Royce’s taut stomach began to settle. It looked as if it was to be a fruitless business after all. In a way, he felt vaguely relieved. He dived his head under the apron of the chart table, and switched on the feeble light. Here, shielded from the cold spray, and the electric air of taut vigilance, with the familiar and homely figures, and pencilled lines, a few inches from his nose, he felt the private security and comfort of an ostrich with its head in the sand. The absurdity of this comparison made him relax slightly, and even smile, and picking up his dividers he began to measure up the narrow distances from the enemy coast. Was it possible that, just a few miles away, Belgian people lay in their beds, or plotted against their invaders, or even stood looking out to sea, hoping for freedom? It was a strange thought.
He shifted his glance up across the grubby chart, chafed by wet oilskins and disfigured by mugs of cocoa, until he found the familiar names of the English coast: Ramsgate, Newhaven, and poor Dover, which daily shook to the thunder of the German cross-channel artillery. So many little people, all trying to live, and make the feeble strands of life spin out just a bit longer. He straddled his legs wider, to steady himself, and he felt a cold draught penetrate up the rear of his oilskin and explore his nether regions. He started again to examine his pencilled marks, and again his mind wandered happily away. What of Julia? What would she be doing now? The reality of seeing her had already drifted into a dream-like mist of a fairy tale. He sighed, and rubbed his cheek, already sore from the salt.
“Oh sir! Sir! There it is!” Paynton positively squeaked. “The signal!”
Royce came back to the present with a jerk, and cracked his head on the side of the table. Cursing, he swung his glasses to his eyes, but they were unnecessary. Away to the south-east, four stars were falling slowly and gracefully from the heavens. Two red over two green, the signal. Somewhere between these flares and his own ship lay the enemy. His mind raced, and his ear dimly recorded Raikes saying gruffly, “You just remember to report properly next time, Bunts. This ain’t no fireworks display.”
A shaded light winked across the water, as Deith excitedly prepared for the chase, then, with a steadying rumble, the engines took control of the resting craft, and pushed them gently forward, with just enough force to raise a small bow-wave, and start the hull quivering with life and power.
The trap was sprung, as somewhere around the black wastes of the Ostend approaches, eight M.T.B.s converged, like the mouth of a poacher’s bag, secure in the knowledge that a fast force of Motor Gunboats would by now be hovering on the horizon, in case support would be required.
As they crawled slowly forward, like hunters after game, every eye, ear, and muscle was strained, until the very nerves cried out in protest. Men swallowed hard, their throats suddenly dry, others fought off waves of sickness, or cursed helplessly at the black wall ahead of them. It was almost a relief when the horizon lit up in a savage, white glare, which made their eyes jerk in their sockets, and, seconds later, a dull roar boomed hollowly around the cave of night. The glare died slowly into a flicker, which left a red carpet draped across the horizon, getting smaller and smaller. In that mere tick of time, before the light completely died, Royce’s powerful lenses caught the briefest hardening of the shape in the dull red glow, almost as if someone was standing in front of him, half blocking his view. He blinked, and lowered his glasses. Nothing, not even the glow any more to guide him.
Below him, he could hear Carver chattering excitedly with his gunners.
“Silence!” he grated savagely, and darted a quick look at the compass, his brain working furiously. He raised his glasses again, but the ebony seas mocked him. “There was something peculiar about that,” he muttered. “There must have been something just about to cross in front of the fire. If only the glare had held a bit longer!”
Suddenly, he took a deep breath, his mind made up. There had been something. There was a ship out there, slinking stealthily back home, hoping that the confusion of the fire would take all attention from her. It was now or never.
“Bunts, signal to Lieutenant Deith: I am going to engage, got that? Cox’n, full speed, steer south forty-five east!”
It seemed an age, but in fact seven seconds passed and then, with a vast, ear-shattering snarl, the torpedo boat leapt forward, the beast unleashed. Royce grabbed wildly at a support, as the bows rose up in front of him, sending two great banks of solid white foam roaring away on either beam. Aft, the narrow stern buried itself deeply, as the whirling screws bit down deeper, and harder, until the rushing waters cascaded past and over it like walls of solid snow, gleaming starkly against the black nothingness beyond.
