To Risks Unknown (34 page)

Scarlett ran his fingers through his thick hair. ‘So there you have it, gentlemen. The facts and the figures.' He grinned. ‘What Captain Coutts omitted to add is that the
Nashorn
is going into Trieste for a boiler clean. They know that the partisans would never attack a troop convoy. It is just the moment to choose for an overhaul.'

Crespin felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what was coming next.

‘So, gentlemen, we will disappoint the Germans a little. The special force will move at once to Gradz.' He lifted his gaze to Crespin, paused, and then added calmly, ‘The
Thistle
will attack and destroy the troop convoy.'

There was a stunned silence. No one present seemed to know whether it was the most daring or the most lunatic idea ever conceived. Then a bearded lieutenant, the captain of one of the M.L.s said grimly, ‘That's a hell of a job, sir. Couldn't
we
give a bit of support?'

Scarlett eyed him coldly. ‘The convoy will consist of
one
ship, Lieutenant. One ship and maybe two small escorts.' He looked again at Crespin. ‘The
Thistle
should be able to cope with them all right, eh?'

Crespin nodded. Then he said quietly, ‘But the surprise element will be lost, sir. After this the Germans will know exactly what we're up to.'

There were several nods and grunts of agreement.

Scarlett sighed. ‘It will not matter very much. I intend to launch the raid on the German base as soon as the convoy is destroyed. It will be too late for the
Nashorn
, or any other damn ship, to do anything!'

This time there was no objection. Scarlett's reasoning was as breathtaking as it was convincing.

Crespin asked, ‘Does Soskic know about this yet?'

Scarlett sounded evasive. ‘More or less. He seems eager to move, and I will explain the rest when I get to Gradz.' He looked round the wardroom. ‘Anything else? Right.' He picked up his cap. ‘Orders will be circulated immediately. Return to your commands and prepare to get under way.' As they shuffled through the door he looked at Crespin and added smoothly, ‘I'll give you all the dope on the troopship. You find it and sink it. If you don't, we might just as well pull stumps and go home.' He walked after the others adding, ‘I'm going to see Rear-Admiral Oldenshaw. He's dropping in here on his way back to the U.K. again. He'll want to hear that you all know what to do, and share my enthusiasm.'

Crespin watched him impassively. There was more to come.

Scarlett said casually, ‘I shall be sending Third Officer Forbes back to England with him of course. Can't take her to Gradz with us, eh?' He grinned, his eyes shining coldly beneath the oak-leaved peak of his cap. ‘Still, that's the way of things.' Then he was gone.

Coutts said calmly, ‘The bastard!'

Crespin looked past him, not even hearing what he said. He had known it was coming. They both had. But if only … If only they had been given just a bit more time.

He said abruptly, ‘What do you think about this plan?'

Coutts watched him, his eyes thoughtful. ‘It's all too perfect, too pat. Everything must go like a clock, and in war it very rarely does.' He looked across the wardroom where Wemyss and Porteous were studying the chart. ‘Of course, it's the sort of hair-brained scheme which just might succeed. If it does, Captain Scarlett will be on velvet. And if it fails, he'll probably be dead with the rest of us.' He grinned and clapped his hand on Crespin's arm. ‘But as he so rightly said, that's the way of things!' As he turned towards the door he said quietly, ‘You'll be getting under way immediately, so I'll clear out.' He hesitated. ‘I'll be going to the airfield, so if you want me to give her a message?' His face softened. ‘It might be a while before you see her again.'

Crespin shook his head. ‘No. But thanks. I'll wait until this affair is over.'

Coutts shrugged. ‘You could be right, old son.' He sauntered out of the wardroom, humming to himself.

Crespin turned. The
Thistle
's officers were all watching him. They were dependent on each other now. And the ship depended on them as she had never done before.

Wemyss said, ‘Shall I send for Magot, sir?'

Crespin shook his head. He was thinking of the girl. The plane which would drop her on some rain-washed English airfield. The distance and perhaps the years which would come between them.

He said, ‘First, ring for Barker. We will have a drink together.' He looked at Porteous and Shannon, at Defries, the pale ex-submariner, and lastly at Wemyss.

