‘Flashing ahead sir!’
Mark Newbolt yelled acknowledgement, having seen it and also read it—a dim blue light calling from his next-ahead, Heddingly, MTB 564, the letter ‘R’ ordering ‘Down 200 revs’. The lamp had repeated it, was doing so again, and Newbolt, goon-suited like all the others and on his seat behind the torpedo-sight in the bridge’s starboard for’ard corner, had his hands on the throttle levers, easing them towards closure, feeling and hearing the difference as the power came off her but then realizing—seeing, by naked eye, having had to drop his glasses on their strap—that 564 was already a damn sight too close ahead, must have been slowing even before the flashing had begun. Shutting the throttles all the way, therefore, then shifting to the telegraphs and pushing both levers—two levers controlling the three engines—back to ‘slow ahead’. So many levers, he recalled someone remarking, it was like playing a bloody organ. Throttles, telegraphs, torpedo-firing levers, all in this small space in front of him—and right above them, the torpedo sight. No light, of course, you did it all by feel, familiarity. In the next split second, though, he saw that 564 was flashing not ‘R’s now but ‘O’s—three long dashes, meaning ‘Stop’. The coxswain had seen it too—bawling, ‘Stop engines, sir!’
He’d done it. Still too close for comfort, though. ‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’
In order not to run up Heddingly’s arse. Sheering out—into black water, the alternately swelling and subsiding immensity that surrounded them. Into a trough now—a gargantuan belly-flop, jarring impact like hitting rock. She still had way on but was losing it very quickly now with the engines cut, her hull embraced by the heaving near-solidity of sea, passing within a matter of seconds from very little drag to so much of it that it was like applying brakes. Wind and sea taking over meanwhile, the engines’ former night-filling roar only a long echo in his skull, more of a mutter than a roar now. The turmoil of white water around 564 was broadening on the beam as his own boat swung on round. Whatever might be the reason for this sudden stop, it would be necessary very shortly to put on enough power to maintain steerage way, hold her at an angle to the swells where they’d be less likely to turn her on her beam ends. Inert you were at the sea’s mercy—and the wind’s entirely, being flat-bottomed.
Kingsmill had moved up beside him, between him and the coxswain. Tony Kingsmill, a twenty-year-old sub-lieutenant—he’d transferred from 545, in which Rod King had been killed last night, to take over the first lieutenant’s job which had been Newbolt’s own until this morning.
‘Someone broken down, or—’
‘Get a position on, Tony.’ By QH—which this boat having been an SO’s was lucky enough to have. Kingsmill shot below, and the midshipman, Sworder, squeezed up into the space thus vacated between Newbolt and the coxswain’s stand. Newbolt calling past him to CPO Gilchrist, ‘Lost steerage way yet, have we?’
‘Losin’ it, sir, aye.’
Gritty tone. Gilchrist, known as ‘the Badger’ because of the white streak in his beard, was the most senior coxswain in the flotilla. He’d been King’s for—well, a long time, in other boats and flotillas before this. Newbolt, conscious of his own status as a brand-new skipper, was aware that he’d be under an eye and critical judgement that might be inappropriately avuncular if he didn’t guard against it. He was glad to have him, both as a sterling character and with his comparatively vast experience, but with a pinch of salt as it were—needing to establish himself in as short a time as possible as this boat’s CO, as distinct from her jumped-up first lieutenant.
CPO Gilchrist, he guessed—moving the port wing telegraph to slow ahead—was a wise enough man to recognize this himself, even to be impatient to see it happen. Left hand to the port-side throttle then. Choosing that one because it was simpler—the centre engine followed the starboard telegraph. But in any case to circle round, come back into station astern of 564.
‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ The Badger knew what was wanted, no need to spell it out to him. Winding-on rudder…
‘Starshell, red seven-oh!’
A yell from a lookout—one of two—this one by name of Pickering. Newbolt swinging round on his seat, jerking his glasses up and getting it at once, a spark of greenish light hanging out there between sea and clouds—difficult to say how far away—that nucleus and its green-tinted aura drifting downward. Could be either starshell or an aircraft flare. If you’d been in auditory range and stopped like this you’d have known which—shell or flare—hearing either the bark of the gun or the drone of an aircraft.
563 labouring, swinging her bow across the direction of the swells and such wind as there was; rolling like a drunk…
‘Steer south fifty west.’
