Torpedo Run (1981) Page 16

  Devane heard himself ask, ‘Were you?’ He added quickly, ‘That was unforgivable. Don’t say anything.’

  A beggar loaded with cheap brass ornaments placed himself across their path, his teeth bared in a determined grin.

  Devane said, ‘Don’t worry. They’re not used to seeing girls like you these days. He probably thinks the cruise ships have started up again!’

  But she did not smile. She turned and looked at him searchingly, the beggar and the crowded waterfront forgotten.

  ‘I know it’s very wrong. But in a strange way I’m happy.’ She studied each feature of his face, as if committing it to memory. ‘And I am very glad to see you. I hope it shows.’

  Whitcombe paused at the top of the steps as a staff car pulled up for him.

  Beresford followed his gaze and said, ‘I suggested that he should come with us, sir. I seem to have done the right thing for once.’

  The old captain muttered something and climbed into the car.

  Captain bloody Barker’s plan was almost foolproof. As safe as any of their crackpot schemes could ever be. He almost wished that he had been able to find a flaw in it before giving the signal to go ahead.

  And the tall, khaki-clad lieutenant-commander with the unruly hair poking around his cap, with the lovely widow on his arm, was the obvious choice, and at short notice the only man who could carry it out.

  There was a flaw, but not one strong enough to move the Chiefs of Staff. Even the PM had given the mission his blessing.

  Whitcombe opened the file on his plump knees and frowned at the photograph of a smiling German naval officer. Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Lincke.

  If Barker had thought of the plan, so too might he.

  10

  Rivals and Lovers

  Captain James Whitcombe stubbed out a cigarette, then mopped his face and throat with a crumpled handkerchief.

  Outside the room, which had been loaned to him by the Army, it was pitch dark, and he could hear nameless insects hammering against the screens. In the sealed office it was stiflingly hot, like a Turkish bath, and some hissing pressure-lamps added to the discomfort. For some inexplicable reason the electric generators had failed, and Whitcombe knew he was getting too old for this kind of thing.

  They had been at it all afternoon, going over aerial photographs, checking intelligence reports and listening to the local operations officers from Cairo.

  He glanced at his two companions. Beresford, characteristically slumped in a chair, eyes slitted against the harsh lamps, his hair tousled. A keen and intelligent man, but one you would never know in a thousand bloody years.

  As a complete contrast, Captain Barker was still as bright as a button, pushing ideas, blocking observations of which he disapproved and generally making a nuisance of himself. Even his voice, Whitcombe thought, it went on and on at the same level, toneless and inhuman. Useless Eustace, he called him under his breath.

  But, like him or not, there was no denying the logic in his plan. For months the Russian and German naval forces had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. Hitting a convoy here, attacking a shore position or supply dump there, with the casualties too often outweighing the value of each operation.

  The Russians used their massive weight, while the Germans relied on agility and ruthless determination. It was a stalemate, and while it lasted there was no hope of a major military advance on the Eastern Front with the resulting drain of German forces in the west.

  Whitcombe thought of that morning, the little commander’s announcement about the Sicily invasion. ‘Operation Husky’, as it had been named in his secret files for so long. The pressure had to be maintained and increased. Mere people did not come into it. He tried to avoid thinking of Richie. A hero, a man who had done so much to improve the light coastal forces until they had become a powerful weapon. One slip had broken him, and soon he would be entirely forgotten. But was he not as much a casualty as a man who died under fire or by drowning?

  Barker was looking at him fixedly, and with a start Whitcombe realized he must have said something.

  ‘What?’

  Barker smiled gently. ‘It is late. We are all tired.’ Except me, his voice seemed to imply. ‘But we must decide. I, that is we, have a lot to do. The enemy might change his arrangements.’

  Beresford leaned forward wearily and dragged a map across the table.

