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  The first two men to reach the securely lashed rafts were only able to stand up with difficulty. Ordinary seaman Butcher fumbled in his pocket for a knife to cut the lashings. In his panic he let go of the stanchion, fell backwards and joined Johnson in the deep. Gunner Harris was left by the raft but without a knife.

  ‘Knife, somebody,’ he yellowed.

  ‘Catch,’ yelled stoker Cunningham.

  Harris caught the knife and hacked furiously at the raft. With only one hand to work with, he dropped the knife as soon as he had freed the raft and grabbed the line, pushing the raft behind him with his feet. The raft shot down the deck and settled on the light waves. Harris, who had held tight to the line, was yanked from his stanchion and bruisingly bounced down the deck into the water. A good swimmer, he stroked back to the ship to secure the line.

  The second raft was even more troublesome. Neither able seaman Richards nor Stoker Davidson had a knife. Each needed one hand to stay upright so their one-handed efforts to untie the lashings proved hopeless. They tore their nails in their futile gripping of the knots, swollen by seawater.

  ‘I’ll get an axe,’ cried Davidson and went across the perilous deck to reach a nearby locker. He seized a heavy axe but then faced dragging it across the slithery deck. ‘Grab me by the waist,’ he called to Davidson. With two hands free, one sharp, well-aimed chop at each lashing sent the raft tumbling down the deck, taking its line with it. Davidson let go of the axe and the two men followed the raft seawards.

  By now almost all the men were in the water. Some had chosen their moment after first locating the rafts. Some had simply lost their balance and had been involuntarily thrown into the sea. Others had hesitated and attempted to cling to the ship until she left them no choice.

  Two men remained. Hugging on to the jammed davit of the one remaining boat was young Jack Brownlow.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ he cried.

  From the rafts the men cried, ‘Jump!’ but Brownlow refused.

  Not far from him was Pickering. He had sworn to bring the ship in but the sea had denied him that right. Never had he imagined that one of his ships would be under his feet and so near to her end. A proud career was being brought to an ignominious conclusion. Better to go down with the Buttercup than to live with the knowledge of this terrible day. And then he thought of his wife’s meat pies, and jumped into the welcoming sea.

  Buttercup turned over and with a rush of foaming sea and dirty spray slipped beneath the waves, taking Brownlow to his grave, so ending his hopes of a career as a ballroom dancer.

  All that remained of Buttercup was a patch of boiling water and a miscellany of debris. Lifebuoys, oddments of timber, a pair of trousers, an oilskin and some charts slowly swirled round the spot where she had surrendered to the sea.

  To one side of this patch of sad reminders of Pickering’s ship were two life-rafts – one full, one barely occupied – and a number of struggling men. Few were good swimmers but most could dog-paddle well enough to reach a raft – except that the empty raft was drifting away from them. The bosun was the first man to reach it, only to find that there were no paddles. Leaning over the side he tried to paddle with his hands and steer the raft towards a group of men. First one, then two, then more men reached the raft and climbed in. With more hands to paddle, the raft moved more freely amongst the floating survivors. Soon it was full.

  A dozen or more men were left in the water, some clinging to the sides of the rafts, some swimming gently round and round.

  ***

  Of all the ships that sank on that convoy, Buttercup was the most fortunate. Within half an hour the patrol boat had located the two rafts and was hauling the cold, shocked survivors out of the water. Momentarily, Pickering forgot about his ship and dreamed of meat pies. In turn, the Chief forgot about his engines as he consoled himself with the thought that Angus was not going to be an orphan after all.

  Chapter 16 – The Return of the E-Boats

  Steadfast heard nothing more of Buttercup after she had announced that she was dropping behind. He wondered if he should have ordered her into the nearest port but he knew how touchy the skippers were. Pickering ought to be able to look after himself after all those years, he thought. He settled down to enjoy the last few hours before the convoy could proceed alone up the Thames, and Defiant could peel off for Sheerness. Even Steadfast had had enough excitement for one convoy. But the enemy thought otherwise.

