September 1942: Winston Churchill to President Roosevelt: We agree… We have plenty of troops highly trained for landings. If convenient they can wear your uniform. They will be proud to do so. Shipping will be all right…
President Roosevelt to Prime Minister Churchill, same day: Hurrah!
September: Winston Churchill to President Roosevelt: OK, full blast.
But meanwhile, here in mid-Atlantic this was the war – even if plans were being made elsewhere to change it drastically… Harbinger fighting like a game fish as she lurched round to starboard across howling wind and whitened sea, her stem pointing at black night sky as she climbed, screws deep and thrusting, her frames jolting, loud with a thousand rattles and the creak of straining high-tension steel: steadying on the new course, she was on a crest, poised for a long moment over the abyss and then abruptly committed to the downward plunge, bow digging into black sea to scoop up a few tons of it and toss it back on to the heads of the men in her bridge. Nick Everard heard the yell of ‘Course one-three-five, sir!’ and at the same time a ring of the bell from the HF/DF office: through the voice-pipe he took Gritten’s report, ‘Three of ’em out there now, sir – one-three-five, one-six-oh, one-seven-eight!’
Three U-boats – talking their heads off, and Petty Officer Telegraphist Archie Gritten listening to every word. Which was what HF/ DF was for. The letters stood for high-frequency direction-finding: and an expert operator like Gritten could distinguish one U-boat from another, could deduce all sorts of things from the bursts of dots and dashes… Bruce – a destroyer Nick was ordering out to starboard with him – had been stationed on the convoy’s port quarter; Watchful had already started out from her position on the bow, when she’d been the first to detect a U-boat surfaced and in contact. One had been shadowing all day, and there were at least four out there now, all in touch with the convoy and talking about it, arranging their tactics for the night’s assault and probably also calling others, homing them in on this fat, slow-moving target. CPO Bearcroft had finished passing the order to Bruce – over the radio-telephone system known as TBS, talk-between-ships – but Nick guessed that Bruce would already have been moving in this direction across the convoy’s rear, coming over towards the centre to cover the area that Harbinger had left unguarded. Only a minimal amount of signalling was necessary between captains who’d sailed together long enough to know without having to be told what was expected of them in this or that circumstance. Like a football team of forwards and halfbacks, the four destroyers as forwards and the six corvettes as a close defensive screen. Destroyers had to be the strikers, since they had the speed which the tubby, hard-rolling corvettes lacked.
Siren – a banshee wailing out of the blackness to leeward: it was the convoy commodore ordering an emergency turn to port. Swinging his mass of ships – a rectangular formation five miles wide and a mile and a half deep – forty degrees away from the threat on this side. There were thirty-seven ships now: three had been lost last night and one the night before. One Norwegian, two British, one Dutch. Things were hotting up again; after a comparatively quiet summer the U-boats were back in mid-Atlantic. Tonight and tomorrow night, Nick guessed, would be the worst: after that the convoy would be nosing into range of air patrols from UK bases.
‘Anything near us?’
‘Iris, three thousand yards abeam to port, sir. Watchful’s well clear on the bow.’
Iris was number two in the starboard-side screen: she’d be turning to port now with the convoy. The convoy would be on the RDF screen too, of course – part of it would – only young Carlish, Harbinger’s junior sub-lieutenant, hadn’t bothered to mention it. He had an eye-piece slot, like the peep-hole of a ‘what-the-butler-saw’ machine except it looked directly downwards, above the radar (still called RDF) and the navigational plotting table. The hope and intention now was to locate the lurking enemies and get out at them before they could put in their attacks: at the least you’d force them to dive, put them down where they were blind and slow-moving, while the convoy lumbered away out of danger. This was the object of the strikers – to break up an assault before it could develop, and ideally of course to draw blood in the process.
And this group had proved it could draw blood…
Radio telephone crackling: it was bringing in a report from Watchful: ‘In contact, attacking!’
‘RDF contact bearing one-three-one, range four thousand three hundred.’
‘Come to one-three-one, Sub!’
You had to scream, pitch the voice right up over wind, sea and ship noise. Four thousand, three hundred yards was only a little over two miles, very short range at which to have picked up an enemy: he’d be trimmed right down, hiding in the waves… But in this sea? Nick heard Chubb, the Australian sub-lieutenant whose action duty was to conn the ship under his – Nick’s – orders, yelling down to the wheelhouse for that small change of course. And Tony Graves, his first lieutenant and asdic expert, speaking on the telephone to the depth charge crew aft, ordering them to put on shallow depth settings and stand by. You’d want the charges to explode close to the surface, because Harbinger was charging her target now, flinging herself like a lance across angry, resistant sea: the U-boat would dive, or would be diving, when she reached it, but it wouldn’t have got far under.
‘B gun with starshell, load, load, load!’
Matt Warrimer, gunnery officer: he was an RNVR lieutenant, formerly in insurance. Using B gun because A, the one down on the foc’sl, wasn’t workable in this weather: men would have been swept away, drowned… Even on B gun’s raised deck the gun’s crew would be soaked and in constant danger of being flung overboard. Besides which, gunnery wasn’t likely to be effective in such weather, particularly as Harbinger had no director-sight or fire-control system other than that telephone to the sightsetters. Nick heard Warrimer warning the crew of the point-five machine-guns to stand by. Nick with his binoculars up, his body jammed for stability into the port forward corner of the bridge, between the corner and his longlegged wooden seat: attempting the impossible, namely to search the black wilderness ahead and simultaneously keep the front lenses of the glasses dry… ‘Range and bearing now?’
‘Three thousand two hundred, one-two-six, sir!’
‘Come to one-two-oh degrees, pilot.’
The change in the U-boat’s bearing indicated that it was moving quite fast towards the convoy, across Harbinger’s bow from right to left, a mile and a half distant through that wet darkness… Muffled booming of far-off explosions would be depth charges from Watchful: and they might put Harbinger’s U-boat down too, if its captain frightened easily. Once he was down, he’d be safe, because asdics wouldn’t be worth a damn in these conditions. In any case the primary object would have been achieved, in that the immediate threat from this quarter would have been blocked: a killing would be jam on the bread-and-butter but you wouldn’t hang about out here, having forced the bastards down you’d nip back to guard the convoy and counter other threats as they developed. And if Bruce didn’t pipe up with an RDF contact soon, Nick decided, he’d send her back into station too: following the convoy’s emergency alteration to port, the two HF/DF contacts on those after bearings would have been left pretty well astern.
