For Valour (26 page)

“That's done it, sir!” The tall stoker with an extinguisher peered slit-eyed through the smoke, his face blackened by it. “Hope our mess is OK!”

Seton clung to a ladder and peered around. Every thought was a physical effort. He could even recall the instructor's voice, explaining patiently about the risk of fire breaking out through forced ventilation.

He said, “Close the vents. Try and pack those holes with—” He stared at some scattered clothing. “That'll do!”

Then they backed away, holding on to one another while the deck swayed over and then reared up again.

They wedged home the clips and Seton said, “Tell T/S, messdeck fire is out. Request instructions.”

Another small party of men dashed into the forecastle, Sub-Lieutenant Barlow in the lead. He stared at the sealed door and then at Seton.

“You did it! Bloody good!” Then he seized his arm. “What is it? Were you hit?” Over his shoulder, he said sharply, “First aid party, chop chop!”

Seton wanted to clutch his groin, crush the pain, destroy it. But all he could say was, “No! I'm
all right!
Leave it!”

They all threw themselves flat as more shells exploded, seemingly on either beam. A straddle?

Seton pulled himself to the side and pressed his forehead on to the freezing metal. He felt splinters cracking into the hull, or maybe higher up, and another terrible sound. Someone screaming on and on, scraping his brain. Until, just as abruptly, it stopped.

Barlow straightened up. “Follow me! Mid, you can stay here.” He hesitated, not the competent officer but more like the schoolboy again. “If you're sure, Alan?”

Seton managed to nod. The pain was leaving. Releasing him once more.

“Fine! We're doing fine here!”

The communications rating shouted, “Help wanted aft, sir! Wardroom!”

Someone gasped, “Share-an'-share alike, eh, lads!”

They ran aft, ducking as a shell burst beyond the drifting mist, or was it smoke? Seton could not be sure of anything. But he saw the flash, and swung round with shocked surprise as one of the party was hurled from his feet.

Seton dropped beside him and gripped his arm. So short. Was that all it took?

The man was probably a stoker; he did not recognize him. Only the face, so pale through the smoky grime, the eyes filling it.

And just two words.
“Help . . . me.”

Someone dragged Seton away. “Bought it, sir. Best leave him, or you'll be next!”

Seton paused only once, as the ship heaved over yet again, her forward guns firing so closely together that it sounded like one massive shot.

The dead man lay where they had left him, but as the deck went over his arm seemed to move, like a casual salute. In some ways it was the worst part.

The wardroom was being used as a refuge for the wounded. The doctor, Morrison, was in his shirtsleeves, some thread in his teeth, his gloved fingers bright with blood. Others lay or squatted where they could. Plonker Pryor was bandaging a man's hand, his expression totally absorbed.

Morrison glanced up and said, “Shell hit the cooks' and stewards' mess.” He jerked his head. “Through there. See if there are any more casualties.” Then he looked at the man he was treating and said, “Well,
that
was a waste of time!” He lowered the man's shoulders to the deck and crawled over to the next one.

It was then that he realized that Seton had not moved. Even when another detonation shook the ship, he merely put out one hand to steady himself.

Morrison said, “I gather your father is pretty big in the service. An admiral, no less!” He studied the man he was about to examine. “He'll be damn proud of you after all this!”

Another explosion made him hold his breath, but above it he could hear men yelling; it could even be cheering. He shook his head. Impossible. Strange, too, about the midshipman. He could have sworn that he was laughing when he left the wardroom.

Martineau lowered his head as spray cascaded into the bridge. This time he could taste the explosive.

He stared at the gyro repeater.
Concentrate. Concentrate.

Hakka
had been hit twice, with several near misses, one of which had been only a few yards from the engine room.

The two enemy destroyers had separated after Driscoll had managed a straddle with the first salvo. They doubtless realized that
Java
was no real danger, that she was damaged in some way. Both ships fired again and again, while
Hakka
weaved back and forth, her jagged wake marked again and again by the enemy's fall of shot.

The range was down to three miles, even less, the visibility so bad that even when one of the German destroyers showed itself it was swallowed up almost as quickly.

He tore his eyes away and stared aft along his ship. Splinter holes and scars, the whaler blown to fragments in its davits, blood thinning in the drifting spray to mark where someone had been cut down.

It could not go on. Just one of those five-inch shells could alter the balance.

He gasped as the bridge shook as if to tear itself free of the ship. Over the side he could see the port Oerlikon pointing at the clouds. Its gunner, still strapped in his harness, was headless.

There was a lot of smoke, and he pulled himself to the screen as a voice croaked, “Wheelhouse hit, sir!”

Then another voice. Somehow he knew it was Forward.

“Helm's not answering, sir.”

Martineau called, “Switch to after emergency steering!” Fairfax would deal with it. He gritted his teeth. If he was still alive.

“A hit, sir!” Driscoll sounded totally absorbed.
“Direct hit!”

It was taking too long. Martineau looked for Arliss, but he was sprawled by the bridge gate, a hole in the back of his helmet you could put your fist through. Kidd stared at him from the opposite side and gave what might have been a shrug.

“Torpedoes running to port!”

Martineau gripped the side, his body bunched up, like that other time. Waiting for the crash. He stared with disbelief as the torpedoes, which must have been at minimum setting, shot past and into the smoke. Three of them, perhaps four.

The explosion was dull, muffled, but it was followed by another which seemed to tear the mist and smoke apart.

Kidd could barely speak. “
Java.
She came to join anyway!”

Men were cheering. Wild. Scarcely able to believe what had happened.