  ***

  ‘Another day over – home tomorrow,’ remarked Sherman as he handed over to Paris on the bridge at midnight.

  ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘No. It’s so quiet you could go to sleep up here.’

  ‘How’s the convoy?’

  ‘OK, I suppose, but you can’t see a thing tonight.’

  ‘Right. You can leave her to me.’

  Sherman disappeared below, looking forward to a bit of sleep before a night out in London tomorrow.

  ‘Starboard lookout: anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing to report, sir.’

  ‘Port?’

  ‘Nothing to report, sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  About an hour later, and with a change of lookouts, a steward appeared on the bridge and handed Paris a mug of cocoa. Paris lifted the thick, sweet mixture to his lips and tentatively checked how hot it was. His anticipation of the warming drink was interrupted by a cry from a lookout:

  ‘Motors on port bow!’

  Paris lowered the mug and listened. There it was: the harsh, growling of an E-boat engine. His fist went for the alarm. A deafening hammering rattle shook every spar and plate of the ship. Sleeping men burst into life. Those awake dropped tools, pencils, hands of playing cards. Boots, clothing, life-jackets and torches were snatched in an instant and a mass of men jostled their way down corridors and up ladders to action stations.

  By this time Steadfast was on the bridge, glasses in hand, staring out in the direction indicated by the lookout. A faint sound of a faraway engine came drifting over the quiet sea.

  ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Korvettenkapitän Wendorff, of course.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’ve sensed it from the first day. He’s out to get Defiant. That’s why he’s come back.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter who it is, sir. It’s all the same if we’re hit.’

  ‘Wendorff is different. He’s more determined – and he’s determined on this ship.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Bit of a long story, but when my brother was killed the newspapers reported that I had sworn revenge on whoever did it. It was just chance that I later found out it was Wendorff – someone had been blabbing in a Portuguese café.’

  ‘Had you really sworn revenge?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘So you and Wendorff are in a sort of feud?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Helmsman, course oh-nine-oh.’

  ‘Oh-nine-oh it is, sir.’

  ‘Chief, half ahead.’

  Defiant turned east and began to cut her way through the convoy. Paris looked on in petrified amazement. Neither he nor Steadfast could see the merchantmen and their masters had no idea that Defiant was about to cut across their bows.

  ‘Wendorff’s out there. He’s given the challenge and I’m taking it,’ said the emboldened commander.

  Defiant sped through the waves for a few minutes before the wild frantic roaring of E-boat motors rent the calm of the convoy.

  ‘E-boats ahead,’ cried both lookouts almost simultaneously.

  ‘Get him!’ cried Steadfast, ‘Guns, fire at will! Cole, commence zigzagging.’

  Steadfast turned to Paris: ‘He’s dead ahead – just let him try and hit us now.’

  A thunder of gunfire drowned the roar of the approaching E-boats, now clearly visible under the glare of star shells.

  ‘Torpedoes ahead!’

  B
oth Paris and Steadfast could see the torpedoes streaking through the sea, fine on the port bow. Cole was judging Defiant’s course with all the skill of a lifetime’s ship-handling. He neatly slid away from the two phosphorescent trails. A cheer went up as the two torpedoes disappeared along Defiant’s beam.

  While this action had been going on, the two outer E-boats had spread out, clearly hoping to pass on both sides of Defiant. But the one in the centre swung round and sped off to the east. Obviously he was out of torpedoes and so had to leave the battle area without delay.

  It only took Steadfast a few seconds to realise that there was something wrong with that central boat. The engine roar was less aggressive than normal, and was somewhat irregular in its rhythm. ‘She’s damaged,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Full ahead, chief.’

  Defiant was now racing after the central E-boat, her guns spewing fire and flame with all the fury that the ship could muster. Steadfast was oblivious to the merchantmen whose path he was crossing. To him the risk of slamming straight into the beam of a collier was nothing. As Defiant pursued her perilous hunt in the darkness, the battle area was illuminated only by a few star shells. The terrified lookouts searched the darker sea beyond for signs of approaching merchantmen. They now feared collision more than torpedoes.

