Torpedo Run (1981) Page 19

  The watchkeepers changed, the gun crews removed the waterproof covers and checked their magazines. A leading torpedoman appeared from nowhere and began a methodical inspection of the starboard tube. To an onlooker it would appear as if each man had been aboard for years instead of hours.

  Devane got his first glimpse of the MTB bouncing gracelessly astern. Cracking on speed for the final part of the attack would seem like a relief after this.

  Horne followed his glance. ‘She’s lively. But I’ll lay odds that my Number One’ll heave a sigh when he’s used up some of his fuel and to blazes with the return trip! Why the hell can’t we have diesels like the Jerries? The fools who are supposed to be planning this war might at least spare a thought for the poor devils who have to put to sea in a mobile petrol drum!’

  Lieutenant Durston lurched on to the bridge and squinted at the brightening sky.

  He said brightly, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

  ‘Aircraft! Bearing red four-five! Moving right to left. Angle of sight two-oh!’

  Horne leapt across the bridge. ‘Jesus!’

  Devane raised his glasses and moved them deliberately across a filmy bank of cloud. Against it the tiny black dot appeared to be motionless. An insect pinned there in mid-flight.

  ‘Call up Buzzard. Tell them –’

  ‘She’s seen it, sir.’

  Horne breathed out fiercely. ‘Good thinking. If my Number One had used a lamp instead of flags I’d have murdered him!’

  ‘Dead slow all engines. Tell the Chief what’s happening.’ Devane concentrated on the little dot until his eyes throbbed. Even at this speed their wake could be seen for miles by some vigilant airman. The engines sighed and the deck swayed and wallowed more heavily.

  ‘Aircraft’s altered course, sir. Heading due south.’

  Durston muttered, ‘Anti-submarine patrol maybe. Too near land to be German.’

  It will make no difference, Devane thought grimly. If the plane was Turkish the enemy would hear of their presence just as quickly.

  Durston rubbed his chin. ‘Hell, I wonder if the bastard’s spotted us.’ He had forgotten all about breakfast.

  The lookout, crouched over his massive search-binoculars, shifted them slightly on their mounting.

  ‘No change, sir.’

  ‘Now what?’ Home did not look directly at Devane. ‘Did he or didn’t he?’

  Devane let the glasses fall to his chest. They were all looking at him even though their faces were directed anywhere but in his direction.

  It was his decision. The independent command. Press on, or abort now and hope for another chance later on?

  A German pilot would fly exactly as this one was doing. He would remain on course, do nothing to show he had seen the two white wakes on the sea below.

  He would make his signal later. What ships? Where bound? Devane could imagine the wires humming, some German staff officer being sent to report to his admiral.

  But suppose it was a Turk? Unskilled in the craft of modern warfare, he might be too curious to stay away. On the other hand. . . .

  Devane jammed his fist into his pocket and clenched it so tightly the pain helped to slow his racing thoughts.

  He said, ‘Disregard. Resume cruising speed in ten minutes. Inform Buzzard.’

  Just like that. It was all it took to make a decision. One which might kill every man aboard within the hour.

  He continued with the pretence. ‘Now about breakfast. . . .’ He saw them relax and grin at each other.

  The skipper’s not bothered. No panic yet. He could almost hear them.

  Claudia had wanted to know what it was like. But how could he describe this kind of madness?

  12

  No Chance Meeting

  ‘Course north twenty west, sir.’ Pellegrine’s eyes glowed faintly in the shaded compass light. ‘Revolutions for eighteen knots.’

  ‘Very good.’ Devane tugged at his jacket and shirt. With the steel shutters slammed shut, and all but the observation slits closed around the E-boat’s bridge, the air was clammy and oppressive.

  Lieutenant Home stood just beside the coxswain, his thick figure rising and falling easily to the motion. His upbringing in lively drifters had seemingly left him untroubled by anything but a Force Ten.

  Devane felt the tension around and below him. All the waiting, the hourly expectation of discovery or an ambush following the sighting of that aircraft had taken a toll of their nerves. On the last leg of the journey they had stopped engines while the spare fuel drums had been lowered outboard and forced beneath the surface until they had filled and sunk from sight. One empty diesel or petrol drum sighted by a patrol vessel would be more than enough to alarm the defences.

