Dauntless (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Ackroyd mused, “Wonder what she’s up to? Out after the convoys?”

  It was a possibility. Smith said, “Maybe.”

  “A raid on Port Said?”

  There were people who had worried in case Goeben and Breslau and Walküre broke out and tried to block the Suez Canal. Smith was sceptical of the practicability of that and shook his head. Guessing was a waste of time when they knew only that Walküre was loose somewhere in the Mediterranean. They had to know more.

  It was night again and the two ships were racing through a rising sea when Cherrett came running again with a signal. Walküre had been sighted in the dusk west of Crete and her course was due west. Now it made sense of a sort and Ackroyd said tentatively, “The Adriatic?”

  Smith nodded. It was possible for Walküre to fight her way into the Adriatic and join the Austrian fleet lying at Pola, where it had lain since the start of the war doing almost nothing. That might be the idea, for her captain to persuade the Austrians to engage in active operations with himself to give them adventurous leadership. The Allies had trouble enough in the Mediterranean trying to counter the U-boat threat, Braddock had made that clear. If the Adriatic boiled up it would stretch still further the naval reserves that were already strained to breaking point.

  But the signal came as an anti-climax. Their orders were unchanged so Smith’s little squadron, once assembled at the rendezvous, would sweep westward — but now only to close the stable door, to become ultimately part of a screen of ships in case Walküre was forced back and tried to return to the Aegean.

  Smith went to his bunk and tried to sleep but only dozed restlessly, waking often in the night, and he was up before the dawn and standing again behind the bridge screen.

  Ackroyd had the watch and greeted Smith. “‘Morning, sir. Only one signal an hour or so back from Maroc, confirming she’ll be at the rendezvous on time but she’s had to send back one of her escorts with engine trouble. She’s carrying on with the other one. That’s S.C. 101, American submarine-chaser.”

  Smith nodded and took the mug of scalding hot, bitter coffee that Buckley brought him. The American submarine-chasers were new to the Mediterranean as they were new to the war. They had only crossed the Atlantic in the last summer months and were little more than a big motor-launch, a hundred feet long with a single 3-inch gun forward, a Y-gun aft for lobbing depth charges over the side and a speed of only some seventeen knots. He asked, “What about us?”

  Henderson came out of the charthouse, long fingers wrapped around a mug of cocoa. “We’ll be on station in another fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “That’s right on time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good.” And Maroc had done well. Like the elderly British battleships employed in the Mediterranean, she was slow and the powers that be had set her a tall order when they sent her to keep this rendezvous on time.

  The Afrika Legion ... He should have been close to the Gulf of Alexandretta by now and instead he was two hundred miles off and getting further away with every second. But maybe the Intelligence officers with Finlayson were right, that the Legion would be too late now, anyway. He shifted restlessly, took a turn across the bridge, sipped the coffee as he prowled and Dauntless crashed on through the big oily seas, the spray from her bow like rain on his face. Astern of Dauntless came Blackbird. She was a good seaboat and was plugging on well but Smith was still uneasy, continually looking over his shoulder, actually or mentally, at the carrier because he could not trust her young captain, Chris Pearce.

  He swore under his breath, finished the coffee and balanced the mug on the shelf below the screen. It would be light soon. By the time the sun was up he should have his little squadron together and shaking out into a long line sweeping westward.

  *

  Ackroyd asked, “Any sign of Maroc?”

  Dauntless and Blackbird were about on station now, as near as dead reckoning could make it, and reduced to fifteen knots. The sun was close under the rim of the sea astern and the visibility was lengthening with every second, although there was an early morning mist and the lowering clouds seemed to fur the edges of everything.

  Smith thought absently, the Afrika Legion giving him no peace, that Kressenstein would know the attack on the Gaza-Beersheba line must come soon. He would not be content for the Legion to dribble down to him as trains became available —

  The port look-out called, “There she is, sir! Maroc! Thirty on the bow!”

  Smith set his glasses to his eyes and saw her coming out of the mist about three miles away, that mist cloaking her and blurring the outline, but her size could not be hidden. The twin funnels, the turrets, the tripod mast like that of Dauntless but bigger —

  Ackroyd said, “Make the challenge, Yeoman.”

