The young gunner shook his head admiringly and smiled at Mallory.
«Worried to hell, isn't he, sir?»
Mallory laughed and watched the boy disappear for'ard into the control cabin. He sipped his coffee slowly, looked again at the sleeping figure across the passage. The blissful unconcern was magnificent: Corporal Dusty Miller of the United States, and more recently of the Long Range Desert Force, would be a good man to have around.
He looked round at the others and nodded to himself in satisfaction. They would all be good men to have around. Eighteen months in Crete had developed in him an unerring sense for assessing a man's capacity for survival in the peculiar kind of irregular warfare in which he himself bad been so long engaged. Offhand he'd have taken long odds on the capacity of these four to survive. In the matter of picking an outstanding team Captain Jensen, he reckoned, had done him proud. He didn't know them all yet — not personally. But he was intimately acquainted with the exhaustive dossier that Jensen held on each one of them. These were reassuring, to say the least.
Or was there perhaps a slight question mark against Stevens's. Mallory wondered, looked across the passage at the fair-haired, boyish figure gazing out eagerly beneath the gleaming white wing of he Sunderland. Lieutenant Andy Stevens, R.N.V.R., had been chosen for this assignment for three reasons. He would navigate the craft that was to take them to Navarone: he was a firstclass Alpinist, with several outstanding climbs to his record: and, the product of the classical side of a redbrick university, he was an almost fanatical philheliene, fluent in both Ancient and Modern Greek, and had spent his last two long vacations before the war as a tourist courier in Athens. But he was young, absurdly young, Mallory thought as he looked at him, and youth could be dangerous. Too often, in that island guerrilla warfare, it had been fatal. The enthusiasm, the fire, the zeal of youth was not enough: rather, it was too much, a positive handicap. This was not a war of bugle calls and roaring engines and magnificent defiance in the clamour of battle: this was a war of patience and endurance and stability, of cunning and craft and stealth, and these were not commonly the attributes of youth… . But he looked as if he might learn fast.
Mallory stole another glance at Miller. Dusty Miller, he decided, had learnt it all a long, long time ago. Dusty Miller on a white charger, the bugle to his lips — no, his mind just refused to encompass the incongruity of it. He just didn't look like Sir Launcelot. He just looked as if he bad been around for a long, long time and had no illusions left.
Corporal Miller had, in fact, been around for exactly forty years. By birth a Californian, by descent three parts Irish and one part Central European, he had lived and fought and adventured more in the previous quarter a century than most men would in a dozen lifetimes. Silver-miner in Nevada, tunneler in Canada and oil-fire ihooter all over the globe, he had been in Saudi Arabia when Hitler attacked Poland. One of his more remote maternal ancestors, some time around the turn of the century, had lived in Warsaw, but that had been affront enough for Miller's Irish blood. He had taken the first available plane to Britain and lied his way into the Air Force, where, to his immense disgust, and because of his age, he was relegated to the rear turret of a Wellington.
His first operational flight had been bis last. Within ten minutes of taking off from the Menidi airfield outside Athens on a January night in 1941, engine failure had brought them to an ignominious though weli-cushioned end in a paddy field some miles north-west of the city. The rest of the winter he had spent seething with rage in a cookhouse back in Menidi. At the beginning of April he resigned from the Air Force without telling anyone and was making his way north towards the fighting and the Albanian frontier when he met the Germans coming south. As Miller afterwards told it, he reached Nauplion two blocks ahead of the nearest panzer division, was evacuated by the transport Slamat, sunk, picked up by the destroyer Wryneck, sunk, and finally arrived in Alexandria in an ancient Greek caique, with nothing left him in the world but a fixed determination never again to venture in the air or on the sea. Some months later he was operating with a long-range striking force behind the enemy lines in Libya.
He was, Mallory mused, the complete antithesis to Lieutenant Stevens. Stevens, young. fresh, enthusiastic, correct and immaculately dressed, and Miller, dried-up; lean, stringy, immensely tough and with an almost pathological aversion to spit and polish. How well the nickname «Dusty» suited him: there could hardly have been a greater contrast Again, unlike Stevens, Miller had never climbed a mountain in his life and the only Greek words he knew were invariably omitted from the dictionaries. And both these facts were of no importance at all. Miller had been picked for one reason only. A genius with explosives, resourceful and cool, precise and deadly in action, he was regarded by Middle East Intelligence in Cairo as the finest saboteur in southern Europe.