‘It may be the last chance we get for some time. I just wanted to tell you that when the operation starts there can be no letting up until it's completely finished, one way or the other.' He let his words sink in. ‘You may think that the war you're going to is too remote to matter, the people too different from us to count. You'd be wrong to believe that, as you will discover.' He smiled. ‘Do your best, and give every encouragement you can to the people who depend on you.' He remembered Scarlett's scathing remarks. Expendable. He added harshly, ‘They're all worth it.'

At midnight the
Thistle
slipped her moorings and headed once more for the open sea. The stars were hidden beyond deep-bellied clouds, and the waves parted across her stubby bows in low, sullen breakers.

But as Crespin sat on the bridge chair, his oilskin buttoned tightly round his throat, he was aware of the changed atmosphere around him. Even the ship's movements seemed easy and controlled, as if the little corvette shared his own perception. It was like a sense of destiny, when there is no more time for looking back, and little use in remembering.

The only reality was the present, and what lay beyond the hidden horizon was like the future, and never got any closer. It was a small moment of peace, and he felt content to share it with the ship beneath him.

An enamel cocoa mug rolled from a flag locker and clattered noisily across the gratings. Crespin twisted round in his chair, startled at the sudden sound and surprised that he had been asleep. He heard Griffin muttering threats to the young signalman who had allowed the mug to fall, and knew from the tone of his voice that he, like the rest of the bridge party, must have known he had been drowsing in his chair.

He cleared his throat and saw Wemyss' dark shadow shift slightly on the opposite side of the bridge.

‘What is the time now?'

Wemyss replied, ‘Just after midnight, sir.'

Crespin levered himself forward in the chair and peered over the spray-dappled screen. It was pitch dark, but his eyes were so accustomed to it that he could see the paler outline of the forecastle, the black pointer of the four-inch gun and the sluggish arrowhead of broken water creaming back from the stem. The slight movement made his body protest. Every fibre and muscle ached, and the pain from his wound throbbed, as if it had just been kicked.

It was the second night at sea, and apart from occasional visits to the chart room he had not left the bridge. Around and below him the ship creaked steadily to the short, choppy swell, and he could almost feel the men tensed and waiting at their action stations. He lifted his face towards the leaden sky, feeling the hint of rain across his skin, the creases of strain around his eyes.

Without consulting the chart he could picture the ship's position, creeping nearer and nearer to the overlapping masses of the two large islands, Hvar and Brac, between which ran a twenty-five-mile channel of deep water. He gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the possibility of some mistake, some fault which he had overlooked. Even supposing the intelligence report was correct, it was still possible he had missed the troop convoy. The whole area was covered with scattered islands. Suppose the Germans had decided to take another route, or had altered their timing? The convoy might have passed into the channel already, could perhaps be inside the Tekla base while he and his ship waited in vain for the rendezvous.

Wemyss said quietly, ‘The western tip of Hvar Island bears one-two-five, sir. About nine miles clear.' He sounded doubtful. ‘We will have to turn shortly, or we'll start running into the channel.'

Crespin nodded. If they were ahead of the convoy and they entered the channel first, it would mean going about and fighting back again to the open sea. In total darkness it would be inviting disaster.

He snapped, ‘Tell Willis to keep a close radar watch, Number One. With all these back-echoes from the islands he might miss something.'

‘I have just told him, sir. He's a good hand and I don't think …'

‘Tell him again!' Crespin's voice was harsh. ‘Even a good operator only sees what he expects to see!'

He heard Wemyss speaking over the voice-pipe and settled down again to stare across the screen. There was no point in taking it out on Wemyss. But the waiting and the uncertainty were paring away his resistance, and the tiredness was doing the rest.

It would have been better if they could have steamed down parallel with the coast, instead of darting straight in amongst the islands. But the first day out they had been spotted by a high-flying Dornier bomber. It had circled the ship for over an hour, careful to stay out of range, but close enough to watch and if necessary report the course and appearance of this small, solitary corvette.

Crespin had had to assume that the German pilot knew his business, so he had been made to alter course away from the Yugoslav coast on a wide, frustrating detour, which even Magot's hard-worked engineers had been unable to make up with extra speed.

