With the pale light came the first bombardment, probing and slow at first, and then with the fierceness of a tornado. There were few good houses left to fall, so that the screaming high-explosives ploughed into the rubble and churned the torn remains into a living ferment.
Alongside the wreck the Saracen still lay imprisoned by
her mooring wires, her decks littered with broken packing cases and discarded equipment. One landing craft was alongside, and the tired seamen worked in a living chain to carry or guide the last of the wounded aboard.
Erskine ducked involuntarily as a shell exploded in the centre of the harbour and sent a stream of splinters whining overhead. The landing craft sidled clear, her hold for once empty.
Erskine broke into a run, but skidded to a halt as the tannoy speaker blared, `Clear the upper deck, stand by to slip!’ He stared uncomprehendingly as the big turret began to swing slightly to starboard, the twin guns lifting with purposeful menace. Erskine could not believe his eyes. Surely Chesnaye was not going to open fire ! The enemy did not know of the Saracen’s presence as yet, otherwise he would soon have called upon his dive-bombers. Yet Chesnaye intended to betray his presence, to throw away those last vital moments. He had ordered the upper deck cleared so that the guns could blast away the moment the monitor was under way. The last of the seamen were already leaping from the wreck alongside, and Erskine could see the men by the mooring wires already slackening off and getting ready to slip.
A trail of dark smoke blossomed from the funnel, and beneath his feet Erskine could feel the impatient rumble of engines. From the bridge a voice echoed through a megaphone. `Get those men aboard !’ The last of the seamen from the wreck looked up, startled, and then jumped for the guard-rails.
Erskine climbed rapidly to the bridge where Chesnaye was hanging impatiently over the screen, a megaphone in his hand. `All working parties aboard, sir. Boats hoisted and secure. Ready to proceed.’ The words dropped from Erskine’s mouth as he watched Chesnaye signalling vigorously to the side party.
`Good. Let go aft. Slow ahead port !’Chesnaye walked briskly to the front of the bridge to watch as the monitor moved cautiously ahead and nudged her weight against the one spring which held her to the wreck. Using one engine the Saracen pushed until the wire was bar-taut, until her. stern began to swing slowly away from the listing ship.
`Stop port ! Let go _forrard !’ Chesnaye’s red-rimmed eyes vere feverishly bright.
A rating with a handset looked across at him. `All gone
orrard, sir !’Chesnaye seemed to ‘force himself to stand quietly in the orefront of the bridge, his shoulders squared against the
)right blue sky. `Slow astern together!’
Very slowly the monitor gathered way, her rounded stern bushing through the oil and scum which covered the haroour in a fine web. Overhead the director squeaked on its counting as McGowan and his plotters adjusted their ights and. weighed up their target.
Chesnaye said coldly, `When we pass the last wreck we an open fire.’
Erskine felt unsteady. So that was why they were leaving ternfirst. Chesnaye had every intention of using the guns o best advantage. He seemed to have thrown reason to he winds.
Chesnaye peered astern, his cap tilted to shut out the nocking glare from the water. The turret was still swinging, :he guns rising towards the sun. He forced himself to watch :he ship’s slow passage between two sunken ships, his nouth a tight line. `Starboard ten. Midships !’ He held his ‘reath as the monitor’s fat flank almost brushed a forlorn ;east which still had a tattered flag trailing across the unmoving water. Soon now. He could still feel the soldier’s cold hand and he moved his fingers with sudden anger.
A light stabbed from amongst the shattered town, like sunlight reflecting from a telescope. He heard a signalman spelling out the signal, and then Laidlaw called, `They say “good luck”, sir !’The light flashed again, even as a brown shell-burst exploded beneath a last defiant minaret. `And “Many thanks” !’
Chesnaye kept his eyes on the stone breakwater. `Tell them “It was all part of the service !” ‘
Surprisingly, a man laughed, and another lifted his cap to wave at the long line of sun-dappled ruins.
The breakwater sidled past, and a small wave-crest
surged eagerly beneath the Saracen’s counter.
Chesnaye lifted his glasses and looked towards the shell
bursts and listened to the distant chatter of machine-guns.
