Kleber's Convoy (7 page)

On
Vengeful
's bridge they could hear the fighter-direction officer in
Fidelix
vectoring the Wildcats on to the German shadower. The cloud ceiling was fifteen hundred feet and the shadower had disappeared into it, moving from west to east across the convoy's port quarter, putting himself between the Norwegian coast and the convoy, keeping to the darkest quarter of the sky, one eye firmly on his escape route. His chances of getting away now would depend on how long it took the Wildcats to find him.

Bowrie's voice broke into Redman's thoughts. ‘Radar 291 reports f-fighters closing bandit f-fast. Distance apart t-twelve miles.'

‘Good.' Redman cheered up. ‘Hope they get him quick.' Soon afterwards the yeoman said, ‘
Fidelix
has intercepted bandits' sighting report to base.'

Redman was silent. There was nothing to say. They all knew it would happen and what it meant. The position, course and speed of convoy JW 137 was now known to the German High Command. Action would follow. Quickly, while the break in the weather lasted. Torpedo-bombers would soon be rolling down runways on German airbases along the Norwegian coast, some of them less than three hundred miles away. U-boat patrol lines between Bear Island and the North Cape-one hundred and ninety miles ahead -and off the Kola Inlet would be alerted.

Redman said, ‘It won't be long now, Number One.'

‘Yes, sir.' The first-lieutenant sounded pleased. ‘Nice to have a go at them again.'

‘Time, Pownall?' Redman asked.

‘0613, sir.'

Redman stood at the bridge-screen steadying himself against the movement of the ship, looking into the darkness astern, wondering what the next twenty-four hours would bring. Not sleep, that was certain.

The sound of the fighter-direction officer's voice was becoming familiar. He had a North-American accent.
Canadian
, thought Redman. The FDO was guiding the Wildcats on to their targets. His directions were clear and explicit, no trace of excitement, no sense of urgency, a man absorbed in the technicalities of what he was doing, the instruments he was watching. It was evident that the Germans were now aware of the fighters. It had become a stern chase but the
reconnaissance plane was no match for the Wildcats. They were overhauling rapidly.

Redman wondered what was going on in the minds of the German aircrew. Were they still thinking ‘it can't happen to us', or had they realised that it was about to and resigned themselves to entering their particular Valhalla?

Not long afterwards they heard the Wildcat pilots
reporting
contact. Seconds dragged by on
Vengeful
's bridge, the men there straining their attention for the next report. Broken disembodied chatter came from the fighter pilots. ‘He's on bloody fire … starboard engine,' said one voice. There was a pause. ‘I'm following him down …' said another. ‘Jesus! We've really got the bastards …'

Then the fighter-direction officer was telling them to cool it and giving them a ‘well done' all in the same breath. Redman thought again of the German aircrew. How long did it take to fall two thousand feet? Could they bale out? What was the point? They knew they couldn't last in Arctic water and there was no hope of rescue. Better stay in the thing until it hit the sea and broke up. But it was on fire. Was the urge to jump irresistible? What sort of things went on in a man's mind? Could he rationalise such a situation or did it resolve itself in unadulterated terror? The yeoman's voice broke into his thoughts. ‘
Fidelix
reports enemy aircraft shot down, sir.'

‘Well done.' Redman said it with humility. He was
thinking
of the Fleet Air Arm sub-lieutenants in the
billiard-room
in Greenock.

The first-lieutenant was saying something. ‘… or shall we remain closed up, sir?'

Redman said, ‘No. Let them carry on now. Get what rest they can. The party'll begin in earnest soon.'

The signal from
Fidelix
announcing the shooting down of the German shadower was followed by one ordering an
alteration
of course – forty-five degrees to port. This diversion opened the distance between the Norwegian coast and the convoy and, if maintained, would take the ships north of Bear Island. How far north would depend upon what came from an Avenger aircraft, call-sign
Red
Three,
sent to report on the ice-edge, usually to the north of the island in
midwinter
. When the weather closed in again, which was likely
at any time, the Vice-Admiral could, at the moment of his choosing, order a ninety-degree-wheel to starboard. This would take JW 137 well south of the island.

In considering these tactics he had in mind that sooner or later enemy aircraft would report the convoy's new course to the German High Command. There, he hoped, they would conclude that the convoy intended to pass north of Bear Island and move the bulk of the U-boat patrol line
accordingly
. In that case it would be less likely to intercept JW 137 if it passed to the southward. The success of this plan
depended
upon a number of imponderables, of which the weather was by no means the least.

But the Vice-Admiral's options remained open. He could, according to circumstances, pass north or south of Bear Island. The decision need not be made for at least another twelve hours. If during that time the convoy was not again sighted by the enemy, it might well pay to take the northern route.

Soon after the shooting down of the reconnaissance plane, two more shadowers arrived on the scene. Having found the convoy the German High Command was determined not to lose it while the weather lasted.

