Ship of Force (13 page)

Always now when she sailed she did so with Galt playing his mouth-organ. ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the sea-side!’ Again that was at Smith’s order but Dunbar grinned at it. That was a rare sight. Dunbar was a more patient man these days but taciturn, unsmiling. He never mentioned his wife and child in all the long hours he shared the bridge with Smith. And Smith was aboard
Sparrow
on every patrol, with Buckley as a lookout or taking a trick at the wheel.

There was a bombardment when a dozen of
Sparrow
’s crew worked in
Marshall Marmont’s
turret and tasted the swallowing claustrophobia of entombment in an anchored ship under fire from big guns. The monitor made excellent shooting.

Finally
Sparrow
and
Marshall Marmont
formed part of the escort of a ‘beef’ convoy. Those convoys from neutral Holland to the Thames and the East coast carried beef but also butter, cheese and other foods. There was a theory it was purchased to stop the Germans buying it, an extension of the blockade, but Britain needed that food. The monitor was there only because the ships of the convoy were so old and slow that she was able to keep up. They joked that it was the slowest convoy of the war, or any other war, but when one ancient tramp was torpedoed it was
Marshall Marmont
who took the crippled ship in tow and
Sparrow
who shepherded them home.

McGraw bawled across from
Sparrow
when once during the tow she ran close alongside the monitor. “Ye cannae fool me! Yon tramp’s pushin’ ye!” And the men of
Marshall Marmont
laughed. They knew McGraw now as he knew them.

When they returned to Dunkerque the monitor’s engines broke down, she had to be towed to her anchorage in the Roads and her engineers said it was a job for the dockyard, but still they were a happy company. The ships were the same but the men were changed.

It was close to noon on what should have been a summer’s day. It was the 9th of July, but a light rain fell steadily and a ground mist covered the land as Smith stood on the monitor’s bridge and she was towed in. He was wearily content. He thought of Eleanor Hurst as he sometimes did and it still hurt.
Sparrow
had been laid up for another boiler-clean since Smith returned from London but he stayed aboard
Marshall Marmont
and sent Garrick on leave instead. He thought it was almost a month since he had seen her. It struck another chord of memory and he asked of the bridge at large, “When is the next spring tide on the Belgian coast?”

There was a stir on the bridge behind him, muttering. Smith grinned to himself. Did they think it was a trick question to keep them on their toes? Then Chivers, the gunnery officer, said, “Next spring tide is early on the 12th, sir, at 4.16 a.m. local time. That’s just after first light, sir.”

“Thank you.” The Kapitänleutnant had said, ‘Soon the blow will fall,’ and it had not seemed an empty threat. He had spoken in the knowledge that his death was upon him…One spring tide had come and gone since he had died. Smith wondered uneasily if Naval Intelligence had solved the mystery or whether it would only be solved when the blow fell — and it was too late?

Soon.

But when? Where?

Brooding set him pacing out to the wing of the bridge but as he did so he caught Garrick watching him. Smith realised he was scowling at his own thoughts but Garrick must be wondering what he had to scowl about. He tried to throw off the mood because there was no point in worrying over a problem he could do nothing about. “I think the hands can keep to their own ships from now on.”

Garrick nodded eagerly, emphatically, glad to see Smith smiling and to be able to agree. “It’s worked, sir. The men didn’t like being swapped about to start with and I was doubtful, but it worked. Dunbar is of the same mind.” Garrick was happy with his ship now. But then he said, “There are rumours the Army are getting ready for another big push.”

Smith grimaced. A ‘big push’ meant a big casualty list but that was the only thing certain about it. It might gain a few miles of ground or only a few yards.

Garrick said, “Wonder what the Commodore’s got for us? But whatever it is,” he added with satisfaction, “we’re ready.”

Smith thought that now, maybe, they were.

He knew he was sorry about Eleanor Hurst.

