Killing Ground (26 page)

His head lolled and he was instantly asleep.

The dream was rising to a frenzied climax, in which Howard was unable to speak or make himself understood. She was in his arms, watching his mouth, waiting for him to explain with just the hint of a smile on her lips. Despite her nearness, the touch of her body in his hands, Howard was aware only of danger, the need to protect her.

The background was so bright and empty he could barely look at it, and when she twisted round in his arms he saw another figure standing quite still, his back turned towards them, his arms hanging by his sides.

Even in the whirlpool of his thoughts he knew who it was, why he had come. He was dressed in a leather flying-jacket and fleecy boots. It was something Howard simply knew although he did not see them.

She laughed and ran from his outstretched arms towards the solitary figure, without another glance or any sign that she understood.

She held out her hands and the airman turned to look at her for the first time. But there was no face, just burned flesh and
two angry red eyes. Her scream seemed to sear his brain like fire, but still he could not move.

Howard woke up, sweating and gasping even as the scream extended into the piercing call of the telephone.

He managed to speak. “Captain?”

There was a pause. Like a question mark, he thought later. “This is Treherne, sir.”

Thoughts burst through his mind and then slowly settled like spray after an exploding depth-charge.

The first lieutenant was on the bridge, but it was still the middle watch. He peered at the bulkhead clock. It was barely three-quarters of an hour since he had lain down. It had felt like an eternity, like torture. The ship was quiet apart from the engines' pulsing beat, and the occasional sluice of water alongside. No action stations, and yet …

“Are you all right, sir?”

Howard swallowed. “Yes. What is it?”

Treherne seemed to turn away, to speak on another telephone perhaps, or to ponder on the captain's state of mind. “Is your radar-repeater switched on, sir?”

“Yes.” Howard turned and peered at it, her scream still probing his mind. It was only a dream. He gritted his teeth. A bloody nightmare, more likely.

Treherne said evenly, “Probably nothing, sir. But look at one-five-oh degrees, about ten thousand yards beyond
Hector.
Could that be an echo?”

Howard stared, watching the bright little blobs glow and then fade as the radar beam passed over them. Steering west, all on station, in line abeam.
Hector,
a pre-war destroyer which had seen plenty of action at Dunkirk and off Norway before coming to the Atlantic, was the wing ship. There it was. He felt his body tense on the edge of the bunk, the dream refusing to leave him. It was a very small echo, but it was still there when the radar beam passed over it again.

“Why haven't the other ships reported it?”

Treherne weighed his words with care. “The conditions tonight might make a difference, sir. I've spoken with Lyons. He's known it before, where one ship can pick up on an echo at a greater range than others. Sometimes it's the set, but this time he thinks it's the heavy cloud.”

Howard thought about it while he watched the repeater. Five miles was the kind of range for radar to pick up a surfaced U-Boat if that was what it was.
Hector
and her nearest consort
Belleisle
were nearer, but they had not so far reported anything.

“I'll come up.” He waited, knowing Treherne was still there. “And thanks, Number One.”

It was cold on the upper bridge after his brief stay in the sea cabin. There were no stars at all now, the clouds almost as dark as the water.

“Call up
Hector,
Number One. Ask them if they've seen anything.” He studied the bridge repeater while Treherne called up the wing ship on the short wave intercom.

The little blip was still there. There were no patrols out here, or they would have been told. If it was a small Irish vessel she'd be showing lights. But then, if they had any sense they would be snug in port somewhere.

“Negative, sir. But
Hector
is keeping a good lookout.”

“What's the range now?”

“From us, sir?” That was Finlay.

“Of
course!”
He regretted the sharpness in his tone.

Finlay reported stiffly, “Nineteen thousand yards, sir.”

Howard took the intercom telephone from Treherne and spoke to each captain separately. The result was the same.
Gladiator
was the only one in contact. Unless, of course, her set was faulty.

Howard spoke to the radar office. “What's it doing now, Lyons?”

