He woke to the sound of screaming. His head hurt, though, and he decided to keep his eyes shut for a moment more. Why did his head hurt? He thought he remembered thunder. Could it be Peggy who was screaming? But wouldn't Nancy be talking to her, if it was? For a moment he half expected to hear that clear, jolly voice telling her sister not to be such a donk, or calling apologetically to him that she would be fine if it were guns. Oh, guns? Yes, it had been guns. He remembered now; he was on the bridge of his ship, far out in the Atlantic. But why was Peggy on board? She'd wake Bridget if she kept screaming like that. Wait, was Bridgie here too?
No, none of them were here. The thunder had been guns - his own guns, and probably a hit from the U-Boat. Why was he lying down, though, and why was his face wet? His mind was starting to clear and it occurred to him that both of these facts might be connected with his sore head. He tried to open his eyes. The left one worked fine, showing him a pale fuzzy blob that might be a face, but the right seemed to be gummed shut. He rubbed it, smearing something sticky on his hand and cheek, and managed to get it open. Yes, the blob was less fuzzy now and it was definitely a face. It was a familiar one, too. Now who was it? Oh yes; Chief Petty Officer McCasgill, the Coxswain. He struggled up to one elbow, but the Coxswain caught him by one shoulder and eased him back down again.
"You just stay there a moment, Sir, until we get that head of yours looked at," he said, voice tight with pain. "The Gunnery Officer is taking care of the ship. He can manage for another few minutes."
The Old Man frowned. "Guns? What about the Jimmy?"
The coxswain shook his head. "Sorry Sir, he was caught by shrapnel. Probably saved your life though. He took most of the blast; you just got thrown against the bridge rail."
The Old Man looked around the bridge. It was a shambles. He could see at least three dead sprawled around the cramped space, and the view aft had changed somehow. Oh yes; there was a tangle of scorched, twisted wreckage where the radar had been. The mast looked wrong too. It leaned drunkenly to port and loose wires were slapping against it. He tried to push himself up once more, and this time managed it. That, he realised, was probably because the Coxswain was only using one hand; the other was tucked between a couple of the buttons on his duffel coat. "What's wrong with your arm, Cox?"
"Not rightly sure, Sir. Broken, maybe. Caught it a bit of a crack when the shell hit."
"Well get it seen to, man! I need you to help me get this mess sorted out, and you won't be much use with your arm like that." He knew McCasgill must be in agony, too; he remembered when Susan had had her arm broken, the year before the war. He'd only seen her after the event, when it was already in a cast, but even then any movement had left her face white with pain.
The Coxswain shrugged one shoulder. "I'll be fine for a bit, Sir. Now if you'll just let me…"
"Damn, you're as bad as my wife. When we were fourteen she managed to plan a winter expedition when she was supposed to be in bed with mumps. Now get that arm seen to, Cox, then get back up here. The Yeoman can look after the bridge hands until you… oh. How is he?"
"He might keep the leg, Sir. Depends on how bad the bone's smashed."
"Right. Now you get down to the sick bay and jump the queue as much as you can. Anything that's actually life-threatening takes priority, of course, but apart from that get a splint on as fast as possible and get back topside. I do need you, Cox, but I need you as fit as you can be."
Accepting the inevitable McCasgill stood up. "Aye aye, Sir." He limped to the bridge companionway and started to descend, awkwardly one-handed. The Old Man caught hold of a voice pipe and hauled himself wearily to his feet.
- X -
Stanbridge was dead. In dying he'd slammed into the Old Man and driven him against the bridge railing. That had bruised his ribs. The sore head came from an inch-long gash in his scalp, but most of the blood that had covered his face belonged to Stanbridge. Caught by the full blast of the shell that had hit the radar, Number One had almost been torn apart. One of the Oerlikon gunners had been decapitated and an ASDIC operator had been killed by something that had punched through the rear bulkhead of the ASDIC hut. A bridge lookout had a fractured skull; he was bleeding from the ears and probably wouldn't last until dawn. The Yeoman had multiple injuries although his leg didn't seem to be as bad as had first been thought, and another eight men from the bridge or foredeck had shrapnel or blast injuries to some extent.
As for HMS Leven herself, the radar was a total loss. The 88mm shell had hit squarely on the Perspex cage that protected it, and exploded a fraction of a second later. The entire antenna was scrap. The fragment that entered the ASDIC hut had cut some wiring and started a fire, but that had been quickly extinguished and the set should be working again in less than an hour. The explosion had cracked the mast and torn away the HF radio antennas. In the hour since he'd regained consciousness he'd appointed the Gunnery Officer as acting first lieutenant then got to work bringing the ship back to the best fighting condition he could. Gun crews were redistributed to replace injured men and new lookouts were appointed. He set a course back towards the convoy; the final U-Boat had been too far north for them to find her without the radar. The Coxswain had been back on the bridge in twenty minutes, smelling faintly of rum but as competent as ever, and had managed to jury-rig some new shrouds to steady the mast. Now he and a Leading Telegraphist were trying to work out how to lash together at least one HF aerial so they could tell the world - or at least the part of it that didn't speak German - that they were mostly still alive. At Clyde SPR, the Old Man knew, that piece of information would be very welcome.
- X -
The young Wren walked nervously up to the desk. The SOO looked a mess, she thought. She was doing her best to appear composed, but her mouth was set in a grim line and red eyes stared blankly at the plot from her grey face. The Wren cleared her throat. "Uh, Ma'am?" Those tormented eyes turned towards her. "The bomber just passed Rockall, Ma'am. You asked to be informed."
The SOO nodded. "Thanks, Seymour. Is there anything else?"
"There's one other report, Ma'am. I don't know if it matters but escort group Topaz, west of Ireland, picked up a large aircraft on radar heading north-west about ten minutes ago. Its course would bring it close to HX204. They think it might have been a Condor."
The Focke-Wulf FW200 Kondor was the German equivalent of the RAF's Liberators. Converted from a long-range airliner, its main job was to search the eastern Atlantic for convoys then call in U-Boats on their position. It could carry bombs, too, and was heavily armed with machineguns and 20mm cannon. They had often come in low to bomb and strafe isolated merchant ships, and even small escorts without enough ack-ack guns to drive the huge planes away. The SOO studied the plot for a moment, picked up her pen and scribbled on a message form, then handed it over. "Add that to the list, Seymour. Thanks for letting me know."
- X -
FOR LEVEN RADIO CHECK CLYDESPR SENDS NW
FOR LEVEN RADIO CHECK CLYDESPR SENDS NW
FOR HX204 POSSIBLE FW200 SIGHTED HEADING FOR YOUR AREA APPROX 0300 ETA APPROX 0430 CLYDESPR SENDS NW
FOR CLYDESPR ROGER AA GUNS CLOSING UP IN 60 BREAK YOU CAN LEAVE HMS LEVEN TO ME I WILL SEARCH AT FIRST LIGHT VIPEROUS SENDS
FOR LEVEN RADIO CHECK CLYDESPR SENDS NW