To Risks Unknown (44 page)

Crespin lowered his glasses. Scarlett was bleeding from several wounds and his agony was terrible to watch. The motor boat was losing way, the engine silenced at last by the machine-gun.

Wemyss said quietly, ‘He's down, sir. I think he's bought it.' He, too, lowered his glasses. ‘The poor, crazy bastard!'

Porteous was saying, ‘They couldn't even leave him like that, could they?' The words were torn from his lips.

Crespin's reeling mind seemed to fasten on his words like a blind man feeling something old and once familiar. He raised his glasses, his brain registering what Porteous meant and remembering what Soskic had once told him about the
Nashorn
ramming defenceless boats. Just for the hell of it. He could feel the cold realization running through him like ice and he had to force himself to move and act.

‘Stand by on the four-inch!'

He seized Porteous's arm and shook it, pulling him from his sickened concentration on the bobbing motor boat with its bloodied helmsman as it waited to meet the
Nashorn
's towering bows.

‘He's going to ram the boat!' He shook him savagely. ‘Don't you see,
that
was Lemke's weakness!' He ran back to the screen and yelled, ‘One shell on her poop!' He saw Shannon staring at him. ‘The
Nashorn
was afraid to turn and use her other gun!'

Why was it taking so long to make them understand? Lemke's one real weakness was his cruelty. It was blinding him to the danger of those depth-charges and to the real menace of those mines he always carried. The mines on their little poop railway which Crespin and Coutts had once seen and sketched as the ship had steamed contemptuously past Gradz every day on the same punctual hour.

Perhaps even now Lemke had realized his one and only error. Smoke gushed from the twin funnels, while from beneath the counter the screws threw up a great welter of foam as the engines went to full astern.

The motor boat had disappeared, hidden by the great wedge of the swinging bows, but its pitiful progress could be judged by the moving heads of the German seamen on the fore deck, the sudden panic as they at last understood the truth of their small conquest.

The actual explosion was quite dull and muffled, but the shockwave rumbled against the
Thistle
's bilges, keeping time with the great pinnacle of water which rose high above the
Nashorn
's bridge before falling back slowly alongside.

Crespin felt his eyes watering with strain and concentration. ‘Half ahead!' He must not close the range now. The enemy was still turning, her upper deck wreathed in smoke and darting flames. Across the narrowing strip of water he could hear a strange grating sound, and guessed that one of the coal bunkers had fractured, and with the ship turning at the moment of the explosion it was ripping the inner plates away like paper.

While the
Nashorn
continued to turn the big after-gun swung slowly on its mounting, the long barrel shining in the sunlight as it reached out towards the small ship which still managed to stay afloat.

Wemyss said between his teeth, ‘It's a race!' He cursed as a line of tracer darted from the enemy's bridge and ripped along the
Thistle
's upper deck. He banged the plating with his fist, murmuring fiercely, ‘Come on, old girl! Come
on
!'

Crespin watched the gun. It was trained as far round as it would bear, and as soon as the ship completed her turn it would fire. From a corner of his eye he saw some black specks drifting near the German's hull and guessed they were fragments of Scarlett's boat. He had probably died long before the boat had reached the enemy's side. That was a pity, for this was something Scarlett would have undoubtedly enjoyed, he thought bitterly.

Shannon let out a sudden yell. ‘Got it!'

Crespin shifted the glasses, seeing the big gun muzzle pointing almost directly towards him. He was just in time to see the lip of the enemy's small railway appearing beyond the poop ladder before Shannon squeezed the trigger.

The German fired a split second later, the shell exploding some fifty feet from the
Thistle
's port bow. Maybe the
Nashorn
's gunnery officer had been concentrating so hard that Shannon's sudden challenge had made him react too soon.

Crespin heard the splinters clashing against the hull plates, but was too stricken even to take cover. He saw Shannon's last shell explode with little more than a puff of smoke and a few pieces of whirling wreckage from the poop. Then, as he turned to face Wemyss to acknowledge that he had failed, the world seemed to come apart in one prolonged and ear-splitting explosion.

