For Valour (35 page)

And there was
Durham,
on the port beam again as if she had never moved. Powerful, like the ships in the photos in the magazines he had read at school. Invincible.

Cavaye snapped unnecessarily, “Wait here, Wishart. The navigating officer has a job for you.” Wishart did not see the Captain's eyes, nor would he have recognized irritation for that brief second.

Instead he heard the chief yeoman say, “Now there's a sight, Paul! I never thought I'd see that again in my service!”

The youngster, Slade, peered up at his chief and then at the
Durham.
She had hoisted her battle ensigns, huge and white against the drab backdrop, their crosses like blood. For an instant he had thought that the yeoman of signals had mistaken him for somebody else. He was not to know that Paul had been the name of his dead son.

The air quivered, like the time with the German destroyers, when they had been hit. But deeper, louder.

The Captain was on his feet, his scarf gone from his neck, one hand gripping the voicepipes as he watched the sea directly ahead.

It was then that Wishart realized there was no sign of the convoy. It had altered course, disappeared while he had been below, off watch. He had seen the chart, the rough plot, and knew from which bearing the enemy would appear.
That, he knew.
He had learned more than he would have believed possible since he had first stepped aboard
Hakka.

No ship could move that fast. So it was reasonable to believe that there was nothing between the convoy and its escorts but the group, a cruiser and six destroyers. He licked his dry lips.
Us.

They were altering course again, and he heard the Captain pass his orders, it seemed unhurriedly, down to the wheelhouse.

Huge flashes lit up the clouds, and what seemed an age later came the crash and roar of explosions.

Kidd was here now, breathing heavily, his eyes everywhere until he saw his yeoman.

“Keep with me, Wishart.” He turned sharply as more explosions shattered the air. He said, “Not us, then.”

Wishart heard the Captain say, “Yet.”

“Signal, sir.
Increase speed as ordered.
”

“Full ahead together.” A pause. “Yes, Swain. It is.”

A great flash reached down from where the horizon lay hidden in mist or haze, followed by a single explosion and then a rising ball of orange and scarlet flame. Solid, terrible; you could imagine you could feel the heat even from miles away.

Durham had increased speed, her bow wave rising like a huge frothing moustache as she ploughed into the choppy water, her four turrets all moving in unison, the guns at their various angles, seeking a target.

Onslow called, “From Leader, sir.
Remain on station.
”

Martineau strode across the bridge, dragging out his binoculars.
Zouave
was already signalling to her own little column.

He turned away, one gloved fist beating the cold steel until the pain steadied him.
Too soon. Too soon. Think, man!
He pictured Lucky Bradshaw, the old destroyer hand. This was his big chance.

The young signalman, Slade, asked, “What signal was that, Yeo?”

Onslow glanced down at him.

“Flag Four, boy.”

Attack with torpedoes.

“Radar—Bridge!”

Martineau waited, but could not prevent himself from turning again to watch as
Zouave
's raked bows cut across the cruiser's wake and headed to re-form her brood.

“Three ships at zero-nine-zero.” The rest was drowned by the roar of gunfire.

No waiting this time, although everyone was consciously counting the seconds. A cliff of broken water was rising, as if every shell had plunged down to explode in a single line. You could feel it, like running aground, punching every plate and rivet.

Martineau looked at Cavaye. “Go forrard to A and B guns, will you? Tell Guns what I said.” He looked at the cruiser, sensing the moment.
“Now!”

Durham
's forward turrets were motionless, only two of the six guns still moving. The flashes were as one, the explosions loud and sharp enough to scrape at a man's brain like a scalpel.

Martineau lowered his glasses and covered them with his coat. Two cruisers and possibly one smaller, a destroyer. Maybe the sister of the ship they had fought alongside
Java.

Help would be on its way. But until then . . . He winced as more flashes tore the clouds apart.

And the convoy sailed on.

18 | Victors

Martineau listened to the ceaseless chatter of information, ranges and bearings, alterations of course, and the fall of shot from the enemy salvoes. Driscoll, never the most patient of officers, sounded strained to the limit, no doubt sharing the sense of helplessness, impotence, as
Hakka
and her two consorts,
Jester
and the old-timer
Harlech
maintained their common station on the cruiser. The two German ships were bows-on to
Durham,
at a range of about six miles. It enabled their gunnery officers to maintain a rapid fire with all their forward weapons, bracketing the zigzagging
Durham
again and again.

He made himself turn to watch
Zouave
leading the two other destroyers of the group. Despite the noise and the danger, the scream of shells and the stench of gunsmoke, he was moved, gripped by the sight of the two Tribals,
Zouave
and
Inuit,
with the big K Class,
Kangaroo,
going at full speed, their bow waves rolling away on either beam while they moved in echelon to begin their torpedo attack. It was all that might make the enemy alter course to avoid the possibility of a hit. And the moment they turned to present a smaller target,
Durham
would get her chance, and be able to bring her unused after turrets to bear.

