ANOTHER full pattern of depth-charges exploded like distant thunder, but still close enough to shake the submarine from bow to stern. The men at their various stations stared unblinking at the curved hull, their eyes very white in the dimmed lighting.
It had been going on for an hour, even longer when you counted their failed attack on the small, fast convoy.
Standing by the periscope well, Kapitänleutnant Manfred Kleiber shifted his glance from the clock to the depth gauges. There was only one hunter up there now. That same single-screwed engine beat of a corvette, one of the convoy’s escorts. Perhaps they would give up eventually and hurry away to rejoin the others. He watched some of the men nearest to him, those at the hydroplane controls, the helmsman, the navigating officer. Their hair and shoulders were speckled with the cork-filled paint which had fallen like snowflakes from the deckhead during the last onslaught of depth-charges. Their faces were grey, pallid, even in the warm glow of the control room lighting. Dirty clothes; unshaven sunken faces. The Grey Wolves, as one patriotic newspaper had described them.
Those bastards should be here with us, he thought bitterly.
He could guess what most of his men were thinking, that they would soon have to break off the patrol and return to base. It had to be his decision. They had already passed the rendezvous time for the final meeting with a supply submarine. Surely they had not lost yet another one? Kleiber knew all about the new tactics, the hunter-killer groups which searched for U-Boats like professional assassins. Three of his own wolf-pack had failed to make contact, so they must have been destroyed. He thought of the base in France. It was high summer now—green fields, sunshine, good food. No wonder his men looked so desperate. He had addressed all of them when he had received the signal from HQ. The Tommies and their allies had made their first move since North Africa, and had succeeded in launching an invasion into Sicily. Not Greece after all, as his group commander had predicted, but they would be driven off or captured. Just like Crete.
His lip curled with contempt. What did he know? The allies were not only still there, but all resistance had ceased. Italy next—it had to be. The Italians had always been the weak link. Despite their outward belief in Fascism, they had proved to be jackals, an army that ran rather than fought to the death.
He saw the hydrophone operator’s quick glance, and gave his orders: increase the depth by thirty metres, alter course ninety degrees yet again.
Kleiber was too experienced to need a headset. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the corvette’s screw was like an express train. She had turned and was coming on another sweep.
Someone tip-toed through an emergency door, a rag covering his mouth and nose. Kleiber thought of the man who had died, after being hit by a piece of shell splinter on that other occasion when they had approached a convoy on the surface, working into a suitable position to attack. It had been a random shot from an escort, a ship they had not even seen. Just bad luck, for him. With the aid of a medical handbook Kleiber had amputated the man’s arm himself when gangrene with its disgusting stench had pervaded the whole boat. He had died under drugs without knowing anything about it. His comrades had been sorry for him; he had been a popular crewman. Now, without exception, they had come to hate him, waiting only to rid themselves of the corpse and its constant reminder of death.
The hull shook wildly as another full pattern roared down. Several lights shattered, and a man cried out, his face cut by flying glass.
The corvette’s engine faded again, but the hydrophone operator shook his head. The enemy commander was slowing down—a listening game, or perhaps pausing to await more support.
How much could the hull stand? Kleiber could feel them watching him. Looking for hope, despair, weakness.
He moved to the chart table and studied the pencilled parallelogram which showed the extent of the milchküh operational zone. It was no use. She must have gone down. With aircraft more and more in evidence across the once-safe area, they were prime targets, too big and too vulnerable to escape a sudden attack.
All at once, he was desperate to leave; to get back to base, to find out what was happening. Some of his fellow U-Boat commanders had been in the Mediterranean and had been employed against the supply train for the Allied invasion. He thought bitterly of the last brief letter he had received from his brother in Russia. He was a fool to write as he did; if his letter had been opened he might have been punished for defeatist talk. But in it he had described the appalling food and shortages of medical supplies, ammunition and just about everything on the Russian front. Kleiber tried not to think of what the enemy troops would be eating and drinking in Sicily. He had boarded British supply vessels before sinking them, in the rosier times, and knew well enough how well they lived. He made up his mind. He would tell his men, it would raise their spirits to head for base. A man could survive these conditions for just so long. The alternative could not even be entertained.
But first … He gave his orders without even raising his voice. He was not being callous; and if he was, it was the Atlantic’s responsibility. There were two torpedoes left, and with only three hits and no definite kills throughout the whole patrol, Kleiber had felt disillusioned and frustrated by the latest setback of the supply-boat.
