Killing Ground (11 page)

The U-Boat might still slip away, he thought. But it was already damaged, and would have a hard time of it to reach port in Norway.

Hitting back, instead of taking it all the time.

It was what it was all about. He found that he was in his tall unsheltered chair again.

Treherne said, “I'll get some hot drinks laid on for the gun crews and watchkeepers.” He turned away, shaking his head. The captain was fast asleep.

“A
FTERNOON
watch closed up at defence stations, sir.”

Lieutenant Finlay nodded. “Very good.”

The new watchkeepers moved restlessly, or glanced at one another as if to reassure themselves.

The yeoman pointed over the screen and said to his youngest signalman, “Just you watch the commodore's ship, see?” He saw the instant anxiety on the youth's face and added abruptly, “I'm goin' to th' mess for some mungie—my guts are pleadin' for grub!” He touched his arm. “Call if you need me.”

Howard was moving along the port gratings, lifting his binoculars every so often, watching the convoy, his ship, and the faces around him. They had found the convoy in the early dawn, with the promised snow flurries outlining the bridge and gun mountings like pieces of a giant cake.

He raised the glasses and studied the distant columns of ships, partly lost in the irregular flurries of snow. He had noticed the change in the pattern on the radar as soon as they had caught up. Two more ships gone; one, hit by the torpedo, had burst into flames and after losing steerage way had somehow collided with the American tanker
John L. Morgan.
It must have been an agonising decision for the commodore, to steam on and leave the entangled vessels blazing together in a single pyre until that last explosion they had heard when hunting the submarine. What a hideous way to die. One corvette had boldly attempted a rescue and pulled seventeen survivors from the blazing sea. It was not many for two such large ships.

Someone handed him a mug of hot, sweet tea; so much sugar you could almost stand a spoon in it.

He leaned over the littered chart table and massaged his tired eyes until they focussed properly.

What had happened to the U-Boats? Was it possible, after all, that the one which had been damaged and then driven deep by
Gladiator
's onslaught of depth-charges had been the only one close enough to shadow the convoy, and home others on to the precious targets?

He tried to think like the U-Boat's commander but found, not for the first time, that he could not. But he
might,
he just might have tossed caution aside when the fog had drifted protectively over the plodding columns of merchantmen, more afraid of missing the chance of a shot at them than of anything else.

It was like the scales of justice, he thought vaguely. You added the pros and measured the cons against them.

The commodore had decided to make his own judgement and altered course east-southeast sooner than expected. It would cut a day off their final passage, and if the U-Boats were elsewhere, there might still be a few odds in their favour.

He straightened his back and looked at the sky, knowing the young signalman was watching him despite the yeoman's advice.

A strange day. The sky was full of low cloud and the snow still swirled over the bridge, making the nearest ships difficult to recognise. That was good. Beyond the clouds he could see lighter, brighter patches, as if the sun might try to break through. He smiled grimly. That was bad.

What a barren place. It was impossible to see it set against all the other war fronts. Here, they were totally isolated and alone. Going on and on, with nothing gained by previous Russian convoys to offer even a hint of encouragement.

He wondered how his father was making out in the little house in Hampshire. Even if he owned a car, the petrol ration would have been denied him. There were the local village shops, of course, but if he had swallowed his pride he could have visited one of the several naval establishments. There was one situated quite near, well outside the tempting target of Portsmouth, where he would surely have been offered some extra rations.
No, he was not the type.

Howard's mother had died immediately after the Great War from the devastating flu epidemic which had followed the Armistice. He could remember little more than a shadow of her now. His brother, Robert, three years his senior, had often tried to describe her to him; instead she had become even more of a stranger.

Robert was an acting-commander now, on a course in Portland before being offered one of the new escorts, as second-in-command of a whole group. He would likely have found a billet nearby for his wife Lilian. That would mean the Guvnor, as they called their father, was all on his own.
Unless …
There had been another woman after their mother had died; maybe more than one. It was like entering the Navy in this family, he thought; you never really questioned it.

