Torpedo Run (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Lieutenant Seymour hurried after them. ‘What about this stupid numbering of the boats, sir?’

  Dundas grinned. ‘It’s so the enemy will know the men from the boys, David!’

  Devane turned swiftly. ‘Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again, Number One! Now get on with your jobs, both of you!’

  When Devane had gone below Seymour grimaced awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Roddy. Should know when to keep my trap shut.’

  Dundas touched his arm. ‘Forget it, chum. I’ll be a bastard when I’m in command too! He didn’t mean anything by it. In one ear and out the other, that’s my motto in this crazy regiment!’ He watched the lieutenant walk away, his face clouded in gloom.

  But Devane did mean something by his sudden anger. Was it the last mission which had shaken him so badly? The wound perhaps, the brutal reminder that death was always close by? God, they hardly needed reminding in MTBs.

  A voice from the jetty made him start. He saw Barker peering down at him, his head jutting forward as he snapped, ‘You’ve a rating aft without his cap on! You are the first lieutenant, I believe? Then see to it!’

  Dundas saluted and kept his face expressionless. ‘Aye, aye, sir!

  Inwardly he was fuming. First one telling off, then another. It was simply not his day.

  Lieutenant-Commander Ralph Beresford leaned on the E-boat’s chart table and looked directly at Devane. The hull was throbbing around them, the sound controlled and contained but adding to the illusion of a great beast about to be slipped from a leash. It was dusk outside. No more waiting.

  ‘Well, how do you feel, John? Now that it’s time to go?’

  Devane scribbled another note on his pad and then sat back in the chair. He had been almost continuously in the German boat for two days, trying to get her measure, to thrust aside the sense of hostility. But she still felt unfamiliar, just as Barker’s final plan lacked a sense of reality.

  He shrugged. ‘It’ll be better when we get there.’

  He tried to sound convincing for Beresford’s sake. They had done a lot in the Mediterranean, but usually Beresford had been there with him, taking the risks, sharing the victories. Now he was being left behind at Tuapse. It would not suit him at all, especially as Barker seemed more eager to consult his superiors in far-off London than discuss his strategy with Beresford.

  Devane added, ‘It should be a quiet passage to the enemy coast. If we’re spotted we’ll have to break off the mission anyway. No sense in stirring up the hornets in advance.’

  They both smiled, remembering all the other times. The wild excitement, the despair at seeing friends fall and die, and vessels burn.

  The captured E-boat, code named Trojan, was to enter the enemy-occupied port of Mandra and carry out a single-handed attack on a large supply ship which had been moored there for several months. She was the headquarters of the local German admiral, as well as the repair and mother ship for the E-boat flotillas. She had probably serviced this very craft on arrival in the Black Sea, which helped to add to the strangeness of it all.

  It was just the kind of operation which if properly executed would put Parthian right in the headlines, no matter what the security boys tried to do, and the effect on local enemy shipping would resound from one end of the Black Sea to the other.

  Barker had said crisply, ‘The spirit of Drake. None of this heavy-handed tactical nonsense. Straight in and fast away. Jerry will think twice before allowing his bases to become so scattered, eh?’

  Only one MTB, Lieutenant Horne’s Buzzard, now with a crimson number 4 painted on her hull, would accompany the E-boat as escort, and provide covering fire in the withdrawal from Mandra. It sounded dangerous, but no more so than some they had carried out before.

  What Devane disliked and mistrusted more than anything was Barker’s insistence that the E-boat should be crewed by selected officers and ratings from the rest of the flotilla. Home, Buzzard’s CO, would be acting as Devane’s second-in-command. He was very competent and experienced, and Devane guessed he had been picked specially just in case he himself should be killed. The third hand was a Canadian named Bill Durston, Mackay’s first lieutenant. To share the honour fairly, as Barker had commented.

  Pellegrine was to be Devane’s coxswain, and likewise Petty Officer Ackland had charge of the E-boat’s engine room. The remainder of the British ratings were mostly engine-room hands, while Barker had reluctantly conceded that the gunnery should be handled by a Russian contingent from the naval base. A total company of thirty-six officers and ratings, whereas the E-boat’s normal complement was twenty-three.

