The Assyrians

July 1942

Clark headed Sheba south-east, aiming to reach a position within the loose pack both east and slightly north of Orca’s assumed patrol line. This he would have to judge to a nicety, but he guessed his adversary would lay this patrol line just within the ice limit, hiding on the edge of the pack ice to conceal his submarine from Allied radar. He also guessed Oreo’s conning tower would be painted white.

The ice field was opening up rapidly, the conditions improving day by day, and it was important that the little whaler did not work her way too far south, for she was already returning to the latitude of Hope Island, which she had crossed days earlier. The Sheba shoved her way through the pack, shouldering aside the grey and white ice, occasionally having to back off astern and work her way round the more obdurate floes. Amid the relatively flat and hummocked rafts, bergy bits and the low, eroded growlers were an increasing number of large and distinctive bergs. These had been sculpted by erosion, melting and refreezing over a succession of summers and winters. They loomed fantastically out of the mist, assuming weird transformations as they slowly revolved or Sheba steamed past, so that it was possible to conceive out of their silhouette first a crouching lion and, a few minutes later, a castle. But in bright sunshine they were sublime, assuming the most dazzling colours, amazing and delighting even the most impervious soul among Sheba’s hardbitten sailors.

During their weeks of pushing north, all three of the watchkeeping officers had become remarkably proficient at handling the ship in ice, developing a patience that was constantly mindful of their Asdic, disturbing only the voracious gulls that had discovered Sheba as a source of sustenance. Their constant presence troubled Clark, who saw his ship as he might have done a trawler, with a white cloud of birds hanging about her stern. There was little he could do about it, other than issue a standing order that permission must be granted by the bridge before gash was dumped and instructing his officers to ensure that no enemy was in sight at the time.

‘I thought we were always supposed to make sure of that?’ asked a puzzled Pearson as he steadied the Sheba’s course into a long lead of open water, giving the helmsman a course to steer down the dark polynya.

‘Just obey the last order,’ Frobisher growled. The first lieutenant was scenting the air for an enemy. Although off watch, he was on the bridge, sitting in the chair provided for the commanding officer, cleaning the Lee Enfield so spectacularly employed by Clark the previous day. To his disgust he had found it returned to the rack uncleaned; Frobisher reprobated such a lack of discipline, attributing it to Clark’s reservist, or merchant-service, sloppiness. He had, withal, an indecent affection for small arms, especially as he was in momentary anticipation of encountering their mysterious enemy. At the very least, Lieutenant D.I.R.K. Frobisher wanted a mention in despatches from the engagement he felt, in his water, to be inevitable.

Daydreaming of glory, Frobisher was nevertheless startled when the voice of one of the lookouts shouted out: ‘Aircraft, green zero six zero! Condor, sir!’

Frobisher’s feet hit the deck with a thump and he ran out on to the starboard bridge wing, still carrying the rifle, to where the muffled lookout was pointing to the south.

‘Stop the ship!’ he ordered, dashing back into the wheelhouse to call Clark, but Clark was already at the telegraph and staring ahead at the uninterrupted lead into which the ship had broken at this least auspicious of all moments.

‘Hard a-starboard!’ he ordered and Sheba heeled as she turned under full helm while Clark rang the telegraph. The clang of its orders could be heard coming up from the engine room by way of the skylight. A moment later the duty artificer answered and the way began to run off the ship, but the Sheba was heading for the ice.

All on the bridge realised the necessity of their not exposing themselves, for the longer the Sheba steamed down the open lead the longer and more conspicuous the white wake she trailed behind her. Such a wake would be highly visible from the air.

They could hear the roar of the Condor’s four 1000hp BMW engines, but there was little time to take much notice of the crescendo, for they were almost knocked off their feet as the Sheba ploughed into the ice flanking the polynya.

‘Shit!’

