For Valour (25 page)

One of the lookouts laughed, but did not lower his binoculars.

Martineau said, “Tell the first lieutenant—”

“I'm here, sir.”

“Good show. Could have done without this. But it might have been us.”

Fairfax's mind was already busy. It could end up as a towing job.
That's all we need.

The darkness closed in again, and the strain of keeping station on the other ship became more intense. Not so close that they might collide, but not so far that they could not respond if
Java
's other shaft seized up and left her a drifting hulk.

During the dog watches, when the motion had eased slightly and the cook had decided to serve some hot food, the radar reported an aircraft on a converging course, and just as quickly lost contact. A reconnaissance bomber looking for the convoy or its escorts, or perhaps it was only a coincidence.

Martineau knew from bitter experience that in these waters there was little chance of that.

Lieutenant Giles Arliss closed the chart room door behind him and faced the group by the table. Despite the piped heating the confined place was clammy, the sides and deckhead dripping with moisture.

Martineau and Fairfax, with Kidd bending across the table, looked up as he said, “Signal, sir. From Admiralty. Most urgent.” He had a calm, level voice, as if it was not really his concern, which had been his whole attitude since he had joined
Hakka
as signals officer for special flotilla duties.

Martineau took the pad, dismissing his other thoughts, forming a mental image.

“R.A.F. Air Reconnaissance have reported that three German destroyers have left Trondheim. Believed to be
Hans Lüdermann
class.”

He looked at Arliss's blank features. “Is this
all?
Don't they know when? For God's sake, man, they could be on the moon for all we know.”

Arliss said, “Bad visibility, sir. Patrols were curtailed until—”

Kidd said angrily, “Till we see the buggers coming hell for leather after us!”

Fairfax was thinking on a different plane. “They're big, five five-inch guns. Eight torpedo tubes. Thirty-six knots. Nasty.”

Martineau stared down at the chart, Kidd's neat calculations. If it wasn't for the other destroyer crawling along at about eight knots, all she could manage with one prop without asking for further damage, it would not have mattered. The convoy was on the move, escorts in position, the little carrier
Dancer
well able to give extra cover if enemy bombers arrived. But surface vessels, that was something else. Fairfax had described them perfectly. About the same age as
Hakka,
and well armed.

He said, “We have to assume that the enemy, Group North in particular, knows all about the convoy. They will have agents in Iceland, and there have been several cases of Icelandic trawlers supplying stores and information to U-boats cruising offshore.” He smiled at their strained faces. “It was Nelson who said that war makes strange bedfellows, I believe.”

A hatch slid aside and Petty Officer Telegraphist Rooke peered through, his breath hanging in the air like steam. He spoke to the signals officer, but his pointed, terrier face was looking at Martineau.

“Another one, sir. From Admiralty, concerning Captain (D)'s instruction.
Disregard. Rejoin Group forthwith.
”

Fairfax looked dismayed.

“Leave
Java,
sir?”

Kidd said, “She wouldn't stand a chance!”

Martineau rubbed his salt-inflamed chin. Kidd was right.

Three big destroyers? One would be more than enough for
Java.

He pictured
Java
's commanding officer. Lieutenant-Commander Hayworth, nicknamed “Rita” by his men, was a keen, intelligent Skipper. He did not know him well, but well enough; they had, after all, sunk a U-boat together, while Fairfax and his crazy volunteers had been securing the big tanker.

Bradshaw must have gone over his head, direct to Admiralty where every move concerning the convoy would be under close scrutiny, as it would be in Western Approaches Command.

Over my head.
His excuse would be that he could not break radio silence to speak ship-to-ship. No one would expect it. He saw his own hand on the chart, the deep scar which she had noticed, and was surprised that it was not bunched into a fist with anger.

He said, “I will not leave
Java.
I shall tell her as much. Hayworth should know.”

Fairfax said abruptly, “Could I say something, sir?” He looked at the others. “Alone?”

Martineau felt his mouth crack into a smile. “Spit it out,

Number One. They have the right, too.”

“If we meet up with the destroyers, and there's a strong chance they'll be well away by now, maybe to escort one of their larger units . . .”

