To Risks Unknown (23 page)

At that moment the schooner's skipper dropped noisily through the hatch. Like the man on deck he was bearded and extremely tough. But he had a gentle Scottish accent and seemed to bring a breath of the Western Isles into the sordid little cabin. He also had a way of making a few words go a long way.

‘Would be better to sail before five in the morning.' He dabbed the chart with a thick, grimy finger. ‘The engine is a mite rough, but with this nor'-westerly we can get the sails on her.' He regarded Crespin with a pair of deep-set, dog-like eyes. ‘T'would be right for you to stay in uniform, I am thinking. If caught you may be treated as a prisoner of war.' He shook a bottle and then poured himself a glass of wine.

Coutts grinned. ‘Petty Officer Ross will get us there. He can smell his way!'

The skipper held up the glass to one of the swinging lamps and grimaced. ‘This wine is a thing now. A dram of Laphroaig would not come amiss, I'm thinking.'

Coutts pointed at the chart. ‘I think we should head for this island. It is very small but quite close to the larger one of Korcula where we might make contact with the partisans.'

Crespin studied the island in silence. It was over six hundred miles away, deep inside the enemy held waters of Yugoslavia, and only twenty-five miles from the mainland itself.

Ross said calmly, ‘It will take us a week. Maybe more.'

Coutts leaned back, apparently satisfied. ‘We've a good motor mechanic aboard so the old engine might be all right.' He shot Crespin a meaning glance. ‘If that's all right by you, we'll get under way in ten hours' time. That'll give me the chance to check the guns and ammunition and make sure it's all well hidden away from prying eyes.' He held up his watch. ‘So if you want to go ashore for anything?'

Crespin looked around the cabin. These men, these preparations all made his own raid seem easy and secure by comparison. Yet there was no boasting, no false sentiment. Ross was sitting quietly on his stool puffing a rank-looking pipe, and overhead he could hear two of the schooner's crew stamping accompaniment to a mouth organ.

He stood up. ‘I shall be back in four hours.'

When he had gone Coutts smiled and said quietly, ‘Give her my love.'

Ross looked at him for a few seconds and then said, ‘He seems a pleasant fellow to be sure.' His eye fastened on to Coutts' shoulder strap. ‘Not like an officer at all.'

IN THE DREAM
the girl was lying motionless beneath him, her perfect body clearly outlined by endless darkness. But he was being pulled away, and no matter how hard he tried to hold her, those other hands seemed to be lifting him, dragging him free, while the deep shadow overlapped and covered her limbs like water.

A voice said, ‘About time! You sailors can sleep through anything!'

Reluctantly Crespin rolled on to his side and opened his eyes. Barely inches away Coutts' face shone in shaded torchlight like an unshaven genie, with no more reality than the dream.

He asked, ‘What time
is
it, for heaven's sake?'

‘Nearly six, old son.' Coutts held out a chipped mug. ‘Drink this, it'll bring the colour back to your cheeks.'

He propped himself on one elbow sipping the bitter coffee while his mind slowly returned to life and understanding. Apart from the torchlight, the small cabin was in darkness, and he could hear the schooner's crew snoring or turning restlessly on their bunks, while around him the hull creaked and shivered, the sea sluicing against the worn planks barely inches from his head.

Coutts said cheerfully, ‘Dawn's coming up.'

Crespin peered at his watch. It was the fifth dawn since leaving Malta. For days they had pushed steadily north-east, using the sails and occasionally running the ancient engine when the wind looked like dying on them. It had been a strange and unnatural existence, with an overwhelming sense of loneliness and vulnerability as hour by hour they had watched the horizons and the sky, expecting to see a prowling aircraft or a telltale smudge of smoke, any of which could spell disaster. On the third day they altered course almost due north towards the Otranto Strait, a forty-mile bottleneck which marked the entrance of the Adriatic. It was known to be heavily patrolled by sea and air, and with Italy on one side and Albania on the other it was generally described as impossible to pass. Even submarines, the only warships which had so far penetrated into these waters, had been hard put to get out again unmolested.

Coutts took the mug and put it on the table. ‘Thought you'd like to come on deck and take a look at the land.' He grinned. ‘It's quite romantic in the first light.'

