‘Course two-nine-zero, sir. Engines half speed ahead.’
Sherbrooke joined the navigating officer by the gyro compass repeater.
Rhodes said, ‘Visibility’s falling again, sir.’
Sherbrooke wanted to return to his chair, but every muscle was telling him how much he needed to rest. It would be fatal.
‘I’ll see what Rayner has to say, then I’ll speak with the admiral.’
There had been another signal from the Admiralty, brief and unhelpful. There are three U-Boats in your vicinity. That could mean anything. When Stagg had been informed he had snapped, ‘Probably heading up to Iceland. I’m not breaking radio silence to ask!’
A door slid back and Lieutenant Rayner walked into the bridge.
Sherbrooke said, ‘You did well. Tell me about it.’
‘An Arado float plane, sir. I couldn’t just leave it. If it had climbed after us, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
For one so young, who had already proved his skill as a pilot, he looked drained, and unusually downcast.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Go on.’ He saw Rhodes step back, as if to offer some privacy in this crowded bridge.
‘They were looking at a dinghy, sir. There was a dead airman in it. They were doing what we would have done.’
Sherbrooke watched him gravely. What you would have done, he thought. So that was it. Like shooting someone under a flag of truce. But it was not like that.
He said, ‘They would have done for you, given the same opportunity. You must know that. Accept it.’
Rayner forced a smile. It made him look young and vulnerable.
‘I guess so, sir.’
Sherbrooke heard the sounds resuming around him, felt the bridge returning to normal. He said, ‘One enemy aircraft destroyed. I shall see that it goes on your report. Well done.’
Another door crashed open and Stagg strode into the bridge. Was it simply that he found his own small, private bridge too restricting, or did he hate to feel like a mere bystander?
He stared keenly at Rayner, still in his flying jacket, and said, ‘So you destroyed a German aircraft, eh? It’s not a lot for me to act on, is it?’
Sherbrooke prepared to interrupt, but there was no need. Rayner answered, very calmly, ‘It was an Arado 196, sir. It could only have come from a sizeable German warship. It’s too far to be from anywhere else.’
Stagg regarded him coldly. ‘You think?’
Rayner said, ‘I know, sir.’
Stagg bent his head, apparently frowning. When he looked up, his teeth were set in a grin. ‘Good lad! I like your style!’ He turned to Sherbrooke. ‘But it’s not enough, is it?’
Sherbrooke said, ‘I have a feeling about this one, sir.’
Stagg shrugged. ‘That’s not enough either, Guy. There’s too much at stake. Now, if we had that ruddy carrier . . .’ He thrust his hands into his reefer pockets, his thumbs jutting over the front like horns. ‘It’s no go. Not this time. Come to the chart room. We’ll be ordered to Scapa – I can almost see the bloody signal!’
He glared at the mist beyond the damp glass. ‘And this damned stuff isn’t helping!’
They both stared at a bridge speaker as Evershed’s voice intoned, ‘Director Control to Bridge. Radar transmissions are returning. Some repeaters still out of use.’
Sherbrooke looked questioningly across at the repeater whose failure had so unbalanced Evershed. It was still dead.
Stagg rasped, ‘Wait till I get my hands on those mental cripples!’
‘T/S – Forebridge.’ There was no mistaking Frazier’s calm, unruffled voice. ‘Repeaters are now in use.’
Sherbrooke took a handset and said, ‘This is the Captain. What are the prospects, John?’ He could feel Stagg’s impatience and frustration. If they were not recalled by the Admiralty, he would make the decision himself. Sherbrooke could almost pity him. Almost.
Frazier replied, ‘Got every mechanic on to it, sir. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.’ That was as far as he would commit himself.
Sherbrooke replaced the handset, feeling Stagg’s eyes upon him. Eventually Stagg said, ‘I shall break radio silence. It will be up to the Admiralty and the C-in-C Home Fleet to decide what to do next.’
It was the first time Sherbrooke had ever seen him look so deflated. He had not even attempted to bluff his way out of it with the usual style.
The speaker again, a different voice, sharper, and intense.
‘Contact, sir! Ship bearing three-two-zero, range two-two-oh!’
