Battlecruiser (1997) Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Back from the Dead

  2. Welcome Aboard

  3. Coming to Terms

  4. Lifeline

  5. Rendezvous

  6. Spreading the Word

  7. Friends

  8. Fast Convoy

  9. Your Decision

  10. Survivors

  11. Hit-and-Run

  12. Operation Sackcloth

  13. Blood and Congratulations

  14. No Turning Back

  15. The Bond

  16. Storm Warning

  17. Of One Company

  18. ‘The Violence of the Enemy’

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The Battlecruiser – in their time this class of ships was considered one of the great triumphs of the Royal Navy, as swift as a destroyer but packing a deadly firepower equal to any ship afloat. But the ships had one fatal flaw: their armour could be pierced by a single enemy shell. The Battle of Jutland exposed this Achilles’ heel, then further disasters followed in the next world war with the tragic sinkings of the Hood and Repulse.

  1943 – Of all her class, HMS Reliant and one other have survived. Reliant has the reputation of a lucky ship but when Captain Guy Sherbrooke joins her he knows he could be her last captain. As Britain prepares to invade occupied Europe, Reliant will be thrown head first into the conflagration. All those who sail in her know that there can be no half measures: only death or glory awaits HMS Reliant.

  About the Author

  DOUGLAS REEMAN joined the Navy in 1941. He did convoy duty in the Atlantic, the Arctic, and the North Sea, and later served in motor torpedo boats. As he says, ‘I am always asked to account for the perennial appeal of the sea story, and its enduring interest for people of so many nationalities and cultures. It would seem that the eternal and sometimes elusive triangle of man, ship and ocean, particularly under the stress of war, produces the best qualities of courage and compassion, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of the conflict . . . The sea has no understandig of the righteous or unjust causes. It is the common enemy, respected by all who serve on it, ignored at their peril.’

  Battlecruiser is Douglas Reeman’s thirty-third novel under his own name; he has also written over twenty bestselling historical novels featuring Richard Bolitho, under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  High Water

  Send a Gunboat

  Dive in the Sun

  The Hostile Shore

  The Last Raider

  With Blood and Iron

  H.M.S. Saracen

  The Deep Silence

  Path of the Storm

  The Pride and the Anguish

  To Risks Unknown

  The Greatest Enemy

  Rendezvous – South Atlantic

  Go In and Sink!

  The Destroyers

  Winged Escort

  Surface with Daring

  Strike from the Sea

  A Ship Must Die

  Torpedo Run

  Badge of Glory

  The First to Land

  The Volunteers

  The Iron Pirate

  Against the Sea (non-fiction)

  In Danger’s Hour

  The White Guns

  Killing Ground

  The Horizon

  Sunset

  A Dawn Like Thunder

  Dust on the Sea

  For Valour

  Twelve Seconds to Live

  The Glory Boys

  Knife Edge

  Battlecruiser

  Douglas Reeman

  For you, Kim, with love.

  ‘Save thou my rose; in it thou art my all.’

  Escort the brave

  Whose hearts, unsatisfied

  With the kind stairs and tender hearths of love,

  Are loyal to the cunning of the waves,

  The sparse rule of the tide.

  Fly over these,

  Humble and brave, who sail

  And trim the ships with very life. Their lives

  Delineate the seas.

  Patrol their deathless trail.

  John Pudney

  Flight Lieutenant, R.A.F.

  1942

  Prologue

  In peace or war, the launch of a great ship is like no other experience, and to have been a part of it, to have shared the creation from idea to blueprint, and then to follow it over the months to this moment, must be unique.

  In peace or war, the launch of a great ship is like no other experience, and to have been a part of it, to have shared the creation from idea to blueprint, and then to follow it over the months to this moment, must be unique.

  For the many men who helped to build this particular ship, it is a time for pride and satisfaction. Day by day, they have seen her grow and take shape until she dominates all around her, just as she has ruled their working lives. Unlike the days of unemployment and depression, when the completion of such a ship would represent loss of work until another order could be won and another keel laid down, this slipway will not be empty for very long.

  And here on Clydebank, you can feel the excitement on every side. Even in neighbouring yards, men have stopped work to watch this great ship, bedecked with flags, built for war but as yet without weapons, her bridges and superstructure strangely bare and unfinished. But some will say that she already has a character of her own.

  Sailors have always been prone to claim that different ships have different characters. Happy ships, where the line between wardroom and messdeck is flexible, ready to adapt, and others where the opposite is equally obvious. Men under punishment, with lists of defaulters as further proof of the discontent which can harm any ship. And those other, rogue ships, with their unexplained accidents and breakdowns, and the inevitable aftermath of recriminations from on high, usually leading to a court-martial.

  But now there is a hush, as if some one has raised a signal. The figures on the platform, dwarfed by the towering grey stem that rises high above them, come to life. A small girl curtsies and presents a bouquet to the woman in white, an admiral’s wife, who is to perform the final honour. She is well supported by senior naval officers and dockyard officials, one of whom takes her hand and places it gently on the lever; another takes the bouquet from her. For a few moments she stares up at those great, graceful bows, the empty hawse pipes like eyes.

