There was still time, anyway—to get the hell out, if necessary.
‘Mid, what’s radar doing?’
‘Getting a lot of interference, sir. Last range was 025, bearings green 25 to 30—gone all jumpy now, he says.’
‘What’s the challenge and reply, Number One?’
‘Challenge is W, reply P Peter, sir!’
‘Be ready for it. Mid, tell him to sweep green 25 to red 25.’
Radar seemed to have shot its bolt. The range couldn’t be more than about 2,000 yards now. A mile: but they’d pass a damn sight closer. In fact, if they were not the other three of the unit—one might not have all that much time, or room for manoeuvre. If one had thought of playing safe, when radar had first picked them up—as going by the book maybe one should have—turned away then immediately, instead of slowing and altering to an interception course as he now had… Alternatives from this point being to crack on the power and beat it, pronto, or—starboard wheel, creep past astern of them…
If it came to that. Why not—in the next half-minute… Biting his lip, controlling and regretting that flare of panic. He had his binoculars trained out fine on the bow, sweeping over a sector of no more than twenty or thirty degrees: where they’d show up, he thought, any second now.
Unless they’d altered, in the minute since radar lost them?
Like riding a wet and noisy roller-coaster, meanwhile. Sworder shouting that the radar picture was still confused and Pickering thought there might be jamming: interrupting this, a howl from Kingsmill: ‘There—green one-oh, sir!’
He was on them too. Not his own unit.
Like a kick in the gut…
Three of them, all right, but either E-boats or R-boats, steering about 030—to pass even closer than he’d thought. He’d reckoned not only on their being MTBs but also on their course being more like 050. They were R-boats—Raumboote, motor minesweepers, higher profile than E-boats, and better armed as far as guns went but without torpedoes and nothing like as fast… Speed was one’s own advantage now—one’s only advantage. The decision had been made for him, as it had turned out he had neither of those alternatives. None at all, as a light blazed from the leader—a challenge, the letter ‘V’ for Victor. Newbolt shouted to Kingsmill, ‘Give him a J!’ Full ahead meanwhile, jangling the telegraphs to and fro a couple of times and leaving them on ‘full ahead’. Throttles wide open. Not a single alternative now, you were in it. A burst of 20-mm fire from the one who’d challenged, red tracer arcing up and over the top. Kingsmill was replying to the challenge, clicking-out the letter ‘J’ at him—by intention it was a delaying tactic, a dodge that had been known to win a few seconds’ respite, on occasion—when the enemy was sufficiently irresolute.
‘Steer ten degrees to port, Cox’n.’
He’d screamed it over the engines’ roar, three supercharged 1500-horsepower Sterling Admirals at full blast. Thudding impacts under her bow as she flung herself ahead, then progressively lighter ones as she lifted, rising towards the plane. Range—by naked eye—about eight hundred yards. At something over thirty knots now—thirty-four, thirty-five—and right up there then—smooth as silk, the speed she was made for, existed for. Newbolt clapping a hand on CPO Gilchrist’s shoulder, shouting in his ear—‘The leader—hard a-starboard at five hundred yards then reciprocal course—OK?’
‘Aye aye, sir…’
Flat out. Forty knots.
All you could do, now. Hit hard, and run like hell.
(Except that one should also be bunging out an enemy report, on W/T. Catch up on that in a minute, though: wording would have to include some explanation of being on one’s own.)
Putting the wheel over at a range of 500 yards, with her greatly increased turning-circle at this speed, would mean engaging at about 200. Point-blank, effectively. Which should be—all right. She’d be a high-deflection target herself, while her gunners would be shooting from a comparatively stable platform.
‘Tony—open fire on the turn, range’ll be two hundred, two-fifty yards.’ He’d had his glasses up again for a second: ‘They’re R-boats. Target the leader first.’
‘Oerlikon open fire?’
