The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5

by Alexander Fullerton

  Every hour counted now. By midnight you’d be counting out the minutes. He told Bearcroft, “Call her up, say, ‘Please follow me. What is your best speed?’”

  Then he’d know what course to steer, to rejoin as fast as possible. He was anxious to get back, for the obvious reasons but also because at midnight SL 320 would be in position A, where mean course would be altered to 042 degrees, a northeasterly slant to take it between the Canaries and the Azores.

  They’d relaxed from dusk action stations an hour ago, and Chubb had the watch. Nick, with his glasses focused on the Burbridge’s dark profile, was telling him to turn on to a converging course, closing in obliquely on the passenger ship’s bow. His object was to take Harbinger up fairly close to her, and let them see her at close quarters so they’d know what they were following. The Burbridge was lucky to be afloat, to have come this far alone and unscathed. Yesterday there’d been calls for help from another straggler—a tanker, according to the register—who’d been attacked several times, fought off the first one with her gun—that had been a U-boat on the surface—then suffered only minor damage from one torpedo hit some hours later, and finally been hit again and sunk, or had been sinking, early this afternoon. She’d been too far away for there to have been any chance of helping, but she’d been in this general area of the Atlantic, and apparently three different U-boats had each had a crack at her: while this Burbridge had come through completely untouched. This far.

  An answering stab of light sparked, then died again, from that substantial-looking superstructure. She looked bigger, he thought, than her registered 9800 tons. From behind him in Harbinger’s jolting, swaying bridge a blue-shaded Aldis lamp had begun to clack out that message, with a flash for each word from the Burbridge as her signalman took it in.

  “Come five degrees to port. One-three-oh revs.”

  The name of the ship who’d been under attack had been Anglo-Maersk, 7705 gross registered tons. Not that one had needed proof of the presence of U-boats in the area. SL 320 still had at least one shadower—or had had, up till dusk this evening.

  “Message passed, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  “Course three-five-five, sir.”

  Wind and sea were on the bow now, Harbinger performing her corkscrew dance, spray sheeting over and away to starboard while she closed in towards the Burbridge—whose crew and passengers might well be heaving sighs of relief, in ignorance of the fact they’d be joining a convoy which must by this time have become a focus of interest at U-boat headquarters. SL 320 would have been on Admiral Dönitz’s plot for several days now: from the morning when he’d taken Harbinger tearing southward in the hope of catching that U-boat on the surface, perhaps even with a chance of stopping him before his transmissions were picked up at Kernéval. Fat hope: the transmissions had been acknowledged—not by FO U-boats, Gritten had said, but by some other U-boat a long way north, who’d have passed it on—and had then ceased, and there’d been no submarine on the surface when they got down there. An asdic sweep had produced nothing either, and new sorties in recent days had also drawn a blank.

  There was a hope now, though, if he could get this Burbridge back and tucked into the convoy quickly enough. It was a slim chance, admittedly, and only of throwing the shadower off the scent for a while, giving the convoy another day’s grace, perhaps, before the sharks gathered in strength. The hope rested on this course alteration that was due to be made at midnight, a swing sixty-two degrees to starboard; if while the convoy wheeled he could keep the shadower away—dived and busy saving its own skin—there might be a chance of fooling it, winning a breathing-space before the next one picked them up.

  But obviously he had to get the Burbridge into the convoy first.

  Flashing, now …

  He read it for himself: Will follow you at 9 ½ knots. Deeply grateful for this assistance.

  “Number One, tell Scarr nine and a half knots. I want the course to rejoin and how long it’ll take.”

  Warrimer went quickly to the plot voice-pipe, long arms reaching spiderlike to drag his lanky frame up the slope of bridge. Then she was teetering on a ridge and he was folded against the bridge’s side, clutching the voice-pipe for an anchor as she swung over, whacking into a trough, sea flying up and over … Nick told Chubb, “Come down to one-one-oh revs!”