Crespin pulled on his shoes and followed him up the ladder.

The sky was already much lighter, the breeze cool and refreshing, making the big sails crack and shiver above their heads as Coutts pointed across the starboard bulwark. ‘Corfu!'

Crespin nodded. The island arose from the sea in a dark blue hump, the top of which seemed to shine with a faint luminous glow. Soon the sun would make its appearance, and once again the little schooner would be pinned down in the glare like a moth on a sheet of silk.

Coutts added quietly, ‘It'll take about nine hours to reach the narrows and pass through the Strait.'

They had discussed that moment many times in the last few days. Any sort of bravado at this stage was asking for trouble, and to attempt a night passage, even with its higher chance of success, would kill their hopes completely if a patrol boat discovered them slinking past the coast alone and with no good explanation. It would be far better to be obvious. To sail close inshore and join the other traffic of schooners and caiques, rusty freighters and all the hotchpotch of vessels which plied back and forth along the Dalmatian shoreline.

With the roads and railways of their occupied territories under constant attack by roaming bands of partisans and bandits, the Germans made full use of every sort of sea transport available. It was easier to watch and protect. It was also easier to use if you wanted to avoid arousing too much interest.

Crespin said, ‘We shall pass right by Valona Bay this afternoon.' He was speaking his thoughts aloud. The port in question was on the Albanian coast east of the heel of Italy, the guardian of the gate. It was known to be used as a German naval base from where many of their patrols sailed to police the narrows and the mass of islands which screened the Adriatic coastline almost from end to end.

Coutts yawned and spread his arms. ‘It'll be September in a day or so. We'll have been at war for four years.' He grinned. ‘I never thought I'd end up in a situation like this.'

Crespin studied him in the pale light. Coutts was wearing his smelly goatskin again, and in five days he had withdrawn to his old character, unshaven and long-haired, the picture of neglect and poverty.

He made Crespin feel like a complete interloper, as did the rest of the schooner's villainous-looking crew. They had insisted he should keep as smart as he could even at the expense of the scanty supply of fresh water. When he had protested Coutts had said coolly, ‘You must look the part, old chap. It won't do for all of us to go ashore like a pack of bloody heathen.' Crespin had to be content with this explanation for Coutts did not elaborate on it.

Petty Officer Ross was standing straddle-legged at the wheel, his pipe jutting through his beard, his eyes switching between the compass and the sails. Crespin had hardly heard him speak more than a few words, and he noticed that the rest of the crew respected his self-imposed isolation.

That was the strange thing about all of them, he thought. There was no outward discipline or any sort of routine, yet each seemed to know what to do and exactly when to do it.

There was an able seaman called Preston, for instance. Crespin had spoken to him several times and marvelled at his tremendous range of knowledge, from politics to preparing explosive booby traps. He had a laconic, modulated drawl, and had in fact been to Eton. Unlike many Crespin had met he had not failed to obtain a commission or blotted his copybook to such a degree that his application had been turned down. He was one of the Navy's happy misfits, and had refused to accept the chance of being an officer so many times that he had at last been allowed to sink into his own particular way of life.

He was certainly a misfit. But Crespin knew others like him who had ridden astride two-man torpedoes deep into enemy harbours, or had been frogmen landed on defended beaches to clear obstacles and mark the way for a raid or an invasion. Their work was too secret and too dangerous to receive any publicity. They just got on with the job in their own way, as Preston was doing right now.

Coutts remarked suddenly, ‘You know, it's not going to be easy. Your Captain Scarlett doesn't have much idea of these people we're going to see.'

When Crespin did not speak he added, ‘When the Germans first overran Yugoslavia their methods were so brutal that many of the people turned against them out of sheer necessity. They went to the hills and hit back as best they could. Blowing up bridges, sniping at despatch riders, all that sort of thing. The Huns, true to form, responded with even crueller measures. They killed hostages, even wiped out whole villages to show the Yugoslavs they meant business.' He shook his head. ‘But they misjudged these people very badly. They're tough and used to hard-living. They gave no quarter, and got none. The Germans have had to tie down whole divisions just to keep the roads open for supplies and communications.'

