Torpedo Run (1981) (25 page)

The rating at the voicepipe said in a hushed tone, ‘Lookout reports the light again, sir. Low down. Could be a torch.’

‘Torch?’ Devane crossed the bridge and wrenched open one of the steel shutters.

As he levelled his powerful night glasses he heard Horne say, ‘Fisherman, most likely. Fouled a net.’

Home should know. But whoever it was would probably have a radio. Two unlit craft passing so near might make him nervous. It was like the Turkish aircraft all over again, except that now they were within an hour of their objective.

The rating at the voicepipe said, ‘Another flash, sir.’

‘Could it be a buoy of some kind?’

Horne said, ‘No. I checked the chart before we increased speed.’

‘Fine on the port bow now, sir.’

‘Slow ahead all engines.’ And let’s hope the MTB is awake and doesn’t run up our backside.

‘All slow ahead, sir.’

Devane bit his lip. ‘Bunts, get aloft to the searchlight. Train it on the bearing and when I give the word. . . .’

The signalman grinned. ‘On me way, sir.’

Devane rested his back against the signal locker and felt the pain of his wound stab at him like fire. He remembered the hotel room. The shutters. The girl’s softness against the scar.

‘Warn all guns to stand by.’ What was the matter with him? Instinct, some latent warning?

‘Ready, sir.’

‘Searchlight!’

The beam cut across the sea like something solid, pinning down the other vessel and transforming her into solid ice.

Home murmured, ‘Fishing, right enough!’

Another voice yelled, ‘Launch alongside!’

‘Bloody hell!’
Devane jumped to the voicepipes. ‘Full ahead!’

With her great engines roaring, the E-boat crashed across the water like a battering ram. Devane saw tiny figures mesmerized and unreal in the unwavering beam of light, and a tiny patch of colour beyond the fisherman’s battered hull.

A grey tripod mast, the glint of steel. A patrol boat. It was probably a routine search of local Rumanian vessels, as much to break the boredom as anything.

Home shouted, ‘Open fire, sir?’ In the reflected glare he looked wild. Like a stranger.

‘No!’
Devane wheeled round and seized Metcalf’s arm.
‘All set, my lad?’ He saw the youth nod jerkily. ‘Steer round the other side of them, Swain!’ He gestured sharply at Horne. ‘Reduce speed. Twelve knots.’

Horne said hoarsely, ‘But if they fire on
us
, sir?’

‘
I know!
’ Devane could not keep the rasp out of his tone. He did not have to be reminded of the lethal necklace of mines around the deck, the torpedoes and all the extra ammunition. Home should not need telling either.

The engines sighed into a throaty rumble, the throwback from the bows surging alongside like a mill stream.

Devane wanted to run to the upper bridge and look for
Buzzard
. But he dare not take his eyes from the oncoming boats. He had to trust men he barely knew, like Harry Rodger, the MTB’s number one who was in temporary command. One slip now and they could be blown to fragments, or at best crippled.

Devane said, ‘Call him up, Metcalf.
What ship?
’

A German E-boat, new to the Black Sea, would make a challenge without hesitation. They were well away from the main combat area, and one of their own was already carrying out some specified duty. He listened to Metcalf’s voice, harsh and distorted in the loudhailer. When he rested his hand on his shoulder he could feel his whole body quivering. But it was not fear. Devane could see his features clearly in the searchlight’s blue glare. He was wildly excited.

Devane said, ‘Alongside, starboard side to. Warn Lieutenant Durston. Get the fenders ready, we’ll grapple if possible.’

Pellegrine eased the wheel over so that the fishing boat, with the low-lying launch tied alongside, seemed to pivot round on the end of the beam.

Devane said, ‘Tell the W/T office to listen for any squawks from the Jerry. We’ll lob a depth charge under his keel if he tries anything.’

Horne yelled, ‘Stop those Russians from jabbering!’

Metcalf lowered the loudhailer. ‘No reply, sir.’

‘Not to worry.’

Devane levelled his glasses and watched some German seamen shielding their eyes from the searchlight as they lowered rope fenders over the side. The suddenness, the casual
challenge, each had played a vital part. The next three minutes were critical.

A heaving line snaked across the disturbed water and was caught deftly by a German.