This time, however,
Fidelix
had four fighters in the air covering the sector nearest the Norwegian coast and the new arrivals were shot down before they could make sighting reports. Thus the diversionary routing was still unknown to the enemy. It was a secret the Vice-Admiral was anxious to preserve. An attack by torpedo-bombers was imminent. Every minute the convoy spent on the diversionary course made the enemy's task more difficult.
Fidelix
's meteorological officer had warned that the lull in the weather would break at any moment.
Red
Three
, sent to reconnoitre the ice-edge, had reported a gale moving south-west over Bear Island. The message had followed her report that the ice-edge was well to the north of the island.

This news confronted the Vice-Admiral with a difficult
decision. Should
Fidelix
recover her aircraft now or keep them airborne in the hope of intercepting an enemy air attack well clear of the convoy? To delay recovery too long might entail the loss of aircraft and their crews. He took a calculated risk-waited twenty minutes then gave the order to recover.
Fidelix
set about her task.

On
Vengeful
's bridge the TBS and VHF loud speakers
relayed
a series of laconic messages between returning aircraft, the escort carrier and her attendant destroyers, A running if cryptic commentary.

‘God knows how they find the carrier,' said Redman, looking into the wintry darkness. ‘Let alone land on it.'

The first-lieutenant said, ‘Jolly good, aren't they, sir?'

Redman smiled. The remark was typical of the
first-lieutenant
. It belonged more to rugger and cricket than the bridge of a destroyer. ‘Yes, they are,' he said.

An urgent voice sounded on the bridge-speaker. ‘Alarm!
Moonbeam.
Alarm! Wildcat overboard port side.'

‘Roger,' came the reply. ‘Proceeding.'

Moonbeam
was the call-sign of one of the two destroyers stationed close astern of the escort carrier for rescue work while aircraft were being flown off or recovered. The
exchanges
which followed told of difficulties. The Wildcat pilot was apparently unable to move, the aircraft was
sinking
, and semi-darkness was complicating the rescue
operation
.

‘Aircraft now against my lee side,' said a voice from
Moon
beam
.
‘Men on lifelines trying to get pilot out, but aircraft sinking fast.'

‘Roger.'

A long pause followed. Redman peered astern. Nothing could be seen, but somewhere in the gloom of Arctic morning a man was fighting for his life. Redman could picture the scene only too vividly. The frantic attempts of rescuers
hampered
by Arctic clothing, a rolling ship and twenty degrees of frost. Men with life-lines round their waists struggling in icy water to extricate the trapped, partially stunned, pilot.

A few minutes later
Moonbeam
called
Fidelix.
‘Wildcat has sunk. Pilot lost. Regret rescue attempt unsuccessful.'

‘Resume your station,
Moonbeam
,'
replied the anonymous voice in the carrier.

There was no time for requiems, for messages of explanation and sympathy. The patrolling Avengers had still to be recovered, wind and sea were rising, and there were telltale flurries of snow.

Three of the four Avengers were recovered but there was no sign of
Red
Three.
No word had come from her since she'd reported on the ice-edge and weather north of Bear Island. It was more than an hour later that the VHF loudspeaker on
Vengeful
's bridge relayed repeated calls from
Red
Three
to
Fidelix.
These were answered by the carrier, but the Avenger was not receiving
Fidelix
's VHF signals due either to a defect in the aircraft's VHF receiver or the weather. This posed a tragic but not unfamiliar problem. If
Fidelix
switched to long-range VHF, German tracking stations on the
Norwegian
coast would pick up the signals and by means of
cross-bearings
plot the position of the convoy. The secret of the diversionary routing would be out. The Vice-Admiral had to decide between risking the lives of the Avenger's aircrew or hazarding the convoy. In a sense the decision made itself. No action could be taken which might help the enemy
intercept
JW 137. The Avenger and its crew would have to get within short-range VHF of the convoy unaided or come down in the cold wastes of the Arctic.

Getting no response to its calls, the distant voice in
Red
Three,
a very young one it sounded to Redman, took on a note of desperation.

‘We're lost, and cannot read you,' it said. ‘Please give us a bearing on W/T frequency.'

The Avenger carried a telegraphist/air gunner and
powerful
W/T equipment. Technically,
Fidelix
could have switched to
Red
Three's
W/T frequency and thus have enabled the lost aircraft to obtain the vital bearing, but to do so would have given away the position of the convoy.
Red
Three's
only hope now was to carry out a square search. If fuel and weather permitted she might find the convoy.

On three more occasions the calls for help were repeated. The last message was abbreviated. ‘Please answer,' pleaded the worried young voice. ‘Just one quick bearing. No more.'

Tension had been building up in Redman, his imagination stretched by tired nerves. The last message was too much for him. ‘For Christ's sake.' He struck the bridge-screen with
his gloved fist. ‘For Christ's sake. This bloody war.' With that he left the bridge, on it a shocked first-lieutenant He, too, had been upset by the Avenger's messages, but one just didn't give way to that sort of emotion. It was bad for the men on the bridge. It was the captain's duty to set an example of resolution. After all, reflected the first-lieutenant, we're at war. Addressing no one in particular, he remarked with a note of cheerfulness he didn't feel. ‘Well. We've shot down three of theirs. And they
now
don't know where JW 137 is.'

