Torpedo Run (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He frowned at his reflection. There had been something missing in the folder. What was it? He would send a signal about it. Devane troubled him. There was some clue or explanation which went beyond their old score.

  He said, ‘We have made this journey before, Max.’

  The seaman stood aside to let him pass.

  Lincke was an example to everyone, he thought, and he had known him for a long time. Often in the past he had imagined he might possibly die for Gerhard Lincke. Now, as he heard the assembled crews stamp to attention to receive their commander, he was quite certain of it.

  Moored to the dockside, apart and slightly ahead of the smaller British craft, the captured German E-boat presented a picture of strength and power. A few shaded lights hung from the dripping concrete roof of the pen, so that the E-boat’s hull appeared to glow eerily, the effect magnified by her strange interwoven camouflage of dazzle paint, blue and grey, with stark black stripes striking back from her bows like the markings of a tiger.

  Commander Felip Orel moved slowly about the deserted bridge, opening a locker to check its contents, pausing to examine the compass, the torpedo sighting-bar, anything which was of interest but unfamiliar to him.

  He could sense the two sentries on the jetty watching him. One British, the other one of his own men. How they symbolized their struggle, he thought bitterly. United because of a common enemy, divided by so much more.

  It was past midnight, and in the bunker-like pen it was as silent as a tomb. Just the slap of oily water between the moored hulls, the occasional creak of lines and fenders. Down here, even the guns along the front were soundless.

  Orel always found it easier to think clearly at moments like these. Even in the small, crowded hulls of his mixed collection of gunboats and motor launches he had trained himself to remain aloof when he needed to, or find privacy when there was none.

  He reconsidered the proposed operation in the Rumanian port which Captain Sorokin had outlined to him that afternoon. It made good sense, but if things went against them the whole Russian force could be destroyed and the supply routes along the Black Sea coast left unguarded and open to attack.

  The minds in Moscow still thought in terms of flotillas and squadrons, grand strategy and safe bases to keep a fleet in being. They should be here, Orel thought, especially in a few months’ time when the winter sets in and the guns refused to fire and men froze at their posts.

  He admired Sorokin for several reasons. His ability to keep ahead of the powerful staff in Moscow, and to stand up for his command whenever its achievements were criticized or doubted. He could even accept that some of the things which his superior thought necessary were wrapped up in the needs of war. Sorokin was often photographed in military and naval hospitals, shaking hands with wounded comrades, presenting medals to those who were dying of their wounds or for lack of proper care. Stern-faced, Sorokin had appeared in many a front-line newspaper, his camouflaged combat coat often smudged with the dried blood of those he had just visited.

  Orel had seen him strip off that same coat to reveal an immaculate uniform underneath as he strode into his HQ to share champagne and caviar with his personal staff. An enigma, a hypocrite, it was hard to decide.

  He thought too of the newly arrived British and what they must achieve together if the success of this operation opened up possibilities in the Crimea itself.

  He had always understood that the British were different from his own people. Spoilt, over-confident and arrogant. And yet so far these failings had not shown themselves.

  Orel gave a grim smile as he sat carefully in the steel chair where the dead German commander had once taken his ease. The British captain, Barker, was the exception. He was exactly what he had expected. A man who hid his irritation with an empty smile, who appeared to concede a point but never gave way on anything.

  He slid from the chair and walked to the starboard side of the squat, businesslike bridge. She was a superior boat, he decided. With her three great Daimler-Benz diesels she could manage forty-two knots without difficulty, and four torpedoes and powerful thirty- and thirty-seven-millimetre cannon put her well ahead of the British boats.

  If the enemy had seen through Sorokin’s ruse they might be ready and waiting. He peered over the bridge wing at the newly painted insignia, the sea eagle with the torpedo in its claws. It had to look exactly like one of the German flotilla, exactly. His swarthy face hardened as he pictured the man who commanded the new Gruppe Seeadler. A German officer of great ability, but one who thought nothing of shooting hostages and burning coastal villages if the mood took him. Moscow had a complete file on Lincke, much of which had been gathered during his service along the Adriatic coast of Yugoslavia. A skilled and daring tactician. Orel’s lip curled. But underneath all the bravado he was a true Nazi, a butcher.