To bring her up astern of Heddingly again, and on the course on which Furneaux had been leading them. Newbolt had his glasses trained over the bow as they completed the turn, looking for 564 but not seeing her yet. 563 standing on her tail and leaning hard to port, driving herself up the black slope ahead: crests and ridges flying—the wind must have come up a bit. As to not seeing the others—he was sweeping across the bow in search of any of them now—it was a fact that with the boats stopped or virtually stopped they could only expect to be in sight of each other when they were reasonably well up.
‘Time, Mid?’
‘Twenty-one ten, sir.’
Another ten minutes, the unit would have been in position to go to silent running.
‘Course south fifty west, sir!’
Toppling down again, spray lashing against the Perspex windshield. Beside him the snotty had his glasses up, for once actually hadn’t been sick yet, was muttering something about ‘missing the bus’. Might have been talking to himself, certainly hadn’t warranted an answer. Mental note—advise him to be less chatty. Although nine-tenths of the time you wouldn’t hear him anyway… Beyond him, on the helmsman’s stand, the coxswain’s contrastingly solid figure—Pete Sworder was distinctly wand-like—the Badger was knees-bending as he wound-on more rudder—having even his work cut out for him, at these revs. The stand was about six inches high, custom-built for him, immediately behind the wheel. On his left, in the port for’ard corner, was the latched-back door and steps down to the plot, while further aft—about halfway to the back of the bridge—were the lookout stands, one each side and that port side currently occupied by Pickering, whose specialist skill was that of Radar Operator. He was an AB too, though, and up here now because radar wasn’t in use and with a crew of only nine men you didn’t leave hands idle.
The other lookout, starboard side, glasses up and slowly swivelling, concentrating on the after sector, was Holland, a young OD—Ordinary Seaman—whose mother was in ENSA, allegedly a singer, and currently touring in the Middle East. The drawback to this, in Holland’s messmates’ view, was that Holland thought he was a singer too.
Might be worth switching on radar, despite the SO’s strictures?
He decided against it. Partly for that reason alone—respect for Stack, was what it amounted to—but also because the 286 was primarily an air-warning set limited in its performance even when it was functioning as it was supposed to do, and it was pretty useless on small targets. In any case, by the time it was warmed up and operating this situation would surely have resolved itself.
‘Red six-oh, starshell!’
A second one in the same place. Same bearing, anyway, same sort of distance. Nearer five miles than ten, he guessed. Could be something happening around the target—the Heilbronne—but on the other hand might be nowhere near it. He left it, swung back, putting his glasses up again to find the others.
‘Bloody hell’ve they got to…’
‘Should see him when he starts calling, surely.’
Comment from Kingsmill, who’d come back up from the plot. The operative word in that unsought observation, Newbolt thought, being should. Already suspecting what might have happened, although unwilling to believe it: but it was a fact that the blue-shaded lamps were about as dim as they could be, intentionally visible only at close range. An element of panic—instantly suppressed—sprang partly from the prospect of at least appearing to be a bloody fool who’d cocked up, first time out… Whoever had been at fault—Heddingly, for instance, would be a candidate—losing touch with your next-ahead was your crime—and perhaps funeral—whatever the circumstances. And the snotty’s remark about missing the bus—out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—Sworder being all of three years younger than his skipper—but it could turn out to be not so wide of the mark. With the unit only minutes short of the position where they’d have reduced speed for the run inshore, and the timing not all that surefire anyway—well, Christ…
‘Are we where we thought we’d be?’
‘Pretty well, sir. Looks like the weather’s been slowing us half a knot.’
Assume the others had gone on?
It wasn’t all that unlikely. Passing the order to his next-astern, Heddingly wouldn’t have been looking for an acknowledgement, he’d have flashed ‘George 30’, say—if the order had been to get going at the same speed as before, thirty knots—and crashed off, never doubting he’d have 563 on his tail.
Call Mike One on R/T? With the prospect of being separated from the unit as ample justification?
But in his own briefing of the MTB skippers Furneaux had repeated the SO’s warning about total radio silence. He’d been emphatic about it. ‘When the time’s right, I’ll break it.’
It would hardly improve matters to fuck up on that as well. Might also smack of the new boy out of his depth and screaming for help.
CPO Gilchrist cleared his throat. ‘Skipper, sir.’
‘Yes, Cox’n?’
‘Reckon we’re on our own, sir?’
