Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press
BY ALEXANDER KENT
Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Sloop of War
To Glory We Steer
Command a King’s Ship
Passage to Mutiny
With All Despatch
Form Line of Battle!
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Signal-Close Action!
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory
Success to the Brave
Colours Aloft!
Honour This Day
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Cross of St George
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Relentless Pursuit
Man of War
Band of Brothers
BY DOUGLAS REEMAN
Badge of Glory
First to Land
The Horizon
Dust on the Sea
Knife Edge
Twelve Seconds to Live
Battlecruiser
The White Guns
A Prayer for the Ship
For Valour
BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN
Halfhyde at the Bight of Benin
Halfhyde’s Island
Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest
Halfhyde to the Narrows
Halfhyde for the Queen
Halfhyde Ordered South
Halfhyde on Zanatu
BY JAMES DUFFY
Sand of the Arena
BY DEWEY LAMBDIN
The French Admiral
Jester’s Fortune
What Lies Buried
BY JAMES L. NELSON
The Only Life That Mattered
BY C.N. PARKINSON
The Guernseyman
Devil to Pay
The Fireship
Touch and Go
So Near So Far
Dead Reckoning
The Life and Times of Horatio Hornblower
BY JAN NEEDLE
A Fine Boy for Killing
The Wicked Trade
The Spithead Nymph
BY FREDERICK MARRYAT
Frank Mildmay or The Naval Officer
The King’s Own
Mr Midshipman Easy
Newton Forster or
The Merchant Service
Snarleyyow or The Dog Fiend
The Privateersman
The Phantom Ship
BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON
Storm Force to Narvik
Last Lift from Crete
All the Drowning Seas
A Share of Honour
BY R.F. DELDERFIELD
Too Few for Drums
Seven Men of Gascony
BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO
The Eighteenth Captain
Between Two Fires
BY JOHN BIGGINS
A Sailor of Austria
BY JULIAN STOCKWIN
Mutiny
Quarterdeck
BY DUDLEY POPE
Ramage
Ramage & The Drumbeat
Ramage & The Freebooters
Governor Ramage R.N.
Ramage’s Prize
Ramage & The Guillotine
Ramage’s Diamond
Ramage’s Mutiny
Ramage & The Rebels
The Ramage Touch
Ramage’s Signal
Ramage & The Renegades
Ramage’s Devil
Ramage’s Trial
Ramage’s Challenge
Ramage at Trafalgar
Ramage & The Saracens
Ramage & The Dido
BY V.A. STUART
Victors and Lords
The Sepoy Mutiny
Massacre at Cawnpore
The Cannons of Lucknow
The Heroic Garrison
The Valiant Sailors
The Brave Captains
Hazard’s Command
Hazard of Huntress
Hazard in Circassia
Victory at Sebastopol
Guns to the Far East
Escape from Hell
BY DAVID DONACHIE
The Devil’s Own Luck
The Dying Trade
A Hanging Matter
An Element of Chance
The Scent of Betrayal
A Game of Bones
On a Making Tide
Tested by Fate
Breaking the Line
Published by McBooks Press 2005
Copyright © Alexander Fullerton 1982
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Limited
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.
Cover Painting by Paul Wright
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fullerton, Alexander, 1924-
A share of honour / by Alexander Fullerton.
p. cm. — (The Nicholas Everard WWII saga ; bk. 4) ISBN 1-59013-095-2 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Everard, Nick (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—20th century—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939-1945—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6056.U435S53 2005
823’.914—dc22
2005009359
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If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men the greater share of honour. Shakespeare: Henry V, before Agincourt
From a German staff report, late 1941: “The most dangerous British weapon in the Mediterranean is the submarine, especially those operating from Malta … a very severe supply crisis must occur relatively soon …”
From Admiral Raeder’s reply: “The Naval Staff agrees entirely … [and] considers immediate measures to remedy the situation imperative, otherwise not only our offensive but the entire Italo-German position in North Africa will be lost.”
