by Antony Trew
A hand touched the first-lieutenant in the darkness. Someone shouted in his ear. ‘The engines are stopped, sir.’ It was Rogers the midshipman.
Redman heard the three Ss and ran into the wheelhouse. A blinding flash of light was followed by an explosion which hurled him against the port side. The ship lifted and shook as if in the grip of enormous forces. Lights went out and broken glass, splintered wood and metal crashed about him. The ship settled back in the water, listing over to starboard. He heard a muffled scream beside him, ‘My chest! Christ, my chest!’ The body which lay half across him jumped convulsively. It was the quartermaster. The roar of escaping steam, the shriek of the siren, the shouts and screams of the trapped and wounded, masked all other sounds.
He dragged himself to his feet and rang down stop on the engine-room telegraphs. Then he groped his way to the bridge. The ship continued to lay over to starboard, headed into wind and sea. He called at the top of his voice, ‘Officer-of-the-watch.’ The muffled reply was drowned by the noise of the siren. A figure loomed up alongside him in the darkness. ‘It’s me, sir.’ It was the first-lieutenant. ‘She’s going fast. Hit beneath the bridge and in the boiler-room.’ He shouted his report into Redman’s ear. ‘The ring main’s had it, sir. O’Brien‘s gone down to see if anything can be done,’
‘Did we get an A/S contact?’
‘No, sir. O’Brien says we were getting wake effect from Mainwaring. Next thing heard was the torpedo approaching.’
The spray of a breaking sea swept over them, freezing where it fell Snow began to fall. A thin patter, carried away by the wind shrilling in the rigging unheard against the siren’s continuous wail.
The yeoman came from the after-end of the bridge with a battery-powered Aldis lamp. He directed the beam forward. Redman saw that the fo‘c’sle was awash, seas surging over it, foaming up above the ‘hedgehog’ and the flash-shield to B gun. The first-lieutenant was right. She was going fast.
‘Train that light aft, yeoman,’ he shouted. The long beam swung aft and came to rest on a jagged hole in the iron deck. It ran from under the bridge to abreast the boiler-room. Sea poured in as steam gushed out in billowing clouds which were snatched away by the wind.
Redman took the Aldis lamp and shone it round the bridge. He saw the scared white faces of Rogers the midshipman and the signalman-of-the-watch; the torn metal of the bridge superstructure and the sprawling bodies of the bridge-messenger and a lookout. He took the first-lieutenant’s arm. ‘Clear away boats and rafts.’ He yelled. ‘Get everything that’ll float over the side. Use the signalman and messenger to pass the word. Take charge yourself. Wounded men first. At the double now.’
The first-lieutenant disappeared into the darkness. Redman called, ‘Yeoman!’ From close at hand came an answering ‘Sir?’
‘Make by TBS – “Vengeful kippered starboard side” – Quick as you can.’
Tried TBS already, sir. No main power so I switched to battery. No good, sir. Explosion must have damaged the TBS transmitter. Main W/T transmitter’s also unserviceable. But we’ve passed it by emergency W/T. Mainwaring’s been ordered to stand by us, sir.’
Redman patted the yeoman’s shoulder in the darkness. Mainwaring, the nearest escort, a fleet destroyer, had passed Vengeful only a few minutes before.
Another sea broke over the bridge.
Someone bumped Redman in the darkness. ‘Who’s that?’ he demanded.
‘Chief ERA, sir,’ was the shouted reply. ‘We can’t get the bridge on the phone or voice-pipe. I’ve come to report …’ His voice trailed away. He took a deep breath and began again. ‘To report, sir. Boiler-room’s flooded. We’re evacuating the engine-room. Some men trapped in the boiler-room and PO’s mess.’
Redman said, ‘Where’s the engineer-officer?’
‘Gone, sir. Doing his rounds in the boiler-room when it happened. After the watch changed. Trapped there with the others. Couldn’t have known much about it, sir. All that steam and flooding …’
‘Thank you, Robbins. Carry on now. But try to stop that bloody siren. See what else you can do …’
There was nothing else Robbins could do. Redman knew that. Nothing anybody could do. Vengeful had been torpedoed and was sinking fast in the fading stages of an Arctic gale. Mainwaring might be in time to pick up a few survivors. In those waters the difference between death and survival was a matter of minutes. She couldn’t remain stopped for long anyway. Why hazard a second ship and her company? The rescue vessel was busy miles astern of the convoy trying to pick up survivors from the Liberty ship.
