Marine B SBS

by Ian Blake

  Tiller knew they must be getting close to the boom but he could not see it. Suddenly he caught the faint tinkle of a warning bell. He stopped paddling, bent forward to lessen his profile, and listened intently. The cockle drifted and again he heard the bell. Was it some kind of alarm system the Germans had rigged up?

  His mouth felt dry. He licked his lips and felt the salt on them. Tinkle, tinkle. What the hell was it?

  Then he felt Barnesworth prod his back. ‘It’s only bleeding goats,’ he whispered.

  The boom, when they reached it, was no obstacle for the cockle, for the technique Tiller had learnt in the Solent worked perfectly. There was no sign of life on the patrol boat, which was anchored by the narrow entrance.

  Their first target was the ammunition ship, which was anchored under the cliffs about halfway along the northern shore. The lack of any tide and the direction of the wind had made her swing on her anchor so that she lay broadside on to the cockle, with her bows pointing into the harbour.

  She had a straight single funnel, situated behind the central bridge superstructure, and a prominent poop and forecastle. She looked an ordinary tramp steamer which had seen better days, but was bigger than Tiller had anticipated. Each limpet contained two pounds of explosive which could blow a hole in a ship’s side six feet in diameter. This one would definitely need three limpets to make sure she sank. If the ammunition was still aboard, and it was detonated by the limpets, she would certainly sink. In fact, there wouldn’t be much left of her.

  He turned to port so that the cockle moved right under the cliffs. There was no beach at this point so that they did not have to worry about shore patrols. Approaching the Anita from the stern instead of the bow was not the right technique, but it did mean they could carry straight on across the harbour once the limpets had been put in place.

  They rested again when they were opposite their target. Tiller turned his head and whispered: ‘One by the propellers, then one by the engine space, and the third by the bows. Port side or starboard?’

  ‘It would help if we could see the fucking guard,’ Barnesworth grumbled in his ear. ‘There must be one.’

  Tiller glanced at his watch. ‘We can’t hang about.’

  Barnesworth tapped him on the shoulder. ‘There he is.’

  They were some 200 yards from the ship but they both could now see the glow of the guard’s cigarette as he stood on the afterdeck looking at the shore.

  ‘Cor, lucky bugger. I could do with a draw,’ Barnesworth whispered.

  Tiller felt within him the first signs of irritability with his partner and strived to suppress it. Like hallucinations it was something canoeists often encountered and which had to be dealt with rationally. Still, Barnesworth’s flippant asides annoyed him and he turned and put his forefinger to his lips. He heard his swimmer grunt, but whether it was with annoyance or acceptance, he could not tell.

  The guard flicked his cigarette end into the water, but instead of strolling forward he moved right into the stern of the ship and peered down.

  The two SBS men sagged forward on to the plywood deck of their cockle. Tiller grasped the cockle’s wooden breakwater in front of him and pressed his head down until his nose was touching the compass.

  He felt himself stifling his breathing, but forced himself to suck in deep gulps of air.

  Nothing happened and after what seemed an age Tiller cautiously, very gradually, raised his head. The sentry was still there. He seemed to be looking straight at the cockle. He was looking straight at the cockle. Tiller did not dare move.

  A match flared and Tiller could see the outline of the guard’s face and the rifle slung across his back as he lit another cigarette. He flicked the match into the water, and then turned and walked away down the starboard side. Relief surged through Tiller and made him gasp for air.

  ‘Port side,’ Billy hissed in his ear.

  Both men opened their cockpit covers, and Barnesworth pulled from under the stern a pair of limpet mines attached to their keeper plate, and the magnetic hold-fast. He passed the mines forward to Tiller and undid the line which was wound round the hold-fast.

  Tiller put the pair of mines between his feet and pulled out from under the bow the hollow steel rods that made up the placing rod. He carefully connected these, and laid the completed rod, now six feet long, across the cockle’s deck. Then he dipped his paddle cautiously into the water and moved the cockle forwards.

