Marine B SBS

by Ian Blake

Perquesta went up to them and when they shook their heads he started arguing. The guards continued to shake their heads.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Larssen said impatiently.

  ‘They let no one in without a pass from Captain Salvini. He gave them the strictest orders.’

  Larssen joined Perquesta and said: ‘Tell them Salvini has been arrested. By me.’

  This did not go down well with the guards, who shifted uneasily and looked at one another. One of them began to slide his weapon off his shoulder.

  What Larssen did next was so quick and effortless that Tiller, standing only a few yards away, did not immediately grasp what had happened. The Dane stepped forward and in two swift movements struck one man on the side of the jaw and then rammed the same fist into the stomach of the second. As the second guard doubled up Larssen hit him accurately, though not too hard, on the back of his neck with the side of his other hand.

  ‘Very neat, skipper,’ said Tiller, surveying the two men sprawled on the ground.

  ‘These help,’ said Larssen removing the brass knuckledusters from his right hand and sliding them into his pocket. ‘Not according to the Geneva Convention, Tiger. No spit and polish. Just wham, bang. You disapprove, eh? Not cricket.’

  ‘It worked,’ said Tiller. ‘That’s what counts.’

  ‘Eh, Tiger, we make a pirate of you yet,’ Larssen slapped him delightedly on the back.

  The hands of the two unconscious guards were bound with their belts and with a short burst from his Sten Larssen smashed the lock on the gate of the compound. But the steel door was a much more formidible barrier and when they could not find the key on the guards Tiller fetched some explosive. He returned with a yellowish lump of material which had the consistency of plasticine and was the size of a large orange. He moulded it round a small metal cone, attached it with tape to the keyhole and took out a pencil fuse from a container which looked like a small cigar tin.

  ‘Ten minutes is the shortest time delay I’ve got,’ he said.

  ‘We can wait,’ said Larssen. ‘Just don’t blow up the fuel as well.’

  ‘Come on, skipper,’ said Barnesworth reprovingly. ‘Tiger does this sort of thing in his sleep.’

  Tiller removed the coloured safety strip from the five-inch fuse, stuck it in the plastic explosive, squeezed the fuse’s soft copper tube to activate it, and retired to a safe distance.

  Perquesta, who had watched Tiller prepare the charge in puzzled amazement, said as they waited: ‘That is explosive? Never have I seen explosive like that.’

  ‘It’s RDX,’ Tiller explained. ‘Research Development Explosive. What you call T4. Mix it with beeswax or oil and it becomes malleable. Plastic explosive, we call it.’

  What he didn’t tell Perquesta, because the lieutenant seemed to have an excitable nature, was that the main ingredient of RDX was hexamine, an unstable combination of ammonia and formaldehyde. To stabilize it another explosive like amatol or TNT had to be mixed with it.

  ‘But why the cone?’ Perquesta asked.

  ‘It concentrates the shock waves of the explosion into a very small area. Increases the power of the explosive by up to 15 times. Shaped charges, they’re called.’

  The explosion, when it came, was violent and effective. Larssen inspected the result approvingly. ‘Good stuff, plastic explosive, but that wasn’t ten minutes, Tiger.’

  ‘So far the boffins haven’t been able to come up with a pencil fuse that isn’t affected by the temperature,’ Tiller replied. ‘It’s a hot day so it works quicker than it should. And vice versa. I reckon you could wait for ever at the North Pole.’

  Perquesta was told to fetch the tractor, and its trailer, while Larssen investigated the fuel store. It was almost empty but there were a dozen large drums of high octane petrol in one corner and these, along with the half-conscious guards, were loaded on to the trailer.

  ‘We’ll take the fuel,’ Larssen told Perquesta. ‘You take the guards. Let your doctor look at them and then lock them up. They’re Fascists and I’ve had enough of Salvini and his followers. We’ll be back in an hour. I want every soldier not manning a gun position to be on parade in the castle quadrangle. I’m going to tell them exactly where they stand and what they must do.’

  Balbao greeted them when they reached the quay with the drums of fuel. There was enough in them, he said, to take them to Piscopi and back and there would be plenty to spare ‘just in case’.