Deith’s boat fanned out to run parallel with them, and a brief glance showed Royce that the boat’s keel was visible as far back as her bridge. His own boat must be like that too, he marvelled, meaning that every so often, as she bounded over the waves, he and the bridge were suspended in space. It was incredible.
“Stand by tubes!” he barked, his voice harsh and unnatural, and to Carver he bellowed, “Open fire as soon as your guns bear!”
Heaven only knows what Leach is thinking about down on the bucking stern, with his machine-guns, he thought, probably trusting to luck, and the ability of his skipper, as he had once done.
A fine thing it would be if his eyes had played him false, and they were tearing down on nothing, or another British boat. There could be no second chance. Their engines would already have warned any ship within miles of their attack.
On and on, blindly, with teeth gritted, and eyes smarting. Perhaps the bearing had been wrong, perhaps they had overshot the target, perhaps—God! What was that? The M.T.B. bucked and reared like a mad thing, recovered, and thundered on. He lurched to the rail and peered away across the port beam. Just briefly, before their wake surged down and obliterated everything, he saw a white-crested bank of water roll away astern. What the—then, like a shaft of light, his brain cleared. They had just crossed the wake of another vessel, moving fast!
“Hard aport!” he yelled, and the boat reeled round, engines screaming, the blurred shape of Deith’s boat following suit.
They straightened up and scudded after the invisible ship.
Still they saw nothing but their own glittering cascades of foam, heard nothing but the eager bellow of power beneath them, which mingled with their own heartbeats, and own silent prayers, and shouted curses.
They were quite unprepared for the next move, which was to be made by the enemy.
Without warning, a sharp, pale blue beam of light sprang out of the darkness, wavered, and then fixed on to Deith’s boat. One minute there was nothing, and the next instant, this terrible searchlight had sprung across the water, pinioning the startled M.T.B. in its eye-searing glare. Although the little boat twisted and turned desperately to shake it off, the light held them pitilessly, until to Royce it looked as if the boat was held stationary on the end of a pillar.
“Quick, Carver! Open fire! Get that light!”
Desperately he pressed the bell switch by his waist, and heard the tinkle echo round the boat. Instantly the Bofors came to life, and the rapid crack-crack made his head sing. The port Oerlikon and Browning quickly followed, and Royce almost wept with rage and helplessness, as he saw the lazy tracers climbing wildly clear of the target.
Deith’s gunners, mesmerized and blinded by the great, unblinkling blue eye, fired but a few shots, no one knew where they fell, and when the German eventually decided that the drama was being prolonged unnecessarily, he too opened fire, making a red and white triangle of fire, the apex of which centred upon the M.T.B.’s bridge. Royce saw the pieces of woodwork whipped into the air by a hail of bullets, and a tattered sheet of armour plate rose like a spectre in the harsh light, and vanished over the side. He saw, too, the tiny figures fall from the guns, one running wildly, flapping at the air, before pitching through the rail into the boiling waters.
“Hard over, Raikes, round on her other beam. I’m going to engage with torpedoe
s!”
Moving with the grace of a bounding leopard, they swung in a semi-circle, Royce speaking carefully and slowly to the torpedomen, ignoring the spasmodic fire of the guns, and concentrating every fibre in his body, shutting out the horror of the other boat in its death-agony. Once on the ship’s disengaged side, he saw her clearly silhouetted by her own gunfire, more like a small destroyer than a minelayer. But as they tore towards her, the great searchlight began to swing round, seeking them out, and as it crossed her own deck, he saw the dull gleam of the mines in their trestles aft. This was the target, their goal.
“Fire!”
And even as the beam deluged them with light, Royce knew within his heart the torpedoes would run true. Automatically, his brain sorted out details, discarding the unnecessary.
“Hard a-port, drop smoke floats.” That was it, just like the instruction books, just like he’d heard Harston and Kirby say so many times before.
The dense smoke rose from the float, and hung ghost-like over the searchlight’s beam, making the scene unearthly, which it indeed was. Raikes hadn’t moved except with his hands, as he manoeuvred the boat towards safety. Paynton beat the screen with his fists, and shouted wildly, “Why don’t they hit? Please make them hit!” His prayer was answered, as the gleaming fish struck home into the entrails of the minelayer.
