Go In and Sink! (27 page)

‘Tell the control room to keep us informed.’

He saw Buck emerge gasping beside the hull, sucking in air and shaking his head like a dog.

What would he do if this unknown ship found them? It was almost certain to be British or American. With the Germans out of North Africa, it seemed unlikely there would be any other vessels about. He could not dive with the mine still in tow. It would hamper their movements, and even a badly aimed depth-charge would explode it and rip off their stern like the tail of a shark. But if he stood his ground and tried to exchange signals, it was equally unlikely any destroyer captain would be inclined to postpone battle. U-192 did not exist, and any German submarine on the surface was too good to miss. He toyed with the idea of rigging their false screen again. But that too was pointless. There would still be the risk of misunderstanding. Worse, it might foul the mine’s jagged cable which was clearly visible around the bandstand. A quick
jerk
, some unexpected slackening, and the mine might surge ahead and touch them, or at best pitch Buck into the whirling propeller blades.

‘H.E. steady on same bearing, sir. Still closing. Range approximately twelve thousand yards.’ Warwick raised himself from the voicepipe and added quietly, ‘
Two
ships, sir. Speke thinks they may be destroyers.’

Marshall rubbed his chin, trying to picture the chart, their change of course, the nearness of the Sicilian coast. The same two destroyers? He pushed them to the back of his mind. It did not matter much whether they were the same ones or not.

A lookout said, ‘Lieutenant Buck’s gone under again, sir. That’s five times.’

Marshall peered up at the main periscope. It was raised to full extent and trained away across the starboard quarter. Soon now, it had to be.

‘Tell the yeoman to come to the bridge. We may have to make a signal.’

Blythe appeared in seconds, his eyes like slits against the harsh glare.

He looked at the mine and said, ‘Pity we can’t take a pot-shot at the bugger.’ He sighed. ‘It’s too damn close.’

Marshall looked away. Thinking of Bill Wade. What it must have been like. The sudden explosion. The inrush of water, pressing men higher and higher, until their lips were against the deckhead, sucking those last morsels of air even as the hull nose-dived for the bottom.

He heard Gerrard’s voice quite clearly from the other end of the bridge. ‘Control room to bridge. Ships in sight. Bearing Green one-four-five.’

A lookout yelled. ‘I’ve got ‘em, sir!’ He was crouched
over
his glasses, like a hunter watching the approach of his quarry.

Marshall waited, holding his breath as he allowed the gently heaving water to glide across the lenses. A dull patch of grey, almost lost in the horizon mist. But no doubt about it now.

Warwick said between his teeth, ‘Coming out of the sun. We’ll be sitting ducks!’

Marshall held his glasses on the same bearing. The two ships were probably in line ahead. They might even have made contact with their R.D.F., or the new radar scanner with which some of the ships were fitted.

He knew that Rigby was staring at him from right aft. It did not take a genius to know something was happening.

He said to Warwick, ‘Go and find out how they’re managing.’ He gripped his arm. ‘Easy now. Don’t start a minor revolution!’

Warwick stared at him blankly. He seemed to be searching for something in Marshall’s face. Something he could recognise and share.

Blythe snapped. ‘They’ve opened fire, sir!’

Marshall tensed, watching the far off haze swirling like smoke in some 18th century sea battle. Seconds later he heard the echoing crash of gunfire, and twisted round to sec twin waterspouts burst skywards directly in line with the hull, but well clear. The hull gave little more than a shiver to mark their explosions.

‘Out of range, but not for long.’

He lowered his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. When he looked again there were two enormous white rings to show where the shells had dropped.

Blythe said, ‘Two together. They’ll try for a straddle next.’

Marshall pictured the other captain as the reports started to come in. A U-boat on the surface. Hasn’t dived, therefore damaged. The chance of a lifetime. All the months of fighting off attacks. Seeing ships burn under U-boat attack. The pitiful survivors too stricken to speak. No, he would not hesitate now.

Marshall tighened his jaw. Any more than I would.

Two more columns shot up from the blue water, hanging in the sunlight like glittering crystal curtains before dropping reluctantly as before. Closer. Those two had been a bare half-mile clear. The destroyers would be working up to full speed. Charging through the sea like the thoroughbreds they were. Marshall had been a sub-lieutenant in one. He knew what it felt like, even if it had been in peacetime.

