Torpedo Run (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Beresford straightened his back and looked at their intent faces. The thoughtful, experienced expressions of veterans like Mackay and Walker. The unconcealed excitement of Sub-Lieutenant Simon Mitford, who as third hand in Lieutenant Home’s boat was the youngest and newest officer present.

  He said, ‘The Russian naval forces are making two strikes, one near the Kerch Straits, and later another towards Balaklava. A lot will depend on German reactions, and what forces they move in against these strikes. Admiral Kasatonov is keen to cooperate, but he’ll not want to pay a heavy price.’

  Beresford looked at Devane. ‘It will be much like an Adriatic operation. Move in fast, and pull out before it gets too hot.’

  They shuffled their feet and spoke amongst themselves, each commanding officer seeing it differently, how it would affect his boat, the problems of attacking without fighting every inch of the way. The others considered their separate parts and how they would pass the final briefing to their crews.

  In their protective clothing and worn sea-going gear they looked more like renegades than naval officers, Devane thought. Except for Twiss, of course, who was as impeccable as ever.

  Beresford took their silence as general acceptance. He said, ‘I’ll get the last details and met reports from Sorokin’s HQ before you move.’

  He smiled at Devane. ‘All yours.’

  Devane stood up. ‘I’ll try not to flannel you. This could be a tough one. The island is no problem but, with two hundred miles there and back, we can expect trouble. To some of you this may seem an unworthy risk, but it is the kind of thing we are here to do. Keep probing and jabbing at the enemy’s supply lines and coastal defences, never give him time to rest or increase them. The final battle is a military one, it has to be. But as they call us the Navy’s infantry, we must play our part beforehand.’

  He thought suddenly of London, the red buses near the park. The air of shabby defiance, matched by a confidence that everything would be all right if they held on long enough.

  This was a different fight. Where vast armies had surged back and forth and had destroyed every living thing in their way.

  Whichever way you looked at it, there seemed to be no end to it. How many who had led at the beginning were still alive? He felt a sudden despair as he recalled the night he had spent with Claudia. They had been so alike, if only for that one moment. They had been overtaken by war and their lives would never be the same again. Whenever he tried to see beyond the year he could find nothing. Just another operation, more risks and less odds in his favour each time.

  He cleared his throat, cursing himself for his self-pity. To them he was the leader of the flotilla, the code name Merlin on the R/T, the man who would use his cunning to get them out of trouble.

  He said, ‘We shall put to sea at dusk. Rendezvous with Russian escorts at midnight.’

  Mackay stood up, his unlit pipe in his mouth. ‘Are the Ruskies coming along with us, sir?’

  ‘A raiding party. Twenty men to be carried in your boat.’ He silenced the groans. ‘And another twenty in mine. So tell your people to behave. Jack’s sense of humour takes a bit of understanding even in the Navy, right?’

  They began to leave, folding their notebooks and details of the raid. There was not one of them who looked apprehensive about it. It was just another job. You shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke.

  Devane glanced at Beresford. ‘When you mentioned Balaklava just now, I thought. . . .’

  Beresford stared at the chart. ‘Yes. Our people have died there already.’

  Dundas slid into the MTB’s bridge. ‘Communications tested, sir. Ready to proceed.’

  Devane adjusted an old towel around his neck beneath the collar of his waterproof suit. Nearby, the other boats rocked and murmured as they prepared to leave the confines of the dock with a minimum of delay. To remain under the twenty feet of solid concrete with the Packard motors spewing out their high-octane fumes was like starting up a big car in a sealed garage.

  ‘Plenty of cloud tonight.’ Devane stiffened, remembering what the petty officer had said that evening at the doorway before he had gone to see Claudia. Stop it right now. ‘It’ll be good to get some air in our lungs.’

  Seymour was on the forecastle talking with some seamen and waiting to cast off from the jetty. Down in his engine room, Petty Officer Tim Ackland, one-time mechanic and manager of a garage on the Great North Road, watched the gauges and listened to his team tinkering with the resting machinery which within minutes would be doing its best to deafen him with its roar.

