‘Green four-five, sir. As far as I can tell. I ‘eard metal.’
A small shudder ran through his boots and he guessed that the helm had gone over.
Then Lindsay said, ‘Keep it up, Yeo.’ Cool, unhurried, as if he was reporting on a cricket match.
Cummings whispered, ‘What d’you think, Yeo?’
Ritchie shrugged. ‘I dunno.’
He felt the sweater warm against his neck. Madge had made it for him from an old jumper she had unravelled to get the wool. He tried to control the sudden surge of emotion. He had to get used to it. Accept it. But how long would intake? Only yesterday he had heard Hussey, the PO telegraphist, describing his service in a China river gunboat before the war. He had said to himself, I’ll tell the kids about that, next leave. It was small, unguarded moments like that which left him aching and lost.
The snow whipped against his cheek in a wet mould, as with sudden force the wind swept hard across the bulwark. He dashed it from his eyes, and when he looked again he saw the other ship.
It was incredible she could be so close, that she had been there all the while. She lay diagonally across Benbecula’s line of advance, the stern towards him, her tall upperworks and poop gleaming like icing on a giant cake.
He said hoarsely, ‘Ship, sir! Fine on th’ starboard bow! Range about two cables!’
As the endless seconds dragged past he kept his eyes fixed on the other vessel. She was big right enough, probably a liner, with two funnels and a large Swedish flag painted on her side. As he watched he saw part of her upper bridge move slightly., and realised it was being lifted bodily by one of her forward derricks. The chief had heard a winch. The Germans were changing their appearance already. Preparing for their next victim. There was a sudden flurry of foam beneath her high counter where seconds earlier the enemy’s hull had rolled, drifting on the sluggish rollers.
He rasped, ‘Down, lads! She’s seen us!’ He grabbed’ Cummings’ sleeve and dragged him gasping to the deck. “Old yer ‘eads down, and keep ‘em there till I tells you different!’
Cummings lay beside him, his body only inches away, eyes filling his face as he gasped, ‘I–I’m going to be sick!’
Ritchie opened his mouth to say something but heard the sudden tinkle of bells at the nearest gun and changed his mind.
Like the yeoman, Lindsay had seen the other ship’s blurred outline with something like disbelief. Perhaps the snow was passing over, but it gave the deceptive impression of leaving one opening, an arena just large enough to contain the two ships, while beyond and all around the downpour was as thick as before.
‘Port fifteen! Full ahead both engines!’
The sharpness of his voice seemed — to break the shocked stillness in the wheelhouse, and the figures on either side of him started to move and react, as if propelled by invisible levers.
‘Midships! Steady!’
Jolliffe muttered, ‘Steady, sir. Course three-five-five.’
Voicepipes and handsets crackled on every side, and he heard Maxwell shouting, ‘Commence, commence, commence!’ And the instant reply from the fire gongs.
By turning slightly to port Lindsay had laid. the enemy on an almost parallel course some four hundred yards away. He watched the sudden flurry from her twin screws, saw her poop tilt slightly to their urgent thrust, and knew that in spite of everything his small advantage could soon be lost.
Then, with bare seconds between, the three starboard side guns opened fire. Number Three which was furthest aft fired first, and he guessed the marines had been quicker to translate the shouted instructions into action. The six-inch shell screamed past the bridge, the shockwave searing against the superstructure like an express train charging through a station. The other two guns followed almost together, the smoke pluming across the deck, the savage detonations shaking the gratings beneath Lindsay’s feet- and bringing several gasps of alarm.
‘She’s turning away!’ Lieutenant Aikman almost fell as Number Three gun hurled itself inboard on its recoil springs and sent another shell screaming across the grey water.
Tonelessly the voice of a control rating said, ‘Over. Down two hundred.’
The deck was quivering violently now as the revolutions.mounted, and the bow. wave ploughed away on either beam like a solid glass arrowhead.
‘Starboard ten.’ Lindsay dropped his eye to the gyro. ‘Midships.’ He saw droplets of his sweat falling on the protective cover. ‘Steady.’
When he raised his head again the enemy was nearer, the bearing more acute.
A bosun’s mate shouted, ‘Number Three gun ‘as ceased ased firin’, sir. Unable to-bear!’
Lindsay looked at Stannard. It could not be helped. If he hauled off again to give the marines a clear view of the enemy the other ship” would escape in the snow. She was big. About seventeen thousand tons. Big, modern and with all the power required to move her at speed.
The two forward guns, their view unimpeded by the superstructure, fired again. The long orange tongues leaping from their muzzles as the shells streaked away towards the enemy.
Through the snow, flurries Lindsay saw a brief flash, like a round red eye, and heard Maxwell yell, ‘A hit! We hit the bastard!’
She was pulling away with each second, her funnels already hidden by the snow.
Lindsay dashed his hand across his forehead and waited, counting seconds, until the guns fired once more. Longer intervals now. He pictured the shell hoists jerking up their shafts, cooks, stewards, writers and supply ratings cursing and struggling to feed the guns with those great, ungainly missiles while the hull shook around them. And in the engine and boiler rooms Fraser’s men would be hearing the explosions above the din of their machinery, watching the tall sides and praying that no shell came their way. The inrush of water, the scalding steam. Oblivion.
The snow lifted and writhed above the enemy ship, and Lindsay saw the telltale orange flash. The other captain had at last got one of his after guns to bear.
The shell hit the Benbecula’s side like a thunderclap, the shock hurling men and equipment about the bridge, while above the starboard bulwark the smoke came billowing inboard in a solid brown fog.
Lindsay gripped the voicepipes and heard splinters ripping and ricocheting through the hull, and tasted the lyddite on the cold air.
But the guns were still firing, and above the din he heard layers and trainers yelling like madmen, the rasp of steel, the clang of breech blocks before the cry, ‘Ready!’
Aikman called, ‘Damage control reports a fire on A deck, sir. Two casualties.’
‘Very well.’
Lindsay raised his glasses and studied the enemy.
Nearly gone now, her shortened outline was just a murky shadow in the snow.
He had to chance it. ‘Port ten.’ To Aikman he snapped, ‘Tell the gunnery officer to bring Number Three to bear.’
He watched the ticking gyro. ‘Midships.’ He did not wait for Jolliffe’s reply but strode to the starboard side, feeling the icy wind clawing his face through the open window.
de Chair’s gun reopened fire even as the enemy settled on the Benbecula’s starboard bow, and the shell hit her directly abaft the bridge. This time the explosion was more dramatic, and Lindsay guessed the exploding shell had also ignited either a small-arms magazine or some signal flares.
The snow seemed to glow — red and gold as the flames licked greedily around one of the tall funnels, starting more scattered explosions to litter the churned water alongside with falling fragments.
The enemy fired again, and as before her gunnery was perfect. The shell hit Benbecula’s side further aft, exploding deep inside the hull and sending white-hot splinters scything in every direction. Some burst upwards through the boat deck and cut a whaler in halves, leaving bow and stern dangling from the davits like dead fruit.