  “No!” Smith shouted it. “Hard astarboard! All guns load!”

  Ackroyd stood open-mouthed and pandemonium broke loose as Smith jabbed his finger on the button and the klaxons blared through Dauntless. The ship emerging in that half-light from the thin mist was as big a warship as Maroc but there the resemblance ended. Maroc had three funnels and no tripod mast. This was Walküre and now the long guns in those turrets fired.

  Dauntless was coming around, heeling in the turn. Smith saw the crew of her forward 6-inch gun skidding on the tilting fore deck as they strove to load the gun and bring it into action. He remembered the seaplane-carrier astern, whirled and saw her still coming on, holding her course. Pearce must have seen Walküre firing and Dauntless turning wildly away. Was he slavishly waiting an order to turn? He rapped at the signal yeoman, “Make to Blackbird: ‘Turn sixteen points. Take evasive action. Enemy bears three miles west.’”

  And no more than three miles. That salvo she fired would be falling —

  The salvo plunged into the sea in a straight, spread line a cable’s length from Dauntless’s starboard quarter.

  The bugles were blaring and the deck was alive with racing men. The signal yeoman reported, “Blackbird acknowledges, sir.” He added, “An’ she’s turning!”

  It was high time. “Very good. Wireless to C. in C. Eastern Med and all H.M. ships: ‘Am in action Walküre. My position —’ get that from the pilot — ‘enemy course and speed due east fifteen knots.’”

  Ackroyd had gone to take command of damage control. The Second Officer Jameson said, “Guns requests —”

  Smith snapped, “Yes, dammit! All guns commence!”

  Seconds later the two after 6-inch guns fired together and the vibration shook loose the mugs under the screen and sent them rolling across the bridge. The after guns because Dauntless had turned and as Smith had ordered, “Full ahead both! Starboard ten!” was tearing away from the big German cruiser. He was out on the starboard wing of the bridge now, looking for Walküre and seeing her guns firing. Her outline was blurring again through the gauzy draperies of the mist and the rapidly widening distance between the two ships. And Smith thought the distance must not spin out too far as he looked for the fall of that salvo and cast a hasty glance around at Blackbird. She made a fine target for Walküre’s shells with that haystack of a hangar, her load of petrol for the Shorts and the bombs below her deck.

  Pearce should have turned sooner. If Walküre hit her —

  The shock threw him into Henderson, sent the pair of them slamming into the screen and the sea fell across their shoulders and almost drove them to their knees. Smith wiped water from his face and pushed away from the screen and Henderson. The salvo had burst to port and close alongside, hurled sea water aboard in tons and heeled Dauntless over but she was running on an even keel again now.

  “Port ten!”

  “Port ten, sir!”

  He snapped at Jameson, “Damage reports?”

  “Nothing yet, sir.”

  The after 6-inch guns fired as one and Smith fumbled for the glasses hanging against his chest, lifted them, searched for Walküre. He saw her stern on, insubstantial as the mist itself on that blurred horizon and the range ha
d opened, he heard that confirmed by the range-taker, the ranges repeated on the bridge: “... ten thousand ...” Walküre’s guns fired and they were her after turrets that were firing now. She and Dauntless were on widely diverging courses, Walküre still headed east while Dauntless ran away to the south. Soon they would be out of range of those big guns in the enemy cruiser but then she would be out of sight also.

  He could not let that happen. He had found Walküre, or stumbled on her. He dared not lose her again. He wondered briefly at her presence here, could make no sense of it but that speculation could wait. He swung around and saw that Dauntless as she worked up speed had overhauled Blackbird, was close on her.

  A salvo howled overhead and burst off the port bow, well clear of Dauntless but straddling Blackbird. Deafened he heard only distantly Jameson’s bellow, “They’ve dropped one on Blackbird!”

  Smoke was pouring from the carrier’s deck forward of the bridge on the starboard side and trailing from a hole just above the water line. The plunging shell had penetrated the deck and smashed on out of Blackbird’s side.

  Smith ordered, “Port ten!”

