneath him and pictured his men trying to sleep in their messes or huddled at their stations, peering out at the black water.
Gladiator was feeling the change too. No longer a helpless escort, watching while others died. She was her proper self again. A destroyer.
His head lolled and he was instantly asleep.
The dream was rising to a frenzied climax, in which Howard was unable to speak or make himself understood. She was in his arms, watching his mouth, waiting for him to explain with just the hint of a smile on her lips. Despite her nearness, the touch of her body in his hands, Howard was aware only of danger, the need to protect her.
The background was so bright and empty he could barely look at it, and when she twisted round in his arms he saw another figure standing quite still, his back turned towards them, his arms hanging by his sides.
Even in the whirlpool of his thoughts he knew who it was, why he had come. He was dressed in a leather flying-jacket and fleecy boots. It was something Howard simply knew although he did not see them.
She laughed and ran from his outstretched arms towards the solitary figure, without another glance or any sign that she understood.
She held out her hands and the airman turned to look at her for the first time. But there was no face, just burned flesh and two angry red eyes. Her scream seemed to sear his brain like fire, but still he could not move.
Howard woke up, sweating and gasping even as the scream extended into the piercing call of the telephone.
He managed to speak. “Captain?”
There was a pause. Like a question mark, he thought later. “This is Treherne, sir.”
Thoughts burst through his mind and then slowly settled like spray after an exploding depth-charge.
The first lieutenant was on the bridge, but it was still the middle watch. He peered at the bulkhead clock. It was barely three-quarters of an hour since he had lain down. It had felt like an eternity, like torture. The ship was quiet apart from the engines’ pulsing beat, and the occasional sluice of water alongside. No action stations, and yet …
“Are you all right, sir?”
Howard swal
lowed. “Yes. What is it?”
Treherne seemed to turn away, to speak on another telephone perhaps, or to ponder on the captain’s state of mind. “Is your radar-repeater switched on, sir?”
“Yes.” Howard turned and peered at it, her scream still probing his mind. It was only a dream. He gritted his teeth. A bloody nightmare, more likely.
Treherne said evenly, “Probably nothing, sir. But look at one-five-oh degrees, about ten thousand yards beyond Hector. Could that be an echo?”
Howard stared, watching the bright little blobs glow and then fade as the radar beam passed over them. Steering west, all on station, in line abeam. Hector, a pre-war destroyer which had seen plenty of action at Dunkirk and off Norway before coming to the Atlantic, was the wing ship. There it was. He felt his body tense on the edge of the bunk, the dream refusing to leave him. It was a very small echo, but it was still there when the radar beam passed over it again.
“Why haven’t the other ships reported it?”
Treherne weighed his words with care. “The conditions tonight might make a difference, sir. I’ve spoken with Lyons. He’s known it before, where one ship can pick up on an echo at a greater range than others. Sometimes it’s the set, but this time he thinks it’s the heavy cloud.”
Howard thought about it while he watched the repeater. Five miles was the kind of range for radar to pick up a surfaced U-Boat if that was what it was. Hector and her nearest consort Belleisle were nearer, but they had not so far reported anything.
“I’ll come up.” He waited, knowing Treherne was still there. “And thanks, Number One.”
It was cold on the upper bridge after his brief stay in the sea cabin. There were no stars at all now, the clouds almost as dark as the water.
“Call up Hector, Number One. Ask them if they’ve seen anything.” He studied the bridge repeater while Treherne called up the wing ship on the short wave intercom.
The little blip was still there. There were no patrols out here, or they would have been told. If it was a small Irish vessel she’d be showing lights. But then, if they had any sense they would be snug in port somewhere.
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