‘Course one-two-oh, sir.’
Steve Chubb had his arms wrapped round the binnacle, clinging to it as the ship flung over…
‘Bearing one-two-four, range two thousand one hundred, sir.’
One mile now was all that separated them from the U-boat. And it was still on the surface, cool enough or determined enough not to have been deterred by the charges Watchful had dropped. The surface in this weather would be a decidedly uncomfortable place for a U-boat, Nick guessed; and if he had the slightest chance, he’d make it a lot more uncomfortable for this one. He decided he’d let Bruce carry on a bit longer, make certain the other pair had dived… ‘Range and bearing?’
‘One thousand six hundred yards, bearing one-two-two, sir.’
CPO Bearcroft was acknowledging a message from Watchful: she was returning to her station on the convoy.
‘Try a starshell, sir?’
Warrimer, beside Nick in the pandemonium of wind, sea, and bucking, gyrating ship. Tall, stooping, oilskins gleaming wet, long arms and legs spread spiderlike for support… Nick told him no, not yet. One good thing about this rough sea was that the U-boat might not see the destroyer approaching until she was really very close: the Germans did not have RDF in their submarines… He yelled at the departing Warrimer, ‘Load X gun with SAP!’ He’d been drying the front lenses of his glasses: he put them up again now, calling for another range and bearing.
‘One thousand yards, bears one-two-one, sir.’
‘Steer one-one-eight…’
Warrimer was on the telephone to X gun, the one on the raised deck aft. There was no Y gun: that quarterdeck mounting had been removed to make way for a bigger outfit of depth charges. X gun wouldn’t bear, of course, couldn’t be brought into action until Harbinger had run over her target and turned. Graves was telling the team aft, over the depth charge telephone, ‘Half a mile to go. On your toes, all of you!’ They’d need to be: seas were breaking right over the iron deck, the ship’s low midships section, and thundering aft in floods that would have swept any unwary sailor away to watery oblivion. The old seamen’s phrase ‘one hand for the ship and one for yourself’ had to be the rule, in a sea like this, and often enough you needed both hands for yourself.
‘Right ahead, seven hundred yards, sir!’
But still invisible…
‘Starshell, fire!’
‘Fire!’
The harsh cracking explosion of it, just down below the bridge’s forefront, whipped back on the wind with a familiar whiff of cordite. Warrimer squawking like an old crow into the telephone, ‘With SAP, load, load, load!’ SAP stood for semi-armour-piercing. He added, talking to the sightsetter who’d be wearing headphones and yelling it all to the gunlayer and trainer in there against the shield, ‘Target will be right ahead, about six hundred yards!’ Nick took the glasses away from his eyes, waited for the shell to burst: as it did, now, a spark like the splutter of a match and then the brilliant, magnesium-white flare hanging under black wind-driven cloud.
And there – as she hung on a crest, bow beginning to fall away under their feet…
‘B gun target!’
‘Open fire!’
A gleam of black, the shape of a conning-tower and the shiny silver of a U-boat’s long fore-casing jutting as it pitched across white piling sea: the gun had fired, and then there was nothing to see but water, wave-slopes, as Harbinger drove down into the trough. Shaking herself free, bow coming up, listing to starboard as she climbed, Nick yelling to Chubb to come five degrees to port: the gun had fired again in that instant but the flare was sinking seaward and he’d lost sight of the U-boat… then he had it again, the conning-tower’s upper edge tipping forward as the German dived, two hundred yards ahead and fine to starboard. B gun let rip again, but there was no hope at all of spotting the fall of shot to correct the aim, and in any case with so much motion on her it was hit or miss and a hundred to one against a hit… There’d been a call on the TBS: Bearcroft was answering it, getting a rapid, crackly gabble inaudible from this side in so much racket. Warrimer was ordering B gun to cease fire, since his target had now vanished – with about a hundred yards still between them. That TBS call might be Bruce turning back to rejoin the convoy, Nick guessed.
‘Come three degrees to port.’
For more aim-off, to allow for the time that would elapse between dropping the charges and their pistols filling to explode them. In that interval the U-boat would still be travelling left, he guessed, because attempting to alter course in the act of diving would slow him, virtually halt him in one patch of water, and his dive would as likely as not be hampered anyway by the amount of turbulence near the surface. It was a reasonable bet he’d maintain his present course, and just concentrate on getting under.
‘Stand by.’
Graves – talking to his depth charge team again, a group presided over by Barty Timberlake, the torpedo gunner. Harbinger in imminent danger of breaking her back as she crashed her bow down into another yawning trough… A destroyer’s long, slim hull wasn’t designed for this kind of work: the corvettes were slow and cramped and they rolled like hell but they were a good shape for the Atlantic, they’d buck around and stand on their ears but they’d always finish the right way up – which, in the case of a herring-gutted destroyer, in this kind of weather, didn’t always look so certain.
Coming up to the spot where the U-boat had disappeared. Now.
Graves pressed the depth charge buzzer, and at the same time ordered over the intercom, ‘Fire one!’ Sending the first charges rolling out of the stern chutes: 750lb cannisters of high-explosive… Graves shouting, ‘Fire two… Fire three!’ The cannisters would be splashing out from the quarterdeck chutes while others were flung from the throwers, lobbing high on each side of the ship and projected forward by the impetus of her forward motion, Timberlake seeing to it that the throwers fired at a moment when she was on an even keel. Between the savage rolls, there were such moments, en passant. Then another pair of charges would roll out of the chutes to sink midway between the two from the throwers, making the centre of the diamond-shaped pattern: and finally there’d be a last one to complete it. Harbinger thrashing on…
Astern, the sea lifted in muffled thunder. Set shallow, the surface upheaval from these charges was bigger than it would be from deep ones. Deep-set charges produced only mounds of sea, but these were like great trees of foam towering white in the dark astern, spray pluming and scattering like heavy rain. Somewhere down there, under a lot of water, the crashes of the explosions would be deafening, terrifying: but you needed to place a depth charge within twenty feet of the U-boat’s hull to be sure of killing.
