First Command

by Richard Freeman

  Ahead was an empty sea. So Rawlinson had rushed off in the night and probably knew nothing of the attack. He must have taken the first ten or so ships. By now he was doubtless doing 10-knots. Steadfast had no other choice than to declare himself commodore of the rear convoy.

  But what a convoy! It was spread out over perhaps fifteen miles of length and he had no idea what width it was. The two orderly columns of cargo ships, tucked comfortably into the marked channel, were now as widely dispersed as the currants in a penny bun.

  His first job was to pull the convoy together.

  ***

  Gardiner reappeared on the bridge just as the hot coffee that Steadfast had ordered arrived.

  ‘Good morning, Number One.’

  Gardiner returned the greeting and asked, ‘How’s the convoy looking?’

  ‘Between the commodore and Jerry we’ve been left in an almighty mess. The commodore’s not to be seen. Heaven knows how far ahead he is, but we’re on our own now. We won’t race him,’ replied Steadfast.

  ‘Can we manage, sir?’

  ‘That’s not a question which we have the luxury to ask ourselves, Number One. Somehow we’ve got to get whatever’s left of the convoy to Tilbury, commodore or no commodore.’

  ‘Just us?’

  ‘Defiant and the corvette. It looks as if the commodore’s taken Tremendous with him.’

  ‘And what do we do for a commodore?’

  ‘That’s me now. I’ve no choice but to take over.’

  Steadfast was more than a little pleased at this thought. He’d come out of the last night rather well with two E-boats disposed of (even if one was with a little bit of help from Jerry) and Defiant was still in fighting form. The men had turned out rather well. It was a pity about Paris. He’d done splendidly. He had even sent two men after the E-boat commander. It was not his fault that the commander was just that bit ahead in his thinking. And perhaps the absence of Tremendous was of little consequence. She didn’t seem to be around when needed last night. On balance, better to go on alone and so leave the Admiralty in no doubt as to who had won through. Thank God Ross was in one piece – he would keep his old Whitehall friends informed of Defiant’s triumphs.

  Steadfast straightened himself up and looked out to sea, surveying what he could locate of the merchantmen. He might have lost a few ratings and have a midshipman out of commission, but he wasn’t going to lose a convoy.

  ‘Time to get to work, Number One. Those men out there have put their faith in us. We’re not going to let them down.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ replied Gardiner, his mind still on the weakness of the escort after the night’s depredations.

  ‘Come on now, Number One, buck up! We’ve a big job on our hands this morning pulling this lot into some sort of order.’ As he said this, Steadfast waved his right arm in a derisory manner in a vaguely northward direction, where he presumed the convoy lay scattered.’

  ‘We’ll slow down the convoy to 5-knots.’

  ‘Five?’ gasped Gardiner.

  ‘Yes, five. It’s our only hope of pulling the blasted convoy together. Then, we chase down to the rear, getting the ships to close up. When we’ve found the last straggler, we’ll come back up at 10-knots – that gives us a better chance to deal with those bloody-minded masters who don’t like taking orders. There’s always some idiot who thinks he can make it by himself.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, we should be back at the head of the convoy by midday and then, with luck, we can resume our 7-knots.’

  ‘And if Jerry attacks while we’re rounding up the sheep?’

  ‘Gardiner, I really don’t know. All I know is that we can’t just steam on when the convoy’s about as big as the Isle of Wight.’

  ***

  Steadfast chose two ships to head the two new columns and gave them their course with firm instructions not to exceed 5-knots until the Defiant returned to take over the commodore’s position.

  ‘What are those two masters fussing about, Number One?’

  ‘5-knots, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  Gardiner, rather pleased to see how much more he knew about convoys than Steadfast did, explained: ‘Lots of colliers won’t answer the rudder at that speed. Their masters are worried they won’t be able to keep their ships heading on the course.’

  Steadfast shrugged his shoulders and growled, ‘Umf. Fussy old lot. Never happy. Oh well, they’ll have to manage as best they can. We’re off on a straggler hunt. Tally-ho!’

