He saw the gyro ticking into line again.
“From Ventnor, sir. Still able to maintain full speed. ” A pause as the light blinked again through the smoke. “Your bird, I think.”
Drummond smiled grimly as he turned to watch the progress of the smoke-screen. What with the great fog left by the blazing fuel tanks in the other fjord, and their own combined screen rolling away abeam, it was as if the destroyers were charging between two unfolding banks of black filth.
He heard the shore battery firing from somewhere on the starboard quarter. He peered at his watch. Half an hour. It had seemed like seconds since they had increased speed to regain the open sea.
“Two men wounded in the last attack, sir. ” Hillier looked haggard. “One badly.”
Drummond nodded, raising his glasses to seek out the bombers. What the hell would they do next? He thought of Hillier’s dull voice. The hurt. If he could remember correctly, it meant they had lost about ten killed, and nineteen wounded.
He snapped, “Aircraft! Port bow!”
This time the bombers were going to try a head-on attack on the other column of ships. More chance of being hit by shellfire from the heavily armed destroyers, but a better opportunity to straddle one, if riot more, of them.
Lomond was already zigzagging violently, her after part hidden in a great white bank of spray and wash. Her guns made bright pin-pricks of light against the billowing smoke, and astern the rest of the ships were cutting the sky apart with closely knit tracer and shellbursts.
The leading aircraft side-stepped, recovered slightly, and then flopped helplessly on to the sea in a welter of smoke and spray.
The second fared little better, pressing on with its attack, until a shell exploded directly in its path, blasting the nose to fragments and hurling the blazing carcass down after the first one.
Drummond thought he saw a man fall kicking from the wrecked bomber before he, too, was flung into the water with the other fragments.
“Whiplash has caught one, sir!”
Drummond shifted his glasses, drawing in his stomach muscles as he watched the ship astern of Beaumont’s veering out of line, smoke belching from her main deck even as the spray stopped falling from that last bomb. Cromwell, her captain, was doing his best to avoid a collision with Victor, which had been following close in his wake.
The signalman shouted, “Lomond’s calling up Victorto take ‘er in tow!”
The bomb must have put Whiplash’s engine room out of action. It did not matter how temporary it was. So close to the land, it would be fatal if they could not get a tow aboard her.
“To Warlock, sir. From Lomond. “The signalman cursed as a spent bullet, clanged against the bridge and whimpered plaintively over the other side. “Assist Whirlpool immediately. Remainder form column on me.”
Ventnor was already altering course to join with Lomond and the other ships.
Whirlpool was maintaining a good speed, despite her lethal cargo of mines.
Drummond wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Acknowledge. Pilot, take her round to join Whirlpool. ” God, he felt raw from noise and shouting. Even from thinking.
“Signalman. Make to Whirlpool. I am coming to join your party., Poor old Mark Kydd. It might cheer him up. “Aircraft, sir! Green one-one-zero!”
“Two of the bastards” Wingate cradled his good arm round the voice-pipes.
Very low this time, the bombers swept purposefully towards the scattered formation of ships.
“Barrage commence … commence!”
Warlock’s guns were joining in, trying to maintain a tentshaped area of exploding metal.
“Bombs coming down!”
There was a great sigh from somebody as two bombs burst alongside the crippled Whiplash. Her companion had been about to draw alongside to fire heaving lines across, but was now churning away, trying to give cover, to defend herself at the same time. Great shooting columns of water were all around and amongst the ships, and the sky was almost blotted out by shellbursts.
The second bomber droned steadily above its own reflection, the machine gunners spraying the ships as they pressed on. Drummond saw cannon shells from Victor’s Oerlikons rip ping through the Junkers’ belly like claws, saw her falter and then plunge headlong. A cheer from B gun changed into a groan as the bomber crashed into the unmoving destroyer in a great fan-shaped curtain of fire.
“From Lomond, sir. Recover survivors if possible. Repeat if possible.”
Wingate said thickly, “Christ, what a foul-up!”
Drummond looked at him. “Tell Number One to prepare scrambling nets. Warn the doctor. This will have to be done rather smartly.”
Relieved of her earlier task, the Victor was already turning away to take station on the flotilla leader with Ventnor. They were all firing, so could probably see the remaining aircraft beyond the edge of the smoke-screen.
“Slow ahead both engines.”
Drummond watched the listing destroyer as she settled down more deliberately, half of her completely engulfed in flame. In the shattered bomber he saw an airman trying to get out. Like a trapped fly. He vanished in one great ball of flame.
“Stop engines.”
He heard voices yelling in the sudden quiet, the clatter of ropes and other gear as the deck party lowered the nets along side.
The stench and heat were overpowering, and the other destroyer was still fifty yards away.
A few survivors were swimming towards the side, others floated motionless, too dazed to help themselves.
Lyngstad said, “We are clear of the minefield now.”
As if it matters. Aloud he replied, “Thank you.”
He looked for Lomond and her consorts, and saw that they were already moving away in a small, tight line, the distance between them and his own ship growing more apparent with every second.
He listened to the coughing, retching figures who were being hauled aboard on either side. The yells of encouragement from gun crews, who moments earlier had been too stunned by noise and danger to take their eyes from their weapons. “Come on, mate! Grab ‘old of this then!”
Lyngstad said slowly, “She may take hours to sink completely.”
Drummond tried to freshen his mind. He knew what the Norwegian had implied, but it took time to put thought into action.
“Yes. Commander Cromwell may not have destroyed his secret orders.” He swung round. “Tell the torpedo gunner’s mate to prepare one fish. Right now!”
They were all too shocked to move in sequence. He saw Sheridan on top of the port ladder by the gate. Like Frank had been when the shells had cut him down.
“Well?”
Sheridan stared at him, surprised by the edge in his tone.
He said, “Can’t reach any more of them. There’s burning fuel on the other side of Whiplash. It could reach round here in minutes.”
Drummond ignored him.
“Slow ahead together.”
He waited, seeing the blazing wreck swinging slightly across his bows, tasting the stench, the misery. A ship like his own. Dying.
“Stop engines.” He turned and eyed Sheridan’s smokeblackened face. “Are you still here?”
“But this is madness, sir!” The words seemed to pour out of him. “The enemy will have a whole strike force of destroyers here at any moment. Bombers, too! All this is a waste of bloody time!” His arm waved above the screen, as if to encompass the burning ship and everything else. “What’s the use of making a senseless, selfish gesture?”
Drummond replied, “They don’t think it’s senseless.” Then he turned sharply, his voice like ice. “So get down there and help those poor bastards aboard! It’ll probably be your turn in a moment, and then you’ll know what it’s like to see your friends leaving you to fry!”
He knew Sheridan had left the bridge, but was almost blind with anger and despair. He felt Lyngstad touching his arm, his voice calm and steady.