  He thought suddenly of Devane, his British counterpart. A hard man to know. On the surface he seemed friendly and genuinely eager to cooperate, but you could never be sure. Devane must have been picked for the command for reasons beyond his experiences afloat, his past victories. He was still away with Barker and the calm-voiced aristocrat named Beresford, the intelligence officer who spoke Russian like a second-year student. They kept their secrets well, so too would Sorokin.

  Orel lowered himself from the bridge and walked aft, past the rails which ran along either side to carry the spare torpedoes and mines, until he was stopped by the guardrail across the stern. The resting British MTBs were in darkness, and yet he felt they were watching him like the two sentries.

  Months and years of bitter warfare had hardened and tempered Orel more than he was prepared to admit. It had to be so. It was the only way to survive. He had lost many comrades and had also shared the agony of the family losses amongst his various commands until he had wondered if the war’s brutal demands would ever end.

  Towns and villages completely destroyed, old men and boys slaughtered by the advancing German armies, while their wives and daughters had been sent to Germany in cattle trucks to end their suffering in brothels and labour camps.

  That was changing. Now the Germans were learning the despair of retreat. To drive them back until Russian soldiers were marching down their streets and repaying their cruelty in kind was all that mattered, and to make that possible was Orel’s daily dedication.

  To achieve victory many more would die. His gaze rested on the nearest MTB. Some might not know why, but the end would justify even the deaths of the innocent.

  Orel turned his back, angry with himself that he had even doubted that fact, and groped his way to the brow.

  The Russian sentry stamped to attention and banged his rifle to the ground. The British seaman dragged his heels together and watched Orel pass without interest. He only saluted his own officers anyway, and certainly not at night. He gave a great yawn. Bloody foreigners. Roll on my twelve.

  Devane lay on his back, his face turned towards the shuttered window, outlined now by the dawn’s strengthening light.

  He had dreaded this morning more than any he could recall, and yet in some strange way he felt reborn and cleansed.

  The girl lay pressed against him, her breast touching his, her tousled hair across his shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat, the warmth of her spine as he touched it with his hand. It must have been almost dawn when their combined want for each other had left them spent and totally exhausted. Perhaps they had hoped to hold back the new day, to repel the inevitable.

  Devane felt her stir, her hand sliding across his chest, and was instantly reminded of their discovery, their love which each had believed was only a momentary need.

  Now it was too late for doubt, and there was no chance of turning it aside even if they wanted to.

  He turned his head and saw that her eyes were open, watching him, her lips slightly parted and moist in the pale daylight.

  ‘I shall not go back to England.’ She said it simply, as if, like their new-found love, it was past discussion. ‘I’ll wait. In Cair
o perhaps. Until. . . .’

  He pressed her spine and sensed her awakening desire, rising to match his own.

  When he said nothing she added, ‘It will be nearer. Your Captain Whitcombe can arrange it. Anyway, they’ll need all the space on the aircraft and ships until the Sicilian battle is decided.’

  Devane smiled in spite of his despair at leaving her. She had it all worked out, and she was probably right about Whitcombe.

  He said, ‘You’d be better off in Devon. I’ll know where to come when we pull out of –’

  She touched his lips with her fingers. ‘Shh. Careless talk. No, I’d like to stay here. Closer. Just in case you come this way again.’

  He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her.

  ‘Closer? Eleven hundred miles as the crow flies.’

  She watched his hand encircle her breast, her body moving restlessly.

  ‘I wish I were a crow.’

  He lowered his head and kissed her, knowing that he should go, knowing too he would crack if he prolonged their parting.