Now it was almost too late, and he was blaming himself. The German pilot was probably just curious and nothing more. He should have ignored the Dornier. He ought to have maintained his course and to hell with the consequences.

Wemyss returned. ‘I've told him, sir.'

Crespin lifted his glasses and moved them slowly back and forth above the screen. It was very cold, yet within the clinging oilskin his body felt as if it was sweating from a fever.

He said, ‘There's nothing else for it. We'll alter course and make one more sweep to the north-west.'

His words seemed to come back at him like a mocking echo of defeat. An admission of failure.

Wemyss said, ‘Very good, sir.'

As Wemyss stooped over the screened chart table Willis's voice came across the open bridge like a chant.

‘Radar … bridge!'

Crespin almost knocked a lookout from his feet as he ran to the voice-pipe.

‘Bridge! Captain speaking!' He could hear Willis's sharp intake of breath.

‘I think I've found them, sir. Two echoes, bearing green oh-four-five. Range oh-eight-oh.'

Crespin swung round and pressed his forehead against the rubber pad on the bridge repeater. In the small enclosed screen the echoes and outlines swirled before his eyes like candles in a breeze. Again he felt the surge of despair. There was nothing new. The spiky, smudged shape of the island's tip creeping out on the starboard bow. Another, heavier blob to port where Brac Island marked the opposite side of the channel entrance.

Then he stiffened and held his breath, hardly daring to blink.

The two small blips winked back at him, vanished, and then reappeared, the large one dead in the centre of the channel, the smaller one close astern of it.

He snapped, ‘Take a look, Number One. It's them all right. It must be.'

The tiredness seemed to have dropped away like a blanket. His brain was suddenly steady and like ice.

‘Starboard fifteen!' He waited, watching the ticking gyro, his mind working with it. ‘Midships. Steady!'

Joicey's voice came up the brass tube, calm and wide awake. ‘Steady, sir. Course zero-eight-zero.'

Willis again. ‘Target's course is due east, sir. Steady at oh-nine-oh.'

Crespin kept his voice calm. Willis of all people must not be confused now. ‘What about their speed?'

‘Hard to say, sir, but it's very slow. Not more than a few knots.'

Crespin walked a few paces to the wheelhouse voice-pipe again. ‘Starboard ten. Steer zero-nine-zero.' To Wemyss he added, ‘We'll have to crack it on, slow or not. The Oerlikons are useless beyond a thousand yards,
half
that in this visibility.' He felt suddenly relaxed. It was a strange, remote feeling. ‘Full ahead. We'll have to risk him seeing the bow wave.'

The telegraph clanged below his feet, and almost at once he felt the ship begin to tremble, as if she, too, knew what was expected of her.

Joicey sounded unruffled. ‘Course zero-nine-zero. Engine full ahead, sir.'

Wemyss was watching the radar repeater. ‘No sign of the other escort. Maybe he's sniffing about on the other side of Brac, sir.'

‘Perhaps.' Crespin watched the growing banks of white spray peeling away into the darkness on either beam. The deck and bridge fittings were shaking and vibrating madly, and from the funnel he saw the smoke pouring astern, as straight as the ship's knife-edged wake.

He said, ‘Tell Shannon to be ready to fire star-shell. He'll only have time for one, so it had better be dead right!' He groped for the red handset and waited until Magot's voice echoed tinnily in his ear.

‘More speed, Chief!' He could picture Magot's expression of painful resentment. ‘All you've got and more!'

Magot asked, ‘We goin' to fight, sir?'

‘Yes.' He slammed down the handset and walked back to the chair. But he could not sit down. It was all he could do to stand still while the voice-pipes muttered and squeaked on every side.

Willis reported, ‘Range is down to oh-four-oh, sir. Bearing constant.' He sounded completely absorbed, like a commentator at a race meeting.

‘Good.' Crespin tried to picture the troopship creeping through the deep channel. The captain would feel safe so close to his new base, he thought. He would be concentrating on his navigation, leaving the rest to the escorts. And
they
would be sweeping the channel for partisans with any luck at all. It was, after all, unlikely for a single enemy warship to be right out here amidst their own offshore islands.