Sherbrooke saluted. Us? Who did he mean?
Stagg would never request him as his flag captain again. He walked away from the hangar, and glanced up at the masthead. Stagg’s flag had vanished.
Neither would anybody else, after this.
With a crash, the catapult hurled the Walrus outboard and into the air, where it flew in a wide arc before turning into the first true sunlight.
It seemed to take an age before the flying boat was out of sight. Without it, the sea seemed totally empty. Hostile.
Hot coffee and toast had arrived on the bridge, and he saw two of Yorke’s young signalmen tucking in without hesitation. Admirals could come and go, but food camé first.
Even from the upper bridge, he could hear the din from the tiller flat. He sipped the coffee and thought about Stagg. He had got what he wanted, or soon would. After that, the plum job in Washington, or a vice-admiral’s flag in the Pacific.
He saw Lieutenant-Commander (E) Roger Sinclair enter the bridge and peer round like an intruder. He had been on watch when the steering had jammed, and had been working down aft ever since.
‘Sorry, sir. I was looking for the Chief.’
Frazier said, ‘Don’t look so glum. You weren’t to blame.’
The man grinned at him. ‘You don’t look too chirpy yourself!’
Eventually Sherbrooke left them and went to his small sea cabin, where he found his shaving gear and a fresh drill uniform waiting for him. Long was trying to care for him in the only way he knew.
When he had changed, he took out the photograph again and held it to the light.
On the reverse she had written, For my Captain, with so much love.
‘Could you come, sir?’
Sherbrooke replaced the photograph and strode out to the bridge. The watch had changed. Different faces, different voices. Everything else was the same, or was it?
He saw the Chief sitting on a locker, his big hands on his knees, staring with a wildness Sherbrooke had never seen.
‘What is it, Chief?’
Rhodes had returned to the bridge, too. ‘Tell the Captain, Chief! How it was!’ Even he sounded excited.
Onslow said, ‘I was in the wheelhouse. Checking right through the telemotor lines, the telegraphs, every bloody thing all over again.’ He shook his head. ‘Just for the hell of it, I turned the wheel to port. The others down there were all looking at me as if I’d gone round the bend!’ He wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Maybe I had. I’m not sure of anything after today!’
Sherbrooke felt something like a chill on his spine. ‘Warn the engine room and wheelhouse. Pilot, course to steer?’
‘Wheelhouse, sir. Cox’n on the wheel!’
Onslow had managed to reach the red handset. ‘This is the Chief. Stand by.’ He looked at the deck as if he could see right down to his world of machinery and power. ‘Clear the tiller flat. Now.’ He nodded, sharing the other engineer’s incredulity. ‘I know, I know.’ He replaced the handset and sat down again.
Sherbrooke walked to the voicepipes. ‘Slow ahead both engines.’
He felt the sudden shiver through his shoes, the companionable rattle of signals gear and loose fittings. She was moving again. Moving.
‘Slow ahead, sir. Seven-oh revolutions.’
Rhodes said hoarsely, ‘Course to steer zero-eight-zero,’ and then, as though to himself, ‘Jesus, I don’t believe this.’
Sherbrooke looked at the compass. ‘Starboard fifteen.’ He watched the empty jackstaff in the bows of the ship; it too was moving, edging across the hardening horizon like a conductor’s baton.
He said, ‘Ease to five. Midships. Steady.’
‘Steady, sir! Course zero-eight-zero!’
Pat Drury exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll go to the top of our stairs! She’s answering again!’
Sherbrooke looked over at Onslow. ‘You knew, didn’t you, Chief?’
Onslow licked his lips. ‘I’d stake my purple stripes on it, sir. There was not a bloody thing wrong with the steering gear!’
Rhodes said, ‘We’ll not make the rendezvous, sir, not even at full speed.’ Then he grinned. ‘But at least we’re moving again!’
He turned, angry at the interruption as a messenger said, ‘W/T office, sir.’
Drury yawned. ‘Rear-Admiral Stagg won’t be too happy about this, Captain.’ He smiled. ‘Too bad, eh?’
