Torpedo Run (1981) Read online

  Mackay frowned. ‘Empire building! Just as well we weren’t all wiped out the other night, the poor devil would have had nothing to command!’

  Beresford stood up. ‘That’s all, gentlemen. Get what rest you can, and report readiness for sea to your SO.’ He beckoned Devane to his side. ‘I agree with Mackay.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’re getting a Commander Eustace Barker, by the way. They obviously don’t consider I’m senior enough to stand up to Sorokin. Barker will be just right. Not too lowly to invite bullying, nor high enough to excite accusations that we are trying to control this area or any part of it.’

  Devane shook his head wearily. ‘Where are we going now?’

  Beresford gestured to a Russian seaman. ‘We are going to see Sorokin. Remember what I told you.’ He glanced at him searchingly. ‘You all right?’

  Devane shrugged. ‘Tired. Getting past it.’

  Beresford grinned. ‘At twenty-seven? Yes, I suppose most of your lads think you’re over the hill by now!’

  They found Sorokin behind a massive desk, a cheroot jutting from his mouth, one hand signing a procession of papers which were laid down and removed by a lieutenant and then passed to another officer who was arranging them in a dispatch case.

  Sorokin glanced up. ‘Be seated.’ He looked at Devane and nodded slowly. ‘Next, we drink.’

  Devane opened his mouth to excuse himself but recalled Beresford’s warning. Sorokin did not make requests, he gave orders.

  Eventually Sorokin sat back in the chair and scratched his ample stomach for several seconds. Then he came straight to the point.

  ‘Excuse my language, comrades, but I have too much haste for grammar.’ He looked at Devane, his eyes dull. ‘My flotilla commander, Orel, told me what you did. That you did not obey his orders.’ He held up one massive hand as Beresford made to speak. ‘That with your superior speed and weapons you were able to destroy some of the enemy.’ He interlaced his thick fingers and added softly, ‘Is that correct?’

  Devane replied, ‘I acted as I saw fit, sir.’

  Sorokin glanced at Beresford. ‘Fit?’

  There was a brief exchange in Russian and then Sorokin continued, ‘Orel lost many comrades. Fifty-one to be perfect.’ He gave a great sigh, the sound moving up through him like an echo in a cavern. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. As an aide appeared with some glasses he added, ‘Fifty-one, you are thinking, Commander Devane? Not bloody many for a country like ours?’ He said it as a joke but his words came out incredibly sad. ‘It is a great country, but we cannot afford to waste our blood. Orel has courage, but he lacks knowledge of this manner of warfare. On land Russia is invincible.’ He spoke each word carefully, so that every syllable seemed filled with emphasis. ‘For every soldier killed by the Nazi dogs, two fill his place. We will go on until our land is rid of them. For ever.’ He poured three large measures of vodka. ‘Now we drink a toast to you, Commander Devane, and your men.’ He held up his glass, like a thimble in his great fist. ‘And to the knowledge we need so badly!’

  The vodka thrust through Devane like a hot bayonet.

  Devane glanced at Beresford and was surprised to see the concern on his face. He began to see Sorokin’s position quite differently. Sorokin was an officer of great experience and reputation. He was big enough to ignore the pitfalls of jealousy and pride, of conflicting beliefs and politics, for one purpose only. To save his country and free it from the invaders.

  But by taking such a stand on a short acquaintanceship he had shown his hand. Devane was moved by it, especially as he could guess what it would cost Sorokin if his faith and backing were condemned as misplaced by those more senior.

  He could feel Sorokin’s eyes boring into him, even as he poured another three glasses of vodka.

  Devane said quietly, ‘I was thinking, sir.’ He ignored Beresford’s warning glance. ‘It is only an idea, of course.’

  Sorokin drummed on the table. ‘I wait.’

  ‘In the past, your flotillas have attacked the enemy’s coastal convoys, or their longer routes from Rumania and Bulgaria.’

  ‘True.’ Sorokin seemed unwilling to interrupt Devane’s train of thought.

  ‘I think we should attack the E-boat base, sir.’ He held his breath, wondering what had made him say it. Why he had deliberately offered his command like a sacrifice.