  Some sort of argument had broken out between two of the Russians and some seamen. The Russian lieutenant, a round-faced, amiable-looking man called Patolichev, had stopped it simply by producing his automatic pistol and clicking the safety catch back and forth. The Russians had dropped the argument, and the British sailors had been too shocked by such unorthodox behaviour from an officer to push the matter further.

  Horne said suddenly, ‘I think we’ve made it, sir. We’re less than twenty miles from the inlet. Even Jerry wouldn’t delay an attack much later than this.’

  Devane said nothing. Home was worried. About the mission, or his own boat which was still following somewhere astern, he could not tell. He examined his own feelings. He felt surprisingly calm, as if his whole being was resting. Like a cat about to gather every ounce of skill and prowess to spring on its unsuspecting prey.

  Devane wiped his face with a signal flag. He had forgotten nothing, as far as he could tell.

  Thank God they were making better headway now, so that the sickening motion was gone. When he had started in MTBs Devane had often wondered why the German boats had appeared steadier and hard to hit with anything but rapid fire. The boat was cruising along at eighteen knots with barely any wash to betray her presence. Home’s boat would be lifting her bows and tossing the water aside in a great white moustache. Impressive and dashing, but it could be a dead giveaway.

  The German designers had thought of everything. Pellegrine was able to steer the boat with the central rudder, one of three. The side rudders were turned outwards to an angle of thirty degrees. It improved speed and cut down wash and bow wave to a minimum. Simple, when you thought about it.

  Devane said, ‘Test communications. And post two more lookouts on the upper bridge.’ He peered round in the gloom. ‘Interpreter?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Come and join me.’ Devane was astonished at his own casual manner. Perhaps he was always like this and had never noticed it before. ‘If we have to speak to a patrol, you’d better be ready with the loudhailer.’

  The interpreter groped from the rear of the wheelhouse, and Devane heard Pellegrine mutter, ‘Gawd, you again?’

  It was Metcalf. Devane had left it to Beresford to select a convincing interpreter, but he had not expected to see the young seaman who had failed to get his commission.

  Like most of the hands he was wearing a white sweater, the nearest thing to a German’s sea-going gear, without actually wearing the uniforms of dead sailors.

  Metcalf gripped the bridge rail and said fiercely, ‘Ready, sir.’

  Horne called, ‘Communications tested and correct, sir. All guns loaded.’

  Devane peered at his luminous watch. Even that was German. Soon now.

  Metcalf must have taken his scrutiny as uncertainty and whispered, ‘Will I have to speak, sir?’

  ‘Not likely. There’ll be a challenge, and provided the Ruskies have got it right, we should be able to flash the correct reply.’ He tore his mind from the mental picture he had formed of the little port, Mandra. ‘Feeling all right, Metcalf?’

  Metcalf shivered. ‘Yessir. Fine.’ It was true. He had never felt better. All the way from Tuapse, through the day and night, as he had listened to the others swopping stories of their conquests ash
ore, of their officers, or simply about their homes, he had been thinking of this moment. It might be his last chance. Even the other seamen had studied him with more respect once they had discovered he could speak German. Metcalf could speak three languages as it happened, but the others could wait for the present.

  Devane forgot the young seaman at his side as Horne yelled, ‘Port lookout reports a light at red four-five.’ It sounded like a question.

  Devane snapped, ‘Alter course. Steer north thirty west.’

  It would take only minutes to make up for the alteration of course. But to steer straight past the mysterious light would be inviting trouble. If there was an enemy patrol lying off shore he would soon spot the British MTB’s wash etched against the black horizon like a playful dolphin.

  ‘Who’s the lookout?’

  Horne answered promptly, ‘Able Seaman Tomkins, sir. One of my chaps. He’s red-hot.’

  The rating at the voicepipe said in a hushed tone, ‘Lookout reports the light again, sir. Low down. Could be a torch.’

  ‘Torch?’ Devane crossed the bridge and wrenched open one of the steel shutters.

