All the Drowning Seas: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 3

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Aye aye, sir.” Lieutenant Greenleaf was a tubby, cheerful-looking man. He’d turned away, to climb up the ladder into the director control tower on the foremast. And Haskins, the marine, had arrived now neck-and-neck with Chevening. Moustached and burly, Haskins was also going up the ladder, to his ADP, air defence position, an open-topped platform below Toby Greenleaf’s director tower. Other men, the crews of both positions, were also scrambling aloft.

  Chevening had taken over from Rowley, who’d gone below to take charge of damage control. All through the compartments certain doors and hatches would be shut and clipped, hoses unrolled, emergency lighting checked, fire-fighting gear set ready.

  A telephone buzzed beside the torpedo sight, and Lieutenant-Commander Swanson, arriving in the bridge at that moment, skidded across to snatch it up. Swanson was blond and bearded, a short and stocky, pugilistic-looking man. With the telephone in one hand he used the other to remove his cap, substituting the tin hat that had been hanging below the sight, and displaying in the process the bald, suntanned back of his head. He listened to a report, then hung up. He told Nick, “All tubes’ crews closed up, sir.” He had twelve torpedo-tubes, in four triple mountings. He asked Nick, “Depth charges, sir?”

  “Yes. Clear the traps.”

  Depth charges in the chutes aft were a danger, if an enemy shell should land on them. Mr North, the torpedo gunner, would set their pistols to “safe” now and release them. They’d be sinking harmlessly towards the bottom as Java passed over them.

  CPO Howell suggested, “Battle ensigns, sir?”

  “Not yet.” Only the destroyer Electra had seen the enemy as yet, and Electra was a good five miles ahead. “Flagship’s going round to port, sir.”

  Chevening reported it. Nick looked ahead and saw the turn beginning, de Ruyter’s rather upright-looking, single-funnelled profile lengthening as her rudder gripped the sea and hauled her round. Doorman would keep the ships in this formation: all they’d have to do was follow where he led, and there’d be no need of signals. It would be limiting, though, on his choice of tactics … Exeter was following him round now. You could guess from this change of course that Doorman must have sighted the enemy and that the Jap course was something like southwestward: de Ruyter had steadied on three hundred and twenty degrees.

  Houston, two-funnelled, and at just over nine thousand tons nearly twice Defiant’s size, had put her helm over; that rather strange-looking flare-topped foc’sl was slanting into Exeter’s white track, gleaming in the sunshine. Greenleaf reported by telephone, “Main armament closed up and cleared away, sir.”

  “Very good.” From his high seat, Nick reached to put the telephone back on its hook. Greenleaf and his crew up there, with stereoscopic binoculars and stabilized telescopic sights, would be straining for a first glimpse of the enemy; but there were still ships ahead, and funnel-haze, to obscure their view. It would be clearer when Perth had turned, though, and she was swinging now as the American ahead of her steadied on the new course.

  Sure enough, the director telephone was calling. Nick reached for it: “Captain.”

  “Enemy in sight, sir. Four cruisers: two heavy, and two smaller. And two groups of destroyers, roughly six in each but it’s hard to count them yet. Bearing three-five-five—”

  He heard Chevening order, “Port fifteen.” Greenleaf was continuing his report: at this extreme range he was only looking at the enemy’s upperworks, masts and fighting-tops above the curve of the horizon, and it would be a while before even the eight-inch ships, Exeter and Houston, could be in gun-range of the enemy.

  “Signal, speed twenty-five, sir!”

  Flag “G,” numerals two and five: Nick said, “Very good.” Chevening’s face was already at the voicepipe, ordering the increase in revolutions, and it was Leading Seaman Williams, down in the wheelhouse, who’d be passing that order to the engine-room. Twenty-five knots was two knots short of this ship’s maximum.

  Japanese heavy cruisers, Nick thought, would have eight-inch guns. Almost for sure. So the forces were fairly evenly matched. Except that the Japs, with more modern ships, would have a speed advantage. Ten or twelve minutes, he worked out roughly, would bring the heavy cruisers into range of each other. Defiant and the other six-inch ships would be inside the Jap cruisers’ range without any hope of hitting back. There’d be a frustrating period to live through, until they got in closer.