‘Port twenty!’
Nick had his glasses up, looking aft. So had quite a few others: a lookout on each side, and Graves, Chubb, Warrimer – all of them braced hard against solid fittings or the bridge’s side, to stay upright and yet have hands free… Nick told Carlish, ‘Watch the PPI. Sub.’ The letters stood for Plan Position Indicator and referred to the new type of RDF screen, which resembled a large poached egg – orange centre, white surround… If the U-boat surfaced – either by being blown to the surface, or so damaged that it might have no other choice – you might get it on the RDF screen before you saw it, in this weather and the darkness. Harbinger, under helm and flinging herself around, a motion more erratic than any roller-coaster in a fairground, was swinging her stern across the direction of wind and sea, and the men working back aft would need to watch out for her being ‘pooped’ – for a big one overtaking, swamping over from astern…
‘Captain, sir!’
‘Hang on, Chief… Sub, what were we steering?’
‘One-one-five, sir.’
‘Steer three-oh-oh degrees.’ He turned his streaming face back to the dark shape that was his chief yeoman of signals. ‘Yes, Chief?’
‘Goshawk reported RDF contact on oh-oh-five, sir, and she was going after it.’
He remembered he’d heard some report coming in, a few minutes ago when he’d been preoccupied. Goshawk was the destroyer on the convoy’s port bow. So there were more of the bastards out on that side too. It wasn’t anything to be surprised about; HF/DF transmissions during the past forty-eight hours, plus signals from the Admiralty tracking room, had indicated that as many as ten or twelve U-boats had been converging on this convoy, called in by shadowers. When you heard a shadower giving tongue you tried to get at him quickly, silence him and put him down so he’d lose touch; but it wasn’t always possible, and in daylight there were aircraft snoopers too… The asdic set was pinging away but you couldn’t hope for results from it with the sea as lively as it was tonight, and with Goshawk off on a hunt now, the convoy was being guarded only by the six corvettes – plus Watchful thrashing back towards her station – and it was time to order Bruce back to where she belonged. He told Bearcroft in a yell across the gale, ‘Bruce rejoin convoy if he has no confirmed contact.’
‘Aye aye, sir…’
Asdic pings throbbing out into deep-churned sea were getting nothing back. It was needle-in-haystack stuff tonight. And nothing had shown up from that pattern of charges.
‘Course to resume station, Sub?’
Carlish would get it from Mike Scarr, the navigator, who was down in the plot with the RDF display at hand to help him, as well as an automatic plotting table. Nick lowered his glasses, to clean them for the umpteenth time. That U-boat might have been damaged, would surely have been shaken, but it had not been destroyed: and it was always a matter of fine judgement – in fact often dilemma, a toss-up – how long to stay out in the deep field and hunt, how soon to break off a search and get back. You wanted to kill U-boats, you longed to kill them and from time to time you managed it, but the golden objective remained – as laid down so emphatically in WACIs, Western Approaches Convoy Instructions, the escort vessels’ bible – Safe and timely arrival of the convoy.
Of convoy after convoy. Month after month, year in and year out. More of it in foul weather than in the other kind. A brutal, interminable struggle, straining men and ships through the limits of endurance. The Atlantic was the artery of continuance, survival and eventual victory, the constant fighting-through of convoys its pumping heart.
There’d been depth charge explosions out to port, heard on asdics but inaudible over the surrounding racket and at such range; but Goshawk had drawn a blank too, and had reported that she was resuming station. Harbinger was back again, near the convoy’s starboard rear corner, Bruce a few miles abeam to port. The stern position was the best at night, Nick thought, for an escort commander. You had the whole field out there in front of you, you had only to crack on some extra power to get to wherever trouble might be starting.
The commodore had swung his ships back to the original course, shortly after Goshawk had gone to investigate that contact. Nick was on his bridge seat, hunched with binoculars at his eyes. All escorts were back in station, waiting for the next interruption to the convoy’s steady progress: it could start with a bell ringing, or a buzzer, or a call over the radio telephone, or the heart-stopping thud of a torpedo crashing home… Gritten had reported two U-boats talking to each other five or six miles astern: it was quite possible they’d been the ones out to starboard who’d been forced to dive and had now surfaced again to call their friends, reporting the convoy’s last observed position, course and speed, letting colleagues up ahead know it was up to them now… The pair astern would have their work cut out to get back into attacking positions, at any rate during this night, because although they were technically capable of seventeen knots – as opposed to the convoy’s seven and the corvettes’ maximum of fifteen – they wouldn’t manage anything like full speed in present sea conditions.
Touch wood, they’d be out of the action for a while, at least. This was truly lousy weather for submarine operations, and it would be tempting for any U-boat to dive to sixty or a hundred feet where they’d be quiet, level, warm and dry. And safe… But Admiral Dönitz’s centralised control of them would make that impossible: and there’d be others deployed ahead still, and perhaps out on the beams as well, keeping pace, guided by ‘homing’ signals, virtually on strings from that U-boat HQ…
It had been a fairly easy task, protecting Atlantic convoys during the spring and summer of 1942, mostly because since America’s entry into the war at the end of 1941 the U-boats had been concentrating on the US east coast, enjoying their second ‘happy time’. The first had been in 1939 and early ‘40 when the Royal Navy had been desperately short of escorts: but ignoring British experience and advice, the Americans experimented with everything except convoys. In March the rate of sinkings had risen to average nine ships a day, and most of them had gone down within sight of the US coast. More than half a million tons a month… The hard lesson had been learnt, eventually, and by the end of May the ‘happy time’ had been over; by July the U-boats had shifted their main effort to the mid-Atlantic air gap, the area out of reach of air patrols from either side. There were a lot of U-boats at sea, too, by this time, they’d been coming off the slips faster than the Royal and Canadian navies had so far been able to destroy them; the packs were concentrating in mid-Atlantic, and off Freetown in Sierra Leone, and all down the African west coast, the Middle East convoy route round the Cape. Middle and Far East route. Which, for personal reasons, was something Nick Everard would have preferred not to think about.
