Torpedo Run (1981) Page 12

  Devane looked at him. Of course, it was so obvious he had not seen it. With Sorokin’s forces throwing mock attacks at their other positions, it was unlikely the German naval commander would have had ships to spare, unless he had been warned of the attack. That was impossible, or the island would have been properly defended and waiting for them.

  It was the Russian submarine they were after. They had probably known about her presence for ages and would not be put off by some vague explosion in the minefield. Whatever the Germans knew or guessed, it had all ended with the RDF station being blown up, for the enemy’s radio link was in the same blockhouse.

  Devane moved restlessly from side to side, vague shapes parting to let him through.

  It was one hell of a risk all the same. Suppose the Germans did know about the MTBs and were coming hot-foot to destroy them?

  He said, ‘Tell Commander Orel thank you. It makes sense. How could they have known?’

  Seymour sounded husky. ‘We could be caught between the German ships and the passage home.’ He forced a grin. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Tomorrow they’ll have every damn ship and plane looking for their E-boat. We’ve got to delay these two, no matter what. Otherwise they’ll pick us off one by one. Have you ever fought with a destroyer, David?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Devane smiled. ‘A destroyer is the only ship I’d really like to command. They used to make jokes about the Italian Navy in the Med. I did too, until I met one of their Oriani-class destroyers bows on. So we’ll do this one our way. Check the chart and see if there are any navigation buoys hereabouts.’

  Seymour nodded. ‘There is, sir. Two miles to the north of this position. It’s not in use, of course.’

  Devane searched his flimsy plan for traps. It was likely the German ships had moved into the Black Sea before their army had reached a stalemate on the Eastern Front. With luck, their captains would be unused to the devious warfare of the narrow seas and the Levant.

  He picked up the handset and pressed the switch. ‘This is Merlin. At slow speed, take station on unused buoy, two miles to the north’rd. Silent routine.’

  He heard Home’s brief acknowledgement, the immediate flurry of white foam from the other boat’s screws.

  To Seymour he said, ‘Slow ahead. Direct the cox’n to steer for the buoy.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done your homework. I like that.’

  He felt the boat tremble and respond to the thrust and triple rudders.

  ‘Pass the word to all positions. Jerry could be playing our game.’

  The machine-gunners swung their barrels in wide arcs, the long belts of ammunition trailing like brass snakes. Kirby, the leading torpedoman, would be making his last rounds with his assistants to ensure that if they got the chance to fire their fish would not fail or remain jammed in their tubes.

  He wondered how far the E-boat had managed to get, and if the flotilla had received any other casualties.

  ‘Coming up to the buoy in five minutes, sir.’

  Devane nodded. Time was passing so swiftly. It seemed only seconds ago that he had given his orders.

  He was tired, the strain had seen to that. It was so easy to let your mind drift, anything to avoid the reality and the menace.

  Leading Seaman Priest’s sturdy outline detached itself from forward of the six-pounder mounting, and with another seaman close on his heels he hurried towards the bows.

  The starboard lookout said hoarsely, ‘Fo’c’s’le party ready, sir. Buoy in sight, starboard bow.’

  ‘Dead slow. Steer for the buoy, Swain. A little port rudder to allow for drift.’

  Pellegrine frowned in concentration. ‘Got it, sir.’ He leaned on the spokes, his lively wife momentarily forgotten.

  Within ten minutes both MTBs were lying to on long slip ropes, with the gaunt navigation buoy swaying before their bows like a drunken bishop. It was covered with rust; a legacy of neglect, Devane thought. A relic of lost empire. The Czar’s yachts had come this way to avoid the pitiless winters, and later the White Russians had fled to Turkey, to anywhere to escape the revolution’s bloody fury.

  Someone dropped a steel helmet on the deck and Pellegrine swore savagely.

  Devane snapped, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘S-sorry, sir.’ It was Metcalf. It would be.

  Devane saw that he was holding some fresh ammunition belts, and wondered if he knew what had happened to the other seaman.

  He said, ‘Sound carries like hell, Metcalf. So find your place and stay in it.’