  It was like having a terrible nightmare lurking in the background, with nothing he could do about it. He heard the traffic sounds below the window, someone whistling brightly and a far-off hoot of a tug.

  She reached up and gripped him, and they gasped together as she guided him and drove away all resistance.

  Later, as he dragged on his khaki drill uniform, she moved from the bed and touched his wound. Even that simple gesture made his head reel.

  He turned and held her against him, knowing he was hurting her, but needing to grasp this moment.

  He whispered into her hair, ‘I never want to lose you, but. . . .’

  She lifted her chin and looked at him steadily. Only her lower lip made her self-control a lie.

  ‘No buts, John. We love each other. Whatever happens we must remember our luck. Come back to me, darling.’

  And then, or so it seemed, Devane was an onlooker again, standing in the street and looking up at the hotel window. Their window.

  She had opened the shutters only slightly and he could see just the pale line of her skin between them. She had been crying when the door had closed behind him but he had kept going. To return would have finished him. She probably knew that too. She seemed to understand him better than he did himself.

  How long he remained in the street, oblivious to curious stares and jostling servicemen, he did not know. He held on to her with his mind and his being. The things they had done to each other, the words they had never spoken.

  Then Devane turned and stared at the waterfront, the awakening bustle, the smell of a war still to be won.

  He walked quickly away from the hotel. But still the pain did not come. With sudden realization Devane understood why. He was no longer alone.

  11

  Barker’s War

  Captain Barker thrust his hands into the pockets of his reefer jacket, the thumbs protruding forward at matching angles, while he regarded the assembled officers.

  ‘The plan of attack is virtually complete, gentlemen.’ His pale eyes gleamed in the overhead lights. ‘Our captured E-boat has finally been supplied with torpedoes, which seem to be sufficient. The remainder of the necessary equipment will be taken aboard in the next twenty-four hours.’

  Devane sat to one side of the captain’s desk and watched the other officers’ reactions.

  He had only been away from Tuapse for a matter of days. It felt much longer. But the bunker seemed more squalid, the surrounding bomb damage pathetic rather than defiant.

  Barker was enjoying himself. His casual mention of torpedoes had brought a quick frown to Dundas’s features. Barker had suggested that there should have been time enough to find the E-boat’s original torpedoes which had been unloaded during her repairs and bring them back to Tuapse as well.

  If there was any show of real enthusiasm amongst the officers it was one of eagerness to get the job done and be sent elsewhere to a war they understood, Devane decided.

  They had all seemed genuinely glad to see him back as the flotilla’s senior officer, and even Red Mackay had said cheerfully, ‘Thank God I didn’t have to take this lot to sea without you!’

  Again and again Devane’s thoughts returned to the girl named Claudia.

  Already the distance between them seemed endless, their chances of meeting again almost a dream.

  Barker snapped, ‘It will be a hard one, gentlemen, but I want it to go like a clock! A lot will depend on timing and determination.’

  Devane glanced at Beresford, who was slumped in another chair with only a tapping foot to show he was awake.

  There were four other men in the room who knew the exact whereabouts of the target. A small Russian port called Mandra, some forty miles north of the Bulgarian border. With both countries completely under German control and influence, it was obviously a careful choice. The actual target was still shrouded in mystery.

  He recalled what Beresford had told him about Barker’s previous appointments, of his son’s death in a raid which had been doomed before it had begun. It made him uneasy, and he hoped the rest of Parthian’s officers were not thinking as he was. Barker knew nothing of MTBs, other than what he had read or been told. His was a war of planning and local strategy. But there was no doubting his confidence. That and the fact he was out for another advancement, and possibly Whitcombe’s job, were all they had going for them. Barker’s toneless voice droned on and on, lifting only occasionally as he completed a sentence with a sharp snap.

  Did he know about Claudia and the hotel, he wondered. Unlikely. Barker was a cold fish, a ‘book-man’, as Beresford had described him. He would have delighted in keeping them apart.