  Barker eyed him confidently. ‘A ship lies in a Rumanian port, safe from attack, protected more by a false neutrality than anything with real teeth. The Rumanians have encouraged a complete German occupation, I see no reason to excuse their actions or respect their non-combatant status. The Russians, on the other hand, have lost all their tactical bases in the Black Sea, except Tuapse, which could be immobilized any day if the enemy made a determined assault without regard to cost. If Germany holds the Crimea, I am certain she will use it as a springboard in the New Year.’ He glanced severely at Whitcombe. ‘The Germans occupy several good bases. Not content with these, they have others in Bulgarian and Rumanian territory.’

  Beresford said, ‘It makes sense, sir. Hit them hard through their main support lines and the effect could escalate all along the coast. The German naval command would have to withdraw forces from the Crimea in case our attacks were part of a new pattern.’

  Whitcombe nodded. Two to one. More if you included the people in London. Vice-Admiral Talents in particular. Barker’s ‘old chum’. He would see Barker in control of Special Operations if he could.

  Barker sensed his victory. ‘The captured E-boat will be able to enter the harbour without difficulty. A suitable diversion elsewhere and the use of some skilled personnel should make it a knock-out punch.’ He pointed at the map. ‘South-west from Tuapse and proceeding inside Turkish waters as long as possible. Then in and out, the job done.’ He sat upright in his chair, his pale eyes challenging. ‘Well?’

  Whitcombe thought of Devane. He would be with the girl right now. Two more casualties, but he hoped that neither of them accepted it.

  ‘What about a submarine?’

  Beresford shook his head. ‘None available, sir. Not small enough to get in there. Anyway, it’s too shallow for a safe withdrawal. They’d pound her to scrap before she got half a cable.’

  Barker smiled. ‘Don’t worry so much, James. If Devane is only half as good as they contend, he should be able to manage this one.’

  Whitcombe retorted angrily, ‘Don’t patronize me! You’ve done a lot, but you don’t know these people as I do. I was like you and all the others brought back from retirement, the “beach”. Grateful at first, but ready enough to criticize all the reservists, the six-week-wonders. But now I know better, a whole lot better!’

  Beresford murmured, ‘Easy, sir. Nobody doubts that. Not any more.’

  Whitcombe nodded heavily. ‘I should bloody well hope not. Young John Devane is the best, but he’s over the edge. He knows it too, which doesn’t help. We should have brought more boats into the area. Wait and see, that ought to be the Admiralty’s damned motto!’

  Barker sighed. ‘It’s settled then.’

  The lights blinked and came on again.

  Whitcombe rubbed his eyes and groped for another cigarette. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll draft the necessary signals.’ Barker appeared to bounce to his feet. ‘After that it will be up to me.’

  Whitcombe regarded him curiously. ‘And a few others.’

  ‘About the German, Lincke?’ Beresford seemed eager to cover up Whitcombe’s contempt for higher authority. ‘Do you think his presence means anything?’

  Barker was already locking his briefcase. ‘A coincidence probably, or a live wire to put some go into their naval flotillas in the Crimea. I understand that Klassman is still in command,’ he shrugged carelessly, ‘but maybe he needed a jolt too. Like others I could mention.’

  He opened the door. ‘In the morning then, gentlemen? Eight-thirty?’

  Whitcombe glared. ‘Nine!’

  They liste
ned to his brisk, retreating steps, then Whitcombe said, ‘Let’s go to the Army mess and have a few drinks. That man really gets under my skin.’

  ‘You’d never have guessed, sir.’

  Whitcombe grinned and then said, ‘Keep an eye on Devane for me. This war isn’t going to end tomorrow. We’ll need him and a lot more before that happens.’

  Beresford smiled. ‘Besides which, sir, you’ve made the unusual mistake of growing too fond of one of your glory boys, correct?’

  Whitcombe sighed. ‘Right. Trust you to realize that. You’ll make admiral, you see. All brains and no bloody heart. It’ll fit you like a glove!’

  Devane opened the door and stood in the quiet darkness, listening, but hearing only his own breathing.

