Back to Battle (21 page)

Shortly afterwards, an Italian floatplane appeared, the last of the sun catching the underside of its wings. Despite the barrage that was thrown at it, it managed to drop a string of bright red flares over the convoy.

‘Marking the line of advance,’ Kelly said. ‘Hoist battle ensigns!’

The masthead voice pipe buzzed again. ‘Ships in sight–’

A few minutes later, Kelly saw them himself. There were eight of them, six of them destroyers, he guessed, and two larger vessels that were probably light cruisers. In the last of the day, they looked like minute silver models against the darkening sky, and it reminded him that, although he had the weather gauge, he also had the afterglow of the sun behind him with the horizon a bright lemon-colour that would throw up his ships in sharp silhouette.

‘Make “Enemy in sight,”’ he said. ‘“Concentrate in readiness for surface action.” Steer oh-four-five. Revolutions for twenty-eight knots.’

As the ship swung north-east, Latimer stared ahead through his binoculars. ‘Light cruisers, sir,’ he reported. ‘Probably Condottieri class. More than likely Mazzini and Rienzi. Seven thousand tons. Thirty knots eight six-inch guns. Destroyers are probably Vivaldis. Bigger than us by a long way. Two thousand five hundred tons, thirty-four knots, five 4.7s.’

‘Odds against us are only about a hundred to one,’ Kelly commented. ‘We ought to be able to cope with that.’

Everybody knew what he meant. Cunningham had established a moral ascendancy in the Mediterranean that remained real and clear, and every man in the Royal Navy was aware of it. It gave them the advantage even before battle was joined, and one of Cunningham’s signals, though it had been issued with his tongue in his cheek, summed it up: ‘The right range for any ship of the Mediterranean Fleet, from a battleship to a submarine, to engage the enemy is POINT BLANK – at which range even a gunnery officer cannot miss.’

Despite the sun, the wind was cold and Kelly was just becoming conscious of it when Rumbelo arrived, unperturbed at the prospect of action, with cocoa, thick as liquid mud.

‘Nothing like warmth in the stomach,’ he said. ‘It stops you getting scared.’

‘Who’s scared?’ Kelly said.

Rumbelo grinned. ‘Me, sir.’

Kelly smiled back at him, but there was an element of truth in his words nevertheless. Nobody could thunder towards an opposing force of superior strength without feeling twinges of dread.

‘Italian radio’s pretty busy,’ the signals officer said.

‘Battle orders.’ Kelly jerked himself out of his thoughtful mood and decided to try a funny signal. The Navy had a reputation for funny signals and they always gave the troops something to think about in the run-up to action when butterflies were appearing under belts and men were beginning to wonder what the outcome would be.

‘Make “Wait till you see the whites of their eyes.”’

The lamp clattered and was acknowledged, then Smart, with the familiarity of years, made ‘Italians asking, “Anybody here seen Kelly?”’ to which Impatient replied. ‘Just wait till they do.’

‘’Oo gives a fish tit for the Eyeties anyway?’ Siggis’ voice, shrill and defiant, came over the noisy crashing of the sea. It was flattering because it indicated high spirits and confidence but, even as Kelly smiled, he turned briskly to the yeoman. ‘Make “Confine signals to events not to flattery.”’

As the flags went up, he saw heads bobbing about round the gun platforms and Able Seaman Siggis grinning at the Bofors, as those who could read the signal translated for those who couldn’t. It would keep them happy for a bit longer.

He knew what they thought of him. To the Hostilities-Only he was only one grade lower than God. To the regulars like Siggis, he was Ginger Maguire; Crasher Maguire who scraped paint going alongside; most of all, Maguire of Mordant – the name that had stuck with him ever since 1916 – and the rows of medal ribbons on his chest indicated that he knew something about his job.

It wasn’t quite as easy as he made it out to be, however, because the Italians’ six-inch guns could outrange his own four-inchers by around two miles. Nevertheless, it was already firmly in the Italian mind that the British always beat them, and a bold act of resolution might achieve a great deal more than caution. The Italians might even believe there were bigger ships behind him if he advanced as if he were not afraid of the consequences.

‘Are the Italians picking up our signals?’ he asked.

‘Must be, sir.’ The signals officer’s reply came at once. ‘We’re picking up theirs.’

