Torpedo Run (1981) Read online

  Carroll called, ‘All acknowledged, sir. Affirmative.’

  Devane walked to the forepart of the bridge and looked down across the top of the chartroom to the easy pitch and roll of the bows. He ran his hand along the screen, savouring the moment, prolonging it as he had in that hotel room in Chelsea.

  ‘Start up.’

  With a cough and a savage roar the five boats thundered into life, their hulls partially misted over by a curtain of high-octane vapour. Then as they settled down to a steady rumble Devane said, ‘Up anchor. Bunts, signal the flotilla to form line astern and take station on the leading escort.’

  There was a clang from forward. ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’

  ‘All engines slow ahead.’ He glanced quickly at the coxswain’s set profile. ‘Steer nor’-west until we have station on Ivan.’

  When next he glanced astern the other boats were following him out in a tight curve, the rearmost one’s wake already sloshing across the beach and wiping away the ruts left by the great carriers.

  He saw some of his men looking at the land, probably wondering what they had got themselves into. Never volunteer, that was the guiding prayer in the Navy. But few ever remembered it until it was too late.

  The guns were covered and pointed impotently at the shark-blue sea, and their tubes were empty.

  Devane levelled his glasses on the leading destroyer. Toothless they might be, but they were back in the war.

  4

  Allies

  Devane sat at his newly acquired desk and surveyed the flotilla’s shore office without enthusiasm. It was partially underground and, like Whitcombe’s HQ in London, had been constructed from gigantic slabs of concrete. There was no other similarity. The whole place seemed to throb with noises from the adjoining workshop, where Lieutenant-Commander (E) Hector Buckhurst had already set up his benches and drills, and from the strange, cavern-like dock beyond. The latter had originally been designed as a pen for Russian submarines, rather in the style of those built by the Germans along the Atlantic coastline to protect their U-boats from bombing raids.

  The smells were just as difficult to live with. Diesel and high-octane, damp and boiled cabbage seemed to predominate.

  He thought of their arrival at Tuapse the previous day. On the last leg of the passage from their launching point there had been several unexplained delays, which the senior Russian officer of their escort either found incapable of translating or felt it was none of Devane’s business anyway.

  They had finally entered Tuapse as darkness had closed over the harbour and dockyard. It had been a depressing sight, with many of the long, finger-like wharves savaged by bombings, and several ships showing only their funnels or masts above water.

  The town too, or what they had been able to see of it, was badly mauled, and a drifting smoke curtain had been hanging over it in the wake of some departing attackers.

  As one seaman had remarked with some bitterness, ‘Christ, even Chatham’s better than this dump!’

  Beresford had been waiting to greet them, and had been quick to shoot down any immediate criticism from the various commanding officers. No bunks had so far been fitted in the concrete dock area, not even for the engineering and supply staff who had arrived by road. So that meant the MTB crews would have to make the best of it in their already overcrowded hulls.

  And there was no mail for anyone either. It had taken a long while to move the flotilla from England to the Med, from there via the Canal to the Gulf. Even during the last part of the journey overland, somebody should have thought about the mail, how important it was to men away from home.

  Beresford had hinted that the Russians might be able to help. He had said little more on the subject, but Devane suspected that the Russians considered such matters to be mere luxuries which would have to take second place. As if to prove this, Buckhurst had discovered that all the torpedoes, ammunition and spares had arrived undamaged and in mint condition.

  The door opened and Beresford stamped into the room. He had a lively, intelligent face which was now marred by a frown. He slumped in a canvas chair and groped for his cigarettes. Then he sniffed the fuel-laden air and gave a wry grin. ‘On the other hand, better safe than sorry!’

  Devane asked, ‘Any news of our first job?’

  Beresford eyed him curiously. ‘You are keen.’

  Devane thought of the passage to Tuapse, the way he had pushed each boat through as many drills as possible whenever the escorts had signalled them to heave to and await instructions.

  They were certainly a well-trained bunch, he thought. Only he had felt like an outsider. They were raring to go, for the real thing. And to keep them kicking their feet in this dreary dump was bad for morale all round.

