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

by Alexander Fullerton

  Sharp had seemed suspicious of it, as if he thought Jack was changing the plan on his own say-so. He’d wanted to know why he hadn’t been warned about it before.

  “It’s a new development. We’ve been hoping they’d shove off out of the way—then there’d have been no need for any variation. Maybe when the time comes they won’t be there—in which case you stick to your original brief, naturally.”

  “How’ll I know, one way or the other?”

  “Well, you’ll be told, for Christ’s sake. By the naval force commander. I suppose you stick to the original intentions unless you get orders to the contrary. OK?”

  “Seems a bit vague, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d have thought it was quite explicit.”

  Sharp pointed at the jetty in the St Nazaire Basin. “If they’re here, how the hell can you do your job?”

  “That’s what the three of us have been chewing over. And the short answer is we ignore the bastards.” Slattery laughed; Bowater managed a smile. Jack explained, “Captain Roy’s commandos, No. 5 Troop, will be a lot closer to them than we’ll be. OK, so we may get some interference from them too, but it needn’t stop us commandeering the E-boat and firing its torpedoes at our target. Here—the completed section of submarine pens, the south end of the new construction.”

  “Wouldn’t it be about as useful in the long run, and a lot easier particularly if the Möwes are there, to fire them into uncompleted pens?”

  Sharp was suggesting this because the unfinished part of the U-boat shelter was right opposite the supposed E-boat berth. There were five pens not yet roofed and nine finished, reported to be in use. Jack explained, “In the operational pens there’ll probably be some U-boats. Crewless, because they take the crews off to La Baule every night.”

  “Sounds as if they’re expecting us!”

  “Cosseting their precious submariners. Just a precaution. But any U-boats in those pens are just as much our targets as the pens themselves. Think how much effort—ships, men, weeks at sea, etc.—it takes on average to sink one U-boat. We might bag a couple in one go—and smash up their shelter.”

  “Pity we couldn’t get my Sauerkraut into the basin, use her fish as well.”

  “Signalling ahead to the Germans to open the lock gates for us?”

  “I know it’s not on.” Sharp sounded testy. “Just a pity, that’s all. Obviously we couldn’t get inside, and in any case we’ve got to be outside to re-embark you.” He shrugged. “In one place or another, now.”

  “That’s another point, Tubby,” Jack explained. “Whether it’s at the Old Mole or the Old Entrance … It’d be very neat and convenient if we could perform our task, fall back to the embarkation point and find you waiting for us, step aboard and buzz home … But actually, things don’t work out like that. There’ll be a lot of casualties, of men and craft, and very few of the landing force can reckon to go home in the ships they came in. Our own NTU party may very well be split up. It’ll be all sixes and sevens, and largely a matter of pot luck—first come, first served.”

  “You’re saying I fill up with anyone who’s ready to take off?”

  “What else could you do? Tell a crowd of wounded commandos their tickets are for different seats?”

  “Well, I take the point, but—”

  “Is that orders, sir?” Slattery asked Jack. “Survivors embark in whatever’s there with room for ‘em?”

  “Yes. It’s how it’ll turn out, anyway. As I see it, the only likely survivors in terms of transport will be this boat, the MGB and the MTB. And if we can get ourselves back aboard this one, fine, obviously … But I wouldn’t rate any of the MLs’ chances very highly.”

  “Nor would the ML skippers.”

  Sharp had said it. He added, “The ones I’ve talked to, anyway. All that bloody fuel on deck …”

  He’d muttered later, on the bridge, “Should’ve brought Maureen along …”

  It had been an enjoyable evening. Even with Bowater’s singing and Leading Torpedoman Merrit’s mouth-organ … Jack flicked his cigarette-stub away down-wind. The MLs were all in station again now, settled on the new course. They’d be on this one until midday.

  “Tynedale’s flashing, sir!”