Behind Miller sat Casey Brown. Short, dark and compact, Petty Officer Telegraphist Brown was a Clydesider, in peacetime an installation and testing engineer in a famous yacht-builder's yard on the Garelock. The fact that he was a born and ready-made engine-room artificer had been so blindingly obvious that the Navy had missed it altogether and stuck him in the Communications Branch. Brown's ill luck was Mallory's good f ortune. Brown would act as the engineer of the boat taking them to Navarone and would maintain radio contact with base. He had also the further recommendation of being a first-class guerrilla fighter: a veteran of the Special Boat Service, he held the D.C.M. and D.S.M. for his exploits in the Aegean and off the coast of Libya.
The fifth and last member of the party sat directly behind Mallory. Mallory did not have to turn round to look at him. He already knew him, knew him better than he knew anyone else in the world, better even than he knew his own mother. Andrea, who had been his lieutenant for all these eighteen interminable months in Crete, Andrea of the vast bulk, the continual rumbling laughter and tragic past, with whom he had eaten, lived and slept in caves, rock-shelters and abandoned shepherd's huts while constantly harried by German patrols and aircraft — that Andrea had become his alter ego, his doppelganger: to look at Andrea was to look in a mirror to remind himself what he was like. There was no question as to why Andrea had come along. He wasn't there primarily because he was a Greek himself, with an intimate knowledge of the islander's language, thought and customs, nor even because of his perfect understanding with Mallory, although all these things helped. He was, instead, there exclusively for the protection and safety he afforded. Endlessly patient, quiet and deadly, tremendously fast in spite of his bulk, and with a feline stealth that exploded into berserker action, Andrea was the complete fighting machine. Andrea was their insurance policy against failure.
Mallory turned back to look out the window again, then nodded to himself in imperceptible satisfaction. Jensen probably couldn't have picked a better team if he'd scoured the whole Mediterranean theatre. It suddenly occurred to Mallory that Jensen probably had done just that. Miller and Brown had been recalled to Alexandria almost a month ago. It was almost as long since Stevens's relief had arrived aboard his cruiser in Malta. And if their battery-charging engine hadn't slipped down that ravine in the White Mountains, and if the sorely harassed runner from the nearest listening post hadn't taken a week to cover fifty miles of snowbound, enemy patrolled mountains and another five days to find them, he and Andrea would have been in Alexandria almost a fortnight earlier. Mallory's opinion of Jensen, already high, rose another notch. A far-seeing man who planned accordingly, Jensen must have had all his preparations for this made even before the first of the two abortive parachute landings on Navarone.
It was eight o'clock and almost totally dark inside the plane when Mallory rose and made his way for'ard to the control cabin. The captain, face wreathed in tobacco smoke; was drinking coffee: the co-pilot waved a languid hand at his approach and resumed a bored scanning of the scene ahead.
«Good evening.» Mallory smiled. «Mind if I come in?»
«Welcome in my office any time,» the pilot assured him. «No n
eed to ask.»
«I only thought you might be busy… .» Mallory stopped and looked again at the scene of masterly inactivity. «Just who is flying this plane?» he asked.
«George. The automatic pilot.» He waved a coffeecup in the direction of a black, squat box, its blurred outlines just visible in the near darkness. «An industrious character, and makes a damn' sight fewer mistakes than that idle hound who's supposed to be on watch… . Anything on your mind, Captain?»
«Yes. What were your instructions for to-night?»
«Just to set you blokes down in Castelrosso when it was good and dark.» The pilot paused, then said frankly, «I don't get it. A ship this size for only five men and a couple of hundred odd pounds of equipment. Especially to Castelrosso. Especially after dark. Last plane that came down here after dark just kept on going down. Underwater obstruction — dunno what it was. Two survivors.»
«I know. I heard. I'm sorry, but I'm under orders too. As for the rest, forget it — and I mean forget. Impress on your crew that they mustn't talk. They've never seen us.»
The pilot nodded glumly. «We've all been threatened with court-martial already. You'd think there was a ruddy war on.»
