‘I’ll report to the captain, chief,’ Hob shouted ‘Get back to the magazine I’ll find you there ‘
The chief nodded, then stumbled back towards the smoke and steam whence he had emerged Hob rushed for’d again, past the master’s party of stalwarts, as a river of sea water began deluging down the passageway He fell again in the passageway of the deck above, where they were laying out the dead and wounded on the slippery, blood-soaked deck He tried to ignore the groans, to blot out the carnage He stumbled past the dying and through the damage control parties who were stoically trying to restore power by running the emergency electrical cables When finally he reached the door of the ops room, he stumbled inside, trying to recover his breathing The admiral was crouched over the command display ‘Rosv’s hitting ‘em,’ Druce said ‘I’ve got him loud and clear ‘ The dark eyes gleamed as he glanced round at his officers ‘Where’s the captain3’
‘On the bridge, sir,’ SOO said ‘Get him — with my compliments,’ Druce snapped ‘STRIGRUTWO’S hit the control battle-cruiser, smack in the vitals ‘
‘Aye, aye, sir ‘
‘UKADGE says the ‘For nados will be with them at any minute, sir ‘ There was an edge to the PWO’s voice ‘They’re coordinating with COMAAFCE’S F15s The fighters are going straight in ‘
‘Roger ‘ Druce glanced round for his flag-lieutenant ‘Satellite above the horizon yet, flags3’
‘Any moment, sir ‘
‘Get out my sitrep Don’t include the convoy casualties until after it has completed its turn ‘
The PWO (Air) cut in ‘Another Backfire attack on the way, sir Regimental strength ‘
Druce nodded
‘Is CAP Two on its way back yet3’
‘Yes, sir but one Harrier only They got nine Badgers ‘
Druce rubbed his bristly chin He said softly in the silence, ‘It 11 be interesting, gentlemen, to see if the enemy can keep up his coordinated attacks, now Rosy’s got at his heart’
The ops room crew concentrated in there, fighting the battle, seemed oblivious that Old Fury might be blowing up sky-high at any moment Hob parted the curtains and hurried to the darkness of the bridge Trevellion was silhouetted against the indigo windows He was sucking at his pipe and peering into the darkness ‘Captain, sir ‘
‘Ah, Gamble ‘ He faced Hob, the grey eyes steady ‘The list’s caused by free-flood water in the hangar, sir they’re draining down now I couldn’t get to the damage control HQ The magazine area’s on fire, sir The Sea Cat and torpedo magazines are hotting up They’re requesting permission to flood It’s vital for the safety of the ship, they say ‘He added softly ‘The magazine crews are inside, sir They can’t get ‘em out’
Trevellion turned away, staring again into the night The enemy air attacks had not let up for over an hour the attack of the second regiment of Backfires had been murderous, swamping the Force’s and the convoy escorts’ ECM No reliable casualty report had yet come in The convoy had been caught half-way through the turn, but the majority, it appeared, had steadied on their new course for Fair Isle The third attack had been the bloodiest, synchronized with fresh attacks from the surviving SSNS The Backfires had come in thick and fast the low-fliers had closed much sooner than expected, once the defences had been swamped No one, not even Druce, had ‘dared to ask what effect the slaughter had upon the escorts and STANAVFORLANT.
Oslo was a world away yet.
As Hob waited in the darkness, he could hear the hissing of the oxygen burners on the port side of the bridge, where they were cutting away the steel to free the trapped Flyco team. He glanced at the officer of the watch, his eyes posing the inquiry.
‘They’ve got Little F out,’ was the answer. ‘But the others …’ and he shook his head. ‘They had to cut Wings out.’ The officer turned away, jamming the binoculars to his eyes, searching for the ships of the screen.
‘Gamble?’ Trevellion snapped from the window.
‘Sir?’
‘I can’t fight the ship without the Sea Cats. Get down there again. Tell ‘em to put the bloody fire out.’
Chapter 22
The night seemed the longest which Captain Trevellion had ever known; this was certainly to be one of the longest days.
‘I’ll be in the wings of the bridge,’ he told them in the fusty ops room.
Out here, watching the silver-streaked dawn imperceptibly emerging, with its layers of olive-green and rose-tipped clouds, he could hope to recover some of his inner tranquillity. Furious was still afloat, but the price was cruelly high: in addition to the battle casualties, nine of the missile room’s crew had been drowned. Trevellion’s thankfulness that his ship was still able to fight was marred by the remorse and the gnawing doubt he felt for the terrible decision he had been forced to take when he had deliberately ordered the flooding of the magazines. The sacrifice of those nine men had saved the ship and, consequently, the convoy was still forging ahead, albeit at only twelve knots.
Pascoe Trevellion stared aft, to the dark horizon where the night clouds still rolled in unending succession towards the Arctic wastes. A loaded calm had descended upon the opposing forces, but the gulls had returned, wheeling and screaming in the old ship’s wake.
Trevellion had snatched no sleep for forty-one hours. He had long since passed the weariness which craved slumber: he had reached that limbo where he reacted to events only because he had been endlessly drilled and trained for so many years: he was reacting like an automaton, numbed, insensitive to the professional decisions he had to make. As he gazed aft, stifling his yawn, he could see the cross-trees of Athabaskan’s mast tipping the horizon.
Furious was twenty miles ahead of the remains of the convoy which was now settled down on its new course of 108°. The commodore, who had survived destruction in spite of being selected by the Backfires as the prime target, had reported the sickening news of nine ships sunk and that only eight ships of HX-OS 1 still survived. One of the casualties, a troopship, had not been seen again after the second Backfire attack. Over five thousand men must have perished during the dark and terrible night.
The remainder were battling on, though one more had been sunk when at 0300 the convoy had passed through the enemy SSK line R, consisting of four diesel boats between Sule Skerry and Foula. The Sea Kings, now out of torpedoes because of the fire in the magazines and because of their continuous counterattacks, were continuing their Jez runs and vectoring STANAVFORLANT’S ships on to the targets.
All four SSKS had been sunk, one rammed by Jesse L. Brown, who was now limping back through the Minches to the Clyde, her bows stove in. Penelope’s Ikara had accounted for a second; Goeben’s Lynx for another; and Athabaskan’s Sea Kings for the last. Tidespring, their replenishment ship, had been hit but was managing to keep up.
Trevellion stood capless, allowing the breeze to blow through his thinning hair.
It was good to be here, at last in relatively sheltered waters and in better weather conditions, now that the interminable gales were moderating — force seven and still easing, which was giving the frigates a welcome let-up. How they had battled on, day after day, night after night, and still been able to fight their ships at the crucial moment, was a measure of their efficiency and of the resolution and stamina of the men who served in them … and out here, alone on the wings of his bridge, Trevellion felt uplifted. They had reached Fair Isle, but Oslo was still a long way off: thirty-two hours, if the enemy carried out no further attacks.