Torpedo Run (1981) (12 page)

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 stood 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.

Beresford straightened his back and looked at their intent faces. The thoughtful, experienced expressions of veterans like Mackay and Walker. The unconcealed excitement of Sub-Lieutenant Simon Mitford, who as third hand in Lieutenant Home’s boat was the youngest and newest officer
present.

He said, ‘The Russian naval forces are making two strikes, one near the Kerch Straits, and later another towards Balaklava. A lot will depend on German reactions, and what forces they move in against these strikes. Admiral Kasatonov is keen to cooperate, but he’ll not want to pay a heavy price.’

Beresford looked at Devane. ‘It will be much like an Adriatic operation. Move in fast, and pull out before it gets too hot.’

They shuffled their feet and spoke amongst themselves, each commanding officer seeing it differently, how it would affect his boat, the problems of attacking without fighting every inch of the way. The others considered their separate parts and how they would pass the final briefing to their crews.

In their protective clothing and worn sea-going gear they looked more like renegades than naval officers, Devane thought. Except for Twiss, of course, who was as impeccable as ever.

Beresford took their silence as general acceptance. He said, ‘I’ll get the last details and met reports from Sorokin’s HQ before you move.’

He smiled at Devane. ‘All yours.’

Devane stood up. ‘I’ll try not to flannel you. This could be a tough one. The island is no problem but, with two hundred miles there and back, we can expect trouble. To some of you this may seem an unworthy risk, but it is the kind of thing we are here to do. Keep probing and jabbing at the enemy’s supply lines and coastal defences, never give him time to rest or increase them. The final battle is a military one, it has to be. But as they call us the Navy’s infantry, we must play our part beforehand.’

He thought suddenly of London, the red buses near the park. The air of shabby defiance, matched by a confidence that everything would be all right if they held on long enough.

This was a different fight. Where vast armies had surged back and forth and had destroyed every living thing in their way.

Whichever way you looked at it, there seemed to be no end to it. How many who had led at the beginning were still alive? He felt a sudden despair as he recalled the night he had spent with Claudia. They had been so alike, if only for that one moment. They had been overtaken by war and their lives would never be the same again. Whenever he tried to see beyond the year he could find nothing. Just another operation, more risks and less odds in his favour each time.

He cleared his throat, cursing himself for his self-pity. To them he was the leader of the flotilla, the code name
Merlin
on the R/T, the man who would use his cunning to get them out of trouble.

He said, ‘We shall put to sea at dusk. Rendezvous with Russian escorts at midnight.’

Mackay stood up, his unlit pipe in his mouth. ‘Are the Ruskies coming along with us, sir?’

‘A raiding party. Twenty men to be carried in your boat.’ He silenced the groans. ‘And another twenty in mine. So tell your people to behave. Jack’s sense of humour takes a bit of understanding even
in
the Navy, right?’