Killing Ground (41 page)

How different it had been this time, he thought. Not even the staff officers had been able to reassure him that another supply submarine would be on its proper station when he needed to restock and refuel. There had been some news from home, but the letters had shown a different address. The house had been evacuated after a tremendous air raid which had knocked down most of the streets he had known as a boy. His parents were all right, but his father's news was brief and uninformative where his work was concerned, as if he were now afraid that some official might open and read it.

There was no further contact with Willi, and the next winter had already come to the Russian front. How could he manage—survive?

A voicepipe chattered and was answered instantly by a petty officer.

Kleiber spoke to the control room and watched his men on the fore-casing deck singling up the wires even as the great diesels coughed into life.

There had been another serious reverse last month, news of which had only recently been released to the public. The mighty battleship
Tirpitz,
the most powerful in the world, had been seriously crippled by a midget submarine attack in her Norwegian fjord. Nobody knew or would say how long it might take to repair this great ship, or how serious the damage was. But apart from the famous and successful battle-cruiser
Scharnhorst,
she was the last of their major warships still operational. It might mean that the enemy convoys to Russia would be able to increase without fear of attack by
Tirpitz.
Again, he thought of his young brother. Ivan would be strengthened by all this foreign aid and
weapons; things might even deteriorate again on that terrible front, despite the sacrifices of the Wehrmacht.

The U-Boat service was the most dangerous in the whole Navy, but at least it was commanded by Admiral Donitz, who really knew and understood the men he directed and inspired. A successful submariner himself in the Great War, he was always ready to listen to his commanding officers on their return from patrols.

The battle over the Atlantic
had
to be won, and both sides were well aware of this. Survival, determination and courage rated as highly as new weapons and better equipment.

That had been another difference on his return to base. Some of the machine parts and replacements were from Kiel and other yards, spares taken from battered hulls too badly damaged to be repaired.

Kleiber stamped his fleece-lined boots and considered what lay ahead. It was October, and outside this massively constructed bunker it was said to be snowing. They would have to be extra careful when cruising on the surface in Biscay. A radar-carrying aircraft could detect them even through snow, when they would be badly hampered by it.

He thought again of Schneider's jibe about the
Gladiator,
and wondered what sort of man commanded her. But she had probably had several; it was well known that the British had been so unprepared for war that commands had been handed out to anyone with even basic experience. It would be interesting to know, all the same. At the same time he was angry with himself for even considering it. War was not a game, not something for individual contests as Schneider seemed to think. It was for a perfectly co-ordinated machine, with one mind and one aim to control it.

There was something else which troubled him. This time he had not made the long journey to see his parents. Instead he had shared any such freedom with Ingrid. She was not German but Austrian, a nursing orderly in the naval hospital at nearby
Lorient. He had first met her when visiting a wounded brother-officer there. She was dark, and when he had first seen her, her skin had been brown from the summer sunshine. Her hair was jet-black; she had told him her mother was Belgian. At first, whenever they had accidentally met, Kleiber had been attracted to her although he had told himself it was totally wrong, as well as irrational, to become involved. He had seen what it had done to others: a wife in Germany, a mistress in France or any one of the many countries where the swastika flew in conquest.

She, on the other hand, had seemed nervous of him, as if he had carried some scent of danger. But this time it had changed, and they had become intimate. It still unsettled him. He was out of his depth with her passion, her wanton abandon when they had intercourse. It was not love; so what might it be, and could it ever distract him from his demanding profession? If Schneider knew about that, the whole base would soon be made aware of it.

The conning-tower was vibrating less jerkily now as the engines settled down, and the reports of readiness in all sections were just being completed. If it were not snowing Ingrid might have been watching. You could see the Bay from the hospital. What did it matter? There would be another in her bed once he was gone. But it
did
matter, and it troubled him. Small hips and large inviting breasts, and a darting tongue which had at first embarrassed him and then goaded him to a madness he had not known before.

Bells clanged, and the last line was lifted from a bollard and hauled across to the casing to be stowed away until … When would that be? Very smoothly, the submarine began to thrust astern, the diesel fumes drifting over the bridge where the red ensign with its black cross and swastika hung limply against its staff.
When would that be?

At the end of the last pier, his commanding officer stood gravely watching the dark, shining hull sliding out towards the thickening snow. Kleiber threw up another salute and guessed
that the man was probably contemplating the empty berths, and wondering if they would ever be occupied again.

They followed a little launch with a shaded light until Kleiber was satisfied. A check with the control room; a last look around, although it was already quite dark, with the snow falling across the glistening hull like an impenetrable curtain.

Once out in open water it would be miserable for the watch-keepers under these conditions. But they would be changed regularly and could not complain. Kleiber felt something of his old confidence. For their captain would be here all the time until the first test-dive.

He and Schneider would remain in company in case of air attack while they were surfaced. Their combined firepower might be able to deal with the slower, heavier air patrols, although he preferred vigilance to a senseless duel which could soon be ended when reinforcements arrived.

The men stooping and crouching on the foredeck, struggling with the wires and fenders, glanced into the snow as the guide-boat gave a cheerful toot on its whistle.

They stared at its fading shadow with something like contempt. How much did a whistle cost, compared with what they were going to do over the next weeks?

Kleiber wiped his powerful Zeiss glasses and hung them carefully beneath his coat. Men moved past and vanished into the comparative warmth of the hull, and soon he felt the deck lift lazily to the first challenge of the Atlantic.

A petty officer hauled down the sodden ensign and folded it away, his eyes searching for the land. But there was only snow.

He had seen a choir of school children practising their carols for Christmas. They had fallen silent when they had seen him stop to listen.