  Sorokin stared at him. ‘On the Crimea? Do you understand what you say?’

  Devane found he was on his feet. ‘Yes. But it has to be soon. Before the enemy guesses what we are doing here.’

  Sorokin looked doubtful, his earlier warmth gone. ‘Your flotilla, da?’

  ‘Well, sir, not exactly. I thought that a combined attack. . . .’

  Sorokin smiled very slowly. It was like a sunrise.

  ‘Together.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sorokin looked at Beresford’s masklike features. ‘You have given me a tiger, da? Then will it be.’ He lurched to his feet. ‘Leave now. I must think.’

  As they left the room Devane saw the Russian’s huge shadow swaying across the wall maps like his own prophesy.

  Before they reached the concrete dock Devane said, ‘Look, I’m sorry about that, Ralph. I’m not supposed to make suggestions. I didn’t mean to interfere with your sphere of operations, especially with the new commander about to descend.’

  They stopped and looked at each other. Then Beresford said, ‘It’s your neck, so why shouldn’t you decide how to break it?’ He clapped Devane’s shoulder. ‘Actually, it’s not a bad idea when you think about it.’

  His eyes gleamed, and for those seconds Devane saw him in another sea at another time. All the old dare-devil enthusiasm was still there.

  ‘Yes.’ Beresford threw up a salute to a Russian sentry. ‘It might bloody well come off, as Sorokin would put it!’ He walked away.

  Devane crossed to the edge of the concrete jetty and looked down at the boat alongside, his own. Some new paint, the bright scars on the six-pounder’s shield already repaired. Buckhurst’s team had worked miracles.

  He saw Buckhurst giving a lecture to two ratings beside a torpedo trestle. ‘A chock under the joint of the balance chamber and its engine room, got it?’

  He turned and saw Devane. ‘God, you’d think these tin fish cost nothing the way they chuck ’em about!’

  He added as an afterthought, ‘Some of your lads, sir. They asked if they could paint up a “kill” on the bridge. You did well, to all accounts.’

  Devane looked past him at the five resting hulls, rocking gently in the dock’s oily water.

  Parthian had arrived, but its future now seemed less certain than ever.

  ‘Why not, Chief? Start as we mean to go on.’

  6

  The Signal

  Beresford leant against one of the MTB’s bunks and was careful to keep out of Devane’s way as he groped for his uniform and his leather seaboots.

  Devane said, ‘It’s only four in the morning, for God’s sake! Couldn’t it wait?’

  Perhaps the flotilla had been resting in its bomb-proof dock for too long, but Devane had been sleeping much better, so that the hand on his shoulder, his inability to grasp where he was, had made him confused and unreasonably angry.

  Beresford smiled. ‘No, it can’t.’

  He glanced round the tiny wardroom, at Dundas’s inert shape on another bunk, oblivious to the drama and everything else.

  ‘We’ll have to get you fixed up with a billet ashore, John. Hector Buckhurst’s mechanics have got quarters now, so it’s time you had a break, as one of our senior officers in Russia!’

  Devane sat down on a bunk and tugged at his boots. Beresford was wide awake and maddeningly indifferent to the way he felt. It had been getting like that for days. Ever since they had returned from their first operation and had been told about Commander Barker’s unexpected appointment. Kicking their heels, doing drills to fill the hours, but building up boredom and resentment.

  He st
ood up again and said abruptly, ‘I’m ready. They’ll have to see me without a bloody shave!’

  They climbed up to the darkened deck, past armed sentries, both British and Russian, and into another of the concrete corridors which linked Sorokin’s command like underground tentacles.

  It was chill and dank, and as they passed an iron grill Devane heard the rumble of gunfire, unending, like thunder across hills before a storm. That had been going on for days too. Another offensive, hundreds of tanks, thousands of men. Artillery duels by day and night, fighters leaving their tell-tale trails in the sky, broken repeatedly as a ball of fire fell to earth, and sometimes a drifting parachute.

  Beresford said unhelpfully, ‘Sorokin’s been here for hours.’ He shot Devane a searching glance. ‘Commander Orel too. So watch your temper, my lad!’

