Two more warriors: one, a big liner, her rails lined with cheering Canadian troops, her peacetime finery red with rust. They had begun to camouflage her in Halifax but had completed only half one side; and the other ship, a cargo vessel, her hatches covered with jeeps, over which the tattered remains of flapping tarpaulins threshed in the ship’s own wind. She had run up a clean new ensign, the maple leaf flapping defiantly at her stern.
Ungava Bay followed next, precisely in station, but steaming crabwise from the list which she had borne since the opening phase of the battle. The ugly, functional lines of the big container ship emphasized the shambles which had been her upper deck, where the bent Samson posts leaned like windswept poplars.
Her paint had gone from the bridge structure aft and the bare steel was charred and stained with rust, like blood. Her siren tooted joyfully as she passed.
Two more damaged ships followed, each listing, the fifth badly down by the bows, the sixth, half a mile astern and trying to keep up. Two huge gashes showed in her side, the edges of her wounds also blackened by the heat from the explosions: she was the other surviving container ship whose poop deck had been converted into a pad for her Sea Harriers Trevellion could see the remains of one which must have received the blast from the missile explosion abaft the bridge. They had not cleared away the bits and pieces yet, and he could see why: on the after part, just below her ensign, were her dead, lined neatly in rows and covered by bunting, a Canadian flag across the centre — she must be steaming with a skeleton crew. Furious remained silent … and then they cheered the Canadian until they could see only her transom.
‘Signal from the commodore, sir,’ the yeoman called from his clattering lamp on the signal bridge: ‘To ASW Group Commander, Furious, Phoebe from Commodore HX-OS i. Message reads: “If you can take it, we can. Keep up the good work of giving the swine a bloody nose. Good luck and a swift recovery. We hope to see you soon to take care of us again.’”
Trevellion nodded. The admiral had prepared his farewell and the yeoman was already flashing it across the water:
‘Very many thanks. We shall be back soon. Good hunting ‘7’ to the Canadian Division. Give Ivan the same medicine ashore.’
The blinking light from the wings of the commodore’s bridge ceased. The churning screws left their fading wakes astern and Furious closed the waiting ships of COMSTANAVFORLANT. They had turned and as the wounded carrier steamed past them, her sides still manned, the bosun’s calls shrilled across the still water. It was an emotional moment, as Old Chough stood there alone, returning the salutes of the ships. He watched them, their men cheering, their tattered battle ensigns flying proudly, the blue flag of Nato flapping from their foremasts, battle-proved for the first time. It was a moment he wouldn’t forget.
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked himself, alone on his bridge. The slaughter had been appalling for both sides. Twelve ships had been lost out of a convoy of eighteen: two vast VLCCS; two store ships; two liners crammed with troops, though some may have been picked up by the rescue ships from the us coastguard which had been detailed to bring up the rear; three general-cargo ships; one supply ship and two vehicle carriers, not counting Ungava Bay who still carried half her cargo. The convoy escorts had lost one fleet nuclear submarine (a serious blow to the submariners); two frigates and one guided missile destroyer.
Force Q had been hard hit: Gloucester overwhelmed, the target for a regiment of Backfires; Brazen sunk; Koln rolled over and sunk; and Oileus damaged in the last Osa attack — a savage, costly battle, but STANAVFORLANT had come out of it miraculously — and Trevellion was certain there was a lesson in that. The other casualties were Jesse L. Brown who finally sank after her ramming, Athabaskan damaged by a prematurely exploding missile, and Tidespring, the replenishment ship, eventually burnt out while being towed to Sollum Voe.
And the helicopters? Only five of the squadron remained, the crews of the Sea King casualties all lost. Anvil had accounted for over half of the losses. The Sea Harriers had proved their worth, but at frightful cost — ninety per cent had failed to return but they had prevented annihilation of the convoy and its covering forces.
And the enemy? From the provisional casualty figure it was obvious that the enemy had suffered even worse, particularly underwater. Total enemy losses to date were estimated at 158, and Nato’s at 52. It had been conclusively demonstrated that if submarines disclosed their presence by carrying out an attack, they would suffer certain destruction. It was difficult to sort out how many kills were due to the covering forces of the HX-OS I convoy because the total picture was not yet in. Trevellion extracted the typed sheet from his reefer pocket; it made ugly reading on this soft evening.