Martineau could feel his reluctance, and prompted gently, “We might lose the day, and still not be able to save
Java,
is that it?”

It was the urbane signals officer who said it first.

“You'd be held to blame, sir.”

Kidd turned on him.

“Leave 'em, then? Is that what you're saying? By God, I'm glad you're not my C.O.!”

Driscoll's pacing on the deck above had stopped. As if the whole ship was trying to listen.

Martineau shook his head. “This is what I intend. Stay with
Java
as ordered, until I know she's within safe reach of assistance. If we are attacked, then we'll turn and fight. Together we might at least divide their fire.” He felt the ship sway beneath him, more evenly this time. If the R.A.F. had been able to do a recce over Trondheim, then the Luftwaffe would be out and about, too. He looked at the scar again, and repeated, “I will not leave
Java.
”

He looked at them. Crumpled and stained, skin raw from watchkeeping up there above their heads, but they were grinning at one another as if they had just been told of some great victory.

He thought of the high-sided waves, green and overwhelming, like that day when
Firebrand
had gone down.
Because of me.

Then he pictured his father as he had last seen him, and as he had always remembered him.

Of command, he had once said,
it is the total responsibility. Choice never comes into it.

He fastened his coat.

“Go round the ship, Number One. They know what to expect, but just let them see you, eh?”

He reached the next door and knocked off the clip, bracing himself for that first freezing blast.

He could not explain it, to them or to anybody. But he was no longer afraid.

13 | Face to Face

Another day. It did not seem possible. The wind had dropped, and the sea had rearranged itself into long undulating rollers, the swell sometimes so steep that
Java
appeared to be half-submerged until she lurched over the next obstacle. Hard going for any ship built for speed and agility, and for
Java
it was ten times worse. She was barely making good the expected eight knots. Her chief engineer must be at breaking point, Martineau thought, as he lifted his binoculars again.

At least you could see her, and you had the impression that if only the clouds would break there would be full daylight again. It was almost noon, after all. He watched the ice shimmering like jewels from
Java
's rigging and halyards, spray freezing as it drifted back from the bows. The hull and super-structure were almost white, and there was ice on the sea, patches of it on or below the surface, occasionally breaking and turning over in the deeper troughs, more like frozen snow than anything dangerous.

Sometimes it parted across
Hakka
's stem, and drifted abeam on either side. He let the glasses fall to his chest and wanted to rub his eyes; the lids felt as if they were sticking together.

One more day at the most. Surely a tug would arrive by then. He gripped his glasses and raised them yet again to watch more tiny figures which had suddenly appeared on
Java
's forecastle, getting rid of the ice, clearing away the gun mountings, checking the boats and Carley floats. Just in case.

He heard Kidd clumping from the chart room to the bridge and then back again. He was a fine navigator, and one who never took anything for granted. At this pitiful speed he might be miles out already, but somehow he knew he was not. The youngster Wishart was with him, carrying his instruments or some extra chart. It was to be hoped he was learning something from all this.

Midshipman Seton handed a note to the duty boatswain's mate and swung round as the seaman asked him something.

“I just told you, man! Are you bloody deaf?” He seemed to realize that he had been overheard and hesitated as if about to apologize, but instead almost ran for the bridge.

Cracking up? It seemed unlikely. He was young, and had everything ahead of him. Promotion might mean getting away from this sea, he thought.

Fairfax might know what was wrong.

“
Aircraft!
Bearing Green one-one-oh! Angle of sight two-oh!” It was pointless to ask why the lookout had seen it and the radar had missed it. The cloud, the nearness of ice, there were a dozen reasons.

“Action stations!”

He heard the alarms, muffled by watertight doors and sealed hatches, imagined the men rushing to their stations, some glancing back at their messes, wondering if it was the last time.

“Radar—Bridge!”

Kidd was there. “Bridge!”

“Two aircraft, sir. Same bearing.”

Kidd grunted.
About time.
But he kept it to himself.

And there it was, low down over the water, suddenly real against the clouds and the wet mist.

