The Angry Boats

By Charles Palgrave

Australia, April 1942 - the unimaginable is now a reality. Japan’s attention has turned south to the Coral and Solomon Seas. The gemstone of the Pacific is Australia, the vast and only Island Continent. With her fighting men serving in Europe and the Middle East, she is vulnerable. But the Japanese must first claim New Guinea. Survivor of the destroyer, HMAS Nerang, torpedoed and bombed into a burning hulk, Lieutenant-Commander John Roberts, DSC, has witnessed the brutal destruction of ship and crew at the hands of the Japanese. He knows the odds are against them. But the only course is to fight or lose. From raw recruits and the jaded orphans of lost ships a fighting group is forged – Special Coastal Forces is born from a ragged and depleted navy to represent Australia as the first line of defence. Their mandate - protect allied convoys. Seek out and destroy the enemy. Staying alive is subordinate...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483455624

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Copyright © 2016 Charles Palgrave.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5563-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5562-4 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/20/2017

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

CHAPTER 1

T he calm, black, Coral Sea licked softly against the wooden hulls, gently nudging the silent gunboats towards a white curving splash of beach half a mile off the port bow. Above, a lustrous three-quarter moon made its slow passage across a clear star sprinkled sky to the western horizon.

Lieutenant-Commander John Roberts, for the umpteenth time peered through the lenses of his binoculars. He stood quite still on the balls of his feet and swayed to the gentle rolling motion of the boat and scanned the brightening sea around them. The sun will be up shortly, he thought. The cover of darkness stripped with tropical speed. He considered the trek back to Port Moresby under a blazing sun, at battle stations almost all the way. Roberts dropped his glasses to his chest and peered moodily into the distance beyond the silhouetted island festooned with palm trees. He turned narrowing his eyes to see the other two gunboats that made up the small flotilla. The Fairmiles drifted easily in the semi-darkness, rising and falling on the gentle rollers that slipped between the boats only half a cable length apart.

Commander Bryce led the flotilla, and Roberts could see the commander searching the sea through his own binoculars, and remembered his orders. Make a show of it. The brass wants a success and they want it quickly. And we will be that instrument of expedience.

Roberts reflected that air attacks on Moresby and Darwin made it essential for the allies to strike back. Roberts also remembered the comment by Captain Hollingsworth to Bryce: We need something tangible to show they can be beaten. He slid his eyes around the dim, open bridge. The atmosphere in the confined cockpit was tense, almost palpable. And like him, some were orphaned when their own ships had been blown from under them.

Roberts rolled his neck around his collar and tried to ease the bunched knot of muscles he felt in his shoulders and neck. He smiled tightly to himself as he stood on the open bridge of the E239, the dark sky giving way to an orange hue on the horizon, and the moon’s silver brilliance waning. He considered his own ability, then thrust his misgivings aside and turned to his first officer.

Lieutenant Peter Sullivan was quietly directing a young gunner in the correct use of his Vickers machine-guns. Originally from Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland; people born and raised in the northern state regarded themselves honoured to grace God’s own country. Sullivan was the only Queenslander aboard, and as such received friendly disparagement by the other crew members not blessed at birth with the same geographic fortune as this chosen Aussie.

Roberts looked through his glasses again and past the small landmass crouching over the bows. He let his glasses fall to his chest and cast a roving eye over the near black sea rolling them gently forwards to the small tree covered island. ‘You know these waters, Number One. What’s your opinion?’

Sullivan relaxed and leaned against the quarter inch armour plate of the starboard rail. He stared out over the bow of the ship and creased his brows in thought.

Roberts looked at the profile of the man that would take his place if he fell.

Sullivan removed his cap and let his dark unruly hair wash in the wind. Even in the dim light his eyes were astonishingly clear blue. He pulled his cap down over his head and pointed over the starboard bow. ‘I think they’ll come through the channel, sir. No sandbars and tricky shallows to navigate.’

