Killing Ground by Douglas Reeman Page A

and said, “We can’t claim a kill, but it will give the others some comfort.”
    The U-Boat might still slip away, he thought. But it was already damaged, and would have a hard time of it to reach port in Norway.
    Hitting back, instead of taking it all the time.
    It was what it was all about. He found that he was in his tall unsheltered chair again.
    Treherne said, “I’ll get some hot drinks laid on for the gun crews and watchkeepers.” He turned away, shaking his head. The captain was fast asleep.

5 | Bright Face of Danger
    â€œA FTERNOON watch closed up at defence stations, sir.”
    Lieutenant Finlay nodded. “Very good.”
    The new watchkeepers moved restlessly, or glanced at one another as if to reassure themselves.
    The yeoman pointed over the screen and said to his youngest signalman, “Just you watch the commodore’s ship, see?” He saw the instant anxiety on the youth’s face and added abruptly, “I’m goin’ to th’ mess for some mungie—my guts are pleadin’ for grub!” He touched his arm. “Call if you need me.”
    Howard was moving along the port gratings, lifting his binoculars every so often, watching the convoy, his ship, and the faces around him. They had found the convoy in the early dawn, with the promised snow flurries outlining the bridge and gun mountings like pieces of a giant cake.
    He raised the glasses and studied the distant columns of ships, partly lost in the irregular flurries of snow. He had noticed the change in the pattern on the radar as soon as they had caught up. Two more ships gone; one, hit by the torpedo, had burst into flames and after losing steerage way had somehow collided with the American tanker
John L. Morgan.
It must have been an agonising decision for the commodore, to steam on and leave the entangled vessels blazing together in a single pyre until that last explosion they had heard when hunting the submarine. What a hideous way to die. One corvette had boldly attempted a rescue and pulled seventeen survivors from the blazing sea. It was not many for two such large ships.
    Someone handed him a mug of hot, sweet tea; so much sugar you could almost stand a spoon in it.
    He leaned over the littered chart table and massaged his tired eyes until they focussed properly.
    What had happened to the U-Boats? Was it possible, after all, that the one which had been damaged and then driven deep by
Gladiator
’s onslaught of depth-charges had been the only one close enough to shadow the convoy, and home others on to the precious targets?
    He tried to think like the U-Boat’s commander but found, not for the first time, that he could not. But he
might,
he just might have tossed caution aside when the fog had drifted protectively over the plodding columns of merchantmen, more afraid of missing the chance of a shot at them than of anything else.
    It was like the scales of justice, he thought vaguely. You added the pros and measured the cons against them.
    The commodore had decided to make his own judgement and altered course east-southeast sooner than expected. It would cut a day off their final passage, and if the U-Boats were elsewhere, there might still be a few odds in their favour.
    He straightened his back and looked at the sky, knowing the young signalman was watching him despite the yeoman’s advice.
    A strange day. The sky was full of low cloud and the snow still swirled over the bridge, making the nearest ships difficult to recognise. That was good. Beyond the clouds he could see lighter, brighter patches, as if the sun might try to break through. He smiled grimly. That was bad.
    What a barren place. It was impossible to see it set against all the other war fronts. Here, they were totally isolated and alone. Going on and on, with nothing gained by previous Russian convoys to offer even a hint of encouragement.
    He wondered how his father was making out in the little house in Hampshire.