‘I still don’t see what –’ He got no further.
‘Well listen then. I’m not going to see this convoy cut in half, bashed to bloody hell all the way to the Kola Inlet. When Jerry shows his nose we’ll go after him. It’s something new. We won’t just wait to be picked off by U-boats and Focke-Wulfs, or pounded by the Scharnhorst or Tirpitz.’
He turned and watched Buchan in the mirror.
‘The admiral commanding the screening force will do his part. The commodore of the convoy will do his. Do I have to add the rest?’
Buchan looked away. He felt old. Beaten.
‘I understand.’
‘Good man.’ The steely eyes were still watching him. ‘So come and have a few gins. Anything you like. Let Commander Jolly take the strain for a bit.’ He added calmly. ‘I’m sure he’s more than eager to prove his value.’
‘Thank you, sir, but no.’ Buchan felt better. That last remark had done it. Set one against the other. What Chadwick had done aboard his last ship, the Camilla. ‘I really do have a lot of loose ends to clear up.’
Chadwick guided him through the door, back into the noise and smoke.
‘Suit yourself, Bruce.’ He patted his elbow. ‘Can’t have things getting on top of my captain, can I?’
He was still chuckling as Buchan strode blindly out of the opposite door.
Rowan settled himself more stiffly in the cockpit and watched Growler’s oblong flight deck level off through his racing propeller.
It was ridiculous, he told himself, the Seafire which responded so willingly to every demand was exactly like his own. But he was flying Miller’s plane while Jonah was having final touches done to her repairs. The U-boat’s flak had hit nothing vital, but up here, in the vast open wastes of sea, the mechanics took nothing for granted. Miller’s fighter was about the same age as his own. Had probably come from the same factory, the same workers. And yet, despite all his reasoning, it felt different.
He saw the stab of light from Growler’s flying bridge, the tiny dots on her walkways becoming real people as he dipped carefully towards her stem. The sea looked oily and very cold, and as he glanced quickly at an escorting sloop he noticed she was showing more of her bilge than usual. Rolling steeply beam to beam. The sea was getting up perhaps? He made himself relax and loosened his grip on the stick, checking yet again to make sure all the gear was down, the undercarriage locked.
Why then had this patrol been recalled half an hour early?
He thought of the great convoy as he had just seen it, some thirty miles north-east of the group. Four long lines of ships, the commodore leading the starboard column in a big cargo liner which had seen more leisurely days on the Australian run before the war. In the rear had been the dazzle-painted anti-aircraft cruiser. She was very like the one in the picture he had seen in the captain’s day cabin.
The destroyers had looked very impressive too, sweeping ahead and on either quarter of the convoy. And further still the sturdy minesweepers and Asdic trawlers, the latter mostly ex-whalers, had kept the sea’s face in constant movement. But the combined wakes of the merchantmen had been the most impressive. They had stretched astern and away on either quarter like deep, glassy furrows. The whole convoy was doing nearly eighteen knots. A bit different from the eight and ten knot efforts he had seen.
He tensed as the wheels hit the deck and the arrester wire snared the Seafire with casual dexterity. Two other fighters were already being trundled towards a lift, and as a startling contrast he saw some off-watch seamen doing P.T. under the guidance of Lieutenant Faulconer, Growler’s gunnery officer, known to be a real keep-fit merchant.
The Merlin engine shuddered into silence, and as he slid back the canopy Rowan felt the bite of the air across his eyes and nose. Much colder already. The convoy and its spread of escorts had reached the no-man’s-land to the north-east of Jan Mayen Island. Beyond the reach of land-based aircraft, Allied or German, it made the convoy’s own carrier patrols all the more necessary. U-boats took this dangerous area as their own. Their killing ground.
The next Seafire, Bill Ellis’s, was already plunging towards the round-down, the prop making an icy circle, the wheels spread apart like claws preparing to seize hold of the ship.
Petty Officer Thorpe, the senior rating of Rowan’s crew, yelled above the throaty roar of engines, ‘Yours won’t be ready for a couple of days, sir!’
Rowan nodded. ‘Blast!’ He patted the petty officer’s filthy sleeve. ‘Do what you can.’
