Torpedo Run (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  And the commanding officer, one of the Navy’s real-life heroes, within feet of where he was standing. So confident, able to make a joke when everyone else must be tensed up like a coiled spring. Seymour’s glance fell on Devane’s hand, and he saw that it was gripped so tightly around a voicepipe that the knuckles were white against the tanned skin, as if it was taking all his strength to hold him there.

  Seymour looked away, confused and troubled. It was like stumbling on a friend’s secret, finding that all you believed was false.

  Devane said, ‘Starboard twenty, Swain. Steer north by west.’

  Carroll’s lamp clacked in time with his words, bringing the twin lines of MTBs round together on to the new course.

  They were committed. From this moment it was all a matter of timing and faultless execution. Right now, as some of Sorokin’s ships were bombarding enemy positions along the Crimea, and the fighter-bombers played havoc with ground positions, a submarine would be surfacing to put the first raiding party on the island. It was a backwater as far as the Black Sea battleground was concerned, but in a few hours’ time it would become a small part of history.

  Devane dragged his hand from the voicepipe and massaged his fingers.

  Don Richie should be standing here, not me.

  He saw Seymour watching him and made another effort. It will soon be over.

  ‘Action stations, Number One. Go round yourself. Keep them on top line.’

  Seymour relaxed as the alarm jangled through the boat. He was almost thankful. It was not good to steal another’s secret.

  7

  Attack

  ‘Go to the chartroom and check those calculations again, Number One.’

  Devane wedged his elbows against the screen and trained his glasses beyond the port bow. It was supposed to be dusk, but the sea was already dark and vaguely menacing.

  Dundas replied quietly, ‘They seem all right, sir. I checked them just now –’

  ‘Do it again!’

  Devane could feel the lieutenant’s resentment as he groped his way to the ladder. But it was all taking far too long, and the sickening motion created by the boat’s dead slow progress for the past hour did not help.

  Seymour said, ‘Zero hour, sir.’ He spoke very carefully, as if he was well aware of Devane’s mood.

  Devane moved his glasses another few inches. The little island was right there, blocking their path, or should be. It was unfair to take it out of Dundas. He was a damn good navigator, and the boat was lucky to have someone who had been so expertly trained in the merchant service.

  He could feel the others crowded in behind him. The Russians, the bridge team, some spare hands with belts for the machine-gunners.

  Dundas returned. ‘It’s dead ahead, sir. Four miles.’ He waited, expecting a sudden outburst. ‘Commander Orel knows the place well, and his notes on the chart were a great help.’

  ‘Good.’ Devane lowered his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. ‘The raiding party should be ashore by now.’

  If only the MTBs had radar, how much easier and safer it would be. On several occasions in the Mediterranean they had ‘borrowed’ the services of an American PT boat. All of their craft were fitted with radar. It had made the flotilla’s cat-and-mouse chase amongst the Greek and Adriatic Islands far less of a gamble.

  Someone moved up beside him, and without looking he knew it was Orel.

  How must it feel, Devane wondered. If the Germans had invaded and conquered Britain he might be looking from seaward at the Isle of Wight and trying to imagine what was happening to his friends and relations in an occupied country. Maybe Orel was thinking of someone in particular.

  Dundas said, ‘If we receive no signal, sir, will we still go in?’

  Devane swung on him and then said, ‘I’m sorry I choked you off just now. Not deserved.’ He touched his sleeve. ‘I think not. No signal will mean that the sub withdrew without landing the raiding party. Her skipper probably knows better than anybody what the risks are.’

  Orel leant forward, sensing perhaps from Devane’s tone that the first optimism was beginning to fade away.

  Devane turned towards him and then blinked as the Russian’s features, the upper bridge and flapping ensign were suddenly illuminated by a vivid red glare. For a split second longer he thought that an enemy patrol had pinned them down with a star shell, or that some coastal battery had been tracking them with detection devices. But then came the explosion, crashing out of the glow like a thunderclap, and Devane knew it was something else.

