Ship of Force (6 page)

Smith pointed a finger at Sanders. “Let go Two!”

“Let go Two!”

“Hard astarboard!”
Sparrow
turned, all of them on the bridge bracing themselves against the heel of her. And Smith wondered: What if the U-boat had not held that course, had immediately turned? Which way? The depth-charge exploded and he stared like all of them at another churned circle of water and saw — nothing.

“Ease to five!…Meet her! Steady!” Smith rubbed at his face.

Sparrow
tore down past the drifter, passing her to port and a thousand yards away. She burned all along her length and Smith saw that she had a boat in the water now.
Sparrow
ran on, left the drifter astern. Smith ordered, “Douse that light!” The searchlight snapped off. It was serving no useful purpose for the moment and they were dangerously close to the shore batteries on the enemy-held coast and closing it with every second. The searchlight would make
Sparrow
an easy target.

“Port ten…Midships.”

Sparrow
turned to run north-east and parallel to the unseen coast. Sanders still stood crouched by the voice pipe but his eyes searched the sea. The towering flames on the burning drifter sent faint yellow light trembling over them on the bridge. The little wooden ship off the port bow was just a huge torch now. It lit the sea between –

“
Periscope
!” the lookout’s voice was a shriek of excitement. Glasses held to his eyes with one hand, he pointed with the other.

“Hard aport!” Smith used his own glasses, seeking. Was it? So many reports of periscopes proved to be the result of excited imaginations. He saw it, held the glasses on it as
Sparrow
’s head came around, banging on to the screen as the deck tilted.

It
was
a periscope. Between
Sparrow
and
Judy
and inshore of the drifter. Five hundred yards from
Sparrow’s
stem — “Meet her! Steady! Steer that!”

He let the glasses fall and stared unblinking at the tiny sticklike thing poked up from the sea as
Sparrow
gobbled up the intervening distance. Almost on her. A hundred yards. The periscope dipped but too late this time. The U-boat commander had turned when he submerged, slipped inshore of the drifter and then come up to look for
Sparrow
— hoping to launch a torpedo? That was more than likely.
Sparrow
’s stem knifed into the swirl that marked where the periscope had showed a second before and Smith shouted, “Let go One!”

“Let go One!” Sanders repeated.

Smith counted flying seconds, then: “Let go Two!” The second depth-charge rumbled down the chute as the first hurled water at the sky. “Hard aport!” Again that tight, heeling turn. Smith clung on and shouted, “Searchlight!”

It crackled into life once more as the second depth-charge exploded, throwing green sea and foam higher than
Sparrow
’s masthead. The cone of light swept the foam-flecked, yeasty sea between and around the areas of the two explosions.

Sanders croaked excitedly, “She’s coming up!” And then all of them were shouting it.

Smith bellowed above them, “All guns commence!” And then to Gow, “Midships!…Steady!”

The U-boat surfaced, at first just the conning-tower showing like a shark’s fin but then she came up with a rush until all the shiny, slimy black back of her was clear of the water. The searchlight lit her up and Smith saw she was down by the stern. The twelve-pounder slammed and the shell burst on the bull just aft of the conning-tower. Then the six-pounders opened up. All the guns were firing at virtually point-blank range, well under a thousand yards and Smith could see them hitting. Figures showed in the conning-tower, spilled over on to the deck and into the sea. The twelve-pounder scored a hit on the conning-tower and an instant later there came an explosion from somewhere forward in the U-boat that drowned the guns’ hammering and the bow lifted, dropped. As it did so the U-boat rolled over. She lay there bottom-up for only seconds then slipped down by the stern and out of sight, leaving a stain of oil. The guns ceased firing.

Some men had got out, but — survivors? Smith remembered the hail of fire that had burst on and around the U-boat and thought it was unlikely anyone had survived. All the same he ordered, “Slow ahead both. Port ten. Mr. Sanders! Nets over the side in case of survivors!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Sanders was grinning. The crew of the twelvepounder were cheering. As Sanders went to the ladder the killick slapped his back and Sanders laughed. Smith thought that was good. This one action had made Sanders accepted.