He saw more shellbursts hurling waterspouts beyond and beside the cruiser. Even
Durham
was dwarfed by them. Martineau gritted his teeth. A straddle. Any second now . . . “Enemy ships turning, sir!”

Martineau did not even look towards
Durham.
Her Captain would be watching, waiting to hit back. His ship had already taken a lot of punishment, punctured plating, fires below the bridge only just being brought under control.

He watched the destroyers,
Zouave
hurling up spray as she swung towards the enemy. Martineau did the sum in his head.
Kangaroo
mounted ten torpedo tubes, the Tribals only four each. But only one hit would even the score.

He swung round as Kidd exclaimed, “
Durham
's hit one of them!”

A flash, puncturing the rolling bank of smoke and wet haze, but the explosion was massive.

“Both cruisers are still turning, sir!”

Martineau gripped the side of his chair and felt the hull tilt over as more explosions thundered against the keel.

Two cruisers. What had gone wrong with the intelligence services? Someone should have known that such a convoy as this would rouse every trick in the game.
Durham
fired again, and more explosions echoed across the surging bow waves, and the wash from
Zouave
's racing screws.

The leader was turning again. Martineau paused to wipe the lenses of his binoculars, mere seconds, but it was long enough. Too long for
Zouave.
A salvo must have ploughed through and over her; he could see the shells exploding far abeam, splinters ripping from the sea like feathers.

Bradshaw was still trying to hold his ship on course, but Martineau knew by the falling wash that she had been badly damaged.

“She's fired her tin fish!”

Martineau gripped the chair to steady himself, willing the other Captain to disengage and leave it to the others. Perhaps Lucky Bradshaw was already dead. Somehow he knew he was not. He watched, sickened, as a shell exploded just below
Zouave
's forward funnel, a sharp flash, like a winking light as the armour-piercing shell smashed down into her lower deck and exploded.
Zouave
was stopping. No, she had stopped. But there were no more shells, and Martineau realized that the larger of the two enemy cruisers must have taken one of
Zouave
's torpedoes, the sound lost in the loud explosions nearby.

Durham
had been hit again, and her B turret was jammed, the guns pointing at the clouds, smoke spouting from the deck below.

Inuit
was pressing home her attack, but she was hit repeatedly before she could work past the drifting leader.

Martineau moved to the voicepipes, pain shooting through his legs as if they were fighting every action. He saw the faces nearest to him, and the others in memory, who would not stay hidden.

He said, “Make to
Durham. I am engaging.
Repeat to
Jester
and
Harlech.
”

He wanted to swallow, to cling to something that would give him faith. There was nothing. He had lost a glove somewhere, and as he steadied himself once more against the motion, the rise and dip of
Hakka
's bows, he saw the scar on his hand. The place where she had touched, and had held him.

He said, “Repeat—
Flag 4!
” He was surprised it was so easily done. “Stand by. Increase to full revolutions!” He stared at the gyro until his eyes throbbed with concentration.

“Starboard twenty!” He watched the stem and bull ring swinging across the sea's angry face. Smoke everywhere, flotsam too. And something long and black, shapeless, with the sea rolling across it. It was
Inuit
's keel, held aloft a while longer by air still trapped in her shattered hull. She must have capsized at full speed; he saw a hole in her plates big enough to drive a bus through. There were men too. Not many, only a few, faces leaping into focus as his lenses passed over them. Some reaching out, others already dead from the cold, but a few still able to grasp that
Hakka,
one of their own, was hurtling towards them. Martineau allowed the glasses to fall to his chest.

“Ease to five! Midships!” He raised his glasses again, level with the compass, the dying ship and the men cut to pieces by
Hakka
's whirling screws mercifully hidden.

Zouave
was still afloat; there was no sign of
Kangaroo.
He knew that
Durham
was firing again, but with longer gaps between salvoes, and only one turret at a time.

The convoy would be able to hear this last fight, and perhaps would know what it had cost them.

He said, “Tell
Harlech
to make smoke. The wind might help. Until the next turn at least.” He did not need to see it. He knew they were doing what he required. He was their Captain. They had nothing left but trust now.
Harlech
would be trying to lay a smokescreen, and
Jester, Java
's sister ship, would be working around to take up position for the attack. He thought of the old house in the New Forest, the girl in his arms, while his mother and her Reverend were preparing to listen to the B.B.C. news.

The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of HMS . . .
He pressed his forehead against the frozen metal.
And Anna would know before anyone.

