Eagle at Taranto (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  He swung to port, away from that threat and headed instead for the harbour mouth. He knew it was a half-mile wide and midway between the island of San Pietro and Cape San Vito. He remembered there ought to be a floating battery of anti-aircraft guns mounted on a lighter in the entrance and two guardships moored in it also, and now he saw them, or rather the repeating flames at the muzzles of their guns. The lines of fiery coloured globes arched out towards him but slid past on either side. He was flying down between the lines.

  And now-the tunnel of his dream was real: not a narrowing passage between crowding clouds but a dark way through a sky filled with flashing, blinding explosions. It was a dark way that did not end in a window of light but in blackness. He held on as the bursts crept in on him, nearer and nearer, as the blackness came closer, at first slowly like the shells but then rushing up at him. Until he caught a glimpse of the squat, low vessels that carried the guns, slipping past either wingtip then astern of Ethel, and he flew her on into the darkness.

  6 Homecoming

  When the guns on Cape Rondinella opened fire, Katy thought, Oh God! Not again.

  But once more flares glowed into brilliant life, one by one, to hang in a long, spread backdrop of light against which the battleships would stand out in relief for the attackers from the sea. Bombs fell on the ships in the inner harbour behind, and so out of sight of the watchers in the hotel. And then came the torpedo-carriers.

  This time they all attacked from the north, diving in through the deep umbrella of bursting shells and tracer then pulling out of the dive to trundle along so low that, from the hotel window, their wheels seemed to roll on the surface of the sea.

  One was hit as it dived and curled away as if destined to crash into the sea. Katy watched with hands to her mouth and then saw it reappear, running in low under the flak and following the path of the leaders. Another skidded off course, put down its nose and smashed into the sea. But those that came after let go their torpedoes and went swerving and wavering away, the wide biplane wings wobbling, heading for the mouth of the harbour and the sheltering darkness.

  Were there five — or six? She was not sure, had lost count of them and the explosions of the torpedoes. The guns kept up that thundering barrage for a long time after the last of the Swordfish had gone and the flares had died. Then it became ragged, so they could hear individual guns, slowly faded, stopped.

  Bert remembered Katy and turned to her where she stood shaking by the window. He stepped back into the room with his shoes crunching on glass. He lifted a chair left-handed and set it behind her. “Here. Sit down.”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder and her knees gave way; she sank down on the chair. His voice sounded strange to himself, as if it came from somebody else a long way off. He imagined that would be caused by the battering his ears had suffered. He cleared his throat. “Where did I put that bottle?” Had he said that before? It rang a chord of memory.

  The bottle was not on the table. He stooped to peer about on the floor. The glasses lay there, smashed, the fragments and the stems of them reflecting the red light that washed in through the rectangle of open window. But there was no bottle. Then he saw that he himself still held it, by the neck in his right hand.

  He offered it. “Here. Take a slug.”

  Katy put her hands around his on the bottle and her mouth to its neck. She gulped the strega, not tasting it, but then pushed it away, gasped and coughed. Bert drank himself then dragged up another chair and folded his bony frame onto it. He, dug into his pocket and brought out his packet of Camels, stuck one in his mouth and thumbed the lighter into flame.

  Katy said warningly, “The blackout.”

  “What blackout? The whole damn town is lit up.” But he cupped the cigarette in the palm of his hand as he sucked at it greedily.

  They stared out, silent. Escaping steam whistled out in the bay, klaxons blared and the huge pall of smoke eddied on the breeze. A sailor appeared on the wide promenade before the hotel and waved his clenched fists at the sky, shouted in impotent fury. Bert suggested, “A liberty-man who missed the boat back to his ship? Or got leave to sleep ashore? He should be glad of his luck.” He listened, then, “Do you understand what he’s saying?” And when Katy shook her head: “Just as well. He’s calling the Royal Air Force sons of bitches and a whole lot worse.”

  But both he and Katy knew those aircraft were not R.A.F., they had seen those big biplanes too often to be mistaken and they believed they knew the ships they came from. They did not know Eagle was in the dockyard at Alexandria.

