A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Read online

  It was quieter at sea, sometimes, even within spitting distance of an enemy beach, than it was “resting” in Malta nowadays … Paul turned towards the periscope, and glanced at ERA Quinn, who’d taken over the panel from Summers; Quinn dropped his hand to the telemotor lever and brought the tube slithering up. For a quick search round, then a new fix on the chart for Wykeham to see when he came to relieve him as OOW. Paul tugged the handles down, twisted the hand-grip to shift the lenses into low power.

  It was full daylight up there now. Grey-green sea unbroken—unfortunately, since broken water camouflaged a periscope—but slightly lumpy under high, wispy cloud. The low swell was lining the Italian beaches with surf, a white edging to the land a mile and a half to starboard. Cape dell’ Armi broad on the bow: smoke rising from cottage chimneys. Used as barracks probably—there’d hardly be civilians in those houses now.

  Activity at one end of the nearer beach—soldiers assembling, or drilling. He circled on, leaving that for the moment, more concerned with completing the all-round check to ensure there was no threat nearby. Swinging left, pausing on dell’Armi with its lighthouse; on again, and now he was looking across the straits towards Sicily. Empty sea, blank sky. Moving on across the bow and down the port side: acres of sea agleam with the hardening daylight. A gull dipping to inspect the periscope …

  All clear all round. He switched to high power, and began again. Those soldiers on the beach were spread out in lines and doing PT, prancing about and swinging their arms. Local garrison working off yesterday’s pasta … A goods train was chuffing westward: Ultra could have surfaced, manned the gun and blown it to pieces. He swung on, anticlockwise, and saw a truck moving along the road that ran beside the railway line. A heavy military vehicle painted greenish khaki and going the opposite way to the train. The thing to do, he thought, might be to catch two trains at once as they crossed a bridge: by surfacing in a fixed position you’d have your range established accurately before you opened fire. But Ruck would have thought of that already … The truck was hidden by the train as they passed each other: so at this point the road was on the far side of the tracks. He swept on slowly across the cape and the left edge of the Italian toe to the straits again, or rather the approach to them. Fifteen miles of shiny, empty, humpy sea …

  Aircraft. A Cant seaplane …

  Search the sea, then, the whole area under it.

  Smoke. Gone now. But there had been. And was again now: a little greyer than the sky behind it, behind the rim of the low horizon this periscope-view afforded.

  He checked the bearing, and snapped the handles up.

  “Down … Captain in the control room. Slow ahead together. Diving stations.”

  A rush of movement: men’s faces hopeful, excited. Paul at the trim now,Wykeham pushing up beside him muttering, “All right, Sub, I’ve got her,” the ship’s company already settling at diving stations—which in surface-ship terms meant action stations. Only CPO Logan didn’t have to move at all, since the after hydroplanes were his action responsibility anyway. Paul had reported, a few seconds ago in the first moment of the rush and when the periscope had had time only to dip and then rise again into Ruck’s impatient grasp, “Seaplane on red one-oh, then smoke a little to the right of it.”

  “Yes. Right.” Ruck had found the smoke too; he was studying it, twisting the periscope a small amount this way and that across it, during the ensuing moments when Paul was being relieved at the trim by Wykeham. Now, as he edged away to his own job at the “fruit machine,” Ruck was making a swift low-power search all round.

  “Down.” Blank-eyed, with the picture in his head and his brain applying logical deductions, guesses, to it … “Group up, half ahead together, port ten.”

  His orders were repeated by the telegraphman and the helmsman. The extra speed and the change of course would take the submarine out towards the centre of the straits.

  “Steer two-seven-oh.”

  The chief ERA, Charlie Pool, was waiting near the captain, ready to read off bearings and ranges and set the firing-angle for him when the time came. If it did. The smoke might be coming from some tug hauling a lighter full of rubbish—or from one of a group of anti-submarine trawlers on a sweep: in which case the fly was rushing into the spider’s web. Paul didn’t think that such an amount of smoke would be coming from anything but a biggish ship; half the reason for that opinion was the fact there was also a patrolling or escorting seaplane.

