Ship of Force (5 page)

Now Trist had ordered a bombardment and given Ostende to Smith and his tiny flotilla. He hardly knew a man of them except Garrick. And thank God for him, burly, solid, stolid, hardworkingly efficient and loyal. A good man. And Smith knew that even now Garrick would be worrying about his unconventional, unpredictable Commander, with his black moods and prickly temper, left aboard this old thirty-knotter among strangers. Hence the offer of Buckley. Smith found he was grinning again at the thought, saw the bewildered look on Sanders’s face and laughed outright. He saw Gow, the coxswain hauling his long frame up the ladder to the bridge, freeze at that laughter and peer aft, startled.

Smith said, “All right, Sub.” He walked forward to the bridge. As the parties collected fore and aft and the little bridge filled up they glanced sideways at him, curious, new rumours flying now on the heels of others that had no doubt preceded him. Never mind. They would soon find the truth about each other.

He looked around the bridge, crowded now with Gow at the wheel, the signalman ready with his lamp, the bosun’s mate at the engine-room telegraphs and the three man crew of the twelve pounder. The bridge was hardly more than a platform for that gun. Smith knew about thirty-knotters, he had commanded one as a very young lieutenant and the memory was green. Like coming home? To a thirty-knotter?
Home
? That was funny and he was grinning again now. But this was his flotilla, his ships and his men, for better or for worse, and he was taking them to sea.

Sanders reported breathlessly, “Ready to proceed, sir.”

It was time to start learning about this young man. Smith said, “Take her out, Sub.”

* * *

Sparrow
hove to outside in the Roads as
Marshall Marmont’s
picket boat bucketted out of the darkness on a rising sea, bringing Leading Seaman Buckley to join the thirty-knotter. As she rocked to the sea and the wind that pushed her, Smith had doubts about Trist’s confidence in the weather for the morrow. It was a pitch black night, overcast. The day might start clear enough for shooting, but later…

Gow glanced at Smith then quickly around the bridge. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Smith had not missed that careful glance. He stood at Gow’s shoulder. Sanders had shifted out to the wing of the bridge where he watched as the pinnace came alongside. The bridge was still crowded but Gow was close and only Smith would hear him above the sound of the sea. He said, “Go on.”

The coxswain said, “We’ve got a good ship’s company, sir. She’s a happy ship. I know the name she’s got and there’s no denying we’ve some hard cases that kick ower the traces and get intae trouble ashore, but at sea they’re the best.” He paused. When he did speak again it was as if he had changed his tack. “Yon Mr. Sanders, sir, is promising well. The skipper’s a wee bit hard wi’ the young officers but he likes them well enough. It’s just that he wants a job done right and he’s maybe a bit over strict and the young man takes it too much to heart. But I think he’ll dae fine if Mr. Dunbar’s left alone to bring him along.” He paused again, then: “The skipper’s a tough’un, sir, but fair. Well-liked. I reckon the Commodore has a down on him, sir. I think he doesn’t like the skipper; he should ha’ had promotion to a bigger ship long afore this. He’s been in
Sparrow
since 1914 and —”

Smith cut him off. “
That’s enough, Coxswain!”

Gow’s mouth shut like a trap and his eyes fixed on the compass. There came a yell from the waist and Smith, looking aft, saw the pinnace hook on and Buckley swing himself up to the iron deck of the thirty-knotter. The pinnace sheered off, spun on her heel with smoke streaming from her stubby funnel then the midshipman at her wheel straightened her out and sent her plunging away into the night. Smith’s eyes flicked over Gow as he turned back to the bridge, to Sanders coming back to con
Sparrow
. Smith swore under his breath, thinking that Gow had been rash to try to plead for his captain. He might have hardened Smith if the latter had been in doubt how to act over Dunbar. Smith had not been in doubt, had long ago made his decision, but — But? Gow did not seem a fool or a hasty man. So he had not been pleading but simply endorsing what he was certain was Smith’s decision, expressing his gratitude. And Brodie, too, had said, ‘Thank ye.’

Was it so obvious then that Smith intended to cover up for Dunbar? Was Smith’s nature so plainly written in his face? He did not want his emotions read so easily. He growled badtemperedly, “Let’s get under way, Mr. Sanders.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Half ahead both.”

