Someone jumped outward and down, and Drummond heard Hillier retching helplessly as Warlock pushed firmly under the decoy’s quarter. The wretched sailor must have been pulped between the hulls like fruit.
“Slow astern together!”
He gritted his teeth, imagining Galbraith in his private world of noise, watching the dials, with nothing between him and his men but thin steel plates. And his trust in those on the bridge.
The screws beat the sea into another frenzy even as the flared forecastle lurched drunkenly against the other vessel, ropes, fenders and makeshift mats all splitting and flying like live things as steel carved through them, bringing the,hulls together with one resounding boom.
“Slow ahead port. Stop starboard.”
Drummond squinted against the fierce glare, feeling the heat on his face and mouth, sensing that the other ship’s foremast and derricks had already gone smashing over the side. She was burning fiercely within, but would not sink just yet because of her extra buoyancy of packed timber. Better if she plunged down right now after the tug. It would at least spare some of those trapped between decks.
Faint cries floated up from the forecastle, and heaving lines lifted or fell across the fires like crazy serpents. Some of Warlock’s men were retreating from the heat now. Others lay like corpses, overcome by the roaring inferno alongside.
Beaumont shouted hoarsely, “Not many of them left!”
Drummond wiped his streaming face. A mere handful, and some of those had probably dropped between the two hulls.
Sheridan was signalling with his torch from the top of A gun. “Cast off forrard.”
Drummond stood with his chest against the screen, making himself watch the last agonies. Then he saw two figures, isolated from the decoy’s poop by some fifty feet of solid fire. How they had survived this long he could not explain. Or accept. It was suddenly important that they should be saved. That they should not see Warlock sliding away in those last agonising minutes.
“Fire parties!” He gestured over the screen. “Get some hoses on those men!”
He watched narrowly as more flames darted through the fractured poop, some licking eagerly towards the Warlock’s forecastle and making the men scatter like skittles. But one hose found and held on to the two staggering survivors. Even in all this bedlam it was possible to see the steam rising from their clothing as they fought their way aft. There was Vickery, the chief bosun’s mate, and a cook still wearing his apron, clinging to the bucking hose as they guided them to safety.
Hillier yelled, “They’re inboard!” He sounded close to sobbing.
“Slow astern together!” Drummond thrust his hands into his pockets. Every limb was convulsing as if he had a terrible fever. “Hard a-port!”
Sheridan came to the bridge, coughing and gasping. “Fifteen survivors, sir. Some may be from the tug, of course.”
He leaned on the chart table, and Wingate said quietly, “Well done, old son.”
Drummond walked to the port side again, watching the spreading lake of fire, dark red like blood against the paling sky.
“Stop together. Wheel amidships. Can anyone see the motor boat?”
He heard himself ask flatly, “Those last two. Are they all right?”
Sheridan stared at him. “One might make it, sir. ” He looked away. “The other has lost most of his face.”
“Motor boat on starboard beam, sir. ” A pause. “Her cox’n is semaphoring. Six picked up.”
“Recall the boat.” He threw his cap on the chart table and took several deep breaths. “Twenty-one all told.”
Salter said thickly, “I’d never have thought it possible. Bloody marvellous.”
Beaumont turned on him. “Bloody disastrous, you mean!” He spoke in a fierce whisper. “We’ve gained nothing! And lost two bloody ships!”
Hillier was dabbing his eyes and peering down at the motor boat as it moved very slowly towards the ship. In the paling light and the angry glow from the distant decoy it was easy to see the oil-sodden figures, the way they coughed and wheezed against their rescuers. He stood very still, quite unable to move. He knew Beaumont and Salter were arguing about something, that Drummond alone seemed to be in command of the ship and all about it. The rest were like parts of an intricate machine. Momentarily disturbed, but now returned to order and purpose.
Still he stood quite rigid. Frozen as he watched something drifting away into the shadows.
Drummond was also watching the motor boat when Hillier exclaimed in a shaky voice, “Down there, sir. In the sea.”
He strode quickly to his side and gripped his arm. Through the duffel coat and reefer he could feel Hillier’s body shaking violently.
“What is it, Sub?” He leaned over the rough metal, keeping his hold on Hillier’s arm.
Hillier said huskily, “Gone, sir. But I–I was almost sure … ” He turned, his face like that of an old man. “Like a torpedo, sir.”
Drummond retained his grip, his voice very even as he said, “Signal the boat. Pass the word to guns and depth-charge parties.”
Hillier shook his head, oblivious to the sudden rush of feet all around him. “I was mistaken. It was just floating. Must have been-“
“Sir!” The yeoman was waving his fist towards the sea. “The boat’s sighted something!”
Beaumont said quickly, “I’d get going, if I were you, Keith. ” He was very cool. Detached.
Drummond replied, “It would have attacked by now, sir.”
He watched fixedly as the motor boat lifted and dipped over a long, easy swell. A torch was being trained carefully into the water. Something black, like a dead dolphin, swam into the brief beam of yellow light.
Hillier murmured, “It was there.”
The yeoman said, “Bloody hell!”
Another voice, sane, almost matter-of-fact after what they had just seen and done, said, “Radar report, lost contact with Spaniard, sir.”
Salter said to the bridge at large, “God, the Spaniards will make capital of this!”
Drummond was still watching the thing in the water.
“They won’t, you know. Not after we get this back to base. ” He released his hold on Hillier’s arm. “You did well. Now go aft and tell the gunner (T) to rig one of his depth-charge hoists. We’ll get that thing aboard if it’s safe.”
Salter jumped with alarm. “It might explode, surely?”
Beaumont cleared his throat. “He has a point, Keith.”
Drummond brushed past him to peer down at the iron deck.
“I believe that this is what you came to get, sir. ” He glanced bitterly at the dying flames on the water. “Even if we did not know what we were looking for at the time.”
Sheridan said, “Radar has contact with the other destroyers, sir. Now closing to six thousand yards.”
“As soon as we get under way again, they’ll know it’s over. The fewer signals made today, the better.” He glanced at Beaumont. “Right, sir?”
The other man nodded slowly. “Yes. We will return to Falmouth. ” He seemed to shake himself from his inner doubts. “With the catch.”
“Decoy’s going under, sir!”
With a great hissing roar the burning ship rolled over and slid beneath the surface in a welter of bubbles and corkscrewing flotsam. It was suddenly very quiet.
Beaumont said, “You can go aft if you wish, Keith. I’ll take over while you assess the situation, eh?” He forced a grin. “You’ve earned a break from all this.”
Drummond nodded to Sheridan. “When I pass the word, get under way. Course and speed to rejoin the others by dawn.”
He lowered himself down one of the outer ladders, past a hooded Oerlikon gunner, and further still until he reached the iron deck and the empty motor boat davits.