Torpedo Run (1981) (20 page)

Devane felt the resentment draining away like sand in a glass.

‘On the date stated in the final report, Lieutenant-Commander Richie was employed on a special operation on the Norwegian coast. He was in temporary command of a motor gunboat as it was considered more suitable for the operation than one of his own flotilla’s MTBs.’ He peered over his glasses. ‘Members of the court will have noted that the motor gunboat was subsequently lost with all hands whilst attacking an enemy convoy off Ostend.’

That was why Dundas and some of the others who had served with Richie knew nothing about it, Devane thought.

The commander said, ‘The operation was not completed but, whilst ashore with three of his men, Richie surprised a squad of six German soldiers and three civilians. Lieutenant-Commander Richie was well used to that kind of mission and managed to take all the Germans prisoner, one of his own men having been killed in the brief exchange of fire. It later transpired that the three civilians were Norwegians who were being taken into custody for interrogation.’ He glanced severely around the room. ‘Richie disarmed his prisoners but apparently made no effort to question either the German soldiers or the three civilians. Having ordered his two remaining men to carry their dead companion back to the landing place, he shot all nine men with a machine-pistol.’

Devane sat bolt upright as the quiet words plummeted into the room like grenades.

The voice continued, ‘One of the Norwegians, who was in fact a member of the Resistance, managed to crawl away, and eventually crossed into Sweden for safety. From him, and as a result of more recent investigations, the facts have become fully documented.’

Devane saw Whitcombe staring across the room at him, his face like stone. Only Barker appeared calm and relaxed, like a man who has heard nothing about some terrible tragedy happening within feet of him.

The commander said, ‘This is not the story of a brave man who has given so much for his country, one whose reflexes have been sharpened and honed to a point of military excellence. Nor is it something which because of his fine record should be swept aside and ignored. To do so is to condone the very things we have been fighting against for so long.’

Devane heard the murmur of voices flowing around him until it was silenced by a sharp rap on the table.

He could see it all. The unexpected confrontation, the Germans caught off guard in what they probably considered a safe area. The Norwegians no doubt expected to be rescued, instead of facing the horrors of torture at the local Gestapo HQ.

Perhaps Richie had already passed the danger point, and the sight of an enemy, flesh and blood at close quarters, had been too much for him. But to disarm them, to gun them down like beasts, had been premeditated and not the deed of the moment. It was ironic that the men who might have been prepared to vouch for him were as dead as the Germans.

The commander folded a page on his file and signed it with a flourish.

‘These are the facts and so shall they be recorded.’

He rose and replaced his cap. ‘The court is dismissed.’

Devane stood up, his mind grappling with what he had heard. Richie’s name was ruined. He must have known that Barker was on his way to Tuapse and once there would complete the investigation which would destroy him in the eyes of his command,
Parthian
. And that, he had been unable to bear.

Beresford was waiting for him, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Devane asked harshly, ‘You knew that too, I suppose?’

‘Not all of it. Some I guessed. When I heard the Swedes were involved I knew it could not be kept secret.’

‘Could not or
should
not?’

Beresford sounded surprised. ‘For six Krauts and a couple of terrorists? God, I’ve shot more men in an afternoon, and so have you probably!’

‘There’s a difference!’

Beresford touched his cap in a casual salute. ‘You could have fooled me.’

Military personnel were already putting up a larger table, carrying in more documents and resetting the scene for another service drama.

What was it, he wondered? A court martial? Someone’s fingers in the mess funds, or a man drunk on duty?

He saw the servant laying out clean ashtrays even though the others were still unused.

Captain Whitcombe joined him and grunted, ‘Let’s have a noggin. I need it after that.’

Barker walked lightly towards them. ‘Went pretty well, I thought. No loose ends.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Some
of these fellows, I really don’t know. Want to play God, it seems to me, eh?’ He nodded to Devane. ‘I’ll talk with you later.’ He nodded again. ‘No loose ends. That’s what I like to see.’

Devane murmured quietly,
‘Bastard!’