‘Then let’s hope they’ve got somebody handy who can read English.’

There was a quick grin. ‘Must have, sir. Most of ’em have done a stint selling ice-cream down the Old Kent Road.’

The contempt was studied and deliberate because they knew the Italian naval officers were well trained and their failures came chiefly from a chronic shortage of sophisticated equipment.

‘Make a signal, yeoman,’ Kelly said. ‘Plain language. To Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle from Kelly.’

The yeoman glanced quickly at the signals officer who looked at Kelly.

‘Sir?’

‘Make “Italian fleet in sight. Am engaging. Would be glad of assistance.’’’

The signals officer looked puzzled. ‘And the address, sir?’

‘You have it: “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’

The signals officer still looked puzzled and Kelly smiled. ‘We have a Nelson, a Rodney, a Barham and a Hood,’ he said. ‘It’s a habit of the Navy to name its capital ships after its favourite admirals. We also have a Kelly – Mountbatten’s ship – and where Kelly and Mountbatten are, something drastic usually happens. If we’re not big enough to sink the buggers, let’s try to frighten ’em off. If Chatsworth’s operator has his wits about him, he’ll know what’s going on. I’m sure Captain Verschoyle will.’

‘Very good, sir. Address “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’

As the yeoman of signals vanished, obviously disapproving of this departure from established practice, Kelly lifted his binoculars. They still had more than a mile to go to be even within range, while the Italians had been in range for some time.

‘Enemy due to open the bowling any time, I should say,’ Latimer observed.

The range shortened, the three destroyers bucking the sea like wild horses. The tenseness on the bridge could almost be felt as they waited for the Italians to start the ball rolling.

‘We’re well within their range,’ Latimer observed. ‘Seems to be taking ’em a long time to hoist in the idea, digest it and fire at us.’

Even as he spoke, there was a whistle and a crack and a tall column of water rose out of the sea ahead of them, disintegrated and collapsed.

‘Penny’s dropped,’ Latimer commented.

‘They’re trying to oblige.’

When the yeoman of signals reappeared he was followed by the signals officer.

‘Captain Verschoyle’s replied, sir,’ he reported. ‘“Am on my way.”’

‘That all?’

‘That’s all, sir.’

‘It’s enough.’

‘He’s also making a lot of noise, sir. The signal was to “Kelly” and was signed “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’

Kelly smiled. ‘I bet the Italian admiral’s put his sundae down to look through the list of long-dead British admirals,’ he said. ‘To find one by the name of Verschoyle.’

As they swung again, nearer to the Italian ships, a sparkle of flashes ran down the Italian line.

‘Here it comes,’ Latimer said. ‘Let’s hope they’re not as good at gunnery as they are at making ice-cream.’

The chatter was light-hearted but, behind it, it was remarkably like Jutland all over again. The weather was bright and cold as it had been at the beginning of that battle, and they were now thundering down towards the enemy battlefleet just as Mordant had in 1916. This time, though, more depended on the outcome. Jutland hadn’t had much effect on the strategy of that war, but the loss of Malta could have on this one. And this time, whatever they possessed in the way of moral ascendancy, the odds were loaded against them. Feeling a sense of unreality and fatalism, Kelly was conscious that his responsibility this time covered not just a job aboard a ship, but the safety of his own flotilla, Verschoyle’s flotilla, the whole of the convoy, the lives of hundreds of men, and the security of Malta.

‘Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen–’ Latimer was counting the seconds to the arrival of the Italian salvo – ‘sixteen, fifteen, fourteen–’

The navigating officer stiffened his head forward, peering towards the Italians. ‘For what we are about to receive –’ he said.

‘Three, two, one – here it comes!’

The salvo arrived with a sound that was a mixture between a whirr and a rumble. Wailing like demons, the shells crashed like stones into the Mediterranean just ahead of Impi and, as the splinters flew, the mountains of water they threw up, yellow-tinted with high-explosive, broke and cascaded back into the sea, and they found they were wet through, blinded and coughing with the sharp smell of cordite.

‘Bracketed, by God!’

The Italians were well in sight now, their upper works clearly visible under the smoke they were making, and as they thundered towards him, Kelly tried to put himself in the mind of the Italian admiral. He had three options to interpose his ships between the convoy and Malta, to pull away to port so as to come on them from the east, or to split his force, sending one cruiser and half his destroyers to one side and the other cruiser with the rest of the destroyers to the other. Deciding he would simply try to prevent the convoy reaching Malta because, with night coming on, he wouldn’t wish his ships to be scattered, he made up his mind to employ exactly the same tactics he’d used at Narvik.