  Barnesworth prodded Tiller and indicated the ship’s Plimsoll line, which was almost level with the water.

  ‘She’s still fully loaded,’ he breathed into Tiller’s ear. Tiller nodded and again indicated that Barnesworth should shut up.

  Close to, the ship appeared huge, its steel topsides towering above them. They inched the cockle slowly under the ship’s counter, on which was written in large white letters ‘Anita Genoa’, until they reached a point where the propeller shafts extruded from the hull.

  The hull here was dented and rusty. A line of encrusted barnacles and old weed above the faint white band of the Plimsoll line showed that the ship must have been frequently loaded beyond its safety limits. Tiller pointed the weed and barnacles out to Barnesworth, for flaking rust or anything non-ferrous on the steel hull could affect the magnets on the hold-fast as well as on the limpets.

  Barnesworth tapped Tiller twice on the shoulder to indicate that he understood. Tiller lifted the hold-fast and carefully attached it to the ship’s side at shoulder level and hung on to the line attached to it.

  The hold-fast made what seemed to them a horrendously loud clunk as the magnets connected with the steel, and both men held their breath. When nothing happened Barnesworth tightened the line and drew the cockle closer to the ship’s side.

  With the hold-fast steadying the cockle, Tiller got on with the delicate task of attaching the limpet mine. He had done it many times before on exercises but he always found it difficult to detach a mine from its retaining plate, so powerful were its magnets and so restricted was the space in which he had to work.

  At the third attempt he managed it, but he could feel beads of sweat running down his face. He rested a moment before bringing the mine on to the deck in front of him. He hooked it on to the end of the placing rod, screwed down on the butterfly nut to break the fuse’s ampoule of acid, and slowly and very carefully lowered the mine into the water. He kept it well away from the ship’s side until his hand holding the rod was just under the surface. Then he moved the mine very slowly towards the ship’s side.

  When the magnets were close to the steel they battened on to the ship’s side with a sudden jerk and another clunk. Again they waited, but when they heard nothing Tiller pushed the rod downwards to disconnect it from the mine and brought the rod back to the surface and stowed it alongside him.

  Once Tiller had finished, Barnesworth pulled off the hold-fast and moved the cockle gently forward. When they reached the middle of the ship, where the engine room lay under the central superstructure, they repeated the operation. Then they allowed the cockle to drift forward again until they were near the bow. For a moment they clung to the ship’s side while they tried to locate the guard. But all they could hear was the slap of water against the vessel and a wireless somewhere playing music.

  Tiller placed the third limpet and then allowed the cockle to drift out beyond the ship’s bows. Its stem was straighter than on a modern ship but there was enough overhang to give them some protection from anyone looking casually down from the deck above.

  They drifted slowly past the rusty anchor chain, its links dripping with water.

  They had assumed the prone position, but felt horribly vulnerable. The minutes ticked by. They were aware that they were gradually drifting away from the ship and when no challenge rang out across the water they cautiously began to paddle out into the middle of the harbour.

  It would have been easier to continue up the northern shore to where the F-lighter and the supply ship lay, but Larssen had decided – and Tille
r and Barnesworth had agreed with him – that the longer they were in the harbour the greater chance there was of their being discovered, and that the two destroyers therefore had to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

  Near the middle of the harbour, which at this point was nearly a mile wide, a patrol boat with a searchlight passed well ahead of them and they stopped and crouched low in the cockle. But the beam did not sweep near them and they waited until the sound of the patrol boat’s engine had faded.

  It was very dark and although the distance across the harbour was hardly more than half a mile Tiller found it difficult to keep his bearings. He was still searching the horizon ahead when Barnesworth tapped him on the shoulder and whispered: ‘There, slightly to starboard.’

  Tiller strained his eyes and was just able to make out a long, dark shape. As they got nearer they could see it had two funnels. The forward one was much higher than the aft one.

  ‘That’s the San Martino,’ Barnesworth hissed into his ear. ‘The smaller of the two. We’d better sheer off a bit until we can find the Turbine.’

