A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Say that again.”

  “Lucky meeting like this. I’d have been round to see you, later.” Trolley was wearing what looked like two days’ growth of yellow beard. Jack realized he’d been wrong in that particular. Wearing, also, a friendly grin, nothing like the Cardiff sneer. He asked them, “Was it a rough trip round?”

  Sharp shrugged. “Bit choppy, don’t you know.”

  “They’re taking us out to the Scillies and back tomorrow.” The soldier waved a hand towards the ML jetty. “Idea being to get the boys used to being seasick. Not sure I want to get used to it.” He laughed. “But listen, Jack. Since I’m the devil you know, so to speak, I’ve been told to liaise with you. First thing is that if you want to, you and your team can exercise with my lot. Runs and so on, and weapons training. It’s for you to say, but you’d be welcome.”

  “Thanks.” Jack nodded. “When?”

  “Not tomorrow. We’ll be on the briny. Day after—Monday? About Tuesday or Wednesday I believe we’ll be getting briefed, and you may be included in that, I think.”

  “Well, one might hope—”

  “The thing is—well, no doubt your boss will explain all this, but he’s away today, in Plymouth, although he’s probably left orders for you with his minions—the point is, I’ve been told your briefing will be military more than naval, at this stage. We’re being briefed earlier than your people, because we’ve got so much detail to work out. And then to fit you into it … But anyway, I’ll contact you on Monday.”

  Sharp said, “Enjoy your outing tomorrow.”

  “Weather’s improving, they say.” Trolley glanced seaward. “Forecast’s pretty good.”

  Jack asked him, “Like to come aboard for a drink tonight?” “Thanks, but I’m still on the wagon.” He laughed. “See you Monday.”

  At Cardiff, he’d seemed poisonous. Jack said to Sharp as they walked on to find the naval headquarters, “Extraordinary. He’s quite a decent bloke.”

  “Bit scary, all that fitness lark. Never saw much wrong with him apart from that.”

  You’re so mulish, Jack. Fiona’s voice, echoing round his head. And so damn moody! You’re your own worst enemy, anyone tell you that before?

  At Cardiff he’d been restive, pent-up, ready to go, and sick of the interminable training sessions. He’d felt like a boxed-up stallion; violence of any sort would have brought relief. But here—well, it was all around you, everywhere you looked you saw the imminence of action.

  That—and in the background, Fiona …

  Monday, 0045 …

  Steering 215 degrees, nine knots, running charge. Moon hidden behind low cloud, wind northwest force two to three, low swell on the quarter. Ultra had sneaked out of Malta before dawn on Sunday, dived at the outer end of the swept channel and surfaced last evening at 1900. Shrimp Simpson’s orders to Ruck were to establish patrol across the northwest approaches to Tripoli, within certain limits and with a line of with-drawal—if that became necessary—towards the Kerkennah islands. They’d be on the billet by tomorrow afternoon.

  Paul had taken over the watch from Wykeham half an hour ago. Ruck was awake, though, down there, and fidgeting around. Judging by what he’d written in his night-order book, he was worried about the danger from E-boats in this area. It made sense, too: this was the direct route from Malta to Tripoli, and Tripoli was an obvious place for the Malta submarines to watch. It was a major port, one of the most important off loading points for Axis convoys which—usually—made the short crossing from the western tip of Sicily to Cape Bon in Tunisia and then slunk down-coast across the gulfs of Hammemet and Quabes to Tripoli or even, now, to Benghazi. But they were under such pressure to get supplies to Rommel at this stage that they were taking the risk of sending convoys straight across, as well; two such convoys had been reported to be at sea yesterday, and surface forces—Admiral Vian with three cruisers and nine destroyers—had left Alexandria to intercept them. Vian was aiming to kill another bird with the same stone—to destroy those convoys if he could catch them, but also to cover the withdrawal from Malta of the cruiser Cleopatra and the destroyer Kingston.