He heard the thud of watertight doors closing and could picture his men peering at one another as each door opened and shut on their private, sealed compartments. How would the dead man’s relatives behave if they knew the last move he would make for the Fatherland?
The corvette was on the move again, her engine’s thrashing beat fading as she prepared for a change of bearing, which at any time might bring her detection gear tapping at the submerged hull like a blind man’s stick. A light flickered on the control panel. It was ready. The corpse was in an empty torpedo tube complete with any litter which the seamen had been able to gather. The engineer officer would supply some oil, but not much. Without the supply-boat it would be a long, painful haul back to France.
She was coming in to the attack; the loud cracks against the hull were the worst so far. She must have got a contact.
He snapped his order and saw the light flicker as the tube disgorged its contents into the sea. Kleiber could feel cold sweat beneath the rim of his soiled white cap. Like ice rime while he counted seconds and imagined the spread-eagled corpse, dressed in proper waterproof clothing, floating up to the sunshine, surrounded with odds and ends from the rubbish bins, and a quick discharge of oil. He felt his mouth tightening with the insane desire to laugh. It was to be hoped the Tommies didn’t notice that their “volunteer” had only one arm! Then he controlled his thoughts with cold determination; such hysteria was dangerous, destructive.
They were staring at the hull again, listening; straining every muscle for a sign.
Very slowly and carefully Kleiber brought his command round in a wide arc, the motors so reduced they were barely audible.
Round and further still, until the hydrophone operator reported that the corvette was stopping, and then that all hydrophone effects had ceased. Kleiber frowned, gauging where the sun would be when he went to periscope depth. He could see it all as if he were there. A boat being lowered to gather the evidence of a kill. If anything went wrong now the enemy commander would have no more doubts—he would know there was a submarine here. He might even have called for air support.
Kleiber nodded to his first officer and bent right down almost to his knees as the air was forced into the ballast tanks, the hydroplanes moving like fins to make the boat’s movements slow and stealthy. At forty metres Kleiber ordered the attack periscope to be raised again, so slowly that he could hear the mechanic’s rough breathing as he controlled it.
Faint green light, then purplish-blue as the lens cut above the surface. Kleiber saw the motionless corvette framed in the crosswires, her boat probably lowered on the opposite side to retrieve the grisly evidence of their “kill.”
Kleiber did not linger long. Just enough to note the corvette’s number: HMS Malva. Probably of all the warships in the Atlantic these stocky little vessels had been the U-Boat’s greatest enemy.
The hull jerked twice and the periscope hissed down into its well as the boat gathered speed and swung away, the water roaring into her tanks again to carry her down deep.
A petty officer by the plot pressed his stop-watch and gasped as the exploding torpedoes threw the hull over, the sound sighing across and past them to be lost in the vastness of the ocean.
Moments later they heard the grinding echo of tearing steel, as the corvette began to break up on her way to the bottom.
Kleiber walked to the chart, shutting his ears to the crazed cheers and insane laughter which passed through the U-Boat like echoes from Bedlam. If the grand admiral ordered him to attack escorts as a priority, that he would do without question.
He must stop thinking of his brother and his starving comrades in Russia, and of the richly loaded food ships which he might lose because of this new instruction.
Above them, and falling further and further astern, the corvette’s survivors floated in their life-jackets or struggled through the oil slick in search of a raft or some piece of wood to keep them afloat. There had been no time to make a distress signal; no time for anything; and most if not all of these men would die before anyone came to search for them.
Among the gasping, struggling survivors, the dead German floated indifferently, unaware of what he had done, without even the satisfaction of revenge. In the Atlantic there was no such luxury.
The main operations room at Liverpool seemed even busier than usual. Second Officer Celia Lanyon shared a desk with her roommate, Evelyn Major, and together they were sorting through the latest signals which had been gathered by the SDO along another corridor in the citadel.
It was late afternoon, in the month of September, and all day the place had been buzzing with the news of the follow-up to the invasion of the Italian mainland. Wherever possible the Italians were throwing down their arms, offering their services to the allies, when earlier they had been sworn enemies. The complete collapse of Germany’s strongest partner had been settled when the Italian flagship had led the main part of their fleet under the guns of Malta, that bombed and battered island which had once been one of Mussolini’s hoped-for prizes.
