Eagle at Taranto (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  “Bert, you really are the goddamn limit.” She was shaking her head again but she was smiling.

  Bert said cautiously, “You’re not mad?”

  “More than a little. But I sent my cable the day you tore up yours. You can wire another one if you want them to send a photographer to join you in Cairo. I’m going home.”

  That was final, and Bert grimaced, accepted it. “Guess I lost that one. Well, I can understand how you feel. Ah! It’s a hell of a life. I do it because it’s my job, all I know. When I get too old they’ll shackle me to a desk, but till then...” He was silent a moment then looked her in the eye. “It’s been great having you along. Leaving aside that you saved my life back there in Greece, you’ve always pulled your weight. I’m going to miss, you.”

  “Thanks, Bert.” She knew he was sincere. But he had said he’d “lost that one”. So what now? She could guess. He’d try again. She knew him so well. Oh, Bert, I’ll miss you.

  Bert took a mouthful of the strega, swallowed and sighed. “Heard from that young feller?”

  Katy could not help laughing at his tongue-in-cheek innocence. “Here in Italy? How would I hear from a British Navy flyer? Pigeon post?” Then the smile faded, “Anyway, that’s finished.”

  “Yeah, you told me. I remember now.”

  “Damn right you do. I’ve told you a dozen times.”

  “Guess you have, at that.”

  “So leave it alone.”

  “O.K.” He was silent for a minute, then: “I never thought I’d get to like some Englishman who studies to compose for the philharmonic and then makes a good living instead out of writing vaudeville songs. Still, you wouldn’t think it to look at him: big, strong young feller. You couldn’t call him a good-looking guy, more of a hard nut, but —” He found her eye on him and broke off there. “O.K., O.K.”

  The sirens wailed.

  Katy shivered at the sound and exchanged glances with Bert. The waiter called rapidly across the bar, his voice almost drowned by the sirens and the loud chatter as the other customers crowded quickly out of the bar. Bert said, “I didn’t catch that.”

  Katy had: “He says it is necessary to go to the air-raid shelters.”

  Bert grumbled, “To hell with that! I hear there hasn’t been a real raid on this place yet and I’m not surprised: There’s more ‘n a thousand guns of one sort or another around this town.” He raised his voice: “Hey, Mario! Leave that bottle o’ strega an’ put it on my bill.”

  The waiter was already struggling into his jacket but as he passed them on the way out he set the bottle on the table. Bert stood up and looked around the empty bar with only one light burning above him now. He cocked his head on one side, listening. The sirens had moaned into silence and now there was quiet. He said, “Sounds like one more false alarm. But if something does happen, I want to see it, so I’m going up to my room. Join me?”

  Katy sighed and shook her head but she was smiling as she rose to her feet. “You never give up.”

  Bert grinned at her, then with bottle in one hand, glass in the other, and cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he headed for the stairs. “Bring your glass. You might need it.”

  Katy said drily, “Look at you go. Booze and cigarettes —the fully-equipped war correspondent.” But she picked up her glass and followed him.

  Upstairs in his room, Bert edged cautiously through the darkness to the table by the window then carefully set down bottle and glass. Katy waited just inside the door and saw the red glow of his cigarette black out as he stubbed it in the ashtray. Then he pulled the curtains aside and moonlight flooded into the room. Bert opened the French windows wide and set them back against the wall. “Just in case there’s any firing. That might save the glass.”

  Katy crossed the room to stand beside him and Bert said softly, “Will you look at that?”

  The huge harbour lay before them and the six battleships were anchored less than a mile from the shore in a wide-spaced, staggered line following the curve of the bay. Bert counted them off from his right, as he remembered them from the daytime: “Duilio, Cesare, Littorio, Vittorio Veneto, Doria, Cavour. The first two and the last two are big enough but those babies in the middle, Littorio and Vittorio Veneto, they’re monsters.”

