Torpedo Run (1981) (29 page)

Weeks of patrolling, boredom and the occasional carelessness which had been shattered by the nerve-stopping clatter of cannon fire or the searing glare of the enemy’s star shells.

Along the Eastern Front the two great armies had stirred, as if each dreaded the merciless grip of ice and slush which the winter would soon bring to torture them.

Dog-fights by day, the clouds blinking to artillery duels by night.

But at sea the war was different. Searching for scattered convoys, rounding them up and escorting them to safety. Hunting the enemy’s light forces, exchanging rapid fire, then fading into the night even before a kill could be confirmed.

The news of the Allied landings in Italy at Salerno had changed little here, Devane thought. They had become too involved with their own restricted war, and from their isolation had grown a fanatical and ruthless determination to seek out and destroy the enemy at every opportunity.

Goaded by Captain Barker,
Parthian
had been switched from one sector to the other, so that sometimes it was hard to know which the British seamen hated more – Barker or the enemy.

They had had successes along the way. F-lighters sunk in a fight which had been at less than twenty yards range. Two heavy transports stalked and torpedoed within a mile of a safe harbour. This boat had shot down a German bomber, Mackay’s had sunk two converted gunboats and a lighter filled with oil.

And each move made by
Parthian
seemed to be matched by Lincke’s
Seeadler
. The Germans had become very adept at using a single E-boat to cause panic amongst a Russian convoy, then, while the escorts struggled to restore order, Lincke’s striped E-boats thundered out of the darkness and painted the sea with fire and livid explosions. A small fragment of a very big war, one which might barely warrant a mention on the world scene, but to the officers and men of
Parthian
it was very real indeed.

Devane thought of Claudia, as he often did during
moments of illusory peace like this. She had written twice to him, but her letters had been vague, devoid of the warmth which had filled him with hope. She was in Cairo. A friend of her dead husband had pulled strings and had got her a job at some regimental office.

If only he could see her. He had written to her, but what was there to tell? She knew better than many what their war was about. To describe it would seem like enjoyment, but to stay silent was a lie.

Perhaps she had found someone else? Devane felt the familiar pain as he allowed the thought to hurt him again. And why not? A moment of love in some cheap hotel was hardly an offer for a girl like Claudia.

He heard Walker step up beside him, saw his familiar yellow scarf pale against the water abeam.

‘All quiet, Willy?’

Walker sucked on an unlit pipe and nodded. ‘Might get a sniff tonight, sir. Jerry’s been pushing storeships into the Crimea. Getting jumpy about Ivan making an attempt to retake the bloody place, I expect.’

Devane removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. The enemy-occupied coast was only forty miles away. Soldiers and equipment, airstrips and camouflaged field guns. All facing south and east. Waiting for it. Dreading it.

To the north the German armies were in retreat, but contesting every foot of the way. Only here, in the Crimea, the hinge of the war, were the Germans holding fast. If the Russian army could force the strait and gain a beach head on the peninsula, the whole front would crumble. It said so in all the reports, and Barker’s little coloured flags left no room for doubt.

But the Russian high command still seemed unwilling to use the Allied successes in Sicily and Italy for that final, necessary pivot. They spoke of next year, or waiting for the coming winter to wear down the last German resistance, their dwindling stocks of fuel and supplies.

Even the air felt different, Devane thought. Cold at night, and it was not yet October. The boats too were feeling it – leaks, wear and tear, shortages of spare parts – and
Buckhurst was full of complaints and moans which he was normally loath to express in front of Captain Barker.

Barker’s promised expansion had made a modest beginning. A couple of lieutenants for his operations section, another engineer to assist Buckhurst’s department, and some spare ratings for the boats themselves.

As Pellegrine had dourly commented, ‘All we want is a few Wrens an’ it’ll be just like bloody ’ome!’

But no more boats had been earmarked for the Black Sea’s forgotten war. They were needed elsewhere. In the Med, where it was rumoured that German resistance would stiffen once the Allied advances in Italy were contained or slowed by bad weather. In the Channel too they would already be preparing for the big one. The invasion of Northern Europe.