  The hotel was small and scruffy, and but for the massive movement of servicemen to the new battlefields in Sicily he knew there would have been no accommodation left, even to sit down.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Her voice came out of the darkness. ‘I was worried.’

  Devane walked to the window and opened a shutter very slightly. It was hard to believe there was a great canal out there, ships and people, a lifeline from one sea to the next.

  ‘It took time. But it’s done.’ He tugged open his shirt and tried to cool his skin beside the window. ‘God, it’s hot.’

  She said, ‘Come here. Tell me about it.’

  He felt his way to the bed and sat down beside her, sensing her nearness, her warmth.

  ‘I had to see several people. Luckily I know one of them from way back.’ He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘They’ve agreed to a burial at the military cemetery tomorrow. I’ve arranged for the Army padre to do it. Seems a nice chap. Comes from Taunton, would you believe?’

  Her voice was husky, and for an instant he thought she was crying.

  ‘You’re good to me, John. I don’t know what I’d have done.’ Her hand reached up and touched his face and his chest. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  He looked down and saw her dark hair framed by a pillow. Her bare shoulders gave a faint glow, like silk, and he wanted to take her in his arms, to love her and to lose himself in her and tell her everything.

  ‘I know that I love you, Claudia.’ He groped for her arm and felt her stiffen.

  She said, ‘Sorry. It’s the vaccination. Stings a bit.’

  She gripped his hand and lowered it to her breast. It was hot and supple, and he could feel the nipple against his palm as she squeezed his fingers around it.

  Devane bent over her and kissed her. ‘This isn’t just a passing thing. Not to me. I want you to accept that. If anything happens, I need to know you understand, even if you can’t share all that I feel.’

  Her hand left his and she touched his mouth, his eyes and his hair.

  She whispered, ‘I’m so happy.’ She pulled him down and kissed him hard, her mouth opening to contain his, as if she wanted to make each moment last a lifetime.

  He said softly, ‘I shall be leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’ She struggled up and hugged herself against him. ‘One night. Like the last time.’

  Devane could feel the tears against his mouth as she said, ‘But we’re really old friends, aren’t we?’

  He lowered her to the bed again and threw his clothes on the floor.

  ‘Neighbours, too.’

  She clung to his neck, pulling herself up to him as he covered her with his body.

  ‘You must come back, John. I need you so. If only. . . .’

  The rest was lost as they came together as one.

  The room was small and square with a tiny window high up near the ceiling. It was freshly painted, white, like a sick room, or, in its spartan simplicity, a monk’s cell.

  Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Lincke lay on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head, as he stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

  He disliked the smell of the fresh paint, but hated the dirt and the discomfort it caused far more.

  He thought of the speech he would have to make that afternoon to the combined crews of his new command, Gruppe Seeadler. Seven sound boats, some with officers and men who were new to their elite service. He would probably make the same speech as usual. In Germany and Holland, in France and North Africa, Italy and Greece. Only the faces changed. They got younger.

  Lincke thought reluctantly about his last leave, the one which had been cut short without explanation. The medical officer at Kiel had insisted he needed a complete rest, although Lincke had assured him he had never felt better.

  He was not sorry to be back. This time it was Russia, but the enemy, like his speech, was the same. The thought made him smile, so that he looked even younger than his twenty-eight years.

  His home was in the old town of Schleswig, and he had been shocked to find his parents so aged and, worse, disillusioned by their country’s struggle against so many enemies.

  Lincke had had two brothers. Hans, the youngest, had died at sea in a U-boat. Bernd, the oldest, a pipe-smoking infantry captain, had been captured after the British stand at El Alamein. He was sorry for his brothers, but had been embarrassed when his mother had burst out that she was actually pleased Bernd was a prisoner in England. At least he will be alive when this butchery is over, she had sobbed. It made him uneasy for her and the whole family if word of her criticism reached the wrong ears.

  He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up in the centre of the room. He wore a white singlet and pale cream trousers. Matched against them, his fair hair and tanned arms and face made him look more like an athlete than a naval officer.

