Killing Ground (38 page)

Howard called across the bridge. “Come here, Mid!”

Ross felt his way over the slippery decking and waited, mute in the darkness.

“I need all my most experienced officers up here. I've sent Mister Ayres down aft with the Buffer's party. You go and assist.” He looked away, thinking of the corvette. If the weather worsened they might not even find her unless they got help from a recce aircraft. “And, Ross—I think you should have advice ashore. You've had a bad time.”

Treherne popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth and
marvelled that Howard could adjust his mind to something so obscure.

The midshipman seemed to shake his head. “I'd rather not, sir.” When Howard said nothing he added tightly, “You know what they'll say, sir. They'll probably discharge me.”

Howard could feel his desperation. They probably would too, he thought.
It'll be my turn if I'm not careful.

“All right. We'll see. Now you go and help Ayres.”

He listened to him groping down the ladder, his coughs beginning again. How old was he—eighteen? He was like one of the Great War people Howard had seen as a child. Still shell-shocked, reliving the hell which Mister Mills had sometimes described.

He wondered how the rebuilding of the house in Hampshire was progressing. It would give Mister Mills something to supervise; an occupation he badly needed now that the Guvnor had gone.

Howard's brother had wanted nothing to do with it. He already had a home of his own, although God alone knew how he was paying for such a grand place. But his wife Lilian had money, and knew exactly what she wanted for Robert and her own future.

Rain dashed over his oilskin and made his face feel raw.
Future—how
could anyone know?

“Time?”

Rooke called out, “Five-thirty, sir.” He sounded unhappy, as if wondering whether he would be blamed if they failed to make contact.

Treherne picked his teeth free of chocolate. He usually saved his nutty ration for Joyce, but just this once he needed the energy they said it gave you. Joyce … She had been good about the telegram from the War Office. It had been followed by a letter from her husband's CO. He must have been drunk when he'd written it, he thought. It had made the man's death sound like a national disaster.

He said, “Should get a bit brighter soon.”

“Convince me.”

Treherne tightened his collar but felt the rain running down his spine. “Well, it says …”

“Radar-Bridge!”

“Forebridge?”

“Getting a faint effect at two-six-zero, about twelve thousand yards.” He fell silent as if, unheard, he were swearing to himself. “Sorry, sir. Thought I'd lost it again.”

Treherne was peering at the radar-repeater. “Nothing.”

Howard asked, “What do you think, Lyons?” He was passing the buck, but he knew the man well. Someone who would appreciate the trust.

“Small vessel, sir. Appears to be stationary.”

Howard turned away, his blood suddenly tingling. “Found him!” He walked to the compass. “Starboard ten—Midships—Steady!”

“Steady, sir.” Sweeney was there without being called. “On two-six-six.”

“Steer two-six-zero.” He groped for the engine-room handset.

“Chief? This is the captain.” He stared at the darkness but saw Evan Price vividly in his mind's eye, down below the waterline with his racing machinery and steamy, tropical warmth. “I think we've found her. But I want you to reduce to half-speed. Full revs or dead stop if I say so, right?”

He thought he heard Price chuckle. “Isn't that what the bridge always wants, sir?”

Treherne watched him moving restlessly this way and that, and heard him say, “Tell Guns what's happening.”

There was something unusual about him. An edginess which, if he felt it, he always managed to conceal. Except that once. Treherne wiped his binoculars; that memory always touched him. Like sharing something very private.

Bizley climbed into the bridge. “Sir?”

Howard did not turn. “Yes. I want you here, with me. Take over the con. Pilot will fill you in.”

Howard turned towards Treherne, and was surprised that he could suddenly see his bearded face and the battered cap he always wore on watch. A different badge now, but Howard knew it was one of his old company caps. A talisman maybe.

“Daylight, at last!”

It was little more than a grey blur, beyond which the sea and horizon were still one.

Howard said, “I wonder if their radar is still working?”

Treherne said nothing. The blip on the radar might be something else. Or they might all be dead.