  The command bunker was in black shadow, with only a central map table and a few stooped figures around it brightly lit by an overhead cluster.

  Sorokin was smoking as usual, one hand on his thick hip like a tanned spade.

  Orel was speaking, but fell silent as the two British officers stepped into the glare.

  Sorokin nodded. ‘Have some coffee.’ He peered at the shadows and a small man in a white jacket emerged with a tray and a pot of steaming coffee.

  Devane felt his tiredness moving away as certain facts stood out. The coffee helped too. Piping hot and strong.

  He noticed that Orel’s leather coat was stained with salt, that he was unshaven, with dark rings around his eyes. He looked desperately tired, and yet he was excited, more so than he could conceal, although he was doing his best, Devane decided.

  Sorokin looked at Beresford and gave a curt nod. He was weary too, his tunic open to his waist, and there were sweat stains on his shirt.

  Beresford said evenly, ‘You remember the four E-boats which you engaged, John? Well, two were sunk, and another was badly holed and has been towed round to Sevastopol. Air reconnaissance have been working on it, but it’s not known how badly she’s been damaged, or if she can be put to rights. They think it’s a full dockyard job.’

  Devane felt a prick of disappointment. He had stated as much in his report.

  Beresford continued, ‘But word has just come in that the fourth E-boat was also damaged, did you realize that?’

  Devane recalled the zigzagging shapes in the smoke, the crackle of exploding ammunition, and the sheet of fire as one E-boat had been blown apart by his depth charges.

  He replied, ‘Andy Twiss said he thought he had hit the fourth one. But it made off so fast he was not certain.’

  Commander Orel moved closer to the map table. With the lights directly above him he looked even more lined and exhausted. He had glossy black hair and a thin, aquiline nose. Like Dundas, a face from another century.

  He kept his eyes on Devane as he slid an aerial photograph across the map until he could see it.

  Beresford said, ‘Russian Intelligence believes that the fourth boat is slipped for repairs. Just enough for her to return to her proper base.’ His finger touched the photograph. ‘See? Compare it with a previous picture. It must be camouflage netting. It wasn’t there two weeks ago when the last recce was carried out.’

  Devane leaned over the chart and took a large magnifying glass from the table. He could feel the others watching him, but like the surrounding shadows they did not seem to interfere.

  Beresford added helpfully, ‘It’s a very small island. There are some German troops there and an RDF station. But nothing to excite attention. Until now.’ He was trying to contain his impatience. ‘Well, what d’you think?’

  Devane studied the picture carefully. About the right size. And the fact that the fourth E-boat had not been sighted anywhere else made it possible. He straightened his back and found himself looking into Orel’s impassive stare.

  If it was the missing E-boat but she was damaged beyond repair it would be risking lives for nothing. But if not, and they could somehow seize her before she could put to sea, all kinds of possibilities would be presented.

  He said, ‘I’d not risk another air reconnaissance.’ He peered at the big map and tried to relate the crude photograph to reality. ‘It might make them suspicious. Jumpy.’

  Sorokin said something to Orel and after a moment’s hesitation murmured, ‘Your idea of an attack on the German base, Commander. Would it not be much easier if we could provide a. . . .’ He frowned as he searched his mind and then added, ‘A Trojan horse, yes?’

  Beresford asked, ‘What do you think, John? It’ll be your pigeon. If you say it’s no go, then that’s it.’

  Devane remembered what Whitcombe had said, how he had described Parthian. An independent command. Beresford had made that even clearer.

  Then he glanced at Orel and could feel the man’s anxiety like a consuming force. His patrols must have begun this search immediately after the battle. No wonder he looked dead beat.

  Devane asked, ‘What sort of place is it?’

  Beresford said, ‘Commander Orel has described it as small and easy to defend. It is part of the minefield complex, but the Germans have laid the field so as not to inconvenience their own minor war vessels. So an MTB should be safe enough.’ He was thinking aloud. Seeing it happen. ‘Captain Sorokin has suggested that a raiding party should be landed by submarine to knock out the RDF station. You could move in as soon as the attack gets going. That is, if you feel it’s genuine.’

