by Damien Lewis
The stokers, of course, had not been included in the need-to-know loop, and they had little idea what the assault force was up to. Those two powerful blasts, plus the cries from above decks, struck the fear of God into them. For all the stokers knew it was their ship that was being fired upon and attacked. Prout was both a prizefighter and a consummate manager of men. Using a mixture of threats and promises of a massive pay bonus for each man, he managed to keep the stokers bent over their shovels, the sweat cascading down in rivulets.
*
The explosions that thundered across the harbour had taken the diners on the Casino Restaurant terrace by complete surprise. No amount of drunken singing or laughter could drown out a blast that was powerful enough to sever a steel anchor hawser.
An instant after the first detonation swept across the terrace all voices – even those of the most-inebriated – fell silent, the diners wondering whether their ears were playing tricks on them. But as heads swivelled towards the bay and all eyes turned on the water, the second blast ripped apart the night, as the rear anchor chain of the Likomba was cut.
The momentary burst of light was gone in an instant, as all returned to blackness out on the water. But the German officers in particular realised that whatever was taking place, it was happening on their vessel. Some four hundred yards from the terrace there had been two mystery blasts aboard the Likomba, and it was only the large amount of alcohol that Kapitan Specht had imbibed that prevented him from acting more swiftly.
The Tilley Lanterns served to keep the terrace bathed in light, and as there was no fire or further explosions from the direction of his ship, the drink-befuddled Specht was at a loss to determine exactly what was happening. It was the frantic bugle call ringing out across the harbour that cemented Specht’s alarm. An alert was being signalled from Government House – the seat of the Spanish Colonial Administration in Fernando Po.
Figures rushed to man the machineguns positioned on the roof, their barrels sweeping the waters of the bay below. But until the gunners could see to properly assess the threat, they were at a loss as to who or what they should open fire on. No one had yet made the decision to get the town’s power switched back on. After all, if this were an attack from the air it would be better to keep the lights off and the town swathed in darkness.
*
A short distance further around the bay SOE agent Lippett had been woken in his hotel room by the first explosion. A glance at his watch showed 2335 hours. From his window he could see the streets rapidly filling up, as the citizens of Santa Isabel rushed outside to see what was happening. The hotel balcony was thronged with guests and all eyes were staring with alarm at the dark waters of the bay.
Lippett, the only man among them in the know, decided to keep a low profile and stay exactly where he was.
*
Across from Lippett’s hotel window Buzz Perkins and SOE agent Guise were coming back to their senses. Blasted through the air by the first explosion aboard the Likomba, they’d been hurled back onto their own ship – one of them landing on the Nuneaton’s deck, the other being thrown across a ship’s bollard. Hayes was certain he’d killed both men, but miraculously neither had suffered any worse than a few broken ribs. Fortunately for all, the grenades they had been carrying had failed to explode.
Yet Buzz Perkins and Guise had still failed in their task, and the Likomba and Bibundi, relieved of their anchor chains, were drifting with the wind and current towards shore. Hurt and suffering from shock though they were, Perkins and Guise steeled themselves to attempt a second jump. This time they were able to get the tow-rope aboard and securely fastened to the Likomba.
On the Nuneaton’s bridge, her commander, Lieutenant Goodman, ordered his stokers to pile on the power. His tug took up the strain and moments later all three ships were underway, moving towards the safe channel leading through the harbour entrance and into the open sea.
The route steered by the Nuneaton would take her close by the Vulcan. As the smaller tug steamed past her larger sister ship, Graham Hayes – the first to board the enemy vessels – caught sight of the party on the Duchessa’s bows, readying themselves to blow the forward anchor chain. In the triumph of the moment, and forgetting the supposedly deniable nature of their mission, he let out a spontaneous cry in English.
‘We’ve got ‘em, Apple! We’ve got ‘em!’
Appleyard’s reply echoed back from the Duchessa’s bows, equally high-spirited … and in English.
‘Head for the open sea!’
