Battlecruiser (1997) (19 page)

The navigator’s yeoman was sharpening pencils; a boatswain’s mate was helping one of the signalmen to splice a frayed halliard. Another day, with the memory of Cape Town becoming more and more blurred with every turn of the screws.

Lieutenant Frost was watching the gyro repeater as it ticked soundlessly back and forth, while far below his feet the quartermaster held the great ship on her course, not an easy task in the stuffy confines of the armoured wheelhouse.

Somebody gave a yelp of alarm as a tremor echoed dully against
Relian
’s flank.

For an instant, Sherbrooke imagined that a ship had been torpedoed in the convoy. No U-Boats had been reported in the area, but there was always a chance. He hurried to the wing again and trained his glasses astern. The other ships were growing in size and personality; he could even see the hundreds of khaki shirts that festooned the stays and upperworks of the trooper leading the port column.

Frazier had come to the bridge, and was staring round with the others.

Sherbrooke said, ‘An explosion. But I don’t see anything.’

They both turned as the leading signalman called, ‘Signal from Commodore, sir. Outbreak of fire on board
Orlando.
Believed serious.’

Sherbrooke said, ‘Acknowledge. Signal the commodore to maintain course and speed.
Will assist.
’

He heard another gasp from someone as a spark of fire exploded as if from the sea itself.

Rhodes said, ‘
Orlando
carries vehicles as well as troops, sir.’

Petrol, too, he thought. He said, ‘Reduce to seven-zero revolutions, Pilot. Make to
Diligent
, take station ahead of convoy.’

Lights were already clattering, and brief replies blinked back. It would take too long to turn
Reliant
and take station on the
Orlando
, which was the sternmost ship in the starboard column. He could imagine the excitement aboard
Diligent
when his signal was received. Elation, perhaps,
at taking
Reliant
’s place in the lead, away from the boredom of ‘following Father’.

It was an uncanny sensation. The big merchant ships which had been half a mile astern were already passing
Reliant
on either beam, as if they had managed to put on an impossible head of steam.

Sherbrooke crossed the bridge again. ‘I’ll get as close as possible, Pilot.’

Rhodes was watching the new outbreaks of fire, and this time they did not diminish. Thank God they were servicemen on board. Had they been ordinary passengers, they might panic, and start a stampede to the boats that nobody would be able to control.

Frazier commented, ‘It could be too dangerous to go alongside, sir.’

‘I know. But none of the escorts is big enough for the job. We might have to lift off every man jack. No destroyer, not even
Diligent
, could manage with a ship that size.’

‘I see, sir.’ He had made his point, which he saw as his duty, both to
Reliant
and her company.

‘I want every fire-party you can muster, starboard side. And a full boarding party.’ He saw Frazier’s concern, his doubt. ‘Volunteers, but men who know what they’re doing.’

He saw the commodore’s ship over Frazier’s shoulder, like a pale cliff, her decks already crammed with people even though they might not understand what was happening. On the other side, another lithe shape was moving up fast, smoke dipping from her raked, unmatched funnels:
Diligent
at full speed.

There was mercifully no wind, but the breeze was strong enough to carry the stench of burning. Fire was hated and feared by sailors more than any other peril on the sea.

‘And have the boats turned out, port side, Carley floats too, just in case some of them jump for it.’ He touched
Frazier’s arm, and felt him start. ‘She’s all yours, John. Clear lower deck – full damage control procedure.’

Out on to the wing again, his eyes seeking order from what landsmen might imagine was chaos. Men running to their stations, fire hoses, extinguishers, first-aid teams and stretchers. On the other side, the lowering parties were already turning out the pulling boats on their davits.

In the strengthening sunlight he could distinguish small islands of authority among the mass: Farleigh, the surgeon commander, being helped into his white coat by one of his sickberth attendants. The chief boatswain’s mate, the Buffer, waving his arms and calling to seamen with ropes and wires, fenders and strops: the true sailor.

And here was
Orlando
at last. Sherbrooke switched on the loud-hailer, seeing the crowds of soldiers being assembled by the forward derricks.
Orlando
had been a cargo liner in her day, owned by a New Zealand company, and had been trooping since the outbreak of war. She had been a lucky ship, until today. What had happened? Somebody smoking where the petrol for the vehicles was stored? Carelessness, stupidity? It made no difference now.

