“Negative, sir. But Hector is keeping a good lookout.”
“What’s the range now?”
“From us, sir?” That was Finlay.
“Of course!” He regretted the sharpness in his tone.
Finlay reported stiffly, “Nineteen thousand yards, sir.”
Howard took the intercom telephone from Treherne and spoke to each captain separately. The result was the same. Gladiator was the only one in contact. Unless, of course, her set was faulty.
Howard spoke to the radar office. “What’s it doing now, Lyons?”
Lyons had no doubts. “Its speed is much like ours, sir. I think it’s stalking us.”
Howard considered it. “Tell the other ships to reduce speed to nine knots.” He was thinking aloud. “If that bastard thought we were four powerful destroyers we wouldn’t see his arse for sauerkraut. I think,” he nodded firmly as if to convince himself, “I think he believes we’re part of a convoy. After all, they did change the sailing time of one a few days ago, right?” He saw them watching him in the darkness, as if he had suddenly become dangerous.
“We will continue at this reduced speed, course two-five-zero.” He heard Treherne repeating his instructions quietly over the intercom. When Howard had taken his first command to war there had been no such luxury as an intercom which could not be detected. No radar; few fully automatic anti-aircraft guns; and senior officers who for the most part had trained all their lives to believe in the Empire, on which the sun never set. Some of the new escorts coming off the stocks were even more effective and sophisticated.
Treherne called, “Hector has the contact, sir. Requests permission to attack.”
“Denied.” Howard looked over his shoulder. “Sound action stations. Have the Gunner (T) check all watertight doors himself.” He could almost feel Treherne’s surprise and added, “Remember, Number One, he’s new in this ship. I’m more concerned with staying in one piece than ruffling his feathers!” He added sharply, “Or anyone else’s for that matter!”
They were steaming almost parallel with the target, for that was what it had become. When the time was right, the four destroyers would pivot to port and in line abreast would charge down on the enemy at full speed.
He said to the bridge at large, “Well, after this we might know if all that training and sweat did us any good!” It was a relief that somebody laughed. He tried to place the sound in the darkness. Of course, it was Richie, the new one-badge petty officer and yeoman of signals.
Poor Tommy Tucker the original yeoman had finally cracked. For him it could not have come at a worse time. His wife had gone off with a Yank airman when Gladiator was on her last convoy, and he must have been brooding about it during the group training. One of the admiral’s instructors had tackled him on the bridge about some obscure signals procedure, but Tucker, who had seen every horror the war could throw his way, who had nursed his newly trained bunting-tossers until they could do almost anything, had taken enough.
“What the hell do you know, sir? The war looks pretty good to you, I expect, sitting on your fucking arse while others are getting theirs shot off!”
Howard had appealed on his behalf, but Tucker had been sent ashore under guard.
The authorities had two choices for Tucker. A mental ward at a naval hospital and perhaps a discharge, or a court martial and an eventual return to the Atlantic.
Tucker had rejected both options. With his usual hard efficiency he had found a tree and hanged himself.
Howard shivered. But he was still here, in his rightful place, on the bridge.
“Call up the group. We will attack when the target is due south of us.”
“Radar—bridge?”
Treherne was there. “Bridge?”
“Target bears one-six-five, ten thousand yards!”
Howard stood up behind the forward screen. “Tell the group. Execute, speed fifteen knots!” He sensed the sudden excitement crowding around him. “Port twenty!” He heard Sweeney’s hoarse acknowledgement. He wondered what the coxswain thought about Tucker. Changes in the small petty officers’ mess were never welcome, especially for a reason like that.
“Midships! Meet her!” He swore to himself. He had allowed his mind to stray. “Steer one-eight-zero!”
Hidden from one another in the darkness, controlled only by their radar and churning screws, the four destroyers had wheeled round to head at right-angles towards the target. The single ship, the Blackwall, on Gladiator’s starboard beam would be at the end of the sweep, like the edge of a door while the others swung round on an invisible hinge.
