Torpedo Run (1981) (16 page)

‘
Fire!
’

The green and red tracers clawed at each other, then knitted together in a tight mesh until they ripped across steel and woodwork alike.

‘Torpedoes running, sir!’

Devane yelled, ‘Hard a-port!’

He screwed his mind into a tight muscle as he tried to count the seconds. Splinters shrieked and clattered everywhere, and he heard a man cry out, a high, desperate sound as the breath was torn from his body.

Missed
. They had missed the target with both torpedoes.

The enemy was still turning, and Devane could hear the great thresh of propellers and the roar of fans as she tilted hard over in pursuit.

More waterspouts, more great bangs and cascading spray.

Devane gasped, ‘Hard a-starboard! We’ll try and cut across his stern!’

Another star shell lit the scene from sea to sky. A deadly, icy glare. As if they were already dead and did not recognize it.

A machine-gun jammed, and Devane heard the seaman cursing and yelling meaningless words as he tried to clear the stoppage. Forward of the bridge the six-pounder pivoted on its power-operated mounting, as if the boat was moving around it as it fired at the enemy’s shadow with barely a pause.

Carroll yelled, ‘We’re losing way!’

Devane tried to listen, but needed to know little beyond the dropping bow wave as the revolutions fell and continued to fall. The engine room was in trouble.

He pulled himself across the shaking bridge to seek out the other enemy ship. But there was only one after all. It made him despair to realize that, but for Home’s careless gunner, and this latest setback, they might have won.

Seymour was shouting, ‘Do we break off, sir?’ He looked and sounded wild.

‘
No!
Stand by to re-engage!’

The MTB wheeled yet again, more shells bursting dangerously close as she lost more and more power from her motors.

A towering column of red and orange fire shot up seemingly to the clouds, as if it was something solid and would never move again. It took just a few seconds, but Devane and his men saw their enemy for the first time. She was still charging in pursuit, but with half of her forecastle and her complete stern blasted away she was already ploughing deeper and deeper, driven down by the thrust of her engines.

In the glare of flames and exploding ammunition Devane saw the small shark’s fin of the other MTB’s bows far beyond the sinking ship, and knew that Home had caught their attacker as she had turned for the kill.

‘Slow ahead all engines. David, check with the Chief.’

Devane made himself watch the other ship in her death agonies, and listened to her breaking up as she lifted her
stern and started to dive.

Orel was watching too, peering into the night until the sea swallowed the broken hull and doused the last of the fires. Did he think it was all worth it, Devane wondered? A destroyer sunk, a submarine mined and lost with all hands, and an able seaman named Crookshank whom he had not found time to know.

Carroll said, ‘
Buzzard
’s calling us up, sir.
Do you require assistance?
’

Devane threw back his head and gulped at the air as if it was water in a desert. Around him men were peering at one another, dazed and bewildered by the closeness of death.

Devane said, ‘Assistance, Bunts? I think we
all
need it!’

Devane wiped his face gratefully with a flannel dipped in warm soapy water. Torpedoman Pollard, who did secondary duty as wardroom messman, watched approvingly and said, ‘That’ll make you feel like ten men, sir.’ He had a Newcastle accent you could slice with a knife.

Devane handed him the basin. ‘Thanks.’

It felt strange to be idling along at a mere seven knots after the speed and chilling danger of the night. He stared beyond the stained screen. The sea was a darker blue and the sky devoid of cloud. From horizon to horizon there was nothing.

He listened to the occasional thump of hammers as the hands below deck dealt with another splinter hole in the hull’s fabric. From aft and the engine-room hatch he heard the clatter of metal as Ackland and his men continued with their repairs.

And yet, in spite of the loneliness, and realization that at any minute they might be discovered by an enemy patrol, there was an air of acceptance, of resignation.

Ackland had been forced to stop the port screw altogether. An exploding shell from the German destroyer had damaged the shaft, and to force any more use from it might put it out of action for good.