  “Course two-seven-oh, sir!”

  “Very good. Slow together. Up periscope.”

  Slowing the boat to reduce the feather, the splash around the top of the periscope, which in such a smooth surface an aircraft’s pilot might easily spot. The periscope jolted to a stop. Wykeham reported, “Depth twenty-seven and a half feet, sir.”

  Having altered course about forty degrees to port, the target—smoke— ought now to be about thirty on the starboard bow: Ruck had the periscope trained on that bearing before he put his eyes to it. Adjusting fractionally, then settling; light reflected down from the sea’s surface glittered in his eyes as Paul watched him, hoping there was a target … Ruck muttered angrily, “Bloody thing. Why don’t you bugger off?” He snapped the handles up, and ERA Quinn sent the glistening tube shooting down.

  “Half ahead together.” Ruck told Wykeham, “Shagbat was coming straight at me. Bloody thing.”

  The seaplane, he meant. McClure whispered, close to Paul’s ear, “What d’you reckon this is?”

  “Something that smokes, Shortarse.”

  “Bonfire on Sicily?”

  McClure’s job during an attack was to keep a track chart showing the submarine’s movements and also the enemy’s, plotting the target by ranges and bearings and thus estimating his speeds and courses. Paul’s was to operate the “fruit machine,” a magic box of dials and knobs which gave you certain vital information if you fed it with the right data. It was about the size of a small one-armed bandit, mounted on the bulkhead near the chart table.

  “Slow ahead together.” Ruck let the reduction in speed take effect before he gestured again for the periscope. Vibration lessened as the revs were cut: when she was grouped up, you could feel as well as hear the power forcing her through the sea. It didn’t mean she was exactly scorching a path through it: full ahead grouped up, the maximum dived speed, gave her only nine knots. The periscope rose into the captain’s hands: he swivelled around sky-searching, then settled on what had been the bearing of the smoke.

  Newton reported from the asdic position, “Confused HE from green two-eight to green three-four, sir!”

  “What’s confused about it?”

  “More than one ship, sir. It’s”—he swallowed—”one lot’s slow, reciprocating, and—” “ There, now!”

  Heads turned: expressions brightening …

  “Start the attack.” McClure’s stopwatch, and Ruck’s, clicked … “Target is a tanker, about ten thousand tons. One destroyer frigging around in front … Target bearing—that. Range—that.” Chief ERA Pool read the figures off, over his captain’s shoulder. Ruck added, “I’m—twenty degrees on his port bow. Down periscope, half ahead together!”

  Tankers were worth sinking, and so was the stuff they carried. Tanks ran on it—Rommel’s tanks—and Stukas flew on it. McClure was putting that range and bearing on his track chart. Ruck asked Newton, “What revs d’you give the tanker?”

  “One-fifty, sir.”

  “Set enemy speed fifteen.”

  Paul fed that to his machine. Range, bearing, angle-on-the-bow, were all in its works already. There was a dial with a shape representing “own ship” and another with an outline for the target. What mattered was their relative positions and the dynamics of their courses and the enemy’s speed, and what the machine would provide in the end was called the DA, director angle, which meant aim-off, the angle you’d send your torpedoes out on. If you’d got the figures right the torpedoes and the target would run to meet each other like old friends.

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bsp; Ruck told Wykeham, “The shagbat was way over on the other side, that time. So it hasn’t seen us yet. And the escort is a Partenope-class destroyer. Slow together. Up …” The periscope rose swiftly, its wires hissing round the sheaves in the deckhead. Ruck had his eyes against the rubbers before it had stopped moving: he’d swung to find the target—or the seaplane—

  “Damn!”

  Flinging the handles up had been an order to Quinn to send it down, fast … Anxiety and questions in a dozen faces; Paul thinking, We’ve lost out … Ruck muttered angrily, “Seaplane was right on top of me, and the bloody target’s zigged away. I’m about sixty on his port bow now, damn it.” Seconds ticked by while he thought about it … Then “Stand by for a range and bearing. Up …”

  If the Cant had been over them a minute ago, it wouldn’t be there now—with any luck, it wouldn’t, slow-flying as those things were … And if he could build a picture of the tanker’s zigzag, anticipate its turns …

  “Bearing—that! Range—that!”

