“Was it a salvo from you that hit the tanker?”
Neumann scowled. “You have taken me by surprise. From astern, I was not expecting—”
“Where did you learn such good English?”
A slight, involuntary smile … A nod. “In England. Before the war.”
“Was it you who hit the tanker?”
A jerk of the head. “Good fire, huh?”
“Your torpedoes?”
“Nein. My friend Max Looff, I think. He likes to see the—what you call it—fireworks?”
“Looff … That’s U 187, or—”
“U 122.” Later, after the shock had passed, Neumann would realise he’d blabbed too much. Now, he wagged his close-cropped head. “Max is an ace, you will not catch him. I was his second-in-command, I learn from him, but—”
“Likes to see them burn, you say.”
The German shrugged.
“Did you learn to enjoy it, too?”
Silence: the disdain, Nick guessed, was not of Looff but of the question. He asked him, “Are you glad I stopped to pick you up?”
“Naturally. As is only correct, however.”
“Do you stop for survivors?”
“How would it be possible?”
It was a perfectly good question. But the stare and the arrogance were something else. Nick told Hacket, “Put him in with the other officers.” He’d intended to allow him the use of his own day cabin aft, but in the last minute he’d thought better of it. There were only two other officers surviving, an engineer and a lieutenant, and one small cabin with two bunks in it would do for the three of them.
He thought, making a mental note of it for later inclusion in his Report of Proceedings, Max Looff—U 122—an “ace,” likes to see ships burn …
CHAPTER TWO
Prime Minister Winston Churchill to President Roosevelt:
Delay due to change already extends three weeks. Free French have got inkling and are leaky. Every day saved is precious …
The convoy had altered course again, swung to a track to compensate for the northward detour. The new course of 120 degrees would return them to the route as planned. Overhauling the mass of ships now, seeing masts and upperworks etched black against the flush of sunrise, Nick called Iris on the TBS and asked for details of survivors from the Rio Pride and the Dogger Prince.
Tony Graves had the watch. The crew had fallen out from action stations, and there was a general impression that the immediate danger of attack had passed. It was satisfying to have sunk that U-boat; this, plus the ending of a night that might have been a lot worse, was giving them all a feeling of well-being. He felt it himself, and saw it in others: in stubbled, strained faces materialising again as the half-light crept over sea and ships: you could detect it in their voices too, the tones of tired but contented men looking forward to their breakfasts.
It was partly reaction to strain. He understood this, having experienced it hundreds of times before, but it still provoked a twinge of guilt, to be cheerfully anticipating a meal and a sleep when only about ninety minutes ago a number of men had died, some very unpleasantly and all of them people who’d sailed in his, Nick Everard’s, protection.
Iris came through with her report. She had eleven survivors from the tanker, of whom two were unlikely to live much longer. Three who’d been picked up had already died of their burns. From the little Dogger Prince she had twenty-seven.
He frowned into the dawn. Overlaying the prosaic report, the figures, were other recent memories he’d sooner have forgotten. Sights, and sounds. He’d seen a lot of battle, in other ships and other seas, but here in the Atlantic the more or less constant strain, monotony of convoy routine and unrelieved discomfort made for a drably grim background that seemed endless: months, years of it, punctuated by moments of starker horror.
He glanced at Tony Graves, who had his glasses up and was sweeping the still-dark surface to port. Graves was a stocky, wide-shouldered man in his mid-thirties; he had a roundish face fringed at the moment with ginger beard. Nick asked him, “What induces anyone to go to sea in tankers?”
“Often wondered that myself, sir.” He added, “They’re well paid, of course.”
“I’d bloody well hope so!”