«There is… . We'll be leaving a couple of cases behind. We're going ashore in different clothes. Somebody will be waiting for our old stuff when you get back.»
«Roger. And the best of luck, Captain. Official secrets, or no official secrets, I've got a hunch you're going to need it.»
«If we are, you can give us a good send-off.» Mallory grinned; «Just set us down in one piece, will you?»
«Reassure yourself, brother,» said the pilot firmly. «Just set your mind at ease. Don't forget — I'm in this ruddy plane too.»
The clamour of the Sunderland's great engines was still echoing in their ears when the stubby little motorboat chugged softly out of the darkness and nosed alongside the gleaming hull of the flying-boat. There was no time lost, there were no words spoken; within a minute the five men and all their gear had been embarked; within another the little boat was rubbing to a stop against the rough stone Navy jetty of Castelrosso. Two ropes went spinning up into the darkness, were caught and quickly secured by practised hands. Amidships, the rust-scaled iron ladder, recessed deep into the stone, stretched up into the star-dusted darkness above: as Mallory reached the top, a figure stepped forward out of the gloom.
«Captain Mallory?»
«Yes.»
«Captain Briggs, Army. Have your men wait here, will you? The Colonel would like to see you.» The nasal voice, peremptory in its clipped affectation, was far from cordial. Mallory stirred in slow anger, but said nothing. Briggs sounded like a man who might like his bed or his gin, and maybe their late visitation was keeping him from either or both. War was hell.
They were back in ten minutes, a third figure followIng behind them. Mallory peered at the three men standing on the edge of the jetty, identified them, then peered around again.
«Where's Miller got to?» he asked.
«Here, boss, here.» Miller groaned, eased his back off a big, wooden bollard, climbed wearily to his feet. «Just restin', boss. Recuperatin', as you might say, from the nerve-rackin' rigours of the trip.»
«When you're all quite ready,» Briggs said acidly, «Matthews here will take you to your quarters. You are to remain on call for the Captain, Matthews. Colonel's orders.» Briggs's tone left no doubt that he thought the Colonel's orders a piece of arrant nonsense. «And don't forget, Captain — two hours, the Colonel said.»
«I know, I know,» Mallory said wearily. «I was there when he said it. It was to me he was talking. Remember? All right, boys, if you're ready.»
«Our gear, sir?» Stevens ventured.
«Just leave it there. Right, Matthews, lead the way, will you?»
Matthews led the way along the jetty and up interminable flights of steep, worn steps, the others following in Indian file, rubber soles noiseless on the stone. He turned sharply right at the top, went down a narrow, winding alley, into a passage, climbed a flight of creaking, wooden stairs, opened the first door in the corridor above.
«Here you are, sir. I'll just wait in the corridor outside.»
«Better wait downstairs,» Mallory advised. «No offence, Matthews, but the less you know of this the better.»
He followed the others into the room, closing the door behind him. It was a small, bleak room, heavily curtained. A table and half a dozen chairs took up most of the space. Over in the far corner the springs of the single bed creaked as Corporal Miller stretched himself out luxuriously, hands clasped behind his head.
«Gee!» he murmured admiringly. «A hotel room. Just like home. Kinda bare, though.» A thought occurred to him. «Where are all you other guys gonna sleep?»
«We aren't,» Mallory said briefly. «Neither are you. We're pulling out in less than two hours.» Miller groaned. «Come on, soldier,» Mallory went on relentlessly. «On your feet.»
Miller groaned again, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked curiously at Andrea. The big Greek was quartering the room methodically, pulling out lockers, turning pictures, peering behind curtains and under the bed.
«What's he doin'?» Miller asked. «Lookin' for dust?»
«Testing for listening devices,» Mallory said curtly. «One of the reasons why Andrea and I have lasted so long.» He dug into the inside pocket of his tunic, a dark naval battledress with neither badge nor insignia, pulled out a chart and the map Vlachos had given him, unfolded and spread them out. «Round the table, all of you. I know you've been bursting with curiosity for the past couple of weeks, asking yourselves a hundred questions. Well, here are all the answers. I hope you like them… . Let me introduce you to the island of Navarone.»