As he ducked through a screen door below the island, feeling the moisture and warm air from within the hull crowding around him, he found Kitto, hands in pockets, watching the aircraft landing-on with professional interest.
He said, ‘Sorry about the recall, Tim. There’s a flap on. All air crews to muster in the Ready Room in fifteen minutes.’ He breathed out slowly, his eyes very still, as the last fighter from the patrol landed-on with a loud screech of rubber. It was Creswell, the youngest pilot, and Kitto said savagely, ‘He’ll have to keep his mind on his job, that one!’ He turned on his heel. ‘Let’s go.’
The best seats in the Ready Room were already taken when they arrived. Rowan glanced at the huddle below the wall-charts. They were all there, too. Commander (Flying) looking more strained than ever. Bats, his cheeks red from his hurried run from the flight deck. The Air Engineer Officer, the Operations Officer with his coloured chart, Broderick, the A.S.O., and no less important, Lieutenant Hector Syms, R.N.V.R., the Met. Officer. This was Syms’ first real operation with the group. The previous met. officer had had a complete breakdown after the Swordfish bombers had failed to find the carrier in the Atlantic. It had been a freak storm, everyone had said. One of those things. But a lot of the pilots had watched him just the same. Wondering if he could have warned the patrol, could have known about the oncoming squall if he had really tried. If next time it might be their turn.
Syms was a mild little man with the globe-like head and round pale eyes of a scholar. It was said he had been a schoolmaster. Others, less charitable, alleged he foretold the weather by using two sets of seaweed. One for fighters. One for torpedo bombers.
Dusty Miller stood up and glared as young Creswell scurried into the room.
Then to Villiers he reported, ‘All present, sir.’
The door from the Operations Room opened and Rear Admiral Chadwick stepped over the coaming. He wore a gleaming white scarf above his jacket, and his face shone with apparent good health.
He nodded to Villiers and said, ‘Take no notice of me. I’ll just sit in and listen, eh?’
Bill Ellis whispered, ‘Which is guaranteed to make poor old Villiers relax, of course!’
Villiers cleared his throat and stared at the upturned faces.
‘I’ve called you here –’ He looked at Broderick, but he was watching the admiral. ‘The fact is –’ He did not know how to begin.
James, the Operations Officer, said abruptly, ‘We have received reports that the Germans are moving heavy surface units to northern bases on the Norwegian coast.’
He looked quickly at the admiral. Rowan thought it was like the expression of a rabbit mesmerised by a falcon.
‘Two cruisers were reported as being in Trondheim. Now they’re supposed to be in Narvik.’ He pointed one finger at the chart. ‘Several other ships have moved as far north as Tromso. A sort of leap-frog operation. No apparent patrols or exercises in between.’
Villiers nodded. ‘So it looks as if they are preparing some kind of attacking force for later on, when we head for longitude twenty-five east.’ He hurried on as if afraid of losing the thread now that he had started. ‘The convoy will be past Bear Island by then and within reach of enemy air attacks. It also means that his surface units will have air cover.’
They all looked round as Chadwick said smoothly, ‘Also, it is the best point for them to tackle us from North Cape. The neck of the sack, so to speak.’ He was not smiling. ‘Is that all?’
Villiers star
ed at him. ‘Well, sir, you’ve seen the reports and the operational stand-by for the Home Fleet’s shadowing force. It’s more or less what we anticipated.’
‘I see.’ Chadwick pushed himself from the door and removed his cap. Beside the chart he turned and ran his eyes over the assembled officers. ‘It is what we expected. But war is like a pair of scales. A game of poker. What helps one, hinders another. Move to move, brain to brain.’
There was complete silence in the Ready Room, and the distant sounds of sea against the hull, the muffled clatter of machinery from the hangar deck were like parts of another existence.