  On and on Steadfast drove Defiant, chasing the silvery wake of the crippled E-boat. Sometimes Defiant seemed to be gaining and the wake appeared larger and clearer. Then the distance between the two vessels lengthened and Steadfast called for more revolutions.

  ‘Ship fine on the starboard bow,’ called a lookout.

  ‘Pass her to port, helmsman,’ said Steadfast calmly.

  A thundering sustained toot from the collier’s siren provided the only comment on Steadfast’s reckless manoeuvre. Meanwhile, all on the bridge held their breath as Cole conned the ship to pass less than 100 yards ahead of the collier.

  ‘We’re gaining on her,’ remarked Steadfast a short while later, as the wake of the prey became obviously nearer.

  ‘I wonder what they’re thinking on that E-boat,’ remarked Paris.

  ‘Doubtless having a big row about tactics. Some for ‘stay and fight’ and some for ‘flee and survive’. You can bet what you like that they’re all swearing blue murder at their engineers. For once their famed engines are not going to get them out of trouble,’ responded Steadfast.

  Defiant was now gaining rapidly on the E-boat. Shell after shell blazed into the darkness, but somehow the boat continued unscathed. Then came a bright flash.

  ‘A hit, sir!’

  The E-boat seemed to jump in the water and a cloud of debris rose into the air.

  ‘She’s a gonner!’ shouted Steadfast triumphantly. ‘We’ve done for Wendorff!’

  But then he heard the familiar and terrifying sound of the E-boat’s engine as the vessel limped away into the darkness.

  ‘Damn! She’s only damaged!’ cried Steadfast. Then, seeing his opportunity, and for once showing some excitement in battle, he cried out ‘She’ll never get away now. She’s ours!’

  The escaping E-boat could be heard dead ahead, her engines clearly not running at full power. Steadfast urged Defiant forward. All eyes and ears on the bridge were now trained in the direction of the fleeing enemy – the lookouts had abandoned their watch on the convoy. Steadfast knew that Defiant must now be crossing the northbound channel and was getting dangerously close to the British minefield.

  Paris knew that too and was horrified as the ship carried them all nearer and nearer to the danger ahead. Finally he could no longer restrain himself:

  ‘The minefield, sir?’

  ‘We’ll stop short, don’t worry, Paris,’ replied an excited and over-confident Steadfast.

  Hardly had Steadfast finished reassuring Paris than he was thrown into the air and the ship shuddered from end to end. The lights went out.

  The horrendous noise of the explosion had left everyone dumbfounded and disorientated, half expecting to find themselves injured or sinking into the sea. The men looked from one to another, as if seeking an explanation for the eruption. For a few moments a fearful silence descended on the stunned crew, broken only by the lapping of the water and the cries of the gulls overhead.

  Steadfast turned to one of the lookouts: ‘What was that, Roberts?’

  ‘Not a torpedo, sir. Must have been a mine. The E-boats have all gone off.’

  ‘Damn!’

  The mine had first struck Defiant forward but did not immediately explode. Only after bumping along her bottom did it go off. Just what the damage was Steadfast did not yet know.

  Steadfast turned to the engine-room voice-pipe: ‘What’s the damage, Chief?’

  ‘Nothing serious, sir. She’s blown a few fuses. Soon be fixed.’

  Right, thought Steadfast. The engines are still turning and the electrics will be back soon, so we’re not done yet.

  There was also some smoke aft. Ross was already making his way towards the source, coughing and choking as he faced the clouds of hot vapour that now swathed the ship. Soon five men, eerily concealed by their breathing apparatus, were playing hoses on a fire that was coming up from a hole in the deck.

  Able seaman Allsopp came up to the bridge: ‘Report from Number One Sir. Serious damage to stern plates. Port screw missing. Nothing else vital.’

  ‘Thank you, Allsopp.’

  ‘Chief, how’s things?’

  ‘Electric’s back. Ready to go when you are, sir.’

  ‘Helmsman, course one-eight-oh.’

  ‘Chief, port screw’s gone. Slow ahead on starboard only.’

  Paris turned to Steadfast, ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘Carry on. We can still do 7-knots.’