Roberts looked past the small island concealing the gunboats. The sky was now turning from black to purple orange as the sun edged from the sea. ‘That would be their quickest way, too!’ said Roberts thoughtfully.

There was a clatter from behind as a tin mug slid from a flag locker, and the two men winced and turned instinctively. It sounded like an explosion in the silence.

Beside Roberts, Evans, the coxswain, growled a threat through clenched teeth at the young gunner responsible. Nerves were beginning to show.

Matthews hurriedly picked up the mug and wrapped it in a gun cloth. ‘Sorry, sir!’ his wide eyes flicked apologetically around the bridge.

Roberts returned his attention to Sullivan. ‘Commander Bryce is banking on them taking the longer route, Number One, but I think your right.’ He spoke in low tones as if those they were about to ambush might hear.

The three Australian Fairmiles lay off an island in the centre of a small cluster of four in the Calvados Chain, a group of islands running north-west for seventy-five miles known as the Louisiade Archipelago. Tagula, a small coastal township on the northern tip of Sudest, did not go unnoticed by the Japanese and the little coastal village was the haven to launch surprise attacks on Pacific, merchant, southbound convoys.

Roberts weighed the intelligence report of Japanese T-14 torpedo boats heading west to intercept convoys. He studied the sea for a moment then lifted his glasses. He used a towel to remove the salt from the lenses. Roberts looked at the small landmass that might at one time have been used by local fishermen. Some disused thatched dwellings still stood on their long-legged wooden supports, but there was no evidence of recent habitation. He began to refute the intelligence report when he was made to pause by a voice behind him on the bridge. It was Matthews, the starboard gunner and lookout that heard it first.

Roberts turned to the young man on the guns behind him. His head cocked then stilled, alert, questioning the breeze that brought him the faint drone from across the sea. His eyes narrowed and he searched beyond the outcrop of the island.

‘Sir… sir!’ he whispered, ‘Listen, sir!’

Except for the easy lapping of the sea against the hull and the ring of halyards slapping the short hollow mast nothing intruded the silence. Each ear aboard strained to listen. Roberts watched the young gunner’s face, his almost white sun-bleached hair tossed in the breeze, his face pinched in absorbed concentration. Then his eyes lit with excitement and darted around the faces on the bridge. He nodded slowly. ‘Engines, sir… two I think, moving slowly!’

Roberts strained then heard the faint angry grumble of the distant motors. He unclipped the flap of the engine-room voice-pipe. ‘Standby, Chief, it’s on!’

He turned back to the gunner. ‘Well done, Matthews. Signal the Commander - Contact!’

A small red light blinked across the narrow stretch of water that separated the three Fairmiles. Roberts knew Commander Bryce well enough now to know that he would be annoyed that his crew had failed to pick up the enemy first. A curt acknowledgement and an order to wait came back from the E222. The seconds ticked by, and each was an eternity in passing. They could clearly hear the enemy now making slow progress through the channel. Roberts looked about his command.

He nodded to Evans, the Cox’n. ‘Standby Cox’n.’ To the others in a shouted whisper he called. ‘Check your guns!’

Sullivan moved across the small open bridge to stand beside Ordinary Seaman Killick on the port twin Vickers. He looked down at his watch, 05:10, and then he scanned the port stern quarter to make sure there was nothing there to surprise them.

Typically, the tropical dawn came upon them with surprising speed, presenting the first thin crescent curve of the sun shimmering orange on the eastern horizon. Shafts of bright light crept across the water and changed the sea from moody darkness to a gleaming bronzed blue. The elements were on their side. It would make it easy to locate the enemy boats when they emerged from their hide.

Sullivan leaned over the bridge rail and peered back at the slim figure of Able Seaman Rogers, attached by his strapping to the 20mm stern Oerlikon gun, the long, slender, single barrel pointing menacingly out over the port beam. And beside Rogers, Sullivan could make out the silhouette of Sub-lieutenant Reid at the gunner’s side, a drum of ammo resting in the crook of a thin, pale arm.

