Hulton was frightened and looked it. He did not like the sea and the darkness. ‘It beats me,’ he complained in a whisper. ‘What sort of a war is this anyway? By this time we’re supposed to have every goddamn thing we need to conquer the world. And here we are, thousands of guys, vehicles, tanks, ships, cruising up and down like dummies saying to the goddamn Nazis, “Here we are, come and get us.” And that old hulk of a destroyer is going to do nothing quick.’ He looked at Younghusband with forlorn hope. ‘What do you think she’ll be able to do?’ he asked.
‘Call for help,’ suggested Younghusband with a touch of mischief. ‘These decisions, old boy, are made by people way up high with yards of experience and gold braid, you know.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hulton. It was not much short of a snarl. ‘But I bet those bums who made them are not out here on this fucking sea in this fucking boat tonight. They’re warm in their fucking beds.’ The curses were like sobs.
‘Very likely,’ said Younghusband mildly. He looked up hurriedly as the signaller came to the cramped bridge.
‘Signal from Oregon, sir.’
Younghusband took the signal form. ‘She’s got something on her radar,’ he said. Hulton’s helmet jerked upwards, his eyes bright points of anxiety. The British officer shrugged. ‘Probably something of ours,’ he said. ‘Part of one of the other convoys, off course.’
‘I’ll tell Colonel Schorner,’ offered Hulton hurriedly. He almost fell down the iron ladder to the deck and went like a disjointed hurdler over the prone forms of the dozing soldiers. Schorner and Scarlett went back with him to the bridge. Bryant returned from the gun platform and joined them.
‘Could be nothing,’ Younghusband was saying. ‘These things often turn out like that. Just sea ghosts.’
‘We don’t have radar?’ asked Scarlett.
‘Not on this ship,’ confirmed Younghusband lightly, giving the impression that he did not believe in it. ‘The leading LST has it, and number five, after the pontoon. One radar in Red Beach convoy. One radar in Green Beach, that’s us. That’s our ration.’ The signaller returned to the bridge. They were like men in a lift now, close together. Bryant, at his own suggestion, went back to the gun platform. He waited long enough on the ladder to hear Younghusband say: ‘They’ve lost the blips now. Probably nothing more than a shoal of porpoises.’
Schorner had just said: ‘Great, I like the idea of the porpoises,’ when the big landing ship, three hundred yards ahead, was abruptly outlined by a great flash and an explosion that cracked across the water.
‘Torpedo,’ snapped Younghusband. ‘It’s the bloody E-boats.’
He pulled a toggle and a honking klaxon sounded over the ship. There was no need for it, for every man who could be was at the side, hundreds of apprehensive eyes, looking at the high flame that caressed the clumsy craft ahead. They could see men jumping like frogs into the water.
Schorner grabbed the loudhailer. ‘Get your heads down!’ he shouted. ‘Everybody take cover! Do not panic. Repeat – do not panic’
His first order was obeyed, his second ignored. The men scrambling from the sides of the ship fell on top of those among the vehicles in the open hold. Other soldiers began pouring out of the companion hatches from the decks below. Schorner bellowed again, his voice monstrous over the dark deck. ‘Order. Every man stay just where he is. That is an order.’
‘Stand by to pick up survivors,’ Younghusband ordered. ‘There they are, the E-boats,’ he added, pointing calmly. ‘Four of them. See, to starboard. In the searchlight – now.’
A light had probed out from the destroyer, wallowing as she tried to turn like some obese and ancient sheepdog turning to face wolves.
‘I bet Jerry can hardly believe his luck,’ breathed Younghusband. His eyes closed, as if he were suddenly weary of it, then he opened them, straightened up and looked firmly out to sea.
At the fringe of the beam, low on the oily sea, were the slight shapes of the E-boats. They appeared to be voyaging unhurriedly, like a herring fleet. Bryant, on the gun platform, picked them out at the same time. He shouted for the gun to be brought around to bear on the targets. Sergeant Spence repeated the order and Gilman and Catermole and Watts swung with the weapon as it turned towards the E-boats. Younghusband raised a casual, almost languid, signalling arm from the bridge. ‘Fire!’ ordered Bryant.