The next moment the Condor flew right across their bow, perhaps four miles away and about one hundred feet above the ice. Clark, Frobisher and Pearson, with the man-at-the-wheel behind them, followed its progress. As the noise of the aeroplane’s engines diminished they all sensed something was wrong. An instant later they turned at Carter’s shout: ‘The bloody Asdic’s knackered!’

What?

‘We’ve damaged the Asdic in the ice, sir,’ Frobisher said.

Clark closed his eyes and, mastering his irritation, replied as coolly as possible, ‘The question was purely rhetorical, Number One. Keep your eyes on that Condor.’ Raising his voice, he called out to Carter, ‘Thank you, Carter.’ Then he picked up the glasses and stared after the dwindling dot. For a moment or two no one spoke, their attention devoted to watching the big aeroplane.

‘She’s banking!’ Frobisher called out and they strove to see whether he was right, and which way the aircraft would turn. If to port, towards the north, she would almost certainly pass over their heads, if to starboard and the south, they would be clear of danger.

‘She’s swinging north,’ Frobisher commented, his voice becoming harsh.

‘Oh, Christ…’ Pearson breathed beside Clark.

They watched the big plane as it turned, then it seemed that the swing was arrested. ‘He’s climbing,’ said Clark, uncertain as to what the enemy intended.

‘And steadying,’ added Frobisher. ‘He’s heading about north-west.’

Recalling both Gifford’s remark about German weather observers and the chart to his mind’s eye, Clark divined the German pilot’s flight plan. ‘I’ll bet he’s going to overfly Vest Spitsbergen from north to south and spy out the land… See if we’ve a tanker lying in the sounds, or even drop supplies to any weather station they may well have.’

‘Doesn’t really matter, sir, if it gets us off the hook,’ Pearson said, with renewed cheerfulness.

‘Could you try and think of something intelligent to say, Derek?’ Frobisher said with amiable contempt, lowering his glasses.

Clark rang half astern and with a reluctant trembling, Sheba drew herself off the submerged ice shelf. Ten minutes later she was again steaming at eleven knots down the polynya and Clark had handed over to Pearson. Then he went to see Carter.

‘It’s no good, sir, the transmissions have ceased. I can have a look, but I don’t think ramming the ice helped.’

Clark expelled his breath. ‘Don’t make your point with too heavy a hand, Carter,’ Clark said. ‘Tell me, are you able to hear anything… I mean, can we use it passively, as a hydrophone to listen for an enemy.’

‘I won’t know until I hear one, sir,’ Carter grumbled, ‘or I don’t hear, if you know what I mean.’

‘All right, all right,’ Clark responded sharply. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ and he left Carter muttering discontentedly. It was the nearest naval propriety came to allowing Carter to call Clark a stupid fool.

Clark had scarcely stepped foot back in the wheelhouse when Barrington announced that wireless traffic indicated the early passage of a convoy. ‘It’s a long way off,’ he said, ‘but there’s no doubt about it.’

There was much that they would not know about in the coming hours, but, while they were not certain of its sequential number, what they knew aboard HMS Sheba, was that a convoy was at sea bound for north Russia.

It was called PQ17.


Three hours later Wireless Operator Humphries shouted out: ‘Signal from Admiralty, sir!’

Storheill, the officer of the watch, strode across the wheelhouse and grabbed the voice pipe, whipped off the whistle and blew down it. At the other end he heard Clark’s voice.

‘Signal from Admiralty, sir,’ he repeated.

‘I’m on my way.’ The noise of Clark replacing the whistle at his end rung for a moment in Storheill’s ears. He had hardly replaced the flexible tubing before Clark was on the bridge. He was in his stockinged feet, Storheill noted, stripped to his shirt and minus collar or tie, an oddly youthful, dishevelled figure in his braces.

‘Humphries is just taking it now, sir.’

Clark nodded and went into the wireless office. Humphries was just completing the commanding officer’s copy and, sensing Clark’s presence, turned and held out the small sheet of paper.