Brodie came on to the bridge, enamelled mugs hooked on the fingers of one hand, a jug of cocoa steaming in the other. Smith took the proffered mug and sipped at the cocoa that burned his tongue. He asked Brodie, “Well?”

“Aye, sir. Empty and sleeping.” They were talking about Dunbar. Brodie had got the whisky out of him. He said, “It’s a bluidy shame, sir.” There was genuine concern in the steward’s voice. Gow had said Dunbar was well-liked. Smith watched Brodie clamber down the ladder from the bridge and head aft. The little man had been given some training in first aid because thirty-knotters did not ship a doctor. So Brodie did the best he could for sick or wounded until they could be put ashore. It was a responsibility Smith would not have wanted.

As he turned to face forward he saw a burly figure at the back of the bridge. Buckley was a big man but he had slipped in there unobtrusively. Smith asked, “All right?”

“Aye, sir, thank ye.” Buckley sounded cheerful and Smith reflected that life aboard a monitor swinging around her anchor in Dunkerque Roads would not suit Buckley and he was doubtless glad of this change.

Sanders conned
Sparrow
through the shipping anchored in the Roads and the shoals off Dunkerque. She slipped through the night past one shadowy, looming ship after another. Sanders’s orders to Gow at the helm were crisp, but Smith could sense his nervousness that jerked the words out of him. The Sub was handling the ship for the first time under the eyes of this new Commander — and Smith knew his own reputation as a shiphandler. So he kept his voice quiet behind Sanders, steadying.

The Sub-Lieutenant was grateful for it. Another thirty-knotter came up at them out of the darkness, anchor party at work on her turtle-back fo’c’sle.
Sparrow
swept around her stern and Smith murmured, “That’s
Gipsy
. She’s escort to the other monitors.”

The monitors and the drifters were assembling now at Hill’s Pocket, the anchorage to the north-east of Dunkerque, and
Sparrow
was threading through them. He said, “
Marshall Marmont
fine on the port bow. You can just see that tall turret of hers.”

Sanders could. That was distinctive enough. As
Sparrow
steamed past the monitor he saw that she, like
Gipsy
, was anchoring in the Pocket to wait for the dawn. But
Sparrow
steamed on. The port look-out called, “Ship on the port bow!”

Smith’s head whipped around and he reached for the glasses that hung from their strap on his chest. He had borrowed them from Lorimer, the seventeen-year-old midshipman who was at the chart-table under its hood abaft the first funnel, keeping the ship’s track. Smith started to lift the glasses, but paused. The ship was near enough and clear enough for him to see that she was no enemy destroyer but a drifter. “Ask her number.”

The signal lamp clattered and seconds later light stuttered erratically from the drifter. The signalman read, “Seven…three…five.” He looked at his list. “That’s
Grimsby Lass
, sir.”

Smith told Sanders, “Come about and run alongside her. I want to talk to her skipper.” For
Sparrow
had been sent to look for two men and had precious little information on where to look. ‘Off the Nieuport Bank’ covered a large area of dark sea.

Sanders ordered, “Port ten.” He sounded a little more confident now, not relaxing but not strung tight any more. Smith noted the tiny signs and grunted approvingly to himself.

“Port ten…Ten of port wheel on, sir.” replied Gow.

Sparrow
’s head swung through a half-circle until Sanders said, “Ease to five…steady.”

“Steady on two-oh-five, sir.” intoned Gow.

Sparrow
had turned into the drifter’s wake, was now running down to overhaul her and Sanders waited, eyes on the narrowing gap, then ordered, “Slow ahead both.” The bosun’s mate worked the handles of the engine-room telegraphs and
Sparrow’s
speed fell away. The way on her took her alongside the drifter but there she stayed, keeping station.

Sanders ordered, “Hold her there, cox’n.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Sanders had timed it almost perfectly. Was it skill or luck? There had certainly been a little experienced anticipation on the part of Gow at the helm and Smith suspected Sanders was a shade relieved.

Smith grinned. “That was well done.”