  As he levelled his powerful night glasses he heard Horne say, ‘Fisherman, most likely. Fouled a net.’

  Home should know. But whoever it was would probably have a radio. Two unlit craft passing so near might make him nervous. It was like the Turkish aircraft all over again, except that now they were within an hour of their objective.

  The rating at the voicepipe said, ‘Another flash, sir.’

  ‘Could it be a buoy of some kind?’

  Horne said, ‘No. I checked the chart before we increased speed.’

  ‘Fine on the port bow now, sir.’

  ‘Slow ahead all engines.’ And let’s hope the MTB is awake and doesn’t run up our backside.

  ‘All slow ahead, sir.’

  Devane bit his lip. ‘Bunts, get aloft to the searchlight. Train it on the bearing and when I give the word. . . .’

  The signalman grinned. ‘On me way, sir.’

  Devane rested his back against the signal locker and felt the pain of his wound stab at him like fire. He remembered the hotel room. The shutters. The girl’s softness against the scar.

  ‘Warn all guns to stand by.’ What was the matter with him? Instinct, some latent warning?

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Searchlight!’

  The beam cut across the sea like something solid, pinning down the other vessel and transforming her into solid ice.

  Home murmured, ‘Fishing, right enough!’

  Another voice yelled, ‘Launch alongside!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Devane jumped to the voicepipes. ‘Full ahead!’

  With her great engines roaring, the E-boat crashed across the water like a battering ram. Devane saw tiny figures mesmerized and unreal in the unwavering beam of light, and a tiny patch of colour beyond the fisherman’s battered hull.

  A grey tripod mast, the glint of steel. A patrol boat. It was probably a routine search of local Rumanian vessels, as much to break the boredom as anything.

  Home shouted, ‘Open fire, sir?’ In the reflected glare he looked wild. Like a stranger.

  ‘No!’ Devane wheeled round and seized Metcalf’s arm. ‘All set, my lad?’ He saw the youth nod jerkily. ‘Steer round the other side of them, Swain!’ He gestured sharply at Horne. ‘Reduce speed. Twelve knots.’

  Horne said hoarsely, ‘But if they fire on us, sir?’

  ‘I know!’ Devane could not keep the rasp out of his tone. He did not have to be reminded of the lethal necklace of mines around the deck, the torpedoes and all the extra ammunition. Home should not need telling either.

  The engines sighed into a throaty rumble, the throwback from the bows surging alongside like a mill stream.

  Devane wanted to run to the upper bridge and look for Buzzard. But he dare not take his eyes from the oncoming boats. He had to trust men he barely knew, like Harry Rodger, the MTB’s number one who was in temporary command. One slip now and they could be blown to fragments, or at best crippled.

  Devane said, ‘Call him up, Metcalf. What ship?’

  A German E-boat, new to the Black Sea, would make a challenge without hesitation. They were well away from the main combat area, and one of their own was already carrying out some specified duty. He listened to Metcalf’s voice, harsh and distorted in the loudhailer. When he rested his hand on his shoulder he could feel his whole body quivering. But it was not fear. Devane could see his features clearly in the searchlight’s blue glare. He was wildly excited.

  Devane said, ‘Alongside, starboard side to. Warn Lieutenant Durston. Get the fenders ready, we’ll grapple if possible.’

  Pellegrine eased the wheel over so that the fishing boat, with the low-lying launch tied alongside, seemed to pivot round on the end of the beam.

  Devane said, ‘Tell the W/T office to listen for any squawks from the Jerry. We’ll lob a depth charge under his keel if he tries anything.’

  Horne yelled, ‘Stop those Russians from jabbering!’

  Metcalf lowered the loudhailer. ‘No reply, sir.’

  ‘Not to worry.’

  Devane levelled his glasses and watched some German seamen shielding their eyes from the searchlight as they lowered rope fenders over the side. The suddenness, the casual challenge, each had played a vital part. The next three minutes were critical.

  A heaving line snaked across the disturbed water and was caught deftly by a German.

  Devane looked quickly across the two hulls towards the horizon. It was playing tricks. It had to be. It looked paler already. He could not afford to hang about any longer.

  ‘Boarders away!’

