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

by Alexander Fullerton

  He’d started, spilt coffee. Greenleaf said, “Looks very much like Sloan, sir.”

  The Santa Eulalia was stopped, low in the water and listing dangerously to port. Smoke oozing from her internal fires drifted southeastward, a heavy blanket on the sea. Ainsty, secured alongside the Caracas Moon’s starboard side, was sixty yards to windward of the American as they forged slowly past her. They were just getting the deadweight of the half-tanker under way again, Ainsty on this side and Jouster on the other, steel-wire ropes bar-taut and quivering with strain. You kept well away from wires in that state of tension. If one parted, it could slice a man in half.

  Moving, though. Just …

  It was getting the movement started that took most time and effort. The strain had to be applied carefully, increased slowly and steadily and the two destroyers had to synchronize their efforts. To hold the hulk on course, you had to continue to strike a balance.

  Tugs were said to be coming out from Valletta. They’d been coming anyway to take over the tanker, but now they’d be redirected to the Santa Eulalia. One of the minesweepers was standing by her meanwhile.

  Looking down at the sea alongside, Paul guessed they were making about two knots. With about five miles to go. That was a guess too. But they had to get up-coast a bit and then turn to run down the swept channel to the harbour entrance, and it couldn’t be much less than that.

  Three knots, perhaps. Two and a half, anyway. And it was now just past noon.

  Spitfires—several groups of them—were flying north, all seemingly heading in that one direction. He turned to look astern. At the end of the long shine of the oil-leak from the tanker, the Santa Eulalia lay motionless, bleeding smoke. It was the Spitfires’ departure northward that had reminded him of her: the fact that she was alone and in very bad trouble, probably not far short of sinking, and that she seemed now to be losing the fighter cover as well as the protection of these destroyer’s guns. He thought the minesweeper had gone alongside her, but it was on the other side of her, and he still didn’t have binoculars. She looked very much alone, back there.

  “Tugs are passing, t’other side.”

  A signalman had said it, leaning over to address one of the lookouts. Paul asked him, “How many?”

  “Three, sir. Reckon it’ll be a race who gets in first, them or us. If they can ’old ’er up, that is.”

  In the north, a tail of smoke extending downward was a fighter destroyed. It had the look of a Spitfire, but it was too distant to be sure. Astern now he saw the three tugs from the Malta dockyard chugging down the oil-path towards the Santa Eulalia. It would be filthy luck, he thought, if she sank right there, after as much as she’d come through. The signalman said, nodding towards the sky ahead, “88s. Sods don’t give up easy, do they?”

  There were dogfights in progress, Spitfires versus others, in the northern distance. This side of that action, lower in the sky, he saw the Ju88s. But off to the left again, climbing towards them, was another batch of Spitfires. He pointed them out to the signalman.

  “They aren’t going to bother us this time.” Then he asked him—because signalmen saw signals, which a passenger did not—“Have we been told anything about any other ships arriving?”

  “Only them two, sir.”

  “Which two?”

  “The Miramar and the Empire Dance. They’re both inside an’ unloading.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Well. There’s this lot, now.” He looked astern. “Except I wouldn’t bet on the Yank making it, would you, sir?”

  The tugs were getting their lines into her, back there. And this tow, meanwhile, was making a good four knots. Paul said, looking back at the American and crossing fingers on both hands, “She’ll make it.”

  One hour before dusk, six thousand miles away. Checking the time and glancing at the position of the sun, Nick recalled that this was the sunset he certainly had not counted on seeing.

  “Message passed, sir.”

  “Very good. Bring her round, pilot. And come down to two hundred revs.”

  Jordan had signalled, an hour ago: I decided to maximize my distance from the Bali Strait by holding to a more southerly course before turning east to join you. Sorry if this departure from our original intentions has caused you concern.

  Then later, in answer to a question from Nick, he’d sent: There is no Mrs Williams among my passengers.

  Nick hadn’t thought there would be. And Williams, not having known of there being any refugees in the American destroyer, would have no reason to be disappointed.