The list became more pronounced. The ship was lying across the seas now. They were breaking against the starboard side, their crests reaching up to the wheelhouse. Vengeful’s liveliness had gone. She was waterlogged, a hulk, lurching heavily as the waves struck her.
The siren’s strident note grew suddenly weaker, hesitated, then cut off altogether. New sounds took over. The crash and roar of breaking seas, the shrill note of the wind in the rigging, the shouts and cries of men, the hiss of air venting from flooding compartments, the screech and groan of tearing metal, the bang and crash of loose gear in the compartments under the bridge.
Redman called out, ‘Yeoman!’
‘Sir‚’ came from somewhere near him.
‘Pass the word to abandon ship. Make it sharp. There’s little time. First check that radar, A/S and W/T offices are cleared. Use any men still there to help pass the word. After that every available man to get down to the waist and lend a hand with the wounded.’ It was a forlorn injunction. What on earth could they do for themselves, let alone the wounded? But it had to be said.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And yeoman. Go over on the port side when you do. Away from the list. If the oil’s thick try to swim under it. Long as you can.’ Redman knew that was another pretty hopeless injunction.
The yeoman handed him the Aldis lamp. ‘May come in handy, sir.’
Burrows went and Redman was alone. The list and the bridge slippery with frozen spray made it difficult to stand. He trained the beam of the lamp along the starboard side. The iron deck was awash but the gush of fuel oil had formed a slick which broke the crests of the seas. With difficulty he moved up the high side of the bridge, felt his way round the compass platform, past the asdic cabinet to the flag-lockers, and looked aft along the port side.
Carley floats, Denton rafts and float-nets rose and fell in the big swells, straining and jerking at the painters which secured them, their calcium flares reflecting ghost-like light on the scene of disaster. Knots of men were gathered in the waist, others on the oerlikon mountings abaft the funnel. The list had lifted the port side high out of the water but seas coming in from starboard surged across, swirling and sucking at the men, sheets of spray sweeping over them. An oil slick was spreading down-wind, smoothing the water in the lee of the ship.
The first-lieutenant had done predictably well, decided Redman. But it was hopeless. There was little chance of lowering wounded men into rafts under those conditions.
The ship’s company just hadn’t a chance. There was no electric power. Nothing worked. With the ship’s broadcast out of action he was cut off from his crew. He switched off the Aldis lamp. It couldn’t help.
Redman knew only too well that the first-lieutenant sup ported by those officers and petty officers who’d not been killed or wounded would be doing everything possible. They’d been trained for this. Every man knew his station and duty. But in the chaos of disaster pathetically little was possible.
The battery-powered loud-hailer? Why hadn’t he thought of it? With sudden urgency he searched the slithery tilting bridge, using the Aldis lamp, At last he found it, wedged under the compass platform. Bracing himself against the steeply sloping side of the asdic office, he trained the loud-hailer aft and pressed the switch. It was dead. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered, throwing it down in despair. ‘Won’t anything work.’
Somebody was coming up the bridge ladder, slowly, noisil
y. In the beam of the Aldis he saw Cupido staggering towards him.
‘Get down into the waist,’ Redman shouted. ‘Chance of a raft there.’
The Maltese shook his head. There was a jagged, bloodstained tear in the side of his watch-coat. He said, ‘The meal carrier’s gone, sir.’ He faltered, eyes blinking in the bright light. ‘With the dinner … I was on the bridge-ladder … starboard side …’ His face contorted with pain.… everything exploded.’
‘For Christ’s sake, man. What does it matter? Inflate your life-belt and get moving.’
Cupido shook his head again. ‘No good, sir. It’s torn.’
The blood-stained tear in the watch-coat was on the steward’s hip, below the Mae West. Redman saw the jagged indentation in the life-belt. The slither of metal that had wounded the Maltese had done that. ‘You poor little bastard,’ he said, taking off his duffel coat. He undid his own life-belt and tied it round the steward’s waist. ‘Where’s your pick-up harness?’ Cupido looked at him dumbly, frightened. He couldn’t tell the captain he never wore it. It was too uncomfortable.
