He said, “Should get a bit brighter soon.”
“Convince me.”
Treherne tightened his collar but felt the rain running down his spine. “Well, it says …”
“Radar-Bridge!”
“Forebridge?”
“Getting a faint effect at two-six-zero, about twelve thousand yards.” He fell silent as if, unheard, he were swearing to himself. “Sorry, sir. Thought I’d lost it again.”
Treherne was peering at the radar-repeater. “Nothing.”
Howard asked, “What do you think, Lyons?” He was passing the buck, but he knew the man well. Someone who would appreciate the trust.
“Small vessel, sir. Appears to be stationary.”
Howard turned away, his blood suddenly tingling. “Found him!” He walked to the compass. “Starboard ten—Midships—Steady!”
“Steady, sir.” Sweeney was there without being called. “On two-six-six.”
“Steer two-six-zero.” He groped for the engine-room handset.
“Chief? This is the captain.” He stared at the darkness but saw Evan Price vividly in his mind’s eye, down below the waterline with his racing machinery and steamy, tropical warmth. “I think we’ve found her. But I want you to reduce to half-speed. Full revs or dead stop if I say so, right?”
He thought he heard Price chuckle. “Isn’t that what the bridge always wants, sir?”
Treherne watched him moving restlessly this way and that, and heard him say, “Tell Guns what’s happening.”
There was something unusual about him. An edginess which, if he felt it, he always managed to conceal. Except that once. Treherne wiped his binoculars; that memory always touched him. Like sharing something very private.
Bizley climbed into the bridge. “Sir?”
Howard did not turn. “Yes. I want you here, with me. Take over the con. Pilot will fill you in.”
Howard turned towards Treherne, and was surprised that he could suddenly see his bearded face and the battered cap he always wore on watch. A different badge now, but Howard knew it was one of his old company caps. A talisman maybe.
“Daylight, at last!”
It was little more than a grey blur, beyond which the sea and horizon were still one.
Howard said, “I wonder if their radar is still working?”
Treherne said nothing. The blip on the radar might be something else. Or they might all be dead.
Sub-Lieutenant Rooke offered, “I served in her class of corvettes, sir. The radar was always very reliable.”
“Thanks.” Howard laid out his busy thoughts. It could have been destroyed in the explosion. Anything might have happened.
Treherne tugged his beard as the radar operator reported no change, other than the range had fallen to ten thousand yards.
Howard said, “Slow ahead together.” The motion seemed to become more violent immediately, loose equipment and metal mugs adding to the clatter of ship noises.
“Revolutions seven-zero, sir.”
Treherne remarked, “We could fire a rocket, sir. We’d know for sure then.” Why were they slowing down? Prolonging the uncertainty, even the risk, if there were some survivors up there, five miles beyond the dark arrowhead of Gladiator’s bows …
Howard faced him and Treherne was stunned by the intensity of his stare. “What is it, sir? Can I do something?”
Howard brushed against a stiff-backed lookout as he pulled Treherne to the port corner. “You’ll think me mad, Gordon.”
Treherne waited, holding his breath. He had noticed that Howard had often called him by his first name, even on the bridge in front of the others. It had pleased him, until now. Something was badly wrong.
“Tell me, sir.”
Howard lowered his voice, feeling his stomach contract to the savage motion. Or was it just that? “I think there’s a bloody U-Boat up there.”
Treherne felt the water on his spine change to ice. He was afraid to speak.
“It’ll be submerged, otherwise Lyons would have picked it up by now.” His mind switched like lightning. “Tell Asdic to cease tracking.”
He removed his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair. What is the matter with me?
Or was it some kind of instinct, living so long with this danger that he could sense the submarine, lying there like a shark, waiting for any rescuer who was coming to the corvette’s assistance? To make the score two instead of one.
“Tell Ayres to prepare a full pattern, Number One.” His voice was clipped and formal again. “Squid too.” He added with sudden vehemence, “I’m going to get that bastard!”
A signalman whispered to his yeoman, “What bastard, Yeo?”
