In the Line of Fire (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘We make direct for Carmarthen, sir?’

  The Captain nodded. ‘We do. The Westward Bay should be all right now she’s under Coastal Command’s umbrella, Pilot.’ He looked out through the chart-room ports; the weather was foul still and the passage of the Pentland Firth would be a nasty one. The weather reports for the area west of Ireland were currently bad but a break was expected as a high-pressure area was coming in across the Atlantic. He could only hope the destroyer would last until the weather moderated and until he reached her. Going back to the compass platform high above the sea he called the Engineer Officer of the Watch on the starting-platform below.

  ‘Captain here. Maximum revolutions… we have Carmarthen virtually in our sights now.’

  Chapter Nine

  Aboard Carmarthen they were very far from knowing that they were in anyone’s sights. There were indications now that the ship was going to succumb; she had a deader-than-ever feeling, a feeling of complete rigidity and unresponsiveness. Even the waves were not really shifting her about much; she was half under. The engine-room, that silent place, had been abandoned long since and to Seymour’s contained fury Lieutenant (E) Matthews was sharing his vigil on the compass platform, his very presence and his monosyllabic utterances, when they came at all, a reproach; Matthews assumed the proportions of a ghoul, there to criticize and remind his Captain of his mistake in flooding the after compartments.

  Cameron, back on lookout following another re-shuffle of the watch and quarter bill, such as it now was, could almost feel the hostility. It cut the atmosphere like a knife — or a scalpel. Lavington was still on Cameron’s mind; he couldn’t free himself of the man, try as he might. Lavington wasn’t his concern; Petty Officer Thomas, days ago, had made that very plain. Yet they had been shipmates, messmates — mates in the struggle for a commission. Lavington had lost that struggle, of course; there would be no future for him… Cameron jerked his head, trying to clear it of a consuming desire for sleep. Future! That was a stupid word in the circumstances. He stared through his binoculars, feeling the uselessness of his watch. What was there to look out for now? Certainly they themselves were too low in the water to be seen from other ships and if, for instance, the Queen Mary or the Queen Elizabeth, sailing independently as fast troop transports, should be crossing the Atlantic now and loom up ahead, they could do nothing about it other than wait for the huge knifing bows to cut right through them and bring an end to it all.

  The eyepieces looked blank; blank and black. Cameron used all his efforts to bring his eyelids up. He succeeded, but lapsed again. Then again. The compass platform looked horribly close to the water, which was surging right up to it now and threatening to engulf both the Captain and the Engineer Officer, who had now come together in a deathly embrace… Cameron jerked awake, sweating. To fall asleep on watch, especially on lookout, was the cardinal sin. Short of murder… fall asleep and be spotted and he wouldn’t get his commission either. Now the Chief had his hands round the Captain’s neck and was squeezing… it was all very odd behaviour for two officers aboard a sinking ship in wartime, but in some way it seemed at the same time absolutely logical, and became more so when the roles were reversed in the next nightmare-sequence and the Captain seemed to be laughing at the Chief’s vain struggles to free himself…

  Then something else appeared: a body. A horribly bloated corpse that lifted and fell and seemed to loom towards him from the sunken fo’c’sle. Lavington. Stripey Tomkins had done it. Cameron made an enormous effort and his eyes blinked. He was sure he was awake but the corpse was there still. Lavington had gone overboard. But it wasn’t Lavington after all; Cameron came fully awake and saw the corpse, horribly bloated, moving towards the half submerged Number Two gun for’ard, where for a while it stuck and bobbed about. Some quirk of the sea, some movement of the ship, must have dislodged it from the stokers’ messdeck and sent it swirling out through the broken bulkhead.

  *

  The first of the aircraft showed a little after the next dawn: it came in high and alone from a sky that was becoming a good deal clearer and the silhouette was quickly recognized aboard the Carmarthen: one of the Focke-Wulfs, the FW 200s, out from the French coast. There was still some ammunition available for the close-range weapons — the Lewis guns, the pom-poms, the machine-gun — but the FW was unlikely to approach all that close. The three-inch AA gun amidships had been put out of action when the searchlight platform had been hit earlier. Seymour manned his available guns, but hoped the destroyer might not be seen. She would not be presenting a normal destroyer shape and the seas were confused and spume-covered enough, perhaps, to make the outline invisible.