  A whistle shrilled, and even as the E-boat surged alongside the smaller craft the first seaman leapt across the slit of trapped water.

  A shot cracked out, and the searchlight above the bridge exploded like a hand grenade. Above the throbbing engines Devane heard the Canadian lieutenant’s voice, the sudden clatter of automatic fire, then complete silence.

  Horne exclaimed thickly, ‘Both boats taken, sir. The Ruskies shot down a few by the look of it. Bastards.’

  Devane nodded. Who did he mean? ‘Take charge of the patrol launch!’

  Durston could not hear him and he seized Metcalf’s arm again. ‘Go across and tell him to follow us in. Disable the fishing boat and leave her.’ He saw the MTB’s bow wave surging out of the gloom and breathed out tightly. ‘And tell Lieutenant Durston from me. Fast as he can, right?’

  Metcalf nodded, barely able to speak. ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  Devane found he could even smile. ‘You did well, by the way. Now off you go, and keep your head down.’

  Pellegrine chuckled, ‘Better watch out, sir. ’E’ll ’ave your job otherwise!’

  Horne came back, breathing noisily. ‘All secure, sir. But I’m afraid Bunts has bought it.’

  They both looked up as a thin black line ran down from the upper bridge searchlight mounting. When daylight came that stain would be red.

  ‘Cast off.’ Devane strode to the ladder. ‘I’m going up. See that the flags are hoisted for the final run in.’

  Horne watched him climb up the short ladder and heard him snap open the voicepipes. He could see it clearly in his mind. Devane outwardly calm, risking his life on the exposed upper bridge to guide his little flotilla through hell if need be. Sharing his position with a dead signalman whose name he had never known.

  As the light filtered towards the land to separate sea from sky, shore from shadows, the flags were hoisted to either yard. The white ensign to starboard and the blue and white Russian flag, its star and hammer and sickle emblems standing against the dull sky like the signalman’s blood.

  A searchlight, already feeble in the dawn light, swung across the water and hesitated above the three approaching boats.

  From another bearing a lamp blinked out a curt challenge, and just as quickly a reply was flashed by Durston’s unexpected command. Devane fo
und time to realize that the signal was different from the one he had been instructed to use. Fate was still watching over him.

  He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly like ashes.

  ‘Full ahead all engines! Start the attack!’

  Beresford sat down in a corner of Captain Barker’s office-cum-operations room and watched his superior as he peered intently at his coloured chart. There were counters and little flags on it, strips of coloured tape to denote local minefields, tiny pencilled signposts of reports which awaited confirmation.

  Beresford sighed. The whole of the Black Sea’s naval strategy condensed into one small room. Barker showed no sign of tiredness, and beneath the glaring lights his neat head looked glossy and well groomed.

  It would soon be time. Beresford glanced at the clock. He pictured the MTB and the captured E-boat, Devane and other faces he come to know as friends.

  Barker looked at him. ‘Did you discover anything from the command bunker?’

  ‘I saw Sorokin and his staff, sir. It all seemed spot on.’

  ‘Spot on. I do wish you would confine yourself to the English language!’ But Barker’s tone lacked its usual severity. His mind was busy elsewhere.

  Beresford added, ‘Parthian has regrouped as ordered, sir. Lieutenant-Commander Mackay is taking the four boats on a sweep to the west sector.’ He hid a smile. He had almost called Mackay ‘Red’.

  ‘Hmm. Lieutenant Kimber should be here too.’

  ‘I left him with Sorokin, sir. Our link with the Russians, just in case things get a bit hectic later on.’

  ‘Things will soon change, be assured of that.’ Barker looked around his little HQ. ‘I shall have my own staff, communications, intelligence, operations, everything I need. I’m not playing messenger boy for the Reds, believe me!’

  Beresford did not know what had brought this on, nor did he care. Had he been with Devane he would have felt differently, part of it, win or lose. He tried not to look at the clock again. Damn bloody Barker and his empire building.

  He said gently, ‘This command may even warrant an officer of flag rank, sir? An accelerated promotion for you, perhaps?’

  He had expected Barker to bite his head off, or at least to scoff at the idea. But Barker nodded gravely.