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

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘But why?’

  The First Lieutenant shrugged. ‘Sick? Some spreading disease?’

  The Captain made a contemptuous noise. ‘Come, Franz! That is not likely. More likely it’s a trap.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘That depends what is in their mind. What is certain is that there are no boats or rafts in the vicinity… no survivors. That’s odd.’

  ‘The weather has been bad till now, sir,’ the First Lieutenant reminded. ‘They could have been separated. They could be miles away by now.’

  ‘Possibly,’ the Captain said. He frowned again; the British still didn’t abandon. He looked again through the periscope. With the stem so well down in the water, it was impossible to see the destroyer’s pennant numbers painted on either bow, so no positive identification could be made. Also, she was so damaged above the upper deck that it was almost impossible to be certain of her class, but it seemed likely that she was of the Raglan class. Perhaps in due course this would fit with the situation report from Hamburg, broadcast to all U-boats at sea in the area and picked up whilst charging batteries, which the U-boat would do once the full security of the dark came down. Time would tell and the Captain could afford to wait.

  ‘Down periscope,’ he ordered. ‘We will hold our present depth — and we shall see.’

  The periscope, unseen by Carmarthen’s Torpedo-Coxswain in the fading light and ruffled sea, slid down below the waves.

  *

  Once it was dark, the two men in the wheelhouse could be fed from aft so long as no light was shown, but care would have to be taken to move discreetly just the same. There was a moon now and the visibility was good. Leading-Seaman Farrow whirled the handle of the sound-powered telephone and it was answered from the wheelhouse.

  ‘’Swain here.’

  ‘Farrow, ‘Swain. I’m sending grub up.’

  ‘Right. Whoever brings it, tell him to watch it, Farrow.’

  ‘Will do, ‘Swain.’ Farrow hung the instrument back on its hook. ‘Cameron!’

  ‘Yes, Killick?’

  ‘Grub to the wheel’ouse. Keep low, keep against the super-structure — keep on the side away from the bleedin’ moon, too. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Cameron said, glad enough to escape for a while from the claustrophobia of the crowded wardroom flat. He went to the pantry and collected the food from Hemming, the officers’ cook. More sandwiches and some herrings-in, plus tinned peas, all cold. A bottle of lime-juice from the wardroom wine store and some water. Cameron lifted an eyebrow and said, ‘What about a bottle of whisky? They could do with it.’

  The officers’ cook shook his head. ‘Not Mr Seymour. Late Captain’s standing orders: no drinking while at sea. Kept to rigid. Seymour, ‘e won’t go against that.’ He paused. ‘Not unless it was an issue, like, to the whole ship’s company… and they’re only authorized to drink the rum issue. It’s not on, lad.’

  ‘Okay,’ Cameron said. ‘It was just a thought, that’s all. Is the Captain as rigid as that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hemming answered briskly, and polished up the glasses for the lime-juice and water. Cameron watched the meal being packed into a metal container normally used to keep food hot for transport to the compass platform. He was glad of that; he might prove unhandy with a tray and even the noise from a dropped plate was to be avoided if they were to keep up their appearance of abandonment — the U-boats had long listening ears. With the box held tightly in front of his body, Cameron climbed the ladder to the deck hatch and with one hand pulled back the clips. He emerged on to the quarterdeck, circumspectly, looking all round in so far as he was able before coming right out into the open. Bending, he dropped the hatch back into place and applied two clips, loosely. Then he faded against the after screen and came round on the moonless side. The Atlantic stood empty so far as he could see. He made his way for’ard as fast as he could and climbed the starboard ladder to the wheelhouse. Seymour was still asleep, looking like a drugged man.

  The Torpedo-Coxswain took delivery of the food, gratefully. ‘Thanks, lad,’ he said. ‘I reckon this’ll do the Captain a power of good.’ He gave his lips a preliminary wipe; like those of everyone else, they were salt-encrusted and unwashed for many days past. Then his eyes widened as he saw Cameron look through the port and stiffen. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Periscope,’ Cameron said. ‘Or I think so… fine on the port bow.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Surfacing in the darkness to recharge batteries and take routine transmissions from base, the U-boat’s Captain had received information that HMS Carmarthen was lying helpless after an initial torpedo attack on the last westbound convoy to pass through and subsequent bombing and strafing attacks by the Focke-Wulfs. It was clear enough that the vessel he had seen through his periscope was the Carmarthen; now, his duty was equally clear. The wireless reports had not indicated any abandonment though the FWS had indicated that the British destroyer’s guns had fallen silent during the last attack and it was assumed she had expended all her ammunition.

