She was not, in point of fact, much of a command for a commander, even as the senior ship of an escort group, and he could have done better if he had wished. But he did not wish. Old-fashioned she might be, battered with much hard driving, none too comfortable, at least three knots slower than the job really demanded; but she could still show her teeth and she still ran as sweet as a sewing machine, and the last three years had been the happiest of his career. He was intensely jealous of her efficiency when contrasted with more up-to-date ships, and he went to endless trouble over this, intriguing for the fitting of new equipment ‘for experimental purposes’, demanding the replacement of officers or key-ratings if any weak point in the team began to show itself. In three years of North Atlantic convoy work he had spared neither himself nor his ship’s company any of the intense strain which the job imposed; but Marlborough he had nursed continuously, so that the prodigious record of hours steamed and miles covered had cost the minimum of wear.
He knew her from end to end, not only with the efficient ‘technical’ eye of the man who had watched the last five months of her building, but with an added, intimate regard for every part of her, a loving admiration, an eye tenderly blind to her shortcomings.
Now she was going. No wonder he could not phrase that final order, no wonder he stared back almost angrily at the Chief, delaying what he knew must happen, waiting for the miracle to forestall it.
Up to the bridge came a new, curious noise. It came from deep within the fo’c’sle, a blend of thud and iron clang which coincided with the ship’s rolling. Something very solid must have broken adrift down there, either through the shock or the unusual level of their trim, and was now washing to and fro out of control. Chief, his face puckered, tried to place it: it might have been any one of a dozen bits of heavy equipment in the forward store. The big portable pump, most likely. There must be the hell of a mess down there. Men and gear smashing up together – it hardly bore thinking of. And the noise was unnerving; it sounded like the toll of a bell, half sunk, tied to a wreck and washing with the tide. A damned sight too appropriate.
The Captain said suddenly: ‘I’ll come down and look at that bulkhead, Chief. Haines, take over here.’ He turned to Adams. ‘You come with me. Bring one of the quartermasters, too.’
There might be some piping to do in a hurry.
The journey down, deck by deck, had the same element of compulsion in it as, in a nightmare, distinguishes the random lunatic journey which can only lead to some inescapable horror at its end. The boat-deck was crowded: two loaded stretchers lay near the whaler, the figures on them not more than vague impressions of pain in the gloom: Merrett was directing the unlashing of a raft near by: on the lee side of the funnel a dozen hands, staring out at the water, were singing ‘Home on the Range’, a low-pitched chorus. The small party – Captain, Chief, Adams, the quartermaster – made their way aft, past the figures grouped round ‘X’ gun, and down another ladder. At the iron-deck level, a few feet from the water, all was deserted. ‘I sent the damage control party up, as soon as we’d finished, sir,’ the Chief said, as he stepped through the canvas screen into the alleyway leading forward. ‘There was nothing else for them to do.’
Under cover now, the four of them moved along the rocking passage: Chief’s torch picking out the way, flicking from side to side of the hollow tunnel against which the water was already lapping. Under their stumbling scraping feet the slope led fatally downwards. The clanging toll seemed to advance to meet them. They passed the entrance to the engine room: just within, feet straddled on the grating, stood a young stoker, the link with the outside world in case the bridge voice-pipe failed. To him, as they passed, the Chief said: ‘No orders yet. I’ll be coming back in a minute,’ and the stoker drew back into the shadows to pass the message on. Then they came to a closed watertight door, and this they eased slowly open, a clip at a time, so that any pressure of water within would show immediately. But it was still dry … the door swung back, and they stepped inside the last watertight space that lay between floating and sinking.
