Bray had said brokenly, ‘My first ship. Poor old girl.’
The words of a simple sailor, he thought. But how they summed up the whole bloody war.
He said, ‘What you were just saying about Growler, Pilot.’ He heard Bray’s feet stop shuffling. ‘She’ll do me.’
Bray grinned. ‘Me too, sir.’ He moved to the gyro repeater. ‘She’s a bit like me, I suppose. Half and half.’
Buchan stiffened in his chair as he heard the far-off crump, crump of exploding depth charges. Miles away. The convoy escort commander was on the ball. The Swordfish would be there now to add their weight if the U-boats showed themselves.
Bray said, ‘This’ll mean another big alteration of course, I suppose, sir.’
‘We’ll know soon enough. The submarines might know nothing about the convoy. The destroyers could drive them deep before they find out.’
Bray sighed. He thought of the hundreds of miles to go before they dropped anchor again. Nothing seemed to bother the Old Man. Which was just as well, he decided.
5
Hand Picked
FOR FOUR DAYS the convoy steamed steadily north and north-east, keeping to the same high speed, staying in its regular formation, until it seemed as if nothing could or would ever change.
The early U-boat scare had almost been forgotten, and to Rowan, and most of the others who lived, slept and worked within Growler’s sturdy hull, time and distance had grown out of all proportion.
Only when he had visited the Operations Room or had chatted with Bray, the Navigating Officer, had he kept a sense of real understanding. Of the one and a half thousand miles astern of the convoy, of the fact that the jutting horn of Spitsbergen, which still lay a thousand miles beyond the bows, was the nearest land, and that when they passed it they were only halfway to their destination. It made him edgy and irritable, which was alien to his nature, and he was helpless to forestall sudden bursts of temper, which even Bill’s prevailing good humour failed to quench.
It was the complete emptiness of each dragging day which made it harder to take. The long, eye-searing days weaving over the rigid lines of merchantmen. The strain of the eerie dusk and the shadows on the sea’s face which became packs of motionless submarines. He had sighted some gleaming teeth of drifting ice, and huge patterns of sea birds floating unconcerned over a patch of water, only flapping away as the intruding aircraft had roared overhead, and then alighting again to continue their ritual. Resting, or waiting for unwary fish, nobody seemed to know.
The incoming W/T messages continued to mark their progress far beyond the Arctic Circle. The routine ones told Syms about changing fronts and varying pressures. Elsewhere they were having rain and sunshine, sleet and drought. Around the convoy, the weather remained the same. Faceless.
The news of the war was cautious. The Allies had completely taken Sicily, and the Italians were busy trying to surrender everything to them and turn their backs on their German partners. If the Germans were depressed about it, their own broadcasts gave little hint. Growler’s W/T often picked up their radio programmes from Norway and further afield. Stirring military music, marching songs, and one alarming item in English which had proclaimed that H.M.S. Growler had been sunk with all hands. Only when the newsreader had gone on to describe the carrier’s destruction in the Mediterranean had the company relaxed.
A week after leaving Iceland the convoy made a rendezvous with two large fleet oilers, and the overworked escorts took on more fuel with barely a break in their daily routine.
The organisation was certainly impressive and accurately timed. Rowan had had plenty of opportunity to study the thirty-five merchant ships. It was a wonder they could retain such a good speed. He had never seen such overloaded ships. Every foot of deck space was crammed with tall wooden crates, folded aircraft, tanks and armoured vehicles of every make and size. Had this been a winter run to North Russia it would have been very different, he thought. They would have had to cut their deck cargoes by half, or turn turtle at the first coating of ice with its frightening topweight which could cripple even the largest ships.
He often flew quite low across the convoy, seeing upturned faces and waving hands. It took guts to be a merchant sailor. You were always the target. With nothing to hit back with but a few pop-guns.
Rowan’s father had been in the army in that other war, and had often told him about the Russian Revolution, and the effect it had made on the eventual uneasy peace with a new Germany. It was strange to think of them as allies, especially as they had been so ready and eager to sign a peace treaty with Hitler when it had suited them.
