Killing Ground (21 page)

Checks completed, the boat glided up again to periscope depth. Kleiber signalled for it to be raised and knelt down to catch it even as it cut above the surface.

There they were, dark flaws against the pale horizon, moving diagonally; slow, tired, already doomed.

The exact moment of truth, the click of cranks which made the final settings to the torpedoes; the sudden chilling stillness.

The periscope hissed down.

“Feueraubis!”

“Fächer eins! …
Los!”

“Fächer zwei! …
Los!”

There was little more than a slight thud as each torpedo started up and flashed from its tube. Kleiber nodded to his engineer and felt the deck begin to tilt down again.

The attack had begun. It would not end until all the tubes were empty, or the boat was scattered across the bottom of this
pitiless ocean.

“Signal from commodore, sir!
Alter course in succession, steer zero-five-zero!”

Howard swung away as another explosion tore the morning apart, and was in time to see the tall white columns falling with deceptive slowness even as the ship began to veer out of formation, smoke and flames spurting through her side and upper deck.

Treherne called, “Starboard ten!
Steady!
Steer zero-five-zero!”

Gladiator
was at the rear of the starboard column and must turn earlier than the others to retain the protective shield on the convoy.

Howard had known it would be today; some of the others had had the same feeling, he thought. It had all started too well; the ships in the convoy were all veterans of the Atlantic and were quick to respond to the signals of the commodore and escort commander alike.

Thirty-two ships, over half of them deep-laden tankers, with four destroyers, six corvettes and an elderly sloop like Ayres's old patrol vessel to protect them. But no air cover, not even for such a vital list of cargoes. The first victim had been one of the tankers, a fairly new vessel which had protested to the commodore when the overall speed was further reduced to eight knots because of a freighter's engine-failure. She had been carrying high-octane aircraft fuel and had exploded in one tremendous fireball, fragments of metal and flaming debris scattering over and around the other ships, the heat so fierce that Howard imagined he could feel it against his face.

Three of the corvettes were working up to full speed as they charged to the attack, their progress marked across the grey sea by towering geysers of water as their depth-charges thundered down. Again and again, the sea's face was littered with stunned or gutted fish which floated through leaking oil, upturned lifeboats and meaningless human remains. Two more explosions on
the far side of the convoy, and immediately two more, so that the roar blended together like thunder over the hills.

The yeoman of signals said harshly, “There's another one, the poor buggers!”

The ship in question was already turning slowly on to her beam, steam shooting from her shattered engine-room where her people must have died in the worst known manner.

Crated cargo, dismantled aircraft lined up like unfinished toys, were tumbling into the sea, and one of the lifeboats hurled its occupants down to join them as flames burned through the boat's falls before it could reach the water.

“Redwing's
calling up the commodore, sir! Requests permission to pick up survivors.”

Howard turned to watch some men floundering in the sea, staring up at
Gladiator
as she surged past, their cries and screams lost in the thunder of depth-charges and the roar of fans.

“Permission denied.”

The yeoman glanced at his young signalman. “Don't gape at me, watch the bloody commodore!”

It was getting to him. Tommy Tucker, the hard yeoman who saw and heard everything that went on in his bridge but kept it to himself; a man who had seen sailors die horribly in the blaze of a convoy battle, or quietly and without dignity in the freezing water.

Howard heard the brittle edge to his voice. Just how much could a man take, and still be made to watch helpless sailors blown to pieces?

“Signal, sir.
Increase to thirteen knots.”

The last ship to go had been the offending freighter with engine trouble. She would never delay another convoy.

One more oiler was to explode before a lull fell over the heaving water. Once again the elderly sloop
Redwing
requested permission to search for survivors with the same response. It was the nightmare all over again.
Do not stop; close up the gaps.

Howard massaged his eyes with his fingers. They should
add:
and don't look back!

He turned deliberately and trained his glasses astern. It was as if the convoy itself was bleeding to death as he watched. Two ships gone completely, four more either burning fiercely or with their decks already awash, their sacrifice marked by a bright sheen of oil as wide as the whole convoy. Boats, wreckage, and men who could only stare with stunned disbelief as the formation headed away.

Howard said, “It's a pity they can't see this at home, Number One. The black marketeers, the people who brag about getting petrol for their cars despite the rationing.” He turned from the pitiful scene and added with bitterness,
“God damn them all!”

Howard saw Ayres staring at him from the compass platform, the others around him, moulded together more than ever because of the horror they shared, the apparent helplessness which rendered them impotent while so many died. And tonight the U-Boats would rise like evil sharks to the surface to give chase with greater speed afforded by their diesels. The Admiralty had said there were ten U-Boats in the vicinity. How had they come here? Where did they get this information? Tomorrow would begin like this one. And the next, and the next.

There was a dull boom astern and he heard the Asdic report, “Ship breaking up, sir!”

Treherne acknowledged it, his features like stone while he lifted his glasses to watch the remaining hulks falling further and further astern. The corvettes closed around their charges again, and Howard imagined their hands working feverishly to reload the depth-charge racks and prepare for the next encounter.

He said, “See if you can drum up something hot for the lads to drink. The sandwiches are already done in the galley, though God knows the bread will be like asbestos after all this time!”

Treherne passed his instructions to the boatswain's mate and said, “You knew, didn't you, sir?” It all added up. Howard's lack of surprise, his instructions about there being plenty of sandwiches well in advance.

Howard raised his glasses again as a diamond-bright light winked across the convoy. It was Captain Vickers's
Kinsale
at the head of the port column from where he controlled the escort and gauged the commodore's next move. He seemed to have that uncanny knack of guessing each manoeuvre, and had proved his skill as well as his worth from the moment they had left Halifax.

