‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that once your trawler was forced by the prevailing weather conditions to run for the Norwegian coast—to be precise, that you took shelter behind the lee of the land, off Svalbard Point at the head of the inward channel for Vest Hammarfjord?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And I understand you actually went up that channel yourself?’
‘Yes, sir. I had time on my hands, and—’
‘Quite. How much do you remember of it?’
‘All of it, sir. It wasn’t so long ago—just before the war.’
‘You could do it on your own, without a trawler skipper in charge?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
Forbes gave a satisfied nod. ‘Good! This confirms what I was told. For your information, the word was passed to the Admiralty from RNC Greenwich, where I understand you did a navigation and pilotage course recently.’
‘Yes, sir, after I left the Wharfedale during her refit in Malta.’
Forbes looked at him keenly. ‘D’you think your pilotage will stand the test of taking a whole flotilla of dinghies safely through?’
Cameron said, ‘I think so, sir. I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will. Remember, the whole thing will depend on you until the troops are ashore. At a guess, you’ll be just about the only naval officer who’s ever entered Vest Hammarfjord!’ Forbes blew out a long breath. ‘I only hope the secrecy’s held, that’s all. I’ve a nasty feeling it may not have done. That U-boat attack... I’ve a suspicion the buggers were after us in particular, under orders from the German Admiralty to get us—they made no attempt to fire on the destroyers, anyway.’
Mr Hanrahan gave a sigh and said, ‘Like the First Lieutenant asked, sir, why us, for Christ’s sake? Why not a cruiser?’
‘Because we’re not a valuable ship, Guns. If things go wrong... well, we’re expendable.’
They were expendable: as the Castle Bay butted behind the more nimble destroyers into worsening weather beneath lowering grey skies, the Gunner enlarged on the theme of expendability which had been morbidly pointed up by the ceremony that had taken place after the officers were dismissed from the cuddy. The bodies of the two men killed in action were slid from a plank covered with the folds of the White Ensign. The Captain read the simple, poignant service of committal to the deep and as they went into the water with two splashes and vanished beneath the surface, there was a brief moment’s reverent silence, a total suspension of all activity. Then Forbes nodded to the First Lieutenant and turned away to go back to the bridge; and the boatswain’s pipes, shrilling out their orders along the desolation of wind and sea, sent the hands back to their stations or part-of-ship duties.
‘Poor sods,’ Hanrahan said. ‘Expendable—like us! That’s the way we’ll all end up before this lot’s over. The skipper’s right: we’re expendable, like it or not.’ He waved a hand around. ‘Every officer aboard is a reservist, ‘cept me, and I was dragged back off pension. Like the ship herself—I’m old! I reckoned I’d seen the last of the Andrew when I swallowed the hook back in thirty-seven.’
‘Don’t you like being back, Guns?’ Cameron asked with a grin.
‘Do I hell! Know something?’
‘What?’
‘There’s an old naval yarn about a boatswain who swallowed the hook at an advanced age and the first thing he did was to hire a youngster to wake him at 0400 every night and say, “The Captain wants you at once, sir,” after which he would say to the lad, “Tell the Captain to get stuffed” and then roll over and go to sleep again. Well, that’s me and all.’
The Gunner went off. Cameron climbed the ladder to the chartroom. There was work to be done: a study of the charts for the approaches to Vest Hammarfjord and a close perusal of the Admiralty Sailing Directions, or ‘Pilot’, for the north Norwegian coast. Beddows was there, engaged on the same task. He was going through all the data with Cameron when they both heard a shout from one of the bridge lookouts, though they were unable to catch the words. They left the chartroom at the rush and as they did so the alarm rattlers sounded throughout the ship. From the bridge ladder Cameron saw that the visibility was closing in and through the mist and spray he saw the threatening loom of a great dark hull some two miles off the starboard bow. He had barely seen this when three brilliant flashes split the overcast and seconds later there was a noise like an express train and a great waterspout appeared on the starboard beam, a huge sea that dropped aboard like the world’s final deluge.
CHAPTER THREE
The Castle Bay’s pop-gun armament was in action, spitting defiance across the seas however uselessly. Forbes had his binoculars trained on the enemy. As Beddows and Cameron reached the bridge Forbes said, ‘It’s one of the German heavy cruisers, don’t know which yet. Yeoman!’
