The Volunteers

by Douglas Reeman

  The other MGB was making a sharp, desperate turn as the bomb dropped with deceptive slowness and hit her amidships.

  It seemed as if nothing had happened, or that the bomb was a dud.

  Then came the explosion. Allenby felt it kick the deck beneath him and watched stunned as the MGB staggered but continued to turn, the sea boiling over the side and not receding. A great fountain of flame belched from the broken hull, and Allenby guessed that the fuel had gone up. It was spreading across the sea in neat, fiery arrowheads, while fragments of the boat rained down in a great circle of spray.

  A voice shouted, “Aircraft! Bearing Green four-five!”

  The guns swung on their mountings but the bell rattled again and all firing ceased as three Spitfires ripped overhead with their familiar whistling roar.

  In the sudden silence as the engines slowed again Allenby heard Goudie shout, “You’re too bloody late, you bastards!” Allenby saw him shaking his fist at the three fighters as they planed after the enemy. They had no need: the fighter-bomber dived wearily and then more steeply and hit the sea with a vivid flash.

  Allenby heard himself murmur, “Brave man.”

  The Spitfires altered course and were soon dots against the sun. From their altitude they could probably see the first enemy plane and its telltale smoke. If so, the German’s lifeline was very short.

  “Fall out action stations! Stand by scrambling nets!”

  They climbed to the bridge where Allenby saw the telegraphist tying a dressing on Ives’s wrist which had been cut by flying splinters.

  Frazer saw Allenby and grimaced. They both turned as Goudie yelled, “Get those men aboard!” He was almost screaming. “Chop, bloody chop, Sullivan!”

  There were only six of them. Allenby thought it was a marvel that any had survived. The engineroom crew had gone up with the explosion, and the others had died either from the bomb or burned alive by the fuel. The boat’s skipper, whom Allenby had met only once at the last briefing in Gibraltar, did not survive. Sub-Lieutenant Archer did, and was the last to leave the water as the MGB cruised slowly amongst the grisly flotsam.

  Frazer opened and closed his hands as some of the drifting fuel reached a floating body. It was near enough to see the man’s hair on fire. But he did not protest or try to escape. He was past that.

  Frazer saw his own corvette. A different sea, the same fearful death.

  Goudie massaged his neck and waited for the survivors to be hauled aboard.

  Archer climbed onto the bridge, his face and hands black, the sea pouring unheeded from his clothing as he stared around.

  Goudie said, “Get below, Sub. See what you can do for the others. I’ll be down myself in a minute. He looked over the screen and saw that the scrambling nets were already stowed against the guardrails again.

  “Cruising speed, Pilot, work out the course to steer as soon as you can, and let me know.”

  The telegraphist asked huskily, “D’you wish to make a signal, sir?”

  Goudie turned on him angrily. “Who to, for Christ’s sake? God?” He seemed to regain control with an effort.

  “We make no signals. I hope to blazes those high-fly idiots remember that!”

  Allenby looked at Archer. “I’m glad you made it, Sub.”

  Archer stared right through him, his eyes completely empty.

  Frazer said, “Take over the con, Dick. I’m going to look at the chart and my notes.” His eyes shifted astern, toward the widening circle of boat and human flotsam. Some gulls were already cruising above it, waiting for the flames to die. It made him feel sick.

  Allenby asked, “Will we go on with the raid now?”

  Frazer tore his eyes away. “If you’d been up here with me, Dick, and seen the way he behaved, you’d not have to ask.” He lowered himself through the hatchway to his chartroom. “I think he’s round the bend. Kaput.”

  Ives heard his comment but did not glance at him. He raked over his feelings instead, his reactions to what had happened. No matter whether or not they continued with the operation, there would be others, all at high risk. His mouth lifted in a sad smile. Never volunteer if you can’t take a joke. But throughout the brief, savage action he had never doubted himself or the boat. Round the bend or not, Goudie had trusted him, had barely given a direct order but for the first violent turn. He looked at the bandage on his wrist and grinned at the young telegraphist.

  “Thanks.” He thought of the Master-at-Arms at the detention barracks. “My son.”