  The Russian interpreter was already explaining, but Devane said abruptly, ‘The Russian submarine. She’s hit a mine.’

  As if a great hand had come out of the shadows to existinguish the glare, the sea became dark again.

  Voices murmured and flowed down either side-deck, and Devane heard Seymour trying to restore order.

  One thing, it was a quick death. Immediate. Like the bomb had been for those people in the pub. Either the submarine had lost her bearings in the minefield or she had struck a ‘drifter’. Either way, it did not make much difference now.

  If the Russians had kept to their timetable, the raiders would be ashore. The only thing which was not according to plan was that the whole island would be on the alert.

  He snatched up the microphone. ‘Parthian, this is Merlin. We’re going in! Start the attack!’

  He glanced at Pellegrine’s shadowy outline. ‘Full ahead all engines!’

  The bows rose several feet as the MTB leapt forward with a roar of motors. But surprisingly it broke the tension, the sudden anxiety which the explosion had thrown at them.

  Fingers closed on Devane’s arm and he saw Orel staring at him, his eyes almost feverish as he shouted above the din of power.

  The interpreter, who was still trying to stay on his feet after the violent increase of speed, shouted something, but Devane said, ‘Don’t bother!’ He forced a smile and added, ‘I think I know what he said.’

  Orel was satisfied and relaxed his grip. When Devane glanced at him again he seemed as controlled and as impassive as ever. But for those few seconds the mistrust and the uncertainty had been left astern.

  ‘Here comes the welcome!’

  Red balls of tracer lifted as if from the sea and winged far abeam, and Devane thought he heard the heavier bark of artillery. But no tell-tale waterspouts shot upwards, and the tracer too stopped almost immediately.

  Leading Signalman Carroll shouted, ‘There’s the signal, sir!’

  Devane nodded and watched the drifting flares, two green over one white. The Russian raiding party might still be wondering what was happening, or if they would ever be rescued now that their submarine had taken a last dive. But they had fired the flares, and would not have much longer to wait before they knew they were not alone.

  Boots scraped on deck, and Devane heard shouted commands as the Russians crowded forward on either side, weapons at the ready. It was to be hoped that the island’s defenders were still confused, otherwise one good burst of machine-gun fire might sweep the soldiers overboard like rag dolls.

  Orel was standing close beside the coxswain, peering forward with one hand resting on Pellegrine’s shoulder. They were rushing headlong into shadow, and only Orel really knew what this place was like.

  ‘All engines half ahead! Starboard fifteen! Steady!’ Devane gripped the rail beneath the screen for support as the deck tilted over. ‘Stand by to open fire!’

  A solitary bullet thudded into the hull, and Devane found time to wonder who the marksman was. A startled sentry, most likely. A tiny island, well clear of the war’s main thoroughfare, the sight of five MTBs rushing out of the gloom straight for the solitary inlet would be enough to terrify anyone.

  Devane wanted to move round the bridge, to see if the other boats were reacting as planned. But he dared not take his eyes from the onrushing shadows, not for a second. They all trusted him. He must do the same for them.

  ‘Grenades exploding to
port, sir.’

  But spray lancing over the flared bows hid the explosions. Devane saw a few dull flashes and imagined he heard the impartial stammer of automatic fire. Men were fighting out there. Hated enemies, with no quarter at the end of it.

  Tracer flashed diagonally across the MTBs’ approach and churned the sea into froth.

  Devane shouted, ‘Flares!’

  It seemed to take an age before the anchorage leapt into stark outline beneath the drifting lights.

  It all seemed much smaller now, with no room for error or panic.

  ‘Slow ahead port and centre! Half astern starboard!’

  Devane winced as metal shrieked out of the gloom and ricocheted from the bridge.

  ‘Stop starboard!’

  He forced himself to remain upright as tracer hummed and whimpered overhead or streaked blindly out to sea.

  ‘Slow ahead all engines!’

  He pounded the rail until the pain steadied his racing nerves. There it was. Pale, wedge-shaped and blurred in the dangling camouflage nets.