It was a wildness, infectious, running through the ship like a shouted message. Somebody gave a cheer; even some of the older hands were peering down at the creaming bow wave as if they had never seen it in their lives.
Rhodes said, ‘Captain, sir. Important signal, restricted.’
‘Tell him to bring it up.’
Nothing could halt the proposed landings now, unless the troops were unable to pinpoint their beaches. Even then . . .
He turned as Elphick, the chief telegraphist, hurried on to the bridge. He was wearing his gold badges, as if to suit the importance of his signal.
Sherbrooke read it quickly in silence. Testing it, word by word, and then himself.
He said, ‘From the Admiralty. It is reported that the Italian battleship Tiberio is known to have left Naples yesterday in company with one, perhaps two, Oriani Class destroyers.’ He looked at each of them. ‘They were heading south-west.’
Frost asked, ‘Tiberio?’
Frazier took the recognition manual from Yorke’s shelf.
He said quietly, ‘Littorio Class, nine fifteen-inch guns, speed thirty knots.’ He closed the book with a snap. ‘Big.’
Sherbrooke walked to the chart room. ‘Show me, Pilot.’
Tiberio was not merely big, she was a battleship, built just before the war for Mussolini’s expanding navy.
Rhodes said, ‘She was last reported as being in Taranto. The R.A.F. and the U.S. Air Force were supposed to have her bottled up.’
Sherbrooke watched the strong hands adjusting his rulers and dividers, his pencil moving like Reliant’s jackstaff when she had come back to life.
‘There, sir. I’d say she was out to intercept our group’s landing ships. She could do it, too. It would be murder.’ He raised his eyes from the chart. ‘There’s nothing that can stop that brute!’
Sherbrooke said, ‘There’s us, Pilot.’ Then, ‘Lay a course to intercept.’ He glanced at his watch, but he had left it in the sea cabin, and he saw the pale Atlantic skin where the strap had been. ‘I’ll speak to the ship’s company before we exercise action stations.’
Rhodes felt dulled by the speed and the change of events.
‘Tell them what they’re up against, sir?’
The blue eyes settled on his. ‘Fight they must, Pilot, but they should be told why.’
Rhodes looked away. It was hopeless, of course, and the Captain of all people would know it. His gaze fell on the remains of a cigar stubbed out by Rear-Admiral Stagg, perhaps as a parting gesture of contempt.
Well, damn him to hell!
And suddenly, like the correspondent, Pat Drury, and the young Canadian flier, he was glad he was here.
18
‘The Violence of the Enemy’
The Walrus’s solitary ‘pusher’ engine had settled into its usual throaty drone. At a mere two thousand feet, they could even see the reflection in the sea below whenever they crossed a smooth stretch of water, but, for the most part, since leaving Reliant, the sea had been choppy, with endless ranks of short, serried waves.
The pilot, Lieutenant Leslie Niven, checked his instruments and tried to ignore Rear-Admiral Stagg, who was sitting in the observer’s seat, studying a folder of typed information. Either Stagg knew it all by heart or he had no wish to converse with a subordinate, it was hard to tell. Niven smiled. But the admiral’s eyes hardly moved.
Niven could feel the others shifting about behind and below him, but he did not really concern himself with them. He had hardly got to know his crew before being sent to Reliant, and that suited him well enough. The battlecruiser had been a dead-end for him,
and this unexpected mission flying Stagg to rejoin the group and the landing ships would change everything, if he was careful and kept his wits about him. For one thing, it was unlikely there would be any time and even less inclination to delay the ships while he manoeuvred the Walrus alongside to be hoisted inboard, even if there was room. And he would not be expected to fly back to Reliant, even if he could find her, drifting out of command as she was. And there was the problem of fuel. It would be cutting it too fine.
They would find something for him to do. He might even get an appointment in Seeker, but only as a steppingstone; he would not get forced into a corner again.
He thought of his fellow pilot, Rayner. He was happy where he was. He had his medal, and would end his war flying a Shagbat, if it didn’t fall to pieces under him.
Stagg said sharply, ‘Much longer?’
Niven peered at the pad strapped to his knee. ‘According to the calculations, sir, another hour. Touch down in good light. Then tomorrow, sir, the big attack!’ He bit his lip. Stagg was back with his folder again.