  The Italian sailor walked away. Up on the balcony they sat on as slowly the pall of smoke thinned until they could make out something of the ships in the harbour. One of the monsters was down by the bows and her long forecastle awash, another had been beached, while a third was being towed towards the shore but was already low in the water.

  Bert marvelled, “They got three of them! Three of the big ships of the Italian Fleet put out of action for months or maybe years! Nobody ever fought or won a naval battle with aircraft before.”

  He looked at Katy and saw she was not listening. Two of the Swordfish had been shot down, for sure. God only knew how few, if any, would get back to their ships. He thought, C’mon! You’re the smart guy always has the words to fit the picture. But all he could find to say was: “Don’t worry.”

  Katy had made up her mind. She was certain Mark Ward was safe, but she had to know. She would always have to know. “I’m going to Alexandria with you.”

  The harbour with its explosive midnight sun lay astern and Mark’s eyes adjusted; the blackness changed to a moonlit night over a sea glinting silver in the pale, cold light. He set Ethel climbing steadily and on course. He looked back only once when Tim Rogers called, “You never saw anything like that!” For some seconds Mark leaned sideways to look past the overload tank at the cloud of smoke covering the harbour and the flashing, flaming box barrage that filled it. Then he looked ahead and settled down for the flight.

  He had a lot to think about: the flying, of course, watching his heading and the instruments, trim and fuel. But behind that —

  Accepting that he was alive. That he had penetrated that hell of gunfire, made his attack and then escaped. That he had faced the tunnel and laid the ghost that he had conjured up himself.

  He found he could think very clearly as Ethel droned along, lifting and falling gently, obedient. He knew that his survival was no guarantee of immortality; it did not mean that from now on he could survive anything. Tomorrow he could ditch over the side, or far from the ship, and be killed. He also knew that tomorrow he would be wrapped again in the pilot’s mental protective coating that made him believe, however dangerous the mission, that some other poor bloke would catch it, not himself.

  He had faced death, knew it was inevitable sooner or later, and meanwhile he must live. You only had one time around. You must not waste it.

  He circled once over Illustrious as Tim used the lamp to send their recognition signal. He saw the answering light blink from the bridge, ordering, and took Ethel in towards the round-down of the stern. The two lines of lights came on along either side of the flight-deck but this was no tunnel. He watched the batsman’s torches and set Ethel down gently, beautifully.

  She ran on to the lift, the deck-handling party shoving at wings and fuselage, to be struck down to the hangar. Laurel showed on the deck below the cockpit, the wind flapping the overalls on his thin frame, “All right, sir?” He gulped with relief, laughing up at them. “Mr. Ward? Mr. Rogers?”

  Then Hardy stood behind him like a wide shadow but solid, grinning at Ward. “It looks good, sir. Only one missing out of the first wave and five of your lot are back already.”

  Welcome home. A strange ship but home for now. Mark clambered down with Tim and went to debriefing. Then to the wardroom that was crowded, noisy, with an atmosphere of celebration, of a victory won, though its full magnitude would not be known until reconnaissance photographs were taken i
n the light of day. All had landed on who were going to land on and Illustrious was steaming swiftly away from possible dawn reprisals. Two Swordfish had failed to return so another four men, friends, had vanished from this close club of the wardroom. But far worse had been expected; they had steeled themselves for losses of a dozen or more crews.

  Mark drank a whisky and soda and there were sandwiches, a big cake. He was ravenously hungry. He had been flying for over five hours in the noisy, wind-buffeted open cockpit, lonely, with only his fears and his courage for company.

  Now he was dog-tired, a tall, black-haired young man with a drawn face. He sat down in an armchair, alone in the crowd, and wrote a letter. He wrote slowly because he was tired, carefully because this was important, but without hesitation because he knew exactly what he wanted to say. He did not need to take the photograph from his shirt pocket because he saw it with his mind’s eye. When the letter was finished he went aft to the quarter-deck and his camp bed there. He lay for a minute staring out at the sea and the stars with the wind brushing his face and stirring his hair. Then he slept, at peace.

