Between The Hunters And The Hunted (5 page)

Chapter 5
Aboard H.M.S.
Firedancer
, escorting Convoy
EBX-740, the North Sea
 
Captain George Hardy was blinded as the detonation destroyed his night vision and devoured the darkness. An instant later the shock wave from the exploding freighter shook
Firedancer
viciously. Flaming debris shot crazily into the air, fantastically graceful arcs of fire that ended abruptly in the coal-black North Atlantic.
Hardy clapped the 7x50 Barr and Stroud binoculars to his eyes, straining to make out the dying vessel across the columns of the convoy.
“Bridge, W.T. Bridge, W.T.,” the wireless/telegrapher operator called through one of the brass voice tubes banded together on
Firedancer
's tiny bridge.
Lieutenant George Land, number one of
Firedancer
, pulled one flap up of the Russian sealskin helmet. He had been feeling sorry for himself because he was tired and cold, and the oil-skinned duffel, overcoat, oilskins, scarves, balaclavas, and that damned helmet didn't help keep the frigid air of the North Atlantic from stealing into his body. All that was gone now. Men were dying out there.
“Bridge, W.T. What is it?”
“Merchant ship
Mecoy
struck by torpedo. Requests immediate assistance.”
Hardy, his grim features frozen in the phosphorescent glow of the emergency action station switch, shot Land a glance before the officer could speak. “We do not leave this station, Number One, until ordered to do so. Has he heard from Captain D?”
Land leaned into the voice tube. “W.T. Bridge. Have you any orders from Captain D?” The captain in command of the destroyer flotilla would have to give them permission to abandon their station and precede either to the assistance of the
Mecoy
, or to hunt for the U-boat.
“Nothing, sir,” W.T. replied.
Land looked at Hardy, who merely turned away. “Right,” Land said softly into the tube. How heartless could the man be? Couldn't he signal Captain D and request permission to leave his station and go help those poor bastards on the
Mecoy
? They couldn't last more than a minute or two in the freezing water.
Another blast tore the darkness far on the port beam of H.M.S. Firedancer. Land found that he could not help himself; his eyes were drawn to the bright death that glowed seductively in the night. He noticed Hardy watching as well and wondered what the man must be thinking.
“St. Luke, Number One, chapter fifteen, verse four,” Hardy said into the darkness, but it was obviously meant for Number One. “‘What man of you having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the other ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost until he find it?'” Hardy adjusted his duffel and pulled his scarf tight around his neck. “Well? Are you that type of officer?”
“Bridge, W.T. St. John struck by a torpedo. Captain D advises he expects an attack in
Firedancer
's quadrant.”
Hardy leaned over the voice tube, his eyes still on Land. “Reply, ‘Signal acknowledged. Standing by.' Well, Number One. I see by your silence that you have not made a decision. ‘Indecision' is not good enough out here. ‘Indecision,'” Hardy added, “kills sailors and sinks ships.”
Land felt warmth spread over him despite the cold as he fought back his anger. There were times when he found Hardy tolerable and once or twice he actually enjoyed the man's company. There were other times, most of the time in fact, when he couldn't stand to be around the sharp-tongued, ill-mannered officer.
Hardy slid the binoculars to his eyes again and said, “We'll speak about it again when you do know how to make decisions.”
 
 
Chief Torpedo Gunner's Mate Sandy Baird, standing next to the MK 1 Depth Charge Rail sandwiched between the two TSDS Davits at
Firedancer
's stern, removed his gloves, blew on his fingertips, and examined the fuses in the six depth charges. His shivering crew, bundled in every bit of clothing that they owned so that they looked more like a band of unemployed dock workers than sailors of the Royal Navy, stood near him, awaiting orders. “‘The Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty hereby appoint you captain of His Majesty's Ship
Firedancer
and direct you to repair on board that ship.'” He slipped on his gloves. “Now of course,” he continued, as the men around him tried to rub some warmth into their torsos, “everyone bloody well knows that you've got a case of the shakes. And everyone bloody well knows that your Jimmy the One—”
Another explosion racked the
St. John
, and Baird's eyes narrowed in hatred as he watched the flames roll into the darkness. “That your Jimmy the One,” he continued, using lower-deck slang for Number One, “is sailing ‘two balls at the yardarm.'”