He beckoned to his observer and said loudly, ‘Don’t forget the lamp, Mike! The recognition signal is vital with those trigger-happy bastards!’ He nodded toward the engrossed admiral. ‘We wouldn’t want any mishaps, would we?’
He moved the controls slightly, his eyes on the compass. The old girl was heavy today. Hardly surprising with the extra passengers, the suitcases, not forgetting the bloody depth charges!
Niven switched on his intercom. ‘I’m going up to five thousand. Might be a bit steadier, and we’ll get a better chance to see the ships!’
He switched off. The others were probably fed up with having Stagg aboard, and with the unexpected mission, leaving all their kit and friends behind them.
Niven sighed. But not me. They all spoke about ‘sea time’ as if it was God’s greatest gift. They could have it. After this, a nice air station in England perhaps, or on one of those flash advanced courses in the U.S.A. Either would suit him very well. Sea time . . .
Rear-Admiral Vincent Stagg stared unseeingly at his papers. He knew the lieutenant wanted to talk, perhaps to ask him for a favour. They usually did. But there was no point: after this, it was unlikely that they would ever meet again. He thought of Pat Drury’s hostility, his comment about hell. Well, they could all go there. After Husky, there would be a whole new venture. He could do it, just as their lordships knew he could.
He shifted his thoughts to the letter he had received from his lawyer in London. Olive was going to sue for divorce. He grinned. She could bloody well whistle for it. When she saw how his career was expanding, and all that went with it, she would soon climb down, as she had done before. And there was Jane. No wonder poor Cavendish hadn’t been able to cope. She was too intelligent, too beautiful for him to understand.
He licked his lips, recalling the hours in bed with her at the flat in Mayfair. Tender one minute, demanding the next. He must not lose contact with her completely.
The other officer, the observer, was hanging over the pilot’s shoulder again, gesturing, grinning hugely and showing him his watch.
Necessary, Stagg thought. But only good for wartime.
Niven switched on again. ‘There are your ships, sir. Red four-five!’ He smiled as his observer wriggled forward with his signal lamp.
Stagg grunted. ‘Must be the second group, Vice-Admiral Lacey’s command.’
They had been at Dartmouth together, although in different terms.
He said, ‘Disregard! Remain on course.’ He added patiently, ‘But make your signal, if it seems safer!’
Niven consulted the compass and altimeter. Ahead of time. Full marks for Leslie!
The observer was scrambling back again, his mouth like a black hole as he tried to yell above the engine’s roar.
He reached Niven and banged on his shoulder.
Niven could just make out the words, Enemy! and Eye-Ties! when suddenly his small world blew apart.
Stagg reeled about in his seat; he was unused to wearing a harness. His mind seemed frozen, unable to deal with the next thought or instinct.
He stared around, beyond belief as they flew through small clouds of smoke. Flak, his mind recorded, but nothing else. He felt the explosions, the sharp thumps against the side and bottom of the aircraft. He tore off the flying helmet, and even above the din and sudden vibration he heard someone screaming, so shrill and agonized that it could have been a woman.
He reached out and seized the pilot’s arm. Niven lolled over in his harness and looked at him. But there was blood on his mouth, and only a blank stare.
Another vivid flash and more swirling smoke, but this time it was inside the aircraft, filling it, choking it and throttling the terrible screams.
Stagg could not understand. First there was the sea and then the sky, and there was blood everywhere, on the perspex and across the scattered papers, and when he stared down he saw it pouring over his seat.
He tried to call out, but his mouth was blocked, scalding, final. Then the Walrus hit the water and exploded like a bomb.
With the north-westerly wind still blowing, there was not even smoke to mark the grave.
Rhodes reported, ‘Steady on new course, sir. Zero-two-zero.’ He saw the captain scanning the sea with his binoculars. How many times did they do it in every watch, he wondered. ‘We could try another sweep, sir. Maybe the Tiberio’s captain changed his mind, or the intelligence reports were misleading.’