The drifter was one of scores sent to sea to lay nets or sweep mines, patrol the barrages or escort the fishing fleets. A fishing vessel herself, she was built of wood, around two hundred tons gross with a wheelhouse aft and a three-pounder that was no more than a pop-gun, right in the eyes of her before the foremast.
Grimsby Lass
was barely creeping, she looked to be wallowing along, lower in the sea than she should be and water jetted continuously in streams from her deck; she was pumping.

Smith used the bridge megaphone to hail her across the narrow strip of sea that boiled between her and
Sparrow
. “
Grimsby Lass
!”

He saw a figure drop down from the wheelhouse to the drifter’s deck, caught the sheen of oilskins as the skipper lifted his hands to bawl between them, “Aye!”

“I’m off to search for that Harry Tate you reported down in the sea. What can you tell me?” Smith lowered the megaphone.

The drifter’s skipper bawled. “We was out on the coast barrage but making for Dunkerque. She was in a fight north of us wi’ three o’ they German fighters. When they turned back for home she turned an’ all and headed for Dunkerque but she was near down and her engine on fire when she passed over us. It was getting dark but near as we could see she came down to seaward of the Nieuport Bank.
Judy’s
gone to look for her.”

He paused and Smith said, “You’re pumping. Are you holed?”

“Not holed. We were sweeping up some Jerry mines. Suppose some U-boat laid ’em. Anyhow, one went off a bit close and sprung the old girl’s timbers. We’re making water but we’ll get home all right so long as we take it steady and keep pumping.” He paused again, then added, “Wished I could ha’ gone wi’ Geordie Byers. He’s skipper o’ the
Judy
an’ a good seaman but he’s new to the Channel and a hare-brained bugger. You’ll need to watch him. I says to him, ‘You’ll have your work cut out, Geordie, wi’ the dark an all.’ ‘I can burn a flare,’ he says! I told him not to be so bloody silly but I don’t know if it did any good.”

‘Bloody silly’ was a mild phrase. It would be madness to burn a flare when the Nieuport Bank was only three or four miles from the enemy-held Belgian coast and the guns there, and barely ten miles from Ostende where the Germans had destroyers and from whence came U-boats. Smith raised the megaphone. “I’ll look out for him. Thank you.”

The oilskinned figure lifted an arm in acknowledgment.

Smith ordered, “Port ten.” And “I’ll take her now, Sub.”

Sanders said, “Lorimer reports course is six-seven degrees, sir, on this leg.”

Smith had laid off that course himself before
Sparrow
got to sea. He told Gow, “Course six-seven degrees.”

And to Sanders, “I want a good man in the chains.” As they would be running through shoal waters.

“Aye, aye, sir.” answered Sanders. He turned on the bosun’s mate. “Get McGraw. Send him for’ard.”

It was a long time since Smith had served in the Channel. He would have to remember a lot of things and very quickly. “Revolutions for ten knots.” There were two men in the sea and it was
Sparrow
’s and Smith’s job to try to save them, but it would do no good to run
Sparrow
aground or into collision and Geordie Byers’ drifter
Judy
was somewhere in the darkness ahead.

They turned to starboard when short of the minefields that closed the gap at the southern end of the mine-net barrage, reduced to five knots and stole over the Smal Bank with McGraw in the chains and swinging the lead, chanting the soundings.
Sparrow
turned to port, increased to ten knots and headed up the West Deep. To starboard a searchlight stabbed at the night, swept briefly, went out. That was the monitor on guard at La Panne and a landmark for Smith. Nieuport was another, of sorts. There was a glow in the night off the starboard bow that faded then brightened, a pulsing glow from the guns’ firing and the flares that went on through the night and every night. Men were dying there.

As the men in the RE8 might well be. If they were not already dead. Smith knew something of the effect of a flimsy aeroplane smashing into the solidity of the sea. It would break up. The engine would sink like a stone and drag some of the aircraft down with it. And maybe the men. There would be floating wreckage because the Harry Tate was mostly fabric and wood but spotting that wreckage on a night like this would not be easy. He knew what it must be like for the men in the sea and the darkness, the cold darkness. He shivered and one of the crew of the twelvepounder looked at him curiously. This wasn’t cold. Not really Channel-cold.

