Killing Ground (32 page)

“Range now five thousand yards. Vessel has turned end-on.”

Treherne muttered, “Still adrift then.”

Howard thought of the ship beneath him. His men wondering what might happen. Each one of them would be fully aware that all the rafts and Carley floats had been loosened, ready to let go, and the davits turned out so that the whaler and motor boat were free to be lowered with minimum delay. And all the depth-charges were set to safe, so even if a U-Boat was careless enough to surface right beside them it would take too long to release the charges.

Finlay's gun crews were all standing by, ready-use ammunition set to be slammed into every breech, while full magazines were prepared for reloading the pom-poms and Oerlikons.

“Here we go!” That was the yeoman of signals. The horizon was making its first appearance, caught by a thin rippling line like beaten pewter, below which the sea was as black as ink.

“Is the torpedo gunner's mate all clewed up, Number One?”

“Aye, sir. The Gunner (T) has told him what's expected of him.”

Gladiator's
twin quadruple mountings for the twenty-one inch torpedoes had never been used in the war except to put down damaged warships which were beyond recovery, and battered stragglers from convoys. Originally, the peacetime minds which had planned and designed a navy of the future had imagined only a faster war than the previous one. The same line of battle, with the destroyers, the fleet's greyhounds, waiting to dash against the enemy formations under smokescreens if need
be and deliver a lethal blow with their torpedoes. The mentality of Jutland, Dogger Bank and the Falklands. Most senior officers had been selected originally from the gunnery branch; submariners and people who believed that the future fleet should be built around aircraft-carriers had often been seen as cranks.

The horrific losses at sea, both in merchant ship tonnage, and the proud names like
Hood
and
Repulse, Royal Oak, Barham
and the rest had revealed the folly for what it was.

Howard was thinking about it, not for the first time, as he heard one of the torpedo tube mountings squeaking slightly as it was trained abeam.

In today's frantic shipbuilding programme, to equal if not beat the continued list of sinkings, torpedo tubes were considered more as useless top-hamper than truly dangerous weapons. For the anti-submarine war now being waged the deck space was better served by having more types of depth-charge mortars and dual-purpose light guns. Like his brother's newly formed escort group. All new frigates, some as large as
Gladiator,
and not a torpedo amongst them.

But even as he thought it, Howard knew that he had started as a destroyer man, and as an old hand he would so remain if he was given the chance.

“Smoke, sir!”

As the sky continued to brighten, to spill over the horizon and give the ocean its first hint of blue, they saw the great, low-lying pall drifting slowly in the light northeasterly wind.

Treherne said, “Didn't realise she was burning, sir.”

Howard did not answer. It made the danger impossible to measure; the very real risk of a U-Boat stalking them was almost secondary.

There was probably enough explosive of one kind or another on board that ship to knock down a city the size of Liverpool.

“Doctor requests permission to come to the bridge, sir.”

That was Ayres, tense and brittle as the thing spread itself across the sky like one gigantic stain.

Howard said, “Yes. All right.” He had barely heard the question. Surely if the fire was really dangerous the ship would have blown up days ago. He heard the doctor arrive in the bridge, but forgot him as he levelled his powerful glasses on the given bearing and saw the ammunition ship for the first time. A great wedge of a vessel, bows deep in the water, smoke coming from several places at once. No flames. Howard found he was biting his lower lip. But between decks it would only take a spark. Even at this range they would feel it.

He strode across the bridge to the opposite side, vague figures moving hastily out of his way.

He leaned over the side and saw the four torpedo tubes, the TGM's crew clustered behind them in their duffle coats, the distance making them look like attentive monks.

Finlay was covering the scene with his own team and said over the gunnery speaker, “On this course, sir, you will be in position in seven minutes.”

“Thank you.” It was just an equation to Finlay, an exercise in which he would be an onlooker for once.

Howard glanced over at Treherne, his face regaining shape and personality out of the retreating shadows.

“Sir!” The yeoman was peering through his glasses. “Signal!”