  He said, ‘I don’t want it to go stale. You know the score.’

  Beresford glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting today with the base commander. You’ll be expected to attend.’ He grimaced. ‘More vodka and champers, I expect.’

  Before Devane could speak he added, ‘You’ve not asked about Richie. That surprised me a bit. Your both coming from the same mould, so to speak.’

  ‘I was told to say nothing.’ He recalled Claudia’s voice on the telephone, the way Whitcombe and Kinross had questioned him about her, suggested they should meet. ‘I suppose he had his reasons. Remember that chap in Alex who blew himself up with a grenade because he was caught with his fingers in the mess funds? It always seems trivial to the onlookers, like us.’

  Beresford smiled tightly. ‘You’re still the same. Bottling it up. Well, I must say it shook me. I always imagined Richie had more going for him. His wife is a bit of all right too, from all accounts.’ He grinned broadly. ‘But I see from your expression you know that already!’ He held up his hands in mock defence. ‘All right! I’m going!’

  Alone again, Devane turned his attention to the pile of reports from the other boats, teething troubles which would have to be dealt with when there was time. Right now they were taking on ammunition and stowing extra belts and cannon shells throughout the hulls further to reduce the sleeping spaces.

  Dundas entered the concrete box and stood patiently by the desk while Devane made a note in the margin of a report.

  ‘Ah, Number One. What can I do for you?’

  Dundas looked like a sailor. Rugged, clear-eyed, he could have sailed with Drake, or smuggled contraband under the noses of the Revenue men of olden days. So far their paths had only crossed in the line of routine and duty, of changing a watch bill, or discussing Parthian’s special recognition signals and code names.

  It had been Richie’s boat, and the men, for the most part, had also served with him before. It made Devane feel like the odd man out, and he was yet to discover if it was accidental or deliberate.

  Dundas said, ‘We seem to be getting all we need for the boat, sir, and I’m told that we have a separate fuel supply from the other small craft here.’ He shivered. ‘It’s the place, I suppose. No shore leave, the perimeter guarded as if we were POWs. It’s not what I expected.’

  Devane looked up. ‘There have been raids every day. They have their problems. We must seem a bit pampered to them. But I want no friction. We’re here to do a job, nothing more. Our lads will want to make friends, but they won’t. Not yet anyway.’ He thought of the lieutenant’s words in the car. Alice through the looking-glass. Then he said, ‘It’ll get better. . . .’ A telephone buzzed in its case and he had to move a piles of stores’ returns to find it.

  It was Beresford. ‘Can you come to the main bunker, John? The meeting’s been brought forward.’ He dropped his voice so that it was almost drowned by hissing static. ‘Bit of a flap on, so chop, chop if you can.’

  Devane looked round for his cap. He had felt it in his bones as soon as he had arrived. A sense of urgency, even anxiety, which some people were at great pains to conceal.

  He said shortly, ‘Tell Red Mackay to take over until I get back. He’s due for his half-stripe anyway. This will warn him what it�
��ll be like.’

  Dundas said awkwardly, ‘I’d just like to say how glad we are that you took over as SO, sir. We all felt a bit lost, let down.’

  Devane pretended to search through a drawer. Here we go.

  Dundas added quickly, ‘Could you tell me? How did they explain it to Mrs Richie?’

  Devane looked up. Dundas had almost called her Claudia.

  ‘They told her nothing, other than that he died on active service.’

  Dundas sounded wretched. ‘That doesn’t mean a thing, sir. There was a two-ringer who was blown out of a brothel in North Africa, bed, woman and all, and they sent the same sort of telegram to his widow, for God’s sake!’ He flushed. ‘Sorry, sir!’

  ‘I take it you knew her, Number One? Fairly well, would you say?’

  ‘I wanted to, sir. But she wouldn’t have it. . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  Devane stood up. ‘We’ll talk about it again later, if you like.’ We won’t of course. Dundas was just trying to find out, to test him about something.