Lyons had no doubts. “Its speed is much like ours, sir. I think it's stalking
us.”

Howard considered it. “Tell the other ships to reduce speed
to nine knots.” He was thinking aloud. “If that bastard thought we were four powerful destroyers we wouldn't see his arse for sauerkraut. I think,” he nodded firmly as if to convince himself, “I
think
he believes we're part of a convoy. After all, they did change the sailing time of one a few days ago, right?” He saw them watching him in the darkness, as if he had suddenly become dangerous.

“We will continue at this reduced speed, course two-five-zero.” He heard Treherne repeating his instructions quietly over the intercom. When Howard had taken his first command to war there had been no such luxury as an intercom which could not be detected. No radar; few fully automatic anti-aircraft guns; and senior officers who for the most part had trained all their lives to believe in the Empire, on which the sun never set. Some of the new escorts coming off the stocks were even more effective and sophisticated.

Treherne called,
“Hector
has the contact, sir. Requests permission to attack.”

“Denied.” Howard looked over his shoulder. “Sound action stations. Have the Gunner (T) check all watertight doors himself.” He could almost feel Treherne's surprise and added, “Remember, Number One, he's new in this ship. I'm more concerned with staying in one piece than ruffling his feathers!” He added sharply, “Or anyone else's for that matter!”

They were steaming almost parallel with the target, for that was what it had become. When the time was right, the four destroyers would pivot to port and in line abreast would charge down on the enemy at full speed.

He said to the bridge at large, “Well, after this we might know if all that training and sweat did us any good!” It was a relief that somebody laughed. He tried to place the sound in the darkness. Of course, it was Richie, the new one-badge petty officer and yeoman of signals.

Poor Tommy Tucker the original yeoman had finally cracked. For him it could not have come at a worse time. His wife had
gone off with a Yank airman when
Gladiator
was on her last convoy, and he must have been brooding about it during the group training. One of the admiral's instructors had tackled him on the bridge about some obscure signals procedure, but Tucker, who had seen every horror the war could throw his way, who had nursed his newly trained bunting-tossers until they could do almost anything, had taken enough.

“What the hell do you know,
sir?
The war looks pretty good to you, I expect, sitting on your fucking arse while others are getting theirs shot off!”

Howard had appealed on his behalf, but Tucker had been sent ashore under guard.

The authorities had two choices for Tucker. A mental ward at a naval hospital and perhaps a discharge, or a court martial and an eventual return to the Atlantic.

Tucker had rejected both options. With his usual hard efficiency he had found a tree and hanged himself.

Howard shivered. But he was still here, in his rightful place, on the bridge.

“Call up the group. We will attack when the target is due south of us.”

“Radar—bridge?”

Treherne was there. “Bridge?”

“Target bears one-six-five, ten thousand yards!”

Howard stood up behind the forward screen. “Tell the group.
Execute, speed fifteen knots!”
He sensed the sudden excitement crowding around him. “Port twenty!” He heard Sweeney's hoarse acknowledgement. He wondered what the coxswain thought about Tucker. Changes in the small petty officers' mess were never welcome, especially for a reason like that.

“Midships!
Meet her!”
He swore to himself. He had allowed his mind to stray. “Steer one-eight-zero!”

Hidden from one another in the darkness, controlled only by their radar and churning screws, the four destroyers had wheeled round to head at right-angles towards the target. The
single ship, the
Blackwall,
on
Gladiator's
starboard beam would be at the end of the sweep, like the edge of a door while the others swung round on an invisible hinge.

“From
Hector,
sir!
Lost contact!”

Treherne said, “Jerry got the message at long last, and dived.”

“From
Blackwall,
sir.
Have Asdic contact at one-seven-zero degrees, one thousand yards!”

Howard said, “Tell him,
Tally ho!”

“
From
Blackwall,
sir.
Am attacking!”