Warwick came back, panting hard. ‘Nearly through, sir. Just a few strands more and the bight will be easier to free from the plane.’ He winced as two more shells burst. Wider apart. Feeling forwards. Getting the range.

Blythe muttered, ‘To think they’re our own blokes out there!’ He cursed and waited for another pair of shells to explode. This time the hull gave a sharp jerk. ‘It’s not bloody fair!’

Marshall lowered his glasses. It was madness just to wait for a straddle. The mine would explode anyway. They would all die for nothing.

‘We’d better try a recognition signal, Yeoman.’

He took a quick glance with the glasses again as Blythe went for his lamp. The two destroyers were visible now. In line ahead, the leader cutting through the surface haze like a powerful scythe through corn. He saw more flashes, heard the abbreviated whistle as her shells smashed down into the sea barely four cables away. The leading ship had
edged
round so that she was almost dead astern. With two guns firing in unison she could drop shells on either beam, and then, if the U-boat still tried to dive, she would be ready to start her run-in with depth-charges.

‘Aircraft, sir!’ The lookout seemed to come out of a trance. ‘Starboard bow!’

It was moving desperately slowly, and shining so brightly in the sunlight it was impossible to identify it. Marshall heard the Vierling pivot round. It was all they needed. An air attack to finish their deception once and for all. No matter what higher authority might say you could never keep a secret like this, even if they were still alive to argue their case.

Warwick said urgently, ‘German, sir. Dornier 17Z. Turning towards us.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘God, I thought the old “Flying Pencil” was a thing of the past.’

Marshall watched it fixedly. About four miles away, he could easily recognise the planes narrow outline. It was a fair nickname, he thought. Twin-engined bombers, these Dorniers had borne the main share of the Luftwaffe’s early probes into Allied territory. But now they were too slow, their bomb loads too small for the war’s new sophistication. He ducked involuntarily as more shells exploded. One was dead abeam. He heard splinters sighing into the sea nearby. Spent, but still dangerous.

Blythe swore savagely. ‘Bloody lamp won’t work, sir!’

Warwick stared at him. ‘I forgot to mention it. The cutter’s cable is connected to that circuit. It was the only way it would reach.’

Blythe said in a flat voice, ‘Now, he tells me.’

Marshall watched the ‘Flying Pencil’ as it swept purposefully towards them. Through the twin arcs of the propellers
he
could see the black crosses on wings and fuselage, the reflected glare from its bulging perspex nose.

The pilot had weighed up the situation. A friendly submarine, a German one at that, was being pinned down on the surface by two powerful destroyers. He would do what he could.

The Vierling hovered and then steadied on the slow-moving bomber.

‘Hold your fire!’ Marshall looked at the gun crews. ‘He might be able to give us time.’

Blythe said, ‘No chance of that, sir. With their firepower the destroyers will blow that kite right out of the bloody sky!’

The Dornier roared sedately overhead, its bomb doors open, the forward machine-guns already swinging from bow to bow as if to sniff out the enemy. The pilot was starting to climb, and even as he swung slightly to port the air around the plane erupted in several blobs of dirty brown smoke. The short-range weapons would be even deadlier, Marshall thought grimly. Any destroyer which hoped to survive in the Mediterranean was well equipped. A floating gun-platform. The bomber was still climbing. It seemed like a great effort, as if it could hardly be bothered, despite the growing pattern of flak burst all around it.

There was a hoarse cry from aft. ‘Wire’s cut, sir!’

When he lowered his gaze Marshall saw the mine spiralling away and Buck being hauled aboard like a corpse, the cutter still in his slime-covered hands.

‘Diving stations!’

Marshall winced as another shell exploded. Very near. But for the Dornier’s appearance he guessed it might have been right alongside.

Men were tumbling down the ladder, hurling tools and
equipment
through the hatch while others unclipped the machine-guns. Only the Vierling’s crew stood fast.

Marshall watched the bomber. It was rocking dangerously, and he imagined it had been hit by fragments. The German pilot had unwittingly sacrificed himself and his crew, but had given them time to get rid of the mine. The destroyers would still close in for a depth-charge attack. Their thirty-odd knots against the U-boat’s best underwater speed of nine would soon begin to tell. But at least they would have a chance, if only—— he stared as a bomb detached itself from the Dornier’s belly and plummeted into the sunlight.