  Paul glanced round, to check that the look-outs were doing their job. As they were, of course. Stolid, silent figures braced for support against the periscope standards as Ultra pitched and rolled to the swell that was running up on her starboard quarter. White foam framed her, sluiced across the small amount of her that showed above water: the long bow swung up, axed down, hydroplanes slamming flatly on the white out-curving bow-wave. The diesels rumbled in unison, and the wind was carrying their exhaust away to port.

  The harbour diving business had gone off well enough. He’d done it on the first day with Wykeham watching every move and teaching him to flood her down very carefully so she’d settle gently and evenly on the mud. On the second day he’d been allowed to take her out on his own, and there’d been no problems. He’d known he could manage it, of course, but there’d still been some internal twinges of alarm. He’d had a day off on Friday, but most of it had been spent in the underground shelter, and it would have been more comfortable on the bottom of the harbour, where at least you had a bunk to sleep on. On Saturday, Ultra had been the boat selected to lie alongside Lazaretto, with the base staff all concentrating on her and the surrounding Bofors guns to keep the bombers from her. The Luftwaffe weren’t all kept high, though: the pilot of a Messerschmitt 109 flying up-creek at two hundred feet had waved an ungloved hand to a spare-crew officer on the Lazaretto balcony, who’d sworn that the airman had red lacquer on his fingernails. “Probably Goering’s nephew,” someone had commented that evening in the wardroom. But that same afternoon a Ju88 dropped its stick of bombs down the centre of Lazaretto Creek, and it had certainly looked like a deliberate probing for dived submarines.

  On Saturday evening the other half of the ship’s company returned, and that night all hands worked hard storing ship and to have her ready to slip out at dawn. Everything else—torpedoes, fuel, fresh water and so on—had been replenished during the previous two nights.

  I am, now …

  You tended to spend more time examining the starboard side, the direction of Lampedusa—sixty miles away on that beam—where you’d naturally expect E-boats to be coming from. It was a tendency to guard against, though, because they could be anywhere. Returning from wide, searching sweeps, for instance. It was also an E-boat tactic to lie stopped, silent and practically invisible, waiting for unwary victims. A craft that small, with camouflage painting and showing no wake or bow-wave, wasn’t an easy thing to spot.

  “Bridge!”

  He answered, “Bridge.”

  “Captain’s coming up, sir.”

  Ruck heaved himself out of the hatch and stumbled into the front of the bridge on Paul’s right. He was concentrating on that starboard side, now. Then all around … But only for a couple of minutes, before he lowered his binoculars.

  “I’m turning in now, Sub. Keep your eyes skinned.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Searching across the bow and then slowly down the port side. Following the line of the horizon, vague as it was, looking for any break or interruption in it. He hadn’t heard Ruck leave, and when he swung back to search the other side he saw he was using the “pig’s ear,” the funnel-shaped bridge urinal. A pipe led from the base of the funnel down outside the bridge casing to the sea: it was washed through every time the boat dived.

  Glasses misty again: he fumbled in his pocket for some periscope paper to wipe the lenses with … Ruck had gone down when Paul resumed his inspection of the dark, murmuring sea and the dim, hard-to-define horizon.

  Unslaked had sailed the day before Ultra: she’d gone northwestward, through the Sicilian minefield, to patrol of Palermo. Upholder, Unbeaten, P31 and P34 were also on patrol. Dotted around this central basin of the Mediterranean in their various patrol areas, they’d all be on the surface now, all charging batteries, all keeping the same intense and vital lookout … He’d checked suddenl
y, thinking he’d seen something: something dark, fine on the bow to port. Sweeping back across it, keeping the glasses moving because you didn’t see much at night by looking straight at it …

  Nothing. Resuming the search now. It was easy to imagine things; and when it happened your heart jumped, the breath stuck in your throat. Sweeping on now, down the port side, Ultra corkscrewing to the quartering swell. Pivoting slowly, he swept on past the beam, catching a noxious whiff of diesel fumes …

  “Object on the starboard quarter, sir!” A yell from the starboard lookout … “E-boat I think, sir!”

  “Down below!”