Because Kate, whom he’d married in Australia at the end of March, had decided about a month ago to come to England. She was pregnant, and she’d told him in her letter, I want to be near you when I have it. I hadn’t thought about this when I promised I’d stay out here…
He’d wanted her to stay with her family, where she’d be safe and where in any case she’d have plenty to do, since she was an Army nurse and the battle for the South Pacific would be keeping all the Australian military hospitals busy. But Kate’s father, old Ted Farquharson, had written soon after she had, saying:
There’s no checking her, I’m afraid. Remember I told you you were marrying a headstrong female? And you certainly didn’t improve matters in this area when you changed her from Kate Farquharson to Lady Everard. I warned you about that in the vestry, didn’t I? But someone over there, High Commissioner or similar, has promised her employment in her own line of work, and she’s bending other ears in one place and another, and the end result is I gather she may be on her bicycle pretty soon now. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk her out of it – I’ve tried, believe me…
In a lot of ways it would be marvellous – fantastic, really a daydream just to contemplate it – to have her within reach, to go home to for occasional short leaves. But the idea now of Kate afloat anywhere on this ocean was enough to scare him awake at night… Marriage to Kate was the foot of the rainbow: she was so right, so perfect for him, so complete and miraculous an answer to a personal life which had not, up to that point, been at all satisfying or successful. Captain Sir Nicholas Everard Bart., DSO** DSC* RN might to some people look like a man who had everything, but since he’d had Kate for a wife he’d come to realise how little he’d ever had before.
Remembering that line of Kipling’s: I’d rather fight with the bachelor, and be nursed by the married man…
Radio telephone noisy suddenly: it was Goshawk calling. It woke him – or at least switched his mind back into the present… But he did feel he’d been dozing, or half-dozing… Which, on the gale-battered bridge of a ship that was throwing herself about as violently as this one was, might have been deemed impossible but was in fact a necessary accomplishment, since catnaps, being as much as you could hope to get over considerable stretches of time on this job, were necessary as compensation for a lack of real sleep.
Contact on bearing oh-seven-one. Investigating. Out.
Nick looked round towards where he knew Graves would be. ‘Here we go again.’
‘I thought they couldn’t‘ve all gone home yet.’
One thirty-five. A lot of dark hours yet to come.
‘Kye, sir?’
‘Thank you, Wragge.’ He accepted the mug of cocoa. Wragge was a bridge messenger, trained in the art of kye-making by bosun’s mates who believed in only the highest standards of excellence. Nick was enjoying his first scalding sip when the sound of a torpedo-hit came as a hard thump in his left ear: then a shout from the asdic cabinet like an echo of it, ‘Someone got fished, sir!’
Sound and percussion had been all. No flames, and no alarm rockets. By convoy law a torpedoed ship was supposed to send up two white rockets, but it was probably the last thing you’d think of… A call on TBS now: Aquilegia, second corvette on the convoy’s port side, reporting number thirteen torpedoed and falling back. The number thirteen meant it was the third ship in the first – left-hand – column; and the attack could have come from bow, beam or quarter… Aquilegia came up again, confirming that the torpedoed number thirteen was the Verumi, a Polish freighter, and that she was stopped and sinking by the stern. Nick told the corvette to stand by her, and Bruce to carry out an A/S sweep to the north of them. He told Chubb, ‘Port fifteen. Come to oh-four-oh.’
Moving over towards the centre of the convoy’s rear, to make up for Bruce being absent for a while. He ordered a few knots extra speed to cater for the diversion. Bruce wasn’t likely to locate the U-boat responsible for that attack, but her activity out there would help to screen Aquilegia when she stopped to pick up the Pole’s survivors. The radio telephone started up again: it was Goshawk announcing, ‘Close surface contact, attacking…’
Might be the one that hit the Verumi? But just as easily it might not be. And he still did want to have Bruce out there covering the rescue operation.
‘Course oh-four-oh, sir!’
Wind and sea on the quarter now: Harbinger giving a demonstration of her corkscrew motion, the combined pitch and roll that was guaranteed to induce nausea in anyone who hadn’t been thoroughly Atlantic-hardened. It wouldn’t have been an easy job reloading the depth charge throwers, back aft. The 750lb cannisters had to be hoisted on tackles slung from the derricks, and a swinging weight of that size, controlled in pitch darkness by men working up to their knees or even waists in water, was a dangerous beast indeed. Nick could imagine the kind of language that would have been flowing out of Mr Timberlake and his torpedo men… The radio squawked again: Gilliflower, the corvette in the centre-van position, was reporting a surface contact on bearing 105. As that message cut off, Watchful came up with another: contact on 089, attacking…
‘Tell Gilliflower to remain in station.’
It would be the same target, the bearings different only because the ships were widely separated. And it meant there were two U-boats ahead of the convoy now, because Goshawk was already chasing out after one on the other bow.
‘Sub – where’s Viola?’
Carlish bent to the viewing slot… ‘Oh-nine-eight, three thousand two hundred yards, sir.’
‘And Aquilegia?’
‘Two-six-oh, five thousand three hundred—’
‘Come to mean course oh-nine-oh, zigzag thirty degrees each side.’
Aquilegia was on TBS now: her report, delivered in a Scottish accent, was that the Polish ship had sunk and she was picking up survivors. Underwater concussions from some distance ahead could only be depth charges: the sound seemed to come from the southeast, and Nick guessed it would be Watchful plastering her target. Goshawk spoke up then: she’d lost the contact and was resuming station. On the heels of that, which had come in a tone of flat disappointment, there was a suddenly loud and excited call from Gilliflower: U-boat surfaced astern of Watchful, attacking!
So those had been Watchful’s charges, and they’d brought results…
Aquilegia reported that she had forty-seven survivors inboard and was returning to her station.
Nick thought of recalling Bruce, now the rescue had been completed. But Goshawk had lost contact with a U-boat out on the port bow, and if that one should come up again for a snap shot from the beam it might be handy to have a destroyer out there and off the leash. For the moment, therefore, he’d leave Bruce to sniff around.
