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THE FRIGHTENED YEAR OF THE FIREFLIES
Last
episode, taken from The Rover issue: 1717 May 24th 1958.
Commander Dan Sturdee, R.N., captain of H.M.S. Swiftsure, the fastest
ship in the world, put his binoculars to his eyes and brought them to bear on
dots on the skyline. These took shape as the brown sails of fishing smacks.
“They’re
Portuguese fishing boats, Number One,” he said. “Useful” exclaimed Lieutenant
Ralph Burney, the First Officer. “They’ll help to hide us. The enemy radar
won’t be able to distinguish between us.” Sturdee nodded. He was a young man
with a ruthless, determined jaw and a hint of recklessness in the set of his
lips. “Ay, but even if the Klovanians are fond of fish, and have sent the
Portuguese out to catch it for them, I can’t believe they don’t watch the boats
pretty closely,” he growled. “There may well be a guard ship among them.”
Sturdee scrutinized the fishing vessels again. It was the late afternoon of an
autumn day in 1986 and those around him knew that the fate of Britain was in
his hands. In tow of the Swiftsure was the disable submarine-tanker, Rorqual.
The tanks of the submarine contained fuel for the monster rockets that were to
be fired from Gibralter at Klovania. If he failed to get the Rorqual to the
Rock, then Britain would
be unable to strike back. The odds would then be on the enemy winning the war.
The Klovanians had knocked out every nation except Britain. That
she survived to fight on was due to the genius of her scientists in forming a
“Roof” of electrical particles over the British Isles. On
this invisible ceiling, the giant rockets of the enemy, called Fireflies,
burst. But the Klovanians appeared to be mastering the problem for there had
been at least one extensive and dangerous seepage of radioactive fall-out
through the roof. The powerful engines of the Swiftsure pounded away. The tow
was making thirty knots. A main hawser, a great six-inch rope, and two other
cables, linked the ship and submarine, but the strain upon them was enormous.
Sturdee’s greatest worry was the knowledge that the Klovanians’ biggest
aircraft carrier, the Tulak, was in the vicinity. He had one advantage. He
could decode the enemy signals. Their naval code had been cracked by Professor
S.K. Elton, the boyish-looking chief of the Scientific General Staff, now
organizing the British rocket sites at Gibraltar. The
sea was choppy. There were occasional squalls but, on the whole, visibility was
good. Sturdee wished it was a bit worse. He looked astern, watching the tow. On
the bridge of the Rorqual stood Commander William Tate whose sandy beard was a
well-known naval ornament. Sturdee shifted his gaze to the fishing smacks.
About a dozen of them were dotted about. They were working in pairs with
drift-nets out. The Swiftsure and Rorqual approached two of the boats. Sullen
faces stared at them. The charge in their facial expression was astonishing
when they saw the White Ensign. The fishermen waved and shouted in excitement.
Sturdee switched on the loud hailer. He could make himself understood in
Portuguese. His voice boomed out as he asked the question. “Is there a
guardship about?” he enquired. The answer came from the skipper of one of the
smacks. “He says there’s a corvette in the offing,” Sturdee stated, raising his
binoculars to his eyes and, simultaneously, there was a shout from the look-out
relayed through the loudspeaker. The mast of the warship was coming up over the
skyline. Though the Swiftsure was built as a supply ship, for conveying fuel to
the projector stations that maintained the Roof over Britain, she
was armed with two torpedo tubes, rocket guns and Oerlikon quick-firers. The
Rorqual only had Oerlikons for a measure of anti-aircraft protection. Sturdee
used the loud-hailer to communicate with the Rorqual. It was quicker than
signaling. “I’m going to reduce speed and try to use the fishing boats as cover
till I can make sure of bagging the corvette,” he informed Tate. “I shan’t cast
off the tow unless it’s essential.” Sturdee gave his orders and the Swiftsure
slowed down, making a change of course so that there were fishing boats between
them and the oncoming corvette. The Swiftsure was not a tall, conspicuous ship.
Except for her high raked bows and streamlined superstructure, she was
torpedo-shaped. Sturdee called Lieutenant Denton, the gunnery and torpedo
officer, on the director platform. “Let fly as soon as you can be sure of
hitting the corvette,” he rapped. “The vital thing is to stop it from talking.”
The corvette, the Squeb, vanished in the rain mist. It was a fast, powerful
ship of about 1000 tons displacement armed with 4.5 guns and rocket tubes.