  His uniform hung in a canvas wardrobe, pressed and ready. Lincke’s faithful orderly, Max, saw to that. With its three bright gold stripes, the Iron Cross and the other decorations on one breast, it looked more fitting for a much older man.

  On a small scrubbed table was a framed picture of his parents, dwarfed by the massive folder of secret information which he had carried with him from Kiel.

  It was strange to learn that some of his old enemies from the Channel and Mediterranean were here also. He wondered if they loathed the Russians as much as he did. Their brutish soldiers, their coarse peasant women who screamed abuse even into the muzzles of a firing squad. Dirt and squalor in this vast terrain seemed even more depressing. Thank God his brother had been taken by the British and not on the Eastern Front, if half the stories of Russian atrocities were true.

  He walked to the table and idly leafed open the folder. It would be like a clean canvas for him. He had the backing of the Grand Admiral and of the Führer himself. He would cause resentment, even hatred, but he was used to that. The war would be won. Must be won. The Führer had said so to him personally when he had hung the most coveted decoration around his neck in Berlin. Lincke was no puppet, and made his own decisions, but his meeting with Hitler had stayed with him, had inspired him beyond belief. Perhaps it was because of the different attitude. His admirals had praised him for his victories at sea. Lincke had, after all, sent one hundred and thirty thousand tons of enemy shipping to the bottom. With one Schnellboot that was no mean achievement. But they respected him as a weapon, where as Hitler had made him feel like a man, a German officer.

  He scanned the neat writing of the admiral’s secretary, the brief comment about the British flotilla leader named Richie. Dead. But not in action. That was very strange. Perhaps they would soon learn more about it. When you fought a fast-moving war in little ships you needed to know your opponents far better than the details of weapons and endurance.

  Lincke never believed in luck or coincidence. He had studied all the reports on the unexpected destruction of the torpedo boat escort to the Crimean convoy, the devastating attack launched by British MTBs which were not even supposed to be in the Black Sea.

  One surprise was never enough. The same independent unit had attacked and seized a German Schnellboot, and even though it had managed to break free, only to be destroyed in their own minefield, it would not stop there.


  If only he had been present when it had happened. He had questioned the idiot who had picked up the bodies and some fragments, but had learned nothing. Fools thought like fools. There was no sense in wasting more time.

  Lincke had seven boats, with the authority to use the other light forces whenever he thought fit.

  A page hung in mid air as he examined a newspaper photograph of Lieutenant-Commander John Devane. The new leader, but not a new name to Lincke. He was one of the British reservist officers who had caused so much amusement in Kiel in those first heady days of war and one victory after another.

  People often made jokes at the expense of their enemies, usually to cover up their own uncertainties, he thought. They should have known better. An island race like the British had always relied on their amateur sailors. Dunkirk had proved that, but Drake and Raleigh had known it centuries earlier.

  After the war it would be pleasant to obtain an appointment in England. Lincke had been a junior officer in the Graf Spee at the 1937 Coronation Review at Spithead. He could remember it vividly. The long lines of grey ships, the last great review the world would ever know. Among the foreign visitors had been many fine ships now sunk, like his own Graf Spee. Even more, the British ones which had anchored nearby, ships like Hood and Repulse, Barham and Courageous. Now only their memories remained.

  Privately, Lincke thought it a shame that they were forced to fight the British at all. A total alliance against the Russians and the French, even the Italians, who were once allies and were now said to be deserting and changing sides in the wake of the Sicilian invasion, would stabilize the world.

  He sighed. But that was hindsight. His immediate future was here in this miserable, war-torn corner of Russia.

  The door opened, and Max, his orderly, servant and faithful guardian, peered in at him.

  ‘They are waiting, sir.’

  Lincke dressed deliberately and with care, examining his even features in a clean mirror to make certain his hair was tidy and did not bristle beneath the band of his white-topped cap.

  Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Lincke, holder of the Knight’s Cross and Oak Leaves, and three other decorations, leader of the newly formed Gruppe Seeadler, was ready.