Walker sensed his mood and added quietly, ‘D’you think we’ll get a chance to finish here soon, sir?’ He gestured disdainfully beyond the corkscrewing bows. ‘Let the pongoes fight it out. Leave us out of it.’

Devane smiled. ‘It will
have
to be soon. The Germans have not been getting naval reinforcements lately. They’re like us. Jumpy.’

He thought suddenly of his visit to the military hospital to see David Seymour. The Russian medical staff had been gravely confident that he would recover from his wounds. Not until Devane’s visit was over had a senior doctor told him that Seymour had tried to kill himself.

In some ways that was no worse than seeing him. Shrunken, eagerly peering at his visitors as Devane and Mackay had stepped into the small, crowded ward.

It had been difficult not to look at the bandages where his hands had once been, to search for the youthful confidence which he had always shown in the past.

Now he was on his way home. To what?

Devane said, ‘We’ll do a listening-watch for a while, then sweep to the nor’-west. Maybe some of their coastal craft are on the move. Might bag one if we’re lucky.’

So casually said, but that was how it had to be. If you thought too much about the Seymours of this war you’d be ready for the chop yourself.

After this patrol he would be returning to
Merlin
. Dundas was feeling Seymour’s loss very badly. Blaming himself. He had been in command. The blame always rested there, no matter how unfairly.

Barker had promised a new officer for
Merlin
. Somebody from the Levant, another misfit probably. Barker never let up, ignoring their dislike, overcoming every objection. As they hardened to the unceasing patrols and close-action attacks, he seemed to thrive. One seaman had said that Barker was too scared to walk alone at night in case one of the lads did for him. Maybe they needed men like Barker, Devane conceded. You did not have to admire him.

He pushed Barker and his command bunker from his thoughts and said, ‘Not much visibility tonight, Willy. I think we’ll move in now. We can still rendezvous with Red Mackay at the end of his sector as arranged.’

Walker showed his teeth in a grin. He understood. Impatient to move, frightened of no decision rather than the wrong one.

‘I’ll pass the word.’

Alone again, Devane wiped his night glasses with some tissue, already damp in the cloying air.

Two torpedoes, twenty-two young men, some very young, and the power and grace of a thoroughbred. No wonder they were never short of volunteers.

‘Ready, sir.’

Devane hesitated, Beresford’s quiet briefing intruding into his thoughts. ‘What was that about lighters, Willy? The intelligence report before we sailed?’

‘Which one?’ Walker grinned again. ‘Oh, the gen about some steel and cement being moved eastwards along the peninsula by barge. Not exactly our style, surely?’

Devane stooped and thrust his head and shoulders beneath the canvas hood above the chart table. He waited, allowing his eyes to become used to the tiny shaded lamp. He could feel Walker watching him, the other men on watch becoming interested.

There it was. The crisscross bearings of an enemy minefield. A ship sunk there, another old wreck marked right on
the edge of the field. Walker was right, of course. Cement and steel for gun emplacements were important to the enemy, but Orel’s gunboats and some fighter-bombers might be more useful for the job of sinking the barges.

But if there
were
some barges on the move. . . . He peered fixedly at his watch, the hands and numerals glowing like tiny eyes. And if they were sunk somewhere inside the minefield it would play merry hell with enemy coastal movements and force them into open waters where Sorokin’s destroyers might have better luck. A handful of E-boats would be at a disadvantage for once, just as
Parthian
had been when beyond the reach of air cover.

He stood up. ‘Lay off a course, Willy. We’ll head for the south-westerly tip of the minefield, line abreast. Fifteen knots. Tell
Buzzard
what we’re doing. The rules are the same. We know that anything between us and the land is one of theirs, right?’

Walker took another twist around his neck with the yellow scarf.

‘You’re the boss, sir.’

As the last margin of copper melted into the horizon the two MTBs quivered into life and they turned towards the hidden land, their progress betrayed only by twin lines of choppy foam.

Walker’s young first lieutenant bustled across the bridge and leaned on the chart table, his buttocks and legs protruding from the cover as he laid off the course to contact the enemy coast.