Devane recalled the moment when dawn had opened up the sea around them. His feelings as he had ordered Horne to take his undamaged MTB to seek out and support the rest of the flotilla and their captured E-boat. As the senior officer of the flotilla it was arguable that he should have moved to Home’s boat and left Seymour to cope as best he could. Now as the boat moved sluggishly over the dark water he was glad he had stayed behind.

Merlin
had taken enough. One man killed outright, and
another, a young stoker, clinging to life by a thread, had made a deep impact on their small company.

They had expected to be pounced upon as soon as it was full daylight, had almost welcomed the need to hit back, no matter what the odds might be.

But now it was close on noon, and still nothing had happened. Just the painful progress, the boat steering almost crabwise in the water, so that constant changes of rudder and screws kept the helmsman busy. Apart from the lookouts, and a relay of men at the helm, most of the hands were engaged on repairs, snatching hasty meals of sandwiches and sweet tea, or merely sitting isolated and staring out at the empty horizon.

Seymour appeared on the bridge and examined the compass before saying, ‘Stoker Duff’s in a bad way, sir. Left thigh shot through. Tracer too.’ He shook his head. ‘Pity we can’t carry a sick-berth attendant who can shoot as well! We could certainly use some expert help.’

Devane nodded, his eyes on the man at the wheel. Pellegrine was below with the wounded stoker. The coxswain was remarkable in many ways. His instincts about danger and the position or movements of an enemy in total darkness were uncanny. Now he was acting as ship’s doctor, and doubtless he was good at that also.

Seymour removed his cap and pushed his fair hair from his forehead. ‘What about the flotilla, sir? Do you think they’re home and dry yet?’

‘Depends on their speed. Whether they’ve had additional help from Ivan.’ He did not need to look at his watch. He knew every minute on it since Home’s boat had dipped over the horizon like a minute insect. ‘With Red Mackay making all the running, I’d say they’ve a better chance than most.’

They looked at each other. Each knew that but for their attack on the destroyer
Parthian
might have been decimated, or driven so far to the south that their fuel would have run dry.

It needed no words.

Leading Signalman Carroll moved up beside the helmsman. ‘I’ll take over, Jimmy. You get some char.’

Seymour nodded as the helmsman glanced at him for confirmation.

Devane looked at the sea as it slid slowly down the hull. They were a good team, he thought. Trusted and trusting.

He said abruptly, ‘I’m going to the chartroom.’ He had seen Orel and his lieutenant coming through the wardroom hatch and knew he could not face another stilted post mortem.

In the chartroom it was stuffy and humid. He leaned over the table, listening to the hull groaning around him, the restrained power of the motors.

He picked up the brass dividers and made a few swift calculations on the chart. Matchbox navigation, as Dundas called it. They had come a long way. Another hour. Provided Sorokin was still keeping his patrols at first-degree readiness, or that the enemy had not launched such a massive counter-attack the E-boat escapade had been forgotten.

Devane thought suddenly of his first MTB. They had been returning from an attack on enemy coastal convoys off the Dutch coast when they had begun to sink. Too many shell holes, too much damage from previous battles up and down the Channel; nobody really discovered. The senior officer of the flotilla had previously ordered Devane’s skipper to make his own way home. He stood a better chance as all enemy attention would be focused on the others.

Abandoning ship had seemed unreal, because of the silence, but then, as the angle had increased and some of the men had begun to jump overboard into the bitter water, Devane had accepted what was happening to him.

He could remember without effort that first night, the faint glow of red lights on the life-jackets as the men drifted about, shouting encouragement to each other, searching for special friends.

An air-sea rescue launch from the RAF had discovered them late the following day. To sharpen their understanding of how close they had all been to death, the RAF skipper had told them he had in fact been looking for an aircraft reported shot down and afloat in the North Sea.

Only seven had survived the bitter cold and tempting
numbness of sleep.

One had been Devane’s commanding officer, who had said flatly, ‘I wasn’t going to die like that! When I go, I’m taking a few of those bastards with me.’ He was right. He was killed three months later.

Devane jerked upright as a voice yelled from the bridge, ‘
Aircraft!
Aircraft bearing red four-five! Angle of sight one-five!’

The alarm bells jangled throughout the boat, and Devane ran for the ladder, his mind frozen and stopped like a watch as he waited for the game to begin.

