‘Steer one-seven-zero.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘That was well done, Lewis.’
He saw bodies being hauled away by the busy figures below him, covered by oilskins, bits of bunting, anything to hide the horror of their last seconds on earth.
Another destroyer was in difficulties now. Rowan was just in time to see her bracketed by more heavy shells, her foremast and forward funnel ripped away as if by a great gale. Lines of jagged holes appeared along her side, and he could tell by her wild alteration of course that her steering had been shot away.
The captain said hoarsely, ‘Three of us left.’
‘Chief wants to speak with you, sir.’ A bosun’s mate thrust the handset towards him, but his eyes were watching the German ship, fascinated. Like a rabbit mesmerised by a fox.
‘Yes, Chief.’ They all ducked as shells screamed above the bridge. ‘I can’t help it. You must keep her moving at full revs.’ He looked at Rowan, his eyes angry. ‘If that big ship gets past us it will be the end of the convoy. We don’t matter any more.’ He slammed down the handset.
Rowan turned away. Even the captain knew they were not going to stop the enemy. Three destroyers, and the Pathan was only able to fire with Y-gun mounting, and that would only bear when the destroyer veered away to avoid a fresh fall of shells.
But the four torpedo tubes were trained outboard, as they were on the other destroyers. Just one good hit. It was like expecting the sea to dry up.
The convoy was barely visible now. What with the drifting banks of smoke and the falling shells it was not surprising. The merchantmen, so precious, so well guarded over the many days since they had left Iceland, were hurrying away from those murderous guns as fast as they could. A handful of small escorts, Hustler and her two sloops, a rescue tug and the elderly A.A. cruiser. If the Home Fleet support did not arrive within the hour the rescue tug would be the only useful one afloat.
As if to mock his reeling thoughts, the yeoman called. ‘W/T report that the Home Fleet force is still engaging heavy German units, sir. No extra support will arrive before dawn tomorrow at the earliest.’
The captain looked past him. He had known it from the beginning.
How well the enemy had played it. Move and counter move, just as Chadwick had said war should and must be waged. Poor Growler had probably gone to the bottom already.
A great explosion battered the ship to one side, men and loose gear cascading across the decks and from gun mountings like so much flotsam.
‘Direct hit on the quarterdeck, sir.’
Men were shouting at each other, calling names, some must have gone mad in the belching smoke and fire which made a swirling, angry cone high above the ship.
Rowan felt the effect immediately. The speed began to fall away, and as the ship ploughed across a line of jagged crests he sensed the motion dragging at the narrow hull like an arrester wire.
The captain said, ‘Tell the Gunner (T) to prepare to fire. Extreme range, but we’re losing way. No more time left. Make a signal to the others.’
Rowan could see it all. With the resistance broken the Germans would hurry after the convoy, and either scatter it with long-range bombardment or destroy it at leisure. Like fish in a barrel. The badly mauled Kirkwall would stand no chance at all. One of the German destroyers would finish her.
He turned his head as a lookout started to yell something. He was almost afraid to look. Fearful that something even worse was about to happen.
‘Look, sir!’ The rating was almost incoherent. ‘Aircraft! Starboard bow! God Almighty! They’re bloody Swordfish!’
The yeoman exclaimed hoarsely, ‘Hustler’s skipper has quit the convoy. He’s decided to give us a hand!’
Rowan hopped to the gratings and clung to a rail, oblivious of the broken glass, the trail of blood he was leaving on the splintered woodwork.
The captain saw his face and held out some binoculars without a word.
Rowan steadied the glasses against the ship’s unsteady rise and fall, almost blind with shock and disbelief. His eyes kept misting over, and it took precious seconds before he could find the approaching aircraft.
Then he said huskily, ‘Nine Swordfish, sir. But not from Hustler. Wrong bearing.’
He could barely hide his emotion as he watched the torpedo bombers in three tight arrowheads as they sailed unhurriedly towards the enemy. Just feet above the wavetops, three by three. He could even recognise the squadron insignia, the polar bear holding a torpedo in its paws like a lance.