Sullivan looked about his new ship. He felt protected - even safe. She was more than the old M.L. cut to pieces when ambushed in these very waters only a few months before. The newly converted Fairmile B’s were very capable. Modifications saw the usual, twin, Hall Scott engines replaced with three, U.S. Packard V12s. Unlike their more leisurely sister ships, the E type, could reach speeds of up to thirty-three knots. The new Fairmiles boasted a two pounder rapid-fire gun on the forward deck and mounted .303 Vickers machine-guns on each bridge wing.

Roberts bent again to the engine-room pipe. The sun was now shimmering alive, showing above the sea, an oriental red, which reflected countless bright sparkles off the calm water, ‘Bridge - Skully!’

P.O. Engineer Skully answered almost immediately. ‘Aye, Skipper,’ his Scottish burr exaggerated by the tube.

Roberts talked as loud as he dared. ‘Ok, Chief, on my command, I want them started, then give me as much as you can. We’ll only get one chance at this, so let’s do it right!’

Skully came back. ‘Ah understand, Skipper. Jus’ tell me when! They’ll fire, don’t you worry about that, sir!’

‘Let’s hope so, Chief!’

Aboard E239 all was set. Sullivan watched the E222 for the commander’s signal to go. He was just about to drop his glasses and clean the lenses when it happened. A small red light from the port side of the E222’s bridge blinked innocuously in the early morning dawn. Sullivan drew a breath; his fingers unsteady on the glasses. He exclaimed, ‘Here we go then!’

Roberts had his face to the engine-room pipe and shouted down the tube, ‘Skully, fire ‘em up. Let’s go!’

Skully hit the starter buttons, and below, in his world of spinning shafts and gears, the three massive Packard V12 engines roared into life. Skully ordered the great engines to full throttle, and the first mechanic’s mate pushed the throttle leavers to maximum revs. An angry roar filled the engine-room as more than four thousand horsepower burst from silence to howling fury. The wooden boat frame shook violently. It was impossible to talk in the confined powerhouse. Skully held up two thumbs to show that all was Ok. The engines bellowed and the boat lurched forward immediately with amazing force.

On the bridge the mood was easier, less stained now they were under way. Roberts crossed to Evans on the wheel. ‘Ok, Cox’n! You know what to do. Just follow the commander until I give the word, then get alongside. Keep her well off the starboard bow, Ok! And remember, we’re all new at this!’

Evans nodded his understanding and steered the boat parallel to the wake of the E222.

The bow lifted as the engines came up to power, pushing them easily over the calm, clear sea.

Sullivan turned to Killick on his gun; the boy’s hair was flat against his head. He smiled at the gunner then cast his slit eyes to the E209 on their port beam. She cut a deep furrow through the gleaming sea, her bows lifting steadily to surge through the water with gathering speed. Her stern dug deep into a welter thrown by her thrashing screws that left a path of frothing foam in her wake. Then she jumped a small roller and half her hull lifted from the sea and she flew for fifteen feet before slapping the sea and sending a burst of jewel spray over her length. Sullivan marvelled at the sight. The lethal grey Fairmile with its long deck and sharp bow raised high on the sea. One hundred and twelve feet of hull and men tearing through the water like a long striding racer. He was always impressed at how fast the three Packard engines could move the seventy-three tons of ship to maximum speed.

Roberts could see the familiar white-topped cap of Commander Bryce as he directed his boat on her attack run. She was only one hundred yards off the starboard bow.

They rounded the eastern point of the small island leaving a curving wash of gleaming sunlit sea. Golden rays of watery light cut through the still morning, and spray from the speeding boats flung thousands of bouncing opaque pebbles carelessly over the sea. The water turned a beautiful aqua-blue as the light from behind the boats spread through the shallows. To their left the coconut palms and gently sloping sandy beach slid past with deceptive speed. Then they were past the outcrop and curving into the main channel.

