A Mighty Endeavor (52 page)

It was too late. In the brief seconds
Mohawk
had been illuminated, an Italian destroyer seized the opportunity to fire her torpedoes. One hit
Mohawk
directly under the forward gun mounts; the second in the aft machinery spaces. Columns of water blew skywards, enveloping the ship.
Mohawk
was finished. Collins knew that; no destroyer built could take two well-placed torpedoes. She was already coming to a halt and settling fast; her crew going over the side in a hurried ‘abandon ship’.

Collins swung his attention back to the light cruiser being hammered by his six-inch guns. She was already silenced and listing rapidly; a floating wreck being left behind as the Commonwealth ships pushed through the Italian screen to the merchant ships beyond. The flares of the six-inch shells hitting her were suddenly swamped by a series of massive explosions, as
Warspite
brought her 15-inch guns to bear. Then those blasts too were dwarfed; the Italian cruiser’s magazines exploded.

Bridge, HMS
Nubian

“We can worry about picking up survivors later.”

Nubian
and
Mohawk
had been flotilla mates for a long time, and the crews of the big Tribal class destroyers tended to stick closely together. Leaving the crew of
Mohawk
behind came hard. Commander Mason tore his eyes away from the sinking wreck of
Nubian’s
sister-ship and stared into the darkness. The brilliant displays of starshell and searchlights, combined with the angry glare of shells and heavy gunfire, had effectively destroyed his night vision. Even so, the patch of darkness ahead of him seemed a bit more solid than the rest. When the darkness resolved itself into the shape of an Italian destroyer, Mason realized what had happened.

The destroyer saw
Mohawk
illuminated and fired her torpedoes. Then, she sheered away in an effort to clear the launch point. A sound and sensible maneuver. She couldn’t turn one way because that would bring her into
Sydney’s
arc of fire so she went the other and that put her right across my bows.

“Stand by for collision. Brace for impact!” Mason only just managed to get the order out.
Nubian
slammed into the center-section of the Italian destroyer, just aft of the single ftinnel. For a brief second. Mason saw the letters FG painted on the destroyer’s bows, identifying her as the
Folgore.
Then the sight was masked out as
Nubian’s
bows rose over the Italian ship.
Folgore
seemed to be writhing under the impact, reminding Mason of a snake being crushed under a boot. Then
Nubian
slammed down; the Italian destroyer’s back snapped under the stress.
Nubian’s
momentum carried her forward, completing the job of cutting
Folgore
in half.
Folgore’s
own momentum carried her onwards, twisting
Nubian’s
bows to one side. There was a scream of tortured steel as
Nubian’s
bows detached. Then silence. Both destroyers were dead in the water.
Folgore
was already sinking fast. The crew aboard the larger and more toughly-built
Nubian
swarmed into the ruined bows, trying to reinforce shattered bulkheads and staunch the floods pouring in through the riven forward hull.

Bridge, HMAS
Sydney

“We’re through.”

Collins looked at the situation plot with unalloyed pleasure. The chaos of the night battle was falling behind.
Warspite, Neptune
and
Orion,
plus the two remaining British destroyers, slugged it out with what was left of the Italian escort.
Sydney
and
Perth,
along with five Australian destroyers, were past that battle and racing towards the merchant ships, who were undoubtedly scattering. The task left was simple; hunting the merchant ships down, one by one, and sinking them.

This isn’t a battle; this will be an execution,
Collins thought. He wished, for a moment, he and his ships were back in the fight with the escort, facing a real enemy that could defend itself.

“Captain,
Waterhen
reports she has sighted one of the merchant ships and is firing torpedoes.” There was no need to report a location; off to port, torpedoes exploded against a darkened hull. “And a message from
Warspite,
sir. The enemy transports are to the west and south of us and we are to form our movements accordingly.”

And so it starts.
Collins thought grimly.
Twenty-plus defenseless merchant ships loaded with men and supplies being hunted down by two cruisers and five destroyers. This will be bloody.
Then he glanced down just in time to see the chronometer click past midnight and in to the next day.

“Merry Christmas, everybody.”

David Newton’s Home, Mansfield Lane, Calverton, United Kingdom

“Rachael, could you come into the kitchen for a moment please?”

May Newton stuck her head around the kitchen door, smiling to herself when she saw her son’s guest hastily move a little further away from him. The two women went into the kitchen where the smell of dinner cooking dominated everything else. “I just wanted to show you what we have for Christmas dinner in case there’s anything that will cause you problems. We’ve got vegetable soup to start off with, followed by a chicken with vegetables from Ernie’s allotment and the nearest we could get to a Christmas pudding. I made sure there’s no pork in anything, but I didn’t know what else to look out for. We’ve never had a Jew in the house before.”

“That sounds delicious. You got a chicken? In spite of rationing?” Rachael was impressed.

“Ernie got a load of brussel sprouts and potatoes from his allotment, so we traded them for a chicken. There’s a lot of trading like that going on in small villages like this. Black market, some people call it. We just say we’re going down to the corner. Oh, there’s stuffing for the chicken as well. Bread mixed with onions and chopped-up carrots.” May Newton had left the sausage out of the stuffing in deference to her guest’s religion.

