Free Killing Ground by Douglas Reeman Page B

sir.
Resume station.”
    Howard took off his worn, sea-going cap and shook his hairto the wind. The heat was fading already, the icy cold regaining its grip.
    â€œTake her round, Pilot. Revs for twenty knots.”
    He turned to watch as the
Mersey Belle
began to heel over, armoured vehicles splashing alongside, only so much rubbish now. There were two figures right up in the vessel’s stern.
Don’t let them suffer like that.
    He offered a silent prayer as some of the flames vanished and he heard the grating crash of metal as the ship began to break up, the stern half diving first in a great welter of steam and bubbles, the two lonely figures still there to the end. A last great explosion rocked the destroyer’s sleek hull and then the sea was empty once more.
    At first light they rejoined the convoy, and as the visibility improved Howard saw that the formation was as before. As if
Mersey Belle
had never been. He said, “Fall out action stations. Get some hot food into the people. It may be the last for some time.”
    Treherne asked quietly, “And what about you, sir?”
    Howard gave him a curious glance. “Me? I’d like the biggest Horse’s Neck in the whole bloody world, but I’ll make do with some fresh kye if you can arrange it.”
    Treherne glanced at Lieutenant Finlay who was climbing down from his fire control position, and gave a brief wink.
    Just for an instant back there he had been worried. But Howard was OK. He thought of the men, dying in the water.
He had to be.

4 | Ice and Fire
    G LADIATOR’S
small chart-room was situated abaft the wheel-house and opposite Howard’s sea cabin. The only light came from the chart table where everything was clearer to read and understand than the cramped ready-use hutch on the upper bridge.
    Howard and his three lieutenants stood around it now, sharing the illusion of warmth after the biting cold of the open bridge.
    Howard watched Treherne adjusting the course to another alteration from the commodore, oblivious to the condensation which fell like heavy drops of rain from the deckhead. Marrack and Finlay the gunnery officer waited in silence while they contemplated their own possible fate.
    It was past noon, and the pace of the convoy had dropped to nine knots as more and more ice-floes cruised slowly down their ranks. The heavy tug
Bruiser
had steamed to the head of the convoy, ready to assist if one of the deep-laden ships got into difficulty, or to smash her way through with her tough, oceangoing hull.
    The survivors from the
Mersey Belle
were aft in the wardroom. There had been only seven, but one had died an hour ago from his burns and other injuries.
    Howard had accepted the news in silence. It was terrible what war could do to your judgement, he thought.
To me.
In those early days, learning the job, he would have been grateful, proud even, to have snatched just six men from the jaws of death. But experience made him ask questions now. Were a handful of survivors worth risking this ship? She had been stopped, outlined against the blazing fuel, an easy target for any U-Boat had there been one. They
had
to be worth it.
Otherwise we are as bad as the men who struck them down without mercy.
Every U-Boat commander knewthat his weapon could be the vital one to win the war. Up here, in these bleak wastes, submarines and bombers alike were ordered to go for the main targets, merchantmen and aircraft carriers.
    As one senior escort commander had told Howard, “When the U-Boats start going for
us,
you’ll know we’re winning!”
    He heard boots scraping on the deck overhead and wondered what Sub-Lieutenant Bizley thought about being on watch alone while Finlay was down here. He must have done it many times in his racy motor gunboat. But this was quite different. A powerful destroyer, a company of one hundred and forty-five to consider, and signals which might burst upon him from any direction: the commodore, the