They reached the Nieuport Bank. Smith ordered, “Revolutions for five knots.”

Sanders spoke into the engine-room voice pipe and
Sparrow
’s speed fell from ten knots to a creeping five. Except for Gow at the wheel and intent on the compass, every man on the bridge and on deck was searching the dark sea for wreckage — or a man. Smith knew how easy it was to run down a man in the sea and so had reduced speed, but even so they would be on him almost as soon as they saw him.

Smith glanced around as someone climbed on to the bridge. It was Dunbar. Smith said, “Course is five — five degrees and that’s Nieuport coming abeam. We’re looking for a Harry Tate that crashed in the sea a couple of hours ago.”

Dunbar was silent a moment then said huskily, “Poor devils. It’ll be hell’s own job finding them on a night like this.” His head turned, eyes going over the ship.

Smith said dryly, “I haven’t bent her nor lost the wireless shack overboard.”
Sparrow
had not been designed for wireless so the equipment was housed in a shack erected between the first and second funnels.

Dunbar said stiffly, “Of course not, sir.” Wooden. Formal.

It irritated Smith. Dunbar wasn’t going to make excuses and he was being stiff-necked. Then Smith with his uncomfortable habit of self-criticism remembered somebody else who could take refuge in being stiff-necked and formal. He smiled wryly and said, “Sanders kept the log. All routine stuff, taking me aboard and so on. You’ll need to make it up.” The log seen by Trist would be completed by Dunbar and signed by him, showing him as being in command throughout.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Dunbar was silent a moment as he took it in, then: “Thank you, sir.”

Smith said nothing. That was the end of it so far as he was concerned but he knew it was not the end for Dunbar. The loss of his wife and child would haunt him for God only knew how long. Smith had not been hurt that way but he had been hurt. As a naval cadet he had been the odd man out, a solitary introspective small boy in a rough, extrovert society. He had been hurt physically and mentally but he had survived. Later there had been love affairs when he was a very young officer with only his pay, a ship and a career to fight his way through. No family, no home. Not a marriage prospect. Young women had hurt him then as the young always hurt each other. He was sorry for Dunbar but there was nothing that he could do.

There was silence on the crowded bridge, an edgy, taut-nerved silence. All of them peered into the night, searching for the airmen but with little hope. They were also looking for the enemy because
Sparrow
was in the Germans’ backyard now. In one way the Royal Navy’s command of the sea gave the Germans an advantage because they knew that any ship they met must be an enemy and so could shoot on sight while the Navy had to assume another ship was most likely friendly, and had to challenge. If
Sparrow
used her signal-lamp to challenge in these waters it was possible the only reply would be a shell screaming out of the night.

Smith said, “There’s a drifter,
Judy
, out on the Bank somewhere.”

He saw Dunbar nod and heard him answer, “I know her. That helps but there could be a score of us out here and still not find those airmen.”

Smith thought of the men out there, if they
were
still alive out there, and wished to God that he could use a light.

It was as if his prayer was answered. For ahead of them came a spark of light that immediately blossomed and grew into a ball of fire that lit up the underside of the clouded sky, the dark sea and the tar-black shape of the drifter on which the flare burned. It burned from the foremast and in its light and with his glasses Smith could see her little gun and the men shifting about her deck. She was moving slowly across
Sparrow
’s course and a mile or so ahead.

Gow said, “God!”

Dunbar groaned, “Geordie Byers! Bloody fool!”

“Maybe he’s seen something,” ventured Sanders.

“And maybe somebody’ll see him!”

“Quiet!” Smith rapped it and lifted his voice. “Keep a sharp look-out!” They might as well make use of the light now it was burning.

And there came a yell from the starboard look-out: “Twenty on the starboard bow! Right on the edge o’ the light! There’s summat in the water and I thought I saw it move!”

Smith used his glasses. There was something. Wreckage? And a man? He saw the movement that might have been one more shadow from the flare but it was an arm, he was certain, and there was a head. It was lost as it sank into the greater darkness of a trough then seen again as it lifted on a wave. A shape square-cut that would be wreckage, a pale splash above it that was the face.