  From the balcony Katy could see, beyond the battleships and in the middle distance, the mile-long curve of the Tarantola mole sweeping out from the shore to her left. Further out still and to her left stood Cape San Vito with another breakwater running out from it. The half-mile wide entrance to the harbour lay between the end of that breakwater and the island of San Paolo. Then the island of San Pietro lifted at the centre of the bay and to her right was the jutting arm of Cape Rondinella. Unseen, but closing the gap between San Pietro and Rondinella was a submerged breakwater. Moonlight glinted on the silver skins of the balloons riding high in a long line across the bay between the battleships inshore and the islands.

  Bert muttered, “Boy! What a view.”

  In spite of the great ships, squat fortresses of steel with their long guns, Katy thought the scene was deceptively peaceful and it would seem pleasant to pull up a chair and sit here in the window in the stillness of the night, looking out at the moonlight on the bay, and the ships. It was a picture postcard scene, such as a tourist would send home.

  Home.

  These ships were the tools of a war that was spreading like a plague. Mark Ward had sombrely suggested that it would, when she first met him in Alexandria. Hitler and Mussolini, propagators of the plague, would demand, threaten and grab until they were stopped. That much was clear to her now. She knew that when she was in America she would still be looking back at the war, that it was slowly but surely following her, and that she would wake each morning and wonder if this would be the day it caught up with her.

  She heard Bert grumble, “Where in hell did I put that bottle?”

  There was a tiny lick of yellow flame on the dark hump of Cape Rondinella over to the right of the harbour. It was the merest wink and for a second Katy was unsure whether it had been some trick of the moonlight reflecting on the window of a house. Then the report of the gun came flatly, distantly across the harbour and .the orange burst of the shell flared in the sky out over the sea.

  Bert ceased his fumbling search for the bottle and grabbed Katy’s arm, “Hey! Get back in here! Looks like, maybe —”

  His words were lost in thunder as they retreated into the room and the batteries opened up. At first there were only the guns on the Cape, on the island of San Pietro and the lighters moored in the entrance to the harbour. Even though they were four miles away, their noise was deafening, the flashes of muzzles and the bursting shells dazzled the eye. But then like the swift spread of a forest fire the batteries all around the inland shore of the harbour joined in — and the guns of the ships. Now there was not just the sound of thunder but a shuddering of the air and the building beneath the feet of Katy and Bert. The glass of the French windows exploded from the frames and cascaded, shattering, to the floor.

  The sky over the harbour was one great curtain of red, green and orange light but now it was touched by a paler radiance that seemed to come from directly overhead. Bert put his mouth to Katy’s ear and shouted: “Somebody up above us is dropping flares!”

  That white glow grew as one minute, then another ticked by, but it did not pale the coloured inferno over the harbour and the ships. Bert said again, his head close to Katy, “I dunno who’s up there but he’ll be coming down pretty damn quick!”

  Katy did not doubt it, thought she saw it happening and said, “Look!” Bert did not hear her, but she was pointing, so he too saw an aircraft fall from the sky, seemingly out of that inferno. Katy gripped his arm and they tensed for the crash but slowly the tiny toy-like aeroplane pulled out of its dive and levelled off above the sea. It flew in towards the shore, very low above the surface of the harbour, slipped between the steel cables of the barrage balloons and came on with shells bursting all around it. When it se
emed they would lose sight of it they unthinkingly edged forward into the window again, almost out onto the little balcony. From there they saw the aeroplane lift slightly so it just cleared the long Tarantola breakwater, then banked to the left. When it straightened out it looked to be heading straight for them.

  Katy realised she was receiving the scene not as a continuously moving film but rather as a rapid succession of separate photographs as the plane was lit by shell bursts or flares then lost in darkness. And it was a mile away. But she saw it clearly, old-fashioned and lumbering, like a box-kite hauled along by the spinning propeller in the nose. A British Swordfish. The sort of plane Mark flew.

  Bert croaked incredulously, “I can’t believe it! They’re using those things! They haven’t a snowflake in hell’s chance!”

  A torpedo dropped away from the Swordfish and in that same instant the biplane curled over on one wing and crashed into the sea. Katy was praying. She felt Bert wince and it was not because of her fingers digging into his arm.