It was as if an electric shock had ripped through the bridge, momentarily rendering every man incapable of movement.
Then the voicepipes began to chatter, and even the radar repeater showed a faint sign of life.
‘Start plotting!’
Sherbrooke returned to his chair and gripped it, his mind reaching out as if it were unrolling an immense chart. A ship. Somewhere out there, eleven miles away.
‘Target is moving left. Range steady at two-two-oh. Rate two hundred – closing!’
He could picture Evershed, all his doubts forgotten for the moment, while his brain, eye and mind reacted to each range and bearing. Eleven miles, and closing at the rate of two hundred yards a minute. Fast, then. Committed.
The enemy had altered course, probably heading due west on a slightly converging track. Reliant must bring all three turrets to bear, and at once.
Stagg was suddenly beside him, his face very grim. ‘I’m going to my perch, Guy.’ He looked at him with fierce intensity. ‘Fight the ship, Guy! Destroy that bastard!’ Then he was gone.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Alter course, Pilot. Steer three-zero-zero.’ He reached for the red handset and imagined the Chief snatching up his own telephone, his boiler suit spotlessly white as usual.
‘Captain. We are going for the enemy. Starboard bow. Full revs when I call for them.’ He did not wait for a reply. Nobody knew his job like Onslow.
‘Make a signal to Leader. Enemy in sight. Prepare to engage with torpedoes.’ He saw the yeoman in his wet oilskin coat watching him from the bridge wing: the one he had called Donovan.
‘Bright enough, Yeo?’ He saw the sudden understanding, and a faint hint of something like sadness. ‘Hoist Battle Ensigns!’
He took the tannoy handset from a midshipman, and felt the youth’s hand accidentally brush against his. It was ice-cold, trembling. But when he looked at him and asked quietly, ‘Ready, Mr Crawford?’ he saw the quick determination, the dissipation of fear.
The midshipman murmured, ‘I’m all right, sir. My first time.’
Sherbrooke pressed the button. The captain had to be above all traps like sentiment and sympathy. There was no room for it: war did not permit such luxuries. He saw that Rayner was still beside him, strangely out of place in his leather jacket, his goggles hanging around his neck. He had killed some of the enemy. But in his heart, he had seen them only as airmen, like himself.
He said gently, ‘Stay, if you like.’
Their eyes met in a peculiar sympathy, as they had that day aboard Stagg’s launch.
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘This is the Captain speaking. We are about to engage the enemy.’
Rhodes unclipped a small vent in the screen and looked over at him. Even above the roar of fans and the surge of water along the hull, Sherbrooke heard it. They were cheering: men leaning out of their gun positions, rigged in anti-flash gear and unfamiliar steel helmets, cheering as they had at Jutland, when Reliant had swung defiantly away from the savage bombardment. Men he barely knew, some he had never seen. And they could cheer. It was like a madness, or some wild drug, where everything was larger than life and somehow unreal, even the huge White Ensigns streaming from each mast to match Stagg’s flag, bright red and white against the dull mist and cloud.
‘Target bearing two-seven-zero, range two-one-five, rate two hundred, closing.’
Sherbrooke gripped the rail below the screen and watched as the two forward turrets sw
ivelled slowly to starboard, each pair of guns lifting, as if to sniff out the target. Down aft, the third turret, manned entirely by Royal Marines, was already training hard round onto the same bearing, the long barrels angled differently for the first testing shots. Each great turret weighed hundreds of tons, and yet they moved soundlessly, without effort.
From turret to magazine, quarters officers, gunlayers and trainers, Evershed’s hard-drilled crews moved in time with the machinery which, from the moment the first order to Load – Load – Load had been yelled, had taken over their lives. The six guns were each loaded with a fifteen-inch shell, massive semi-armour-piercing projectiles which were timed to explode even as they tore into the enemy’s armour.
Sherbrooke saw one seaman duck and shield his face as a great gusher of grey water exploded high over the port bow, the sea fired with a brief orange glow like some volcanic eruption on the seabed. Sherbrooke glanced at the clock. The Minden had opened fire. In firepower, the German cruiser was no match for Reliant, but it took more than a broadside to win a battle.
