Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Commander Frazier was ready to meet them.

  Stagg said, ‘I’ll let you tell him the great news, Guy. I’m going aft.’ His glance shifted to a small group of seamen who were attempting to splice some eyes in a tangle of wire from the boatswain’s store. They were all very young ordinary seamen, some of the most recent replacements, and still completely lost in the new surroundings of this, their first ship.

  Stagg strode over to them and nodded abruptly to a leading hand who was in charge.

  To one of the new recruits he said curtly, ‘Name, boy?’

  The youth stared at the broad lower stripe on Stagg’s sleeve, and seemed almost tongue-tied. ‘Baker, s-sir!’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Leeds, sir.’

  Stagg smiled. ‘Ah, well.’ Then he took the wire from the young seaman’s nerveless hand and a marlin spike from another. ‘Like this, see? Take charge of it! Show who’s boss, right?’

  It was a perfect piece of wire splicing. He thrust his hand into his pocket.

  ‘Like riding a bicycle, boy – you never forget!’

  Sherbrooke had seen the blood on his fingers, and wondered why he had bothered. He was respected, admired, even feared; he did not have to impress, or prove anything to any man.

  Stagg strode aft, his cap at a jaunty angle.

  Like Beatty, he thought. Perhaps that was it.

  Frazier followed him into his cabin, where Petty Officer Long was already waiting expectantly.

  ‘Drink, John?’ His eyes fell on the file Frazier was carrying under his arm. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Operational reports. They came out from A.C.H.Q. while you were in Seeker.’ He paused. ‘Pity about her spot of bother, sir.’

  Sherbrooke, looking through the file, did not answer. Then he said, ‘The admiral will want to see this.’

  ‘I thought it could wait, sir. There’s nothing that concerns us.’ Frazier sounded defensive.

  Sherbrooke looked over at Long. ‘Later – but thanks.’ To Frazier he said, ‘I’ll take it to him.’

  He found Stagg having a drink, his feet propped on a chair.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Can’t it wait, Guy?’ He was smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

  ‘Operational folio, sir.’ He looked at him evenly. ‘And no, I don’t think it can.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Get on with it.’

  Sherbrooke turned over a page. ‘Admiralty reported that one of our submarines torpedoed a German cruiser in the Skaggerak, believed to be the Flensburg.’

  ‘Well, bully for our gallant submariners! I told you the Jerries were more than likely going to try to move ships to the Baltic. Their troops will need all the support they can get once the weather improves.’

  Sherbrooke regarded him gravely. ‘The Flensburg, if it was her, was heading west, sir.’

  ‘Let me see that.’ Stagg merely sounded annoyed that his drink had been spoiled.

  Sherbrooke watched his eyes moving quickly across the folio, then more slowly, until he could almost feel the force of Stagg’s concentration.

  ‘The same time as Minden made her move.’ He shook his head. ‘No, they’d never risk an attack on another Murmansk convoy with the ice edge so low. Later on, April maybe . . . when our ships get scattered up to Jan Mayen or Bear Island.’ The hazel eyes lifted from the papers. ‘You’ve made up your mind, I take it.’

  ‘I think the cruiser intended to join Minden, sir, maybe with others, for all we know. Air reconnaissance is never reliable at this time of year.’ He saw the lingering doubt, resentment even. ‘I think they’re coming this way, sir. After the big convoy, the one nobody talks about.’

  Stagg lurched to his feet. ‘They wouldn’t dare! With us here, and a cruiser squadron under Admiral Simms? Never.’

  Sherbrooke waited. Seeing it. Wondering why Frazier had not thought it important enough to make immediate contact.

  ‘The cruisers are probably five or six hundred miles to the northeast of here. As for us . . .’ He almost shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t have been here if Seeker had kept out of trouble.’

  Stagg nodded slowly. ‘You’re bloody right, you know. They’d not hesitate to throw a couple of cruisers to the wolves if they could get amongst that convoy.’ He stared at him, his eyes hard. ‘How many troops will it be carrying?’

  ‘An army, sir.’

  Stagg put his hand to his mouth. It was still bleeding from his display of wire-splicing.