  Devane said, ‘Provided we can get in without too much bother, we should be out again before daylight. Ivan can provide air cover for the home run to base.’

  Perhaps Barker was right about urgency, but they needed more time to test the E-boat’s reactions under all conditions. She was equipped with her own powerful forty-millimetre and twenty-millimetre cannons, but the replaced torpedoes, with hasty modifications, were Russian. Her full cargo of mines for the last part of the attack were also from the local armaments dump. What with that and her mixed crew she was one of the freaks of naval warfare, Devane thought.

  Beresford gathered up his papers and prepared to leave. He said suddenly, ‘Take care, old son. Do it your way. In the past few days I’ve come to believe that Churchill, Stalin and Hitler don’t count for anything. This is Barker’s war, and we’re not allowed to forget it! So keep your head down.’

  Devane guessed that Home would be waiting impatiently to report that they were ready to get under way.

  But he said, ‘Parthian, what will the rest of the lads be doing?’

  Beresford swept his hair back and jammed on his cap. ‘Oh, some sort of mock attack along the coast, I think. Captain Sorokin’s got over his row with Barker, it seems. He had it planned as a Russian-led venture, not one managed and directed by our own gallant captain!’

  Devane nodded, still troubled. ‘Keep an eye on them, all the same. I’d trust Red Mackay with my life, but even he has to obey orders.’

  Beresford grinned. ‘Don’t we all, chum. Leave it to me. You just take care of yourself.’ He glanced round the brightly lit cabin. ‘Trojan indeed. Only he could dream up something so bloody obvious!’

  Beresford held out his hand. ‘I’m off then.’

  Devane took an envelope from his pocket. He felt awkward without knowing why. But it was suddenly important.

  He said, ‘If anything goes wrong, would you send this letter for me?’

  Beresford’s eyes flickered down to it very briefly.

  ‘Sure. I’ll see that she gets it.’

  Then with a nod he turned and clattered up the ladder.

  Horne and Durston entered immediately. Home banged his hands together and said, ‘My own boat is loaded to the deck beams with extra fuel. But with me aboard here with you, sir, my Number One’ll not dare to lose contact!’

  He gave a great guffaw. In spite of all his active service Horne still looked like a fishing skipper.

  Durston grinned. ‘Red sent me because he’s glad to see the back of me!’

  They looked at each other liks conspirators.

  Then Devane said, ‘Make the signal.’

  He glanced at the cabin and pictured the previous occupants. Maybe they had written their letters to their loved ones. Just in case.

  He heard the Russian lieutenant mustering his gun crews and decided to leave him to it. Sorokin had picked him himself, and as he spoke very little English there seemed no point in useless translations. They all knew what to do. If they didn’t, it was too bloody late now.

  Devane thought of Orel and wondered how he felt about playing another support role.

  Pellegrine touched his cap. ‘All engines standin’ by, sir.’ He seemed smaller on the E-boat’s bridge.

  Devane smiled at him. ‘They sound fine.’

  The great Daimler-Benz diesels were throbbing more freely now. Soon to be moving again. New masters,
a different flag, she would be indifferent to them all.

  The signalman called, ‘Signal acknowledged, sir. Proceed when ready.’

  It seemed odd that the man was a stranger and not the familiar Carroll. Devane smiled. The ex-baker’s roundsman.

  Horne swore. ‘God, there’s some idiot coming inboard!’ He sounded edgy, which was not like him at all.

  It was Dundas, as somehow Devane knew it would be.

  ‘Just wanted to wish you luck, sir.’ He peered around the bridge as the shutters were slammed shut and the engine-room hatch swung down with a metallic clang.

  ‘Thanks, Number One. Have the drinks set up. See you on Thursday.’

  They shook hands and Dundas returned to the gloom of the concrete bunker.

  ‘Tell Buzzard to start up.’

  Devane walked to the rear of the bridge and watched their solitary escort vanish momentarily into a cloud of high-octane gas as she roared into life and thrashed clear of the jetty. Mooring lines snaked aboard, and vaguely through the din Devane heard the crews of the other MTBs cheering their friends.