‘Yes, sir,' agreed the yeoman respectfully. The
signaiman-of
-the-watch added under his breath, ‘Nor do the poor bastards in
Red
Three.'

The attack by the German torpedo-bombers did not
materialise
, but the gale did. It came with sudden violence from the north-east bringing snowstorms which so reduced visibility that ships in the convoy had difficulty in seeing their next ahead. JW 137 was now steaming almost directly into wind and sea and its speed of advance was down to four knots.

Throughout that day the gale blew relentlessly and storms of snow and sleet deepened the Arctic darkness, laying a screen over the convoy which protected it from attacks by bombers or submarines.

In the escort carrier's wardroom absence of the Wildcat pilot and the crew of
Red
Three
was noticed but not remarked upon.

At 1915 that evening the Vice-Admiral ordered an alteration of course to the south-east and the convoy performed a ninety-degree wheel to starboard. Under normal conditions this was a difficult manœuvre for merchant ships at night. In a north-easterly blizzard in Arctic darkness, with the master of each ship struggling to keep contact with his next ahead, the problems were magnified many times. Unlike their escorts, the merchant ships were without radar.

Nevertheless the wheel was successful, the close escorts shepherding back into station those ships which lost contact, and convoy JW 137 settled down on its new course. It would take the convoy sixty miles south of Bear Island which lay just over one hundred miles to the north-east.

With the gale now on its port beam, JW 137 staggered
and rolled through freezing darkness towards the Barents Sea.

The alteration of course was not without its vicissitudes for
Vengeful.
As port wing ship she was on the outside of the turn and had to sweep round in a wide arc, increasing speed to keep in station with the other ships of the outer screen. This involved taking a considerable battering from the weather: seas had jumped the breakwaters and flooded her messdecks forward; in the engine-room an artificer (ERA) had been struck on the head by a fire extinguisher jerked from its rack by violent movement; and the flash screen to B gun, the forward four-inch, had been buckled by a heavy sea.

After the first-lieutenant had reported that the fighting efficiency of the ship was not impaired, and the doctor that the ERA was in the sick bay with concussion, Redman went down to his sea-cabin.

But
Vengeful's
wild rolling and pitching made rest, let alone sleep, impossible. To stay in the bunk he had to curl up, lie on his side and wedge himself between bunkboard and bulkhead. This required an exertion of pressure which could not be maintained asleep so, dog-tired, he gave up the unequal struggle, got off the bunk, pulled the anorak hood over his head and went to the bridge where the first-lieutenant and Groves were on watch.

‘Can't sleep in this,' he explained.

‘Bloody, isn't it, sir.' The first-lieutenant was customarily cheerful.

Redman grunted and they were silent for a time, together in the darkness, holding on to the bridge-rail, sheltering as best they could from snow, sleet and douches of freezing spray which swept the ship. Behind them the wind shrieked through the rigging, a continuous piercing shrill of such intensity that it hurt the eardrums and inhibited speech.

They stood by the PPI, the first-lieutenant at times
ordering
adjustments of course and speed to keep
Vengeful
in station. Groves, the sub-lieutenant, was at one of the spinning clear-view screens looking ahead into a wall of darkness where he saw only the pictures of his thoughts. They were of his last leave and a land girl in Somerset. He was reliving those days, part romantic, part erotic, worrying and
wondering
. Wondering if she was thinking of him, what she was
doing at that moment, trying to remember her smile and the sound of her voice. Wondering if she was being faithful and worrying about that. There was a lot of competition. The farm where she worked was near a US Air Force base. She used to tease him with stories of crazy parties with glamorous US fighter pilots. She would imply enough to make him jealous, then protest that infidelity was something of which she was incapable He wondered if she didn't protest too much.

The first-lieutenant, too, was thinking of a girl: Susan, a third-officer Wren in Greenock, who came from Blandford in Dorset where his family lived. He had wanted to tell the captain of their plans and this seemed the moment, even if it did mean having to more or less shout the news.

‘We're announcing our engagement next time in, sir,' he said.

Who's we?'

‘Susan and me,
sir.
'

‘Susan?' said Redman doubtfully. ‘Which Susan?'

‘Susan Blake. The girl in FOIC's cypher office.'

‘Ah. You mean Susie. The dark girl with grey eyes and nice teeth.'

The first-lieutenant thought she had a lot more than grey eyes and nice teeth but he said, ‘Yes. That's her, sir.'

‘Too good-looking for you, Number One.'

‘D'you really think so, sir?' The darkness hid the
first-lieutenant's
lop-sided grin.

‘Yes, I do. Can't imagine what she sees in you.'

‘She thinks I'm fabulous, sir.'

‘You must have shot her a hell of a line, Number Orte,'

‘I did, sir. Terrific one.'

There was another silence. Redman felt his way across to the chart-table, thrust his head and shoulders in under the canvas screen and switched on the light. He was not looking at the chart. It was an excuse to break off the
conversation
. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Later he switched off the light and stood at the bridge-screen, away from the PPI. The first-lieutenant's news had taken his thoughts back over the years to Marianne.