Of all the surface ships operating in the North Atlantic, the minesweeper was now king.
Due to the experience of Convoy R-1, wood- and fiberglass-hulled vessels suddenly emerged from dull, mundane, and in many cases outright pitied, existence in the backwaters of the navy into the exalted ranks of leaders in the age of nuclear-powered missile ships. The admiral in command of the hitherto ugly duckling minesweeper fleet of forty ships that were to accompany the first three convoys was told not to gloat but merely to do the job and to do it quickly. The minesweepers did the job as quickly as conditions in the Atlantic allowed, approaching it with the zeal of newfound importance. They also gloated. Oh, how they gloated, flagging, as it was a court-martial offense to break radio silence, the warships behind them with messages such as “Follow the leader — Compliments of MS-190,” or “We’ll tell you when it’s safe.” It became an unofficial competition between British and American sweepers as to who could be the most insolent and get away with it.
“The HMAS Gordon will be happy to show you the way.”
“By God!” fumed a Royal Navy destroyer captain. “They’re cheeky bastards.”
To make it worse, the Canadian and U.S. minesweepers were among those combat ‘support ships’ allowed to have women aboard. One of the American ships, USS Twin Forks, was skippered by a woman, and on the third day out for one of the massive four-hundred ship-convoys on “rollover” to Europe, a pair of women’s lacy briefs was hoisted to the masthead, “Compliments of ‘rollover’ leader.” This moved a U.S. admiral to issue a firm rebuke by semaphore to the minesweeper, but as the message came through, the panties were gone, the minesweeper’s captain nonplussed and assured by the crew that the lookouts on the other ship must have been seeing things. It was a brief, light relief in what was otherwise a grim business.
Four hundred and seventy miles north of Newfoundland, another convoy was attacked by ten Soviet Hunter/Killer subs. All but two of the nuclear subs were destroyed, but not before there had been a “run-under” torpedo assault by all ten subs, resulting in thirty-seven Allied ships, twenty-eight of these merchantmen, sunk. When the convoy had re-formed in a defensive diamond east of the sub, it found itself unwittingly driven, or “bloody well herded,” as one British frigate captain put it, into a minefield laid about them by six Backfire bombers. Three of the Backfires were shot down on their way into “egg laying,” but their deadly cargoes landed intact.
Here, once again, the Russian numbers pointed to only one conclusion — that if the Allies could not reduce the rate of loss, whatever supplies and men did arrive in Europe would be insufficient to replace the men and materiel already lost, let alone to reinforce NATO. In this case the unrelenting Soviet-Warsaw Pact land offense would decide the issue. A further complication for NATO was the fact that with so many towns and cities in the Russians’ path, the S-WP attacks sent millions of civilians fleeing westward, tying up the vitally needed West European road and rail systems.
By now the USS SN/BN Roosevelt was going up for its second attempt at receiving a VLF burst message. This time additional aerial was extruded from the stern, like some great worm from the belly of a whale.
“Start the count!” ordered Robert Brentwood.
“Counting… five minutes…”
At the three-minute mark Brentwood knew he was not going to get a message. “Okay,” he said evenly at the five-minute mark. “Reel her in.”
“Reeling in, sir.”
“Very well. Mr. Zeldman, resume zigzag pattern for Holy Loch. ETA?”
The first officer glanced at the computer as Brentwood on the periscope island ordered, “Up search scope.”
“Up search.”
There was a quiet hum as the oil-mirrored scope slid up inside the master sheath housing several other periscopes as well.
“ETA Holy Loch,” Zeldman reported, “six hours approximate.”
“Exactly, Ex.”
“Six hours, three minutes, forty seconds, sir.”
“Very well.”
Brentwood knew that if the Wisconsin aerial “farm” was out and TACAMO aircraft had failed to overlap sufficiently to contact the Roosevelt, then the United States would have notified U.K. control to beam out a VLF signal. If not, it meant the Soviets were jamming satellite bounce-off signals between the States and Britain, or the British aerials at Holy Loch were knocked out, or Holy Loch itself was in the hands of the Soviets. Brentwood knew he had only three choices: stay where he was; head for Holy Loch and risk a trap of acoustic/pressure mines at the entrance — some keyed to Roosevelt’s specific signature; or run for cover and head back to the United States.
He reversed his cap, eye glued to the scope. He flicked on the control room monitor relay so the men on watch could see the same infrared images he saw. Nothing but gray waves stacked all about them, creased with white lines of bioluminescence.
“MOSS in tubes one and two.”
“MOSS in tubes one and two, sir.”
“Very well. ETA Holy Loch?”
“ETA five hours, fifty-seven minutes.”
“Speed?”
“Thirty knots.”
“Increase to forty-five.”
“Increasing to forty-five.”
One of the planesmen glanced over from his steering column at the operator on trim, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Watch the dials, sailor,” said Zeldman sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“Revised ETA Holy Loch?” asked Robert Brentwood.
“Four hours,” answered Zeldman. “Including corrections for currents plus or minus fifteen minutes.”
“Very well. No active sonar. Passive only.”
“Passive only.”
“Call me when we’re ten miles off.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Brentwood left the redded-out control center, Zeldman heard one of the sailors whisper to another. “What’s Bing up to?”
Zeldman let it go as if the scratchy noise of the ocean had drowned out the whisper.
“Don’t know,” answered another of the men on watch. “Probably wants to get his book.”
Zeldman still held off saying anything. Now and then you had to let the rein loose a tad — up too tight, they were as apt to make a mistake as they were when too relaxed.