Now. Like another voice, or was it some memory? He called, ‘Open fire!’
The bridge seemed to reel as if struck by gunfire. All three turrets had fired together, and even now, as the shells ripped toward the clouds before the final descent, the smoking breeches would be open like hungry jaws, while the next shells, the next long charges, were thrust into position.
Lights would be flashing; more ranges and deflections would be pouring in from the Director Control, the gun crews sweating despite the bitter, clammy air.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Full revolutions, Pilot. Signal the escort . . .’
He felt the immediate response, the raked stem smashing through the water as the Chief opened his throttles, until the destroyers would barely be able to keep station on the flagship.
‘Layer on! Trainer on!’ The merest pause. ‘Shoot!’
Again and again, with another fall of shot from the invisible Minden, exploding perhaps where Reliant might have been, but for her impressive increase of speed.
‘Up two hundred! Ready! Shoot!’
Somebody cried out as metal cracked across the bridge shutters, and something broke through part of the screen.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Report damage!’ He saw the midshipman staring at him, his eyes wild, terrified. Reliant had been hit. But the guns were still training round, the stained barrels like long grey fingers opening to seize their target.
‘Shoot!’
‘Damage Control reports one hit in the forrard mess-deck, sir.’ It was Lieutenant Frost, Rhodes’s assistant. He sounded calm, detached even, as he added, ‘Three casualties, sir.’
Evershed again, his self-control momentarily gone. ‘Captain, sir! A straddle! Target is slowing down!’ A gong rang tinnily in the background as the six guns thundered out again. They had the target in a straddle. Her fate was already decided.
‘Shoot!’
‘Target is stopped, sir!’
Sherbrooke raised his glasses and stared at the nearest destroyer. She was clearer now, and her flags looked very bright against the dull water. The mist was lifting. Even as he watched, he saw the white-painted anchor cables on the forecastle deck, some huddled seamen in helmets dragging a hose around the port side, the damage control team going to support their companions where the shell had exploded, perhaps prematurely, before it could penetrate more deeply into the hull, to fuel bunker or magazine.
Shells ripped overhead, and exploded harmlessly far beyond the destroyer screen.
A signalman was holding out a telephone. ‘The admiral, sir.’
Sherbrooke lowered his glasses. He had not even heard Stagg’s call. He had just seen the enemy for the first time since that terrible day. He knew it was Minden, even though Reliant’s gunnery had transformed her into a smoking wreck. Guns pointed impotently to the sky or towards the open sea, several fires blazed unchecked, and were visible through great gashes in the lower hull. But one gun was still firing, although the shots were few and far between.
Stagg said, ‘Finish it. Signal Mulgrave. Attack with torpedoes.’ He could not hide his excitement, his pleasure. ‘I shall make a signal to Admiralty.’
Sherbrooke raised his glasses with one hand; they felt as heavy as lead. He heard the clatter of the signal lamp, and saw the destroyer’s diamond-bright acknowledgment.
The big M-class destroyer was already breaking away, torpedo tubes swinging across her streaming deck, her captain, who had been tipped for flag rank, going in for the kill.
‘The enemy has ceased firing, sir.’
Sherbrooke saw smoke pouring from the nearest muzzles. Evershed would fire no more, unless so ordered.
Rhodes asked, ‘Will we recall Mulgrave, sir?’
Sherbrooke shook his head.
‘When it’s over, Pilot.’
He saw Rayner watching him, feeling it, perhaps sharing it.
Sherbrooke walked to the bridge wing and out into the bitter air.
A seaman gunner, strapped into one of the bridge Oerlikons, swung round in his harness and called, ‘We done it, sir! We done it!’
They were staring at the enemy, hugging one another; they had made a small part of this war’s bloody history.
And the convoy was unharmed, those thousands of soldiers saved, for some more impressive fate.
But all Sherbrooke saw was a ship dying. Like watching himself, watching Pyrrhus. There was a muffled explosion, and then another. Two torpedoes would be enough: Minden was starting to go fast, the smoke changing into steam as the sea burst into her engine and boiler rooms. The destroyer was thrashing away from the sinking cruiser, and seconds later the dullness was torn apart by a great flash, so vivid that even the sea regained its colour.
