Timeline 102762 Main 03 The Pillars of Hercules by James Philip

Author:James Philip [Philip, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00QCM4TY8
Published: 2015-01-30T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Monday 9th December 1963

Estuary of the River Douro, Oporto, Portugal

Lieutenant-Commander Peter Christopher gazed spellbound at the lights of the city as HMS Talavera wallowed gently in the lee of the breakwater. The waters of the River Douro ran down her sides. Emergency diesel generators worked noisily in the night powering the jury-rigged arc lamps which illuminated both stricken ships. A little over a hundred yards away the fire-scorched flank of the Country class destroyer HMS Devonshire lay in the middle of the channel, moored fore and aft like her smaller, equally wounded consort. Sailors of the Armada Portuguesa and civilian dockyard workers and medical staff worked tirelessly alongside the crews of the two ships, and a flotilla of small craft surrounded them both.

HMS Plymouth stood guard off the mouth of the estuary, slowly quartering the big seas as the wind gusted up to force nine. Over forty members of the frigate’s crew were still onboard Talavera; and without them the ship would surely have been lost. Over half Talavera’s crew were dead, missing, seriously or walking wounded. Peter Christopher was among this latter category and despite his protests was due to be sent ashore; Talavera and Devonshire were to be patched up and steamed down to Lisbon where dry dock facilities were to be had, a proper assessment of their damage could be carried out and repairs effected. However, before that could happen to Talavera most of her crew had to be taken off and the five hundred pound unexploded bomb lodged against the aft bulkhead of her 4.5 inch magazine had to be either disarmed or removed.

There were spits of icy cold rain in the wind.

Captain David Penberthy joined his acting-Executive Officer at the bridge rail. Together they stared into the twinkling lights of the city along the banks of the river a mile or so further inland. Alongside, launches and lighters bumped against Talavera’s misused plates as the badly injured were carefully lowered and carried away.

“Well,” Talavera’s Captain guffawed, his exhaustion relenting for a moment, “that was a thing, wasn’t it?”

Neither man had honestly believed they’d reach a safe harbour.

HMS Plymouth’s tow rope had parted twice; the second time both ships had rolled wildly in the violent cross seas for an hour that had seemed like an eternity before they’d continued at a snail’s pace towards the rocky coast. Sanctuary seemed utterly unreal, dreamlike. To stand again on a deck that wasn’t gyrating, plunging and falling – each time as if it was the last time – was pure bliss. They’d stopped worrying about the unexploded bomb fifty feet from where they stood enjoying the lights of the city of Oporto, long since. If the bloody thing went off, so be it.

“I wish I was staying with the ship, sir.”

“Well, you’re not and that’s that!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the younger man chuckled. The effort hurt his chest, made his jaw ache.

“Apart from the fact you’re pretty badly knocked about,” David Penberthy went on, wearily affable, “Talavera’s going to be out of commission for a while and chaps like you are badly needed elsewhere in the fleet.

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