  The periscope was on its way down, and Ruck had gone to the chart table to see how it looked on paper. He told McClure, “I was still sixty on his bow. Extend those tracks, see where he may have zigged.” He glanced round. “Port ten, fifty feet, full ahead together. Steer two-three-oh.” He checked his stopwatch. “Five minutes, now.”

  McClure showed him the track chart.

  “If he turned here, sir, it’s giving him a mean course of two-oh-five, zigzagging twenty degrees each side of it. Courses one-eight-five and two-three-five.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  The submarine was at fifty feet, making her best dived speed and shaking from the effort. Wykeham looking uneasy as he glanced round at his captain. Full speed with the battery grouped up could exhaust it very quickly, and with a whole day ahead and the distinct possibility of having to manoeuvre to evade depthcharging, it wasn’t a happy prospect. Battery care was the first lieutenant’s—Wykeham’s—responsibility. He’d turned back to check the trim, then looked round again. Ruck was preoccupied, watching the circling stopwatch hand in his palm.

  Five minutes, Wykeham would be thinking, was a long time to be caning his precious battery that hard.

  Ruck glanced up, and found Wykeham staring at him. He nodded. “I’m going to nail this bastard.”

  Wykeham sighed, turned back to the trim.

  It was a gamble, basically, on where and when the tanker would make its next change of course. One of Ruck’s problems was that with an aircraft over the top you could only take very quick and infrequent observations. The Sicilian coastline did limit the tanker’s options, of course … Ruck would be hoping that when the target came back on to the port leg of its zigzag he’d have Ultra in a position to take a shot at it.

  Part guesswork, part mental arithmetic, part logic and a lot of luck. “Slow together. Thirty feet. Take it easy, Number One.” He meant, Don’t rush it, and risk breaking surface. He asked the asdic operator, “Bearing of the HE now?”

  Motor noise and vibration fell away as the power was reduced. Newton should be able to hear the enemy’s screws again now; in that racket, he couldn’t have.

  “Target is green five, sir.” His Adam’s apple wobbled when he swallowed. “Bearing drawing left—”

  “The destroyer?”

  “Right ahead, sir. Drawing left.”

  “Depth thirty feet, sir.”

  “Twenty-eight feet.” Ruck moved his hands, and the periscope began to move too. Newton reported, “Still one-fifty revolutions, sir.” Ruck said, “Port ten.” The periscope stopped, with his eyes already at its lenses. “Bearing—that!”

  “Green three degrees!”

  “I’m—thirty-five on his port bow. Range—that!”

  “Oh-three-five!”

  Three thousand five hundred yards, that meant. The figures whipped through Paul’s consciousness like runners leapfrogging and tumbling, but in the machine as he fed them into it they made sense, built a picture, slotted together to provide answers to other questions, while on Paul’s left McClure translated it all into pencilled tracks, positions, courses, each position labelled in terms of seconds since the start of the attack. Ruck had steadied her on the adjusted course.

  “Distance off track?”

  “Two thousand one hundred, sir!”

  The periscope slid down. Ruck confirmed the speed setting of fifteen for the tanker. He was studying his watch again: feet straddled, a frown of concentration on his lightly bearded face. He ordered port wheel again, and steadied her on a new course without taking his eyes off the watch’s dial. Then his left hand’s fingers curled, summoning the periscope … Bearing was green two-six—range two thousand one hundred yards—distance off track fifteen hundred. Periscope flashing down. Ruck was taking his time—and still ignoring, or not mentioning, the opposition, the aircraft and the destroyer …

  “Open one, two, three and four bow-caps. Blow up all tubes.”

  But the target could zig away again, turn its quarter to him suddenly: and the seaplane—

  “Up …”

  “Bow-caps open, all tubes blown up, sir!”