  Gardiner inwardly winced at Steadfast’s hunting reference. It all seemed rather flippant, even un-naval, to him.

  Defiant proceeded back down the convoy, searching out those ships that could be found and giving them each a new position. It was slow work since Steadfast had to be sure that each master understood his orders before he moved on to the next. With no commodore and the convoy long having lost the sequence set to facilitate early departures, the best he could do was to bunch the ships back into a manageable formation. The niceties of a neatly ordered convoy were now unthinkable.

  He reckoned the convoy was several miles wide by now so he zigzagged across it in search of all the outliers, ordering them back in. It was some hours before he found the Keswick at the end of the convoy – fifteen miles from where he had started and perhaps twenty from where the commodore now was. He marvelled at just how far the convoy had spread in so few hours.

  ***

  ‘Let’s hope we’re all back together now. Eighteen ships,’ said Steadfast as Defiant turned south to take up the leader’s position.

  ‘I wonder how many the commodore has,’ mused Gardiner.

  ‘I reckon we’ve lost at least three, so he can’t have more than fourteen. He won’t have noticed, though. He ploughs on without asking what’s going on behind. Lucky for him we’re here to sort out his messes.’

  As the Defiant came back up the convoy, Gardiner called out, ‘Something’s wrong, sir. Look at that gap!’

  Over on the coastal side of the convoy there was a huge breach in the column – enough for several ships.

  ‘Can’t have been sunk. They must have gone AWOL.’

  ‘Damn! It’s that buoy ten miles back, where the channel turns. They’ve missed it. They’ll soon realise, won’t they, sir?’

  ‘Yes – but not in the way you mean. They’re heading straight for the Eastforth sandbank.’

  Steadfast went to the engine room voice pipe: ‘Full ahead.’

  ‘Steer two-two-five.’

  ‘Are we going after them?’

  ‘Yes, but I reckon we’re too late. They’ve at most twenty minutes before they hit the sandbank.’

  Defiant raced through the convoy, her powerful wake rocking each collier as she passed and leaving behind puzzled masters as they watched their protector sprint away from them.

  ‘Ships on the port bow, sir,’ called a lookout.

  ‘We’re too late, sir. Look!’

  There on the Eastforth sandbank were three beached colliers with wisps of black smoke coming from their now useless engines. Steadfast could see men on the decks, peering over the side at the shallow water below.

  ‘Not too close, helmsman. Keep clear of the sandbank.’

  ‘Ahoy there,’ shouted Steadfast through a megaphone.

  A couple of masters appeared, one with a megaphone, who replied, ‘We’re stuck.’

  ‘Rather too obvious,’ responded Steadfast in a voice that conveyed his contempt for this display of incompetent seamanship.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Gardiner.

  ‘Nothing. We can’t hang around here. Their men will have to row themselves ashore – it’s near enough – or they could wait for the Lifeboat Service.’

  ‘Odd, isn’t it,’ said Gardiner, ‘how the lifeboats have become more or less a taxi service out here in the war?’

  ‘Rather predictable from what I’ve seen of these East Coast merchantmen,’ replied Steadfast.

  ‘Yeoman, make
a signal to the merchantmen. Will report your position. Suggest you wait for lifeboat.’

  ‘Quartermaster, steer one-three-five until we reach the middle of the convoy. Then resume course to the head of the convoy.’

  ‘Bit of a rough one, this convoy, isn’t it, sir?’ remarked Gardiner.

  ‘You could say that,’ replied Steadfast, inwardly thinking that a rough convoy was a good convoy. But his taste for adventure was soon to be tested again.

  Chapter 12 – A Visit from the Luftwaffe

  By early afternoon the convoy was once more proceeding southwards in a rough but tolerable order. Despite its ragged appearance there was an air of contentment about the small ships sitting low in a choppy sea. White slipstreams of foam at their bows contrasted with the dark grey water. The wind was breaking the surface into swelling waves, some dark, others dazzlingly yellow as they caught the low rays of the winter sun. The ships moved silently as one, as if magically propelled by some mighty invisible hand. Only the smoke streaming behind the mostly coal-burning vessels betrayed the urgent purpose of the convoy.

