Torpedo Run (1981) (11 page)

Beresford was saying, ‘I think that a few more hit and
runs on the enemy’s coastal supply lines will change things completely. We could use a few extra boats though.’

The other officers glanced at one another, each seeing an empty chair perhaps. Any or all of them might have stayed back there in the smoke and blazing fuel.

Willy Walker, disdainful and reserved, his long legs outstretched, sipped a mug of coffee, a yellow scarf still hanging from his neck. He always wore it in combat. God knows when it had started, Devane thought.

There had been that pub in Felixstowe where several of the MTB officers had met in the early days. For some reason the landlord had had a supply of long clay pipes, churchwardens, which he had handed to the youthful officers like talismans. After a bad operation in the Channel or off the Hook of Holland they would all gather and solemnly break the pipe of any of their number who had ‘bought it’. The landlord had eventually run out of pipes. Which was just as well, Devane thought, otherwise the pub would be full of broken ones by now.

Lieutenant Sydney Home, a RNR officer like Dundas, who commanded the boat with the code name
Buzzard
, had been a fisherman before the war, running his own drifter with that of his father. He had quit the life and joined the Navy when he had seen his father’s little boat shot to matchwood by a German fighter. He was a broad, outwardly comfortable character, who was good with his men and liked by them in return. But beneath it all, Devane suspected, there was a sense of bewilderment. Hate had brought Home into active service, the need to hit back and get revenge at the same time. But unlike many of his more youthful companions, he was still a real sailor at heart, and had found it harder than he had expected to destroy ships and leave their hands to drown or burn.

Andrew Twiss, commanding officer of the fourth boat, code name
Osprey
, was a real oddity. He had been an actor, although nobody had ever discovered what kind of theatre he had graced before the war. Even he had admitted in his resonant tones, ‘It was often a case of sardines and stale beer for most of the week!’ But whatever success he had found or
lost, he had certainly discovered it in the Navy. Maybe it was what he had always wanted to do, but Devane suspected he was really acting the part of his life. For Twiss was not just a young, hostilities-only lieutenant, he
was
the
British Naval Officer
. Always smartly turned out, which was almost a crime in coastal forces where battledress and old uniforms prevailed, he stood, moved and spoke like a ghost from Jutland.

Whenever they had pulled his leg about it, he had turned a haughty eye on them before claiming, ‘If we win this war, and with the companions I am doomed to serve alongside it seems unlikely, but
if
, gentlemen, there will be a far greater call for admirals in the acting profession than in the Navy. And I shall be there!’

But Devane knew Mackay the best. All of his company were fellow Canadians, and had been transferred from the same Mediterranean flotilla into
Parthian.

He was one of the warmest, and sometimes one of the most alarming, friends Devane had made. In battle, at close quarters or fanning across a heavily defended convoy with all hell breaking loose, he was like a rock. You never had to look astern to make sure he was covering your flank, he was sure to be there. When they got back from each sortie, his loud voice and grating laugh were equally forceful.

Mackay’s first command had been sunk off Tobruk after being hit by a Stuka dive-bomber. It happened, they said. A moment of carelessness, a time when the worst was just over and all you could think of was getting home to base, to sleep or drink it off until the next time.

Devane had detached his own boat from a patrol area nearby and had gone to search for Red Mackay and any survivors. With fuel running dangerously low and an enemy-occupied coastline rising in the dawn light like a warning, Devane had found them. Six exhausted figures, squatting or clinging to a drifting life-raft, more like corpses than survivors.

Mackay had been one of them, but when the MTB had manoeuvred carefully against the little raft, and some of Devane’s men had clambered down the scrambling nets to
help them aboard, Mackay had called, ‘Not yet, John!’

Devane found he was clutching his coffee mug with terrible force. It was so clear. As if it had just happened. The weary, fumbling figures being lifted and guided on to the MTB’s deck, too sick and dazed to say anything, when a glance was all they could offer in the way of thanks, and Mackay just sitting there on the raft, a seaman, no more than a boy, dying slowly across his lap.

It had probably lasted minutes, but to the onlookers it had felt like hours, like watching yourself.

When it was over, Mackay had climbed aboard, refusing helping hands, saying nothing until he had joined Devane on the bridge.

Then he had said bitterly, ‘His first trip with me.’

It had been over a month before Devane had learned from someone else that the boy who had died in Mackay’s arms had been his kid brother from Vancouver.

Mackay was that sort of man.

Devane came out of his thoughts as Beresford said, ‘I should tell you that I received a signal from the Admiralty about an hour before your return.’

They all looked at him. A recall? Another assignment? A rise in the price of wardroom gin? With the Admiralty you could never be certain.

Beresford continued, ‘It would appear that our stay in the Black Sea may have to be prolonged.’ There were several groans but he ignored them. ‘Our Chiefs of Staff have been in constant contact with the Russians, and it seems likely that the proposed assault on the Crimea will be delayed until the beginning of winter.’

Walker exclaimed, ‘But surely, sir, that will be
after
any Allied landings in southern Europe. I thought the whole point of the Russians attacking when we did was to confuse and divide the German defences? Now, Jerry will be able to take on one side at a time! Bloody stupid, if you ask me.’

Beresford smiled dangerously. ‘I was not intending to, Willy!’

Devane said, ‘The Russians must think that an assault on the Crimea in the colder weather will give them an
advantage?’

Beresford nodded. ‘Something like that. But if Ivan makes a cock of this one, and the Germans are still there next spring, you can cross your fingers for a Normandy invasion, or anywhere else for that matter.’

Devane thought about it. He could picture
Parthian
’s role expanding and becoming more involved as the weeks changed into months. The Russians would throw in everything to drive the enemy from the Crimea. It was not just a strategic necessity for the whole Eastern Front, it was a matter of honour, or would soon become one.

Beresford looked at him. ‘I’ve got a report in depth for you, John, but the rest of you may as well know, their lordships are not too happy about the differences in seniority here.’ He kept his face expressionless as they chuckled unfeelingly. ‘This operation will be taken over by a senior commander, with the necessary administrative and maintenance staff to support him.’

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.’

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?’