Blythe said hoarsely, ‘Lost his nerve. Don’t blame him. He’s too far away even to frighten ’em off!’

Marshall saw Buck being dragged into the bridge, his hands and body running blood from a dozen grazes and cuts from the rough plating.

‘Vierling crew below!’

He felt the shockwave of a shell overhead, saw it burst directly beyond the bows. The next one would be on deck.

‘Clear the bridge!
Dive, dive, dive!
’

But Warwick clung to his arm, dragging him round as he yelled, ‘That bomb sir! It can’t be!’ He sounded wild. ‘But it’s tracking the destroyer,
following her round
!’

Even as he found the bomb with his glasses, Marshall saw it hit the destroyer just abaft her bridge. There was a tremendous flash, followed by a mounting pall of dense smoke, and with stunned surprise he saw the charging destroyer begin to turn turtle, the impetus of her speed thrusting the raked stem into the sea like a ploughshare.

In those few seconds, while the U-boat tilted into the turbulence left by that last shell, he saw it all. The destroyer going over, the second one slewing round to avoid a
collision
and firing every gun which would bear at the circling bomber. The Dornier was also in trouble, with a long smoke trail streaming from one engine as it turned north, towards the land.

Then he was on the bridge ladder, dragging the hatch over his head, his feet kicking someone just below him as he heard the sea surge hungrily over the conning-tower.

He said sharply, ‘Hold her at periscope depth, Number One!’ He blinked to accustom his eyes to the control room. The normally bright lights seemed dim after the sun.

‘Ship breaking up astern sir.’ The Asdic operator sounded very calm. The realisation had not yet reached him.

‘Periscope depth, sir.’

Marshall looked at their strained faces. ‘Slow ahead. Group down.’

He saw Major Cowan by the chart table, as if he had never moved. ‘It was a British ship, Major.’ He let the words drop like stones. ‘Sunk by one of those radio-controlled bombs which were
supposed
to be secret. In half a minute. By a bomber which can barely do much over two hundred miles an hour.’ He turned to the periscope, his voice bitter as he signalled for it to be raised. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

‘The ship has sunk, sir.’ Speke was very quiet.

Above the purr of motors and fans they all heard the grating mutter of breaking steel as the destroyer went down. At that speed it was unlikely many of her people would get away.

Marshall retrieved the handles from Cowan’s grip and took a long look astern. One ship where there had been a pair. Stopped to lower boats. No sign of the bomber which had saved them, and by so doing had laid bare the Germans’
first
line of defence. It had probably hit the sea some miles away.

‘Down periscope. Resume course and depth.’ He waited, knowing that his strange calm which had stayed with him for so long would soon go and leave him naked to their contempt. ‘Open up the boat and fall out diving stations.’

He nodded to Gerrard and walked quickly to the wardroom. What the hell had happened to him? He felt like ice. Unreached by anything. He saw Buck slumped on a seat, eyes closed as Churchill dabbed at his scars and cuts with a wad of dressing. He said, ‘Open the cabinet, Churchill.’ He took the dressing and wiped some of the muck from Buck’s shoulder. ‘Whisky for the torpedo officer.’

Buck seemed to realise he was beside him and peered at him painfully. ‘Whisky, sir? But I might be wanted.’

‘You are.’ Marshall held up his hand until Churchill had all but filled the glass. ‘By me, and the rest of us. I’ll see you get some recognition for what you just did back there.’

Buck gaped at him, for once at a complete loss. ‘Whisky will do for me.’ It was all he could manage.

Marshall stood up again. ‘Stay with him, Churchill.’ Then he left the wardroom and walked to Devereaux’s table. Cowan was still there, as were most of the hands who would normally have gone to their messes. As he studied the Italian coastline he was conscious of the silence around him, and in his mind he kept seeing the destroyer as she had staggered brokenly on to her side. Simeon had stressed the importance of the mission, but he did not yet know the half of it. The enemy not only had the new weapon, they were also ready to use it. It would make mincemeat of any normal amphibious invasion.