Battlecruiser (1997) (28 page)

He saw the fingers of her right hand close over the plain wedding ring on her left, but sensed that she neither saw nor felt it. Then she closed her eyes briefly, and opened them.

You see, I love him so much. And he loves me.

But all she said was, ‘Thank you. I’m so happy that he’s safe.’

She remembered him telling her the ship’s motto after Stagg’s pointed little comment.
We will never give in.

She excused herself and left the room.

Nor will we.

H.M.S.
Reliant
’s bearded navigating officer straightened up from his voicepipes and said, ‘Steady on new course, sir, one-three-zero, one-one-zero revolutions.’ He sounded unusually formal, very aware of the rear-admiral’s pale figure cross-legged in the captain’s chair.

Sherbrooke glanced at him. ‘Very good, Pilot. Still damned dark, by the look of it.’

Rhodes grunted. ‘Guns won’t thank us. He’ll have the sun right in his eyes when it does appear!’

The ship seemed very quiet, even though she was thrusting through the water at half-speed. The sea was remarkably calm, and only the occasional tremble of power through the bridge deck gave a hint of her movement.

Officers and men had changed into white clothing, which only seemed to deepen the tension aboard
Reliant:
Stagg had made his wishes known in this respect when they had eventually been ordered to leave Gibraltar. Sherbrooke envied the ratings in their simple rig; his own heavy white drill was already clinging to his body. It would be worse when the sun came up. Most of the junior officers were wearing only shirts and shorts, unwilling to purchase extra uniforms which they might never wear again, once this operation was over.

He wondered why Stagg was here instead of enjoying
the privacy of his own small bridge. Maybe the delays and the postponement of his plan had finally got to him. When they had at last been ordered to bring the bombardment forward by twenty-four hours, he had expected Stagg to explode. Instead, he had vented most of his anger on Howe, his flag lieutenant, and in confidence had snapped, ‘I’ll be rid of that jellyfish at the first chance I get, just you watch me! I don’t owe his father a bloody thing!’

Another little insight. Howe’s father was an admiral.

Sherbrooke glanced at the radar repeater, the revolving beam reaching out like a blind man’s stick. He saw their accompanying destroyer,
Montagu
, appear momentarily and vanish, leading the way, on a regular zig-zag some four miles ahead of the flagship. It still felt as though they were all alone: the carrier
Seeker
and the other destroyers were deployed well astern to the north-west. Beyond
Montagu
, there was only the land. The enemy.

A quick bombardment, in and out, before Jerry realized what was happening. It never seemed so simple once it was staring you in the face.

Up in his control position, Evershed, the gunnery officer, was waiting. All six guns were loaded with high-explosive shells, far more effective than armour-piercing projectiles when used against land targets.

The enemy had been under constant attack, from the air, and from the tightening jaws of tanks and infantry pushing up from the south. German aircraft had been reduced to using the beaches for landing and take-off; landing craft had to risk being wrecked by sunken or grounded vessels whenever they tried to run supplies or evacuate survivors from broken and demoralized units.

Evershed would be in his element, Sherbrooke thought, packed into his armoured control position with his assistants, who would sift the information as it came in.
Range, rate, deflection, like a single machine, with Evershed’s hand on the trigger.

Sherbrooke looked at Rhodes by the voicepipes, his features and uniform tinged green by the shaded lights of repeaters and dials. Men he had come to know, in so short a time; men he trusted, like Onslow, the Chief, down below the waterline in his confined world of racing machinery and roaring fans. And Farleigh, the surgeon commander, who had proved his worth many times over with survivors, no matter what uniform they wore. He would be down there now, arms folded, his S.B.A.s and first aid parties placed throughout the ship like extensions of himself, listening to the constant rattle of instruments, the tools of his trade; waiting in that glaring, white place.

He walked to the opposite side of the bridge. There it was, the first real hint of dawn. It was misty as well; Rhodes had prophesied as much during the afternoon watch. He licked his lips.
Yesterday.
His mouth was dry, which was always a bad sign. He had to be above it all. He almost smiled.
Inhuman.
Most of them probably thought he was, anyway.