That evening Trist sent for Smith, the signal flickering out at
Sparrow
as she steamed up the channel and into the port of Dunkerque. Smith had transferred to her as
Marshall Marmont
anchored and now he watched the hands as Dunbar took her alongside. They were dog-tired but working cheerfully. He told Dunbar, “Coal and ammunition.” They were the only reasons
Sparrow
had got into the port. “Tell ’em I’ll give shore leave if I can but, of course, it will depend on what orders we’re given.” They all knew he thought they had done well; he had told them so.

If he had expected congratulations from his Commodore he would have been disappointed. He found Trist in a black mood, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and scowling at the big chart at the end of the long room, his Staff gathered around him. Or rather, scattered. They stood about in silence. As if they waited for Smith’s arrival? He thought he saw glances exchanged that were relieved or uneasy. Relieved that the whipping-boy had come? Smith was angry that he thought of himself as such but the feeling persisted. And the uneasy ones, who did not meet his eyes?

Trist grumbled, “I’m getting reports that the men of
Marshall Marmont
and
Sparrow
are starting to regard themselves as an élite, almost as a separate Squadron.”

Smith asked, “Reports from what source, sir?”

“That’s my affair.”

“The reports are incorrect. I believe the men have done well and I have told them so. That’s all.”

“I hope so,” Trist shot a glance at Smith and it was nervous. “Those ships are part of the Dunkerque Squadron under my command and they should not forget it.
Nobody
should forget it.”

Smith did not have an answer to that. He was bewildered. Did Trist seriously believe that Smith was trying to undermine his authority?

But Trist seemed to have finished with that topic. His eyes were on the chart again and he muttered, “They’re badgering us again about offensive action against U-boats. They want to know why you haven’t got more U-boats as you did that first one.”

So Trist’s boast about his idea of an anti-submarine flotilla working, had rebounded. Smith said, “We were lucky that night.”

“You sank her just seaward of the Nieuport Bank. They may still be slipping through there.”

Smith admitted, “It’s possible, but —”

Trist pushed on, not listening, obviously following a preconceived train of thought, “It is your considered opinion that operations in those waters are practicable?”

Smith wondered at the point of the question. The Navy
did
operate in those waters, laying mines for one thing. But — “Yes, sir. I think —”

Trist said, “Very well. I’m prepared to authorise you to carry out a limited operation with the vessels at your disposal. You are to make a sweep along the coast by night to seek out and destroy U-boats entering or leaving their bases or trying to slip around the end of the mine-net barrage like the other one.”

Smith said, “You mean — just
Sparrow
, sir?”

“Well,
Marshall Marmont
is hardly suitable.” Trist’s sarcasm brought a chuckle from one or two of his staff but the rest stayed silent.

Smith saw it. Trist was getting the best of both worlds. He was sending Smith and
Sparrow
on a sweep against U-boats that he could justify by the demands made on him for offensive action and by the precedent set by
Sparrow
when she sank a U-boat in those waters. Moreover, whatever went wrong he could lay at Smith’s door because he had given his ‘considered opinion’ that operations in those waters were practicable. Smith wondered if that was why Trist had the Staff there, why some looked unhappy; were they there to bear witness? He knew he could hedge and put his objections in writing: that the chances of
Sparrow
sighting a U-boat, let alone sinking one, were remote; that the chances of her meeting a big destroyer that would blow her out of the water, were not.

He knew that if he did object Trist might seize on the chance to have him relieved; his little flotilla would cease to exist as such. And Trist might well order Dunbar to make the sweep instead, and when Dunbar objected as he undoubtedly would, then Trist would start using words like ‘disloyalty’ and ‘collusion’.

Smith was getting to know Trist. There would be an unholy row and an inquiry that would uncover the truth about Dunbar being unfit to take his ship to sea because of drunkenness…‘Commander Smith! Did Lieutenant Dunbar, in your presence, make comments critical of your superior officer, Commodore Trist?’ It would be bad for the flotilla, the Dunkerque Squadron, the entire Dover Patrol.

He thought the war had gone on too long for Trist, who was worried, cautious, trying to please his superiors and yet risk nothing. Or risk as little as possible: one small, old TBD with a captain Trist considered dumbly insolent and a Commander he regarded as a threat to his authority?

Smith swallowed the bitter pill because he had to. “I’ll carry out the sweep, sir.”