Sub-Lieutenant Rooke offered, “I served in her class of corvettes, sir. The radar was always very reliable.”

“Thanks.” Howard laid out his busy thoughts. It could have been destroyed in the explosion. Anything might have happened.

Treherne tugged his beard as the radar operator reported no change, other than the range had fallen to ten thousand yards.

Howard said, “Slow ahead together.” The motion seemed to become more violent immediately, loose equipment and metal mugs adding to the clatter of ship noises.

“Revolutions seven-zero, sir.”

Treherne remarked, “We could fire a rocket, sir. We'd know for sure then.” Why were they slowing down? Prolonging the uncertainty, even the risk, if there were some survivors up there, five miles beyond the dark arrowhead of
Gladiator
's bows …

Howard faced him and Treherne was stunned by the intensity of his stare. “What is it, sir? Can I do something?”

Howard brushed against a stiff-backed lookout as he pulled Treherne to the port corner. “You'll think me mad, Gordon.”

Treherne waited, holding his breath. He had noticed that Howard had often called him by his first name, even on the bridge in front of the others. It had pleased him, until now. Something was badly wrong.

“Tell me, sir.”

Howard lowered his voice, feeling his stomach contract to the savage motion. Or was it just that? “I think there's a bloody
U-Boat up there.”

Treherne felt the water on his spine change to ice. He was afraid to speak.

“It'll be submerged, otherwise Lyons would have picked it up by now.” His mind switched like lightning. “Tell Asdic to cease tracking.”

He removed his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair.
What is the matter with me?

Or was it some kind of instinct, living so long with this danger that he could sense the submarine, lying there like a shark, waiting for any rescuer who was coming to the corvette's assistance? To make the score two instead of one.

“Tell Ayres to prepare a full pattern, Number One.” His voice was clipped and formal again. “Squid too.” He added with sudden vehemence, “I'm going to get that bastard!”

A signalman whispered to his yeoman,
“What
bastard, Yeo?”

“Christ if I know, my son.”

The gunnery speaker squeaked into life. “No target, sir.”

Radar next. “Range now eight thousand yards, sir.”

“
Ship,
sir! Starboard bow!”

The light was spreading through the thick clouds to light up the sea's face in small glittering patches. Howard steadied his elbows on the wet steel and moved his glasses very slowly across the bearing.

Treherne said hoarsely, “Corvette! It's her all right!”

Howard held his glasses with care as he examined the tiny picture, which grew and faded as the clouds bellied above it.

Her bows were very low in the water, and it was a wonder the bulkheads had not collapsed altogether. There was no smoke, just a barely perceptible roll as she drifted through the troughs.

Treherne asked quietly, “What d'you reckon now, sir?”

“They must have sighted us.” He could see it in his mind. The despair giving way to hope. Alone no more. And a ship they would know well coming to the rescue. Howard shook his head as if he were arguing with someone visible only to himself.

“Call her up, Yeoman. Make our number.”

Bizley said sulkily, “They must be blind!” He was suddenly remembering the sharpness of Marrack's tongue.

The light clattered noisily while everyone on the bridge peered at the little ship's dark outline, afraid they might miss something.

The yeoman of signals licked his lips and said, “At last!” He watched the slow blink of
Tacitus
's lamp then exclaimed,
“Contact at three-three-zero!”
He swallowed hard and stared at Howard. “Then,
God bless you!”

Howard flung himself forward. “Full ahead together! Starboard fifteen! Steer three-one-zero!” He glanced at Treherne as the bells rang like mad things. “Start the attack! Get on to Asdic and tell him—” The roar of the explosion was deafening, and as Howard jumped on to a grating to clear his vision he saw the cascades of water still falling like an unwilling curtain, the sea's dark face pockmarked with a thousand falling fragments.

“Asdic reports, no contact, sir.”

“Tell them to
keep searching!”
He felt the sea roaring past the hull, but all he could see was the widening whirlpool of oil and other flotsam. Marrack had known the U-Boat was there, and had tried to warn him, even though he had known the price.
God bless you.
It was like hearing his voice.

