The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  To comb the tracks of an attack by that trio, he guessed. A quick glance astern showed destroyers in action. Turning again, focussing his glasses on the last two Heinkels—which were close, now, slanting over from the port bow like droning, jinking moths—they must have swung right and then left, he realised, manoeuvring for an attack not on the convoy now but on this ship herself—he saw one fish splash down: then the other …

  “Port fifteen!”

  “Port fifteen, sir …”

  No problem—it was just a matter of turning her head-on to the torpedo tracks, to let them pass harmlessly each side of her. Oerlikons and pompoms were in loud action: he thought suddenly, Wasting ammunition—imagining they’d be shooting at the pair whose torpedoes he was now avoiding. He hadn’t realised, at that point, that there’d been a third Heinkel coming in at Calliope from the other quarter.

  Explosion, right aft …

  It had been a crash so unexpected that for a second you couldn’t believe in it. Then you were hearing its echo deep in the ship’s bowels, a jolt that shook her hull and frames: pure shock, under the roar of a seaplane banking away to starboard, turning and climbing for safety.

  “Torpedo track starboard side, sir!”

  He’d centred the wheel. But engine vibration had ceased—engines stopping. Guns silent: the only enemies were tail-on, departing. Gunfire from the direction of the convoy was also petering out. About thirty seconds might have passed since he’d given that helm order. She was still swinging, but with her screws stopped the swing was slowing. Wind and sea were on the port quarter: looking aft, where seas were breaking over, his mind registered that fact that she was down by the stern and taking a list to starboard.

  0925. A fine time and a fine place to have been crippled.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  . . .

  Calliope, with no power of her own to resist the forces of wind and sea, rolled helplessly from beam to beam, slowly turning. Treseder had gone down to take charge of damage-control; Nick told Christie, “Ask Trench whether he has anything to report.” He had his glasses focussed on the convoy, where Insole was in the process of turning his ships back to the mean course of 170: they’d have been fully occupied with the Heinkels who’d got through to them, and probably wouldn’t have seen what had been happening here. Nick’s primary requirement was a report from Calliope’s engineer commander, but knowing what things would be like below decks he was restraining himself from asking for one: when Haselden had time to pick up a telephone, he’d do so. Nick raised his voice over the sounds of wind, sea and the battering of his ship: “Swanwick, what’s on the two-eight-one screen?”

  “Screen’s clear, sir!”

  That was something. And something else that the set was even working, had power on it. He picked up the director tower telephone to ask whether the stern turrets were functioning—this telephone was working, too—and the answer was affirmative: communications and circuits had been tested and found correct, ditto magazines, shell-rooms and ammo hoists. So there was a bright side … He heard Tommy Trench’s voice over TBS informing Christie that there’d been no torpedo hits in either convoy or escort, and one He 115 had been shot down by Leopard. The message ended, Do you require assistance? Over.

  He took the microphone.

  “Tommy, I’ve been torpedoed, on the starboard side aft. No assessment of damage yet. Send one destroyer to stand by me, then push on and I’ll catch up later. Out.”

  The damage-control telephone was buzzing, its pinpoint of blue light flashing. Ellinghouse answered it, and passed it on to Nick as he left the TBS. You needed at least one hand free for holding on, with this savage roll … “Yes?”

  “Treseder here, sir. All the damage is right aft. It’s a big hole and we have extensive flooding on the hold and platform decks, and either both the starboard shafts are bent or the screws are damaged—or A brackets—or the lot … Heselden’s about ready to try again now with port screws only— he stopped everything because she was shaking herself to death. They’re checking the shafts first. The flooding’s contained well enough, I’d say, and we’re strengthening those bulkheads.”

  “All right. Keep me informed. Tell Haselden the priority’s to get her moving.”

  Christie told him as he put the phone down, “Lyric’s on her way to us sir.”

  He wondered about the rudder. Stopping on his way aft across the bridge—he’d been going to the tannoy to let the ship’s company know what was happening—he joined Harvey-Smith at the binnacle. Clinging to the binnacle—to the compensating spheres—because dead in the water as she was now, she wasn’t just rolling so much as performing acrobatics. Recalling that the tiller flat was well abaft the screws, which were set on her flanks—so there was a chance the steering could be intact.