Sullivan pointed and called out. ‘There they are!’

Blinded by the sun the Japanese guns began to fire wildly. Their leader realizing a trap now tried desperately to turn his boats north.

Roberts could clearly see the third Fairmile, as Lieutenant Marcos, aboard the E209, brought his ship around the western point in a creaming high-speed turn, shooting a dramatic solid wing of spray across the still blue water. She was gaining fast on the two boats. They were only a mile dead ahead of the charging E209. Marcos would hold the sea behind and cut off any attempt to the north.

Across the water came the sound of engines coughing, and a plume of blue-grey smoke issued from the exhausts on the Japanese boats as they made a frantic turn north. Roberts dropped his glasses; he turned urgently to Sullivan and had to shout above the din of roaring engines. ‘Make to triple two, enemy breaking - Will intercept.’ He grabbed for the engine-room voice-pipe. ‘Bridge - Engine-room!’

‘Go ahead, Skipper!’

‘Skully, I want full power right now or we could lose the bastards!’

‘Aye, skipper!’

Roberts hoped he could rely on Skully. The boats sped on forming converging wakes in the crystal clear water. Roberts had his powerful glasses to his face again, watching, and then he turned to Evans.

‘Cox’n! Cross now! Intercept the leading boat!’ Roberts stabbed an arm at the fleeing boats. Water ran from his jutting chin, and then a sheet of sparkling spray leapt from under the bows and splattered his highly charged face.

Evans guided the wheel between his big hands, and she answered instantly, leaning on her starboard rail, her bow slicing across the E222’s stern. They burst through the E222’s wake leaping from the sea then crashed down, her bows diving into the water. She knifed the sea aside with her sharp stem and threw a sheet of ice blue water chips back at the men on her decks and bridge. The E239 dived again through the outer edge of the commander’s frothing wake and sped on. At nearly thirty-two knots they angled away past Bryce’s boat. Water continued to drench the decks, running like a torrent through the scuppers.

Roberts peered through his glasses when Killick shouted across the bridge from his port station on the guns. ‘Sir!’ he yelled, ‘E222’s signalling, sir, says, independent action!’

Roberts nodded and shouted back. ‘Acknowledge!’

He nodded, ‘Aye, sir!’

He turned back to the Japanese torpedo boats. ‘Stay on ‘em, Cox’n! Don’t bloody lose ‘em now!’ he demanded.

Roberts could feel the adrenaline being pumped through his bloodstream like a rush of narcotic drug. He held onto the bridge rail and steadied himself against the kicking dash of the boat. He dropped his head to the range finder sight, spun it around and rested the V sight on the leading T-14 boat. Roberts reached for the handset that connected him with Locke, the Leading Seaman on the foredeck gun, ‘Bridge – Main gun! Open on the lead boat when she bears!’

In answer Locke pressed an eye to the rubber-sighting socket, his hands spinning the training wheel while, Cox, and the gun crew hid in the calm of the steel protective shield with additional magazines for the gun.

Killick called out again, pointing to the west; ‘E209’s firing, sir!’

All eyes turned to the west. A puff of smoke swept over the E209 then a distant crash as the shell left the gun. The ship filled Roberts’ glasses; he could make out the E209’s skipper. Lieutenant Marcos was looking through his own binoculars directing the fire of his big gun. There was another cough of smoke and another distant crash sent a shell at over two thousand feet per second towards the fleeing boats. A plume of water marred the tranquil picture of the two speeding torpedo boats. Marcos continued to throw shells.

Ahead of Roberts there was a deafening crash as their own gun boomed from the deck ahead of him. The recoil made the gunboat check each time a shell streaked towards its target. Plumes erupted from the water around the trailing torpedo boat.