“Christ if I know, my son.”
The gunnery speaker squeaked into life. “No target, sir.”
Radar next. “Range now eight thousand yards, sir.”
“Ship, sir! Starboard bow!”
The light was spreading through the thick clouds to light up the sea’s face in small glittering patches. Howard steadied his elbows on the wet steel and moved his glasses very slowly across the bearing.
Treherne said hoarsely, “Corvette! It’s her all right!”
Howard held his glasses with care as he examined the tiny picture, which grew and faded as the clouds bellied above it.
Her bows were very low in the water, and it was a wonder the bulkheads had not collapsed altogether. There was no smoke, just a barely perceptible roll as she drifted through the troughs.
Treherne asked quietly, “What d’you reckon now, sir?”
“They must have sighted us.” He could see it in his mind. The despair giving way to hope. Alone no more. And a ship they would know well coming to the rescue. Howard shook his head as if he were arguing with someone visible only to himself.
“Call her up, Yeoman. Make our number.”
Bizley said sulkily, “They must be blind!” He was suddenly remembering the sharpness of Marrack’s tongue.
The light clattered noisily while everyone on the bridge peered at the little ship’s dark outline, afraid they might miss something.
The yeoman of signals licked his lips and said, “At last!” He watched the slow blink of Tacitus’s lamp then exclaimed, “Contact at three-three-zero!” He swallowed hard and stared at Howard. “Then, God bless you!”
Howard flung himself forward. “Full ahead together! Starboard fifteen! Steer three-one-zero!” He glanced at Treherne as the bells rang like mad things. “Start the attack! Get on to Asdic and tell him—” The roar of the explosion was deafening, and as Howard jumped on to a grating to clear his vision he saw the cascades of water still falling like an unwilling curtain, the sea’s dark face pockmarked with a thousand falling fragments.
“Asdic reports, no contact, sir.”
“Tell them to keep searching!” He felt the sea roaring past the hull, but all he could see was the widening whirlpool of oil and other flotsam. Marrack had known the U-Boat was there, and had tried to warn him, even though he had known the price. God bless you. It was like hearing his voice.
Gladiator made two extensive sweeps but there was no contact. The U-Boat commander might have used a stern-tube for the final shot; either way there was nothing. When they returned to the place where Marrack’s command had gone down they found only two survivors. Marrack would have had all his people on deck, gathered well away from the submerged bow section. It was not war. It was cold-blooded murder. A broken ship, like a tethered goat waiting for the tiger.
At noon a huge, four-engined Liberator found them and carried on with the search. There was no result.
Howard climbed into his chair as his ship began to reduce speed. It was one thing to die; another entirely to make the gesture which Marrack had known was taking away his company’s last chance of survival. But for it, Gladiator would be down there with them.
He began to shake very badly and found he was helpless to prevent it.
Treherne moved beside him as the doctor appeared on the bri
dge. “Well?” He saw Moffatt glance at the captain but shook his head angrily. “Leave it, Doc!”
Moffatt stared out at the brightening sea. “One survivor was a signalman. Just a kid.”
Treherne glanced at their own signalmen, shocked and still looking at each other like strangers. “Aren’t they all?” he said savagely.
Howard seemed to rise from his own despair. “A signalman? Did he say anything?” He would have been there on Marrack’s bridge. The bunting-tossers, as they were nicknamed, saw everything.
Moffatt replied, “They were trying to get back to the convoy after seeing the damaged escort carrier into safety. Then after the explosion the U-Boat surfaced and opened fire with her deck gun. The corvette lost her W/T, and was barely able to stay afloat. The Germans must have realised or detected the SOS … they just stood off and waited. There were a lot of injured men after the first torpedo. Now they’re all gone.”
Howard asked, “What else did he say?” He knew there was more.
Moffatt sighed. “When he saw your signal the captain called out, ‘My old ship. I knew it would be her!’” He watched Howard as if uncertain whether or not to continue. “Then he told the signalman to reply to you—the senior one was wounded. Then he said, ‘I’ve done for the lot of us.’ There might have been more, but the lad doesn’t remember—he was in the sea being sucked down when he came to. Didn’t even recall the explosion.”