Furneaux swung back from checking on the boats astern of him, and trained his glasses out on the bow again. MTB 560 bucking along at twelve knots on silenced engines, course south thirty-five west magnetic, the Basse du Renier bank seven and a half miles ahead. Before he got that close inshore, depending on what if anything showed up on radar—or even by then in visual range—especially if they were loosing off bloody starshell—he’d turn either east to meet it, or west and allow it to overhaul him. Waiting for Bob Stack to blow the whistle, maybe. Or as the case might be, not waiting. He’d discussed these intentions very briefly with Hugh Lyon, his first lieutenant, while they’d been lying almost stopped a short while ago, conferring with him over his—Lyon’s—workings on the chart, and finishing with ‘God willing’, adding after a moment, ‘Not that I’d reckon to be the Almighty’s blue-eyed boy, just at this moment.’
A typical Furneaux crypticism. Lyon had let it pass, although John Flyte, the boat’s spare office had contributed a dutiful chuckle. Lyon suspecting that his CO would have liked to be asked why, what had he been up to? He was a good skipper—a very good one, was no doubt going to be a brilliant SO—but was also a bit of a card, with a brand of humour which Lyon didn’t always appreciate—in fact he was often aware or half-aware of having his leg pulled. The subject of his own engagement, for instance. Betty was a Wren, based at Stanmore in Middlesex, some secret establishment she didn’t talk about—and when he’d mentioned that he hardly ever got to see her, Furneaux’s advice had been to call it off, ask her to agree to reconsider the whole thing when the war was over.
‘Then duck out, smartly. What d’you want to tie yourself down for, for God’s sake? Bash it around a bit, old lad. Put it through its paces, while the going’s good!’
The sailors adored him, of course.
Anyway, after their discussion over the chart he’d decided to cover these last few miles at twelve knots instead of seven or eight as he’d intended earlier.
Half-turning now, glasses part-lowered: ‘Signalman!’
‘Sir?’
He was actually a leading signalman, name of Perrot, a newcomer to this crew. Only SOs were allowed signalmen, and Perrot had moved over from 563, in which he’d been Roddy King’s. In boats other than SOs’ the officers did the signalling. Furneaux told him, ‘Blue lamp, quarterline starboard, execute.’
‘Quarterline starboard, aye aye, sir…’
If the starshells had come from the target or its escort, Lyon thought, there probably wouldn’t be long to wait, inshore. They’d appeared on a southeasterly bearing—either starshell or aircraft flares, but the more likely was starshell—during the time the unit had been stopped for 562 to cope with what would have been a breakdown if her Motor Mechanic hadn’t been on his toes. The signalman had been keeping a lookout astern, had seen the flashing ‘Harry 2’—meaning ‘I have two engines out of action’—Furneaux had circled around to come up within loud-hailer range of 562, and Chisholm had told him that his boat’s thrust-blocks had been overheating. This meant the two wing engines had had to be stopped instantly and the thrust-blocks given first aid—amounting primarily to lubrication. Overheating wasn’t an unusual problem, especially when you’d been running at fairly high revs for some time.
It had taken them about a quarter of an hour, during which time the unit had continued to forge slowly ahead. When Chisholm had signalled ‘Ready to proceed’, Furneaux had ordered twelve knots and led them round on to this new course.
Perrot reported, ‘Message passed, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Lyon watched the other boats taking up the quarterline formation—Chisholm’s angling out, Heddingly’s going out wider astern of him. Looking for Newbolt, then, he couldn’t see him.
Blue lamp flashing from Heddingly…
Numerals five, six, three—Perrot called it out: ‘MTB 563—’ Then, ‘—is not with us.’
‘Not with us?’
Lyon confirmed it. ‘Can’t see him, sir…’
‘South forty west, sir.’
CPO Gilchrist’s Aberdonian growl… 563 making twenty-five knots, Newbolt aiming to make up lost time and distance, steering a course which cut the corner, as it were, on what had been Mike Furneaux’s intended track as stated at his briefing of this unit. Another five minutes at this speed, then he’d reduce to fifteen knots and run in silenced, steering for a point four miles west of Barfleur. He’d be making about twice the speed of the others and steering—touch wood—pretty well up their wakes. Pick ’em up on radar, with luck; he’d decided to take a chance on it, that this situation did justify a blind eye to the SO’s edict. The 286 was switched on and operating now, sweeping thirty degrees each side of the bow.
Kingsmill shouted in Newbolt’s ear, ‘Getting a lot of fucking interference, he says.’
That sounded like Pickering, all right. Not unlike Kingsmill, either, who was said to be a good hand at sea but a bit of a tearaway ashore. A parson’s son, too. But the fact was, MTBs weren’t ideal platforms for radar. Not for the Type 286 anyway—and not when you were cannoning over a swell like this one. Savage impacts every few seconds, jarring all through her fabric—through your own too, for that matter, your spine especially. With such constant pummelling, any and all equipment had to be extremely robust to survive at all.