  Devane rubbed his chin and remembered he had not shaved. ‘We would need a diversion of some kind. Thirty miles from the mainland, and a long haul home for us. It will have to be good.’

  Voices buzzed around the table like trapped bees. Even Devane’s carefully measured tone had not hidden his true feelings.

  Sorokin leaned on his hands and stared at him, his cheroot jutting like a black cannon.

  ‘The admiral has promised support. An attack on the Kerch Straits from Azov. The Germans will think we are trying to force a landing on the Crimea.’

  Sorokin turned slightly, his broad forehead creased with irritation, as Orel whispered across his shoulder.

  Then he said, ‘My Commander Orel insists he is capable of leading the attack.’

  Once again Devane and Orel looked at one another, like fighters seeking an opening for that first blow.

  And I would feel exactly the same in his shoes.

  Devane said quietly, ‘Of that I am certain, sir. But, if this is the E-boat we think it is, could he take command?’ He saw his words being fed into Orel’s mind and added simply, ‘Any more than I could control one of your submarines?’

  Sorokin nodded heavily. ‘That is good sense.’ He hugged Orel’s narrow shoulders.

  Orel shrugged, his features still giving nothing away.

  Beresford remarked, ‘It could be costly.’

  Devane hardly heard him. No wonder he had never wanted to return to general service, even to destroyers, which compared with MTBs were still ‘big ships’.

  No recognizable chain of command here, no dockets to be signed, no frustrating delays while some tired old men at the Admiralty debated on the value and the outcome of their schemes. In his sort of war you were trusted to make decisions and live by them. Or, if you were wrong, you were expected to die with equal independence.

  He said, ‘I think it’s worth a damn good try. To capture one of their new E-boats, no matter what use we make of her, would be a real bloody nose for Jerry.’ He nodded, and wondered suddenly if there had ever been any choice. ‘Yes. We should do it without delay.’

  Sorokin wiped his face with his hand. He seemed to be sweating badly.

  ‘Two more days.’ His fingers bunched into a great fist and he slammed it down on the photograph. ‘Then we go!’

  It was past dawn when Beresford and Devane returned to the concealed dock. All five boats were alive with busy figures, the swish of mops and the muted purr of generators.

  They stood together and looked at the MTBs. The hornets’ nest.

>   Devane said, ‘I hate this place. I need to get out. To find sea-room.’ He spread his arms and yawned deeply. ‘What would you have said if I’d told Sorokin I wouldn’t do it?’ He turned and looked at his companion.

  Beresford smiled ruefully. ‘I’d never have got you out of bed if I’d have believed it.’ He turned to go. ‘But you knew that, of course.’

  Devane climbed down the ladder and reached out for the MTB’s deck with his boot. In some ways, despite their wide differences of background, he and Beresford were very much alike, he thought. Each had learned to create a problem out of garbled facts and a lot of rumour and had then forced himself to solve it.

  That was why they were different from people in other jobs. What Claudia had been wanting to pry out of him the night the bomb had driven them together.

  You went on and on until one day the problem had no solution, and the realization split you wide open. What would Richie have said to the Russians, he wondered?

  Dundas greeted him beside the bridge. ‘Flap on, sir?’

  Devane smiled. ‘Nothing we can’t handle, Number One.’ He saw Dundas relax. It was that easy. ‘Now, what about some breakfast?’

  Parthian’s officers sat or stood around the table in the flotilla’s newly acquired office and listened in silence while Beresford explained the mission in detail.

  Devane listened too, although he had gone over it more times than he could remember, had studied charts and aerial photographs, examined pictures and silhouettes of German warships in the Black Sea until it had filled his brain to bursting point.

  He glanced around the concrete office. Even it had changed in the short time they had been here. Now, with duty-boards and garish pin-ups, a half-burnt German ensign which some nimble sailor had managed to hook from the sea during the battle, it could have been in any theatre of war.

  It depressed him to realize that already they were taking root, when at first it had seemed to be a quick, one-off operation. But like all sailors they were settling in, making it like home. Wherever that was.