He looked up, suddenly angry, sickened by the inevitability, the waste.
And there was the enemy.
Even without the glasses he would have known her. How could he forget? So many times he had seen her in his wakening moments, heard the grinding scream of tearing steel and felt the terrible destruction when he had rammed the cruiser.

Because of tradition, duty, a matter of honour? All, and none of them. Because of Alison and his own stupidity, when he had known that Mike Loring, his friend, had not been the first one to be tempted?

He said, “Tell Number One to stand by. Local control if all else fails.”
When I am killed.
“I want the depth charge party to follow orders.” He thought he could taste the foul odour of
Harlech
's smokescreen; it was moving past the ship now, keeping pace.

The depth-charges would be seen and heard by the enemy. With luck they might think it was a faulty fall of shot, or that some U-boat commander was mad enough to interfere between the committed juggernauts.

Water rose silently beside the bridge, and seemed to fall incredibly slowly. As his hearing returned Martineau measured the force of the explosion.
Too near.

“Depth charges,
now!
”

It was a stupid ruse. He looked at Kidd and grinned. Insane, but it was all they had. He could hear the voicepipes reporting damage, splinters, nothing fatal. The muffled roar of the depth charges was matched almost immediately by more shellbursts from the invisible foe. They had shifted their sights slightly. Driscoll might still get a chance to use his precious guns. And Cavaye too, down there now with the forward weapons; to him it must feel like rushing headlong towards the enemy with nothing to sustain him. And young Tyler on the opposite side, with Wishart near him, a broken pencil between his fingers. He must have snapped it without noticing. He heard more gunfire.
Kangaroo,
he thought, having a go now.

More shells screamed overhead,
Durham
's or the enemy's it was impossible to tell. Like tearing canvas, and then the sharp, savage bangs. More splinters. A voice called, “From T/S, sir!
Standing by!
”

Only four torpedo tubes. Perhaps, after all, the designers had been wrong. Even
Harlech
mounted ten.

He saw them all in his mind. Malt the Gunner (T) and his chief torpedo gunner's mate, Harry Glover, would be ready by now. They would only get one chance.

He felt the plating jerk against his hip, knew that the ship had been hit.

To the voicepipe he said, “All right, Swain?”

And Spicer's calm reply. “Right as ninepence, sir!”

The bow wave was still folding away from the stem like something solid. They were going in.
Going in.

Down aft, Sub-Lieutenant Barlow heard the tinny rattle of the bell and saw his depth charge party jerk their lanyards, saw the charges roll from the stern and lift away on either beam before dropping to add their noise and disturbance to the madness.
Hakka
was going at full speed now, her stern digging so deeply into the churned wash that it seemed she was submerging. As the charges exploded, decoys this time, Barlow shook his fist, his mind full of hate, and the memories of his parents and his sister.

“That's the lot, sir!” The leading seaman stared at him with sudden disbelief, and even as Barlow skidded to help him he fell.

For a few moments more Barlow tried to hold him, to cushion him from the wildly vibrating deck. There was blood everywhere.

“I'll get help!” He was shaking, shocked and furious that he could not remember the man's name. He repeated, “I'll get help!”

“Don't go!”
He stared up at the young officer, and thought he saw Barlow nod, understanding at last that there
was
no help. He could even ignore the spray and the freezing cold; it helped to numb the pain which had frightened him at first.

Barlow clung to him, able to ignore the clash of splinters against and into the hull, like the one which had cut down this dying man.

Kidd saw it from the bridge, and when Barlow got up and stood quite still, his body angled to the deck while he looked down at the dead man, he thought it was the most moving thing he had ever seen.

Someone was yelling like a maniac, “A hit!
Kangaroo
got the bastard!” The echo of the explosion still hung in the air like thunder across the hills. The larger German cruiser, which someone had identified as the
Dortmund,
had been hit twice, and was in a bad way.

Martineau heard and saw most of it. The rest was stamped in memory. A quick change of helm, Spicer down there with his own little team, the wheelhouse shuttered and bolted, with only a voice coming down to guide them. Or to destroy them.

The wind seemed to be changing but he knew it was
Hakka
's alteration of course. The smoke was pulling away, dragged aside by the wind like some great obscene curtain.

Slowly and deliberately he lifted his binoculars again. It seemed suddenly much clearer, although he knew in his heart that the light was no better or worse than before. What did he feel? Despair, anger, disappointment, because he had given in to the folly of hoping?

Anna, I love you so.

But his voice said,
“Stand by to engage! Start the attack!”

And he heard Kidd say hoarsely, “That's
Lübeck,
right enough!”

Martineau watched the sudden sparkle of flashes, the cruiser's blurred outline already shortening as she prepared to take avoiding action while she kept up rapid fire with her secondary armament.

Onslow said, “
Durham
's losing way, sir. But she's still firing!”