Whitcombe said uneasily, ‘I didn’t hear that. Oh,
damn
!’ He turned as a lieutenant hurried towards him with something to sign. ‘Won’t keep you.’

But Devane was looking across to the other end of the corridor. With servicemen in all kinds and shades of uniform hurrying past her she stood out like a bright picture.

She was dressed all in white, so that her dark hair and eyes seemed to accentuate her poise, her defiance.

He saw the lieutenant leave Whitcombe and push through towards her, a book held out as if for an autograph.

Whitcombe explained heavily, ‘That’s the release permit for her husband’s body.’

But Devane did not hear, he was already thrusting past the others, remembering that other time in the taxi when her defences had begun to crumble.

He said, ‘Hello. It’s me.’

She swung towards him, her eyes and mouth, even her body tensed as if to ward off an attack.

Devane took her arm and turned her to the wall, shutting out the busy people and the door of the courtroom.

She said, ‘You did make me jump. I had no idea. In fact, I was just thinking. . . .’

He squeezed her arm gently. ‘
Easy
. You don’t have to pretend with me. Just let me be with you.’ When she neither looked at him nor spoke he added urgently, ‘Please, Claudia, I’m not saying that to deceive or impress you. I – I thought, when I saw you in this terrible place. . . .’ His voice faltered as she faced him directly.

‘I hoped we might meet again one day.’ She trembled as if it were freezing cold. ‘Not like this.’

He watched her struggling to retain control. It was like a physical act, as if her mind and body were being possessed.

Then she said, ‘If you could help. . . .’

Devane guided her towards the door. ‘Let’s get away from here.’

She said, ‘Everyone kept apologizing, as if they were genuinely sorry. Don can’t be buried at sea with naval honours because of all this. Not the “done thing” apparently.’ Her chin lifted with sudden anger. ‘He really messed it up for himself this time! And I thought it was because I said I was having an affair!’

Devane heard himself ask, ‘Were you?’ He added quickly, ‘That was unforgivable. Don’t say anything.’

A beggar loaded with cheap brass ornaments placed himself across their path, his teeth bared in a determined grin.

Devane said, ‘Don’t worry. They’re not used to seeing girls like you these days. He probably thinks the cruise ships have started up again!’

But she did not smile. She turned and looked at him searchingly, the beggar and the crowded waterfront forgotten.

‘I know it’s very wrong. But in a strange way I’m happy.’ She studied each feature of his face, as if committing it to memory. ‘And I am very glad to see you. I hope it shows.’

Whitcombe paused at the top of the steps as a staff car pulled up for him.

Beresford followed his gaze and said, ‘I suggested that he should come with us, sir. I seem to have done the right thing for once.’

The old captain muttered something and climbed into the car.

Captain bloody Barker’s plan was almost foolproof. As safe as any of their crackpot schemes could ever be. He almost wished that he had been able to find a flaw in it before giving the signal to go ahead.

And the tall, khaki-clad lieutenant-commander with the unruly hair poking around his cap, with the lovely widow on his arm, was the obvious choice, and at short notice the
only
man who could carry it out.

There was a flaw, but not one strong enough to move the Chiefs of Staff. Even the PM had given the mission his blessing.

Whitcombe opened the file on his plump knees and frowned at the photograph of a smiling German naval officer. Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Lincke.

If Barker had thought of the plan, so too might he.

Captain James Whitcombe stubbed out a cigarette, then mopped his face and throat with a crumpled handkerchief.

Outside the room, which had been loaned to him by the Army, it was pitch dark, and he could hear nameless insects hammering against the screens. In the sealed office it was stiflingly hot, like a Turkish bath, and some hissing pressure-lamps added to the discomfort. For some inexplicable reason the electric generators had failed, and Whitcombe knew he was getting too old for this kind of thing.

They had been at it all afternoon, going over aerial photographs, checking intelligence reports and listening to the local operations officers from Cairo.

He glanced at his two companions. Beresford, characteristically slumped in a chair, eyes slitted against the harsh lamps, his hair tousled. A keen and intelligent man, but one you would never know in a thousand bloody years.