Let alone anything as delicate and fine-tuned as a radar set.
Sworder—the snotty—was yelling something at him.
‘What?’
‘Cloud looks like it’s thinning, sir!’
He looked up, saw that this was true—to some extent. A slight luminosity there, over the land… Rising wind, he guessed—tearing holes in it, or trying to. Down here, the smashed crests of the waves sheeting over, white suds lathering the screen.
‘Time, Tony?’
‘Minute to go, sir.’
Looking around, thinking about a break-up of the cloud—that if it did happen you’d have a moon, and that this would knock the SO’s plans for six. Holding the binoculars away from his eyes for a moment, reassuring himself—darkness no less total, this far… In fact not even that patch of lightness over the land was as evident as it had seemed half a minute ago.
Kingsmill had gone back down into the plot, but the snotty and Holland and another hand back there now—Chandler—were concentrating on the looking-out: dark cut-out figures braced against the boat’s movement, binoculars slowly pivoting, pausing, moving on, back again… Newbolt put his own up again. The point about any significant break-up of the cloud was that the moon would be over the land—in the southwest, the way they were heading at this moment and where it had seemed lighter, just now. So an enemy inshore would be up-moon to an attack coming in from seaward; conversely, attacking from inshore wouldn’t be a good idea at all.
It looked fairly solid up there now, anyway.
‘Bridge!’
He leant to the voicepipe, and Kingsmill told him from the plot, ‘Time to come round, sir.’
‘Port wheel, Cox’n. Steer south thirty west.’
Throttling down. The Badger’s growl on his left: ‘South thirty west, sir…’
‘Mid, tell the engineroom—reducing to fifteen knots, engage Dumbflows.’
Dumbflows were the silencers. When engaged, they diverted the exhausts through the engine cooling-water and thence out through the ship’s sides. It cut engine-noise significantly, but you could only use it at low revs. Sworder was passing the order to PO Motor Mechanic Talbot over the sound-powered telephone while Kingsmill, returning to the bridge, joined them up front here—wordless, glasses already at his eyes. Newbolt’s large frame folded somehow into the bridge seat, his hands still on the throttles, shoulder against the top of the bridge’s lightly armour-plated surround, face in the streaming wet above the screen, naked eyes slitted into the heaving dark.
Black as ever. You knew there was a moon up there, but only because the Nautical Almanac told you there was.
Sworder banged the ’phone on to its hook. ‘Dumbflows engaged, sir.’
‘Very good.’
‘Course south thirty west, sir!’
‘Radar, bridge!’
The snotty took it. ‘Bridge.’
‘Three contacts green four-oh, sir!’
Newbolt took over at the pipe. ‘What do they look like, Pickering?’
‘Small, sir. Could be our unit.’
Highly unlikely—unfortunately. Unless Furneaux was cruising around looking for them—which was hardly probable.
Although he might. Come to think of it, he really might.
‘Range?’
‘Three miles, sir. Bearing now—green three-five. Fast-moving, right to left, closing. Range—056, sir.’
5600 yards. It certainly wouldn’t be the SO on that bearing. Stack and his MGBs would be on the pod quarter somewhere—a good ten miles away. But if Mike Furneaux had decided he had time to double back and make a quick sweep, get his team back together before the action started: he’d be chancing his arm, certainly, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that. In fact it’d be right in character.
‘Bridge—four of ’em, sir, not three—’
‘Guns’ crews close up.’ They’d been at action stations for hours, but in a semi-relaxed mode with gunners and torpedomen in shelter abaft the bridge. ‘Port wheel—steer south, Cox’n.’
He had a general view of it in his mind—a view, how it seemed to be. Courses, speeds, distances, a triangle of relative velocities. A few basic facts in the computation, but also guesswork tinged with instinct. The difference between success and failure being to guess right… 563 was rolling harder, with the weather broader on her bow now. ‘Mid—radar ranges and bearings. And ask him if he’s certain there are three of ’em.’
