Killing Ground (42 page)

“First lieutenant!”

It was the petty officer telegraphist himself, even at this hour. He had complained about stomach pains to Moffatt. Ulcers probably. Anyway they might lose him when they got back. It was a pity. He was the best.

Hyslop spoke distinctly up the voicepipe. “From Admiralty, sir.
There are two U-Boats to the north of your position. Reported by RAF Coastal Command. Said to be heading northwest. Ends.”

Treherne muttered, “Thanks, it's enough as far as I'm concerned.” He looked at Rooke. “Prepare the plot, old son. Two subs, hundred miles to the north. God knows where they are now. Too late for the convoy, I'd have thought.”

Reluctantly he picked up the solitary telephone by the bridge chair. “Captain, sir?”

Howard stepped into the chart-room and watched Rooke busy with his dividers and parallel rulers.

He had been massaging his face and throat with a clean dry towel, thinking of the girl,
his
girl now, of their last embraces before they had parted, looking back at the doctor's holiday cottage as if they were leaving part of themselves behind. They had
barely spoken when the doctor had called to drive them to the station. Wrapped in their individual thoughts, their hearts and bodies too aware of one another for words.

Howard had last seen her at the headquarters complex when he had attended a brief conference held for the various escort groups being deployed for the big eastbound convoy.

She had been standing by a noisy teleprinter which was churning out paper as if it would never stop. She had formed his name with her lips, and the three words,
I love you,
before they had been sent packing to their various commands.

If only he could have held her just once more. Felt her body against his, her hair brushing his mouth. In the same breath he knew it would have made their parting far worse.

“Two U-Boats, then.” He lit his pipe and marvelled it was such a luxury after the pitching, open bridge.

Rooke said warily, “About here, sir.”

“I don't see why the RAF didn't give them a pasting, sir.” Treherne tried not to stare at Howard's relaxed grip on his pipe. Even his eyes seemed more interested than anxious as he studied the pencilled lines and bearings.

Howard said, “Look at the time of origin, Number One. Not too much light when the Coastal Command people made the sighting. The Germans may or may not have seen the plane. It doesn't help us much.” He made up his mind. “Give me those dividers, Pilot.” He felt them watching as he leaned over the table, gauging his own movements against the sickening lurch of the sealed chart-room.

“The Germans knew all about the convoy. It is an important one. A bit of face-saving will be called for.” He tossed down the dividers. “Their high command is almost interchangeable with the Admiralty, you know.” He smiled briefly. “Find that signal about the salvage tug, will you?”

Rooke hurried away and Treherne said, “After the
Tiberius?”

Howard looked at his disbelief. “Why not? Without the tug, the tanker will be forced to remain at the mercy of the sea and
the enemy. You can't expect either the convoy commodore or the escort carrier to hang about forever.”

Rooke returned and handed him the pad. Howard nodded, his eyes suddenly very bright.

“It must be that. These two beauties might well have a crack at the tanker themselves. A couple of days. Right up their street.” He picked up the dividers and waited for the deck to surge upright again. “Lay off a course to intercept. To make good three-five-zero. I'll have a word with our two chums and put them in the picture.” He faced Treherne as Rooke hurried for the bridge ladder. “It would be nice if we could stalk
them
for a change!”

Treherne swallowed hard. “Very.” Could ten days really do that for anyone?

Howard heard somebody coughing in the wheelhouse but then it changed into a loud sneeze. For just a few seconds he had thought of Midshipman Ross. If only there had been more time to know him—to help him, perhaps. He listened to the boom of the sea and the great sluice of it alongside, and pictured him falling, his scream lost in the ocean's triumph. Out here, there was never enough time.

Howard said, “I'll go up. Then, when I've spoken to
Blackwall
and
Belleisle,
I think I might have a catnap in the hutch. See that I'm called when the morning watch is closed up. It seems pretty quiet in this neck of the woods.” He hesitated before sliding the door open, remembering the time when he had turned on Rooke, and had been forced to crouch outside this same place while he fought his own destruction.

