A Ship Must Die (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Where’s Fremantle?’

  Villar’s brass dividers measured off the vast span of ocean, each metallic click like derision. ‘Too far, sir. Whereas we. . . .’ The dividers moved remorselessly to the pencilled line of Andromeda’s original course.

  Fairfax gripped his hands tightly behind his back. But for leaving to search for a crashed aircraft, Andromeda would have been within half a day’s steaming of the other ship’s alleged position.

  As if to rub salt in the wound Villar added, ‘Very close to where the Dutchman Evertsen was sunk.’

  Masters lurched through the door. ‘Ouch, sorry, sir, but the old girl’s rolling a bit.’

  Fairfax asked, ‘Is your plane ready to fly off?’

  Masters nodded. ‘Yes, sir. When?’

  Fairfax was staring at the little pencilled crosses on the chart. Ignominy for trying to save life, whereas he would be well praised if he came on the raider. He looked at the widening triangle between Andromeda and her recommended course. Even now, if Weir could coax some more knots out of his over-worked screws, they might be able to track the enemy, especially if another report came through.

  It seemed as if everything was going wrong. Whatever they tried to do the enemy knew in advance, or so it appeared. It was like hunting a blind man in a pitch-dark room.

  Villar said softly, ‘Shall I lay off a course to intercept, sir?’

  They were all looking at Fairfax. Masters, unusually tense, Villar, dark and watchful, and the young seaman named Wright who was the navigator’s yeoman.

  Fairfax did not reply directly. To Masters he said, ‘Do you think the Catalina would break up?’

  Masters looked at the chart. ‘No. The weather reports were good. Those milk-run pilots know their job and the planes are tough. If they had time to put down without crashing it must have been urgent. Fire maybe, in which case they would take to the life-rafts.’ His eyes were still on the chart, the vast span of the Indian Ocean. ‘I know the captain could take care of himself. I’m not sure about the others.’

  Scovell ducked through the door, his gaze moving curiously across the little group at the table.

  ‘Sir? Chief’s on the phone.’

  Fairfax nodded. ‘I’ll come.’

  On the open bridge it felt clean after the oppressive atmosphere of the chartroom. He picked up the handset.

  ‘Chief? Commander here.’

  ‘I’d like to know if I can send some of my key ratings off watch. They’ve been working full-time for hours, and if we keep up these revs I’m going to need every experienced man I’ve got.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘It’s no critical, sir, but I’ve never had her going at this speed for so long.’

  Over the telephone Weir’s Scots accent sounded more pronounced.

  ‘Give me revolutions for twenty knots, Chief. Will that help?’

  ‘Aye. For the moment.’ The slightest hesitation, as if Weir hated to link his engineroom with the affairs of the bridge. ‘Is there no news?’

  ‘None.’

  Fairfax replaced the handset and walked to the side of the bridge.

  To Scovell he said, ‘We will reduce to twenty knots. Pilot, lay off a course to intercept that unidentified ship and check it by the hour. Get your assistant up here to help you.’ He turned towards Masters. ‘I shall want you airborne as soon as it is light enough for you to make a recce.’

  Masters said, ‘Fine.’

  Villar snapped to his yeoman, ‘Shiner, fetch Lieutenant Trevett, chop, chop! Can’t have all these Aussies sitting on their backsides, now can we?’

  Scovell stood his ground. ‘So you’re not going after the raider yet, sir?’

  ‘Is that what you would have done, Number One?’

  Scovell shrugged. ‘I’m not in command, sir.’

  Fairfax felt the eyes watching from around the bridge. What did they feel? Contempt, amusement, anger, indifference? Whatever it was, it all seemed to flow straight from Scovell.

  Fairfax said quietly, ‘No, you are not, Number One. But I think you just answered my question anyway. Well, don’t worry too much. You will be whiter than white, whatever happens!’

  He swung back towards the chair, conscious of Scovell’s look of shocked surprise and his own petty victory.

  A shadow moved up from the interior companion ladder. It was Moon, his jacket pale against the grey steel. He held out a small tray and uncovered a pot of coffee. He did it with a kind of shabby flourish, as if he was trying to convey something.

