by Alan Evans
‘Admiral Winter did not.’
Balestra was silent a moment, staring down abstractedly at the plan, then: ‘He was a great man. I was in the dockyard one day, having an argument with some other officers —’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, I was saying if the enemy would not come out then we should go in after him, that if conventional methods would not work we should try unconventional ones. To them it was a joke — the Mad Professor, you know? But Winter appeared out of nowhere like a ghost. So gaunt. A head like a skull and that awful cough. He said very little, just listened and watched. Only now and again he would ask a question and it was always good. To the point, you know?’ A corner of Balestra’s mouth lifted in a one-sided grin. ‘Like you.’
Smith said nothing to that. Braddock had said Winter was in poor health but according to Balestra that was an understatement. Smith nodded at the torpedo outside in the workshop and asked, ‘Is that to do with this jumping-boat?’
Balestra shook his head. ‘No — that was a different idea. But I ran into problems with it so I concentrated on this boat instead. Admiral Winter said it was urgent.’ He pointed at the torpedo’s dull-gleaming skin. ‘I think, maybe, I have the answers to that now. But the boat is almost ready.’
‘Almost?’
‘I had to make an adjustment to the drive, but now —’ Smith pressed him, ‘Has she had a trial?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘I want to see a trial. Now.’
Balestra hedged. ‘We need more adjustments. You understand, a boat like this, so new, so different, you —’
‘I know. I want to see it work. Now.’
Smith knew Balestra was reluctant to put his brainchild through its paces before this strange British officer, wanted to get it exactly right first, tested again and again. But there wasn’t time, Smith was certain of that. He repeated, ‘Now.’
Balestra cast one final glance at the plan then turned his back on it. ‘Very well, sir.’
*
Helen Blair left the car at Mestre with Luigi, who was relieved to see her back safe and sound, and took the train across the causeway to Venice. At the house on the Riva Ca’di Dio she found her housekeeper and a note awaiting her. It had been left by some young Air Force officers who had been wounded and were on convalescent leave but now were recalled to their squadron. They invited her to join them for dinner that evening.
She smiled. She would just have time to bath and dress but first she took a towel from the bathroom and hung it on the rail of the balcony outside her room. From there she could see her yacht, Sybil, and her two-man crew would see the towel. It was a simple signal and saved her from taking the launch out across the lagoon to the yacht, just to tell them to be ready to sail.
*
The trails ran through the afternoon and they found defects, several, one after the other. But Balestra, his tubby brown-faced engineer petty officer Enzo, and their men laboured with furious haste to set them right, and succeeded. For every problem Balestra found a working solution. Working. That was the word.
At the end of it Smith stood again in the shed and stripped off the boiler-suit he had borrowed from Balestra, washed at the sink by the wall. There were makeshift curtains covering the window now, a blackout, for it was dusk. The lamps only made more harsh the utilitarian interior of the workshop. Smith thought that Balestra had lived like a prisoner in this place for weeks and wondered how he still managed to sing. Now the young Italian stood wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste; he was filthy. He ran his fingers through the dark, curly hair as he had done a hundred times during the trials, that was why it always stood on end.
Smith said, ‘It works. Be ready to go at an hour’s notice or less.’
Balestra’s eyes lit up. He said delightedly, ‘Thank you, sir!’ Then he remembered practicalities, ‘But we will need orders, and an authority for torpedoes.’
‘I’ll see to that,’ answered Smith. He smiled at Balestra’s relief and exuberance. ‘It’s an unusual craft, to say the least. Congratulations, Guido. What do you call her?’
Balestra shrugged, ‘She has no name as yet. Just a jumping-boat. And that isn’t accurate.’
Smith said, ‘We’ll call her the Flying-Fish.’
‘That isn’t accurate, either.’
‘Maybe not. But I wanted a flying-fish and that’s what I’m going to have painted on.’ Smith straightened his cap and left the shed. As he walked rapidly back through the long grass towards Hercules and the MAS boats he heard a voice break into joyful song behind him.
Pietro Zacco’s boat took him round to the dockyard and Naval Headquarters. It was night now, the surface of the lagoon like black glass. As Smith stepped ashore he said, ‘I may be some time.’
Zacco asked, trying to sound casual, ‘Action, sir?’ But the entire crew of the boat were watching, sensing that something was afoot. Lombardo’s head poked scowling but curious out of the engine-room and his meccanico showed behind him.
