Torpedo Run (1981) (27 page)

A single shot echoed flatly around the inlet, and Devane heard the shell hiss almost apologetically above the E-boat. Fired on a fixed bearing, probably because the gun-layer, hauled bodily from his bunk, still did not understand what was happening.

Devane shouted, ‘All guns,
open fire!
’

His words were drowned by the instant crash and rattle of gunfire. It was as if every finger on every trigger had been tensed and waiting for hours for this second. Tracer cut the retreating dawn aside and tore across the water and into moored craft like liquid fire. Smoke, then flames belched from one of the anchored vessels, and Devane saw more
tracer, its trajectory almost flat on the water as it cracked past him and burst along the shoreline to add to the confusion. That was Rodger in
Buzzard
doing his stuff, his relief as great as everyone else’s. The fear and shock would come much later. For the lucky ones.

A launch loomed beyond the flared bows, and Devane saw light flood from its wheelhouse as figures stumbled on deck to be met by the terrifying clatter of machine-guns and cannon fire.

One of the Russian seamen whooped gleefully and poured a full burst from his Tommy gun into the launch as they thrust past. The lights went out, and the scrambling figures dropped and lay still as the big forty-millimetre raked it from aft and turned it into a furnace.

Devane pressed his face to the sighting-bar, knowing that Home would be copying his every move. Just in case. Steady . . . steady . . . steady now.

Tracer lifted from the shore at long last and shrieked overhead like hornets. Splashes and violent bumps alongside showed that some German gunners were finally alert to what was happening.

‘Fire!’

Devane felt the deck kick slightly, saw the brief splashes beyond the bows.

‘Torpedoes running, sir!’

‘Hard a-starboard! Revs for twenty knots!’

Vaguely from one corner of his eye Devane saw the British MTB tearing past, the sea boiling aside from her upraised bows like solid snow. A searchlight settled on her, but vanished as one of Rodger’s Oerlikons smashed it into oblivion with a long burst of tracer shells.

The explosions were merged into one, but in the roar of the E-boat’s diesels and the maniac clatter of gunfire almost unnoticeable. It must have taken the Germans a long time to work the
Potsdam
into her carefully dredged moorings, and she was dying just as slowly. Great white columns shot up her side, hurling pontoons, small boats, catwalks high into the air. When the torrents of water cascaded down again the wreckage came too, pockmarking the anchorage with leaping
fountains of spray.

Devane felt a shockwave boom across the inlet, winced as it lifted the deck beneath him and pushed Pellegrine’s control momentarily off course.

Fire, smoke and columns of sparks were already rising above the great ship, blotting out the town, quenching the ferocity of the tracer and explosions as the MTB curtsied round, tearing the water apart as she fought with rudders and screws to get clear from the danger.

Both of Rodger’s torpedoes also exploded on target, the smoke rolling and twisting with a scarlet centre as the devastation continued.

Devane felt steel hacking the deck, saw the Russian seaman thrown hard across the dead signalman as bullets hammered across and through them into the dense smoke.

Another series of explosions burst vividly across the inlet, joined instantly by another, even greater one, as fire reached something vital deep in the
Potsdam
’s bull.

‘Dead slow all engines!’ Devane had to gasp out the order twice before Pellegrine heard and repeated it. ‘Stand by to pick up the party from the launch! Incendiary grenade as we pull clear!’

More savage crashes and explosions which made the hillside show itself clearly as if it was bright sunlight instead of early dawn. When Devane darted a glance astern he saw a great black shadow rising through the smoke, like something from a nightmare. Higher and higher, shining now in the reflected flames. He recognized it as the ship’s bottom and keel as she continued to capsize, her full length rocked constantly by internal detonations.

As if to defy being overwhelmed by the inrushing water the keel exploded outwards. It was as if a great fiery fist had smashed right through the dying ship. Devane imagined he could feel the searing heat even as he watched.

Bullets whined and cracked around him. The second Russian seaman had vanished, overboard, or dragging himself to safety, Devane did not know.

Stooping figures ran doubled-over towards the port bow as the launch emerged from a wall of smoke.

‘All stop!’ Devane pounded the rail. This was the most dangerous moment. Come on, for God’s sake.
Shift yourselves
.

