rimmed with smoke, `Sight set, sir!’ A bell rang urgently, but Norris could not stop himself
from coughing.
He half turned to see what had happened to McGowan’s control, but stared instead at the Gunnery Officer’s bent frame and the long, unending stream of blood which coursed down the back of his stool. His telescopic sight was fractured and must have deflected a flying splinter from the last shell. Sobbing hysterically, Norris reached over and seized McGowan’s jacket. `For Christ’s sake speak to me.!’
The bell rang again, and the rating said sharply, ‘He’s had it, sir!’ As if to emphasise the horror he gestured to the flecks of scarlet which had sprayed across the switches. `Straight through the guts!’
`Oh my God!’ Norris rocked back on his stool as the ship quivered yet again. The mast vibrated to the fall of broken plating, and in the far distance he heard the crackle of flames.
A telephone buzzed and the rating said urgently : `Sir !I It’s the Captain !’
Norris took the handset, his eyes still fixed on McGowan’s pale, piercing stare. It was over. He was alone. He felt as if he was already dead himself, instead of McGowan. All four of the seamen who completed the control-team had turned in their seats to watch him. Even McGowan was watching him.
He felt an all-consuming madness hovering in the corner of his mind, so that the tiny steel space seemed to be closing in, crushing him.
Suddenly, out of the horror and mounting insanity came a voice. Norris clutched the handset and stared at it, his face changing to an expression of pathetic submission. Almost gratefully he listened to Chesnaye’s calm, even caressing, voice. After a while he nodded, oblivious of the watching seamen, even of McGowan.
`Yes, sir,’ he said. `I shall do my best.’
He dropped the handset and lowered his head to the sights. In a strange, robot-like tone he murmured : ‘Continue tracking ! Standby!’
Lieutenant-Commander John Erskine stood loosely in the centre of the damage-control base, a small enclosed compartment below the aft shelter deck. On one bulkhead was a plan of the ship showing every watertight compartment, magazine, store-space and the thousand smaller corners which had been crammed into the monitor’s hull. Four ratings sat at the switchboard, their lips moving into chestmouthpieces as they answered calls from other parts of the ship.
Craig, the Chief Bosun’s Mate, said unhurriedly, `Fire in the starboard four-inch battery, sir!’
Erskine forced his mind to concentrate on the plan, and tried to imagine his small parties of stokers and seamen who were already dealing with the first shell damage.
Craig nodded to one of the telephonists. `Send Benson’s party at the double!’
The deck bounced beneath their feet like a steel springboard. From the cracks around the sealed door came small wisps of smoke, like steam being forced from an overheated engine.
‘Direct hit aft, sir!’ The rating sounded hoarse. `Tiller flat flooded!’
Erskine ran his fingers through his hair. `Very well. Report any other damage!’ He wanted to leave this enclosed prison, to help the damage-control parties, anything but stand here and supervise the ship’s funeral rites.
Craig said, `Must be hell up top, sir?’
How true, Erskine thought wildly. The monitor would be destroyed piecemeal. The great fifteen-inch shells from a modern, fast-moving battleship could gnaw away even the heaviest armoured ship in minutes once the range had been found. He staggered as the deck canted suddenly beneath him. The wheel was going over again. Chesnave must be doing everything possible to avoid those terrible waterspouts. Erskine remembered the numbing shock he had endured when he had seen the flagship struck by just one shell. And every dragging minute brought the two antagonists closer together.
Midshipman Gayler pushed open the door, a grubby rag pressed to his mouth. He was covered in dirt and his uniform was dripping with water. Tour-inch battery well alight, sir !’ He seemed calm enough, Erskine thought, but his youth probably saved him from the agony of experience. `Mister Joslin wants to flood the battery’s magazine!’ Gayler blinked rapidly as two more thunderous explosions shook the compartment and brought the paint flakes cascading over their heads.
Erskine swallowed hard. Flood the magazine? It would take all of twenty minutes. But if they waited? He snatched up the bridge telephone.
Far away, his voice punctuated by explosions and the tearing roar of passing shells, Fox answered his questions. `Range down to twelve thousand yards ! Still closing!’