‘They’re breaking, sir!’ It was Matthews. He lined his twin barrels over the enemy. Salt-water spray from the speeding gunboat stung like small hailstones.

Roberts squinted and pressed his eyes to the salt streaked lenses of his binoculars. One boat had broken right, across their bow, its wake detailed in a curving white trail.

Sullivan was behind the coxswain and turned a streaming face to Roberts peering over the low bridge screen. ‘Triple two’s signalling, sir. Says, pursue!’

Roberts ignored him. ‘We’ve spooked her, Number One! She’s running for cover in the shallows!’

The distance diminished and they started to gain on the Japanese boat. Her profile was low on the sea between the curving arcs of spray from under her bows. Roberts could see the men on her high aft gun-deck swing the single barrel of the 25mm gun toward them. Muzzle flashes spat from the gun and white-hot streaking shells sped across the sea and beat the water into a hundred miniature eruptions that ran between the two speeding gunboats.

‘We can cut her off, Number One!’ Roberts showed callous excitement on his face. ‘Let’s get this one!’

Locke’s two pounder shells were falling long and wide. Frustration was mounting within Roberts. ‘Check the range, Number One!’ he bellowed.

‘One thousand yards,’ Sullivan dropped his eyes to the range finder again, and then he lifted his head from the sight a moment later, ‘Eight hundred, sir!’

‘Ok! Let’s give them something to think about!’ then he added: ‘Remember what they’ve been doing to our lads!’

They were close enough to make out the identification number painted black on the torpedo boat’s hull - T 57. She fired again from the 25mm machine gun that offered a full three-sixty degree arc of fire. But it had its weakness in that there was almost no armour protection for its operators and made them easy targets.

Roberts turned back to the island that had been the stage for the trap and noticed with satisfaction that the island that could offer an obstacle to the chase was well behind them. He turned back to the darting T-14.

Sullivan left the range finder and stood beside Roberts, watching the fast boat. ‘We’ve got him, sir!’ he shouted confidently, a grim smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘She wouldn’t have run unless she was low on fuel!’ Sullivan stuffed his cap inside his soaked, khaki shirt. His hair was matted to his head in a few seconds and water dripped down his chin but his determined smile stayed on his face, and he nodded confirmation to Roberts’ doubtful glance.

Roberts looked into the pale blue eyes and only etched confidence looked back.

‘This bloke’s going to fight it out, sir!’ Sullivan checked the range finder again.

‘What’s it read now?’ Roberts shouted hoarsely.

Sullivan peered through the gun-like sight. ‘He’s holding, eight hundred, sir!’

Roberts flicked open the engine-room tube cover and yelled into the open mouth of the pipe, ‘Bridge - Skully! How’s she holding up?’

The engineer’s voice seemed very far away over the roar of the Packard engines. ‘Ok, Skipper, but we can’t keep this up forever, sir.’

‘It won’t be for much longer, Chief, just keep ‘em going!’

Sullivan touched Roberts’ arm and pointed at the sea ahead. The water changed colour from deep blue to light, then back to deeper blue. A maze of various shades formed four hundred yards ahead, and the creamy white of sand ran an interwoven labyrinth map beneath the surface.

‘That’s what he wants, sir. The channels start there!’

Roberts took a moment to look across the narrow gap that separated the charging Fairmiles.

Evans nudged the wheel and pushed the E239 away from her sister ship. He couldn’t navigate the up-coming channels with the E222 so close. He flicked the boat, first one way then the other as the sandbars and crystal waters flashed for a second into his vision then disappeared under the prow. He braced his thick legs apart and felt the ship. His forearm muscles burned as he gripped the small wheel and twitched it, sliding the seventy-three ton boat into deeper channels. Salt water splattered his face and his eyes stung but he couldn’t risk taking his hands off the wheel. Everything was a blur, but white beneath the surface meant certain disaster.

Again Killick called from his port wing twin Vickers. ‘E222’s signalling. Says, breaking, sir!’