So intent had the German guns crews been on their methodical bombardment that they had not seen the aircraft’s slow approach from the other horizon. But surprise gave way to vicious response from all three ships as they opened fire with every automatic weapon which would bear.
The whole sky above and around the twin-winged planes was soon pockmarked with exploding cannon shells, while in gathering strength across their path grew a criss-cross of glittering tracers which made such a mesh that Rowan imagined nothing could survive in it.
One Swordfish exploded and cartwheeled away into the sea. Another swerved, a wing torn off, and it too plunged down and disintegrated. The other seven flew on. They ignored the destroyers which were altering course to protect their great consort, ignored their murderous fire-power, the inferno of tracer which even as they watched caught another Swordfish and set it ablaze.
The captain yelled, ‘Tell the Chief to give me a few more revs and never mind the bloody damage! This is our chance, our only chance!’
Lights blinked from the other destroyers, and Rowan could feel the sudden wild excitement, the desperate eagerness around him, where just before there had been only defeat.
A fourth Swordfish exploded in the air and scattered burning pieces for a hundred yards. Five left. Very small now, very alone as they pushed on towards their target.
Rowan cursed as he tried to hold the glasses steady, feeling the battered ship beneath him stir, rally to the clang of telegraphs and the hoarse shout of commands.
He watched the second Swordfish, saw the green and yellow stripes on its cowling and knew it was Andy Miller leading the attack, could picture him sitting forward in the cockpit, his devil’s beard poking towards the enemy, showing the way.
Another Swordfish was losing height, then hit the water and blew up with its own torpedo.
The leading plane released its torpedo, but it was too soon, or it hit a bank of waves, Rowan could not tell. He saw it break its back, and as the Swordfish lifted and tried to pull away it took a burst of cannonfire from nose to tail, hurling it over and down within feet of the ship’s side.
‘Tubes ready, sir!’
‘Harda-port! Midships! Steady!’ The captain leaned his elbows on the screen, his glasses unwavering. ‘Fire!’
Rowan heard the measured thuds as the four torpedoes left the tubes.
‘All torpedoes running, sir!’
Rowan held his breath as he watched Andy Miller’s Swordfish touched with little droplets of fire and then begin to sway from side to side like a wounded bird.
Pathan’s last challenge had been forgotten, and even the captain ran to the other side of his bridge to watch the Swordfish, as with smoke gathering and streaming from its tail it continued to head for the cruiser. The Germans were shooting with everything, but the Swordfish seemed to have a charmed life. The torpedo dropped and was lost in the welter of spray, and as somebody raised a solitary cheer, Miller’s plane burst into flames and then fell, lost from view behind one of the destroyers.
The German captain had decided to take avoiding action. By so doing he exposed his full broadside to the destroyer’s own torpedoes.
One by one, three hit her massive hull, hurling huge waterspouts as high as her scarlet ensign.
One more torpedo hit her right aft, on the opposite side. Andy Miller had done what he set out to do.
The surviving Swordfish had already turned and were heading away to the south again. Their torpedoes had either gone astray
or misfired, but the enemy had had more than enough. The two big destroyers were keeping close to their flagship, and even though it was unlikely the damage would be fatal, she would have a hard struggle to reach Norway if the weather got worse.
Commander Nash was saying, ‘Make a signal, Yeoman. Discontinue the action and retire under smoke screen. We will rejoin the convoy.’ He took out his pipe and looked at Rowan. That was the bravest thing I have ever seen.’ He added simply, ‘Anybody who worries about a victory should have seen that.’ He waited, watching Rowan’s pale face. ‘Did you know all of them?’
Rowan laid down the glasses. Now, that German pilot’s family would never get the watch which Andy Miller always wore.
‘All of them. Some better than others. Andy Miller could fly anything. Above all else, he was a fine man.’
He sat down heavily as the same S.B.A. started to re-tie the dressing on his leg.
The Pathan’s first lieutenant strode on to the bridge and looked around before asking, ‘Where’s Pilot, sir?’