  In the motor gunboat’s tiny wardroom where the officers had their makeshift meals, slept and pondered over their fates, Allenby sat alone, his elbow on the folding table.

  The cabin was very dark, partly because it lacked proper scuttles and also because it was moored alongside a destroyer. It was obviously intended to dissuade anyone from trying to get ashore to see the sights of Tunis, or let something slip out about Force Jupiter.

  He frowned. It was not so much of a force now.

  Goudie was ashore somewhere, and Frazer was aboard the destroyer, using the facilities of her large chart space. He glanced round the wardroom. Large by comparison anyway. It was amazing how much they could cram into such a small place. Long padded seats which folded into bunks and could be used as life rafts if things went badly wrong. He thought of their bombed consort. No one had found a chance to use them then.

  The hull nudged against the fenders and Allenby heard music coming from the forecastle, the messdeck, which was even more cramped. They seemed carefree enough. It did not take sailors long to learn that the important thing was to survive, no matter what risks you took. Pull up the ladder, Jack.

  He looked at the letter he had just written to his mother. God alone knew when she might get it. Allenby was twentyfive, old by some standards in wartime, but his handwriting was that of a schoolboy.

  It was always hard to know what to write about. The important things were secret, and personal feelings became more private with each succeeding risk. His father would love to hear about it. He had been through hell but he never interrupted his son when he described a ship or his companions.

  Allenby sometimes wondered if his mother was proud of him. Once, when he had been describing his fellow officers aboard a minesweeper, she had said, “They sound a toffeenosed lot.”

  His father had sighed. He often did. “Our boy’s as good as any of them.”

  He licked the envelope and wondered if some censor would read it on its long journey.

  Then he looked at his writing pad, holding back what was really uppermost in his mind. She might never see it, or if she did she might think him ridiculous. Worse, it might bring back the pain again.

  To give himself time he addressed the envelope. Leading Wren Joanna Hazel.

  How should he begin? He bit the end of his pen and toyed with the idea of asking Frazer. He frowned more deeply. No, that was stupid.

  In his round, careful hand he wrote, Dear Miss Hazel-it did not look very exciting, he thought, but it was the only way he knew.

  When Frazer came aboard Allenby did not even hear him. As the tall lieutenant ducked through the entrance and tossed his cap onto a bench Allenby looked up and then tried to cover the letter with his forearm.

  Frazer sat down and laid some charts beside him. “You did it then? Good show.”

  Allenby colored. “I wanted to. Keith. I-I’m not sure if-“

  Frazer watched him, but his thoughts were still with Lynn Balfour. “It’s the only way, Dick. What can you lose?”

  They both turned as someone fell on the upper deck and voices filtered through the open bridge.

  Frazer grimaced. “Goudie’s back. Sounds smashed to me.”

  Goudie entered the wardroom and very carefully laid a canvas bag on the deck. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked exhausted.

  Frazer asked carefully, “Anything I can do, sir?”

  Goudie looked at them vaguely. “I’ve sent Sub-Lieutenant Ryder for some gin.” He reached down and lift
ed the bag with elaborate care. “Some more gin, that is.”

  Able Seaman Weeks, who combined the duty of messman with all his other expertise, entered with some clean glasses. He said nothing, and left after placing a jug of water on the table.

  Goudie grinned broadly as Allenby poured the drinks. It made him look incredibly sad.

  He said, “Poor old Weeks. He stopped me from falling in the harbor just now. Lucky it wasn’t our gallant Killick Cox’n. He’d probably have marched me off to the nearest police station!”

  The others watched him in silence. Goudie was going through torment which was terrible to see.

  Goudie swallowed the neat gin without apparently noticing it. He said abruptly, “You once asked me about your predecessor, Lieutenant Bill Weston, right?”

  Frazer nodded as he watched the gin overflowing Goudie’s glass as he refilled it.

  “Might never have happened. But for two things.” Goudie took some deep breaths. “Weston had landed some agents and was waiting to pick up some others. The other reason was that Weston thought he was bloody good, Christ in uniform.” He fell silent and they wondered if Goudie had said all he intended to say.