‘Course south, sir…’
If it’s three—believe it. If not, stay clear…
Down to about eight knots. Believing in it—the probability of this being Mike F.’s unit—because it definitely would be in character. Mike on his first trip as MTB SO, extremely loth to accept having lost one of his boats. It was his unit, he’d want to have it together and he’d be cutting a bit of a dash by turning back to rope him in. Furneaux style absolutely—putting his stamp on the unit right from the word ‘go’… Newbolt had swiftly cleaned his binocular lenses, had them up again levelled into the darkness on the bow. Hearing Sworder at the voicepipe—it sounded as if Pickering was having problems—and Kingsmill on the sound-powered telephone to the guns—which included the torpedomen, Lloyd on the starboard side and Burrows, port, who’d be manning the twin Vickers machine-guns mounted on the tubes. Newbolt thinking—suppose this was not Furneaux and company. It almost surely was, but—suppose for instance these were patrolling R-boats… Well, you’d lie doggo, avoid contact with them, concentrate on the primary objective—getting down there and rejoining the unit, not risking a disturbance that would give warning of a Royal Navy presence—and incidentally, taking on more than you could handle. This was an MTB, for God’s sake, not a gunboat.
There was still time, anyway—to get the hell out, if necessary.
‘Mid, what’s radar doing?’
‘Getting a lot of interference, sir. Last range was 025, bearings green 25 to 30—gone all jumpy now, he says.’
‘What’s the challenge and reply, Number One?’
‘Challenge is W, reply P Peter, sir!’
‘Be ready for it. Mid, tell him to sweep green 25 to red 25.’
Radar seemed to have shot its bolt. The range couldn’t be more than about 2,000 yards now. A mile: but they’d pass a damn sight closer. In fact, if they were not the other three of the unit—one might not have all that much time, or room for manoeuvre. If one had thought of playing safe, when radar had first picked them up—as going by the book maybe one should have—turned away then immediately, instead of slowing and altering to an interception course as he now had… Alternatives from this point being to crack on the power and beat it, pronto, or—starboard wheel, creep past astern of them…
If it came to that. Why not—in the next half-minute… Biting his lip, controlling and regretting that flare of panic. He had his binoculars trained out fine on the bow, sweeping over a sector of no more than twenty or thirty degrees: where they’d show up, he thought, any second now.
Unless they’d altered, in the minute since radar lost them?
Like riding a wet and noisy roller-coaster, meanwhile. Sworder shouting that the radar picture was still confused and Pickering thought there might be jamming: interrupting this, a howl from Kingsmill: ‘There—green one-oh, sir!’
He was on them too. Not his own unit.
Like a kick in the gut…
Three of them, all right, but either E-boats or R-boats, steering about 030—to pass even closer than he’d thought. He’d reckoned not only on their being MTBs but also on their course being more like 050. They were R-boats—Raumboote, motor minesweepers, higher profile than E-boats, and better armed as far as guns went but without torpedoes and nothing like as fast… Speed was one’s own advantage now—one’s only advantage. The decision had been made for him, as it had turned out he had neither of those alternatives. None at all, as a light blazed from the leader—a challenge, the letter ‘V’ for Victor. Newbolt shouted to Kingsmill, ‘Give him a J!’ Full ahead meanwhile, jangling the telegraphs to and fro a couple of times and leaving them on ‘full ahead’. Throttles wide open. Not a single alternative now, you were in it. A burst of 20-mm fire from the one who’d challenged, red tracer arcing up and over the top. Kingsmill was replying to the challenge, clicking-out the letter ‘J’ at him—by intention it was a delaying tactic, a dodge that had been known to win a few seconds’ respite, on occasion—when the enemy was sufficiently irresolute.
‘Steer ten degrees to port, Cox’n.’
He’d screamed it over the engines’ roar, three supercharged 1500-horsepower Sterling Admirals at full blast. Thudding impacts under her bow as she flung herself ahead, then progressively lighter ones as she lifted, rising towards the plane. Range—by naked eye—about eight hundred yards. At something over thirty knots now—thirty-four, thirty-five—and right up there then—smooth as silk, the speed she was made for, existed for. Newbolt clapping a hand on CPO Gilchrist’s shoulder, shouting in his ear—‘The leader—hard a-starboard at five hundred yards then reciprocal course—OK?’
‘Aye aye, sir…’
Flat out. Forty knots.
All you could do, now. Hit hard, and run like hell.
(Except that one should also be bunging out an enemy report, on W/T. Catch up on that in a minute, though: wording would have to include some explanation of being on one’s own.)
Putting the wheel over at a range of 500 yards, with her greatly increased turning-circle at this speed, would mean engaging at about 200. Point-blank, effectively. Which should be—all right. She’d be a high-deflection target herself, while her gunners would be shooting from a comparatively stable platform.
‘Tony—open fire on the turn, range’ll be two hundred, two-fifty yards.’ He’d had his glasses up again for a second: ‘They’re R-boats. Target the leader first.’
‘Oerlikon open fire?’