  ‘And now the matter of distinguishing marks.’ Barker glanced at his watch. ‘I shall see that it is circulated immediately, but I want all boats to paint on a temporary pendant number forthwith. The time for stealth is over and of no value. The enemy will know Parthian is here, he will not know what we are doing.’

  Devane found he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Barker was probably right, but why bother at this stage?

  Barker was saying, ‘The senior boat will be Number One, of course,’ he gave a thin smile, ‘and the rest painted in seniority. Recognition between us and the Russian patrols is vital.’

  Devane controlled his breathing with an effort. Number One. It was like having a target painted on the boat. There was enough to worry about without. . . . He shook himself angrily. He was overreacting. Counting his past operations and missions and matching them against the growing chances of disaster. He had seen plenty of others do it. He stared hard at the floor between his feet. Not me. Not now.

  Lieutenant-Commander (E) Buckhurst said dourly, ‘I’d like more time to go over the Jerry boat, sir. The Russian mechanics are fair enough, but still. . . .’ He left the rest unsaid.

  Barker regarded him coldly. ‘Check it, certainly. But I should not need to tell you your duties.’

  Surprisingly, Buckhurst smiled. He had considered Barker to be a bastard and merely wanted it confirmed in front of the others.

  Beresford cleared his throat. ‘We have invitations from several Russian messes, sir. I thought we might relax the non-fraternization at this stage.’

  Barker stared at him. ‘This is a combat flotilla on special operations. I do not have to spell it out, surely? The Reds have no love for us. They need us, which is entirely different in my book.’

  Beresford nodded and said no more.

  Devane guessed that some of the others had been getting on to Beresford about taking leave in the town and accepting invitations to dine with the local forces.

  Barker squared his shoulders and looked around their faces.

  ‘Return to your boats and tell your people. But I suggest you keep your pep-talks to a minimum. Some of the ratings seem pretty rebellious from what I’ve seen of them. Their records suggest they’ve occupied the detention quarters more than sea-going ships!’ He nodded cur
tly. ‘Carry on.’

  The officers left the concrete room and made their various ways back to the jetty. More than one of them paused to study the moored E-boat with her tiger stripes and eagle insignia.

  Dundas fell in beside Devane. ‘I’ll be glad to get cracking, sir.’ He spoke with feeling and unusual bitterness. ‘This place gives me a pain somewhere.’

  Devane glanced at him. ‘I’ll not be sorry.’

  ‘Did it go well?’ Dundas flushed. ‘I – I mean at the inquiry?’

  It was funny that nobody had spoken about Richie, or had tried to pry round the bald official statement. It was because others had decided, Devane guessed. Richie, right or wrong, hero or killer, was one of their own.

  He answered, ‘I only heard the end of it. But for the moment it’s being hushed up. Shelved for the duration.’

  Dundas said, ‘His wife, er, widow, I wonder how she’ll see it?’

  Devane looked away. I told him I was having an affair, she had said.

  That last night as they had laid entwined and breathless in each other’s arms he had asked her about it.

  She had answered without hesitation. ‘You were the affair. I invented it. Maybe I made it happen. Wishful thinking. But you were the only friend I ever heard Don praise. That meant one thing, he’d taught me that well in the past. He envied you . . .’

  Devane said slowly, ‘I saw her after the inquiry.’ Why had he said that? ‘She took it very well.’

  ‘Lovely girl.’ Dundas could not drop it. ‘He must have been mad.’

  Devane remembered that Dundas had admitted his feelings for Claudia.

  He said, ‘We’d best check the boat. Then I’ll go round the flotilla and end up with Hector Buckhurst in the Jerry.’

  Dundas followed him down on to the MTB’s deck. If they could just get through this operation and return to the Med, anywhere but here, he would try and see her again. With Richie out of the way, she might welcome a friendly face. Dundas had never forgotten. The way she moved. Her laugh, her refusal to let her husband talk down to one of his subordinates in her presence.