  ‘Not so rough this afternoon, sir,’ observed Ross.

  ‘No. The sea won’t be our enemy now. It’s the sky’s turn. The Luftwaffe will be on the prowl. We’ll need to double the lookouts. With luck we’ll have a chance to show them what the Navy’s made of.’

  The sound of clumping footsteps on the ladder caused Steadfast to turn. He was astonished to see Paris awkwardly heaving himself up onto the bridge.

  ‘Reporting for duty, sir.’

  ‘But I thought…’

  ‘The doc says there’s nothing broken – something about ligaments. He’s sort of trussed up my leg, but I can move about.’

  ‘I never turn away a volunteer. You think you’re up to standing watches?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘OK, but if you need to “sit” your watch, you’ve my permission to do so.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You can take over from Ross later.’

  Paris struggled back down the ladder, his progress impeded by his right leg being as stiff as a cannon’s ramrod.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Steadfast, ‘I think I’ve misjudged that lad.’

  ‘I think we all have,’ agreed Gardiner, ‘in a month or two no one will believe he’s only a dressed up schoolmaster.’

  ***

  The calmer sea gave Steadfast a chance to assess the damage from the collision and the storm. Aft the guardrails had been carried away as if torn off by the massive teeth of a resurrected dinosaur. Miscellaneous stanchions had been reduced to ragged stumps and large sections of splinter plating had been mangled into contorted shapes by the force of the mighty sea. A good deal of the lashed-down gear – smoke floats, cables, axes – had been brutally ripped from their mountings. Nothing too vital there, Steadfast reassured himself. Best not to think about the missing boat even if the loss of some of the abandon-ship gear was a little more serious. As to the disappearance of Ordinary Seaman Langton and the loss of Armstrong and Wood in the E-boat explosion, that was just part of the price of war. Yes, Defiant remained a fighting machine in full working order and he was in command.

  ***

  Around 2.00 pm Steadfast first heard the faintest of drones in the east. The sun was streaking through the broken cloud as he raised his glasses to search the sky. Then he saw it. He sharpened the focus and carefully studied the plane’s vague outline against a patch of blue sky. He knew it well. It was a Dornier Do 17, clearly recognisable with its shoulder wing structure and twin tail. There’s a worthy foe, thought Steadfast: speedy, manoeuvrable and a fearful opponent at low altitude. Many a ship had been taken by surprise by a Do 17 seemingly appearing from nowhere. Momentarily he wondered whether Defiant’s gunners were good enough to hit that slender airframe. Then he asked himself how he could doubt them after last night’s showing.

  While mentally preparing himself for an air attack, Steadfast noticed that the plane was keeping its altitude. Reconnaissance, he realised. Last night’s visitors had passed on the message. The convoy had been spotted again. Already its size, course and position would have been radioed back to a Luftwaffe base and German aircrew would be running to their planes.

  It was not until mid afternoon that a lookout heard the first distant sound of several aeroplane engines. ‘Aircraft approaching abaft port!’ yelled the excited port bridge lookout. He was astounded when Steadfast responded with a calm and quiet, ‘Well, sound the air attack alarm,’ as calmly as he might ask for a mug of cocoa. Ever since the reconnaissance plane had passed over, he had known his visitors would come. And he knew what it might mean for him as the nagging pain from a piece of Narvik shrapnel in his left shoulder reminded him. He had a score to settle and welcomed the moment to fight back from the depths of his being.

  As the ship went to action stations, Steadfast raised his glasses and scanned the eastward sky, his eyes dazzled by the bright sunshine breaking through the patches in the cloud. The plane was about ten miles away. He watched as it rapidly grew nearer. Then he realised it was not alone. How many planes? Two? He looked again.

  ‘Ross, take a look. Two planes, do you reckon?’

  Ross had been following the sighting too. He looked more closely. Left eye. Right eye. Both eyes.

  ‘Three, sir. Look quite high to me.’

  Yes, thought Steadfast. They’re not keen to come too close to our guns. It’s good to know they’re not suicidal types.

  And then they came – three Heinkels He 111.