The noise of the gun was shattering. It loosed off a stream of shells towards the low-lying craft, sending up a fence of spray. ‘Short!’ bellowed Bryant. He had never been in action before. He was soaked with the sweat of excitement and fear but his voice and body remained steady. ‘Range six hundred,’ he called firmly. ‘Fire!’ Another staggering burst of shells streamed towards the enemy flotilla. Spray and smoke clouded the targets. When it had cleared they saw one of the E-boats tearing at them, cleaving the night sea at tremendous speed, its machine guns and cannon firing as it came.
‘Fucking ’ell,’ muttered Catermole, looking around the shield of the Bofors. ‘Now we’ve gone and upset them.’
Machine-gun fire rattled along the hull of the LST. The direction was low. The attacker curled off only two hundred yards away while Bryant was still frantically trying to reduce the trajectory of the Bofors. But now the shells were screaming clear above the German vessel, ploughing the sea two hundred yards in its wake. The E-boat curved with vicious grace. It loosed a torpedo, straight at the easy target. The weapon cut through the darkened sea leaving a phosphorescent trail.
‘Down!’ bellowed Younghusband from the bridge. He hung on to the rail like a child on the branch of a tree. Schorner and Scarlett were spreadeagled on the platform below, their eyes stark in their smeared faces. Men were crouched along the decks between the vehicles and crammed bent down on the catwalks twenty feet above them.
Only Younghusband and the British gun crew on their respective elevations could see the torpedo. Its twinkling track snaked towards them. Bryant had a strangely sedate memory of fishing as a boy and seeing the line cutting through a pond. He felt himself grasped by Sergeant Spence who pulled him forcefully to the metal deck. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Spence.
They heard the torpedo strike the metal of the hull with a clank, an almost funny anti-climax. Bryant took his hands from his ears and looked up at the bridge. The other LST was burning so fiercely now that he could clearly see Younghusband laughing. ‘It didn’t go off,’ Bryant said unnecessarily to Spence.
The crew picked themselves up from the plating. Watts said with hopeless hope: ‘Maybe it’s just a practice, sir. All part of the exercise.’
Bryant had a grim grin. ‘Do you think that’s a practice, Watts?’ he said, pointing to the LST burning half a mile away now, drifting and blazing, explosions rending the interior as ammunition ignited.
‘Here he comes again,’ muttered Spence. ‘Christ, sir, let’s get the fucker this time.’
Bryant had been watching too. The gun was swung and they let off a long burst of shell fire at the E-boat, streaking through the reddened darkness at them. The sound of the gunfire made some of the American soldiers look up as if it encouraged them. But the attacker, untouched, protected by its speed, banked in on the same course and loosed the torpedo from impudent close range. Younghusband shouted from the bridge again and the men in the guts of the long cavernous vessel flung themselves flat. Spence, cursing like a hooligan, kept the gun firing at the E-boat but once more the trajectory was too high, the target too swift. The torpedo came at the landing ship and once again struck amidships. Another metallic clunk. Nothing more.
‘Good God,’ bawled Younghusband to Colonel Schorner. ‘This lot are worse than we are.’ As he shouted the E-boat did a tight curve and fired its machine guns and cannon over the deck.
The fusillade was frightening, cutting along the metal deck like a terrible saw. Schorner, flat on his face in front of the bridge, screwed his head sideways and prayed hurriedly as the bullets cut across him. So this is what it was like. God help them all. But he knew the burst wo
uld be quick, for the attacker would have to turn away. It was like being strafed by an airplane. The firing ceased as he thought the thought. He looked upwards to the bridge. ‘Lieutenant!’ he shouted. ‘Younghusband, are you okay?’
Younghusband’s face appeared over the rail. Everything; colour, texture, flesh, seemed to have been dragged down out of his features. But he was laughing in a boyish way. ‘The bastard’s shot my hand off, sir,’ he said, pushing a stump gushing blood over the rail for Schorner to see. Schorner fought down his sick. ‘Medic!’ he bellowed over the loudhailer. ‘Medics to the bridge. At once!’
‘They’ve got a lot of clients,’ mentioned Younghusband, still attempting to sustain the casual. He leaned on the rail like a man leaning on a fence to talk with a neighbour.
‘You’ve got to sail the ship,’ grunted Schorner. ‘Good, we got some.’ Two medical auxiliaries and a doctor bustled over the deck. The smoke was easing now and Schorner saw the hurrying attendants were stepping across prone men, men who would never move again. The doctor got there first. ‘See to the Englishman,’ ordered Schorner. ‘He’s got to handle this thing.’
