Eagle at Taranto (Commander Cochrane Smith series)
Page 21
Jamie glared at its muzzle glinting blue-black in the moonlight and said irritably, bitterly, “All right! Of all the bloody luck!”
The man started, then growled, “Hey! You English?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a spy, or somethin’ like that?”
Jamie noted the accent and thought: Italian-American. He said, “No. Prisoner of war.”
“What in hell you doin’ with my boat, hey?” The stabbing of the gun muzzle emphasised the man’s anger.
“I was going to Malta or Greece.” Jamie cautiously, surreptitiously, shifted his grip on the oar, fingers reaching along it to find a better balance for what he intended.
The man stared, “In that boat? With oars? In your shorts? Don’t try to kid me.” He reached down with one hand to grasp the painter.
“Don’t try to stop me.” Jamie held the oar two-handed, pointed at the man’s chest and made ready to hurl it like a harpoon. He thought the other man was unlikely to be a crack shot with the pistol and he was off balance now, crouching to hold the painter, the gun muzzle wavering.
The man was still, watching the oar, then his eyes lifted to Jamie’s face. “You really mean it.” He did not expect an answer, and said, “O.K.” He shoved the gun into his pocket and hauled on the painter. “You come aboard. We’re sailing for Istanbul in the morning.”
Jamie didn’t believe it, didn’t trust him, kept his grip on the oar as the boat slid in to bump its prow against the platform. “You’re Italian.”
“Naw!” The man shook his head. “Turk.”
Jamie said, “You’ve got an American accent.” Then he realised the illogicality of that remark.
The man shrugged heavy shoulders, “So what? My brother, he’s American citizen. I tried it over there but I like to run my own ship. This is mine. I’m captain. C’mon.” He led the way up the ladder.
Jamie stepped onto the platform and called up after the Turkish captain, “Suppose the Italians search the ship?”
The captain paused and looked down at him. “They won’t find you. Been done before. People want to come in, people want to go out, and no questions.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t like Hitler, Mussolini.” The squat man grinned, showing big, square teeth. “And you’ll pay me. Right?” “Right. Once you get me to a British consul.”
Jamie followed him up the ladder, trying to remember anything he’d ever learned of the process of repatriation from a neutral country. But if it came down to money then maybe he could work his own repatriation and be smuggled — into and out of — Turkey. And there was always that nurse in Cairo...
The second wave of seven Swordfish flew on course for an hour below the thick cloud ceiling, then it thinned, became ragged, ended. They climbed up through a. clear sky to eight-thousand feet.
Twenty minutes later Mark saw the cone of fire that was Taranto, sixty miles away, but he watched it for another minute before he realised what it was. The sky was clear ahead, and the cone stood on the horizon, shaped like a Red Indian tepee and made of a patchwork of red, white and green light: brilliant, scintillating, shifting colours. He spoke into the Gosport tube, “Did you ever see the like of this?”
“What?”
Mark did not answer but waited for Tim to put aside his chartboard, stand up and peer around the overload tank. Then Tim said, “Good God!”
“It’s a barrage.”
Tim was silent for a moment, digesting that and seeing the implications. Then: “They’re expecting us. It looks as though Williamson’s first wave stirred them up.”
There had never been any hope of having the advantage of surprise, they knew that. Just the same — Mark said, “Right bloody welcome.”
Tim did not answer and Mark could guess at his thoughts: was it possible for any aircraft to survive such a barrage? Williamson’s squadron had flown into it, but had any of them come out?
Ethel was flying at a hundred knots, trundling along parallel to the coast and about fifteen miles out over the sea. Mark watched the cone of fire as the seven Swordfish slowly approached it, and after a while it died down. He wondered then if the Italians had still been firing at the last of William-son’s squadron? That would fit with the timetable. Then the cone brightened again and he thought, They’ve heard us. That’s for us.