  He saw Home waving to his own boat as she continued to turn towards the bunker’s mouth, and guessed he was probably more worried about handing over command to his number one than he was about a raid on some enemy port.

  Lieutenant Durston had already gone forward and could be heard yelling at the seamen fore and aft as they prepared to cast off the final mooring ropes. His warm Canadian voice sounded strangely reassuring, Devane thought.

  He thought he saw Barker and the lieutenant from Intelligence watching from the rear of the jetty, but forgot them as he ordered, ‘Let go aft.’ He craned over the side of the bridge. ‘Slow astern starboard outer.’

  The bridge began to shake, and somewhere a man said, ‘You behave yourself, Jerry.’

  ‘Let go forrard! Fend off aft!’

  The jetty was sliding past very slowly, and Devane saw the seamen waving their caps from the MTBs as they moved towards the wider part of the dock.

  ‘Stop starboard.’

  Devane glanced around the bridge; the tense figures, the little pieces of fluttering bunting which were tied to unfamiliar voicepipes and switches to act as reminders. Barker would certainly not approve of those.

  ‘Half astern port, half ahead starboard, wheel amidships.’

  Big and powerful she might be, but she turned her one hundred and fifteen feet like a London taxi.

  Pellegrine murmured, ‘I can see the markers, sir.’ He sounded slightly breathless, as if he had been running.

  Devane patted his arm. ‘She’s all yours. Slow ahead, port and starboard outer.’

  Around him men started to relax and move in their new surroundings. Wires and ropes were stowed away and the guardrails stripped to the minimum to give every gun a full arc of fire. Down in his engine room Petty Officer Tim Ackland was already busy amongst the glistening machinery, oblivious to everything but his job and the care of the three great diesels, which to him at least were beautiful.

  Horne crossed the bridge, his broad figure muffled against the evening air in a duffle coat.

  ‘We’ll be clear of the dockyard and harbour limits in twenty-five minutes, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t want to end up here on a wrecked Russian, eh?’ His eyes lit up briefly as a lamp blinked across from the MTB which was beating round to take station astern.

  The signalman said, ‘From Buzzard, sir. We are following father.’

  Devane moved away as Home replied, ‘Make to them. Stay close and learn how it’s done.’

  Devane looked abeam, the town and the bomb damage were already masked in shadow, the worst scars hidden until tomorrow.

  He removed his cap and let the breeze ruffle his hair. What was she doing now? Perhaps he had been wrong to leave that letter with Beresford. If he bought it, she would be made to suffer all over again.

  ‘Starboard fifteen, Swain.’ Home sounded easier now. ‘Follow the guardboat.’

  Devane left them to it. They were all professionals here. They only needed him when the attack was begun.

  Oh, Claudia, I love you so much.

  ‘Sorry, sir, did you say something?’

  Devane swung away from the screen. ‘No. I’m going below for a moment. Take the con.’ He had to fight to keep his voice level.

  Horne watched him climb down from the bridge and waited for Durston to join him on the gratings.

  ‘He seems cool.’ The Canadian levelled his glasses on a half-submerged wreck as it slid past, a bell-buoy tolling mournfully like a dirge.

  Horne grunted. ‘Yes. He’ll do me. The best.’

  Durston persisted, ‘This place we’re going. D’you reckon we’ll pull it off?’

  Horne glared. ‘For God’s sake, go and rustle up something hot to drink. I’ll tell you about bloody Mandra when we’re back here again!’

  The lieutenant strolled away, chuckling to himself, and Horne tried not to think about his own command following astern.

  Pellegrine swayed at the wheel and kept his eyes on the marked channel and the will-o’-the-wisp light of the launch which was guiding him out.

  As always he was weighing up his chances. They had a good team, but the E-boat was different. He pictured the necklace of mines around the decks, the extra drums of fuel, the torpedoes and magazines to feed the rapid-fire armament. A floating bomb. One mistake and his wife in Gosport could do what she bloody well liked. He frowned into the shadows. Not if he could help it.