  Sloan was abeam to starboard: turning inward now. A handsome, fine-looking ship, Nick thought. He was putting her astern of Defiant so as to make night station-keeping simpler; and both ships were cutting speed now to sixteen knots.

  “Course one-nine-two, sir!”

  “Very good.”

  To call it “very good” was putting it rather mildly, he thought. A hundred and ninety-two degrees was the course from here to North West Cape, the top-left corner of Australia. A run of about seven hundred and fifty miles: at sixteen knots, two days. Then south down the Australian west coast for about the same distance, two more days, to Perth.

  Perth—or Fremantle—close to where Kate was. Or where she had been …

  Kate, my darling, please be there.

  Tugs had charge of the Caracas Moon now. Jouster was leading them and Ainsty followed, while four tugs dragged half a tanker into the Grand Harbour.

  Just minutes ago a Ju88 had crashed in flames right in the harbour entrance. Spitfires had driven others off: Spits circled now, on guard above Valletta.

  That noise: as Ainsty nosed in around the point, Paul suddenly caught on to what was making it. Brass bands, and people: about three-quarters of the island’s population—going mad. He could see them, as the view unfolded: bands, people, playing and cheering the ships in. Wherever there was a foothold—on roofs, balconies, walls, ledges, ramparts, the terraces and battlements of ancient fortifications, the Maltese had massed to welcome them. Hordes of people: waving, shouting, howling, clapping.

  Astern, the Santa Eulalia, with smoke still gushing out of her, was entering harbour with two tugs ahead and one alongside. She was very low in the water, and listing so hard that you’d guess she was on the point of foundering. The tugs were hauling her around to port, close in past a rocky promontory. The noise was indescribable: and it was moving, you could feel it in your throat. Ainsty’s crew were fallen in, in ranks for the drill of entering harbour. Two ranks of sailors on her foc’sl, some amidships on each side of the iron deck, another platoon on the quarterdeck: they’d become parade-ground sailors, suddenly. Up here on the compass platform the captain had exchanged his woollen hat for a uniform cap, and the two-and-a-half stripes on each of his reefer’s sleeves were bright, new-looking. From a distance, nobody could have guessed he hadn’t had more than a brief doze in a bridge chair for the last five days and nights. Paul was looking into the forepart of the bridge. Simpson saw him, and came aft to tell him quickly, “They’re taking the Caracas Moon into Dockyard Creek—round that next point on the left. Fort St Angelo, that heap is. The next point after it’s called Senglea, and we’ll be berthing in the creek—French Creek—beyond it.”

  The Empire Dance was alongside a wharf, stern-on to them as they passed. She was unloading, all her derricks busy and men swarming all over her, a mass of cargo streaming out of her to the wharf on one side and into lighters on the other. Beyond her, higher up the creek, he had a brief glimpse of the Miramar, the centre of an equally frantic discharging operation.

  The Santa Eulalia had stopped. She’d grounded, close to the rocky shore in that first bay. He guessed they’d got her into shallow water just in time. All three tugs were alongside her now. If they could contain the fire they’d most likely unload her there, into lighters. The noise of cheering and clapping and the blare of the brass bands never slackened, it was a constant roar of excitement and joy: it was marvellous, he
thought, but it was also crazy. How many people here—ten thousand? More? But what they were getting was half a tanker, maybe three-quarters of that American freighter’s cargo, and two other ship-loads. At the cost of twelve merchantmen, an aircraft carrier, three cruisers and some destroyers: and those were the ships he knew about … The band they were passing was playing “Rule, Britannia!”. A hand fell on his shoulder. Turning, he found the doctor, Grant, where Simpson had been a moment ago. Grant shouted, “Bad news, sub. Your pal Willis. I’m extremely sorry.”

  “Dead?”