  Below her, the band of the Royal Marines raise their instruments, waiting for the first stroke of the baton.

  Her voice is strong, loud even, on the improvised speakers.

  ‘I name this ship . . .’

  Her voice is completely drowned by the thunder of cheering, the crash of drums as the band breaks into Rule, Britannia.

  ‘God bless her . . .’

  There is one stark moment when some of the yard engineers glance at one another with alarm, until, with something like a sigh, the great ship begins to move, so slowly at first; and then, with the chain cables holding her under control in a rising cloud of rust, she touches the Clyde for the first time.

  ‘And all who sail in her!’

  In war, a ship can fall victim to mine or torpedo, shellfire or dive-bomber, impartial killers without conscience or memory. Or they can live on, to end their days in some breaker’s yard, suffering the indignity and the contempt after years of loyal service. But this ship is a machine, a weapon, only as good or as bad as those who will command her. A ship has no soul, and can have no say in her own destiny. Or ca
n she?

  1

  Back from the Dead

  The journey from the railway station to the church in the one and only taxi seemed to pass within a minute. Huddled in a heavy coat and scarf, the driver occasionally glanced at the passenger reflected in the mirror, a stranger now in his naval uniform, but one who had grown up in this small Surrey town. Like all those other boys, like the driver’s own son, who was now driving a tank in the Western Desert.

  For something to say, he called over his shoulder, ‘Might still make it, sir. They could have been delayed.’

  Captain Guy Sherbrooke turned up the collar of his raincoat and said something vague in agreement. The weather was cold despite the bright, clear sky, but it was not that. He was used to it, or should be, he thought. He glanced at the passing houses, and a pub with some soldiers standing outside, waiting for the doors to open. It was unreal, coming back like this; he should have known that it would be. The raincoat felt stiff and unfamiliar, like the rest of his clothing, all new. Like the cap that lay on the seat beside him, its peak bearing gold oak leaves. A captain. The dream . . . that was all it had been, in those days.

  He should not have come. He had been offered an excuse at Waterloo station. The train was delayed; there had been a derailment; local slow trains were held up to make way for others more important. A familiar story. He had gone into the station buffet and had a cup of stale coffee. A drink, a proper drink, had been what he had really wanted.

  He smiled unconsciously, a young man again. It would hardly do to arrive at a funeral smelling of gin. He turned to gaze at the great, green sprawl of Sandown Park racecourse, where his grandfather had taken him as a child to watch the jockeys urging their mounts around the last bend before the post. Only a memory now. This was the second day of January, 1943, another year of war. Sandown Park was no longer witness to the raucous bookmakers and jostling punters, the tipsters and the pickpockets. It was part of the army for the duration: stones painted white, sentries on the gates, lines of khaki stamping up and down in a cloud of dust, the home of a training battalion of the Welsh Guards.

  He looked ahead and saw the familiar church spire; you could even see it from Kingston Hill on a fine day, they said. There had been some bombing around here, but not much, unlike the cities he had seen where hardly a building remained undamaged.

  The taxi turned into the narrow road by the church, and stopped. The driver, who sported a moustache like the Old Bill character of the Great War, turned in his open seat and said, ‘We were all sorry to hear about your ship, sir . . . losing her like that. Tim Evans, the postman’s son, was on board.’

  ‘I know.’ Would it always be like this? ‘He was a nice lad.’

  Was. So many had died that day, in that bitter sea that robbed a man of his breath, his very will.

  The driver watched him thoughtfully. A youthful, clean-cut face, with little to show of what he must have suffered. But the steadiness of his eyes and the tightness of the jaw made a lie of it. The driver had been a sapper in that other war, in Flanders, no less a graveyard than this one on the other side of the old stone wall.

  Sherbrooke knew what he was thinking, and was moved by it. Air raids, rationing . . . it was bad enough for the civilian populace without those hated telegrams. We regret to inform you that your husband, father, son . . . And yet this old taxi driver was always at the station, whenever he had managed to get away for a spot of leave.

  Now there was nowhere to call home. Perhaps it was just as well: a new start. No doubts or misgivings. Just do it.

  He got out of the taxi and glanced across at the church. The doors were opening; he imagined he could hear the organ. He was too late. He should have stayed away.

  He reached into his pocket: even that felt different, alien, like a stranger’s garment. The old driver shook his head.

  ‘No, sir, not this time.’ He looked grimly at the church. ‘’Sides, I brought him from the station this last time.’

  Then he smiled. ‘I’ll be seeing you, sir. Just like the song says!’ He swung away from the kerb. Back to the station.

  Sherbrooke straightened his cap and pushed open the gate.

  The coffin was being carried around the church, the mourners following in small, separate groups. Several naval officers were among them, one walking with a stick, a tall, unsmiling Wren close beside him. He was obviously feeling the cold, despite the heavy greatcoat with its gold vice-admiral’s rank markings. It was hard to imagine him as a captain in that great ship, in that vanished world of the peacetime Mediterranean fleet. Sherbrooke could not accept it. Dead men’s shoes . . . not yet.

