Torpedo Run (1981) (24 page)

The lieutenant strolled away, chuckling to himself, and Horne tried not to think about his own command following astern.

Pellegrine swayed at the wheel and kept his eyes on the marked channel and the will-o’-the-wisp light of the launch which was guiding him out.

As always he was weighing up his chances. They had a good team, but the E-boat was different. He pictured the necklace of mines around the decks, the extra drums of fuel, the torpedoes and magazines to feed the rapid-fire armament. A floating bomb. One mistake and his wife in Gosport could do what she bloody well liked. He frowned into the shadows. Not if he could help it.

The first hint of deeper water sluiced along the hull and raised the forecastle with a shudder. The engines responded with a deeper growl, and Home remarked, ‘We’ll start the main engine as soon as we clear the harbour. That’ll steady her down right enough.’

Pellegrine nodded, his mind elsewhere. Funny to think of Jerries up here. Their officers were always in a tangle too, he supposed. The petty officers in any navy were the backbone, without them the wardroom would be in a right potmess.

Below in the deserted cabin Devane sat with his legs outstretched, his ear within inches of the bridge telephone. He
took out the star-shaped splinter from his pocket and turned it over in his fingers.

Then abruptly he stood up and climbed swiftly to the bridge.

He said, ‘We’ll test guns in thirty minutes.’

Home was startled to see him reappear so quickly. Devane sounded completely calm, and if he had any misgivings about the mission he did not show them.

Home said carefully, ‘I was sorry to hear about Lieutenant-Commander Richie.’

‘Yes.’ Devane took out the star-shaped splinter and then sent it spinning over the side of the bridge. ‘But that’s all in the past. There’s just us now. Right, Swain?’

Pellegrine showed his teeth. ‘True, sir. Like all them other times. Us against the bloody world!’

Devane climbed to the forepart of the bridge and stared beyond the bows. Perhaps Lincke was out there somewhere. In Mandra maybe?

It had to happen one day, so why not there?

He tried to shrug it off. They had nearly lost the desert war because Rommel had become almost super-human in the eyes of the Eighth Army soldiers. If he let Lincke affect him in a similar fashion he could end up losing his life.

Torpedoman Pollard appeared with a steaming fanny of tea.

‘Char up, gents!’

Pellegrine said sourly, ‘I thought we’d got shot of you, Geordie!’

But Devane took the hot mug of sweet tea and was suddenly grateful. With men like Pollard and Pellegrine, Horne and Ackland around him he had a far stronger weapon than Lincke would ever possess.

Horne turned as he sensed Devane’s presence on the bridge.

‘About to alter course to south seventy west, sir.’ He watched Devane’s shadowy outline. ‘Dawn will be up in about fifteen minutes.

‘Good.’

Devane moved to the forepart of the bridge, his feet and legs taking the E-boat’s uneven plunge as she pushed across the low ranks of wavelets. No boat designed to move with speed and agility was expected to enjoy this painful crawl but, as Ackland was quick to remind anybody who was interested, fifteen knots was economical. Lost in the darkness astern, the smaller MTB was also suffering the enforced snail’s pace.

Devane said, ‘This is the nearest we shall be to the Turkish coast. Inform the lookouts. A punch-up with some patrol boat is the last thing we need.’

He had no worries about Home’s skill as a navigator. If anything, he was better than Dundas, and had proved in the past that he could almost smell the coastline before anyone else could spot it.

Home said quietly, ‘This is the first op I’ve done in the war where I’ve set off knowing there’s not enough fuel to get me home again. I just hope Captain Barker and the Ruskies have it all worked out for a fuelling rendezvous. We’ll be down to a cupful of diesel by then.’ He shot a glance over the glass screen. ‘My own boat back there’ll be even harder to keep going.’

Devane nodded. He could trust Home and Durston to keep their mouths shut about this extra hazard. But the seamen and engine-room ratings were not fools. They knew the score all right.

‘We
must
conserve fuel. This time tomorrow we’ll be in the thick of it. After that. . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll manage somehow.’

Home chuckled. ‘Most of the lads are too sick with the motion to care. As for the Ruskies, they seem as happy as sandboys. They know their gunnery too. Just as well.’