Surprisingly enough, the noise seemed deadened. It was more like a vast, hot breath, which engulfed the whole boat, making their throats retch and choke, their faces sear. Already blinded by the searchlight, they missed the vast, red column of water which towered over the stricken ship, and as the light was suddenly extinguished, so too the ship was removed from their vision, blasted into oblivion. For a shocked period of several minutes they kept moving, while the sea hissed and splashed with flying and falling fragments, then when all was still, Royce swung the boat and headed back at maximum speed, making for the tiny, flickering beacon in the far distance.
Deith’s boat was well down by the stern, and blazing fiercely. They could quite clearly hear the roar and crackle of woodwork, and the sharp bang of exploding ammunition, as they speeded desperately to help. Within a hundred yards of their sister, it happened: a billowing yellow cloud of flame, a crackling roar, and the hiss of steam, as the cold waters hungrily engulfed the shattered hulk.
Royce stared dully, numb. “Stop engines. Stand by scrambling nets!”
His voice was far away. He knew he would never see Deith again, never hear the gay laugh, or feel the warmth of companionship. The pattern was still falling into place.
A shout from the fo’c’sle. “Two men in the water! Port bow!”
Clumsily, they scrambled aboard, two of Deith’s seamen. Bleeding, coughing out the raw fuel, and whimpering softly. Royce saw Leach’s set face, as he guided them gently below. There were no others.
“Another explosion, dead astern!” yelled a voice, and they saw a queer glow, shaped like a pine tree, rising higher and higher, until its power finally faded, and it was wiped away for ever.
The three minelayers had been removed, as ordered.
Royce forced himself to concentrate his full attention to the boat, and shut out all personal feelings, and he listened with an almost detached air, as Carver and Leach reported to the bridge.
“I can’t understand it,” muttered Carver shakily. “Not one casualty, not one blessed man! Just three small holes aft, one through the transom, and the others on the starboard quarter. All above the waterline.”
“What about you, Mid?”
“No damage, sir.” Leach’s voice was trembling. “Gosh, you were wonderful, if I may say so, sir. I thought we’d had it!”
Raikes coughed. “Another signal, sir. Re-form. ” He pointed over to the flashing light.
Royce stretched, feeling suddenly cold and stiff. “See what I meant about gunnery, Number One?” But he was no longer angry; he knew that after this they would shoot straight— for their own sakes, and for him.
“Yes, I feel badly about that. But they tried, sir; it wasn’t their fault.”
“I know.” Royce forced a tired smile. “We were lucky really.”
Carver swayed slightly to the boat’s motion. “It wasn’t luck. You pulled it off on your own.”
“Don’t be such an arse!” said Royce crossly. “Get some hot fluid sent round. We’re getting out of here fast!”
The stormy dawn found them streaking rapidly for home. Kirby led his flotilla, and several of the boats bore signs of battle, but apart from Deith and his men, the casualties had been very few. To the great men at Whitehall, it would appear to be a clean-cut operation, and the public might not even hear about it.
Kirby’s boat turned, and wallowed heavily down the weaving grey line of boats, his loud-hailer calling loudly for reports of damage and casualties. As he drew level, Royce strained his aching eyes across the narrow gap, and tried to ascertain the extent of Kirby’s operations. He noted that both his torpedoes had been fired too, and part of the boat’s side was marked in long claw-like scars. He was not left in doubt for long.
“Been busy, Royce? I hear you bagged the second ship?”
“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Deith bought it, I’m afraid.” He cursed himself and the unreality of this life which forced him to speak with studied indifference of a true friend, butchered before his eyes.
“They come and they go, and I’m sure he would have preferred it this way. I got the first minelayer, and Mossbury took the other. Quite a good show, really.”
Royce fumed. Had the man no feelings? As if any breathing, sane, or intelligent being would choose to be fried alive! He choked back the hot words. Instead, he merely lifted one glove in acknowledgement. As far as Kirby was concerned anyway, the incident was closed. Kirby turned away, and increased his speed towards the lead of the line, while Royce watched him go with smouldering eyes. What this war is doing to us, he thought bitterly.
Although dawn should have made its full appearance, a heavy, wet mist, mingled with a soaking drizzle, kept the visibility down, and darkened the skies with a fast-moving blanket of grey vapour. It was very depressing, but typical.
With the first light, came a visible change too in his command. Instead of an air of woolly indecision, the hands grouped silently by their guns, matured and woven together as a crew overnight.