“From Hector, sir! Lost contact!”
Treherne said, “Jerry got the message at long last, and dived.”
“From Blackwall, sir. Have Asdic contact at one-seven-zero degrees, one thousand yards!”
Howard said, “Tell him, Tally ho!”
“From Blackwall, sir. Am attacking!”
While the destroyer charged into the attack, the others took up their allotted stations for a five-mile box search. But it was not necessary. Blackwall was fitted with the Squid mortars as well as her conventional depth-charges, and by the time Gladiator had completed her turn, the sea was already stinking of oil.
“Slow ahead together.”
With the ships spread out in the new formation it was unlikely that any other U-Boat could get close enough undetected to carry out an attack.
“Ship breaking up, sir.”
There was a ragged cheer from somewhere aft.
Howard leaned over the screen and peered at the heaving water. Another kill. It had gone like a clock. As all those brass hats had promised it would.
The port lookout called, “Someone’s got out, sir!”
Above the rumble of screws Howard could hear the coughing and retching. God alone knew how they had escaped.
“Lost contact, sir. Target is now on the bottom.”
Howard looked at Treherne’s shadowy outline against the grey paint. Imagination, or was it getting lighter already?
“Away sea-boat’s crew, Number One, two extra hands to help with possible survivors.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Within minutes the whaler was hoisted out, lowered and then dropped into the sea to be carried clear by the boat-rope.
The Buffer appeared on the bridge, banging his gloved hands together as he always did when he was pleased about something. “I’ve told ’em not to ’ang about, sir.” His teeth were white through the shadows. “I’ll bet that Jerry commander didn’t know whether to ‘ave a shit or an ’aircut, when ’e saw us comin’ at ’im!”
They were all grinning at each other like schoolboys.
Howard thought of the past three years and sighed. No wonder.
Treherne said, “I cleared the after-guns for the whaler, sir. Lieutenant Bizley volunteered to take charge.”
Howard ignored the sting of bitterness in his voice. “Fall out action stations.” Howard trained his night-glasses. “Whaler’s coming back. Have the falls manned. As the Buffer said, we don’t want to hang about!” Almost before the boat had been hooked on and run up to the davit-heads, Howard knew something had gone wrong.
There were two Germans only, although neither might live after what they had gone through.
“Slow ahead together. Bring her round, Pilot.” Behind his chair he could hear Bizley panting, as if he had been running.
“It wasn’t my fault, sir!”
“I shall decide that. Just tell me, right?”
“I had two hands in the bows, sir. But after we hauled the first German on board, the other started to drift away. He was calling out, choking on oil. One of the bowmen went over the side with a line and put it round the other German. Then—then …” He sounded dazed and lost, “He just vanished under the boat. He never broke surface again.”
A massive figure in oilskin and life-jacket loomed through the bridge gate. It was Leading Seaman Fernie, who had been the whaler’s coxswain.
He
said harshly, “It was the kid, sir. Young Andy Milvain from my mess.”
Bizley seemed to regain his composure. “Go aft, Fernie, I’ll deal with you later!”
Howard found that he had pulled out his empty pipe, remembering his brief words to the boy who had wanted to be an officer.
Fernie stood his ground. “I don’t care what you do, Mister Bizley! You ordered him over the side, an’ I’ll say as much if I’m asked!” He swung away as if he had lost his way.
“Steady on one-four-five, sir, one-one-oh revolutions.” A voice from the other world.
“Is that true, Bizley? Did you order him over the side?”
“Certainly not, sir. He was over-eager, always wanted to impress … you know, sir.”
“Yes. I think I do. Now get about your duties. I shall want a full report before we return to base.”
Treherne said in a hoarse whisper as Bizley’s head and shoulders vanished down a bridge ladder, “What a bloody awful thing to happen! What will his folks think? First one son, then the other. Who’ll tell them, for God’s sake?”
“I will, Number One.”