He rubbed at his face again but it seemed to have no feeling. He knew he was not grinning, that he was the only man aboard standing quite still, not elated, expressionless. As he had been throughout the action. He stayed apart and he could not help it.

Sparrow
crept down on the circle of oil with the searchlight’s beam shifting over it and Smith thought that was a luxury they must soon dispense with. If there were men in the sea then Sanders and his party in the waist would see them now or not at all.

“Port bow, sir!” That was the look-out, pointing, but Smith had already seen him. Or them. At first he thought there was only one man but as his order to Gow edged
Sparrow
over he saw there was one swimmer supporting another.

“Stop both.” The way came off
Sparrow
and she drifted down past the men in the sea. Smith made out two oil-smeared faces turned up to him, slipping past below him as he leaned out over the bridge screen. He saw Sanders’s party in the waist with the nets hanging down the side and two men already down on the nets, their legs in the sea, held on by lines in the hands of the men on the deck above them. So they could cling to the nets with one hand while reaching out to grab at the swimmer and the man he supported.

Smith used the bridge megaphone to urge, “Quick as you can, Mr. Sanders!” He saw Sanders lift a hand in acknowledgment and turned to call up at the searchlight: “Douse!”

The light went out. Smith took a restless pace across the bridge so he could see the drifter. She was no longer a pillar of flame, had burned down to her water-line. Between her and
Sparrow
was a boat pulling towards the thirty-knotter. His gaze went beyond it, looking worriedly for the airman who had been there, it seemed so long ago though it had been only minutes. Had
Sparrow
run him down in her twisting pursuit of the U-boat? It was possible. They would have to search for him though they had been too long in these waters already.
Sparrow
was a sitting duck for the shore batteries lying stopped like this and lit up by the last of the burning
Judy
, with her only movement the slow roll and recover as a beam sea thrust at her. Under his breath he urged, “Come on, Sanders! Come
on
!” But he kept his mouth shut. The men were as aware as he of the danger and working as fast as they could.

With the engines stopped their voices came up to him, breathless as they laboured in the waist. In the light from the drifter he could see them and he glanced uneasily towards the unseen shore where the coastal batteries were mounted. He looked back to Sanders and his party and saw the survivors being manhandled up the nets, their faces pale and oil-stained — or was that blood? He could hear them coughing up the oil, rackingly. The men crowded the side and the cheering had stopped when the survivors drifted alongside. Now the hands were hauling them in, holding them up. “— ’right, Jock. Easy now.”…“’Old on to me. Come up, now.”…“Fetch us some blankets. This puir bastar’s frozen and shivering his teeth loose.”

Smith thought he could hear the crackling of the drifter as she burned herself out. He could certainly smell her, tar- and wood-smoke over the reek of the cordite that still hung about the bridge.

He turned up his face to the sky, wincing, hearing now the whistle that was faint but became piercing, grew to a shriek that ripped overhead. The shell burst in the sea a cable’s length to seaward of the drifter and the height of the water-spout it threw up showed it to be a biggish gun, six- or eight-inch. That would be from one of the batteries north of Nieuport.

Now Smith bellowed, “Get ’em in, Mr. Sanders!”

“All secure, sir!”

“Full astern port! Slow ahead starboard!” And as the engineroom telegraphs clanged he threw at Gow, “Port five!”
Sparrow
’s screws churned, she turned tightly and Smith watched her head come around. “Stop port…Slow ahead port…Starboard five!”

“Starboard five, sir!”

“Meet her…Steady!”

Sparrow
headed for the
Judy’s
boat and Smith leaned out over the screen again to shout at Sanders in the waist, “Get ready to do your stuff, Sub! And this time really fast! Haul ’em in!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Smith snapped, “Stop both!” Again the way came off
Sparrow
as she ran down on the boat and again she lay and wallowed in the beam sea. Smith held his breath as another shell howled overhead and burst to seaward of the drifter. He swallowed. But the boat was hooked on to the netting and the crew of the drifter were scrambling up and tumbling inboard. One man was hauled up on a line; Smith saw them yank him up and in like a sack of potatoes, a dozen hands grabbing at him.

“All secure, sir!” Sanders yelled it. Then he added, “An’ they picked up the airman, sir!”