  Lounging against the wheel, the coxswain, Petty Officer Pellegrine, tapped the compass with his finger and thought about his wife in Gosport. She had been so much nicer to him on that last leave. Usually she was placid, even dull, which was the way he liked her. She had seemed brighter, and he felt uneasy.

  Maybe she was having it off with some barrack stanchion, or the local grocer, who seemed to be able to keep her well supplied, whatever the shortages were supposed to be. He would have to get to the bottom of it.

  He came out of his brooding as a duffel-coated figure groped over the gratings to place freshly sharpened pencils in the little slot where the OOW could find them. It was Metcalf, the bane of the coxswain’s life.

  ‘Come on, lad, jump about! You’re supposed to be aft with Leading Seaman Hanlon!’

  Metcalf mumbled something and then vanished over the rear of the bridge. In the gloom, with his pale features framed in the upturned hood of his coat, he looked like a furtive monk.

  Metcalf paused on the short ladder and watched Dundas talking with the commanding officer.

  He felt the tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he relived the humiliation and shame of being turned down for a commission. He should be on the bridge as they were, talking like human beings, no matter what risks they were all about to share. They never had to endure the other part like he did. The constant blaspheming, the filthy stories which were passed around the mess deck and retold with relish, even though most of the men knew them by heart.

  Metcalf hated the crudity, the limited words and the sudden violence which could erupt in a split second over something trivial like a run ashore or an unfair measure of rum.

  He came from a good home, and had been at public school when the war had changed his life. All of his friends were officers, some were already quite distinguished in one or other of the services. It was so damned unfair.

  Metcalf was in coastal forces with the firm belief that in a small craft like an MTB he would discover another chance, show beyond doubt that his reversal was only temporary.

  Leading Seaman Hanlon, a tough young man from the Liverpool docks, greeted him with, ‘Wot’s up with you, wack? Lost yer bleeding ma or summat?’

  Metcalf ignored him and took his place with the other vague shapes by the guardrails. He almost welcomed Hanlon’s constant goading. It acted as a spur as well as a scourge. It was the occasional act of rough kindness he mistrusted. He would show all of them soon.

  At the opposite end of the boat, his gauntleted fists hanging by his sides as if resting, was Leading Seaman Ted Priest. He was twenty-two years old and came from Manchester. He knew MTBs like the back of his hand, and prided himself that apart from machinery he could do just about everything it took to keep one in fighting trim.

  He had twice lost the hook from his sleeve because of trouble ashore of one kind or another. Brawls and women were meat and drink to him, as they had been since his father had knocked him half stupid when he had found him with a girl in the backyard at home. She had been sixteen, he had been about thirteen, as far as he could remember.

  They often said that coastal forces took all the hard cases, the ones which had been rejected by other branches of the Navy, or had failed to find their rightful places. Priest was certainly a hard case, but in a MTB he was happy and knew he was good at his job.

  He was listening to the young two-ringer, Seymour, going on again about the book h
e was going to write one day. It had already become a bit of a joke on the mess deck. The lads called Seymour ‘Charlie Dickens’ behind his back, although none of them had read him either.

  But he wasn’t a bad bloke for an officer, Priest decided. Just so long as he didn’t try to be too popular with the blokes. It never worked. A pig was always safer to be with than a pansy, was Priest’s philosophy.

  David Seymour, oblivious to Priest’s patient boredom, said, ‘We’re probably the first naval people to visit where we’re going!’

  Priest chuckled. ‘I can manage without it.’ Seymour made it sound like a pleasure cruise. ‘Give me Alex every time. Straight to the fleet canteen, a few jars with your mates, and then up the backstairs for a bit o’ black velvet!’

  Seymour hid a smile. Priest was always trying to shock him, and he knew he should shut him up. But the tough leading hand with the lively tongue and a readiness to use his fists at the slightest provocation would make excellent material, one day.

