Kingsmill had moved up beside him, between him and the coxswain. Tony Kingsmill, a twenty-year-old sub-lieutenant—he’d transferred from 545, in which Rod King had been killed last night, to take over the first lieutenant’s job which had been Newbolt’s own until this morning.
‘Someone broken down, or—’
‘Get a position on, Tony.’ By QH—which this boat having been an SO’s was lucky enough to have. Kingsmill shot below, and the midshipman, Sworder, squeezed up into the space thus vacated between Newbolt and the coxswain’s stand. Newbolt calling past him to CPO Gilchrist, ‘Lost steerage way yet, have we?’
‘Losin’ it, sir, aye.’
Gritty tone. Gilchrist, known as ‘the Badger’ because of the white streak in his beard, was the most senior coxswain in the flotilla. He’d been King’s for—well, a long time, in other boats and flotillas before this. Newbolt, conscious of his own status as a brand-new skipper, was aware that he’d be under an eye and critical judgement that might be inappropriately avuncular if he didn’t guard against it. He was glad to have him, both as a sterling character and with his comparatively vast experience, but with a pinch of salt as it were—needing to establish himself in as short a time as possible as this boat’s CO, as distinct from her jumped-up first lieutenant.
CPO Gilchrist, he guessed—moving the port wing telegraph to slow ahead—was a wise enough man to recognize this himself, even to be impatient to see it happen. Left hand to the port-side throttle then. Choosing that one because it was simpler—the centre engine followed the starboard telegraph. But in any case to circle round, come back into station astern of 564.
‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ The Badger knew what was wanted, no need to spell it out to him. Winding-on rudder…
‘Starshell, red seven-oh!’
A yell from a lookout—one of two—this one by name of Pickering. Newbolt swinging round on his seat, jerking his glasses up and getting it at once, a spark of greenish light hanging out there between sea and clouds—difficult to say how far away—that nucleus and its green-tinted aura drifting downward. Could be either starshell or an aircraft flare. If you’d been in auditory range and stopped like this you’d have known which—shell or flare—hearing either the bark of the gun or the drone of an aircraft.
563 labouring, swinging her bow across the direction of the swells and such wind as there was; rolling like a drunk…
‘Steer south fifty west.’
To bring her up astern of Heddingly again, and on the course on which Furneaux had been leading them. Newbolt had his glasses trained over the bow as they completed the turn, looking for 564 but not seeing her yet. 563 standing on her tail and leaning hard to port, driving herself up the black slope ahead: crests and ridges flying—the wind must have come up a bit. As to not seeing the others—he was sweeping across the bow in search of any of them now—it was a fact that with the boats stopped or virtually stopped they could only expect to be in sight of each other when they were reasonably well up.
‘Time, Mid?’
‘Twenty-one ten, sir.’
Another ten minutes, the unit would have been in position to go to silent running.
‘Course south fifty west, sir!’
Toppling down again, spray lashing against the Perspex windshield. Beside him the snotty had his glasses up, for once actually hadn’t been sick yet, was muttering something about ‘missing the bus’. Might have been talking to himself, certainly hadn’t warranted an answer. Mental note—advise him to be less chatty. Although nine-tenths of the time you wouldn’t hear him anyway… Beyond him, on the helmsman’s stand, the coxswain’s contrastingly solid figure—Pete Sworder was distinctly wand-like—the Badger was knees-bending as he wound-on more rudder—having even his work cut out for him, at these revs. The stand was about six inches high, custom-built for him, immediately behind the wheel. On his left, in the port for’ard corner, was the latched-back door and steps down to the plot, while further aft—about halfway to the back of the bridge—were the lookout stands, one each side and that port side currently occupied by Pickering, whose specialist skill was that of Radar Operator. He was an AB too, though, and up here now because radar wasn’t in use and with a crew of only nine men you didn’t leave hands idle.
The other lookout, starboard side, glasses up and slowly swivelling, concentrating on the after sector, was Holland, a young OD—Ordinary Seaman—whose mother was in ENSA, allegedly a singer, and currently touring in the Middle East. The drawback to this, in Holland’s messmates’ view, was that Holland thought he was a singer too.
Might be worth switching on radar, despite the SO’s strictures?
