The bomb had landed behind the bridge and burst in the foremost boiler room in a dull eruption of flame. An immense explosion shuddered the ship and wrenched out a vast vomit of twisted steel, splintered boats, sparks, water and smoke. A huge cloud of soot flew up from the shredded funnel with a perfect ring of smoke and came down in a spreading cloud of black. Holes appeared in the bridge plating, while a man running for shelter was cut almost in two and flung against the bridge ladder to smear it with his blood.
When they lifted their heads, X gun had vanished as if it had never been there, leaving only a gaping hole surrounded by jagged blades of shining steel. The searchlight had also gone and among the debris lay the remains of the crew, the blistered paint of the deck splashed with their blood. Flying splinters had scythed their way through the men on the deck, until the bridge structure looked like a colander. A petty officer, his face soot-black, one eye a pit of blood, was huddled against the scarred plates looking as though someone had fired a gigantic shotgun at him, his body and face full of red holes pumping blood. One of the gunners, his face already the colour of slate, was curled up like an unborn child, moaning, and across his body was draped one of his mates, the top of his head sheered off as cleanly as if someone had used a huge chopper so that his brains were oozing down his face.
The second wave of bombers was coming down on them now, and Latimer’s voice, cracked with shouting, lifted hoarsely. ‘Here they come again!’
‘Midships!’ Kelly spoke automatically, knowing that the bombers would be aiming off for a starboard turn but, expecting the ship to right herself as she came out of the swing, he realised that the deck was still canted over at an angle and, though he couldn’t see from the bridge how far the bomb damage extended, instinctively he knew that Impi was mortally hit.
‘Hard a-port!’
Expecting the ship to swing the other way, he knew his suspicions about her wound were correct as she continued to swing to starboard. Then he realised the list was increasing and that she was no longer turning but was heeling over on to her side.
‘Stop engines!’
The voice pipe buzzer went and Latimer answered it.
‘Coxswain reports ship won’t answer helm, sir,’ he reported. ‘And there’s no reply to engine-room telegraphs.’
Kelly drew a deep breath. A and B guns and the point-fives were still pounding away and, just to port, Verschoyle’s two remaining ships were sending up a terrific barrage. One of the Stukas peeled off and crashed into the sea, but Ashby was low in the water now, her stern awash, and men were trying to throw overboard Carley’s, wooden rafts and anything else that would float.
In the shambles of twisted steel and torn bodies, sobbing, swearing sailors were trying to clear the deck for the damage party. But it was too late and Impi was already settling. Figures were bursting through the smoke, heads down, their arms raised against the flames, when the next wave of Stukas roared down into the barrage that Impi’s guns were still sending up. The list was steadily increasing and it was only then that Kelly realised the bomb had wrenched away the starboard side hull plates under the vanished X gun and the ship was taking in tons of water.
The whole of the stern was in flames now, terrible beyond words, and when another bomb struck her, Impi seemed to shudder like a tortured animal. The bridge screen was shattered and the compasses smashed. The bridge messenger was still clinging to it, moaning, and as Kelly, struggling to regain comprehension, turned towards him, he saw that smoke enveloped everything aft of the bridge, which was a tangle of bunting, fallen halyards and aerials. Through the voice pipes he could hear the despairing cries of those trapped below. The bridge was already tilting but men were still being dragged from the blaze. As the list increased, the wounded and dying began to slide towards the inferno, then somewhere in the smoke there was another explosion and it suddenly dawned on him that Impi was rolling right over.
‘Abandon ship,’ he shouted. ‘Save yourself, William!’
Turning, he saw Rumbelo just behind him, his steel helmet gone and blood on his face.
‘Get going, Albert,’ he said.
Rumbelo looked stubborn. ‘After you,’ he said.
‘Get going!’ Kelly roared.
Rumbelo stared at him for a second, frowning, then he turned abruptly and scuttled down the bridge ladder.
As the sea poured into the broken hull, the water rose – slowly at first, but steadily and quite distinctly – then it came in a roaring maelstrom of water and, with men struggling clear of swinging stays and falling equipment, Impi leaned over on her side at a grotesque angle in the sea. Another aircraft came in and its bomb hit the deck over A boiler room and brought the foremast crashing down across the Bofors. The deck lurched and Kelly fell to his knees, then it seemed to slew, one side lifting crazily.