  Thoughtfully, in the glow of the lights of the control room below the conning-tower, the German Captain studied the charts; then called, ‘Franz?’

  ‘Sir?’ The First Lieutenant came to his side.

  ‘We must attack, of course. The destroyer is worth sinking. She is not yet a total loss, and could make port. The question is, how do we attack? I have to bear in mind that another convoy is due to pass through the area and we haven’t many torpedoes left.’

  The First Lieutenant laughed. ‘Sink her by gunfire!’

  ‘Yes. That’s obvious, of course.’

  ‘Then —’

  ‘But no. I have another idea, Franz. The destroyer intrigues me… no one moving, no signs of life at all. It’s like the Marie Celeste. I shall find out more.’

  Orders were passed to bring the U-boat back towards the Carmarthen’s last observed position; before surfacing earlier, she had been withdrawn some ten miles easterly so as not to be spotted. Now, making back towards the destroyer, she submerged again to remain until further orders at periscope depth. About an hour later her periscope had picked up the dark blob that was Carmarthen, a blob standing out clearly from the moonlit water that broke gently against the base of her forward superstructure. Still there was no one visible; the U-boat captain examined the silent, motionless ship carefully with his motors stopped, then came cautiously nearer. With a better view, he still found no life whatsoever.

  *

  ‘Captain, sir!’ The Torpedo-Coxswain’s voice was urgent against Seymour’s ear. In emergency the regulations had to go by the board: Seymour was dead to the world and the Torpedo-Coxswain did what no rating should do: he reached out, laid hands on the Captain and shook him awake. ‘Captain, sir —’

  ‘All right, Cox’n.’ Seymour came awake and stared about as though he had no idea where he was. ‘What is it?’

  The Torpedo-Coxswain repeated Cameron’s sighting. ‘Periscope, sir, fine on the port bow. I believe it’s closing, sir.’

  ‘All right, thank you, Cox’n.’ Seymour pulled himself to his feet, staggered a little, then steadied his weary body against the useless wheel. He brought up his binoculars and stared through the port, searching. After half a minute he said, ‘I’ve got it. You’re right, Cox’n, she’s closing. I doubt if she’d do that if she meant to send off a fish, somehow.’

  ‘Gunfire, sir?’

  ‘More likely. Warn the wardroom flat, Cox’n.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain took up the sound-powered telephone. ‘Orders for aft, sir?’

  ‘Tell Lieutenant Matthews to remain where he is unless he gets word from me. Tell him that if the Jerries don’t open with their gun, they may board. If they do, we fight back. In the meantime all men below are to be armed with rifles from the racks. I’ll pass the word if they’re to come out.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain passed the message down. Below in the wardroom flat, Able-Seaman
Tomkins passed it to the Engineer Officer. In the wheelhouse the three men watched the slow, cautious approach of the periscope and its small feather of disturbed water. The tension was immense as they all waited for the German to show his hand; it was clear by now that there was not to be a torpedo attack.

  Seymour said suddenly, ‘Bare fists for you and me, Cox’n. No bloody rifles!’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir.’ The Torpedo-Coxswain gave an apologetic cough. ‘I took it on myself to bring up two for us, sir, beneath my oilskin.’ He bent and produced the rifles from beneath one of the hammocks used as blast protection at sea, now lying discarded on the deck of the wheelhouse. ‘We’ll fight, sir, never fear.’

  Seymour grinned tightly. ‘You’re a ruddy pirate, Cox’n, but thank God you are!’ Then his tone altered. ‘She’s surfacing. Tell the wardroom flat to stand by. Cameron — man the phone and act as communication number.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Cameron went to the telephone and wound the handle fast. Below, Tomkins answered once again. Crisply Cameron said, ‘Stand by. The U-boat’s surfacing.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tomkins said before he could stop himself; he could have sworn it was an officer’s voice, until the recognition had come. His face went a deep, mortified red: bloody WC candidates! ‘Anything else, you little perisher?’

