Smith thought he could hear the crackling of the drifter as she burned herself out. He could certainly smell her, tar- and wood-smoke over the reek of the cordite that still hung about the bridge.
He turned up his face to the sky, wincing, hearing now the whistle that was faint but became piercing, grew to a shriek that ripped overhead. The shell burst in the sea a cable’s length to seaward of the drifter and the height of the water-spout it threw up showed it to be a biggish gun, six- or eight-inch. That would be from one of the batteries north of Nieuport.
Now Smith bellowed, “Get ’em in, Mr. Sanders!”
“All secure, sir!”
“Full astern port! Slow ahead starboard!” And as the engineroom telegraphs clanged he threw at Gow, “Port five!” Sparrow’s screws churned, she turned tightly and Smith watched her head come around. “Stop port…Slow ahead port…Starboard five!”
“Starboard five, sir!”
“Meet her…Steady!”
Sparrow headed for the Judy’s boat and Smith leaned out over the screen again to shout at Sanders in the waist, “Get ready to do your stuff, Sub! And this time really fast! Haul ’em in!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Smith snapped, “Stop both!” Again the way came off Sparrow as she ran down on the boat and again she lay and wallowed in the beam sea. Smith held his breath as another shell howled overhead and burst to seaward of the drifter. He swallowed. But the boat was hooked on to the netting and the crew of the drifter were scrambling up and tumbling inboard. One man was hauled up on a line; Smith saw them yank him up and in like a sack of potatoes, a dozen hands grabbing at him.
“All secure, sir!” Sanders yelled it. Then he added, “An’ they picked up the airman, sir!”
That may have been the man on the line. Smith thought the airman was lucky to be alive — and aboard, because Sparrow could not search for anyone now she was under fire. “Full ahead both! Port ten!” The sooner he got them all out of these waters the better, but first he had to claw out to seaward of Judy so Sparrow would no longer be silhouetted against the glow of the drifter for the gunners ashore. “Ease to five…Midships!..Steady! Steer that!”
Sparrow ran past the drifter that could not last long, had lasted too long for Smith’s liking, passed down her port side then left her astern. “Port five. Half ahead both…Midships. Steady. Two-four-oh.”
Gow answered, “Course two-four-oh, sir!”
Sparrow headed back towards the West Deep and the Smal Bank. A minute or so later the drifter Judy sank. The glow of her was snuffed out like a candle as the sea claimed her. There were no more shells from the guns at Nieuport; they could not see a target.
Dunbar clambered up to the bridge, his head wrapped around with a white bandage, his cap stuck atop of it on the back of his head. Smith looked at him closely, saw his face pale as the bandage and asked him. “Are you all right?”
“Well enough, sir.” Dunbar put a hand to the bandage, tenderly. “I had a hell of a headache to start with. Being thrown off the bridge hasn’t helped it.” He glanced at Smith. “Good thing you were here, sir. After three years we finally sank a U-boat and I was down in my bunk with Brodie tying my head up.”
Smith shrugged. “You started the attack, anyway. After that your lads just did it by the book.” He did not have to lift his voice for all of them on the bridge to hear him. “You’ve certainly worked them up well. They’ve probably called you all sorts of a slave-driving bastard in the last three years — but now all is forgiven.” He saw the look-out grinning and heard the killick of the twelve-pounder snort with laughter.
“Glad we got her, anyway.” But Dunbar did not sound as though he cared very much. He looked around. “I’m the better for being up here where I can breathe. And it’s quieter. I looked in the wardroom and it’s crammed full o’ bodies. Brodie’s got his hands full although he’s got the cook to help him. I told Sanders to stay there.”
Smith said, “They’re coping?” It was more statement than question and Dunbar nodded. Smith thought that was how it was when you served in ships that were wrong for the job they were set, or built for the war of a generation ago. You had to act the doctor with a first-aid manual and a prayer. You coped. You had to.
Dunbar went on, “The drifter lost two men. When she caught alight her skipper went below to fetch up the engineer — she’d taken a hit in the engine-room. Neither of them came out. The airman seems all right, though I understand they had to bring him up on a line. He doesn’t know what happened to his observer but he must have gone down with the Harry Tate. One of Judy’s crew has a broken leg. Sanders set a sentry over the two Germans, though I can’t see them giving trouble. One of them is a seaman but the other is the boat’s captain.”
Smith said, “Is he, by God!” It was not often that a U-boat captain was taken prisoner.
“Aye.” Dunbar nodded his head, winced and put a hand to it. “Brodie reckons the German skipper hasn’t got long and I think he’s right. He keeps coughing up blood and ranting and raving at the top of his voice. Sanders knows a bit of German and he says its gibberish. The man’s delirious. I told Sanders to sit with him.”
Smith nodded. “I’d better see that young airman. You’re fit to stand a watch?”
“Aye. Better up here than laying down there, thinking —” Dunbar stopped, then went on shortly, “I’ll take her, sir.”
Better on the bridge than lying below, thinking of his wife and child. He had not mentioned them but he did not need to. Smith never heard Dunbar mention them again. Smith said, “Course is two-four-oh. You’ve another seven minutes on this leg — Lorimer’s keeping the track. Nieuport on the port bow.” He thought a moment then added, “You’d better get a signal off to the Commodore and Dunkerque, saying we’re on our way to the rendezvous, we’ve got the pilot and sunk a U-boat. Tell Dunkerque to repeat it to the R.N.A.S. at St. Pol. They’ll want to know about the pilot.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Well, they were shouting for anti-submarine action. You gave it to ’em quick enough.”
Smith blinked. He had not thought of that. But he wanted to be away. He clambered down the ladder from the bridge to the iron deck and started aft, his legs loose and barely controlled. His hands had begun to tremble as they always did at this time, when the action was over. He thrust them in his pockets.
Behind him on the bridge Dunbar took a deep breath and blew it out. Gow cocked an eye at him. “Reckon we’ve got a live one, sir.”
“I won’t argue with you on that,” Dunbar answered grimly. “Not after tonight.”
And in the darkness at the back of the bridge, Buckley grinned.
Smith passed the starboard side six-pounder, its crew still excited, joking and laughing. One of them saw him stride by quickly with his hands driven deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, his face a pale smudge in the darkness, and unsmiling. The man stared but then Smith became aware of him and forced a smile. The seaman returned it and as he watched Smith’s retreating back he wondered if he’d imagined that haunted look on the Commander’s face.
Smith kept the grin on his face as he passed the after sixpounder, waved a hand at the torpedo-gunner and his party who were securing the depth-charges in the stern, and then dropped down the hatch, sliding down the ladder to the wardroom flat. He stood again at the foot of the ladder in the narrow empty space between the captain’s cabin and the wardroom, slumped there for a minute with his folded arms on the ladder, eyes closed. But he could still see the gun flashes and the burning drifter, could still hear the crackling and smell the smoke of her that mixed with the cordite’s tang. He could see again the twelvepounder recoiling, the holes punched in the skin of the U-boat and how she had gone down with most of her crew trapped inside her. He could imagine that, the sea falling in and filling the compartments.