All hands had been called early and the watchkeepers relieved, to have a quick meal and swallow gallons of sweet tea before going to action stations. Many of the old hands would be glad that the waiting was over, until the next time. Others would be dreading it, but more afraid of showing fear in front of their messmates and friends than of fear itself.

Rhodes said, ‘Half an hour, sir.’ He, at least, sounded calm, unworried.

Stagg remained silent. He could have been asleep, one leg swaying in time with the slow tilt of the bridge.

Sherbrooke watched the light exploring the forecastle, giving colour to the anchor cables and stanchions, the point
where the master-at-arms had come aboard as Neptune with his villainous-looking ‘court’. It seemed like a year ago.

Rhodes’s assistant, Frost, jammed a handset under his cap and called, ‘W/T office reports signal from
Montagu
, sir!’ In the strange, filtered light his wispy beard looked even more absurd. ‘
Enemy vessels ahead! Small craft, moving right!
’

Sherbrooke said, ‘Tell
Montagu
to disregard!
Do not engage!
’

Stagg snapped, ‘Landing craft?’

Sherbrooke listened to the rasp of static from one of the speakers, then Evershed’s voice, clipped and unemotional. ‘Six or seven small craft, bearing one-three-zero, range one-double-oh.’

Sherbrooke repeated, ‘Signal
Montagu!
Now!’ He could see it clearly enough. The hope of every destroyer’s commander: ships pinned down by radar, probably having run the blockade from Sicily.
Montagu
must be right on top of them. Their distance from
Reliant
was ten thousand yards: five miles.

Stagg waved one hand in the air. ‘What’s that fool doing now?’

Frost said, ‘No acknowledgment from
Montagu
, sir.’

Sherbrooke raised his binoculars as bright stars of red and green tracer exploded through the mist like fireworks at a regatta.

Montagu
’s R/T had either been deflected by the nearness of land, or her captain had no intention of throwing away such easy targets.

Rhodes slid back part of the screen, and above the muted din of machinery and the surge of water alongside, it was possible to hear the double crack of the destroyer’s paired mountings, and an unbroken exchange of automatic fire.

Sherbrooke held his breath as the image strengthened in the lenses:
Montagu
, increasing speed, her funnel smoke dragging astern like a cloak, turning slightly to port as she charged for the rearmost vessels in the convoy. Low, chunky shapes, still too dark to identify, but probably Siebel ferries, landing craft which were heavily armed against air attack. To engage a powerful destroyer like
Montagu
would be like a mouse squaring up to a charging bull.

They heard Evershed cough, or perhaps it was one of his officers in Control. Somebody had left a key down, all eyes intent on the miniature battle.

A boatswain’s mate said, ‘Land! I can see land, sir, dead ahead!’

Another brushstroke, undulating and yellow in the growing light.

The speaker said, ‘A, B, and Y Turrets stand by. Follow Director!’

There was a vivid flash, and seconds later the explosion boomed against the hull. One of the enemy vessels had blown up, perhaps carrying ammunition or fuel. The convoy must have slipped across the Strait of Sicily and around Cape Bon during the night, their crews risking everything, only to meet disaster at the end.

Another explosion, and a towering sheet of flame and sparks, which illuminated
Montagu
even as she fired and fired again.

The rest was like a sequence in a bad dream, distorted and unreal, because of the initial silence in which it took place. Three tall waterspouts burst from the sea as if propelled from the depths, and bracketed the wheeling destroyer like white pillars. They seemed to fall very slowly, and only then did the crash and shock wave of those big shells quiver against
Reliant
’s flank.

Stagg muttered, ‘They’ve done for
Montagu.
’

Sherbrooke called, ‘
Open fire!
’

He tensed as the foremost turret moved slightly, one gun rising a little higher than its companion.

It was not possible to see the hidden battery, but Evershed’s spotting team had marked the flashes, and marked them well.

‘
Shoot!
’

Evershed again, icy calm. ‘Deflection seven left! Up two hundred!’ A bell jangled in the distance. ‘
Shoot!
’

The bridge shook violently as the marines in Y Turret trained around as far as they could, the shells ripping past the ship to join the other vivid orange flashes on the shore.