He decided against it. Partly for that reason alone—respect for Stack, was what it amounted to—but also because the 286 was primarily an air-warning set limited in its performance even when it was functioning as it was supposed to do, and it was pretty useless on small targets. In any case, by the time it was warmed up and operating this situation would surely have resolved itself.
‘Red six-oh, starshell!’
A second one in the same place. Same bearing, anyway, same sort of distance. Nearer five miles than ten, he guessed. Could be something happening around the target—the Heilbronne—but on the other hand might be nowhere near it. He left it, swung back, putting his glasses up again to find the others.
‘Bloody hell’ve they got to…’
‘Should see him when he starts calling, surely.’
Comment from Kingsmill, who’d come back up from the plot. The operative word in that unsought observation, Newbolt thought, being should. Already suspecting what might have happened, although unwilling to believe it: but it was a fact that the blue-shaded lamps were about as dim as they could be, intentionally visible only at close range. An element of panic—instantly suppressed—sprang partly from the prospect of at least appearing to be a bloody fool who’d cocked up, first time out… Whoever had been at fault—Heddingly, for instance, would be a candidate—losing touch with your next-ahead was your crime—and perhaps funeral—whatever the circumstances. And the snotty’s remark about missing the bus—out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—Sworder being all of three years younger than his skipper—but it could turn out to be not so wide of the mark. With the unit only minutes short of the position where they’d have reduced speed for the run inshore, and the timing not all that surefire anyway—well, Christ…
‘Are we where we thought we’d be?’
‘Pretty well, sir. Looks like the weather’s been slowing us half a knot.’
Assume the others had gone on?
It wasn’t all that unlikely. Passing the order to his next-astern, Heddingly wouldn’t have been looking for an acknowledgement, he’d have flashed ‘George 30’, say—if the order had been to get going at the same speed as before, thirty knots—and crashed off, never doubting he’d have 563 on his tail.
Call Mike One on R/T? With the prospect of being separated from the unit as ample justification?
But in his own briefing of the MTB skippers Furneaux had repeated the SO’s warning about total radio silence. He’d been emphatic about it. ‘When the time’s right, I’ll break it.’
It would hardly improve matters to fuck up on that as well. Might also smack of the new boy out of his depth and screaming for help.
CPO Gilchrist cleared his throat. ‘Skipper, sir.’
‘Yes, Cox’n?’
‘Reckon we’re on our own, sir?’
* * *
Furneaux swung back from checking on the boats astern of him, and trained his glasses out on the bow again. MTB 560 bucking along at twelve knots on silenced engines, course south thirty-five west magnetic, the Basse du Renier bank seven and a half miles ahead. Before he got that close inshore, depending on what if anything showed up on radar—or even by then in visual range—especially if they were loosing off bloody starshell—he’d turn either east to meet it, or west and allow it to overhaul him. Waitin
g for Bob Stack to blow the whistle, maybe. Or as the case might be, not waiting. He’d discussed these intentions very briefly with Hugh Lyon, his first lieutenant, while they’d been lying almost stopped a short while ago, conferring with him over his—Lyon’s—workings on the chart, and finishing with ‘God willing’, adding after a moment, ‘Not that I’d reckon to be the Almighty’s blue-eyed boy, just at this moment.’
A typical Furneaux crypticism. Lyon had let it pass, although John Flyte, the boat’s spare office had contributed a dutiful chuckle. Lyon suspecting that his CO would have liked to be asked why, what had he been up to? He was a good skipper—a very good one, was no doubt going to be a brilliant SO—but was also a bit of a card, with a brand of humour which Lyon didn’t always appreciate—in fact he was often aware or half-aware of having his leg pulled. The subject of his own engagement, for instance. Betty was a Wren, based at Stanmore in Middlesex, some secret establishment she didn’t talk about—and when he’d mentioned that he hardly ever got to see her, Furneaux’s advice had been to call it off, ask her to agree to reconsider the whole thing when the war was over.
‘Then duck out, smartly. What d’you want to tie yourself down for, for God’s sake? Bash it around a bit, old lad. Put it through its paces, while the going’s good!’
The sailors adored him, of course.