Erskine said : `Permission to flood starboard magazine?, We’ve a bad fire there!’
A fit of coughing. `I can bloody well see it!’ A pause, complete silence as Fox covered the telephone with his hand, and then, `The Captain says flood!’ Click. Erskine stared at the dead handset, then nodded to Craig.
`Have the valves opened. Watch the table and get ready to order a counter-flooding to port. We must keep her at correct trim. Guns will need that at least for his firecontrol!’
Gayler looked up from wiping his face. `Lieutenant MeGowan’s dead, sir.’
Erskine turned away. My God ! Outside this prison friends and familiar faces were being wiped away as if from a slate. Tightly : `I’m going aft to supervise the quarterdeck party. Report any major damage to the bridge!’ Then he was through the door, blundering through the mad world of tearing noise and billowing, blinding smoke. Voices called all around him, and he could hear the ring of axes, the desperate voices of men working in semidarkness. A man yelled, `Stretcher party here!’ And there was an inhuman sound of groaning and’ bubbling.
Another voice : `Keep still, Fred ! I’ll get help!’
A great explosion almost alongside and a tidal wave of shredded water which tasted of cordite swept across the decks.
A petty officer cannoned into Erskine and stared at him wild-eyed. `Lost three men, sir. There are seven more right aft. Smashed ter bits.’ He peered through the smoke. `It won’t be long now, sir!’
Erskine pushed past him and felt his way further aft. There were several bodies scattered amongst the wreckage, their limbs and entrails mingling with the fire party’s hoses. In the middle of the carnage Wickersley was squatting beside a wounded seaman, his face grimy but intent as he forced morphia into the man’s arm. He glanced up. `Busy day!’
Erskine felt suddenly ashamed. Even the Doctor seemed to have forgotten everything else but the immediate present. His own hopes for the future, a command, a fresh start, meant nothing now. He had misjudged everything, just as he had lost his real opportunity with Ann. She had died already without a doubt. Carried down in a blazing ship, as he would be too. He felt his limbs beginning to shake in sharp, uncontrollable spasms.
Wickersley was on his feet, waving impatiently to two cowering stretcher bearers. `I wish I felt as cool as you look, Number One!’ Wickersley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. `No wonder you’re always carping about we reservists!’ He laughed and picked up his satchel. `Well, see you around!’ Then he was gone, swallowed up by the smoke.
Erskine stared after him and wondered. The Doctor’s words seemed to steady him, to sober his wretched thoughts.
A messenger skidded to a halt beside him. `Can you come, sir? Control report damage and casualties in the T/S !’
He started to run, but Erskine said : `Walk, lad ! We don’t want to start a panic.’
The seaman saw his smile and felt reassured. There might still be hope.
Together they walked towards the bank of smoke with its depraved scarlet centre.
Chesnaye ducked as the blasted water spattered over the bridge screen. Each shell-burst seemed to punch his body like a steel fist, and every direct hit drove him to a kind of inner frenzy. The water boiled and seethed on either beam, like devils’ whirlpools.
That last salvo had been a perfect straddle. `Port twenty!’ He prayed that the armoured wheelhouse was still unscathed. He felt the ship beginning to swing, and saw the big turret turn slightly to compensate for t
he alteration of course. Thank God he had been able to calm Norris after that first hit. He watched narrowly as more shells whimpered overhead. Not so heavy this time?
Fox said sharply, `The cruisers have opened fire, sir!’
Chesnaye felt his heart plunge. They had to hit the battleship before the combined gunfire of the enemy blasted the Saracen bodily out of the water. They had to ! Dazedly he ordered, `Midships !’
The turret shivered as another two shells roared away into the smoke. He steadied his shaking body against the screen and tried to clear his thoughts. All around him men were shouting and passing orders. Occasionally a voicepipe fell silent, only to be reopened by some different, frightened voice as a man stepped into the place left by killed and wounded. It could not last. Then the enemy would still destroy the convoy after all.
Another salvo. More spray, and at least two thudding blows into the monitor’s battered hull. `Starboard ten!’
At the back of his mind Chesnaye could still feel the agony he had endured when Laidlaw had reported `Cape God’s gone, sir ! She’s rolled over!’