One eye on the sky, he saw Latimer leaning over the bridge rail, shouting to men below, and Siggis and his crew struggling free from the debris and the trailing wires of the aerials to drag the wounded to the side as the deck lurched again, then suddenly he realised there was water all round him and that Latimer, the navigator and the yeoman of signals had all disappeared. Climbing on to the gyro compass pedestal, he stared round him, feeling the ship cant further and further to starboard. Stokers were struggling up from below, bursting out of doorways and hatches, their eyes starting from their heads with their efforts, but there was no panic, only haste, and he could still see men pushing life rafts into the sea.
For a while he clung on, then the sea swept him away like the breaking of a dam. As it roared over him, he kept his head enough to take a deep breath. Finding himself in darkness, his ears filled with the rush and crashing of water, he realised that the ship was upside down, still moving ahead under her own momentum, and that he was underneath her and terrified of dying alone.
It was pitch dark, then, as he fought free of familiar objects and trailing guy wires and aerials that were dragging him down, he saw a faint glimmer of light appear. As it grew, the blackness became green and, his lungs bursting, he forced himself to keep his mouth shut, even clapping his right hand over his mouth to pinch his nostrils together. Slowly the light grew brighter and, in desperation, he had to open his mouth. The water rushed in, choking him, then, with a great spluttering, agonised gasp, he burst to surface, shooting above the water almost to his waist as he broke free. Alongside him, Impi was still moving slowly ahead, her stern sticking up, all red lead and weed, her propellers still turning in the air as she slid forward and downward, trailing a cloak of wreckage, wires, and bodies.
Terrified he’d be dragged down with her, he swam as hard as he could to struggle clear. The ship had turned turtle so fast, not a single boat had been launched and there appeared to be only two Carleys in the sea. Everything else had gone with the ship. Then a bulk of timber shot to the surface a few yards away, leaping out of the water like a dolphin in a cloud of spray to slap back with a splash.
Men were clustering round the raft where he recognised Latimer by the stripes on his shoulders standing up yelling at them. His face was black with oil and his hair was plastered across his face. More men were heading towards the raft and the yeoman of signals passed Kelly still wearing his steel helmet. It made him look like a tortoise in the water, then he suddenly became aware of its weight, wrenched it off and tossed it away.
Swimming towards one of the Carleys, he saw a row of splashes cross the sea ahead of him and wondered what they were. Then, with a roar one of the Stukas swept overhead, her machine guns going. As the splashes approached again, he drew a deep breath and dived below the water, and when he came up, the Carley seemed to have emptied of all but lolling men and Latimer had been hit in both legs and was sprawled across the bulge of the side.
Reaching the raft, he saw there was only one uninjured man on board and he ordered him to climb out so they could push more injured aboard. They had no sooner finished when the Stukas came again and half the men they’d just pushed aboard were killed in the new attack. Laboriously, gasping and spluttering, they lifted them out and pushed more aboard. It was an agonising experience because everybody was covered with oil and it was impossible to get a grip on the half-naked bodies. Pulling one of the stokers towards the raft, Kelly found his head bumping against a mat of dead men, and he could see the navigator trying frantically to claw his way over the slimy oil-covered side to pull men aboard. All round him he could hear the choking cries of drowning sailors, and the whole business was made more gruesome by the calm sea and the brilliant sunshine.
A young sailor no more than eighteen clung alongside him. He wore nothing but a vest and his face and body were so charred he looked bald and black and wet-through at the same time. They tried to push him into the raft but he died as they did so and they had to let him float away and save someone else instead.
Wild-eyed and gasping, looking like a nigger minstrel under the fuel oil that stung his eyes, Kelly stared around him. As the raft lifted on a gentle swell, he saw that Ashby had also disappeared and that there was another knot of bobbing heads about a quarter of a mile away. Then nearby, squatting on a floating spar, spitting with fury, he saw the ship’s cat, its bedraggled fur sticking up in spikes.
‘That’s it, Pluto–’ it was Siggis, black-faced and spluttering but with his daft grin stretching across his face – give ’em what for!’
He started to sing.
‘Anybody here seen Kelly, Kelly from the Isle of Man–?’
His reputation as a wag brought the others in and the song seemed to help a little in the exhaustion and fear and the misery of defeat.
‘–Kay, ee, double-el, wye–’
Still singing, Siggis had pushed his way through the gasping, choking, drowning men to where the cat snarled on its little raft, and they were all watching him as he reached up to stroke it and got his naked arm clawed from elbow to wrist for his trouble.
‘Some bugger’s still full of spirit,’ he panted.