  “Check the steering.” Shouting, above the wind. “Every five degrees all the way to full starboard rudder, then same the other way, wheelhouse checking against the rudder-indicator—all right?” Harvey-Smith nodded dumbly, lowering his face to the voicepipe, while Nick began to think about what he’d do if she was unsteerable. With the starboard screws out of action, you’d need to carry port wheel: if you couldn’t do that, there’d be no way on her own of steering a straight course. One of the minesweepers, perhaps, with a wire to Calliope’s stern—if necessary another at the bow—the two of them holding her straight, or when necessary turning her. Hand-held flags from this bridge to tell them what was wanted …

  When the bombers attacked again, she’d be an easy mark for them … Harvey-Smith said into the voicepipe, “Midships … Seems to be answering normally, quartermaster?”

  “Nothing wrong far’s we can tell, sir.”

  Harvey-Smith shouted, straightening, “Seems to be answering, sir!”

  He nodded. Reminding himself that he’d brought ships out of worse predicaments. “They’ll be getting the port screws turning, in a minute. Then we’ll see.” Because the gear could be working normally—conceivably— even if the rudder had gone … He reached the tannoy now, switched it on, began, “D’you hear me—Captain speaking …” Men trapped below decks and sticking to their jobs now as they had to do—if the ship was to survive or have any chance of surviving—were entitled to know what the situation was, and primarily that she wasn’t in any danger of sinking, that the damage had been contained and that it was hoped she’d soon be on the move again. Christie was taking a call from for’ard engine-room at the same time. Both engine-rooms would have to be in use, since one drove the inner screws and the other the outer ones. Nick felt it start while he was still speaking—vibration first, its quality changing as revs built up, and the change in her motion as the screws began to take effect: it allowed him to finish with “There—as you can feel now—we’re under way …”

  By 1015, when the next incoming air attack was picked up on radar, they’d got her moving at a steady ten knots. Vibration was excessive, but this had to be accepted. Repairs would have to be made in Archangel—or dockyard facilities might be better in the Kola Inlet … She seemed to be carrying about eight degrees of wheel: steering would be affected not only by the fact the starboard screws weren’t useable, but also by her list to starboard and sterndown posture in the sea.

  A cyphered signal to Admiralty, repeated to others including SBNO North Russia, was being transmitted at this moment: Calliope reduced to 10 knots by torpedo hit aft. Maintaining convoy course and speed. New bomber formation approaching from southwest.

  “Bearing two-three-two, range seventeen—large formation …”

  Calliope was steering the convoy’s mean course of 170 but she wasn’t zigzagging. He’d brought her into the position astern of column two which had been Moloch’s. If mechanical problems worsened, or her clumsy steering put her off-course, she’d be in no other ship’s way here. Moloch had transferred to Calliope’s former station, in the van with Foremost to starboard of her and Laureate to port. Calliope was on her own, much of the time, as the convoy zigzagged ahead of
her, but Northern Glow and the sweeper Rochdale, making independent zigzags, stayed fairly close.

  “Bearing two-three-oh, fourteen miles … Second formation on two-three-five nineteen!”

  He told himself, There’ve been worse times. Plenty …

  And a drubbing today had been inevitable. Put yourself in the Luftwaffe chiefs’ shoes—an easy target only about 250 miles away, and their ears ringing with the Fuhrer’s insistence that Allied convoys to North Russia must be stopped … He thought, We should have had an escort carrier with us. We really should … Glancing aside, he found himself under the somewhat hawkish scrutiny of Bruce Christie. Not for the first time, in recent days. Christie’s expression was less questioning than analytical—no questions to ask, but his own mind to be made up, through observation of how his new commanding officer was reacting or would react to this heightening of the risks …

  He told Ellinghouse, “Chief yeoman—TBS to Rabble. ‘Second bomber formation is approaching five miles behind the first. Moloch inform commodore.’”

  Moloch was close ahead of the Tacora, but from here, depending on which way the zigzag was going, there were always others in the line of sight— usually the Berkeley and the Sovyetskaya Slava in the middle column.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  Percy Tomblin: properly dressed in a tin hat.

  “Good idea. Thank you, Tomblin.”

  “Left these in your cabin, sir.”