  Metcalf nodded and backed carefully against the flag locker. He had expected the captain to blast him apart, but he had spoken to him quite calmly. Even Dundas, whom he admired, would have had a few sharp words for him.

  Unaware of the awe he had aroused, Devane continued to search the darkness with his glasses. If he appeared to relax or not to care, others would soon follow his example. And then. . . .

  ‘Sir! Port bow!’ The lookout broke off, confused. ‘Thought I saw a light.’ He sounded relieved as he added, ‘There, sir!’

  Devane steadied himself against the uneven roll of the deck. He had seen it, but without the lookout’s quick report it could have been missed altogether. They might never know what it was. But it was probably a ship’s dead-light momentarily unfastened and swinging open to the same motion which was tossing the MTBs about. It was strangely comforting to realize that even the Germans could become careless.

  No time to inquire if Home and his men had seen it too. Nor would he dare to use the R/T. But Home would be watching his every move like a cat.

  ‘What do you think, Swain?’

  Pellegrine squinted in deep thought. ‘They’d be on to us by now, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ German E-boats had often used the old ruse of mooring to a navigation buoy off the British coastline. A radar operator in some old, overworked escort would see the blip on his scope, but because it was known there was a marker buoy in the vicinity he would notice nothing strange. He would see what he had expected to see. ‘I think these Jerry skippers are in for a shock.’

  Devane pushed his way to the other voicepipes and waited for the engine room to reply.

  ‘Chief? This is the captain. Any second now. Full revs. And hold on to your boots!’ He heard Ackland laugh. He sounded miles, not yards, away.

  ‘Warn the fo’c’s’le party, David. Slip the bow line the moment I sing out!’

  The men around him tensed their bodies as if to test the weight of the enemy.

  Devane climbed on to the gratings again and gripped the rail. There it was. Like the sound of a fast car, far away. But it was the roar of fans which drowned even the engines and racing screws as the ship, whatever she was, tore through the water. Moving from left to right. A copybook, diagonal attack.

  ‘What the hell!’

  A burst of red tracer ripped across the sea and vanished in the space of a second. Some bloody fool in Home’s boat had forgotten a safety catch and had fired by accident.

  It was too late now.

  ‘Slip! Starboard ten! All engines full ahead!’

  The other MTB vanished astern in spray and smoke as Ackland threw open his throttles.

  Devane held on tightly and watched the darkness which was parted by the high, crisp arrowhead of the MTB’s bow wave.

  A line of low trajectory tracer, which appeared to skim the water, tore past the port beam, and Devane pictured the alarm, the guns swinging round towards him.

  ‘Port ten! Steady!’

  Devane watched the double flashes, the vivid reflection against the other vessel’s bridge screen.

  Two shells exploded together, flinging up great columns of water which seemed to stand for minutes like white spectres before cascading back into the sea.

  Splinters whined overhead, and two more guns shot out their scarlet tongues from another angle.

  Two pairs. Devane tried to fix the other ship in his mind.

  ‘Stand by torpedoes!’

&nbs
p; The whole of the hull seemed to be standing up on its keel, as if only the screws were holding it to the surface. On either beam the banks of broken water peeled away in two great white wings, and Devane wondered if Home had managed to follow him yet.

  Somebody gasped, “Ere come the bleedin’ flak!’

  Tracer lifted and plunged towards them, and one of the machine-gunners twisted round towards the bridge as if pleading to open fire in return.

  Devane watched the bright tracer, felt the deck tilt this way and that as Pellegrine expertly eased the boat in a tight zigzag towards the enemy.

  Two more shells burst nearby, the water falling across the afterpart with such violence that two seamen were knocked to the deck.

  Devane felt his eyes cringe in the searing light as a star shell exploded overhead, laying them bare to the enemy’s guns and an immediate response in tracer and cannon shells.

  Devane shaded his throbbing eyes. ‘Open fire!’ There was always a chance of hitting a vital point. Luck, more likely.

  The hull rocked unsteadily, and Pellegrine almost lost control as the boat was bracketed by two heavier shells.