  No such luck.

  Within minutes of being sighted, the bombs were seen to fall. A stick of six, dropping like eggs to take the sea in a line of explosions some four cables clear of Carmarthen’s port side, near enough to send shudders through her leaking plates. The air was blue; the Focke-Wulfs aim was bloody hopeless but it must be just a question of time now. The next stick came down an equivalent distance off to starboard. The third was very much closer: it came down right ahead and the last of the six exploded close to the sunken fo’c’sle. Gouts of water rose to fall back on the compass platform and the ship shuddered violently. After that, inexplicably unless all the bombs were gone, the Focke-Wulf turned away and vanished back towards the east. Within ten minutes of its departure, something curious happened aboard Carmarthen: there was a vicious clanging and tearing noise from ahead of the compass platform and the whole ship lurched. When she righted, she was seen to be riding on a more even keel, much less down by the head than before.

  ‘Always look for the silver lining!’ Seymour said to Humphries. ‘That bomb’s sheered away some of the fo’c’sle and taken some weight off.’

  ‘Not much use,’ Humphries said sadly, ‘without the engines.’

  ‘Don’t drip, Sub! She has a better feel and that’s something.’ Seymour brought up his binoculars and scanned the horizons all around. Those horizons were much farther out now, and that, together with the clearing skies and a drop in the wind’s weight, was good indication of fair weather coming in at last from the west. But there was little comfort in that prospect; with fair weather they would be much more liable to come under attack, and the appearance of that solitary Focke-Wulf, which would now summon up its fellows without a doubt, must surely prove the last straw. Seymour had his depleted ship’s company mustered along the iron-deck and spoke to them.

  He said, ‘I haven’t much for you to cheer about, frankly. There’s no knowing whether or not another rescue tug will be sent, nor if she’ll ever find us if she is. From the point of view of seaworthiness, I believe we have a chance of lasting after all, especially if better weather overtakes us. We’re riding easier you’ll have noticed that for yourselves, of course. But from now on we must expect air attack at any moment. The Luftwaffe isn’t going to allow us home if it can stop us. But I’m going to do my best to get us home — that is, to keep afloat until we find a friendly ship.’ He paused. ‘It’s not much of a prospect, is it, but I know I can rely on all of you not to give in now. We’ve already come through quite a lot.’

  Platitudes, of course, but what else was there to say? As the hands were fallen out Seymour admitted to himself that he was no orator. He wondered if he inspired any confidence at all. There was much that could be said about loyalty, about fighting back for King and country, about the embattled Empire, about the vital importance to Britain of the Atlantic convoys and the need to preserve every vessel capable of acting as their escort. But this wasn’t Nelson’s Navy and perhaps they wouldn’t go much on oratory in any case. Others could do it without indulging in sentiment. Lord Louis Mountbatten, also a destroyer man, could lead his men anywhere and his choice of words was always right. Seymour felt his own inadequacy like a knife in the heart and felt he had read in the dour faces of his ship’s company their inner doubts as to his capacity to see them through anything, let alone get a pow
erless ship home. In this, he was in fact wrong; and it was Leading-Seaman Farrow who put it best.

  He said to no one in particular, ‘Skipper’s all right. Command was flung at him and he took it. Not done so badly either. What more could he do without the bloody engines?’

  *

  The Focke-Wulfs came back; this time, two of them, their great four-engined bodies menacing as they came on with the sun behind them. The engine sounds came like pulse beats as they passed over the wallowing destroyer, then turned to release their bomb-loads. Carmarthen’s close-range armament was once again manned, more as a gesture than anything else. The first stick of bombs landed well off target, the second was closer — just like last time. But then came a difference, a shift in the mode of attack. The aircraft parted company, one machine remaining at a high level while the other circled and lost height and then came roaring in towards the destroyer. She passed down the port side, and the men behind the stuttering pom-poms could see her crew in the perspex-enclosed cockpit and the air-gunner squinting along the sights of his machine-gun. When that machine-gun opened, both pom-poms fell silent: a spraying burst of bullets had found its mark, and the bodies of the gunners hung in their seats, spilling blood.