‘Make smoke!’

As Impi turned thirty degrees to follow a course across the bows of the Italian ships, Inca and Impatient turned with her. Smoke began to pour from the after funnels, nothing more than a wisp or two at first as the stoker petty officers in the engine rooms adjusted their valves, then the wisps came thicker and within seconds it was pouring out in thick cylindrical streams to sag to the surface of the sea and roll across it, pushed by the wind towards the Italians in front of the destroyers.

Latimer glanced up at it. ‘Boiler room crews are going to love us,’ he commented. ‘With the chimney-sweeping they’ll have to do when we make port.’

‘Range four-oh-nine! Range four-oh-eight!’

The range-taker’s voice came over the chatter, unemotional and matter of fact.

They were turning now, in a tight circle, one behind the other, back towards their own smoke. The Italian ships vanished astern as they continued to swing, turbines whining, the water crashing against the bows in the rush and rattle of spray-thrashed steel, and Kelly caught the smell of salt above the stink of oil from the smoke, and the sting of the wind on his cheek. The ship seemed like a living animal, the spray on the paintwork moving in little jerking runnels jarred along by the throb and quiver of the engines. Again, the thought of the danger came to him but he brushed it aside. Fear was a luxury and he was best keeping his mind on the job in hand. There was nothing else to think about. Everybody was at their action stations and the wardroom had been taken over by the surgeon who had stacked packets of bandages in handy corners about the ship.

He turned to the voice pipe. ‘Captain to Gunnery Officer. We shall be making our bow in just three minutes and we shall then turn to starboard. You’ll find the enemy about red four. Open fire as soon as you see them.’

He shifted on the stool and, glancing backwards, saw Inca on his port quarter, just a little out of position but clinging tightly to him, and behind her Smart in Impatient bringing up the rear.

The blood was tingling in his veins and, once again, as he always was, he was conscious of the excitement and wondered if he ought to feel more dispassionate, even concerned, and whether it was wrong to feel this tingling fervour at the prospect of a fight and the possibility of death.

The turbines were howling at full power as they plunged into the stinking darkness of the smoke, the smell of fuel oil making them cough.

Latimer was wiping his eyes. ‘Rotten bad for white drill, sir,’ he commented. ‘Big laundry bill after this is over.’

A shaft of sunshine broke through, then darkness again. Latimer looked at his watch.

‘One minute!’

The darkness seemed to thicken in a choking cotton-wool cloud about them, then they were out into the daylight once more. The two Italian cruisers seemed to be right on the bow, huge and grim in their pale Mediterranean paint that seemed dazzling against the darker grey of Impi, Inca and Impatient, which hadn’t yet shed their Home Fleet colours.

‘Range three-seven-one!’

The last of the light was catching the curve of the Italians’ hulls and the edges of their turrets, and he thanked God his own ships, in their dark paint, were against the murky background of the smoke. The two cruisers were changing course slightly, their shapes lengthening as they turned to bring their turrets to bear. The movement of the guns was quite clear.

‘Torpedoes, sir?’

‘No.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘Let’s keep ’em as a threat. Once they’re gone, they won’t need to be half so careful. We’ll move as if to launch them but use the guns instead.’

As they rushed towards the Italian ships, he saw them continuing their turn, nervously expecting the torpedoes, and the Italian destroyers, up to now far out on the flank, rushing to join their consorts.

‘Enemy turning away, sir.’

‘Starboard fifteen.’

As the line of destroyers swung, the deck heeled abruptly and Impi began to shudder with her speed. The bow wave rose higher as the revolutions mounted, and Kelly watched the forward 4.7s moving. As they hurtled forward in a long curve, the guns crashed out, the din dying away to the ruffle of sound made by the shells as they lifted through the air. Long before they had arrived at their destination, the next salvo was on its way. Glancing round, not forgetting the ships astern of him, Kelly saw Inca’s first salvo even as she came out of the smoke. There was a flash as her guns fired and a curling ring of smoke, and almost immediately Impatient emerged behind her. They were performing the evolution faultlessly.