  He said, ‘Made it meself, sir. From me special store. Just like the cap’n ’as.’

  Fairfax took the cup in his hand, suddenly grateful for Moon’s private gesture.

  ‘Thanks. That was a nice thought.’

  Moon blinked through the screen, his eyes watering in the breeze coming back from the bows.

  Fairfax said softly, ‘It’s all right. We’re still looking. I’m not turning back.’

  Moon dusted an invisible speck from his napkin. ‘Course not, sir. Told ’em you wouldn’t. Not your style, that’s what I told ’em, sir.’

  Fairfax let out a long breath. It had been a close thing. But for Moon? He shook his head. Now he might never know.

  Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Edgar Bruce grunted with exasperation as he peered at Blake’s blistered shoulders.

  ‘Easy, sir, you can’t expect to carry on as if nothing had happened.’

  Blake, naked but for a clean towel, sat in his day cabin, trying not to listen to the ship’s movements around him, to accept what had so recently been an impossible dream. Andromeda had steamed in a slow circle around their rubber dinghy, and as a motor boat had been lowered and sent to collect the four survivors, Blake had seen his men lining the guard-rails or standing up in the gun sponsons to wave and cheer.

  It must have been a strange sight, he thought. Captain Quintin being carried across the quarterdeck by the sick-berth attendants, the young American sailor, chin in the air with recovered pride although he had been almost blinded with emotion, and the girl, bare-legged, bloodied and yet so beautiful in the soiled drill tunic.

  He glanced at Fairfax who had stayed with him since he had been hoisted aboard. If anything, Fairfax looked as if he had suffered with them, and even his great grin of welcome did not completely erase the strain from his face.

  Blake said, ‘See that the American lad is well looked after. Let Masters have a chat with him, show him the recognition cards. I think the plane was an Arado 196, but Masters may be able to glean something I’ve missed.’

  He turned and winced as the surgeon dabbed something on his back. ‘What did you make of Quintin, Doc?’

  Bruce smiled. ‘He’s too old for this sort of lark, sir, but as tough as they come. He’ll not be up and about for quite a bit. But for the dressings he’d have lost a leg, no doubt about that.’ He stood back and wiped his hands. ‘There, sir, best I can do if you’re determined not to take it easy.’

  Blake saw Moon hovering by the door. His face seemed to be all teeth and his eyes were lost in slits of obvious pleasure.

  Blake said, ‘A shave and a clean shirt will do for the present, Doc.’ He hesitated. ‘How’s Second Officer Grenfell?’ Could it all change so swiftly? With death within reach he had called her Claire. This seemed like a betrayal.

  ‘I’ve put her out, sir. She’ll sleep like a top until tomorrow. I’ve got her in my cabin. I feel more at home in the sick-bay. I hardly ever left the blessed place when we were in the Med.’

  ‘She’s going to be all right?’

  Blake knew Fairfax was watching him with sudden interest but he did not care.

  ‘I’ve examined her thoroughly. Nothing broken. Outwardly she’s as good as new.’ Bruce shrugged. ‘Later . . . well, we’ll have to see.’

  Blake looked away, picturing the girl lying naked on Bruce’s table.

  He said, ‘I’ll be returning to the bridge, Doc. Keep me posted.’

  As the surgeon lef
t Blake asked, ‘Any further sighting reports on the unidentified ship?’ He knew it was troubling Fairfax more than he had admitted.

  Fairfax said, ‘No, sir. I guess the whaling supply vessel made off at full speed, just to be on the safe side. D’you think there’ll be trouble about it when we get in?’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later.’

  Blake stood up and felt the deck reel under him. It had been like that since he had been hauled from the dinghy. Survivors rescued from life-boats after weeks, even days on the open sea could rarely walk properly for a long time after being picked up.

  ‘We know more than we did, Victor. The raider carries at least one seaplane. That gives her captain a far greater area to cast his net. Also, it can warn him about any threatening warships in his vicinity.’ He looked at his hands. ‘We also know that the man who commands the raider has no feeling for human life. The seaplane was merely an instrument. The German captain knew what he was doing.’

  Fairfax watched him, moved and troubled by his words.