Smoke tinged with orange fires, spray and fragments had completely hidden the other ship from view. And as dazed men poured from bridge and guns alike, Crespin saw a miniature tidal wave sweeping towards his ship, lifting her almost carelessly before cruising away towards the nearest island.

Like something from a nightmare the
Nashorn
moved slowly out of the smoke. In actual fact she was quite stationary now and only the smoke was moving. But for those few minutes it seemed as if she was still as unbreakable and terrible as ever. Until the smoke at last cleared her bridge and revealed that there was no more of her to see.

There were more internal detonations, and flames darted out of the torn plating to mingle with smoke and escaping steam as with tired dignity she began to heel over towards the watching corvette, machinery tearing loose and crashing through the inferno between decks.

Just when it seemed as if she would turn right over, one great explosion sent a wall of flame shooting a hundred feet above the listing bridge, and as Crespin clung to the screen he could feel the heat across his face, could imagine the horror of that final moment.

In his wheelhouse Joicey gripped the spokes and listened to the roar of the last explosion, and knew it was the end of the
Nashorn.
It was strange, but this time he had no desire to leave the wheel and watch. Even if he had been able to. He stared wearily around the shuttered compartment. It was almost as light as if the scuttles had been wide open. Smoky sunlight made fine yellow bars through a dozen splinter holes and played across the telegraphsman, a messenger and a bosun's mate, all of whom lay in the various attitudes of sudden death. One other man appeared to be sleeping. He was lucky, Joicey thought. Brought in badly wounded, he had been too drugged to feel the final pain when it burst in on him.

Joicey did not know how he had survived. Throughout the action he had stayed at the wheel, shouting at his companions, cursing and responding to Crespin's constant demands, and all the time holding to his trade with the tenacity and fury of a wild animal at bay.

Magot heard the explosion, too, and ran his fingers over his controls with something like love. Across the pounding machinery he saw his stokers watching him, red-eyed and soaked with oil and water from leaks in the hull and several severed pipes. Magot had been so long in the noisy world of an engine room that he had little use for words, and when he tried to shout what he wanted to say to the men he had so often chased and cursed, he could not find any at all.

The little ginger stoker, the bane of Magot's existence, held up a small bundle and grinned.

‘Yer teeth, Chiefy!'

Magot seized them and looked away. The stoker hurried back to his demanding dials, proud of what he had endured, but ashamed at seeing the tears in Magot's eyes. It was like stealing someone's secret, he thought.

The bells clanged and the needle of the dial swung round once more to ‘Full Ahead'.

Magot turned and glared up at it. ‘All right, you impatient sods! Here we go again!' He threw his spindly body across the throttle wheel, cursing and muttering into the din of his racing machinery.

The stokers looked at each other and grinned. The old Magot was back again.

Shannon did not hear the explosion. As he had released his grip on the trigger a splinter from the
Nashorn's
final shell had hit him squarely in the chest, killing him instantly. His dark features were still twisted with anger and disappointment when Lennox and his stretcher bearers arrived, possibly because the last thing he saw on earth was the apparent failure of his shot.

Lennox looked around at the spread-eagled corpses and then dropped on his knees beside Shannon. Something had fallen out of the lieutenant's pocket and lay glinting brightly in the widening pool of blood beside him.

One of the seamen said, ‘A crucifix? Didn't know 'e was a Catholic!'

Lennox picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at the dead men by the splinter-torn gun, at the battered bridge beyond, with its tattered ensign still jaunty and clean above all this horror. ‘Well, it didn't do him any bloody good, did it?' Almost savagely he hurled the cross over the rail and picked up his bag. ‘Come on then! Spare a thought for the living!'

Crespin climbed on to the bridge chair and leaned forward to watch the mounting bow wave.

He heard Wemyss say quietly, ‘Just as if she knew!' He laughed shakily. ‘She was even pointing in the right direction for home!'