Smith nodded. ‘If all goes well, tomorrow.’ And grinned to himself as Zacco passed the word on and a ripple of excitement ran through the crew.
He walked along by the side of the canal towards the pillared entrance of Naval Headquarters, the winged lion of Venice above it. He thought of Balestra, thin, intense, eager — and brilliant, Smith was certain. They smiled and called him the Mad Professor. With luck he and Balestra would wipe those smiles away.
The sentry at the head of the short flight of steps saluted and passed him through, but in Devereux’s office he found only a solitary clerk tidying it and putting away files. He stood to attention as Smith entered.
Smith asked, ‘Where is Captain Devereux?’
‘Gone, sir. He won’t be back tonight, nor for a few days, either. A signal came from Captain Pickett today. There’s some sort of conference in Brindisi an’ he wants Captain Devereux there. He’s got a passage on Harrier sailing at midnight.’
‘Where is he now?’
The clerk glanced up at the clock. ‘He’ll be at the Aurora now, having his dinner. That’s a hotel on the Schiavoni, sir. But if there is anything I can do, sir? I’ll be here all night. I’m on duty till the morning.’
‘No, thank you. I have to see Captain Devereux. Good night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
The clerk watched Smith go then muttered, ‘And the best o’ luck if you want any favours from that bastard.’
Smith walked quickly through the narrow, winding, unlit streets. He emerged on the Riva di Schiavoni and there found the Aurora Hotel. A machine-gun was mounted on a timber platform on the roof and its crew of two Italian soldiers stood searching the sky with binoculars, keeping look-out for another sneak raid by Austrian bombers. Smith entered and took off his cap, walked through the foyer to the dim, lamp lit dining-room and paused at the entrance a moment, seeking Devereux. But first he saw La Contessa. Helen Blair sat at a large central table with half-a-dozen young officers of the Italian Air Force, smiling and laughing at their jokes. Her silken dress was cut low over her breasts and her shoulders were bare. Her piled hair shone in the lamplight. She stood out in that room, but then, Smith thought, she would stand out anywhere. Her eyes met his for a second, then returned to the men about her.
Smith saw Devereux sitting alone at a table by the wall and started towards him. Devereux was also watching Helen Blair and clearly was not pleased to see Smith. He asked testily, ‘Is it important? Urgent?’
‘Yes, sir, it is.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Devereux said grudgingly. ‘You’d better sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Smith took the empty chair across from Devereux.
A waiter served Devereux with soup and looked at Smith. ‘Signore?’
Smith shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’ And when they were alone again: ‘I went to Trieste with the boats, sir. This is my report.’
He held out the envelope to Devereux who glanced at it without interest. ‘Leave it there.’ His eyes were not on Smi
th but on some point in the room behind him. A girl laughed — Helen Blair — and Devereux smiled.
Smith said, ‘Anyway, sir, they’ve strengthened the defences. There are now two lines of booms and newer, far stronger ones. There’s no way a ship could break through them.’
That regained Devereux’s attention. ‘Ah?’ He smiled complacently. ‘Common sense reasserting itself, I see. Good.’
‘If possible, sir, I would like the latest intelligence on Trieste, anything the Italians have obtained in the last day or two.’
‘Just ask the duty writer in my office,’ Devereux answered easily. ‘I think some stuff came in just as I left.’
Devereux was amiable, believing he had been proved right. Smith thought that was the easy part over. Now — ‘I know a way to get in and sink Salzburg, sir.’ And when Devereux frowned: ‘Today I paid a call on a Tenente Balestra. He has a —’
‘Balestra!’ Devereux’s frown vanished and he laughed. ‘You know about him?’
‘That I do!’ Devereux chuckled.
Smith said, ‘He told me that Admiral Winter started him on this project.’ And then asked softly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him, sir?’
But Devereux was not put out, shook his head and sighed. ‘He was a sick man.’
‘Sick? Balestra?’
‘No, Winter. A dying man would be a more accurate description. Consumption. Coughing his lungs out and near the end of the road. If Salzburg hadn’t killed him he would have collapsed soon anyway. He had the mark of death on him, and the Fleet Surgeon will bear that out.’ Smith remembered Balestra’s description of Winter: like a ghost. But Devereux was continuing. ‘When he was seized by this obsession with Salzburg and got involved with Balestra, well, Pickett and I took the charitable view that his illness had warped his judgment.’ Devereux shook his head over it.