Every day they had expected a reverse, another of the disappointments which had been their lot in the past years. But apart from the arrival of early rain in southern Italy, which had clogged down the movement of tanks and supplies, there was no sign of impending difficulty. There had been losses on the beaches when the Allied armies had first stormed ashore, while at sea the covering warships and bombardment squadron had been introduced to Germany’s latest secret weapon: a glider-bomb which could be directed on to a floating target, and which had brought fresh problems to the fleet’s gunnery officers. The flagship Warspite had been hit, and several major warships, including the US cruiser Savannah, had suffered heavy damage and casualties.
But down here in operations, despite the heartening news from the Mediterranean, defeat and victory remained strangely remote, like the city overhead. At this particular moment two major convoys were at sea, an eastbound and a westbound, which should be passing overnight some ninety miles apart.
The eastbound convoy was from Halifax, and included two large troopships as well as several freighters carrying vehicles and crated aircraft. As Celia checked the columns of names against the duty operations officer’s list she thought of Gladiator, somewhere out there with the escort group under Captain Vickers’s control. She had met Howard only three times since he had taken her back to the billet from the hotel—the group had been operating for much of the time from Iceland, to make certain that the flow of troopships reached port unscathed.
She remembered so clearly the moment when she had seen the two ships marked as lost on the plot. Mediator, and the one commanded by his friend, Ganymede. Just fifty survivors between them. It had torn at her heart like claws when he had told her. Even that he had been reluctant to do. As if he wanted to shield her from the true horror of the life they were sharing.
The enemy attacks on escort vessels were not coincidental; other ships had been mauled both by submarines and aircraft, with several new crosses on the plot to give grim evidence of this new phase of war.
The duty operations officer sauntered over to their table and nodded. “Take a break. I have a feeling things will hot up shortly. The boss is here already, usually a bad omen.”
The tiny room where the officers could have tea or relax with a smoke was almost humid—the summer had been a long one.
Evelyn brought two cups of tea and one spoon. “All there are left.” She sat down untidily and thrust out her legs like a man.
Celia thought of the way he had held her, how she had realised he had wanted her so desperately. She did not know, could not tell …
She looked up, startled, as the other Wren said, “Auntie time, old chap. Isn’t it about the right moment to spill the beans? If you don’t, you’ll drive yourself crazy. You’ve lost weight—something you never needed, not like me!” She became serious again. “What does he think?”
Perhaps she was right. That it might help to talk. “He loves me.” It sounded so empty that she said, “Really loves me. God knows, I’m bad luck—I told him that too.” She stood up suddenly and walked across the room. “I’m afraid. I want him to love me.”
“And you think that you might not be able to give it in return? That he’ll be hurt, get tired of waiting, something like that?”
She sat down again and gave a small smile. “Very like that.”
“I think I know you pretty well, Celia. I know you’re not the type to leap into bed with anyone you take a fancy to, and from what you’ve told me he certainly doesn’t sound the type either. Otherwise you’d never have opened up to him about what happened with Jamie.”
Celia sighed. “I do seem to tell you rather a lot, don’t I?”
“Not much else to do up here.” She watched her warily. “I have a cousin who’s got a cottage up in the Lake District. I could easily fix it, next time you can both snatch some leave.”
Celia stared at her. “What, a secret place, you mean? Just like that? A little black nightie and some perfume?”
Evelyn smiled. “Has he ever suggested anything of the kind?”
Celia said nothing. Howard had told her about the girl he had once known, and, she suspected, had loved. He had just received his first command and had gone straight into the thick of it when, she guessed, he had won his DSC. The girl had not waited for him, and Celia wondered how it had affected him. She had been shocked when they had last met in that same shabby restaurant before he had sailed again for Iceland. He had seemed empty, utterly drained; even the news of his proposed DSO had had no effect.
“I would give myself to him tomorrow if I thought it would help. Give him something to—to hold on to.” She hesitated, remembering what he had said. Can’t you see, girl? I’m in love with you! “I wouldn’t want to with anyone else.”
Evelyn said kindly, in her brisk, no-nonsense manner, “Sounds suspiciously like love to me, Celia.”
She barely heard, remembering the flecks of grey in his hair, the lines at his mouth; the way he clung to her hand, like a lifeline.
“What shall I say? What must I do?”
They returned to the desk and she saw the chief of staff’s assistant in deep conference with the other heads of department.
A Wren petty officer with a coder’s badge on her sleeve bent down by their desk.
