Free Back to Battle by Max Hennessy

out and among them were recalled men like Rumbelo, often middle-aged and in no condition for the spartan regime of a destroyer’s mess decks in the Atlantic. There were also a few Naval Reservists, trawlermen and merchant seamen, who, if not very good yet at their drill, were skilled seamen, and one or two Naval Volunteer Reservists, the Saturday afternoon sailors, mostly pure amateurs with more enthusiasm than expertise. But even they were learning fast, and they all of them – from the captain downwards – belonged to a small and closely-kept community, from which they could never escape. Aboard a destroyer, there was little time or room for pleasure and never freedom from noise or movement. Perhaps it was the one thing that held them together and made them a team.
    As Feudal came round on the starboard side of the convoy, they saw that Wrestler had hoisted a signal and the yeoman of signals sang out. ‘Wrestler in contact, sir!’
    Kelly’s eyes narrowed. William Latimer, the captain of Wrestler was well known to him. He had met him in 1927 up the Yangtze, when they’d stood alongside each other at Chinkiang with a small group of sailors holding off a mob of Chinese intent on murdering every white in sight. Kelly had been a lieutenant commander then and Latimer had been a midshipman. He’d done well in the intervening years, though Wrestler was his first ship and he was still young enough and enthusiastic enough to want to depth-charge everything from a clump of seaweed to a shoal of herring.
    Wrestler was steering away from the convoy now, pitching drunkenly, huge sheets of spray lifting over her bridge. She was steaming full ahead and it seemed that Latimer was going to drop something, if only for luck. At that moment, another flag fluttered to Wrestler’s yard arm.
    ‘Wrestler attacking, sir!’
    They all watched, wondering how good the contact was, and saw the depth charges go down. After a few moments the sea bulged and huge columns of grey-green water rose high above them. As the spray settled, they waited with their glasses trained.
    ‘From Wrestler, sir. “Lost contact.”’
    As they came round, the spray slashing across the bridge to coat it with a thin sparkling crust and fill mouths with the taste of salt, they were close to the other ship, and Kelly leaned on the bridge coaming, his eyes narrow and glittering as he watched from under the tarnished gold of his cap.
    ‘Call her up, yeoman. Tell her to continue her search and ask her the nature of the contact.’
    As the stream of flags shot up and the lamp flickered, the yeoman called out. ‘Contact firm, sir. Classified as U-boat, moving to port.’
    ‘Ask ’em what they think now?’
    ‘Still think it’s a U-boat,’ Latimer replied. ‘“I can call spirits from the vasty deep.”’
    Kelly smiled. Where most naval officers relied on the Bible for their clever signals, Latimer used Shakespeare. He’d quoted The Merchant of Venice, he remembered, as they’d stood on the bund at Chinkiang under a shower of brickbats from the Chinese mob.
    He guessed Latimer was right. If the submarine had been on the point of attacking the convoy when she was contacted she would certainly have moved in the direction Latimer had indicated.
    ‘Make “Continue the search!”’ he said.
    Together, the two ships watched the convoy pass them, moving slowly through the water, suspecting that the U-boat would continue to follow the merchantmen. As Feudal swung in a wide circle towards Wrestler, the Asdic-repeater’s note was monotonous, thin and featureless above the thump and crash and hiss of the waves, then suddenly it changed to a solid echo that made the operator jump. In his tiny soundproofed compartment, his straining ears were almost deafened.
    ‘Asdic to bridge! HE reciprocating engines green oh-one-oh!’
    Kelly spoke over his shoulder to the yeoman of signals. ‘Make to Wrestler “Have strong contact.”’
    The Asdic echo sharpened. ‘Contact