the damaged boat, sir. The explosion would finish us, too.’
‘Yes. Thanks, Bob, I had noticed.’ He beckoned to a lookout. ‘Pass the word to the gun crews. Rapid fire on the damaged boat when I give the word.’ He added harshly, ‘
Walk
, man! You’re supposed to be among friends!’
The yeoman grimaced. ‘Some bloody friends, sir!’
The other lookout said, ‘The Jerry’s got a megaphone, sir! He’s gettin’ ready to chat when we gets a bit closer!’
Marshall nodded, his eyes again towards the
milch-cow
. She was moving very slowly, like some great slab of grey pier, her upper deck alive with tiny figures, the sunlight on the brass nozzle of her fuel pipe.
He saw the lookout reach Warwick beside the gun, watched his message make the youth step back as if he had been struck.
A voice echoed tinnily across the heaving water, almost drowned by the mutter of diesels, the hiss of spray against the hull.
Very slowly he removed his cap and waved it towards the other boat. It seemed to do the trick. The other captain spread his arms and pretended to hurl the megaphone overboard in disgust.
‘
Sir!
’ The lookout’s voice made him freeze. ‘Smoke! On the starboard quarter!’
He dare not turn and look at it. The other boats had not seen it, and it was probably masked by his own conning-tower.
‘Control room! This is the captain. Smoke on the starboard quarter. Check it with the main periscope.’
An agonising pause and then a voice called, ‘One ship, sir. On the horizon.’
He could not place the voice. Probably a spare seaman. But they had had so little time.…
He barked, ‘Start the attack!’
The voicepipe went dead, as if everyone below had been struck down by some invisible force. Then he heard Buck’s orders being passed unhurriedly across the intercom. No panic, no emotion. It could have been a mock attack on another neutral.
‘Fire One!’
Marshall felt the steel screen kick gently against his chest, pictured the first torpedo as it shot from its tube.
‘Fire Two!’
On the fore casing one of the seamen was whirling a heaving line round his head like a film cowboy, one eye towards the bridge as he played out the long, dragging seconds.
‘Fire Three!’
Again the little kick. Like a conspiratorial nudge.
Marshall shuddered and snapped, ‘Get
ready
!’
‘Fire Four!’ A pause, ‘All torpedoes running, sir!’ The last two in the bow tubes were to have been for the damaged boat. But she was near enough now to hit with a brick.
The lookout called, ‘Ship on the starboard quarter is closing sir. One funnel. Probably destroyer.’
Marshall nodded jerkily, unable to drag his eyes from the murky outline of his target. On, on, on. He pictured the four torpedoes streaking through the water, working up to some forty-five knots as they fanned out in a deadly salvo.
Blythe muttered, ‘Christ we’ve missed the bugger!’
The first explosion when it came was like a thunderclap. In that split-second Marshall saw the forward portion of the enemy’s hull burst open and upward in one great searing orange ball of fire. Ringed with black smoke and whirling fragments of metal it seemed to spread in size and brilliance so that the next torpedo’s detonation was all but lost in the devastation.
Despite the terrible power of the noise and fire Marshall saw several tiny details, as if all of them were happening consecutively instead of in the twinkling of an eye.
A seaman on the casing running aft and staggering as the shockwave swept over the hull in a scorching wind. Cain, the Casing King, kicking the spare wire over the side and yelling soundlessly to his deck party to take cover. The gun’s crew moving jerkily like robots around their breech with Warwick’s head and shoulders glowing bronze in the reflected inferno.
More terrible explosions, and Marshall felt the hull jerk and buck as if it had been hit by a submerged wreck.
On the damaged U-boat the first stricken horror had
‘Yes. Thanks, Bob, I had noticed.’ He beckoned to a lookout. ‘Pass the word to the gun crews. Rapid fire on the damaged boat when I give the word.’ He added harshly, ‘
Walk
, man! You’re supposed to be among friends!’
The yeoman grimaced. ‘Some bloody friends, sir!’
The other lookout said, ‘The Jerry’s got a megaphone, sir! He’s gettin’ ready to chat when we gets a bit closer!’
Marshall nodded, his eyes again towards the
milch-cow
. She was moving very slowly, like some great slab of grey pier, her upper deck alive with tiny figures, the sunlight on the brass nozzle of her fuel pipe.
He saw the lookout reach Warwick beside the gun, watched his message make the youth step back as if he had been struck.
A voice echoed tinnily across the heaving water, almost drowned by the mutter of diesels, the hiss of spray against the hull.
Very slowly he removed his cap and waved it towards the other boat. It seemed to do the trick. The other captain spread his arms and pretended to hurl the megaphone overboard in disgust.
‘
Sir!
’ The lookout’s voice made him freeze. ‘Smoke! On the starboard quarter!’
He dare not turn and look at it. The other boats had not seen it, and it was probably masked by his own conning-tower.
‘Control room! This is the captain. Smoke on the starboard quarter. Check it with the main periscope.’
An agonising pause and then a voice called, ‘One ship, sir. On the horizon.’
He could not place the voice. Probably a spare seaman. But they had had so little time.…
He barked, ‘Start the attack!’
The voicepipe went dead, as if everyone below had been struck down by some invisible force. Then he heard Buck’s orders being passed unhurriedly across the intercom. No panic, no emotion. It could have been a mock attack on another neutral.
‘Fire One!’
Marshall felt the steel screen kick gently against his chest, pictured the first torpedo as it shot from its tube.
‘Fire Two!’
On the fore casing one of the seamen was whirling a heaving line round his head like a film cowboy, one eye towards the bridge as he played out the long, dragging seconds.
‘Fire Three!’
Again the little kick. Like a conspiratorial nudge.
Marshall shuddered and snapped, ‘Get
ready
!’
‘Fire Four!’ A pause, ‘All torpedoes running, sir!’ The last two in the bow tubes were to have been for the damaged boat. But she was near enough now to hit with a brick.
The lookout called, ‘Ship on the starboard quarter is closing sir. One funnel. Probably destroyer.’
Marshall nodded jerkily, unable to drag his eyes from the murky outline of his target. On, on, on. He pictured the four torpedoes streaking through the water, working up to some forty-five knots as they fanned out in a deadly salvo.
Blythe muttered, ‘Christ we’ve missed the bugger!’
The first explosion when it came was like a thunderclap. In that split-second Marshall saw the forward portion of the enemy’s hull burst open and upward in one great searing orange ball of fire. Ringed with black smoke and whirling fragments of metal it seemed to spread in size and brilliance so that the next torpedo’s detonation was all but lost in the devastation.
Despite the terrible power of the noise and fire Marshall saw several tiny details, as if all of them were happening consecutively instead of in the twinkling of an eye.
A seaman on the casing running aft and staggering as the shockwave swept over the hull in a scorching wind. Cain, the Casing King, kicking the spare wire over the side and yelling soundlessly to his deck party to take cover. The gun’s crew moving jerkily like robots around their breech with Warwick’s head and shoulders glowing bronze in the reflected inferno.
More terrible explosions, and Marshall felt the hull jerk and buck as if it had been hit by a submerged wreck.
On the damaged U-boat the first stricken horror had
Similar Books