  Larssen asked him if he knew the waters around Piscopi.

  Balbao shook his head. ‘We take a local man. No problem.’

  Tiller suggested Christophou, and Balbao agreed. The drums were left on the quay for the crew and the SBS men to take aboard, and Larssen and Tiller returned to the castle in the tractor. Perquesta had rounded up all the men not on duty and had paraded them in the quadrangle.

  Larssen, when he addressed them through Perquesta, said he would not tolerate Fascists any longer. They would be locked up. Those not locked up would fight for the Allies and on Simi the Allies meant him. Perquesta, a fine officer, would lead them and he, Captain Larssen, would ensure they had help from his men and food and ammunition from the British Navy. God Save King Victor Emmanuel.

  His address was received in stoic but friendly silence.

  ‘Are you going in the diplomatic corps after the war, skipper?’ Tiller asked with a grin as they returned to the port.

  ‘No bloody fear,’ retorted Larssen. ‘I think big-game hunting is what I do. I shall be well trained for it, yes? I have the right instincts. Now you go and talk to our friend Christophou.’

  But when Tiller went to the taverna Christophou was not there and when he told Angelika what he wanted him for she said her father would not be able to go. Tiller was puzzled.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘Here we all seem friendly to you. But some of us are not. There is at least one collaborator here who serves the Italians, the fascist cause.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Angelika nodded. ‘Since he took you the other day my father has been threatened. If he helps again his boat may be tampered with, perhaps sunk. He may even be killed.’

  ‘So he is not prepared to help?’

  Angelika hesitated and said: ‘Yes, of course he will help if you ask him. But please do not ask him. He is not a young man any longer. It is too dangerous for him. Choose someone else.’

  ‘But who?’

  Angelika blushed. ‘Ask me.’

  Tiller’s expression made her laugh. ‘I know these islands like – how do you say? – the back of my hand.’

  Tiller congratulated her on her English and asked where she had learnt it. ‘At college. Then I worked for a tourist firm in Athens. Showing the English around the Parthenon and other places. I also speak Italian. Well? You will take me?’

  ‘It might be risky,’ Tiller protested. ‘And might not collaborators threaten you?’

  ‘If they found out, yes. But I make sure they do not find out. If anyone asks, my mother will say I am ill.’

  ‘I think she fancies you, Tiger,’ Larssen said when Tiller told him about Angelika. ‘Still, we don’t want to cause trouble for Christophou and there’s no time to find anyone else. I don’t see what else we can do.’

  Larssen looked at Balbao, who shrugged and nodded reluctantly. Women were never popular aboard a ship – they were thought to bring bad luck – but he couldn’t see any alternative either. ‘So long as she knows her job,’ Balbao said.

  As soon as darkness fell Angelika, dressed in her father’s clothes and cloth cap, came aboard, asked for the MAS boat’s charts of the area and went below to study them. An hour later, after all the patrol’s equipment, which included a swimmer’s suit for Barnesworth, had been loaded, along with stores and arms for the Piscopi garrison, the MAS boat left the quay and headed out to sea.

  ‘Get your heads down while you can, boys,’ Tiller told his men. ‘You might not be getting much kip for the next day or two. I’ll stay on the bridge
.’

  To conserve fuel and prevent a tell-tale white bow wave, which could betray its presence to a German sea patrol, the MAS boat used only one of its engines. Even so Simi quickly became a thin, dark ribbon on the sea behind them. Balbao searched the horizon ahead with his night binoculars. Angelika stood near him on the open bridge, a chart in her hand. Her presence made Tiller wonder why it was some women looked even more attractive in men’s clothes than they did in their own.

  After an hour one of the crew brought them mugs of ersatz coffee. Tiller found it almost undrinkable but the night was chilly and it warmed his insides.

  Balbao and Angelika spoke in rapid Italian and then the girl tapped Tiller lightly on the arm. ‘You need to go alongside?’

  Tiller nodded. ‘We need to get the stores ashore quickly.’

  ‘There is only one place. Here.’ She shone a shaded torch on the chart and indicated with her forefinger a promontory to the north of the bay. ‘The commander wants to go alongside the quay. It’s all right for a small caique like my father’s, but it is too shallow for an MAS boat.’