Harbinger was closing in on the convoy’s rear, and dawn had become a silver brightness streaking up to the loosely-hanging underside of pinkish cloud. He wondered whether there’d be rain coming now, and guessed there might well be. It felt like it. Wind still dropping, down to about force four now, and the ship’s motion had become more regular—after four days and nights of being flung from end to end and beam to beam. The messdecks, he knew, would be in a filthy state; a destroyer’s living spaces always were after a bout of really bad weather. In other words, on most convoy trips, for at least half the year in these latitudes. There’d be water sloshing to and fro, rubbish and vomit in it, wet clothes in heaps as malodorous as dead cats. And the wardroom wouldn’t be all that much better.
TBS—a call from Goshawk … It was the voice of Jock Audsley, her captain, asking, Did we hear bumps in the night? Over.
Audsley, a lieutenant-commander RN, was the group’s senior CO after Nick.
“Reply, ‘Affirmative. Score is now two-seven. Your turn next, please.’”
Congratulations began to crackle in from all of them. And it was a heartening achievement. It sounded like an uneven score, that 2–7, but when you appreciated that the enemy had only about two hundred operational submarines at this time, so that last night their overall strength had been reduced by one percent, it wasn’t at all bad.
The sea ahead was grey now instead of black. He could make out the stern-on shape of Iris just off the convoy’s starboard quarter, and on the other bow Viola zigzagging astern of the central columns. Bruce was broader on the bow, visible mostly by the churned foam under her pitching counter as she moved away to make room for Harbinger. Daylight coming, weather improving and, so far as anyone knew, no U-boats around.
“Just as well we fuelled yesterday, sir.”
Graves had his glasses on the convoy, and he was referring to the fact that there was no oiler in it now. All four destroyers had replenished from the Rio Pride in the past twenty-four hours; the corvettes, who burnt less oil, would last out with what they had in their tanks. The more you had to dash about, the more fuel you burnt, so an interval of peace and quiet now would be doubly welcome.
He yawned, added, “And by tomorrow evening we should have air cover.”
Theoretically, they might have had it some time later today. Longrange cover by Liberators could reach up to 750 or even 800 miles from land bases. But Coastal Command had only one squadron of Liberators, and the normal range of Atlantic air patrols was about 450 miles. The U-boats’ technique was to locate their targets, shadow them until they were entering the aircraft-free zone, then close in and attack until they were about to leave it.
Mike Scarr came up, stared morosely at the sky, shook his head. There were no stars visible, so he’d get no dawn fix from them. Nick said, “You can get it down again, pilot.”
“Yes.” The navigator turned to him. “May I make a suggestion, sir?”
“If it’s a good one.”
“For the sake of convoy morale—parade the prisoners through the columns? Put ’em on the foc’sl, and steam up through the convoy?”
“I’ll—think about it.”
“Sir.” Scarr left the bridge; and Nick found two reasons for disliking the idea. One was that it was the sort of thing a German might do. The other was that it might be making too much out of the destruction of one U-boat. It would be much better if such successes were to be accepted as routine, part of an escort vessel’s daily work. In fact it would have to become so, if this battle was to be won.
“I don’t think I’ll parade our prisoners.”
Graves said, “Must say, I thought it was a lousy idea, sir.” Graves lowered his binoculars. “We’re about in station now.”
“And
I’ll leave you to it.” Nick told him, “That was a very well-placed pattern, incidentally.”
A laugh: “Have to get lucky sometimes. Thank you, sir.”
Modest old former cornflake manufacturer. He was too modest, Nick thought, sometimes, too content to stay in the background … But now, breakfast. Then some sleep. Just as he was about to leave the bridge, the bell rang from the W/T office, and Signalman Bloom jumped to the voice-pipe: “Bridge!”
Cocking his ear to it. Bloom was about twenty: pink-cheeked, with dark stubble blue-black on his jaw. An HO—Hostilities Only—rating, he’d worked in his father’s grocery business until he’d been called up. He turned from the pipe and told Nick, “From Admiralty, sir, ‘D/F bearings on four-nine-nine-five KCs indicate U-boat west of convoy was reporting your position at oh-six-oh-one stroke A,’ sir.”