Soon afterwards they were almost opposite Taranto and the fireworks were fifteen miles away to Mark’s right. Hale then led them around to starboard, onto a north-easterly course, directly towards the flak. Mark saw a signalling flicker of blue light from the after cockpit of Hale’s Swordfish, and then two of the others banked away, leaving the formation and heading off on their own: the flare droppers. The flares would help, but there was a big three-quarter moon up behind Mark’s right shoulder. He could see all he needed.
He recognised what he saw; he had pored over the photographs long enough. Ahead and just off to his right was the big, round basin of the outer harbour, four miles across. Dead ahead was Cape Rondinella with the northern shore of the basin running away behind it and lit along its length by the gun flashes of the batteries sited there. To the right lay San Pietro island in the centre of the mouth of the basin and also spurting flames. Further still to the right was the jutting headland of Cape San Vito, the southern end of the basin.
Hale’s plan was to lead his torpedo carriers around the northern shore, past the balloon barrage, then turn to star-board when he came level with the battleships, all anchored at the eastern end of the basin. The ships would then be beam on to the attacking Swordfish and so offer the biggest targets. Furthermore, some would be overlapping so there was a chance that a torpedo passing ahead or astern of one would hit another anchored behind.
That was the simple theory. The practice would be less simple. Mark realised that he and Hale and all the others would have to take the position of the battleships on trust because the bursting flak and the drifting smoke hid them. Some of the smoke would have come from the fires he could see burning some four or five miles away. There was one just off to the right of Ethel’s nose — would that be the seaplane base? There was another blaze round to the right and he would bet that was the oil-storage depot. But most of the smoke came from the shells that had exploded over this landlocked circle of water during the last hour. More than fifteen-hundred guns had been firing for that time and the smoke still hung. Mark thought he could smell it.
They were closing in on Cape Rondinella now.
Tim Rogers reeled in the wireless aerial, winding the wheel down by his knee. Then he tidied up the cockpit, tucking the Bigsworth chartboard away, securing any loose gear or instruments so nothing would get lost or fall out. He checked that his parachute pack could be easily pulled out of the rack where it was stowed — it could well be needed. But if they were hit on the run-in when less than a hundred feet above the sea, he might just have time to snap loose from the jock strap before the sinking aircraft pulled him down.
He stayed on his feet to be able to see better, the webbing canvas of the jock strap running like some umbilical cord from the harness at his middle to the anchorage in the floor. He leaned out over the right-hand side of the cockpit so that he could peer around the big dustbin of the overload tank, see where they were going, and what awaited them.
Mark knew what Tim would be doing around this time, just before the attack: tidying up like a busy housewife. Time for one last joke? “Don’t forget to put the milk bottles out.”
Was that a chuckle from Tim? Over the Gosport tube it sounded like an emptying bath. Tim said, “You remember: One-three-five degrees. That’s your course for home on the way out of here. In fact, you might as well set it now.”
“Roger. One-three-five degrees.” Mark set it on the compass ring and locked it, wondered as he did so how many pilots ahead of him had done the same, only for it to be a waste of time because they lay now at the bottom of the harbour. He said, “I take it you’ve finished for the day, then.”
Mark thought, End of conversation. The torpedo attacks on the ninth of July off Calabria, the others at Bomba and Tobruk, had all been preparation for, and leading up to, this raid. He and Tim had taken the course and now it was examination time.
Ethel crossed the coast north of Cape Rondinella and came under fire from the batteries there but the bursts were ahead of her and low. He wondered again if the gunners were overestimating the speed of the Swordfish. Now there were houses below. There was no smoke beneath him here and the moonlight showed rectangular gridworks of streets and here and there a garden or a park, then what could be a factory building with a tall chimney casting a long shadow. The last lot of flak had been left behind and they were gradually losing height now, coming down slowly from eight thousand —
There was the first flare, burning brilliant white in the east and hanging over the town about four-thousand feet up. And now the second...As Ethel droned on Mark saw the line of flares extended one by one above the eastern shore like a string of jewels. Already he thought he could make out the outline of a vessel but by the time the Swordfish were down near the water the flares would have sunk lower and would be silhouetting every ship in the harbour.