  There was no sign of Home’s boat. Devane wiped the sighting bar and tried to clear his mind of everything but the patch of shadow beyond the searing light. Darkness but for one jagged white moustache – the enemy’s bow wave as he turned and charged towards them like a battering ram.

  ‘Fire!’

  The green and red tracers clawed at each other, then knitted together in a tight mesh until they ripped across steel and woodwork alike.

  ‘Torpedoes running, sir!’

  Devane yelled, ‘Hard a-port!’

  He screwed his mind into a tight muscle as he tried to count the seconds. Splinters shrieked and clattered everywhere, and he heard a man cry out, a high, desperate sound as the breath was torn from his body.

  Missed. They had missed the target with both torpedoes.

  The enemy was still turning, and Devane could hear the great thresh of propellers and the roar of fans as she tilted hard over in pursuit.

  More waterspouts, more great bangs and cascading spray.

  Devane gasped, ‘Hard a-starboard! We’ll try and cut across his stern!’

  Another star shell lit the scene from sea to sky. A deadly, icy glare. As if they were already dead and did not recognize it.

  A machine-gun jammed, and Devane heard the seaman cursing and yelling meaningless words as he tried to clear the stoppage. Forward of the bridge the six-pounder pivoted on its power-operated mounting, as if the boat was moving around it as it fired at the enemy’s shadow with barely a pause.

  Carroll yelled, ‘We’re losing way!’

  Devane tried to listen, but needed to know little beyond the dropping bow wave as the revolutions fell and continued to fall. The engine room was in trouble.

  He pulled himself across the shaking bridge to seek out the other enemy ship. But there was only one after all. It made him despair to realize that, but for Home’s careless gunner, and this latest setback, they might have won.

  Seymour was shouting, ‘Do we break off, sir?’ He looked and sounded wild.

  ‘No! Stand by to re-engage!’

  The MTB wheeled yet again, more shells bursting dangerously close as she lost more and more power from her motors.

  A towering column of red and orange fire shot up seemingly to the clouds, as if it was something solid and would never move again. It took just a few seconds, but Devane and his men saw their enemy for the first time. She was still charging in pursuit, but with half of her forecastle and her complete stern blasted away she was already ploughing deeper and deeper, driven down by the thrust of her engines.

  In the glare of flames and exploding ammunition Devane saw the small shark’s fin of the other MTB’s bows far beyond the sinking ship, and knew that Home had caught their attacker as she had turned for the kill.

  ‘Slow ahead all engines. David, check with the Chief.’

  Devane made himself watch the other ship in her death agonies, and listened to her breaking up as she lifted her stern and started to dive.

  Orel was watching too, peering into the night until the sea swallowed the broken hull and doused the last of the fires. Did he think it was all worth it, Devane wondered? A destroyer sunk, a submarine mined and lost with all hands, and an able seaman named Crookshank whom he had not found time to know.

  Carroll said, ‘Buzzard’s calling us up, sir. Do you require assistance?’

  Devane threw back his head and gulped at the air as if it was water in a desert. Around him men were peering at one another, dazed and bewildered by the closeness of death.

  Devane said, ‘Assistance, Bunts? I think we all need it!’

  8

  Near Miss

  Devane wiped his face gratefully with a flannel dipped in warm soapy water. Torpedoman Pollard, who did secondary duty as wardroom messman, watched approvingly and said, ‘That’ll make you feel like ten men, sir.’ He had a Newcastle accent you could slice with a knife.

  Devane handed him the basin. ‘Thanks.’

  It felt strange to be idling along at a mere seven knots after the speed and chilling danger of the night. He stared beyond the stained screen. The sea was a darker blue and the sky devoid of cloud. From horizon to horizon there was nothing.

  He listened to the occasional thump of hammers as the hands below deck dealt with another splinter hole in the hull’s fabric. From aft and the engine-room hatch he heard the clatter of metal as Ackland and his men continued with their repairs.

  And yet, in spite of the loneliness, and realization that at any minute they might be discovered by an enemy patrol, there was an air of acceptance, of resignation.