  As Farrow shouted orders, Cameron made a dash for the pom-pom mounting. With another man he dragged the bodies of the dead gunners clear and within half a minute had the gun ready for action. By now the Focke-Wulf had passed astern and was turning to come in for another attack, this time heading to fly along the starboard side. As she came abeam, the German machine-gunner opened up once more. Bullets zipped around Cameron as he pumped the two-pounder shells blind towards the aircraft without any apparent effect. He had just brought his sights fully on when the pom-pom jammed and fell silent. The Focke-Wulf passed on in safety, with the Lewis guns wasting ammunition as she moved out of their range. Carmarthen’s superstructure was pockmarked by the machine-gun bullets from aft to for’ard and three more men lay dead. Also an officer: on the compass platform Humphries had taken a bullet through the throat and had choked on his own blood. There were just three officers left now: Seymour, Matthews and the Surgeon-Lieutenant. Cameron had seen the happy grin on the face of the German air-gunner as he had passed by. The Germans, he believed, were treating this as a game, a sport in which the British were to be picked off singly and the Carmarthen finally left to lurch about the North Atlantic without a crew. As the Focke-Wulf flew ahead to make yet another turn, the gunnery rates worked fast to free the jammed pom-pom; but this time the aircraft’s turn was wider and she was seen to be regaining height. Stripey Tomkins waved a fist in the air and bawled out, ‘Bastards! Too muckin’ ‘ot for you, I reckon!’

  There was amazement on deck when both Focke-Wulfs were seen to be departing eastwards. But Seymour had a theory about that and he shared it with the ship’s company: ‘They could have got word of something more worthwhile in the area, a better prize. That could be our rescue tug… we’ll keep our fingers crossed that the buggers don’t get her.’

  *

  Seymour had been partially right: the Nottingham, coming in on a course well north of the enemy aircraft’s flight from Bordeaux, was now within some twenty miles of the destroyer; and she had in fact been sighted by the Focke-Wulf that had kept her height. The second aircraft had been recalled from the attack on Carmarthen. Inside the next few minutes the FWS had been sighted from Nottingham’s bridge and the Royal Marine bugler had, via the tannoy system, sounded her ship’s company to action stations on the Captain’s order. Nottingham was travelling fast, sending up a big bow wave; she would not prove any easy target. She was no sitting duck like Carmarthen. As the attack came in, her Captain watched the fall of the bombs and reacted with perfect timing: Nottingham’s helm was put over and she swung hard to starboard, away from the likely line of drop. In the meantime her heavy ack-ack armament was pumping away, keeping the Focke-Wulfs high: the screen of fire would be suicide to penetrate. The ship was virtually obscured by the smoke of the discharges and the bursting of the shells as they sent their fragmented shrapnel hurtling out in all directions. The noise was ear-splitting, with every gun in action. Nottingham twisted and turned in violent helm alterations as the bombs came down, but luck was with the Germans: the end came very suddenly and unexpectedly as an alteration of course carried the cruiser slap into the path of a falling stick of bombs and every one found its mark. Nottingham seemed to erupt from stem to stern as the bombs exploded on fo’c’sle, bridge and quarterdeck; and then from deep down in the ship, as a bomb sped straight down one of her funnels to explode in total devastation in a boiler-room, there came the shattering upheaval that spelled out the end.

  Nottingham went up in a sheet of flame and a tremendous roar, broken open like a can. Debris filled the air along with the acrid smoke and flames from burning oil fuel, and fell back on an empty sea.

  The FWs flew back to France. The pilots had a need to watch their fuel tanks, and the Carmarthen wasn’t worth the risk.

  *

  A final signal had been picked up by Rosyth, a brief indication that Nottingham had come under air attack, and then there had been complete silence. A sinking was virtually certain and it was possible to make accurate deductions: the sinking must have been rapid, leaving no chance to send out further signals. That would have meant a sizeable explosion, something that would have blown the bottom out of her. Thus the question of survivors was extremely uncertain. It was not wartime practice to despatch valuable ships to search for survivors alone; bringing in a crippled ship such as Carmarthen or Westward Bay was a different matter. In any case, there were no more ships to spare. And that was that. Along with any survivors from the Carmarthen, those from Nottingham would now have to take their chance. No one liked it, but the facts of war and ship availability dictated. Mary Anstey, off duty soon after the Nottingham’s signal had come through and had been assessed, went for a walk by herself, out of Rosyth towards Inverkeithing, which was dreary enough and in line with her mood, though she refused to give up hope.