‘Yessir!’ The Yeoman of the Watch stood expectant with his signal pad and pencil ready.
Forbes said, ‘I’m breaking wireless silence. Make to Commander-in-Chief Home Fleet, I am under surface attack by heavy cruiser. Get our position from the Navigating Officer, then tell the WIT office to send it immediately in plain language with a Most Urgent prefix.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ After taking the ship’s position from Beddows, the signalman went off at the rush.
Forbes said, ‘It’s all we can do and it’s not much. Scapa’s too bloody far away for...’ His voice was lost as a nicely ranged shell took the mainmast at its foot, just where it drove down through the deckhouse on the boat deck. There was a tremendous explosion and concussion; metal fragments flew across the decks; the funnel was peppered like a colander. Below on the embarkation deck the motor-cutter was smashed to matchwood. Bodies lay everywhere. Thick smoke spiralled up into the overcast and then the lick of flame was seen. Quickly on the spot, the First Lieutenant and the Chief Boatswain’s Mate mustered and directed the fire parties as the hoses were run out; the Gunner’s party stood by the depth charges, ready to jettison them if the fire looked like encroaching aft. From the bridge the Captain called the engine-room.
‘All right below, Chief?’
‘All well, sir,’ the Lieutenant-Commander (E) reported.
‘Good—keep at it, Chief. I want all you’ve got short of sheering the holding-down bolts. I’m turning away at full speed, for what good it’ll do.’ Forbes banged down the voice-pipe cover and passed orders to the quartermaster. ‘Hard a-port!’
‘Hard a-port, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘Wheel’s hard a-port, sir.’
‘Steady!’
‘Steady, sir. Course, two-seven-three, sir.’
‘Steer two-seven-oh.’
‘Two-seven-oh, sir.’ The voice was phlegmatic; you didn’t meet a German heavy cruiser every day of the week, and when you did you preferred to meet it in a battle-wagon, but you never knew your luck in the Andrew and you had to make the best of what fate sent you. Those were Chief Petty Officer Brewer’s views, anyway. On the bridge Forbes was less philosophic: he didn’t like running but on this occasion the Admiralty would expect him to, so would Admiral Vian waiting in Hvalfjord. Converted merchantmen didn’t fight heavy cruisers, at least not unless they were Amcs with a convoy to defend, when it was a different kettle of fish altogether.... As the Castle Bay headed west at full speed plus a shade more, the bombardment continued, but the next salvo fell short and off to starboard. The German gunners had been thrown for a short space by the alteration of course; Forbes started a zig-zag, though without the manoeuvrability of a cruiser or destroyer it couldn’t be all that effective. It was really a matter of time now. Then one of the lookouts in the after part of the bridge made a report.
‘Cambridge moving in, sir, crossing our stern to attack by the look of it, sir!’ The man sounded disbelieving of his own eyes.
Forbes swung round, bringing up his binoculars. He stared in something like awe: it was an almost incredible sight. The old ex-USN four-stacker had turned towards the enemy, her 1,090 tons flinging through the spray-topped seas
at her maximum thirty-five knots, her four 4-inch guns blazing as she went.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Forbes said. ‘She hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance. Talk about guts!’
He went on watching. The Cambridge had closed in and was running now right under the guns, beginning to come inside the angle of depression of the German’s heavy main armament. But the secondary armament was in action now, and as the old destroyer narrowed the gap, the close-range weapons on both sides opened. The men aboard the Castle Bay saw the flashes, saw both British and German seamen go down as the pom-pom and machine-gun rounds went across. Then the Cambridge appeared to alter a little to port, and raced head-on for the heavy cruiser’s bows.
‘By God, she’s going to ram!’ Beddows shouted. ‘She’s going to do it again!’
Forbes said nothing; just watched in fascination and in admiration for the men who were about to die. The Cambridge rushed on, her guns still blazing into the German’s side and causing small fires to break out in the superstructure. It was as though the Cambridge’s captain, having once rammed successfully, couldn’t resist another attempt, though there was something crazy about this one. The cruiser seemed to be making to turn away, but she was caught by the hurtling destroyer, smack in the port bow. Across the water there came the scream of tearing metal and a long gash appeared in the German’s side: by Forbes’ estimate it was all of a hundred feet in length.