Treherne remarked, “It’s often like that, Doc.” It was just something to say to break the tension.
Howard said, “Course and speed to rejoin the group.” He twisted round in his chair and said, “It’s all right, Doc, I’m not ready for the men in white coats yet.” He strained his eyes, but there was nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.
“Write this down, Yeoman, and pass it to W/T. To Admiralty, repeated C-in-C Western Approaches. Tacitus sunk by second torpedo. No contact. Two survivors. Get their names before you send it.”
Moffatt said dully, “Just the one, Yeoman. The second man died.”
He heard Rooke speak into the voicepipe. “Steer zero-nine-zero. Revolutions one-one-zero.”
Then Sweeney’s thick voice. “One-one-zero revs replied, sir.”
Howard watched the great curving wake as Gladiator came under command on her new course.
When he looked again Moffatt had gone. He said, “Get the people fed, will you, Gordon. Go round the ship yourself. You know what to do.”
Treherne was about to leave but something made him return to the tall chair.
Howard stared at him, and there were real tears in his eyes as he said in a whisper, “ ‘I’ve done for the lot of us.’ What a bloody way to be remembered, eh?”
Treherne touched his oilskin and said roughly, “Well, you damned well saved all of us—and begging your pardon, sir, don’t you ever bloody well forget it!”
Howard nodded very slowly. “Thanks.” He studied him for several seconds, as if he were looking for something and, perhaps, finding it. Then he said, “I’ll speak to the lads over the tannoy presently.” He stared emptily at the ocean. “But now I need to …”
“I know.” Treherne backed away. He had never spoken like that to any captain. He could not get over it. Like that other time—Howard had known. Most skippers would have gone charging to the rescue, eyes for nothing but the torpedoed ship. It might have been too late for all of them. To Bizley he said harshly, “See that the Old Man’s not disturbed, right?”
The lieutenant looked at him blandly. “Something wrong, Number One?”
Treherne glanced at the oilskinned figure leaning against the side and dropped his voice. “Just remember, laddie, but for him you’d have had your arse blown off just now.” He saw the sudden fear in Bizley’s eyes. “So shove that in your pipe and smoke it!”
Surgeon-Lieutenant Moffatt was seated comfortably in the wardroom that evening when Treherne entered, shaking water off his clothing like a great dog. “I was thinking about our midshipman, Number One. He might beat this thing yet without being put ashore.” He looked up from an old magazine. “What’s wrong?”
“You can forget about Midshipman Ross, Doc.” He glared at the pantry hatch. “Could I use a bloody drink just now? Trouble is, I don’t think I’d stop, and it’s still three days to the Liverpool Bar.” He sat down heavily. “I’ve been all over the ship, Doc. He’s not aboard.” He saw the shocked surprise on Moffatt’s face. “No point in going back to look for him. Anyway, we’re ordered to rejoin the group at first light.”
“Have you told the Captain?”
“I’m about to.” He stared at the deckhead as if he could see the bridge from here. “That’s just about all he needs!”
“Why did he do it? Suicide?” Moffatt’s mind was rushing through the medical books. “Afraid of fighting it?”
The sea broke over the quarterdeck and sluiced away across the opposite side in a noisy torrent.
“Hear it, Doc? He lost the will to fight that anymore!” He slammed out of the wardroom and thought suddenly of Howard’s words. What a bloody way to be remembered.
Next of kin have been informed.
6 | Nine Days
DAVID Howard turned up the collar of his greatcoat and walked uncertainly out of the small railway station. The train had been unheated, and it seemed to have taken him all day to travel the sixty-odd miles north from Liverpool.
It was already dark and utterly alien, with a tangy edge to the air which he guessed came from the big lake.
He had no sense of place or direction, which was hardly surprising, and every muscle and bone was making a separate protest. Now that he was here he was not at all sure he was doing the right thing; maybe she had suggested it because she was sorry for him and nothing more.