  ‘Can I ask? D’you still believe there are two raiders?’

  Blake eyed him gravely. ‘I’m not sure. I’m certain of one thing only. We’re going to finish him or them!’

  He beckoned to Moon. ‘You do the shaving. I’ll probably cut my throat, I’m shaking so badly!’

  As Fairfax moved to the door he called after him, ‘There’s not much I can say. Thank you sounds too feeble for what you did, for what it might have cost you. Whoever eventually gets command of Andromeda will be damn lucky to have you, too.’ He tried to grin. ‘I shall bloody well tell him so!’

  Fairfax walked from the cabin, nodding to the marine sentry outside the door.

  He heard the murmur of voices from the wardroom, the clatter of plates as the stewards prepared to serve the officers’ lunch.

  The motion felt easier as the ship headed towards her proper station, and Fairfax recalled the relief in Weir’s voice when he had ordered a return to cruising speed.

  He walked briskly along the upper deck, past a small working party who were lashing the yellow dinghy to the boat tier like a trophy.

  Fairfax thought of the girl’s face as she had been helped aboard, the way Blake had spoken of her.

  He would tell Sarah about it. She would have had them hitched in no time if Blake had been unmarried.

  The tannoy squeaked and then intoned, ‘Cooks to the galley! Senior hands of messes to muster for rum!’

  He climbed swiftly to the upper bridge, past the lookouts and signalmen and the massive bulk of Toby Jug with his old-fashioned brass telescope.

  Lieutenant Palliser had the watch and threw up a real gunnery salute as Fairfax climbed into the bridge.

  ‘New course is one-four-zero, sir.’ He could not contain a smile. ‘No further reports from W/T.’

  Fairfax nodded and smiled at the other watchkeepers. They seemed different. They were different.

  He stepped up to the fore-gratings and stood beside the empty, freshly scrubbed chair.

  Andromeda had decided. He was accepted.

  8

  Convoy

  KAPITÄN ZUR SEE Kurt Rietz steadied his powerful Zeiss glasses on the slow-moving dot in the sky and then lowered them carefully to his chest again. He could feel the tension around him like steel mesh, the whispered commands and repeated acknowledgements from telephones and voice-pipes adding to the sense of apprehension.

  Rietz was used to tension. It rarely left him. It was part of his being. He could barely remember feeling free, able to relax and chatter about unimportant trivialities.

  Under her assumed colours and Swedish markings the raider was moving at a reduced cruising speed, her wake cutting a frothing track through the glittering blue water astern.

  They had sighted the aircraft two hours ago, a black dot which changed shape and burst into brilliant light as it altered course across the sun towards them.

  Unhurriedly, the raider’s company had gone to quarters. It was always expected, like the dawn, and now it was here. The aircraft was a naval flying-boat, one of the old British Walrus type, so there was no room for doubt. There was a warship somewhere beneath the horizon. One of the hunters. The old enemy.

  Rietz heard his first lieutenant’s breathing beside him and said, ‘It was as well we sighted the aircraft in time to alter course, Rudi. A few more minutes and they would have realized we were not on the Swede’s proper course.’

  Storch followed the distant plane, his eyes intent. ‘Even so, sir, the warship will not be deceived.’ He stared at his captain. ‘Surely?’

  A seaman with a handset banged his heels together. ‘Main armament closed up, sir! All shutters sealed, aircraft secured!’

  Rietz nodded. ‘Good.’ To his subordinate he continued, ‘The real Patricia will not be reported missing as yet, Rudi. We wear her colours and we are approximately on her original course.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Give or take a hundred miles or so. But with these German raiders about who could blame me for taking avoiding action, eh?’ It seemed to amuse him.

  The gunnery speaker rapped out from the rear of the bridge. ‘Ship bearing Green four-five, sir! Range fifteen miles!’

  A dozen sets of binoculars swung over the screen and from the lookout stations. Above their heads the disguised range-finder turned easily on its oiled bearings, making a lie of the scarred paintwork and rust streaks around it.

  Rietz kept his face empty of expression as he steadied his glasses on the first sighting of the newcomer. The merest flaw on the horizon, a hint of smoke which might have been sea-mist parting before a powerful fighting ship at full speed.