Below the Duchessa’s decks the raiders had been hard at work. By now they’d rounded up twenty-eight Italian prisoners, several of the more uncooperative ones having been coshed into submission. A few doors had also needed kicking in, behind one of which they’d discovered a distinctly German-sounding female crewmember. Gilda Turch was so shocked to find the blacked-up raiders thundering into her cabin that she had fainted on the spot.
Ms Turch was carried into the open, so the fresh air might revive her. The Italian crew – many still in their pyjamas – were likewise corralled on the open deck. They were laid face down, where they could be covered with the raiders’ Tommy Guns. No quarter could be given and no mercy shown. If one man cried out a warning to the shore – and the harbourside was now thick with watching eyes – the consequences would be disastrous.
Chapter Seven
March-Phillipps gave the signal to cut the anchor chains – blowing one sharp blast on a whistle strung around his neck.
To fore and aft of the Duchessa there were the distinctive sharp cracks of steel being cut by plastic explosives, as one after another the charges detonated – the flash of the blasts throwing the winding harbour-side streets into stark light and shadow, rendering the worried crowds of onlookers a ghostly white. The quayside watchers ran in panic from the almighty explosions that roared across the bay.
The charges set on the Duchessa were considerably larger than those used on the Likomba. They had to be, to cut through the far more substantial mass of her anchor chains. As the blasted metal fell away, lengths of steel crashing into the water, it was as if Santa Isabel Harbour was being pounded by salvoes of bombs dropped from the air. Indeed, the scenario of a concerted air attack appeared all too convincing to the petrified townspeople and the harbourside defenders. To them, this had all the hallmarks of an aerial bombardment.
Aboard the Duchessa March-Phillipps, Appleyard, Lassen and their fellow raiders stiffened, as the first staccato shots hammered out from the direction of the shore. All of a sudden, guns positioned around the bay began to open fire, releasing volley after volley. As the Vulcan went to full power, her screws thrashing the boiling waters and straining to get the massive ship at her stern to move, the muzzles of the harbourside cannons punched through the darkness, spitting long tongues of fire.
But strain as she might, the Vulcan couldn’t get the massive deadweight of the Duchessa to budge one inch. Somehow, she remained stuck fast. It was Appleyard who realized what had happened. One of the forward charges had failed to explode, which meant that the Duchessa’s bow remained firmly tethered to the seabed. As salvo after salvo resounded from the harbourside guns, Apple dashed forward, laid a replacement charge, lit the fuse and threw himself into cover.
Kerboom!
An instant later the massive Italian vessel began to inch forward. From the bridge March-Phillipps let out an exultant cry: ‘My God, she’s free!’
It was all up to Tugmaster Coker now.
As the Vulcan gathered speed, Leslie Prout urged the sweating stokers to shovel on more coal, and the safety lever was physically held in place to prevent it cutting in and reducing the pressure on the dangerously overloaded engines. Demanding maximum power from his vessel, Tugmaster Coker got it. He managed to get both ships underway at a speedy 3 knots, as he began to steer the 7,872-tonne rudderless mass lying at the end of his towrope through the treacherous shallows.
*
All around the quay total confusion reig
ned. With the shore-batteries unleashing fire into the heavens, rhythmic flashes pulsed across the bay. The momentary beats of illumination revealed to Kapitan Specht and his Italian comrade, Acting Captain Umberto Valle, glimpses of a terrible sight out on the bay. Somehow, their vessels seemed to be slipping out to sea.
It was unbelievable. Almost 10,000 tonnes of German and Italian shipping – their ships – was being spirited away beneath their very noses. As the Likomba and Duchessa d’Aosta melted into the darkness and cannon shells and gunfire rent the skies above Fernando Po, the Captain of the Spanish Colonial guard dashed hither and thither crying out: ‘Que pasa? Que pasa?’ – what’s happening.
Panic gripped the townspeople, wild cries of ‘Alerta! Alerta! Alerta!’ rising up from the harbourside. Any hope of mustering some kind of concerted action to save the fast-disappearing vessels seemed lost, and the marvelous deception at the heart of Operation Postmaster appeared complete.
