Chapter 25
Hob Gamble had snatched a cuppa on his way down to his cabin after the debriefing but, in spite of opening the punkah fully above his bunk he could not sleep. It was 1620 already and, though whacked by the constant ASW sorties, he could not arrest the turmoil in his tired brain as it relived the events of the past hours. Perhaps the fundamental truths of the funeral service were disturbing him — if so, he was not the only man to be affected, because afterwards Osgood had come up to see him.
Maybe the proximity of death was the reason why the ship’s minute chapel had been packed for Holy Communion this morning; for the first time that he could remember, sailors and officers knelt unselfconsciously in large numbers before the altar rail. They had watched those stiff, flag-draped bundles on the quarterdeck slipping over the transom to splash into the foaming wake: their messmates, most of them in bits, many nameless, unidentifiable. But the burial service had provoked not only grief but hatred; those dead messmates were bundling over the side because of a brutal tyranny which had to be resisted and overthrown.
When the last body had vanished, the captain had asked them to remain on the quarterdeck. He told them, simply, of what lay ahead: their passage to Guz was certain to be hazardous and no one must let up. He thanked all of them — from the junior seaman and the MEM, the Sea Harrier and chopper pilots, to the ops room crew; from the junior cooks, sick bay tiffy and stewards to the wardroom officers — for fighting the ship through. He reminded them not to expect too much when they got home: Plymouth was less damaged than at first feared, but lawless minorities were causing civil strife. And, he repeated, they weren’t home yet.
After the bugler had sounded the Last Post they left the quarterdeck in silence.
As the clear notes floated across the. ocean, the men felt the tension of the past terrible days and nights suddenly released. They had dispersed for’d silently, no man speaking.
On the way to the wardroom, Hob had been approached by Osgood. His open face looked strained and anguished.
‘You know Petty Officer Kotta’s been killed, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Hob tried to sound optimistic: ‘Don’t let that influence your defence.’
He had promised to be Osgood’s ‘prisoner’s friend’.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Ozzie.’ They stood in the corner of the flat and the aircrewman was talking softly.
‘If I — ‘ He hesitated, fumbling for words: ‘If I don’t get back, sir … and Gwen Fane’s all right. Tell her…’
Hob nodded but remained silent.
‘Tell her nothing’s changed for me, sir, will you? If we survive this lot, they’ll take me to barracks. I won’t be seeing her.’
‘I’ll tell her, Oz.’
They had parted then, Osgood embarrassed as he mingled with the hands hurrying their way for’d.
And if he, Hob Gamble, was killed during his last lap, who would tell Allie?
Death was breathing down their necks. Flying the cabs needed a” fine touch and one hundred per cent concentration — and Hob knew he had no more to give. He held his hands above the blanket, stretching and splaying his fingers, watched the trembling in them. If only he could sleep. It was already 1625.
With only five cabs left, they were flying in sorties of two aircraft, to allow the third crew a double shift of sleep. The SSK line M had proved to be very much in evidence early this morning. The screen and the helos had accounted for three and, though several submarines had fired torpedoes, the foxers had dealt with them, the fish exploding harmlessly in the wakes. The afternoon SSK line N, during his sortie two hours ago, had been much more determined, but with no hits because Druce turned away at the crucial moment. They had scored two more submarine kills, though undoubtedly some had got away.
In four hours, Furious should be nearing the Falls, the lightship at the entrance to the west-bound lane through the Strait of Dover. CINCCHAN was waiting there with his Belgian, Dutch and RN sweepers — or what was left of them. Mines and enemy aircraft capable of dodging UKADGE were the final hazards to survive before reaching home and Allie. Hob turned on his side, drowsiness at last overcoming him … and from somewhere far off he heard the summons of the rattlers.
At the bugler’s imperious call to action stations he heaved himself from his bunk, flung on his jacket, slipped on his overalls. He stepped into the flat as the first torpedo struck.
Furious was hit by two torpedoes. The third ran wild. The fourth passed ahead and exploded in Phoebe’s foxer. Hob had almost reached the briefing room when he sensed that the carrier was slowing down. The lights dimmed, then came on again as she began to heel rapidly. They were waiting for orders when Little F came through on the internal loop:
‘All aircraft, take off at the rusk? 826 was the second cab to be readied. Hob ignored the pre-flight checks, and ran her up without the marshal. Trevellion was standing on the wings of his bridge. His unlit pipe jammed in his mouth, Old Chough was saluting his pilots for the last time. If only the Harriers could have been scrambled too, but there was no room on that twisted after deck.
Under the influence of the worsening list, 826 started sliding towards the side.
The marshal yelled at them the cab had not been refuelled yet. But Hob gave her full torque, lifting her as her port wheel scraped the lip. The angry waters jerked beneath them and then he was clear of the carrier’s aerials — up and away. The HCO was through to Dunker.
‘Get to hell out of it! Make for Zuiderkruis.’ ‘What are the other cabs doing?’
Hob rapped.
‘They’ve been refuelled,’ Dunker said. ‘Making for the Kentish coast.’
Where was Zuiderkruis? Hob peered to his left but couldn’t spot the Dutch fast combat ship. As he clawed for height to bring 826 to the north-east astern of Mother, he caught his breath.