The German E-boat had been moored to a navigation buoy, some miles east of Flamborough Head. It had been raining at the time, and the night had been as black as a boot. Warlock had been senior escort to a slow north-bound convoy. Fifteen assorted ships, some of which had been many years older than this one. The escort, apart from Warlock, had been a sloop, two trawlers and an armed yacht. You had to make do with what you could get.
That was the trouble with convoy work. Strain. Fear of running down the next ship ahead. Even more fearful of losing her as you steamed without lights between the protective minefields. The east coast was lined with protruding mastheads. Forlorn memorials to vessels lost to enemy and minefield alike.
The radar operator had picked up the blip, but perhaps they had been too long on the same job and saw only what they expected to see. The plot had reported the blip as the buoy. It was where it should be.
The convoy had sailed on through the sheeting rain.
The E-boat’s powerful diesels had roared into life spontaneously with her cannon fire, and as she tore through the ponderous merchantmen she fired her torpedoes for good measure.
It was all in the report. Almost commonplace. A cultured newsreader on the B.B.C. had eventually announced, “.During the night, enemy E-boats attacked one of our convoys. There were some casualties, but one enemy E-boat was sunk. “That had been the sloop’s work. She had almost been rammed by the thirty-knot E-boat as she had loped along at the rear of the convoy. Tail-end Charlie. And she had slammed two shells into the other vessel within minutes of the original attack.
But that one burst of cannon fire had swept over Warlock’s bridge like hammers of hell. One signalman and a messenger who had been carrying a fanny of cocoa to the bridge had died. Without effort Drummond could see the blood and cocoa thinning in the torrential rain, see Frank’s eyes glinting in the reflected glow from the blazing E-boat.
Both legs. He shuddered. It would be better to die.
From the opposite corner of the bridge Wingate watched him thoughtfully. He guessed what he might be thinking. How close the skipper and Frank had been.
He smiled wearily. Like that bloody girl in Maidstone where he had spent his leave. Kept going on about the war. What was it like? Have you ever had to kill anyone? When all he had wanted to do was …
He leaned over the voice-pipes. “Port ten.” Pause. “Midships. Steady.”
Quite a girl. He had managed it in the end, but she had burst into tears. His smile spread to a grin. Silly cow. “Aircraft, sir! Green one-one-oh!”
An instant’s chill. The creak of metal as the slender muzzles swing towards the washed-out sky.
Then, “Disregard. A Beaufighter. Carry on with the sweep.”
Drummond relaxed again, seeing two grubby Asdic trawlers heading up channel. He felt the pressure of the chair against his ribs as Warlock lifted slightly in a sudden swell. Open water ahead. She seemed eager to get back, too.
During the last dog watch, as Warlock moved slowly between the lines of moored escort vessels, trawlers and all the motley collection of ships which went to make the Harwich Force, Drummond was certain he had never known a finer evening. The sky was salmon pink, and it had all the makings of a fine sunset. No breeze, and even the turbulent current caused by the entwining of the rivers Stour and Orwell, so often the nightmare of less experienced captains, was barely noticeable.
As before, the newly joined officers were grouped in one corner of the bridge, trying to see everything, and at the same time endeavouring to keep out of everyone else’s way, as with careful deliberation Drummond conned his ship towards Parkstone Quay and the moored flotilla leader, Lomond. Despite her familiar dazzle paint, the other destroyer looked almost orange in the warm glow, and Drummond saw the duty watch gathering along her decks to receive heaving lines when they nudged alongside.
The passage up from Chatham had been uneventful. Just as if the enemy was giving them time to get settled.
Drummond glanced quickly at the small group below the compass platform. One more exciting moment, he thought. All these ships, old and new, scarred and worn from constant service around one of the war’s most dangerous pieces of coastline. Within reach of air attack and the more hated sneak raider which swept inshore, dropped bombs and was away before a warning could be sounded. Mines, E-boats, even German submarines, had been tempted to hunt in this busy and vital area.
“Port ten.”
He heard Mangin’s calm acknowledgement, imagined him watching the nearby ships and jetty through his wheelhouse scuttles.
“Midships. Steady as you go.”
Fore and aft the hands were fallen in again, the wires laid ready to be released and then made fast. For how long this time? he wondered. Sheridan was in the bows, his head slightly turned to watch a trio of motor torpedo boats growling throatily towards the sea. Low-lying, their tattered ensigns flapping impatiently, as if they were irritated at being throttled down by harbour regulations. Once clear of the base they would be off, perhaps to the Hook of Holland. Tomorrow, if they survived, they would return, their tubes empty, their young crews only then beginning to realise it was all over for another short while.
Drummond studied the Lomond, thinking about Captain Beaumont, and what the change of control might bring. The previous Captain (D) had been a veteran of destroyers, but had begun to show the signs of exhaustion. He had been appointed to a training depot in the north. To make sailors out of milkmen and solicitors, to help feed the ever-hungry fleet with its greatest need.
Leading Seaman Eaden was poised at the forecastle guardrails, a heaving line in his gloved fists. Sheridan was taking no chances. Aft, and on the iron deck by the unmatched funnels, others waited to move when ordered. He leaned over the screen and saw the gunner (T) on his quarterdeck, one foot on a depth-charge rack, hands on his hips, making him look almost deformed. Noakes was square in shape and had no visible neck at all. His cap, as always, was worn flat on the top of his bald head, like a lid, screwed down to contain the working furies within the man until some safety-valve in the shape of a clumsy rating presented itself.
He turned towards the ships moored ahead of the flotilla leader. Old, familiar, their similarity in outline and design did not deceive him one bit. In pitch blackness he could find his way about any of them, and yet each had become an individual over the years. Or perhaps ships were born with varying characters, he thought vaguely. It was odd that one destroyer might bring fame to a man. The same ship could ruin another. Everyone scoffed about it, of course. Coincidence, luck, bad management, or an ever-changing scale of odds, but inwardly many thought otherwise and took no chance.
“Stop starboard.”
He watched the Warlock’s shadow creep across the Lomond’s quarterdeck. She was typical of her class, and somewhat larger than Warlock. Better armed, too. Two men crouched on her searchlight mounting, paint brushes poised while they watched Warlock’s careful approach. Working on a Sunday. They must be under punishment. A cook in shirtsleeves and apron scurried along her iron deck with a heavy enamel bucket. Some delicacy for the wardroom, or his dirty underwear, it was hard to tell.
“Starboard ten.” He craned over the screen. “Midships. Slow astern starboard.”
The water between them had lost the sunlight, and he saw Eaden’s arm going back, and then watched the first heaving line soar across to the waiting hands. He could sense Keyes and one of the sub-lieutenants watching him in those last moments. They would learne more by keeping their eyes on the deck below.