Something stirred inside him like an old memory, and he found the he was momentarily able to forget the ship’s nakedness and the open sea which awaited him.
He turned and met Erskine’s stare and the watchful silence which seemed to hang over the bridge.
Almost challengingly he said, `Stop engines.’ And as the rumble died away, `Open fire!’
5
Stuka
In spite of the steady breeze the air was without life, and seemed almost too hot to breathe. The watchkeepers stood listless and heavy, each man careful to keep his body clear of the steel plates and shimmering guns as the sun ground down on their solitary ship. A fine blue haze hid the horizon and added to the sense of complete isolation, and a million tiny mirrors danced on the flat water to add further to the discomfort of the lookouts.
Chesnaye slumped in his chair, forcing himself to remain still as a thin stream of sweat moved down his spine. His clothes felt rough and sodden, so that even taking a breath became sheer discomfort.
The bridge throbbed to the tune of the two engines which in spite of all else maintained a steady six and a half knots, and made the small bow wave gurgle cheerfully around the ship’s stem. On the decks nothing moved, although Chesnaye knew without looking that the ship’s company was at Action Stations. Men were relieved in small batches to enjoy brief respite in the messdecks, or to help tend the long lines of army wounded. Between decks there was a smell of pain, so that the seamen were soon back on deck, as if uneasy at what they had seen.
Chesnaye glanced at his watch. Five hours since the short bombardment and their departure from Tobruk. It still seemed incredible that nothing more had happened. The shoreline had faded into the morning mist and the sun had risen high as if to pin them down on this pitiless sea. But nothing happened.
At first he had been almost unable to remain still under the mounting tension. Now, with each cheerful turn of the screws, he found a few moments to hope. In spite of Erskine’s doubt and open resentment, the watchful eyes of the others and the very real fear of his own abilities, Chesnaye could feel a glimmer of pleasure, even pride.
A bosun’s mate placed an enamel mug at his elbow. `Lemon juice, sir.’ Chesnaye nodded and sipped it gratefully. His eyes felt raw and gummed with fatigue, and any distraction, no matter how small, helped to hold him together.
As he sipped at the already warm liquid he glanced at the.bridge party. The Officer of the Watch, Fox, and his assistant, Sub-Lieutenant Bouverie, were standing elbow to elbow on the central gratings, their reddened faces turned to either bow as they took occasional sweeps of the horizon with their glasses. Two bosun’s mates and a messenger stood at the rear by the charthouse entrance, eyes heavy and listless, waiting like terriers to pass the word of their master. Just to the rear of the bridge Chesnaye could see the slim Oerlikon barrels pointing skywards, the gunners already strapped in position, their half-naked bodies deeply tanned and immune to the probing rays.
McGowan would be at his station, keeping a watchful eye on the ship’s defences, while his mind was no doubt still thinking of the short attack on the German positions.
It had been quick, savage and breathtaking. While the Saracen pitched easily on the small harbour swell the calm morning air had been torn apart by her massive onslaught. To the German gunners beyond the battered town it must have been even more of a shock. Used to fighting artillery duels with guns of their own calibre, and confident that the Tobruk fortress was almost ready to capitulate, the sudden thunder from the harbour
must have seemed unreal. Unreal perhaps until the great fifteen-inch shells had begun to fall around them. McGowan and his gunnery team had very little to go on, but with methodical determination he had laid down a barrage some five miles wide, his heart jumping as each gun hurled itself back on its worn springs.
Then, with smoke still streaming from the two long guns, the monitor had swung about and steamed towards the open sea.
That was five hours earlier. Five hours. Chesnaye rubbed his eyes and drained the last few drips from the enamel mug.
There was a rustle of movement behind him. Fox said, `Signal, sir!’
Chesnaye felt his stomach muscles contract, but forced his voice to remain steady. `Read it.’
`From C.-in-C. Italian minelayer reported in vicinity. Believed north of Bardia and heading west. Minelayer is damaged and will try to reach first available harbour. Must be sunk or held until other forces available. There are two escorts.’ Fox took a breath. `There are a few alleged positions, sir, but that is the crux of the signal.’