  “Port ten, sir! ... Ten of port wheel on, sir!”

  The cruiser’s knife-edge stem swept around through a semi-circle until Smith said, “Meet her ... steady. Steer two-oh degrees.”

  He stared out over the forward 6-inch gun, over the bow at Walküre, seen now clearly, now blurred but dead ahead. He heard somebody cheer on the deck below. Did they think he was steaming to attack the huge cruiser? That would be madness because Dauntless would stand no chance in a stand-up fight against that heavily-gunned, heavily-armoured ship. That was not a job for Dauntless, not the purpose she was built for, and if Dauntless was damaged and her speed reduced she could lose Walküre. But if he had to keep her in sight he would have to stay within range of those big guns, and now, additionally, he had to draw their fire to give Blackbird a chance.

  He told the signal yeoman, “Wireless to C. in C. and H.M. ships: ‘Maintaining contact with enemy. Enemy’s course east, speed —’” He hesitated.

  Jameson suggested, “Think she’s working up to about twenty knots, sir. Hard to tell, but she’s making more smoke and she looks —”

  “I agree.” Smith finished: “‘— speed twenty knots.’” He watched Walküre through the glasses, the lenses shivering in his hands and shaking the image as the forward 6-inch gun fired, losing sight of her as the smoke swirled back across the bridge. He found her again as Jameson said, “She’s fired again.”

  “Starboard ten,” Smith ordered, to take Dauntless out of the path of that salvo hurtling towards her. “Meet her ... steer that.”

  Henderson said, “I think that round of ours fell short, sir.”

  Smith grunted assent. Walküre was still in range of the 6-inch, just, but the range-taker up on the fore-bridge would be having trouble reading ranges, the twin images in the lenses of the range-finder blurred by the mist, and the smoke that Walküre was pouring out now. She was definitely making a run for it.

  Walküre’s latest salvo fell abeam of Dauntless, hurling up huge spouts of water. Smith snatched a glance at them, well clear, about three cable’s lengths away.

  Jameson said, “Damn! Lost her!”

  Smith peered at the mist on the horizon, a low, grey ribbon, and somewhere behind it was Walküre. He swept the glasses along the ribbon but saw nothing, could not even see her smoke now. He swore softly under his breath but made himself ask casually, “What’s our speed?”

  Henderson answered, “Twenty-two knots, sir.”

  “Good enough.” Still carefully casual. Walküre’s best speed was about twenty-five knots but she had not worked up to that yet, nor would she for some time, so she would not get away from Dauntless. Provided she did not change course. He managed to maintain his cool tone when he said, “There she is.”

  The mist had thinned or Walküre had pushed out of it. But there she was, now broadside on and her guns firing.

  The 6-inch gun forward slammed again. The crew of it were having a bad time with Dauntless steaming at this speed and in this sea, the bow wave coming inboard to wash around them where they fought the gun, breaking over them in sheets of spray.

  “... ten thousand ...”

  Jameson said, “Range is closing, sir!”

  Walküre’s salvo burst to starboard and a good cable’s length astern of Dauntless. And Walküre disappeared.

  This time Jameson swore. “What the hell does her skipper do for an encore? Pull rabbits out of a hat?”

  Smith managed to laugh though it was far from funny. In seconds the big cruiser had done her vanishing trick again. The sea and that hazy horizon were unchanged but Walküre had gone as if she had sunk beneath the waves. He picked up the train of thought interrupted when she last appeared: She would not get away provided she did not change her course and leave Smith blundering about in the mist while she raced away in a different direction. That raised the question: where was she bound for, anyway? When Dauntless had come on her Walküre was headed eastward and that course could take her to Cyprus. What for? To bombard the shore and whatever shipping she might find? Or had she intended a change of course soon that would send her tearing down towards Port Said and the convoys?

  Smith shifted restlessly. Where was she? Only the empty sea and that fringing mist lay ahead of Dauntless. The sun was up now, but still very low so Smith had to squint against it, a watery sun but sparking lights from the sea. How long since they saw her? Five minutes? Ten? If she had doubled back on her track and headed westward she could have made three miles by now and in another ten minutes be hull-down over the horizon and lost to him when the mist lifted. It should have lifted by now!