Clark took it, saw the Sheba’s call sign for July and took it below. Out came the faithful Dr Ruddick. Clark felt a slight jar as Sheba nudged a floe and he heard the engine-room telegraph clang as Storheill adjusted speed and manoeuvred the ship. After a few moments he regarded his handiwork:

ADMIRALTY TO SHEBA 02/1300 GMT

IMMINENT TRIMORPHISM

ASSESSMENT E5

It was clear enough this time!

Clark ran up to the bridge and bent over the grid drawn on the chart of the Svalbard Archipelago, running his finger along to grid square E5. The grid was constructed from the 75th Parallel northwards and eastwards from the 19th Meridian. Each box was ten miles square and E5 was centred some ninety-odd miles to the north-north-east of Bear Island or about fifty miles south-west of Cape Thor, the southern extremity of Hope Island. Relative to Sheba’s present position, Orca lay 140 miles to the west-south-west. But that, Clark reflected, was when she had been reported – and that, he presumed with a degree of certainty, cannot have been by air reconnaissance, but must have been by radio-location, or perhaps by some method Kurt used. He had, of course, no idea of the Ultra decrypts available from Enigma-generated signals, but he guessed that Orca was heading north-east, just as Sheba had done weeks before, in search of a hiding place along the ice edge.

He straightened up from the chart table. There were only so many options, he thought, and matters were falling into place with a precision that was chilling. He stared ahead, through the wheelhouse windows. At the binnacle and telemotor the helmsman concentrated on steering the course, on either bridge wing the lookouts were alert, and up and down between them paced the officer of the watch.

Somewhere to the far south-west a convoy had set out from Iceland, and in the fjords of northern Norway, the heavy ships of the Kriegsmarine were raising steam. In distant Berlin Kurt would be consumed by anxiety while, Clark imagined, he played the part of a serious and devoted naval staff officer. In London Gifford and Pound would be watching the plot of the convoy’s passage; the Home Fleet would have left the Orkneys to provide cover to the convoy. Even if Admiral Tovey intercepted the German surface warships, the field would be left clear for the Luftwaffe’s Heinkel torpedo bombers and God knows what else besides; and all the time the U-boats would be tracking the convoy, ready to call in their brother wolves and make their attack in a pack. And then there was Orca, whose sudden appearance in the midst of the convoy with her torpedoes and heavy-calibre guns, would utterly overwhelm the convoy’s defences. It would be a repeat of Otto Kretschmer’s daring initiative of night-time surface attack inside a convoy’s defensive screen, only on a bolder, more brilliant scale. Moreover, Clark was convinced it would succeed. With all his experience as convoy escort, the plan was brilliant in its simplicity. If Germany had a hundred of such long-range, heavy super submarines, they would win the war in a month, but Germany had only one. Nevertheless, the success of that single boat might arrest the flow of supplies to the Red Army at a significant moment. Upon such a critical interdiction, the fate of the world might turn.

The thought made Clark’s blood run cold.


From 1600 that afternoon Clark doubled the watches. Owing to the slight friction between Frobisher and Pearson, he took the younger man under his own wing and left Storheill on watch with the first lieutenant. To give Storheill a break, he therefore brought Pearson’s watch forward four hours, delaying Frobisher’s so that he and the Norwegian came on duty at 2000. Pearson and Clark therefore took over at 1600.

At the same time Sheba turned back to the west and, at slow speed, with lookouts on either bridge wing and in her crow’s nest, began to methodically comb the ice as she headed for grid square E5. Far to the south the masthead lookout could see open water.

‘Keep an eye on the funnel, Derek,’ Clark warned his young watch-mate. ‘I’ve spoken to Olsen about not making smoke and he’s too experienced a campaigner to take the matter lightly, but a slight sulphurous haze can be seen for miles if there’s no wind.’

Pearson went out on to the bridge wing and looked aft. ‘There’s the shimmer of hot gases, sir, but I think there’s enough breeze, with the ship’s movement, to be all right.’

