Atlantic Fury (26 page)

One of the figures, a sergeant, had staggered to his feet and was staring at me, wild-eyed, his hair plastered limp across his head.

‘Nothing,' I said. It was nothing that he could see. The two dead men were in my mind and he wasn't thinking of them, only of the fact that he was alive.

‘Jesus! It was cold.' He was shivering; moaning to himself. But then habit and training reasserted itself. He got his men to their feet and I took them up to the camp.

It was, I thought, the end of all hope for the survivors on Sgeir Mhor; three men killed and nothing achieved. Standing's death had a numbing effect on the rescue operation. It was not so much the man himself as the command he represented. It left a vacuum and there was only one man in Northton with the experience to fill it; that man was lying on his bed, nursing a hatred that no longer had any point. In the midst of the flood of teleprints back and forth nobody thought of informing him that Standing was dead. He heard about it from his escorting officer who had got it from the orderly who brought them their tea. It took time for the implications to sink in and it wasn't until almost five-fifteen that he finally stirred himself, got to his feet and ordered Lieutenant Phipps to accompany him to the Movements Office. There he sent off a teleprint to Brigadier Matthieson:
In view of Colonel Standing's death presume I have your authority to take over command. Please confirm so that I can organise attempt to rescue survivors dawn tomorrow
. This was dispatched at 17.23 hours.

Brigadier Matthieson, who admitted later that he considered Standing's action in placing his second-in-command under close arrest ill-advised, immediately signalled back:
Your temporary command Northton confirmed. Advise action planned for getting survivors off
.

Queen's Regulations are not very specific on the subject of an arrested officer assuming command and Matthieson's signal carefully avoided reference to the matter. He had, in fact, very little alternative. There was no other officer at Northton competent to take control in a situation like this and to fly a replacement C.O. in would take time. Moreover, Braddock had the confidence of his superiors at the War Office. There was another factor, too. The Press were now alerted to what was happening up in the Outer Hebrides. The Press Officer at Scottish Command had, during the past hour or so, faced a barrage of demands for information from London as well as Scottish newspaper offices. They knew about the trawler that had disappeared. They knew that a landing craft was in difficulties to the west of Laerg. They also knew that another LCT had been shipwrecked on the island and that there were survivors. No doubt they had been briefed by amateur radio operators – either Scottish ‘ham' operators monitoring my radio contacts with Base or Irish radio enthusiasts picking up the signals passing between Coastal Command and their two Shackletons.

Whatever the source of their information the effect was the same; it convinced Matthieson that this was no longer a strictly Army affair but had become something much bigger. Like a submarine disaster, it had all the dramatic qualities to capture the imagination of the British public. From tomorrow morning onwards the whole country would be waiting for news of the survivors, and if the news were bad … Well, he certainly didn't intend to be blamed for it, not with only a few months of his time to go. In confirming my brother as temporary Base Commander, he was clutching at a straw. If things went right then he could take some credit. And if things went wrong then he had his scapegoat. I'm convinced that that was the way his mind was working when he made the decision.

At approximately five-thirty when my brother officially took command the position was this: Two relief Shackletons had been flown off, one to continue the search for the missing trawler, the other to watch over L4400 until the destroyer, now little more than 100 miles away, reached her.
W/S India
had been ordered back on to station. The Naval tug was still snug against the quay at Leverburgh.

Apart from shore-based aircraft, there was nothing else available in the area to assist in the rescue operation. True, the destroyer would pass quite close to Laerg, but L4400 urgently needed her. The landing craft was barely afloat. Almost half her crew were casualties, the bridge deck ripped to pieces, mast and funnel gone, the tank hold full of water and the pumps barely capable of holding in check the sea pouring in through her strained and buckled plates.

And since conditions made the use of aircraft impracticable, the tug remained the only hope.

In the uncertainty that followed immediately on Standing's death, nobody had apparently thought of informing the skipper of the changed situation. That his vessel was still tied up in Leverburgh was not due to any lack of initiative on his part. He was waiting for conditions to improve, knowing that he needn't sail until six at the earliest to reach Laerg by first light.