  Shawcross had seen the Aldis-lamp flashes—not Tynedale’s but Atherstone’s as she acknowledged her consort’s message word by word. Then Atherstone asked Tynedale, “What did you see?” Jack had read that himself: he went out of the enclosed, minuscule bridge and up on to its roof, for a better field of view. Most of the NTU team were farther aft, grouped around the stern Oerlikon … He had a better height of eye from up here, but unfortunately no binoculars …

  Tynedale was under helm, turning away to port. Sauerkraut’s signalman yelled, “U-boat on the surface red nine-oh, sir!”

  It looked like a floating box, out on the port beam, a long way off. A U-boat’s conning-tower … Atherstone was casting off the MGB and turning to follow Tynedale. Exhaust smoke coughed out of the MGB’s stern as it got its own engines going, and Sharp had cut Sauerkraut’s speed to give Atherstone room to pass ahead.

  The U-boat was still there, on the surface and apparently at rest. Either it hadn’t seen the Chariot force or it was busily reporting their numbers, course and speed before it dived. Tynedale already dwindling into that far distance, and Atherstone with a pile of foam under her counter as she cracked on speed … If the U-boat hadn’t seen the MLs and Campbeltown, Jack guessed, it mightn’t spot them at all now, since the two Hunts were right in the line of sight: and when the Germans woke up to their presence, they wouldn’t have time to spare for much else.

  The crack of Tynedale’s 4-inch guns was a plain statement that she’d caught the U-boat napping. Which was just as well. The one thing Operation Chariot would not be able to survive would be to be recognized or suspected as a raiding force and reported, so that German coastal garrisons would be alerted.

  Those muffled thumps were depthcharges. Sharp panted, joining him on the bridge roof, “It must have dived. Thought they’d have got it before it …” He had his glasses trained on the scene out there. He shouted, “They have got it! It’s come up again!”

  Blown to the surface by those charges? Jack took Sharp’s word for it. All he could see were the end-on shapes of the destroyers—although another outbreak of gunfire seemed to confirm what he’d said. Sharp told him, “Can’t see much now. It broke surface, then Atherstone was in the way and now it’s gone.” He offered Jack his glasses. “Want a decko?”

  The raid would still go ahead, Jack thought, even if the U-boat had sent off an enemy report.

  “Keep her up!”

  “Sorry, sir …” Wykeham had let her dip to thirty feet. Getting her back up now, though. Ruck was at the periscope, although the ship’s company was still at watch diving. Course was 005 degrees, with one motor slow ahead. The battery had only had a partial charge, as a result of the night’s various alarms, and it was essential to conserve its power.

  “Three of the bastards, now.” He folded the handles up. “Down.” Glancing at the depthgauges, seeing the needles static at twenty-eight feet now, he told Wykeham, “It still doesn’t look like anything more than an A/S search.”

  There might be something more interesting cooking up, and there might not be. When Paul had spotted the two destroyers he’d thought Here it comes, the target we’ve been waiting for … But they’d gone back northward. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, they were working their way southward again and there were three instead of two. And unless there was something good coming along behind them, they weren’t in the least welcome.

  Lacking asdics, Ultra could only know what was happening by staying up at periscope depth and watching it. Once they were forced to go deep she’d be the booby in the game, blind and deaf and hunted by enemies who had eyes and ears.

  Ruck nodded to CERA Pool, and the periscope began its upward slither.

  “Stand by for a fix. You there, pilot?”

  McClu
re came out of the wardroom, and propped himself against the chart table. “Standing by, sir.” Ruck circled first, an all-round search; then he paused to inspect each of the destroyers in the narrows to the north. Now he was taking bearings—a right-hand edge of land, the dell’ Armi lighthouse, a left-hand edge. Back on the destroyers: and then air search, all round.

  “Down.” He went over to the chart table. “They’re searching every inch up there. Must think we’re crazy.” “What kind of destroyers, sir?”

  “Biggish. Could be Aviere or Oriani class … Where does that put us?”

  McClure drew in the last of the three bearings. Ruck touched the chart with the end of a pencil. “Our Eyetie friends are here. Well to the north. We can stay as we’re going, for a while.” He looked round.”Number One—we have three destroyers, between green two-oh and red three-oh. Keep tabs on them, and also a good eye out for seaplanes. If there’s any change I want to know prontissimo.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “I’ll be having a mug of tea.”