Sturdee saw the rocket guns in the Swiftsure’s turrets being elevated under Denton’s
control. The Squeb came racing out of the haze and Denton fired.
With a terrific whoosh, eight rockets streaked into the air, leaving only thin
trails of smoke. Sturdee watched anxiously, using his glasses. He saw sudden
movements on the bridge of the corvette. They had been sighted. But, a moment
or two afterwards, there were lurid flashes and spurts of smoke as the rockets
burst. It was great shooting. Denton had
secured direct hits with his first salvo and another was on the way. The rockets
were equipped with armour-piercing warheads but the Britishers were astounded
by what occurred. A livid flash seemed to leap to the sky, there was a
prodigious uprush of smoke and then the crack of a terrific explosion. It rent
the Squeb asunder. Sturdee had never seen a ship break up and sink so swiftly.
It just vanished from view and only a haze of smoke and a small amount of
floating wreckage marked where the sinking had taken place. Sturdee used the
squawk box, as the microphone was often termed. “Nice shooting, Guns!” he
exclaimed. “I didn’t expect her to go like that,” Denton said
harshly. “It was the magazine that popped off,” Sturdee answered. “and it’s my
guess that, not expecting action, she wasn’t closed up.” That would explain
it,” replied Denton,
agreeing with his captain’s theory that doors were open in the armoured
bulkheads and that a flash had penetrated to the magazine. Sturdee called
Sub-Lieutenant Dale, the Radio Officer. “Did the corvette get a signal away?”
he asked. “She had just given her call-sign
when the rockets hit her, sir,” replied the officer. “Just a minute,
sir, we’re picking up something.” Sturdee ordered Burney to resume the tow. It
was a tricky business to get the dead weight of the submarine under control
again but the hawsers stood the colossal strain. The Radio Officer soon had
some information. “The Tulak keeps calling the Squeb, sir,” he reported.
Sturdee frowned “Ay, the Kovskies must be wondering why the corvette suddenly
went off the air after giving her call-sign,” he muttered. “We’ll be lucky to
escape trouble from the air.
FLYING CANNONS
The fishing fleet disappeared astern. There were two hours of daylight
left, hours that would be tense with anxiety. If all went well, Sturdee hoped
to get the Rorqual into Gibraltar at
about three o’clock in the
morning.
The
Rock was under siege, but to seaward was protected by minefields. An ingenious
system of markers treated with fluorescent paint that glowed in “black light”
would guide the ships in. Both the Swiftsure and the Rorqual were equipped with
“searchlights,” to produce infra-red rays. “Go below and get a meal, Number
One,” Sturdee said “Ask the steward to bring me up some sandwiches.” Sturdee
was munching away at a beef sandwich when Dr Fred Randle, the scientist who
always travelled in the Swiftsure, came up the ladder. He was a tall, scraggy
man with a wispy moustache. “they’re getting worried at home, Dan,” he said
with much less than his usual bounce. “We’ve decoded a long signal from London to
professor Elton and, though the Fireflies aren’t penetrating the Roof, the
fall-out is getting through in increasing quantities.” “We heard that Yorkshire had
experienced a bad fall-out, “ Sturdee replied. “Ay, and now South
Wales has caught it,” said Randle. It has been necessary to
evacuate everyone from Neath and Port Talbot as the
contamination is so dangerous.” The Swiftsure sank in a trough and lifted
again. The Rorqual wallowed through the waves. Occasionally a wave slapped
against the conning-tower and foam smothered the bridge. Sturdee grinned. “Bill
Tate will be expressing himself forcibly,” he said. “He can’t submerge and
dodge the weather. Only wish he could.” “Air Search!” the voice of a radio
operator cut in. “We’re just starting to pick up aircraft. Astern! Strength
Five plus! They seem to be scattered.” “Does that mean planes have been
launched from the carrier?” asked Randle. “I guess so,” said Sturdee. “I’ve
been expecting it!” The western sky was a yellow glow with angry cloud patches
here and there. “Air Search!” exclaimed the operator. “Aircraft are
approaching!” Not long after, Sturdee saw specks glinting in the sky. They
swiftly took shape. He sounded off the alarm and Burney came hurrying back to
the bridge. He got a sight on the planes, five of them, with his glasses. “I
haven’t seen this type before,” he said tensely. The planes which were flying
in V-formation, had lengthy cigar-shaped fuselages. The cranked wings were set
far back and the engines were in the tails. Sturdee scowled. “They must be
Niks, their new carrier borne planes,” he snapped. “We were warned about them.