  It would take them slowly past the big merchantman, slanting across his bow to take station a few hundred yards ahead. Holding the carrot of deliverance visibly in front of the donkey’s nose. A spurious deliverance though it might be. You certainly couldn’t envy passengers in the situation they’d be in: helpless, aware of how vulnerable their ship was, that a torpedo might strike at any time, day or night. They’d have slept fully dressed and wearing lifebelts and with any valuables in their pockets … He heard Warrimer taking Scarr’s answer through the voice-pipe: “Course to steer three-five-three, for two and a quarter hours.”

  “Chief Yeoman: make to the Burbridge, ‘Course three-five-three. Expect to join convoy at—’” he checked his watch’s green-glowing dial—“‘twenty-three ten.’”

  So if all went well he’d have her there fifty minutes before the convoy reached position A and altered course. Not much margin …

  This was close enough to the Burbridge. He checked his ship’s head and the lie of the other ship, and told Chubb, “Come three degrees to starboard.” Glasses up again: he could make out figures along her rails. Dark shadows, and no chink of light anywhere, but—hands waving?

  One white cloth or handkerchief …

  Chubb reported, “Course is three-five-eight, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Overhauling the passenger ship very slowly while the Aldis clacked, passing that signal, and the light’s bluish radiance flickered spasmodically across the bridge. You had to take care not to look round at it, or you’d lose your night vision for a while; but the destroyer’s racy profile and that occasional faint illumination over her swaying bridge would be easily visible to the people looking down at her across sea swelling and tumbling between them like rapids. Nick heard the morse symbols AR, the end-of-message group, and read the Burbridge’s K acknowledging. Then as the clicking stopped, he heard cheering.

  Warrimer moved up near him. “Sounds like they’re glad to see us, sir.” The two ships were as close as they’d come, at this stage. Warrimer added, putting his glasses up again, “Why, quite a few of ’em are women!”

  There was no reason to be surprised at it. Passengers, whether civilian or uniformed, did come in two sexes. Harbinger was drawing ahead, and she was well enough clear to steer the course ordained by Scarr; Nick told Chubb, “Bring her to three-five-three.”

  At ten forty-five they had the convoy on a steady bearing on the bow, the nearer corner of ships and the trawler Opal painted clearly on the RDF screen. In twenty-five minutes he had to have the Burbridge in her billet. She was on Harbinger’s port quarter now, at two cables’ distance. It seemed they’d be cutting it very fine. “Signalman.”

  Wolstenholm came slithering from the starboard for’ard corner as the ship rolled to port …

  “Take this down. To Burbridge from Harbinger.”

  Wolstenholm ducked under the canvas hood of the bridge chart table, where he could use a light. Nick dictated, “‘Convoy is in eight columns of five ships, columns one thousand yards abeam, ships in column two cables apart. Course is three-three-five, no zigzag until daylight, speed six point seven five knots. You are allocated vacant billet number three-four. I will lead you between numbers two-five and three-five. Course will be altered at midnight to oh-four-two by signal from the commodore who is in MV Chauncy Maples number three-one. We are being shadowed and attack by U-boats must be expected soon. Time of Origin—whatever …’ Read that back, now.”

  He thought, when the lamp was clicking again, calling up, that the last sentence of the message might make them feel less like cheering. But it was necessary to warn them, and in any case they’d soon have
the comfort of being surrounded by other ships.

  Ten minutes later he had Opal in his glasses. He’d been searching for her, knowing her bearing already from RDF, and now there was more work for the signalman. He called him over and pointed out the trawler.

  “Call him up, and make, ‘Pass to commodore, from Harbinger: am leading Burbridge into her station from astern. Have informed her master of your scheduled alteration.’”

  The HF/DF bell rang: he told the signalman quickly, “Go on, send it.”Warrimer shouted from the huffduff voice-pipe, “U-boat transmitting on one-five-oh, nine miles, sir!”

  Still astern of the convoy, but closer. In a shadowing position and possibly doing no more than shadowing; but with its high surface speed—compared to the convoy’s—it would only take it an hour to catch up, if that was its intention.