Out on the waters of the bay the more powerful Vulcan overhauled and passed the Nuneaton, as both dragged their prizes further and further towards the open sea. In the stern of the Duchessa Lassen, Longe and Haggis Taylor kept their Tommy Guns trained on the quayside, in case any form of last-minute resistance was mounted by either the Spanish defenders, or the German and the Italian ships’ officers.
It was fast becoming clear that the seemingly impossible had transpired: Operation Postmaster had been successful beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. The raiders had stolen away the three target ships and while fierce gunfire still illuminated the sky above the town, not a shot seemed to have been directed their way. Apart from a few bruised and battered Italian captives they had not caused a single casualty – just as M had called for. The only shot fired by the raiders had been a negligent discharge – a revolver fired accidentally – and no one had been harmed.
As the ships drew further and further out to sea, it was as if a midnight firework display was underway above Santa Isabel town. Indeed, it was only just past the witching hour as the five ships powered past the buoys that marked the exit to the harbour and turned towards the open sea. The raid had taken just thirty-five minutes to execute.
*
Ashore in Santa Isabel town someone finally had the gumption to turn the power back on. Just as soon as the lights around the bay blinked into life it was clear what was missing from the harbour. Where the Duchessa d’Aosta and the smaller Likomba had stood there was now only open water. It was also abundantly clear that no Allied warplanes were thundering through the skies above the town, unleashing bombs.
The shore-side batteries ceased firing into the skies. In the comparative silence that followed, everyone was asking the same question: who had attacked the harbour and stolen the ships away? No one had the faintest clue. Some spoke of as many as five massive battleships stealing in under cover of darkness to execute the daring theft. Others remained convinced that the Duchessa and the Likomba had been somehow targeted from the air.
To add to the confusion, a handful of distinctive hats were seen lying in the water where the Italian and German ships had been cut free from their moorings. Fished out of the sea, they proved to be Free French naval hats. As the Free French were in effect stateless persons fighting to retake their homeland, what reprisals could the Spanish possibly take against them? A few onlookers spoke darkly of English voices being heard from across the water, but no one could be certain.
There was one exception, however. Kapitan Specht, until a few minutes ago the proud commander of the Likomba, had no doubt whatsoever who was responsible for the loss of his ship.
Kapitan Specht had refused to attend that first dinner party, for he had always maintained that one German officer should remain aboard his fine little vessel. It was only Frau Luhr’s charms that had convinced him to make an exception this time. As a result he was now a Captain bereft of both crew and ship, and he was convinced that both Herr and Frau Luhr must be undercover British agents.
Specht was spitting blood. Well-oiled and with his face puce with rage, he made his way directly to the one obvious target on which to vent his anger – the British Consulate building. He stormed in, marched through the pantry and came face-to-face with Peter Lake, Britain’s Vice Consul in Fernando Po. Lake was in truth SOE agent W53, a man personally recruited by M to oversee Operation Postmaster from the Santa Isabel side of things.
Specht let fly with a string of foul-mouthed curses, before yelling out: ‘Vere is mine ship?’
‘If you think …’ Lake replied, but he was immediately interrupted.
‘Who is drunk? Who is drunk?’ an enraged Specht demanded.
‘You are,’ Lake retorted. ‘Now get out! This is British sovereign territory. Get out!’
Specht totally lost control. He punched Lake in the face, which gave the twenty-six-year-old SOE agent the excuse he’d been looking for. Lake proceeded to knock seven bells out of the German Kapitan, who eventually found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. At the sight of the gun leveled at his head, Specht promptly collapsed, split his trousers and soiled what was left of them.
The police were called. Specht was dragged away and thrown in gaol, while a round-the-clock guard was placed at the Consulate to prevent any such further incidents. Word quickly reached Lake that Specht was threatening to kill him and his colleagues, but he wasn’t overly worried. He’d got the measure of the German Kapitan during the punch-up, and if anything he would relish a return match.
Lake was also determined to make the most out of the German captain’s intemperance. He immediately penned a letter to the island’s Spanish Governor, decrying Specht’s breach of international law. He demanded that there should be no repeat performances, and that all British citizens then present on Fernando Po be afforded Spain’s full protection. In doing so, Lake had foremost in his mind fellow SOE agent Richard Lippett, the chief architect of the Santa Isabel end of the Operation Postmaster deception.