  ‘Do you think we could do it?’

  ‘If we weigh anchor this afternoon – yes, I do. If you ask the Admiralty to send heavy units from Scapa, it could be too late.’

  Stagg said coolly, ‘You never forget your old tricks, do you?’

  Sherbrooke stared at the icy slab of land visible through the nearest scuttle. He was surprised that he sounded so calm. So confident.

  ‘Like riding a bicycle,’ he said.

  4

  Lifeline

  The middle watch, from midnight to four a.m., was hated more than any other. It began too early for watchkeepers to snatch more than an hour’s sleep before going to their stations throughout the ship, and came to an end at a time when another dawn was already on the horizon. It was a demanding four hours, when men had to concentrate even on the most routine and boring duties and remain alert, when sleep was a constant threat.

  On Reliant’s broad bridge, protected as it was from the spray and wind, the problem was the same. Lieutenant-Commander Christopher Evershed stood with arms folded in the centre position, his ears and eyes reaching out to the muffled figures around him, to the occasional sounds from voicepipe or telephone, and the blurred panorama of the sea beyond the bows. By rocking forward slightly on his toes, he could expect to see the overlapping muzzles of the twin fifteen-inch guns in A and B turrets, a sight which had once afforded him pride and satisfaction.

  Evershed was Reliant’s gunnery officer, and as such was a key member of the ship’s ‘team’, as Rear-Admiral Stagg liked to describe them. He had been in the battlecruiser almost since she had commissioned at the outbreak of war, three years, broken only when he had left her to attend advanced courses, which had eventually made him the senior gunnery officer. He thought the others in his department probably envied him, as he had once envied his superior.

  He turned his head sharply and saw a seaman in a duffle coat straightening up, away from the voicepipes, very aware of his scrutiny.

  Evershed tried to find comfort in the fact that, during those watches when he was the O.O.W., there was neither slackness nor any irresponsibility for which he might later be blamed. His guns and the training and efficiency of their crews were his reason for being, and the ship’s own strength and purpose. It was a demanding duty at any time, even in a private ship, but with a flag officer aboard, he could never afford to relax.

  He watched the clearview screens being wiped again, but not of spray or ice this time. It was fog, an element which, in those early days, would have caused something like panic as this great ship and her six invisible escorts pounded along blindly with no slackening of speed. His eyes moved to the small radar repeater on the port side of the bridge, close to the captain’s empty chair so that he could have seen it without moving.

  He could feel the huge hull lifting almost contemptuously to thrust through the fog-shrouded water, and imagined the attendant destroyers spread out on either beam, Asdic machines sweeping in slow, cautious arcs. There were no U-Boats reported in this area, but you could never be sure.

  Evershed unfolded his arms and moved them briskly in the still, damp air. He always tried to keep fit, something he considered essential for any officer who intended to set an example to others. He saw the bright blink of light from the screen and wondered if the chance would come, not one day, but soon, for a command of his own. All those destroyers were commanded by officers of his own rank, except for the leader, Mulgrave, which carried a full captain.

  He heard somebody whispering, and saw his watch-keeping a
ssistant, Lieutenant Gerald Drake, pausing to speak with one of the signalmen. Evershed contained the spark of irritation with an effort. He was tired, feeling the strain of working watch-and-watch, even though he would never admit it to anyone.

  He knew there was nothing really to dislike in Drake, or for that matter even bother to consider. Drake was an R.N.V.R. lieutenant, a temporary wartime officer, something so rare as to be almost unknown in Reliant and in other big ships at the outbreak of war. Now they were everywhere; many of them even held commands of their own, the ones that made headlines, the destroyers and battered corvettes of the Atlantic, the Glory Boys of Light Coastal Forces, M.T.B.s and motor gunboats. Even Rear-Admiral Stagg, who had at first been quick to criticize the Wavy Navy, had changed his tune.

  It was deeper than a mere dislike of amateurs. Drake was young, in his twenties, but he radiated a confidence and calm assurance totally at odds with his rank and inexperience. He was a barrister in civilian life, and there had been several judges in his family, according to Commander Frazier.