Anyway, after their discussion over the chart he’d decided to cover these last few miles at twelve knots instead of seven or eight as he’d intended earlier.
Half-turning now, glasses part-lowered: ‘Signalman!’
‘Sir?’
He was actually a leading signalman, name of Perrot, a newcomer to this crew. Only SOs were allowed signalmen, and Perrot had moved over from 563, in which he’d been Roddy King’s. In boats other than SOs’ the officers did the signalling. Furneaux told him, ‘Blue lamp, quarterline starboard, execute.’
‘Quarterline starboard, aye aye, sir…’
If the starshells had come from the target or its escort, Lyon thought, there probably wouldn’t be long to wait, inshore. They’d appeared on a southeasterly bearing—either starshell or aircraft flares, but the more likely was starshell—during the time the unit had been stopped for 562 to cope with what would have been a breakdown if her Motor Mechanic hadn’t been on his toes. The signalman had been keeping a lookout astern, had seen the flashing ‘Harry 2’—meaning ‘I have two engines out of action’—Furneaux had circled around to come up within loud-hailer range of 562, and Chisholm had told him that his boat’s thrust-blocks had been overheating. This meant the two wing engines had had to be stopped instantly and the thrust-blocks given first aid—amounting primarily to lubrication. Overheating wasn’t an unusual problem, especially when you’d been running at fairly high revs for some time.
It had taken them about a quarter of an hour, during which time the unit had continued to forge slowly ahead. When Chisholm had signalled ‘Ready to proceed’, Furneaux had ordered twelve knots and led them round on to this new course.
Perrot reported, ‘Message passed, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Lyon watched the other boats taking up the quarterline formation—Chisholm’s angling out, Heddingly’s going out wider astern of him. Looking for Newbolt, then, he couldn’t see him.
Blue lamp flashing from Heddingly…
Numerals five, six, three—Perrot called it out: ‘MTB 563—’ Then, ‘—is not with us.’
‘Not with us?’
Lyon confirmed it. ‘Can’t see him, sir…’
‘South forty west, sir.’
CPO Gilchrist’s Aberdonian growl… 563 making twenty-five knots, Newbolt aiming to make up lost time and distance, steering a course which cut the corner, as it were, on what had been Mike Furneaux’s intended track as stated at his briefing of this unit. Another five minutes at this speed, then he’d reduce to fifteen knots and run in silenced, steering for a point four miles west of Barfleur. He’d be making about twice the speed of the others and steering—touch wood—pretty well up their wakes. Pick ’em up on radar, with luck; he’d decided to take a chance on it, that this situation did justify a blind eye to the SO’s edict. The 286 was switched on and operating now, sweeping thirty degrees each side of the bow.
Kingsmill shouted in Newbolt’s ear, ‘Getting a lot of fucking interference, he says.’
That sounded like Pickering, all right. Not unlike Kingsmill, either, who was said to be a good hand at sea but a bit of a tearaway ashore. A parson’s son, too. But the fact was, MTBs weren’t ideal platforms for radar. Not for the Type 286 anyway—and not when you were cannoning over a swell like this one. Savage impacts every few seconds, jarring all through her fabric—through your own too, for that matter, your spine especially. With such constant pummelling, any and all equipment had to be extremely robust to survive at all.
Let alone anything as delicate and fine-tuned as a radar set.
Sworder—the snotty—was yelling something at him.
‘What?’
‘Cloud looks like it’s thinning, sir!’
He looked up, saw that this was true—to some extent. A slight luminosity there, over the land… Rising wind, he guessed—tearing holes in it, or trying to. Down here, the smashed crests of the waves sheeting over, white suds lathering the screen.
‘Time, Tony?’
‘Minute to go, sir.’
Looking around, thinking about a break-up of the cloud—that if it did happen you’d have a moon, and that this would knock the SO’s plans for six. Holding the binoculars away from his eyes for a moment, reassuring himself—darkness no less total, this far… In fact not even that patch of lightness over the land was as evident as it had seemed half a minute ago.
