‘Half a dozen. Maybe more if he’s scrounged reinforcements.’ He stiffened, his mind locked like a jammed machine-gun. But it was only a deeper shadow in the swell.
Dundas grinned uncomfortably. ‘Is that all? Piece of cake.’
Devane wanted to look at his watch but asked, ‘Bunts? Time check.’
‘Five minutes past one, sir.’
Soon. Even allowing for their alteration of course and speed. It must be. Stealth was the only thing they had left.
‘Stop engines. Warn all hands.’
The motors rumbled away and Devane felt the deck slide forward and down, the screen press against his dripping coat, as the boat lost way.
‘Well, Swain?’ Devane glanced at Pellegrine’s battered cap. It was all he could distinguish in the darkness. ‘Don’t let me down now.’
Pellegrine rested on his spokes. ‘Should ’ave sighted our launches by now.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘I just ’ope Mr Twiss don’t mistake us for Krauts.’
Carroll murmured, ‘I’m ready with the lamp, Swain. No bother there.’
Pellegrine continued to listen. No bother there. But the commanding officer of the MTB which they had detached to escort the Russian launches had been an actor. Pellegrine grimaced. It would be just our luck if he saw this as his greatest role.
Metcalf whispered, ‘There! Engines!’
‘What? Where?’ Pellegrine sounded angry that the young seaman had heard something before him. ‘Probably Osprey.’
Devane listened, the sound slipping into his head like a whisper. As if it had been there all the time. As if. . . . He shook himself angrily.
‘Stand by!’
It was no mistake. The regular thrum . . . thrum . . . thrum of heavy diesels. He could see them clearly as if they were already right here and it was broad daylight. The squat bridges, the long low hulls, that familiar air of menace.
Dundas murmured, ‘Andy Twiss must have stopped too. Thank God for that.’
Pellegrine called, ‘No, sir. There’s another MTB out there too. Starboard bow.’
Devane bit his lip hard. Twiss had probably gone back to round up a straggler or to take one of them in tow. Maybe even to lift off some wounded soldiers. The E-boats were closing fast astern. Just as they would have been on Parthian but for Beresford’s signal.
Dundas said, ‘I’ll call up Osprey, sir. Andy might hold them off until we join him.’
Devane peered at the luminous compass. ‘Negative. They’ll cut us up piecemeal. This is our one and only chance, can’t you see that? Osprey’s lookouts may spot the danger in time.’ His tone hardened. ‘It’s what they’re for.’
Dundas stared at him, his eyes making deep shadows in his face. ‘But he’ll not stand a bloody earthly!’
Devane lowered his glasses. ‘Get aft and send Chalmers up here. Gun action. Depth charges if we get the slightest opening.’
Dundas nodded jerkily. ‘Yes. I see.’ He was groping for the bridge ladder when Devane called him back.
‘It’s the only way. Do you imagine I wanted it like this?’ It was suddenly important that Dundas should understand. He needed him to.
Dundas faltered, one foot in the air. ‘I’m just glad I don’t have to decide, sir.’
‘You will, Roddy. You will, one day.’ But his words were lost as the night split apart in a galaxy of flares and tracer shells.
Lurking like assassins in the shadows beyond the blinding flares, the three MTBs started their motors and moved slowly towards the brightly lit arena. In the centre of the crisscrossing balls of tracer, and pinned down by the enemy’s flares, the isolated MTB was already increasing speed, snarling round to face the E-boats which had burst out of the night, their onslaught timed to the second.
A low shape rippled past the savage exchange of shots, and then burst into flames as cannon fire transformed one of the troop launches into a pyre in a moment.
A seaman behind Devane swore fervently, and was probably thinking of the other Russians those same men had burned.
Chalmers was here now, glasses levelled, cap tugged low over his hawklike nose, as he snapped, ‘Six E-boats. Moving right to left.’ This time he did not even blink as another explosion painted the sea like blood. ‘There’s the leader. Red-four-five.’
In the angry glow the tiger stripes were even clearer, Devane thought.
‘Osprey’s stopping and on fire, sir!’ The boatswain’s mate sounded as if he was at a firing range. ‘Two E-boats closing her, starboard side to.’