CHAPTER ONE
Mist clinging to the sea’s dark surface thickened the night: lights on the coast six miles away seemed to quiver through it. The submarine, with her main ballast tanks partially flooded, was trimmed down to lie low in the water, to present a low silhouette and also so that she could dive quickly if she had to, slip under literally in seconds. Her diesel engines growled through muffled exhausts, driving her shorewards at only a few knots but also pumping fresh power into her batteries. That steady grumble and the swish of the sea along her sides were the only sounds, and they’d have been inaudible a few hundred yards away, but here in enemy waters they seemed frighteningly loud. Sub-Lieutenant Paul Everard RNVR, hunched in the front of Ultra’s bridge with binoculars at his eyes, wouldn’t have addressed the two look-outs in anything above a murmur: you were in the enemy’s backyard and you knew it, felt it.
Enjoyed it, too … Despite the fact that in the forefront of his mind was the knowledge that an enemy could show up at any second, and that wh
en it happened he’d have about one more second in which to react— and react the right way, at that. Straining his eyes, living through them, aware that behind him the look-outs’ concentration would be as total as his own, Paul could feel the tension in himself and them, the sense of solitariness in an enclosing perimeter of threat and danger; he could feel the tautness of his own nerves and awareness of personal responsibility for other men’s lives racking up the tension. At the same time his mind didn’t need to separate itself from the work of probing the darkness to know that this was what he’d wanted, aimed for, that he wouldn’t for any price have been anywhere but here.
That land on the bow, with the lights flickering along it, was the toe of Italy.
“Bridge!”
Without taking the glasses from his eyes, he lowered his face to the voicepipe and answered in a quieter tone than the helmsman’s, “Bridge.”
“Captain coming up, sir.”
And he could hear him, clambering out of the upper hatch, the top of the conning-tower. James Ruck, Lieutenant, DSC, RN. Paul edged over to make room for him. Nobody had any reason to speak, for a while: Ruck became another pair of eyes, a fourth probe of the predawn dark and a hostile coast. He asked, after a few minutes, “How are the Measures?”
“No movement, sir.”
By “Measures” he meant the pair of shore lights that represented some kind of anti-submarine device, almost certainly direction-finding equipment. Malta submariners had christened them “Mussolini’s Mysterious Measures,” short title MMM. The pair of lights burned horizontally to each other: if they swung to the vertical, chances were an E-boat would soon come racing seaward along the beam. So when they changed position you dived, and within ten or twenty minutes heard the A/S patrol pound overhead.
Ruck had his glasses on the local pair now. It was anyone’s guess why they worked on some occasions and not on others—like now, when this submarine was well within any direction-finder’s range. Perhaps it was because she was almost bow-on to them: trimmed down like this, she’d be showing about as much reflective surface as a floating oil drum. The general opinion was that the lights were an adjunct to the direction-finding apparatus, their only purpose being to guide patrol-craft towards intruders.
Ruck muttered, “You’d think they’d be on their toes, in a spot like this.” Paul murmured, “Probably all pissed.”
Ruck grunted; he was stooped over the gyro repeater, sighting across it for land bearings. He’d get a left-hand edge of land, and a cross-bearing on Cape Spartivento. He said, still at it, “Dive in about half an hour, Sub. I’ll give you a shout.” A searchlight beam sprang out, swinging skyward and then down to sweep along the coastline to the left; as it lifted again another joined it, criss-crossing. Those lights were near Cape dell’Armi and they’d been on and off several times during the night; now they were illuminating the headland on which Ruck was taking his left-edge bearing. He murmured, “Thanks, chums.” Then he’d gone, to transfer the fix from his memory to the chart; Paul heard the clatter of his boots in the hatch, and he was alone again, taking another quick glance at the MMM lights. They were still horizontal. He pivoted slowly, examining every foot of the surrounding darkness.
Diving in half an hour: that would make it about 0500. Paul’s watch now was from 0415 to 0615, so he’d have about an hour’s dived watch-keeping while they motored underwater into the approaches to the straits. The Messina Straits, the gap between Italy and Sicily; this was the southern end of them. It was a prime area for targets, but it was also well patrolled, an obvious place for submarines to haunt and therefore to be hunted.
