Apache Into Harms Way

On all the oceans where whitecaps flow,
There are no crosses, row on row;
But those who sleep beneath the sea,
Sleep in peace...your country’s free.

Chapter One

Surface Contact

The enemy shot fell ahead of the ship.  Green spouts of water erupted from the tortured sea, followed by the scream of a shell passing overhead.  At that moment both ‘X’ and ‘Y’ guns fired; the cracks of their 4.7 inch shells leaving the barrels was almost simultaneous.  He flinched, head between shoulders, mouth gasping for air to feed a racing heart.  The acrid stench of cordite reached his nose before the wind whipped it away and salt spray took its place.  Lieutenant Commander Michael Sinclair RN staggered forward, grabbed a latch and braced himself as HMS Apache crashed her bows into the grey quartering sea and waited for her stern to rise as she recovered from the pitch for’ards.  Locking an arm behind a latch, he pressed back into the steel of the after deck house and tried to force his legs to stop shaking.  The noise was overwhelming, hammering, demanding his body to stop.  Pushed against the cold steel he could feel his body becoming rigid, Sinclair knew he had to move, just a few seconds he thought, a moment to get his breath but it was a lie, a trap.  He was that twelve year old boy again on the high rocks above the StampRiver unable to move.

‘No!’ he spat between clenched teeth and forced his rebellious body out onto the iron deck.

Pushing his face into the freezing spray, grey-blue eyes searched the horizon for any sign of the enemy.  The dark heavy sky was merging into the grey of dawn; he could see nothing in the soupy haze.  Sinclair knew he had to keep moving. Just one foot in front of the other.  As second-in-command his action station was in the after control position; since the alarm for surface action had sounded he’d been struggling to reach it.  Apache flung herself at the sea, rearing on her tail and then plunging forward, her two turbines screaming like banshees.  Just as he swung himself to reach another hand hold he saw a flash on the horizon, he tried to focus on the spot, it was so hard to be sure as the distant cloud seem to grow from the grey sea.  The four sevens roared again, both ‘X’ and ‘Y’ firing within seconds of each other sending 200lbs of steel and explosive arcing into the filthy weather towards an unseen enemy. 

The ship fought the sea as much as the men onboard fought the enemy; without pausing Sinclair knew she must be doing around 26 knots and there was no way that she’d keep that up for long in these seas.  He staggered onwards, searching for hand holds to keep upright;  looking up he could just see the twin muzzles of ‘X’ gun.  He knew that the men would be working with an oiled efficiency, loading the next rounds to be sent on their way; equally he noticed just how high an elevation the barrels had.  Only one mounting for’ard and one aft had been manned when the surface contact had been made.  ‘X’ gun was raised on the after deck house and gave some respite from the lashing sea.  For’ard, ‘B’ gun was also in a state of readiness.  With the sounding of the Alarm Buzzer the other gun crews had scrambled for their action stations, hauling themselves down tight corridors from their messdecks and up ladders pressing past men intent on reaching their own action station.

The target must be distant and that, he thought, was bad news.  If she was a German surface vessel, she’d probably be a destroyer and the chances where her guns would be larger than Apache’s.  The Royal Navy destroyer slammed into the sea and wind as she heeled over to starboard.  Another shot fell close to her side sending its plume of water across the torpedo tubes and the men stationed there.  There was a crash for’ard, more felt than heard and then another.  The ship seemed to recoil like a boxer taking a body blow.