He thought of the meeting he had had with Captain Vickers on the group’s return from sea; the stern gravity in his tone which was new to Howard.
“You can’t take everything on yourself, David. It has an effect on you, naturally, but I simply can’t afford a weak link in my chain of command. You are my best commanding officer, your record second to none, and I’ll make no secret of the fact I’ve suggested you soon get a lift up the ladder, a brass-hat, even if the war ends before you can confirm it. The fact is, David, it happens. It might be any one of us next time—you of all people should know that!”
Howard’s mind had strayed to the song he had heard a seaman murmuring to himself. We’re here today and gone tomorrow.
He had answered, “I’m all right, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m depending on it.”
Had Vickers really understood, or would he insist on a transfer, or worse a shore job? Another bomb-happy veteran to flash his gongs at green recruits.
Vickers had continued relentlessly, “I was going to suggest a bit of leave and put another commanding officer in your place.” He had held up a big hand to stifle his protest, “Temporarily. I knew you wouldn’t care too much for that idea, eh?”
“She’s my ship, sir.” He had even been surprised by the desperation in his own voice. “I’d not leave her like that.”
Vickers had nodded and relit his huge briar pipe. “I understand. I was like that myself. Once. Fact is, Kinsale is due for boiler-clean and radar check. I’ve already discussed it with the chief of staff.” His eyes had burned through the pipe smoke. “Would you trust your own Captain (D) in your place for say, ten days?”
Even as he had said it, Howard had known that the suggestion had no alternative which would leave him in command.
“Besides which, it might do your people good to be senior ship for the time being.” So it was settled.
He had telephoned Celia from the yard and had been astonished when she had mentioned the cottage owned by her friend’s cousin. Her voice had been almost breathless, and it had been a bad line anyway. She had left him little time to discuss it, so intent was she on explaining about food rations, the destination, and how to get there.
She had ended
by saying, “I do so want to see you. I nearly made myself sick, thinking about you. And don’t worry about anything—just come to the cottage. I’ll be there, waiting.”
He had wanted to protest, to remind her what people would think and say. She must have known his very thoughts. “Look, David, I don’t care about anyone else. I just want us to be together, away from all the …” He had heard her catch her breath, “from all the waste.”
But that had been then. Maybe she was not so certain now.
Two shaded headlights came on from the car park and an ancient Wolseley rolled forward into the forecourt. A gangling figure in a loose raincoat climbed out and shook his hand.
“My name’s Major, Tom Major. My cousin told me to brighten the place up a bit for you.” He heaved Howard’s case and respirator into the boot and added, “It’s a mite cold for October, but you’ll be snug enough. I use the place, or did, for the summers up here.” He turned and looked at Howard in the dim glow of the headlamps. “Welcome to Windermere.”
Howard wondered just how many other people knew. More nudges and winks. He settled in the seat and as an army car passed them he saw a sticker on the Wolseley’s windscreen silhouetted in the headlights. Doctor. At best it explained where he got his petrol; at worst it sounded like some kind of plot, with Celia being used as the innocent instrument.
“Not far, bit off the beaten track. Where are you from—um, David?”
“Hampshire.”
The man grinned. “Naval family. It would be.”
Howard watched the black trees skimming past. No place for the amateur driver.
“Been at sea lately?”
Howard tried to relax. His cousin had not told him much then.
He answered, “Yes. Convoys mostly.” He didn’t want to be drawn into conversation about it, but knew that the man was only trying to be friendly.
He said, “So you’re a doctor?”
“At the moment I’m the doctor! The others are either in the forces or helping out at the hospitals. This suits me. Doesn’t give me too much time to think.” He pulled over and stopped suddenly, the engine thrumming quietly in the darkness. “My brother was shot down over Germany, and now my young son can’t wait to join up, as he puts it, before the war’s over.” He turned and looked at him, but his face was hidden in shadow. “Tell me something. Is it all worth it? Are we going to win?”
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