  They turned the cockle to port and then south again and closed with the shore. But the Turbine was not there. They turned west and saw the sharp silhouette of the San Martino ahead of them. They rested and had another swig of water, and considered what to do.

  The reconnaissance photograph had plainly shown the two destroyers anchored almost side by side at the northern end of the naval base.

  ‘They must have moved her,’ Barnesworth whispered.

  ‘That’s pretty fucking obvious,’ Tiller murmured furiously to himself.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  Now Tiller could not restrain the irritation in his whispered reply. ‘Deal with this one and then look for the other, of course.’

  What did Billy think they should do: paddle home to mummy and complain? He heard Barnesworth suck his teeth and knew his partner was also keeping his temper in check with difficulty.

  He indicated that he wanted two pairs of limpet mines and Barnesworth passed them forward. Tiller tugged three of them from their retaining plates and hooked one on to his placing rod.

  ‘Bows, amidships, and on the stern,’ Barnesworth whispered. ‘Port side to.’

  Tiller nodded his agreement and they paddled slowly forward, this time approaching from the correct direction by keeping the destroyer bows on to the cockle. There was no sign of a sentry, though they knew there must be one, if not two. They would be German sailors, too, who were trained to be observant, while the man on the Anita had probably been just a civilian member of the crew.

  For a moment they hung on to the destroyer’s anchor chain, and now they could hear the guttural sounds of a conversation somewhere above them. There was a hoarse laugh which ended in a cough, a burst of music, faint but distinct, and a shaft of light as a bulwark door on the destroyer was opened and then closed with a clang. Somewhere a dog barked.

  Tiller froze. If there was a dog on board, that could mean trouble. Dogs had an uncanny way of detecting the unusual which went way beyond their sense of smell and hearing.

  He held his hand vertically just above his shoulder to indicate he wanted to wait and heard Barnesworth suck his teeth again. Impatient bastard, Tiller thought.

  Again the dog barked. Where was it? Sounds at night and over water were often distorted, and always deceptive.

  Tiller felt the pressure of Barnesworth’s hand on his shoulder and Barnesworth whispered: ‘It’s on shore. Forget it.’

  Again, Tiller indicated with his hand that he did not want to move until he was sure.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Barnesworth snarled in his ear. Tiller grasped the anchor chain in case Barnesworth decided to let go of it, and listened intently.

  The conversation above them was more animated now, and Tiller thought he heard the chink of glass. At least Barnesworth had chosen the correct side to place the mines, for the conversation, Tiller could tell now, was definitely coming from the starboard side somewhere.

  But the dog did not bark again and after a minute of listening to Barnesworth sucking his teeth Tiller reluctantly let go the anchor chain and propelled the cockle towards the sharp bow of the destroyer.

  Its sides were clean compared to that of the ammunition ship and looked as if they had been recently repainted. How like the Krauts, Tiller thought with grudging admiration, to make even an out-of-date Eyerie warship spick and span.

  He felt the cold, wet steel against his hand as he steadied the cockle for Barnesworth to apply the hold-fast, which, to their relief, made less noise than it had when applied to the ammunition ship. The first and second limpets were secured without a problem, but for some reason the third refused to adhere to the destroyer’s stern near the rudder. Tiller swore under his breath, but wherever he moved the placing rod the mine’s magnets refused to take.

  He could feel Barnesworth’s mounting impatience behind him and indicated that they should try the other side. They were moving the cockle cautiously round the stern when a powerful torch was turned on above them. They froze in the lowest position, keeping close to the ship’s stern. The torch played on the water, went off, came on again, and then settled directly on them.

  Tiller remembered the wireless operator’s tip and shouted up, ‘Patrola, Brandenburger’, and dug his paddle into the water. There was an indistinct shout from the sentry holding the torch and looking back Tiller could see he was struggling to unsling his rifle from his back. His companion, his rifle already off his shoulder, was running to join him.