‘I don’t think so, Pilot.’ Sherbrooke lowered his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Rhodes was only voicing what the rest of the ship’s company must think, or hope. That the enemy battleship had returned to harbour, if it had ever been at sea.
The light was angry, like copper again, the short wave crests almost gold in the sun. Plenty of daylight left, but when darkness fell it would be sudden and complete, and their chance of encountering the enemy almost nonexistent.
He walked to the front of the bridge and looked at the forecastle, bare and empty, with the ship at full action stations. The jackstaff and guardrails were laid flat on the deck, and although they were out of his vision he knew the leaky hoses would be playing across Reliant’s beautifully laid decks to help withstand the shock of heavy gunfire.
Apart from that, the ship seemed deserted, all those thousands of officers and ratings, marines and boy seamen, sealed up until they were told otherwise.
It had been different when he had spoken to them over the tannoy system earlier. He had seen faces upturned from the guns, men pausing in their tasks to listen, men around him on the bridge, all watching for a sign, a hint of what they might expect.
Now that they had had plenty of time to think about it, how might they feel? He had told them bluntly that Reliant was the only ship of any size that could challenge the Italian battleship. Once amongst the landing ships, the enemy could destroy every one of them, even if, in the end, Tiberio was caught and overwhelmed before she could reach a safe harbour. The invasion forces would be in enough difficulty with the prevailing weather conditions. To have one complete group wiped out might throw the entire operation into chaos.
The Canadian, Rayner, had pleaded with Frazier to be allowed to fly off and add to their span of search. Sherbrooke thought perhaps he was fretting simply because the other pilot had taken Stagg to the group, and he had been left to kick his heels.
He had said, ‘Tell him, John. It’s not on. If Tiberio really is coming this way, it’s worth remembering that she carries four aircraft of her own, any one of which could put his Walrus in the drink.’
He recalled what he had said to Frazier. If Tiberio really is coming . . . Did that mean that he was doubtful himself?
How would Stagg respond to it, if he were still aboard? Make light of it, no doubt. Put it down to too much caution. But Stagg would not be sparing a thought for any of them now: he would have hoisted his flag over Assurance, sharing the joke with his old chum, ‘Punch’ Pirie.
Suppose we f
ight? Every captain must have asked that question of himself at moments like these. Reliant would give of her best, as she and her consorts had done at Jutland, and as Hood and Repulse had tried to do in this war. And for what? Ask that, and there was no hope. For him, or for the men who had no choice but to obey.
Pat Drury was in the chart room; he had seen his shadow on the steel plating, crouched and brooding, probably cursing his decision to remain in Reliant.
In his mind, he could see his men throughout the ship, at shell hoists and sitting at their gunsights and rangefinders. The damage control parties, the ‘odds and sods’. Surplus stokers, supply assistants, and stewards, cooks and anyone who was not required to serve the guns. The transmitting station, the T/S, deep down and behind armour plate, would dictate the workings of damage control, just as it would take over the radar and the plotting if the bridge was wiped out.
And Emma . . . Where would she be? In her Chelsea flat near the bombed off-licence, or in her office, helping Thorne? It was strange to realize that she would be one of the first to know, when the news reached the Admiralty.
High above the bridge in his armoured director control tower, the gunnery officer, Lieutenant-Commander Christopher Evershed, was plagued with no such doubts or misgivings.
It was a crowded place, but the metal seats were fitted with great care so that nobody was overlooked or restricted. The phone man, a seaman gunner, the spotting officer, the rate officer and the director layer as well as the trainer and his minion, and above all of them, with his own powerful sights, was Evershed. The touch of a button could swing the three big turrets on to the required bearing in seconds; the director layer could raise or lower all six guns to the exact elevation required.
Evershed knew all about the Italian battleship, Tiberio, and her sister ships, although he had never laid eyes on any of them. Heavily protected, like most battleships, Tiberio was faster than most. She had nine fifteen-inch guns compared with Reliant’s six, but they shared the same restriction. Each ship had three turrets, so that, although stronger gun for gun, Tiberio was confined to the same arcs of fire as Reliant. That was the way Evershed’s mind worked, in a series of equations. Like the bearing, range and deflection which could drop shells onto an enemy after only one straddle.
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