  ‘It is deep enough where you want to go?’

  ‘Yes. But it is just a flat rock which sticks out into the water. It can only be done in fine weather when the sea is calm.’

  ‘And it will stay calm?’

  Angelika nodded. ‘No meltemi tonight.’

  ‘What do you think, Commander?’ Tiller asked Balbao.

  ‘We see,’ said Balbao enigmatically. Out of earshot of Angelika he added: ‘Our pilot is pretty, Sergeant. But how can we be sure she knows what she is doing?’

  Piscopi was now large on the horizon ahead. Balbao cut back the MAS boat’s speed until it was only just making way through the oil-calm water. As the boat approached Livadia Bay, where the Italian garrison had its headquarters, the crew took up their action stations.

  Tiller went below and woke his men but told them to stay where they were for the moment as there was very little room on deck. But he told Barnesworth to put on his surface swimmer’s suit and then took him back to the bridge.

  ‘This man’s an expert swimmer,’ Tiller said to Balbao. ‘He can swim ashore and test the depth by the quay and the jetty. You won’t even need to stop. Just make a pass close to it. While he’s measuring you can look at the rock.’

  ‘How will he measure it?’ Balbao asked. Barnesworth produced his beach gradient reel from a pocket of his suit. Balbao examined it curiously.

  ‘A fishing reel?’

  ‘Very nearly,’ said Barnesworth. ‘Except the line on it is marked with split lead pellets so I can read off the depth in the dark or under water. It’s designed for COPP parties to gauge beach gradients.’

  ‘COPP?’ Balbao queried.

  ‘Combined Operations Pilotage Parties,’ said Barnesworth. ‘They’re the lads who go ashore to recce prospective beaches before an amphibious landing. But it’s easily adaptable to measure the depth of water. I just insert a crampon somewhere at water level, hook on the line and take the reel to the bottom. The lead pellets will tell me how much line has been unwound. If there’s nowhere to use a crampon I just use a float. Very simple really. But if it’s as shallow as our pilot says it is I won’t need it.’

  The explanation convinced Balbao and they crept slowly into the bay. There was no sign of life anywhere. If any of the garrison were still around they must have been fast asleep.

  ‘Wait till you see us come back,’ Tiller said to Barnesworth as he waited in the stern with him. ‘Then signal us. A series of “R”s will do. But don’t start swimming until I reply with a series of “O”s. You never know, there might well be some Jerry-manned MAS boats around that look like this one.’

  ‘The captain, he say now,’ said one of the crew emerging out of the dark.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Tiller.

  Barnesworth lowered himself into the water from the ladder, held on for a second and then dropped. With strong powerful strokes he swam away from the MAS boat to clear its propellers, and in moments had vanished into the dark. The MAS boat increased speed slightly and turned back out to sea.

  Tiller returned to the bridge with some misgivings. He did not like putting himself and his team in the hands of a former enemy and a Greek girl about whom he knew next to nothing. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. As a precaution, he called the SBS party up from below and told them to find what cover they could on the deck. At least they would not be trapped below if something went wrong.

  With Angelika giving instructions, the MAS boat turned to port. Once out of the bay Balbao turned it north and then circled slowly near the promontory that Angelika had pointed out on the chart. The large slab of rock was just where she said it would be and, with the wind blowing offshore, Balbao readily agreed it would be possible to go alongside it – provided there was enough water.

  ‘There is,’ Angelika said confidently.

  They returned to the position where Barnesworth had left them and after a couple of minutes his shaded torch began flashing the agreed signal. Tiller replied and ten minutes later, like a seal surfacing for air, Barnesworth bobbed up by the counter and climbed aboard by the ladder.

  ‘Five feet,’ he said when he reached the bridge.

  ‘Not enough,’ Balbao admitted.

  ‘Any sign of life?’ Tiller asked. Barnesworth shook his head. ‘I reckon the garrison have taken to the hills along with all the locals.’

  The MAS boat crept back to the flat rock and everything was rapidly unloaded on to it. Balbao had to return while it was still dark and once all the stores were ashore he manoeuvred the MAS boat expertly away from the rock, and with a wave headed back to Simi. Tiller fancied that Angelika waved, too, but he could not be sure.