Martineau watched it, holding it in the lenses until his jaw cracked with concentration.

Someone said, “
Java
's seen it, sir.”

Driscoll's voice, metallic over the gunnery speaker.

“Junkers 88. Turning away.”

Martineau moved along the slippery gratings, never losing sight of the aircraft.

Moving with deceptive slowness, indifferent. So familiar to Martineau that he could watch it without surprise. The Germans' maid of all work, bomber, fighter if need be, a ground-attack aircraft, and used for reconnaissance as well. It had proved itself in every role, and with a maximum speed to match most conventional fighters it was always treated with respect. The second aircraft would be up there in the clouds.

It was turning again, moving right, probably trying to work out what the two destroyers were doing.

Martineau said, “Tell Guns to open fire with X and Y guns. Not much chance of hitting him, but it'll show him we're awake down here!”

The four after guns fired almost immediately, the flashes painting some drift ice with flame as if they were being heated from below.

Kidd watched the patches of smoke as the shells exploded, the JU88 rocking its wings as if to signal its invisible companion. To him, it looked like a contemptuous gesture.

“Shoot!”

The guns banged out again, and the aircraft turned fully away, its twin engines making dirty smears across the clouds.

“Cease firing!”

They might return to their base or they could fly on and look for the rest of the group, or the convoy. They had range enough for either. Two more hours perhaps, and then darkness would close in. And tomorrow?

Fairfax's voice, turning away from the speaker, possibly to glance at the sky.

“Fall out action stations, sir?”

One of the lookouts muttered, “Too right! Time for grub soon!”

Somebody else even laughed.

“Belay that, Number One.” He rubbed his eyes with his glove. What was the point? The two aircraft probably had their own orders.
Hakka
's company were doing well, especially when you considered that most of them had served in the warmer climate of the Med before Fairfax had brought the ship home for repairs.

“Radar—Bridge! Ships bearing one-two-zero! Range one-double-oh!”

Martineau gripped the chair as the deck heeled slightly. Lovatt, the ex-schoolmaster, was on the ball.

Ten thousand yards, five miles. Like that U-boat.

He heard Driscoll again. “All guns, with semi-armour piercing,
load, load, load!
”

“Second ship on same bearing, sir!”

Martineau stared at the mist.
Java
was almost invisible in it.

Hayworth was ready; his radar was working well too.

Martineau shut the other sounds from his mind. The click of breech blocks, the rattle of ammunition hoists, someone shouting orders to the secondary armament, probably to keep their heads down.

Two ships. Perhaps another would appear soon. Thirty-six knots, Fairfax had said. He made himself look over at
Java
again.

“Signal
Java,
Yeoman.
Take evading action when ready.
” He looked at the mist once more.
“Good luck.”

Onslow lowered his lamp and said, “From
Java,
sir.
Negative.
” He sounded unsure, but continued,
“We will never give in.”

Lieutenant Arliss, who had donned a steel helmet, snapped, “What the hell does he mean by that?”

Kidd did not look up from his table. “
Java
's motto.”

Martineau thought the mist moved slightly as if taken by a sudden wind. Then he saw the first waterspouts burst from the sea, green like the water itself, followed almost instantly by the echo of gunfire.

Firing blind. Otherwise . . .

He said, “Full ahead both engines! Starboard twenty!” To Arliss, somehow alienated by the steel helmet, he added, “Have the signal ready. Note the time in the log.” He felt the ship quivering as the revolutions mounted. Did it matter? Who would ever read it?

Then he looked across at
Java
. She appeared to have increased speed, but it was an illusion caused by
Hakka
's sudden, sharp change of course.
We will never give in.
Hayworth considered that two could disobey orders, and had said so in the only way he knew.

At one of the last meetings with Lucky Bradshaw, he had heard Hayworth say quite seriously that he would have quit the navy if he could not have been in destroyers, long before he had been given command of one. The air cringed and more great spouts of water burst through the mist. Closer now. He imagined that he could taste cordite in the spray.

Hayworth might be remembering it right now.

He leaned forward and said, “Open fire, Guns!”