Even the overpowering menace of the battleship’s winking guns could not lessen that final anguish.
There was a sharp crack behind him as more splinters whined over the bridge. As he turned he saw Fox stagger and fall beside the compass, his teeth bared in pain.
Bouverie fell on his knees beside him, his eyes searching but helpless. Fox spoke between his teeth, his agonised gaze fixed on Bouverie’s face. `Get away from me, you maniac!’ He moved his hands across his waist where the scarlet stain was spreading with each painful breath. `Get up on that compass, you bloody lawyer ! And try to remember what I’ve taught you!’
He even grinned as Bouverie staggered to his feet and climbed on to the compass platform. Then he looked up at Chesnaye who had knelt beside him. `He’ll do, sir ! He won’t let you down!’ His hard, uncompromising features seemed to soften, and he lowered his forehead against Chesnaye’s shoulder. `Don’t reproach yourself, Skipper ! You were right!’ Then his head lolled to one side.
Chesnaye stood up, his face ashen. `Report damage!’
They were all dying. And for what?
He crossed to the bridge sight and pressed his head against the worn pad. The careering battleship leapt into life in the lenses, her three turrets smoking as the gunners reloaded. His feet tingled as another shell ploughed along the Saracen’s deck and exploded below an Oerlikon mounting, blasting the gunners to oblivion. The enemy cruisers were increasing speed, dashing in to complete the kill.
Chesnaye stared with dull disbelief as the battleship’s forward turret opened skywards in one long orange flash.
Chesnaye snatched the control handset, only to hear Norris screaming like a maniac : `A hit ! Jesus Christ, a bloody hit!’
One of the monitor’s shells, dropping with the speed of hundreds of feet a second, had found a target. The great, armour-piercing mass of screaming explosive had punctured the flat surface of the ship’s `A’ turret even as the gunners had been reloading. Three fifteen-inch shells had been about to enter three smoking breeches. The Italian gunnery officer had been confident that they would be the final death blow to the shell-blasted wreck which had been crawling and staggering towards the ship, and which had defied every explosion.
The Saracen’s shell and the three Italian ones joined together in one mighty chorus, which was heard in the convoy and by the trapped and dying men in the Saracen’s hull. The battleship’s turret was lifted bodily from its barbette, and in going severely buckled the neighbouring ‘B’ turret, so that it too was rendered harmless.
The cruisers continued to fire. The nearest one was already sweeping round in a tight arc to cut its way past the maddened Saracen.
Chesnaye lowered his glasses and heard the puny cracks from the port four-inch battery. Pin-pricks against the cruiser. But whatever else happened now, his ship, his Saracen, had struck home.
He thought distantly of Royston-Jones’ small monkey face. His grave, unwavering pride in the ship. `With courage and integrity, press on!’
Bouverie called. `Fire gaining hold aft, sir ! They want to flood the compartment!’
Chesnaye answered wearily, `Very well.’
The monitor was already sluggish and hardly answering his constant wheel orders. As soon as the battleship had recovered its wits the other big turret would be brought to bear again. There would be no mercy now.
Chesnaye turned his back on the enemy and looked back at his ship. The tripod mast was only supported by its stays, the whole structure sagging against the rear of the bridge. The funnel leaked smoke from hundreds of splinter holes, and through the fog of battle Chesnaye caught glimpses of the upper deck. It was pitted with massive craters, some of which glittered with black water. The ship was slowly being torn apart. Dead and dying men lay everywhere. Even his own uniform was spattered with blood from a cut across his scalp.
Yet the old girl was hanging on. With a schoolmaster, half crazy with terror, gauging each shot and guiding the monitor’s guns on to their target. A barrister at the compass, white-faced, but strangely determined as his legs still straddled Fox’s crumpled body.
And what of me? He ran his eye across the smashed and torn ship. I brought them all to this.
The bridge shook, and a signalman screamed as a splinter tore away his arm. Chesnaye heard Wickersley’s voice through the bedlam, and watched as the first-aid party clambered over the buckled metal to get at the victims.
The cruisers were on either beam, but Norris still obeyed Chesnaye’s last order. Keep firing at the battleship. Keep hitting her no matter what else happens.