While the destroyer charged into the attack, the others took up their allotted stations for a five-mile box search. But it was not necessary.
Blackwall
was fitted with the Squid mortars as well as her conventional depth-charges, and by the time
Gladiator
had completed her turn, the sea was already stinking of oil.

“Slow ahead together.”

With the ships spread out in the new formation it was unlikely that any other U-Boat could get close enough undetected to carry out an attack.

“Ship breaking up, sir.”

There was a ragged cheer from somewhere aft.

Howard leaned over the screen and peered at the heaving water. Another kill. It had gone like a clock. As all those brass hats had promised it would.

The port lookout called, “Someone's got out, sir!”

Above the rumble of screws Howard could hear the coughing and retching. God alone knew how they had escaped.

“Lost contact, sir. Target is now on the bottom.”

Howard looked at Treherne's shadowy outline against the grey paint. Imagination, or was it getting lighter already?

“Away sea-boat's crew, Number One, two extra hands to help with possible survivors.”

“Aye,
aye,
sir!”

Within minutes the whaler was hoisted out, lowered and then dropped into the sea to be carried clear by the boat-rope.

The Buffer appeared on the bridge, banging his gloved hands
together as he always did when he was pleased about something. “I've told 'em not to 'ang about, sir.” His teeth were white through the shadows. “I'll bet that Jerry commander didn't know whether to ‘ave a shit or an 'aircut, when 'e saw us comin' at 'im!”

They were all grinning at each other like schoolboys.

Howard thought of the past three years and sighed.
No wonder.

Treherne said, “I cleared the after-guns for the whaler, sir. Lieutenant Bizley volunteered to take charge.”

Howard ignored the sting of bitterness in his voice. “Fall out action stations.” Howard trained his night-glasses. “Whaler's coming back. Have the falls manned. As the Buffer said, we don't want to hang about!” Almost before the boat had been hooked on and run up to the davit-heads, Howard knew something had gone wrong.

There were two Germans only, although neither might live after what they had gone through.

“Slow ahead together. Bring her round, Pilot.” Behind his chair he could hear Bizley panting, as if he had been running.

“It wasn't my fault, sir!”

“I shall decide that. Just tell me, right?”

“I had two hands in the bows, sir. But after we hauled the first German on board, the other started to drift away. He was calling out, choking on oil. One of the bowmen went over the side with a line and put it round the other German. Then—then …” He sounded dazed and lost, “He just vanished under the boat. He never broke surface again.”

A massive figure in oilskin and life-jacket loomed through the bridge gate. It was Leading Seaman Fernie, who had been the whaler's coxswain.

He said harshly, “It was the kid, sir. Young Andy Milvain from my mess.”

Bizley seemed to regain his composure. “Go aft, Fernie, I'll deal with you later!”

Howard found that he had pulled out his empty pipe, remembering his brief words to the boy who had wanted to be an officer.

Fernie stood his ground. “I don't care what
you
do, Mister Bizley! You ordered him over the side, an' I'll say as much if I'm asked!” He swung away as if he had lost his way.

“Steady on one-four-five, sir, one-one-oh revolutions.” A voice from the other world.

“Is that true, Bizley?
Did
you order him over the side?”

“Certainly not, sir. He was over-eager, always wanted to impress … you know, sir.”

“Yes. I think I do. Now get about your duties. I shall want a full report before we return to base.”

Treherne said in a hoarse whisper as Bizley's head and shoulders vanished down a bridge ladder, “What a bloody awful thing to happen! What will his folks think? First one son, then the other. Who'll tell them, for God's sake?”

“I will, Number One.”

He turned as a muffled figure entered the bridge with a fresh fanny of tea. But Howard saw only the bright-eyed youth, Ordinary Seaman Andrew Milvain. His voice hardened. “So take it off your back, Number One. It
happens.
All we can do is try and pick up the pieces!”

They both knew it was a lie, and when Howard looked again Finlay had resumed his watch, and the first lieutenant had disappeared.