[DanBiddle]

Here we go - more characters

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The Naval Base of Freetown was packed with ships of all design. Warships of every class and size, then the merchantmen, the newer, grey plating of the Victory and Liberty ships contrasting against the rusty, buckled plating on the older tramp steamers. The warships added colour to the scene, mostly the darker hues and garish dazzle paint of the Atlantic vessels at odds with the paler hulls of ships from the Indian Ocean and beyond, having made the long voyage up from the Cape.

There were stubby little Canadian corvettes that had fought their charges all the way from Newfoundland, and then the large, powerful cruisers with the range and armament to cover vast areas of ocean well beyond the Cape of Good Hope or Gibraltar. Freighters, tankers, ammunition ships and troopships – there was even a hospital ship, its dazzling white paintwork and vibrant red crosses shimmering in the harsh sunlight.

The largest warship in Freetown was the HMS Renown, the leading battlecruiser of the Renown-class. He only sister ship, the HMS Repulse, had been sunk back in 1941 by Japanese bombers. The big 30,000 ton vessel dominated the harbour, and even the large County-class heavy cruisers looked small next to her. She was heavily armed with six 15-inch guns mounted in three twin-turrets, as well as fifteen 4-inch guns as her secondary armament. She could make 30 knots when hard pushed – well she had used to be able to make 30 knots, Captain Roger Pembroke, Royal Navy, DSO mused to himself. There was a good reason why the two battlecruisers had been nicknamed ‘HMS Repair’ and ‘HMS Refit’.

Pembroke sat in his cabin; the scuttles wide open in an attempt to suck even the faintest breeze into sweltering cabin. He sat beneath the deckhead fan, a pink gin in his hand as he surveyed the signal that had just been handed. The ship was deserted apart from the necessary hands needed for the harbour duty. The rest of the ships officers were out playing golf or cricket. The reason was obvious. The Renown had broken down. Again. Pembroke sighed to himself as he removed the cap from his head and ran a sweaty hand through his greying hair. He was a tall man, and the white shirt and Bermuda shorts made him look ungainly. There were damp patches under his armpits as he looked savagely at the deckhead fan. It had stopped moving, yet another broken item to be fixed, he thought. At least they would be able to move tomorrow – well they would if the repairs were finished on time.

He was in his late forties, and had served in the Navy all his life. He sat looking back on his career and wondered where it had gone wrong. True, he was the Captain of one of the more powerful ships in Her Majesty’s navy, but in truth the Renown was clapped out, a relic from the Great War. He had only managed to get this command because of his influence. Without his connections, and had there not been a war on, he would have been thrown out of the navy when his last ship had sunk underneath him on that fateful dawn morning.

He could remember it as if it was yesterday, the dawn just beginning to lift, the hazy outlines of the freighters around him growing harder, sharper in the rising light. Then, the sudden explosion, the fires around the deck as he had stumbled from the bridge in a daze, one glance telling him all he needed to know. She was going down. He remembered little else except for another explosion, then finding himself in the water, watching the stern of his ship rising up out of the sea, her three screws gleaming. Then she slipped below the surface, seeming to quiver as she went on her way. His ship, HMS Glasgow, gone.

Then he remembered being picked up, one of the few survivors. The sudden agony as he had been pulled aboard the boat. Unconsciously his hand moved to his lower arm, rubbing the disfigured skin. The burns had never fully healed. His convalescence at Haslar Naval Hospital had been brief, but he had managed to find the name of the German who had brought his career crashing down around him.

He started as there was a knock at the door and his second-in-command, Commander Bruce Manning entered the room. He looked at him as Manning said, “I hear we have some news, sir.”

Pembroke smiled, “Yes, Bruce.” His eyes grew distant. “Have a drink while you’re here.”

He stared out of the scuttle as a small dinghy pulled away from the side of the ship, the seamen grinning to each other. When he looked back at Manning, he found the officer sitting in a chair opposite him, sipping a gin slowly.

Pembroke cleared his throat. Damn the heat, he thought. “The Jerries have put one of their big cruisers to sea. They think it may be the Prinz Luitpold.” His eyes hardened. “I hope to God it is!”

The Commander sipped his gin and looked steadily at his superior. “She won’t get this far south, not at this stage in the war, sir.” He nodded emphatically. “I mean, it’s just not on, sir!”

