For Valour (24 page)

More grins, and he saw Pike, the Buffer, nudge his friend Crabb, the torpedo gunner's mate.

“Our job is what it says. We support the escort commander whenever we can. Anti-submarine work, driving off surface craft, and covering the larger ships in convoy, if so requested.” He looked slowly around the wardroom, faces he had thought he would never come to know, had perhaps even dreaded it. “Go to your departments and tell each man why this is important. You can blame their lordships, you can lay the blame at
my
door if you like, but tell them.” It was like hearing someone else. “Like most of you, I've seen too many men, and women, killed for no good reason. Let us not forget them.”

He saw the new doctor, Surgeon Lieutenant Morrison, fingers interlaced in his lap, the scarlet cloth between his stripes like blood in the deckhead lighting. How did he feel about it, he wondered. After a big fleet minelayer with all the comforts of home despite the lethal cargo between decks, to be tossed into Arctic convoys. One would be enough.

The sailors had a word for that, too. The Suicide Run, they called it.

He gestured to Kidd. “Pilot here will brief you on the possible route we shall be taking, ice and the enemy permitting. The rest you will be told closer to the time.”

The pantry hatch opened half an inch, and he added drily, “After that, some refreshments will be available.” He smiled at Fairfax. “At the wardroom's expense, of course.”

A gale of laughter echoed through the wardroom flat, and to the icy deck beyond.

They got to their feet as he picked up his cap from the table, and Bill Spicer, the coxswain, easily dwarfing everyone else, said, “
Hakka
won't let you down, sir.”

Martineau turned and looked at him, seeing some of those other dead faces as if they too were loath to go, to leave him in peace.

“I never doubted it, Swain!” He paused. “And thank you. All of you.”

He heard the din as the door closed behind him, rank and status momentarily put to one side.

But all he could think of was The Suicide Run. What was being asked of men like those he had just left in the wardroom.

Three days later, as promised, the seven destroyers, with Captain Lucky Bradshaw's
Zouave
in the lead, passed through the boom-gate and headed out to sea in the middle of a blizzard.

An old sailor working on the boom-gate vessel watched them leave. He had spent a lot of time at Scapa in the Great War, and yet he could still feel the sense of pride when he saw destroyers on the move, showing off their paces and their perfect lines. But the weather soon hid them from view, so he was not certain how many there were.

But, on their job, it was better not to count them, he thought.

In Liverpool, and in the underground Operations at the Admiralty in London, the arrows appeared as if by magic.

And at the hospital in Manchester the girl Anna stood by a window, wrapped in a dressing gown while she watched and felt the window quivering in its frame, rain lashing at the glass.

But all she could see was that tall steel chair on an unprotected bridge, somewhere at sea at this moment. And the man who had been killed there. And the one who had taken his place.

She stared up and down the corridor, feeling trapped.
I'm useless here. I must get back. Then he'll know.

But the wind and the rain had got louder. As if it had already been decided.

The second day out of Scapa Flow, and the weather had worsened from the start of the morning watch. Heavy seas driven by a biting north-easterly wind made every movement about the decks dangerous. Somehow the seven destroyers managed to keep some sort of formation, although but for the hazy radar pictures they could have been completely alone. Wrapped in their newly issued protective clothing, the watchkeepers and gun crews hung on to their positions while the hull lifted, rolled and then dived again, waves rising above the lee side to sweep along the deck like a tiderace. The heavy clothing was a reminder, too, that if a man was swept overboard it would certainly drag him down instantly. The
Java
had already reported a man lost in this fashion; it was useless to speculate about it. His cries would not be heard, and there was no chance of lowering a boat in these seas.

On the upper bridge Martineau sat wedged into the tall chair, the thrusting pressure of its metal arms against his ribs one moment, then falling away, while the shadowy figures held on for dear life, too battered even to curse their discomfort.

Men off watch were flung about on their messdecks, bruised and sore from encounters with guns or other immovable fittings, and unable to sleep because of the noise and the violent motion.

It was almost noon when daylight showed itself, if you could call it that. If anything, it was worse than the ignorance of darkness. The waves seemed bigger, not grey but green, rising up along the flared forecastle deck and smashing into the bridge structure like a solid mass. The gun crews below the bridge trained their weapons into the wind, and clung behind the shield for some protection, like seals marooned on a rock.

Martineau had studied the details of the convoy. Twelve ships in all. It did not seem very many to warrant the size of the escort and the back-up provided by the destroyers. There was even a small escort carrier listed. Unheard of a year or so ago, nobody had given them much of a chance. Built on the hulls of merchant ships and awkward to handle in any sort of bad weather, they were not much to look at, “flat-tops” as their American builders termed them.

But within a year they had done the impossible, and had bridged the infamous Gap in mid-Atlantic which had until then been beyond the reach of shore-based aircraft. The Gap, where the seabed was strewn with the wrecks of precious merchant ships and their desperately needed cargoes, was the hunting ground of the U-boats, where they could pursue their quarry on the surface with no chance of being attacked from the air.

The escort carriers carried the familiar Swordfish torpedo bombers, the Stringbags as they were affectionately known by the men who flew them, and some Seafires, the naval version of the legendary Spitfire. Not more than twenty aircraft altogether. But enough: the margin between survival and wholesale slaughter had been found.