More depth charges: a long rumble of them from roughly the same direction. It could be the attack Gilliflower had promised, if that one had got down under again. But the TBS call coming in now was from Daphne, front-runner of the two starboard-side corvettes: she had a surface contact bearing one-three-seven, range five miles. Then Gilliflower was calling and Nick recognised her captain’s voice, the north-country accent of Lieutenant-Commander Dick Horsman RNR, informing him,
U-boat attacked with shallow pattern as he went down, and I reckon we got him. He pushed up again stern-first, went near vertical and slid under with a lot of bubbles. Look for survivors and stuff, may I?
‘Reply negative, maintain station. Then tell Watchful to investigate Daphne’s contact southeastward.’
It would be satisfactory to have confirmation of a kill, but not satisfactory enough to risk exposing the convoy to unnecessary danger by removing Gilliflower from her close-screen position in the van. It could have led to confusion anyway, since the convoy’s front rank was very close on the corvette’s heels. If that had been a kill, which it probably had, it would be a bird shared between Watchful, who’d put in the first attack, and Gilliflower who’d completed the job: and since it was unlikely there’d be two attackers approaching from the same quarter within minutes of each other it should be safe enough, he thought, to send Watchful out to starboard now. It was what the destroyers were for, anyway, in Nick’s intentions and in the way he disposed his ships: every escort commander had his own ideas, and these were his and they seemed to answer the problems as well as any other schemes he’d heard of. The two really basic requisites were to have enough ships and to have them trained, used to working as a team, and remaining together as one permanent and increasingly efficient unit… A ‘snowflake’ – the illuminatory rocket that ships in convoy were equipped with – had burst high over the starboard columns: he saw black hulls, swaying masts, then Harbinger was pretending to be a submarine again, diving with stunning impact into another trough, leaving only the encircling wave tops visible, and way up, the edge of that weird brilliance seeping over. Someone may have suspected the presence of a U-boat between the columns, or become suddenly scared of collision: with big ships densely packed as they were in this convoy, and on a night as dark as this, masters and officers of the watch needed cool nerves as well as brains and judgement. Harbinger was standing on her nose as she swung under helm, Chubb at the binnacle and CPO Elphick, the coxswain, down in the wheelhouse, maintaining an irregular zigzag to and fro across the convoy’s stern. A huge, white-topped mound of sea rose swelling across her stubby bow, rolling back clear over the top of A gun-mounting and swirling around the feet of B gun’s crew before cascading over her sides… Shaking herself free now, steadying on a new course, a mountainous slope of sea looming ahead and the bow coming up slowly, too damn slowly: you found yourself leaning forward, urging her with your own puny movements, as if encouraging a horse with a steep jump ahead… A bell rang from the W/T office: the messenger, Wragge, clawed his way to that voice-pipe and bawled, ‘Bridge!’ He was listening with his ear down to it: then straightening, yelling ‘Signal from the commodore, sir – ships in starboard column report passing through wreckage and floating bodies!’
‘Very good.’
In fact it was very, very good. It could, of course, have been co-incidental, wreckage from another sinking, but on the whole it seemed reasonable to accept it at face value. He told Bearcroft to call Gilliflower and Watchful and confirm the kill. Then Bruce, in order to send her back to her station. Chubb didn’t need telling to take Harbinger over to starboard, to let Bruce in. Time now – two-forty. So there were still some hours to go, to be passed through, to try to keep ships afloat and men alive through… He heard Chubb telling Elphick down the voice-pipe in that strongly-accented Aussie voice of his, ‘Watchful and Gilliflower just got one of the bastards, cox’n!’ It was warming news on a cold, black and dangerous night: the old slogan about the only good ones being dead ones was indisputably correct, here in mid-Atlantic in 1942.
And young Chubb, irrepressibly optimistic, was the sort of man to latch on to good news when he saw any around.
Thick darkness again, up ahead. Harbinger ploughing over to starboard, her port-side gun’ls under water as she rolled… He wondered where Kate might be at this moment. He’d heard nothing since that letter, and then her father’s…
He’d said goodbye to her the last time in Sydney, New South Wales, in May, when he’d been leaving for Panama in command of Defiant, the light cruiser he’d brought out of the Java Sea under the snouts of the all-conquering Japanese earlier in the year. He would have taken Defiant to the Battle of the Coral Sea, in company with two Australian cruisers attached to the American Rear-Admiral Fletcher’s striking force, if the old ship hadn’t chosen that moment to develop yet another spasm of engine breakdowns. Defiant was not only old, she’d been worked half to death through three solid years in which there’d never been enough cruisers for the work that needed doing. They’d docked her in Sydney for temporary repairs, and he’d missed taking part in that Coral Sea battle which on paper had been a draw but effectively had put an end to Japanese expansion. He’d taken her over to the States for a complete refit, left her and travelled to St Johns, Newfoundland, to take command of an east-bound convoy escort: which was how he’d landed back in small ships, no longer a cruiser captain, and with nothing to show for that Java Sea fracas except a scar from cheekbone to mouth on the left side of his face.
Which he could have done without. Not that he’d ever been exactly a thing of beauty.
He was sorry, in many ways, to have left Defiant. To command a cruiser wasn’t far from being the ideal job, from several points of view, and it was a sought-after appointment. On the other hand, he was a destroyer man at heart; and this Atlantic convoy work was as crucial as anything could be. If the U-boats won, Britain would starve: and equally, if the Royal Navy did not defeat the U-boats, then the huge build-up of forces and material that was essential for an invasion of the European mainland couldn’t possibly be achieved.
He’d dozed again: woke leaning dangerously hard a-port as his ship flung over. But it was the bell from the HF/DF office that had woken him. Checking the time – getting towards three-thirty… He answered the huffduff voice-pipe himself, and through the cigarette stink in the tube Gritten told him, ‘Two U-boats transmitting, sir, bearings one-oh-oh and one-one-oh, eight to nine miles.’