  *

  ‘Lavington,’ Seymour said to the Torpedo-Coxswain, then stopped.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I don’t like it. We all know we’re right inside the zone for air attack. I should have thought about him earlier. If we’re hit, it’ll be fast. No time to release him, perhaps, before we go down. Follow?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He could be let out whenever there’s an attack, sir.’

  Seymour nodded. ‘I don’t see any point in keeping him locked up at all, frankly. We’re in a bloody dicey condition structurally — anything could happen fast. What d’you think, Cox’n?’

  The reply was doubtful. ‘His own safety, sir. The hands might react.’

  ‘D’you really think so?’

  The Torpedo-Coxswain was emphatic. ‘Yes, sir, I do. The SBA was well liked, so was our Surgeon-Lieutenant. And what Lavington did… no, sir, it wouldn’t be fair on the men. There’d be a temptation, and we don’t want unnecessary charges of anyone striking anyone, sir.’

  ‘Well, I take the point,’ Seymour said reluctantly. The Torpedo-Coxswain could perhaps have added another: favouritism to a CW rating might be suspected, ridiculous as any such suggestion might be. Class rankled a little in the Navy; the gulf between officers and men was so wide that some men — men like Able-Seaman Tomkins, for instance —saw class everywhere. Seymour was well enough aware that collectively Naval officers were referred to as pigs by certain bolshie types of ratings. He went on, ‘All right, he stays where he is. He’s to be released in action, all the same, Cox’n.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain paused, looking at the Captain through eyes that showed concern. ‘You’re just about all in, sir. That’s not good.’

  Seymour smiled. ‘It’s far from good!’

  ‘Yes, sir. I meant — for the ship, sir. What’s left of it.’

  ‘Yes, I take that point too. But I have no officers, Cox’n — no executive officers. So there’s no al
ternative, is there, to my remaining on the compass platform?’

  ‘You’ll collapse soon, sir. Then what?’

  Seymour answered irritably. ‘I’ve already said, there’s no alternative.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I believe there is. There’s me. The ship has no way on her. Even if she had, I’ve enough experience not to do anything bloody daft, sir. Why don’t we work watch and watch, Mr Seymour, sir?’

  It was said in almost fatherly fashion; in fact Chief Petty Officer Groves, Torpedo-Coxswain these many years, was quite old enough to be Seymour’s father. Seymour suddenly felt a sense almost of being overwhelmed, of gratitude that someone had even noticed his terrible weariness, that some-one had realized that a captain was only human after all. He knew that he couldn’t go on for ever, couldn’t go on much longer in fact; and the suggestion was a sensible one. There would be complications, however, if anything should go wrong when the Torpedo-Coxswain was on watch. King’s Regulations were not unbending in themselves and according to some senior officers were intended only as a guide; on the other hand, other senior officers were capable of their own interpretations and regarded King’s Regulations as a bible to be obeyed come what may. They could in fact be quoted either way that suited — as guide or as orders. And any Court Martial would be likely to find a captain guilty of hazarding his command by neglect of duty if trouble came when that captain had allowed a rating to assume his place.

  It couldn’t be done and Seymour said as much. This the Torpedo-Coxswain had to accept, but did so with an expression that said some bastards were born stupid. He went down the ladder muttering and shaking his head and going aft towards the quarterdeck he met Matthews.

  Matthews said, ‘You look upset, ‘Swain. And you’ve just come from the bridge. What’s the trouble now, eh?’

  ‘No trouble, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain spoke stiffly; he was aware of friction between the officers of bridge and engine-room, though that was none of his business, and he was also aware that Lieutenant (E) Matthews was quite capable of trying to make use of the fact that he had been a lower-deck man so as to be, when it suited him, matey with senior ratings. This the Torpedo-Coxswain did not much like. As Matthews stood there slap in his path, blocking him, he added, ‘No trouble at all, sir.’