Forbes wiped sweat from his face. Heroism had been performed in the interest of drawing fire off the Castle Bay... as he watched helplessly, the Cambridge rolled over, a slow roll to port that grew faster until she had turned turtle. For a few moments she lay on the water hard alongside the cruiser’s hull, borne along by the heavy vessel’s movement, her screws still spinning and her rudder standing up like a sail; then she was gone.
Aft at the depth-charge throwers, Mr Hanrahan removed his steel helmet with reverence. ‘Strewth!’ he said to his Gunner’s Mate. ‘Never thought I’d see the like again, I didn’t!’
‘Again, sir?’
‘That’s right, again. I was in the Renown when the Glowworm did it—I didn’t see it like, just heard about it afterwards. The old Glowworm, she’d parted company with us—one of our screen she was—to look for a man overboard. She met the Hipper and rammed just like now. Skipper was Lieutenant-Commander Roope. Got a posthumous VC. Deserved it an’ all.’ Hanrahan sucked his teeth for a moment. ‘Wonder if we’ll pick up survivors—if any! I reckon there won’t—’
‘Just a tick,’ the Gunner’s Mate broke in, and pointed away off the starboard bow. ‘See what I think I see, do you, sir?’
‘What?’ The Gunner followed the petty officer’s outstretched arm. His jaw sagged a little in sheer astonishment, then he gave a whoop of excitement. ‘Well, stone me if it isn’t KG 5! Cor, that’ll show the bloody bastards that it’s Winston not Adolf that rules the perishin’ waves!’
He jumped up and down, foolishly for an elderly and somewhat stomach-ridden warrant officer, and waved his steel helmet towards the oncoming battleship whose turrets were already swinging to bear upon the German. As the King George V opened with her 14-inch main armament, the German was already turning away into the heavy overcast, apparently having no wish to meet the 35,000-ton flagship of the British Home Fleet. From the bridge, Commander Forbes watched the flagship break out its battle ensigns to join the red St George’s cross of Admiral Sir John Tovey, the Commander-in-Chief. The battleship swept on at close to thirty knots with the spray flinging back over her fo’c’sle, drenching the gun-turrets and sending spindrift up the superstructure almost to the Admiral’s bridge. As the great guns sent their projectiles screaming through the overcast, the German cruiser was lost to sight from the Castle Bay, but within seconds of her disappearance there was a colossal explosion followed by a vast sheet of flame. Debris was hurled into the sky over a wide area, much of it coming down on the decks of the Castle Bay and in the water around.
For a moment there was a tense silence throughout the ship; then the cheering started, ringing out across the gap of water as the flagship turned, heeling under full helm. A signal was seen winking a message from her compass platform. Aboard the Castle Bay, the signalman read it off and reported to Forbes.
‘From the Flag, sir: I just happened to be passing. Bon voyage and good luck.’
Once again, Forbes wiped sweat from his face. He said, ‘Maybe God loves us after all!’
The signalman, pad at the ready, cocked an eye at him. ‘Shall I make that, sir?’ he asked.
Forbes laughed and nodded. ‘Why not?’ As the answering signal was flashed across to the flag, Forbes passed orders to bring the Castle Bay round to starboard; the Keppel was moving in towards the spot where the German had blown up, ready to pick up survivors from both her and the Cambridge; Forbes followed in, ordering the scrambling nets to be put over the side. He would not heave to nor lower a boat in case of lurking U-boats, but any men in the water could be collected, if they had the strength to grab the nets, like flies on sticky paper. It was a sickening scene that they entered as they closed the area. Cameron, in charge of the port scrambling nets, looked down in horror as the Castle Bay, with her engine mercifully stopped now so that men would not be drawn into the screw to be ground to shreds like coffee in a mill, but with way still upon her, moved into human tragedy. Corpses floated among charred woodwork, smashed boats, the remains of hammocks—bodies lying back in their lifejackets with arms dangling like broken puppets, sightless eyes turned to the grey, unfriendly skies, or heads down in the water. There was oil fuel over all, thick, heavy, stinking, suffocating. From the living there came cries of agony; hands reached for the salvation of the nets. At a nod from Cameron, a leading seaman ordered hands down the nets, going himself to reach out and assist wounded men, or half-drowned men, to a handhold. Once on the nets, those who needed support were helped up and brought aboard by the seamen at the top, after which they collapsed in wet, oily heaps along the embarkation deck to await the attentions of the Surgeon Lieutenant and his medical team. British and German, all would get the same treatment if not the same sympathy. There was no sympathy for one of the German officers, one of the few who appeared to have no injuries. He swarmed up the netting, arrogantly rejecting any assistance. As he came over the rail, he snapped to attention and lifted his right arm in the Nazi salute.