Gritten sounded as if he’d been asleep too; he’d have been alerted by the junior telegraphist on watch with him. In that fug-hole, anyone would drop off – anyone who was in it nearly twenty-four hours a day… The convoy’s course was now 106 degrees: so those Germans were right on its line of advance, even though they might not know it yet. Gritten added, ‘These are two new ones, sir.’
He knew them all. He had pet names for some of them.
Weather might have eased slightly, Nick thought. It was still rough, still unmistakably North Atlantic, but the gusts were less savage and there was less white streaming from the high, tumbling crests. He guessed the trough of low pressure was passing over and might soon leave them: in which case a shift to calmer weather could come suddenly, even as soon as dawn. And if those two U-boats, roughly one hour ahead of the seven-knot convoy, didn’t know how well placed they were, there certainly wouldn’t be any sense in alerting them to their good fortune by using radio. Not even TBS, at only eight miles.
He slid off his seat, and moved to the binnacle. Mike Scarr, the young RN lieutenant who was Harbinger’s and group navigator, was there in place of Chubb now.
‘I’ll take her, pilot. Keep an eye on the PPI, will you?’ The RDF screen, that meant. Checking the softly-lit gyro repeater… ‘Starboard ten. What are the revs, pilot?’
He conned her out to starboard and up that side of the convoy, Harbinger lengthening her stride and overtaking effortlessly, despite an increase in the amount of sea that came inboard. A blue-shaded Aldis lamp stuttered morse, first at Bruce that she was being left to look after the rear of the convoy, alone except for Viola closer in, then at Iris and Daphne so they’d know who this was, as he moved up past them to the convoy’s front. Wind and sea were easing: you had to put your mind back to how it had been a couple of hours ago, to realise it… He called over to Wolstenholm, the killick signalman, ‘Make to Watchful, “I am coming up to starboard of you.”’ Then from that southeast corner, cutting speed again so as to hold her in station, he called the commodore – the leading ship of column four – and flashed ‘Two U-boats eight miles ahead. Suggest emergency turn starboard to pass clear.’
Three fifty-five… The commodore acknowledged: then his siren blared, and the turn of forty degrees put Harbinger in the lead, with Watchful and Daphne on her quarters, the whole spread of ships, convoy and escort, now in a rough arrow-head formation. Nick thought those U-boats probably did have a fairly good idea of the convoy’s present position: they’d surely have had reports from their friends who’d been in contact earlier in the night. But two hours, say, on this diversionary course ought to by-pass them: they couldn’t know they’d given away their own positions.
‘Want me to take over again, sir!’
Scarr, at his elbow… Nick asked him, ‘Had any sleep yet?’
He had. Down in the plot, before he’d come up to relieve Chubb. Graves was snoozing down there now.
‘All right. Mean course one-four-six.’ The D/F bell rang: with a sense of foreboding he moved to the voice-pipe. ‘What is it, Gritten?’
‘More transmissions on one-one-oh, sir. And there was another, new bloke again, on one-five-oh – right ahead now, sir.’
‘Very good.’
But thinking, Damn…
There could be a whole patrol line, not just an odd pair but a pack, right across the convoy’s front. It had been a toss-up, which way to turn, and it seemed he’d chosen badly. He glanced over at the hunched, dark figure of the signalman: ‘Wolstenholm – blue light to the commodore…’
Four forty-two. Graves had taken over at the binnacle from Scarr. Dawn was a hint in the eastern sky. Convoy course 066, forty degrees to port of the planned route at this stage of the crossing, and Harbinger was on the starboard bow of the solid mass of laden ships forging northeastward into improving weather. For four days they’d endured nothing less than gale force, and an easing of the sea-state would be welcome now – even if it did make things easier for the U-boats too… Nick was sipping another mug of kye when the deep crump of an explosion jarred ears and nerves, bruised minds…
Twin white rockets soared. Then snowflakes, from more than one ship. He had his glasses up, looking back over the quarter and waiting for a TBS report probably from Iris or Viola: his glasses were focused on exactly the right spot when the second torpedo hit – this time with a leap of flame, then a whole blossoming, lighting sea and sky back there. He knew instantly, sickeningly, that it would be the tanker, Rio Pride. Yellow flames spreading, other ships black in silhouette against them: it was the sight, the horror, that you most dreaded – an oiler in flames, the knowledge of men in her and in the burning sea. Your hate flared with it like a long-smouldering glow suddenly fanned: loathing of the foul, murderous, lurking enemy… The tanker had been in column eight, with only one other column outside her to starboard, but on this adjusted course, steering forty degrees to port, the shape of the formation had changed so that there’d been no ship actually on her beam. She’d been fourth from the front: number eighty-four…
‘Starboard fifteen.’ He thumbed the alarm button, sending all hands back to their action stations and waking those who’d been sleeping around the guns. They’d been in the second degree of readiness, a partial relaxation. Graves reported, ‘Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir!’
‘I’ll take her.’
Leaving Graves to look after the asdics and the depth charges. Harbinger flinging herself round – heeling hard a-port, and pitching to the head sea – but her motion wasn’t nearly as stiff and violent as it had been earlier in the night. Iris came up on TBS, at last, reporting that the first ship that had been hit, the Dogger Prince, was stopped and sinking. She was one of the tiddlers of this collection, only about two thousand tons: she’d been in column nine and on the Rio Pride’s bow, so it was obvious the two hits had come from one salvo of torpedoes – from somewhere on the beam, since they must have passed astern of Daphne. The Rio Pride gushing flame and falling back: the corvette in silhouette against that inferno would be Iris.
‘Steer one-four-oh.’ Asdics pinging… He could see the Dogger Prince: ironically, she’d been designated a rescue ship, detailed as a picker-up of survivors if called upon to perform that task – and she’d started out at the rear of that column, had been moved up in some re-shuffle a couple of days ago. Lying at a steep bow-down angle now, on the edge of the circle of flickering orange light surrounding the burning tanker. Flames spreading across the water too, as burning oil spilled out of ruptured tanks. He’d seen it before, seen swimmers not only chased by it and caught but also ambushed by pockets of oil that rose to the surface from below and immediately burst into flame ahead of the swimmers or among them: onlookers seeing it from a distance, incapable of helping… Iris would be nosing in as close as she dared, to get to any survivors that could be reached. The group of casualties and rescuers was well astern of the rest of the stolidly advancing convoy, and there was a second corvette there – he saw it suddenly – which must be Daphne. He told Bearcroft, ‘Call Daphne – tell her resume station forthwith.’ ‘Forthwith’ meant ‘jump to it’, and implied criticism.