Chesnaye ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. Once again the Saracen was to forget her own immediate problems. By the moving of a small pin or flag on some distant chart she had been drawn into the over-all plan of campaign. A few seconds before he had been thinking only of getting back to Alexandria without loss. Now, in a stammer of morse, he had another picture in his aching mind.
A minelayer. No doubt one of those fast cruiser-type ..,,hips which had been playing havoc around Malta, Crete and every piece of British-held shoreline in the Mediterranean. In hours a ship like that could lay a deadly field which if undetected would send many good craft to the bottom. Even if discovered at once, a minefield was still a menace. It had to be swept, and during that slow and painful business nothing could be allowed to move in that area. This particular minelayer had apparently been caught, probably by one of the few aircraft available for coastal patrol. Damaged, her speed might be severely cut, and her captain would think only of getting back to safety.
Chesnaye stood up, and felt a shaft of pain lance through his cramped thigh. He tried not to limp as he led the way to the charthouse, and then he waited as Fox laid off the possible position and course of the enemy ships.
Chesnaye leaned forward and squinted at the converging lines. `Not bad.’ He prodded the chart with the dividers. `If I were the Italian captain I would not keep too close to the coast. Yesterday we were none too sure of the enemy positions in the desert. If this minelayer has been in the Eastern Mediterranean on operations her captain’ll be no better informed than we were!’ He tapped the chart thoughtfully. `Probably keep about twenty miles off. But will follow the coast just in case of surface attack.’ He was thinking aloud, while Fox watched him with open interest.
`He’ll know that Tobruk is closed as far as we are concerned. His only danger will be from behind him, from Alex, or from a patrol further north. The first is obviously the only likely one, as we’ll not be able to spare anything from the Greek campaign.’
Fox said : `That’s what the signal meant, I expect? The “other forces available” must be pursuing him from Alex?’
Chesnaye tightened his jaw. The Second Inshore Squadron, no doubt. Beaushears so determined to catch this sly interloper in his own area that he had even called in the Saracen. He smiled, but added in a calm voice : `Yes, Pilot, the Italian gentlemen will not expect a ship of our size right ahead of him ! Lay off course to intercept, and send for the First Lieutenant.’ He walked back into the sunlight, his fingers tightly laced behind his back. This would make up for their inability to help the convoy, for the hints and sneers which he and the ship had been made to endure.
He turned to see Erskine’s flushed face already on the bridge. In short, terse sentences he explained the position and what he intended to do. Erskine listened without speaking, his eyes fixed on some point above his Captain’s right shoulder.
Chesnaye concluded : `Two or three rounds from the main armament should do the trick, even at extreme range. If she’s carrying mines she’ll go up like a Brock’s Benefit, but in any case she’ll be no problem.’
Erskine asked quietly, `And the escorts, sir?’
`Well, they say there are two. They can’t amount to much, though.’
`Why do you say that, sir?’ Erskine looked mystified.
`It’s hardly likely we’d have been told about the damaged minelayer if the escorts were bigger and more important, is it?’
`Well, no, sir.’ Erskine was dazed by the change of events. As his tired mind cleared, he found a growing excitement. This enemy ship coining out of the blue was a gift indeed. The monitor could pound it to pulp even if the other vessel was four times as fast and ten times as manwuvrable. It was as if Providence had decided to make an offering to relieve the fear and apprehension of Tobruk.
Erskine had hardly spoken to the Captain since the monitor had left the smoking harbour. He had looked for some light of triumph or contempt on Chesnaye’s face, but it was impassive as always, giving nothing of the inner man away.
But this new venture would make all the difference. Erskine could even feel the news transmitting itself through the ship as he stood on the bridge with Chesnaye. The infallible system which carried information from man to man faster than any telegraph.
There was a cheer from aft, and Chesnaye remarked, `Our people want another crack at the enemy, it seems !’
He spoke evenly, but for a few seconds Erskine saw through the mask to the almost boyish excitement beyond.
Erskine received his orders in silence, and then as Chesnaye began to move away he said quickly, `I want to apologise, sir.’
Chesnaye turned, his”eyes alert. `For what?’
‘Tobruk. I didn’t think the risk was worth making.’ He stumbled miserably over each word. `I was wrong. This minelayer will put us one up again!’