  Matches—Swan Vestas … He took them, slid them into a pocket. Life’s trivia—in present circumstances faintly ridiculous. So much in the balance— lives, ships and a war cargo worth risking them for: but essentially men’s lives—and in the middle of it they brought you cups of coffee, boxes of matches …

  Treseder, back from another inspection of the damaged area aft, appeared behind Tomblin. He was trailed at a respectful (or wary) distance by his “Doggie,” an ordinary seaman by the name of Wilson. Nick said, playing the game of trivialities, “The commander might appreciate a cup of your coffee, Tomblin.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Tomblin eyed Wilson, obviously thinking he might have been sent for whatever sustenance his master wanted. Treseder murmured, “Most kind, sir.” He added, with a glance at Tomblin, “Coffee that tastes like coffee being as rare as it is on this bridge.” Tomblin, mollified by the compliment, glanced again at Wilson as he left them. Nick told Treseder, “We have a second attack coming in behind the first bunch.”

  Treseder nodded, pursing his lips as he turned his eyes south-westward. Swanwick’s communications number called, “Bogeys on two-three-oh, ten miles, and two-three-one, sixteen miles, both formations closing, bearings steady!”

  Treseder said, “The old one-two again, perhaps, eighty-eights and bloody Heinkels.”

  Binoculars were all trained on and around that bearing. Calliope plunging, soaring, rolling. The violence of her motion worried the damage-control people, of course, because there was added danger of bulkheads splitting under the constantly shifting, uneven strains.

  1019. Minutes crawling by so slowly that clocks and watches might have had treacle in their works.

  “Bearing two-two-nine, eight miles, sir!”

  But no sighting yet?

  “Above the cloud.” Treseder muttering to himself. Lowering his glasses, cleaning their front lenses but with his eyes still on the sky. Christie pointed out, “Cloud is lower than it was, sir. If it’d thicken up a bit, now …”

  Looking for another miracle?

  “Aircraft—green six-oh—angle of sight—”

  “Where?”

  It had appeared and gone again: flown into cloud … Swanwick questioning that lookout—which way had it been flying, what height, what type … Christie was right about the cloud-layer being lower, Nick realised. If it hadn’t been for the wind that was tearing holes in it for bombers to see through, it could have been an ally.

  Pray for the wind to drop, he thought. Wind drop, cloud thicken. Better still, ask Marcus Plumb to do the praying, since he presumably would have a direct connection …

  “Aircraft in formation green eight-oh, angle of sight one-five—eighty-eights, sir!”

  In the open, suddenly. Strung out in groups of six to eight: but more cloud there again now, so appearing and disappearing. Flying from left to right: ships’ guns elevated and following them round although they weren’t in range yet. Calliope rolling as hard as ever, ensign whipping in bright colour against grey sky; the black, twin-engined bombers were below the cloud now and coming round astern. Treseder announced, “I count thirty-six.” Back into cloud—but before they were swallowed in it one group had been separating from the mainstream, turning right, this way. The whole lot were hidden in cloud again.

  “Second formation bears two-three-oh, nine miles …”

  DCT telephone: “We have a group of them coming in on the quarter, sir. Permission to engage when …”

  “Open fire when you’re ready.”

  In effect, this meant immediately. Before he put the phone down he saw them coming in—nose-down, already in their dives—and heard the ritual war-cries from the team up there in the tower: “Green one-four-oh, angle of sight three-five!”

  “Cut!”

  “Have height, have plot!”

  “Range oh-two-six!”

  “Ready!”

  “Range oh-two-four!”

  “Open fire!”

  Fire-gong’s clang, and the turrets’ ringing thunder. The Berkeley joined in, and Rochdale … Calliope’s ten 5.25s plus the Berkeley’s six four-inch amounted to a lot of barrage when it was all directed at the same piece of sky, a barrier of explosive no pilot in his senses would choose to fly through if he had any option. The noise of gunfire combined with the ship’s erratic motion made for an impression of confusion, bedlam: if you came through this you’d work out afterwards what had happened, how you’d performed, but while it lasted it was a matter of second-by-second action and reaction and a fast-moving picture buried in noise—as if vision were indistinct and understanding fogged as well as hearing deadened. Bomb splashes lifted between Calliope and Northern Glow: they hadn’t come from the 88s that were attacking from the quarter, but from others overhead at higher level, releasing bombs through cloud-gaps and out of sight in cloud again immediately. Another splash, on the Berkeley’s quarter: he looked astern, at those four coming in steeply, ranged back at intervals but aiming themselves directly at this ship, shellbursts opening under them and in front and all around them, close-range weapons in it too—and one of them hit, pulling upwards after the explosion, smoke like black blood streaming: then it was spinning, falling, but bombs slanting from the front-runner now …

  The killed one had raised a tower of blackish sea. Second bombstick releasing and the first well on its way. He shouted at Harvey-Smith, “Hard-a-starboard!”