“The eastbound’s in a spot of bother, ma’am. Their escort carrier has engine trouble and will return to Halifax. The westbound has another carrier, the Seeker—she will supply air cover from tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” Evelyn leafed expertly through her file and then handed the relevant flimsy to a messenger. Between her teeth she said, “The carrier breakdown has delayed our eastbound.” She squinted at the plot. Almost too casually she added, “The thirty-second escort group has been redirected. Two hundred miles. Should be all right according to the Met report.”
Celia watched the little counters appear for the first time: Captain Vickers’s Kinsale, and then some twenty miles distant, the half-leader, H-38. There was a gap this time. Poor Ganymede.
And so it went on. Signals in and out, senior officers speaking to their various subordinates. The Wrens up and down the ladders, moving ships, marking some losses in a coastal convoy, with the RAF Coastal Command people listening to the latest Met reports, the availability of their new long-range aircraft from Northern Ireland, Iceland and Newfoundland.
The duty operations officer, an RNVR lieutenant-commander, said, “One of the additional escorts has made a distress signal, sir.”
The assistant to the chief of staff folded his arms while the others around him poised themselves as they had done so many times.
Captain Naish stared hard at the plot. “Make a signal to the thirty-second group—Captain Vickers will act on this. He must be the closest.” He waited for the telephones to click into action. “How bad is it?”
“One torpedo, sir. Down by the bows. Requires assistance.”
“With this convoy coming through I can’t spare any other escorts, Tim. The half-leader will be the most available—ask Vickers to detach Gladiator. She was the last to refuel.”
A door opened and without looking the girl knew it was the boss.
He asked, “Which escort?”
“The corvette Tacitus, sir. Lieutenant-Commander Marrack.”
“Keep me informed.” The door closed again.
The two Wren officers looked at each other and Celia said quietly, “Why can’t they send someone else?”
Evelyn watched her unhappily, not understanding.
She said, “He’s often spoken of Marrack. They were friends too.” She pushed her knuckles into her mouth and then said in a small voice, “Don’t you see? After Ganymede and everything else …” She could not go on.
“I do see.” Evelyn stared at the plot but saw only the little marker, where a solitary escort lay at the mercy of the sea and the enemy. Gladiator would be on her way by now, and should reach the torpedoed vessel by dawn. Marrack’s ship must have helped escort the carrier to safety and been trying to return to the convoy. She glanced at the two RAF officers. But there should be long-range air cover, even at that distance, when daylight found them.
Beside her Celia took the latest pad of signals from a messenger and waited for her vision to clear.
To herself she whispered, Oh, David, I do love you so.
The duty officer rapped out more figures and the ladders began to move again. “To commodore. There are now twenty-plus U-Boats in your vicinity.”
Naish patted his pockets but had forgotten his cigarettes. He pictured his tall friend directing his killer-group to the east-bound convoy: D’you Ken John Peel? It was very apt. His glance fell on the latest female addition to the ops room. Rear-Admiral Lanyon’s daughter. She would be a real catch for some lucky chap. But she looked strained and pale, and he suddenly remembered a rumour he had picked up at the club. As she stared at the small isolated counter, H-38, Captain Naish knew that it was no longer just a rumour.
Howard slid open the chart-room door and stared at Treherne and Rooke, who were busy with their calculations. It was all but dark beyond the ship, with thick cloud and the hint of rain. He should never have allowed himself to lie down in his sea cabin; it was always worse this way, the sudden shrill of the telephone, all his instincts forcing sleep and escape into the background.
“No further signals, Number One?”
“None, sir.” Treherne watched him, saw the battle Howard was already fighting.
Howard looked at Rooke. “Well, come on, man, I’m not a bloody mind-reader!”
Rooke pointed with his dividers. “Twenty-five degrees west, fifty-five north, sir.”
“I’m going up top.” Howard fastened his duffle coat, the one he had once offered to Treherne. “By the time I get there I want the course-to-steer, and the ETA. I shall have a word with the Chief.”
He pulled the door behind him and for just a few moments stood with his back against the damp steel while he calmed his breathing.
On the other side of the door Treherne said quietly, “Take it off your back, Pilot. He didn’t mean to bite your head off. Tacitus’s skipper used to be Number One here. A pal of his.” He smiled sadly. “One of the family, so to speak.”
Rooke sighed. “In that case …”
Treherne made for the door. “In that case, get it right!”
On the upper bridge Howard replaced the engine-room telephone and listened to the regular beat of engines.
He heard Rooke and Treherne speaking by the ready-use chart table, transferring the calculations which the navigator had just completed.