0601/A meant 0501 by ship’s time. Convoy and escort were keeping Greenwich Mean Time—Zone Z, not A. The Admiralty tracking room’s information therefore was that a U-boat astern of the convoy had been transmitting a report of it just twenty minutes ago. At that time the convoy had already settled on the present course of 120 degrees: so if that U-boat’s observations had been accurate, others at sea and also Admiral Dönitz’s submarine headquarters in France would know where it was now and have a good idea of where it might be tonight.
On the other hand there might not be any U-boats to the east and southeast—except a few on passage to or from patrol, which might not be easily re-deployed now. Nor was there any certainty that if there were some they’d be ordered to do anything about it. This wasn’t the only convoy at sea in the North Atlantic; the enemy had made a strong attack on it last night and lost two of their number in the process, and there wasn’t so much of the air gap left to traverse. They might easily decide to concentrate their attentions elsewhere, perhaps against some less well defended convoy.
They were like rats: they liked easy pickings.
Graves was looking at him quizzically.
“Think they’re still after us, sir?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He nodded to the signalman. “Put it on the log when it comes up.” He told Graves, “I’ll be in my hutch. Send word to Foster I’d like some breakfast, will you?”
A kind of skinless sausage called a Soya Link, with fried bacon and fried bread: bread and marmalade: coffee … The aroma of the coffee was so good it made him smile.
“Thank you, Foster.”
PO Steward Charley Foster nodded. “Not a bad night’s work, sir, was it?”
“There’ve been worse … What’s it like aft?”
“We’re getting ourselves to rights now, sir.”
“Are the Hun officers behaving themselves?”
Foster snorted: he was a short man with a leathery seaman’s face; you wouldn’t have taken him for a steward. He said, “GM’ll see they do that, sir.” GM stood for gunner’s mate, and meant PO Hacket. “They was complaining there wasn’t room enough for ’em in there. He told ’em they could belt up or they’d get a couple more blokes in with ’em—their choice, like.”
“Good.”
Foster touched the tray. “I’ll leave this till later, sir, shall I? Dare say you’ll be gettin’ your ’ead down.”
He’d have it down in about three minutes flat: just as soon as he’d gulped down this food … He pulled off the jacket of his purloined RAF flying suit, and kicked off his seaboots. The strip of towelling he’d wrapped round his neck was soaking wet, and so were the shooting mittens which had already been taken away by Foster. There were dry spares in here. Sitting down to eat breakfast, he was wearing the flying suit’s trousers and a white submarine sweater and oiled-wool seaboot stockings, all over silk pyjamas which when he’d bought them had been called pajamas—three months ago, in New York. Under them he had on a string vest and long johns. There was no point in being colder or wetter than you had to be, when whole nights had to be spent on a bucking, sea-swept bridge: it was in the best interests of the ship and the convoys she escorted that he should not be.
This sea-cabin, below the bridge and adjoining the plot, was about the size of a large cupboard, most of its space occupied by the narrow, high-sided bunk with drawers under it. There was a small corner washbasin and a table that flapped up on hinges from the bulkhead. Over the head of the bunk was a voice-pipe to the bridge, a telephone to the plot and the RDF office, and an illuminated repeater from the gyro compass.
He’d eaten all the food and drunk the coffee. To hell with shaving: U-boats permitting, there’d be time for it later. He climbed on to the bunk, over the high lee-board which was there to stop him being flung out of it in weather such as they’d had in the past few days. Now, the motion was so regular that it would be soporific. And the most pleasant way he knew of falling asleep was to think about Kate. Not of the worry, of Kate at sea at this moment, but of Kate in England, the daydream of going on leave and having her with him …
Asdics pinging: he could hear it all the time, that constant pulsing, high-pitched probe, keening into the ocean depths. Even in his sleep, if it found a contact and an echo came back, it would bring him instantly awake. There were other background sounds as well: from time to time the voice-pipe funnelled down a helm order, and more distantly there’d be the quartermaster’s response as the ship kept up her irregular zigzag across the convoy’s rear. If he’d opened his eyes he’d have seen the lubber’s line shifting around the glowing face of the gyro repeater, two feet above his pillow; but there was no need to look, you felt the turning motion anyway, and the list as the wheel went over.