  More tracer ripped past the bridge and then hammered the hull like massive boots.

  Without realizing he was shouting, Devane called, ‘The bastards are on to us! Open fire! Knock that gun out!’

  The bridge shook as the twin machine-guns on the port side rattled into life, joined by the Oerlikons’ sharper note, and then the full onslaught from Walker’s boat which was following nose to tail.

  Devane looked round for Dundas, but he had already gone to rally his boarding party.

  He heard a sharp exchange of light automatic fire, the wild whooping of the Russian soldiers as they tensed themselves for the impact.

  But the E-boat’s cannon had ceased firing, and Devane guessed that its crew had probably been wiped out in the first barrage.

  ‘Easy, Swain! More to starboard!’

  Devane saw a small boat drifting from its moorings, probably a dinghy, then felt the shudder as it was ground to fragments between the two hulls.

  ‘All engines slow astern!’

  He heard yells from aft as grapnels were hurled on to the enemy’s deck.

  One of the seamen holding the spare ammunition belts gave a sharp cry and fell to his knees. He was trying to speak, but it sounded as if he was drowning in his own blood.

  Devane gritted his teeth. Now.

  ‘All stop!’

  As the motors died he heard the other sounds, gunfire and shouts, the stampeding boots of the troops, a grenade or two being hurled at some resistance on the shore.

  He saw Walker’s boat edging up to the E-boat’s stern, more men with lines and wires jumping down on to her deck like pirates in an Errol Flynn film. Some of them had been fighting with German E-boats for years, but it was doubtful if any had been as close as this to one before.

  Devane watched the feverish preparations to get the E-boat ready for towing clear. She was big all right. Standing high from the water with her torpedoes and stores removed she looked twice as large as her captors.

  He saw Dundas appear on the German’s bridge, his gestures, even his expression very clear in the reflected gunfire and flares.

  Seymour called, ‘There goes the second party of soldiers, sir!’

  Mackay’s boat was already gathering sternway as she reversed from some kind of pontoon. Her cargo of soldiers were scampering into the gathering darkness, machine-guns raking the shadows as they ran.

  Carroll finished preparing his rockets. ‘I can fire the recall whenever you’re ready, sir!’

  Devane waved to Walker’s boat as she turned crabwise to receive a towline. He saw Walker’s yellow scarf waving like a banner, and marvelled that they had all managed to reach this point without serious incident.

  If they could move the E-boat under her own power that would really be something. But it was more likely the Germans had removed all her fuel before attempting any repairs.

  Orel was thumping his interpreter on the shoulder to emphasize something, and even the flicker of automatic fire from the land seemed unreal and without menace.

  Carroll hurried to a voicepipe and then said urgently, ‘Sir! W/T have signal. Most immediate!’

  Devane trained his night glasses on some separate flashes, high up to starboard. That must be the small hill he had seen on the chart. Men were creeping round even as he watched, trying to kill each other, hand to hand.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Two enemy surface units approaching from north-east. Discontinue operation immediately.’

  Devane took precious seconds to consider it. The signal was officially from Black Sea Fleet HQ, but it would have come through Beresford. That wasted time. Two surface units probably meant destroyers, and there would be more where they came from.

  He picked up the microphone handset. ‘Kestrel, this is Merlin. Do you read me?’

  He heard Mackay’s harsh voice as if he were here on the bridge. ‘This is Kestrel. Loud and clear.’ There was a distorted chuckle. ‘What’ll we do?’

  Devane ducked as something clicked against the side of the bridge. There were still a few Germans nearby, it seemed.

  ‘Take over, Red. Recall the soldiers and supply covering fire. Tell Harrier and Osprey to take charge of the tow. Make good use of the darkness. It’ll be a long, long day tomorrow.’ They had all heard the signal and were probably wondering what he might do. ‘I’m taking Buzzard with me, got it?’

  Mackay sounded grim. ‘Roger.’

  Seymour clung to the bridge ladder. ‘Are we pulling out, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Cast off from the E-boat. Tell Number One to stay there in charge. You take over from him here.’ He swung round, dismissing the lieutenant from his thoughts. ‘Bunts, call up Buzzard. Line astern on me. Fast as he can.’