  The doctor nodded. The band had switched to “Scotland the Brave.” Paul hadn’t known Harry Willis well, but Willis had saved his life and now he was dead. So were Ron Beale, and Art Withinshaw, and Dennis Brill and Mick McCall and old Bongo Mackeson and young Gosling. And God knew how many others. The bands played and the people cheered and it made you want to cry: for the thrill in it, and pride, and sorrow too. But also, surprise. He wondered, If they act like this now, what in hell will they do when we start winning?

  POSTSCRIPT

  There was no cruiser Defiant or destroyer USS Sloan. In other respects the description of the Java Sea battle (27 February, 1942) and subsequent events is drawn from history. The Japanese landed in Java on 1 March.

  The Malta convoy is more thoroughly fictional. There was no convoy from the west in February: that month’s attempt to supply the island was from Alexandria, and no ships at all got through. So it was necessary to invent one—in order to get Paul to Malta. The fictional convoy story is based loosely on the facts of Operation Pedestal, which took place a few months later. Pedestal opened with the loss of the carrier Eagle, and two cruisers and the tanker Ohio were hit in one ( Italian) submarine’s torpedo salvo at the entrance to the Skerki Channel. Among the fourteen ships in convoy was an American freighter called the Santa Elisa, but she was not among the five ships—two of them sinking—that reached Malta.

  Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press

  BY ALEXANDER KENT

  The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight!

  The Flag Captain

  Signal—Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  Heart of Oak

  In the King’s Name

  BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

  Halfhyde at the Bight of Benin

  Halfhyde’s Island

  Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest

  Halfhyde to the Narrows

  Halfhyde for the Queen

  Halfhyde Ordered South

  Halfhyde on Zanatu

  BY JAN NEEDLE

  A Fine Boy for Killing

  The Wicked Trade

  The Spithead Nymph

  BY BROOS CAMPBELL

  No Quarter

  The War of Knives

  Peter Wicked

  BY C.N. PARKINSON

  The Guernseyman

  Devil to Pay

  The Fireship

  Touch and Go

  So Near So Far

  Dead Reckoning

  BY DUDLEY POPE

  Ramage

  Ramage & The Drumbeat

  Ramage & The Freebooters

  Governor Ramage R.N.

  Ramage’s Prize

  Ramage & The Guillotine

  Ramage’s Diamond

  Ramage’s Mutiny

  Ramage & The Rebels

  The Ramage Touch

  Ramage’s Signal

  Ramage & The Renegades

  Ramage’s Devil

  Ramage’s Trial

  Ramage’s Challenge

  Ramage at Trafalgar

  Ramage & The Saracens

  Ramage & The Dido

  BY V.A. STUART

  Victors and Lords

  The Sepoy Mutiny

  Massacre at Cawnpore

  The Cannons of Lucknow

  The Heroic Garrison

  The Valiant Sailors

  The Brave Captains

  Hazard’s Command

  Hazard of Huntress

  Hazard in Circassia

  Victory at Sebastopol

  Guns to the Far East

  Escape from Hell

  BY JAMES L. NELSON

  The Only Life That Mattered

  BY SETH HUNTER

  The Time of Terror

  The Tide of War

  The Price of Glory

  BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON

  Night of Flames

  The Katyn Order

  BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

  Kydd

  Artemis

  Seaflower

  Mutiny

  Quarterdeck

  Tenacious

  Command

  The Admiral’s Daughter

  The Privateer’s Revenge

  Invasion Victory Conquest

  BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

  The French Admiral

  The Gun Ketch

  HMS Cockerel

  A King’s Commander

  Jester’s Fortune

  BY JOHN BIGGINS

  A Sailor of Austria

  The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

  The Two-Headed Eagle

  Tomorrow the World

  BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

  Storm Force to Narvik

  Last Lift from Crete

  All the Drowning Seas

  A Share of Honour

  The Torch Bearers

  The Gatecrashers

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  The Devil’s Own Luck

  The Dying Trade

  A Hanging Matter

  An Element of Chance

  The Scent of Betrayal

  A Game of Bones

  BY JAMES DUFFY

  Sand of the Arena

  The Fight for Rome