He turned as a muffled figure entered the bridge with a fresh fanny of tea. But Howard saw only the bright-eyed youth, Ordinary Seaman Andrew Milvain. His voice hardened. “So take it off your back, Number One. It happens. All we can do is try and pick up the pieces!”
They both knew it was a lie, and when Howard looked again Finlay had resumed his watch, and the first lieutenant had disappeared.
Milvain’s father was a major-general so was probably away somewhere. It would not be much of a home for his mother any more.
But in a few weeks or months when the boy’s replacement had been settled in, he would soon be just another missing face, and his name would rarely be mentioned. Except by Leading Seaman Fernie perhaps. When one of his mess asked, “D’you remember that posh kid, Hookey?” he would crush him.
Howard blinked his sore eyes as the morning watch clattered up ladders or slithered behind the gunshields to await the first light of another day.
Treherne came up to take over the morning watch and stood in silence beside his chair while the various voicepipes and telephones reported that they had relieved the others.
Then very soon Blackwall showed herself, throwing up spray and not a little smoke as she plunged over some short, steep rollers. When it was light enough Howard studied the other ship through his glasses. The victor. All grins on the upper bridge; a team job, but she had been the one to make it all work and leave the enemy in their tomb on the seabed. Howard had filled his pipe but did not remember doing so. He gripped it with his teeth and tried to strike a match below the shelter of the glass screen. He tried several times and then stared with shock as his hand began to shake uncontrollably.
“Light, sir?” Treherne did not raise his voice. Then he took Howard’s wrist in his grasp and held a match to the bowl while their eyes met through the drifting smoke.
Howard exclaimed harshly, “Christ, what’s the matter with me?”
“Nothing.” Treherne tossed the match downwind. “I asked for that last night. You’d just about had enough. I should have seen, understood.”
Howard removed his battered cap and shook his head in the wet breeze. “I’ll bet you wish you were back with your other ships, Number One?” He could feel the man’s strength, the bond which linked them and perhaps always had. Like the thaw after frost; a first warmth.
Treherne bared his teeth through his beard. “Well, bananas were a lot less trouble to deal with, sir, I’ll not deny that!”
Howard watched the other ships taking shape against the endless pattern of whitecaps which had come with a freshening wind.
The hunt goes on. “I’ll make out a suitable signal for the C-in-C, Gordon. He’ll be pleased. Another kill so soon—it must mean something.”
Behind his back he imagined he could hear Petty Officer Tucker’s ironic laughter.
Sub-Lieutenant Brian Rooke stood by the chart table and watched Treherne as he checked over his calculations. It was stuffy and dark in the chart-room because the ship was preparing for her last night at sea. The remainder of the patrol had passed without incident, and hardly an hour had gone by, or so it seemed, without a signal of congratulations being received. Another escort group had sunk two U-Boats in as many days, so if any proof had been needed about the admiral’s strategy they had got it loud and clear.
Treherne said, “We shall have to stand off until first light, Pilot.” He still found it strange to hear someone else called that. “I don’t reckon on the Old Man dicing with all the local traffic en route for Gladstone Dock.” He thought of the strain Howard had shown, the way he always seemed to force himself out of it. “Shan’t be sorry to stretch my legs ashore.” He thought of Joyce waiting to welcome him. “That was quite a patrol.”
Rooke regarded him warily, as if he suspected that Treherne was about to find fault with his chartwork. “Is it always like that?”
The door of the W/T office slid open and Hyslop the PO telegraphist, a pencil behind one ear, looked across at them.
“First lieutenant, sir? I’ve got something for the captain.”
“What is it?”
“Big raid on Liverpool, sir.” He glanced at his pad. “Meant for the docks but the flak was too heavy apparently. They knocked down a few streets though. All incoming escorts are to land their medical officers to assist.”
Treherne kept his voice level. “Birkenhead?”
The PO looked at his pad again in case he had missed something. “No, sir.”
“I’ll tell him.”
He found Howard in his usual place on the port side of the bridge, his glasses hanging loosely around his neck.