As a complete contrast, Captain Barker was still as bright as a button, pushing ideas, blocking observations of which he disapproved and generally making a nuisance of himself. Even his voice, Whitcombe thought, it went on and on at the same level, toneless and inhuman.
Useless Eustace,
he called him under his breath.

But, like him or not, there was no denying the logic in his plan. For months the Russian and German naval forces had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. Hitting a convoy here, attacking a shore position or supply dump there, with the casualties too often outweighing the value of each operation.

The Russians used their massive weight, while the Germans relied on agility and ruthless determination. It was a stalemate, and while it lasted there was no hope of a major military advance on the Eastern Front with the resulting
drain of German forces in the west.

Whitcombe thought of that morning, the little commander’s announcement about the Sicily invasion. ‘Operation Husky’, as it had been named in his secret files for so long. The pressure had to be maintained and increased. Mere people did not come into it. He tried to avoid thinking of Richie. A hero, a man who had done so much to improve the light coastal forces until they had become a powerful weapon. One slip had broken him, and soon he would be entirely forgotten. But was he not as much a casualty as a man who died under fire or by drowning?

Barker was looking at him fixedly, and with a start Whitcombe realized he must have said something.

‘What?’

Barker smiled gently. ‘It
is
late. We are all tired.’ Except me, his voice seemed to imply. ‘But we must decide. I, that is
we
, have a lot to do. The enemy might change his arrangements.’

Beresford leaned forward wearily and dragged a map across the table.

Barker eyed him confidently. ‘A ship lies in a Rumanian port, safe from attack, protected more by a false neutrality than anything with real teeth. The Rumanians have encouraged a complete German occupation, I see no reason to excuse their actions or respect their non-combatant status. The Russians, on the other hand, have lost all their tactical bases in the Black Sea, except Tuapse, which could be immobilized any day if the enemy made a determined assault without regard to cost. If Germany holds the Crimea, I am certain she will use it as a springboard in the New Year.’ He glanced severely at Whitcombe. ‘The Germans occupy several good bases. Not content with these, they have others in Bulgarian and Rumanian territory.’

Beresford said, ‘It makes sense, sir. Hit them hard through their main support lines and the effect could escalate all along the coast. The German naval command would have to withdraw forces from the Crimea in case our attacks were part of a new pattern.’

Whitcombe nodded. Two to one. More if you included the
people in London. Vice-Admiral Talents in particular. Barker’s ‘old chum’. He would see Barker in control of Special Operations if he could.

Barker sensed his victory. ‘The captured E-boat will be able to enter the harbour without difficulty. A suitable diversion elsewhere and the use of some skilled personnel should make it a knock-out punch.’ He pointed at the map. ‘South-west from Tuapse and proceeding inside Turkish waters as long as possible. Then in and out, the job done.’ He sat upright in his chair, his pale eyes challenging. ‘Well?’

Whitcombe thought of Devane. He would be with the girl right now. Two more casualties, but he hoped that neither of them accepted it.

‘What about a submarine?’

Beresford shook his head. ‘None available, sir. Not small enough to get in there. Anyway, it’s too shallow for a safe withdrawal. They’d pound her to scrap before she got half a cable.’

Barker smiled. ‘Don’t worry so much, James. If Devane is only half as good as they contend, he should be able to manage this one.’

Whitcombe retorted angrily, ‘Don’t patronize me! You’ve done a lot, but you don’t know these people as I do. I was like you and all the others brought back from retirement, the “beach”. Grateful at first, but ready enough to criticize all the reservists, the six-week-wonders. But now I know better, a whole lot better!’

Beresford murmured, ‘Easy, sir. Nobody doubts that. Not any more.’

Whitcombe nodded heavily. ‘I should bloody well hope not. Young John Devane is the best, but he’s over the edge. He knows it too, which doesn’t help. We should have brought more boats into the area.
Wait and see,
that ought to be the Admiralty’s damned motto!’

Barker sighed. ‘It’s settled then.’

The lights blinked and came on again.

Whitcombe rubbed his eyes and groped for another cigarette. ‘I suppose so.’