Younghusband’s face had vanished and they mounted the ladder to find him sprawled on the bridge. He was still conscious. ‘Sorry,’ he said as they got there. ‘Felt I had to sit down for a moment.’ The helmsman steering the LST stared straight ahead. There was a fire burning on the forepart of the deck and the smoke was obscuring his view. ‘Trifle starboard,’ Younghusband called up to him. ‘Wind will take it away then.’
‘Starboard,’ answered the British sailor. He looked backwards for a moment, over his shoulder. ‘You going to be all right, sir?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ answered the American doctor twisting a tourniquet around Younghusband’s forearm.
Younghusband said: ‘It doesn’t need three, does it, doc?’ He nodded at the hovering medics. ‘It’s not a bloody traffic accident.’
The doctor sent the other men back to the troop deck. Screams and cries were coming from there. Oily smoke palled across the vessel. Schorner wished to God that the daylight would come. He looked at his watch. Ten to three. Not yet. He looked down at Younghusband. The Englishman said: ‘It’s going to handicap my bowling something dreadful, colonel.’
A dulled explosion, like the striking of a deep gong, reverberated across the water. It seemed to start far down in the sea’s cellar and then rose and broke the surface with a vast roar. Scarlett got to the bridge just as it sounded. He and Schorner looked across the fire-red horizon. The other LST was sinking at the base of a hideous pyre. On its deck the American railway engine stood out like an iron ghost. Orange, ruby, cherry-coloured, lights flared all around it. Clouds of dusty smoke rolled over the black Channel. The LST lurched as they watched and turned like a tired cow on to its side.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Scarlett. ‘I never thought I’d see a railroad train sink at sea.’
‘How many casualties do we have?’ asked Schorner, forcing his attention from the sight.
‘I’ve checked the rear, the stern,’ reported Scarlett. ‘Eight dead, fourteen wounded, six very bad. Hulton’s checking the front end. Here he is.’ He suddenly saw Younghusband on the floor almost hidden by the doctor. ‘Is he okay?’ he asked.
As if to answer, the doctor helped the youthful Englishman to his feet. Propped against the rail of the bridge the lieutenant spoke conversationally to the steersman. The ship veered. Schorner saw men in the water. ‘Stand by to pick up survivors,’ said Younghusband weakly into his loudhailer. He glanced at Schorner. ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he grinned tightly. ‘There’s no point in scarpering. They’ll catch us anyway.’ He gave an order and Schorner heard the engines change. The vessel was so slow, however, that there was little noticeable difference in their progress.
Hulton, sweating with terror, had reached the platform below the bridge. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he squeaked at Schorner.
‘Fine, just a slight headache,’ answered Schorner. ‘What’s the casualty report, captain, that’s what I want to know?’
‘Front part of the ship, sir,’ stammered Hulton. ‘Fourteen dead and twenty-three wounded. That part got it first.’ He looked around. ‘We’re slowing down,’ he said in a hurt tone.
‘We’re picking up survivors from the other LST,’ Scarlett answered him as the colonel clattered down from the bridge.
Hulton looked amazed. ‘But, we’re a sitting duck …’ he said, but keeping his voice low towards Scarlett.
‘The sailorman is not holding out on us. He says so too,’ said Scarlett. ‘And I guess he’s right.’ He thought Hulton was going to say something to Younghusband. ‘Drop it,’ he said tersely. ‘He’s driving with one hand.’
Bryant came to the platform below the bridge. Scarlett stared directly at him. ‘It happened,’ he muttered. ‘Like I said.’
‘Bloody rubbish,’ answered Bryant brusquely.
Younghusband was giving orders to his crew. The LST had stopped and the nets were going over the side to men crying out in the water. ‘Where’s the destroyer?’ demanded Hulton. ‘Where’s the goddamn escort, for Chrissake?’
‘Here’s the Jerry again,’ said Younghusband. It was hardly more than a mention. The E-boat was slewing through the red haze. Another followed it, then a third. ‘God in fucking heaven,’ said the young naval officer. ‘They’re out to nail us this time.’
All three German vessels came abreast, searchlights rippling along the decks of the LST. Bryant rolled headlong across the steel plating and toppled over on to the lower deck. He almost collided with Schorner trying to scramble up. ‘I’m going to the gun, sir,’ he said.