Nearly a thousand miles southeast and two hours later—Big Ben, visible from the window of his office rising above a mist lifting from the quiet Thames, showed London’s time as 0849—a tall, slightly stooped man, white-haired and dressed in the uniform of a captain RNVR, leant forward to slide a sheet of paper across a desk.
“We’ve narrowed it to a choice of three, sir.”
“Quick work, Cruance. Excellent.”
“It’s been a matter not only of the individuals’ experience and suitability, but also—rather complicatedly—of the present location of the various groups, which of them might be split up at this short notice and still get down there in time—and so forth …”
“Yes.”
Aubrey Wishart, rear-admiral, looked as if he’d been at his desk all night. He certainly hadn’t shaved. He blinked, tired eyes scanning the typed summary. They sharpened as he came to the third name on the list.
“Everard? Nick Everard’s commanding an escort group now?”
“Yes. Destroyer called—Harbinger.”
“Sit down. I wonder how the devil—”
“Here’s some detail of his recent appointments.” Cruance selected it from other papers in his file. “Do I gather you know him, sir?”
“Extremely well. Since—believe it or not—1918, in the Dardanelles. But I last saw him in Alexandria, in—” Wishart passed a hand over his eyes—“well, only months ago.” He read the notes: Cruance sitting back, watching, noticing three stained cups-and-saucers on the desk and a heaped ashtray, guessing that Wishart had been here most of the night. The admiral said, “Everard’s our man. If anyone alive could make a success of that job …”
“Would he be—well, intended to—er—achieve success, sir?”
The blue eyes lifted. Tired, but also grim.
“What do you mean?”
Cruance showed surprise … “Only that—that this is intended to deceive the enemy, and must surely incur exceptionally high losses—at least, if they take the bait—”
Wishart said thinly, “The point is that if anyone could—pull it off, with minimal losses of ships and lives—and incidentally also come out of it alive himself—”
“Quite.”
Wishart mimicked him: “Quite …” Cruance’s eyes steady, thought behind them: they were the eyes of a man accustomed to listening while his brain selected and interpreted … Wishart asked him, �
��Is that how you used to look down at the poor sods from the bench, or whatever—”
A twitch of the lips … “I do assure you, admiral—”
“Everard’s a personal friend of mine, don’t you understand?”
“Well, of course—”
“He’s also so plainly the man for this job that it would be wrong of me to pick either of the others because of that friendship. What counts is the success of the main effort—the biggest and most complex operation ever mounted yet, and the most vital, with many thousands of lives at risk—not just a few—and aimed at changing the whole course of the war—”
“I know. I do understand. Of course …”
“Well, fix it, will you? Everard, and forget those others. You’ll need to get on to Derby House in Liverpool, C-in-C Western Approaches.” Cruance was half way to the door when Wishart spoke again. “Are you free for lunch today?”
“Why, yes—”
“All things being equal, twelve forty-five? My club? I’d like to tell you some stories about Nick Everard …”
“Captain, sir?”
A bridge messenger—Holloway—was in the doorway of the sea-cabin, cold air driving in. Waking, Nick realised there was still less motion on her now, that conditions tonight would be entirely different for both attackers and defenders.
This was the second time he’d woken. The first had been after only about thirty minutes, when he’d come-to as sluggishly as a corpse to be told through the voice-pipe that Prunella had reported an asdic contact. It had turned out to be a school of fish.
Blinking at the messenger. This wouldn’t be urgent: urgent calls came through the pipe.
“What is it, Holloway?”
“Lieutenant Scarr’s compliments, sir, and we have a Focke-Wulf in company.”
“Damn.”
“Yessir.”
Nodding, from the doorway. Holloway had been starting in the building trade: apprentice bricklayer, something of that sort.
“I’ll come up.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 4