The yeoman said,
“Kinsale
's got a contact, sir!” He almost yelled aloud, “Black pendant's gone up! He's signalled
Ganymede
to assist!”

Stiffly, like old men, the gun crews and damage control parties crowded around their stations to watch as the big destroyer with the leader's black band on her squat funnel appeared to leap away from the convoy. The bow-wave mounted around her raked stem so that she seemed to dig her stern deeper into the sea to thrust her forward, while tiny figures ran to the quarterdeck to set the charges for the first pattern.

Angled towards her at ninety degrees,
Gladiator
's sister-ship was swaying in a welter of yellow foam as Colvin brought her hard round, ready to surge across his leader's wake with his own set of charges.

“There she goes!”

There was a ragged cheer as the first charges exploded and hurled spray in the air like something solid. Then another pattern, and as the black pendant vanished at the destroyer's yard,
Ganymede
increased speed to pass across the area where the sea still boiled in torment.

The yeoman called, “From
Kinsale,
sir.
Join the party!”

“Starboard fifteen! Full ahead together!”

Howard lowered his eye to the compass.
“Steady!
Steer zero-eight-zero!” Over his shoulder he added, “Warn Bizley, Number One. Full pattern!” It was like a touch on the shoulder, a chill breeze on the skin. He was almost surprised to hear himself say, “Belay that, Number One. Tell Guns. Prepare to engage!”

He saw the boy Milvain swaying at the bridge gate, a huge fanny of steaming tea dragging at one arm.

Treherne passed his order and stared across at his captain by the compass. More charges roared down as
Kinsale
thrashed back along the same track.

Howard was aware of so many things at once. The new multiple pom-poms training soundlessly round to starboard, the main armament following suit as if they were about to engage the other destroyers. He also saw the old sloop
Redwing
blowing out smoke as she increased speed to fill
Gladiator
's gap in the defences.

More charges. He was even able to picture them, falling so slowly, down and down to detonate like savage eyes around the submarine's blurred outline.

He rarely thought of the men who served in them. The U-Boat was weapon and crew all in one. A mind of its own. The hunter.

“From
Kinsale,
sir!
Remain on station. I have another contact at three-five-zero!”

There was something like a groan of disappointment as
Ganymede
heeled over, showing her bilge as she turned steeply to follow the leader once more.

The yeoman exclaimed angrily, “Lost the bastard!”

Howard said sharply, “Look!” He raised his glasses and stared at the great surge of bubbles and oil which rose to the surface and rolled swiftly away into the troughs. Then, like an obscene monster, the U-Boat began to break surface, bows first until something brought her under control and she came down fully and untidily on the broken water.

Men appeared just as suddenly on the casing, flowing down the side of the conning-tower, their features lost in distance.

The boatswain's mate gasped, “The buggers are goin' to surrender!” He was almost incoherent with wild excitement.

The yeoman rasped, “Are they fuckin' hell!”

Howard shouted,
“Open fire!”
He stared at the surfaced U-Boat as it lay pitching in the disturbance of its own making. She had been damaged by the charges; there were jagged marks on the casing. But the U-Boat's long gun, larger than any
of
Gladiator
's, was already pivotting round until he was looking straight down its muzzle.

“Hard a-port!”
That would give Finlay a chance to use all his armament, even though the move made
Gladiator
a larger target.

He saw the flash of the U-Boat's gun and heard the shell scream overhead before exploding far abeam. Then the air was ripped apart by the clattering pom-poms and the sharper crash of the four-point-sevens. Water-spouts fell near the submarine's hull and burst in the sea beyond it. Tracer clawed over the water and struck fire from the casing and conning-tower where some madman had managed to run up the German ensign.

The rapid fire of the lighter weapons cut down the U-Boat's gun crew like bloodied rag dolls, but even when the order to cease fire was repeated one Oerlikon gunner continued to rake the enemy's deck until his magazine was empty, and there were only jerking corpses to be seen.

Howard shouted, “Continue firing! Tell Guns I want to be certain this time.”

Holes appeared in the U-Boat's saddle-tank, and he noticed for the first time that its hull was covered in slime and weed. It had probably been at sea for weeks, maybe refuelled in these same waters by one of their big supply boats, the “milch-cows.”

He watched more shells burst alongside and found that he could do it without compassion. Even when some small figures appeared on the conning-tower only to be cut down by Finlay's withering fire, he felt nothing but the need to destroy this thing and all that it had come to mean to him.

Treherne said, “Never thought I'd see the day!”

Howard did not reply but watched intently as the slime-covered hull began to lift into the air bows-first, smoke pumping from the shattered conning-tower. He steadied his glasses with great care and saw some small designs painted on the punctured steel plates below the periscope standards. Ships sunk. Men killed. A record of murder.

Two figures were in the sea, although it was not possible to
know how they had survived.

“She's going!”

There was no cheering this time. Just the cold satisfaction of victory after so many,
too
many failures.

The U-Boat dived and Howard called, “Take her alongside those men in the water, Number One.”

He saw Treherne's surprise and hurt. Because of all the men they had left to die back there. And now they were stopping for two of their attackers. Howard shook his head. “They are not survivors. To me, they are nothing more than trophies. Evidence of a kill. It's not much, but—”

He ran to the side as a lookout shouted, “Torpedo running to starboard, sir!” Just for a second or so he saw the steely line as it tore through the water and cut across the bows. If
Gladiator
had not reduced speed to wait for the two Germans, she would have taken the torpedo amidships. It must have been fired at extreme range, perhaps on the off chance of a hit after the first bloody and successful attack. They were lucky.

He felt the shock of the explosion and turned with sudden dismay as the little sloop
Redwing
began to settle down, the sea already surging through the great hole in her side.
Redwing
was on
Gladiator
's proper station. Again he felt the chill breeze on his skin.
Either way it was meant for us.