  Warrimer passed another piece of information from Gritten: “It’s calling some other U-boat, sir, and getting no answer.”

  He saw an answering flash out there—from Opal.

  He couldn’t do a damn thing about that U-boat while he still had the Burbridge on his hands: she had to be put into safe storage … And as she had only two and a half to three knots margin over convoy speed, it was going to take a little while still. Leaving the German out there on his own, meanwhile, calling to its friends, passing them details about the convoy. He might even be telling them, The rear of this outfit is wide open. There wasn’t anything he could do about that either: the two corvettes had to be in the van, and the trawlers didn’t have the speed, or RDF …

  HD/DF bell again, and Warrimer’s answer of “Bridge!”Wolstenholm was still rattling out that signal, drawing splintery glints of acknowledgement from the trawler. Opal wasn’t taking it in very fast.

  “U-boat on bearing three-three-nine, range seventeen, in contact with the one astern, sir!”

  Damn …

  “Number One—put the messenger on that voice-pipe. You see to it the plot’s getting these ranges and bearings.”

  He had it visually charted, though, in his mind. Ranges and bearings when plotted down there by Scarr and his assistants would eventually provide enemy speeds and courses; but meanwhile he was picturing it for himself and reckoning that this one ahead, now seventeen miles on the convoy’s port bow, must be roughly seven miles the other side of position A, where the convoy would be changing its course. But the German wouldn’t be sitting still: and if it was closing now, it would be attacking well before the turn was ordered. But then again, it could be maintaining its distance, keeping pace while it waited for others to join it.

  Time would tell. The snag was that time was rather short.

  “Number One. That contact on three-three-nine—ask Scarr for its range and bearing from Paeony.”

  Because Paeony would be the striker to be used against it—and before the convoy turned. The one and only major course alteration SL 320 was to be allowed … He decided he’d send Guyatt out now: in the hope he’d be able to keep that one at a long arm’s length.

  “Message passed to Opal, sir!”

  Plunging on, convoy shapes growing, clarifying. Opal was visible to the naked eye now, mostly because of the froth of white around her. Warrimer reported, “Contact range and bearing from Paeony is twelve miles on three-two-eight, sir!”

  At last … “Chief—TBS to Paeony—‘Investigate surface contact bearing three-two-eight twelve miles from you.’”

  It would take Guyatt half an hour to get close enough to that one to do anything useful about it.

  Neither of the corvettes had HF/DF. But at least Astilbe’s radar was functioning now. Harbinger’s RDF mechanic, who’d been transferred to her by boat three days ago, had fixed it. Nick had left him there, to make sure of it.

  Paeony had answered, and Bearcroft was passing that order to her. Nick checked the time: six minutes past eleven …

  “Now call Fox, Chief. Captain to captain.” He had his glasses on the convoy’s tail-end ships. It was time to edge over and pass close under the sterns of the William Law and the Harvest Moon before turning up between the columns.

  “Bring her ten degrees to starboard, Sub.”

  The Burbridge’s master would see the bend in his wake, and follow. “Commander Graves on TBS for you, sir.”

  He went over and took the mike. “Tony, here’s the picture. I’m about to lead the Burbridge into her billet in column three. Then I’m going to investigate a huffduff contact last heard of nine miles astern. As you’ll have heard, Paeony’s on to the one ahead of us. When we’re in position A we may both be able to keep ’em busy while the convoy turns. So you’ll be on your own … All right?”

  Graves’s voice crackled, Roger, sir. Out.

  The Burbridge had followed Harbinger’s adjustment of course to starboard. Passing astern of the William Law at this moment … “Come five degrees to port.”

  HF/DF bell: the messenger, Wragge, was answering it … “U-boat transmitting on one-three-nine, seven miles, sir!”

  So the bearing had drawn left and the range had shortened: which meant the shadower was moving up on the convoy’s starboard quarter and talking to one of its colleagues while it did so. If it had been sensible it might have kept its mouth shut: Scarr would be able to produce a course and speed now, from two well-separated fixes and if the German held on as he was an interception wouldn’t be difficult—even if he did not appear soon on the 271 screen.