It was dimly lit, by two battery lanterns clipped to overhead brackets: the light struck down on a tangle of joists and beams, heel-pieces, wedges, cross-battens – the work of the damage control party. The deck was wet underfoot, and as Marlborough rolled some inches of dirty water slopped from side to side, carrying with it a scummy flotsam of caps, boots and ditty-boxes. The Captain switched on his torch, ducked under a transverse beam and stepped up close to the bulkhead. It was, as Chief had said, in bad shape; bulging towards him, strained and leaking all down one seam, responding to the ship’s movements with long drawn out, harsh creaking. For a single moment, as he watched it, he seemed to be looking through into the space beyond, where Number One and his fourteen damage control hands had been caught, the forbidden picture – forbidden in the strict scheme of his captaincy – giving place to another one, conjured up in its turn by the clanging which now sounded desperately loud and clear; the three flooded mess-decks underneath his feet, the sealed-off shambles of the explosion area. Then his mind swung back, guiltily, to the only part of it that mattered now, the shored-up section he was standing in, and he nodded to himself as he glanced round it once more. It confirmed what he had been expecting but had only now faced fairly and squarely: Chief had done a good job, but it just wasn’t good enough.
He turned quickly. ‘All right, Chief. Bring your engine room party out on the upper deck. Adams! Pipe “Hands to stations for – ”’
The words ‘Abandon ship’ were cut off by a violent explosion above their heads.
For a moment the noise was so puzzling that he could not assign it to anything: it was just an interruption, almost supernatural, which had stopped him finishing that hated sentence. Then another piece of the pattern clicked into place, and he said: ‘That was a shell, by God!’ and made swiftly for the doorway.
Outside, he called back over his shoulder, ‘Chief – see to the door again!’ and then started to run. His footsteps rang in the confined space: he heard Adams following close behind him down the passageway, the noise echoing and clattering all round him, urging him on. Reaching the open air at last was like escaping from a nightmare into a sweating wakefulness which must somehow be instantly co-ordinated and controlled. As he went up the ladder to the boat-deck there was a brilliant flash and another explosion up on the bridge, followed by the sharp reek of the shell burst. Damned good shooting from somewhere … something shot past his head and spun into a ventilator with a loud clang. He began to run again, brushing close by a figure making for ‘X’ gun shouting, ‘Close up again! Load star-shell!’ Guns, at least, had his part of it under control.
He passed the space between the two boats. It was here, he saw, that the first shell had struck: the motorboat was damaged, one of the stretchers was overturned, and there were three separate groups of men bending over figures stretched out on deck. He wanted to stop and find out how bad the damage was, and, especially, how many men had been killed or hurt, but he could not: the bridge called him, and had the prior claim.
It was while he was climbing quickly up the ladder that he realized that the moon had now risen, low in the sky, and that Marlborough must be clearly silhouetted against the horizon. If no one on the upper deck had seen the flash of the submarine’s firing, the moon ought to give them a line on her position. Guns would probably work that out for himself. But it would be better to make sure.
Now he was at the top of the ladder, his eyes grown accustomed to the gloom, his nostrils assailed by the acrid stink of the explosion. The shell he had seen land when he first came out on deck had caught the bridge fair and square, going through one wing and exploding against the chart house. Only two men were still on their feet – the signalman and one of the look-outs: the other look-out was lying, headless, against his machine-gun mounting. Adams, at his shoulder, drew in his breath sharply at the sight, but the Captain’s eyes had already moved farther on, to where three other figures –
who must be Haines, the midshipman, and the messenger – had fallen in a curiously theatrical grouping round the compass platform. The light there was too dim to show any details: the dark shambles could only be guessed at. But one of the figures was still moving. It was the midshipman, clinging to a voice-pipe and trying to hoist himself upright.
He said quickly, ‘Lie still, Mid,’ and then: ‘Signalman, give me the hailer,’ and lastly, to Adams: ‘Do what you can for them.’ He caught sight of the young, shocked face of the other look-out staring at him, and called sharply: ‘Don’t look inboard. Watch your proper arc. Use your glasses.’ Then he switched on the microphone, and spoke into it: ‘“X” gun, “X” gun – illuminate away from the moon – illuminate away from the moon.’ He paused, then continued: ‘Doctor or sick-berth attendant report to the bridge now – doctor or sick-berth attendant.’