The first and third—and second—were shooting at them now—having decided to ignore the phony answer to the challenge—but it was all going high and wide. He told Kingsmill yes, Oerlikon open fire. Raumboote had 37-mm and 20-mm guns: things would get worse before they got better, for sure, but after the turn you’d be passing them like an express train—combined speeds maybe sixty mph—even at close range you wouldn’t be an easy target. Tracer thickening and coming closer—blinding… 563’s Oerlikon opening up, a high snarling racket audible over the rest of it, green tracer lobbing away towards that leader. Four hundred—three-fifty yards… Tracer coming the other way was multi-coloured, seeming to lift slowly then pick up speed and scorch by in a flash: except that lot, a stream of it slashing explosively down the starboard side, a stink like horses being shod that cleared within seconds on the wind: either the deck there or the tube or the side of the bridge—which had 3/8ths steel plating all around it—bullet-proof, but not 20mm-proof. The Oerlikon in the skilled and determined hands of AB Summerhayes was hitting hard, had just caused what looked like an ammunition explosion—and at least one gun silenced—on the leader’s forepart.
Close enough now, though. Too close. A thump on the coxswain’s arm—‘Bring her round!’ Gilchrist stooping for a grip on the wheel, flinging it over. Kingsmill’s thumb on the buzzer signalling ‘Open fire’, the Oerlikon shifting to the second in line and the Vickers GO on the port side opening up, a double stream of green and red tracer which was a mix of armour-piercing, high explosive and incendiary blasting the leader’s bridge then down his length and shifting to join the Oerlikon on target number two; the point-fives were also in it now, shifting similarly after a solid blast into the leader’s stern. A lot was coming this way as well, and there’d been hits aft, he thought—certainly now there had been, he’d felt several impacts and there’d been a blue flash somewhere close—amidships, somewhere. The leading German was well astern and number two had been hard hit—there’d been a gush of flame from that one’s bridge, and the Oerlikon had just shifted to the third and last—which had begun to turn away to starboard, while number two with the point-fives still raking it was going the other way, turning to port across 563’s stern. Giving itself very briefly the advantage of an end-on target instead of one flashing by at forty knots—and making full use of it, a storm of gunfire blasting from astern. The starboard Vickers was having a go, then, its tracer arcing back over the quarter into that completely dazzling blaze of tracer from the one who’d crossed astern. Smart effort by Seaman Torpedoman Lloyd—although Kingsmill with his all-round view would have put him on to it. The other Vickers GO and the Oerlikon—Summerhayes still doing good work down there—hose-piping tracer into number three while the point-fives and Seaman Torpedoman Lloyd still blasted at the one astern. Newbolt yelled at Kingsmill—grabbing his arm and pointing—‘Shift to him!’
The tail-ender, as it turned away. Point-fives already shifting, though—to this one’s stern and the back of his bridge as he swung away.
‘Port wheel!’
To turn outside him. Much wider turning-circle: the range would be opening fast now. He hadn’t heard his own voice, giving that helm order, but Gilchrist had: or he’d only needed the bang on his shoulder, no words. Forcing the wheel over… A shock right aft, then—and a closer one, the back of the bridge—or it could have been the point-five turret. There’d be a reckoning, before much longer; you prayed not to have casualties—knowing some were inevitable, but still praying. If he’d just turned away and tried to run, he’d probably have been harder hit: attack being the best method of defence, as Mike Furneaux had asserted more than once—on the subject of brushes with E-boats, admittedly, but there wasn’t all that much difference… 563 with a full third of her length clear of the water, skidding round under a flood of light sudd
enly from overhead—starshell, which must have come from—well, one of the others, who were in the background now. This last one had reversed its wheel, was turning back to port—at greater and increasing range now but still taking sporadic punishment from the point-fives. Its own guns had ceased fire, he realized—nothing was shooting at them now—and it was on fire, by the look of it its whole afterpart, internally.
‘Cease fire, sir?’
‘Yes. Midships, Cox’n. Ship’s head?’
‘South forty west, sir—’
‘Steer south ten west.’
She was slowing, though—even before he’d begun to close the throttles. Damage aft… The engineroom confirmed it: centre engine stopped. Which would also cut out the hydraulic power to the point-five turret, the pump for it being on that engine. She was losing way rapidly. Wind and sea roughly on the beam, beginning to make themselves felt.
Leading Stoker Chivers answered the telephone…
‘It’s not good, sir. Trying to keep the wings going, but—’
‘Report when you can.’