And now, all those ships, tanks and boxes of equipment would soon be on the Russian Front. He hoped that the cost of getting them there would not be forgotten as quickly as his father’s efforts had been.
On the eighth and ninth days the convoy lost some ground in a wide alteration of course away from an alleged U-boat sighting report. True or false was anyone’s guess, but the possible lengthening of the voyage could only add to the tension as well.
The next day it was announced that the Allies had invaded Italy. A week or so back there would have been a party to celebrate the first real foothold in Europe. But it was so sudden, so remote, that it made many of the men in the convoy feel more cut off than ever.
In the Ready Room, drowsing and chatting over coffee, cigarettes and pipes, Bill Ellis said, ‘I’ll bet it’ll be roses all the way to Rome for those lucky sods. I wish to God we were there instead of up here.’ He laughed at his own frustration. ‘Wherever here is!’
Villiers walked through the room on his way to the bridge, shoulders hunched, his face expressionless.
Ellis stood up. ‘Any idea what’s happening, sir?’
Villiers paused, dragging his mind to the present. ‘Intelligence seem to think that Jerry knows what we’re up to. But because of the escort and covering force he intends to wait for the grand slam.’ He gave what might be a shudder. ‘But I don’t know, Bill. The bastards must have something up their sleeves.’
Rowan had been half-listening and half-watching the two youngest pilots, Creswell and Cotter, the New Zealander. They were playing noughts and crosses, their faces totally absorbed.
He asked abruptly, ‘What about our special role, sir?’
The other two looked down at him.
Villiers replied, ‘Talk, I should think. If the Intelligence people are right, I believe it’ll be a battle between the heavy ships. The rest will be so much arithmetic.’
Lieutenant Commander James came out of his Operations Room.
He nodded to Villiers. ‘Conference on the bridge. The admiral is calling for blood.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Somebody has stolen his champagne, I expect.’
Rowan watched them leave and said, ‘They’re both scared to death of the admiral, Bill.’
Ellis sat down heavily. ‘If we ever get to their exalted positions, I expect we’ll show the same symptoms, my lad.’
Rowan realised he must have fallen asleep in the chair. He woke up with a start as a coffee mug rolled from a table and shattered on the deck.
Ellis said, ‘We’re turning.’
He stood up and hurried to a scuttle. It was caked with salt outside and heavy with condensation within.
He said tersely, ‘Growler’s turned to starboard.’
The pilots dropped their magazines and letters and joined him, straddling their legs as the carrier tilted with unexpected force, her decks vibrating to a surge of engine revolutions.
Rowan watched a blurred escort standing away from the carrier, the intermittent blink of a signal lamp and a sudden bright hoist of flags at her yard.
The deck righted itself again, and Cotter said, ‘Well, that bit of dazzling excitement is over for another day!’
Several of them laughed.
Ellis was unbuttoning his battledress and scrabbling inside his fleece-lined leather waistcoat. It was a strange garment which Ellis always claimed he had won from a French
major at cards. He dragged out a little oilskin bag and produced a pocket compass.
He said quietly, ‘South-east’. He closed it with a snap and looked at Rowan. ‘Villiers was wrong. We’re leaving the bloody convoy.’
The next batch of stand-by pilots entered the Ready Room, but the relieved ones stayed put.
Villiers and James came back together and paused uncertainly by the door as they were met by the watching faces, moulded together in an unasked question.
Villiers said, ‘Hustler is closing the convoy. She is taking two sloops and the tug.’ He glanced at James as if for confirmation. ‘We are steering towards Norway with the remainder of our escort.’
Lieutenant Rolston snapped angrily, ‘I think we can be trusted not to swim ashore and tell the enemy, sir!’
James shot him a warning glance, but Villiers replied calmly. ‘I know. But I have no further information to give at this moment.’
James said, ‘And if you speak like that again, Rolston, I’ll have you in front of the captain, got it?’
