Vickers continued, “You read the reports about the Burmese Princess—well, something’s gone wrong apparently. She’s had a complete power-failure.”
Howard signalled quickly to Finlay for a pad and pulled a pencil from his pocket as Vickers gave him the ship’s reported position. He saw that Treherne had arrived on the bridge as if he had sensed something unusual.
Vickers said, “I hate to send you, but I’m needed here. It’ll give them a bit of a boost if you’re standing by. Air cover will be provided.”
“I’m on my way, sir.” He handed the intercom to Finlay as Treherne asked, “Trouble, sir?” His eyes were on Howard’s new cap as if he did not accept the change either.
“Put this position on the chart. About a hundred miles west of the Irish coast. We’re going to offer support.”
Treherne’s eyes sharpened as he studied the pad. “Burmese Princess. I remember her well. She used to be on the Far East run from Southampton. A cargo liner—I never liked the mixture!”
“Well, she’s not any more, Number One.” He watched him steadily. “She’s a hospital ship now.” She was packed with wounded soldiers, some from the Normandy landings in June, others, more badly injured, from the invasions of Sicily and Italy last year. Her power defect had slowed her passage considerably, and whereas hospital ships were usually left alone by U-Boats, unless escorted, this change of timing might lay her wide open to attack.
Treherne bent over the chart table. “We should make contact around dawn, sir. No U-Boats reported in that area. All after the two convoys, I expect.”
“Very well, Number One. Course to intercept. Make to Kinsale, Hate to leave you.”
The reply winked back across the heaving, shining swell. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. Good luck.”
Treherne said, “At least we might be back in the Pool before the others!”
Howard climbed into his chair and imagined her sitting on it. Holding her in his arms in this place which must have brought home to her his world; the daily acceptance of danger.
They had set the date for their marriage in October, when, Vickers had hinted, there would be some leave going. After that? He touched the rough grey steel. Not back to Gladiator again. Not ever.
He thought of the Normandy invasion. Did it mean that this would be the last summer at war? Was that just possible?
“I’ve been thinking, Number One.” He looked at him gravely. “If I made a special request through Captain Vickers, would you be prepared to take command of her?”
Treherne saw the pain in his eyes. He really loves this ship. Treherne had known that almost from the beginning, but it was still a shock to see it in Howard’s face, hear it in his question.
“Well, you know how I feel about a command, sir.”
“But Gladiator’s not just any ship.”
“I know it, sir.”
“Then at least think about it before we get in.”
Treherne watched as Bizley climbed into the bridge to relieve the OOW. He looked very strained, but his tone was haughty as ever as he took the con from Finlay.
Vickers had confided in Howard about the enquiries by the Special Branch. “Would have told you before, but …”
That one word but counted for such a lot in this Navy, he thought. True or false, it mattered little. If Bizley’s story was a lie, nothing could shift him from it now. He would be more insufferable than ever. Even that jolted Howard badly. Bizley would be someone else’s responsibility after the next two days or so.
He tried to settle himself more comfortably as Finlay strode from the bridge, after giving Bizley a chilling glance. They would all be split up. Except the Chief, and the Gunner (T). Finlay was going on a long gunnery course, and Ayres to Portland for antisubmarine training. Bizley would probably be advanced to first lieutenant in some other escort, while Treherne … Perhaps he might change his mind. Howard looked at the scarred paint, the tarnished instruments nearby. She needed someone who understood.
The ship went to action stations to test guns and prepare for the night, then the starboard watch closed-up for defence stations as was usual. Gallons of tea and cocoa, greasy sausages and tinned potatoes. Men came and went about their duties, the ocean and the radar empty of surprises.
Howard dozed in his chair, awakening occasionally as W/T reported there was fog in their vicinity. But it was patchy, and when they drove through it they saw it clinging to the radar and rigging like ragged spectres.
It was sometime before dawn when the radar picked up the other ship, adrift, and as they were soon to discover, without lights or power. Usually the sides of hospital ships were brightly lit to display their white hulls and huge red crosses, a protection which, for the most part, had been successful. Hospital ships which had fallen to enemy action had been sunk by aircraft dive-bombers, where there were only seconds to distinguish the difference.
Howard stood at the forepart of the bridge. “Slow ahead together. Steer zero-six-zero.” Should be able to see her soon. To the yeoman he added, “Be ready to call her up.”
Aircraft today, Vickers had said. Then what? A ship the size of the Burmese Princess probably carried several hundred wounded men. A tug might be needed.
He called to Treherne, “Clear lower deck, Number One. Don’t worry—I’m not sending you across this time!”
Treherne waited for the order to be piped, the watch below to come bustling on deck. Howard said, “I could try to take her in tow. But it might be construed as an act of war by the enemy.”
“Ship, sir! Port bow!”
“All right, Yeoman!”
The Aldis lamp clattered noisily, the flash seemingly extra bright in the misty darkness.
A torch flashed back to them and the yeoman muttered, “God, their power really is kaput!”