The E222 moved away. She still maintained speed but steered from the aqua-blue water into the dark and safe of the depths farther away from the track of the enemy. Roberts threw the E222 a glance of disgust then spun fierce grey eyes on his first officer. ‘You can get us through! You know these waters!’ he shouted.

Sullivan looked back at the E222 still moving away off the port bow. Roberts touched his arm. ‘Stay with me, Number One!’

Sullivan looked about him, at the intent faces on the bridge. He fixed on the coxswain wrestling the wheel.

Evans took his eyes from the flashing, speeding sea - ‘How far for deep water, sir?’

Roberts thrust a contorted face at his second-in-command. ‘It’s our only chance! If we pull out now it’s all wasted!’ Roberts fixed him with a challenging look. ‘It’s my decision!’ Roberts hollered.

Sullivan turned to the flashing blue sea rushing under the sharp stem. He almost staggered under the venom of Roberts. Sullivan gathered his wits. ‘Not long now, Cox’n!’ he called angrily. Roberts had questioned his courage and his face was as hard as Roberts’ when he replied to the Cox’n. ‘Keep her on the port quarter; the bars follow the rise to starboard. We should be right as long you keep her left of that chop!’

The sea to their right fought and tumbled over the sand that rose to meet the waves, spilling the small swell as the current tried to push over the curving treacherous ridge of high sand running just beneath the surface.

Roberts shouted to Evans. ‘Good! Keep going Cox’n!’ He gave Sullivan a quick nod; no smile or thanks accompanied it. He dropped his head to the range finder. The boat ahead filled the V sight.

Roberts checked the range, four hundred. She’s slowed, he thought to himself. He screamed at the gunners. ‘Open Fire!’

The stench of cordite from Killick’s guns assaulted them, and smoke from the heating barrels was swept away by the airflow over the boat. After a few seconds his guns stopped their crashing din.

Sullivan stomped across the bridge. ‘Reload! Reload!’ he shouted angrily at the gunner then bent to the ammo locker and locked two magazines into the guns.

Killick’s eyes streamed; his lids red from the smoke and stinging spray.

Sullivan ripped his shirt open roughly and stuffed two more magazines inside, against his narrow, white chest. ‘It’s quicker!’ he yelled harshly, and to his surprise the action formed an idea in his head. Sullivan laughed wildly and the look on Killick’s face confirmed that he had gone bomb happy.

‘Aye, sir,’ Killick balled with fear in his eyes.

Small kicks of water ran behind the Japanese boat as Matthews moved his Vickers sights onto the stern deck. Bullets struck the torpedo boat’s hull and punched through the planking.

Roberts looked across at the commander’s E222; her guns also chattered at the torpedo boat. Roberts trained all his attention back to the dashing T-14. The E239 skimmed over the water, her bow high, throwing a continuous wide spray of sparkling gem water stones over the sea. Roberts could see the bite of shells as they struck wood and kicked splinters off her deck. Her gunners, high and unprotected on the 25mm danced a jig as bullets screamed all around them. Then her crew regained their composure after a few seconds. A lazy arc of shells fell and ripped into the sea along the starboard side.

Evans swerved the boat at Sullivan’s instructions.

The E239 turned hard to port as a hidden sand bar streaked past the starboard rail. Then it happened. Roberts’ ears rang from the constant pounding from the guns. He saw the fall of shot from Locke on the forward gun punch through the hull above the waterline. In the next instant she began to loose way. She picked up and surged forward, and then choked again and her frothing wake calmed for a second, then the screws thrashed at the water again and threw the boat forward for a few more yards. The engines spluttered for a third time. This time there was no grumble of starved motors eager to suck fuel through injectors. She stalled and came about, her wash fell down her bow and she floundered and wallowed as she sank into the clean water.