‘Do that, son. Get the bastards!’ shouted Schorner. He gave what was almost a wild laugh. Then the whole vessel was swept once more with a vicious cannon- and machine-gun fire. On all fours Bryant scampered like a monkey to the gun platform at the rear. He could see the Bofors was firing, coughing shells at its tremendous rate towards the disappearing E-boats.
‘Killer’s been killed, sir,’ said Gilman unaware of the wordplay. Watts was lying against the bulkhead, holding his stomach as if with an ache.
The gun stopped firing. ‘We can’t hit the swines,’ complained Spence. ‘Not at the speed they’re shifting.’
Bryant bent down and looked at Watts. He was the first man to die under his command. Gilman looked at the dead soldier. His teeth began to chatter.
‘I’d like to get those bleeders in my pub,’ threatened Catermole with his own logic. Bryant looked back towards the bridge. He could see Schorner looking through field glasses. The fire in the forward part of the ship was still burning, giving an illuminated back-cloth to everything aboard.
Younghusband was watching the men coming over the side from the water, being helped by his sailors and the American soldiers; rolling over the rail, oil and blood covered like wounded porpoises, lying on the deck, sobbing or silent. He looked up. ‘Here he comes again,’ he said quietly to Schorner. ‘He’ll probably get us this time.’
A single E-boat emerged through the draped smoke, speeding directly at them. The Bofors began to stutter again. One of the shells caught the stern of the German vessel and even above the din Younghusband heard the British crew cheer like madmen. But the attacker was unfaltering. It flipped like a seal and ran broadside on. The torpedo was released just before the moment of turn. The men on the bridge, Schorner now, Younghusband and Scarlett watched it come through the water. They were merely spectators; there was nothing to be done.
‘The incompetent fool’s going to duff it again,’ muttered Younghusband wonderingly. ‘He’ll miss by twenty feet.’
Bryant had turned the gun on to the torpedo, the shells splitting the water. But the angle was again inadequate and the crew were left cursing and impotent.
Younghusband began to laugh weakly. ‘Silly duffers, sir,’ he said to Schorner. The bandages on his arm were soaked with blood. ‘Two duds and now they’re going to miss.’
>
Soldiers on the upper deck began to peer over the side at the torpedo. ‘It’s a miss!’ called one voice. Others rose and cheered as the weapon sped towards the grey water behind the stern. The cheering was at its highest when the track turned and headed straight towards the hull.
‘Homing,’ muttered Younghusband. ‘It’s got a homing device. Rotten cheats.’
‘Scatter!’ bellowed Schorner through the loudhailer. ‘Down!’
The torpedo struck the LST ten feet from the stern. It exploded vividly, throwing a thick column of water, fire and metal up over the rail. The Bofors gun and its crew were blown backwards, Catermole and Spence being killed at once. Bryant was saved by an open steel door and Gilman was merely thrown sideways and down the ladder, landing on the men lying below. ‘Pussy,’ he called when he picked himself up. ‘Pussy! Where are you?’
‘Gee,’ complained one of the huddling GIs. ‘He’s worried about his goddamn cat.’
Gilman reached the gun platform. The gun was hanging over the side like a dead stork. Acrid smoke hung in the air. A fire had started below. Bryant was leaning over Catermole. He turned and saw Gilman’s aghast face. ‘He’s gone,’ said Bryant. ‘So’s Spence.’
‘Oh Christ almighty,’ trembled Gilman. ‘Not Pussy. Not him.’
Bryant caught his arm. ‘Let’s get forward,’ he said. ‘This thing’s not going to be afloat for long.’ Like a parent with a wet-eyed child he led Gilman away from the gun platform. Men were rushing away in a mass. There were shouts and orders, cries from wounded men, curses from others. Bryant saw men in panic jumping over the side of the ship.
Above the tumult, the shouts, the rush, the explosions and fiery smoke, he could hear Colonel Schorner calling orders over the loudhailer. Then another ear-cracking explosion rocked the LST on the port side. A second E-boat had come in through the smoke and fired another torpedo. Machine-gun and cannon fire sliced across the deck. Men spilled over on every side. Others screaming, some on fire, jumped over the side. A cliff of flame was enveloping the landing craft on the opposite side to Bryant. He and Gilman reached the bridge superstructure in time to see men, shouting, fighting, burned, bloody men, rushing from the hatches. Red smoke poured out with them.
The Magic Army Page 51