How puny the stabbing flashes looked against the heavier scars of tracer. Twiss’s boat was almost stopped, and was being raked by the enemy without mercy. But Twiss’s gunners were still firing back at a range of some twenty-five yards. The two E-boats which were thrusting towards him no doubt intended to finish it and blow the bottom right out of the MTB.
Now or never. Devane raised his voice. ‘All ahead full! Open fire!’
In a tight arrowhead the three hulls raced from the shadows with every gun which would bear ripping into the circling E-boats and churning the sea into a white froth.
Above the clatter of machine-guns, the heavier bang of Priest’s six-pounder, Devane heard the mounting roar of motors and imagined Ackland and his assistants being tossed about the engine room like rag dolls as the boat tore across the swell like an avenging devil.
‘A hit! Got the bastard!’ Another voice, cracked with anxiety. ‘Watch that one! Jesus Christ!’ Then the terrible thud and shriek of metal as the German gunners at last realized that Osprey was not alone.
Devane peered abeam and saw Harrier butting into the lead, Walker’s yellow scarf whipping out above the screen like a lance pennant as he charged to the attack.
Tracer flashed over the bridge, and Devane heard the clatter of falling rigging and the ping of splinters against a gun-shield. Somewhere a man was croaking for help and a machine-gunner was swearing at his loader as he fumbled to serve the smoking breeches, oblivious to everything but the need to keep firing.
The E-boats had split into two sections, their long hulls gleaming in the fires as they tilted hard over to screws and rudders.
One of them had stopped dead, smoke gushing from aft and tiny figures slipping and falling in crossfire as they tried to find safety.
‘Tell Kestrel to finish that one!’
Devane turned swiftly as bullets fanned past the bridge. Mackay’s Kestrel came bouncing across the torn waters, guns blazing, barely leaving enough room to cross the damaged E-boat’s stern as he lobbed his depth charges alongside.
Two more E-boats were coming head on through the smoke, but one swerved aside as she collided with the capsized hull of a Russian launch. Men were floundering in the water but vanished, their screams stifled as they were sucked bodily into the racing propellers.
The E-boat which had hit the half-submerged wreck veered away, engines coughing and roaring, a signal lamp already flashing urgently to its leader.
Devane yelled, ‘Steer straight for him!’
He felt nothing as tracer lifted from the oncoming E-boat and then tore down towards him. Priest’s return fire plus a forty-five degree onslaught from Walker’s gunners were enough. The leading E-boat swung away, guns still firing without a break as her commander sought to rally his formation.
Chalmers yelled wildly, ‘Three of us to four of them now, the sods!’
A tremendous explosion lit the sky, and with shocked horror Devane saw Twiss’s boat blasted apart, the torpedoes adding to the destruction as a passing E-boat dealt the death blow.
Devane turned away, unable to watch the pieces of hull and men dropping amongst the churned wakes of the antagonists.
He must hold on to Chalmers’ words. The odds were better. One E-boat sinking, another damaged and out of the fight. But for the Germans’ attention being riveted on Twiss and his launches, they would have stood no chance at all. Twiss, the actor who had intended to play the parts of admirals after the war. Like Seymour, whose book would have b
een about them and their war.
He shouted, ‘Nuts to starboard! Tell Red to watch his quarter!’
Devane heard Carroll using the R/T, the insane rattle of guns as Briton and German tried to knock out the resistance, just long enough, seconds even, to make the kill.
Chalmers yelled, ‘Harrier’s in trouble!’
Devane touched Pellegrine’s hunched shoulder and felt him flinch. Expecting a bullet. ‘Close on Harrier.’
He saw the tracers lifting and intertwining, brilliant green and cruel red, clawing and then ripping into wood and metal, flesh and blood.
A gunner shouted wildly, ‘Got the bastard!’ Walker’s six-pounder must have raked the enemy’s bridge even as the two boats charged headlong on a converging course. Coxswain, officers, cut down in a scythe of splinters and tracer.
Metcalf paused, gasping, as he hauled more ammunition to the machine-guns, and cried desperately, ‘They’re going to collide!’
Devane snatched the handset from Carroll’s fingers.
