CHAPTER SIXTEEN

when Fenelon first caught sight of Fleur de Lys his mind froze, refusing to accept for the moment what he knew to be an impossibility. The graticules misted over, temporarily obscured by a wave, and he raised the periscope a little more.

Fleur de Lys jumped into view, her familiar lines quite unmistakable. He said quickly to the rating at his side: “Fetch Monsieur Jacaud here. Tell him to hurry.”

Jacaud arrived a few moments later. “What’s going on?”

“Take a look.”

The big man gripped the handles of the periscope tightly and lowered his head. When he turned to look at Fenelon a muscle twitched in his right cheek.

“I wonder what went wrong?”

Fenelon shrugged. “Perhaps you damaged her engines with the machine-gun, or even holed her. Does it matter?

Shall I surface? We should be able to board her with very little trouble.”

Jacaud shook his head and something glowed in the cold eyes. “I’ve got a better idea. Remember the Kontoro?You said that one torpedo was all it would take. Let’s see what you can do.”

Fenelon felt the blood surge to his temples and his heart pounded wildly. “My God, it’s perfect! They won’t even know what hit them.”

“I don’t mind that,” Jacaud said, “as long as there’s nothing left afterwards.”

L’Alouette carried two twenty-one-inch torpedoes, both mounted in the bow. Fenelon took a deep breath, pulled himself together and started to issue firm, crisp orders.

“Enemy’s bearing, one-two-five. Course, one-three-one. Speed, six knots. Range, one thousand five hundred.”

These facts, fed into a complicated electrical device, provided the angle of deflection, enabling the torpedoes to be aimed the right distance ahead of the target so that both should arrive in the same place at the same time.

A moment later the petty officer called, “Deflection, one-three degrees right, sir.”

Fenelon raised the periscope handles, his face pressed to the rubber eyepiece. “Stand by both tubes.”

“Both tubes ready, sir.”

Fenelon could feel the sweat trickling down his face and his heart seemed to leap inside him. So often he had heard of this moment, had it described to him by men who knew. But for him this was the first.

“Stand by to fire.”

Fleur de Lys seemed to leap into focus, every line of her clear and clean. His hands tightened on the handles. “Fire one.”

The submarine lurched as the missile shot away and the hydrophone operator reported, “Torpedo running,”

“Fire two.”

Again the submarine shuddered. “Torpedo running. “

Fenelon turned to Jacaud. “Care to watch?” The big man pushed him roughly to one side and bent to the handles.

On board Fleur de Lys, Guyon still sweated at the pump and the boat ran on, the automatic pilot in control while Mallory stood on top of the wheelhouse and swept the sea with a pair of glasses.

That L’Alouette’s would catch up with them now was certain. They were making no more than six knots and barely holding back the water. Submerged, the submarine had three or four knots on them. They were well out of the main shipping lane, he knew that. Their only hope was the chance of an odd fishing boat putting in an appearance, hardly likely considering the weather.

He swung the glasses again in a wide arc and stiffened as something lifted out of the water to starboard. It was a periscope, the tell-tale bow wave giving it away, and then he saw the great, surging streak of foam boiling under the surface of the water as it ran towards them.

“Torpedo!” he cried, and jumped to the deck, losing his balance and rolling over. He picked himself up, scrambled into the wheelhouse and grabbed for the wheel. He spun it round desperately, and slowly she started to turn. Guyon appeared beside him, adding his weight, shoving the wheel over, and then a great swell, rolling in from the west, gave them the final push.

Mallory left Guyon at the wheel and rushed to the rail. He was just in time to see the wash of the torpedo passing to starboard. A few seconds later it was followed by the second.

In the submarine Jacaud gave a growl of rage, turned and grabbed Fenelon by the jacket. "You missed, damn you! You missed!”

“But that’s impossible.”

Fenelon bent to the periscope and Jacaud pulled him away. “From now on I’m giving the orders. Take her in close and surface. I’m going to finish Mr. Bloody Mallory off personally.”

On the Fleur de Lys Mallory was back at the wheel and Guyon worked the pump furiously. But it was no good. The boat rolled heavily, waves breaking across her prow, the weight of the water inside holding her down.

L’Alouette had fired both her tubes and no additional torpedoes were carried by Type XXIII submarines,, Mallory knew that. He looked out of the window, watching the fog roll in again in patches. There was no other vessel in sight, and his heart sank. Under the circumstances Jacaud’s next move seemed obvious.

Somehow there was still a shock of surprise as the sea boiled in a great cauldron no more than fifty yards away and L’Alouette broke through to the surface. Even as the water still spilled from her plates Jacaud appeared in the conning tower. A rating came up beside him and they started to mount the heavy machine-gun on its firing-pin.

Guyon stood in the doorway, the revolver ready in his right hand. “Now what?”

“I think that’s obvious,” Mallory said flatly. “If I’m going to go I’m taking him with me. It’s been nice knowing you.”

“And you, mon colonel.” Raoul Guyon drew himself together as if on parade. “An honour, sir.”

He moved along the deck to the prow and Mallory swung the wheel and brought Fleur de Lys into the wind. A moment later and she was bearing down on L’Alouette.

Jacaud started to fire, bullets hammering into the prow, and Mallory braced himself, hands firm on the wheel. Guyon lay flat on the deck, one arm around a stanchion, waiting for the moment of impact. There were two rounds left in the revolver and he was praying that at the last he might have the chance of putting them both into Jacaud.

In the conning tower of L’Alouette Jacaud still fired the machine-gun, raising it slightly, aiming for Mallory in the wheelhouse. Fenelon appeared beside him, his face white and terrified, mouth open in a soundless scream.

Mallory was aware of all these things, of the bullets hammering into the wheelhouse as he ducked out of sight and then Fleur de Lys was lifted high on a swell. She seemed to poise there for a moment, then slid down the other side into L’Alouette, her prow grinding against the side of the conning tower where it joined the hull.

There was a terrible crash, a groan of tortured metal as the bow crunched into the plates, cutting through the ballast tanks, crushing the pressure hull. L’Alouette heeled, the conning tower leaning over, spilling the machine-gun into the water, and Jacaud and Fenelon hung on desperately.

Guyon was on his feet, leaning over the rail. As he took aim and fired Fleur de Lys lurched to one side and he went head first into the sea.

Fleur de Lys kept on moving, her steel hull sliding over the submarine, pushing it down into the water. Suddenly she was across, her prow plunging into a wave. Mallory got to his feet, grabbed the wheel and struggled to bring her round.

Incredibly, she answered, and lifted sluggishly over the swell, her engines still beating. He turned and looked out through the shattered windows at the submarine.

She had righted herself now, but the sea was breaking over her hull in sinister fashion. The forward hatch opened and several sailors emerged. Jacaud came down the outside ladder to join them.

They were pointing at something in the sea and Mallory saw Raoul Guyon, a swell lifting him up and carrying him in towards the submarine. As he was washed across the grey hull they pounced on him.