Devane looked quickly across the two hulls towards the horizon. It was playing tricks. It had to be. It looked paler already. He could not afford to hang about any longer.

‘Boarders away!’

A whistle shrilled, and even as the E-boat surged alongside the smaller craft the first seaman leapt across the slit of trapped water.

A shot cracked out, and the searchlight above the bridge exploded like a hand grenade. Above the throbbing engines Devane heard the Canadian lieutenant’s voice, the sudden clatter of automatic fire, then complete silence.

Horne exclaimed thickly, ‘Both boats taken, sir. The Ruskies shot down a few by the look of it. Bastards.’

Devane nodded. Who did he mean? ‘Take charge of the patrol launch!’

Durston could not hear him and he seized Metcalf’s arm again. ‘Go across and tell him to follow us in. Disable the fishing boat and leave her.’ He saw the MTB’s bow wave surging out of the gloom and breathed out tightly. ‘And tell Lieutenant Durston from me. Fast as he can, right?’

Metcalf nodded, barely able to speak. ‘Y-yes, sir.’

Devane found he could even smile. ‘You did well, by the way. Now off you go, and keep your head down.’

Pellegrine chuckled, ‘Better watch out, sir. ’E’ll ’ave your job otherwise!’

Horne came back, breathing noisily. ‘All secure, sir. But I’m afraid Bunts has bought it.’

They both looked up as a thin black line ran down from the upper bridge searchlight mounting. When daylight came that stain would be red.

‘Cast off.’ Devane strode to the ladder. ‘I’m going up. See that the flags are hoisted for the final run in.’

Horne watched him climb up the short ladder and heard him snap open the voicepipes. He could see it clearly in his mind. Devane outwardly calm, risking his life on the exposed
upper bridge to guide his little flotilla through hell if need be. Sharing his position with a dead signalman whose name he had never known.

As the light filtered towards the land to separate sea from sky, shore from shadows, the flags were hoisted to either yard. The white ensign to starboard and the blue and white Russian flag, its star and hammer and sickle emblems standing against the dull sky like the signalman’s blood.

A searchlight, already feeble in the dawn light, swung across the water and hesitated above the three approaching boats.

From another bearing a lamp blinked out a curt challenge, and just as quickly a reply was flashed by Durston’s unexpected command. Devane found time to realize that the signal was different from the one he had been instructed to use. Fate was still watching over him.

He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly like ashes.

‘Full ahead all engines!
Start the attack
!’

Beresford sat down in a corner of Captain Barker’s office-cum-operations room and watched his superior as he peered intently at his coloured chart. There were counters and little flags on it, strips of coloured tape to denote local minefields, tiny pencilled signposts of reports which awaited confirmation.

Beresford sighed. The whole of the Black Sea’s naval strategy condensed into one small room. Barker showed no sign of tiredness, and beneath the glaring lights his neat head looked glossy and well groomed.

It would soon be time. Beresford glanced at the clock. He pictured the MTB and the captured E-boat, Devane and other faces he come to know as friends.

Barker looked at him. ‘Did you discover anything from the command bunker?’

‘I saw Sorokin and his staff, sir. It all seemed spot on.’

‘Spot on. I do wish you would confine yourself to the English language!’ But Barker’s tone lacked its usual severity. His mind was busy elsewhere.

Beresford added, ‘
Parthian
has regrouped as ordered, sir. Lieutenant-Commander Mackay is taking the four boats on a sweep to the west sector.’ He hid a smile. He had almost called Mackay ‘Red’.

‘Hmm. Lieutenant Kimber should be here too.’

‘I left him with Sorokin, sir. Our link with the Russians, just in case things get a bit hectic later on.’

‘
Things
will soon change, be assured of that.’ Barker looked around his little HQ. ‘I shall have my own staff, communications, intelligence, operations, everything I need. I’m not playing messenger boy for the Reds, believe me!’

Beresford did not know what had brought this on, nor did he care. Had he been with Devane he would have felt differently, part of it, win or lose. He tried not to look at the clock again. Damn bloody Barker and his empire building.

He said gently, ‘This command may even warrant an officer of flag rank, sir? An accelerated promotion for you, perhaps?’

He had expected Barker to bite his head off, or at least to scoff at the idea. But Barker nodded gravely.

‘You may be right. I would certainly not shirk the responsibility.’