Gladiator
made two extensive sweeps but there was no contact. The U-Boat commander might have used a stern-tube for the final shot; either way there was nothing. When they returned to the place where Marrack's command had gone down they found only two survivors. Marrack would have had all his people on deck, gathered well away from the submerged bow section. It was not war. It was cold-blooded murder. A broken ship, like a tethered goat waiting for the tiger.

At noon a huge, four-engined Liberator found them and carried on with the search. There was no result.

Howard climbed into his chair as his ship began to reduce speed. It was one thing to die; another entirely to make the
gesture which Marrack had known was taking away his company's last chance of survival. But for it,
Gladiator
would be down there with them.

He began to shake very badly and found he was helpless to prevent it.

Treherne moved beside him as the doctor appeared on the bridge.
“Well?”
He saw Moffatt glance at the captain but shook his head angrily. “Leave it, Doc!”

Moffatt stared out at the brightening sea. “One survivor was a signalman. Just a kid.”

Treherne glanced at their own signalmen, shocked and still looking at each other like strangers. “Aren't they all?” he said savagely.

Howard seemed to rise from his own despair. “A signalman? Did he say anything?” He would have been there on Marrack's bridge. The bunting-tossers, as they were nicknamed, saw everything.

Moffatt replied, “They were trying to get back to the convoy after seeing the damaged escort carrier into safety. Then after the explosion the U-Boat surfaced and opened fire with her deck gun. The corvette lost her W/T, and was barely able to stay afloat. The Germans must have realised or detected the SOS … they just stood off and waited. There were a lot of injured men after the first torpedo. Now they're all gone.”

Howard asked, “What else did he say?” He knew there was more.

Moffatt sighed. “When he saw your signal the captain called out, ‘My old ship. I knew it would be her!'” He watched Howard as if uncertain whether or not to continue. “Then he told the signalman to reply to you—the senior one was wounded. Then he said, ‘I've done for the lot of us.' There might have been more, but the lad doesn't remember—he was in the sea being sucked down when he came to. Didn't even recall the explosion.”

Treherne remarked, “It's often like that, Doc.” It was just something to say to break the tension.

Howard said, “Course and speed to rejoin the group.” He twisted round in his chair and said, “It's all right, Doc, I'm not ready for the men in white coats yet.” He strained his eyes, but there was nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.

“Write this down, Yeoman, and pass it to W/T.
To Admiralty, repeated C-in-C Western Approaches.
Tacitus
sunk by second torpedo. No contact. Two survivors.
Get their names before you send it.”

Moffatt said dully, “Just the one, Yeoman. The second man died.”

He heard Rooke speak into the voicepipe. “Steer zero-nine-zero. Revolutions one-one-zero.”

Then Sweeney's thick voice. “One-one-zero revs replied, sir.”

Howard watched the great curving wake as
Gladiator
came under command on her new course.

When he looked again Moffatt had gone. He said, “Get the people fed, will you, Gordon. Go round the ship yourself. You know what to do.”

Treherne was about to leave but something made him return to the tall chair.

Howard stared at him, and there were real tears in his eyes as he said in a whisper, “
‘I've done for the lot of us.'
What a bloody way to be remembered, eh?”

Treherne touched his oilskin and said roughly, “Well, you damned well saved all of
us—
and begging your pardon, sir, don't you ever bloody well forget it!”

Howard nodded very slowly. “Thanks.” He studied him for several seconds, as if he were looking for something and, perhaps, finding it. Then he said, “I'll speak to the lads over the tannoy presently.” He stared emptily at the ocean. “But now I need to …”

“I know.” Treherne backed away. He had never spoken like that to any captain. He could not get over it. Like that other time—Howard had
known.
Most skippers would have gone charging to the rescue, eyes for nothing but the torpedoed ship. It might have been too late for all of them. To Bizley he said harshly,
“See that the Old Man's not disturbed, right?”