He pressed the switch. ‘
Orlando
, ahoy!’ He saw faces peering across at him and felt something brush against his elbow. It was his cap, which he must have left on the chart table. The young signalman who had offered it gave a sheepish grin and withdrew.

Sherbrooke tugged the cap onto his hair. He should have remembered it himself. The sign of authority. Perhaps, of salvation.

‘This is the Captain!’ His voice, hard and metallic, bounced back across the water. ‘I am coming alongside, starboard side to. Are your pumps still working?’

The other captain’s voice answered, ‘Aye, sir. For the moment. ’Tis Number Four hold.’

Sherbrooke watched as
Reliant
fell further astern, until the bridge was directly opposite the leaping flames. It was too far to feel a sensation of heat: he knew that. But he felt it, with, perhaps, more than his skin.

He called, ‘Tell the Commander to begin!’

The long hoses bucked and then spouted water, curving columns which felt their way toward the other ship.

He could heard Rhodes speaking to the wheelhouse. Macallan, the coxswain, would be depending on each direct order, unable as he was to see the nearness of danger.

Closer, closer, until Sherbrooke could see the extent of the damage, a huge hole in the main deck caused by the explosion. Anyone down there would have been killed.

He switched on the other microphone and saw men peering up at him.

‘Boarding parties, up forrard!’ He saw them begin to move, as if to some remote control. The sheer of
Reliant
’s starboard bow was so close to the other ship that the water between the two hulls was churning in trapped torment.

The hoses were finding their mark, scattering flames, dousing equipment and upperworks, swinging back again as more blazes broke out elsewhere.

Stagg was suddenly beside him, hands in his reefer pockets, his fine cap tilted over in the Beatty style.

‘I didn’t call you, Guy. I could see you were busy.’ His eyes glowed in a fresh outbreak of fire, untroubled, and without pity. ‘Our Canadian should get a good view.’ He grinned fiercely. ‘Go easy, Guy, or the poor chap won’t have any ship to come back to!’

The men around them heard him, and laughed, despite the other ship, the suffering, the danger to themselves.
The Old Man isn’t bothered, and the admiral obviously doesn’t give a monkey’s, so why should we?

‘First party’s across, sir!’ Rhodes was peering through
the screens, bunching his fist as if to urge them on.

Sherbrooke saw the seamen running and skidding on
Orlando
’s unfamiliar decks as other hoses doused them to protect them from the heat. Some of the troops were moving as well, N.C.O.s in bush hats yelling above the din as they dragged smouldering planking and hatch covers to the opposite side.

Stagg snatched some binoculars from a flag locker and peered toward the smoke.

‘My God, Frazier’s over there with them!’ He sounded astonished, angry. ‘I’ll not have my senior officers behaving like first-year subbies!’

Sherbrooke watched Frazier’s cap among a squad of seamen who were squirting foam through an open hatch, demonstrating by his mere presence that he was with them,
of
them, and all the sweat and training had been worthwhile. He wondered if Frazier’s wife had ever pictured him like this. He doubted it.

There was another muffled explosion, and more figures blundered down into the hold, which must now be awash with water from the hoses. Minutes later, the first casualties were carried up, some held firmly while dressings were applied, burns covered, others hitting out, unable to comprehend what was happening. There were several who lay where they had been dropped, discarded. He had never become accustomed to it, not even when the hard men joked about the casual brutality of war.

Lieutenant Frost shouted, ‘They’re winning, sir!’ He waved his cap in the air and yelled, ‘Come on, Reliants! Let’s be having you!’

The yeoman gave a grim smile, and one of his signalmen made a circling gesture with his finger to his forehead.

There were more hoses on
Reliant
’s forecastle now. Some of her side would be scorched and blistered, not so
far from the splinter holes and dockyard repairs. Stagg would not be pleased if it meant another delay in what he perceived to be his mission.