  With half a dozen vigorous strokes Tiller knew they could put the cockle beyond the range of the torch, and the darkness would almost immediately swallow them up. But if the guards started firing the operation would have to be aborted. It was equally certain that the destroyer’s hull would be scraped with a wire hawser as a precaution and all their efforts would have been in vain.

  ‘I’m going to face the fuckers,’ he said to Barnesworth and swung the cockle around and stopped.

  ‘Patrola, Brandenburger,’ he called out again, and waved.

  The first sentry was trying to juggle the heavy torch with his rifle and Tiller could see that he now had the barrel on the guard rail aiming straight at them, but he seemed unable to bring the torch’s beam on to the cockle.

  When Tiller called out, the second sentry pushed the first sentry’s rifle sideways along the rail. The first sentry dropped the torch on the deck and while he was bending to pick it up the second sentry called out something in German to them.

  Tiller waved again and the second sentry waved back. Tiller turned the cockle away and paddled swiftly into the darkness before the first sentry could focus the beam on them again.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Barnesworth said in his ear when they stopped to rest. ‘You’ve got a nerve. I thought he was going to put one between your eyes.’

  ‘So did I,’ whispered Tiller. He could feel he was wet with sweat. He took a gulp of water from the can and then passed it to Barnesworth.

  They were now rather too close to the naval base for comfort. They could not see anyone moving among the buildings but they sheered off before paddling parallel with the shore once more. The dog, a lot nearer now, started barking again.

  ‘I told you it was on the shore,’ Barnesworth hissed in Tiller’s ear. Exuberant with relief, Tiller just turned his head and whispered: ‘You’ve just got big lugs, Billy’, and felt the guardsman punch him good-naturedly on the shoulder.

  They passed several lighters moored together, and a small coastal patrol vessel of some kind which lay at the end of a long wooden pier. Ahead they could see several motor launches and tugs moored around a large floating jetty. They were considerably bigger than the MAS boat and made tempting targets, but Tiller ignored them. He had a bigger fish to fry – if they could find it.

  They were just beginning to despair of ever doing so when a much bigger bulk began to loom out of the darkness ahead of them on their port side.

 
; ‘That’s her,’ Barnesworth whispered excitedly.

  Even in the dark Tiller could see from the outline of the destroyer that it was the one the MAS boat had tried to ram. They edged closer and made out the lettering ‘TA14’ on her bow. She was moored alongside the naval base. A large crane overhung her central superstructure and Tiller wondered if the MAS boat had, after all, inflicted some damage on her.

  Then, to his consternation, he saw that the destroyer was surrounded on the seaward side by a number of much smaller ships of various sizes, and one was moored right alongside her. Tiller recognized at least two of them as being Motosiluranti, or MS boats, the Italian equivalent of the ML. They were larger and more heavily armed than a MAS boat and must have been, Tiller supposed, taken over by the German Navy.

  But there was also a large caique, a MAS boat, and one or two others he could not identify. Judging from the activity aboard these ships, it was evident that they had only recently arrived in Portolago or, more likely, were just about to depart.

  The SBS men rested and let the cockle drift while they summed up the situation. It did not take long.

  ‘We’ll never get through that lot without being spotted,’ Barnesworth murmured in Tiller’s ear. ‘Not in a month of Sundays.’

  Tiller knew he was right, for even when the crews went below or ashore a sentry would be left on deck. They might slide past one or two, but even if they managed to squeeze their way past them all they would be totally exposed when they reached the destroyer’s side. They had to devise another method, and quickly.

  ‘I’m going to circle round them and come up as near as I can astern of the destroyer,’ Tiller whispered. ‘Then you’re going to have to swim the rest of the way with a couple of limpets and put them on her stern. At least we might be able to damage her steering gear.’

  The possibility of using this method of attack had been foreseen, and Barnesworth wore a swimmer’s suit and had with him a long length of line. There was nothing moored directly astern of the destroyer, but to approach it the cockle had to keep close to the shore, so that it would be moving right under the noses of any patrol.