The first and third—and second—were shooting at them now—having decided to ignore the phony answer to the challenge—but it was all going high and wide. He told Kingsmill yes, Oerlikon open fire. Raumboote had 37-mm and 20-mm guns: things would get worse before they got better, for sure, but after the turn you’d be passing them like an express train—combined speeds maybe sixty mph—even at close range you wouldn’t be an easy target. Tracer thickening and coming closer—blinding… 563’s Oerlikon opening up, a high snarling racket audible over the rest of it, green tracer lobbing away towards that leader. Four hundred—three-fifty yards… Tracer coming the other way was multi-coloured, seeming to lift slowly then pick up speed and scorch by in a flash: except that lot, a stream of it slashing explosively down the starboard side, a stink like horses being shod that cleared within seconds on the wind: either the deck there or the tube or the side of the bridge—which had 3/8ths steel plating all around it—bullet-proof, but not 20mm-proof. The Oerlikon in the skilled and determined hands of AB Summerhayes was hitting hard, had just caused what looked like an ammunition explosion—and at least one gun silenced—on the leader’s forepart.
Close enough now, though. Too close. A thump on the coxswain’s arm—‘Bring her round!’ Gilchrist stooping for a grip on the wheel, flinging it over. Kingsmill’s thumb on the buzzer signalling ‘Open fire’, the Oerlikon shifting to the second in line and the Vickers GO on the port side opening up, a double stream of green and red tracer which was a mix of armour-piercing, high explosive and incendiary blasting the leader’s bridge then down his length and shifting to join the Oerlikon on target number two; the point-fives were also in it now, shifting similarly after a solid blast into the leader’s stern. A lot was coming this way as well, and there’d been hits aft, he thought—certainly now there had been, he’d felt several impacts and there’d been a blue flash somewhere close—amidships, somewhere. The leading German was well astern and number two had been hard hit—there’d been a gush of flame from that one’s bridge, and the Oerlikon had just shifted to the third and last—which had begun to turn away to starboard, while number two with the point-fives still raking it was going the other way, turning to port across 563’s stern. Giving itself very briefly the advantage of an end-on target instead of one flashing by at forty knots—and making full use of it, a storm of gunfire blasting from astern. The starboard Vickers was having a go, then, its tracer arcing back over the quarter into that completely dazzling blaze of tracer from the one who’d crossed astern. Smart effort by Seaman Torpedoman Lloyd—although Kingsmill with his all-round view would have put him on to it. The other Vickers GO and the Oerlikon—Summerhayes still doing good work down there—hose-piping tracer into number three while the point-fives and Seaman Torpedoman Lloyd still blasted at the one astern. Newbolt yelled at Kingsmill—grabbing his arm and pointing—‘Shift to him!’
The tail-ender, as it turned away. Point-fives already shifting, though—to this one’s stern and the back of his bridge as he swung away.
‘Port wheel!’
To turn outside him. Much wider turning-circle: the range would be opening fast now. He hadn’t heard his own voice, giving that helm order, but Gilchrist had: or he’d only needed the bang on his shoulder, no words. Forcing the wheel over… A shock right aft, then—and a closer one, the back of the bridge—or it could have been the point-five turret. There’d be a reckoning, before much longer; you prayed not to have casualties—knowing some were inevitable, but still praying. If he’d just turned away and tried to run, he’d probably have been harder hit: attack being the best method of defence, as Mike Furneaux had asserted more than once—on the subject of brushes with E-boats, admittedly, but there wasn’t all that much difference… 563 with a full third of her length clear of the water, skidding round under a flood of light suddenly from overhead—starshell, which must have come from—well, one of the others, who were in the background now. This last one had reversed its wheel, was turning back to port—at greater and increasing range now but still taking sporadic punishment from the point-fives. Its own guns had ceased fire, he realized—nothing was shooting at them now—and it was on fire, by the look of it its whole afterpart, internally.
‘Cease fire, sir?’
‘Yes. Midships, Cox’n. Ship’s head?’
‘South forty west, sir—’
‘Steer south ten west.’
She was slowing, though—even before he’d begun to close the throttles. Damage aft… The engineroom confirmed it: centre engine stopped. Which would also cut out the hydraulic power to the point-five turret, the pump for it being on that engine. She was losing way rapidly. Wind and sea roughly on the beam, beginning to make themselves felt.
Leading Stoker Chivers answered the telephone…
‘It’s not good, sir. Trying to keep the wings going, but—’
‘Report when you can.’