  Doug Campbell, telegraphist airgunner lay in his hammock aboard Eagle at Alexandria and stared up at the deckhead, inches above his face, and wondered about all of them.

  Katy packed her kit in a few minutes by the light of her torch, following a now familiar routine. Then she wrapped her slim body in her trenchcoat against the cold breeze from the shattered window. She sat in an armchair because her bed was strewn with broken glass from the bombing; her short blonde hair was gritty with dust. It felt as it had in the desert but she would shower in the light of morning. Katy was ready to go back to Alexandria.

  She did not know if this would ever be America’s war but now it was hers and her life would be joined with that of a young pilot. She had seen the slow, lumbering biplanes fight their way through to an incredible victory. She was Katy Sandford and would fight her way through. It would be a long, hard and bitter struggle but she and Mark Ward would face it together. Katy curled up small in the chair and slept.

  Curtain

  Sarah stirred in her chair and the golden labrador opened its eyes, watched her. The old man had stopped talking. She remembered that he was an old man, talking of lovers long ago. She looked down at her notebook, the few notes she had made at the start of the interview, and the rest of the page still blank. She did not need notes and closed the book, took a breath and said softly, “Thank you.”

  Mark Ward nodded, “Any of that of use to you?”

  “Yes.” Those words she had written a year ago: There is a raw energy to the music, a drive and a passion, but at other times a haunting loneliness. There are passages that leave the listener feeling suspended between heaven and earth, lost and remote. What fashions a man that he should write such music? She thought she understood them now, the man behind the music — and the woman. She had not been told a parable. He had said, “This is how it was, how we were.” She could draw what moral or lesson she wished. Her life was her own.

  The sun’s rays slanted in at the window now, casting long shadows. Sarah looked at her watch and saw she had over-run her time by several hours. “I have to go now —” She stopped as the labrador scrambled to its feet, head turned to the door. Then she heard, muted by the length of the hall, the crunching of a car on the gravel in the drive and an engine that cut out.

  Ward lifted his long frame from the chair. “That will be my wife, driven up from the station. She parks the car there and goes up by train; doesn’t like fighting the traffic in London these days.” And as he led Sarah down the hall: “She asked me to apologise for her absence. Some relatives of hers flew in from the States on their way to the continent and decided to stop over for a few hours. She felt she was duty-bound to go up and have lunch with them.”

  Sarah followed him and the labrador out to the front of the house. Another Mini now stood behind hers, the driver closing the door and turning to the house. This was a woman in her sixties, small, still quick, smiling. Sarah saw in that smile the laughter of the girl in the yellowing photograph.

  Ward introduced them, then Katy said, “I came down on the train with Jamie.”

  Ward grinned, “How is he?”

  “As always. Laid back. Grousing about the younger generation and in particular his grandson. You know Jamie.”

  “Yes, we know him.” Ward glanced at Sarah.

  She slid in behind the wheel and started the engine. Rob Dunbar would be waiting in London. Katy stooped to put her face to the open window. “We’ll see you again.”

  Sarah met her eyes in an exchange of woman’s knowledge, “I hope so.”

  Katy laughed, “I’m sure.”

  Sarah let in the clutch and they waved, the tall man and the slight figure of the woman at his side, until the Mini turned out of the drive and Sarah went her own way. But for a second she heard the thunder of the guns and saw the night sky flaming above Taranto.

  If you enjoyed reading Eagle at Taranto, you might be interested in Seek Out and Destroy, also by Alan Evans.

  Extract from Seek Out and Destroy by Alan Evans

  1. Seek Out and Destroy

  HM Light Cruiser Dauntless eased her battered frame through the night at a cautious ten knots. Her captain, Commander David Cochrane Smith, stood on her torn bridge and thought the November darkness was kind to her, hiding the ravages of her recent action, but she could wear her scars with pride because she had fought her fight and won.