  Steadfast inwardly cursed himself. He was certain that he had been chasing Wendorff, yet his enemy had got away and now the ship was damaged. Yes, but in the highest naval tradition of closing on the enemy. No one could blame him for that, even if they were to blame him for straying into a British minefield.

  ***

  Defiant rejoined the convoy and sailed on, looking more like a lumbering collier than a nimble war machine. Her burnt-out gun aft was now joined by a mass of tangled metalwork aft.

  About half an hour later Allsopp was back with a fresh report from Gardiner: ‘Bulkhead’s damaged. Ship’s taking on water.’

  ‘Thank you. Ask Mr Gardiner to come to the bridge.’

  Gardiner quickly returned.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘I reckon we’ve taken on quite a bit of water. Now that the fire’s more or less out, you can see there’s a big rip in the bulkhead.’

  ‘Umh. I thought we’d got off rather lightly for a mine. There’s a chance that a good few bulkheads and plates have been weakened. Get a party onto it.’

  Gardiner sent Phillips to put together a repair party.

  Ten minutes later Phillips and a group of able seamen and gunners were at work on the bulkhead. They had sawn off half a dozen props and had put two in place when the catastrophe came.

  Phillips, aided by Able Seaman Norman Owens, was manoeuvring a third prop into place when a grinding metallic sound filled their workspace. Before they could look for the source of the noise, a plate exploded from its rivets and a rush of water flooded into the compartment. The timbers already in place – not yet fully secured – were ripped from the bulkhead, which then burst. Phillips, Gunner Owens, Able Seaman Milner and Able Seaman Whitehead were washed off their feet. Owens got to his feet and struggled through the rapidly rising water to reach a watertight door. He quickly unlocked it but, even with Whitehead’s help, there was no way the two men could open the jammed door.

  Escape was now only possible through the emergency scuttle overhead. Phillips quickly unscrewed the clasps, noting with some surprise that the hatch was hot from the fire above. But when Phillips pushed the scuttle to open it, it stubbornly refused to move.

  ‘The scuttle’s jammed – won’t budge.’

  Each man
tried pushing, hitting and shaking the scuttle, but there was not a sign of movement. Meanwhile the water had risen to their waists.

  ‘The hammers!’ cried Owens.

  They had all dropped their tools when the flood first burst in on them. Owens couldn’t swim, so Milner took a deep breath and dived down towards the deck. Phillips and Owens waited and waited. Milner shot into the air, his lungs bursting and his chest aching from the strain of the dive.

  ‘Can’t… see… the… hammers,’ he gasped.

  Rogers immediately dived into the ever rising flood. All that the others could see was his feet, still shod, waving above the water. He too seemed to spend an astounding length of time under water. When he shot back up, Owens, Milner and Whitehead could see that he too had not located the hammers.

  Down went Milner again. His companions waited. Up came Milner. Too exhausted to speak, he simply shook his head and disappeared again. Another wait, relieved by first a hammer, then a hand, and then Milner rushing up from below. Milner, now almost doubled-up by the agonies of his time under water, collapsed into Phillips’s arms. Whitehead seized the hammer just as it was about to slip from Milner’s grasp.

  The water was nearing shoulder height as Whitehead attacked the scuttle with the furious hammer blows of a despairing man. It was hard to get the angle right – hammering on a deckhead is not easy, even at the best of times. But his mortal dread of the rising water drove him on as wild blow followed wild blow. Suddenly the scuttle burst open and a rush of air from the deck reminded the men of the safe haven that awaited them above. Whitehead climbed into the scuttle and disappeared.

  ‘What are we going to do about Milner?’ asked Owens.

  ‘We’ll have to take him between us. You go first and take his hand. I’ll push from behind.’

  Try as they would, neither man had the strength to manhandle Milner up the small rungs of the escape shaft. Milner was unconscious and a deadweight.

  ‘You go,’ said Rogers.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Go! They’ll need you on deck.’

  Owens hesitated, his face showing the agony of the moment.

  ‘Go! Go!’ screamed Rogers.