Torpedo Run (1981) (15 page)

Mackay sounded grim. ‘Roger.’

Seymour clung to the bridge ladder. ‘Are we pulling out, sir?’

‘Yes. Cast off from the E-boat. Tell Number One to stay there in charge. You take over from him here.’ He swung round, dismissing the lieutenant from his thoughts. ‘Bunts, call up
Buzzard
. Line astern on me. Fast as he can.’

He pictured the other MTB’s commanding officer, the stolid, dependable ex-fisherman, Sydney Home. He was no doubt comparing the odds. Two MTBs against two possible destroyers were hardly favourable. But if they were to give the raiding party and their prize more time, they would have to chance it.

‘All gone forrard and aft, sir!’

‘Very well. Slow astern all engines. Fend off forrard.’

Very carefully the MTB thrust through the drifting fragments of the dinghy. Smoke and vapour from the motors blended with that of explosions, and Devane could smell cordite, like the stench of death.

‘All stop.’

Carroll reported, ‘
Buzzard
has acknowledged, sir.’

‘Hard a-starboard, half ahead all engines. Stay close inshore, Swain, until Commander Orel indicates otherwise.’

The spokes gleamed in the glow of distant gunfire, and Devane thought he saw Dundas standing high on the E-boat’s bridge, staring after his own boat as she continued to thrash clear of the inlet.

He heard feet dragging on the gratings and knew the dead seaman was being taken below. His name, what was it? It was suddenly important that he should remember.

Crookshank. That was it. A brief picture of a round, open face. A man he had not had time to know.

Seymour emerged from the chartroom. ‘Commander Orel says that the course to steer is north thirty-five east, sir. We shall skirt the minefield and keep it on our starboard hand for the next five miles.’

‘Thank you.’

Devane watched the glow astern, the sudden flurry of fire and sparks as the Russian raiders blew up another objective. Crookshank, able seaman, a man who had just died, had already slipped from his thoughts.

‘Bring her round, Swain.’ He looked for Seymour. ‘Check on damage, David. And ask the Chief about fuel levels. Just in case.’

As the MTB, with her shadowy consort close astern, settled on the new course, and some of the spare hands cleared away the empty magazines and spent cartridge cases, the Russian interpreter said gravely, ‘You have done this kind of work before, I think.’

Devane looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or weep.

‘A few times.’ He patted the Russian’s arm. ‘See if you can get me some coffee, there’s a good chap.’

The lieutenant stared at him, mystified. ‘Coffee? Yes.’

Pellegrine had heard the Russian’s remark and pursed his lips with contempt.

A few times?
My bloody oath!

‘Pass the word to
Buzzard
. We’ll stop and listen.’

The motors died once more, and as the boat began to slide abeam in a choppy upsurge Devane tried to consider their position from every angle.

The other MTB moved up until she was drifting some fifty yards clear, but without a moon and very little light she had lost her identity completely.

Every man who could be spared was posted around the boat with a pair of binoculars. Ears, eyes and experience were their best weapons now.

Devane licked his lips and tasted the coffee which the Russian lieutenant had managed to obtain from somebody. That was an hour and a half ago. If the report was correct, and the two German ships were on their way, the contact would be soon. All they had was agility and speed. Surprise was out of the question if the German captains knew the extent of the attack. They would very likely have radar. Devane stared into the blackness until his eyes throbbed. It made you feel vulnerable and naked. He could picture the two tiny blips on the German’s scanner, the guns already trained round to blast them from the water before they could even see a target.

Seymour said, ‘I’ve been round the boat, sir. All ready, guns and torpedoes.’

‘They’re feeling a bit low, I suppose.’

Seymour stared at him, surprised. ‘Well, yes, sir.’

Devane wiped his glasses with a scrap of tissue. ‘They would be.’ It was always the same after a member of their tightly knit community had been killed. Their first loss in
Parthian
.

Orel’s restless shadow merged with theirs. The interpreter explained, ‘The commander wishes to say something.’

Devane trained his glasses again. Beneath his waterproof suit his body felt clammy and hot. Just to slip over the side and drift in that cool water.

He asked, ‘What about?’