Chadwick nodded slowly. ‘Group North will naturally put their best surface ships into positions where they can reach our convoy.’ He touched the chart with his strong fingers, his cuff-link glittering in the strange glare, like molten copper. ‘What Commander (Flying) failed to mention was that there is a damn great oil tanker heading north also. She is steaming only at night because of the R.A.F. But once clear of our bombers’ range she’ll crack it on a bit to get her cargo after the warships where it’ll be needed.’ He waited, watching their expressions, their varying degrees of understanding. ‘The enemy will be moving aircraft, too. I told you when I took command that the Germans need fuel more than men. Group North would never risk a big tanker at this particular time unless they intended to act in depth against our convoy!’ He smiled lazily. ‘It all sounds rather grim. However, this is a move, part of the game.’ He shot Villiers a quick glance. ‘Which should have been examined, taken apart and then re-examined in context with the enemy’s other movements.’
Broderick, the Air Staff officer, said quickly. ‘By gathering his main units in the north, and all the extra air cover they will require, you mean there’ll be a gap left in his defences, sir?’ He bobbed his head as if to emphasise that he was the only one who understood Chadwick’s comments.
The admiral smiled. ‘Quite so.’
Villiers said, ‘But if the R.A.F. can’t get at the tanker –’ He swung away from the chart, his face pale. ‘You’ll not send our aircraft, sir?’
Chadwick flicked something off one sleeve. ‘We will still be between the convoy and any surface threat. An attack at first light, low down to avoid German R.D.F. It would only need a couple of planes. That tanker is probably snug and sound during full daylight.’ He glanced calmly at the chart. Trondheim, Bodo, then Narvik perhaps. Or through the Lofotens and straight up to Altenfjord. One thing about the Germans, they may be damn good at their job, but their one weakness is their total lack of originality.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘Yes, Villiers. This is the kind of eventuality I discussed in London. Why this information was transmitted to the admiral commanding the Home Fleet units.’ He beamed. ‘And to me.’
He paused, allowing the babble of voices to ebb and flow around the crowded room like echoes.
James said suddenly. ‘I think it has a fair chance, sir.’ He looked at Villiers, as if surprised by his own words. ‘But our Swordfish will have a hard time getting away.’ He faced Chadwick, as if expecting him to disperse his fears.
Chadwick said nothing but, ‘We shall have to see.’
‘It’s all decided then?’ Villiers watched him, his eyes deep in shadow. He looked ill.
‘Not entirely.’ Chadwick saw Rowan and held his eyes with his before passing on around the room. ‘The Admiralty, the Intelligence chaps, and of course our friends in the Norwegian Resistance, have all been briefed.’
James exclaimed, ‘But the Germans will get to know more and more about us, sir!’
Chadwick replied coldly, ‘Well perhaps you know more about Germans than most of us.’ He turned away from James’s shocked face. ‘But our convoy is of tremendous importance. Keep that in mind, gentlemen. This tanker could be only one move, but a damaging blow at the enemy all the same. The convoy will be attacked, no matter what we do or say. The Germans have no choice, any more than we do. So one deed cancels out the other. It is up to us to find what we can along the way to lessen the impact when it comes.’
Villiers asked huskily, ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘It is.’ Chadwick picked up his cap. ‘I think I’ll go and join Guns’s P.T. class. The air is a bit stuffy here.’
Villiers waited for the admiral to shut the door and then said quietly, ‘That sums it up. Today was the first I heard of it. The admiral intends to separate our two carriers. Leave Hustler and half the escorts with the screen and move Growler stage by stage towards the Norwegian coast.’ He looked at them wretchedly. ‘I shall ask for volunteers, of course.’
James said, ‘The admiral just told me. The crews are already selected. He will let you know when he’s good and ready.’
Rowan thought of the admiral’s eyes. That brief moment. Selected. His glance had told him that, if nothing else.
As he had listened to the counter-play beneath the chart he had seen more than Villiers’ despair and James’s anger at Chadwick’s words. It was the same old argument. If every one of Growler’s planes were shot down, and the carrier herself sunk or badly damaged, it would still be worth it.
‘God,’ he spoke aloud, unaware of Ellis’s sudden concern, ‘I never counted on this!’
A telegraphist came from the Operations Room and handed a signal pad to James. He read it and said, ‘Two U-boats reported to the east of the convoy.’ He looked at Villiers. ‘Here we go.’
Villiers straightened his stooped shoulders. ‘Duty crews report to the A.S.O. when you dismiss.’ He added, ‘Not to worry. Something may turn up.’