Rooke said, “Course-to-steer is two-four-five, sir.”
Howard glanced at Treherne’s shaggy silhouette. “Bring her round. Revs for twenty knots. With the sea fairly calm, we shouldn’t shake about too much, but better warn the watch below.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” They would be having their supper when Gladiator worked up to that sort of speed, big, sickening swoops across the unbroken swell. It was to be hoped the PO chef had not produced anything too greasy.
He heard Rooke say carefully, “Estimated time of arrival will be six o’clock onwards, sir. Daylight if the visibility’s good.”
“Right.” Howard could sense Rooke’s resentment, but it did not seem to matter. Once he would have apologised instantly for unfairly berating a subordinate. Those days had gone somewhere out here in the Atlantic. Tomorrow there might be air cover, or there might not. Two large convoys passing, vital supplies, and more troops to extend the victories in Italy, and elsewhere.
But at this moment there were only two ships he cared about, and Marrack would be desperate. His first command. What he had always wanted. Even the corvette’s reported position was too vague for complete accuracy. There was never enough time when hell burst in on you.
He watched the sea creaming away from either bow, the spray starting to drift over the bridge or beat against the glass screen. Lucky they had been the last to take on fuel from a fleet tanker; otherwise, someone else would be heading for that tiny pencilled cross down to southwest-by-south. The telephone in his sea cabin had torn him from another terrible dream. He had been helplessly watching her being raped by the man in the flying-suit; holding her down and laughing, laughing.
Treherne rejoined him. “No more from W/T, sir. Keeping the air clear for the strategists.” He said it without bitterness, but Howard could feel the hurt he was sharing with him.
Treherne said unexpectedly, “Had a bit of good news when we were in last, sir. My girl’s husband got himself killed.” He chuckled in the darkness. “He was pissed apparently, and got run over by an armoured car!”
They both laughed like schoolboys, and then Howard stared at him, knowing they were both going quite mad; there was no other explanation. “Are you going to get married now?”
“Not sure, sir. My old lady walked out on me. I shall have to look into the legal thing when I get a chance.” He added sharply, “If that bastard had laid a hand on her again, I would have done him in myself!”
Howard thought of what he had said to the girl in the restaurant. “It must be catching.”
He leaned his head on his arms and felt the desire to sleep clouding his mind. But he knew that if he did, the terrible dream would be waiting to mock and torment him.
Instead he said, “See if you can rustle up something hot to drink. It’s going to be a long night.”
Howard buttoned up the collar of his oilskin as the rain slashed diagonally across the open bridge. It was heavy and surprisingly cold, a reminder, if anyone should need it, that autumn and winter came early to the Western Ocean. The lookouts were changed yet again to prevent them becoming dulled by the regular plunging motion, when they might miss something. The monotonous ping of the Asdic, the occasional shuffle of feet from the crew of B-gun below the bridge, all told of nervous readiness. If there was a battle going on in one or other of the big convoys, it was too far away to concern them. Everybody in Gladiator’s company would also be aware that they were drawing further and further from aid with each swing of the propellers.
Howard peered through the screen and saw the sea surging alongside. Beyond the curling bow-wave there was just the merest glimpse of the nearest troughs, riding past like heaving black oil.
Treherne was beside him again, trying to make sure he had forgotten nothing.
Howard said, “We shall stay at defence stations, Number One, but I want both watches on deck, the hull sealed like a sardine tin. I’ve told Guns that he is excused watch-keeping—I want his control position manned and ready in case we need a starshell or something more lethal. He also knows that the short-range weapons will remain closed-up.” He mopped his face with a towel, but that was already sodden. “This will play hell with visibility.”
“I’ve warned radar and Asdic, sir.” Treherne hesitated, unwilling to say it. “We must expect the worst to have happened, sir.”
“Yes.” He sounded very quiet, his voice almost lost in the surge and spray of the old enemy. “I realise that. But Marrack won’t use his W/T any more. If there’s still a U-Boat about, and we have to face that, it might pick up his signals.”
He heard the midshipman burst into a fit of nervous coughing. It often happened, and had got worse since the loss of Ganymede and Mediator. He had spoken to Moffatt about it, and the doctor had said angrily, “I’ll have a word if you like, sir. Some fool at the hospital must have been deaf and blind to send a kid like him back to sea so soon after losing his ship—he’s a nervous wreck.”
Howard called across the bridge. “Come here, Mid!”
Ross felt his way over the slippery decking and waited, mute in the darkness.