Rolston glared at him. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Ellis said, ‘I think I’ll go and eat. It helps me at moments of great crisis.’
James added in a more level voice, ‘No, Bill. You and Tim will report to the bridge.’ He looked round the room. ‘And you, Creswell. Jump about. The admiral’s up there.’
The three officers reached the bridge and were hurried to the chartroom. It was unusually crowded, and misty with heat.
Rear Admiral Chadwick was standing across the vibrating chart table, arms folded, his long side-burns like silver in the deckhead lights. The captain, navigating officer and Broderick, the Air Staff Officer, were grouped around the brightly lit rectangle like actors waiting for a prompt.
Chadwick glanced up and nodded. ‘Good.’ He looked at Rowan, isolating him from the rest. ‘Sleeping better?’
Rowan felt the others staring at him. He answered uncertainly, ‘Well, yes, sir.’
Chadwick gave a brief smile. ‘Fine. You’ve been looking a bit fraught lately. I keep an eye on my people, y’know.’
He turned to Bray. ‘Well, Pilot?’
Bray cleared his throat. The atmosphere was very tense, and Rowan guessed there had been some sort of argument before they had arrived.
The navigating officer rested his brass dividers on the chart. ‘This is our present position. We are now steering approximately south-east. In four days we will be here, provided –’
Chadwick interrupted impatiently, ‘Provided, well, that’s always a good beginning!’ He looked at the three pilots. ‘A lot depends on our intelligence and sighting reports,’ He glanced at Buchan. ‘And the behavior of our little force. But with any sort of luck I intend to launch a hit-and-run attack on that big tanker. It seems she’s had a spot of trouble. An accident or sabotage, we don’t know. But she will be delayed. It will give us time.’
Buchan spoke for the first time. ‘You’ll be expected to fly as an escort for three Swordfish. Knock out the tanker at her anchorage and come straight back.’ He sounded as if the words were strangling him.
Chadwick ignored him. ‘You, Rowan, will be in command.’
Rowan wanted to moisten his lips. ‘Yes, sir.’
Surprisingly, Chadwick grinned, his wide mouth almost touching his side-burns.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
Rowan moved closer to the chart, seeing Bray’s neat calculations, the final pencilled cross off the Norwegian coast. At a very rough guess it was about one hundred miles from the land. A Swordfish had a range of just over five hundred miles, A Seafire a good bit less. It would not allow much time for sightseeing.
‘It could be anywhere, sir.’
Broderick said in his flat voice, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fill in the details. I’ve got drawings and some photographs in my intelligence files.’
Ellis glanced at Rowan and then at the admiral. ‘If we pull it off, sir. What then?’
Chadwick eyed him calmly. ‘What then? Back to the job, of course. We will rejoin the convoy with all haste and be ready for the final free-for-all. It will be quite a detour. It will also mean we’ll be on our own for several days. But the C. in C. has approved. Our yardarm’s clear.’ It sounded as if nothing could go wrong.
Broderick faltered between Chadwick and Buchan. ‘Then if that’s all, sir?’
The admiral frowned. ‘For the moment. Keep it amongst yourselves. I don’t want a whole lot of gossip. These officers and the Swordfish crews will be kept off the patrol roster unless,’ he shot a quick glance at the captain, ‘we are overwhelmed by the whole Luftwaffe.’
Broderick kept his face stiff. ‘Carry on, gentlemen.’
As they made to leave the chartroom Godsal, the urbane flag lieutenant, said, ‘Not you.’ He smiled at Rowan. ‘The admiral wishes you to wait in his quarters.’
Rowan stared at Ellis. He had not even realised that Godsal had been there. Perhaps that was the most important thing in a flag lieutenant. Be invisible until needed.
The three pilots stood together in the steel passageway abaft the chartroom.
Ellis said, ‘Watch your step, Tim.’ He scratched his head. ‘Still, you are now our boss. That must be good, eh?’
They heard raised voices in the chartroom, and Buchan saying hotly, ‘That was unfair, sir, speaking like that in front of my subordinates!’