He saw Durston clambering up last, ducking as a seaman hurled a grenade into the disabled launch. Splashes too, as the German crew abandoned their craft and started to swim for the shore. Machine-gun fire spattered amongst them, from the Russians or some of his own men, Devane could not see.

The grenade exploded prematurely as the launch bobbed clear, burning and crackling fiercely, a solitary corpse sitting in the cockpit as if to await his own cremation.

Devane ducked down as tracer swept across from starboard. Bright green balls, lifting gently and then tearing towards him with frightening speed.

He felt the deck buck and kick, heard someone cry out in agony as the torrent of cannon fire tried to hang on to its target. More tracer slashed out from forward and aft as the Russian gun crews accepted the duel, the vivid reds and greens locking with each other and making the towering pall of smoke glow like a volcano.

Devane shouted, ‘I’m coming down! Half ahead all engines!’

Time to go. No living thing could last up here much longer.

The dead Russian, arms and legs entangled with those of the signalman, had blocked the oval hatch by the ladder. Splinters cracked against the hull as it started to forge ahead again, and Devane heard the deeper bark of artillery. No shells fell nearby, so he guessed the frantic gunners were mistakenly firing at one of their own returning patrol vessels.

He clambered down the vertical ladder to the deck beside the wheelhouse. His ears cringed as one of the twenty-millimetre cannons swung on extreme bearing and fired at a shadowy boat which was already sinking from their first attack.

He saw the man staring through his sights, his eyes like yellow stones in the reflected fires. If Devane had not thrown himself clear the man would have continued to fire right through him.

Devane wrenched open the steel door and almost fell into the bridge.

Home yelled, ‘Mining party ready, sir!’

A stray bullet whined through a slit in the shutters and ricocheted around the enclosed bridge like a maddened hornet. There was a hard slapping sound, and a seaman fell dead at Devane’s feet.

Devane stepped over him and swept paint chippings and broken glass from the chart table as he peered down at the madly vibrating bearings and figures.

He jabbed the chart with his dividers. ‘
Here
. Alter course now. Steer north thirty east. Fifteen knots.’

He waited for Home to shout to Pellegrine and inform Ackland in his engine room. Everyone had to know what was happening. Devane had learned it the hard way. In the past it had not been unknown for the whole bridge party, skipper, number one, coxswain, the lot, to be wiped out in one go. It left the boat to forge ahead out of command, with nobody else knowing what to do or when to do it.

The hull shook violently to a near-explosion, and Devane saw the falling water cascading down the front of the bridge and through the open slits, as if the boat was plunging to the bottom.

He shouted above the din, ‘Ten minutes! Then start the drop!’

Home stared at him fixedly, oblivious to the noise and the savage cracks against the hull.

‘It’ll take too long! They’ll pin us down as soon as it’s daylight!’

Devane replied sharply, ‘
Do it.
The mines will keep the local shipping held up for weeks.’ He turned away. ‘Signal
Buzzard
to take station astern.’

The mention of his own boat seemed to steady Home, and he barked off his orders without further argument.

‘Casualties?’

A seaman by the voicepipes, his forehead speckled with red droplets from flying glass, called, ‘Six, sir. All dead.’

A dull boom shivered around the hull and continued to follow it as the E-boat headed along her new course.

Devane knew it was the HQ ship finally surrendering to the onslaught of internal explosions. The shallow inlet had helped to contain and expand each one beyond measure, and he guessed that half of the waterfront would also be in ruins.

Six dead, the seaman had said. Looking back at the smoke and leaping fires it was a marvel anyone had come through.

At the prescribed position on the chart the mines were released over the E-boat’s stern at regular intervals. With luck they might bag a German warship or supply vessel, but even if they caught nothing the delays and shortages their presence would cause would more than make up for it.

‘Last one, sir!’

‘Very well. Increase to twenty knots.’ He ducked as a shell screamed over the bridge and burst far out to sea. ‘Zigzag, Swain. Make that twenty-five knots until
Buzzard
has finished her part.’

The MTB only carried a few mines, but carefully laid they might still bring home a catch or two. The Rumanians’ faith in their German landlords would be badly shaken after this, Devane thought grimly.