  Ackland had been forced to stop the port screw altogether. An exploding shell from the German destroyer had damaged the shaft, and to force any more use from it might put it out of action for good.

  Devane recalled the moment when dawn had opened up the sea around them. His feelings as he had ordered Horne to take his undamaged MTB to seek out and support the rest of the flotilla and their captured E-boat. As the senior officer of the flotilla it was arguable that he should have moved to Home’s boat and left Seymour to cope as best he could. Now as the boat moved sluggishly over the dark water he was glad he had stayed behind.

  Merlin had taken enough. One man killed outright, and another, a young stoker, clinging to life by a thread, had made a deep impact on their small company.

  They had expected to be pounced upon as soon as it was full daylight, had almost welcomed the need to hit back, no matter what the odds might be.

  But now it was close on noon, and still nothing had happened. Just the painful progress, the boat steering almost crabwise in the water, so that constant changes of rudder and screws kept the helmsman busy. Apart from the lookouts, and a relay of men at the helm, most of the hands were engaged on repairs, snatching hasty meals of sandwiches and sweet tea, or merely sitting isolated and staring out at the empty horizon.

  Seymour appeared on the bridge and examined the compass before saying, ‘Stoker Duff’s in a bad way, sir. Left thigh shot through. Tracer too.’ He shook his head. ‘Pity we can’t carry a sick-berth attendant who can shoot as well! We could certainly use some expert help.’

  Devane nodded, his eyes on the man at the wheel. Pellegrine was below with the wounded stoker. The coxswain was remarkable in many ways. His instincts about danger and the position or movements of an enemy in total darkness were uncanny. Now he was acting as ship’s doctor, and doubtless he was good at that also.

  Seymour removed his cap and pushed his fair hair from his forehead. ‘What about the flotilla, sir? Do you think they’re home and dry yet?’

  ‘Depends on their speed. Whether they’ve had additional help from Ivan.’ He did not need to look at his watch. He knew every minute on it since Home’s boat had dipped over the horizon like a minute insect. ‘With Red Mackay making all the running, I’d say they’ve a better ch
ance than most.’

  They looked at each other. Each knew that but for their attack on the destroyer Parthian might have been decimated, or driven so far to the south that their fuel would have run dry.

  It needed no words.

  Leading Signalman Carroll moved up beside the helmsman. ‘I’ll take over, Jimmy. You get some char.’

  Seymour nodded as the helmsman glanced at him for confirmation.

  Devane looked at the sea as it slid slowly down the hull. They were a good team, he thought. Trusted and trusting.

  He said abruptly, ‘I’m going to the chartroom.’ He had seen Orel and his lieutenant coming through the wardroom hatch and knew he could not face another stilted post mortem.

  In the chartroom it was stuffy and humid. He leaned over the table, listening to the hull groaning around him, the restrained power of the motors.

  He picked up the brass dividers and made a few swift calculations on the chart. Matchbox navigation, as Dundas called it. They had come a long way. Another hour. Provided Sorokin was still keeping his patrols at first-degree readiness, or that the enemy had not launched such a massive counter-attack the E-boat escapade had been forgotten.

  Devane thought suddenly of his first MTB. They had been returning from an attack on enemy coastal convoys off the Dutch coast when they had begun to sink. Too many shell holes, too much damage from previous battles up and down the Channel; nobody really discovered. The senior officer of the flotilla had previously ordered Devane’s skipper to make his own way home. He stood a better chance as all enemy attention would be focused on the others.

  Abandoning ship had seemed unreal, because of the silence, but then, as the angle had increased and some of the men had begun to jump overboard into the bitter water, Devane had accepted what was happening to him.

  He could remember without effort that first night, the faint glow of red lights on the life-jackets as the men drifted about, shouting encouragement to each other, searching for special friends.

  An air-sea rescue launch from the RAF had discovered them late the following day. To sharpen their understanding of how close they had all been to death, the RAF skipper had told them he had in fact been looking for an aircraft reported shot down and afloat in the North Sea.