Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“They’re bloody daft, sir!”

“A discovery that we all make at an early stage in our careers, Mr Sturton. Carry on.”

Captain Smallwood disappeared to his cabin; Simon heard him chuckle as he left. He glanced around, stepped out to the bridge wing to check that Robin, Curlew and Blackbird were properly in line astern at two cables, returned to the position next to the engineroom voicepipe that he preferred when on watch. He started to work out exactly how he would organise the ship to take soldiers and marines aboard in case of an evacuation. He thought they might be able to take a hundred men and still be able to work the guns; if they were simply to run at night, he could double that figure, sat cross-legged along the decks. He must have a quiet word with the Coxswain – he would be able to allocate precise numbers to every compartment, might be able to work out how to cram a few more aboard.

He glanced at the heading, checked that the lookouts were alert, watching their proper quadrants, brought his glasses up to his eyes to scan the horizon, all of the automatic actions ingrained into him by years of training. All was well and he considered what else he must do to ready the ship for carrying the extra men. Cocoa powder, condensed milk, sugar – they would need extra supplies aboard. The soldiers could go without a meal for twelve hours or so but they would benefit from a couple of mugs of kye. How could it be fiddled?

By the end of his watch he had decided that if they made port at Dunkirk, he could try the stores there – they were less strictly controlled than the old-established quartermasters at Harwich and Dover. A few sovereigns shelled out to buy good brandy and he might be able to run an exchange with one of the storemen. He had spent very little in the past months, could afford to invest ten pounds for the benefit of the soldiery; besides that, the word would get out that Sheldrake had looked after the men. Never hurt to have a good name. He handed over to Parrett and went below with the intention of getting three hours of sleep; the next few nights promised to be busy.

Two hours later and the wardroom steward was shouting in his ear.

“All hands, sir!”

He rolled out of his cot and into his shoes, ran the few paces to the bridge while shrugging into his sea coat, the wind off the North Sea cold in October.

“Sir?”

“Merchantman of some sort, Number One. No power. Damaged to the stern. Mine, perhaps. Go across to her, make a decision.”

The starboard cutter was already lowered, the oarsmen fending off. He ran, scrambled over the low side and into the boat, saw there was a petty officer calling the stroke; Carter, reliable but no great initiative, needed orders but carried them out well.

He knelt in the stern, trying to see some details of the task facing him.

A big ship for the North Sea… not a coaster. Five thousand tonner, about. Holed at the stern. If it was a mine then there must be major underwater damage as well, but she did not look low enough. The area was too busy for her to be a floating derelict from a previous action. Recent shellfire from the shore?

A cable distant now, and still silent. Possibly she did not want to be rescued by the Royal Navy, was hoping they would think her to be abandoned and leave her to her fate? Surely not.

“Have we got rifles aboard, PO?”

“Yes, sir. Four, sir.”

“Pass me one and take one yourself. Two men to arm themselves if needed.”

The arrangements were made on the instant. Simon checked he was loaded, tucked the heavy rifle into the crook of his arm.

They were close now.

“The ship ahoy!”

No answer.

“Grapple her, PO.”

She was a three island freighter, bridge amidships with a raised stern and forecastle, the deck rails about seven feet off the sea just forward of the bridge.

The petty officer swung the hook and heaved hard, the rope taut.

Simon looked over his shoulder, saw the four destroyers all within a quarter of a mile of the ship, Sheldrake much closer and with a man on the bridge Lewis Gun.

“Hold the rifle for me, PO.”

He grabbed the rope and heaved himself up on deck, over the rail and then leant back for the rifle.

“PO, you and two up here.”

There was an exterior companionway leading up to the bridge; Simon ran up, rifle at the ready, jumped inside.

He saw an officer and three seamen, sat down on deck and looking sheepish at being discovered. They put their hands up.

“Who are you?”

“Deutsch.”

“German?”

“Ja.”

He gestured with the rifle.

“Up!”

They stood.

“You speak English.”

They shook their heads. The officer pointed below, made a dumbshow of calling a man up.

“Yes.”

The officer leant to a voicepipe and called something incomprehensible.

A minute and feet clattered on an internal companionway and a young man, a junior officer appeared.

“I speak English, sir.”

“Thank Christ for that. Who and what are you?”

“Henke Paulus, sir, cargo from Kiel, naval charter. We are ordered to enter Zeebrugge, which is in German hands, but it is not. We enter harbour, we are shot at and make speed out again. A small cannon from the big mole shot and hit and made damage. We travel twenty kilometres, more by a little, and the rudder breaks. Then the screw will turn no more for the rudder hitting it. Then we float three hours and see you. We hide because we think there will be our ships soon.”

“Good. Tell all of your crew to come on deck. Place yourselves on the forward deck. You are prisoners. You will not be hurt.”

Simon showed himself on the bridge wing and began the laborious process of semaphore, wigwagging his arms in exaggerated motions.

‘ Sheldrake close ship. Speech.’

The signal was acknowledged and the destroyer came within twenty yards.

“She’s German, sir. Needs a tow. Full of warlike stores, sir. Sent to Zeebrugge which was supposed to be captured already.”

He went on to explain the details he had been given.

Captain Smallwood yelled back.

“Robin will tow you to Dunkirk. Remainder of the section will provide cover against these German ships.”

“Aye aye, sir. Suggest additional seamen, sir.”

The cutter rowed across with another four men armed with revolvers, handier in confined spaces aboard ship.

Robin manoeuvred close to the cargo ship’s bows and floated a grass line across, light and easy to handle but not especially strong. PO Carter hooked up the line and passed it aboard where the seamen carefully heaved it in, pulling across a heavier, stronger line, itself attached to the thick towing cable. They faced then the normal problem of finding a strong point in the bows to fix the cable.

“Use the anchor chain, sir. Act as a spring, if the wind gets up, sir… Ready, sir.”

Simon stood in the bows and bellowed to Robin to take up the slack and commence the tow.

Two knots while they satisfied themselves that all was well and that merchant seamen had not relied upon a faulty anchor chain. Then Simon waved and suggested five knots; he could not give orders to Robin’s captain.

An inspection of the stern and the visible remnants of the rudder suggested that they could do nothing towards restoring the ship’s own power. The shell had hit just above the waterline and had smashed the steering gear and almost certainly damaged the screw.

“Looks as if two or three shells hit, Carter.”

“One of them pompoms, sir. Don’t do much to armour plate but carves a hole in a merchant hull.”

Destroyers had effectively no armour, were too small and light to carry the weight.

“Gives you to think, don’t it, Carter.”