He glanced at the captain's back. They would not return in time for Christmas; perhaps they would never return. He thought of one little French girl in that choir. About the same age as his own daughter, whom he had not seen for a year. She
had looked straight into his eyes. He had never seen such hatred in anyone, in all his life.

Howard thrust his head and shoulders underneath the waterproof hood and switched on the light. He could feel the sleety rain hammering his oilskin and legs while he peered at the chart and compared Rooke's calculations with the latest information from the Admiralty.

He stood away from the table and felt the rain return to the attack. The snow had been bad enough, like driving blind through a fog. But at least he had been able to stay dry.

He pictured their companions,
Blackwall
to port and
Belleisle
to starboard, keeping in company as much by guesswork as by radar.

Treherne was waiting for him.

Howard gripped a stanchion as the bridge dipped over steeply and another big roller cruised against the hull.

He said, “Convoy's all right apparently. No further attacks anyway. But one of the big tankers hit earlier is in trouble—even so, Captain Vickers and his section might be able to cope. He's with the air support group.
Seeker
will be able to provide air cover as soon as the weather improves.” He could see it all. The big convoy of thirty heavily loaded merchantmen, but, unlike the early days, with an impressive US and Canadian escort, now within five hundred miles of the Irish coast. They had lost two ships, and the tanker, one of the largest in the Atlantic, had somehow survived a torpedo without either blowing up or sinking. The convoy could not hang about for one ship, no matter how valuable. This was where the independent escort-attack groups could prove their worth. Vickers was out there somewhere, and the tough little escort carrier might make all the difference. Howard added, “They've sent the ocean salvage tug
Tiberius
from Plymouth. That great lump could bash through a hurricane if need be!”

He thought of Vickers's obvious pleasure when he had
returned from his leave. “You've done wonders with this ship, David! God, I'm almost sorry to be going back to
Kinsale!”

They had sailed from Liverpool as a group almost immediately. Intelligence had warned of a build-up of U-Boats which were expected to go for the convoy like terriers. To lose only two ships from it was nothing less than a miracle. If they could still save the tanker it might give the enemy something to brood over.

There was another escort group to the north of the convoy, and a cruiser squadron on stand-by. The slackening of naval action in the Mediterranean had released more warships than anyone had believed possible.

“Take over, Number One. I'm going down for a dry towel.”

Treherne watched him leave. Was it the same man who had nearly broken down on this very bridge? It was as if he had been taken over by something even more powerful than fear and despair.

He heard Rooke passing his instructions to the wheelhouse, his body shining in the steady downpour. November already. Another year. He pictured their position, three destroyers, all veterans, some two hundred miles southwest of Land's End, and about the same westwards from Ushant. The enemy. Well within range of German aircraft, and yet it no longer felt so critical. The arrival of the little escort carriers had changed everything. They were nicknamed Woolworths Carriers, or “banana boats” by the lads—although here on the bridge they had refrained from the latter, he had noticed, for his benefit.

He thought of Joyce when he had told her about the solicitor's confidence that his first marriage could be proved null and void. Apparently desertion for whatever reason still counted for a lot.

She had been overwhelmed.
“Marriage,
you mean, Gordon?” Her eyes had shone with tears of happiness. So perhaps she had inwardly doubted his final intentions. “I'll see you never regret it!” It had been a wild two days in her little flat.

He had been doubly glad to see Howard back in his chair. He had half-dreaded that he might be grounded for medical reasons; many commanding officers had gone under with less cause. The other reason for his relief had been the departure of Captain Vickers. It had been rather like having God on the bridge, and even for such a short time he had made his considerable presence felt. Treherne was not used to close contact with a senior, four-ringed captain, and had known that Finlay and some of the others had been amused at his efforts not to show it.

He peered at his watch. “Midnight soon, Pilot. Have you sent a bosun's mate to rouse the starboard watch?”

Rooke said, “Five minutes ago, Number One.” Even he seemed more at ease with Howard back in the saddle.

“Good.” He pictured Howard with his girl. What had they done? Where had they been, he wondered? He tried to think of them behaving like Joyce and himself, but was not so certain about that.

Rooke lurched across the bridge as the sea boomed against the side and flung a towering mass of water along the iron deck so that the superstructure seemed to shake from the weight of it.

“Think we'll be in for Christmas, Number One?”

“That would be nice.” He thought of Joyce, who would get all embarrassed when he suggested she came to a wardroom party. “It would be my first in this bloody war, if so!”

A signalman groped towards them. “From W/T, sir.
Two U-Boats destroyed by convoy's close escort.”

The officers stared at each other in the drenching darkness. “By God, Pilot, that evens the score a bit, eh?”

Howard had not mentioned Marrack again; nor would he. In most escort vessels and other small ships on active service it was the same. Gone but not forgotten. Anyone new and green who broke the rule would be met with chilling stares. He thought too of Midshipman Ross. How could he have done it? Just step off the ship into the darkness, to break surface in time to see
Gladiator
's wake and nothing more. With luck he might have
thrown himself over the side if he had to do it. The great screws would suck him into their embrace with only a split-second of agony.

Ross had not been replaced as yet. It was to be hoped that the next one had a better deal.

He heard Bizley's affected drawl on the ladder and steeled himself. He was definitely going round the bend, Treherne thought. Always asking questions about naval procedures, the various departments at the Admiralty, until the Chief had asked wryly, “Are you thinking of asking for a shore job, then? Be an
admiral
next, see?”

The bridge messenger called above the noise of sea and rain, “W/T, sir!”

Treherne moved to the voicepipe, his old sea-boots slithering the last few feet.