Kleber's Convoy (22 page)

Redman heard the voices of men coming up the port ladder. They reached the bridge and the beam of a torch searched the darkness. He knew they were looking for him.

‘Captain, sir?' It was Pownall's voice.

Redman said, ‘Don't worry. I'm coming. Get down there and do what you can for the men.'

Two dark shapes loomed alongside him. ‘Come on, sir,' said the yeoman. ‘It's time now.'

Redman said, ‘Go ahead, yeoman, I'll follow.'

They ignored his order, took his arms, one on either side, and pulled but couldn't budge him. Redman felt hands groping round his body. ‘Christ,' said the yeoman. ‘You've lashed yourself to the rail, sir.'

‘It's no good, yeoman. I want to stay with her. You two carry on. That's an order.'

The yeoman was cutting the halyard. ‘Sony, sir,' he said. ‘No future in being a bloody hero.'

Redman protested, ordered, begged them to go. But the lashing was cut and they were hauling him along to the ladder. He gave up the struggle. It could only increase their danger. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll come.'

‘We'll look for a raft or a float, sir,' said Pownall hopefully. They reached the iron deck.
Vengeful
listed more steeply, the water rising in great spouts from the engine-room showering down upon them. The yeoman shone a torch aft. The upper deck was awash, apparently deserted but for the first-lieutenant
He was standing on the platform of X gun, leaning back against the gunshield which lay over to starboard at an oblique angle. The first-lieutenant saw the torch and yelled. ‘You there! Get over the side. Shake it up. She's going.'

Redman called out, ‘Captain here, Number One. Get moving.' Force of habit made him look at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. 2023. Seven minutes since the torpedo had struck. It seemed like seven hours. Where was
Mainwaring
? With fierce energy he pushed the yeoman and Pownall towards the guardrail. ‘In you go, you two. I'll follow. Join you in the water.'

But they didn't trust him. Clawed at him, pulled him down the ship's side. ‘For Christ's sake,' he cursed. ‘Leave me alone.' He tried to break free. Then all three of them were in the water together, their anoraks protecting them from the first shock of immersion.

They swam away from
Vengeful'
s side, struggling through fuel oil, holding their breath, spitting out the choking slime between long gasps for air. Ahead of them calcium flares and a few red survivors' lights winked between the hills and valleys of the seas.

They swam towards them.

At 2015, a few minutes after torpedoing
Vengeful
, Kleber brought U-0117 to periscope depth. Ausfeld had reported propeller noises ahead over an extensive front, the volume increasing. He estimated the distance of the nearest ships at three thousand metres. Because of the wide spread of these sound signals he could not satisfactorily answer the insistent question, ‘Can you hear anything of the close escorts?' Kleber asked it even though he knew it was almost impossible to distinguish the sound of the slow-turning screws of pistol-engined corvettes and frigates from those of merchant ships in the convoy, for the greater sounds enveloped the lesser.

And then, as so often happened in the war at sea, disaster
struck without warning. An unusual combination of awkward seas and a mistake by a tired apprehensive planesman caused Heuser to lose control of the U-boat's trim as Kleber began his periscope sweep.

‘Hold her down, chief‚' roared Kleber as the U-boat bounced to the surface. ‘For Christ's sake! Hold her down!' There were notes of alarm and anger in his voice. They were approaching a heavily escorted convoy, already alerted by the sinking of the destroyer. It was sheer madness to surface before completing a thorough sweep with the periscope.

Before Kleber had finished the sentence, Heuser was shouting orders to the men on the flooding valves and hydroplanes and U-0117 took on a bows-down angle. A moment later Ausfeld-his calm and imperturbability for once abandoned – called excitedly, ‘Propeller noises close ahead. Destroyer …'

He needn't have made the report. Every man in the control-room heard the roar of what sounded like a train entering a tunnel and, hearing it, crouched instinctively to shelter from the unseen terror. It had come upon them without warning, as if the attacker had been waiting for the U-boat with engines stopped and had somehow achieved this sudden frightening speed.

Kleber's urgent, ‘Dive! Dive! Dive!' were the last words he was to utter. They coincided with a jarring crash, the sound of tearing metal, and U-0117 rolled over as the sea swirled in through a great rent in her hull. Though the men in the U-boat did not know it, the submarine had been sliced in two by the bows of the ramming vessel. The severed ends sank almost immediately but five men, a petty officer, three seamen and a mechanician, were blown to the surface by a blast of escaping air. One of the seamen was picked up by a corvette a few minutes later.

The U-boat's end was so sudden, so violent that neither Kleber nor his crew could have known what had happened. There was, however, an exception … Able-Seaman Gunter Hoist, the sole survivor. After his interrogation by the corvette's first-lieutenant, Hoist learnt that U-0117 had been rammed and cut in two by a destroyer.

