‘Number Six gun closed up!’
‘Number Four gun closed up!’
‘Damage control party closed up!’
The mingled voices and terse acknowledgements sounded unreal, tinny. Through the drifting spray he saw’ crouching figures hurrying towards the forward guns, and could almost feel the icy metal of shell hoists and breeches.
Stannard said, ‘Ship closed up at action stations, sir.
Lindsay eyed him searchingly. ‘Good. Three minutes. Not at all bad.’
He swivelled in the chair and looked at the figures which had filled the bridge. His team for whatever would happen next.
Jolliffe on the wheel, wiping condensation off the gyro repeater with his sleeve. Quartermasters and messen ‘gers, signalmen, with Ritchie gripping a flag locker while he adjusted his night glasses. Stannard and young Dancy, and Lieutenant Aikman, listed as boarding officer, ready to fight, die, go mad, anything.
He turned back to the whirring screen. Goss was in damage control. All spare stokers and extra hands with him ready to shore up bulkheads, put out fires, hold the ship together with bare hands if necessary. And Goss was far enough from’the bridge to survive and assume command. should Lindsay fall dead or wounded. It was practical not to put all your eggs in one basket. Practical, but hardly comforting.
He thought of the marine lieutenant, de Chair, down aft with his two six-inch guns and the feeble twelve pounder. If he was inwardly resentful at being quarters officer of an ancient battery in an A.M.C. he gave no hint of it. Elegant, deceptively casual, he would be more use leading his marines in open combat, bethought.
Stannard replaced a handset. ‘Nothing from masthead, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Another glance at his watch. ‘Reduce to half speed.’
No.sense now in shaking the machinery to pieces. He felt the chair quiver with something like relief as the telegraphs clanged their reply.
The Swedish ship might be sunk, or in the confusion had given the wrong position. The enemy could have realised his mistake and ceased fire and already be many miles away, steaming for home like a guilty assassin.
And there had been no signal from Loch Glendhu either. But up here in the Denmark Strait you could never rely on anything. Only eyes, ears and bloody instinct, as someone had once told him.
The screen was squeaking more loudly, and he realised the glass was being scattered with larger, paler blobs than mere spray.
Stannard muttered, ‘Bloody snow. That’s just about all we need!’
It was more sleet than snow, but it could get worse, and if it froze the gun crews would be hard put to do anything.
The wavecrests were less violent, the troughs wider spaced, and he guessed the snow would be coming very soon now. He shuddered inwardly and wondered if the German, invasion of Russia was facing this kind of weather. In spite of everything he was suddenly thankful to be here, enclosed by the ship, and not slogging through frozen mud, waist-deep in slush. A ship was a home as much as a weapon. A soldier fought often without knowing where he was, or if he was alone and already considered expendable by the master-minds of war.
The telephone made him flinch in his seat.
Stannard snapped, ‘Very well. Good. Keep reporting.” Then to Lindsay, ‘Masthead reports a red glow, sir. Fine on the port bow.’
Before he could reply the speaker at the rear of the bridge intoned, ‘Control …‘Bridge.’ It was Maxwell’s voice, unhurried and toneless. ‘Red two-oh. Range onedouble-oh. A ship on fire.’
Lindsay swung his glasses to the screen. Nothing. Maxwell’s spotters had done well to see it in such bad visibility. He slid from the chair and lowered his eye to the glowing gyro repeater.
‘Port ten.’
‘Port ten, sir. Ten of port wheel on, sir.’ Jolliffe’s voice was heavy. Like the man.
‘Midships. Steady. Steer three-four-zero.’ To Stannard he added, ‘I hope your people know their stuff. I’m going to need a good plotting team when we clear this lot.’
He picked up another telephone and heard Maxwell’s voice right in his ear.
‘Guns, this is the captain. I’ll not take chances. A diagonal approach so that you can get all-the starboard battery to bear, right?’
Maxwell understood. ‘Starshell on One, sir?’
‘Yes.’
He heard the distant voices of the control team already rapping out ranges and bearings to the crews below.
‘And you did well to find her. Loch Glendhu must have misread the. signal, or buzzed off in pursuit.’
He replaced the telephone.
Dancy reported, ‘Number One has loaded with starshell, sir.’
The gunnery speaker again. ‘All guns load, load, load, semi-armour-piercing!’
Lindsay had taken out his pipe without realising it and gripped it in his teeth so hard that the pain helped to steady him.
‘Now, Pilot. Bring her round to three-two-five.’
Even as the wheel went over the speaker said, ‘Range now oh-eight-oh.’
Four miles. But in this driving sleet it could have been a hundred. Lindsay concentrated his mind on the voices which muttered and squeaked on every line and speaking tube. He recalled the brand-new sub-lieutenants, down there acting as quarters officers on the forward armament. The seasoned gunlayers and trainers knew what to do if anyone did, and the young officers were there to learn rather than do much more.
But Lindsay knew from bitter experience that time was not always kind. In the Vengeur he had seen one of thefour-inch guns manned by a midshipman, two stokers and a cook when its real crew had been ripped to bloody remnants under an air attack. You could never rely on time.
‘There it is!’ Stannard craned forward. ‘Starboard bow, sir!’
Lindsay held up his glasses and saw the flickering glow for the first time. It was reflected more in the low clouds than on the water, and the thickening sleet made even that difficult.
Stannard added grimly, ‘The starshell’ll scare the hell out of the poor bastards.’
‘Better that than make a bad approach. If the.snow comes down we might lose her altogether.’
Maxwell’s voice sounded muffled as he spoke into his array of handsets. ‘Number One gun. Range oh-sevenfive.’ One of the sub-lieutenants must have interrupted him for he rasped savagely, ‘Listen, for God’s sake. Bearing is still Green oh-five, now get on with it!’
The crash came almost before the speaker had gone dead again, the sound of the shot coming inboard on the wind like a double explosion. When the shell burst it was momentarily like some strange electric storm. Lindsay realised that the gunlayer had applied too much elevation so the flare had burst in or above the clouds. Their, bellies shone through the sleet like silver, and then as the, flare drifted into view the sea was bathed with the hard, searing glare of a glacier.
The ship was already well down in the water, her tilting hull shining in the harsh glare, the smoke from her blazing interior pouring downwind in one solid plume, black and impenetrable. The fires were very low now, although here and there along the hull fresh outbursts shot skyward, hurling sparks and glowing embers’ across the water like tracers.
The flare was almost gone. ‘Another!’ Lindsay could not take his eyes from the dying ship. Knowing he was right. Willing otherwise. Sweating.
A door banged open and Mr. Tobey, the boatswain, entered the wheelhouse, the icy air following him as he sought out Lindsay’s figure.
‘Beg pardon, sir. I was just wonderin’. If those poor devils which is still alive can’t understand our lingo, ‘ow will we make ‘em understand what we’re Join’?’ He did not see Lindsay’s frozen expression. ‘I got my people ready at the rafts and lines.’
Stannard said quietly, ‘The midshipr..an on my plotting team can speak Swedish, I believe, sir.’