  The man being buried today was Captain Charles Cavendish; he had been a lieutenant with Sherbrooke in those far-off days. A quiet, private funeral, with only a White Ensign draped over the coffin as a token of respect. The coroner’s verdict had been ‘death by misadventure’. Cavendish had been a brave and respected officer, who had commanded one of Britain’s most famous ships. His death had been a sad one, even pointless, following a few days of leave, while the ship was in the Firth of Forth for work to be carried out on board. He had been found sitting in his beloved Armstrong-Siddeley car, his pride and joy, bought when he had married Jane. Another flash of memory pierced Sherbrooke. They had all been there, smiling, happy to be part of it, their swords drawn to form an arch over the bridal couple: Cavendish, tall and rather serious, even as a lieutenant, and the lovely Jane, who could win a man’s heart as she could freeze another, with a mere glance.

  The older people were looking at one another warily, seeking comfort, clearly ill at ease. The naval officers were here to show their respect to Captain Charles Cavendish, D.S.O. and Bar, who had died alone in his car, with the engine running and the garage door closed.

  The local police sergeant had explained that it had been a very windy day, that the door had probably been blown shut; there could be no other explanation. Jane had been in London and had known nothing about her husband’s unexpected leave. Otherwise . . .

  That same sergeant was here now, erect and unsmiling. He was well acquainted with the family, and had been known to drop in for a glass when the captain was at home.

  Sherbrooke turned his head, and saw her looking directly at him. As the vicar opened his book and began to read, his breath hanging in the clear air like steam, she gave the merest nod. Even in this setting she stood out, as she always had, tall, slender, striking. She appeared calm, very contained, her fingers holding her black coat tightly shut, the diamond naval crown brooch glittering in the hard sunlight.

  Then the gaunt-looking undertaker and his team moved away, as though following the steps of a well-rehearsed dance. The coffin was gone. People were gathering round to offer condolences, some doubtless wondering what had really happened. The vice-admiral joined Sherbrooke, and poked at the loose gravel with his stick.

  ‘People think this is an affectation, dammit. I can assure you it isn’t!’ Then he dropped his voice. ‘I’m glad you accepted command, Sherbrooke. Keeps it in the family, so to speak.’

  Sherbrooke smiled, something he had not done much of late. He knew what the vice-admiral meant; he had been retired soon after his promotion to flag rank, put out to graze, as he himself described it. But he had never forgotten those days, when he had been the captain. There had been four lieutenants in the wardroom during a carefree commission, when life had seemed always to be sunny and easy in retrospect. John Broadwood, killed eighteen months ago in command of a destroyer on the Atlantic run. Charles Cavendish. Sherbrooke dragged his mind back to the present as the men with spades moved toward the grave. And there was Vincent Stagg, now a rear-admiral, the youngest since Nelson, one newspaper had trumpeted. And me.

  He had reached her without realizing he had moved. Her hand was soft, but strong, and like ice.

  ‘It was nice of you to come. I thought about you a lot when you lost your ship. We all did.’ She smiled at somebody who was trying to get near, but her eyes were without warmt
h. ‘Is it true you’re taking Charles’s ship?’ She studied him thoughtfully. ‘I’m glad for you. No sense in brooding.’ She looked away. ‘When do you take command?’

  ‘Right away,’ he said.

  She released his hand, and smiled. ‘Good luck, Guy. You could use it.’

  She moved through the crowd of mourners, and the vice-admiral said, ‘Coming up to the house, Sherbrooke?’ He recognized the doubt, the sense of loss. ‘Just for a few minutes, eh? Spam sandwiches and sherry. God, I’ve been to a few recently!’ He touched his arm. ‘I can run you up to town afterwards, get things started for you. Might be a drop of Scotch in it, too. Do you good!’ His stick slipped from his hand and the Wren stooped down to retrieve it for him. The vice-admiral sighed. ‘Everybody’s so bloody young! If only . . .’ He glanced at the tall, unsmiling Wren. ‘Eh, Joyce? If only.’

  She said patiently, ‘That’s right, sir.’ But she was looking past him at the captain in the new, uncreased raincoat. Afterwards, Sherbrooke thought she had been thinking of someone else, and perhaps, what might have been.

  They walked slowly across the village green toward the larger houses on the hill. Jane had money of her own, plenty of it. He found himself glancing at the garage beside the house as he approached the double doors.

  They had just watched a secret being buried.

  He recalled her voice, so cool and assured. No sense in brooding.

  Suddenly, he was glad to be leaving.

  The naval operations and signals distribution sections at Leith were situated in a dispirited-looking building that faced out over the great Firth of Forth. The stiff wind, across the water and the many moored warships, cut like a knife, and made any sort of outdoor work a misery.

  Inside the operations room, it was almost humid by comparison, the broad windows misty with condensation.

  The duty operations officer got up from his desk and moved to the nearest one. Old for his rank, and put on the beach between the wars, he had come to accept this day-to-day work on the fringe of what he considered the real war. He wiped the glass with his sleeve and saw the moisture running down the criss-cross of sticky paper which, allegedly, offered protection against bomb-blast, should any enemy aircraft be reckless enough to attempt a raid. These days, there were so many warships here at any given time that their combined anti-aircraft fire would deter anybody in his right mind.