He said, “So they bagged two more U-Boats, eh?” His eyes were almost boyish. Almost. “Well, we'll make it three, Number One—at least!”

Treherne said, “I did hear a buzz that you're getting a leg up, sir. If so, congratulations. There's nobody better. Will it mean leaving
Gladiator?”

Howard sat on a locker and watched his sea-boot swinging to the savage motion.

“No secrets, eh? I thought it was just a suggestion!” He became serious at the sight of Treherne's anxiety. “Leave this ship? Not now, not after all that we've done together. A brass-hat … Well, we shall have to see.” He touched the damp grey steel of the side. “Leave you, old girl? To hell with that!”

The door closed and Treherne smiled to himself. Then he looked at the gyrorepeater as it ticked lazily back and forth and with a curse snatched up the bridge handset.

He heard Bizley's voice. “Officer-of-the-Watch?”

“What the
bloody hell
's the matter with you, man?” He heard him snort. “Check the helm—we're wandering about the ocean like a whore at a wedding! The Old Man's on his way up, so
jump about,
laddie!”

He waited for his anger to disperse and grinned.

He would have to watch Mister high-and-mighty Bizley. Something must have happened recently to make him so careless. Well, he could take a long walk on a short pier any time he liked; but when everybody else's arse was in danger it was no longer a joke.

Treherne looked at the chart. Two submarines—going for a kill, then on to another more valuable one. He heard the muffled clang of bells and the instant response from the engine-room. By daylight
Gladiator
and her consorts would be close enough to the course taken by the big salvage tug.

He leaned on the chart and compressed the estimated positions between his large hands.

He thought of Howard's assessment, of his complete self-control. His beard parted in a smile. “Here we go, then. Tally-bloody-ho!”

Howard swallowed the last of his scalding coffee and relished it as the heat roused his body. It was five-fifteen in the morning, but apart from an occasional greyness to starboard there was little hint of a new day. He handed the mug to a messenger and tried to settle himself more comfortably in his tall chair.
He could feel the hard pressure of metal on his ribs through the layers of protective clothing, first one side, then the other as
Gladiator
plunged over serried lines of sharp rollers. It was raining, but impossible to distinguish it from spray flung back from the stem; it all tasted of salt.

The ship had been at action stations for half an hour after the latest signal from the Admiralty. Another aircraft of Coastal Command had reported seeing two tiny plumes of smoke when there had been a brief moment of good visibility. It was just luck; in such a vast area it might easily have gone unseen. It could only mean that the two U-Boats were still heading on the same course as before and were being forced to charge their batteries while still submerged. With growing air cover and the use of small escort carriers, the enemy submarines were finding it less and less easy to surface and run on their diesels while charging batteries. Most of the submarines had been fitted with a breathing pipe which stood vertical with the periscopes when in use. The
schnorchel,
as it was called, had to be used with skill and great care. If the boat “porpoised” with it raised, it would automatically close itself against an inrush of water. Unless the electric motors were brought into play instantly the interior of the hull would become a vacuum, the air sucked into the diesels to leave the crewmen gasping out their lives while the boat plunged to the bottom.

There had been reports of several of the big supply submarines being caught on the surface with their hatches open while they prepared to service an operational U-Boat. Maybe these two U-Boats had been charging batteries while they still had a chance, in case their own rendezvous had been made useless.

As Treherne had remarked, “It made a nice change!”

The Coastal Command aircraft had been at the end of its patrol, and had already dropped most of its depth-charges to help out a small westbound convoy. Aiming for the nearest little plume of smoke it had dived and released the last two charges. When the pilot had completed a turn around the area both U-Boats had dived, and there had been no sign of oil or wreckage. It must have
given them a bloody headache all the same, Howard thought.

More air support had been promised when visibility improved, and the escort carrier
Seeker
might be near enough to scramble her own Swordfish torpedo bombers.

The Admiralty had also advised that the ocean-going salvage tug was still on course. They had said little else in case the signal was intercepted and the code broken again.