  Devane strode through the echoing workshop where Buckhurst and his mechanics were levering open packing cases as if they had come to stay permanently.

  A Russian sailor with a machine-pistol slung over one arm was waiting to guide him to the command bunker, and Devane could feel the man watching him, as if to recognize the differences between them.

  As he had expected, Sorokin was in the bunker, with several other officers. A sailor was wiping one of the big map tables with a soft brush, and Devane guessed that the last air-raid must have brought down some dust from the roof.

  Sorokin saw Devane and nodded companionably, but he looked on edge, and lacked the confident authority he had displayed when they had first met.

  Beresford hurried to meet him. ‘Glad you got here –’

  He broke off as a thin, reedy voice said, ‘On behalf of Rear-Admiral Vasiliy Kasatonov’ – the man half turned as if to bow to a forbidding figure seated on the far side of the table – ‘I am to welcome you to the struggle against the Nazi invaders.’

  Devane saw it was a lieutenant who was addressing him, a sort of Russian Kimber, he guessed, and was translating for the grim-faced admiral who had not taken his eyes off him since he had arrived.

  In the harsh overhead lights the admiral’s shoulders glittered with his markings of rank, but all his strength and energy were concentrated in his small button eyes.

  Devane tried to remember something about Kasatonov. He was in command of the local defence, of the naval air forces, and had a significant political link with Moscow to uphold his authority. He appeared to be hairless, and his whole presence gave an impression of immense determination.

  The interpreter continued in the same sing-song tone, ‘The arrival of the British vessels is both a mark of progress and a sign of intent.’ He was staring at a point somewhere above Devane’s shoulder, as if he was under a spell. ‘Further intelligence has been received about the movement of enemy forces in this area, and we have learned that even larger. . . .’ He faltered and then said, ‘What you term “E-boats” have been seen on patrol near Sevastapol.’

  Devane let the words settle. He already knew something of the German naval strength in the Black Sea. It was a hotchpotch of small craft formed originally around their local minesweeping flotilla. Gunboats, armed launches, craft captured from the Russians, they had thrown everything into the battle to destroy and demoralize their enemies whenever they saw an opening. A few E-boats had also been reported in the Black Sea. They had begun their journey from the banks of the Elbe near Magdeburg, then by wheeled transport down the Autobahn to the Danube. But this news of larger E-boats in the vicinity had changed things before they had even begun. The bigger, one-hundred-ton sisters of the sort Devane had often fought were in a class of their own. No wonder the Russians were disappointed by the smallness of the British offering.

  Devane heard the admiral speak for the first time. A low, abrupt remark which made the interpreter stare at the ceiling as if for inspiration.

  He stammered, ‘While we have won one crushing victory after another, we have expected, anticipated, some sign that an invasion in the west was imminent. And now that the British at least have sent us this small group of torpedo boats we can feel the moment of final assault on Germany is not too far distant.’

  Beresford murmured dryly, ‘It loses a lot in the translation, of course.’ He fell silent as the admiral’s eyes settled on him.

  Devane did not comment. He was trying to read beyond the trite words, the air of patronizing superiority from a great veteran to some unimportant volunteer. He thought of all the men he had seen die, the ships which had gone down in their efforts to carry food and supplies to Russia. Of the countries which had fallen to Hitler while Stalin had sheltered happily behind his non-aggression pact with Germany.

  He realized the room was completely silent, that they were waiting for him to reply. There was no point in trying to describe his own country’s record, they knew it as well as he did. Through the looking-glass.

  He said, ‘We are proud to be here. To put our skills, all of which have been gained in hard experience elsewhere, at the disposal of the Soviet navy and people. We will have some misunderstandings. That is common even in families. But we share the same enemy, and that is enough.’

  The admiral listened woodenly to the hurried translation and then rose ponderously to his feet.

  With a curt nod to Beresford and Devane he strode from the bunker.

  Sorokin embraced Devane and gripped his shoulders. ‘He loves you, Comrade! You found the right words!’