  He’d shouted into the voicepipe, “Port fifteen!”Turning her stern to it. Glasses up on that bearing, searching. And he’d got it: white flare of bow-wave. It was far enough away to get under, anyway … “Midships. Dive, dive, dive!” He’d shut the cock on the pipe and he was jumping into the hatch, vents already open, diesels stopped and sea piling, swelling round the tower as she pushed down into it.

  In the control room the look-out—it was Furness, a torpedoman— was telling Ruck what he’d seen. Paul confirmed: “It was an E-boat, sir. Starboard quarter, but I turned stern-on.”

  “Forty feet. Group down, slow together … Hear anything, Newton?”

  Newton, freshly roused from sleep, looked like a corpse. He shook his head: his expression suggested he didn’t want to hear anything, either. Then he sat up straighter, and his eyes were suddenly fully open; a forefinger pointed upwards. “Fast HE, sir … E-boat … Coming over us, sir …”

  In less than a minute they heard it, right over the top. Then fading, holding the same straight course.

  Ruck said—straightening from the ladder, against which he’d been reclining—”We’ll wait a little while. May have a chum tailing him.” But ten minutes later, with nothing on asdics, he brought her up to twenty-eight feet, then twenty-five, for a periscope search. Not that he’d be seeing much, in this moonless night … “Down periscope.” Looking over at Newton again: “Still nothing?” “Clear all round, sir.”

  He nodded to Wykeham. “Stand by to surface.”

  You had to press on—to get to the billet, and to have the readings well up before you dived for the daylight. Ruck said, a few minutes later— on the surface again, with 300 revolutions per minute on the diesels and a running charge port side, everything as it had been half an hour ago except that the bridge was running wet—”It doesn’t matter a damn being put down. I don’t care if we dive and surface like a bloody porpoise all night long. So long as we don’t stay up when we ought to dive, that’s what matters.”

  0150, now. Incidents like that one did tend to make a two-hour watch pass quickly. Less than half an hour, and Bob McClure would be up here. The little Scot had been as dour as hell ever since he’d come back from the rest camp on Saturday evening. Paul hadn’t heard him speak a dozen words since then, off duty.

  “Bridge!”

  “Bridge.”

  “Relieve look-out, sir?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He heard it happening, behind him. When a man was taking over, you waited until his eyes had adapted themselves to the dark before you left him to it.

  “Port look-out relieved, sir.”

  “All right, Flyte.”

  Then the other one. He told him, “Glad you saw that, Furness.”

  “So am I, sir.”

  Next man up would be McClure. Paul didn’t think he’d have turned in again for so short a time, but it might be just as well to make sure, perhaps. He called down, “See if the navigating officer needs a shake, will you?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  McClure came up seething with ill-temper.

  “What the hell would I want a shake for? You knew I was awake, didn’t you? Think I can’t tell the fuckin’ time, or something?”

  Paul had his glasses up, searching the sea ahead. He asked him, “Are you crossed in love, or something?” He got no reaction … “What is it? Shoats wouldn’t let you catch ‘em, out at the camp?” Shoats were Maltese quadrupeds, half sheep and half goat. Paul swept on, slowly and carefully, round the bow and down the starboard side.

  McClure muttered after a minute, “If the witty stuff’s over, I’ll take her now.”

  “Right.” He told him the revs, course, running charge … “Skipper wants a sharp look-out kept for E-boats. Motto for the night is dive first, ask questions later.”

  “I did read the night-order book.”

  “You’re all right then, are you?”

  “Sure. I’ve got the weight.”

  Flat as hell … Paul asked him, “What’s wrong, Bob?”

  Silence. He’d begun his own looking-out. Then: “You want to know?”

  “Christ’s sake, I asked.”

  “My brother’s dead. Shot down in his Lanc. Letter from home, Saturday.”

  “Bob—I’m so damn sorry—”

  “So’re my folks. They’re bloody desperate … Look, I’ve got her now, all right?”

  War …

  People got killed. Surprise, surprise … But—all very well flying Jolly Rogers, winning medals, staying alive and cheerful, having other people consistently delighted with your progress and achievements …

  No. Take that back. Anyone could drown. As he’d known, and clearly had in mind, when he wrote that. Embarrassed, finding words for it.