Howard let his glasses fall to his chest. He did not need to watch for more than a few seconds. It was
S-O-S,
slowly but distinctly spelled out by a powerful torch.

His mouth had gone quite dry. So there were survivors still on board.

Treherne said quietly, “They've seen us.”

The doctor said, “Maybe they've still got a boat, sir?”

He watched the captain, the way he was staring at the smoke as if he could neither think nor move. It brought back the stark picture of the girl in the sickbay, her shirt and hands soaked in blood, her shock and disbelief as Howard had taken her in his arms.

Howard stepped from the gratings and said, “Call them up,
Yeo.
Slowly,
so they can read you.” He rubbed his eyes, seeing the other vessel as she would appear in the torpedo sights. It would be so easy. Who would blame him? He continued, “Ask them to abandon ship if they can. We will pick them up.”

The light clattered, the sound incredibly loud in the bridge's tense interior. Glasses were levelled on the eventual response, the blinking light their only, frail contact.

The yeoman was moving his lips as he read the careful signal.
“Unable—to—abandon.”

Bizley swore. “What the hell's the matter with them?”

A lookout murmured under his breath, “Can't imagine!”

The yeoman lowered his glasses. “They have seven wounded, two badly.”

Howard looked at their faces. Understanding, pity, anxiety. It was all there.

“Bring her round, Pilot, course to close with the ship. Tell W/T to prepare the signal.
Am in contact with ammunition ship. Will attempt to remove survivors from same.”

Rooke called, “Steady on three-five-five.”

Howard made himself climb into the tall chair. “Increase to twenty knots.”

Treherne stood beside him, saying nothing, and he knew that some of the others must be stunned by his decision; hating him for it.

He said, “What else can I do?” He turned and looked at Treherne. “In God's name, what do they expect?”

“I've a suggestion, sir.” He watched him steadily, knowing that the wrong word could wreck everything. “I'll take the whaler, and a crew of volunteers.”

“Just forget it, Number One. I know you mean well, but …” He swung round as more smoke belched over the other ship's shattered bridge.

Treherne shook his head. “If you lay this ship alongside her in that state, we'll all be done for. I've seen plenty of fires at sea, and so have you. She'll be like a bloody furnace. Neither them
nor us would stand a chance.”

Howard lowered his head. He could smell the fire now, like something alive.

Treherne said, “Anyway, I'm more used to merchant ships than anyone else.”

Howard lifted his head and studied him intently. “You really mean it, don't you? You're not just trying to save my neck.”

Treherne replied, “If you work up to wind'rd, I'll get the boat ready.”

Moffatt the doctor had moved closer. “I'd like to go with you, Number One.”

Treherne forced a grin. “There—piece of cake!” He became serious again. “At least we'll have had a damn good try, sir.”

Howard felt in his pocket but forgot his pipe as he said, “She might go up at any minute, or she might burn for days, something we must not allow. There's also the real possibility that even now, while we discuss the value of human life, a U-Boat may be homing on to this smoke. Either way, if you're still aboard …” He reached over and gripped his arm. “Well, I won't order you to go.”

Treherne nodded. “I know. But it just happens to be part of the job I know something about.” He made an attempt at nonchalance. “Remember what I said about the package.” Then, “Come on, Doc, let's go and ask for some jolly jacks!”

At the bridge gate he stopped and looked back at Howard on his chair. He did not speak, but his eyes said all that was needed. Then he was gone.

Howard said, “Slow ahead, together. Starboard fifteen.” He watched the great pall of smoke leaning over as if to engulf them in its stench of burned paint and seared metal.

He must show no doubt or apprehension. There were too many depending on him now.

“Midships.”

He watched the ticking gyro-repeater but saw only Treherne's face.

“Steady.”

“Steady, sir. Course zero-eight-zero, both engines slow ahead.”

“Hold her like that, ‘Swain.” He made himself watch the drifting ship. Upwind of her, the damage was more clearly visible, the list more pronounced. The stern was in the best condition; he could even see her name,
Ohio Star,
but her port of registry had been seared off by the heat as Treherne had described.