Howard watched the other ship looming out of the gloom; a cargo liner as Treherne had described, and now that they were closer he could see the pale hull, ghostly against the moving water. He switched on the loud-hailer, his voice metallic as it boomed against the other ship and back again. “Burmese Princess ahoy! This is the destroyer Gladiator! What is the trouble?”
The other man sounded miles away, and was probably using a megaphone. “Generator fault, Captain! It was good of you to come! These poor soldiers are being rolled about with no way on the ship!”
“How many?”
“Five hundred, Captain, bound for Halifax!” He seemed to brighten up and shouted, “My chief has just reported that he’s nearly ready to proceed!”
Rooke said, “Generators—what a time to happen!”
Treherne retorted coldly, “She’s about twenty-five years old, Pilot! I reckon she’s earned a bit of a rest!”
Bizley stood by the compass platform, thinking of his earlier fears. Nothing had happened. It had all been for nothing. When he got shot of this ship he would go and see Sarah. He was in the clear. What did they know about it anyway? He felt his confidence returning like the glow of vodka.
They were almost alongside now, the other ship rising above Gladiator’s deck like a cliff. There was a faint sound of machinery, and someone down aft gave a cheer. At any moment the sides would light up again; her errand of mercy would continue.
“Aircraft, sir!”
Three flares dropped from the clouds, and the yeoman triggered off an acknowledgement. A Coastal Command Hudson was circling around, widening its search area as it rumbled away into the distance, satisfied that help was on hand.
“Asdic—Bridge!”
Howard ducked down. “Captain!”
“Strong contact at one-six-zero, sir. Closing!”
Treherne gasped, “Christ, a sitting duck!”
Howard yelled, “Full ahead together!” He stared through the screen as the other ship began to slide past. “Tell W/T! Signal Admiralty, repeated C-in-C!”
“Both engines full ahead, sir. Steady on zero-six-zero!”
“Warn depth-charge party, Number One! Guns, stand by to engage!”
Gladiator was drawing well ahead of the hospital ship when the helm started to go over. Suction from the larger vessel, a mechanical defect—who could tell? Tilting right over, just as the photograph had portrayed her on her first trials, she charged across the Burmese Princess’s bows, so close that had the larger ship been underway she would have sliced them in half.
Howard did not hear the torpedo as it hit the forecastle, but he was flung to the deck, buried by tons of water that stank of explosive. He tried to pull himself to his feet but cried out as pain took away his breath and left him too dazed to move. He was aware of lights in the sky, the rising scream of aero engines as the aircraft tore down to the attack. More explosions, bombs or depth-charges he did not know; it could even be beneath him in the hull itself.
Treherne was helping him up, and even as he propped him against the tall chair Howard knew the deck was already at an angle.
“Tell the Chief! Clear the engine-room!” He dragged himself to the screen and looked over at the forecastle. There was nothing forward of B-gun. Just jagged metal where the blast had torn it away. Men were calling and running, and Howard remembered that he had cleared the lower deck. Had he known that too? Had the ship known, and shown her anger by turning to block the torpedo’s path?
Someone shouted, “They got that bloody U-Boat!” Then he broke off, sobbing, as he cried, “It’s me, Tom—speak to me, for Christ’s sake!”
“Assess and report damage.”
Treherne stayed with him. “I’ll get the Doc.” Howard shook his head and fought against the pain. He must not faint now. He had trained all his life for this. The one thing that they all hoped would never happen. His mind would not accept it even though he knew Gladiator was finished.
“Just my ribs, Gordon … Christ, what a mess!”
There was a banshee screech of steam as the Chief released the pressure on the boilers. Thank God he was safe. Another dread; it had happened to so many.
“Bulkheads are holding, sir.” Rooke held the telephone to his ear but watched the instruments fall from his table as the list increased.
“Make sure the depth-charges are at safe—pitch the primers overboard!”
Finlay had arrived. “All done. I can’t find Ayres though.” He stepped aside as the PO steward ran on to the bridge and helped to support Howard against the chair. “I’ve got the photo of yer dad, sir. In the oilskin bag.” He was shivering, talking rapidly to conceal his terror. “Will we be all right, sir?”
Treherne said, “Shall I send the confidential books over the side, sir?”
He wanted to shout at Howard. She’s done for, can’t you see? You’ve tried, but there’s nothing more we can do except save ourselves. Instead he said, quite calmly, “Time to move.”
Howard peered at him. Celia would see it as she had seen all the others. Little black crosses. The secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of HMS Gladiator. Next of kin have been informed.
Oh God, not for Celia! Not again!
He said between his teeth, “Muster the hands.” He winced as the aircraft thundered overhead again; he realised that it was getting much brighter, with the hard, pitiless light adding to the shock and destruction.
And the Chief was here now, hatless and with grease on his face, his eyes everywhere as if he felt unsafe up here on the bridge.
“Thanks, Chief. I’m glad you got your people out.” He groaned as the deck gave a lurch and something heavy came adrift between decks.