Mallory's watch showed exactly eleven o'clock when he finally sat back, folded away the map and chart. He looked quizzically at the four thoughtful faces round the table.
«Well, gentlemen, there you have it. A lovely set-up, isn't it?» He smiled wryly. «If this was a film, my next line should be, 'Any questions, men?' But we'll dispense with that because I just wouldn't have any of the answers. You all know as much as I do.»
«A quarter of a mile of sheer cliff, four hundred feet high, and he calls it the only break in the defences.» Miller, his head bent moodily over his tobacco tin, rolled a long, thin cigarette with one expert hand. «This is just crazy, boss. Me, I can't even climb a bloody ladder without falling off.» He puffed strong, acrid clouds of smoke into the air. «Suicidal. That's the word I was lookin' for. Suicidal. One buck gets a thousand we never get within five miles of them gawddamned guns!»
«One in a thousand, eh?» Mallory looked at him for a long time without speaking. «Tell me, Miller, what odds are you offering on the boys on Kheros?»
«Yeah.» Miller nodded heavily. «Yeah, the boys on Kheros. Fd forgotten about them. I just keep thinkin' about me and that damned cliff.» He looked hopefully across the table at the vast bulk of Andrea. «Or maybe Andrea there would carry me up. He's big enough, anyway.»
Andrea made no reply. His eyes were half-closed, his thoughts could have been a thousand miles away.
«We'll tie you hand and foot and haul you up on the end of a rope,» Stevens said unkindly. «We'll try to pick a fairly sound rope,» he added carelessly. The words, the tone, were jocular enough, but the worry on his face belied them. Mallory apart, only Stevens appreciated the almost insuperable technical difficulties of climbing a sheer, unknown cliff in the darkness. He looked at Mallory questioningly. «Going up alone, sir, or—»
«Excuse me, please.» Andrea suddenly sat forward, his deep rumble of a voice rapid in the clear, idiomatic English he had learnt during his long association with Mallory. He was scribbling quickly on a piece of paper. «I have a plan for climbing this cliff. Here is a diagram. Does the Captain think this is possible?»
He passed the paper across to Mallory. Mallory looked at it, checked, recovered, all in the one instant. There was no diagram on it. There w
ere only two large, printed words: «Keep talking.»
«I see,» Mallory said thoughtfully. «Very good indeed, Andrea. This has distinct possibilities.» He reversed the paper, held it up before him so that they could all see the words. Andrea had already risen to his feet, was padding cat-footed towards the door. «Ingenious, isn't it, Corporal Miller,» he went on conversationally. «Might solve quite a lot of our difficulties.»
«Yeah.» The expression on Miller's face hadn't altered a fraction, the eyes were still half-closed against the smoke drifting up from the cigarette dangling between his lips. «Reckon that might solve the problem, Andrea — and get me up in one piece, too.» He laughed easily, concentrated on screwing a curiously-shaped cylinder on to the barrel of an automatic that had magically appeared in his left hand. «But I don't quite get that funny line and the dot at—»
It was all over in two seconds — literally. With a deceptive ease and nonchalance Andrea opened the door with one hand, reached out with the other, plucked a wildly-struggling figure through the gap, set him on the ground again and closed the door, all in one concerted movement. It had been as soundless as it had been swift. For a second the eavesdropper, a hatchet-faced, swarthy Levantine in. badly-fitting white shirt and blue trousers, stood there in shocked immobility, blinking rapidly in the unaccustomed light. Then his hand dived in under his shirt.
«Look out!» Miller's voice was sharp, the automatic lining up as Mallory's hand closed over his.
«Watch!» Mallory said softly.
The men at the table caught only a flicker of blued steel as the knife arm jerked convulsively back and plunged down with vicious speed. And then, incredibly, hand and knife were stopped dead in midair, the gleaming point only two inches from Andrea's chest. There was a sudden scream of agony, the ominous cracking of wrist bones as the giant Greek tightened his grip, and then Andrea had the blade between finger and thumb, had removed the knife with the tender, reproving care of a parent saving a well-loved but irresponsible child from himself. Then the knife was reversed, the point was at the Levantine's throat and Andrea was smiling own pleasantly into the dark and terror stricken eyes.
The guns of Navaronne Page 3