Pembroke sighed to himself. Manning had no balls whatsoever, he thought to himself. He knew that the war would end soon, and Pembroke also knew that once it was over he would be thrown onto the beach like so many others. Discarded. They even had some phrase about it. ‘God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens and not before!’ He looked at the signal, from today, he was promoted to Acting-Commodore of a small squadron consisting of two other ships; the County-class cruiser moored next to them and the HMNZS Christchurch, a Leander-class light cruiser. She looked like a destroyer next to the Renown, but Pembroke knew her crew were trained well.

He thought about the German raider. As Manning had said, it was unlikely that the Prinz Luitpold would reach the South Atlantic, but it was his last chance. The only chance he had to make that last-step to flag rank. Harwood, the commander of the squadron that had run the Graf Spee to ground, had made flag rank immediately afterwards. But that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to get the raider.

Manning said carefully, “I’d forgotten, sir. You’ve already crossed swords with the Prinz Luitpold before. North Cape, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t forget! But that’s not the reason I want to battle with her.” He gazed savagely at the bulkhead. “She’s got a new captain now. Dieter Hechler.” He spat the name out. “He took the Glasgow from me, the bastard. We’ll see how he likes it now.” He looked at Manning, noting the man flinch from his angry gaze. “He can’t hide under the ****ing water this time!” His voice had risen to a shout, and Pembroke was suddenly aware that his glass was empty, and the young sailor outside the scuttle frozen in place.

With an effort he lowered his voice. “We’re to take the Christchurch and the Devonshire, Bruce, and reinforce a convoy. Apparently there’s only one in the area with no escort. A couple of destroyers, but nothing to fend off the likes of the Prinz Luitpold.” He clapped his hands together. “Recall all the officers, Bruce, and send a signal to Devonshire and the Kiwi. I want their commanding officers on board, chop bloody chop!”

As Manning hurried from his cabin, Pembroke poured a large measure of gin into his glass. He wondered if Hechler knew that the *Lübeck had scuttled herself. Somehow he doubted it. The signal had completely changed his mood. He nodded to himself. There was no way that Hechler was getting away from him this time.

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The old captain stood on the port bridge wing, staring over the horizon. It was one of those rare days in the Atlantic where the sea was flat calm, the sky blending with the water in a haze on the horizon. They were the last ship on the far port column of the convoy. If he had glanced forward and across to starboard he would have seen the other twenty ships they were steaming with. A destroyer raced up the line, investigating a contact no doubt. He shivered to himself. He dreaded the U-boats, the unseen killers. He hoped to God the destroyer would keep her at arms length.

They had passed the Cape Verde islands to starboard in the night, and in a few hours the covering squadron from Freetown was due to meet up with them. It was rumoured the Repulse would be leading the squadron. His ship was the S.S. Keverne, an 8000 ton tramp steamer. He rubbed his bristled chin – it was a custom of his never to shave until he crossed the Liverpool bar. Safety.

He thought of the reports. A German raider? They must have got it wrong. Either she had already returned to Norway or had run into one of the pickets up north. He looked across the bridge as a young sailor called out to him. “Look, there’s a plane, sir!”

The captain looked across at him in disgust. “Can’t you bloody well report it properly! Where away? What bearing?”

He held the binoculars to his eyes and saw the tiny silver flash in the sky. It wasn’t a Sunderland that was for sure. He said flatly. “It’s a Jerry.” He looked out over the port beam, into the haze. Suddenly, there was a series of flashes. Eight of them. He counted the seconds, hardly believing his eyes, until there was a wild shrieking as the shells came screaming down around him. He felt the hull lurch as one exploded low on the port beam. The motion instantly changed, the ship was slowing down. He didn’t need to pull the old steamer out of line; there was nothing behind him.

Gradually they fell astern, seemingly forgotten as he watched the convoy in front of him being torn to shreds. The shells never seemed to stop, just sent salvo after salvo into the merchantmen. He cringed as an ammunition ship blew up in a mighty gout of flame. He looked across at the horizon again as he saw the silhouette. He saw the guns pointed high in the sky, the ripple of flashes along her length as the guns fired again. The shell splashes landed amongst the few remaining ships as the captain shook his head in dismay; seemingly oblivious to the list his own ship was taking.

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Cheers for reading this far - I know the posts can be quite long. I have to say I'm really enjoying writing them though :p