Covers were ripped from the muzzles, which were still blackened from the night’s fighting. Hatches and doors were slammed shut, and men groped for ammunition or jammed themselves firmly into their gun-shields and harnesses.

Seymour was training his binoculars over the screen. Without lowering them he said, ‘Two, sir. Look like Ju 88s.’

The boatswain’s mate said, ‘All guns closed up, sir.’

Devane watched the two black silhouettes. So small, so slowly confident as they banked right over to reveal their twin engines and caught the sunlight on their cockpit covers.

Devane said, ‘Tell the engine room what’s happening. These beauties will take a good look at us first. But I’ll lay odds they’re calling up their chums right now.’

He added, ‘Better move the wounded man to the wardroom. He’ll have a bit more protection over his head.’

Pellegrine swung the spokes and cursed as the hull tried to drag the bows off course.

‘Not to bother, sir. He’s bought it.’

Devane rubbed his eyes and then searched for the two Junkers again.
Bought it
. So easily said. In England there would be another heartbreak, another telegram and, hopefully, a sympathetic letter.

He thought suddenly of the silent women in the hotel. Waiting for their husbands’ medals.

No wonder Whitcombe had planned for the extra crew members.

‘Here they come.’ Devane wheeled round. ‘They’ll close from starboard. Stand by all guns!’

The two aircraft had settled down on a shallow approach and were wafer-thin above the water as they turned towards the slow-moving MTB.

God, how long they were taking. Devane heard cocking levers being pulled and the starboard machine-gunner whistling through his teeth as he depressed both barrels to hold the enemy in his crosswires.

Devane said, ‘Get up forrard, David, and supervise the six-pounder crew.’

Once more their eyes met. Seymour did not need to be told why. Devane was sending him from the bridge in case the whole bunch of them were wiped out to leave the boat without an officer or a coxswain.

Devane studied the oncoming aircraft until his eyes watered. Coming out of the sun, as they always did. How many more times was he going to cross swords with them, he wondered? The Ju 88 had a formidable reputation as a fighter, a bomber and recce aircraft all in one.

As the planes drew closer they appeared to accelerate. Devane held his breath as the cannon and machine-guns stabbed out from the leader. He saw the shells and bullets flailing the sea like whips, then tensed as steel whimpered overhead and a great shadow roared above the mast, the twin engines deafening as the plane pulled up and away in a steep climb.

‘Open fire!’

The Oerlikons, already trained to port, sent two lines of tracer searing after the aircraft, then swung round again as the second attacker tore towards them.

‘Hard a-starboard!’

Painfully the MTB slewed round, the six-pounder hammering violently as if to outpace the machine-guns on either side of the bridge.

‘Midships! Port fifteen!
Steady!
’

Devane had to stop himself from cringing as the Junkers 88 roared overhead, its pilot momentarily off balance because of their zigzag turn. He thought he saw smoke from the enemy’s belly, and guessed the six-pounder had found a target. But these planes could take a lot of punishment.
Devane knew that from long and bitter experience.

The aircraft were dividing, one climbing slowly, the other turning in a wide circle almost brushing the water. Devane saw the black crosses on the wings, could even imagine the thoughts of the two pilots. The MTB was alone but apparently not disabled.

Aloud he said, ‘They’ll come in from bow and beam. Just to test us. Hold your fire until the last hundred yards.’

He tore his eyes from the two black silhouettes and looked along his command. Gaunt, unshaven faces, red-rimmed eyes. The feverish light of battle. Toughened hands which had once wielded pens in an office or school, or had served bread to chatty housewives, like Carroll, who was now helping a lookout to drag more ammunition to the machine-guns. These were his men. Men their mothers and wives, sweethearts and friends would never see.

He saw Orel and his interpreter carrying a sub-machine-gun to the rear of the bridge and wondered where they had found it. Probably discarded by the soldiers when they had swarmed ashore, a million years ago.

Forward, squatting down behind the gun-layer and his mate, Seymour was pointing towards the low-flying Junkers. No, his parents would certainly not recognize
him
, the dreamer, the would-be writer.