‘Iris collect swimmers from the Rio Pride then embark survivors from the Dogger Prince. Bruce to cover Iris.’
Because Iris was in danger: it wasn’t beyond the capacity of U-boats to torpedo ships engaged in rescue work. He dipped to the wheelhouse voice-pipe: ‘Port ten. Three hundred revolutions.’
340 would be the maximum. But it was still too big a sea for that flat-out speed, unless there was some positive reason for taking the risk of knocking the ship to pieces. Like the sight of a surfaced U-boat and a chance of getting at it. He was going to make a cast out on the convoy’s quarter now, in the faint, long-odds hope of catching that bastard still on the surface, perhaps keeping pace with the convoy so as to get in another attack by and by. You never knew your luck: instinct plus a few disjointed pieces of evidence told him that this most likely was the northern end of the U-boat line, so that any attackers would be on this side of the convoy… ‘Steer one-eight-oh.’
One mile on this course. The picture – theoretical, and his scheme for dealing with it – was in his mind like an imagined PPI screen. Casting south now: then he’d come round to port and return towards the convoy on a wide curve so that if there should be a U-boat shadowing or encroaching on this flank he’d be approaching it from the direction its captain would least expect.
If…
But the German or Germans in its bridge would have that burning tanker in sight in the northwest, as well as the convoy ahead.
Two and a half minutes on 180. Then edging round to port: to 090 first, due east, which would still be a divergence, widening the gap between Harbinger and the convoy.
‘Course oh-nine-oh, sir…’
The tanker was a distant glow now, a long way out on the port quarter, a yellow glow and a long shine on the sea – which was lower, more regular, an ocean gradually becoming tame. The asdic set was pinging away steadily, and there’d be some point in it now, with conditions so much easier. ‘Port ten. Steer oh-seven-oh.’
‘Port ten, sir—’
‘Surface contact oh-eight-three range one thousand eight hundred, sir!’
His mind, jolted: in astonishment, then acceptance… ‘Steady on oh-eight-three, Cox’n!’ And it was necessary now to get this right… ‘All quarters alert. B gun load with SAP. Depth charges shallow settings – stand by…’ Eighteen hundred yards was less than one sea mile: he guessed the U-boat must have just surfaced – in which case he’d be closing on it fast. He called into the pipe ‘Steer oh-eight-oh!’ Then binoculars again, straining his eyes into the faint beginnings of dawn light. Harbinger would be coming at the U-boat out of the dark sector and she’d have it well placed against the lighter section of the sky.
‘B gun ready, sir.’ Warrimer was alerting the point-fives now, the quadruple machine-gun mounting in its circular nest between the funnels. A rather unsatisfactory weapon, better than nothing but please God to be replaced before long by a two-pounder pompom. He warned, ‘Searchlight stand by!’
‘Standing by, sir—’
‘U-boat fine on the port bow, sir, stern-on!’
Bearcroft had spotted it…
‘Open fire, sir?’
‘Wait.’
He was close enough to stand a good change of ramming. But ramming, although in these circumstances it was about the simplest and surest way to make sure the bastard didn’t slip away, invariably caused damage to one’s own ship, sometimes very serious damage: and there was still a long haul ahead, a convoy to be nursed home…
Range would be roughly fourteen hundred yards now. Maybe twelve-fifty…
‘B gun open fire! Steer – oh-seven-five…’
Warrimer had passed the order: the gun barked, recoiled, you heard the crash of the brass shellcase hitting the steel deck. Graves on the intercom, readying his team aft. The U-boat seemed hardly to be moving, it almost certainly had just surfaced and hadn’t got its diesels going very quickly: you’d guess the roughness of the sea had deafened its hydrophones to Harbinger’s propeller-noise. It was sheer luck to have happened on it at just this moment: but then, some small proportion of gambles did pay off – else bookmakers would have had no customers… Nick had the burning tanker in the back of his mind and cold hatred as an overlay to the picture, plus a determination not to waste this chance, not to make any mistake that could waste the opportunity. The gun had fired a second time, and the first spout had gone up short, a white plume that lifted, hung with the wind blowing its top away, quickly subsided. Warrimer wasn’t correcting the range-setting because Harbinger’s fast approach was shortening it anyway. And – hit! A flash of orange and a blossom of black smoke instantly disintegrating on the wind, from the back of the U-boat’s conning-tower: it had probably been his first intimation of the destroyer’s presence, and a fairly abrupt way of getting the news, at that… Warrimer had bellowed ‘Down one hundred, shoot!’ while Nick sighted over the repeater’s bearing-ring and adjusted course ten degrees to port. He saw the plumes of spray which were the tell-tale signs of the enemy diving, vents opening in the tops of his ballast tanks: that shot had missed, badly aimed and out of line, raising a white splash to the left of the German as he nuzzled down into the waves.
Another small course adjustment…
‘All yours now, Number One!’
Graves’ spray-wet face nodding: he knew damn well the rest of it was in his lap. Five hundred yards – four hundred… Warrimer had passed the order ‘Check, check, check!’ to B gun. Harbinger plunging and rearing, charging with the silvering dawn in her eyes, Nick aiming her at the froth of sea where the U-boat had slipped down: they’d be passing over from astern, on the same track, and Graves had to judge his moment, pick the spot on which to centre his pattern of explosive. He was about as good an A/S officer as there was anywhere: he’d done reservist’s time at the A/S school at Portland before the war – and a refresher, updating course since – but he had an instinct for it that no-one could have taught him, and two solid years’ Atlantic experience. He was Nick’s second-in-command but also Group A/S Officer, responsible for the performance of nine ships besides this one. Before the war, he’d been a miller: actually an assistant miller…
Instinct? Or experience that had come to feel like instinct? Either way, it was a concentration so intense that it became a kind of transference, put his mind virtually inside that U-boat – over which Harbinger would be passing about – now…
‘Fire one!’ Counting, and with his eyes on the sea… ‘Fire two!’ There went the charges from the throwers, and just enough light now to see the dark shapes lobbing out on either side… ‘Fire three!’