Then he peered at the compass, his mind like the edge of a knife.

“Midships! Steady!”

They seemed to be rushing headlong into something solid; the mist was probably the only protection left them at this stage.

Thirty-six knots. The Chief had once told him that
Hakka
had managed forty on her trials. But she had covered a few thousand miles since then.

He gripped the voicepipes and felt them shuddering, like heartbeats.
Flash. Flash.
The mist swirling again, brightly orange, the fall of shot unseen but felt like body blows.

He saw ice being shaken from the anchor cables and sent flying across the forecastle deck like broken glass. The jackstaff, where he had watched the flag lowered when they had left Scapa, was like a pointer, or Kidd's pencil on his chart. Into the mist at full speed: she would make a fine sight if there was anyone to see her.

He dashed the spray from his eyes but knew it was sweat, and when he looked up he saw them. The enemy.

“Shoot!”

Midshipman Seton slipped and almost fell as the ship turned suddenly and violently to port. He clutched a stanchion and saw solid water surging up and over the side, before receding just as quickly as the rudder went hard over again.

And all the time
Hakka
's forward guns were firing, and during the last turn, the after four-point-sevens were brought to bear. Seton had felt the shells ripping past the ship, the guns trained as far round as they would bear, the noise making thought impossible.

He felt more explosions, and knew that they were enemy shells, near or far he could not tell. Gasping for breath, he threw himself into the break of the forecastle where one of the damage control parties was crouched down, already soaked in spray and barely able to cling to their tools and extinguishers. Spare hands, some of them stokers. One man, Leading Seaman Morris, he recognized.

“I was told to report to the first lieutenant!” He had to shout above the intermittent crash of gunfire and the din of racing machinery.

“Well, he ain't here!” Morris glared up at him, his eyes red from strain. “Gone back to the T/S, most likely!”

Seton gathered his thoughts. He disliked Morris, who was said to be a bully, but careful to stay within the limits of discipline when he could. He could feel the man's contempt, even now, when the ship was under fire. No
sir,
for instance.

One of the stokers peered over his shoulder. “'Ow many of 'em, sir?”

“Two. So far.” Seton recalled the snap of orders, the instant response from the gunnery control. And through it, the Captain's voice, tense but controlled, handling the ship, finding the enemy.

How I wanted to be.

“Here we go again!” They clung to anything they could find, pressed against steel plating which was barely thick enough to stop a bullet. Seton felt the ship buck beneath him and realized that he was lying face down, his fingers like claws on the plated deck. No sound, more of a sensation, like being sucked under water.

He saw the great column of water hurl itself up and over the forecastle ladder, then falling across the hull like a cliff. Through and above it he heard small, sharper sounds, almost incidental to the surging water. He stared with disbelief at the big forward funnel, at the jagged splinter hole just below the half-leader's stripe. There was smoke seeping from it, and he rubbed his ear as he realized that the blast had made him deaf.

He felt a hand drag at his ankle. It was the stoker wearing a headset, his mouth like a black hole as he yelled, “Main mess-deck, sir! Badly damaged!” He screwed up his face and tried to listen again. “'Nother hit aft!”

Seton pulled himself to his feet. There was no one else, not even a petty officer.

He said thickly, “Fire party, follow me!” He saw them staring at the heavy watertight door; there was smoke spurting around it like steam. “I said
move it!
”

In those few seconds, all doubt and fear were gone. More like one more boring drill than the real thing.

They knocked off the clips and opened the door, staggering like drunks in a dockside bar as the ship heeled over this way and that.

There was a fire right enough, and as the foam and water were sprayed over the mess space Seton saw some rolled hammocks standing in their nettings charred and smouldering.

He had accompanied the O.O.D. on Rounds several times. The first lieutenant he especially remembered, remarking on one occasion, “Remove your cap, Mid. It's their home, remember?”

It was hard to see it like that. Smashed tables and broken crockery, a nude pin-up still pinned defiantly to someone's locker, although that had been blasted apart. Worse still, he could see the water through one of the holes, surging past, the buckled plating bent inboard like wet cardboard, framing it. The nearness of it.