  Evershed could almost hear his own father’s voice. Privileged.

  Like that time at Scapa, where there had been a reception for the press and some war correspondents, held in Reliant’s wardroom. He had seen Drake being greeted by one of the correspondents, a man well known on newsreel and wireless alike, the pair of them behaving like old friends. They had, apparently, been at school together. And he had not been the only one: the rear-admiral had noticed it, too. Evershed strode to the chart room. It was all so bloody unfair. Privileged . . .

  He heard Drake chuckle; he would have to have a word with him about gossiping with the ratings. Perhaps he wanted to be popular. He would soon learn the truth about that. They would laugh at him behind his back.

  Evershed caught sight of his own reflection in the door of a first-aid locker: a narrow, alert face, hair cut short, brushed straight back. The gunnery officer of a famous ship; a legend, he told himself.

  He frowned and stared at the chart. Three days since they had weighed and had quit Seydisfjord. Southeast and then further south, the blustery weather making station-keeping a nightmare, even for the crack destroyers. The Admiralty would not stand for much more of it, he thought. His eyes moved to the jagged coastline of Norway, only one hundred and fifty miles to port, with the carefully defined Declared Mined Area as a warning to any captain, friend or enemy, who might lose his way. And there was Stavanger, a known German air base. Surely Stagg must be aware of the additional hazard?

  He listened to the ship around and below him, the beat of fans, the steady vibration of her engines and her four great screws, considering the new captain, Sherbrooke, and wondering what he was really like. He always seemed so calm, and yet so aware, as if he were part of the ship. What must it have been like when his ship had been blown from under him?

  It had been different with the last captain, Cavendish. Very approachable, ready to listen, and he had hinted more than once at a chance of promotion for Evershed. But even Cavendish had not truly understood that he had not wanted to end up in command of some gunnery school, or in charge of advanced instruction. Classrooms and diagrams. Not with my own ship . . .

  And Cavendish had changed, towards the end. Evershed was not an imaginative man, but he was intelligent enough to appreciate it and to know when the change had occurred. Either just before, or immediately after the German cruisers had attacked the Russian convoy, and Sherbrooke’s Pyrrhus had broken formation to engage them unaided. Reliant had had steam up and had been ready, awaiting the signal that would have told them that Scharnhorst, or even the mighty Tirpitz, imprisoned so long behind her booms and nets deep inside a Norwegian fjord, was coming out to challenge them. But Reliant had not moved. He had seen Cavendish leaving Stagg’s quarters, and the captain’s expression had held something he would never forget. Anger, astonishment; if anything, it had seemed like grief.

  He looked at the chart room clock and stifled a yawn. Three days would be long enough. Tomorrow . . . he grimaced, today, Stagg would be ordered to break off the hunt. The German cruiser was probably back in her fjord, her company peacefully asleep. Lucky devils . . .

  Another hour and a half, and the watch would change, and Rhodes would take over. Nothing ever seemed to get to Rhodes.

  He turned and snapped, ‘What is it?’

  The boatswain’s mate stared in at him, his face carefully blank.

  ‘I think Mr Drake would like to speak to you, sir.’

  Evershed glared. ‘I’m out of sight for two minutes and . . .’ He saw the sudden uncertainty. ‘What is it, man?’

  The seaman followed him across the bridge. Everything was exactly as before, except that a rating was collecting mugs for another round of tea.

  ‘Well?’

  Lieutenant Drake turned away from the radar repeater. ‘I just lost Mulgrave, sir.’ He sounded quite calm, possibly wary, like the opening words of a cross-examination of some unknown witness.

  Evershed leaned over the repeater and watched the steadily revolving beam. The escorting destroyers appeared and faded again, in perfect formation.

  He said, ‘Well, Mulgrave’s there now, right?’

  ‘I thought you should be told, sir.’

  So poised. Evershed had noticed more than once the perfect cut of Drake’s uniforms; he had a greatcoat which would have looked well on an admiral. Privileged . . .

  He said sharply, ‘You have to learn about these things.’ He did not care if the other watchkeepers were listening. Drake had to realize that he was not God’s gift to the Royal Navy, and nor would he . . .