  But Goudie continued, his voice slurred. He must have been at it all day. “Major Thomas was handling the operation.” His eyes fixed angrily on the rack of pistols as if he were counting them. “Everything went wrong, the Krauts got wind of it and jumped the agents who were supposed to be lifted off. Thomas and his own men vanished, and Weston, who was a brave officer with the mind of a halfwit, stayed put and waited, the stupid bastard. He got a bar to his DSC, or rather his parents did. It said that he acted over and above the line of duty. Nice, eh?”

  Allenby swallowed hard. The gin made his stomach feel

  raw. What must it be doing to Goudie?

  Frazer asked, “Archer got the boat out, did he, sir?” “Right. Archer should have got another ring and a medal,

  but he didn’t.”

  Frazer said, “I’m sorry, sir. I seem to have misjudged him.” He watched the bottle shaking against the glass. The first bottle was empty.

  Goudie squinted as if to recall Frazer’s words. Then he shook his head. “Oh no, Archer’s a top-class shit. You were right.”

  Ryder climbed down with some difficulty, two cartons of bottles under his arms.

  JHe was young but a quick glance at their faces told him more than words.

  Ryder asked gently, “It’s on then, sir?”

  Goudie glared, or tried to. “Speak when you’re spoken to. “

  He saw the cartons. “I see the supply officer did as I asked.”

  Ryder looked unhappy. “Not exactly, sir. He made me write a chit for the lot.”

  Goudie chuckled. “He would. Another bloody desk warrior, that one.”

  Eventually he said, “Yes, the operation will go ahead as planned-well, almost.” He saw Allenby’s two letters for the first time. “Good idea. I trust you’ve made your will too? It may be your last opportunity.”

  Goudie fumbled in his canvas bag and pulled out a bulky envelope. “An’ here’s some light reading for you, Pilot.”

  Frazer opened the package and laid it on the table, his eyes skimming over the dates, times, recognition signals, everything much like the original plan, except they were going in alone. What the hell would happen if Goudie was like this? His eyes settled on the date. Three days from now. Just like that. He looked at Goudie, but he seemed to have fallen asleep, an empty glass still grasped in one hand. His face was relaxed again, youthful.

  Allenby asked quietly, “Anything new, Keith?”

  Frazer pushed the bottom sheet towards him. Once at the rendezvous, the operation would be under the overall command of Major F. Thomas of the SAS.

  Frazer said, “I wonder what the `F’ stands for?”

  Goudie opened his eyes. “You should be able to guess!” He waved his glass. “Three days’ time.” His eyes were closing again. “If he tries anything this time, I’ll kill th’-” His head lolled and he was asleep.

  Ryder took the empty glass and remarked, “I sometimes wonder if we’re going about this war the right way.”

  Frazer laughed. “Tell the War Cabinet, Sub!”

  Allenby picked up the two letters and looked at them again. He studied the last one. Leading Wren Joanna Hazel. What would she say? She was probably out with a boyfriend right now.

  He saw Frazer watching him. Ryder had gone and Goudie was snoring gently.

  Frazer smiled. “Send it, Dick.”

  Allenby picked up his cap. Perhaps he had really intended to tear it up.

  He went on deck and climbed up the destroyer’s side where the quartermaster and armed sentry watched him with mild curiosity. Beyond the ship was the town, the inevitable dust drifting everywhere.

  The orders had arrived. There would be no more runs ashore. He wondered if these two tanned sailors would stop him if he attempted to cross over to the brow. They would probably call the OOD.

  “For the postman, sir?” asked the quartermaster politely. “Yes.” Allenby watched the man drop them into a sack beside his lobby. It was done.

  Allenby turned aft and saluted the quarterdeck.

  Despite everything, that letter had made him feel better.

  8

  NOT FOR KING AND COUNTRY

  IT WAS DUSK and the sea unbroken but for a slow regular swell, as if the black water was breathing. On deck and inside the small bridge the guncrews and watchkeepers swayed with the hull, conscious of the stillness beyond their little world, of a great sense of loneliness.

  In the wardroom the air was humid and sour with the filtered stench of fuel as the boat ploughed very slowly closer and closer to their objective.