“I need all my most experienced officers up here. I’ve sent Mister Ayres down aft with the Buffer’s party. You go and assist.” He looked away, thinking of the corvette. If the weather worsened they might not even find her unless they got help from a recce aircraft. “And, Ross—I think you should have advice ashore. You’ve had a bad time.”
Treherne popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth and marvelled that Howard could adjust his mind to something so obscure.
The midshipman seemed to shake his head. “I’d rather not, sir.” When Howard said nothing he added tightly, “You know what they’ll say, sir. They’ll probably discharge me.”
Howard could feel his desperation. They probably would too, he thought. It’ll be my turn if I’m not careful.
“All right. We’ll see. Now you go and help Ayres.”
He listened to him groping down the ladder, his coughs beginning again. How old was he—eighteen? He was like one of the Great War people Howard had seen as a child. Still shell-shocked, reliving the hell which Mister Mills had sometimes described.
He wondered how the rebuilding of the house in Hampshire was progressing. It would give Mister Mills something to supervise; an occupation he badly needed now that the Guvnor had gone.
Howard’s brother had wanted nothing to do with it. He already had a home of his own, although God alone knew how he was paying for such a grand place. But his wife Lilian had money, and knew exactly what she wanted for Robert and her own future.
Rain dashed over his oilskin and made his face feel raw. Future—how could anyone know?
“Time?”
Rooke called out, “Five-thirty, sir.” He sounded unhappy, as if wondering whether he would be blamed if they failed to make contact.
Treherne picked his teeth free of chocolate. He usually saved his nutty ration for Joyce, but just this once he needed the energy they said it gave you. Joyce … She had been good about the telegram from the War Office. It had been followed by a letter from her husband’s CO. He must have been drunk when he’d written it, he thought. It had made the man’s death sound like a national disaster.
He said, “Should get a bit brighter soon.”
“Convince me.”
Treherne tightened his collar but felt the rain running down his spine. “Well, it says …”
“Radar-Bridge!”
“Forebridge?”
“Getting a faint effect at two-six-zero, about twelve thousand yards.” He fell silent as if, unheard, he were swearing to himself. “Sorry, sir. Thought I’d lost it again.”
Treherne was peering at the radar-repeater. “Nothing.”
Howard asked, “What do you think, Lyons?” He was passing the buck, but he knew the man well. Someone who would appreciate the trust.
“Small vessel, sir. Appears to be stationary.”
Howard turned away, his blood suddenly tingling. “Found him!” He walked to the compass. “Starboard ten—Midships—Steady!”
“Steady, sir.” Sweeney was there without being called. “On two-six-six.”
“Steer two-six-zero.” He groped for the engine-room handset.
“Chief? This is the captain.” He stared at the darkness but saw Evan Price vividly in his mind’s eye, down below the waterline with his racing machinery and steamy, tropical warmth. “I think we’ve found her. But I want you to reduce to half-speed. Full revs or dead stop if I say so, right?”
He thought he heard Price chuckle. “Isn’t that what the bridge always wants, sir?”
Treherne watched him moving restlessly this way and that, and heard him say, “Tell Guns what’s happening.”
There was something unusual about him. An edginess which, if he felt it, he always managed to conceal. Except that once. Treherne wiped his binoculars; that memory always touched him. Like sharing something very private.
Bizley climbed into the bridge. “Sir?”
Howard did not turn. “Yes. I want you here, with me. Take over the con. Pilot will fill you in.”
Howard turned towards Treherne, and was surprised that he could suddenly see his bearded face and the battered cap he always wore on watch. A different badge now, but Howard knew it was one of his old company caps. A talisman maybe.
“Daylight, at last!”
It was little more than a grey blur, beyond which the sea and horizon were still one.
Howard said, “I wonder if their radar is still working?”
Treherne said nothing. The blip on the radar might be something else. Or they might all be dead.
Sub-Lieutenant Rooke offered, “I served in her class of corvettes, sir. The radar was always very reliable.”
“Thanks.” Howard laid out his busy thoughts. It could have been destroyed in the explosion. Anything might have happened.
Treherne tugged his beard as the radar operator reported no change, other than the range had fallen to ten thousand yards.
Howard said, “Slow ahead together.” The motion seemed to become more violent immediately, loose equipment and metal mugs adding to the clatter of ship noises.
“Revolutions seven-zero, sir.”