‘Heil, Hitler!’ he said. ‘Long live the Führer!’
Mr Hanrahan, coming up from the quarterdeck, heard that. He spat on his hands and advanced. He seized the German, spun him round like a top, and landed his seaboot in his backside, hard. The German went forward like a bullet from a gun, tripped, and went flat on the deck. Mr Hanrahan walked away smiling: first time he’d ever booted an officer! It wasn’t done, of course, not even to a bloody Hun, but it had been well worth while risking a rocket from the skipper.
The fitter men among the German prisoners were interrogated by the Captain on the bridge. Some would reveal nothing but the heavy cruiser’s name: Wuppertal, one of an obsolescent class built just after Hitler had come to power.
The name given, they stared in defiant, supercilious silence at the British officers; maybe they had a little English, maybe they hadn’t. From those more prepared to talk in private, in the hope that some co-operation might bring favours from the bestial British, Forbes gathered that the Wuppertal’s destroyer escort had been withdrawn, probably to cover more valuable units of the German Fleet. It wasn’t only the Castle Bay that was expendable. But all in all, it was another slice of luck.
There was a count of casualties, an assessment of structural damage: nine men dead—more sea burials and letters—and sixteen injured, some seriously, others superficially from flying splinters and burns. There was no serious damage to the ship other than a funnel that would now leak unpleasant fumes, the smashed motor-cutter and the burning out of a number of cabins in the deckhouse below the mast. The committals of the dead were conducted as before and at noon next day, promptly on her ETA,
the Castle Bay came round Keflavik in Faxa Bay and anchored off Hvalfjord a little to the north of Reykjavik. Nigeria and Aurora were in the anchorage together with their destroyer escorts, and there were a number of merchant ships and more escorts—the old aircraft-carrier Argus out of Scapa Flow, the Fleet carrier Victorious wearing a vice-admiral’s flag, six destroyers and the County class cruisers Suffolk and Devonshire, all awaiting the run to Archangel. As his ship got her cable, Forbes stared out across the anchorage to the grim face of Iceland beyond. From the time they had first raised Vestmannaeyjar and, behind it, the high ground around Myrdalsjokull, Forbes had felt oppressed by the grimness of sea and land and sky. The wind had dropped, but the greyness had remained; and even at this time of the year Iceland was living up to its name. This was a land of ice-covered plateaux, of icy mountains, of crater basins and moraine lakes, of lava-strewn terrain in the centre. Almost an eighth of its surface was covered with glacier fields. It was a land of strange mixtures, of volcanoes, hot springs and geysers, with a proneness to earthquakes, a land of Viking hardness but one that was nevertheless said to be beautiful in parts...
Forbes turned away from his contemplations and spoke to the. Officer of the Watch. ‘Right. Fall out special sea dutymen. Engine to remain at immediate notice for steam until further orders. I’m expecting a summons from the Flag... and here, I think, it comes.’ He waited; a lamp was flashing from Vian’s flagship. The Yeoman of the Watch read it off and reported.
‘From the Flag, sir: repair aboard immediately.’
Forbes nodded. ‘Acknowledge.’ He passed orders for his skimmer to be called away and brought alongside the accommodation-ladder, then started down to his cabin to shift into his best uniform. One did not wait upon flag officers, especially Rear-Admiral Vian, in seagoing rig and unshaven. At the foot of the bridge ladder Forbes encountered Cameron, who saluted. Returning the salute, Forbes said, ‘I’m off to the Flag. When I come back, I’ll want to see you.’
Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 3