Torpedo Run (1981) (33 page)

He looked at her. ‘I must be dreaming.’

‘I’m being sent home quite shortly.’ She turned her face away from him. ‘So when we meet again it will be Devon.’

‘I’ll remember.’

‘You’d better.’

‘If you see my mother and father, tell them –’

She shook her head. ‘We’ll tell them together.’

They arrived at a medium-sized house which had been broken up into apartments for the duration. Once it had housed the family of an army officer, now it had a shifting population. Clerks for the garrison, officers on transit, lost souls in a world at war.

The room was quite spacious, and the paler outlines on the walls where pictures had once hung were disguised with cheerful rugs and shawls from the local traders.

She closed the door behind them and stood with her back against it, her breasts moving quickly as she appeared to listen.

Then she said, ‘Gone. We’re alone. It’s ours until I tell her differently.’

She came to him eagerly as he held her tightly. Only when he unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor did she exclaim, ‘Let’s not waste a moment. I want you.’

Later, as they lay on the bed, the room in strange shadows from the window, she murmured, ‘That was so wonderful, my darling.’ She propped herself on one elbow and looked down at him, her hair touching his throat while her hand explored his body, then holding him until his longing was
aroused again to a point of madness.

He made to rise and pull her down on the bed, but she rose above him, her slender body etched against the ceiling like a living statue.

‘No, my captain, stay a prisoner.’ She straddled him firmly, her hands on his shoulders, her voice lost in whispers as she lowered herself to contain him and repeat their act of love.

Totally exhausted, their bodies and limbs entwined, they lay still again to await the dawn. Another day of discussion, of meaningless talk, while he thought only of her, the dragging minutes and hours until he would join with her once more.

He pushed some hair gently from her face. She was asleep at last, her head on his chest, her breast moving steadily against him. At moments like these she was more like a wanton child than a woman. Full of desire, yet vulnerable. Full of ways to make a man lose his self-control, his inhibitions, in the fashion of her love-making. There would, there
could
be nobody else for him.

Devane touched her spine and felt her snuggle closer, but she was still asleep. He cupped her breast in his hand and whispered, ‘I shall come back, somehow. I don’t know how I’ll manage it, but I will.’

Then he too was asleep.

Twelve hundred miles from the room where Devane lay with the girl pressed beside him, his adversary, the man he had never met, stood below the window and contemplated the dawn. It was cold and without promise. Damp, like the accursed country.

Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Lincke watched the sky and listened to the far-off wail of a siren. The Eastern Front never rested for long, but Lincke had taught himself to keep his mind clear of unnecessary diversions. He would inspect the whole of
Gruppe Seeadler
this morning. There was no substitute for routine.

He heard the girl moan in her sleep and turned to look at her, at her nakedness, and the way her hair hung over the
side of the bed.

Lincke had taken her to his bed not from lust or affection. It was just another part of his routine. Necessary, although in her case unsatisfactory. She made love like an animal, and had cried several times. She was an interpreter, described as Polish. But Lincke had checked her record sheet. She had been born a Russian, and had lost her parents and family in the revolution. She had the features of an aristocrat, the mind of a slut, he thought.

He shivered and stood back from the window. Today the new admiral would come and inspect the naval forces here. He would replace the one killed in
Parthian
’s attack on the
Potsdam
. Lincke gave a tight smile as he recalled how some of his brother officers had seemingly expected him to be enraged by such an impudent attack in his territory.

Quite the reverse. Lincke had been seeking the last clue in the pattern of events. He knew that Devane commanded the handful of motor torpedo boats named
Parthian
. He had studied his background, and now knew him better than some of his own subordinates.

He thought of the coming Russian offensive. It could not be delayed much longer, and it must commence before winter closed its grip. It was to be hoped that the new admiral was better than the last one or the senior captain who had been sent from Odessa temporarily to assume command. A useless object. Lincke could feel his anger rising again. The man had kept moaning about the great ships which were now no more. Even the mighty
Tirpitz
had been attacked by midget submarines within the safety of a Norwegian fjord and was out of service. He should have realized that it was a small-ship war. U-boats, fast patrol vessels, with young minds to command them.