Pity had inclined him to put the last order first: the instinct of command had told him otherwise. But almost before he stopped speaking, the sharp crack of ‘X’ gun came from aft, and the star-shell soared. Guns had the same idea as himself.
Adams, who was kneeling down and working away at a rough tourniquet, said over his shoulder: ‘Shall I carry on with that pipe, sir?’
‘No. Wait.’
The U-boat coming to the surface had altered everything. The ship was now only a platform for ‘X’ gun, and not to be abandoned while ‘X’ gun still had work to do.
As the star-shell burst and hung, lighting up the grey moving sea, the Captain raised his glasses and swept the arc of water that lay on their beam. Almost immediately he saw the U-boat, stopped on the surface, broadside on to them and not more than a mile away. Before he had time to speak over the hailer, or give any warning, there was a noise from aft as Guns shouted a fresh order and then things happened very quickly.
‘X’ gun roared. A spout of water, luminous under the star-shell, leapt upwards, just beyond the U-boat and dead in line – a superb sighting shot, considering the suddenness of this new crisis. There was a pause, while the Captain’s mind raced over the two possibilities now open – that the U-boat, guessing she had only a badly crippled ship to deal with, would fight it out on the surface, or that she would submerge to periscope depth and fire another torpedo. Then came the next shot, to settle all his doubts.
It came from both ships, and it was almost farcically conclusive. The flash of both guns was instantaneous. The U-boat’s shell exploded aft, right on ‘X’ gun, ripping the whole platform to pieces; but from the U-boat herself a brilliant orange flash spurted suddenly, to be succeeded by the crump of an explosion. Then she disappeared completely.
‘X’ gun, mortally wounded itself, had made its last shot a mortal one for the enemy.
Silence now over all the ship, save for a faint moaning from aft. The Captain reached for the hailer, and then paused. No point in saying anything at this moment: they would be looking after ‘X’ gun’s crew, what was left of them, and there was no more enemy to deal with. He listened for a moment to Adams’s heavy breathing as he bent over the midshipman, and then turned as a figure showed itself at the top of the bridge ladder.
‘Captain, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘SBA, sir. The doctor’s gone aft to the gun.’
‘All right. Bear a hand here. Who’s that behind you?’
‘It’s me, sir,’ said Bridger’s voice from the top of the ladder. ‘I was helping the SBA.’
‘Were you up here when the second shell landed?’
‘No, sir – just missed it.’ Bridger sounded competent and unsurprised, as if he had arranged the thing that way. ‘I went down to give them a hand when the first one hit the boat-deck sir.’
‘How much damage down there?’
‘Killed three of the lads, sir.’ The sick-berth attendant’s voice breaking in was strained and rather uneven. ‘Mr Merrett’s gone, too. He was just by the motorboat.’
Another officer lost. Guns had probably been killed, too. That meant – the Captain checked suddenly, running over the list in his mind. Number One, caught by that bulkhead. Haines and the midshipman finished up here; Merrett gone, dying typically in a quiet corner, escaping his notice. Guns almost certainly killed at ‘X’ gun. That meant that there were no executive officers left at all: only Chief and the doctor. If they didn’t abandon ship – if somehow they got her going again – it would be an almost impossible job, single-handed … He put the thought on one side for the moment, and said to the sick-berth attendant: ‘Take over from Petty Officer Adams. Have a look at the others first, and then get the midshipman aft to the wardroom.’
He waited again, as the man got to work. The heavy clanging from below, which had stopped momentarily when the gun was fired, now started once more. Presently the doctor came up to the bridge, to report what he had been expecting to hear – that Guns, and the whole crew of seven, had been killed by the last shot from the U-boat. Even though he had been prepared for it, it was impossible to hear the news with indifference. But for some reason it confirmed a thought which had been growing in his mind, ever since the U-boat had been sunk. They were on their own now, and the only danger was from the sea. His loved Marlborough had survived so much, had produced such a brilliant last-minute counterstroke, that he could not leave her now. Reason told him to carry on with the order he had given down below, but reason seemed to have had no part in the last few minutes: something else, some product of heart and instinct, seemed to have taken control of them all. That last shot of ‘X’ gun had been a miracle. Suppose there were more miracles on the way?