That may have been the man on the line. Smith thought the airman was lucky to be alive — and aboard, because
Sparrow
could not search for anyone now she was under fire. “Full ahead both! Port ten!” The sooner he got them all out of these waters the better, but first he had to claw out to seaward of
Judy
so
Sparrow
would no longer be silhouetted against the glow of the drifter for the gunners ashore. “Ease to five…Midships!…Steady! Steer that!”

Sparrow
ran past the drifter that could not last long, had lasted too long for Smith’s liking, passed down her port side then left her astern. “Port five. Half ahead both…Midships. Steady. Two-four-oh.”

Gow answered, “Course two-four-oh, sir!”

Sparrow
headed back towards the West Deep and the Smal Bank. A minute or so later the drifter
Judy
sank. The glow of her was snuffed out like a candle as the sea claimed her. There were no more shells from the guns at Nieuport; they could not see a target.

Dunbar clambered up to the bridge, his head wrapped around with a white bandage, his cap stuck atop of it on the back of his head. Smith looked at him closely, saw his face pale as the bandage and asked him. “Are you all right?”

“Well enough, sir.” Dunbar put a hand to the bandage, tenderly. “I had a hell of a headache to start with. Being thrown off the bridge hasn’t helped it.” He glanced at Smith. “Good thing you were here, sir. After three years we finally sank a U-boat and I was down in my bunk with Brodie tying my head up.”

Smith shrugged. “You started the attack, anyway. After that your lads just did it by the book.” He did not have to lift his voice for all of them on the bridge to hear him. “You’ve certainly worked them up well. They’ve probably called you all sorts of a slave-driving bastard in the last three years — but now all is forgiven.” He saw the look-out grinning and heard the killick of the twelve-pounder snort with laughter.

“Glad we got her, anyway.” But Dunbar did not sound as though he cared very much. He looked around. “I’m the better for being up here where I can breathe. And it’s quieter. I looked in the wardroom and it’s crammed full o’ bodies. Brodie’s got his hands full although he’s got the cook to help him. I told Sanders to stay there.”

Smith said, “They’re coping?” It was more statement than question and Dunbar nodded. Smith thought that was how it was when you served in ships that were wrong for the job they were set, or built for the war of a generation ago. You had to act the doctor with a first-aid manual and a prayer. You coped. You had to.

Dunbar went on, “The drifter lost two men. When she caught alight her skipper went below to fetch up the engineer — she’d taken a hit in the engine-room. Neither of them came out. The airman seems all right, though I understand they had to bring him up on a line. He doesn’t know what happened to his observer but he must have gone down with the Harry Tate. One of
Judy’s
crew has a broken leg. Sanders set a sentry over the two Germans, though I can’t see them giving trouble. One of them is a seaman but the other is the boat’s captain.”

Smith said, “Is he, by God!” It was not often that a U-boat captain was taken prisoner.

“Aye.” Dunbar nodded his head, winced and put a hand to it. “Brodie reckons the German skipper hasn’t got long and I think he’s right. He keeps coughing up blood and ranting and raving at the top of his voice. Sanders knows a bit of German and he says its gibberish. The man’s delirious. I told Sanders to sit with him.”

Smith nodded. “I’d better see that young airman. You’re fit to stand a watch?”

“Aye. Better up here than laying down there, thinking —” Dunbar stopped, then went on shortly, “I’ll take her, sir.”

Better on the bridge than lying below, thinking of his wife and child. He had not mentioned them but he did not need to. Smith never heard Dunbar mention them again. Smith said, “Course is two-four-oh. You’ve another seven minutes on this leg — Lorimer’s keeping the track. Nieuport on the port bow.” He thought a moment then added, “You’d better get a signal off to the Commodore and Dunkerque, saying we’re on our way to the rendezvous, we’ve got the pilot and sunk a U-boat. Tell Dunkerque to repeat it to the R.N.A.S. at St. Pol. They’ll want to know about the pilot.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Well, they were shouting for anti-submarine action. You gave it to ’em quick enough.”

Smith blinked. He had not thought of that. But he wanted to be away. He clambered down the ladder from the bridge to the iron deck and started aft, his legs loose and barely controlled. His hands had begun to tremble as they always did at this time, when the action was over. He thrust them in his pockets.