‘Harrier! This is Merlin! Break off! For God’s sake, Willy, break away!’
In the flickering gunfire he saw men pausing and crouching on the MTB’s side deck, stricken at the sight of the oncoming E-boat with her shattered wheelhouse, the streaks of blood clearly visible on the grey steel as she charged blindly towards them.
Devane had just time to level his glasses, time enough to see Walker’s face in the bucking lenses, his teeth bared in agony as he tried to pull himself to the wheel. He noticed that nobody else moved on the MTB’s bridge, that Walker’s scarf was bloody and the colour of the bright number 3 on the bows before both boats struck and exploded.
Devane wiped his face with the back of his glove. ‘Oh God, Willy.’ It was all he could say.
Pellegrine called sharply, ‘Enemy’s regrouping, sir!’ He spun the wheel and narrowly avoided another overcrowded launch which had somehow stayed afloat throughout the whole of the encounter.
‘Stand by! Gun action!’
Devane pulled himself out of his stunned disbelief and ran to the opposite side. There was Kestrel, foam surging from beneath her stem and keel as she roared up to join her leader. Then there were two.
Carroll was peering at him. ‘You all right, sir?’
Devane nodded. He felt winded. As if he had been running, and not standing to watch his friends blown to fragments.
There was wreckage everywhere, flung back and forth as E-boat and MTB tore through it. A few men were swimming, others floated with the untroubled languor of the dead.
‘Yes, Bunts. Just fine.’
And then all at once the sea was quieter, the roaring, incessant clatter of engines and gunfire moving away like a terrible storm.
‘They’ve gone.’ Chalmers stared at the darkness with amazement. ‘We’ve driven the bastards off!’
Devane dragged his thoughts from the sights and the pain, and reassembled his forces.
‘Reduce speed. Report damage and casualties. Tell Number One to get forrard and look for survivors.’ But Dundas was already here on the bridge, his body smelling of cordite and smoke.
He gripped Devane’s wrist and peered at him. ‘We made it.’ He looked away, retching painfully. ‘Poor Willy. Andy too.’
Devane tried to keep his voice even. ‘It’ll be poor all of us if we don’t watch out. Get forrard and do as I said.’ He added gently, ‘Leave your pistol.’
Dundas clutched the bridge for support. ‘You think I’d shoot a man in the water? Because he’s a Jerry?’
Devane shrugged. Even that hurt. His whole body ached. ‘I don’t know. I think I might. After tonight.’
He saw the other MTB slowing down, her decks alive with busy figures as empty shell cases and spent cartridges were swept to one side.
That was all he had left of Parthian. The realization was closing around his skull like a steel band, crushing his brain and his mind until he wanted to scream.
And Lincke was still alive. Seeadler remained, not intact, but a ready weapon. The despair and the shock of what had happened welled up inside him like terrible anger, white-hot, all consuming.
He heard Metcalf ask shakily, ‘Can I fetch you anything, sir?’
Devane glanced over the screen and saw a life-jacket light drifting past. But the corpse was beyond care. The sea looked peaceful again. The enemy might come back. There was still time. Yet in his heart he knew they would not. Not yet. Next time, then? He found it impossible to think, then realized Metcalf was still watching him.
‘Can you make cocoa, Metcalf?’
‘N-not very well, sir.’
Pellegrine gestured to the boatswain’s mate. ‘You go an’ make some. Put a tot in it for luck. That all right, sir?’
But Devane was watching Dundas as he pulled himself up to the bridge once more.
‘Only one casualty. Able Seaman Bridges. Splinter in the foot. Damage, just a few holes aft, and the rigging and halliards shot away. I don’t know how we did it.’ He watched Devane’s bowed shoulders. ‘Picked up one survivor. Just one. Out of all that mess.’ He gave what could have been a laugh. Or a sob. ‘A Jerry, would you believe it?’
Devane took the handset from its rack. ‘Hello, Red. Damage and casualties?’
The Canadian’s voice sounded dull. ‘Two men cut by splinters. No major damage to speak of. After what happened just now I can’t. . . .’ He did not finish it.
It was a miracle.