  Bob Gant said, without taking the binoculars from his eyes, “There, sir. See their foretops.”

  Chevening was steadying her on the new course. Nick had his glasses at about forty degrees on the bow, and he’d got them suddenly, the fighting-tops of two heavy cruisers in line ahead. None of the smaller ships was visible yet from this level: but all right, he thought, here we go … He lowered his glasses and called over to Howell, “Battle ensigns, chief yeoman.”

  “Battle ensigns, hoist!”

  Two of them had been bent on and ready on the flag-deck, and PO Ruddle was passing the same order aft by telephone. White ensigns ran swiftly to both mastheads, to the mainmast gaff and the port yardarm. You put up that many in case one or more should be shot away. With four ensigns flying, there’d have to be a hell of a lot of damage done before the ship displayed no colours. Perth’s were already hoisted, he saw. Astern, Java was settling into line; her slender foretop made the twin funnels look more massive than they were. He checked the time: eleven minutes past four. Any minute now, someone would try the range. He reached for his tin hat, glancing round at the same time to see that everyone else was wearing them: his own helmet was blue with four gold stripes on it, artistry by AB Gladwill.

  Greenleaf called again on the DCT telephone. “Enemy has a seaplane up, sir. Green six-five at the moment, looks like it’s working its way round astern of us.”

  In a minute, he’d got it in the circle of his binoculars. It looked from here like a black, very slow-moving mosquito, so slow that even one of the cranky old Buffaloes could have knocked it down. It was going to be a great advantage to the Jap gunners to have a spotter wirelessing fall-of-shot to them. He looked round at the OD who manned a group of voicepipes, including one to the ADP: “Tell Captain Haskins there’s a seaplane moving down the starboard side and if it comes into range I want it shot down.”

  The communications number was bawling it up the pipe. When he’d finished Nick added, “Tell him it’s worth a bottle of gin.”

  His gin was quite safe, he thought. Unfortunately. That seaplane would keep its distance, if its pilot had any sense.

  “Enemy’s opened fire, sir!”

  Sixteen minutes past four. His eyes were on his watch when Exeter’s guns crashed out a salvo. Two seconds later, Houston fired. Cordite smoke and smell drifted back along the line of ships. Nick called the DCT and asked Greenleaf what the range was.

  “Twenty-six thousand yards, sir.”

  Thirteen miles …

  Shells scrunched overhead. Looking out to port, he saw the splashes rise like white pillars that turned grey as they hung momentarily and then collapsed. They’d fallen well over and quite a distance ahead, probably too far right for line. But with that seaplane spotting for them the enemy gunners wouldn’t need to get their salvoes in line before they could correct for range; without a spotter you did have to, because until you had the splashes in line with the target you couldn’t tell whether they were short or over.

  Exeter fired again. As the noise faded, Bob Gant began, “Flagship’s—”

  Houston flung off a broadside. Gant was pointing, and Nick saw de Ruyter swinging, starting a turn to port. He’d be weaving, perhaps, “snaking the line,” which was a way of taking avoiding action—and confusing the enemy’s observations—while still keeping the ships in line ahead. He’d hardly be turning parallel to the enemy at this extreme range—when only two of his ships could use their guns?

  Being shot at wasn’t fun. Being shot at when you couldn’t shoot back was extremely trying.

  But perhaps ther
e was some wisdom in it: if the enemy line had been in a position to “cross his T”—bring their full broadsides to bear on the flagship as one narrow, bow-on target—Doorman would have seen that he’d be running into trouble, and this turn would have avoided it. More Jap shells: the whistling, rushing noise of them. They went into the sea well over again, but not as far over as the first lot. Doorman was turning towards the fall of shot, which was a well-used, logical tactic: the enemy would be shortening his range setting now, while his target veered out towards the range at which the last salvo fell. Exeter and Houston had both fired, Exeter well out to port now in the flagship’s wake; Doorman had gone round by about twenty degrees and he seemed to have steadied on that course. Houston had put her helm over, turning her bow into the drift of smoke from Exeter’s last salvo.