Redman said, ‘You bloody little fool.’ He took off his own, slipped it over the steward’s shoulders and made it fast, plugging in the survivor’s light and clipping it on to the harness. ‘You’re all right now, Cupido. Get down to the waist quickly. They’ll help you there.’
The steward looked at him doubtfully. I’m sorry, sir … about the dinner,’
Redman focused the beam of the Aldis on the port ladder. ‘There’s the ladder. Move, man. Don’t waste time.’
When Cupido was half-way down, Redman switched off the lamp. While he’d been helping the Maltese the ship had settled deeper in the water. The broken tops of seas were reaching up to the starboard wing of the bridge.
Once again he looked down along the port side. Men were going over into the sea. Some were already on the floats and rafts. The wounded, thought Redman. Poor devils. Better to have been killed. A deck below he saw Cupido slumped in a heap at the foot of the ladder and went down to him, picked him up and half-carried, half-dragged him to the waist. In the darkness he found a group of men waiting to go over the side. Somebody shone a torch. ‘Captain, sir?’
He recognised the voice of a leading-seaman. ‘That you, Farrel?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Help Cupido,’ he said. ‘He’s wounded. I must get back to the bridge.’
The leading-seaman said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and took Cupido’s arm.
Redman worked his way up to the bridge again. At its after-end, near the signal lockers, he found a halyard and lashed himself to the rail. The tops of seas were slopping over the bridge now, spilling in to where he sheltered in the lee of the asdic cabinet. His mind was confused but he knew he was about to die. There was a long and honourable tradition for what he was doing. Not that it made it any easier. Death was the ultimate terror. He was grateful that he was alone, his fear hidden from others. Now that he’d got rid of the Mae West and pick-up harness there couldn’t be a repetition of the Yeoman Patterson incident. That was something to be grateful for.
A douche of spray spattered the bridge, freezing as it settled. It was bitterly cold. He bit into his lips to stop his teeth chattering. Vengeful shuddered as a big sea struck her and she settled deeper in the water. She’s like a half-tide rock, he thought. He wondered about the depth-charges. Would the primers have been withdrawn or would the charges explode when she sank? No. That wouldn’t happen.
Baggot, the gunner (T)‚ would have seen to that long ago. Or, if Baggot had been killed, the torpedo coxswain, failing him a leading torpedoman. It would have been done. Long and thorough training ensured that.
Inevitably a question nagged at him: why had the asdic team failed to detect the U-boat before hearing the sound of its torpedoes? He was not to know that Mainwaring’s stern wake, laid between Vengeful and U-0117 just before the attack, had effectively masked his ship’s transmissions in the brief but critical time which it had taken the U-boat to climb from the shelter of the temperature layer to periscope depth. Nor could he have known that even if Vengeful’s asdic watchkeepers had not been very tired men – which they were – it was doubtful if they would have had time to sort out the U-boat’s echoes from those of the turbulent wake which masked them.
Redman heard the voices of men coming up the port ladder. They reached the bridge and the beam of a torch searched the darkness. He knew they were looking for him.
‘Captain, sir?’ It was Pownall’s voice.
Redman said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m coming. Get down there and do what you can for the men.’
Two dark shapes loomed alongside him. ‘Come on, sir,’ said the yeoman. ‘It’s time now.’
Redman said, ‘Go ahead, yeoman, I’ll follow.’
They ignored his order, took his arms, one on either side, and pulled but couldn’t budge him. Redman felt hands groping round his body. ‘Christ,’ said the yeoman. ‘You’ve lashed yourself to the rail, sir.’
‘It’s no good, yeoman. I want to stay with her. You two carry on. That’s an order.’
The yeoman was cutting the halyard. ‘Sony, sir,’ he said. ‘No future in being a bloody hero.’
Redman protested, ordered, begged them to go. But the lashing was cut and they were hauling him along to the ladder. He gave up the struggle. It could only increase their danger. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come.’