The
Orlando
’s loud-hailer echoed against the bridge. ‘Fire under control! Fifteen casualties.’ The speaker broke off, and shaded his eyes as if staring across the smoky water. ‘Thank you,
Reliant!
God bless you!’

Sherbrooke could hear cheers from the soldiers: even the Aussies were impressed.

Stagg sniffed at the smoke. ‘I’d like to speak to Frazier when he comes aboard, Guy.’

Sherbrooke said quietly, ‘My job, I think, sir. But I believe he was right.’

Stagg gave him a piercing stare. ‘Very well,
you
deal.’ The fierce grin reappeared. ‘After all, we’d be in real bother if we lost a troopship, eh?’ The grin disappeared, like a dropped mask. ‘We can always get another commander!’

Sherbrooke watched him stride away, pausing to speak with a messenger, a youth who gaped at his admiral with awe. He never stopped performing, he thought. Maybe he could not.

He said, ‘Tell the T/S to report progress, Pilot. We’ll stand by for another hour and then recover our boarding parties. They did well.’

The navigating officer nodded. ‘I thought so, sir.’ As Sherbrooke crossed to the opposite side, he added under his breath, ‘So did you, my son!’

He thought of the corpses he had seen laid out on the other ship’s deck. At least Beveridge, the God-bosun, would have something to keep him busy.

He sighed. You shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke, they always said.

Dick Rayner banked the Walrus slightly and stared down at the sea. In the harsh glare there was little sign of motion, just power and depth, reaching away from horizon to horizon.

He said, ‘Time to turn back soon, Eddy. The ship won’t want to hang around too long.’

Buck said dryly, ‘That has a familiar ring to it!’

Rayner glanced at his instruments, his ear automatically tuning in to the engine. They were flying north-west, at some four thousand five hundred feet You got your best out of the Shagbat like that. She could manage one hundred and thirty knots under these conditions, with a following wind anyway.

It had been a temptation to loiter in the area with the convoy when the fire had broken out aboard one of the troopers, but Rayner had learned the danger and the folly of being distracted by something, no matter how impressive, if there was nothing he could do to assist.

‘Any juice left?’

Buck shook his head. ‘The other two gannets have scoffed it!’

Rayner licked his lips. His mouth was like dust. He rarely drank anything but juice, despite what the Chief had said about the mess prices, except that night when the
two Scottish cops had persuaded the barman to part with some genuine malt.

That was something else he had discovered in Britain. Scotch whisky had vanished from all the pubs. Gone, for the duration of the war. For export, he wondered? He had noticed that senior officers seemed to have no difficulty in obtaining it.

But if you asked for it in an ordinary pub, they would probably think you were a German spy who’d just dropped by parachute, or that you’d been in prison since the outbreak of war. He thought of the girl, Andrea, nearly choking on it when she’d been given a full glass. What was she doing right now? Who was she with?

He sensed that Buck was pointedly studying the pad strapped to his leg.

He said, ‘O.K., I’m turning back. Don’t you ever think of anything but your belly?’

Buck was staring out now, his eyes narrowed against the glare.

‘
Ship!
Port bow!’

Rayner frowned. ‘Use the glasses. Come on, get the lead out!’

Buck raised them carefully and peered through the smeared perspex. ‘Freighter. Hold on, she’s got a flag painted on the side.’

Morgan had climbed up behind them with another pair of binoculars.

‘Red and yellow. She’s a Spaniard, a bloody neutral.’

Buck grinned. ‘Is that what Wales should be?’

Rayner glanced at his gauges again. ‘Better take a look.’ Even neutrals took a risk every time they ventured into the combat areas.

He guided the Walrus into a slow, controlled descent,
until they could see their own shadow flashing across the undulating water like a twin.

It was an untidy vessel, and there were men working on deck, some of whom looked up and waved as they turned across her bows and flew down the opposite side.

The ship’s name was painted on a large canvas awning,
Cabo Fradera.
Probably for the benefit of nosy bastards like us, Rayner thought.

Then something clicked. ‘That’s the one that reported being fired on by a raider! Never learn, do they?’

It was rare for the Germans to interfere with Spanish vessels; they had too much in common. Churchill had called it ‘one-sided neutrality’ in one of his fiery broadcasts.