He could not see the balloons. He searched for them, eyes narrowed, shifting, but did not find them. Where the hell were they? He knew they floated there, the bloody balloons with their mooring wires like cheese-cutters that could slice Ethel in two.
The torpedo Swordfish were in line ahead now; Mark had automatically eased Ethel into her place in the line. Hale led them at the front of the file. Mark saw his leader’s blue formation lights blink off and on and then the nose of Hale’s Swordfish tipped down.
It was every man for himself from now on. Mark eased the stick gently over to the right and forward until Ethel was howling down in the torpedo dive. He could feel the shiver of the airframe, the slipstream beating on his face. Now they were into the flak. He had grown to know the red, blue and green comets now since that first terrifying baptism of fire off Calabria, the way they came up in slow streams at first but then quickened to flash past with a shriek and bang! Now he could smell them and the stench of cordite was rammed into his lungs with the pressure of the dive, caught at his breath.
The flak was thickening, with hundreds of guns hurling up shells and tracer all around the bay, from the inner harbour as well, and from San Pietro island away to the right. He threw Ethel about, from side to side, to try to avoid the flak but there was no avoiding it, no way past, they had him boxed in —! Then the port wing was hit, a huge chunk bitten out of it in a burst of orange light and he felt the shock of it through Ethel’s frame, a kick on his seat and a shudder in his hands.
He decided he had to get out of this or they’d be blown to bits. He wrenched Ethel to starboard. She was still diving, and now banking away from the box barrage filled with hurtling shrapnel and flames. She curled in a spiral as he held her in that diving, banking turn, until they had turned full circle and the altimeter had wound back almost to the stop. He could see the glint of red light on the water of the harbour below and now he straightened Ethel up, hauled back on the stick to pull her out of the dive. For one long, heart-stopping second he thought his flying skill and experience had betrayed him and would kill him, that he had left it too late and he was going to fly her into the sea. He glared down into the black water through the blur of the spinning propeller as the nose lifted slowly, so slowly, but then the oily glitter slid away under him and he was staring instead at a ship in the distance ahead.
He eased the stick forward again to bring Ethel into level flight. He had judged it finely, but correctly. He was very low, only ten to twenty feet above the sea, but he had stolen in under the flak. The brilliant, flaming globes still slid up into the night sky as if running on strings, but they burst high above him. The ship he had seen in the distance was now close, too close, and off to his left. He would never line up on her in time to hit her. She was firing a score of guns, the muzzle flashes twinkling along the length of her, but they weren’t firing at him. He leaned to his left, twisted his head around and saw another Swordfish to port and astern of Ethel, skimming the surface of the harbour and headed for the ship.
Mark faced forward. There was a second ship beyond that first one and a shade to the right of it. Ginger Hale’s theory of the targets overlapping was being proved right, by God! And this other ship was a monster! From his memory of the photographs and his judgment of where she lay she must be —
He was suddenly aware of Tim’s voice croaking in his ears: “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
Tim had clung to the sides of the cockpit as Mark plunged Ethel seaward in that diving spiral so that she seemed to be sliding down on her starboard wingtip with the bursting shells and entangling lines of tracer all about her. Then Mark was pulling her out of it, the world ceased turning around Tim and he was thrown forward against the petrol-reeking overload tank. He peered around to the right of it, saw the big ship, recognised it, and yelled the information into the Gosport tube again and again — but Mark did not answer. Tim could not reach forward to tap Mark’s shoulder as he could usually have done, because of the overload tank bulking between them and he beat on it with his fists in impatient rage, useless because he knew Mark would not hear that hammering, either.
Now, at last, Mark answered his shouting: “What is it?”
“I’ve been bawling at you for the last five bloody minutes!”