‘We’ll look for a raft or a float, sir,’ said Pownall hopefully. They reached the iron deck. Vengeful listed more steeply, the water rising in great spouts from the engine-room showering down upon them. The yeoman shone a torch aft. The upper deck was awash, apparently deserted but for the first-lieutenant He was standing on the platform of X gun, leaning back against the gunshield which lay over to starboard at an oblique angle. The first-lieutenant saw the torch and yelled. ‘You there! Get over the side. Shake it up. She’s going.’
Redman called out, ‘Captain here, Number One. Get moving.’ Force of habit made him look at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. 2023. Seven minutes since the torpedo had struck. It seemed like seven hours. Where was Mainwaring? With fierce energy he pushed the yeoman and Pownall towards the guardrail. ‘In you go, you two. I’ll follow. Join you in the water.’
But they didn’t trust him. Clawed at him, pulled him down the ship’s side. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he cursed. ‘Leave me alone.’ He tried to break free. Then all three of them were in the water together, their anoraks protecting them from the first shock of immersion.
They swam away from Vengeful’s side, struggling through fuel oil, holding their breath, spitting out the choking slime between long gasps for air. Ahead of them calcium flares and a few red survivors’ lights winked between the hills and valleys of the seas.
They swam towards them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At 2015, a few minutes after torpedoing Vengeful, Kleber brought U-0117 to periscope depth. Ausfeld had reported propeller noises ahead over an extensive front, the volume increasing. He estimated the distance of the nearest ships at three thousand metres. Because of the wide spread of these sound signals he could not satisfactorily answer the insistent question, ‘Can you hear anything of the close escorts?’ Kleber asked it even though he knew it was almost impossible to distinguish the sound of the slow-turning screws of pistol-engined corvettes and frigates from those of merchant ships in the convoy, for the greater sounds enveloped the lesser.
And then, as so often happened in the war at sea, disaster struck without warning. An unusual combination of awkward seas and a mistake by a tired apprehensive planesman caused Heuser to lose control of the U-boat’s trim as Kleber began his periscope sweep.
‘Hold her down, chief‚’ roared Kleber as the U-boat bounced to the surface. ‘For Christ’s sake! Hold her down!’ There were notes of alarm and anger in his voice. They were approaching a heavily escorted convoy, already alerted by the sinking of the destroyer. It was sheer madness to surface before co
mpleting a thorough sweep with the periscope.
Before Kleber had finished the sentence, Heuser was shouting orders to the men on the flooding valves and hydroplanes and U-0117 took on a bows-down angle. A moment later Ausfeld-his calm and imperturbability for once abandoned – called excitedly, ‘Propeller noises close ahead. Destroyer …’
He needn’t have made the report. Every man in the control-room heard the roar of what sounded like a train entering a tunnel and, hearing it, crouched instinctively to shelter from the unseen terror. It had come upon them without warning, as if the attacker had been waiting for the U-boat with engines stopped and had somehow achieved this sudden frightening speed.
Kleber’s urgent, ‘Dive! Dive! Dive!’ were the last words he was to utter. They coincided with a jarring crash, the sound of tearing metal, and U-0117 rolled over as the sea swirled in through a great rent in her hull. Though the men in the U-boat did not know it, the submarine had been sliced in two by the bows of the ramming vessel. The severed ends sank almost immediately but five men, a petty officer, three seamen and a mechanician, were blown to the surface by a blast of escaping air. One of the seamen was picked up by a corvette a few minutes later.
The U-boat’s end was so sudden, so violent that neither Kleber nor his crew could have known what had happened. There was, however, an exception … Able-Seaman Gunter Hoist, the sole survivor. After his interrogation by the corvette’s first-lieutenant, Hoist learnt that U-0117 had been rammed and cut in two by a destroyer.
He was not, of course, told that Mainwaring had travelled a mile and a half past Vengeful towards the convoy when she heard the former’s ‘kippered’ signal and turned to go to her assistance, Lieutenant-Commander Bradshaw informing the flagship of his intentions. These were approved, but he was ordered not to stop, simply to throw floats and rafts to the men in the waiter to assist their survival until such time as the rescue ship arrived. Thereafter, he was‚ with two corvettes, to hunt the attacking U-boat.