Howard did not move as Treherne read him the lengthy signal and the first lieutenant imagined he was thinking about his father, comparing the raids which had been caused by the heavy resistance of AA batteries which covered the real targets. Instead Howard asked, “Were our people all right?”
Treherne looked at him curiously. “I think so, sir. No reports of any damage to ships and docks.”
Howard stood up and moved about the bridge, his hands touching various pieces of gear and instruments as if he had not seen them before. He asked, “What’s our ETA?”
Treherne replied, “Well, five o’clock in the morning, sir. But as I said to Pilot you’ll not want to …”
Howard said, “Make a signal to give our time of arrival as calculated, Number One. Is the raid still going on?”
“No, sir.” He looked at the sky as if he expected to see the glow of fires. He had seen The Pool like that often enough.
Howard nodded. “Get on with it then. I shall speak to the other captains. It’s my responsibility.”
Treherne hurried down the ladder again. Was he still thinking of his father, or was he brooding about the boy who had been drowned? He takes everything on his shoulders. He recalled how Marrack had wanted his own command more than anything. Well, he was welcome to it!
Howard replaced the intercom handset and tried to think clearly. There were raids every day; people died, but others managed to soldier on. He turned away. What she had said. It couldn’t be. Not her. She might not even have been there.
“Permission to step aboard, sir?”
Howard turned. It was Moffatt the new doctor. Wrapped in a duffle coat, his cap jammed on his head like a pie-crust to keep it from blowing away, he looked more like a proper seadog than a medical man.
“Of course, Doc.” A thought flashed through his mind. “Did Number One ask you to come, by the way?”
“No, sir. Although he did tell me about the air raid. I’ve got my gear all ready.”
“I’ll be going ashore.” It came out too easily. “You come with me.”
Moffatt asked quietly, “Have you got someone there, sir?”
“Why does everyone keep asking questions?” He saw a lookout glance round and gripped the doctor’s arm. “Sorry, Doc. Not
fair to pull rank. Yes, there is somebody I care about. Very much, although she doesn’t know it.”
Moffatt regarded his profile thoughtfully. All bottled up. A man could take just so much. Howard’s sudden confidence had touched him. He had always imagined a captain like Howard had no feelings other than for the job in hand. Not because he wanted it like that, but because it was his only way of staying outwardly sane.
Moffatt had got to know his fellow officers and many of the ship’s company in his short time aboard. It was odd that nobody had let drop some hint about the captain’s private life. After all, he had soon learned that there were no secrets in this regiment, as the sailors called it.
“Can’t you take a nap, sir? Might help.”
“No. I shall more likely ask you for one of your pills to keep me on my feet.”
Bizley, who was OOW, said, “Time to make the signal to the group, sir.”
“Do it then.”
Moffatt asked, “What now?”
“We form line ahead before entering the final approach. There may be sweepers about, even a coastal convoy, although I don’t know of any. But the raid may have delayed everything.”
He listened to Bizley’s precise tones on the intercom. He was sullen rather than subdued, he thought. Perhaps it had been what he said; an accident. When he made his report, the chief of staff would very likely want to interview Bizley, as well as some of the whaler’s crew.
He tried not to think of the young seaman. So eager, but he was dead, and a drunken lout like Bully Bishop was still alive.
As Gladiator and her consorts passed the Skerries and the northern coast of Anglesey the usual mood of apprehension closed over them for the men who had relatives and friends in the city. Treherne and the coxswain made all the arrangements for local leave for those concerned, and for once there was no idle chatter about the possibilities of “a good run ashore.”
As the middle watch drew to a close and the ships headed due east towards the mouth of the Mersey the evidence of the raid hung on the air like something physical. There were few fires, but that did not mean much. Howard raised his glasses as the new yeoman of signals triggered off an acknowledgement to a guard-boat’s challenge. But of course, there would not be many fires, Howard thought. The raid had been intended for the ships and docks; the aircraft would be carrying highexplosive bombs, not incendiaries.
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