Duvall’s voice again. “This is Yoke One. Over and out.”
“You want me, sir?” Sheridan was forcing himself through the tight mass of equipment and people.
“Yes. Get your best radar and Asdic teams closed up.” He looked past him. “Warden’s got a firm blip. Same course and speed. Range eight miles.”
He heard Sheridan’s stubble rasp against his collar.
He said, “Sorry to drag you out, Number One.” It was almost the first contact they had made.
Sheridan shrugged. “I have the morning watch anyway. ” He smiled. “Could do with a hot drink.”
“I’ll lay it on while you get your people moving.” He dragged open the door, seeing the dials glowing like eyes as the main lighting went out. “I’ll be on the bridge until … ” He did not have to end it.
Wingate was waiting for him. “A kraut, sir?”
“Looks like it. ” He thrust his head under the chart hood and peered at the neat pencilled lines and bearings. “What is the convoy escort? Do we know?”
Wingate joined him under the screen. He smelled of salt and oil.
“Four corvettes and an Asdic trawler.” They glanced at each other.
Drummond said flatly, “Not too much. I’ll bet that bastard is following them, homing the rest of the pack to intercept at first light.” He groped for his watch. “Not long now.”
Feet skated across the metal decks and voices murmured outside the screen. Muffled, but obvious in their discontent. “What the hell’s wrong now? “Can’t a bloke get any kip when he’s off watch?” Another voice, more hushed. “Careful. The old man’s under the screen.” Then silence again.
Clang. Like a wreck buoy’s bell as someone carried a heavy fanny of cocoa across the bridge, pausing between the sickening rolls.
Hillier’s voice. “Our radar has nothing yet, sir.”
Drummond thought of the three ships in direct line ahead. It was not surprising. He was sorry for Duvall. His was the only useful radar. His the only information available.
He ducked out from the chart table and waited for his vision to return.
Sheridan said, “Senior operators closed up, sir. ” He tapped the voice-pipe at his elbow. “Cox’n’s on the wheel, too. He has a nose for trouble.”
They sipped at the thick, sickly cocoa. Gathering time. Waiting.
“W/T office reports the Warden is still in contact, sir. Course and range constant.”
“Very well.”
Drummond walked to the forepart of the bridge and gripped the teak rail below the screen. By the time they had worked up to full speed it would take twenty minutes to get within useful range. He raised himself on his toes and peered down at the square outline of the nearest gun. Star-shell. U-boat on the surface. Rapid fire. But suppose …? He shook himself and staggered back to his chair. Duvall would never break his cover. No matter what he might be feeling. He was too professional. Too hardened by past events.
A telephone buzzed like a trapped wasp.
“Forebridge?” Hillier sounded very tense. “It’s the chief calling from the wardroom, sir.”
Off the chair again, half wondering what Galbraith was doing out of his bunk.
“Captain.”
“Chief here, sir. I was wondering …”
“Thanks, Chief. I’d appreciate a bit of weight in the engine room just now.”
He replaced the handset, knowing Hillier was staring at him, mystified. And he could tell him nothing. Like the coxswain and some of the others, Galbraith just knew. There was no proper explanation.
He peered through the stained glass screen, seeing the faint white blur of Whirlpool’s wake. The other destroyers would have been listening, too, and wondering.
“Captain, sir. Warden is calling you up again.”
He knew what Duvall was going to say even before he had reached the Asdic compartment and the handset which was connected to the W/T office below.
“This is Yoke One. Are you receiving me, Yoke Seven?”
Drummond replied, “Loud and clear.”
“You will assume lead. Retain course and speed. Acknowledge.”
Drummond could picture the others listening to his voice.
“Acknowledged and understood.” A pause. “Over.”
“Am engaging. Over and out.”
He stared at the handset and then replaced it very slowly. Bloody, stubborn, brave fool.
The air seemed much colder when he regained the bridge chair.
He said, “Stand by to increase revolutions. We will pass the other ships to starboard. Inform the engine room and wheelhouse.”
“We’re going to attack, sir?” Wingate sounded hoarse. “We are assuming the leader’s position, Pilot.” “Radar to bridge, Warden’s increasing speed, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They were all looking at him.
He said, “Commander Duvall is going after the submarine. It is his decision.”
Wingate called, “Ready, sir.”
“Very good. Port ten.” He saw the other ship’s wash easing away to starboard. “Midships.” How quiet it seemed. There should be the sound of Warden’s engines, a background chorus like they had in films. “Starboard ten. Meet her. Steer threefour-zero. Increase to one-one-zero revolutions.”
The deck vibrated more insistently and steadied against the thrust of screws and rudder. Whirlpool’s lithe shape was already sliding abeam, her length shown only by her sluggish bow wave and steep rolling. And there up ahead was the other one, Whiplash, the blackness of her funnel smoke making a long streak against the clouds. Or perhaps it was getting lighter already?
“How long is it now?”
“Fifteen minutes, sir.” Sheridan cleared his throat. “I don’t see that Duvall should be left to cope on his own.” It sounded like an accusation.
“He’s left us, by the sound of it.” Rankin’s voice.
So he’s come up, too. Drummond replied quietly, “That’s enough!”
“Radar-Bridge.” The call echoed tinnily from the little microphone at the rear of the compass platform.
“Bridge.” Wingate had the handset almost against his lips.
“Have picked up the echo now, sir. About eight miles.”
Drummond crossed to his side and took the handset. To Wingate he said, “Bring her round ahead of Whiplash and resume course and speed. ” To the handset he said, “This is the captain. How is Warden getting on?”
“Closing very fast, sir. Approximate range is oh-eightfive.”
“Very well.”
He tried to clear his mind, wipe it clean of despair and doubt.
It was not unknown to catch a U-boat on the surface. One so intent on following a convoy that its lookouts failed to watch I astern.
He heard Sheridan breathing heavily beside him. He sounded j bitter as he said, “I wish to God we were with him!”
A pinpoint of bright orange flickered across the sea’s face, parting the horizon and then fanning out into one great fiery ball. Seconds later came the explosion, sighing and then thundering against the hull like a solid thing, making the steel jerk violently in protest.
“Got it!” Hillier yelled wildly. “He got it!”
“Asdic-Bridge.” The merest quiver in his normally steady voice. “Ship breaking up. Dead ahead.”
Drummond brushed past Sheridan and someone else he did not even see.
“Bridge-Radar. This is the captain. Is the first echo still there?”
“Yes, sir. But fading. “,Somebody in the radar compartment let out a long sigh. “Target is diving, sir.”
“Very well. ” He handed the instrument to the bosun’s mate.
The U-boat must have timed it perfectly. Her commander had realised that he was being stalked, might even have picked up Warden’s radar on his reflector. One, or perhaps two, torpedoes fired from the stern tubes. At her maximum speed, her old hull straining to full power, Warden would plunge headlong for the bottom, breaking up as she went.