Price said, “That bulkhead’ll not hold, sir. I’ve had a look. It’s weeping water like fury.”
“Very well. Clear the bridge, Number One. You take charge on deck.”
Treherne looked at him grimly. “Guns can deal with that. I’m staying with you.”
Howard held on to his shoulder and nodded heavily. “The old firm, eh?”
At the break in the forecastle some of the hands were already preparing to lower the whaler; the motor boat on the opposite side would not budge as the davits had buckled in the blast like cardboard.
The Buffer was striding about and turned as his friend the coxswain, with the wheelhouse party, joined him on the iron deck.
He grinned. “Finished with engines, ’Swain?”
Sweeney looked at the dark lapping water and sighed. “Too bloody old for this caper. It’s a job in the barracks for me!”
Moffatt was kneeling on the sloping deck, his knees torn on the cracked plating as he knelt over Sub-Lieutenant Ayres.
“Get this officer to a raft, Buffer!”
Knocker White peered down at him. The bandages made it worse, he thought. Ayres had lost an arm and a leg in the explosion. It would be kinder to leave him with the ship. But he shouted, “Dobson, Bully Bishop, over here at the double!”
Drugged though he was Ayres seemed to know what was happening. “Help me. I can’t feel anything!” He was still whimpering when they carried him away.
Bizley felt sick, from fear or from shock he did not know. They would be safe, those who had survived. The hospital ship was right here, a helpless spectator, but with boats and men in plenty. When they got back he would make the most of his survivor’s leave and then—he clapped his hand to his pocket. The medal. His precious DSC was still in his cabin!
“Take charge, Cox’n!” He ran aft up the rising slope; the others did not even see him go.
It was frightening and eerie between decks. All the familiar places and memories. Shattered crockery and a puddle of coffee in the pantry, the wardroom curtains standing out from their rails at stiff, unreal angles. He slithered to a halt by his cabin and stared as Leading Seaman Fernie, carrying a large flashlight, came up the deck towards him.
“What are you doing here?”
Fernie faced him wearily. “What does it look like?”
“When we get back, you’ll bloody well regret this! My record is clean, do you hear?” He laughed and Fernie smelled the vodka.
He watched Bizley stagger into his cabin and drag at a drawer to find the little box he prized above all else.
Fernie heard the torpedo gunner’s mate shout down the hatch. “Come up from there, Fernie! We’re baling out!” His head vanished.
Fernie felt the rage rushing through him, consuming him like blazing fuel on the sea.
With unexpected swiftness he swung the cabin door shut and threw on the emergency clips. He heard the frantic hammering, the faint shouts turn to screams, and then he walked away and up the ladder, sealing that hatch, too, behind him.
The ship shook again, and men huddled together in the inflated life-jackets while the lowered whaler pitched alongside, oars and boathooks ready to fend off the torn metal.
On the bridge Finlay stood against the flag lockers, with their upended bunting strewn around as if there had been a wild party.
“Boat and rafts lowered, sir. I’m afraid we had to bring Dick Ayres back inboard.” He sounded suddenly at a loss. “He just died. Three more killed, and Lieutenant Bizley is missing.”
Again the bridge seemed to shake itself and Howard said, “Give us a hand, Gordon.”
Treherne looked at him in the strange light. “If it’s any use, sir … I would have accepted your offer—as it is—well, she doesn’t need any of us any more.”
The three of them followed Vallance down to the side deck where it was almost impossible to stand. The after part must be right out of the water, the screws stopped as Schneider’s U-Boat had been.
“Easy, sir!” Treherne watched despairingly as Howard tried to turn and look at his ship. At any second that bulkhead would go, but he stopped to listen as Howard said in a whisper, “You were right, Number One. When you came back from that ammunition ship. It is like death.”
The whaler and floats paddled clear of the side while the boat tried to tow clusters of swimmers to safety from the inevitable undertow.
Howard sat propped in a big Carley float, Treherne holding his shoulders, Evan Price supporting him on the other side. The o
ld firm, here to see her go. The last rites.
There was cheering too, waves and waves of it, and Treherne said quietly, “It’s the squaddies on the hospital ship. Look at them. Lining the rails, those who can stand, poor devils. They know she did it for them.”
Price said tersely, “Oh God, there she goes!”
There was a devastating crack and Gladiator began to slide quickly into that churning whirlpool they had witnessed so often.
Then just as quickly, she was gone, with the sea still boiling as if she might yet burst up again with her old defiance.
As if to mark the end, all the hospital ship’s lights came on, and after a further hesitation she began to lower her boats to assist.
Did ships really have souls? Was it because of pride that Gladiator had acted as she had, rather than face the ignominious saws and torches of some dockyard?
Howard let his head fall back against Treherne’s shoulder and stared at the clouds. He would tell Celia all about it. How they had lost the last battle; but had saved so many.
With a strong hand, even to the end.
Killing Ground Page 34