CHAPTER 2

‘W e’ve got ‘em, sir!’ It was Sullivan. The first officer rushed to Matthews. ‘Aim at the men! Get the bloody gunners!’ he ordered.

Roberts spun round; his eyes mad with the kill. Roberts jerked his head at the blond gunner. ‘Do it! Get the gunners, Matthews!’

Sullivan pushed him aside and pulled the stock into his shoulder and poured bullets at the slowing torpedo boat. His eyes were slits as he guarded against the spray and smoke from the twin guns. He ignored the thunder of the guns in his ears and concentrated his mind on the dying boat ahead. And with each shell he fired he refuted the slur against his courage that Roberts had levelled on him in front of the men. Inside his brain he was screaming his retaliation against his captain.

A Japanese sailor caught in the lashing lead storm was shoved and brutally punched by the crashing hits on his body. The unseen force pushed the sailor from his position on the 25mm to the guardrail running around the high after deck. He still held onto the burden that was the magazine to the gun, until that also was torn from his clutching grasp and thrown into the air. He spun in a perfect pirouette inches above the deck and seemed to hang in the air. More shells pounded through the slight form and he flung his arms high in a final cruciform and appeared to dive backwards through a curtain spray of his own bright red blood over the side.

The boat lost all way and began to settle although she still seemed reasonably undamaged, and rode high on the sea. Roberts heard the gunning engines from the commander’s E222 as the Fairmile lurched again to close on the dying boat. Roberts raced back to the starboard bridge and grabbed for the voice-pipe that connected him with Skully.

‘Bridge – Skully, reduce to one third, Chief.’ He couldn’t hear the engineers reply over the guns but the bow sank to the sea and the men were thrown forward as the ship’s momentum slowed to his order. Roberts took a step to his left and had to shout into the Cox’n’s ear to be heard. ‘Stand off her!’

Evans swung astern of the drifting, battered little boat, their turn forcing small waves toward the stricken enemy.

Roberts held his arm high with the communication tube to the forward gun in his hand. He shouted at his men on the bridge, then to Locke down the tube, ‘CEASE-FIRE! CEASE-FIRE!’

To the Cox’n, he ordered. ‘Take her wide of the E222, Cox’n!’ He turned to the gunners on the bridge. ‘Cover them! Watch the bastards!’

Bryce was still closing fast. The grey Fairmile dashed in on the burning boat, her guns spitting ferociously from her bridge. She came on the torpedo boat wallowing on the blue sea. Then an eerie silence fell over the bright morning as Bryce’s guns fell silent, but he pushed onto the Japanese boat across the E239’s line of fire.

Roberts swore violently as the commander moved to cross his bow. In that moment Bryce broke a cardinal rule of naval engagement. He endangered his ship by crossing the line of fire of a protecting ship. He had the enemy dead to rights in crossfire but he still crossed the bows of the E239 and left them no target.

Roberts stomach lurched, he could see it in his mind’s eye, knew what could happen. Knew what he would do if it was him on the Japanese boat.

The E222’s grey stem slid across their sights, and the smaller Japanese boat was lost to them for a few vital seconds.

Sullivan stood next to Roberts. ‘What’s he doing, sir?’ his eyes mirrored the same concern he read in Roberts’ eyes.

Roberts shook his head. ‘I don’t know Pete!’

The E239 was two hundred yards from the two ships, but they could see clearly Bryce directing his boat towards the stricken ship. Bryce positioned the E222 on the torpedo boat’s starboard quarter. There was a loud, deep, phrumph, as a charge ignited below the surface in the deeper, blue water.

Roberts felt the shudder through his legs as the shock wave under the sea reached the hull. ‘Jesus! They’ve dropped depth charges! It’s suicide!’

The sea ahead began to boil into a mushroom dome. Then a thick white column of water rose from the sea and shot two hundred feet into the air. The E222 was dead in the water, they hadn’t seen the depth charge drop from the boat and she was within the destructive range of the blast.