Then another Stuka roared overhead and, as the bullets spattered the water, the singing died.
‘Don’t seem to like that song,’ Kelly gasped. ‘Better change it.’
How long they clung to the raft, he had no idea but eventually Chatsworth appeared. Impi was still afloat, upside down. Her stern had sunk and now it was her bow, which was awash. As Kelly was hauled on to the deck of Chatsworth, he stood silently, shocked, exhausted and stinking of fuel oil, then Siggis arrived alongside him, wearing only a pair of ragged underpants and clutching the drenched and angry cat to his oil-slicked chest.
‘Them bastards’ll pay for this, sir,’ he said.
‘I’m sure they will, Dancer,’ Kelly said. ‘And I just hope you and I are there when the bastards do.’
As they stood together, staring across the lifting water, Impi began to slip out of sight.
‘Give her a cheer, boys,’ Siggis yelled, and there was a ragged yell that only made them all feel sadder.
Stumbling, black and slimy, to the bridge, Kelly found Verschoyle waiting for him.
‘Hello, Ginger,’ Verschoyle said quietly. ‘I was afraid you might not have made it. I didn’t recognise you under the make-up.’
‘Thanks, James,’ Kelly said gravely. ‘It was kind of you to come.’
It seemed odd that the two of them, once the deadliest of enemies, should stand there, one of them dripping and covered with thick fuel oil, the other immaculate in white, greeting each other so formally.
‘Sorry to make such a mess of your bridge.’
‘Not at all. Make yourself at home. Thought we might try to pick up some of Ashby’s people.’
There were boats and half a dozen Carley floats where Ashby had vanished and every time they stopped to pick up survivors, Junkers 88 bombers, which had now appeared in place of the Stukas, tried to hit them, dropping their bombs in shallow dives. As they finally vanished, Verschoyle lowered his whaler.
‘Good job it isn’t undergoing one of its periodic repairs after being smashed by the flotilla leader,’ he observed dryly.
As the boat collected survivors and drew alongside the ship to allow them to scramble aboard, Chatsworth nosed slowly ahead, moving between the lifting mat of bodies from one raft to another while everybody on deck kept their eyes on the sky for more attacks. It was a long and difficult job because the 88s never left them alone, but with the attacks growing worse, they finally hoisted the last man on board and Verschoyle bent to the voice pipe.
‘Half ahead both,’ he said. ‘Starboard ten.’
It was only then that Kelly realised that Chatsworth had also been damaged by a near miss and could only make half-speed, and they would have to limp home to Alexandria at only sixteen knots, every available space in the ship crammed with survivors shuddering with shock, and Hallamshire nervously watching the sky astern for more attacks.
A burly figure, unrecognisable under the coating of oil, pushed along the crowded deck.
‘That you, Rumbelo?’ Kelly asked.
‘Yes, sir. I made it, thanks to you. I wouldn’t have if I’d stayed any longer.’
‘You’re not so young as you were, old lad, and not so bloody slim either.’
With Rumbelo and the yeoman of signals, who was the only other recognisable petty officer left from Impi, Kelly sought out the wounded. Chatsworth’s deck was as slippery as a skating rink and, with no freshness in the hot, unstirring air, the ship reeked of blood and chloroform and fuel oil. Even the brief visit below was enough to turn the stomach. Impi’s doctor, soaked with oil and water so that his shorts clung to him like part of his skin, was moving among the injured men with a sort of desperate devotion, refusing to change his clothes or even stop to swallow a mug of tea. He was pallid with strain and shock but he was full of confidence and vigour. With him was Chatsworth’s doctor, a mere boy just out of training hospital whose only claim to fame had been the bright idea during a wardroom party when the alcohol had run short of introducing crushed benzedrine tablets to the sardine sandwiches with riotous results. The two of them were working together as if they’d been in partnership for years.
Latimer was in considerable pain but no bones seemed to have been broken and, though he’d lost a lot of blood, there seemed a good chance of his being on his feet again quickly. Going round the coughing, groaning men, taking their addresses and promising to write to their families, it was only when he’d finished that Kelly realised that the attacks were still going on and made his way back to the bridge. Verschoyle was sitting calmly on his stool, conning the ship as though he were entering Portsmouth through a regatta. There were a lot of near misses and at times they were so close the bridge was drenched with the spray they threw up.
‘I think we’re just about out of ammunition,’ Verschoyle pointed out.