“Starboard ten.”

“Wheelhouse, sir.” It was Forward. “Helm's answering again. Ten of starboard wheel on!”

“What about the cox'n?”

Forward was heard to cough. “Sorry, sir. The cox'n was wounded, sir. I've got young Wishart sitting on him to keep him still!”

Martineau looked at the sea as it raced past. As it had been doing since his first order.

“Half ahead together. Cease firing.” He raised his glasses to see the
Java
poking through the smoke: he watched her until his eyes smarted, and he had to look away.
We will never give in.

He looked at the dead signals officer, and knew he would have to discover how many
Hakka
had lost.

There were no more shells from the enemy. The second destroyer had obviously thought it unwise to continue with the attack.

Martineau crossed the bridge as a lookout called, “Lights in the water, starboard bow!”

“Slow ahead together. Tell the first lieutenant to lower scrambling nets.”

He leaned out over the screen to watch the dark shapes being swept past the ship, their little lifebelt lights marking both the living and those who had already given in.

Kidd said harshly, “I'd leave the bastards right there!”

Martineau touched his arm, and felt him jump. “Remember what you once said to young Seton, Pilot? Like looking at yourselves, wasn't it?”

A few responded, seizing the nets and heaving lines, unable yet to accept what was happening. Some held on, but only for a moment, their eyes already glassy as the cold killed their remaining strength.

And some were able to climb up unaided, where they took blankets and cigarettes without a word being exchanged.

Perhaps it was better never to see your enemy face to face. From the upper bridge, you really could not tell the difference.

As the way fell off the ship the motion became more pronounced and the sounds of repair and recovery intruded even into the shuttered wheelhouse.

The coxswain sat in one corner, his elbow propped on a locker as he tried to see and hear what was happening while Wishart finished fastening the bandage around his leg. A seaman lay on the opposite side, his face covered with a signal flag, his feet tapping to the movement of the deck, as if he was snatching a rest. The blood said otherwise.

Others crept in through the trapped smoke, to peer at the bright punctures in the steel plating before taking over from the dead and injured. Hammers were banging everywhere, and the Buffer's powerful voice could be heard above all of it, urging, threatening, encouraging. A seaman looked up and remarked, “Gawd, 'e'd survive the bloody flood, that one!”

Bob Forward wiped his eyes with his sleeve, watching the compass, his whole body tensed like a spring. The crash of gunfire, the sound of water thundering inboard from the explosions had seemed endless. He looked at the wheelhouse clock. Less than half an hour. He had heard the cheering, even caught a brief glimpse of
Java
as she had shown herself through the murk and smoke, empty torpedo tubes still trained abeam. She had fired at extreme range, a full salvo. It had paid off.

He found that he was grinning, and had to contain it. He would not be able to stop.

He saw big Bill Spicer peering up at him, his teeth gritted against the pain. A small splinter of Krupp steel. Not fatal, but it must hurt like hell. And the ship was still answering well. When the steering had failed, he had thought it was all over. Steering from aft was no use in a battle. It took too long.

He glanced around the wheelhouse; the fans were at last clearing away the smoke. It looked worse than it was. The dockyard mateys would soon cover the holes and hammer out the dents. Paint would do the rest.

A seaman carrying a box marked with red crosses peered in, then stood stock-still when he saw the man with his face covered by a flag. The coxswain watched him, and said painfully, “No use, Fuller. He's gone.”

The seaman nodded. It said it all.

Forward had known both of them; they belonged to the next mess. It was always rotten to lose a friend, someone who had shared everything or borrowed occasionally when things were a bit rough.

He looked over at Wishart. He had done a good job with the bandage, learned it in the Boy Scouts, he had explained. And nobody had laughed at him. Some of them could learn a lot from him, he thought.

Spicer said, “You've done your trick, Forward. Time to stand down.”

Forward smiled. Not much wrong with him, either.

Lieutenant Kidd had arrived now, with a dark smudge on his cheek and flecks of broken paint in his beard. He looked at Wishart and said, “Well done. I don't need you just yet.” He nodded to the coxswain. “I'll get you moved aft where the doc can fix you up.”

“I'd rather stay here until . . .”

But Kidd did not seem to hear him. It must have been as bad as it had sounded up on the bridge.

A boatswain's mate asked, “Where are we goin', sir?”

Kidd was looking at the dead seaman, his friend standing by the door, unable or unwilling to accept it.

He said, “Back to Scapa. When we get the word.
Java
too.”

But he was thinking of Arliss, the signals expert. Why did death have to be so ugly?

It was dragging at his insides, his nerves, like claws. It was always the aftermath, and yet this seemed worse in some way.

He thought of the little hotel, her arms wrapped around him. It had made everything so different, so vulnerable, when before they would just have lined up the pints and drowned the madness and the hate.

He thought too of what Fairfax had said about getting a command. He reached out and touched the plot table. He could not help it. He did not know or care if the others were watching as he said quietly, “You'll do me, my girl. That's how it's going to be.”

With half the ship's company once more at defence stations, the work of clearing up continued. But the guns were cleaned and the ready-use ammunition replenished. The dead were removed either from where they had been killed, or where they had lost the fight in the wardroom and sickbay. Eventually Fairfax, looking tired and strained, reported to the bridge. Nine men had been killed and thirteen wounded, three seriously. To the people who collected the statistics of the war at sea it might not sound too bad, out of a ship's company of a hundred and ninety. But in the crowded and confined world of a fighting destroyer it was a loss which was hard to brush aside. They were too close, too interdependent for that.