  “Course three-five-eight, sir.”

  Harbinger thrashed through the wake of the Harvest Moon. Nick was fidgetting with impatience to get out after that U-boat which, if it was making its full surface speed of seventeen knots, could be in a position to attack in roughly—the figures sorted themselves in his mind as he turned to see where Wolstenholm had got to—in say thirty minutes; which would be the worst possible time, as the convoy would be on the point of making its turn then. You needed to hit him well before that …

  “Signalman, make to the Burbridge, ‘I have to leave you now. Please take station ahead of the Timaru, rear ship in column three.’”

  From this angle the Timaru was a black end-on shape underlined in white. He heard the Aldis lamp begin its calling-up routine, rapidly repeated letter As: impatience growing, thinking, Come on, come on, wake up … Then the plot/RDF voice-pipe was calling, and Warrimer was there to answer it: “Two-seven-one contact bearing one-three-oh, five and a half miles, looks like a U-boat!” “Tell them it is.”

  What the hell else it could be, short of the Flying Dutchman, who might not register on RDF …

  The Burbridge had answered—thank God. His message was stuttering out to her. He called to Chubb, “Starboard wheel to one-one-oh. Three hundred revolutions.” The picture in his mind, each feature in it moving in relation to all the others, was of the convoy steering northwest and only forty minutes short of position A, Paeony forging out on its port bow to meet one threat, Astilbe shifting towards the centre to cover as much as possible of that wide front, and his own ship now turning east—just south of east—to intercept the threat from astern. It might well be the German who’d been shadowing them for several days—if it had now had permission or orders to attack: if that was so one might assume the shadowing job was done and the pack had gathered.

  Harbinger heeling to the turn, gathering speed, turbine and other noise rising as the revs increased. Warrimer asked, close beside him, “Close the hands up, sir?”

  “Yes!” He thumbed the alarm button: annoyed at having had to be reminded they weren’t already at action stations. Getting old—or stale …

  “Three hundred revs on, sir, course one-one-oh!”

  He left the high seat, took over at the binnacle. Relief at no longer being nursemaid to the Burbridge was diluted by sober recognition that the battle for convoy SL 320 was about to start: it was likely to be a long, exhausting one … Looking round the bridge he saw Chubb busy at the depth-charge telephone, Warrimer talking over the line to his guns’ crews. Carlish, having seen that Nick
was conning the ship himself, went to look after communications with the plot and the 271.

  “U-boat bears one-three-one, five miles, sir!”

  “I want a course to intercept.” He called down to the wheelhouse, “Three-forty revolutions.”

  “Three-forty revolutions, sir …”

  That was the coxswain, CPO Elphick, on the wheel now. Harbinger at full stretch, hurling herself across and through the combers. It was dry in the bridge now though, because the wind was almost right astern. Warrimer’s voice was pitched high over the mix of noise: “Four-inch and point-fives closed up, sir!” Chubb followed suit: “Depth-charge crew closed up, sir!”

  “Course one-one-oh, sir.”

  What was needed now was news from Scarr. From the U-boat’s course and speed he’d work out—should have, by now—a course to intercept it. But a TBS call was coming in: Eagle, this is Gannet: U-boat has dived one mile ahead of me. Attacking!

  “Target bears one-two-eight, four point one miles. Plot suggests course to intercept one-one-four degrees, sir.” “Steer one-one-four, cox’n.”

  She was fairly flying now. But there were no orders to pass to Guyatt: if he had a U-boat diving only two thousand yards ahead of him, he might have a chance …

  “Enemy course now three-three-nine, speed sixteen, bearing one-two-one range three point four!”

  Six thousand four hundred yards … “Load A gun with starshell, the others with SAP.” Warrimer intoning into the telephone, “A gun with starshell, B and X with SAP, load, load, load! Target will be right ahead, U-boat on surface, set range oh-six-oh!”