Crespin did not trust himself to reply. The anguish of battle was fading with the smoke astern, all that was left to mark where
Nashorn
had finally vanished. Now as he gripped the rail below the broken screen he could feel his limbs beginning to shake, the pain in his chest and side coming back, as if he was emerging from a drugged sleep.

Feet crunched on the glass behind him and he heard Leading Telegraphist Christian speaking urgently with Porteous. One more man who had somehow survived.

Wemyss joined him by the screen and studied him anxiously. ‘I think you should go to the chartroom, sir. You've done enough for ten men this morning.'

Morning? Crespin stared listlessly at the clear sky. Was it still only that? The same sky and sun, the same glittering water.

Porteous's face swam across his vision. ‘Well?' How small his voice seemed.

Wemyss took a sheet of paper from Porteous's hand and said slowly, ‘Signal, sir.
Thistle will return to base forthwith. Air cover will be provided immediately.
' He touched Crespin's arm and added quietly, ‘It says to cancel the last signal, sir.
Aircraft recovered. Rear-Admiral Oldenshaw and party safe.
'

Crespin looked up slowly, fearful in case he was drifting back again into unconsciousness. He saw Wemyss and Porteous staring at each other and grinning, and beyond them Griffin and the telegraphist, who still did not realize the importance of his message.

Then he said, ‘Thank you.' He reached out and touched the smoke-stained steel by his side. He could have been speaking to the ship. ‘Thank you very much.'

Christian asked, ‘Any reply, sir?' He sounded tired.

Wemyss took his arm and guided him clear of the gratings. There was still a long way to go and there were a hundred things to do in the next hour or so. But as he looked around the riddled bridge he no longer had any doubt in his mind that she would get them there. His eyes fell on the figure in the chair. Crespin was lolling in time with the ship's easy roll, and he guessed that he had at last given in to sleep and total exhaustion. When he awakened he would remember. And he would know that life had again something to offer.

He said, ‘As soon as we meet with our escort you can make this signal.' He paused, conscious of the moment, for himself, and for the little ship around him.

‘Thistle
will enter harbour as ordered. Enemy destroyed.'

IT WAS A
cold February morning, and although the rain had all but stopped the low clouds above Portsmouth harbour showed that there was plenty more to come. The harbour was crowded, and the sleek grey frigate which had just passed through the entrance picked up a berth on the outside of two other ships, the oilskinned seamen pausing at the mooring wires only to whistle at two perky Wrens who were already climbing aboard with the ship's mail.

Then, as the rain came back again the seamen dispersed to their quarters to read letters from home, to change into shoregoing rig, to enjoy themselves once more and forget the last patrol.

In the captain's day cabin Commander John Crespin unslung his binoculars and handed them to his steward before sitting down at his desk and stretching his legs. Both cabin scuttles were uncovered, but because of the ship alongside the place was in semi-darkness. Crespin yawned and switched on the desk light, then after a slight hesitation picked up a newspaper which with several official letters had just been left by the mail boat.

The headlines were glaring and optimistic, as they always seemed to be these days. The Allies were across the Rhine and smashing deep into Germany. Everywhere the enemy front was collapsing, and what had once seemed like a hopeless dream was now becoming a reality.

He heard the steward whistling to himself and the clatter of crockery. The coffee would be very welcome just now, he thought. With the war so nearly finished it was more necessary than ever not to relax and take unnecessary chances. Like the last patrol, for instance. Dull and almost without incident. But the danger was always there just the same. He froze in his chair and leaned forward, imagining for a moment that his tiredness was playing tricks on him.

It was just a small paragraph, a few lines right at the foot of the second page.

‘Yesterday the Secretary of the Admiralty announced the loss of the corvette H.M.S.
Thistle
(Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Wemyss,
D.S.C., R.N.R.
). The announcement was delayed for two weeks in the hope that some further information might be made available. It is understood that the
Thistle
was one of the escorts of an Atlantic convoy en route for America and was detached to search for survivors from another ship. She was never seen again. Next of kin have been informed.'