Above the gently swaying carrier the sky had changed yet again. Painted in long copper brushstrokes from horizon to horizon, it looked at odds with the keen bite of the air.
Around the two stubby carriers the sloops dipped and lifted across the undulating water, their decks shining as the spray burst across their stems and angled guns.
Far away across the port bow, and just visible on the hard horizon line, the nearest convoy escort showed herself like a flaw on the sea’s edge. A tiny dot circled above the escort, and as Rowan watched from a walkway, his cheeks stinging in the air, he knew it was the A.A. cruiser’s ancient Walrus seaplane, a Shagbat as they were affectionately known throughout the Navy.
Just the thing for keeping an eye open for surfaced U-boats. As helpless as a blind baby against anything which flew.
And beyond that, he wondered, were the great Goliaths of the Home Fleet really there? Waiting to dash down and defend the convoy at an hour’s notice? There were too many maybe’s for comfort.
Something bobbed out below the bridge structure, and he turned to watch Lieutenant Syms as he paid out his large orange balloon. He made a few half-hearted attempts with it and then withdrew it.
Rowan called, ‘What do you think?’
Syms looked down at him, his eyes opaque. ‘Not sure.’ He hesitated. ‘But I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. We could hit some fog.’
Rowan turned away. Fog. That really would put the tin-lid on it.
Syms stared after him. ‘I might be mistaken of course.’ He looked up at the masthead, Chadwick’s flag whipping out to the breeze. ‘On the other hand . . .’
His thoughts and doubts were scattered to the wind as the next two Swordfish rumbled along the deck towards the bows, their engines snarling as they received the signal to take off.
Another patrol. Syms shook his head and retreated within the island.
Rowan watched them lift and then circle away towards the distant convoy, and from his steel chair on the bridge Captain Buchan followed them with his binoculars.
Bray, the Navigating Officer, who was in charge of the watch, said absently, ‘Funny when you think about it, sir. A merchant ship’s hull, a carrier’s top, and a whole gaggle of seamen and fliers mixed up inside her, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.’
Lieutenant John Bray was an R.N.R. officer who had served in oil tankers as a second mate until the war. He still did not know if the Old Man liked
him or not. Some regular officers loathed the reservists. Especially those who had been on the beach between the wars, like Buchan.
Buchan did not turn in his chair but said, ‘Bring her back on course again, Pilot. Hustler will be flying-off the next patrol.’
Bray grinned at his back. He hadn’t heard a bloody word he’d said.
He crossed to the voicepipe. ‘Port ten.’
Buchan felt the steel arms of his chair pressing into his ribs as Bray conned the ship round again to her original course.
It all seemed to be going well enough, so why was he so uneasy? Weather reports were fair. The two battleships were at sea with their escorting destroyers. Do them good to do a bit of sea-time instead of swinging round their buoys in Scapa, he thought. It was unfair, and he knew it. A few months ago, when he had been pining out his life in one of those awful shore establishments, he’d have given his right arm for anything which floated. Even a boom-defence ship at Scapa Flow would have seemed like heaven.
He ran his gloved hand along the rough metal plates below the glass screen.
Poor Growler. She was not at all beautiful. He had heard Bray’s remarks and had been surprised at his own immediate resentment. She was his ship and nobody, not even Chadwick, he smiled, that man, would put her in senseless jeopardy.
A bosun’s mate called, ‘From W/T, sir. Two U-boats to the east of the convoy.’
‘Very good.’
He kept his gaze on the horizon as it sloped back and forth as if trying to tip the ships over the edge.
He heard Bray shuffling his leather sea boots and softened his heart towards him. Bray was a bit of a bore sometimes when he went on about the good old days of the Merchant Service. But once, in the Atlantic, they had seen a convoy savagely mauled, and one old freighter left to capsize and sink, while her consorts of a long passage had steamed away, closing their ranks. He had turned to Bray to ask him about the freighter. She had looked so old. So very forlorn as she had lifted her outdated stern and solitary screw towards the smoke and the sky. Buchan had been shocked to see that Bray had removed his cap and had been staring at the sinking wreck as if unable to take his eyes from her.
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