The captain gestured towards a body half hidden under an oilskin. He looked desperately tired. Then he pointed to Rowan who was still sitting in his smoke-stained sweater and split trousers watching the smoke pall where it had all happened.
‘He took over, Number One. A pilot as a Pilot. He did damn well, too.’
The first lieutenant glanced at his battered ship, the broken guns which pointed impotently to the sky, at the dead, and those who were just beginning to realise they were still alive.
‘I think they all did, sir.’
Rowan accepted a duffel coat which somebody had found for him.
He did not leave the bridge for the rest of the day, despite the pleas of the S.B.A. and the suggestions of the harassed doctor. He remained in the captain’s chair, drinking endless cups of tea and soup, watching the ship and her defenders putting themselves to rights as best they could. And remembering the nine underpowered Swordfish.
By dusk they had rejoined the convoy, and as signals of congratulation and sympathy rippled up and down those same rigid lines of ships a further diamond-bright light flashed a recognition signal.
H.M.S. Growler was back with her brood. Then and only then did Rowan go below.
10
Price of Victory
CAPTAIN BRUCE BUCHAN leaned out over the side of the flying bridge and waited warily while the rescue tug Cornelian nudged alongside. Both vessels were moving at reduced speed, but as he watched the bandaged figures, inert shapes strapped in stretchers, and others who were still able to fend for themselves, he seemed to feel every jarring impact against the hull.
It was very early in the morning, and the sea was smoother than for some days, with just the long, undulating swells to make the manoeuvre difficult.
But the tug’s skipper knew his business, and as the wounded were ferried up and through one of Growler’s entry ports Buchan found some satisfaction with the speed it was accomplished.
Beyond the carrier the long lines of merchantmen stretched away to the southern horizon. The depleted escorts were carefully placed ahead and on the wings, and the anti-aircraft cruiser had moved up to the centre of the formation where her multiple weapons could give maximum cover. On Growler’s starboard beam, about half a mile away, was the Hustler, some aircraft warming-up on her flight deck, coughing out blue vapour in the crisp morning air.
Buchan felt tired, worn out with the strain of getting back to the convoy. They had been forced to stop completely when the Chief reported trouble in the solitary shaft. The bearings could take a lot, but the way they had forced the ship through all sorts of weather had had its effect in the end.
And while his ship had rolled and pitched heavily, her screw still, her decks filled with watchful, listening men, Buchan had thought about the convoy, of the battle being reported by the Admiralty far away to the north-east. Great armoured giants locked in combat, while the convoy sailed on, hoping for the best, denied full support when they had needed it most.
Rear Admiral Chadwick had ordered a Seafire to be flown-off as soon as it was light to report back if the pilot sighted anything. The aircraft had returned with the startling news that there was a big German cruiser and two destroyers between them and the convoy.
Buchan, and probably others, had expected Chadwick to show alarm, or at least the realisation that he had delayed too long away from his group.
Instead the admiral had snapped, ‘Just as I envisaged from the start. The Germans have played this one well, but perhaps too thoroughly even for them.’ He had looked at his officers and added calmly, ‘We will launch a full torpedo strike right away. See to it, Villiers. Tell the squadron commander I want all-out effort. This is what we’ve been waiting for.’
Again Buchan recalled the long and anxious wait, searching the clouded sky, listening for the throbbing beat of engines. The sight of just two Swordfish flying towards the carrier had been almost heart-breaking for many of the men. And one of the survivors had made a crash-landing when its undercarriage had collapsed. Two of its crew had also been wounded.
And now here were the rest of those who had been snatched from all kinds of death being lifted and swayed up in tackles from the wallowing tug alongside. Some were from the destroyers which had been sunk in the fight, and others who were too badly wounded to be left in the cramped quarters of an escort’s sickbay. Growler carried the senior doctor. And maybe Chadwick had other reasons for ordering the transfer.
Two destroyers, including Captain (D)’s, had been sunk by gunfire. The third had gone down only after her company had worked throughout the night to keep her afloat. But to no avail.
And amongst those listless figures was also Lieutenant Timothy Rowan.