  While he had the chance, Paul thought the implication was. He was on edge—expecting developments, whatever he’d said about it being only an A/S search. He came through now; and McClure left the chart too, flopped down on the bench beside Paul. Ruck muttered, taking the chair, “Bloody asdics. It’s infuriating not to be able to handle one’s own simple maintenance.”

  Next door, the periscope hissed up.

  Ruck called, “Shaw? Tea, please. And bread and jam. Make it fast, will you?” He asked McClure, “Why are asdics called asdics?”

  “Search me.”

  “You know?”

  Paul shook his head. Ruck told them, “Anti Submarine Detection Investigation Committee. Set up in 1917.”

  “ That long ago?”

  He nodded. “The system wasn’t developed until much later, between the wars. At Portland. We gave it to the Yanks in 1940. They had a system of their own called sonar, that wasn’t nearly as good, so they switched over to asdics although they went on calling it sonar. Unfortunately we also gave it to the French—in ‘39—so the Germans got it when France surrendered. And of course they’ve passed it to these locals. And to the Japs … Shaw!”

  “Coming, sir!”

  Rattling some cups, to prove it …

  Wykeham called, “Captain, sir?”

  Ruck shot through. The others sat still, listening. Shaw appeared and hovered with a laden tray; Paul beckoned to him and he put it down, more quietly than usual. Wykeham’s voice carried from the control room: “They’re coming towards, sir. Two on the port bow and the other’s about dead ahead.”

  Periscope’s hiss; click of its handles opening out. Shaw still standing in the gangway, listening.

  “Starboard ten.”

  “Starboard ten, sir … Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.” That was West, one of the torpedomen, on the wheel. Periscope still up. At least there was broken water up there, so Ultra did have something going for her … Ruck’s voice: “One Cant seaplane now.” Click of the handles. “Dip.”

  They heard it sink, stop, come up again.

  “Steer oh-nine-oh.”

  “Oh-nine-oh, sir …”

  Eastward, to sneak out of the Italians’ path. Or to try to … McClure poured two mugs of tea, and Paul took his to the chart table where he could see what was going on. Ruck was completing a low-power circuit and settling with his sights trained on the beam, the direction from which the destroyers were coming: slightly abaft the beam, as Ultra settled on her new course.

  “Course oh-nine-oh, sir.”

  “Slow ahead together.”

  To get out of their way a little faster.

  “Dip.”

  Then it was up again and he’d switched to low power, circling. He muttered, “Two Cants now. We’ve been upgraded.”

  Paul looked round at McClure. There had to be something coming through, surely, with all this activity. Didn’t there? McClure muttered, “Looking for us. They know we’re here—unless they’re bloody daft …”

  “Dip again, Chief.”

  The destroyers couldn’t be all that close, but he was being very cautious with the periscope. The seaplanes, of course … He’d begun a new air search. Cants were ideal for A/S work, because they were so slow-flying. Like kites drifting around. He was making a second quite rapid circuit in low power; switching to high power now and starting again, more slowly, down the port side first where the destroyers were, pausing to check on each of them and then swinging on. Looking astern now— at Sicily—and sweeping on, round to the starboard quarter and slowly up that side.

  He’d stopped, caught his breath. Back the other way: to and fro … Then he’d snapped the handles up. “Down. Starboard fifteen. Diving stations!” Paul, flattening himself against the side of the fruit machine as the attack team came rushing to their stations, saw Ruck laugh—a short bark of it, shaking his head … He told Wykeham, “Coming the wrong bloody way—northward!”

  “But what—”

  “Five destroyers, and a cruiser’s foretop astern of ‘em.”

  He’d finished being chatty, though. “Up …”

  Surface forces coming north—from some convoy action, if there’d been one?

  “Steer one-four-oh.” Turmoil subsiding, and the periscope rising to his summons. Paul saw him glance at the unoccupied asdic stool: he’d be thinking something like Of all the times to go deaf… But he’d gone calm too. He’d been taken by surprise, but the tactician and mathematician were in control now—assessing the problem, deciding how this game could best be played. There’d be an entirely different sort of game later, but for the moment he’d only be thinking about winning this one. Spinning round, his weight hanging from the periscope’s spread handles, pushing himself round with his toes against the rim of its well, his body an extension of the periscope itself. The three destroyers north of them would be coming up astern—on the quarter now, possibly just clear astern … Ruck knew: he could see; everyone around him had to guess. He’d completed another fast circuit and now he was motionless, studying the northbound squadron.

