‘Watch out, sir! That bugger’s taken a real dislike to you!’
Hargrave tried to smile, but his mouth felt like leather. He saw the twin-engined plane roaring away ahead, pursued by bright balls of tracer, and one very near-miss from ‘A’ Gun. He even saw the black crosses, so stark on either wing, streaks of oil near the open bomb-bay doors.
He took a grip on himself. ‘Nobody hurt?’
The Buffer pointed. ‘They’re attacking from both sides, sir!’
Hargrave saw Kellett, the P.O. steward, still wearing his white jacket, hurrying to the opposite side, a Bren gun cradled in his arms as he squinted at the sky.
The Buffer sighed. ‘Where’s the bloody RAF now that we needs ’em?’
Shoot Hargrave winced as another plane roared down through the gunsmoke. His ears throbbed as if they would never hear again, and his eyes felt raw from the constant firing.
Brrrrrrr! He heard the harsh rattle of machine-gun fire, and stared at the advancing feathers of white spray until the metal clanged and cracked across the deck like a rivet-gun.
One of the damage-control party was down, kicking wildly, blood everywhere, so bright and unreal in the hazy glare.
The Buffer yelled, ‘Get that man!’ He glanced at Hargrave. ‘You be okay ’ere, sir?’ The he was gone, his stocky figure pushing men where they were needed, pausing to restrain the wounded seaman as ‘Pansy’ Masefield, his red-cross satchel bouncing from one hip, appeared from nowhere.
‘Nasty, Pansy.’ The Buffer grinned at the wounded man, whose eyes were filled with dread, like a terrified child’s. ‘But we’ve seen worse, eh?’
Masefield glared at him then beckoned to his assistants. ‘Take him to the real doctor, chop-chop!’ Then he patted the wounded man’s face and said gently, ‘You’ll be fine, Jenner. I’ve stopped the bleeding.’
The hull swayed as the wheel went over again, and a great shadow swept above them like some nightmare seabird.
The Buffer looked for Hargrave. It was as if he had never moved. He turned to the plane again, even saw the bomb as it tumbled untidily from its belly.
He watched it with tired resignation. Why here, he seemed to ask. Why now?
From his position on the upper bridge Ransome saw the bomb too. ‘Hard a-port!’ He gripped the voicepipe as the wheel went over and the ship seemed to reel to the thrust of screws and rudder.
‘Thirty-five of port wheel on, sir!’
He heard men gasping and slipping as Rob Roy continued to pivot round, and he thanked God, not for the first time, that she had twin screws.
The bomb, which seemed to fall so haphazardly, suddenly righted itself and appeared to gather speed as it hurtled down while the plane, a Messerschmidt 110 fighter-bomber, bellowed low over the bridge, cannon-fire and machine-gun bullets raking the forecastle while the Oerlikons continued to pursue it with tracer.
The explosion felt as if the ship was being lifted bodily from the sea, and for a few seconds Ransome feared the worst, and prepared to stop engines before his ship charged headlong for the seabed. Then the towering column of water from the explosion fell. It was like something solid, as if the ship had been engulfed by a tidal wave.
He heard himself coughing and retching, trying to keep on his feet as water surged through the bridge and crashed to the deck below. As he wiped the spray and stinging salt from his eyes he saw a fireball suspended in space, then droplets of flame breaking away, to speckle the sea’s face with bright feathers.
As his hearing returned he heard men cheering, and realised that the ME 110 must have been caught in the cross-fire even as the bomb had exploded so near to the ship.
Voicepipes crackled on every side and Ransome looked quickly to make certain his small team was still intact.
Sherwood was hanging on to the gyro repeater while Morgan was groping for the remains of his chart and scattered instruments. Leading Signalman Mackay was peering at his telescope and saw Ransome’s glance. ‘No damage, sir, thank God!’
The ship or his precious telescope, it was hard to tell.
‘Bring her back on course!’ Ransome wiped bis sodden binoculars and peered astern. The aircraft were gone, the edge of their attack blunted at the sight of their companion’s horrible end.
Cease-fire gongs were ringing, and he saw figures emerging from cover, as if dazed by their survival.
‘Report damage and casualties.’ Ransome looked at the sea ahead, the small fragments of the ME 110. There would be no survivors.
‘First lieutenant for you, sir!’ The boatswain’s mate had put down his stripped Lewis, and Ransome noticed that there were several empty magazines by his feet.
‘Captain here.’
‘No damage aft, sir.’ Hargrave sounded muzzy, a hundred miles away. ‘One casualty. Ordinary Seaman Jenner. Not serious.’ He hesitated. ‘You all right, sir?’
But Ransome handed the telephone to the boatswain’s mate and raised his glasses again.
The cheering had died away and some of the gun crews had left their stations to line the guardrails and watch.
Like a crude memorial, Ransome thought later. The forward section of a minesweeper seemed to rise amongst the others, pointing towards the white sun, the sea boiling around the hull like steam. Huge, obscene bubbles and a spreading blanket of escaping oil fuel. A ship dying. One of their own.
Morgan said huskily, ‘It’s Scythe, sir.’
Mackay called, ‘From Bedworth, sir. Sen]a will search for survivors’
Ransoijie nodded as he watched the upright hull, feeling the pain, wanting her to go, to get it over with. He could see her young captain, a mere lieutenant who had held the command for four months. Was he alive, he wondered? If so, how would he get over it?
‘No damage below, sir. Engine-room request permission to reduce speed.’
‘Very well. Half ahead together. Signal Bedworth and tell them what we’re doing.’ He spoke without emotion, as if he had none left to give.
Feet scraped on the ladder and Richard Wakely, his eyes almost bulging from his head, dragged himself into the bridge.
‘Is it over?’ He stared round, his chest rising and falling as if he was about to have a seizure.
Ransome said, ‘For some it is.’ He steeled himself as the broken ship began to sink very slowly, stern-first, tiny figures struggling in the filth of oil and worse while the big Norwegian trawler Senja manoeuvred almost against the wreckage.
Ransome gritted his teeth together. They should have had air cover, but perhaps there was none to spare after all, or it was all being used to protect the troop convoys. The same German ME 110’s had probably made a strike against those mine-sweeping trawlers they had seen in the dawn light.
Someone let out a sob as Scythe seemed to drop very suddenly from view. They heard several dull explosions, and more flotsam burst to the surface as if to torment further the gasping survivors.
Ransome turned his back and looked at his ship.
That violent turn had saved her. This time. Otherwise he and all the rest of them might be out there trying to keep afloat; waiting to die.
He saw Sherwood’s eyes, Morgan’s honest features twisted in pity and despair, Mackay gripping his telescope, his eyes smarting but not from the sun. One of their own.
The Buffer appeared on the bridge, his battered cap hiding his expression.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but Jimmy – I mean the first lieutenant is askin’ for orders. I think our phone ’as gone dead on us, like. The Gunner (T) ’as got one of his torpedomen on the job.’ He looked around until his glance settled on Wakely.