“Could I help you out here?” Rachael was aware that her status as a guest was causing a burden on these people, but she’d been unable to go back down to her parents in London and didn’t want to spend the holiday alone in Nottingham. David Newton’s invitation to come for Christmas dinner had been a blessing in more ways than one.

“If you could help me carry out, that would be wonderful. Mind your dress, though; who knows when clothes will come off the ration.”

The chicken worked out perfectly. David Newton and his father had a leg each, while Rachael and May Newton shared the wings and breast. The bird may have ‘come off the ration,’ but the attitudes generated by rationing and shortages still applied. The chicken was picked clean. Halfway through the meal, Ernie Newton asked a question his son had been quietly dreading.

“Decided who to vote for if there’s another election, Rachael?”

David knew that Rachael was either a communist or a very radical socialist. His father was a local Conservative councillor. He could see the prospect for a major argument looming, but Rachael just shook her head sadly.

“I could never vote for That Man, after what he did.”

“Aye, there’s a lot around here who think that way. Farmers are conservative folk but they can’t stomach what That Man did. There’ll be many voting Liberal, or even Labour, next election.

Three hours later, the food had been eaten and presents exchanged. It was an austere Christmas; the exchange of gifts had tended towards the severely practical. May Newton gave her husband a spade for his allotment.

David Newton had managed to find a box of scented soaps for Rachael. The two women were in the kitchen clearing up, while Newton and his father had quiet drink together. It was the first time that David Newton had been invited to have a whisky with his father.

“That’s a good girl you got there. I’ll be honest, lad; your mother and I were a bit worried when you said you were walking out with a Jewess, but now that we’ve met her, we can see how nice she is.” Ernie Newton was reflective and a little hesitant. “Look, son, man-to-man. Since your brother’s away in North Africa, we’ll put Rachael in his room tonight. There’ll be no creeping around after dark, will there? That would upset your mother.”

“Rachael’s a good Jewish girl, Dad. Very old-fashioned in some ways. You and Mum have nothing to worry about.”

“Glad to hear it. Like I said, you’ve got yourself a nice girl there. Now, call your mother and her in and we’ll listen to the King’s Speech. Or, rather, what That Man will let the King say.”

Prince’s Suite, Oriental Hotel, Bangkok, Thailand

“Merry Christmas, Mister Secretary.”

The Ambassador entered Cordell Hull’s suite at the Oriental Hotel with some brightly-wrapped packages in her arms. “We are all so sorry you are spending the festival away from your family, but we hope it is some consolation that your sacrifices will be of benefit to both our countries.”

Hull watched as she unloaded the presents on the side table. “I didn’t know Buddhist people celebrated Christmas?”

“We don’t, not as a religious event. But, we are a hedonistic people. For us, a good excuse to have a party is not to be wasted.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And we like to give presents to people. By spreading some joy, we make merit for ourselves and thus improve our status in our next lives.”

“May I open my gifts now?” Hull was actually nonplussed by the situation. He was well aware that he was regarded as a hostile party by the Thais and honest enough to admit they had good cause to adopt that position. “I am afraid I didn’t think to get any gifts for people here.”

“Please go ahead. And do not concern yourself; this is a day for merriment. All over the country, people will be going to visit their friends and gathering in the market places to exchange small gifts and greetings. If you wish, we can go and visit a local market where you can try out some of our local delicacies. Those who own stalls serving food will be making a special effort today.”

The Ambassador looked pointedly at a seat and Hull reprimanded himself for undiplomatic discourtesy.
I
don’t trust this woman, but rudeness will achieve nothing.

“Please take a seat, Madam Ambassador. You have been most kind; I really don’t know what to say. May I offer you some refreshments? I can send down for some.”

“I think you will find that room service is somewhat below its usual self today.” The Ambassador’s voice was droll. “The staff will also be celebrating. The working people of this country have little enough time off; perhaps we should let them enjoy it?”

Hull bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “A considerate thought, madam. How did you know my preferred brands of cigars and whisky?”

“I am expected to know such things. But, we did include one thing that is perhaps a little undiplomatic. We understand your father made his own whiskey, so we included a bottle of the whiskey we brew here. We thought you might like to compare the products of our moonshiners with yours.”

Hull chuckled delightedly. “An excellent idea, madam. Perhaps, when I return home, I could send you some jars
of...”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds and then handed the receiver over. “It is your office, Madam Ambassador. They apologize, but say it is very urgent.”

The Ambassador took the receiver and listened carefully. Her face froze into an expressionless mask. Eventually, she put the receiver down and spoke, slowly and carefully, with a complete lack of intonation. “We have just received the promised reply to your diplomatic initiative from the French authorities in Indochina. Four French Farman bombers have just dropped ten tons of bombs on the border town of Aranyaprathet. The bombs hit the marketplace that was crowded with people celebrating Christmas. There are many killed and wounded; how many, I do not yet know. Please excuse me, Mister Secretary, I must go there immediately.”