Assuming that one was not, please God, about to become totally immobilized—in which case one would be at those bastards’ mercy, if they followed up… But—irrespective, it was time to break wireless silence, legitimately and necessarily to send out an action report on W/T. By-blows of which would be to let Furneaux know where 563 was—and in what condition—and let the SO know there were R-boats around.
R-boats being properly MGBs’ meat, not MTBs’. As would no doubt be pointed out more or less forcibly, at some later stage. Not by Mike Furneaux, though, he guessed…
‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n.’
To keep her stern-on to them. There were no illuminants in the sky now, but you could see the one that was on fire still, easily enough. He called over his shoulder, ‘Number One!’
‘First Lieutenant’s aft, sir.’ Sworder… Newbolt told him, ‘Get on the blower, tell the guns to reload and stand by. And check they’re getting the emergency hand-pump going.’
For the point-fives’ hydraulic power. You weren’t out of it yet; whether or not the R-boats came hunting now, there could be other enemies around—might well be. And the state of things in the engineroom sounded a lot worse than Chivers’ ‘not good’. There’d be casualties for sure; and this would not be a good time or place in which to become immobilized.
Searching the darkness ahead. Annoyed with himself for having given the snotty that order; he had to remember he was no longer a first lieutenant. Kingsmill would obviously have seen to the emergency pump being put to work: and would be making his rounds now, for casualties and to assess such damage as was immediately detectable.
The reckoning…
‘What are we steering, Cox’n?’
‘South forty west, sir.’
‘Right…’
Explosion, half a mile back. He’d whipped round in time to see a shoot of flame just as it died down, but then a much bigger, spreading one, followed by a second blast of sound. There was some cheering here and there—assumption of an enemy destroyed—but he was still thinking about the aftermath now, the bill, and the shape of the immediate future, which to a large extent had to depend on whatever was happening in the engineroom at this moment. Whatever the problems were, PO Motor Mechanic Talbot would be getting on with it, and meanwhile was best not badgered for a prognosis.
Had heard nothing from radar, he realized, since the action had started. Still hearing nothing. He glanced round: ‘Mid—’
The engineroom telephone buzzed. Speak of the devil…
‘Bridge.’
‘Talbot here, sir. Stopping the port wing.’
‘How long for, Chief?’
‘Can’t say, sir. No longer’n we have to, but—’
‘Starboard wing’s OK, is it?’
‘Not really, sir, no… But—stopping port now, sir.’
Hanging up…
‘Skipper, sir?’
Kingsmill, at his elbow. Newbolt had been putting his glasses back up, and continued with that movement. ‘Yes, Tony. Let’s hear the worst.’ Resuming a search across the bow: there probably were other enemy units about—otherwise why would that fellow have bothered to make a challenge, he’d have known whatever he met was hostile… Kingsmill told him, ‘Several hits aft, sir. Engineroom’s in a hell of a state—there was a burst internally, damn lucky they weren’t all killed, but the only casualty in there was Stoker Nield, half his left hand blown off. Sort of concussed too though, I think. Fox was killed, I’m sorry to say—not much of him left, looked like a 20-millimetre hit him in the chest—and Lloyd was hit in the thigh. He and Nield’ll be brought up in two shakes—I’m getting ready for them now. Quite a bit of damage amidships here too, sir—perforations back there, for instance. Bursts on the plating—from the one that turned across our stern, he did most of the other damage too—anyway, fragments penetrated. And the aerials here, of course—’
‘Aerials?’
Hardly taking it in, at that moment: he’d turned for another look astern, at that German still burning, as likely as not sinking—best part of a mile away, by this time—and another silhouetted against the glow, passing this side of it—moving slowly, might be passing a tow or trying to take off survivors. It was surprising that one should be still afloat, after those explosions.
Exactly 2200 now. The whole action had lasted just under four minutes.
Able Seaman Fox, from Preston, had been a valuable as well as popular member of the ship’s company. Great fisherman, with a keen eye for the presence of mackerel. He was married, too—only a few months ago, to a girl from Manchester who had a job in a munitions factory and was living with his parents.
If one hadn’t deluded oneself into believing the Raumboote were MTBs, Fox would be alive, his wife and parents not in line for misery.