  Suppose that he, Smith was in command of Walküre, pursued by a shadowing cruiser he could not escape and suddenly the mist came between ...?

  He said quietly, not needing to shout because there was an uneasy silence on the bridge, all of them aware of the danger of losing Walküre, “Starboard ten.”

  “Starboard ten ... Ten of starboard wheel on, sir!”

  “Meet her. Steer that.”

  “— Course eight-five degrees, sir!”

  Now Dauntless was heading eastward and that had been Walküre’s course when last sighted. Smith glanced out over the starboard quarter and could just make out Blackbird, tiny under her smoke and the light of a signal lamp flickering from her. She was far enough from Walküre to be safe and maybe Dauntless was, now that she was steaming on a course parallel to that of Walküre. Approximately parallel; the gap between the ships might be closing or opening. Smith saw Jameson watching him worriedly, wondering at his captain’s change of course. Smith stepped out to the port wing of the bridge and leaned on the screen beside the look-out, who said, “I think this mist’s coming apart, sir.”

  It was; the sun was sucking it up so now they had glimpses through gaps in it of a clear-edged, empty horizon. Around them the mist still gave a false horizon of only three or four miles, sometimes less where it lay thickest.

  The look-out bawled in Smith’s ear, “Port quarter! Christ!”

  Smith whipped around, saw Walküre for an instant vaguely, then only too clear as she burst out of the mist almost astern of Dauntless and steaming straight for her. He shouted, “Starboard ten!” As Dauntless heeled to that order he thought she had nearly caught them, had turned back to port in a wide circle that would have brought her out of the mist right on top of Dauntless if Smith had not ordered that last change of course.

  The bridge gratings bucked under his feet, flame towered from a hit aft and blast threw the port look-out into Smith, sent both of them staggering. Smith pushed away, saw the smoke boiling up right aft and streaming out astern on the wind. Walküre’s captain had succeeded, had sprung the trap.

  Smith swallowed. The ship’s heeling turn meant he could no longer see Walküre from where he stood. He plunged back across the bridge to the starboard wing, felt the air and the deck shiver and hea
rd the slam! of a 6-inch gun firing from aft. So one at least of the two after guns was still in action. He waited for the other to fire but it did not. He could not see the damage in the stern for the smoke there but he could see Walküre only too well. She had been headed straight for Dauntless when she first came out of the mist but now she was turning to starboard to fire broadsides and at a range of barely three miles.

  He ordered “Port ten,” to send Dauntless swerving away from those big guns. The 6-inch aft fired again and at the same instant the salvo from Walküre howled in to bracket the ship, heeling her over, hurling spray to hang against the sun so they steamed through a jewelled curtain that stank like the pit. Dauntless thrust through, seemed to shake herself free of it and was in the open sea again.

  A report came up from Ackroyd that the aftermost 6-inch gun was dismounted, so the gun still in action was that mounted on the superstructure and almost over Smith’s main cabin. The wrecked gun was right over the wardroom, the snug comfort of which would be a scene of bloody chaos.

  In the mad minutes that followed Dauntless swerved and ran for her life, the surviving 6-inch gun aft slamming away and the salvoes from Walküre howling in. She almost bracketed Dauntless again and twice the salvoes fell terrifyingly close alongside so the men below deck heard them like hammer-blows on the thin steel shell of the cruiser. She survived, but Smith knew she could not hope to survive much longer, that one of those salvoes must land on her soon. The range was opening but she was still well within reach of those 8-inch guns and the mist that had hidden Walküre would no longer save Dauntless. The sun was wiping it away from the surface of the sea like steam wiped from a mirror with a stroke of the hand. The sea glittered, though, still flecked with white horses that the wind drove in spray, and opened out around them to a wide, clear horizon. Visibility for gunnery was excellent now and Walküre bulked huge under her black trail of funnel smoke.

  “Ship bearing green nine-oh!” That yell came from the starboard look-out.

  Smith lifted his glasses and saw the ship hull-up on the horizon. The look-out went on: “That’s Maroc, sir! I’m sure of it — saw her in Malta many a time.”