Trevellion turned as his navigating officer came up behind him: ‘Course set for the Falls light vessel, sir. Speed eighteen knots. Carrying out zigzag number eight.’
‘Very good, Pilot. I’ll be in the ops room having a look at the world-wide Scoreboard. Keep an eye on STANAVFORLANT for me. When do we expect the next submarine threat?’
‘Any time from 0400 onwards, sir.’
In the ops room, Druce was waiting for him. SOO had rigged up a blackboard and chalked in the shape of the oceans. He had hung on the bulkhead a large sheet of paper on which he had scrawled the provisional casualties as they had come in from ACLANT. The lights dimmed as SOO first dealt with the Mediterranean, his finger on the Straits of Gibraltar.
The total worked out at five to one in the Allies’ favour but we had lost two CVS and a CAH. Nineteen Nato submarines had failed to return.
‘And the convoys?’ Trevellion asked. ‘How have the rest of ‘em fared?’
‘We’ve lost sixty-one per cent of the convoy in our HX,’ SOO said. ‘The other Atlantic convoys, so far, including mining casualties at the ports of arrival, are averaging forty-nine per cent losses.”
The silence was total as SOO listed the appalling casualties, but SACLANT had emphasized: ‘We’ve got to get to Europe. We’re going to have to roll over ‘em to get there.’ He had not been far wrong.
‘Submarines?’ Druce asked. ‘What’s the world casualty figure?’
Trevellion watched as SOO totted up the score — the free ‘ world’s survival depended on the swift destruction of the enemy’s submarine fleet ‘So far …’ SOO drawled, ‘SSNS and SSKS’
‘Are you including SSBNS?’ Druce asked ‘No, sir They’ve not been involved so far, thank God ‘
‘So3’
‘223 enemy submarines confirmed killed, sir, world-wide No confrontation in the Pacific, but the Indian Ocean figures include the Malacca Straits ‘
The destruction of the enemy’s submarine fleet was even more devastating than the most optimistic forecast before the hostilities began ‘Thanks, SOO,’
Roderick Druce said ‘I’ve heard from the Port Admiral, Devonport he’s ready for us ‘
‘The funeral service will be at 0930, tomorrow morning, sir,’ Trevellion announced quietly before everyone dispersed ‘Matthew would like to start early ‘
Druce nodded ‘You’d better get your head down, Pascoe,’ he said ‘It’s a long way to Guz yet’ They stood upas he left the ops room After checking the long range plot, Trevellion returned to his bridge He checked the course, noted that the chief was still managing revolutions for eighteen knots He wrote up his night order book, then went out into the darkness It was chilly in the wings The mangled wreck of Flyco provided an unpleasant, skeletal effect against the subdued, violet lighting of the flight deck where the final Sea King sortie was warming up On the carrier’s port bow Trevellion could make out the red lights from one of the oil platforms a lonely, perilous job, under these wartime conditions The Russian airmen could zap them, one by one, if their masters dared risking escalation furious was ploughing through the night, a darkened ghost-ship, still viable, still able to seek out and sink enemy submarines It was 450 miles to the Falls, where CINCCHAN’S minesweepers were waiting ETA Plymouth Sound was 0900 on Monday morning, 21 April — and Trevellion sighed, alone in his anxiety A day and a half to survive before they were safe — two enemy submarine areas to negotiate, the first of them in six hours’ time The squadron’s five remaining Sea Kings and STANAFORLANT’S whirly-birds would soon be flushing them out He pulled out his pipe and began filling it, the wind blowing in his face He shivered, uneasy There was more to come, of that he could be sure His instinct rarely let him down these days He turned and went inside Tomorrow, though it was Sunday, he would try to deal with so much that was outstanding the personal problems of his men, the reports, the letters to the next of km, and that deplorable case of suspected murder which was brewing During a lull in the action, John Bellairs had reported quietly that Petty Officer Kotta had been cut in half by an exploding missile With Kotta’s death, the strain on Osgood must be considerable Trevellion turned and stepped back into his bridge He’d have a smoke in his cabin before hitting his sack In thirty-six hours, he might be talking to Rowena — but he thrust the thought from his mind, as superstitious as most Cornish-men He shivered again, but not from the cold His instinct and his training were warning him that he mustn’t let up, nor allow his company to relax for an instant Old Fury was a thorn in the enemy’s flesh — and she wasn’t home yet The battle was still on and, with each hour that passed, the climax was drawing nearer.’