Treherne remarked, “We could fire a rocket, sir. We’d know for sure then.” Why were they slowing down? Prolonging the uncertainty, even the risk, if there were some survivors up there, five miles beyond the dark arrowhead of Gladiator’s bows …
Howard faced him and Treherne was stunned by the intensity of his stare. “What is it, sir? Can I do something?”
Howard brushed against a stiff-backed lookout as he pulled Treherne to the port corner. “You’ll think me mad, Gordon.”
Treherne waited, holding his breath. He had noticed that Howard had often called him by his first name, even on the bridge in front of the others. It had pleased him, until now. Something was badly wrong.
“Tell me, sir.”
Howard lowered his voice, feeling his stomach contract to the savage motion. Or was it just that? “I think there’s a bloody U-Boat up there.”
Treherne felt the water on his spine change to ice. He was afraid to speak.
“It’ll be submerged, otherwise Lyons would have picked it up by now.” His mind switched like lightning. “Tell Asdic to cease tracking.”
He removed his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair. What is the matter with me?
Or was it some kind of instinct, living so long with this danger that he could sense the submarine, lying there like a shark, waiting for any rescuer who was coming to the corvette’s assistance? To make the score two instead of one.
“Tell Ayres to prepare a full pattern, Number One.” His voice was clipped and formal again. “Squid too.” He added with sudden vehemence, “I’m going to get that bastard!”
A signalman whispered to his yeoman, “What bastard, Yeo?”
“Christ if I know, my son.”
The gunnery speaker squeaked into life. “No target, sir.”
Radar next. “Range now eight thousand yards, sir.”
“Ship, sir! Starboard bow!”
The light was spreading through the thick clouds to light up the sea’s face in small glittering patches. Howard steadied his elbows on the wet steel and moved his glasses very slowly across the bearing.
Treherne said hoarsely, “Corvette! It’s her all right!”
Howard held his glasses with care as he examined the tiny picture, which grew and faded as the clouds bellied above it.
Her bows were very low in the water, and it was a wonder the bulkheads had not collapsed altogether. There was no smoke, just a barely perceptible roll as she drifted through the troughs.
Treherne asked quietly, “What d’you reckon now, sir?”
“They must have sighted us.” He could see it in his mind. The despair giving way to hope. Alone no more. And a ship they would know well coming to the rescue. Howard shook his head as if he were arguing with someone visible only to himself.
“Call her up, Yeoman. Make our number.”
Bizley said sulkily, “They must be blind!” He was suddenly remembering the sharpness of Marrack’s tongue.
The light clattered noisily while everyone on the bridge peered at the little ship’s dark outline, afraid they might miss something.
The yeoman of signals licked his lips and said, “At last!” He watched the slow blink of Tacitus’s lamp then exclaimed, “Contact at three-three-zero!” He swallowed hard and stared at Howard. “Then, God bless you!”
Howard flung himself forward. “Full ahead together! Starboard fifteen! Steer three-one-zero!” He glanced at Treherne as the bells rang like mad things. “Start the attack! Get on to Asdic and tell him—” The roar of the explosion was deafening, and as Howard jumped on to a grating to clear his vision he saw the cascades of water still falling like an unwilling curtain, the sea’s dark face pockmarked with a thousand falling fragments.
“Asdic reports, no contact, sir.”
“Tell them to keep searching!” He felt the sea roaring past the hull, but all he could see was the widening whirlpool of oil and other flotsam. Marrack had known the U-Boat was there, and had tried to warn him, even though he had known the price. God bless you. It was like hearing his voice.
Gladiator made two extensive sweeps but there was no contact. The U-Boat commander might have used a stern-tube for the final shot; either way there was nothing. When they returned to the place where Marrack’s command had gone down they found only two survivors. Marrack would have had all his people on deck, gathered well away from the submerged bow section. It was not war. It was cold-blooded murder. A broken ship, like a tethered goat waiting for the tiger.
At noon a huge, four-engined Liberator found them and carried on with the search. There was no result.
Howard climbed into his chair as his ship began to reduce speed. It was one thing to die; another entirely to make the gesture which Marrack had known was taking away his company’s last chance of survival. But for it, Gladiator would be down there with them.
He began to shake very badly and found he was helpless to prevent it.
Treherne moved beside him as the doctor appeared on the bridge. “Well?” He saw Moffatt glance at the captain but shook his head angrily. “Leave it, Doc!”
Moffatt stared out at the brightening sea. “One survivor was a signalman. Just a kid.”