Howard raised his glasses to peer abeam for
Blackwall,
but could see nothing but an occasional welter of heavy spray as her bows crashed down into the sea.

Treherne waited beside his chair, mopping his face and cursing the rain.

“They may split up when they realise we're on to them, sir.”

“Could be.
Belleisle
will remain on stand-by just in case that happens.”

Treherne fell silent again, seeing the ship as he had when the hands had gone to action stations. Main armament already angled out to cover both sides, the short-range weapons stripped and ready, spare magazines and trailing belts of heavy-calibre bullets prepared and unrestricted. Ayres was in charge of the depth-charges; Howard had decided it would give him more experience, while Bizley was right here on the bridge, still sulking from the bottle he had rightly given him.

He thought of the engine-room and boiler room staff, being tossed about in the din of roaring fans and thrashing screws. One false step and a stoker could end up as a part of the machinery. And in the centre of his noisy, glistening world, Taff Price would be watching everything and everybody. Down there,
he
was captain and engineer all rolled into one.

“Call up the others, Number One.
Time to begin. Reduce to half-speed as arranged. Commence the sweep.
Pilot, warn Asdic and radar.” He held the luminous dial of his watch just an inch from his eyes before more spray dashed over him. “Pass the word to the wheelhouse!”

He heard Bizley snapping his orders down the voicepipe and
felt the heavy throb of engines drop slightly, although in the bruising motion it was hard to see much difference.

He watched his radar-repeater and saw the two blips of the other destroyers start to angle out slightly, so that the final formation became like the prongs of a giant trident.

If only the weather would clear, or the sullen clouds would allow some daylight to show the way.

Howard thought suddenly of the girl in that big operations room, watching, checking; a part of their team.

“Asdic—Bridge?”

Howard snatched up the handset. “Captain!”

“Contact, sir—echo bears zero-two-zero, moving right.”

Howard stared at Treherne. “One of the bastards is doubling back. Maybe he's twigged us. Go and check the Asdic team. This has got to be just right!” Over his shoulder he called, “Signal the contact to
Belleisle.
Repeat to
Blackwall,
but she needs to stay where she is in case the other bugger shows up!” He bent over the voicepipe. “Starboard ten!” He watched the gyro-repeater begin to tick round as the wheel went over, boots slipping and men clutching for handholds everywhere in the ship. “Midships—
Steady!”

“Steady, sir! Zero-one-zero.”

Howard smiled to himself. You could never disturb the coxswain.

“Very well. Steer zero-two-zero.” He saw the compass settle again and thought of the tense little group in the wheelhouse beneath his feet. Bob Sweeney, the quartermasters working the telegraphs and revolutions control on either side of him. The navigator's yeoman in his little allotted space with the plot table, and a boatswain's mate at the voicepipes.

Howard added, “We're after a sub, by the way.”

Sweeney gave a chuckle. “Thought we might be, sir.”

“Asdic—Bridge.” It was Treherne's voice. “Target still moving right, sir. Very slow, same bearing.”

Howard rubbed his chin. Suppose that aircraft
had
damaged
one of them? This U-Boat would be off like a rabbit otherwise; they must have picked up the HE of at least one of the destroyers by now. Another trap then? He dismissed it instantly. The stakes were too high this time.

Treherne sounded as if he was concentrating every nerve. “As before, sir. Moving right, but almost stopped.”

Bizley found that despite the streaming bridge he was still able to sweat. He stared through the gloom at Howard's motionless figure, perched on the edge of his chair where he could see and reach all that he needed.

“Aircraft, sir!”

Bizley gave a tense laugh.
“Where,
man?”

It roared directly overhead and moments later a recognition pattern of flares drifted through the rain.

Rooke said, “It's getting brighter, sir!”

Howard nodded. A thread of silver had appeared beneath some of the clouds beyond the bows. A quick glance at the radar-repeater; both of the others were on station,
Blackwall
hanging back, ready to charge in to the attack if the manoeuvre they had trained and practised for so wearily began to go wrong.