  Standing on the gratings behind the screen, Devane heard Seymour laugh and felt easier because of it. With so much on his mind he often forgot what others might be thinking and feeling.

  Carroll whispered, ‘Looks like Lieutenant-Commander Beresford coming aboard, sir.’

  Devane nodded. ‘Thanks, Bunts.’ He moved to the ladder and wondered what was bringing Beresford here.

  He did not have long to wait.

  Beresford sat in the wardroom, stale now with its dead-lights screwed shut and the air heady with fuel.

  ‘You’ll have to stand down, John. I’ve just had a signal.’

  Devane stared at him. There was one thing he hated more than a dicey operation and that was having it cancelled at the last second when he had geared himself for it.

  ‘Why?’

  Beresford spread his hands. ‘Our new commander is arriving tomorrow. Operations are suspended until further orders.’

  ‘That’s bloody ridiculous!’ Devane saw the sudden start of surprise in Beresford’s eyes. ‘We’re doing what we came for. That signal makes us sound like the Home Fleet!’

  Beresford shrugged. ‘Commander Barker is highly thought of, I’m told. Combined Ops, commando planning and that kind of thing, although I’ve never actually met him.’

  Devane barely heard. ‘You know what the Russians will say, don’t you? That we dreamt up this raid in the first place and then dropped them right in it once the plan was fixed.’ He nodded, satisfied. ‘I can see you overlooked that.’

  Beresford snapped, ‘What I think is hardly the bloody point, is it? I had a signal, and I’ve told you what it says.’ He stood up and added, ‘I forgot, I’m more used to obeying orders than you.’

  Devane smiled in spite of his anger. ‘What’s the time of origin?’

  ‘It came in here twenty minutes ago. I still don’t see. . . .’

  Devane shouted up to the hatch, ‘Number One! See Commander Beresford over the side, will you?’

  Beresford exclaimed, ‘You mad bastard! You’re going anyway!’

  Devane was halfway up the ladder. ‘You were too late to warn me. We’ll be out of here like a dose of salts!’

  Moments later, as he stood beside Buckhurst, the engineer officer, and watched the boats swinging round from the moorings to churn the dock into a cauldron of waves and smoke, Beresford yelled, ‘Crazy idiot! Too late with the signal indeed!’

  But Buckhurst had his hands pressed over his ears as the concrete cavern quivered in the din of racing engines and did not hear him.

  Beresford watched the last of the five boats until she had vanished into the outer darkness of the dockyard and said resignedly, ‘Not that it would have made any difference. Not to him.’

  Devane levelled his glasses over the screen and watched the endless ranks of choppy whitecaps. The wind had risen quite suddenly from the west and the cloud had thinned considerably. He moved the glasses very slowly, from the blurred purple horizon to the raked bow of the MTB which was steaming parallel some half-cable abeam. Mackay’s boat, with Horne and Twiss following astern on an invisible thread.

  Devane stepped from the gratings and moved to the after part of the bridge. It was mid-afternoon, the first full day at sea. He saw the Russian assault troops muffled to the eyebrows in their padded uniforms and hung about with the tools of their trade – grenades, machine-pistols, mortars. In spite of the crowded conditions in the boat, they still managed to remain entirely separate from the sailors.

  They showed little interest in what was happening. Perhaps they were saving their energy for the raid.

  Devane saw Dundas gripping the guardrail as the boat dipped and plunged through the short, steep waves. Like the North Sea. Dundas was with the Russian officer, Commander Orel, and his interpreter, the same reedy-voiced lieutenant who had welcomed him to Tuapse.

  There was nothing reserved about Orel. The sea was his element, and he had spent hours creeping through the hull, had fired question after question at Dundas until his interpreter had all but dried up.

  Seymour was standing by the ready-use chart table, his glasses scanning the opposite beam as the boats loped across the choppy water at an economical eighteen knots.

  Throughout the day they had sighted nothing. It was as if they had the sea to themselves. Sorokin’s patrols had done their work well and, no matter what was happening closer to the land, the five MTBs were left to their own devices.