The door opened and closed and Bray strode past on his way to the forebridge. He looked at Rowan and grimaced. ‘Jesus,’ he said.
Rowan found his way to Chadwick’s quarters, feeling the ship shaking and pitching to the additional revolutions. The sloops would be glad, he thought. Instead of rolling along as slow escorts for once.
Dundas, the admiral’s steward, took his cap. ‘Have a pew, sir. He’ll not be long.’ He could have been a manservant in some grand house, a thousand miles from the sea and the war.
Chadwick entered the day cabin and hurled his cap at Dundas.
‘Sit down.’ He glanced at himself in a mirror and seemed satisfied. ‘I’ll not waste your time.’ He looked for Dundas. ‘I’ll have some sherry.’ He studied Rowan for the first time. ‘You can have what you like now that you’re off the duty roster.’
‘Sherry will do fine, sir.’
‘Good.’ Chadwick sounded distant. ‘Can’t bear lack of decision.’ Then he smiled. ‘Now. About our little raid . . .’
Rowan sipped the sherry, watching Chadwick the whole time. Here, in this spartan place, he felt untidy and awkward in Chadwick’s company.
Chadwick continued, ‘Van Roijen will be the senior Swordfish pilot. Seems very competent.’ He chuckled. ‘For a foreigner.’
Rowan hid his surprise. He was to lead the fighters, and the Dutchman would control the torpedo attack. Not Miller or Kitto.
Chadwick said slowly, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ He came to some sort of decision. ‘You are a good pilot. I’ve been told so, and I’ve watched you myself. I like what I see. But if you’re thinking I’ve given you command of the attack because you’re the best thing on two feet, you can forget it.’ He grinned at Rowan’s expression. ‘You’re good. Not the best.’
He stood up and moved restlessly across the cabin, the glass held in front of him like a talisman.
‘I think Jerry will do all he can to bash the convoy. If and when he makes his big stand, I’ll need every fully experienced leader I’ve got. This raid of ours could make a difference to things. But then again it might fail. You might not get back.’
Rowan wanted to finish the sherry, to move his limbs, anything, but Chadwick’s level, matter of fact tone held him rigid in his seat.
He pulled no punches. Gave no hint of optimism, even of survival. How different from Villiers. He could not help making the comparison. Villiers seemed to take every pilot’s life as part of his own before each patrol or exercise.
Chadwick said, ‘I’ve studied your record. You did not begin in the Fleet Air Arm.’ It was a statement. �
�You started in destroyers. East-coast escort duties.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It all came flooding back. The elderly, First World War destroyer, the routine and deadly business of coastal convoys. Bombers, E-Boat Alley, it seemed a hundred years ago.
‘I got fed up with convoys, sir. They were asking for volunteers for flying training. I think I’d have volunteered for anything to get off convoy duty.’ He grinned. ‘As soon as I could fly, I went straight back to doing just that.’
Chadwick watched him, seeing his change of mood. The youth emerging as he smiled, from behind the grave, set expression he usually wore.
‘Yes. And you obtained a watchkeeping certificate while you were in destroyers.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Bit of each. Flier and sailor. You’ll need both for this job. To get the attack going. To get ’em back to the ship afterwards.’
Afterwards. Rowan said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ It sounded inadequate.
‘Yes.’ Chadwick looked away. ‘This is how it’s done. Routine never won a war.’
There was a tap on the door and Godsal looked in at them, his face blank. It was over.
Chadwick said, ‘Learn all you can in the next few days. Landmarks. Channels between the islands. That sort of thing. If we can get you to the jump-off position without raising an alarm, you will have surprise on your side.’ He held Rowan’s gaze. ‘But not much else, I’m afraid.’ He nodded. ‘We’ll have another yarn sometime.’
Rowan walked out into the passageway, dazed with the ease and speed of Chadwick’s appraisal. He had been given a job, cut down to size, and handed very small hope of getting back alive, all in a few minutes.
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