Assuming that one was not, please God, about to become totally immobilized—in which case one would be at those bastards’ mercy, if they followed up… But—irrespective, it was time to break wireless silence, legitimately and necessarily to send out an action report on W/T. By-blows of which would be to let Furneaux know where 563 was—and in what condition—and let the SO know there were R-boats around.
R-boats being properly MGBs’ meat, not MTBs’. As would no doubt be pointed out more or less forcibly, at some later stage. Not by Mike Furneaux, though, he guessed…
‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’
To keep her stern-on to them. There were no illuminants in the sky now, but you could see the one that was on fire still, easily enough. He called over his shoulder, ‘Number One!’
‘First Lieutenant’s aft, sir.’ Sworder… Newbolt told him, ‘Get on the blower, tell the guns to reload and stand by. And check they’re getting the emergency hand-pump going.’
For the point-fives’ hydraulic power. You weren’t out of it yet; whether or not the R-boats came hunting now, there could be other enemies around—might well be. And the state of things in the engineroom sounded a lot worse than Chivers’ ‘not good’. There’d be casualties for sure; and this would not be a good time or place in which to become immobilized.
Searching the darkness ahead. Annoyed with himself for having given the snotty that order; he had to remember he was no longer a first lieutenant. Kingsmill would obviously have seen to the emergency pump being put to work: and would be making his rounds now, for casualties and to assess such damage as was immediately detectable.
The reckoning…
‘What are we steering, Cox’n?’
‘South forty west, sir.’
‘Right…’
Explosion, half a mile back. He’d whipped round in time to see a shoot of flame just as it died down, but then a much bigger, spreading one, followed by a second blast of sound. There was some cheering here and there—assumption of an enemy destroyed—but he was still thinking about the aftermath now, the bill, and the shape of the immediate future, which to a large extent had to depend on whatever was happening in the engineroom at this moment. Whatever the problems were, PO Motor Mechanic Talbot would be getting on with it, and meanwhile was best not badgered for a prognosis.
Had heard nothing from radar, he realized, since the action had started. Still hearing nothing. He glanced round: ‘Mid—’
The engineroom telephone buzzed. Speak of the devil…
‘Bridge.’
‘Talbot here, sir. Stopping the port wing.’
‘How long for, Chief?’
‘Can’t say, sir. No longer’n we have to, but—’
‘Starboard wing’s OK, is it?’
‘Not really, sir, no… But—stopping port now, sir.’
Hanging up…
‘Skipper, sir?’
Kingsmill, at his elbow. Newbolt had been putting his glasses back up, and continued with that movement. ‘Yes, Tony. Let’s hear the worst.’ Resuming a search across the bow: there probably were other enemy units about—otherwise why would that fellow have bothered to make a challenge, he’d have known whatever he met was hostile… Kingsmill told him, ‘Several hits aft, sir. Engineroom’s in a hell of a state—there was a burst internally, damn lucky they weren’t all killed, but the only casualty in there was Stoker Nield, half his left hand blown off. Sort of concussed too though, I think. Fox was killed, I’m sorry to say—not much of him left, looked like a 20-millimetre hit him in the chest—and Lloyd was hit in the thigh. He and Nield’ll be brought up in two shakes—I’m getting ready for them now. Quite a bit of damage amidships here too, sir—perforations back there, for instance. Bursts on the plating—from the one that turned across our stern, he did most of the other damage too—anyway, fragments penetrated. And the aerials here, of course—’
‘Aerials?’
Hardly taking it in, at that moment: he’d turned for another look astern, at that German still burning, as likely as not sinking—best part of a mile away, by this time—and another silhouetted against the glow, passing this side of it—moving slowly, might be passing a tow or trying to take off survivors. It was surprising that one should be still afloat, after those explosions.
Exactly 2200 now. The whole action had lasted just under four minutes.
Able Seaman Fox, from Preston, had been a valuable as well as popular member of the ship’s company. Great fisherman, with a keen eye for the presence of mackerel. He was married, too—only a few months ago, to a girl from Manchester who had a job in a munitions factory and was living with his parents.