  ‘Commence zigzagging, Quartermaster,’ ordered Steadfast.

  He had ordered Cole to the wheel as soon as he knew that action was imminent. Only a quartermaster was well-enough trained to throw the ship about to dodge bombs without capsizing her.

  Steadfast knew that Defiant was ready. She was a marvel of the latest technology and nothing was more up-to-date about her than her gun control. The sizeable target of a plane was just what the director was for. The guns would follow with an accuracy no man could match.

  The planes were fast approaching as the men in the gun emplacements fed the first shells into the fuse setters to pick up the fuse length from the director. Then slam went the first 35-pound shell into the breech loader.

  ‘Guns, get the range,’ called out Steadfast. ‘All guns follow director. Don’t fire until I order.’

  Guns kept the director trained on the planes as they came towards Defiant. ‘Range 12,000, sir.’

  ‘Range 10,000.’

  ‘Fire!’ yelled Steadfast.

  In the forward gun emplacement half a dozen men worked at each of the two guns, their every move carried out in a smooth synchronised rhythm – the reward for hour after hour of practice. Deftly and speedily they fed their machine of death. Up came a shell. Into the fuse-setting tray to pick up the range from the director. Slam into breech. Crash went the breech block. Fire. Grab the next shell…

  There was a deafening roar, and flashes of blinding orange from the guns. With each firing the ship appeared to stagger backwards under the blast. Men’s ears seemed ready to explode and their lungs felt as if they were bursting as they choked back the smell of cordite. Down below, the ship shook as if it were being tossed in a giant colander. Each ear-splitting round after ear-splitting round seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of the men’s bones. The bitter smell of cordite began to filter down to the bowels of the ship. The sea sprouted fountains of water as the shrapnel fell from the sky. Meanwhile the pom-poms were banging away like pneumatic drills. The whole ship seemed to spout fire, smoke and explosions like a 4th July firework display.

  Steadfast watched as the sticks of bombs spewed from the Heinkel bomb bays, falling, turning over, looking so harmless up in the sky. There was the first, over by the small tramp with the low funnel. He tensed himself for the hit. But no, the slow un-manoeuvrable steamer slid before the bomb, which fell harmlessly 20-yards behind it, throwing up a pillar of water high above the convoy. And then another, t
his time much nearer to the port side of the convoy. It fell with a screaming whistle before it too dropped into the sea. Steadfast welcomed the wind-born spray as it wet his face. It was like a baptism of his new role as commander in battle, a proof of his manly inheritance of the Navy’s tradition of commanders standing boldly on the quarterdeck under fire. Supressing the tiredness that wracked his body, he straightened up as he imagined himself standing by Nelson’s side at Trafalgar.

  Suddenly Steadfast realised that the Defiant was the next target. He could see the bomb coming down right ahead of the ship. It was tumbling in a way that seemed almost leisurely. But he was not deceived.

  ‘Hard to port,’ he calmly called, all the while standing easy.

  The ship lurched to his command.

  ‘Full ahead.’

  The bomb fell two yards to starboard, throwing up a fountain of water that fell back like a tidal wave on the Defiant, drenching the men on the station aft. On the bridge the officers and men shook off their soaking coats, wiped their glasses and anxiously turned their gaze back to the sky. Another bomb! This time to port. This Jerry knew his business. A bomb had got the better of Steadfast once; now he was determined to get even.

  ‘Hard to starboard!’

  Defiant was now moving at speed. The ship obeyed his orders like one of Steadfast’s field hunter’s that responded to every flick of his riding whip and every touch of his spurs. As she turned she heeled over and cut into the writhing sea. Ten seconds of terror spread through the ship. Down below, the engine room men had felt the first jolt when the Defiant was barely moving. This time a stoker was thrown across the engine room and another’s hand was torn from the valve he was adjusting. He grabbed a stanchion and held his breath. There was a tinkling of glass as various lanterns shattered under the violent shocks and some of the lights went out. Defiant creaked under the strain of her brutal manoeuvre. No one said a word, other than a muttered prayer. One second, two seconds, three…. ten. The bomb must have missed.