He was at the door when Trist called, “What do you think of Dunbar, now you’ve had him under your eye for a time?”

Smith stood there stiffly, resenting this discussion of another officer before the listening Staff. He answered, “A good officer, sir.”

Trist pursed his lips. “Well, he’s your responsibility.” He had nailed that down in front of witnesses, too, but Smith did not care. He would answer for Dunbar and
Sparrow
, and Garrick and
Marshall Marmont
for that matter. Trist said, “I suggest you keep a close eye on him. You know my views on discipline. I will break any officer who falls short in that respect.” And then he smiled, “Good luck.”

Smith believed he meant it, really wished them luck, hoped
Sparrow
would come home with another sunken U-boat to report and so take the pressure off Trist, for a little while at least. “Thank you, sir.” But as Smith strode from the big house into the air and breathed it deeply he thought, We’ll need luck but not Trist’s luck. That would not take them far. Trist had stated his intention, if obliquely: given the least excuse he would break Smith.

As he walked the last yards back towards
Sparrow
where she lay alongside the quay he looked beyond her and froze, seeing Hacker. The Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff stood a hundred yards away by the Trystram lock, but despite the light rain and the ground mist that wisped in tendrils between, there was no mistaking that tall figure. Hacker was looking out over the channel with a hand raised, beckoning. Smith saw the canoe out there with the American, Curtis and Morris the airman aboard. Curtis paddled the canoe into the side of the quay at Hacker’s urging and climbed up to talk with the soldier.

Morris climbed up also, but walked along the quay towards Smith, who tried to put Hacker — and Eleanor Hurst — out of his mind. Nevertheless, he wondered absently what a ‘movements brass-hat’ could want with the lanky commander of a Coastal Motor Boat. Then Morris said glumly, “Filthy weather, sir.”

Smith smiled as he returned the salute. He liked Morris. “It keeps you on the ground. I’d have thought you liked that.”

“Normally I would,” Morris admitted frankly. “But I was hoping to have another go at flying over De Haan. The Squadron Commander won’t have it, of course. He says we’ve had too many losses trying it and got nothing out of it except my report. And
that
wasn’t much good.”

“So?”

Morris grinned sheepishly, “Well, to tell the truth, sir, he’s going into hospital in a couple of days — some shrapnel that got left in his knee they want to dig out — and as soon as he does go,
and
if the Army asks for a flight again, then I’ll ask the second in-command to send me. I think he will, provided the weather is fit for flying. But nobody’s flown for the past two days.” He saluted. “I’ll be on my way, sir.”

He turned, but Smith called after him, “You’re quite determined. Why?”

Morris paused with rain dripping from the peak of his cap as he stared down at his boots. He had borrowed someone’s trench-coat and it was too big for him. He said, “Because there must be something there. Bill, my observer, saw
something
. So — I suppose it’s for him. If I don’t do it then he was just — wasted.” He looked up at Smith. “D’ye see, sir?”

Smith nodded. Morris said, “I thought you would.”

Smith watched him trudge away across the pave then turned and boarded
Sparrow
.

* * *

Late that same evening, the 9th of July,
Sparrow
had taken on ammunition and coal; the signs of the latter were hosed away and the rain helped, falling steadily and bringing dusk early as
Sparrow
slipped, moved out into the channel and headed towards the sea and her U-boat sweep off the Nieuport Bank. Smith, huddled in oilskins on her bridge, listened to the jaunty notes of Galt’s mouth-organ and watched the low, black shape of a CMB slide out from the Trystram lock ahead of them and turn seawards. The man at her wheel, also in oilskins, stood very tall in the cockpit and Smith thought it might be the American, Jack Curtis. But the light was going, the rain driving between, and the CMB hauled rapidly away and out of sight. When
Sparrow
’s stem lifted and dipped to the sea in the Roads there was still light to seaward, a greyness on the horizon and he could make out the low, fat bulk of the disabled
Marshall Marmont
where she lay at anchor with the other monitors. She was due to be towed into the dockyard for engine repairs. Garrick would see to it.