Martineau remembered when convoys in these uncertain waters had been forced to rely on fighter catapult ships, converted merchant vessels with a fighter plane perched on a shaky-looking catapult. He had never met one of the pilots, but would have liked to. What kind of man would volunteer for such dangerous work? On the approach of enemy aircraft the fighter would be launched, fired from its catapult. There had been several reports of successes; no German bomber pilot would be expecting to be confronted by an eight-gun fighter hundreds of miles from nowhere. And afterwards? The fighter would be forced to ditch, its pilot baling out at the last minute, in the hope that one of the other ships might see him hit the water. A boat would be lowered, but it all took time. A man could freeze to death within minutes if his luck was against him.

At least the escort carriers had a deck to land on. Even that was probably hairy enough until you got used to it.

Martineau had studied the names of the ships in convoy. Most of them were large, and would be packed to the deck beams with brand-new weapons, tanks, aircraft, trucks. Three of the ships were American, two Canadian. The others were British. Not a fast convoy, but not a snail's pace either.

Below in the wheelhouse the motion seemed even worse. Faint grey light filtered through the clearview screen, but there was still no horizon to prepare them for the next roll or plunge.

Forward was the quartermaster, his eyes very steady while he watched the ticking gyro repeater, his legs slightly bent to lessen the shock of every unexpected movement. As if he was riding the ship, taming her. One of the bridge messengers had been sent away after retching over and over again, until he had had to run for the ladder. But he had left it too late, and the stench soon put two more men out of action.

Forward could put up with the weather, if it was going to keep the krauts grounded or in harbour. Not like the Med and the fight to force convoys through to beleaguered Malta. Bright, clear sky: you could see them coming for miles, the brown patches of flak seemingly useless as they flew on, their bombs ready to go.

“Port fifteen!”

Forward turned the wheel deftly. That was the Skipper's voice.

“Fifteen of port wheel on, sir.”

There was another voice up there now, the bearded navigating officer. He had heard someone say that the lieutenant had found himself a nice piece of crackling back in Liverpool, or somewhere close by. Lucky bloke.

“Steady.”

“Steady, sir. Three-two-zero.”

He eased the spokes back half a turn and murmured,
no, you don't, my girl.

The Captain again. “Good. Steady on three-two-zero.”

There were not many Skippers who would think to thank a helmsman for doing a good job. They would expect it.

Someone had appeared with a mop and bucket, making a big job of it, while another messenger began to swallow hard, and retch.

He saw Wishart by the other door, his face screwed in concentration, two steaming mugs in either hand. It was always funny to watch, he thought. One leg raised as if to begin a dance or jig, but the deck suddenly tilting away, leaving Wishart swaying over again, but the mugs still intact.

“Good lad. Shove mine down there, eh?”

Wishart handed out the other mugs and then clung to a handrail, his face wet with spray or sweat.

Forward grinned and then swung the wheel again as the gyro tape ticked over the line.

Wishart watched and wondered if he would have the confidence to take the wheel. He had done it on the trainer at
St Vincent.
But you couldn't ram anything with a classroom.

Forward asked between his teeth, “Where the hell are we, Wings?”

Wishart forgot his nausea. Forward's question made him feel less of a passenger, as he had heard Kidd describe somebody.
An officer, too!

“The Faroes are to the west of us. About where we got to last time.”

Forward stared at the compass and said, “We were on the other side of 'em then. That's how I like it. Between us an' the bloody German airfields in Norway.”

The door banged open and the coxswain strode into the wheelhouse, his eyes moving automatically to gyro, revolution counter, even the bulkhead clock.

He said, “I'm taking over, Forward, so jump about, will you!”

Forward repeated the given course to steer. You couldn't even take offence at the coxswain's blunt manner. A true professional, and pusser to the soles of his boots. He noticed that he had somehow found the time and the place to have a shave, and had cut himself on the chin.

He asked, “Flap on, Swain?”

Spicer was leaning forward towards the voicepipe's bell mouth.

“Cox'n on the wheel, sir. Course three-two-zero.”

Martineau must have said something. Spicer gave a grim smile.

“Thought you might, sir!”

He glanced at Forward. “Bloody
Java
lost a screw, would you believe? Guess who's got to stand by!” He forgot Forward and the others and said, “Half ahead together, sir. Both telegraphs repeated half ahead. One-one-zero revolutions.”

The deck reeled over and Forward said, “Sod it!”

Wishart could not resist it. “You shouldn't have joined if . . .”

Forward pushed him to one side. “Cheeky little bugger!”

Wishart grinned and then became serious. “What does it mean?”

Forward looked at the spray bursting over the squeaking clearview screens.

“Means the group will be two short. Cap'n (D)'s not going to like
that.
”

On the upper bridge, Kidd had just made much the same remark.

Martineau levelled his glasses and watched the other destroyer turning slowly towards him, her slender hull heeling over as the sea explored her weakness. Anybody could lose a screw under bad conditions. But
Java
's commanding officer should have been doubly careful. If he was found to be at fault it could be serious for him. If the enemy found them, it would be that for both of them.

He said, “They'll send assistance from Iceland. That will still give us the chance to catch up with the group.”

He never gives up, Kidd thought. He saw the light blinking from the other destroyer.

Onslow said, “From
Java,
sir.
Nice to have you around.
”

Like Spicer, the yeoman did not need to be called. He knew.

Martineau looked at the other ships; they had almost disappeared in the murky haze of spray. Glad to be on their way. Nobody in his right mind wanted to become a sitting duck.

He said, “Make to
Java. Don't lose the other one or I'll scream!
”