The W/T aerials—getting back to this now, with some sense of shock—had been brought down, the upper section of the mast and its yard splintered, and the 286 dipole aerial as well as the shaft it turned on was just scrap-iron. Starboard side of the bridge here too—it looked as if something had taken a bite out of the ‘egg-box’ wind-deflectors—where the R/T aerial had been, for Christ’s sake, just a few feet aft of his own seat in this corner. That whip-aerial had gone, completely. Looking back at the mast—he could see its splintered top and tatters of gear hanging from it against the now diffuse and distant glow of the burning R-boat—he was amazed he hadn’t seen it before—or been aware of anything like it at the time. Hadn’t even seen it in the starshell’s light. And this other damage within virtually arm’s length of him…
There’d be no action report going out for sure. No radar either; Pickering could take over Fox’s job—ammo supply back aft, as well as depth-charges and the CSA smoke-making gear, Chloro-Suphonic Acid.
The telegraphist, Shaw, would also be available for other employment. As lookout and for any signalling that might be called for at some later stage, perhaps. Use Chandler elsewhere, then.
The lower, right-angle spur with the QH aerial on it looked all right. Small mercies—if it was.
‘Tony—see if the QH is working. If it is, get a fix on and give me a course to steer for Basse du Renier. Before you start on the casualties, all right?’
‘Aye aye—’
‘Wait.’ He’d changed his mind. ‘Mid—you see to that. And get Shaw up to clear away this shambles. Tony—might put Pickering in Fox’s place.’
‘Done it, sir—he’s there.’
‘And Lloyd’s job?’
‘I’ve moved Burrows over, and Mottram port side, temporarily.’
‘Good.’
Not bad, anyway—for a cleric’s son. Newbolt had a hand on the starboard throttle, easing that surviving engine down to just enough revs to keep steerage-way on her. With things as they were already he wasn’t imposing unnecessary strains elsewhere. The telegraphist, Shaw, might conceivably be able to rig some sort of jury aerial for the R/T, he hoped. It was the TCS voice-radio with a whip-aerial, antenna-type, a great improvement on the older sets, but not having had it long one didn’t know all that much about it. Shaw would, of course. Another hope was that Lloyd, the torpedoman, wasn’t going to be out of action for long, that he might be able to manage down there, at a pinch, if and when the time came. Perhaps with assistance—from Chandler, for instance. Then—glasses up, sweeping from broad on one beam to the other—wondering whether maybe he should have stayed clear of the R-boats: turned away earlier, when radar had first picked them up, made himself scarce. Although aggression and engaging the enemy whenever there was an opportunity to do so was supposed to be at the heart of this racket—one had certainly never heard of anyone being encouraged to run away.
He still should have.
‘Shaw?’
‘Yessir.’ The telegraphist was groping around in the mess of cables and other junk. ‘Proper mess we got here, sir.’
‘When you’ve sorted it, can you do something about getting R/T working? Jury aerial?’
‘Well—I’ll have ago…’
‘Good man. Sooner the better.’
Sworder came back up. Kingsmill too. The snotty reported, ‘Course should be south thirty-two west, sir.’
‘Steer that, Cox’n.’
‘South thirty-two west, sir, aye aye…’
‘You handled her damn well, Cox’n. ’ He had his glasses up, sweeping slowly across the sector from which the R-boats might come hunting—if they’d any reason to guess their assailant was languishing here. Hearing Kingsmill at the rear of the bridge calling, ‘Let’s have you, then!’ Gilchrist hadn’t acknowledged the compliment: or if he had, it had been inaudible. Meanwhile these were the wounded men whom Kingsmill was summoning: cheerful tone, for a stoker with part of a hand gone and a torpedoman with bullets or fragments in one leg. Kingsmill would have laid out his gear in the wheelhouse, amongst it as well as bandages and iodine and forceps for extracting any easily-accessible bullets etcetera would be ampoules of morphine, also the new sulphur-powder—sulphanilamide?—which was such a major boon to the untrained medical practitioner.
Newbolt called as the group came through the bridge, ‘Bad luck, you fellows.’
‘Could’ve been worse, sir.’
‘Yeah.’ One of them laughed: ‘Six inches higher, they’d’ve ’ad your goolies.’
Fox would have been joking about it too, Newbolt guessed, if he’d been with them… They’d gone on down—a knot of four men, two of them needing help. This wasn’t by any means a steady platform now, with so little way on.
Another thought occurred. ‘Mid?’
‘Sir?’
‘Go round the guns, see they have fresh pans and belts on and the ready-use topped up, empties cleared away. Tell ’em I say they did bloody well, but stay on their toes—it’s nothing like over yet.’
Buzzer from the engineroom: he snatched the ’phone up. Hoping to be told he could go ahead on the port wing now… ‘Bridge!’
PO Motor Mechanic Talbot told him, ‘Sorry to say it, sir—’
‘Christ—don’t!’
‘Yeah, well. Any other way—but there’s not… Got to stop starboard, sir.’