He was not, of course, told that
Mainwaring
had travelled
a mile and a half past
Vengeful
towards the convoy when she heard the former's ‘kippered' signal and turned to go to her assistance, Lieutenant-Commander Bradshaw informing the flagship of his intentions. These were approved, but he was ordered not to stop, simply to throw floats and rafts to the men in the waiter to assist their survival until such time as the rescue ship arrived. Thereafter, he was‚ with two corvettes, to hunt the attacking U-boat.

Since
Vengeful'
s
bearing by radar was almost directly astern of
Mainwaring,
Bradshaw swung his ship through one hundred and eighty degrees.
Mainwaring
would, he then realised, be in danger of streaming back along her own wake. Aware of the problems this would create for his asdic team – and conscious that there was an enemy submarine nearby – he was about to alter to starboard when a U-boat bounced to the surface a hundred yards or so ahead. She was so close that she was sighted visually in spite of the darkness, and illuminated by searchlight. At the time,
Mainwaring,
having just completed her turn, was working up to twenty knots, and although Bradshaw was aware that ramming was frowned on by Their Lordships (it could cause severe damage to the attacking ship), he decided the chance was too good to miss. He also had in mind the need to reach
Vengeful
quickly and this seemed quite the best way of killing two birds with one stone. So he ordered ‘Port fifteen – prepare to ram,' and the alarm signal sounded throughout the destroyer.

The U-boat attempted a crash-dive but was struck abaft the conning-tower, the destroyer's bows slicing the hull in two. As she passed over the submarine – or, more correctly, through it –
Mainwaring'
s
rudder struck some wreckage and was damaged.

Bradshaw reported by TBS the destruction of the U-boat, his inability to manœuvre, and requested the dispatch of another escort to assist
Vengeful.
Some fifteen minutes later
Mainwaring,
by then overtaken by the convoy, reported that the jammed rudder had been freed and, though damaged, was again serviceable. She was ordered to take station inside the convoy's close-screen.

Kleber died not knowing that Ausfeld's failure to pick up the destroyer's propeller noises in time was due not to any lapse in the sound-room but to the turbulence of
Mainwaring
's stern wake which, combined with the heavy volume of sound
from the propellers of the approaching convoy, had effectively masked the noise of her screws.

The movements of the three men in the black oil-fouled water grew slower, became spasmodic. The effort to breathe, to keep near-frozen limbs moving, to struggle against oncoming seas invisible in the darkness, led quickly to exhaustion.

Their eyes inflamed by fuel oil, the men in the water could no longer see the flickering lights towards which they'd been swimming. Now they floundered, gasping, splashing, spitting, while life ebbed away.

Redman, feeling himself slide into a dark abyss, clutched convulsively at the water before losing consciousness. Without a life-belt he was waterlogged, a deadweight which Pownall and the yeoman could no longer support. When he finally slipped from their grasp, they were too far gone to retrieve him.

Less than a minute later – it seemed to Pownall hours afterwards – the yeoman gasped something unintelligible, then fell silent. Pownall groped for the man in the darkness and found him, but the head was submerged, the body lifeless. The desperate knowledge that he was now alone hastened Pownall's end. Seconds later he too lapsed into unconsciousness.

The three men had gone quietly, the manner of their dying unnotable; little more, indeed, than gasps and gurgles and a mild splashing of the water marking their ends. Nor were they conscious of those last moments for the cold of Arctic winter froze their sensory perceptions, inducing a coma from which death effected the final rescue.

A dispassionate celestial observer might have noted that Redman died within a nautical mile or so of Kleber whom he had outlived by seven minutes. Not that these facts nor their irony were likely to have interested any observer, there being an abundant harvest of death at that time and place.

Next day in the Arctic twilight of forenoon,
Fidelix
, flying the flag of CS19, the Vice-Admiral commanding convoy JW137, followed the last of the merchant ships into the safe waters of the Kola Inlet.

Astern of the carrier, barely visible in the half light, came the cruiser
Nottingham.
She was followed by the Home Fleet destroyers, behind them the ships of the Eighty-Third Escort Group. The rearguard, the ships of the Fifty-Seventh Escort Group, were still at sea carrying out an anti-submarine sweep to seaward of the minefield which lay across the approaches to the Inlet.

As the Vice-Admiral watched the last merchantman move slowly down the Inlet towards Murmansk, he thought of the nine days which had elapsed since the convoy's departure from Loch Ewe. In his mind's eye he saw once again the great armada of weather-stained ships plunging on through the darkness of Arctic winter, buffeted by never-ending storms and blizzards, the targets of sudden attacks by an unseen enemy. The Vice-Admiral was no sentimentalist but it occurred to him that the convoy had about it a quiet dignity, a certain majesty; there was an implacable determination about its slow but steady progress towards its destination, undeterred by anything the weather or the enemy could throw against it.

The Vice-Admiral's pride in the men and ships under his command was tempered with humility. The price paid for the passage of JW137 in human lives and suffering, in the loss of ships, had been high.

Sobered by these thoughts he lowered his binoculars and turned to the Flag Captain. ‘Well, Somers, it's taken nine days but it seems a lot longer.'