Smith lowered the glasses. “It’s a man. Skipper Byers must have seen him because the drifter’s turned towards him.”

The flare was burning low but it had served its purpose. Smith wished it was out, and swore softly. He could guess the cause of the skipper’s rashness. Geordie Byers must have found some flotsam from the RE8 and known that a man might be close by. Smith saw Dunbar’s head turning like his own, sharing his uneasiness. They were both aware that
Sparrow
made a prime target as she ran down on the drifter. The flare did not light
Sparrow
yet but to any craft or U-boat astern of her she would be silhouetted against its glare. A second was too long to be that kind of target. Geordie Byers and the other men aboard
Judy
had been lucky. But they would have to learn not to rely on luck if they were to survive in the Channel war.

Smith said, “We’ll have a word with Skipper Byers.”

Dunbar grunted acknowledgment, a hand to his head. Smith saw him wince.

The flare was dying, but still painfully bright…

The spurt of flame came fine on the port bow, beyond and to seaward of the drifter, a flash that burned itself on the eye and then was gone, but before that instant was past the shell burst on
Judy
and
that
flash was bigger, lighting her up again as they saw the wheelhouse blown away and breaking apart as it flew. Darkness closed in briefly and then flames flickered on the drifter.

Smith set the glasses to his eyes. “Full ahead, Mr Dunbar! Load!”

“Full ahead both!” The bosun’s mate yanked over the handles of the engine-room telegraphs and Dunbar ordered, “All guns load!”

Sanders repeated the order in a high yell, “
All guns load
!”

The killick, the leading-seaman gunner on the twelve-pounder echoed “-
load
!” The breech was thrown open, the shell rammed and the charge in its case inserted.

Dunbar swore. “Bluidy
wars
!” He shouted at Sanders, “Any word of Jerry having destroyers at sea?”

“No, sir!”

“It could still be a destroyer. If it’s one o’ those big boats…”

Dunbar did not finish but Smith knew what he was thinking. If that shell had come from one of the big, new German destroyers with four-inch guns then God help
Sparrow
. The enemy would not have seen
Sparrow
beyond the lake of light cast by the drifter’s flare, the thirty-knotter being hidden in the outer darkness. So far. But
Sparrow
was racing down on that lake of light. A turn to starboard or port and she could run for her life. Nobody would ask her to take on one of those big, modern boats. It was ridiculous. But neither could she leave the drifter to her fate.

Another gun flash. A second between the flash and the flaming, thumping
crash
! as the shell exploded in
Judy
, and hurled blazing timbers into the sky in a shower of sparks and set new fires burning and rolling down smoke across the sea. Aboard
Sparrow
they heard the popping of the drifter’s three-pounder.
Judy
was a wooden boat. She burned and in the light of her burning they could see the men working the gun.

Time of flight of the shell about one second, Smith thought, so range between one and two thousand yards and closing. About twenty seconds between rounds so only one gun firing. Why? It could be a destroyer bows-on to the drifter so that only the one gun on the foredeck would bear but he didn’t believe it. Why didn’t she turn to fire broadsides? But if it
was
a destroyer then
Sparrow
was roaring up to shove her head in the lion’s mouth and it wouldn’t come out again. Smith could lose half his flotilla right now. And he was commanding
Sparrow
, in the excitement he’d almost forgotten that. He gulped and somehow managed to drawl out. “Stand by to depth-charge.”

Dunbar glanced at him but Sanders shouted into the voice pipe that led to the torpedo-gunner aft, “Stand by to depthcharge!”

Smith said to Dunbar, “I think it’s a U-boat on the surface.” It
had
to be. “If it is then he will see us before we see him.”

Sparrow
stood high out of the sea while the U-boat would be almost awash except for the conning-tower. And
Sparrow
was working up to fifteen knots now, throwing up a big white bowwave, and in seconds she would be running into the light from the burning drifter. Smith went on, “So try the searchlight. Dead ahead.” To Sanders he said, “Range about one thousand I think.”

He heard Sanders repeat it to the killick, and yell it to the six-pounders below the bridge as Dunbar shouted up at the rating on the searchlight platform at the back of and above the bridge. The carbons in the searchlight glowed and crackled as they struck arc and then the beam cut a path through the night ahead of
Sparrow
. It wavered, swept, then settled.