  There was a dull, heavy explosion out in the harbour, heard even above the hammering guns. Bert said, “Torpedo. Maybe it hit one of the ships. Or maybe just grounded on the bottom of the bay.”

  Now he pointed. Two more Swordfish were lurching in, low over the sea, lifting above the Tarantola breakwater as had the first. .Then they too banked to the left, dropped torpedoes and swung away. But they were luckier, headed towards the mouth of the harbour and disappeared into the night.

  Two more explosions. Then more, seeming to come from inland. Bert said, “They’re bombing.”

  Another Swordfish came curling past the end of the break-water to the left, and far to the right yet another suddenly appeared, flying on an opposite course. They closed on the same ship, rocking and weaving through the barrage, held briefly steady and straight until the torpedoes fell away, then turned out to sea. One of them flew right over the ship and Katy caught her breath as both Swordfish seemed on the point of colliding — but one crossed above the other.

  Bert was counting the British planes: “Six.” This one also came out of the darkness and the looping tracer away to the right, launched its torpedo and swung seaward, was hidden again, like the other two, by flame, darkness and smoke. Then like echoes came the sullen explosions.

  Katy could feel the smoke in her nose and throat, smelt it, acrid and reeking. She put her handkerchief over her mouth as Bert had covered his. Her senses battered, she was finding it hard to think, was unable to measure time. How long had the attacks gone on — ten minutes? An hour? She stood in the window as the guns pounded on and the shrapnel from the bursting shells rattled on the roofs around them and rained on the promenade below. After a time the firing eased. After a longer time, it ceased.

  Bert took a pace out onto the balcony and Katy went with him, staying close. In the quiet, Bert said, “I guess those fliers have done a helluva lot of damage.” It was difficult, however, to see for certain. The flares had burned out long ago and light from the three-quarter moon could not pierce the cloud of smoke that covered the harbour. He went on slowly, “Two of those ships look as if they’re listing.”

  The quiet was only comparative now that the guns were silent. Fire-engines and trucks raced or ground through the streets. There was a din of bells, whistles, sirens out in the harbour and an ebbing and swelling undercurrent of men shouting. Katy stood by Bert and, with him, listened, tried to see through the smoke.

  Until the guns on Cape Rondinella fired again, and she knew there was to be a second wave to the British attack.

  5 The Tunnel

  Jamie woke when the first gun fired and turned onto his back, lay staring up at the deckhead with its prickling of rust through the paint. Then the ship seemed to shake as the barrage opened up in earnest and Jamie felt he was inside a drum being violently beaten. He slid out of bed and dressed. He didn’t want to be running around in his underpants if the ship was hit by a bomb.

  He guessed that the Royal Air Force was raiding Taranto. A fine thing if I’m blown up by my own air force. Bloody funny. He guessed also that the tremors running through the ship’s frame every few seconds would be the firing of the gun she carried aft on the poop. And every now and again as the barrage briefly eased he could hear a patter like rain above his head — he realised that this was shrapnel from the bursting shells, falling on the deck.

  There was a distant, thumping explosion that he felt rather than heard, sending a shudder through the ship again. A huge bomb? Then distant, squeaky shouting. It had to be horrific up top. They were getting hell up there. And he was locked in here, below decks —

  He only paused for a few seconds to think about it, to acknowledge that this was a million-to-one chance. He had no real kind of a plan at all. But this might be the only chance he would ever have. The sentry outside was trapped below decks as surely as he was and would be staring, like him, up at the deckhead, wondering when the blow would fall, waiting —

  Jamie dug down into the crevice behind the bunk, fished out the biscuits and stuffed them in his pocket, then found the table-knife and the matches. He snatched up the newspaper, twisted it into a long stalk then lit the end and held it below the ventilator slats. There was another heavy, dull explosion and he felt it shiver through his shoes. He hammered on the door and bawled, “Fire! Fire!...”