  Two of the SBS men went ahead and scoured the buildings around Livadia Bay. To their surprise the carabinieri were still there, their inactivity accounted for by the number of empty Chianti bottles that lay strewn around their quarters. The SBS men brought some of them back to the rock and with their help the stores and extra arms were quickly moved into the bay.

  The small garrison appeared cheered by the arrival of the SBS. Tiller found the scruffy, balding corporal who was in charge. He looked old enough to be Tiller’s father, and had that worn-down look all of the SBS had seen on the faces of Italian troops, the look of men who had been beaten and had had enough of fighting. All they wanted to do, their expressions said, was survive and go home to their families. If only life were that easy, Tiller thought grimly.

  It turned out that, when pressed, the corporal spoke broken English, which, perhaps cannily, he had not revealed on the previous occasion. From him it soon became clear not only that the locals had fled into the hills when they heard the Germans were coming but that the garrison was expecting to be evacuated before they arrived. When it sunk in they might have to stay and fight they looked appalled.

  Tiller and Barnesworth started by checking the Italians’ equipment. They soon found that, as with all the Italian troops they had encountered so far, the garrison had inferior weapons and had little ammunition. Some of their rifles were so rusty they looked dangerous and these were replaced with the Lee Enfield rifles the SBS had brought with them – the standard British infantryman’s weapon – and boxes of .303 ammunition were handed out. Tiller also made sure the Italians knew how to use the twin 6.5mm Breda light machine-guns he had brought along, and then he heated up enough tinned stew for everyone. It always helped to go into battle on a full stomach and the Italians looked half-starved.

  At daylight Tiller inspected the defensive positions of the carabinieri and put the garrison to work to improve them. He tried to discover more about the Germans who had landed, but the corporal did not know even how many there were. He had received only one message from the lookout at Monastery Point, on the other side of the island, who had seen them land in Kamara Bay.

  ‘He say many, many. Then the telephone not work any more.’ Why it had stopped working, the corporal
did not know either.

  Tiller’s questions were answered later that morning when the lookout arrived. On seeing the Germans land he had immediately abandoned his post, commandeered a donkey and ridden to Livadia Bay during the night. There were, he said, about twenty of them.

  ‘They arrived on a barge which went away,’ the corporal was able to add. ‘It had plenty guns.’

  ‘Sounds like a Siebel ferry,’ said Barnesworth. ‘Hope it doesn’t turn up here.’

  ‘How long before the Germans arrive?’ Tiller said. The Italian corporal sketched the shape of the island with a twig and indicated that the patrol had gone clockwise round the island.

  ‘Soon if they march quick.’

  ‘The Krauts march quick,’ said Barnesworth. ‘You can be sure of that. Do we lay a nice little ambush for them north of here, Tiger?’

  ‘You bet we do, Billy.’

  ‘We leave?’ the corporal asked eagerly. ‘Twenty, too many Germans. Yes?’

  ‘Twenty Germans not too many,’ said Tiller, giving the Italian a friendly slap on the back. ‘Not too many at all.’

  ‘But we can do without the bleeding Luftwaffe,’ said Barnesworth suddenly. ‘Can you hear that, Tiger?’

  It was the Blohm and Voss again. It circled once above them and then dropped a cloud of leaflets before flying off. The leaflet was in such rudimentary Italian that one of the SBS men was able to translate it without difficulty. It exhorted the Italians to support their old allies by refusing to join the British.

  ‘Very artistic,’ said Tiller, looking at the cartoon which accompanied the message. It was an ugly, slobbering bulldog which vaguely resembled Churchill and was wearing a helmet painted with the Union Jack. Its front feet were planted firmly on a valiant-looking Italian soldier shaped like Italy. Its hind feet were on the Dodecanese. The Italian was being handed a bayonet by a smiling, shining Wehrmacht soldier which the Italian was about to plunge into the bulldog’s throat.

  Tiller watched the Italians carefully as they studied this crude piece of propaganda. They read it impassively, but Tiller could see it had some effect. One of the Italians slowly unslung his rifle and propped it against the nearest wall.