‘Excellent,’ Clark said. He had got over the enormity of his task now that he was engaged in keeping a lookout. He left Pearson to con the ship, preferring the more important role. In the Asdic compartment Baker was closed up, listening intently. As he scanned the horizon ahead, Clark did a few elementary sums. Say the Admiralty signal was its maximum of six hours out of date, with an assumed speed of fifteen knots Orca would be six times fifteen miles closer than the 140 miles he had at first estimated. But, until 1600, Sheba had been steaming south-east, and that would reduce the speed of closing range a little, altering their relative bearing a touch, but not much. Clark guessed Orca would now be heading east, as Sheba steamed west; nevertheless, as a worst case, the German submarine could be no more than fifty miles away!

And at the moment, Clark estimated, staring out through the crisp, clear air, the visibility would be about thirty miles. He levelled his glasses. On the horizon refraction cast distant bergs into slightly elevated shapes so that, within a few moments, he saw ten, twenty Orcas!

‘Put her on slow ahead, Sub,’ he ordered, keeping his glasses level. There was no point in rushing on to the spearhead of the enemy, he thought poetically.

The watch passed slowly. The ship wove through the ice field, shuddering from time to time as a slowly rotating floe nudged them. Forward the duty gun’s crew hunkered down round the gun mounting, keeping warm in their scarves, mitts, balaclava helmets and their ugly fawn duffel coats. He could see them chaffing each other, the occasional piece of short-lived horseplay and visits to the deck to relieve themselves over the side. The gun layer sat reading a book, which he laid down from time to time, to routinely traverse and elevate the gun. Elsewhere, out of sight of Clark, other men stood to their posts, similarly bored and diverting themselves, similarly cold and similarly dreaming of home, a girl, a wife, or just a pint of beer in their favourite local.

The duty watch officers ate on the bridge and smoked their postprandial cigarettes in silence. The air in the wheelhouse was one of relaxed concentration, a taut and heightened awareness which passed the time speedily. It was when men relaxed from this vigilance that boredom set in and, Clark knew only too well, they would be able to maintain it at this peak of efficiency for no more than a couple of watches.

Still, fifty miles was no distance at all…

Nevertheless, they had seen nothing unusual when Frobisher and Storheill took over at 2000. Having passed over the relevant details of their course, speed and his estimate of the enemy’s distance, Clark said, ‘We could well see her in your watch.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Frobisher replied curtly. ‘We don’t want too much of this. Too much strain.’

‘I was just thinking the same thing.’ Clark paused, then added, ‘I’ll go and put my feet up. You know what to do.’

‘Yes.’

But Clark did not go below immediately. Instead he went out on to the port bridge wing and lit a cigarette. The distant horizon to the south seemed clear of ice. Open water, he thought, rubbing his forehead and squinting to relieve his eyes as he leaned back against the steel side of the wheelhouse. Close by the new port lookout had just assumed his duties, which, with the close proximity of the commanding officer, he was performing with impressive assiduity.

Clark smiled, the restorative properties of nicotine allowing him to unwind. In a moment he would go below, peel off the outer layer of clothing, kick off his boots and relax. A gin would be wonderful, but just for the time being he embargoed alcohol. He took a last drag on the cigarette, then pitched it overboard with a practised flick. Staring at the horizon abeam he exhaled slowly, the smoke a faint blue cloud as the wind caught it…

But there was a grubby yellow smudge dancing before his eyes…

‘Number One!’ he called, then held out his hand. ‘Lookout, give me your glasses!’

Clark was staring out on the port beam, frantically adjusting the lookout’s binoculars as Frobisher filled the port wheelhouse doorway.

‘Sir?’

‘Clap your eyes on the port beam! Can I see a diesel exhaust?’ There was a tense moment of silence as the deprived lookout strove to see what his commander was staring at through his commandeered glasses. He thought he could see something himself now…

‘By Christ…’ breathed Frobisher.