  ‘Christ!’ A leading signalman could not contain it. ‘She’s gone again!’

  Evershed pushed him aside and stared with disbelief as the pale green images on the screen faded, and then merged like spectres in some wild dance. He said, ‘Get the senior radar mechanic up here, chop-chop!’ He was about to turn on Drake again when the radar repeater gave a quick flicker and went dead. Nothing.

  But all Evershed could see was the great battlecruiser hurtling at almost full speed into the fog. Completely blind; and at any minute the slightest alteration of course could bring her into collision with one of the escorts.

  ‘Half ahead!’ He caught Drake’s arm. ‘No, let me do it!’ He leaned over the voicepipe’s bell mouth and said, ‘Half ahead both!’

  It seemed an age before the wheelhouse acknowledged, although it was only seconds. The quartermaster, staring for so long at the gently ticking gyro repeater, his fingers moving the polished wheel without conscious thought, sounded remarkably normal.

  ‘Half ahead both, sir!’ The clatter of telegraphs echoed faintly up the tube. ‘Revolutions one-one-zero!’

  Evershed pressed his face to the sloping bridge windows. The fog was thicker, as though they were charging into a solid barrier.

  He heard himself snap, ‘Slow ahead! Reduce to seven-zero revolutions!’ He saw Drake watching him. ‘Bloody do it!’

  He steadied himself against the captain’s chair and felt the pressure against his thigh as the great ship began to lose way. The destroyers, provided they were awake and their radar was working, would see what was happening. If only . . .

  He winced as the red eye began to flicker, and the admiral’s handset gave its usual unpleasant squawk.

  He snatched it up. ‘Bridge, sir! Officer of the watch here.’ He got no further.

  Stagg sounded querulous. ‘I know who you are! Why the hell have you reduced speed?’

  Evershed tried to swallow but his mouth felt like sand.

  ‘The radar, sir.’ He looked up as a hand reached past him and took the handset. It was Sherbrooke.

  ‘All right, Guns. I’ve got the weight.’ He raised the instrument to his ear. ‘Captain, sir. Radar’s on the blink. I shall signal the escorts. I’d like to sound action stations, then clear lower deck, just in case.’

  He paused, expecting an argument or worse. He could feel the others watching him, and had sensed t
he sudden tension even as he had entered the bridge.

  Stagg muttered, ‘If you think so.’ Another hesitation. ‘Good thinking. I’ll come up.’

  Sherbrooke looked round. Rhodes, the navigating officer, was already here, perhaps summoned by the same instinct which had spoken to Sherbrooke himself in his small sea-cabin, as clearly as any human voice.

  ‘Sound off. Call up Commander Frazier and put him in the picture. Boats and rafts, just like the real thing.’

  He saw the lieutenant, Drake, watching him. ‘Nothing to do?’ Then he smiled. ‘See if you can rustle up something to drink, will you?’

  He could feel them relaxing. So easily done. Like his men on that day when so many had died. Trust.

  The bells were screaming between decks and men were stampeding to ladders and watertight doors.

  Sherbrooke glanced at the gyro repeater. ‘Steady on one-six-zero.’ Then he touched the arm of the chair. ‘Easy, girl, you’ve made your point!’

  Only Evershed heard him, but still it did not register; all he could think about was the moment when something had failed, snapped, and he had been left helpless, unable to move or think. Like somebody who had discovered a terrible affliction in himself, a weakness he had always believed could not exist.

  Figures were moving about, the newcomers hurrying to their action stations, the voicepipes and telephones stammering and buzzing like beetles in a tank.

  The navigating officer was beside him, his eyes in shadow.

  Rhodes said quietly, ‘Better get going, Guns. Your control team will be waiting for their lord and master.’

  Evershed strode past him without a word. They could have been strangers.

  Sherbrooke climbed into his chair and listened to the final reports coming in.

  ‘Ship at action stations, sir!’

  Sherbrooke had been aware of Evershed’s confusion even as he had entered the bridge: it was as if he had already sensed it, and the sensation that something in the pattern was wrong had brought him from the stuffy privacy of his sea-cabin.