The telephone jangled and Beresford lifted it swiftly to his ear. It was Kimber, the poker-faced intelligence officer.

‘Everything is quiet, sir. Sorokin has received several reports about the diversions. The Germans are running a fast convoy towards Sevastopol. They are bound to be expecting an attack on it. I gather that Commander Orel is in charge. He’s got some gunboats and a couple of heavy support craft.’ He lowered his voice as if others were nearby. ‘The Germans are using F-lighters unfortunately.’

Barker snapped testily, ‘Is this a private conversation?’

Beresford put down the telephone and smiled at him. ‘The diversionary attack is under way, sir. But Kimber has discovered that Jerry is using F-lighters.’ He saw the shutters drop behind Barker’s pale eyes and added, ‘F-lighters are fairly fast and carry heavy armament. They also hump cargo, so they are in fact both convoy
and
escort. Another worrying factor is that they are too shallow draught for a torpedo
attack. I’ve run up against them in the Med.’

Barker walked to another wall map. ‘Well, I
know
that, Ralph. You’re not the only one with combat experience!’

Beresford turned away.
You lying little bastard. You hadn’t a bloody clue!

The door opened and Lieutenant Kimber entered the concrete room, his face pale and tired.

Barker glared. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Captain Sorokin thought I should be with you, sir. He will keep us informed.’

‘See?’ Barker turned to Beresford. ‘Secrecy. Tell us nothing. Damn Bolsheviks!’

Kimber laid some counters on the coloured chart. ‘
Parthian
’s approximate position, sir.’

Barker leant over the chart. ‘
Merlin,
what the hell is
she
doing?’

Kimber shifted uncomfortably. ‘Sorokin requested that a boat be detached to search for the crew of one of their aircraft which has ditched, sir. Lieutenant Dundas in
Merlin
was at the end of the patrol area and so the nearest. I thought –’

Barker said sharply, ‘You
thought,
did you? That makes a bloody change around here!’ He swung on Beresford. ‘I instructed Mackay to stay in position, I ordered him to remain in his sector until after the attack on Mandra was completed! Well, did I not?’

Beresford felt a touch of anxiety. Barker was really worried about something. There was sweat on his upper lip and he seemed unable to keep still.

‘You also ordered
Merlin
to patrol on the flotilla’s extreme westerly flank, sir. She would be the obvious choice to search for survivors. If you like, I’ll go and speak to Sorokin myself –’ He got no further.

‘No. I want you here.’ Surprisingly, he began to hum quietly to himself, his fingers tapping in time against his thigh. ‘Ring Sorokin’s operations staff and find out all you can about enemy movements.’ He stared at the clock. ‘Well, Devane will be in position about now.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Provided he has not forgotten how to obey orders
too!’

Beresford spoke to the officer he had already met at the Russian HQ, his mind automatically sifting details, but his attention still fixed on Barker’s busily tapping fingers.

He said, ‘The attack on the German convoy has begun, sir. No reports of damage or casualties yet, but it seems as if the Germans were expecting it.’

‘What about
Parthian
? Is Mackay still in his sector?’

‘South of the Crimea the weather has closed in a bit, sir. Sea mist, poor visibility.’

‘I did not ask for a weather report!’

‘Lieutenant-Commander Mackay has retained radio silence, sir. As ordered.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ Barker’s hum rose and fell like a disturbed bee. ‘Keep that line open. Any news of
Merlin
and . . . .’ He shut his mouth and returned to the chart table.

Beresford gripped the telephone so tightly that he thought it might snap. It could not be. Surely not even Barker would set up Dundas’s boat as the bait for Lincke? He shook himself angrily. He was too tired, too rattled to think clearly. It was ridiculous. He tried again, his eyes moving to the nearest wall map.

German coastal forces
had
to be drawn away from the Rumanian port of Mandra. The Russians had mounted a spirited attack on a legitimate target, except that the target would be more capable of hitting back than a handful of merchantmen. After
Parthian
’s previous successes, an old hand like Lincke would be looking further afield, searching for flaws, taking counter-measures.

Beresford realized he had started to sweat. It was unnerving. Barker had foreseen this possibility but had sent Dundas to the extreme boundary of the so-called safe patrol area. Safe? In the Black Sea? He must be raving mad.