In his mind he could see him now. So different from here. Spring over Portsdown Hill and in the many villages lying off the Portsmouth Road which sailors had used for centuries.

The Guvnor had lost himself in his garden, digging for victory, so that he was almost self-supporting. What he did not need he shared with his old chum, Mister Mills. Howard could never recall his being called by any other name. An army veteran from that other terrible war, who nearly caused a riot in their quiet village by running the engine of his little van on Armistice Day while everyone else stood in respectful silence, heads bared, faces sad.

When someone had accused him of insulting the dead, Mister Mills, not a big man, had seized him by his lapels and had retorted hotly, “What d
'you
know, eh? An' what do all those po-faced hypocrites know? You bloody well tell me that!”

He had served in Flanders, the Menin Gate, the lot. He knew well enough. They made a strange but companionable pair, Howard thought.

A voicepipe muttered tinnily and Sub-Lieutenant Bizley snapped, “Forebridge?”

Howard paused with an unfilled pipe half drawn from his duffle coat pocket. It was amazing how the past few days had changed Bizley in some way. Tougher, more confident, and yet …

Bizley faced him, his face and eyebrows wet with dissolving snow.

“W/T, sir. From Admiralty,
Most Immediate. A large enemy surface unit has left Tromsø, heading West.”

Howard returned to the chart and remarked, “Not many other ways they could go, I'd have thought.” It gave him precious seconds to think, to escape their eyes as they listened to Bizley's clipped voice.

“When? Does it say?”

He pictured the other escort skippers like himself, the big Canadian in his Tribal Class
Beothuck,
Spike Colvin in their sister-ship
Ganymede,
all studying their charts, measuring the distances, weighing the chances.

Bizley returned from the voicepipe. “Not known, sir.”

Howard stared at the jagged outline of Norway's northwest coast. The big warships had often used the Tromsø anchorage,
Scharnhorst
and
Hipper,
even the biggest of them all,
Bismarck.
It made good sense because of the heavily defended airfield there.

Perhaps this was the moment the Home Fleet had been anticipating, and their own heavy units were already smashing through the Arctic waters to seek out the enemy, cut them off from their base.

Over his shoulder he said, “Call Pilot to the bridge, Sub.”

What men had braved capture and torture to provide this piece of intelligence? But where free people were oppressed, there would always be the brave few to outshine the collaborators and the black marketeers.

“Sir?” Treherne's heavy boots thudded across the bridge while he brushed some biscuit crumbs from his beard. He listened to Howard's news and said, “I think we've slipped past the U-Boats, sir. The one we put down—” he grinned at Howard's
frown, “but can't ‘claim' must have been the only boat close enough to matter.” His grin vanished. “As to this signal of joy from the Admiralty—well, we were sort of expecting it.”

Howard shrugged. Treherne was never afraid to speak his mind, to admit if he was wrong. Marrack was an excellent first lieutenant, but you could never imagine him admitting being wrong about anything.

“The Russians are supposed to be sending additional support for the last part of the trip.” He saw the scepticism in Treherne's eyes and added, “But we have to be prepared to crack it on alone. We're in range of enemy aircraft all the rest of the way now, and tomorrow the Home Fleet will begin to withdraw.”

Treherne grimaced. “Poor old Jack. Pull up the ladder, as usual!” He saw a shaft of hard sunlight lance off the gyrocompass and looked at the sky. “All we have going for us is that we've lost them. So far.”

Howard stared ahead towards the elegant
Lord Martineau,
but the commodore's ship was still invisible.

Aloud he said slowly, “The Boss knows a thing or two. But being blown up makes you careful.”

Treherne eyed him wryly. “Also, sir, despite the RNR handle, he's still a merchant navy man at heart!”

The yeoman climbed on to the bridge and banged his gloved hands together. He studied the young signalman and said angrily, “What did I
tell
you afore I went for some grub, Rosie?”