Lincke had been to the local field HQ to examine some photographs of Russian supply vessels. On the way he had seen a firing squad unhurriedly shooting a dozen or so ragged figures. They had fallen into a long trench, almost grateful it seemed for the reprieve from suffering. Partisans, a brutal-looking SS lieutenant had explained. They had been interrogated fully. No further use.

Lincke had little time for the savagery of the SS, but accepted it. All information was useful. How you got it was not the fighting-man’s concern.

The thought still troubled him, and he walked over to the bed and looked down at the girl.

In the grey light she looked almost beautiful. The White Russians must have been mad not to see the inevitability of revolution.

Lincke never considered the possibility of Germany losing the war. It was out of the question. But should any of these patriots or traitors, whichever way you saw them, fall into enemy hands, God help them.

He stood stock still, suddenly ice-cold. All that work and study of useless intelligence material and it had been right there in front of his face. It was lucky none of his subordinates had thought of it first. He almost laughed aloud. It was so devious. So British.

The girl stirred and opened her eyes. For a moment she was startled, even frightened. Then she reached out and stroked his skin. It was like ice.

She murmured something but Lincke ignored her. His heart was beating faster as he considered the possibility of his discovery. A Russian pilot had been shot down and captured. They had found some maps on him. No doubt the airman had been taken to see the SS slaughterhouse. That should loosen anyone’s tongue.

Lincke considered the idea of telling his new superior but discarded it instantly.
He
commanded
Seeadler,
not some admiral who knew nothing of these people.

His second-in-command could inspect the boats today. Max would drive him to where the Russians were quartered, the ones who wore the uniforms of the Reich.

Time was running out fast. If Lincke knew it, so would the man Devane. He had stayed alive too long to be a fool.

Lincke stooped down and touched the girl’s bare shoulder, amused at the pathetic way she moved her body to please him.

But his need of her was gone. There was work to be done. He pushed her away and shouted for Max, his orderly.

When the door burst open and Max, dishevelled in a watch-coat, a Luger in one huge fist, peered in at him, Lincke said calmly, ‘I need a bath and a shave.’

He noticed the way Max kept his eyes averted from the girl’s nakedness. That too sharpened his humour. It was going to be a better day after all.

‘Max, we are going to lay a trap for the Englishman.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He thrust the pistol out of view. What a man. You never knew with Korvettenkapitän Lincke.

Lincke watched him cheerfully, then patted his thick forearm.

‘
Yes, sir
. That is all you say. Even to the jaws of hell if necessary, eh, my fine seaman?’

He left the room, laughing.

Lieutenant Dundas climbed on to the gratings in the forepart of the bridge, staggering and waiting for a suitable handhold to steady himself.

‘Signal received from Russian escort commander, sir. He is withdrawing as ordered.’

‘Very well.’ Devane rubbed his eyes and peered abeam. But the escorting warships had already melted into the darkness.

He noticed how Dundas’s breath drifted above the screen, and felt the rawness of neck as his collar rubbed against it. The first week of November. He could feel it in his bones and blood like a threat. Or was it a touch of the usual nerves?

‘Signal
Kestrel
and tell Red to check the launches and make sure they’re on station. Time enough later on to play silly buggers. But, until we hit the land, I want a tight formation all way.’

He leant against the corner of the pitching bridge, his ears and senses taking in the labouring motors, throttled down to slow speed, the sluice of the sea against the hull and the boat’s sluggish response. Packed with fuel and extra ammunition, depth charges and spare machine-guns which Barker had borrowed or bribed from the Russians, the MTB felt heavy in the water.

November. Four months since he had taken over command of
Parthian
. It seemed an eternity. It was as if all the rest, even Home’s death, were a working-up for this last operation. Not weeks away now, but a matter of hours.

As they had prepared the boats and trained for a hit-and-run assault on the Crimean shoreline, Devane had waited for news of his enemy, Lincke. There had been practically
nothing. A few sighting reports from Russian air patrols, but they could have been wrong anyway. The Germans had a lot of small craft working the coastal waters. The famous 3rd Minesweeping Flotilla had made a name for itself over and over again in its unfamiliar role as an attacking force rather than a defensive one. They had supported the German army, run stores and evacuated wounded, and had bombarded Russian positions on the notorious ‘death mountain of Noworossisk’. Lincke might have been with them. Then again, he might already know or guess what
Parthian
was doing. Biding his time, as they had done while they had waited for the order to attack.