  The smoke from the smouldering paper was wisping out of the ventilator. Jamie pressed his face close against the slats, the smoke wreathing around him setting him coughing and bringing tears to his eyes. The sentry was suddenly before him, seen cut by the slats into horizontal strips, wide, dark eyes peering nervously in at Jamie’s contorted, weeping features.

  The man turned and shouted, almost screamed as his voice rose, and at his call the petty officer came running. He may have been in his own cabin or at the head of the companion-way watching the air raid. Jamie heard his pounding boots, saw his bulky figure loom behind that of the sentry. Jamie let out one last choking wail then bent his knees, shuffled aside from the door, and straightened. He stood pressed against the bulkhead, left hand outstretched to hold the last of the burning paper under the ventilator so that its smoke would seep out, but not close enough for the paper to be seen. He checked that the knife was handy, loose in his jacket pocket.

  There was a high, rapid interchange of voices outside, rattle of a key in the lock and then the door swung open. Jamie did not wait for one of the men to enter. The door opened away from him; he had positioned himself on the opposite side to the hinges. As the opening gaped he swung himself around and into it, leaping over the coaming with arms thrust out. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the Italian P.O. right in front of him with the sentry peering over his shoulder. Then Jamie slammed into them both with the burning newspaper still in one fist. They staggered back, stumbled and fell, the three of them crowded close in the narrow passage, the sentry’s and P.O.’s legs tangling. They sprawled on the corticene of the deck but Jamie was on top, thrust himself up, turned and ran. He left the remnant of burning paper with them.

  He knew exactly where he was going, had followed the same route many times with the tenente. At the end of the passage he went up the ladder two treads at a time. As he reached the head of it the sentry’s rifle fired behind him and the slug ricochetted off the steel sides of the companion. He shoved open the door, passed through, and looking back and down saw the P.O. at the foot of the ladder. Jamie slammed the door and yanked the clips on hard. They would give him a few seconds.

  He ran on without hesitation. The night was thunderous with the tumult of the barrage and lit by the multi-coloured bursts that filled the sky over the great harbour. He would not be noticed. The gun on the poop fired, a lick of flame and a crack! of report that deafened him. He was only a score of yards from the men working it but they had no eyes for him.

  He swung over the bulwark and went down the Jacob’s ladder, feet fumbling for the wooden rungs as it swayed and wobbled. But he dropped down it quickly, to where the ship’s boat
was made fast, and —

  The boat was full of water, only its timber buoyancy keeping it afloat and he guessed that it had been holed by shrapnel. He looked up the ladder, but he was not going back. To hell with that. He stepped down into the boat and felt it subside under his weight. He was a fair swimmer but not when fully dressed. He tore off all his clothes but his underpants then rolled over the side and swam away from the ship.

  He knew where the shore lay but could not see it. His position was too low in the water. He did not know if he was heading for safety or not. He swam slowly and steadily, pacing himself, as the barrage died away and comparative silence fell over the harbour. There were still sirens, bells, whistles, shouting.

  He swam for some time, he thought about fifteen minutes, before he saw a ship ahead of him. As he closed in on it he saw the boat alongside. This one lay at the bottom of a proper accommodation ladder, like a wooden fire-escape angled down the ship’s side to end in a small, square platform at water level. He swam to the boat and crawled in over its stern.

  He sat in the sternsheets for a time, getting his breath, and told himself wrily that this was where the hard part started. He did not know how far it was to Greece or Malta and his only experience with boats had been an occasional afternoon spent sailing off Alexandria. This trip would be different. Rather longer. There were oars in the boat but were there food and water? He had nothing but his pants. Well, he would steal what he needed. First he had to get out of the harbour. He moved forward in the boat and seized one of the oars. Which way should he go to get clear?

  A voice cracked sharply above him. He looked up and saw a squat, dark figure at the head of the ladder. The man ran down its steps, agile as an ape despite his bulk, and halted on the small platform. His head thrust forward as he peered at the boat where it lay out from the ship at the end of its painter, at Jamie now sitting on a thwart and holding one of the oars ready to ship it in the rowlock. The man spoke again, harshly, incomprehensibly, then pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and pointed it.