  The flagship wasn’t weaving, though. Doorman did intend, apparently, to stay out at this range. Whatever reasons he might have for it, one’s own strong inclination was to get in closer, into the fight. Nick held his glasses on de Ruyter’s stern, hoping to see it move, see the Dutchman begin a turn towards the enemy. He was steady though, holding that course. Then there was a flash and a burst of smoke somewhere amidships: the flagship had been hit. Other shells splashed in short. Then Exeter fired, and Houston, and a yellowish haze of cordite smoke hid the flagship. Houston steadied now, Perth turning astern of her. Nick glanced round and saw Chevening ready to order Defiant’s wheel over. The DCT telephone called, and Gladwill passed it to him: Greenleaf reported, “Destroyer attack developing, sir. Six of them have turned towards us on green five-oh.”

  “You may get a target or two, then.”

  “Certainly wouldn’t mind one, sir.”

  If Doorman didn’t order his destroyers out to meet the attack, and let them foul the range. Nick was thinking that if he’d been running this show he’d have divided the cruiser force, kept the two heavy-gunned ships at about this range and sent the other four in closer, probably in two separate groups of two ships each, making three in all. Not only so as to get their guns into the action, but also to divide the Jap gunners’ attention. The snag was, of course, that communications weren’t up to coping with any complicated manoeuvring: Doorman would be scared of losing control. If there’d been a prearranged plan and a chance to practise it, though, that would have been the answer, and in Doorman’s shoes one would have chanced it anyway.

  He wasn’t sending the destroyers out, at any rate. Exeter and Houston were shooting steadily, and about twice a minute an enemy salvo splashed down. There’d only been that one hit, on de Ruyter, so far as one could tell from Defiant, and despite the spotting aircraft hovering on the quarter now the fall of shot seemed haphazard. Whether the enemy ships had been hit at all one couldn’t know. Nick got up higher, with his heels jammed in the strut that linked the seat’s legs, and trained his glasses on the bow where the destroyer attack was supposed to be coming in. The enemy heavy cruisers were easy to see, and one light cruiser’s upperworks were in sight astern of them. The smaller ships would be flanking the big ones, he guessed, one on each quarter.

  “Captain, sir!”

  Director telephone again: Greenleaf said, “Destroyers closing on green eight-five, sir. Permission to open fire?” “Open fire.”

  Perth did so at that moment. Splashes from Jap eight-inch shells lifted the sea astern. In the DCT Greenleaf said into the mouthpiece of his headset, “All guns with full charge and SAP load, load, load!” “SAP” meant semi-armour-piercing, as opposed to “HE” for highexplosive. He told his team, “Target the right-hand destroyer.” On his left Mr Nye, the gunner, began passing information over his telephone to CPO Hughes, chief gunner’s mate, down in the transmitting station. He was giving him figures for enemy course and speed. Mr Nye was the rate officer, and on his estimates the rate of opening or closing range was calculated. All kinds of other data was reaching the TS and being set on dials on the Admiralty fire-control table, which would transmit its own conclusions to the guns. Below Greenleaf the director layer and trainer held their telescope sights on the enemy, the foot of his foremast being the standard aiming point, but the guns themselves would be aimed-off by the amount that had been computed from all the facts and figures fed into the machine in the TS, which was a tank-like cell of a compartment well below the waterline. Greenleaf was watching his gun-ready box, and when he saw the lights in it all glowing, a light for each of the six gun mountings, he ordered “Shoot!” Firegongs double-clanged as the director layer, with his eye still pressed to the rubber eyepiece of his telescopic sight, squeezed his trigger.

  Defiant’s six 6-inch guns fired: cordite smoke washed back along her decks, curled mustard-coloured over the white wake. All six guns were on the centre-line: two for’ard of the bridge, one for’ard and one aft of the twin funnels, and two aft. They were guns with shields, not turrets. Perth had fired again. Then the deeper rashes of broadsides from the bigger ships ahead of her. And Nick had the oncoming destroyers in his glasses, small, jumpy images in the heat-haze low on a dazzling sea, mirage-like and distant. He saw shell-splashes momentarily superimposed, a small flickering of white that vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Defiant and Perth both fired again.

  A pressure against his forearm was Gladwill offering him the director telephone. He took it and said into it, “Captain.”

  “They’re turning away, sir. I think they’ve fired torpedoes.”

  At that range? Over the line he heard the PCO’s order: “Shoot!” Then, as the echoes of the salvo died, “Check, check, check!”