  ‘Not yet. Wait for the Captain’s order.’ Cameron put back the telephone and stared out through the port towards the U-boat. Her conning-tower was in view now, with water pouring from the wash-ports. Cameron glanced down at the meal he had brought up, now abandoned. It hadn’t been up to much anyway; now it had a forlorn look. The U-boat’s casing came into view, streaming water as it rose through the seas, silhouetted beneath the moon, long and low and black. Men emerged in the conning-tower and a moment later all hell seemed to burst upon the Carmarthen as the U-boat opened at point-blank range. There was an immensely bright flash and almost in the same instant there was a violent explosion at the base of the destroyer’s wheelhouse and the metal bulkhead at the fore end grew red-hot. The concussing effect was immense: the three men were thrown violently into a corner and everything flew around them — cork insulation from the bulkheads, slivers of metal, the wheel and its mounting came adrift. The fire at the base of the superstructure was put out almost at once by the sea’s action, but before this happened the German had opened once again. The next shell took the angle of the wheelhouse in the port for’ard corner, but failed to explode. The passage of the projectile, however, twisted the metal into a shambles, leaving a gaping hole in the bulkhead — leaving, too, the broken bodies of Seymour and the Torpedo-Coxswain. Cameron stared in horror at the result, felt a complete paralysis of the mind come over him. Now he was all that was left in the fore part of the ship, the only one in the command position. He had no idea what he should do. There was no further firing from the U-boat, which was now moving closer. Cameron, feeling that to remain hidden was even now the best thing to do, dropped to the deck where he was concealed by the remains of the port bulkhead. As he did so the sound-powered telephone whined and the need to silence it before its noise could reach the Germans overcame his mental paralysis. He grabbed for the instrument, remaining flat on the deck as he did so.

  ‘Engineer Officer here,’ the voice came up. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Ordinary Seaman Cameron, sir —’

  ‘Yes. Well, what’s happening?’

  ‘We’ve been hit by gunfire, sir.’

  ‘I know that, you bloody idiot, what’s the damage?’

  ‘Not too serious I believe, sir. Nothing that’ll affect our stability and seaworthiness.’

  ‘So far as you know,’ Matthews said sourly. ‘Is the Captain still expecting the Jerries to board?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cameron answered almost without thinking. He was about to make the report that he alone remained alive in the for’ard superstructure when the Lieutenant (E) cut in on him.

  ‘Tell the Captain we’re all armed with rifles but it’s my opinion the time’s come to pack it in. Tell him that, Cameron.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Again the automatic reaction, much to Cameron’s own surprise. The instrument was banged back hard in the wardroom flat and Cameron replaced his end on its hook. Matthews was assuming the Captain and the Torpedo-Coxswain were still alive; well, let him! With the ship still, so far as Matthews would know, under command, the wardroom flat would continue to obey orders from the compass platform or wheelhouse. That was fine, if ultimately dangerous. One did not play ducks and drakes with officers. But if Matthews was for giving in, Seymour had not been. Seymour had intended to fight it out and had had the full backing of the Torpedo-Coxswain; Leading-Seaman Farrow, too, would back that decision willingly. Cameron intended that the wishes of the dead Captain should be followed out: there would be no surrender if there was anything he could do to prevent it. If the ship couldn’t fight back any longer, at least her company could, and take as many Germans as possible with them in the process.

  Cameron tried to project himself into the mind of the U-boat captain: what would the German be deciding currently? He would probably board; the present manoeuvrings seemed to indicate that he intended to lay alongside. Not an easy task despite the sea’s flatness — there was still a swell running, left behind by the recent gales. There would be a need for much care or the submarine could damage her casing, even her pressure-hull, Cameron fancied. Submarines were a closed book to him as yet, but simple seamanship was always to be observed. But what would the German gain by boarding? It could be assumed that the Jerries knew — or thought they knew — that the destroyer had been abandoned; men would have emerged under gunfire, most likely, ready to abandon had they still been aboard. But so what? Sure, the Germans would believe they could board without opposition, but what would be the object of that, for God’s sake? A submarine, operational in an operational area where convoys were expected through, could scarcely take a crippled destroyer in tow! She probably wouldn’t have the engine capacity or towing points to do it, operational or not. So why? True, it would be a feather in any submariner’s cap if he could bring an enemy destroyer back to base as a prize of war. But it couldn’t be feasible. On the other hand, a skeleton crew could perhaps be put aboard, and the German might risk breaking radio silence to make a report of his action so that a tow could be sent post-haste from Hamburg or one of the French ports to bring her in from under the very noses of the British. Hitler would rave with sheer joy at a well-cocked snook, and the U-boat captain would have his brass hat the next day.

