Instinctively Peter Calleja swung around.
It was probably some kind of trick of the eye — the mind trying to make sense of the impossible — but as he saw the expanding blast circles rippling away and the broken towing hawser whipping back over the stern of the small Royal Navy tug, there was a second eruption of dirty white water from beneath the area covered by the salvage weld over HMS Torquay’s engine room. Water seemed to bloom outwards from the side of the ship for perhaps, thirty feet in a ball which collapsed as a smaller column of water rose and fell across the deck.
Peter Calleja later had no recollection of hearing the second detonation.
HMS Torquay lurched as if she had been punched amidships by a giant fist. It was impossible but she seemed to lift herself up in the water and then sag back down, except by then she was no longer a whole ship. Her back was broken, her bow digging down into the deep waters of the grand Harbour; her stern twisting away at an ever more impossible angle from the rest of the hull.
A single terrible gout of grey smoke blasted from her funnel and from ventilation grills behind the bridge. The bow section stabilised in the water; the stern parted and began to fill, rudder and twin propellers rising slowly, gracefully above the surface as the wreck drifted into the middle of the Grand Harbour. Black smoke billowed from the stack of the big red and white decked Harbourmaster’s Department tug as she took up the slack and began to drag the sinking stern section of the frigate into shallow water. But Peter Calleja knew it was too late.
He watched in horror as men threw themselves off the two wallowing, foundering halves of the doomed frigate.
Two explosions deep in the amidships spaces.
Sabotage…
Chapter 6
Lieutenant-Commander Peter Christopher was a little surprised to encounter HMS Talavera’s Master at Arms, Chief Petty Officer Neville ‘Spider’ McCann at the head of the gangway when he reported back onboard his old ship.
He had been even more surprised — no, astonished — to discover the large number of ships tied up alongside in the inner harbour, and anchored out in Algeciras Bay. Talavera was one of perhaps a dozen destroyers and frigates, there were Royal Fleet Auxiliaries, tankers, ammunition and stores ships, a Tiger Class cruiser, and swinging on their anchors beyond the breakwater three aircraft carriers; the Hermes, the fleet carrier Victorious and the commando carrier Ocean. In the Reception Hall at the airfield — a much patched up building which had been targeted by Spanish Army mortars in the recent unpleasantness — he had encountered Canadians and Australians, several of whom were fliers, but mostly air force ground crew, fitters, riggers and engineers, all of whom were in transit to either Malta or Cyprus.
The diminutive veteran Chief Petty Officer with a broken nose and a ruddy, scarred complexion saluted grim-faced. Legend had it that CPO ‘Spider’ McCann had once been the Mediterranean Fleet’s featherweight — or bantamweight — boxing champion.
“Permission to come aboard, Mister McCann,” the younger man requested in the flat, formulaic way that became ingrained in every naval officer.
“Permission granted, sir!” Snapped the Master at Arms, his expression suddenly softening. “Bloody good to have you back onboard, sir!”
“Thank you, Mister McCann,” HMS Talavera’s new Executive Officer chuckled, reaching out to shake the older man’s hand. This was a departure from the normal etiquette of these occasions but given what the two men had gone through a little over a month ago, such minor breaches of ancient customary practice were occasionally appropriate. “It is bloody good to be back!”
Spider McCann, the destroyer’s senior non-commissioned officer — although technically junior to the greenest sub-lieutenant straight out of Dartmouth — had served with the Captain, David Penberthy, many years before this current posting, earning his unqualified respect and trust. When Peter had first reported to the ship in that now long ago age of reason before the World went mad, the ship’s executive officer — Hugo Montgommery, sadly killed at the Battle of Finisterre — had warned him, only a little tongue-in-cheek, that ‘there were only four people who have the right to give the Master a direct order; CPO McCann’s wife, God, the Captain and on a very, very good day, me.’ Hugo Montgommery had also told Peter that Spider McCann was pretty much the first man in Christendom he’d want by his shoulder in a tight corner. Hugo Montgommery had been one of those executive officers who could be a perfect tartar when he needed to be, but had been a good and firm friend of the ship’s gizmo and gadget obsessed young EWO from day one. Peter missed his old friend, choked for a moment remembering the fine times he’d had in the dead man’s company.
“Peter!”
Miles Weiss, the destroyer’s gunnery officer materialised out of thin air and began pumping his friend’s hand before he remembered himself.
“Sorry. Welcome aboard, sir!”
“Good to be back, Guns,” Peter Christopher laughed.
Lieutenant Miles Weiss was a dapper, lean man a year or so younger than his new Executive Officer. He was a bundle of restless energy who lived and breathed his work. Like Peter he was descended from a long line of naval officers and the two men had always shared a boyish, — childish, really — love of the marvellous, immensely expensive toys the Royal Navy had given them to ‘play’ with. Until the night of the October War neither of them had seriously anticipated having to fire a single shot in anger in their entire careers.
“We’ve done our best to tidy up the old girl but really she needs six months in dockyard hands to get back to her old self,” Talavera’s Gunnery Officer, and in the absence of a more senior watch keeping officer, recently her stand in Executive Officer explained at a rush while the Master at Arms rolled his eyes. “The Captain is ashore at the moment,” he went on. “At a big pow-wow at HQ.”
Peter Christopher had noted the thin grey plume of smoke rising from Talavera’s single funnel as he approached, walking past big grey warships old and new moored stem to stern along the quayside. Everywhere there was activity. Everywhere there were palettes stacked with ordinance, general stores, power and fuel lines snaking. Now he relished the almost imperceptible vibration under his feet and listened to the low thrum of the blowers.
“What have you done with that rascal Griffin?” Miles Weiss inquired, once again forgetting formalities in his delight to be reunited with his friend.
“CPO Griffin asked leave to look up a couple of ‘old muckers’ in Main Street.”
Spider McCann tried hard not to give his new Executive Officer a look which shouted: “Was that wise, sir?” And failed.
“I told him if he wasn’t onboard in a couple of hours I’d have him on a charge,” Peter told the Master at Arms, the levity draining from his face. “I gather the ship has air search and range-finding radars up and working but no other EWO capabilities?” He asked, getting straight down to business.
“That’s the size of it, sir,” the Master at Arms confirmed.
“The main battery is fully operational,” Miles Weiss added. “Unfortunately, until we get the director position sorted we’ve only got ‘local’ fire control. The good news is that engineering has its house in order. The Chief says he’s got everything in his department back up and running but obviously, we haven’t tried a high speed run yet.”
“Have we received replacements yet, Mister McCann?”
“We’re forty-three men light of war compliment, sir. We’ve still got half-a-dozen of Plymouth’s people on our roster but most of the other replacements don’t know port from starboard.”