The navigating officer asked, ‘Do you think we’ve seen the last of Jerry on this trip, sir?’ He too looked lined with strain.
The yeoman shouted, ‘From Cornelian, sir. Ready to cast off.’
Buchan said heavily, ‘Very well, Yeo. Tell him thanks.’
He was glad of the interruption. Glad to be released from Lieutenant Bray’s question. He had been answering questions and solving problems without sleep for forty-eight hours.
The commander appeared on the bridge, a megaphone under his arm.
‘All done, sir. Doc’s got them below, and I’ve detailed off a working party for him, and as many more as he needs.’
Jolly waited respectfully, his cheeks flushed from the salt air.
‘Good.’
Buchan looked at his chair. Dismissing its invitation. He would fall asleep if he sat for an instant.
‘Go down and speak to the fitter ones, Edgar, as soon as Doc says it’s all right. I’ll come myself when I’m sure what’s happening.’
Jolly took a mug of tea from a bosun’s mate. ‘The destroyers were bloody good apparently. Held the big Jerry off just long enough.’
‘Long enough for Lieutenant Commander Miller and his men to reach the target.’ Buchan opened and shut his hands with sudden anger. ‘By God, if only we’d been there from the start.’
A steel door opened and slammed, and Chadwick walked on to the bridge. He returned their salutes and then stepped on to a grating to watch the tug falling away, belching smoke, her crew gathering up ropes and fenders, drinking tea, glad to be on their own again.
Buchan watched him narrowly, hating him, afraid of what he might say.
Chadwick was freshly shaved, and beneath his oak-leaved cap his silver-grey sideburns were perfectly matched.
He said over his shoulder, ‘I’ve been in the Ops Room and passed my signals to the commodore and the new senior officer of the escort. He’s Commander Nash of the Pathan. Laid on quite a show to all accounts. His ship’s a bit of a potmess after the battering she took, but he’s the man for me. A goer. A fighter.’
He turned and studied Buchan.
‘You look pretty rough. Why don’t you get your head down for a few hours. Commander Jolly can take over, eh?’
; Buchan stared at him, his eyes stinging. ‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Fine.’ Chadwick watched him. ‘Splendid.’
Without shifting his gaze he added, ‘I’m ordering Hustler to carry out permanent patrols from now on. We will fly-on our fighters which Captain Turpin borrowed as soon as the convoy takes up its new course.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Pilot?’
Bray jerked upright. ‘Ten hundred, sir.’
Buchan asked, ‘Are we getting any more support, sir?’
‘I gather so. Two cruisers and a couple of long-range escorts are joining towards noon. Our Russian friends are ready to send every anti-submarine vessel and plane out to meet us to make the Jerries run deep and keep out of our way.’ He grinned. ‘All the way. Just like we promised.’
Buchan said thickly, ‘What about the cost, sir? Did you read those figures, too?’ He knew Jolly was giving him a warning frown, that the O.O.W. had moved away so as not to be involved.
Chadwick eyed him calmly. ‘Three crack destroyers sunk. One cruiser knocked out. Kirkwall’s been ordered to make her own passage to Iceland, by the way. Nine aircraft shot down, including the Walrus and our own Seafire. All involved in a single battle, a vital part of a pattern.’ He pressed his strong fingers together. ‘Our job is to protect the convoy, not to force a battle with the German Fleet.’ His grey eyes were cold, like the sea. ‘Look ahead. Every merchant ship is still there.’ He turned to Jolly. ‘I’ve seen it on their faces in the Ops Room. The Swordfish crews meant a lot in this ship, I don’t have to be told. But if that cruiser had got to the convoy, nothing, but nothing would have saved it. Pathan’s guts, and the efforts of all the rest would have been just so much blood spilled for damn all!’ He looked away. ‘Seven Swordfish were shot down. Twenty-one brave men died. But the cruiser was snared, and by driving her round with a torpedo we gave that big bastard to the destroyers on a plate!’
The O.O.W. called nervously, ‘Resuming original revolutions, sir.’
It almost broke the spell. Jolly put down his speaking trumpet and moved to a door.
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