Torpedo Run (1981) (2 page)

Devane looked past him, at the vast wall map which was a twin of the one in an adjoining operations room. Crosses and flags, dotted convoy routes, and mine fields, sinkings and marks to show approximately where ships had simply vanished without trace.

Feel like? Devane was twenty-seven years old and had been in the Navy since the outbreak of war. But he was a veteran, more than that, he was a survivor, and the two rarely went together in the roaring, clattering world of motor torpedo boats, the war where you saw your enemy, sometimes even his fear, as the tracer cut him down and turned
his boat into an inferno.

‘I feel immensely old, sir.’

Devane grinned. It made him look like a youth.

They all sat around the littered desk, and then Commander Kinross said abruptly, ‘I know your record, of course, your rise from first lieutenant in a Vosper MTB at Felixstowe to command a flotilla in the Med.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘That sounds a bit brief for so active a life, but it was when you came to us with your command that I really had the opportunity to study your methods.’

By ‘us’, Kinross meant the special operations section, and more to the point, the Special Boat Squadron which had achieved the impossible. From running guns to Tito’s partisans and landing agents behind enemy lines, they had harried the German convoys and communications from the Aegean to Tobruk, from embattled Malta to the Adriatic. Devane’s handful of MTBs, nicknamed the Battle Squadron, had tied down desperately needed patrol vessels and aircraft and, as the man had written in the newspaper, had indeed struck terror into the retreating Germans.

There were only two of his boats left, however, and they were little better than scrap. A lot of good men had gone, and some had been left in hospitals. It was the usual equation.

Whitcombe said, ‘Fact is, John, we need you back. Otherwise. . . .’ He glanced at the urbane commander, something like rebuke in his eyes. ‘God knows you’ve earned a break, but we’re stretched to breaking point. We
need
experienced officers as never before, leaders and not just brave chaps who obey orders right or wrong.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘But then you know all about that.’

Kinross sounded impatient.
His
war was waiting in the other room.

‘This year is the turning point. It has to be. However we invade, northwards through Italy or the surrounding territory, it has to be soon. It’s got to be
right.
One real failure now and we’ll never get back in a million years.’ He stood up and moved to the great wall map, then he pointed at the Mediterranean. ‘Everything is regrouping, we have the whole
North African coast sewn up and the convoy routes covered by sea and air.’ His finger moved up still further. ‘France next year, certainly no later, and after that it will be one long slog all the way to Berlin.’ He turned and looked at Devane calmly. ‘Of course, we’ll not have it all our own way. Decisive campaigns are built on small ventures which are often never revealed until after a war. By then, who cares anyway? But who would have believed that weather was as important as fuel and ammunition?’

Whitcombe interrupted uneasily, ‘Get on with it, William.’

Kinross was unmoved. ‘Last winter for instance, our Russian allies thought they were on the advance, that the German armies on the Eastern Front would collapse in the snow and ice. But they didn’t. Somehow the Germans stood firm. Incredible casualties on both sides, millions probably, acts of barbarism which make Attila the Hun seem like a bloody amateur.’

Devane felt cold, as if the battlefield had suddenly penetrated the concrete bunker.

Fascinated, he watched Kinross’s finger on the move again. It came to rest on the Black Sea, then on the thrusting Crimean peninsula itself.

Kinross said distantly, ‘Brings back memories, eh?
Boys’ Own Paper,
the Charge of the Light Brigade, Florence Nightingale, all good stuff.’ His tone sharpened. ‘Well, now it’s the hinge of the whole front. The Germans took it from the Russians, and while they remain there in strength the Russians have no chance of thrusting as far as they must into Europe. They know it, the Americans know it, and so doubtless do the Germans. If Hitler’s generals can withstand another winter the Russians will have to begin all over again. We can say goodbye to our own invasion of northern France unless the enemy is completely involved on every front. The defender always has the final advantage, remember that.’

Devane tensed. They were going to give him a staff job. Right here beneath London, hemmed in by charts and filing cabinets. He suddenly felt sickened at the prospect.