If one hadn’t deluded oneself into believing the Raumboote were MTBs, Fox would be alive, his wife and parents not in line for misery.
The W/T aerials—getting back to this now, with some sense of shock—had been brought down, the upper section of the mast and its yard splintered, and the 286 dipole aerial as well as the shaft it turned on was just scrap-iron. Starboard side of the bridge here too—it looked as if something had taken a bite out of the ‘egg-box’ wind-deflectors—where the R/T aerial had been, for Christ’s sake, just a few feet aft of his own seat in this corner. That whip-aerial had gone, completely. Looking back at the mast—he could see its splintered top and tatters of gear hanging from it against the now diffuse and distant glow of the burning R-boat—he was amazed he hadn’t seen it before—or been aware of anything like it at the time. Hadn’t even seen it in the starshell’s light. And this other damage within virtually arm’s length of him…
There’d be no action report going out for sure. No radar either; Pickering could take over Fox’s job—ammo supply back aft, as well as depth-charges and the CSA smoke-making gear, Chloro-Suphonic Acid.
The telegraphist, Shaw, would also be available for other employment. As lookout and for any signalling that might be called for at some later stage, perhaps. Use Chandler elsewhere, then.
The lower, right-angle spur with the QH aerial on it looked all right. Small mercies—if it was.
‘Tony—see if the QH is working. If it is, get a fix on and give me a course to steer for Basse du Renier. Before you start on the casualties, all right?’
‘Aye aye—’
‘Wait.’ He’d changed his mind. ‘Mid—you see to that. And get Shaw up to clear away this shambles. Tony—might put Pickering in Fox’s place.’
‘Done it, sir—he’s there.’
‘And Lloyd’s job?’
‘I’ve moved Burrows over, and Mottram port side, temporarily.’
‘Good.’
Not bad, anyway—for a cleric’s son. Newbolt had a hand on the starboard throttle, easing that surviving engine down to just enough revs to keep steerage-way on her. With things as they were already he wasn’t imposing unnecessary strains elsewhere. The telegraphist, Shaw, might conceivably be able to rig some sort of jury aerial for the R/T, he hoped. It wa
s the TCS voice-radio with a whip-aerial, antenna-type, a great improvement on the older sets, but not having had it long one didn’t know all that much about it. Shaw would, of course. Another hope was that Lloyd, the torpedoman, wasn’t going to be out of action for long, that he might be able to manage down there, at a pinch, if and when the time came. Perhaps with assistance—from Chandler, for instance. Then—glasses up, sweeping from broad on one beam to the other—wondering whether maybe he should have stayed clear of the R-boats: turned away earlier, when radar had first picked them up, made himself scarce. Although aggression and engaging the enemy whenever there was an opportunity to do so was supposed to be at the heart of this racket—one had certainly never heard of anyone being encouraged to run away.
He still should have.
‘Shaw?’
‘Yessir.’ The telegraphist was groping around in the mess of cables and other junk. ‘Proper mess we got here, sir.’
‘When you’ve sorted it, can you do something about getting R/T working? Jury aerial?’
‘Well—I’ll have ago…’
‘Good man. Sooner the better.’
Sworder came back up. Kingsmill too. The snotty reported, ‘Course should be south thirty-two west, sir.’
‘Steer that, Cox’n.’
‘South thirty-two west, sir, aye aye…’
‘You handled her damn well, Cox’n. ’ He had his glasses up, sweeping slowly across the sector from which the R-boats might come hunting—if they’d any reason to guess their assailant was languishing here. Hearing Kingsmill at the rear of the bridge calling, ‘Let’s have you, then!’ Gilchrist hadn’t acknowledged the compliment: or if he had, it had been inaudible. Meanwhile these were the wounded men whom Kingsmill was summoning: cheerful tone, for a stoker with part of a hand gone and a torpedoman with bullets or fragments in one leg. Kingsmill would have laid out his gear in the wheelhouse, amongst it as well as bandages and iodine and forceps for extracting any easily-accessible bullets etcetera would be ampoules of morphine, also the new sulphur-powder—sulphanilamide?—which was such a major boon to the untrained medical practitioner.
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