Sorulace, cowed by the threat of the compromising photos in Lake’s possession, offered immediate assurances that Lake’s request would be given every priority. More to the point, he refrained from any suggestion that it was actually the British who might be responsible for the shocking breach of international law represented by that night’s daredevil raid.
*
On the blacked-out bridge of the Duchessa d’Aosta, March-Phillipps was feeling understandably exultant as he stared out to sea. The entry he made in his ship’s log reflected the quiet, understated sense of satisfaction that he was feeling. At last he and his men had struck back hard against the enemy. ‘Boarded and captured and towed out d’Aosta, Likomba and Bemuivoi’, he noted. ‘No casualties. Cutting out went according to plan.’ In the fast pace of the moment, it seems he got the name of the captured German pleasure yacht slightly wrong, but the sentiment was entirely heart-felt nonetheless.
March-Phillipps turned to a tall figure standing at his side on the bridge. It was Longe, the SOE agent who had survived the pig assault.
‘This is a wonderful thing for the old country, you know,’ March-Phillipps remarked. His voice was thick with emotion and touched with a quiet pride.
And indeed it was wonderful: stage one of Operation Postmaster was complete – a five-star, gold-plated cut-out operation. But stage two, in which the British had to formally ‘seize’ the ships that the invisible raiders had liberated, was yet to be executed, as was the sophisticated information operation that would be orchestrated from London.
March-Phillipps appointed the skilled seaman Lassen as the Duchessa’s Second Officer, while he kept overall command of the purloined vessel. Under the young Dane’s ferocious gaze the Italian crewmen-captives were put to work to make the ship as seaworthy as possible. All haste had to be made to the planned rendezvous with HMS Violet, which was set some forty miles west of Fernando Po. The pigs were captured, corralled and tethered, in preparation for a celebratory feast, once it was mission accomplished.
March-Phillipps want
ed to make as much as possible of the journey under the protective cover of darkness. It wasn’t inconceivable that the Spanish Governor of Fernando Po might call for Axis air power to scour the sea in search of the missing ships, or there might be vessels in Santa Isabel Harbour capable of giving chase.
Matters took a turn for the worse when the Nuneaton started suffering engine trouble. The Vulcan ploughed ever onwards, dragging the Duchessa after, but the flotilla of three smaller ships fell further and further behind. As the first hints of dawn washed the eastern horizon with a pale light, the sharp form of Santa Isabel Peak became visible, silhouetted against the coming sunrise. The Nuneaton – with her engines out of action, and her two ungainly prizes in tow – remained just a few miles off the coast, and well within Spanish territorial waters.
Wracked with worry, March-Phillipps made the difficult decision to make an about turn. He transferred to the Vulcan, the tow-line was released, and the Duchessa was left to drift under Lassen’s command, as the powerful tugboat steamed back to find the missing ships. March-Phillipps discovered the Nuneaton in serious trouble, and together with her prizes she was drifting back towards Fernando Po.
Hayes and the Maid Honour Force commander discussed whether the Vulcan should take the three vessels under tow. But Hayes and his crew remained convinced they could restart the Nuneaton’s engines. It was crucial that March-Phillipps did not lose sight of their bigger prize: the Duchessa. And so he made the difficult decision to leave the three ships drifting, as the Vulcan turned westwards once more. By the time she had made it back to the Duchessa, someone had had the bright idea of knocking-up a makeshift skull-and-crossbones, which was fluttering proudly from the ship’s masthead.
Whether it was Appleyard or Lassen who first suggested it, the triumphant raiders had embraced the idea. Bed sheets had been retrieved from the ship’s cabins, and with a pot of black paint a crude Jolly Roger had been splashed across them. But March-Phillipps wasn’t best pleased. He was painfully aware of the vital importance of the next stage of the deception – that HMS Violet should approach the flotilla of ships, with all aboard bar her Captain believing them to be enemy vessels manned by mutinous Italian and German crews.