  He went over everything he had gleaned from the Patricia’s papers which his resourceful boarding officer had brought aboard after firing the demolition charges.

  Bound for Port Said. A neutral on her lawful occasions.

  He shifted his glasses to watch the flying-boat, awkward in the sunlight with its ‘pusher’ engine balanced on the upper wing.

  He said, ‘Tell all hands not to stand with their glasses on that aircraft, Rudi.’ He controlled the sudden edge in his tone. Any sign of anxiety now would be asking for trouble. ‘Put some men to work on the forecastle. That plane will come nearer soon. My guess is that the pilot went back to signal a report to his captain. That gentleman will need some more evidence before he closes the range.’

  Rietz thought of his two previous voyages. One hundred thousand tons of enemy shipping put down. A tremendous effort for Germany, for all those at home who had only the carefully vetted bulletins to carry them through the days and the long, shattering nights as the bombers came and went.

  This voyage was even more important. For the first time since the army had marched into Poland in 1939 Germany was on the defensive. In Italy, in Russia, even in the Atlantic.

  He thought of the admiral in Kiel, grave-eyed as he stared through the rain-soaked windows above the dockyard. Germany had to have more time. For the new weapons, for the army’s next push eastward when the Russian steam-roller was slowed down. There was talk of great new rockets to be fired on to London and the Channel ports, and an all-electric submarine which would be immune from any kind of detection. Time, time, time.

  Storch called from the bridge wing. ‘Aircraft closing to port, sir!’

  In a wide arc, its engine throbbing noisily, the Walrus tilted towards the raider. Rietz made himself look along his command. Obedient to his order a few seamen were working around the anchor cables, another was squirting a hose over the side, possibly his own crude gesture to the enemy.

  He snapped, ‘Be ready to reply to the challenge, Rudi. But tell Fackler to make his number slowly. This is a Swedish ship, remember? Not a damned battle-cruiser!’

  It brought a few nervous laughs, as he knew it would.

  The Walrus rattled down the raider’s side, and then an Aldis light stabbed from the cockpit. What ship? Where bound? Number? Cargo?

  Rietz watched the signals petty officer, the way
he was cradling his lamp on his elbow. It was convincing, and he had no doubt that the Walrus crew had their glasses on them right now.

  The light flashed again and Petty Officer Fackler said, ‘Requests we alter course two points to starboard, sir.’

  Rietz nodded. ‘Alter course, Rudi. Steer zero-two-zero. Warn the engineroom to stand by for immediate increase of speed.’

  He removed his cap and waved it above his head towards the aircraft. It was already heading away, and when he lifted his glasses again he saw that the oncoming ship had gained identity within minutes.

  ‘Gone to make his report.’

  He patted his pockets, suddenly in need of a cigar. He must clear his mind, be ready to act without hesitation. The warship would be suspicious, her gunnery officer impatient to hurl his first salvo into them.

  The speaker intoned, ‘The ship is a cruiser, sir.’ The smallest hesitation, and Rietz could imagine his own spotting crew whipping through their recognition cards as they had done so often.

  ‘She’s the Australian cruiser Fremantle, sir.’

  Rietz let the details about the cruiser wash over him. He knew as much about the enemy build-up in the Indian Ocean as anyone. He had to admit that German intelligence were good. It was almost unnerving the way they seemed to know every ship movement, each rendezvous point as quickly as the enemy did.

  So Fremantle was here already. Eight-inch guns. A good turn of speed. If it came to a fight it would have to be close action. Torpedoes, then rapid fire with every weapon which would bear. He pictured his gun crews sweating down there between decks, waiting behind the steel shutters, ready to swing out the powerful muzzles and blaze away.

  A long ocean roller lifted under the Salamander’s keel and tilted her over. Rietz heard the clatter of machine-gun belts below the bridge and knew the ship was riding too high in the water. It was to be hoped the Fremantle did not notice. He needed more fuel and stores. A fresh rendezvous with another supply ship was vital now that Bremse had gone. He had received a signal about her, vague but definite. It must have been the spare mines she had been carrying. At least it would have been quick, he thought grimly.