They are flying gun batteries.” According to some Intelligence “gen” he had
read, each Nik carried two 88-mm cannon, quickfirers of colossal calibre for an
aircraft. “Can Gibraltar help
us?” Randle asked tensely. “I doubt it,” Sturdee answered, “but they know our
approximate position and should have picked up the planes on their radar.” The
roar of the Niks’ ram jets reached them thunderously. The planes changed
formation and flew in line ahead. At a distance of about five miles, they began
to orbit, gradually losing height. Sturdee stooped to the squawk box. “Engage
them as soon as they’re in range, Guns.” One of the Niks peeled off. It came
out of its dive on the starboard beam and closed on the Swiftsure. Cr-ack,
Cr-ack! The two hugh guns of the aircraft started to flash. They were mounted
under the nose of the machine. Cr-ack, cr-ack! The shells fell short and raised
tremendous splashes as they exploded in the sea. Nearer and nearer they came,
the splashes being accompanied by dazzling bursts of flame. Suddenly, the Nik
wobbled unsteadily. Randle gave a piercing yell. “It’s lost a wing!” he
shouted. The astonished watchers saw the starboard wing crumple and come
adrift. The plane went into a spin and plunged. It entered the sea about a mile
from the Swiftsure and exploded as it hit the surface. “What did that?” Randle
gasped. “We didn’t shoot, did we?” “No, it was the recoil of the guns that
broke it up!” exclaimed Sturdee. “You can just imagine what terrific stresses
they set up, banging away like that! The air-frame just couldn’t take it.”
“There’s another of them coming at us!” Burney declared. A second Nik started
it’s swoop. The pilot was showing caution. He evidently intended to get much
nearer than the leader before opening fire. The Swiftsure and Rorqual blazed at
the plane with rockets and Oerlikons. Its guns were just starting to flash when
a rocket hit it at extreme range and blew a great hole in the nose. It ceased shooting
but continued to fly in a most erratic fashion, with the starboard wing down.
“It’s flying on its own!” Burney exclaimed. “I reckon the crew have been
killed.” Sturdee gauged the approach of the plane and saw there was a risk of
it falling between the Swiftsure and the Rorqual. “Port thirty,” he ordered.
The quartermaster turned the wheel and the Swiftsure veered. The bows of the
submarine came round. With the ram jets roaring deafeningly, the plane came
down the sky. It seemed for an agonizing instant that the machine was going to
crash on the Swiftsure. Spray rose in sheets as it struck the surface near the
ship and broke up. Sturdee stared up at the other machines. They had formed a
shallow Vic. He knew what was coming. There was to be no more peeling off. A
simultaneous attack was intended. The Niks were getting into position to launch
the attack when the look-out shouted. “There’s another plane,” he bellowed and
then added. “It’s one of ours!” With a silvery flash, guns flickering, a plane
with a cylindrical fuselage, swept-back wings and wing-tip ailerons, dived out
of the blue at the Niks. Sturdee identified it as one of Britain’s old
P.1C’s and undoubtedly it had taken off from the exposed runway at Gibraltar. It
raked one of the Niks with cannon-fire and zoomed. With flames rising in
sizzling sheets, the enemy machine fluttered down towards the sea like a
burning leaf in a forest fire. The two remaining Niks turned sharply westward,
but by comparison with the P.1, they were ponderous. The British pilot shot the
tail off one of them and, when last seen for a time, was chasing the other out
of sight. Sturdee’s face glowed. “That was a welcome bit of help, Dan,” he
said. You’ve merited a bit of help, Dan,” declared Randle. You’ve kept things
going on your own for long enough.” Three of four minutes elapsed and then the
P.1C was sighted astern. It made a shallow dive and skimmed over the vessels
before streaking away towards Gibraltar. “When
I meet that bloke, I’ll cut him a slice of cake,” chuckled Sturdee.
GIBRALTAR VICTORY
Through misty darkness the Swiftsure forged along. It was midnight and there were
enemy ships on the prowl. With the use of its invisible searchlight, the
Swiftsure was searching for the first of the markers.