His voice was muffled as he complained, ‘Bloody mines all over the place, Skipper. Is this necessary?’ He had obviously not got used to having the senior officer on the bridge.

Devane said quietly, ‘We’re in the cement business, Number One. You just get us there!’

Walker chuckled. ‘Hard luck, Ernest. I’ll put in a good word for you!’

As his first lieutenant lapsed into embarrassed silence beneath the canvas hood, Walker added softly, ‘He could be right of course, sir. Nasty spot to get jumped if the coastal batteries get a fix on us.’

Devane looked at him calmly. ‘Through the minefield, into the shallows, then along the coast, fast as you like. If you were the Jerry commander, what would
you
do about it?’

Walker sighed. ‘Whistle up
Seeadler
. Is
that
what you want, sir?’

Devane nodded, his mind suddenly very composed. ‘We’ll not get a better chance. But if the bloody barges have gone, or never intended to come anyway, I’ll think again.’

Walker shrugged. ‘What could be fairer?’

They looked at each other as the first lieutenant called, ‘Steer north thirty-five west, sir.’

Devane said, ‘Action stations, Willy. Let’s go and put down some strong foundations!’

He watched the immediate response of men around him and from the guns on either side of the squat bridge.

I have to keep pushing. It’s my purpose for being. Our reason for staying in this damned stretch of sea. The others can doubt my judgement, hate my guts for stirring up the nest again,
but I must do it.

He felt his stomach muscles contract as the final reports rattled through voicepipes and wires.

Two MTBs and two more patrolling to the east. Insects stinging the beast into fury and retaliation.

He licked his lips and stared through the dappled screen. But no sentry ever won a war by standing still.

‘Enemy coast to starboard, sir!’

Devane levelled his powerful glasses and strained his eyes above the lively spray from the bows. He felt the boat turn slightly, the matter-of-fact way which the coxswain acknowledged another change of course. It was ridiculous, but he had almost expected to hear Pellegrine’s gruff voice.

Walker stood beside him moving his glasses in a small arc as he searched for the land.

He drawled, ‘I hope you’re right, Ernest. I can’t see a bloody thing!’

Several men chuckled and the boatswain’s mate gave one of the machine-gunners a nudge. A good bunch, Devane
thought. They knew each other like friends from way back. And yet a year or so ago some of them had probably been at school. Now they were all veterans. Walker’s own special team.

Devane asked, ‘
Buzzard
on station?’

Walker grunted. ‘As far as I can tell. I daren’t use R/T or even a lamp. If the coast is only a mile abeam, I think it might make trouble!’

Both boats had earlier cut their speed down to a little more than steerage way. The sounds still seemed deafening, the surge of water along the sleek hull, the occasional smack as the bows lifted and fell on an off-shore roller.

But ashore, with any luck, such noises would be lost in wind and sea, and the average soldier’s total disbelief in anything which floated.

Devane recalled the time that his own boat in the Mediterranean had come almost gun to gun with a German tank. They had been following the North African coastline, searching for supply lighters, landing craft, anything. Instead, as they had moved parallel with two great banks of sand, they had seen it, motionless and obscene. One of the much-vaunted Tigers. And even as the MTB’s cannon and machine-guns had raked its armour like fiery darts the great gun had begun to swivel, the sleeping animal disturbed. One shell from a Tiger would have put paid to the mahogany hull there and then, and with all hands breathing a sigh of relief Devane had speeded out of immediate danger.

A tiny incident, a fragment of war. Something which made all the rest endurable.

There were some who actually enjoyed it. Usually they were beyond help. Maybe Don Richie had been one of those?

Walker said tersely, ‘Starboard lookout reports machinery noises, sir.’ He turned and stared at Devane. ‘I
know,
he must have ears like a damned bat!’

‘All engines stop. Silent routine. Pass the word to the Chief.’

Everyone froze as the motors sighed away with a final defiant shudder. A few hands moved to restrain clattering signal halliards, and Mecham, the boat’s number one, ducked to catch a pair of parallel rulers as they skidded from their
rack.

Devane wedged himself in the forepart of the bridge and turned his head from side to side. They were all doing it, like a group of blind men trying to find their bearings.