In the eerie glare of drifting flares she had opened fire with every gun which would bear. One U-boat had managed to dive without being hit, but another had been seen to receive several shells so close alongside it was more than likely she would never reach home. But, the third had been even less fortunate. In the eye-searing flares her commander may have misjudged the destroyer’s bearing and distance. Or perhaps his stern tube had been unloaded and he was trying to engage with his bow torpedoes. Whatever the reason for his sudden turn, the result of it had been swift and definite.
At twenty-five knots the destroyer had rammed her just abaft the conning tower, riding up and over the low whaleback of her casing with a scream of rending steel which had been heard even aboard the Benbecula. Like a gutted shark the U-boat had rolled over, breaking apart as the destroyer continued to grind and smash across her.
When daylight came the men on the rearmost ships of the convoy had lined the guardrails to cheer the victorious destroyer, the sound wild and almost desperate as she had turned away for the dangerous passage to Gibraltar. With her bows buckled almost to her forward bulkhead and her forecastle gaping open to the sea she would be out of the war for some time to come. She had made a sad but defiant sight as her low silhouette had finally faded astern, and there were few men in the convoy who had not prayed for her survival.
Nothing else had occurred for two whole days. Then one of the tankers had been hit by a long-range torpedo, her cargo spilling out around her broken hull like blood, until with a great roar the oil had caught fire, encircling the ship in a wall of flames which had almost trapped one of the escorts which was attempting to pick up some of her crew.
Lindsay put a match to his pipe and tried to concentrate his mind on the ships ahead. Without such constant effort his eyes seemed to droop, so that he had to drag himself to his feet, move about like some caged animal until his circulation and brain returned to life.
Thirteen days. Two escorts gone and three merchant ships. The two remaining lines were led by the commodore’s troopship, Cambrian, and the cruiser Madagascar. Just four ships in each line, with Benbecula now steaming directly abeam of the ammunition freighter. The early fear of having her in the convoy, and so close to the Benbecula for most of the time, had given way to a kind of nervous admiration. Day in, day out, through the U-boat attacks and the desperate alterations of course and speed, she was always there. Big and ugly like her name,
Demodocus, she had, according to Goss, been sailing under almost every flag in the book since she had been laid down some four years before the Great War. A coal-fired ship, she was usually on the receiving end of some caustic signal about making too much smoke, but either her master didn’t give a damn or as Fraser had suggested, her chief engineer had his work cut out just to keep the boiler from bursting.
He saw some off-watch seamen sprawled on the forward hold cover. In the bright sunlight their faces and bared arms looked very pale, almost white. He was thankful that for the past twenty-four hours there had been neither an attack nor any more reports of U-boats from the Admiralty. The hands had been able to get some rest, enjoy a properly cooked meal, and above all to be spared the jarring clamour of alarm bells.
He could hear Stannard moving about the chart room. It was not his watch, so he was probably getting his personal log up to date.
Lieutenant Maxwell had the forenoon watch, and he was out on the port wing staring at the ammunition ship, his cap tilted over his eyes against the glare. His assistant, Lieutenant Anthony Paget, did not seem to know where to stand. Afraid perhaps of disturbing his captain he stayed on the starboard side of the bridge, but at the same time he seemed unwilling to stray out of Maxwell’s vision, just in case he was needed.
Paget was Aikman’s replacement. He appeared a pleasant enough chap, Lindsay thought. He had obtained his watchkeeping certificate in a corvette but had been in the Navy for only eighteen months. Before the war he had been a very junior partner in a firm of solicitors in Leeds. It was his father’s business, otherwise he might have found it more difficult to get that far, Lindsay decided’. He seemed rather shy and hesitant, and his previous captain had- written in his personal report, ‘Honest and reliable. But lacks qualities of leadership.’
But he was one of Benbecula’s lieutenants now, and more to the point, his watchkeeping qualifications would help to spread the load more evenly in a wardroom where most of the junior officers had no experience at all.
Petty Officer Hussey, the senior telegraphist, walked to Lindsay’s side and saluted.
‘Just the usual bulletins, sir. No U-boat reports.’ He flicked over the neatly kept log. ‘It seems that the Japs are still advancing though.’ He held the log in the sunlight and squinted at it. ‘Says that they’ve reached a place called Batu Pahat.’ He grinned. ‘Could be in Siberia as far as my geography is concerned, sir.’
The rear door slammed back. ‘What was that?’ Stannard stood in the reflected sunlight, his brass dividers grasped in one: hand.
Lindsay said quietly, ‘Batu Pahat.’
Stannard seemed to stagger against the voicepipes. ‘But that’s only sixty miles from Singapore, for God’s sake! It can’t be true. No army could move that fast!’
Paget said timidly, ‘It’s in the south-west corner of Malaya, sir.’
Stannard looked at him unseeingly. ‘I know.’
Paget nodded eagerly. ‘I read somewhere that there’s a prosperous coastal trade for rubber and….’
Lindsay said, ‘Would you ask the chief bosun’s mate to Lindsay looked away. ‘Some people never read the words, Pilot. They just check the commas!’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Forget that. They’re probably doing their best.’
Paget returned. ‘C.P.O. Archer cher is coming right up, sir.’
‘Good.’ Lindsay settled down again on the chair. ‘Now — I’ll have to think of something to tell him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Paget looked completely lost.
A signalman shouted, ‘Signal from escort, sir! Merlin has strong contact at zero-nine-zero. Closing!’
Paget stared at him, his mouth hanging open.
Lindsay snapped, ‘Sound action stations!’ He felt the. sweat gathering under his cap. ‘Well, jump to it, man!’
As bells shrilled through the ship he stood up and walked to the port wing where Maxwell was still looking at the ammunition ship.
‘What’s the matter, Guns? Didn’t you hear that?’
Maxwell stared at him. ‘Yessir. Sorry, sir.’ He turned and ran for the control, position as Hunter and the spotting team came pounding up the other ladder from the boat deck.
Ritchie was already here, brushing crumbs from his jacket and still chewing as he snatched his telescope and shouted, ‘From commodore, sir. Alter course to two-fivezero!’
‘Acknowledge.’
Lindsay gripped the screen, feeling the ship vibrating under his fingers as the voicepipes and telephones burst into life once again.
Ritchie’s telescope squeaked as he readjusted it on the leading ships. ‘Execute in succession, sir!’
Stannard was already at the gyro compass, his face expressionless while he studied the column wheeling slowly to starboard. The ship directly ahead was the convoy’s remaining oil-tanker, a smart, newly built vessel which had already narrowly avoided a torpedo in the earlier attacks. Come to the bridge, please?’
As the lieutenant scurried for the rack of telephones Stannard said, ‘Thanks, sir. You didn’t have to do that. He didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘I know.’ Lindsay watched him gravely. ‘But sometimes one extra word is enough to drive a man mad.’ He smiled. ‘I expect your brother has been pulled out by now anyway. If Singapore Island is to be the real holding-point it would be the obvious thing to do.’