  The first hint of deeper water sluiced along the hull and raised the forecastle with a shudder. The engines responded with a deeper growl, and Home remarked, ‘We’ll start the main engine as soon as we clear the harbour. That’ll steady her down right enough.’

  Pellegrine nodded, his mind elsewhere. Funny to think of Jerries up here. Their officers were always in a tangle too, he supposed. The petty officers in any navy were the backbone, without them the wardroom would be in a right potmess.

  Below in the deserted cabin Devane sat with his legs outstretched, his ear within inches of the bridge telephone. He took out the star-shaped splinter from his pocket and turned it over in his fingers.

  Then abruptly he stood up and climbed swiftly to the bridge.

  He said, ‘We’ll test guns in thirty minutes.’

  Home was startled to see him reappear so quickly. Devane sounded completely calm, and if he had any misgivings about the mission he did not show them.

  Home said carefully, ‘I was sorry to hear about Lieutenant-Commander Richie.’

  ‘Yes.’ Devane took out the star-shaped splinter and then sent it spinning over the side of the bridge. ‘But that’s all in the past. There’s just us now. Right, Swain?’

  Pellegrine showed his teeth. ‘True, sir. Like all them other times. Us against the bloody world!’

  Devane climbed to the forepart of the bridge and stared beyond the bows. Perhaps Lincke was out there somewhere. In Mandra maybe?

  It had to happen one day, so why not there?

  He tried to shrug it off. They had nearly lost the desert war because Rommel had become almost super-human in the eyes of the Eighth Army soldiers. If he let Lincke affect him in a similar fashion he could end up losing his life.

  Torpedoman Pollard appeared with a steaming fanny of tea.

  ‘Char up, gents!’

  Pellegrine said sourly, ‘I thought we’d got shot of you, Geordie!’

  But Devane took the hot mug of sweet tea and was suddenly grateful. With men like Pollard and Pellegrine, Horne and Ackland around him he had a far stronger weapon than Lincke would ever possess.

  Horne turned as he sensed Devane’s presence on the bridge.

  ‘About to alter course to south seventy west, sir.’ He watched Devane’s shadowy outline. ‘Dawn will be up in about fifteen minutes.

  ‘Good.’

  Devane moved to the forepart of the bridge, his feet and legs taking the E-boat’s uneven plunge as she pushed across the low ranks of wavelets. No bo
at designed to move with speed and agility was expected to enjoy this painful crawl but, as Ackland was quick to remind anybody who was interested, fifteen knots was economical. Lost in the darkness astern, the smaller MTB was also suffering the enforced snail’s pace.

  Devane said, ‘This is the nearest we shall be to the Turkish coast. Inform the lookouts. A punch-up with some patrol boat is the last thing we need.’

  He had no worries about Home’s skill as a navigator. If anything, he was better than Dundas, and had proved in the past that he could almost smell the coastline before anyone else could spot it.

  Home said quietly, ‘This is the first op I’ve done in the war where I’ve set off knowing there’s not enough fuel to get me home again. I just hope Captain Barker and the Ruskies have it all worked out for a fuelling rendezvous. We’ll be down to a cupful of diesel by then.’ He shot a glance over the glass screen. ‘My own boat back there’ll be even harder to keep going.’

  Devane nodded. He could trust Home and Durston to keep their mouths shut about this extra hazard. But the seamen and engine-room ratings were not fools. They knew the score all right.

  ‘We must conserve fuel. This time tomorrow we’ll be in the thick of it. After that. . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll manage somehow.’

  Home chuckled. ‘Most of the lads are too sick with the motion to care. As for the Ruskies, they seem as happy as sandboys. They know their gunnery too. Just as well.’

  Devane raised his glasses and moved them carefully from bow to bow. Black horizon, the sea confined to a few pale crests, and a jagged edge of spray from the stem. In minutes it would all change again. Blue sky and empty sea. The last part was the most important.

  He thought of the long, endless day while they cruised closer and closer to the western end of the Black Sea. The nearer they got, the hazier the plan of attack and last-second alternatives seemed to become.

  The seaman on the wheel stood to one side as Pellegrine appeared yawning and rubbing his eyes. He seemed to sense each alteration of course and trusted nobody but himself to handle it.