  Allenby sat with his back to the side, exactly where he had written to Joanna Hazel. Like the others, he was dressed in light khaki shirt and slacks, with just his lieutenant’s shoulder straps to mark him out as an officer. It was one small comfort, he thought vaguely. At least he could not be shot as a spy or partisan. Or did the Germans make such fine distinctions? Did anyone? He felt his shirt and skin sticking to the padded support and longed to be on deck in the air.

  Goudie stood by the entrance and eyed them bleakly. He looked strained but showed no signs of his previous drinking. He was quite amazing, Allenby thought. The way he changed as the mood commanded him.

  Sub-Lieutenant Ryder sat with his arms folded, his eyes shaded by the peak of his faded cap. Opposite him was Archer, tense as he listened to Goudie’s final briefing. Allenby noticed that Archer occasionally opened and then closed his fingers into tight fists, as if he were still going over his terrible ordeal. Apart from that he was no different from usual.

  Goudie said, “Our first objective is a yacht haven on the southeast corner of the island. It’s small and natural, as you can judge from the chart.” They all looked at the folded chart with its pencilled lines and crosses where Frazer had translated the secret orders into bald facts. “It will be a good place to lie low while negotiations are taking place with General Tesini.” His eyes moved restlessly in the yellow glow. “We shall rendezvous with Major Thomas’s party as soon as we enter. One sign of a cockup and we run for it.”

  Allenby considered the chart again, the distance they had come since Tunis. To run for it would merely delay their complete destruction if the Germans already knew about Jupiter. He watched too for some sign of resentment when Goudie spoke of the SAS major. But there was nothing. Goudie was different. On the job. Weighing their chances. Making alternative plans. He had had enough practice. Allenby found himself wondering if this raid or any of the previous ones which Goudie had led with such skill and courage would make even a fragment of difference to the war.

  He heard the scrape of feet from the bridge and guessed Frazer was moving about, checking and rechecking their position and progress.

  Goudie said, “We go in just before dawn. Thomas’s party should be in position about an hour earlier.” He did not elabor
ate and Allenby guessed that Thomas had been transferred from a submarine to some local craft. It implied that Thomas already had collaborators on the island. General Tesini must be important. It would have been far easier to kill him from Thomas’s point of view.

  It was as if Goudie was reading his thoughts. He said quietly, “The invasion of Sicily has to be done perfectly. It is our first step back into Europe. If we fail or are badly delayed the Italians may stand firm with their German allies. To win, we require the Italians to throw their lot in with us.” He added wryly, “In other words, we need their treachery. That is the grand plan, fashioned in far-off places by those who are better informed than we are.”

  He cocked his head as a man coughed on the bridge and then said, “To those of us who actually have to carry out these missions there is only one sure guide. In this sort of warfare you are not fighting for King and Country, you are doing it for your own small team. There’s no rulebook, and no room for the squeamish.” His eyes rested momentarily on Allenby. “It’s not a game, and we must win. General Tesini is important to the cause.” His eyes hardened. “But not vital. If he changes his mind, or tries any sort of treachery, shoot him. Do I make myself clear?”

  They nodded in unison.

  “Good.” Goudie opened his holster and dragged out a heavy Luger. “Go round the boat and check everything again. We will remain at action stations until I say otherwise, right?”

  Allenby stayed for a few moments after Goudie and the others had gone. He patted his pockets and examined his revolver. It was like going to a mine. There was no time to go and look for anything when the action began.

  He saw himself reflected in the glass of the keys’ case on a bulkhead. Even in this light he looked pale. His hair protruded from either side of his cap, too long by naval standards. His mother would be shocked.

  He tilted his cap to a rakish angle and forced a smile.

  “Piece of cake.”

  Frazer bent over the compass and studied the luminous points with great care. He thought of his last ship, the graceful Levant, with her up-to-the-minute chartroom, gyro compass and all the latest radar to make navigation easier. But his father’s voice seemed to push the thought aside as he had once said scornfully, “One shot through their wiring systems and they’re as helpless as mice in a trap. Give me an old magnetic compass and a quick mind any time.” The old man had trained him well and it was standing him in good stead now.