Sparrow
picked her way through the shoals off Dunkerque and stole up the West Deep, a dark ship on a dark sea with the night and the rain folding her round. Smith said quietly, “Mr. Sanders.”

“Sir?”

“Eyes skinned and ears pricked. Go around and rub it in.” And Dunbar added, “Here are my keys. Unlock the small arms and issue ’em.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sanders disappeared from the bridge. Because
Sparrow
was sneaking into the enemy’s backyard and ever since Evans’s men in H.M. Destroyer
Broke
had fought hand-to-hand with the crew of a German destroyer in the Straits of Dover, small arms had been issued when action seemed likely.

Sanders’s departure made a tiny bit more room on the bridge, crowded anyway with Smith and Dunbar, Gow hanging over the wheel, the signalman, the bosun’s mate at the engine-room telegraphs, look-outs, the crew of the twelve-pounder.
Sparrow
’s crew was at action stations. Nieuport showed soon on the starboard bow and steadily drew abeam. Dirty night or no, they could see the town as a flickering glow against the low clouds and the sullen rumbling of the guns came to them across the sea. It fell behind as
Sparrow
fractionally altered course and headed farther out, running steadily, quietly through the night with only the low drum-beat of the engines.

Smith had told them where they were headed and why, that they were to hunt U-boats in the waters off Nieuport and north to Ostende and every one of them knew that ‘hunt’ was a double-edged word and
Sparrow
could become the prey. And they knew that there were German destroyers based at Ostende and Zeebrugge, big boats and faster than
Sparrow. Sparrow
’s only hope was to surprise a U-boat running on the surface because, with no reason to submerge, she could cruise faster and more economically on her diesels. But even a surfaced U-boat was hard to spot while
Sparrow
was a big, tall target and her smoke made her taller still.

Dunbar grumbled, “Black as the inside of your hat. More like winter than high summer.” The rain had stopped but there was a chill dampness in the air, the clouds hanging low. There would be more rain. He grumbled but he knew very well that the last thing they wanted was a fine night.

Sanders was back on the bridge. He muttered uneasily, “Couldn’t see a battleship in this, never mind a submarine.”

So it was no surprise that they almost ran her down. They were so close to her that the look-out’s yell of “Dead ahead! Boat —” formed part of a chorus.

Dunbar at the same instant rapped, “Port ten!”

And Smith: “CMB! Hold your fire!”

Sparrow
’s stem swung away even as it seemed to hang over the CMB and then the destroyer swept past her. She lay only feet away and they saw a blur of faces aboard her, a man crouched behind each of the Vickers machine-guns she carried, one forward, one aft. She rocked to
Sparrow’s
bow-wave and then to her wash as
Sparrow
drew past her.

Smith said, “She’s stopped. Probably in trouble. Turn and close her.”

Sparrow
continued in her turn, came around as Dunbar ordered, “Slow ahead both.” The engine-room telegraphs clanged and
Sparrow
slowed. They searched the darkness for the CMB, lost now, but — “Port beam, sir.” The look-out pointed and there she was, still rocking.
Sparrow
crept down to her.

“Stop both,” ordered Dunbar.
Sparrow
lay about ten feet away but drifting slowly down on the CMB. Smith saw that instead of torpedoes she carried a dinghy lashed on over the chutes. A party were already in
Sparrow
’s waist hanging fenders over the side to protect the CMB’s fragile hull. As the gap closed, the men forward and aft aboard her threw lines that were caught and she was drawn in alongside. It was CMB 19.

Smith peered at her, lifted the megaphone and called, “Mr. Curtis?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Trouble?”

“Yes, sir. Can I come aboard?”

“Yes.”

Smith slid down the ladder to the iron deck and walked aft to meet him. Curtis stank of petrol and oil and his face was smudged as if he’d drawn a dirty hand across it. He was naked except for his cotton drawers and his hair was plastered wetly to his skull. He was breathing heavily. “Sir! Am I glad to see you. We’ve fouled both our screws. Ran across a whole mess of wreckage, timber, with a trailing wire. The wire’s wrapped around and around them. Me’n the engineer, we’ve been over the side working on it but it’s nowhere near free.”