Land, dotted here and there with lights, lay from broad on the starboard bow to fine on the other. Another half-hour, and making-good about five knots, meant Ultra would be roughly three miles from the coast when she dived. By the time it was fully light—around the time he, Paul, would be handing over the watch—she’d be getting into the funnel of the straits and probably be less than a mile offshore.
The MMM lights were still horizontal. The closer you got to them, he supposed, the more you’d need to be alert to them … This time yesterday, when they’d arrived for their first day of patrol on this billet, they’d approached along the western coast, the Sicilian side, and there’d been no Mysterious Measures there. He shifted to the left, to begin a new sweep on the bow again.
And stopped. Moving the glasses slowly back the other way …
A dark patch: something darker than its surroundings. Low to the water, and right ahead. He was holding his breath, taking another moment in which to make certain he wasn’t only imagining—
“Look-outs down!”
They were in the hatch, tumbling in, one on top of the other. Paul said into the voicepipe, “Dive, dive, dive!” then dragged down on the lever of the cock that shut it, sealed it against the sea: he’d jumped into the hatch on the head of the second lookout and he was reaching up to drag the heavy lid down over him. The diesels had cut out abruptly and main vents had opened to let air out and water in: the sea was rising, surrounding and engulfing, sweeping over, noisy through the conning-tower’s steel. He’d got the hatch shut and he was forcing the clips on, then pushing in the brass cotter-pins to hold them shut; at the same time he called down for the captain’s information, “E-boat lying stopped right ahead, sir!”
In the control room the signalman, Janaway, was standing ready to shut and clip the lower hatch.
“How far off was he, Sub?”
Paul told his CO, “Mile—half a mile—hard to say, sir. Only just visible, not distinct at all, but low and small, so—”
“Might they have seen us?”
Several other pairs of ears waited for the answer, sharing the captain’s interest. The depthgauge needles were swinging past the forty-foot marks. Hugo Wykeham, Ultra’s tall and urbane first lieutenant, controlling the dive with an eye on the planesmen and a hand on the instrument through which he passed orders to the trim-tank operators, told Engineroom Artificer Quinn, “Shut main vents.”
Quinn, bearded—as opposed to merely unshaven, like most of the men around him—slammed the levers back. “Main vents shut, sir.”
Paul was telling Ruck he didn’t think the E-boat had spotted them. At least, he’d no reason to believe it had.
Ruck told Wykeham, “One hundred feet.”
“Blow Q, sir?”
He’d hesitated, then nodded.”Yes.” He turned to the helmsman. “Port ten. Steer three-one-oh.”
Blowing the quick-diving tank, Q, was a calculated risk, because it would make a noise, which in the circumstances was undesirable. But it had to be blown sooner or later: you couldn’t easily get the boat into trim when it was full, not without making at least as much noise by pumping for quite a long time on a bow tank. It was better to get it done with. Wykeham nodded to Quinn, and the ERA opened a valve to send high-pressure air thumping down the pipe into that tank to blow the water out of it, back into the sea. When its indicator light went out he reported, screwing the valve shut, “Q blown, sir.”
“Ten of port wheel on, sir.” “Vent Q inboard?”
“No,” Ruck told his first lieutenant. “But I want slow grouped down on one screw as soon as you can manage it.”
Wykeham took stock of his trim, the balance of the submarine. Until you had her in trim you needed a certain speed through the water in order to hold her to the ordered depth; perfection was a “stop-trim,” when she’d hang motionless, with no way on her and neither rising nor sinking. He seemed to have things reasonably in control, anyway—the hydroplanes weren’t having to work hard, and the bubble in the fore-and-aft spirit level was just half a degree aft of the centreline. He glanced round at the telegraphman—Able Seaman West, who was also the gun trainer—and told him to go aft and pass the word to group down and stop the port motor. Wykeham was passing the order by word of mouth because the telegraphs made a clanging sound and the E-boat lying up there would have hydrophones, a pair of earphones clamped to some
close-cropped skull … Ruck asked his own asdic operator, Newton, “Anything?”
Newton’s expression was always vacant when he was listening. He shook his long, narrow head. He was a goofy-looking man at the best of times.
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 1