‘The German ships are here too soon.’ He faltered and rearranged his words. ‘They could not have known, could not have been ready.’

Devane looked at him. Of
course
, it was so obvious he had not seen it. With Sorokin’s forces throwing mock attacks at their other positions, it was unlikely the German naval commander would have had ships to spare, unless he had been warned of the attack. That was impossible, or the island would have been properly defended and waiting for them.

It was the Russian submarine they were after. They had
probably known about her presence for ages and would not be put off by some vague explosion in the minefield. Whatever the Germans knew or guessed, it had all ended with the RDF station being blown up, for the enemy’s radio link was in the same blockhouse.

Devane moved restlessly from side to side, vague shapes parting to let him through.

It was one hell of a risk all the same. Suppose the Germans did know about the MTBs and were coming hot-foot to destroy them?

He said, ‘Tell Commander Orel thank you. It makes sense. How could they have known?’

Seymour sounded husky. ‘We could be caught between the German ships and the passage home.’ He forced a grin. ‘Nasty.’

‘Tomorrow they’ll have every damn ship and plane looking for their E-boat. We’ve got to delay these two, no matter what. Otherwise they’ll pick us off one by one. Have you ever fought with a destroyer, David?’

‘No, sir.’

Devane smiled. ‘A destroyer is the only
ship
I’d really like to command. They used to make jokes about the Italian Navy in the Med. I did too, until I met one of their
Oriani
-class destroyers bows on. So we’ll do this one our way. Check the chart and see if there are any navigation buoys hereabouts.’

Seymour nodded. ‘There is, sir. Two miles to the north of this position. It’s not in use, of course.’

Devane searched his flimsy plan for traps. It was likely the German ships had moved into the Black Sea before their army had reached a stalemate on the Eastern Front. With luck, their captains would be unused to the devious warfare of the narrow seas and the Levant.

He picked up the handset and pressed the switch. ‘This is
Merlin
. At slow speed, take station on unused buoy, two miles to the north’rd. Silent routine.’

He heard Home’s brief acknowledgement, the immediate flurry of white foam from the other boat’s screws.

To Seymour he said, ‘Slow ahead. Direct the cox’n to steer
for the buoy.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done your homework. I like that.’

He felt the boat tremble and respond to the thrust and triple rudders.

‘Pass the word to all positions. Jerry
could
be playing our game.’

The machine-gunners swung their barrels in wide arcs, the long belts of ammunition trailing like brass snakes. Kirby, the leading torpedoman, would be making his last rounds with his assistants to ensure that if they got the chance to fire their fish would not fail or remain jammed in their tubes.

He wondered how far the E-boat had managed to get, and if the flotilla had received any other casualties.

‘Coming up to the buoy in five minutes, sir.’

Devane nodded. Time was passing so swiftly. It seemed only seconds ago that he had given his orders.

He was tired, the strain had seen to that. It was so easy to let your mind drift, anything to avoid the reality and the menace.

Leading Seaman Priest’s sturdy outline detached itself from forward of the six-pounder mounting, and with another seaman close on his heels he hurried towards the bows.

The starboard lookout said hoarsely, ‘Fo’c’s’le party ready, sir. Buoy in sight, starboard bow.’

‘Dead slow. Steer for the buoy, Swain. A little port rudder to allow for drift.’

Pellegrine frowned in concentration. ‘Got it, sir.’ He leaned on the spokes, his lively wife momentarily forgotten.

Within ten minutes both MTBs were lying to on long slip ropes, with the gaunt navigation buoy swaying before their bows like a drunken bishop. It was covered with rust; a legacy of neglect, Devane thought. A relic of lost empire. The Czar’s yachts had come this way to avoid the pitiless winters, and later the White Russians had fled to Turkey, to anywhere to escape the revolution’s bloody fury.

Someone dropped a steel helmet on the deck and Pellegrine swore savagely.

Devane snapped, ‘Who’s that?’

‘S-sorry, sir.’ It was Metcalf. It would be.

Devane saw that he was holding some fresh ammunition belts, and wondered if he knew what had happened to the other seaman.

He said, ‘Sound carries like hell, Metcalf. So find your place and stay in it.’