  He pictured the other MTB’s commanding officer, the stolid, dependable ex-fisherman, Sydney Home. He was no doubt comparing the odds. Two MTBs against two possible destroyers were hardly favourable. But if they were to give the raiding party and their prize more time, they would have to chance it.

  ‘All gone forrard and aft, sir!’

  ‘Very well. Slow astern all engines. Fend off forrard.’

  Very carefully the MTB thrust through the drifting fragments of the dinghy. Smoke and vapour from the motors blended with that of explosions, and Devane could smell cordite, like the stench of death.

  ‘All stop.’

  Carroll reported, ‘Buzzard has acknowledged, sir.’

  ‘Hard a-starboard, half ahead all engines. Stay close inshore, Swain, until Commander Orel indicates otherwise.’

  The spokes gleamed in the glow of distant gunfire, and Devane thought he saw Dundas standing high on the E-boat’s bridge, staring after his own boat as she continued to thrash clear of the inlet.

  He heard feet dragging on the gratings and knew the dead seaman was being taken below. His name, what was it? It was suddenly important that he should remember.

  Crookshank. That was it. A brief picture of a round, open face. A man he had not had time to know.

  Seymour emerged from the chartroom. ‘Commander Orel says that the course to steer is north thirty-five east, sir. We shall skirt the minefield and keep it on our starboard hand for the next five miles.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Devane watched the glow astern, the sudden flurry of fire and sparks as the Russian raiders blew up another objective. Crookshank, able seaman, a man who had just died, had already slipped from his thoughts.

  ‘Bring her round, Swain.’ He looked for Seymour. ‘Check on damage, David. And ask the Chief about fuel levels. Just in case.’

  As the MTB, with her shadowy consort close astern, settled on the new course, and some of the spare hands cleared away the empty magazines and spent cartridge cases, the Russian interpreter said gravely, ‘You have done this kind of work before, I think.’

  Devane looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or weep.

  ‘A few times.’ He patted the Russian’s arm. ‘See if you can
get me some coffee, there’s a good chap.’

  The lieutenant stared at him, mystified. ‘Coffee? Yes.’

  Pellegrine had heard the Russian’s remark and pursed his lips with contempt.

  A few times? My bloody oath!

  ‘Pass the word to Buzzard. We’ll stop and listen.’

  The motors died once more, and as the boat began to slide abeam in a choppy upsurge Devane tried to consider their position from every angle.

  The other MTB moved up until she was drifting some fifty yards clear, but without a moon and very little light she had lost her identity completely.

  Every man who could be spared was posted around the boat with a pair of binoculars. Ears, eyes and experience were their best weapons now.

  Devane licked his lips and tasted the coffee which the Russian lieutenant had managed to obtain from somebody. That was an hour and a half ago. If the report was correct, and the two German ships were on their way, the contact would be soon. All they had was agility and speed. Surprise was out of the question if the German captains knew the extent of the attack. They would very likely have radar. Devane stared into the blackness until his eyes throbbed. It made you feel vulnerable and naked. He could picture the two tiny blips on the German’s scanner, the guns already trained round to blast them from the water before they could even see a target.

  Seymour said, ‘I’ve been round the boat, sir. All ready, guns and torpedoes.’

  ‘They’re feeling a bit low, I suppose.’

  Seymour stared at him, surprised. ‘Well, yes, sir.’

  Devane wiped his glasses with a scrap of tissue. ‘They would be.’ It was always the same after a member of their tightly knit community had been killed. Their first loss in Parthian.

  Orel’s restless shadow merged with theirs. The interpreter explained, ‘The commander wishes to say something.’

  Devane trained his glasses again. Beneath his waterproof suit his body felt clammy and hot. Just to slip over the side and drift in that cool water.

  He asked, ‘What about?’

  ‘The German ships are here too soon.’ He faltered and rearranged his words. ‘They could not have known, could not have been ready.’