“Sorry. Didn’t hear you. I’ve been busy up here.”
“Ship just to starboard. A big ‘un. Littorio. Or one of them, anyway.” The reconnaissance photographs had shown two battleships of the Littorio class in the harbour.
Mark answered, “That’s right. I see her. She’s ours.” He banked, very gently, until Ethel was flying straight at the Littorio, the water blurring close under him like black glass. Others had seen her. A Swordfish was just lifting over her bow after completing an attack. Another was closing her, flying two, maybe three-hundred yards ahead of Ethel and to the left. And now came the flak, the ship’s gunners seeing the two Swordfish and concentrating their fire on them. But the old-fashioned biplanes flew on through the bursts, slipping from side to side to confuse the aim of the gunners.
Christ! Mark sucked in air as a third Swordfish sailed out of the night and slid past the nose of the plane ahead of Ethel, looking to almost rip the propeller away. But it sailed on across Ethel’s front, was hit, faltered, fell and smashed into the sea.
Mark winced and trained his eyes ahead to where the other Stringbag kept steadily on. He thought, Looks like Tiffy Torrens-Spence; can’t see the number on the fuselage but — beyond Torrens-Spence was the ship. Nothing else. She seemed to stretch as far as Mark could see on either hand, her upperworks, bridge stacked on bridge, rising to reach the sky. She was ablaze with muzzle-flames — but not using her searchlights. He thought, One piece of luck. A searchlight’s brilliant beam shining straight into his eyes would have left him flying blind.
Torrens-Spence — Mark was certain now that it was the Irishman — dropped his torpedo and climbed, swung away. Hold her steady.
Get in close, as Tiffy had.
There was a safety range normally on the torpedoes so they would not explode before running three-hundred yards and the dropping aircraft would have that much of the running time to turn aside and fly clear before the torpedo struck. But tonight, at the insistence of the air crews, the armourers on Illustrious had run off nearly a third of that safety range, to be sure that no torpedo would fail to detonate because it was dropped too close.
So hold on..
Now the ship was huge in the torpedo-sight set before the cockpit: monstrous, like a street of tall houses or a block of flats. She was a great floating platfor
m for the dozens of guns she carried and all but the biggest, the fifteen-inch in their turrets, fired at Ward.
Now!
Mark’s gloved left hand thumbed the release button and he felt the lurch as the torpedo fell away. He swung Ethel to the right and pulled back the stick to get her climbing. She clawed her way up from the sea to clear the ship’s two forward turrets with only feet to spare, and Mark saw a man on the deck of the ship by the foremost turret. Undoubtedly it was a man in a white uniform and Mark thought incredulously: What’s that bloody fool standing there for? Doesn’t he know it’s dangerous with the air full of shrapnel?
Then shells burst around him and he felt the jar as Ethel was hit once, more, but she flew on. He jammed her nose down so she was skimming the surface of the sea again, banked right then straightened out, heading for the mouth of the harbour four miles away. Shells were bursting ahead and above. Ethel juddered, a hammer blow shaking her. Underneath! Mark yanked back the stick, lifting her again and realised he’d put her wheels into the sea but she hadn’t cartwheeled; he’d got away with it.
He still kept her down to try to stay under the flak. There was something ahead, low in the water, and above it — He threw Ethel to the left as he saw the balloon like a silver whale floating ahead and above him. The balloon was tethered to an anchored lighter and Ethel tilted on one wing, banking over the lighter’s blunt bow. He thought he saw the wire, like a black pen stroke on the night, pass just outside the starboard wing.
Level again. Low again. He flexed the fingers of each hand in turn. It had seemed impossible that they would get in through the fire of the massed guns, but they were here. Now they had to get out. There were ships spread across the harbour ahead: these would be the cruisers shown in the photographs. Beyond them the batteries on San Pietro island and Cape Rondinella were marked in the night by prickling flames that sprouted tracer and bursting shells.