  David Wanklyn, everyone said, was a gentle, quiet man who hated the fruits of his own success. It was said that he despaired, privately, in the knowledge of young men killed, wives made widows, parents broken.

  But either you did it, or you lost the war—to people who did not mind doing it. It really was that simple. It meant shooting, burning, drowning your fellow humans, and inflicting deep, lasting sadness on those others. But what else, what alternative—

  “You all right, Sub?”

  Ruck, from his bunk. In the dim light you couldn’t see much more than the whites of his eyes watching from where the pillow was. Paul hadn’t been aware of arriving in the wardroom; he’d been climbing down the ladder, thinking … He nodded towards the eyes.

  “Yes, sir. Fine.”

  “Standing like a graven image for the last two minutes.”

  “I was”—he leaned forward on to the table—”just thinking … Sir, did McClure tell you—his brother, the one who’s a bomber pilot—shot down?”

  “Oh, Christ . . .”Then: “How did he hear?”

  “Had a letter from his parents—yesterday. When he got back from the camp, I suppose.”

  He kicked his boots off and climbed on to his bunk. Some minutes later, in the fringes of sleep, he heard Ruck murmur, “Thanks for telling me,” then the helmsman calling “Captain’s coming up, sir …” He didn’t want to know, or think: he drifted back into sleep and the next thing he knew was a fist banging on the wooden edging of the bunk and a voice insisting, “Five past six, sir, your watch now. Torpedo officer, sir?”

  “All right. Thanks. Good.” Muddled: remembering last night, what McClure had told him. And what day was this, for God’s sake? Monday? Could be one of seven: you still had to turn out, get in there …

  The boat was at periscope depth: they’d dived her quietly on the watch, Wykeham told him. The dead-reckoning position on the chart put them fifty miles north of Tripoli. There’d been no chance of star-sights, because of cloud cover. Course was still 215, motors slow ahead and grouped down. Wykeham said, “Fairly light up there now. Nothing in sight a minute ago, but d’you want to take a shufti?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  Low swell, and low cloud: cloud and sea different shades of grey. And nothing else … He sent the periscope down. ERA Summers was on the panel, Flyte on asdics, Lovesay and Stapleton on the hydroplanes and Creagh helmsman. Main vent levers were in the shut position and the trim looked good.

  “OK. I’ve got her.”

  “Skipper told me about young Bob.” Wykeham spoke quietly. “Poor little bugger.”

  Pa
ul nodded.”He used to talk about his brother quite often. Sergeant-Pilot, flying Lancasters, and he’d just got engaged, remember?”

  The watch passed uneventfully. Just after 0730 Shaw roused the wardroom with breakfast, the watch changed at 0800, and ten minutes after that McClure shuffled in to take over. He told Paul, jerking his head towards the wardroom and speaking very quietly, “Skipper offered to take my watch last night.”

  “Did he … ? Look, I’m sorry, Bob, I really did have to tell him.”

  McClure shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  It was a very quiet day. The sea was whipping up a bit, but it wasn’t anything you’d feel at periscope depth. At about eleven, in Wykeham’s watch, when they crossed the hundred-fathom line Ruck had the course changed to due south, and by 5 pm they were twenty-three miles northwest of Tripoli with nothing in sight except some fishing boats and an occasional aircraft. They ran on inshore for another hour, then turned about and back-tracked, surfacing in the dark at 2030. Ruck turned her to 215 degrees: he’d decided they’d spend the night patrolling to and fro over a twelve-mile track, reversing course every two hours. Making six knots on one engine, with a standing charge on the other: they’d be roughly twenty miles from Tripoli all night, and in a position to intercept any convoy from the northwest.

  That evening, it was wardroom versus stokers in the ship’s uckers tournament. Uckers was a game like ludo and a favourite sailors’ pastime. The wardroom team consisted of Wykeham and Paul, and their opponents were Leading Stoker “Sinbad” Seager and Stoker Maskell. The venue was the wardroom; it was a semifinal, each team having won one previous round, and a group of spectators had collected in the gangway.