In actual fact there were two explosions, almost simultaneously. The first, a whiplash-like CRACK, seemed to come from directly aft somewhere, followed only microseconds later by a deeper, reverberating boom rolling across the sea from over on our starboard beam. Oh, dear God — Bill Henderson’s Athenian was out there! My nerves, this time, were so tensed I didn’t even have consciously to drop the fatal sandwich — it was already on its way to the deck as my shoes scraped over the coaming while I hurled myself out on to the starboard wing.
I had to steel myself to peer through the darkness that enveloped me. Even the bright edge of dawn was lost as my eyes fought for mastery over their previous immersion in the chartroom's red glare. I knew it was Athenian in trouble long before my night blindness finally faded and I could see properly again. It had to be her, over on that side of us. I felt the sick surge of acid in my throat as I gazed fearfully out over the black water, expecting to see the great shape lurching out of control, maybe even now swinging suicidally across our bows to bring us both to a rending, screeching halt.
But no; there she was, still racing stolidly alongside our protective flank and showing no apparent signs of damage.
Then slowly, but with relentless persistence, a little flickering light appeared on the after end of her boat deck. Gradually it seemed to expand like some enormous, swelling glow-worm, until the dazed Brannigan and I could see it was composed of individual licks of flame. The fire grew in intensity until the whole after end of Athenian’s centrecastle jetted long tongues of white-hot fire, fanning back over her after-well deck while leaping, crackling sparks flew erratically astern to be lost in the darkness of her wake.
I swung round on the Fourth Mate, my voice high-pitched and vicious in its anxiety, ‘Torpedo…? For Christ’s sake, man, was it a torpedo?’
He shook his head, still not taking his eyes off the burning Athenian. All the bounce had gone from his shoulders and he seemed to droop. I suddenly realised he was as scared as me. ‘My dear God! Oh, my dear God!’ he kept saying, almost to himself, over and over again.
Then the Old Man arrived on the run, took one look across the water and he said, ‘My God!’ which seemed to indicate that He was much in demand by all of us that morning!
I took a grip of myself and, trying to forget Chief Officer Henderson five cables away, grabbed Brannigan’s arm tightly. ‘I asked you what happened, Mister Brannigan.’
He swallowed and took a deep breath. He must have got a whiff of new courage with it because the young face cleared and I got a frown instead of the wild stare he’d afforded Athenian. When he spoke I found out why he’d been so shocked in the first place.
‘We fired at her, Sir,’ he said simply.
It was my turn, and the Captain’s, to stare in shattered disbelief. Evans found his voice just before me. ‘What did you say, Brannigan? Who did you say had… fired?’
The Fourth Mate shrugged helplessly. ‘We did, Sir. It… the shot must’ve come from our poop gun. I heard the bang and even saw the flash from aft.’ He hesitated as though we’d caught him out telling a lie, then ploughed on determinedly, ‘I’d swear it came from us. It wasn’t a torpedo, I’m positive of that.’
Evans swung round on me, red face working savagely as he realised the implications of what Brannigan was saying. ‘Did you see anything, Mister Kent? Did you?’
I felt the crimson flush rising above my collar, ‘Er… no, Sir. I was in the chartroom when I heard the explosion.’
I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me exactly what I was doing sitting around in the chartroom but, on reflection, realised that he didn’t have any reason to. Chief Officers aren’t exactly unfamiliar with that little retreat, especially during the early hours of the morning watch, otherwise why have a cadet and a fourth mate up there too? It was a bit like having a dog and barking yourself.
Evans turned to face Athenian again. Even in the few minutes we’d been out there the early dawn light had blossomed into a canopy of pale yellow and red tinted sky and every detail could be seen of the frenzied activity aboard our sister ship. We were so close we felt we could almost jump aboard and lend a hand. The feeling became so overpowering that I had to grip the smooth teak rail tightly to fight it off.
The searching eyes of daylight seemed to some extent to reduce the apparent damage. Clouds of thick, oily smoke now replaced what had originally looked like a solid mass of flame from well deck to boat deck, and we could see that the main outbreak was concentrated in the area of the wireless cabin and officers’ smoke-room situated on the after end of the boat deck. They must have had nearly every member of the deck crowd fighting the outbreak and, already, the white threadlines of hoses webbed the deck from all available hydrants. If Bill was still alive — and assuming he’d been on the bridge as I was when the shell hit, he should be — then he’d done a pretty smart job of organising his damage control parties. I resolved to have a word with the Bosun about our own drill as soon as possible.
The Old Man was still simmering with barely suppressed raged. By the grace of God, Athenian hadn’t suffered any hull damage but, judging by the twisted and smoking wreckage they were jettisoning from the boat deck, anyone in the region of the radio room or after accommodation must have suffered severely. I knew one Sparks must have had the watch, while the other one would have been turned in in the same cabin.
Evans pivoted to face me and his eyes were very hard. ‘Get aft to the poop, Mister Kent. I want the man responsible for this, and by God I want him badly!’
‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ I answered, feeling bloody glad it wasn’t anything to do with me.
He stopped me again at the top of the ladder. ‘It must have been one of those D.E.M.S. buggers. If it was, I want them too… Especially them.’
The army gun crew we carried aboard to serve the venerable 4.7 mounted on our hastily strengthened poop had somehow managed to develop into one of the Old Man’s pet hates. There were only three of them altogether — two gunners and a Bombardier Allen of the newly formed Maritime Artillery. This was their first trip with us and they superseded the elderly naval reservist who had been previously posted to us as a D.E.M.S. rating. He had come from what was laughingly known as the Defensively Equipped Merchant Ship organisation and had actually fulfilled the duties of an instructor to the gun’s crew itself, made up from the Cyclops’s normal complement and headed by Mister Shell, our Second Mate.
The Old Man had been very proud indeed of His Fighting Lads as he liked to think of them. It was commonly agreed that a place on the gun, which was never seriously expected to have to fire a real shell, was a dead cushy number and the current ‘price’ charged by the ship’s fixers — at least before the arrival of the disgruntled soldiery — was reckoned to be in the region of fifty bob for a place on the outward leg, plus another fifty bob when homeward bound. Evans used to take great delight in gun drill and would call them away from the most unpleasant jobs regularly, just for the pleasure of watching the — on the surface — practised ease with which they traversed and loaded and almost pulled the firing lever. Personally I had grave misgivings about whether the bloody thing would actually fire or just blow up there and then and save the Germans a job.