Braddock's immediate reaction to the situation was to send out three signals in quick succession – to Command, demanding the instant dispatch of two helicopters; to Coastal Command requesting that a further Shackleton be held fuelled and ready for immediate take-off should he require it; to the destroyer urging her captain to close Sgeir Mhor on his way out to L4400 and endeavour to float off supplies to the survivors, or if that were not possible, to signal them by lamp that help was on its way. Then he went to see Cliff Morgan.

Captain Flint, who was in Movements at the time, said he personally felt a great lift when Braddock took command. If any man could get the survivors off, he thought Braddock would.

Cliff Morgan's reaction, on the other hand, was very different. Like Standing, he regarded Braddock as responsible for what had happened. He was appalled when Braddock came into his quarters – ‘Bold as brass, man,' was the way he put it. ‘“Colonel Standing's dead and I've taken over command. Now, Morgan, let's have your ideas of the weather for the next twelve hours.” Just like that. And when I told him it was a pity it was Standing who'd gone and not him he laughed in my face; told me to mind my own bloody business and stick to the weather which he thought perhaps I understood. I was in radio contact with a “ham” over in Tobermory at the time and when I started to finish the conversation, he put his big hand over the key. “You take your fat arse off that chair,” he told me, “and come over to the Met. Office or I'll take you there by the scruff of your neck.”'

Over in the Met. Office Cliff had given him a forecast that he admitted was enough to daunt any man planning a rescue operation on an island a hundred miles out in the Atlantic. The effect of the local depression that had caused all the havoc would die out entirely within the next hour or so – probably it had died out already. For a time then the island would come again under the influence of the polar air stream with winds northerly between thirty and forty knots. Later those winds would decrease and perhaps die out for a while as the polar air stream was gradually dominated by the new depression moving in from the Atlantic. The period of relative calm would be followed by winds of rapidly increasing strength as the depression built up and spread over the area. Southerly at first, the winds would veer south-westerly increasing to gale force.

‘When?' Braddock had asked. ‘When will that happen?' And Cliff had shrugged.

‘You're asking me how fast that depression is moving? I don't know.'

‘Then contact somebody who does. There are more than a dozen men on that bloody rock and when this depression hits …' Braddock checked himself. He even patted Cliff on the shoulder. ‘Just tell me when. Better still, tell me when that period of calm will be.'

Cliff says he hesitated, unwilling to commit himself. He was staring at the map he'd drawn. Sykes came in with another sheet from the teleprinter, more barometric pressure figures. He entered them in, connected them up, scoring the isobars with a red pencil. One of those figures represented a report from the Shackleton circling L4400. It showed a drop of two millibars in the past hour. ‘The calm will be just about there; within the hour, at any rate.'

‘Goddammit!' Braddock said. ‘An hour. Are you certain?' And when Cliff nodded, he said, ‘How long will it last? Listen. In an hour and a half perhaps I could have helicopters here. Say three hours by the time they're refuelled and have reached Laerg. I need four hours. Can you give me four hours?'

‘No.' Cliff shook his head, quite definite now. ‘You can see for yourself.' He was pointing to the red lines he'd drawn. The nearest was almost touching Laerg, coming down in a broad sweep from Iceland and running away westward just north of Ireland. ‘Two hours I'd give it; no more. Two hours from now and the wind will begin blowing from the south. It must do.'

‘Then God help them,' was all Braddock said and he turned and went out, walking swiftly through the fading light. Cliff called after him that there was a warm front associated with the depression. There would probably be heavy rain accompanied by low ceiling and poor visibility. Braddock didn't answer. He made no acknowledgment that he'd heard, but walked straight on, shoulders very square, head held well back on the short, thick neck – a man bracing himself for a fight, Cliff thought. And overhead the clouds gathering again, aerial cavalry of a new enemy onslaught forming themselves into dark ranks, galloping eastward and rolling up the blue-green late afternoon canopy that, though cold, had the bright promise of hope. Now hope was fallen victim to the gathering clouds and my brother, alone in the loneliness of command, had to decide what further lives, if any, should be risked to attempt to save men doomed to face a night of terror, exposed again to the fury of the elements.