Sea
Search had continually reported the presence of destroyers and the fast
launches that the Kovskies called F boats. “Bridge!” called the operator. “We
have an echo of a very big ship astern! Distance fifteen to twenty miles!” “The
Tulak!” muttered Burney. “Must be,” said Sturdee. The Swiftsure nosed her way
through another belt of haze. A hum was heard. The noise swelled. Aircraft
passed nearly overhead with a thunderous roar. The mist thinned. Burney flung
up an arm and pointed at a shadowy shape on the port bow. “It’s an enemy
destroyer,” he gasped. Sturdee grabbed the microphone of the loud-hailer. “Iben
sie der kratch!” The loud-hailer magnified his voice into a tremendous roar.
“Echtung! Varmer der poldski!” A voice answered from the destroyer. “What’s he
saying?” muttered Randle. “Darned if I know,” replied Burney, “but, by gosh,
he’s getting out of our way!” As they peered into the darkness, they saw the
froth of the destroyer’s wake as it veered sharply away from them. “Let’s get
it clear, Dan!” Randle exclaimed. “You bawled at them in Klovanian, didn’t
you?” “Ay,” chuckled Sturdee. “In brief I told them to get out of my way.” “But
you don’t know their lingo,” growled the puzzled scientist. “The only bloke of
my acquaintance who does is Professor Elton.” “It was the Professor who
instructed me in what to say in such an emergency,” explained Sturdee. “We
nearly got cornered when we had him as a passenger and I remembered what he
said.” “Ha, ha, it worked,” cackled Randle, for the destroyer had faded right
away into the darkness. “The Professor will laugh his head off when he hears
how he helped to diddle a Klovanian ship.” Mist enveloped the Swiftsure again.
In the haze there was a sudden green glow on the surface of the sea. “Marker
picked up, sir!” the look-out exclaimed. Sturdee heaved a sigh of relief. For
the past hour he had been under a vast strain. The sighting of the marker
relieved the tension at last. He gave the order for the hawser to be cast off.
From this point the Rorqual would proceed under her own power to Gibraltar. The
Swiftsure lay to while the Rorqual forged ahead. The Rorqual was soon swallowed
up by the darkness. Sturdee put his ship about. He took the stool in front of
the radar set. “We’re going after the Tulak,” he announced. “With so many small
Klovanian craft about I think we shall be able to sneak in.” The ship vibrated
as speed picked up. The big “blip” in the tube guided Sturdee towards his
target. Spray lashed the windows of the bridge as the Swiftsure worked up to
sixty knots. Suddenly, Sturdee jumped off the stool and peered into the
darkness. Against the skyline loomed the immense shape of the Klovanians’ new
carrier of 70,000 tons displacement. The darkness gave way to blinding light as
searchlights blazed. Guns flashed in a tremendous barrage. With his lips
compressed in determined lines. Sturdee held his course. The explosions of an
enemy salvo dazzled the eyes of all on the bridge. It was like attacking a
sky-scraper. “Torpedoes gone,” shouted Denton and,
at Sturdee’s order, the quartermaster put the helm over. The Swiftsure heeled
with shells exploding all round her, she streaked away. “The torpedoes have run
past,” muttered Burney, but he had hardly spoken when the concussions of two
tremendous detonations were followed by cascades of sparks. The Royal Navy,
that the Klovanians bragged was finished, had struck again. An hour after the
Swiftsure’s attack, the pride of the Klovanian fleet went to the bottom. That
was on the night of September 25TH. It was on October 1ST
at mid-day that three enormous “Sparkler” rockets were fired from Gibraltar.
H.M.S. Swiftsure was anchored off Gibraltar and
was able to see their launching from an emplacement in the Rock. It was 12.10
that the main Klovanian radio station in the capital suddenly went dead. “That’s
all we want to know!” Randle exclaimed. “Our sparklers found the target! Now we
can let another salvo go!” It was 6.0
p.m. on that fateful day that a Klovanian radio station
situated far from the capital, or any of the manufacturing areas, was faintly
heard. It was a frantic appeal for an armistice. “You were right, Fred,”
Sturdee said. “You told me that we should knock them out in half a day.” “Yes
and I had a good reason for making the prediction,” answered Randle. “There was
no Roof over Klovania!” The suddenness with which the war ended, the abrupt
manner in which seeming defeat was transformed into victory, amazed the world
made free again. Once more Britain had
stood alone and once more Britain had
won. On the day that the peace treaty was signed, Commander Dan Sturdee stood
to attention while Her Majesty pinned the Victoria Cross on his tunic.
THE END
THE FRIGHTENED YEAR OF THE
FIREFLIES - 15 WEEKS The Rover 1703 February 15TH 1958 – 1717
May 24TH 1958
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2003