The deck swayed this way and that as the E-boat turned and forged towards the bright water. The land astern and on the port quarter was still blurred, concealed in smoke and an intruding layer of morning mist.

But there was a coastal battery somewhere which was wide awake and out for revenge.

Another shell burst to seaward, throwing up a thin column of spray, to be followed almost at once by another. Fired from a slightly different bearing as the German gunnery officer tried to trap the runaway E-boat in crossfire.

‘
Buzzard
has increased speed!’ Home gulped as a shell exploded on the surface within half a cable of the MTB. But she was already opening her throttles, a smoke container spewing out a dense tail to further confuse the artillery spotters.

Horne shouted, ‘Get the hell out of it, Harry!’

Pellegrine said, ‘Don’t think your Number One can ’ear you, sir!’ He was actually grinning.

Devane heard a faint abbreviated whine and pressed
himself against the side of the bridge. The explosion seemed to be somewhere else, nothing to do with them, and for an instant Devane thought the MTB had received a direct hit.

In the next second he felt himself lifted from his feet, the whole wheelhouse and bridge deck bursting upwards and outwards, flinging bodies about, knocking them senseless, while others groped like blind men as smoke and sparks belched amongst them.

Devane realized his hearing had gone in the explosion, but as it returned he regained his feet, his eyes stinging and burning as he tried to reach the forepart of the bridge.

There was smoke and grit everywhere, and the diesels sounded as if they too were in terrible agony, rising and dropping in a succession of roars.

Devane slipped and almost fell on a sprawled body. It was the seaman with the cut face, his eyes fixed and angry as he stared up at Devane while blood pumped between his out-flung legs as if it would never stop.

‘Must slow down! She’ll break up!’ Devane was almost sobbing as he gripped the voicepipes and realized for the first time he was alone. There was smoke coming from two of the voicepipes as if it was being forced through by a pump.

‘
Jesus!
’ Devane dragged the engine-room telephone from its clip and pressed it to his ear. Nothing. He jabbed his thumb on one of the communications buttons, but instead of attracting Ackland’s attention it blew the little switchboard to fragments.

‘Right then, me lads. What’s all this then?’ It was Pellegrine, his voice husky and slurred like a drunk as he climbed painfully to his feet, shaking off broken woodwork and severed wiring as he peered around at the chaos. He saw the dead seaman and grunted, ‘’E was supposed to take over if
I
copped it!’ He peered short-sightedly at Devane and bared his teeth. ‘You okay, sir?’

Devane nodded. To see Pellegrine’s brick-red face, to know he was not alone, almost tipped the scales.

He answered shakily, ‘Yes. Near thing. I’m not sure what. . . .’

He watched a frail figure swaying through the smoke,
pausing only to vomit as he saw the staring corpse at his feet. It was Metcalf.

Devane said, ‘Take the wheel. I’ll give you a course –’

Pellegrine blew his nose violently into a signal flag. ‘Compass ’as burst, sir.’

Devane saw the young seaman staring at him, his face white with shock.

‘Take it anyway. Try to keep the boat from chasing her tail.’ He turned to Pellegrine before the youth could protest. ‘Get aft. See what you can do. Fetch help.’ He winced as another shell exploded brightly on the port beam.

‘Where the hell is . . .?’

The thickset coxswain gestured beyond the flag locker. ‘’Ere, sir.’

‘Get going, Swain. Find the Chief.’ The words were tumbling out of him.

Pellegrine picked up his battered cap. ‘I’ll deal with it. Mr ’Orne’s in a bad way, sir.’

Devane picked his way across the broken deck and upended gratings. There were two more dead men. One British, the other Russian. Apparently unmarked, killed by blast or shock, they sat side by side and watched him as he moved past.

Home lay in one corner, his leg pinioned by a steel plate which had been folded round it like wet cardboard by the force of the explosion. The shell must have passed through the fore deck and burst deep in the hull. If only the engines would stop. They were coughing and roaring intermittently, shaking the whole hull with each revolution. But the boat was slowing down. Not from Ackland’s doing. She was going under.

Home opened his right eye and blinked it several times. The other side of his face had been torn away. No cheek, no eye. Nothing.