Sherbrooke said, ‘Stand by, Pilot. We’ll alter course after the next salvo. Tell Control to engage on the opposite side!’

Stagg was right beside him, his eyes glittering in the reflected explosions from the stricken destroyer.

‘Not so fast! We might lose the chance if we turn too soon!’ He stared at Sherbrooke angrily. ‘Hit them again! It’s what we came for!’

Rhodes watched them, and then turned away.

Sherbrooke said, ‘I am increasing speed, sir.’

Stagg did not reply. He was training his glasses on the
Montagu.
The destroyer had fallen onto her side, steam and flames spurting out of her bilges, where there was a hole big enough for a London bus. Tiny figures were running along the tilting deck or clambering onto the rails; some threw up their hands and dropped out of sight, and Sherbrooke guessed that the buckled plating was furnace-hot. As
Pyrrhus
had been.

‘Full ahead together, Pilot. Tell Control.’ Through the smeared glass he saw two signalmen cover their heads and duck down; simultaneously, he heard the rising whine of aircraft as two of
Seeker
’s Seafires roared from astern and headed into the smoke.

Stagg said, ‘That’ll show the bastards.’

‘Time to turn on to new course, sir.’ Rhodes made a point of ignoring the rear-admiral. ‘We don’t know how many wrecks are littered about here.’

A burning landing craft drifted quickly abeam. In fact, it was motionless, but swayed over as
Reliant
’s mounting bow wave surged across it, dousing flames and sweeping away dead and wounded alike.

‘Half speed ahead! Starboard twenty!
Steady!
’

Sherbrooke watched the ticking gyro repeater but saw only the destroyer, all grace gone, a wreck, a sinking coffin for her company. They might never know if
Montagu
’s captain had ignored the signal to break off the action in order to seize the chance for himself, or if his R/T procedure had failed at the critical moment. Either way, it had cost him his ship and most of his men.

It was like having ice-cold hands against his skin, although his body was sweating.

‘Steady on three-zero-zero!’

This great ship had come about with an agility even
Montagu
could not have matched. The three turrets were even now training round, another shell and its charge already in the hoist from magazine to breech.

They had come to destroy the remaining port facilities in a harbour already full of wrecks, and to bombard the surrounding defences, where soldiers had lived like rats for weeks. The enemy could always have been expected to do something, but a powerful shore battery had never been suggested. But for
Montagu
’s folly, they would never have found out, until it was too late.

‘
Shoot!
’

The bridge fittings bucked violently again, and flakes of paint fell from the deckhead like snow. Sherbrooke raised his glasses and saw the flashes from the explosions.
There was so much smoke and dust in the air that it was like firing into a fog.

Some one yelled, ‘
Montagu
’s gone! Poor bastards!’

Sherbrooke gripped a handrail, and saw Stagg turn to stare at him.

Like the bomb, there was no warning, no sensation; he simply knew. He saw the water falling across B Turret in an endless cascade, and yet he had seen no fall of shot, heard no explosion. Two more hideous shockwaves jarred through his shoes, and he saw a glass screen shiver to fragments, men falling, mouths wide in silent screams, faces cut to bloody ribbons. The guns fired again from forward and aft, but below the bridge, B Turret, the barrels steaming now in the flung spray, was unmoving.

‘Training mechanism out of control, sir!’

The other guns recoiled again. Evershed was still firing, doing what he loved, and lived for.

Sherbrooke said harshly, ‘Report damage!’

His hearing was almost normal again: someone was screaming, the sound suddenly cut off as if a door had been slammed against it. Damage control and first aid parties were picking their way over broken glass.

A messenger said, ‘The admiral’s bridge has been hit, sir.’ He faltered. ‘Three casualties.’

Sherbrooke heard the chattering voicepipes, and imagined his men throughout the ship, then he turned and saw the war correspondent, Pat Drury, hands in his jacket pockets, the blood of a seaman who had fallen beside him splashed over his shoe.

‘Get some people down there, Pilot, and tell T/S what’s happened.’

He saw a sub-lieutenant and a few spare hands running for the ladder, faces frozen in the same emotionless masks as they prepared themselves for what they would find.