“What's—” Seaman Tommy Blessing began.
“‘Not under control,'” Torpedo Gunner's Mate Engleman said. “Sandy there knows all there is to know about our officers, Sandy does. Ain't that right, Sandy?”
“Young Seaman Tommy has a right to know,” Baird said. “It wasn't long ago that the lad was just a boy seaman straight off of H.M.S. Ganges, and God bless all that sailed on her.”
“You men,” Sublieutenant Morrison said, “quit your loafing and make ready in case we're called in.”
“Right you are, sir,” Baird said sharply, and then watched as Morrison made his way along the starboard gangway to the Y-throwers. “Lord Nelson himself come back to life.”
“Sandy's never had a kind word for anyone,” Engleman said to Blessing. “How he's managed to stay chief torps this long is a mystery. Every P. R. O. in Andrews wants a short talk in a dark room with Torps Baird. Enemies he's got all right. Thirty years of them.”
The deck telephone rang three times in quick succession. Sublieutenant Morrison slid back along the icy deck and barely stopped himself long enough to pick up the receiver.
“Depth Charge, Morrison.”
Baird felt a change in the timbre of the ship's engines and a slight list to starboard as
Firedancer
changed course. He smiled at the others and gave them a thumbs-up. They were going after U-boats now.
Morrison laid the receiver down on the cradle, his face strangely white and pinched with fatigue. He was afraid, Baird knew, maybe not afraid of the enemy or even death, but chances there was some of that for sure. He was afraid of not doing his job and doing it properly—he was afraid of letting his chaps down.
Ah, he's a boy
, Baird told himself in a brief moment of understanding, but then the chief torps realized the truth of the matter: there was no place for boys in this business. They came to Andrews all proper and polished, stiff with loyal indignation and clear faces and pressed uniforms. Boys, just boys.
“Depth Charge Party, close up!” Morrison shouted, trying to sound brave. “Captain's orders. Spread of six at his command. Depth, 150 feet. Baird, see to it. I'll notify the Y-mounts.”
“Yes, sir,” Baird said, digging into his duffel and pulling out the depth-charge-setting key that hung from a chain around his neck. “All right, chaps. Remove the blocks.” Wooden blocks were used to wedge the fuses in place prior to dropping the charges. It prevented premature explosion of the squat drums packed with three hundred pounds of TNT. When that happened it would be a brush and shovel job. If the explosion didn't sink the ship, that would be the only way to retrieve the bloody pieces of the men's bodies from the scorched and twisted stern of a smoldering hulk.
Baird knelt down, inserted the key into the tumbler, and dialed 150 feet. When he stood he noticed the others watching him nervously. They'd never been in battle before. Most where Hostilities Only and they depended on the leadership, wisdom, and just the physical presence of Active Service men like Baird, Engleman, and the others. Even Jimmy the One and Morrison were H.O. And Hardy? Hardy was Active Service and had come out of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, but there were too many questions about him. It was said that he'd taken a corvette into some French port and had it out with German tanks but then his nerves began to fail him. No one could say for sure that's what happened, but the fact that it was even reason for talk belowdecks over a steaming hot cup of kye was cause for concern. Baird and his chaps could forgive anything except a man on the bridge that they did not respect.
Baird forced himself to laugh. “Is it a wake you're going to? Why, we'll have this over in no time and then it's Splice the Main Brace. Rum is bound to make anyone feel better. Even our own Lord Nelson.”
Firedancer
rolled to starboard again and the deck danced beneath their feet as the engines increased. Then there was a quick turn to port and another shift to starboard.
“Well,” Baird said loudly with a confidence that he did not feel, “the old man has found something, all right. Maybe old George is a proper seaman, after all.”
