changed to a wild scramble of running figures, some of whom had already reached the deck gun where an officer was dragging out his pistol and firing blindly across the narrow strip of water.
Marshall ducked as something clanged into the tower and shrieked away over the sea. A bullet or some fragment from the supply boat, he did not know or care.
He punched the nearest machine-gunner on the arm. ‘Open fire! Clear those men from the casing!’
The gun stammered into life, the thin line of tracer licking up and over the German’s periscopes before steadying and ripping sparks from the grey steel.
When he looked again Marshall could see nothing of the
milch-cow
. Just a huge pall of drifting smoke against the sky, a spreading pattern of oil and bobbing flotsam to mark where she had made her last dive.
He yelled, ‘Full ahead together! Port ten!’
He watched as Warwick’s crew brought the gun’s long muzzle round across the rail, following the other boat as it appeared to career drunkenly on their mounting bow wave.
‘
Shoot!
’ The gun bucked on its springs, the shell exploding far beyond the target in a cloud of vapour and bursting spray.
‘Down one hundred!’ The breech clicked shut. ‘Shoot!’
The conning-tower shook violently and a tall waterspout rocketed skywards some half-cable from the side. Marshall swung round, knowing the answer even as the lookout yelled, ‘Destroyer has opened fire, sir!’
The voicepipe called, ‘Other boat is trying to transmit!’ A gasp as another shell whined overhead and exploded abeam.
A savage glare lit up the bridge and he turned to see the other boat’s periscope standards and radio antennae reel apart as Warwick’s gunners found their mark. Smoke billowed from the broken bridge, and he saw some of the German gunners running aft towards the tower. It was futile, for without engine power the U-boat was helpless. It was training and instinct, the relentless code which even in the face of death the U-boat’s men could not break.
The Vierling crackled viciously, the four barrels cutting down these same running men with the ease of a reaper in a field. The officer, isolated and alone, was reloading his pistol when some of the shells smashed him into oblivion, leaving a bright smear to mark his brief passing.
Another shell slammmed into the exposed ballast tank, and above the din of engines and yelling gunners it was possible to hear the triumphant surge of inrushing water.
Marshall had to clench his jaw to speak steadily into the voicepipe. ‘Break the charge! Out both engine clutches!’ Before the sound of the diesels had died away he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Secure the gun! Clear the bridge!’
Gerrard’s voice, suddenly loud in the stillness. ‘Bridge! Both engine clutches out! Main motors ready!’
Men tumbled past and into the hatch, dragging with them the machine-guns, one still smoking as it vanished below. Wild eyes and brief breathless voices, until only Marshall and the last lookout remained. The latter looked at the approaching destroyer, the hull of which was almost hidden behind her massive bow wave as she tore into the attack. Her skipper probably imagined he had caught two surfaced U-boats in the act of sinking some unidentified ship.
Either way, just one of his shells would make the score three instead of a pair.
Marshall nodded to the seaman, ‘Off you go.’
He crouched over the voicepipe as a shell screamed low overhead, the shockwave hitting his shoulders like a man’s forearm.
‘Dive! Dive! Dive! Ninety metres! Shut off for depth-charging!’
He closed the cock and paused momentarily to peer abeam. The stricken U-boat had almost gone, her stern poking out of the seething bubbles and escaping oil like a crude arrowhead.
Then he jumped into the hatch, feeling the hull falling steeply, hearing the sea surging along the casing and against the conning-tower as Gerrard took her into a crash dive.
He slammed the hatch and
Marshall ducked as something clanged into the tower and shrieked away over the sea. A bullet or some fragment from the supply boat, he did not know or care.
He punched the nearest machine-gunner on the arm. ‘Open fire! Clear those men from the casing!’
The gun stammered into life, the thin line of tracer licking up and over the German’s periscopes before steadying and ripping sparks from the grey steel.
When he looked again Marshall could see nothing of the
milch-cow
. Just a huge pall of drifting smoke against the sky, a spreading pattern of oil and bobbing flotsam to mark where she had made her last dive.
He yelled, ‘Full ahead together! Port ten!’
He watched as Warwick’s crew brought the gun’s long muzzle round across the rail, following the other boat as it appeared to career drunkenly on their mounting bow wave.
‘
Shoot!
’ The gun bucked on its springs, the shell exploding far beyond the target in a cloud of vapour and bursting spray.
‘Down one hundred!’ The breech clicked shut. ‘Shoot!’
The conning-tower shook violently and a tall waterspout rocketed skywards some half-cable from the side. Marshall swung round, knowing the answer even as the lookout yelled, ‘Destroyer has opened fire, sir!’
The voicepipe called, ‘Other boat is trying to transmit!’ A gasp as another shell whined overhead and exploded abeam.
A savage glare lit up the bridge and he turned to see the other boat’s periscope standards and radio antennae reel apart as Warwick’s gunners found their mark. Smoke billowed from the broken bridge, and he saw some of the German gunners running aft towards the tower. It was futile, for without engine power the U-boat was helpless. It was training and instinct, the relentless code which even in the face of death the U-boat’s men could not break.
The Vierling crackled viciously, the four barrels cutting down these same running men with the ease of a reaper in a field. The officer, isolated and alone, was reloading his pistol when some of the shells smashed him into oblivion, leaving a bright smear to mark his brief passing.
Another shell slammmed into the exposed ballast tank, and above the din of engines and yelling gunners it was possible to hear the triumphant surge of inrushing water.
Marshall had to clench his jaw to speak steadily into the voicepipe. ‘Break the charge! Out both engine clutches!’ Before the sound of the diesels had died away he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Secure the gun! Clear the bridge!’
Gerrard’s voice, suddenly loud in the stillness. ‘Bridge! Both engine clutches out! Main motors ready!’
Men tumbled past and into the hatch, dragging with them the machine-guns, one still smoking as it vanished below. Wild eyes and brief breathless voices, until only Marshall and the last lookout remained. The latter looked at the approaching destroyer, the hull of which was almost hidden behind her massive bow wave as she tore into the attack. Her skipper probably imagined he had caught two surfaced U-boats in the act of sinking some unidentified ship.
Either way, just one of his shells would make the score three instead of a pair.
Marshall nodded to the seaman, ‘Off you go.’
He crouched over the voicepipe as a shell screamed low overhead, the shockwave hitting his shoulders like a man’s forearm.
‘Dive! Dive! Dive! Ninety metres! Shut off for depth-charging!’
He closed the cock and paused momentarily to peer abeam. The stricken U-boat had almost gone, her stern poking out of the seething bubbles and escaping oil like a crude arrowhead.
Then he jumped into the hatch, feeling the hull falling steeply, hearing the sea surging along the casing and against the conning-tower as Gerrard took her into a crash dive.
He slammed the hatch and
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