Sherbrooke watched the stern section of the cruiser rising very slowly, some tiny figures, like ants even through his powerful binoculars, as they tried to clamber higher and higher, some madness making them believe there was still safety for them if they remained with their ship. Perhaps sailors never changed . . . He felt Reliant give a long shudder. As if she knew: as if she had always known.
He said, ‘Signal Mulgrave to pick up survivors.’
There was another massive explosion. When he looked again, the destroyer had the sea to herself.
He remembered the words he had used to Rayner on the subject of Minden’s seaplane. They would have done it to you, given the same opportunity. Or the moment when he had given the order to open fire, as if the words had been spoken for him.
A victory, then? Minden was no more, and some of her people, who were out there gasping and crying now for aid, might know what his own men had suffered when their ship had been blasted from under them.
There was so much to do, signals to be prepared, damage to be assessed, casualties to be comforted.
He touched the dripping steel as he turned away from the sea. It was a moment he could share with no one, except with that other captain.
But victory? Not yet.
6
Spreading the Word
Captain Guy Sherbrooke blotted the letter carefully and placed it in the tray on his desk with all the others. This one was so different from the rest, official letters which required his signature, forms about stores, and a pad of signals for operational approval.
But the letter in his own handwriting, with an Edinburgh address, was personal. Part of the ship, therefore a part of him too. Of Reliant’s three casualties, one had been killed outright by blast as the shell had exploded prior to penetrating the empty messdeck. All three men had been stokers, members of the damage control section. It had been bad luck, when the enemy cruiser had already been too badly mauled to survive much longer. Of the other two, one had lost an arm; the other had sustained only a cut above the eye.
He stood up restlessly and walked to the nearest scuttle. It was strange to feel the ship so still, trapped in this great spread of noise, rust and vivid welding torches. Like any other busy naval dockyard, Ros
yth was filled with ships being repaired, rebuilt, or patched up in some cases, when they had already been worked to death. Rosyth Dockyard was also headquarters of the vice-admiral commanding the coast of Scotland.
Hard to believe he was seeing the same old Forth Bridge again, last viewed from Stagg’s launch when he had taken command of Reliant. Leith lay on the other side of the Firth of Forth, lost in mist and the steady drizzle which had accompanied their noisy return, sirens and whistles, and welcoming cheers from ships’ companies and dockyard maties alike. Reliant must have made a proud sight, her hands smartly fallen in forward and aft, her flared bows peppered with splinters, and the jagged shell-hole in her side, which Stagg had insisted, with his characteristic flair for the dramatic, should be uncovered for the occasion.
He glanced at the letter again. Should he tear it up? Leave it to officialdom and the welfare people, who were far more used to such delicate matters? Edinburgh. The dead man’s wife might even have seen Reliant coming in, have known it was her man’s ship, and believed that all was well. He could not recall the man in question, but he had heard the Chief and Commander Frazier discussing the possibility of his first child being baptized in the ship’s bell. No, the letter would not help. But later on, perhaps . . . A sound from the door interrupted his troubled thoughts.
‘Come in!’
It was Frazier, cap beneath his arm, eyes moving quickly around the cabin as if he expected to find some personal revelation in it, some clue to distinguish this captain from Cavendish.
‘Libertymen are all ashore, sir. I’ve granted local leave for the others.’
Reliant was to remain at Rosyth until the repairs were completed. Ten days, they said. He listened to the ceaseless rattle of rivet guns, like metallic woodpeckers, and the occasional crash as something heavy was dropped onto a jetty or dockside.
‘You’re off then, John.’
Frazier watched him uncertainly. ‘Unless you need me, sir?’
Sherbrooke shook his head. ‘No, make the most of it. You’ve earned it.’
Frazier did not seem to hear. ‘I wish you could meet my wife, sir. She’s staying in Edinburgh – until things get more settled. But I expect there’ll be a lot to catch up on. You know how it is.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘You’re not married, are you, sir?’
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