You could visualise the frantic haste to reload, back aft. Mr Timberlake dancing around like a foul-mouthed, crazy ape. Fifteen seconds was the drill-book interval for reloading, but on a wet and heaving deck it took some doing.
‘Deep settings now!’
Staring aft…
With luck, at least no bad luck, having caught the German with his pants down, this first pattern – coming on top of a direct hit with a four-inch shell – might do the trick. If it didn’t, you could bet he’d be down deep by the time you threw the second lot at him.
The sea astern erupted. Geysers of sea lifting…
‘Port twenty!’
Warrimer had all his weapons ready, and he was itching to use them: weapons and searchlight, all the crews just as eager. This was the moment you waited for, the seconds that justified the months of foul weather, cold, acute discomfort… Harbinger leaning to the turn as her rudder gripped and hauled her round.
‘U-boat surfacing, sir!’
Wragge yelled it: Wolstenholm, the leading signalman, whooping an echo to the shout. Warrimer snapped, ‘Searchlight on! Open fire!’
X gun crashed: the point-fives opened up: the twenty-inch searchlight from its platform aft had the target brilliantly illuminated. It had come up at a steep bow-up angle. All guns scoring hits… ‘One-eight-oh revolutions. Midships the wheel.’ Keeping her at a distance from which all guns could reach, could depress enough to score. Smoke poured black across the searchlight’s beam: a man had appeared in the conning-tower and gone over the edge in a sprawling dive, shells bursting and tracer lashing all around. Then another – several – a group piling over as if trying to get to their gun – and another hit… Nick had taken his eyes off them for a moment while he steadied Harbinger on an adjusted course, and when he looked again that group of Germans had scattered or taken to the sea: a newcomer in the U-boat’s bridge was waving a white cloth.
‘Stop firing!’
It was a few more seconds and a few more shots before the order took effect. He told Warrimer, ‘Keep all guns trained and loaded, and keep the searchlight on them.’ Into the voice-pipe: ‘One hundred revolutions.’ And port helm again, to circle the enemy, which was still hanging in that up-angled position, he guessed with stern compartments flooded. Seas were rolling right over its afterpart and seething high around the conning-tower: there’d be a certain amount of flooding through the hatch, even, and you could be sure it wouldn’t last long, at that rate. Men were flocking up, diving over – expecting a greater element of mercy, Nick thought, than the Rio Pride’s men had met with. He’d reduced speed but he was keeping her moving, circling, for the time being, because there could, conceivably, be another of them hanging around. Asdics pinging, searching, probing into deep, cold water… He’d glanced over his shoulder towards Graves, about to say something about asdics and improving conditions, and Graves asked him, ‘Scrambling net, sir?’
He nodded. He certainly wasn’t going to put a boat into this sea, risk his own men’s lives for those creatures.
‘Port side, please.’ He told Chubb, who was wearing a fixed and savage Australian grin, ‘Go down and see to it, Sub. Keep ’em all on the iron deck. And I don’t want anyone risking his neck for ’em. Nobody’s to go down on the net – right?’ Chubb nodded, understanding and agreeing too. Nick said, ‘Make it quick. I’ll allow two minutes.’
He kept her circling. Cutting speed again, but still moving round them, letting them sweat a little… Not that ‘sweat’ would be the word for it, in that stuff… But also waiting for them to collect, bunch together, so that the picking-up could be effected swiftly and all in one place. The U-boat was slipping down by the stern now: after the tower went under, it took only seconds.
‘Searchlight on the swimmers.’
‘The net’s rigged, sir.’
He slowed her to a crawl, edged in closer, then finally stopped the engines, and had the twenty-inch aimed downwards at the ship’s side where the netting waited for Germans to grab it and climb up it. There was still quite a sea running: stopped, and broadside to the weather so as to give the floundering men a lee, Harbinger rolled drunkenly from one beam to the other… Down on the iron deck, sailors were tossing lines to swimmers, hauling them in to the destroyer’s side.
The U-boat’s captain was a stockily-built man of about thirty, dark-haired and blunt-featured. He was a lieutenant, and his name was Neumann. Nick had sent for him, and then kept him waiting – at the after end of the bridge, bare-footed and shrouded in a blanket, guarded by the heavyweight Gunner’s Mate, PO Hacket. Nick settled Harbinger on course to rejoin the convoy at twenty-five knots, and then came aft to question his prisoner.
‘Was it a salvo from you that hit the tanker?’
Neumann scowled. ‘You have taken me by surprise. From astern, I was not expecting—’
‘Where did you learn such good English?’
A slight, involuntary smile… A nod. ‘In England. Before the war.’
‘Was it you who hit the tanker?’
A jerk of the head. ‘Good fire, huh?’
‘Your torpedoes?’
‘Nein. My friend Max Looff, I think. He likes to see the – what you call it – fireworks?’
‘Looff… That’s U 187, or—’
‘U 122.’ Later, after the shock had passed, Neumann would realise he’d blabbed too much. Now, he wagged his close-cropped head. ‘Max is an ace, you will not catch him. I was his second in command, I learn from him, but—’
‘Likes to see them burn, you say.’
The German shrugged.
‘Did you learn to enjoy it, too?’
Silence: the disdain, Nick guessed, was not of Looff but of the question. He asked him, ‘Are you glad I stopped to pick you up?’
‘Naturally. As is only correct, however.’
‘Do you stop for survivors?’
‘How would it be possible?’
It was a perfectly good question. But the stare and the arrogance were something else. Nick told Hacket, ‘Put him in with the other officers.’ He’d intended to allow him the use of his own day cabin aft, but in the last minute he’d thought better of it. There were only two other officers surviving, an engineer and a lieutenant, and one small cabin with two bunks in it would do for the three of them.
He thought, making a mental note of it for later inclusion in his Report of Proceedings, Max Looff – U 122 – an ‘ace’, likes to see ships burn…