Devane raised his glasses and moved them carefully from bow to bow. Black horizon, the sea confined to a few pale crests, and a jagged edge of spray from the stem. In minutes it would all change again. Blue sky and empty sea. The last part was the most important.

He thought of the long, endless day while they cruised closer and closer to the western end of the Black Sea. The
nearer they got, the hazier the plan of attack and last-second alternatives seemed to become.

The seaman on the wheel stood to one side as Pellegrine appeared yawning and rubbing his eyes. He seemed to sense each alteration of course and trusted nobody but himself to handle it.

The watchkeepers changed, the gun crews removed the waterproof covers and checked their magazines. A leading torpedoman appeared from nowhere and began a methodical inspection of the starboard tube. To an onlooker it would appear as if each man had been aboard for years instead of hours.

Devane got his first glimpse of the MTB bouncing gracelessly astern. Cracking on speed for the final part of the attack would seem like a relief after this.

Horne followed his glance. ‘She’s lively. But I’ll lay odds that my Number One’ll heave a sigh when he’s used up some of his fuel and to blazes with the return trip! Why the hell can’t
we
have diesels like the Jerries? The fools who are supposed to be planning this war might at least spare a thought for the poor devils who have to put to sea in a mobile petrol drum!’

Lieutenant Durston lurched on to the bridge and squinted at the brightening sky.

He said brightly, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

‘
Aircraft!
Bearing red four-five! Moving right to left. Angle of sight two-oh!’

Horne leapt across the bridge.
‘Jesus!’

Devane raised his glasses and moved them deliberately across a filmy bank of cloud. Against it the tiny black dot appeared to be motionless. An insect pinned there in mid-flight.

‘Call up
Buzzard
. Tell them –’

‘She’s seen it, sir.’

Horne breathed out fiercely. ‘Good thinking. If my Number One had used a lamp instead of flags I’d have murdered him!’

‘Dead slow all engines. Tell the Chief what’s happening.’ Devane concentrated on the little dot until his eyes throbbed. Even at this speed their wake could be seen for miles by some vigilant airman. The engines sighed and the deck swayed and
wallowed more heavily.

‘Aircraft’s altered course, sir. Heading due south.’

Durston muttered, ‘Anti-submarine patrol maybe. Too near land to be German.’

It will make no difference, Devane thought grimly. If the plane was Turkish the enemy would hear of their presence just as quickly.

Durston rubbed his chin. ‘Hell, I wonder if the bastard’s spotted us.’ He had forgotten all about breakfast.

The lookout, crouched over his massive search-binoculars, shifted them slightly on their mounting.

‘No change, sir.’

‘Now what?’ Home did not look directly at Devane. ‘Did he or didn’t he?’

Devane let the glasses fall to his chest. They were all looking at him even though their faces were directed anywhere but in his direction.

It was his decision.
The independent command.
Press on, or abort now and hope for another chance later on?

A German pilot would fly exactly as this one was doing. He would remain on course, do nothing to show he had seen the two white wakes on the sea below.

He would make his signal later.
What ships? Where bound?
Devane could imagine the wires humming, some German staff officer being sent to report to his admiral.

But suppose it was a Turk? Unskilled in the craft of modern warfare, he might be too curious to stay away. On the other hand. . . .

Devane jammed his fist into his pocket and clenched it so tightly the pain helped to slow his racing thoughts.

He said, ‘Disregard. Resume cruising speed in ten minutes. Inform
Buzzard
.’

Just like that. It was all it took to make a decision. One which might kill every man aboard within the hour.

He continued with the pretence. ‘Now about breakfast. . . .’ He saw them relax and grin at each other.

The skipper’s not bothered. No panic yet
. He could almost hear them.

Claudia had wanted to know what it was like. But how could he describe this kind of madness?

‘Course north twenty west, sir.’ Pellegrine’s eyes glowed faintly in the shaded compass light. ‘Revolutions for eighteen knots.’

‘Very good.’ Devane tugged at his jacket and shirt. With the steel shutters slammed shut, and all but the observation slits closed around the E-boat’s bridge, the air was clammy and oppressive.