As darkness came, the bombers gave up, but before dawn the ship came to a stop through lack of fuel fifteen miles short of Alex, and the tug, Ruma, had to tow them in. As they entered harbour, the surrounding ships were crowded with watching men, and as the little Chatsworth, her sides packed with survivors, moved past, followed by Hallamshire, the ships of the Mediterranean Fleet cleared lower decks and cheered them in.
Verschoyle had lent Kelly clothing but, as Verschoyle was six foot two and Kelly was five foot eight, nothing fitted very well. He had to see the C.-in-C., but Cunningham was busy, his thoughts centred on Crete to the exclusion of all else.
‘Anything you’re in need of?’ he asked.
‘Only another ship, sir,’ Kelly said. It was largely bravado.
Cunningham’s staff were also preoccupied because, in addition to watching Crete they were closely following the Atlantic and it was only then that Kelly remembered that Bismarck had escaped through the Denmark Strait and was being sought by half the Home Fleet.
‘Hood’s sunk,’ they told him.
It didn’t seem possible. Hood was a magnificent ship and her yacht-like lines had made her the favourite of the fleet.
‘How?’ he asked.
‘Same as Jutland. Plunging fire. Only three survivors. Went down with ninety-five officers and thirteen hundred men.’
Kelly drew a deep breath. By what stroke of luck had Kelly Rumbelo left Hood to get his commission and join Repulse?
‘What about Bismarck?’
‘Gather they’ve lost her. But they’ve brought in K.G.Five and Repulse now from Orkney.’
Kelly Rumbelo’s move had taken him from Hood and certain death to be aboard one of Hood’s avengers. He could well imagine the mood in the searching ships.
‘They’ve also called out Victorious to search for her with her aircraft. They’re obviously trying to stop her getting back to her base.’
So Hugh was there, too! Forgetting his own distress in his concern, he hoped to God the weather was reasonable because flying over the cold acres of the Atlantic in the murk of a northern storm could only end one way.
Several of Impi’s wounded had died and he had to attend the funerals. He didn’t like funerals. There, were several thousand men floating about the Mediterranean who hadn’t had the benefit of clergy and it didn’t seem to make much difference, but he felt the survivors would appreciate it.
It was a heartbreaking affair with white ensigns and the Last Post and a long liturgy about decomposition which, when he thought about it, seemed nauseating and unnecessary. He had to read the prayer but would much have preferred to have said quite simply ‘These were our comrades and messmates and we commit them to God.’ Instead, he had to deliver a great many words that a lot of the sailors wouldn’t understand, and the dignity seemed to disappear in the meaninglessness. Death in a fighting service was not the emotional business it was in civilian life. Because of discipline, it was often surprisingly well borne by men who otherwise might not have been conspicuously brave, and when it was over you became merely a matter of statistics with ‘DD’ – discharged dead – against your name, and that was that.
Fortunately youth was a help and resilience allowed them to spring upright again after bending to disaster, and perhaps their greatest help was their hatred of the enemy. They couldn’t credit the Germans with humanity and there was not much point in doing so, anyway, because they were fighting for an evil cause.
Three days later he said goodbye to the survivors of Impi and the few who’d arrived from Inca, Impatient and Indian. There seemed remarkably few of them and they were almost unrecognisable in hand-me-down odds and ends of clothing, naval, military and civilian. Rumbelo was among them, his bulk crammed into a jersey and trousers miles too small for him.
‘Keep an eye on things for me, Albert,’ Kelly said. ‘I suppose I shan’t be far behind you.’
It was almost beyond him to make a farewell speech, and as he went along the line, shaking hands, he saw Siggis, still clutching the ship’s cat.
‘This is the third ship I’ve lost, sir,’ he said. ‘One in Norway, one at Dunkirk, and now this one ’ere. After this, I ain’t even ’avin’ a bath without tyin’ meself to the taps.’ He paused and, behind the daft grin on his face, Kelly saw there were tears in his eyes.
‘She was a good ship, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘She–’
‘Don’t you start, Dancer,’ Kelly interrupted quickly. ‘Or you’ll have me at it, and that would never do.’
Even the news that came in the following day that Bismarck had been sunk didn’t help much and, to complete his agony, during the evening a telegram arrived from Biddy.
‘Hugh missing. Flew off Victorious. Not recovered.’
So that was that, and poor little Paddy had never had her wedding. He felt like creeping away into a corner and weeping. Instead, he sought out First Officer Jenner-Neate and got quietly drunk at her flat.