Adams, straightening up as the sick-berth attendant took over, once again tried, respectfully, to recall the critical moment to him:
‘Carry on with that pipe, sir?’
‘No.’ The Captain, divining the uncertainty in the man’s mind, smiled in the darkness. ‘No, Adams, I hadn’t forgotten. But we’ll wait till daylight.’
Chapter Two
There were fourteen hours till daylight: fourteen hours to review that decision, to ascribe it correctly either to emotion or to a reasonable assessment of chance, and to foresee the outcome. What struck the Captain most strongly about it was the unprofessional aspect of what he had done. Down there in the shored up fo’c’sle, he had made a precise, technical examination of the damage and the repairs to it, and come to a clear decision: if the U-boat’s shell had not hit them, and interrupted the order, they would now he sitting in the boats, lying off in the darkness and waiting for Marlborough to go down. But something had intervened: not simply the absolute necessity of fighting the U-boat as long as possible, not even second thoughts on their chances of keeping the ship afloat, but something stronger still. It was so long since the Captain had changed his mind about any personal or professional decision that he hardly knew how to analyse it. But certainly the change of mind was there.
He could find excuses for it now, though not very adequate ones. Daylight would give them more chance to survey the damage properly. (But he had done that already.) With the motorboat wrecked by the first shell-burst, there were not enough boats for the crew to take to. (But some of them would always have to use rafts anyway, and if Marlborough sank they would have no choice in the matter.) They had a number of badly wounded men on board who must be sheltered for as long as possible, if they were not to die of neglect or exposure. (But they certainly stood more chance of surviving an orderly abandonment of the ship, rather than a last minute emergency retreat.) No, none of these ideas had really any part in it. It boiled down to nothing more precise than a surge of feeling which had attacked him as soon as the U-boat was sunk: a foolish emotional idea, product of the past years and of this last tremendous stroke, that after Marlborough had done so much for them they could not leave her to die. It wasn’t an explanation which would look well in the Report of Proceedings; but it was as near the truth as he could phrase it.
The answer would come with daylight, anyway: till then he must wait. If the bulkhead held, a
nd the weather moderated, and Chief was able to get things going again (that main switchboard would have to be rewired, for a start), then they might be able to do something: creep southwards, perhaps, till they were athwart the main convoy route and could get help. It was the longest chance he had ever taken: sitting there in his chair up on the bridge, brooding in the darkness, he tried to visualize its successive stages. Funnier things had happened at sea … But the final picture, the one that remained with him all that night, was of a ship – his ship – drawing thirty-two feet forward and nothing aft, drifting helplessly downwind with little prospect of surviving till daylight.
No one ashore knew anything about them, and no one would start worrying for at least three days.
With the ship, ignoring and somehow isolating itself against this preposterous weight of odds, there was much to do; and with no officers to call on except the doctor, who was busy with casualties, and the Chief, whom he left to make a start in the engine room, the Captain set to work to organize it himself. He kept Bridger by him, to relay orders, and a signalman, in case something unexpected happened (there was a faint chance of an aircraft on passage being in their area, and within signalling distance): Adams was installed a virtual First Lieutenant; and from his nucleus the control and routine of the ship was set in motion again.
The bulkhead he could do nothing about: Chief set to work on the main switchboard, the first step towards raising steam again, and the leading telegraphist was working on the wireless transmitter; the boats and rafts were left in instant readiness, and the more severe casualties taken back under cover again. (A hard decision, this; but to keep them on the upper deck in this bitter weather was a degree nearer killing them than running the risk of trapping them below.) Among the casualties was the midshipman, still alive after a cruel lacerated wound in the chest and now in the sick bay waiting for a blood transfusion. The bodies of the other three who had been killed on the bridge – Haines, the look-out, and the bridge messenger – had been taken aft to the quarter-deck, to join the rest, from ‘X’ gun’s crew and the party on the boat-deck, awaiting burial.