Kingsmill had gone back down into the plot, but the snotty and Holland and another hand back there now—Chandler—were concentrating on the looking-out: dark cut-out figures braced against the boat’s movement, binoculars slowly pivoting, pausing, moving on, back again… Newbolt put his own up again. The point about any significant break-up of the cloud was that the moon would be over the land—in the southwest, the way they were heading at this moment and where it had seemed lighter, just now. So an enemy inshore would be up-moon to an attack coming in from seaward; conversely, attacking from inshore wouldn’t be a good idea at all.
It looked fairly solid up there now, anyway.
‘Bridge!’
He leant to the voicepipe, and Kingsmill told him from the plot, ‘Time to come round, sir.’
‘Port wheel, Cox’n. Steer south thirty west.’
Throttling down. The Badger’s growl on his left: ‘South thirty west, sir…’
‘Mid, tell the engineroom—reducing to fifteen knots, engage Dumbflows.’
Dumbflows were the silencers. When engaged, they diverted the exhausts through the engine cooling-water and thence out through the ship’s sides. It cut engine-noise significantly, but you could only use it at low revs. Sworder was passing the order to PO Motor Mechanic Talbot over the sound-powered telephone while Kingsmill, returning to the bridge, joined them up front here—wordless, glasses already at his eyes. Newbolt’s large frame folded somehow into the bridge seat, his hands still on the throttles, shoulder against the top of the bridge’s lightly armour-plated surround, face in the streaming wet above the screen, naked eyes slitted into the heaving dark.
Black as ever. You knew there was a moon up there, but only because the Nautical Almanac told you there was.
Sworder banged the ’phone on to its hook. ‘Dumbflows engaged, sir.’
‘Very good.’
‘Course south thirty west, sir!’
‘Radar, bridge!’
The snotty took it. ‘Bridge.’
‘Three contacts green four-oh, sir!’
Newbolt took over at the pipe. ‘What do they look like, Pickering?’
‘Small, sir. Could be our unit.’
Highly unlikely—unfortunately. Unless Furneaux was cruising around looking for them
—which was hardly probable.
Although he might. Come to think of it, he really might.
‘Range?’
‘Three miles, sir. Bearing now—green three-five. Fast-moving, right to left, closing. Range—056, sir.’
5600 yards. It certainly wouldn’t be the SO on that bearing. Stack and his MGBs would be on the pod quarter somewhere—a good ten miles away. But if Mike Furneaux had decided he had time to double back and make a quick sweep, get his team back together before the action started: he’d be chancing his arm, certainly, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that. In fact it’d be right in character.
‘Bridge—four of ’em, sir, not three—’
‘Guns’ crews close up.’ They’d been at action stations for hours, but in a semi-relaxed mode with gunners and torpedomen in shelter abaft the bridge. ‘Port wheel—steer south, Cox’n.’
He had a general view of it in his mind—a view, how it seemed to be. Courses, speeds, distances, a triangle of relative velocities. A few basic facts in the computation, but also guesswork tinged with instinct. The difference between success and failure being to guess right… 563 was rolling harder, with the weather broader on her bow now. ‘Mid—radar ranges and bearings. And ask him if he’s certain there are three of ’em.’
‘Course south, sir…’
If it’s three—believe it. If not, stay clear…
Down to about eight knots. Believing in it—the probability of this being Mike F.’s unit—because it definitely would be in character. Mike on his first trip as MTB SO, extremely loth to accept having lost one of his boats. It was his unit, he’d want to have it together and he’d be cutting a bit of a dash by turning back to rope him in. Furneaux style absolutely—putting his stamp on the unit right from the word ‘go’… Newbolt had swiftly cleaned his binocular lenses, had them up again levelled into the darkness on the bow. Hearing Sworder at the voicepipe—it sounded as if Pickering was having problems—and Kingsmill on the sound-powered telephone to the guns—which included the torpedomen, Lloyd on the starboard side and Burrows, port, who’d be manning the twin Vickers machine-guns mounted on the tubes. Newbolt thinking—suppose this was not Furneaux and company. It almost surely was, but—suppose for instance these were patrolling R-boats… Well, you’d lie doggo, avoid contact with them, concentrate on the primary objective—getting down there and rejoining the unit, not risking a disturbance that would give warning of a Royal Navy presence—and incidentally, taking on more than you could handle. This was an MTB, for God’s sake, not a gunboat.
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