  He was thirty years old, a middle-sized, lean man, seeming frail, but that was deceptive. His thin face was drawn with tiredness now, the pale blue eyes narrowed by continual strain. But that night Dauntless was bound for the dockyard at Alexandria, only hours away, and the survivors of her crew were looking forward to leave in Cairo. Smith shared this anticipation, and there was a girl in Cairo who would share his leave...

  The signal yeoman broke into Smith’s reverie: ‘Escort’s signalling, sir! Making the challenge to somebody ahead!’

  Smith saw the winking light off the starboard bow where a destroyer patrolled, a black shape under her smoke. A second cruised to port, the pair then shepherding Dauntless. Another light flickered in the darkness ahead and the yeoman read the signal: ‘It’s the destroyer Harrier, sir.’

  Harrier was expected. Only hours before Rear Admiral Braddock had sent a wireless signal that he was sailing from his shore command in Alexandria to meet Dauntless. That had surprised Smith: Braddock was a grim, taciturn near-seventy and not the man to come bustling out to offer congratulations. A growled ‘well done’ from Braddock counted as fulsome praise.

  Smith paced across the bridge, halted to watch Harrier appear out of the night, slender and swift. No plodding ten knots for her. She ripped towards Dauntless at better than twenty knots with her big bow-wave a silver flame in the darkness, tore past her to port then turned neatly, reducing speed, to slide into station off the starboard beam. Again the light winked from her bridge and the yeoman reported, ‘Admiral’s coming aboard, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Stop both.’ That last to the men at the engine room telegraphs. The destroyer’s motor-boat was already dropping down to the sea as the way came off Dauntless. Smith left the bridge to Ackroyd, the First Lieutenant, and went to meet Braddock as he came aboard, broadchested, his black beard streaked with grey. He saw the Admiral’s sweeping glance along the upper deck where the entire superstructure was twisted wreckage and not a gun survived, saw Braddock scowl. Dauntless had been a lovely ship and Braddock remembered her so. But then he turned on Smith and said abruptly, ‘I’ve got orders for you.’

  ‘Orders?’ Smith could not believe it. ‘Sir, with respect, Dauntless is in no condition —’

  ‘Not for Dauntless. For you. Ackroyd assumes command of this ship now. Tell somebody to pack your kit and he’s only got ten minutes. Where can we talk?’

  Smith wondered numbly if he had misheard or misunderstood. He was tired out — could his mind or his ears be playing trick
s? Leave Dauntless in ten minutes? Why?

  Braddock grumbled, ‘Come on, man! We haven’t got all night. Is that Buckley?’

  It was Leading-Seaman Buckley, hovering discreetly close by, a big shadow in the gloom. Smith told him, ‘Pack my kit. All you can find. You’ve got ten minutes.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Smith turned to Braddock. ‘We can talk in the sea-cabin, sir.’

  It was at the back of the bridge, a small steel cubicle holding a desk, a chair and a bunk, Braddock hung up his cap, took the chair and Smith sat on the bunk. Braddock dug a fat envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on to the desk. ‘Your orders are in there, but I’ll tell you what they are. Admiral Winter commands the British cruiser squadron in the Adriatic. The operation’s his idea and he’s asked for you.’

  The Adriatic. Italy was Britain’s ally there and she faced the Austrians across the Adriatic, fought them in the Alps in the north. This was the beginning of November. Smith tried to remember what he knew of weather in the northern Adriatic. There would be snow in the mountains, of course, a cold wind, plenty of fog.

  Braddock said, ‘You probably know the Austrian fleet is not as strong as the Italian so since the start of the war they’ve followed a policy of maintaining a fleet-in-being, staying in their bases either at Trieste or at Pola, just across the northern Adriatic from Venice, knowing that that ties up the Italians who have to keep a similar fleet-in-being in Brindisi and Taranto in the south just in case the Austrians come out. Obviously the Italians can’t blockade Pola any more than we could mount a blockade of the German High Seas Fleet. Any attempt at that would leave the blockading ships wide open to attack by U-boats. So, stalemate. But now —’ He paused, then asked, ‘Have you heard of a Kapitan-zur-See Erwin Voss?’

  Heard of him? More than that, Smith had met the man. But what had Voss to do with him now?