It does, sir. Sorry we couldn't make more use of our aircraft.'

‘Yes. Bad luck that. Your chaps must be very disappointed.'

Rory McLeod, the staff-officer-operations, arrived on the bridge. He saluted the Vice-Admiral. ‘I've got the operation- room's latest tally here, sir.'

‘Good. Let's have it.'

The SOO began reading from the list. ‘Enemy losses – six U-boats sunk. Three reconnaisance aircraft shot down.'

‘Remind me who got those U-boats, McLeod'

‘One sunk by
Vengeful
and
Violent
outside Loch Ewe on December the fourth, sir. Two near the Skolpen Bank yesterday afternoon. One by
Vectis,
the other by
Vallance.
'

‘Splendid effort in those weather conditions,' said the Vice-Admiral.

The SOO nodded in gentle agreement before returning to his list. ‘
Iris
and
Peaflower
sank one during the second attack late in the afternoon.
Vengeful
sank U-0153 at 1836 yesterday.' He looked up. ‘After that long stern chase, sir.'

‘Yes. That was a damned good show, wasn't it?'

‘And
Mainwaring
rammed and sank U-0117 shortly after it had torpedoed
Vengeful.'

‘Bradshaw had no right to ram,' said the Vice-Admiral with affected severity. He looked up and smiled. ‘Damned glad he did, though.' He coughed as if to cover up an indiscretion. ‘I call that a pretty successful brush with the enemy. Don't you, Somers?'

‘I do indeed, sir. Extraordinary, though, that they tried the old wolf-pack tactic again.'

‘Yes,' said the Vice-Admiral. ‘I thought they'd learnt their lesson in ‘forty-three. But it was a bold effort.'

‘I'd say the weather made it possible, sir,' said the Flag Captain,

‘Yes. They couldn't have concentrated if we'd been able to use our aircraft. And of course asdic and radar conditions were very difficult.' The Vice-Admiral paused, then added, ‘And to be honest – let's concede it – the weather must have made things very difficult for their U-boats.'

‘Can't see them trying another wolf-pack attack after those crippling losses. Can you, sir?'

‘Unlikely, I'd have thought,' said the Vice-Admiral. ‘But one never knows. It's the unpredictables that provide the problems.'

Politely the SOO cleared his throat. ‘May I go on, sir. The recap of our losses?'

‘Yes. Let's have them.'

‘Two escorts,
Chaffinch
and
Vengeful.
The fleet oiler
Surfol,
and five merchant ships. Two of them ammunition ships. And, of course, two aircraft – a Wildcat and an Avenger.'

The Vice-Admiral was thoughtful. ‘You haven't mentioned
Camden
Castle
and the Liberty ship
John
F.
Adams.'

‘No, sir. We're excluding them for the time being. But I'm afraid their chances are pretty thin. Too many U-boats about.'

‘Unless the weather's hidden them.' The Vice-Admiral looked at the dim outline of snow-covered mountains
bordering the Inlet. He'd not enjoyed leaving the disabled Liberty ship in mid-ocean, nor making the decision to detach a corvette to look after her. But there were no acceptable alternatives. As always the safety of the convoy was the first priority. He abandoned his private thoughts and turned back to the others. ‘Let's get the score in perspective, gentlemen. We've lost eight, possibly nine, of the sixty-four ships involved in JW 137. About thirteen per cent of our forces engaged. The enemy has lost six U-boats out of a total of … what was it, McLeod? Fifteen or sixteen?'

‘Sixteen, sir. That's based on interrogation of German survivors.'

The Vice-Admiral was thoughtful. ‘So there were sixteen U-boats engaged in the attack.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘That means the enemy lost something like forty per cent of his forces engaged.'

‘Plus the three aircraft we shot down,' said the Flag Captain, determined that
Fidelix'
s
contribution should not be overlooked.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.' The Vice-Admiral fingered his chin. A meticulous man, he disliked the bristles which reminded him he'd not shaved for forty-eight hours. ‘Very sad about
Vengeful.
Splendid effort of Redman's. Two U-boats on one convoy. That fine single-handed hunt. We'll have to see he gets something posthumously,' He turned to the SOO. ‘Make a note of that for me, will you, McLeod?'

‘I will, sir.'

‘Incidentally. What
is
the latest news about
Vengeful'
s survivors?'

‘Thirteen were picked up by
Grant
Castle,
sir. Two of them were originally
Chaffinch
survivors rescued by
Vengeful
earlier in the day. I'm afraid four of the thirteen had died at the last count.'

‘Any officers among those left?'

‘One, I believe, sir. Groves, the sub-lieutenant.'

The Vice-Admiral shrugged his shoulders. His face was drawn with exhaustion as he moved across to the port side of the bridge. He looked down on the carrier's flight deck, took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Admirals did not show emotion. It was bad for discipline and morale. When he'd recovered his composure he rejoined the others.
‘Well, gentlemen. It will be pleasant to have a night of unbroken sleep, One gets confoundedly tired on these journeys.'