  The first lot had begun slanting away to port before he’d lost sight of them, hadn’t looked like hitting or even like falling close, but the second batch had appeared to be dead right for line. He wouldn’t have taken this avoiding action if it hadn’t seemed essential since it would take an age, in Calliope’s wounded state, to get her back in station: the convoy needed the protection of these guns and Calliope needed to be close to the collectively defensive barrage as opposed to being stuck out on her own. But he’d had to do it. She was turning fast: a starboard turn was easy, with the port screws to drive her round. Two bombs thumped in just off the bow: he shouted, “Midships, and meet her!” His own voice was barely audible to him: he’d never been able to wear ear-plugs in action, and consequently was quite used to ending up five-sixths deaf. In old age he’d regret it, but this wasn’t old age yet. Another thought there, but there wasn’t time for thought. Harvey-Smith had heard the order, anyway. Two splashes astern of the Berkeley—and others in a line right up the centre of the alley between columns one and two. There’d have been a lot one hadn’t seen, of course: those two that had gone in close to her bow would have been hits if he hadn’t pu
t the wheel over, there wasn’t any doubt of it. The swing had been checked now: he ordered, “Port thirty.”

  The third and fourth members of that Junkers group had refused to be put off when Calliope had turned, they’d held on as they’d been going, only saving their bombs for the Sovyetskaya Slava. She was answering the full port helm, but slowly, and she’d lost several hundred yards of distance on the convoy. The gap was still opening as she dragged herself around: it would have been quicker, he realised now—too late, of course—to have let her complete the circle to starboard the way she’d been fairly whizzing round. There were Ju 88s in all directions and at all levels now, like a swirl of mammoth crows. Two more coming at Calliope at this moment, and bombs in the air over the middle of the convoy—then a near-miss on the Ewart S. Dukes, rear ship in column three. This was a painfully slow turn— the ship’s wounds handicapping her, wind and sea not helping either. He saw an 88 belly-flop into the sea over beyond the Rochdale, skidding in a sheet of spray for a hundred yards or so before it turned up on its nose and sank. Northern Glow was off Calliope’s bow to port, her close-range spouting tracer at the pair attacking now, Calliope blazing at them too: every time her steel shuddered to the crashes of her guns the damage-control men down below would be expecting seams to open, bulkheads to collapse. By dropping back they’d lost the protection of the AA ship: the Berkeley was busy enough half a mile away, barraging over the Soviet oiler.

  Treseder shouted, something like “Take cover”—pointing, a stab of one of his short arms towards a Ju 88 approaching at what looked like masthead height—probably twice that height—but pulling out of its shallow dive now, and bombs leaving it, black eggs turning in the air: he didn’t see how they could miss. But the pilot now paid the price of having pressed in so close: his port engine exploded, the wing flew apart, bombs smacking into the sea close to Calliope’s port side—one abreast her second funnel, the other close to her foc’sl—the twin explosions as close and jolting as if she’d been hit by some giant sledgehammer. It was probably the swing still on her that had spared her from direct hits. Nick shouted to Harvey-Smith to steady her on 170: acknowledgement was a mouth that opened and shut but emitted no sound. Nothing audible, over the total enclosure in noise. Two more splashes went up ahead. Another attack coming from the quarter—this one also low—Swanwick getting the pompoms and Oerlikons on to it, a cone of multi-coloured fire with its apex on the German’s snout, Calliope back on course, aiming up the convoy’s wakes. Close-range guns racketing in that attacker’s face while the three for’ard turrets added their quota to the barrage above the convoy’s rear. And that 88 was suddenly one of the good ones—meaning harmless, dead, a carcass in a mass of smoke and upside-down, on its back as it hit the sea.