Crespin filled his pipe and lit it carefully below the edge of the bulwark. ‘Well, what went wrong?'

Coutts shrugged. ‘The usual thing. As the guerillas obtained more weapons and grew more successful there was growing unrest between their own groups. On the one hand you've got the partisans under Tito, and they're mostly Communists like those chaps were in Sicily. And the others are the Chetniks. Royalists, for the want of a better description. When I was last in Yugoslavia, over a year back, it didn't matter so much. But now it's a different picture. Some say that the Royalists have actually been fighting Tito's chaps, and that a large proportion of them have even been helping the Germans. So the question is, which side do we help?' He stared intently through the smoke from Crespin's pipe. ‘When I say
we
, I don't mean some silly old clots in Whitehall, I mean you and I!'

Crespin looked at the water sloshing against the hull. ‘It will all depend on which lot we meet first, I suppose.'

Coutts smiled. ‘Of course, if we run into the Jerries we don't have to bother. Things will all be decided for us!'

Ross snapped, ‘Boat engines to the nor'-east!' He was craning his shaggy head, one hand cupped to his ear. ‘Coming out from the land by the sound of it.'

Coutts moved like a cat. He whipped out his Lüger and placed it carefully beneath a coil of rope by the bulwark. Hidden but within easy reach.

‘Roust out the lads, Skipper. I'll take the wheel.' To Crespin he said, ‘You go to your little nest under the cargo. I'll give you a call if the patrol boat wants us to go aboard for cocktails!'

Crespin hesitated, feeling the instant tension of alarm and danger. He could hear the crew tumbling from their bunks, the snap of metal as a Sten gun was loaded and jammed into some hiding place where it could be found and fired within seconds.

Coutts said, ‘Go on. There's nothing for you to do yet.' His tone was different. Clipped and final.

In the cabin he saw Preston taking a last look round to make sure there was nothing which might betray a casual inspection.

He said, ‘I'll shut you in, sir.'

Crespin lowered himself down another ladder and through a coffin-like lid cut into the bilges amidst the piles of mixed cargo which covered the hidden boxes of ammunition and guns in a solid, entangled jumble. There were crates of dubious-looking wine and piles of dried fish. There were even rolls of barbed wire addressed to the garrison at Split, complete with an authentic German army despatch note.

Preston watched Crespin lie down in the cramped, airless space and grinned. ‘One thing, sir. If we get blown up, you'll not need to move. You've got your coffin on already!' He was still chuckling as he jammed the boards into place and heaved something heavy over the top.

Crespin lay in the stinking darkness feeling a sudden sense of panic. He thought of his new sub-lieutenant, Defries, and wondered how he would react under these circumstances. Suffering the claustrophobic nightmare of a submarine in total darkness and under a barrage of depth-charges had almost broken his nerve completely. This would surely drive him mad.

Curiously, the thought seemed to steady him, and after a few minutes he was able to relax his body and ignore the pounding of his heart while he tried to listen to what was happening beyond his tiny prison.

It was more of a vibration than a sound at first, and again he felt the sweat pouring over his chest and soaking across his groin. It was like those old dreams, reliving the horror of that other patrol boat, so that his body began to contract, as if waiting for the rattle of gunfire, the smashing impact of bullets.

He heard muffled shouts and the clatter of rigging. Ross must be dropping his sails. Then the engines roared out, very loud, it seemed right against the side of his hiding place, and the whole hull shuddered and groaned, while the water between the two vessels was churned into a great maelstrom until with a final lurch they came tight together. The engines died, and in the sudden silence Crespin could hear the harsh bark of commands, the thump of booted feet on the schooner's deck.

It was impossible to know what was going on or how long it was taking. The sides of the hiding place were so low that Crespin could not move his wrist up to his eyes to see his luminous watch. The feet pounded up and down, with sharp, guttural voices intermingling with quieter, confused murmurings. But whatever was happening the patrol seemed to be carrying out an inspection. If nothing else it meant that the enemy was on a routine patrol. If they had been forewarned in any way of the schooner's real mission they would have taken stronger action by now. Crespin wondered if the false documents and carefully aged permits would stand a close scrutiny, or if they had been changed since the Navy's forgers had done their work.