The fact that Sorokin had sent his four fastest and most modern launches to carry the one hundred Russian shock-troops proved how much he valued Barker’s plan.

Devane thought of the men around him and the others in the flotilla. He heard Carroll humming softly to himself, a lookout whispering to the boatswain’s mate, who chuckled as he got to the point of his joke. Lieutenant Chalmers was aft, checking the depth charges. Soon he would be on the forecastle, doing the same with Leading Seaman Priest’s six-pounder. He never seemed to rest or sleep, as if he was driven by some terrible urge or memory.

A seaman had the helm, and he guessed that Pellegrine was below in his mess, preparing himself as he always did before an action. A real old sweat. Money and paybook in an oilskin pouch. A small flask of rum in one pocket, a spare bulb for his life-jacket lamp. Ready for anything, was the coxswain.

He heard Leading Seaman Hanlon say sarcastically, ‘Come on, la, what’s up with yer? You’re like a spare part at a bleedin’ weddin’, you know that?’ His hard Liverpool accent seemed at odds with the Black Sea, Devane thought. He was probably having a go at Ordinary Seaman Metcalf again. Those two seemed to hate each other more than the enemy.

Dundas came back rubbing his hands. ‘All checked, sir. Boats on station. Feels a bit lively. We may be in for a blow.’

He knew that Devane did not need telling. It was something to say. To contain the innermost thoughts.

Four MTBs making a tight box formation, with the launches close astern. Eight low shapes heading towards the land. The escorting vessels had turned away in good time to avoid being detected. Orel’s supporting gunboats were closing in from the south-east, like the jaws of a trap. If Lincke took the bait, Orel would catch him. If he did not, the raid would cause enough panic anyway to help the main Russian thrust across the Kirch Strait.

‘Time?’ Devane moved to the opposite side to look for Mackay’s boat.

‘Two minutes to midnight, sir.’ That was Carroll, ready and on the ball.

Devane considered it, as if he could still see the plan, the neat lines and cheerful flags on Barker’s plot-table.

The point of attack was a small niche in the coast named Suzrov, some twenty miles north-east of Krasnoarmeisk. It was a safe part of the peninsula as far as the enemy were concerned. There was an extension to the minefield, some difficult shoals inshore, and lastly, the area was known to be zeroed in for two artillery batteries. The latter were controlled by a RDF station which the Germans had positioned in a bombed building which had once been a church.

A straightforward attack. They had done it several times in the Med and in the Adriatic.

Pellegrine’s untidy shape appeared on the bridge, and he grunted as he took over the wheel.

‘Course, north twenty west, Swain.’

Dundas peered at his watch. ‘Action stations, sir?’

‘Yes. Most of them will be there already anyway.’ It was always the same. Not easy to rest when you most needed it, with only three planks of mahogany between you and the sea.

Someone gave a little cry as the sky was bathed in deep red. Later, much later it seemed to the watching sailors, they heard the sullen rumble of guns. Miles and miles away, a night attack had been disturbed or scattered. Or a sentry had allowed his nerves to change shadows into advancing enemies.

‘Two minutes past midnight, sir.
Parthian
at action
stations.’ Then the age-old chestnut, ‘Enemy coast somewhere in the vicinity.’

Devane smiled and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his waterproof suit.

It was so easy, in spite of the danger, to let your mind drift. Like a man will fall asleep quite happily and freeze to death, or a motorist will doze off at the wheel of a fast car.

It was always there, waiting to tempt him. Claudia’s arms around him, pulling him closer, their words lost in each other’s hair as they had fought off the daylight. The last moments also were only too stark. Breaking the contact, turning away to the street where a car had waited to carry him to the airstrip. He had looked back just once. Now, in retrospect, it was like a still-life painting. The pale house and the clear sky. The girl in the doorway shading her eyes to see him, to hide the tears.