‘Alter course, and tell the Russian launches we’ll head for the rendezvous, to force Romeo.’ There were only two launches left. Witnesses to what had happened.
Devane looked at the sky. The fact they had survived was not enough. It was unfinished.
The thick, glutinous kye, well laced with illicit rum, did more good than a banquet.
But even when the first dawn light found the two scarred MTBs and their overloaded consorts, the men on watch, or those plugging leaks and overhauling the guns, did not speak, for in their hearts they knew they had only won a reprieve and not a victory.
But few of them would want to leave it there and return to what they had come to accept as normality. There would be too many missing faces, too many familiar jokes which would awaken memories and the voices of lost friends.
Dundas knew now, and Pellegrine had always known it.
Only Devane had the burden of knowing why.
All through the day, as the boats pushed steadily to the east, the single German survivor sat on the upper deck and stared at the tossing water. Once, Devane saw Pollard, the Geordie messman, pause and offer the German a cup of something hot. They did not smile nor did they speak, but the German took the proffered cup as if it was something precious, a moment not to be shared.
At dusk they met Beresford’s commandeered gunboat, the remaining vessels of force Romeo having returned to base apparently on the assumption there would be no survivors to escort.
Beresford crossed to the stopped MTB and climbed aboard, his eyes everywhere, as if he could not accept the small amount of damage.
He met Devane on the bridge amongst the dirt and the litter of battle.
Beresford said quietly, ‘You’ve done more than enough. I was afraid. I wanted to help.’
Devane smiled. The gunboat looked like a relic from the Kaiser’s war. ‘In that thing?’
Beresford looked across at Mackay’s MTB. A seaman was hauling up buckets of water and sluicing down the deck. It was his own way of being normal, of staying sane.
‘And this is all that’s left of Parthian?’ He shook his head. ‘Thank God you made it. You know how I felt. . . .’
‘I’ll need fuel, Ralph.’ Devane swilled some sweet tea round his mug and examined it thoughtfully. ‘And all the ammo you can spare.’
Beresford stared at him. ‘I’ve got fuel and ammunition. I thought you might need some, but now. . . .’ His eyes sharpened. ‘You’re not still going after him?’
‘I’ve no instructions. Remember the last time I sailed without �
��hearing” Barker’s orders?’
Beresford nodded slowly, feeling Devane’s pain, understanding him perhaps for the first time ever.
‘I’m coming with you.’
Devane smiled gravely. ‘Then we can both keep our heads down.’
Beresford watched him, as if afraid he would miss something.
‘Where are we going?’
Devane had thought about it. ‘The only place where Lincke can get his boats repaired now. Back to Mandra.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘He’ll take on fuel first. That will keep him busy tonight with the Russian attack going all out. So with luck we’ll get to Mandra first and be waiting for him.’ He saw Dundas coming to the bridge again. Questions, demands, troubles to be solved. ‘By the way, why did the Russians pull out from the rendezvous?’
‘The admiral fired Sorokin.’
It sounded so ridiculous they both smiled.
Then Devane remembered what had happened to Parthian and said abruptly, ‘Well, let’s go and prove Sorokin was right in his trust and the admiral was wrong.’
Three hours later, as the ancient gunboat and the remaining launches turned towards Tuapse, the MTBs headed in the opposite direction.
‘Sunset in three hours, sir.’ Chalmers looked at the sky, his eyes red-rimmed, his lean features telling the strain.
Devane took another mug from Metcalf and sipped at the hot contents. Coffee, cocoa, tea? It all seemed to taste the same now.
‘Very well. See if you can arrange another meal for the lads.’
That was all he needed to say. If no contact was made before nightfall they would have to scuttle for home. Even then they might run dry of fuel, in spite of the extra load.
All that day they had ploughed their way westward, alone but for Mackay’s boat which was cruising two miles off the port beam. Even at that distance he had heard the thud of hammers, the occasional rattle of drills as Mackay’s men carried on with the repairs of battle. The Canadian had signalled in the morning that the underwater damage had been worse than he had realized. But he had promised his best, and was still there to prove it.
It still seemed incredible that the others had all gone, that the sea could be so desolate and empty.
Torpedo Run (1981) Page 28