Whitcombe said, ‘The coastal forces flotillas, MGBs as well as your MTBs, took quite a hammering, so the
regrouping and remanning is top priority.’ He smiled. ‘You have to know sooner or later, John, but the invasion of Sicily is already set for July, so we don’t have much time. A special MTB flotilla has been formed and trained, and was sent to the Med a few weeks ago. All brand-new boats, five to be exact.’

‘Their senior officer is Lieutenant-Commander Don Richie, right?’ Devane saw their startled exchange of glances. ‘You know the Andrew, sir, no secrets for long.’

Kinross said coldly, ‘Well, that had better be changed, and quickly.’

Whitcombe dragged out his cigarette case and lit one carefully.

‘Of course, John, you and Richie served together at the beginning. In the Channel?’

‘Yes. I know his wife too.’ Devane looked away. Why had he said that?

‘Well, Richie’s special flotilla was put aboard some fast merchant ships, ex-passenger liners, at dead of night, men, torpedoes, everything but the kitchen sink, and whisked away. Through the canal and up to Kuwait. We don’t have much trouble with Iran these days after we and the Russians “persuaded” them to get rid of their pro-German Shah.’

Whitcombe and Kinross smiled at each other like conspirators.

It was all getting out of hand. Nothing seemed to be making sense. Richie was the best there was. Another RNVR officer who had been a civilian before the war, he had become something of a legend in the little ships he commanded and led. So why did they need
him
?

Whitcombe glanced at the wall clock. ‘Lunch soon, I think. Ask Mary to reserve us a table. She knows where.’

As if he was still attached to the desk by an invisible wire, Kinross left the room with obvious reluctance.

Whitcombe regarded Devane fondly. ‘I’ll come to the point, John. Those five boats were taken overland and launched into the Caspian Sea. A rendezvous is being arranged for the whole flotilla to be carried overland again.’ He looked at the map. ‘To the Black Sea. To work with the
Russians against the enemy’s flank. Five boats are all we can spare, besides which, it will give the flotilla more freedom to move and act. The Russians’ one real weakness is on the water. Whatever they do, the Germans seem better at it. The Russians will never admit this, naturally, any more than we would. But they are keen for us to help, although I suspect they are hoping for more aid than we have to offer.’

Devane saw the map through different eyes now. It must be important to attract so much secret planning. Now those five MTBs were up there on the map. In the Caspian Sea. Then about four hundred miles across country to another sea, a different war.

‘I want you to command the flotilla, John. It’s unfair, it’s also unfortunate, but we need someone who is as well known and as respected to these men as Richie.’

So that was it. Don Richie was dead. Whitcombe did not have to tell him.

The tubby captain added slowly, ‘When you said you knew his wife just now I got a bit bothered. She was here this morning, just before you, in fact. She had already been told in the usual way, but we felt we owed it to her. After all he did, killed in action seems a pretty small reward, for her anyway.’ He looked round as Kinross’s voice intruded through the door. ‘In fact, he shot himself.’ He gave a warning glance. ‘Enough said for now.’

Kinross entered, his eyes questioning. ‘All done?’

Whitcombe said breezily, ‘Early lunch. We can talk some more later.’

Devane followed the others, his mind grappling with what Whitcombe had disclosed. Richie dead. They all expected to die, but not like that. Why the
hell
had he done it?

As the door swung behind the ill-matched trio the little Wren ventured, ‘The one called Devane, he looks nice. Different.’ She fell silent under their amused stares.

The officer had heard her but said nothing. The little Wren was brand new. She had a lot to learn. But she too found herself thinking of the young lieutenant-commander with the sun-tanned face and hands and the slow, almost shy smile.

One of the Glory Boys, as Kinross had called them. She
had seen too many go through that door never to return to become involved.

A messenger brought over a bulky file with Richie’s name on the jacket.

‘This has just been delivered,’ he said.

She looked at the tall filing cabinet in the corner. It was jokingly called the Coffin. But with a man’s file in your hands it never seemed so funny.

The little Wren who had only just joined the special operations staff took the file and carried it to the cabinet. Once she glanced at it and the bare wording,
KILLED IN ACTION
. But she saw only the face of the man called Devane, because he was real, and Richie she had never met.