A seaman was staggering down the port waist carrying a limp, spread-eagled figure. Chesnaye watched the man’s groping foot-steps with chilled fascination. He was carrying Danebury, the small midshipman. The man passed into safety behind the bridge, and Chesnaye had to shake himself to clear away the nightmare. The dead midshipman. Back across the years. It was like an additional, cruel taunt.
Bouverie was sobbing : `Sir ! Sir!’
Chesnaye turned slowly, afraid of what he might see.
Bouverie half fell as he groped his way towards him. He held Chesnaye’s hands, all else forgotten but what he had just seen.
`Sir ! They’re pulling away ! They’ve had enough!’
Dazed, Chesnaye lifted his glasses for the hundredth time. The battleship’s shape looked quite different. She was end on, a mounting froth at her stern. Like unwilling hounds the cruisers fired their last shots and then closed protectively around their leader. They too would have a difficult passage home now.
He nodded vaguely and touched Bouverie’s arm. He could find no words. They were all round him. Wickersley, quiet and concerned, Bouverie, grinning like a schoolboy. Even Fox looked as if he was smiling.
Below he could hear cheering. Faint at first, then stronger, unquenchable, like the old ship herself.
Chesnaye saw Erskine too. He looked older. Changed. He felt his hand in his and heard him say, `I’m sorry, sir!’
Sorry? For what? For Ann perhaps. For the poor, battered ship, or for himself ? It did not matter which any more.
`Signal from destroyer escort, sir!’ Laidlaw’s beard was singed but still jaunty. `Request instructions?’
Chesnaye felt his way to the front of the bridge. Through the mist across his eyes he could still see the fast-disappearing shapes of the enemy ships. He felt the heat-blistered steel. We did it.
The Yeoman added excitedly, `Escort reports return of our cruiser squadron, sir !’The lights still stammered. `They request instructions?’
Chesnaye said in a tired voice, `Tell the Senior Officer !’
Laidlaw said thickly, `You are the Senior Officer now, sir!’
Chesnaye nodded. `Very well.’ They were all looking at him.
Laidlaw unconsciously left the most important item till last. `Tug Goliath reports all survivors of Cape Cod safe on board.’ He sounded puzzled. `They
keep repeating, sir. All survivors safe?’
Chesnaye turned away from them, and Erskine said, `Thank you, Yeoman.’ Then in a loud, clear voice he continued : `Make this signal. To Commander-in-Chief, repeated Inshore Squadron.’ He paused, his eyes fixed on Chesnaye’s bowed shoulders. Then he looked across at Wickersley, and together they stood behind him.
The Captain was resting his head on the screen, as if he was speaking with the ship.
Erskine continued, `His Majesty’s Ship Saracen and convoy will enter harbour as ordered.’
Epilogue
Dr. Robert Wickersley walked slowly from the club dining room and crossed to the library. It was cool in the club after the exhaust-filled streets, and the London traffic was en tirely cut off by the stout old walls and ancient furniture.
The library was fortunately empty, but for one of the brass-buttoned servants who immediately crossed to a corner chair and pulled a small table beside it.
`Good evenin’, sir. Your usual?’
`Yes, thank you, Arthur.’ Wickersley sank down in the chair and reached again for the evening paper. He no longer felt the weariness of a long day in his surgery, nor the irritation of delving into the case histories of people who had too much time and too much money to know the meaning of real illness.
With something like shock he noticed that his hand was shaking as he opened the paper at the middle page where his efficient secretary had ringed a small item near the bottom.
He had read it several times already, even in the heavy traffic as Matthews had guided the powerful Bentley skilfully towards the club. All through dinner he had thought of nothing else, yet he had been afraid to allow his mind to explore its full impact, as a surgeon falters before the moment to begin an operation.
Now he was alone. He read the item of news very slowly.
The death was reported last night of Captain Richard Chesnaye, Victoria Cross, Royal Navy(Retired), who died at his Hampshire home of a heart attack whilst watching television. Captain Chesnaye won his V.C. during the last war when defending a convoy to Malta against superior enemy forces. He leaves a widow and one son.
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