He looked across at Ayres. “Go down and take charge of the lowering party, Sub. Can you manage it?”

Ayres looked at him desperately, his face all eyes. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“I'll call down when to drop the whaler.”

The yeoman said, “Boat's already manned, sir.” He looked at one of his signalmen. “You know what they say about a volunteer in this regiment, my son—he's a bloke who's misunderstood the question!”

Howard looked away. It was all the same pretence. He seemed to hear her voice, her anger when she had exclaimed, “What are they
doing
to you?”

Then he was off his chair and standing aft by the bridge searchlight and its painted canvas screen.

The whaler was lowered and he could see its shadow moving beneath the keel while the crew waited to man their oars.

“Slip!”

The boat veered away and Howard saw the doctor clinging on to his cap. He turned toward Bizley and said, “Take her round again, but stay upwind. Same revolutions. No sense in charging about the ocean.”

The yeoman said, “Whaler's lost in the smoke, sir.”

Howard jammed his unlit pipe between his teeth. “Tell W/T to make the signal now.”
If that lot goes up we'll not get a chance to tell anyone.
But he kept the thought to himself.

Surgeon-Lieutenant Moffatt peered apprehensively at the huge overhang of the
Ohio Star
's poop.
Gladiator
was not a large warship but the whaler's twenty-seven feet made him feel like a survivor himself.

Leading Seaman Fernie was the coxswain, the tiller-bar grasped in one gloved fist, and beside him, Treherne, already soaked from head to toe, gave the impression of unyielding determination. The volunteers for the boarding party were some of the
Gladiator
's hard men. Like Bully Bishop the ex-chief quartermaster, and “Wally” Patch, a pug-faced able seaman who was usually more in trouble than out of it. His friend, Tim Hardy, another AB, was no stranger to the naval glasshouse—a good hand at sea, but ashore he was known to drink and fight in equal proportion.

Moffatt enjoyed his middle-of-the-road status in the destroyer. Dressed like an officer except for the scarlet cloth between his stripes, he could nevertheless feel almost equally at home with the lower deck. In fact he knew some of them better than they realised, as Moffatt had been given the task of censoring their letters in the hunt for careless talk. He had discovered no secrets, but some of the more passionate letters had made even him blush.

But this was very different. The open boat rising and falling between the waves, the five oarsmen concentrating on the stroke and on Fernie's quick warnings and instructions. Moffatt had no idea how they were going to board the badly damaged ship. One false move and they would collide with her, or be capsized by some of the trailing wreckage alongside.

He heard Treherne exclaim,
“There,
Cox'n!” He sounded relieved as he gestured towards a dangling ladder. Moffatt wondered if Treherne had been as confident as his bearded countenance suggested.

There were two extra hands in the bows; Fernie was probably thinking of that other time when one of them had been the boy, Milvain.

“Hold water, port!” Fernie judged it with a skill Moffatt could only guess at. “Ready, forrard!”

Treherne said, “This must have been where they re-boarded the ship, Doc!” He had to shout, for the sea under the vessel's stern was like the tide in a cave. “God knows what happened to their lifeboat. Either broke adrift, or was too badly holed by machine-gun fire!”

A voice called, “This way, lads!”

Bully Bishop heaved back on his loom and snarled, “Wot, no tea an' biscuits?”

Fernie snapped, “Stow it!”

Treherne saw a man staring down from the rail. He was so filthy he could have been anyone.

“Three men will stay in the boat—keep her fended off, but make certain the bow-rope holds fast. I don't want the bloody thing stove in!”

One at a time, waiting for the whaler to lift against the ladder for a second or two, they scrabbled their way up towards the watching face, rung by painful rung.

Treherne was last. “Up you go, Doc.” He gripped him as Moffatt's cap finally blew from his head and floated away along the side. “I'll buy you another one if we pull this off!”

The man in the filthy dungarees stared at them, his eyes almost starting from his head. “You came for us.”