Lieutenant Home stood just beside the coxswain, his thick figure rising and falling easily to the motion. His upbringing in lively drifters had seemingly left him untroubled by anything but a Force Ten.

Devane felt the tension around and below him. All the waiting, the hourly expectation of discovery or an ambush following the sighting of that aircraft had taken a toll of their nerves. On the last leg of the journey they had stopped engines while the spare fuel drums had been lowered outboard and forced beneath the surface until they had filled and sunk from sight. One empty diesel or petrol drum sighted by a patrol vessel would be more than enough to alarm the defences.

Some sort of argument had broken out between two of the Russians and some seamen. The Russian lieutenant, a round-faced, amiable-looking man called Patolichev, had stopped it simply by producing his automatic pistol and clicking the safety catch back and forth. The Russians had dropped the argument, and the British sailors had been too shocked by such unorthodox behaviour from an officer to push the matter further.

Horne said suddenly, ‘I think we’ve made it, sir. We’re less than twenty miles from the inlet. Even Jerry wouldn’t delay an attack much later than this.’

Devane said nothing. Home was worried. About the mission, or his own boat which was still following somewhere astern, he could not tell. He examined his own feelings. He felt surprisingly calm, as if his whole being was resting. Like a cat about to gather every ounce of skill and prowess to spring on its unsuspecting prey.

Devane wiped his face with a signal flag. He had forgotten nothing, as far as he could tell.

Thank God they were making better headway now, so that the sickening motion was gone. When he had started in MTBs Devane had often wondered why the German boats had appeared steadier and hard to hit with anything but rapid fire. The boat was cruising along at eighteen knots with barely any wash to betray her presence. Home’s boat would be lifting her bows and tossing the water aside in a great white moustache. Impressive and dashing, but it could be a dead giveaway.

The German designers had thought of everything. Pellegrine was able to steer the boat with the central rudder, one of three. The side rudders were turned outwards to an angle of thirty degrees. It improved speed and cut down wash and bow wave to a minimum. Simple, when you thought about it.

Devane said, ‘Test communications. And post two more lookouts on the upper bridge.’ He peered round in the gloom. ‘Interpreter?’

‘Here, sir.’

‘Come and join me.’ Devane was astonished at his own casual manner. Perhaps he was always like this and had never noticed it before. ‘If we have to speak to a patrol, you’d better be ready with the loudhailer.’

The interpreter groped from the rear of the wheelhouse, and Devane heard Pellegrine mutter, ‘Gawd, you again?’

It was Metcalf. Devane had left it to Beresford to select a convincing interpreter, but he had not expected to see the young seaman who had failed to get his commission.

Like most of the hands he was wearing a white sweater, the nearest thing to a German’s sea-going gear, without actually wearing the uniforms of dead sailors.

Metcalf gripped the bridge rail and said fiercely, ‘Ready, sir.’

Horne called, ‘Communications tested and correct, sir. All guns loaded.’

Devane peered at his luminous watch. Even that was German.
Soon now
.

Metcalf must have taken his scrutiny as uncertainty and whispered, ‘Will I have to speak, sir?’

‘Not likely. There’ll be a challenge, and provided the Ruskies have got it right, we should be able to flash the correct reply.’ He tore his mind from the mental picture he had formed of the little port, Mandra. ‘Feeling all right, Metcalf?’

Metcalf shivered. ‘Yessir. Fine.’ It was true. He had never felt better. All the way from Tuapse, through the day and night, as he had listened to the others swopping stories of their conquests ashore, of their officers, or simply about their homes, he had been thinking of this moment. It might be his last chance. Even the other seamen had studied him with more respect once they had discovered he could speak German. Metcalf could speak three languages as it happened, but the others could wait for the present.

Devane forgot the young seaman at his side as Horne yelled, ‘Port lookout reports a light at red four-five.’ It sounded like a question.

Devane snapped, ‘Alter course. Steer north thirty west.’

It would take only minutes to make up for the alteration of course. But to steer straight past the mysterious light would be inviting trouble. If there was an enemy patrol lying off shore he would soon spot the British MTB’s wash etched against the black horizon like a playful dolphin.

‘Who’s the lookout?’

Horne answered promptly, ‘Able Seaman Tomkins, sir. One of my chaps. He’s red-hot.’