Battlecruiser (1997) Read Free

kept going, and had rammed the submarine at full speed, driving it down, until only an oil slick and the remains of her deck party were left to mark the spot. The Admiralty was far from keen on escorts ramming U-Boats. Even if successful, it meant that the ship involved would be in dock for months, at a time when every escort was worth her tonnage in gold.
    But the cheers that day from every ship in the anchorage must have made each man in her company feel like a giant, and he had been surprised that he could still be so moved. So envious.
    ‘Tea, sir?’ He turned and looked at his personal Wren, a petty officer writer who had been with him for four months. It was a long time in the service these days. He wondered what she would say if he asked her out for a quiet meal in Edinburgh, for a Twelfth Night celebration. Probably make some excuse, and then ask for a transfer.
    She smiled to herself. She knew exactly what he was thinking, or could make a good guess.
    She said, ‘The battlecruiser’s new captain is due today, sir. I wonder what he’ll be like.’
    He looked at her. How different from the time he had found her crying in that very chair, the telegram gripped in one hand. Her fiancé had been killed in somegodforsaken place in North Africa. Was she over it? So many such telegrams . . . thousands, probably millions.
    He considered her remark, and replied, ‘I know something of him. It was just before you joined us here at Leith. He’s Captain Guy Sherbrooke – young for his rank. He was in command of the cruiser
Pyrrhus
, Leander class, like the
Achilles
and
Ajax
of River Plate fame. Smart ships, small by today’s standards, of course. Six six-inch guns as main armament.’ Without looking, he knew she was sitting down in the chair, listening, as she had that day when he had found her with the telegram. ‘She was part of the escort for a convoy to North Russia – that damnable place. The Admiralty had been expecting trouble, even with
Bismarck
sunk and only
Scharnhorst
as an immediate threat, and they had ordered heavier units to stand by off Iceland, just in case.’
    ‘I remember, sir. I read about it in the papers. Three German cruisers came out of Norway and went for the convoy. But the
Scharnhorst
never appeared.’
    He touched the cup on his desk. The tea was cold. ‘The convoy was ordered to disperse, not “scatter”, as some might have had it.
Pyrrhus
placed herself between the convoy and the enemy.’ He added with sudden bitterness, ‘But the heavy units never arrived, and Captain Sherbrooke’s challenge was in vain.
Pyrrhus
managed to maul one of them, but she was hopelessly outgunned. Swamped.’
    ‘But the convoy was left alone, sir?’
    He did not hear her. ‘I remember seeing
Pyrrhus
at a fleet review before the war. I couldn’t keep away, even then. She had a ship’s company of four hundred and fifty. They picked up eight of them. One was Sherbrooke. You don’t last long in the Arctic in September.’
    ‘And now he’s here, sir.’
    ‘And now he’s here.’ A small Wren hovered at the door with a signal-pad in her hands.
    The operations officer was glad of the interruption. He was only speculating, in any case. Nobody knew for certain what had happened that day. He wiped the window again. He could not see the ship from here, but he had already watched her at her anchorage, surrounded by barges and lighters, boats coming and going like servants. She was there: he could feel her. A ship so well known in peace and war, part of the legend, a symbol of all the navy stood for.
    Her previous captain, Cavendish, had died suddenly, not on his bridge but at home. An accident, the report had stated. Cavendish would have known the truth. He had been in command of that great ship out there when
Pyrrhus
had gone down, guns blazing, in seas as high as this building. Now Sherbrooke was taking his place. In command of a legend . . . the ship which had left his
Pyrrhus
to perish.
    The Wren