There was an explosion a thousand yards on the starboard bow and Baird watched with amazement as a tanker disintegrated in a mass of flames. He could think of nothing else except the word
volcano
, although he'd never seen one or even a moving picture of one, but he'd heard talk of them and they must surely look like this. The fire was alive and feeding on the ship as if it had been imprisoned at one time within the ship's hull and now suddenly let loose and wanted to destroy with a vengeance the thing that held it captive. It rolled and licked and boiled high into the air, over the deck and superstructure, and dripped from the ship's scuppers into the inky water. This must be hell.
The telephone rang again and Morrison was at it in an instant.
“Depth Charge Station, Morrison.”
The others waited, watching for any hint of action from Morrison's face.
The tanker continued to explode, showering the surrounding sea with flame.
“God help those poor sailors,” Baird heard Engleman whisper. He turned his attention back to Morrison. He could see the telephone receiver tremble in the young officer's hand.
“Yes, sir. Right, sir. We're ready, sir.” Morrison's eyes found Baird's in an unspoken plea.
Baird turned quickly. “All right, you Jack-my-Hearties, stand by. Smartly now or it's over the side with the depth charges you go. When these splash I want six more on the rack faster than you can light a Woodbine.” He made sure that his crew was in place before turning back to Morrison. The officer replied with a tiny nod, or perhaps it was nothing more than a tremble. Suddenly his hand tightened on the receiver.
“Yes, sir,” he said and then raised his arm and shouted to the crew. “On my mark!” Baird gripped the gate release handle and rested his foot on the gate lock pedal.
“Now!” Morrison shouted.
Baird stomped on the pedal and jerked the lever back. The gate flew open and depth charges began to roll out of the rack. He heard the sharp crash of the port and starboard Y-throwers as the charges propelled the depth charges far away from
Firedancer
and into the darkness. The depth charges at his feet clattered down the track, a tiny train in motion, and suddenly they were gone. He knew that somewhere in the darkness below him they sank innocently, indifferent to the cold.
Astern, the sea boiled and vomited white, throwing frothy water far into the air. Immediately after there was a low boom in the darkness as the sound of the explosion reached the surface. The depth charges from the Y-throwers exploded seconds after and Baird felt the exhilaration of battle—that sharp, hot burst of power that tightens your muscles as taut as bowstrings.
Training does it—routine, step after step until it becomes as natural as breathing. Rote, don't think, don't consider, fall into the rhythm of action until nothing exists but the immediacy of duty. Training does it—make sure that everyone knows where to be and what to do and when to do it so that no moment, no movement is lost. Flesh-and-blood machines, Baird called them, unfeeling beasts whose shouts and commands fill the air to accompany the sounds of actual machines swinging into action.
He looked at Morrison for further orders and saw the officer hang the receiver in the cradle with a dejected look.
“We're to stand down,” Morrison said morosely.
“Stand down?” Baird said.
Morrison exploded. “Yes, damn you!” He was turning to make his way to the Y-mounts when he stopped and looked back. “And you'll address me as sir, Chief Torpedo Gunner's Mate Baird! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Baird said, “it is.” Torps Baird cocked an eyebrow at his depth charge party and pulled a packet of Churchman's Number 1's from his duffel.
Blessing's eyes grew large as Torps lit the cigarette.
“That's a captain's table for sure. Smoking without permission.”
“Oh, and you think Johnny's going to pick out my Churchman in the light of a burning tanker?” Baird shook his head in disgust, snuffed out the cigarette, and threw the carcass over the side. “Here? Engleman. Go track down Lord Nelson and see if he wants us to reload these racks.” After Engleman left, Baird took Blessing by the shoulders. “Boy Seaman, I'm twenty-eight years in Andrews and this is the closest that I've ever been to a goat fuck. Heed my words, Boy Seaman, for every word is true and certain. If we come out of anything that we go into, it won't be because of the sawdust heads on the bridge.” He blew a breath and watched the vapor snatched up and carried over the stern. “Next time that we tie up I'll sign aboard as a counter hand at a wet fish shop in Clacton.”

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