He saw Chesnaye’s mouth soften slightly. `We’ve not sunk it yet, John!’ But although Chesnaye’s voice was gruff he was obviously pleased.
Erskine looked across at Fox. `We’ll be up to her in less than an hour, eh?’
The Navigator grinned and nodded towards the Captain’s back. `I hope so, for my sake !’
Erskine climbed on to the ladder. Chesnaye was right. This ship was alive. Nothing had changed, but for the vague news of an enemy ship and the consequences of possible danger. Yet the ship stirred and came to life in a way Erskine had never seen before.
As the hands of the bridge clock embraced for noon the minelayer was sighted. The powerful range-finder above the bridge fastened on the tiny speck which hovered just below the rim of the horizon, and McGowan informed the Captain.
Almost simultaneously, Able Seaman Rix, anti-aircraft lookout on the starboard wing of the bridge, yelled : ‘Aircraft! Bearing Green four-five!’
The klaxons screamed their warnings, and once more the Saracen’s man faced outwards and waited,
Lieutenant Max Eucken licked his lips and tried to retain the taste of the coffee he had been drinking only half an hour earlier. In spite of the tremendous heat which glared through the long perspex cockpit cover Eucken was able to remain completely relaxed, and his eyes hardly wavered as he stared ahead through the silvery arc of the Stuka’s propeller. Without looking he knew that the other six aircraft were formed on either flank in a tight arrowhead formation, just as he could picture the face of each pilot, as well as the exact capability of every man under his command.
Below him the sea shone like a sheet of bright blue glass, and around him the sky was clear and inviting. Eucken was twenty-two years old, and at that very moment extremely contented.
It was amazing what a difference it made to a man’s life the moment he was airborne, he thought. All the irritating faults and stipulations of the dusty airstrip were forgotten as soon as the wheels left the makeshift runway. Up here a man was king. Master of his own and other’s destinies.
Voices crackled in his earphones, but he was able to ignore them. The other
pilots were like himself. Excited and eager. Discipline and instant obedience could be switched on at a second’s notice with the precision of a bombsight. For the moment the pilots could be left alone, trusted to keep formation and good lookout.
Behind him, at the rear of the long cockpit, Steuer, the rear-gunner, hunched over his weapons like an untidy sack. A bovine, unimaginative man, but completely reliable. He did as he was told, and trusted his pilot. Those qualities were quite enough by Eucken’s standards.
He pulled in his stomach muscles and felt the sweat trickling down beneath the waistband of his shorts. Apart from these he was clad only in flying helmet and sandals, and he flexed his arms with sensuous pleasure, pleased with his own reflection in the oil-smeared perspex. His body was an even golden-brown, and the hairs on his forearms were bleached almost silver from the strange hermit existence in the desert.
He twisted his head to look at the three Stukas on his port quarter. Rising and falling gently like leaves in the wind, they appeared to be hovering against the pale sky, their wide-straddled fixed undercarriages poised like the claws of hunting hawks, which indeed they were. The nearest pilot raised his hand, and Eucken acknowledged him with a brief wave. That was Bredt, the only man apart from Steuer who had been with him since France and the big break-through.
To Eucken each phase of his war was interesting, provided it did not remain the same. He needed excitement, and enjoyed each aspect of it as some men relished sexual pleasure. He had lived long enough and had taken too many risks to believe in fear. He had forgotten its meaning soon after the first solo flight, and almost certainly following his first individual action in France. He could still remember that first time, perhaps more clearly than some of the things which had happened quite recently. The long straight roads choked and overflowing with streaming French refugees. While the Wehrmacht battered its way through a crumbling and decadent French Army and the British Expeditionary Force scattered towards Dunkirk, Eucken and his squadron helped to sow the seeds of confusion and panic behind the front. Jammed roads meant chaos and a break in supplies. The Stukas dived and screamed on the terror-stricken columns, their bombs carving bloody craters in the helpless victims below. As each bomber whined out of its dive the rear-gunner would take his toll too, the stammering machine-guns mowing down the trapped people like corn. Men, women, children, horses and cattle swept across the windshield in a crazed panorama from hell.
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