He bounded up the ladder and found Stannard waiting outside the W/T office door. Two operators were crouched below their sets, and Petty Officer Telegraphist Hussey had also appeared to supervise them, his pyjamas clearly visible under his jacket.
He saw Lindsay and said awkwardly, ‘Was just having a nap, sir. Had a feeling something like this might happen.’ He was not bragging. Old hands often found themselves called to duty by instinct, and Lindsay had no intention of questioning it.
Lindsay asked, ‘What do you make of it?’
From the door Stannard said, ‘She gave a position, sir. I’ve got it plotted on the chart. She’s about ninety miles due north of us.’
Hussey looked up from his steel chair. ‘Someone’s acknowledged, sir.’
Lindsay bit his lip. ‘That’ll be Loch Glendhu, the other A.M.C.’
Hussey added after a pause, ‘Dead, Sir. Not getting a peep now.’
Stannard said uneasily, ‘That might mean anything.’
‘Let me see your calculations.’ Lindsay brushed past him into the chart room. In spite of the steam pipes it was damp and humid:, the panelled sides bloomed with condensation.
‘Loch Glendhu should be pretty near there, sir, according to our intelligence log.’ Stannard seemed calm again, his voice detached and professional.
Lindsay stared at the neatly pencilled lines and bearings on the chart. Loch Glendhu was bigger than Benbecula and better armed. But no match for a warship. Perhaps she would haul off and report to base for instructions.
‘Keep a permanent listening watch for her. Tell Hussey to monitor everything.’.
What the hell was a Swedish ship doing up here anyway? Probably using the Denmark Strait as a matter of safety. Bad weather was better than being sunk by mistake in the calmer waters to the south.
‘Lay off a course to intercept, Pilot.’
He recalled Fraser’s words. I can give you sixteen knots. It would take over five hours to reach the neutral ship’s position. Longer if he waited for instructions from some duty officer in the Admiralty operations’ room. Five hours for men to die beyond reach or hope.
He realised that he was sweating badly in spite of the unmoving air, could feel it running down his spine like iced water. Without effort he could see the low grey shape on the horizon, feel the breath-stopping explosions as the raider’s shells had torn steel and flesh to fragments all around him. He tried not to look at the nearest scuttle with its sealed deadlight. Tried to shut it from memory.
Lindsay asked, ‘Have you got it yet?’
Stannard put down his brass dividers and looked up from the chart. ‘Course would be zero-one-zero, sir.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Not would be, Pilot, is. Bring her round and get the chief on the telephone.’
He realised that Goss was on the bridge, his heavy face questioning and worried.
He said, ‘The A.M.C. we’re relieving is probably going to assist another ship, Number One.’
Goss nodded jerkily. ‘I know. I just heard. Neutral, isn’t she?’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘Nobody’s neutral up here.’
Stannard called, ‘The chief’s on the phone, sir.’ Lindsay took it quickly. ‘Loch Glendhu’s in trouble, Chief.’
Fraser sounded miles away. ‘I’ll give you all I’ve got. When you’re ready.’
Lindsay looked at the others. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ To Stannard he added, ‘Right. Full ahead together.’
The. telegraphs clanged over, and far below, enshrouded in rising steam on his footplate, Fraser watched the big needles swing round the twin dials and settle on FULL.
Slightly below him he saw his assistant, Lieutenant Dyke, grimacing at him and shaking his head. His lips said, ‘She’ll knock herself to bits.’
Fraser’s lips replied, ‘Bloody good job.’
Then the noise began to mount with each thrashing revolution, the machinery and fittings quivering to join in with their own particular din, and Fraser forgot Dyke and everything else but the job in hand.
4
A ship burns
Still nothing from W/T office, sir.’ Stannard sounded wary.’
Lindsay nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the ship’s labouring bows. Benbecula was no longer riding each wavecrest but smashing through the angry water like a massive steel battering ram. The spray rose in an almost unbroken curtain around the forecastle, crumbling in the wind to rain against the bridge screens like pebbles, and the motion’ was savage. Every strut and frame in the superstructure seemed to be rattling and protesting, and as the sea sluiced up and over the well deck Lindsay saw the foot of the foremast standing like an isolated pinnacle,in the great frothing white flood. He wondered briefly what the lookout would feel in his snug pod, and if the mast was quivering to the onrushing water.
A quick glance at his watch told him that they should sight something soon, if something there was. The hours since that short, feeble burst of morse had felt like days, and all the while the ship had crashed and rolled, pitched and battered her way forward into the teeth of sea and wind alike.
There was a metallic scrape above the bridge and he, imagined Maxwell in his control position testing the big rangefinder, cursing his spray-smeared-lenses. It was a good rangefinder, but in a war where weapons had long since outstripped the minds of those who planned day-today survival, it was already out of date. Even the old Vengeur had been allowed some of the better sophisticated detection equipment, and newer ships were fitted with the latest, and even more secret, gear. But Benbecula was right down at the bottom of the list as far as that was concerned. Convoy protection, anti-submarine tactics and strikes on enemy coastal resources took all the precedence, which on paper was only right. But as he stared intently- through the whirring clearview screen Lindsay’ wondered what the planners, would think if they were here on the bridge instead of their comfortable nine-tofive offices. It was almost unnerving to imagine the radio operators at this very moment, at Scapa or down in the cellars of the Admiralty. Information and calls for help or advice. A convoy massacred, a U-boat sighted, or some maddening signal about clothing issue and the need to entertain a visiting politician. The telegraphists would be hardened to all of it. Probably sitting there right now, sipping tea and chatting about their girls, the next run ashore.
He glanced quickly around the bridge. Tense and expectant, a small, sheltered world surrounded by sea noise and the creaking symphony of metal under strain.
It was all over the ship by now, and he made a mental note to arrange for the tannoy system to be extended to all decks and flats so that if necessary he could speak to every available man himself.
He tried to remember the exact layout of his command, see it like some blueprint or open plan. They were all down there listening and waiting. Hearing the sea and feeling the hull staggering as if to fall apart under them. Warm clothing and inflatable lifebelts. Those little red lights which were supposed to show where a man was drifting in the water.
Stannard said, ‘Time, sir.’ He sounded less weary now.
Alert, or maybe frightened like most of them.
Lindsay felt the sudden dryness in his throat. As I am. ‘Very well, Pilot.’
He reached forward and held his thumb on the small red button. Just a while longer he hesitated. It was their first time together. As a ship’s company. He cursed himself for his nagging anxiety and thrust hard on the button.
The alarm bells were muffled, but nevertheless he could hear them screaming away throughout the ship, and the instant clatter of feet on bridge ladders, the dull thuds of watertight doors slamming shut.
As messengers and bosun’s mates hurried to voice-pipes and telephones the reports started to come in from every position.