  Ruck’s eyes were against the lenses. Paul saw him flinch, and catch his breath. Then he’d steadied; he was showing his teeth, lips drawn apart like a dog’s snarl as he reset the periscope on the target.

  “Bearing that!”

  “Green twelve degrees!”

  “I’m eighty on his bow. What’s my DA?”

  “DA is eight, sir!”

  Sweat gleamed on Ruck’s face and neck; knuckles white, gripping the spread handles. “Set DA eight. What’s the firing interval?” “Fourteen seconds, sir!”

  Paul—and the others—heard it then. Fast propellers, a rising note like a train approaching—the destroyer racing directly at them. He put a hand behind him on the corner of the chart table, another on the fruit machine, instinctively bracing himself for the ramming. You visualized, without wanting to or trying to, the split hull, roaring inrush of sea. Seconds passing, CERA Pool reaching over the captain’s shoulders to set the periscope on that DA and hold it there. When the target’s bow approached the hairline in the sight—

  “Fire one!”

  You heard and felt the torpedo leave. A thump, and then a sharp rise in pressure as air vented back into the submarine.

  “Fire two!”

  Yellow light gleaming on carefully expressionless faces. You couldn’t see what was happening up there, so you put your faith in the man who could.

  “Fire three!” He pushed the handles up.”Flood Q sixty feet, full ahead together!”The periscope was already halfway down; the noise of the Italian destroyer’s screws was loud, like a train hurtling past overhead. Ruck snapped, going by the fourteen-second stopwatch interval, “Fire four!”

  “Torpedoes running, sir.” Newton’s eyes were on the deckhead, as if he was expecting to see the destroyer’s stem crash into her. Half a minute ago there might have been such a danger; now, the needles were swinging past forty feet. Ruck said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “Hundred and fifty feet. Group down. Port fifteen. Shut off for depthcharging.” He asked Paul, “Running time?”

  “One minute seven seconds, sir.”

  The length of time it would take the torpedoes to get there, to hit or miss. The quick-diving tank was blown, and the boat sank more slowly, spiralling to port. Ruck told the helmsman, Creagh, “Steer one-one-oh.”

  “One-one-oh, sir …”To escape eastward now, across the straits. Ruck muttered, with his eyes on the circling stopwatch hand, “That Partenope didn’t give me much room.”

  And the target could have altered course again, zigzagged away after the fish had started on their way.

  “Hundred and fifty feet, sir.”

  “Slow—”

  Explosion: deep, some way off, and on cue, bringing hope. Faces still controlled, though, waiting … Fourteen seconds should be the intervals. And there would probably be a counter-attack which with reinforcements to t
he surface forces might last all day. Fourteen seconds had passed.

  Twenty. Twenty-five. Twenty-seven. Twenty—

  A second solid, jarring crash. Two hits: quite likely a kill. That first one alone probably wouldn’t have sunk the target, and it could have been a fish going astray, exploding on the bottom. Relief all round, satisfaction. CPO Logan chuckled, nodding. Ruck had let out a long, hard breath.

  Wykeham reported in his mild, totally unstressed tone, “Both motors slow ahead, grouped down. Boat’s shut off for depthcharging, sir.”

  “Not a bloody whisper, now. Pass the word.” He asked Newton, “Where’s the destroyer?”

  “Green one-four-oh, sir, opening …There’s A/S transmissions on that bearing. And—right astern, sir, breaking-up noises.”

  Quite often a ship broke up as it sank. Bulkheads collapsed or split as the sea took hold of her, and the process was sometimes audible on asdics. Ruck went over to the A/S position, and Newton passed him the spare headset. With the earphones on, he nodded; then passed it back. He told Wykeham, “No doubt about that.” Paul was wondering whether the torpedo tracks would have faded yet, or whether they might still be there for the seaplane to spot so it could then guide the destroyer to the point they’d fired from. But it would still have to guess which way they’d gone. The Italian was searching in the wrong area now and it might be beyond his imagination to guess that they’d fired from pretty well under his own ship’s forefoot. And if he thought they’d attacked from ahead, the odds were that he’d expect them to be escaping seaward, southward, rather than on this eastward course.