Field was back when he reached the Movements Office – Charles Field, looking old and grey and stooped, the lines of his face etched deeper than ever and an uneasy, shifting light in his steel-blue eyes. He said what he had to say, adding, ‘It was nobody's fault. Nobody's fault at all. I'll write a full report, of course.' He was edging towards the door. ‘Think I'll go over to the Mess now.'

‘The Mess?' Braddock stared at him, saw the lips twitching, the slight blink of the eyes, that shifting look. ‘For a drink?'

Field nodded unhappily. ‘I thought just one. Just a quick one, to steady me. A shock, you know. A most frightful shock.' And he added, justifying himself, ‘I hope you realise, I don't normally drink. But on this occasion. You understand …'

Braddock reached him in two quick strides, seized hold of him by the arm. ‘Sure. I understand. Just one, and that'll lead to another. You're the one man I want sober. So you stay here. Okay?' And he pushed him into a chair. ‘You're going back to Laerg – tonight.'

‘No.' Field was up from the chair, his eyes over-bright. ‘No. I absolutely refuse.'

‘Then I'll place you under arrest and have you escorted on board.' He patted his arm as though comforting a child. ‘Don't worry. I'll be with you. We're going out there together.' And he sent Phipps for the long wheel-base Land-Rover and dictated a signal to Brigadier Matthieson:
Weather forecast suggests quite impracticable attempt lift survivors out by helicopter. Am proceeding to Laerg by Naval tug. Will personally direct rescue operations on arrival dawn tomorrow
. It was sent out signed:
Braddock, Commanding Officer Guided Weapons, Northton
.

In taking Field with him my brother was instinctively seeking the support of the one man whose experience and background could help. He also took the M.O., Lt. Phipps, a Sergeant Wetherby and four men, all hand-picked for their toughness and their known ability in the water and on the Laerg crags. Flint went with them. It took almost half an hour to gather them and their kit and the necessary equipment – climbing ropes, inflatable dinghy, aqualung cylinders and frogmen's suits, everything that might possibly be of use. Meantime, radio contact had been established with the tug and the skipper requested to stand by to sail immediately they arrived on board.

They left the Base at ten to six. Unfortunately, the clothes Field needed were at his croft. It was only a few minutes' drive from Leverburgh, but Marjorie was there. For the past two hours she had been with Laura Standing. She knew what had happened. She was white-faced, on the verge of hysteria. ‘Why did you let him jump?' she demanded of her father. ‘Why in God's name did you let him?' And he stood there, not saying a word, because there was nothing to say, whilst his own daughter accused him of being responsible for Mike's death.

Braddock got out of the Land-Royer. ‘Hurry up, Field. We've no time to waste.'

Marjorie was still pouring out a flood of words, but she stopped then, staring at the Land-Rover, the significance of it standing there full of men slowly dawning on her. She doesn't remember what she said or what she did, but Flint described it to me: ‘Moments like that, when you're headed for trouble an' you don't know how bad it's going to be, you don't want a girl around then, particularly a girl who's just lost somebody she cared about. One moment she was giving her father hell, saying it was all his fault, and then all of a sudden she switched her attention to Major B. That was when she realised he was taking her father out to Laerg. “You can't do it,” she said. “He's not a young man. He hasn't climbed in years.” She knew what it was all about. She'd broken the news of Standing's death to his wife. She knew what had happened. She knew the sort of man Braddock was – guessed he'd stop at nothing, risk anything to get those men off. She went for him like a bitch defending her last remaining puppy, screaming at him that it was all his fault, that he'd killed Mike, killed Simon Standing; it was plain bloody murder, she said, and she wasn't going to let him kill her father. Braddock tried soothing her with logic – her father was in the Army, there was a job to do and that was that. But reasoning with a girl who's scared out of her wits, whose emotions are tearing her nerves to shreds, is like pouring water on a high voltage short – it just doesn't make a damn bit of difference. In the end he slapped her. Not hard. Just twice across the face and told her to pull, herself together and not disgrace her father. It shut her up, and after that she just stood there, white an' trembling all over.'