  It was said that the Japanese had torpedoes called “Long Lance” which were far better than the Royal Navy’s, but however marvellous they might be they’d been wasted by being fired from such a distance. Particularly as Doorman was now altering course again. Nick hadn’t been aware of it happening, but looking astern he could see the elbow in the wake and Java following Defiant round.

  Exeter and Houston were still engaged in their long-range action. And Doorman’s new course was still more or less parallel to the enemy’s … Might Nelson, Nick wondered, have used the excuse of that torpedo attack to turn his own ship towards the enemy? The move might have been excused, explained, if with his blind eye he’d seen torpedo tracks, and turned to comb them. But Java wouldn’t have followed Nick Everard; mightn’t even have followed Horatio Nelson. And Waller of Perth would have had no option but to stick to Houston’s tail, so there’d have been only one advancing ship for the enemy to concentrate his guns on. So—no, Nelson would not have. It was still galling to be kept out here, non-combatant. It wouldn’t improve the ship’s company’s morale, either. Earlier in the afternoon, soon after the force had turned and headed back out to sea from Surabaya, he’d talked to his crew over the Tannoy broadcast system, explaining what was happening and leaving no doubt that Defiant would soon be in action. The enemy force was about equal to their own, he’d said, and with a bit of luck and straight shooting they ought to wipe the floor with them.

  There’d been cheering on the messdecks. Some of them might be wondering now what there’d been to cheer about.

  What might Doorman be hoping to achieve? To have Exeter’s and Houston’s guns knock out the big ships, leaving the rest—and the convoy—as easy meat?

  It wasn’t happening. The time was just on 5 PM, they’d been in action for three-quarters of an hour, and the only hit Nick had seen had been that one on de Ruyter. He asked Greenleaf over the telephone, “Have you seen any hits on the enemy?”

  “I think so, sir. Two earlier on, and one a minute ago. Can’t be positive, but—”

  “All right.” He took the phone from his ear, but Greenleaf caught him with a sharp “Captain, sir …” He reported, “Looks like a new destroyer attack starting from fine on the bow.”

  Enemy shells splashed down, short. De Ruyter at once began a turn to starboard. Exeter had loosed off another broadside: and now Houston … Nick heard shells arriving, that distinctive rushing, ripping sound �
��

  Exeter was hit.

  She’d been out to starboard, following the flagship round and far enough out to be in sight from Defiant. He saw the shell strike, the flash and puff of debris and dust as it went in, and then the explosion, eruption inside the ship. Exeter’s helm went over the other way, reversing the direction of the turn.

  Houston’s guns had fired; and now she was following Exeter, turning to port although de Ruyter was going the other way, had steadied after a swing to starboard. Exeter, Nick realized, was slowing, losing way quite fast; he could see her bow-wave dropping as speed fell off. Houston must have recognized his mistake and also seen the danger of ramming the British cruiser, and she was keeping full rudder on, in order to turn inside her, under her stern. Perth was following Houston.

  Shambles … Nick was at the binnacle, displacing Chevening, who moved to the director telephone to maintain contact with the DCT.

  “Starboard five.”

  “Starboard five, sir … Five of starboard wheel on, sir!”

  Just enough wheel to take her clear of all that mess. An enemy salvo thumped into the sea, short. He called down, “Midships.” De Ruyter had held on. Houston and Perth had turned with Exeter, but they should not have. Nothing had been all that good so far, but now it had become much worse. Only two ships had been in action, and one of them had been crippled while the other had waltzed off on her own. Another salvo scorched over and raised spouts on Defiant’s bow. He called down, “Port ten.” He’d passed clear of the scrimmage and now he had to get her up astern of the admiral. Exeter seemed to have stopped; destroyers were circling her, laying smoke to hide her from the enemy, whose rate of fire seemed to have increased. Those were the American destroyers: the three British ones were ahead and on the flagship’s bow to port, while a Dutchman was moving up on the engaged side—to starboard. Shellspouts lifted in the gap between Exeter and a smoke-laying American destroyer. The smoke would have very little effect, Nick realized, when the spotter was airborne and well above it; but perhaps, in this sort of mess, every contribution helped … He said into the voicepipe, “Midships.”