  Devane glanced at his watch. It would be time for another alteration of course soon. One more leg to take the boats round to the north towards the small island where it was hoped the damaged E-boat was still in hiding.

  Capture her or destroy her. Each MTB skipper knew his part, but when it came down to the actual moment it could rest on a few seconds understanding, a swift interpretation of the facts which could alter everything.

  Dundas followed Orel into the bridge and said. ‘Tour completed, sir.’

  Orel banged his hands together and moved around the small bridge like a caged animal.

  The interpreter said, ‘How long to wait, please?’

  Devane looked at Orel, searching for a break in his rigid defences.

  ‘About five hours. Your people will begin their attack at exactly 1700.’

  He listened to the lieutenant’s careful translation and saw Orel nod, apparently satisfied.

  Seymour asked, ‘Permission to test guns, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Last chance. Any nearer to the enemy’s patrol areas and we’d be inviting trouble.’

  As the order was relayed to the gun positions, each one responded with a quick spurt of tracer, the stabbing flashes tearing across the dull sea like spears.

  The others followed their leader’s example. It would be too late when the raid began, and Devane had known boats to go into action only to discover that every gun was jammed. Vibration, sea air and careless maintenance had no respect for machinery.

  Another Russian had come up to the bridge, a stocky, square-jawed captain of infantry who seemed to be enjoying the unusual experience more than his men.

  He and Orel repeatedly examined their maps, and Devane had already noticed that they compared them with the chart on the table. They certainly did not take anything for granted.

  ‘Aircraft! Bearing green four-five! Angle of sight two-oh!’

  Binoculars and gun muzzles swivelled on to the bearing, and Devane held his breath as a small, lazy shape moved across the lenses and into a thin layer of cloud.

  Orel gave a short laugh, and the interpreter said, ‘Russian.’

  ‘Disregard. Carry on the sweep.’ Devane looked at Orel and smiled. ‘Good.’

  Orel shrugged and thrust his hands into his leather coat.

  ‘Take over, Number One.’ Devane walked to the ladder. ‘I’m going below for a few moments.’

  All at once he needed to get away from the frail atmosphere, the delicate balance between cooperation and downright hostility. In the deserted wardroom he sat with his back wedged against the
vibrating bulkhead and listened to the swish of water past the hull. He went over it again, detail by detail. Plan of approach, observation, method, conclusion, attack. Just like the bloody tactical school.

  He let out his breath slowly. It was really getting him down. Defeating his carefully constructed calm. What had the war done to him? He was like the cat on the wrong side of every door. Ashore, he was always frightened they were going to give him a job on the base or install him as an instructor at one of those training depots. And at sea, he could only think of getting over the operation, putting it behind him with all the others.

  Devane stared at the locked cabinet below the pistol rack. He could almost picture the bottles inside. That would really give this Commander Barker something to complain about. The senior officer of Parthian arriving to do battle in a state of drunken stupor.

  The voicepipe shrilled and Devane snapped, ‘Yes?’

  It was Dundas. ‘Time to alter course.’ There was a pause. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘I’ll come up.’ Devane sighed. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. And thanks.’

  On the bridge Dundas snapped down the voicepipe cover and climbed up beside the wheel. What did Devane mean, he wondered? Thanks for what?

  He heard Devane behind him, the shuffling feet as the Russians and the watchkeepers moved round in a crowded dance to let him through.

  When he glanced at Devane, Dundas saw nothing to concern him. He looked calm and unruffled.

  Over his shoulder Devane called to the interpreter, ‘Tell them to stop worrying, will you? It’s a piece of cake.’ He grinned at Dundas. ‘Let’s see what he makes of that.’

  Seymour, who had nothing to do until the flotilla went to action stations, watched each man on the bridge and tried to memorize every detail. It was something he had been teaching himself since he had first taken up journalism for a local newspaper. He wondered what they would say if they could see him now. The boat pounding across the water, dull pewter now in the dying sunlight, the men at their stations watching the sea and the sky, searching for the first hint of an enemy.