Devane felt bone dry, which was surprising. They had had plenty to drink, before, during and after the lunch in a small club at the back of St James’s, which in spite of the many uniforms in the bar and dining room seemed to ignore the war.

They had been back in the Admiralty bunker for most of the day. Between them, Whitcombe in his bluff, outspoken fashion, and Kinross with his reserved, carefully formed explanations, had built up quite a picture of the new flotilla.

They sat and watched Devane’s face as he studied a typed list of officers in the flotilla.

The names were like small portraits of the men, or at least half of them were. The new flotilla had been constructed from others which had been working in the Mediterranean and Devane needed little to remind him.

One of the boats was commanded by George ‘Red’ Mackay who had been transferred from a Canadian flotilla based at Alexandria. Devane smiled. Red had a loud, harsh voice and was terrific. Another CO was Willy Walker, who looked and walked rather like a disdainful heron. Faces and names, odd moments of brash bravado and others of sheer, gut-tearing fear. Interlaced tracers in the night, or a German E-boat boiling through the sea with a bow wave like Niagara Falls. Men cursing and firing, the lethal glitter of torpedoes
as they leapt from the tubes.

Whitcombe asked gently, ‘Approve?’

Devane did not answer directly. ‘I notice there are extra people, five to a boat?’

Whitcombe met his gaze. Devane’s eyes were what you always remembered after you had met him, he thought. Blue-grey, like the sea. There was no sense in pretending or beating about the bush.

‘Yes. Once you are on your own in the Black Sea you’ll be hard put to get replacements. So we’ve made certain you’ll have one officer and four key ratings in addition to each normal complement. A tight squeeze, but there it is.’

You don’t know the half of it
. He asked, ‘When do you want me to leave, sir?’

‘A few days’ time. You’ll be told. But it’s absolutely top secret, John. I’ve laid on accommodation for you in London. I suggest you take it easy and report daily to me.’

They all looked at the blue folder which lay on Devane’s lap.

‘You’ll be working with Lieutenant-Commander Beresford, but you’ve done that before.’

Another face. Intelligent but moody. One of the cloak-and-dagger brigade.

He replied, ‘Yes. Pretty good officer.’ He grinned at the old joke. ‘For a regular, that is.’

Whitcombe seemed satisfied with his reactions. ‘Remember this, John, yours is an independent command. You’ll have to rely on your own judgement most of the time. Beresford will be there to keep the Russians off your back. He’s good at that kind of thing.’

They all stood up. It was over. For the moment.

Devane said, ‘I’d better make up some story for my parents’ benefit.’

Kinross nodded. ‘I can help there.’

He’s had plenty of practice, Devane thought grimly. ‘I could use another drink.’

The Royal Navy had thoughtfully commandeered a small
but elegant block of flats in what had once been a quiet square. ‘Nice an’ near to ‘Arrods,’ as the accommodation petty officer had explained.

Devane stood at his window and looked down at the square, his head ringing like an oil drum. After yesterday’s meeting with Whitcombe and Kinross he should have left it at that and gone to bed. He never slept well these days, but the gin bottle beside the bed, two-thirds empty, showed that it was no cure either. He was drinking too much, and too often. Devane hoped he had hidden the fact from his parents, especially his mother. His father would say he understood. He had been in France in that other war. But Devane was troubled all the same. He had seen it happen to others, the desperate, feverish faces after the flotilla had swept down on a heavily defended convoy, or when they had been ambushed by German E-boats.

The small green square had been given over to ranks of vegetable patches. Digging for Victory. Even the iron railings had been taken away to be melted down for much-needed scrap. A few civilians were moving along the pavements, small, foreshortened figures, shabby and pathetic at a distance. But Devane knew differently. Without their tenacity, their British bloody-mindedness, as Whitcombe would term it, the swastika would have been flying over Buckingham Palace long ago, no matter what the armed forces tried to do.

A sailor was standing on one corner, his hand on a girl’s sleeve. It was like watching a mime, the sailor, a Norwegian, trying to make friends. The girl, used to being pursued by servicemen, just that bit standoffish. How much worse for the Norwegian than for me, Devane thought. His country occupied, his own world confined to another allegiance, and the hatred of the enemy.
Them
.