Roberts grabbed the rail and stared over the bow as the sea burst to the heavens powered by the force of the high explosive charge. He saw the E222 buck and lift as the gout increased. The eruption lifted the E222’s bow from the water with almost casual ease, and he saw her forward gun crew flung like dummies over the side. She was forced back to the sea as tons of water fell on her, driven under the surface by the weight of the drenching. Her triple screws emerged motionless, lifted from the water then the hull smashed down again with a crashing slap.

Roberts watched with sick amazement, unsure if she would sink or hold on. She bobbed on the maelstrom of water that churned and beat at her battered hull, turning and rolling the ship, desperately intent on savage revenge. But the E222 rode the malevolent sea. She took the blows and was tossed over dangerously. Moments passed, and they watched her flounder and lurch. She staggered back on her keel, mortally wounded by the crushing blow, listing badly on her port side. A second charge exploded. The Japanese torpedo boat sitting immediately above the blast was uncaringly thrown from the sea. The T-14 turned turtle and crashed back into the sea. Only debris and bodies bobbed to the surface rolling and spinning slowly in the confused water.

Roberts saw pale faces turning over and over as the sea regained its composure. Then eventually they floated face down on the flat glass pool evened by the blast and were left to the will of the currents.

Roberts turned to Sullivan now on the opposite side of the small bridge. ‘Shit!’ Then he fixed on the Cox’n. ‘Make for the triple two!’ he shouted.

It had only been a few seconds since the final depth charge explosion, but already the men of the E222 were jumping and falling from the crippled gunboat. She was much lower in the water and smoke billowed from her funnel and streamed from the rents and gaps along her side. The engine-room hatch was gone and a savage fire burned below from within her power-plant cabin.

Sullivan strode across the small bridge to where Roberts was rooted against the armour plate. ‘The engine-room must be a right off, Skipper!’

Roberts dashed at his eyes and forehead with the back of his hand to clear the spray. ‘Get ready to go forrard, Number One!’ He leaned over the bridge rail and looked back down the E239’s stern deck. Reid was at the rail watching the horror. ‘Lower the nets, Sub!’ he shouted through cupped hands to the sub-lieutenant.

Sullivan turned Roberts’ attention to the E222. ‘She’s burning, Skipper! She could go up at any time!’

Roberts looked past Sullivan, to Evans, his eyes hard grey. ‘Take her in, Cox’n. Bring us alongside. And stay alert!’ he added coldly. And then to Sullivan: ‘Get forrard, Number One.’

Sullivan slipped through the bridge gate to the deck and rushed forward. He knew what had to be done. The skipper would risk them to save their own. It wasn’t heroics, or glory, Sullivan knew that. He would do the same, though at this moment he hated Roberts for his previous accusation.

Roberts leaned over the screen, watching his men move with purpose. He nodded his curt approval at the Cox’n as he steered the E239 onto the suffering ship, then he returned his sharp gaze on the sea. There were men in the water, coughing and choking from the fuel and thick black oil leaking from holed tanks. The crystal clear sea all around them was now stained a thick dirty brown. They were splashing and flaying through the scum and detritus while the petrol and oil coated their bodies and was sucked into gaping mouths to burn their lungs.

‘Get those men out of the water!’ he roared at his crew on the foredeck. He saw Locke untie the thick wet nets and toss them over the side as they slid past the men in the water.

Locke shoved the much smaller and weaker Cook away from the nets, ‘Move!’ He reached thick hairy arms down to the brown smeared faces spluttering in the sea, took hold of a slippery arm and hoisted a man clear of the grime. He grabbed another but his grip slipped and the man splashed back under the filthy sea. Bravely he jumped in amongst them as Evans edged the boat closer. Locke re-surfaced black and covered with oil. He grabbed the net with one hand and reached for the shirt of a wretched man with the other. He lifted the man to the net and other hands dragged him aboard. Locke clambered to