Treherne glanced at their own signalmen, shocked and still looking at each other like strangers. “Aren’t they all?” he said savagely.
Howard seemed to rise from his own despair. “A signalman? Did he say anything?” He would have been there on Marrack’s bridge. The bunting-tossers, as they were nicknamed, saw everything.
Moffatt replied, “They were trying to get back to the convoy after seeing the damaged escort carrier into safety. Then after the explosion the U-Boat surfaced and opened fire with her deck gun. The corvette lost her W/T, and was barely able to stay afloat. The Germans must have realised or detected the SOS … they just stood off and waited. There were a lot of injured men after the first torpedo. Now they’re all gone.”
Howard asked, “What else did he say?” He knew there was more.
Moffatt sighed. “When he saw your signal the captain called out, ‘My old ship. I knew it would be her!’” He watched Howard as if uncertain whether or not to continue. “Then he told the signalman to reply to you—the senior one was wounded. Then he said, ‘I’ve done for the lot of us.’ There might have been more, but the lad doesn’t remember—he was in the sea being sucked down when he came to. Didn’t even recall the explosion.”
Treherne remarked, “It’s often like that, Doc.” It was just something to say to break the tension.
Howard said, “Course and speed to rejoin the group.” He twisted round in his chair and said, “It’s all right, Doc, I’m not ready for the men in white coats yet.” He strained his eyes, but there was nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.
“Write this down, Yeoman, and pass it to W/T. To Admiralty, repeated C-in-C Western Approaches. Tacitus sunk by second torpedo. No contact. Two survivors. Get their names before you send it.”
Moffatt said dully, “Just the one, Yeoman. The second man died.”
He heard Rooke speak into the voicepipe. “Steer zero-nine-zero. Revolutions one-one-zero.”
Then Sweeney’s thick voice. “One-one-zero revs replied, sir.”
Howard watched the great curving wake as Gladiator came under command on her new course.
When he looked again Moffatt had gone. He said, “Get the people fed, will you, Gordon. Go round the ship yourself. You know what to do.”
Treherne was about to leave but something made him return to the tall chair.
Howard stared at him, and there were real tears in his eyes as he said in a whisper, “ ‘I’ve done for the lot of us.’ What a bloody way to be remembered, eh?”
Treherne touched his oilskin and said roughly, “Well, you damned well saved all of us—and begging your pardon, sir, don’t you ever bloody well forget it!”
Howard nodded very slowly. “Thanks.” He studied him for several seconds, as if he were looking for something and, perhaps, finding it. Then he said, “I’ll speak to the lads over the tannoy presently.” He stared emptily at the ocean. “But now I need to …”
“I know.” Treherne backed away. He had never spoken like that to any captain. He could not get over it. Like that other time—Howard had known. Most skippers would have gone charging to the rescue, eyes for nothing but the torpedoed ship. It might have been too late for all of them. To Bizley he said harshly, “See that the Old Man’s not disturbed, right?”
The lieutenant looked at him blandly. “Something wrong, Number One?”
Treherne glanced at the oilskinned figure leaning against the side and dropped his voice. “Just remember, laddie, but for him you’d have had your arse blown off just now.” He saw the sudden fear in Bizley’s eyes. “So shove that in your pipe and smoke it!”
Surgeon-Lieutenant Moffatt was seated comfortably in the wardroom that evening when Treherne entered, shaking water off his clothing like a great dog. “I was thinking about our midshipman, Number One. He might beat this thing yet without being put ashore.” He looked up from an old magazine. “What’s wrong?”
“You can forget about Midshipman Ross, Doc.” He glared at the pantry hatch. “Could I use a bloody drink just now? Trouble is, I don’t think I’d stop, and it’s still three days to the Liverpool Bar.” He sat down heavily. “I’ve been all over the ship, Doc. He’s not aboard.” He saw the shocked surprise on Moffatt’s face. “No point in going back to look for him. Anyway, we’re ordered to rejoin the group at first light.”
“Have you told the Captain?”
“I’m about to.” He stared at the deckhead as if he could see the bridge from here. “That’s just about all he needs!”
“Why did he do it? Suicide?” Moffatt’s mind was rushing through the medical books. “Afraid of fighting it?”
The sea broke over the quarterdeck and sluiced away across the opposite side in a noisy torrent.
“Hear it, Doc? He lost the will to fight that anymore!” He slammed out of the wardroom and thought suddenly of Howard’s words. What a bloody way to be remembered.
Next of kin have been informed.