  That had to be stopped.

  Cameron watched from cover, saw the U-boat was now lying off with her starboard side parallel to the Carmarthen’s port beam. He saw the conning-tower personnel, saw both Captain and First Lieutenant studying the destroyer’s ravaged decks and superstructure through binoculars. So far there was no closer approach. The moon shone down brilliantly, bringing everything up clear and stark. That was unfortunate: the moment the seamen and stokers emerged with their rifles from the wardroom hatch, they were going to be spotted. And when they did emerge, they would do so on the word of an ordinary seaman, a word supported only by the dead.

  *

  ‘Leading-Seaman Farrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘A word in your ear, Farrow. Come over here.’ Matthews beckoned. Farrow went across to where the Engineer Officer stood just inside the doorway of his own cabin, now occupied by two of the sedated burns cases, one in the bunk, the other on the settee. ‘You heard what came down from the Captain, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

  ‘It’s bloody suicide!’ Matthews snapped.

  ‘Maybe it is, sir.’

  Matthews gave him a sweeping look. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I mind all right. I’ve some living to do yet.’ Farrow drew the sleeve of a jersey across his nose. ‘But it’s orders. Orders from the bridge, like.’

  Matthews glared. ‘Is that supposed to mean something, Farrow?’


  ‘Oh no, sir, no,’ Farrow answered, all innocence, eyes wide. It was a good act. ‘Nothing at all, sir. Just statin’ facts, that’s all. Orders are orders, aren’t they, sir?’

  ‘Yes! But I don’t believe the Captain’s in a fit state to make decisions, Farrow. So many days and nights up there — no sleep to speak of, cold food —’

  ‘We’re all in the same boat, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you damn well interrupt me when I’m talking to you, Leading-Seaman Farrow!’ Matthews’ eyes blazed redly; in Farrow’s view it was he, not the Captain, who was showing the strain-signals. ‘Try that again, and I’ll have that hook off your arm the moment we reach Belfast.’

  Farrow sighed. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m sure.’

  ‘All right, all right. Now just listen. Don’t get me wrong, but I’m not willing to risk my stokers in a bloody daft attempt at heroics. What’s left of the ship’s not worth it —just not worth men’s lives, understand?’

  Farrow nodded. ‘You may be right, sir, but —’

  ‘I am right and there aren’t any buts, Farrow. Trained men are more use to the war effort than a boat that’s damaged to the extent we are. So my stokers don’t take any part in trying to repel boarders or whatever it is Seymour has in mind to do. Right?’

  ‘It’s your decision, sir.’

  ‘Thank you very much!’ Matthews snapped rudely. ‘I know it’s my decision, and you’ll abide by it.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ Farrow said for the second time that night. Inside, as the Engineer Officer uttered a curt dismissal, Farrow was seething. True, it was easy enough to appreciate his point: men were men and often enough throughout history it had been plain daft to throw their lives away. ‘Repel boarders’ had an old-fashioned ring about it, certainly; in Nelson’s day hardy tars had followed their officers often enough, cutlasses in hand, when the old wooden walls of England had laid alongside the French, to cut and thrust into bellies and chests, arms and legs and necks, or to hack away the rigging so that the canvas descended to envelop the enemy and leave them without their motive power if they lived. That had been commonplace, then. Not now. Farrow, going back towards the wardroom pantry where he had taken up his station, sucked angrily at his teeth. God knew, the Navy was crammed to the gunwales with bull, but it was a proud service and the White Ensign was still, even now, floating out from the ensign-staff aft. Surrender was a dirty word to Farrow. In any case, that Matthews had overstated his case; the old Carmarthen was far from lost yet. Given time and a bit of luck, an ocean-going rescue tug would appear over the horizon from the east and would bring her in, bring her home again. That would be a wonderful moment, one well worth fighting for. Farrow intended to fight for it. Like Seymour.