Metcalf nodded and backed carefully against the flag locker. He had expected the captain to blast him apart, but he had spoken to him quite calmly. Even Dundas, whom he admired, would have had a few sharp words for him.

Unaware of the awe he had aroused, Devane continued to search the darkness with his glasses. If he appeared to relax or not to care, others would soon follow his example. And then. . . .

‘Sir! Port bow!’ The lookout broke off, confused. ‘Thought I saw a light.’ He sounded relieved as he added, ‘
There,
sir!’

Devane steadied himself against the uneven roll of the deck. He had seen it, but without the lookout’s quick report it could have been missed altogether. They might never know what it was. But it was probably a ship’s dead-light momentarily unfastened and swinging open to the same motion which was tossing the MTBs about. It was strangely comforting to realize that even the Germans could become careless.

No time to inquire if Home and his men had seen it too. Nor would he dare to use the R/T. But Home would be watching his every move like a cat.

‘What do you think, Swain?’

Pellegrine squinted in deep thought. ‘They’d be on to us by now, sir.’

‘Yes.’ German E-boats had often used the old ruse of mooring to a navigation buoy off the British coastline. A radar operator in some old, overworked escort would see the blip on his scope, but because it was known there was a marker buoy in the vicinity he would notice nothing strange. He would see what he had expected to see. ‘I think these Jerry skippers are in for a shock.’

Devane pushed his way to the other voicepipes and waited for the engine room to reply.

‘Chief? This is the captain. Any second now. Full revs.
And hold on to your boots!’ He heard Ackland laugh. He sounded miles, not yards, away.

‘Warn the fo’c’s’le party, David. Slip the bow line the moment I sing out!’

The men around him tensed their bodies as if to test the weight of the enemy.

Devane climbed on to the gratings again and gripped the rail. There it was. Like the sound of a fast car, far away. But it was the roar of fans which drowned even the engines and racing screws as the ship, whatever she was, tore through the water. Moving from left to right. A copybook, diagonal attack.

‘What the
hell
!’

A burst of red tracer ripped across the sea and vanished in the space of a second. Some bloody fool in Home’s boat had forgotten a safety catch and had fired by accident.

It was too late now.

‘
Slip!
Starboard ten! All engines full ahead!’

The other MTB vanished astern in spray and smoke as Ackland threw open his throttles.

Devane held on tightly and watched the darkness which was parted by the high, crisp arrowhead of the MTB’s bow wave.

A line of low trajectory tracer, which appeared to skim the water, tore past the port beam, and Devane pictured the alarm, the guns swinging round towards him.

‘Port ten!
Steady!
’

Devane watched the double flashes, the vivid reflection against the other vessel’s bridge screen.

Two shells exploded together, flinging up great columns of water which seemed to stand for minutes like white spectres before cascading back into the sea.

Splinters whined overhead, and two more guns shot out their scarlet tongues from another angle.

Two pairs.
Devane tried to fix the other ship in his mind.

‘Stand by torpedoes!’

The whole of the hull seemed to be standing up on its keel, as if only the screws were holding it to the surface. On either beam the banks of broken water peeled away in two great
white wings, and Devane wondered if Home had managed to follow him yet.

Somebody gasped, “Ere come the bleedin’ flak!’

Tracer lifted and plunged towards them, and one of the machine-gunners twisted round towards the bridge as if pleading to open fire in return.

Devane watched the bright tracer, felt the deck tilt this way and that as Pellegrine expertly eased the boat in a tight zigzag towards the enemy.

Two more shells burst nearby, the water falling across the afterpart with such violence that two seamen were knocked to the deck.

Devane felt his eyes cringe in the searing light as a star shell exploded overhead, laying them bare to the enemy’s guns and an immediate response in tracer and cannon shells.

Devane shaded his throbbing eyes.
‘Open fire!’
There was always a chance of hitting a vital point. Luck, more likely.

The hull rocked unsteadily, and Pellegrine almost lost control as the boat was bracketed by two heavier shells.

There was no sign of Home’s boat. Devane wiped the sighting bar and tried to clear his mind of everything but the patch of shadow beyond the searing light. Darkness but for one jagged white moustache – the enemy’s bow wave as he turned and charged towards them like a battering ram.