The only openly cheerful face was that of Paynton, who had taken part in, and recovered from, his first action like a nervous patient after a difficult operation. He was, literally, glad to be alive. Even as Royce slumped moodily against the port screen, he could hear the boy’s soft humming, as he busied himself, oiling his Aldis lamp. He had taken to the “trade,” but as Kirby had put it, “They come, and they go.” Royce laughed aloud, and Raikes twisted his head sharply, his eyes shrewd.
“Told yer they’d learn, didn’t I, sir?”
“You did, ’Swain. I thank the high heavens we had the chance.”
“Aircraft dead astern!” yelled Paynton suddenly.
As the signal rippled up the line of boats, the men forgot their chilled bodies, and numb fingers, and reached for the tools of their new profession. As he raised his misted glasses, Royce heard Denton’s gruff voice from the Bofors.
“Nah then, proper shootin’, this time!”
There it was, a black beetle, whose shape expanded and contracted as it felt its way through the gaps in the cloud.
“What do you make of her, Number One?” he called.
In his bright new duffle coat, and gleaming cap, with the fair hair curling from under the peak, Carver looked every inch the film star, about to make a momentous action or statement, which would bring an empire crashing.
Instead, after a long look, he said lamely, “I think it’s a Wellington. But then again, I—”
“She’s divin’!” snapped Raikes suddenly, and pulled himself protectively against the wheel.
Out from the cloudbank now, gathering body and menace, the plane skimmed lower.
Royce sighed.
“Take your time, gunners, then open fire!”
The plane was pointing straight at him, its twin propellers making silver circles on either side of the bullet nose. Then a throaty rattle filled the air, and a hail of cannon shells changed the oily waters into a frenzied dance of flying spume. Then it was gone, darkening their decks for a brief instant with bat-like wings, the black crosses directly over the masthead.
With a roar of engines the pilot pulled out of his dive, and turned for the safety of the clouds.
Crack-crack-crack! went the Bofors, and in jealous haste the Oerlikon joined in, sending a spray of shells after the intruder. Above the thunder of their own power, they could still hear the more resonant note of the German circling, apparently dissatisfied with his first efforts.
“That wasn’t no Wellington, sir!” shouted Trevor, from behind his gun. “Gave me quite a turn!”
There was a snigger, and Carver turned to the bridge for support. “Rather like one though, don’t you think?” He was never at a loss.
“I think she’s coming back!”
The aircraft zoomed into view, this time from the port quarter, her guns spitting as she dived at them. The rattle was so sharp, that it deprived their brains of power or motion.
Brownings first this time, then the others, and from the wreaths of smoke around Cameron’s boat, it was plain to see they were being well supported.
“Two aircraft, bearing red four-five!”
Lower than the first plane, the twins swept in barely a hundred feet off the sea, their wing-edges afire with yellow, spitting flames. For God’s sake, Kirby, do something, he cursed.
“Ninety degree turn to starboard!” yapped Paynton.
Thank heavens, Kirby was bringing his boats into line abreast, giving maximum fire-power to the aircraft. There would be no unhappy straggler to be picked off at leisure. They surged round, working up to full speed, the air splitting with their full-throated snarls, the water burst asunder with a vast wall of twisted bow-waves and rolling wakes. Every boat came to life, the professional and the amateurs, old hands and the new. Butchers’ boys, clerks, bus conductors, and fishermen, with eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, and stomach muscles pulled in tight. Royce pulled the stripped Lewis into his shoulder, and squinted into the sights. It was all blurred. The grey background, the dark bottom-edge of torn water, and then into line the speeding, wafer-thin silhouette. He squeezed the trigger, and felt the ancient weapon pummel his shoulder. The first plane swung wildly away from the mounting cone of destruction, but the twin held his course. Something thudded into the bridge deck, and a chorus of shouts broke out from aft, and the plane was over them, revealing the shark-like underbelly. Twisting and turning, she swung away, but lacking the support of the other, she was done, for as she passed free of the boats, a savage line of bursts rippled her from nose to tail, making her stagger. Then, with a forlorn cough, one engine died, and a thin plume of black smoke billowed out of her cabin. Lower and lower, and the drizzle almost blotted her out, when at the point where sea met sky, she struck, bounced, and pancaked heavily, in a shower of spray, and vanished.
A Prayer for the Ship Page 19