  “Start the attack. Bearing—that. Range—that. Target is a cruiser. I’m—five degrees on its starboard bow. Down.” Moving swiftly to the other periscope, the little one, he told them, “There are two cruisers. Looks like one of the new Regolos astern.” He snapped the handles up. “Sixty feet. Half ahead together!” Propeller noise ripped overhead as she dipped her bow, driving deeper: he’d cut that fine enough …The range was twelve thousand yards—six miles—and the enemy warships’ course 360. Ultra was only five degrees on her target’s bow, so unless the Italians zigzagged one way or the other she’d be well placed for an attack. The course for a ninety-degree torpedo track would be 270 degrees.

  The destroyer had passed over and the sound of its fast-revving propellers had faded ahead. Several pairs of upturned eyes had seemed to watch it pass—eyes watching white-enamelled deckhead and the orderly maze of piping, minds seeing a destroyer’s keel and thrashing screws. Those three had swept the narrower part of the straits, and now they’d have been whistled up to join the northbound pack.

  “Set enemy speed twenty-five knots.”

  Paul turned a knob on the fruit machine. “Twenty-five knots set, sir.”

  “Sixty feet, sir.”

  Ruck nodded: emerging from a brief period of thought—or mental arithmetic. He took down the Tannoy microphone, and thumbed its switch on. “D’you hear there. Captain speaking. We have two Italian cruisers approaching from the south. Still some distance away. I’m going for the leading ship, which I think is either the Giovanni delle Bande Nere—however the hell that’s pronounced—or her sister ship the Luigi something. They’ve got destroyers screening them, and two seaplanes over them, so we may get a few whumpfs later. In fact we’ll shut off for depthcharging now, and be done with it.” He switched off. Then switched on again. “Stand by all tubes. Depthsetting twelve feet, TI.” Hanging up the microphone he told McClure,
“Check what the Bandy Knees draws, in Jane’s … Twenty-eight feet, Number One.”

  Watertight doors were shut and Ultra was nosing up towards the surface.

  “All tubes ready, sir!”

  He had the after periscope, the small one, coming up. Needle in the gauge passing forty feet—thirty-five … The periscope was right up and he had his eyes pressed to it as the boat rose; he’d be seeing the polished rolling underside of the surface before the top lens broke through sudden turbulence into an explosion of light and the wavetop-view seascape and skyscape … Spinning round; then he’d finished with it, transferred to the big one, fingers twitching impatiently for it as Quinn brought it shooting up.

  “Bearing is—that. Range—that. I’m—” he checked the staccato flow of information. “Damn him, he’s altering!” In low power now, a fast circuit; then back on the target … “Right. I’m now—right ahead of him. Down. “For about three seconds he was getting the problem straight and its solution settled in his mind. Then: “Sixty feet. Group up half ahead together. Port fifteen, steer oh-nine-oh.”

  “The Bande Nere’s mean draught is fourteen feet, sir.”

  “Fifteen of port wheel on, sir!”

  Depthsettings of twelve feet were about right, then. And enemy course was now 015 degrees. Ruck was at the track chart, beside McClure, as McClure put on the second range and bearing.

  “What does a Regolo draw?”

  He checked. “Thirteen feet, sir.”

  Ruck nodded. He could shift target if he had to without adjusting the settings on the fish.

  “Enemy speed looks more like twenty-six, sir.”

  “Set that.”

  Course for a ninety track would be 285 degrees.

  “How long like this to take us 800 yards off track?”

  “Four minutes, sir.”

  And they’d been running for one minute already. Ruck went back into the middle of the control room. At the end of the fourth minute he’d turn inward on to his attacking course: he’d be inshore of the target, between the cruisers and the Italian coast as the squadron cut past that headland.