The U-boat lay in the beam, almost still, cruising but so slowly there was barely a ripple at her bow. No sign that she was preparing to submerge. There were men in the conning-tower and the four-inch gun forward was manned…

The twelve-pounder slammed and recoiled and its smoke whipped past Smith’s face on the wind. Smith saw the shell burst in the sea and Sanders shouted, “Short!” He did not add a correction;
Sparrow
was closing the range at fifteen knots. The gun’s crew jumped in on the twelve-pounder as the killick yelled and the breech-worker yanked at the handle. The breech opened and the fumes spilled out, the stink of cordite swirled across the bridge.

Dunbar shouted, “Must ha’ been running on the surface to sneak past the barrage in the night. Bound for the Atlantic. Then came on
Judy
.”

Smith nodded. U-boats from the German bases often went north-about around Scotland but those from the Flanders ports of Zeebrugge and Ostende could reach their Atlantic killing ground quicker by running on the surface at night and slipping over the mine-net barrage that was meant to bar their exit through the Channel.

He saw the wink of flame from the barrel of the gun on the U-boat and as he blinked the rip! became a
roar
! The blast threw him back into Buckley and both of them hard against the searchlight platform. Lights wheeled about Smith’s head but then he was aware and clawing to his feet, Buckley thrusting him up. Gow still stood at the wheel. Sanders was pulling himself up by the screen and the crew of the twelve-pounder were on hands and knees but the killick was yelling at them, hauling them on to their feet. The searchlight still blazed, lighting them all. There was no sign of Dunbar.

Smith wavered forward and fetched up against the screen. He could see a tangle of twisted rails and a dent or a scar on the portside of the turtle-back below him. The shell must have exploded on impact, not penetrating. There were ragged holes in the splinter mattresses around the bridge. If there had been only a canvas screen those splinters would have scythed through the bridge staff and left a bloody shambles.

He looked up.

Sparrow
was tearing through the circle of light shed by the fire that was
Judy
and now the drifter lay on the starboard beam. But right ahead lay the U-boat, the range was down to a bare five hundred yards and her gun was not manned. He fumbled at the glasses, set them to his eyes. There was no one in the conning-tower…He swung on Sanders. “She’s diving! Tell the gunner!”

Sanders croaked down the voice pipe “Gunner! Yes, we’re all OK up here except the skipper took a knock.
Listen
, Gunner! The sub’s diving. We’re going to depth-charge.”

Smith called, “Where’s Dunbar, Sub?”

Sanders turned to him a face painted yellow and black by light and shadow, excited. “On the deck at the foot of the ladder, sir. Blast must have blown him over. Brodie’s down there with him though, and he gave me a ‘thumb’s up!’” Sanders stayed by the voice pipe.

Sparrow
ran down on the U-boat that now was only a plunging conning-tower. Then that was gone and the searchlight’s beam showed only the churned circle of water where the submarine had dived. Smith’s eyes were fixed on that circle, watched it slip up to
Sparrow
’s stem, under it. He shouted, “Let go One!”

“Let go One!” repeated Sanders into the voice pipe.

The canister fat with three-hundred pounds of explosive rolled down the chute and plumped into the sea off
Sparrow
’s stern.

“Hard aport,” ordered Smith.
Sparrow
swung into the turn and as Gow held it there came the
thump
! of the depth charge exploding and a tall column of water was hurled up from the boiling sea. The sweeping searchlight settled on it, the beam fidgeting like a blind man’s searching fingers, looking for oil or the U-boat surfacing.
Sparrow
still turned. Smith said, “Ease to five! Steady! Steer that!”

Sparrow
was heading back towards the blazing drifter but Smith did not see her, his eyes on the sea on the spot where he thought the U-boat might be if she had maintained her course.
Sparrow
plunged towards it. That was all Smith could do: try to anticipate the U-boat. New-fangled hydrophones were fitted in some ships but not in
Sparrow
. In any event they would only pick up the sound of a U-boat when the ship itself was stopped and there were no other engine noises about. They were useless for this kind of hunt.