Drummond lit his pipe and watched Sheridan mustering his men on the forecastle and iron deck below the bridge. It had taken a week to reach this invisible point on the chart, although it felt like a year. It had been hard on nerves and tempers, as rumour followed rumour and all the early excitement of going into action gave way to doubt and open scorn for the far-off planners in Whitehall.
“Port fifteen.”
Drummond heard the halliards squeaking behind him as the signal for oiling shot up to the yard. Like himself, Petty Officer Tucker and his signalmen were glad to be doing something, to see other ships instead of their own tight little group.
Apart from the tankers there was an ugly converted merchantman, described in the manual as a “fighter catapult ship.” It showed that Admiral Brooks was taking the raid very seriously to provide fighter cover in these early, vital stages. Any prowling Focke-Wulf would have to be seen, caught and shot down before it could radio back to base in Group North that some British naval units were behaving strangely north-west of Bear Island.
“Midships. Steady as you go, Cox’n.” “Aye, sir.”
Tommy Mangin would be watching the oiler as her length shortened and Warlock passed round her broad stern for the approach alongside.
The Santiago was heavy and still deep-laden, so that she appeared to be grounded and unmoving, like a detached harbour wall. The uncomfortable swell which was making the slender destroyer lift and plunge without a break, merely rolled along the tanker’s fat flank in a continuous wavy line, like the one on Hillier’s sleeve as he leaned over the screen, ready to relay any urgent order to the deck.
Seven days of it. Drummond bit his pipe stem and watched the other ship drawing closer. He had almost expected the raid to be cancelled. To hear that for some reason or other their lordships had decided it was no longer even a remote possibility.
“Let her ease off a bit, Cox’n.”
He watched the greasy fenders lowered to take any impact if they got too near, the hoses hoisted on their derricks waiting to be shunted across the narrow strip of water. Too near meant almost certain damage. Too far and the hoses would be torn apart, and valuable time lost in repeating the whole operation. To say nothing of loss of face in front of the other ships.
But the technique was a good one, and had increased the range and use of even the smallest convoy escort from one end of the Atlantic to the other.
He saw the sunlight lying across the hard horizon like bright copper. He shivered, despite his thick coat. It was without warmth, and yet it scored a man’s face like hot sand if he stood on watch for too long.
So many miles above the Arctic Circle, so many yet to do before they saw Seydisfjord again. Bear Island was just a blue smudge on the other horizon, a lonely, bitter place which had provided some comfort in the past to beleaguered convoys, or damaged ships trying to rally their strength for the last haul to Murmansk or Archangel. Planes, tanks and supplies for the Russians. It was strange really. They had signed a treaty with Hitler, had turned their backs on those few who were trying to fight against the Fascism Russia was said to hate. Hitler had invaded their country, none the less, so war dictated that Stalin was to be an ally.
“Slow ahead together.”
He saw a line snaking over from the forecastle, fired by a rifle. That was the chief gunner’s mate, P.O. Abbott. If he was still secretly grieving for his dead wife and child, it had not affected his aim.
More cracks, and more lines, until it looked as if a web was growing between the ill-matched hulls.
He was level now with the oiler’s ugly bridge and still creeping forward, running, a close parallel. One large hose was already rearing up, as if to seek out the stokers without waiting for any guidance.
Spray leapt between the hulls and pattered across the swaying deck plates. In a few more months this area would be gleaming ice again. A place denying shelter when it was most needed. A sea without pity.
The catapult ship would be useless then. For she could only fire off her fighter aircraft. There was no way of getting them back again. The luckless pilot had to wait in his lifejacket after he had jumped from his fighter, and possibly after he had fought with a heavy reconnaissance aircraft, and hope that somebody had seen where he had baled out. And in winter nobody lived in these waters for more than a few minutes.
He glanced quickly at Wingate, and wondered if he was thinking about it. Reliving his own agony in an open boat.
The oiler gave a throaty blast on her siren and both ships settled down side by side, the one rising and plunging across the successive ranks of rollers, the other merely thrusting through them like a battered iron wedge.
Men dashed up and down hauling on tackles, and here and there a more experienced one dashed forward when a junior rating seemed in danger of being hurled over the side into the strip of frothing water as it surged past like a millrace.
Mangin could be relied on to coax the helm whenever it was needed, but a close watch had to be kept on the revolutions.
Drummond had taken on fuel at sea many times, and found that he could think of other things and still not miss any of the sea’s little tricks. It was like being cast out of the normal world. The occasional news from Sicily was unreal and did not touch them. The daily inflow of signals relating to everything from U-boat movements to escort rendezvous codes meant nothing at all. They would go on steaming and refuelling forever, and never see land again.
Hillier said, “The first hose is made fast, sir.” He sounded excited. “The chief has just given the thumbs-up!” “Good.”
It was something when the sight of a filthy fuel hose had become more gripping than the real chance of being killed in a Norwegian fjord.
“Coffee, Sir?”
Owles had appeared on the bridge, looking out of place in his white coat which he always wore when working in his pantry. He shivered.
“Bit parky.”
He went off again after wedging the pot between some rolled signal flags.
As usual he had put some rum in it. Drummond could feel it in his stomach like fire. What would he do without Owles?
He snapped, “Tell number one to slack away that forrard line. It’s sagging badly on the tanker’s hull. It’ll carry away otherwise.”
Sheridan would not like being told, but he should have seen it for himself. Just lately he had seemed more withdrawn, less ready to talk about everyday matters. Jealousy? Of the girl, the promotion, or of everything which he still imagined should be his?
He saw Sheridan turn and squint up at the bridge as the message was relayed to him. He waved one gloved hand, but that was all.
A bosun’s mate called, “W/T have a signal from Admiralty, sir.”
“Tell the doc to get it decoded right away.”
Vaughan may have discovered nothing about Jevers, but he had proved very useful with the secret codes. He had the mind for it.
The flotilla leader had her own coding officer, one of Captain (D)‘s extra privileges. He was very quick at his job, for within minutes the bosun’s mate was saying, “W/T reports that Captain(D) is calling you up on the radio telephone, sir.”
Drummond gestured at Wingate. “You speak to him. I’m not going to walk away from this little lot.”
Wingate grinned. “Trying to catch us out, I expect.”
Drummond watched the great looped fuel hoses. It must be very urgent for Beaumont to get so excited. He knew Warlock was taking on fuel, and would never expect her captain to hand over control under any circumstances.
The yeoman of signals pulled the little brass tube up through the pipe from the W/T office. He said, “Doctor’s getting faster, sir.”
Drummond did not turn. “Read it, Sub. Over here.”