Hell Run Tobruk: A WWII military adventure during the North African campaign (Jack Pembroke Naval Thrillers Book 3) by Justin Fox

Author:Justin Fox [Fox, Justin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2025-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

Jack waited a few moments before signalling the wounded coaster: ‘Can you keep up?’

‘Yes, half speed at best,’ came the winking reply.

A smoking Madison Hurley kept going while her crew fought the fires, but the sky-jackals had smelt blood and gathered in a swarm above her. Down came another Stuka, through the umbrella barrage, through the tracer, miraculously unscathed, diving on. Jack noticed something wrong with the aircraft: the angle was too steep, perhaps it had been damaged, but it would not come out of the dive. A single bomb fell away harmlessly from its belly, but the aircraft continued to plummet. Jack felt his stomach muscles contract as the Stuka struck Madison Hurley amidships, a shattering crash that sent up a pillar of roiling flame. Somehow, the coaster sailed on. As the smoke cleared, Jack saw the upright crucifix of the bomber’s fuselage, blackened and smouldering on the main deck like some totemic sacrifice.

‘Glory boys, incoming from the southeast, sir!’ yelped AB Malan.

Jack turned to see a flight of SAAF Tomahawks of Number Five Squadron streaking in, just as the fighter direction receiver in the wheelhouse unexpectedly crackled into life.

‘Have sighted convoy,’ said a cheery voice. ‘Am attacking!’

‘’Bout bloody time,’ growled Robinson.

Some of the P-40s climbed to engage the Me-109s; others dived towards the Stukas, the high-pitched whining of their engines punctuated by the crackle of machine-gun fire. One bomber toppled out of the sky, trailing smoke, pursued by a Tomahawk firing burst after burst. The fighters were making the Stukas look slow and cumbersome while the spaghetti vapour trails higher up showed a more even battle with the Messerschmitts. Jack watched as one South African chased a Stuka into a shallow dive, the hapless bomber jinking and weaving as streams of tracer tore bits from wings and fuselage until it hit the water and tumbled extravagantly in fanning torrents of spray. More payback for Dunkirk. Jack could almost taste the emotion. Keep a lid on it.

Over the radio came the audible progress of the battle: ‘Bandit on your tail! Bandit on your tail!’ A Tomahawk charged past Gannet on its side, wingtips flashing the South African roundels, a Messerschmitt snapping at its heels. Machine guns fired and missed as two aerobatic parabolas vanished into a cloudbank.

Everywhere Jack looked, aircraft were climbing, diving and banking to the stutter of machine-gun and cannon fire. The flightpaths were so intertwined that the escorts dared not fire, apart from the odd burst of close-range weapons if the enemy presented a clear target. Mostly, the ships’ gunners were mere spectators, watching in helpless frustration as the dogfights, and subsequent chase, bent to the west. The roar of battle was replaced by the reemergent sounds of the sea coursing along their flanks, the tinkling of halyards, the blessed murmur of voices. Pickles looked at Booysen, his eyes wild, adrenalin still pumping through him and a raging thirst burning his throat.

‘I’ll go get us some coffee,’ said Booysen. He climbed shakily down the boat deck ladder to the galley and was back in a trice with a jug and two mugs.

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