Howard turned aside to look at him and saw the youth staring over the screen, just as the starboard lookout reached the end of his own sector.

Ordinary Signalman Rosie Lee was almost incapable of speech, let alone the words of identification he had learned since he had completed his training. He pointed blindly and gasped,
“There!”
He swung round and looked at his captain and repeated, “There, sir!”

Howard realised that it was the same signalman who had reported that other aircraft, the one that had directed the U-Boats.
Even as he thought about it the starboard lookout swivelled his powerful glasses on their mounting and shouted,
“Aircraft,
sir! Bearing Green eight-oh, angle of sight three-oh, movin' right to left!”

Every man squinted into the patch of hard light where the reflected sky gave the sea its only pretence of warmth.

Howard found it as it flew, so very slowly; or so it appeared on a parallel track, like some huge disinterested bird.

He said, “Signal the commodore.” Howard kept his words to a minimum so there would be no hint of despair. They had got this far, and had lost only three of their charges.
Until now.

Disinterested this aircraft was not. He had watched them so many times circling a convoy in the Atlantic, close enough to see everything, but keeping out of range of the guns while homing the U-Boat pack on to their victims. It was a Focke-Wulf Condor, that great four-engined long-range reconnaissance bomber that had made history at sea between plane and submarine.

“From commodore, sir.
Increase to fourteen knots. Stand by for alteration of course.”

They all turned as a sudden throaty roar thundered across the water like a marauding aircraft. It was the solitary Hurricane perched on its catapult, smoke darting around it while men cowered away, their reason and purpose lost in distance.

Howard said, “The commodore's sending him in pursuit, for God's sake.” He looked away in case the others saw his sudden anger. This was not the Atlantic, and the Focke-Wulf was within easy reach of its airfield and support.

Treherne observed mildly, “He might catch the bastard, sir.”

Howard knew that Marrack and Ayres had come to the bridge but he was alone in his thoughts as he said, “Tell W/T to make this request at once to the commodore. From
Gladiator. Request you withhold aircraft until—”

He turned on his heels as the Hurricane roared along the catapult, dipped momentarily towards the eager water, and then climbed rapidly towards the clouds.

“Belay that!” Howard watched the fighter getting smaller and smaller until it was lost in another flurry of light snow.

The commodore wouldn't have listened anyway. A young man he had never met, and he had just seen him thrown away. “For bloody nothing!” He realised that he had spoken the last thought aloud and added, “Prepare the sea-boat, Number One. It'll be too dark to see anything soon.” He stared at the patch of bright sky, now so treacherous and empty.

Treherne asked quietly, “Shall I sound off action stations, sir?”

“No, I shouldn't think so. They're in no hurry now. They've got all the time in the world.”

A boatswain's mate called, “Sea-boat lowering party standing by, sir. The first lieutenant and th' Buffer are in charge.”

They all looked at the clouds and Howard heard the far-off tapping sound of machine-guns. Like woodpeckers on a summer's afternoon.

Treherne watched him. “He could stand a chance, sir?”

“Perhaps.” So Treherne was thinking of the pilot, and not his hopeless mission. He looked at the young signalman and tried to smile but his mouth felt rigid. “Good work, Lee.” If only he would stop staring; his eyes seemed to fill his face.

There was no sound of a distant explosion or the great four-engined bomber dropping through the clouds. It was as if neither plane had ever been. Only the empty catapult made it a lie.

The Hurricane when it reappeared raised a cheer from some of the boat-handling party who waited by the whaler's falls while the crew in their oilskins and life-jackets prepared to be dropped into the water alongside. The cheer died instantly as the Hurricane dipped and then fought its way up again, the engine coughing and roaring out suddenly with fresh hope, as if the plane and not a man were dying.

The pilot managed to turn towards the slow-moving destroyer; it was usually Tail-end Charlie they were told to make for. Perhaps he could even see the men at the falls, the whaler
already swung out above the sea, finding hope, praying.