‘Action stations, full ahead… Asdic! Can you hear anything?’

‘Not a thing, sir. Oh, shit, yessir – er, red one hundred, moving left fast.’

‘Too damn right it is!’

Frobisher swung the telegraph and slammed it down hard on the stops. After a slight pause, the engine room responded, then Frobisher repeated the order, the double ring of imperative command. The helm was already over and Clark could hear the tannoy calling the men out. Those on deck were already aware of the change of course, of the surge of the ship as she no longer gently nudged aside the obstructing ice, but crashed into it, her bow lifting as she forced her way through. Clark was vaguely aware of men in a flurry of activity forward, clustered about the open torpedo tubes, and of Frobisher leaning over the starboard bridge wing shouting orders at them.

Clark handed the glasses back to the port lookout and picked up his own from the box in the wheelhouse.

‘Midships,’ he ordered. ‘Steadeee. He peered into the gyrocompass repeater. ‘Steer one five zero.’

‘Steady on one five zero… Steering one five zero, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Clark levelled the glasses and picked out the submarine easily now: the feather of smoke from her diesel exhaust betrayed her. She was long, very long, with a huge, extended conning tower, stepped down at its after end and bearing a bristling armament far exceeding the usual U-boat’s light weapons. He could see too that this lower, after part of the conning tower was large enough to house an aircraft, while forward she bore a gun house. He could see the flat steel flank of the thing, though it was, he had to admit, well camouflaged with diagonal slashes of blue and grey breaking up the shape so that, unless one anticipated a submarine of such size and configuration, the eye would be entirely deceived. As it was, he could not determine how many guns that turret contained, but it was a sure-fire bet that it bore a minimum of two, and they would be heavy-calibre weapons, eight-inch at the very least, entirely outclassing their own four-inch toy.

He watched the foreshortening of the submarine as she too dodged ice floes, but she was in much looser pack than the pursuing Sheba.

Above the tall section of the conning tower Clark could see an irregular array of aerials and vertical pipework. Below them, he assumed, stood her deck watch. God grant they did not look too closely out over their port quarter. Frobisher straightened up from the azimuth ring.

‘Bearing’s still opening, sir. She’s going at quite a lick.’

‘Sixteen or seventeen knots at a guess. The water’s more open where he is. Ring the engine room… Shit!’

The jar as they stemmed a floe threw them all off their feet as Sheba’s bow rose and then bore down on the rotten ice. Ahead of them a jagged split shot away from their bow and then, screw thrashing, they broke through.

‘Ring the engine room and see if we can have more revs. I’m going to get astern before trying to catch up, hide our racket in her wake and use it to pursue.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Frobisher ought not to be on the bridge as they went into action, Clark realised. His station was forward with the torpedo tubes. The first lieutenant put the phone down.

‘Olsen says he’ll give you what he can, but the valve’s fully open. I suppose he’ll reduce the safety…’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine, Number One. Now I want you forward.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Frobisher responded and ducked out through the starboard door. Clark could hear him quoting something:

‘“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold…”’ A moment later Frobisher’s lanky form strode forward to join the torpedo party under the break of the forecastle. The tubes were already loaded with an armed torpedo and on the platform above them, Sub-Lieutenant Pearson was staring ahead as the four-inch gun was laid on the target.

Ten long minutes later the Sheba broke out into more open water and Clark swung her into Orca’s wake. The German submarine had created a long lead fringed with small pieces of broken ice, into which the whaler turned. Free of the floes the Sheba’s speed increased, her lean hull almost leaping out of the water as she pressed after the long, low shape ahead of her. It was now only a matter of time before someone on that conning tower looked astern but, before she could hit her pursuer with her heavy-calibre weapons, the enemy would have to swing round, thereby exposing her side and presenting Clark with a perfect target.

Leaning over the bridge wing Clark called out to Pearson and Frobisher, ‘Stand by!’