  It was impossible to know if he was being sincere or not. He certainly sounded relieved.

  Sorokin lit a cheroot and spread his hands apologetically. ‘Tonight you will leave harbour with some of my own’ – he formed the word carefully – ‘flot-illa. I will give you later the details. Then we will fight like comrades!’ He laughed deeply, as if it was a great joke.

  ‘But first we drink.’ He peered at Devane’s face. ‘To seal our friendship, da?’

  Lieutenant Roddy Dundas climbed on to the MTB’s open bridge and groped his way to the forepart where Devane was peering abeam through his night glasses.

  ‘I’ve been right through the boat, sir.’ He had learnt the knack of pitching his voice against the throaty drone of motors without actually shouting. ‘Not a chink of light anywhere.’

  Devane let the glasses fall to his chest. It had only been a matter of weeks since he had left his last command, and yet everything felt different. Even the motion, or was that merely because he knew this was the Black Sea and not the Med or some other familiar place?

  ‘How are the lads taking it?’

  Dundas sounded surprised, as if he had been expecting a stream of operational questions from his new captain.

  ‘Happy enough, sir. There’ll be some fresh kye sent round soon. That’ll warm them up.’ His teeth looked very white in the darkness. ‘Where are our allies?’

  Devane thought about the brief, almost offhand meeting they had shared with the Russian flotilla’s officers just before sailing. That had been two hours ago, and both groups of vessels had been heading due west since then.

  There were ten craft in the Russian flotilla and, although Devane had seen some relics pushed into service in his own navy – paddle-steamers for sweeping mines, ancient China river gunboats doing hazardous supply runs to Tobruk and the like – their consorts took a lot of beating. There were three Italian-built gunboats, rather like small destroyers, two very old minesweepers and the remainder were converted motor launches of varying size. They were crammed with weapons of every sort, even multiple rocket-launchers on loan from the Russian army and known locally as Stalin organs. This mixed flotilla, under its commander, a swarthy-faced officer named Orel, was steering about a mile off the starboard beam, but the night was so dark that true station-keeping was hard to maintain.

  Devane could recall exactly his own feelings
at that meeting. Orel had explained through the inevitable interpreter that the object of their mission was a small but important convoy which was expected to pass along the south-east coast of the Crimean peninsula in twenty-four hours’ time. Intelligence reports, confirmed by agents inside German-occupied Rumania, had stated that the convoy would be carrying valuable equipment and armour-plate for the enemy emplacements along that stretch of coast. When the Russians had been driven from the Crimea the devastation caused by the battles had been immense, and whole towns had been razed to the ground.

  The German high command knew that an attempt would soon be made to retake the Crimea, just as they must realize its strategic importance to the rest of the Eastern Front. A swift, well-handled convoy to the closest point of unloading was a far better bet than risking the urgently needed supplies overland, when the Soviet air force would contest every yard of the way.

  The two flotillas would head out to sea and rendezvous eventually to the south of the estimated convoy route. The enemy would then be unable to retreat, and could either scatter or continue on course until it eventually ran foul of Russian patrols nearer to the Kerch Straits.

  Devane had been irritated by the Russian commander’s indifferent attitude. The British, having the faster and more modern boats, would stand to seaward, and attack only if ordered. From Orel’s tone, if not his actual words, it sounded as if such an eventuality was considered unlikely.

  Even at this reduced speed, which was making the MTBs yaw about uncomfortably in even the slightest swell, it would be a close thing, Devane thought. His flotilla carried enough fuel to allow for a cruising range of some five hundred miles plus. It was two hundred miles to the rendezvous. That did not allow much for a pitched battle and the homeward run. The Russian vessels were slower, but were converted for longer endurance. It was an interesting equation. Devane had said as much through the overworked interpreter, and had stressed the importance of the enemy running to time.

  Orel had watched him, his head on one side as he had listened to the interpreter’s words. Then he had picked up his cap and chart-folder, had nodded curtly to Devane’s officers before murmuring something almost inaudible.