Smith believed him. The man was sincere. But — ‘You could have told me, sir, and —’
Devereux broke in impatiently, ‘There’d been enough time wasted on that scheme. Do you know what they call him? The —’
‘The Mad Professor.’ Smith nodded and added crisply, ‘I know. And it’s a slander. The man is a brilliant engineer.’
‘Rubbish!’ Devereux was losing patience.
‘Sir?’
‘Gatecrashing! Boom-jumping! What next, for God’s sake? We’re fighting a war and that demented young organ-grinder is playing with toy boats in a bath!’
The injustice of it stung Smith, temper already fraying. ‘He’s an engineer, sir. And it’s not a toy! I was aboard her and we put her through the trial and she works!’
‘Puttering around the lagoon! Playing on that imitation booms he’s got there!’ Devereux’s voice held contempt. ‘Oh, I know it. Pickett and I went down with Winter a couple of weeks ago when they were building the thing. A few old buoys, timbers and hawsers that he strings out in four or five feet of water! Call that a boom? Whatever kind of weird contraption he’s dreamed up, it might work there on that boom — but on real defences, in the currents at a harbour’s mouth... ?’
There was an unpleasant smack of truth there, Smith could not deny it, and Balestra said they should have more trials. But time was against them. Couldn’t Devereux see that? Smith said, ‘It worked. And it will work at Trieste.’
‘No, it won’t!’
‘Balestra is prepared to make the attempt, sir, and so am I. We don’t want authority, just permission.’
‘You won’t get it.’ That was flat denial.
But Smith kept trying. ‘Sir, Salzburg —’
‘Salzburg!’ Devereux exploded the word. ‘You’ve got that damned ship on the brain! You’ll have us all looking under our beds for her and this feller Voss! This is exactly why we didn’t tell you about Balestra and his tomfool ideas, in case you were bitten by the same bug as Winter. It seems you were, but you don’t have his excuse.’
Smith played his last card, ‘I have my orders, sir, and —’
‘And an independent command. I know. We’ve discussed this already and Pickett made your position plain. Let me make this plain: you will not get authority or permission to embark on this mad attack on Trieste because at worst it would end in tragedy and at best make laughing-stocks of the Royal Italian Navy and ourselves. Balestra! You spent the afternoon with him and his contraption while the Italians are trying to hold a line on the Tagliamento river and losing men in their tens of thousands. Talk about the devil finding work for idle hands!’
Still Smith tried, doggedly, desperately, ‘Sir —’
But: ‘That,’ said Devereux icily, ‘will be all, Commander. Good night to you.’
Smith pushed back the chair and stood up. He was not finished, had plenty more still to say but knew nothing would shake Devereux from his entrenched beliefs. If Smith opened his mouth now it would be to speak his mind and that would bring him nothing but a charge of insubordination. So he turned his back and strode steadily, unhurriedly from the room, this time unaware of Helen Blair.
She saw the barely-controlled anger in his set face and wondered.
Devereux did not wonder. He watched Smith go then returned to his dinner, still angry but with the satisfaction of triumph. He had put an end to that nonsense.
It was raining now and Smith’s boots splashed in puddles on the quay as he strode rapidly back to the dockyard. Zacco’s boat waited for him there in the canal. As he came on her out of the darkness he heard the expectant rustle among the crew, Zacco’s low order and then the engines growled. Smith stepped aboard and said, ‘Hercules.’
‘Sir.’ Zacco did not ask questions but glanced at Smith’s face and saw the set of it, guessed that something had gone wrong. He took the MAS astern out of the canal and turned her head to run back to the drifter.
Smith stood in the cockpit, silent. He had prepared these men for action again tomorrow. Now he would have to retract that. Cancelling orders, changing plans, was bad for morale. He put off the moment. Besides, he was not finished. His orders stood. If Balestra and his Flying-Fish were denied him then he must seek another way.
He was back where he had been in the morning, beating his head against a wall. Now he knew why Winter had demanded an independent command for Smith: he had known he was a dying man, suspected that when he died then Pickett and Devereux would never support his plans for an attack on Salzburg. That was no comfort to Smith. He had his independent command but he was shackled by Devereux and Pickett.
When he climbed aboard Hercules he returned to his pacing, up and down the dark deck under the rain, up and down. Searchlights swept the sky over Venice and their light reflected on the still waters of the lagoon that washed against the drifter’s side. Anger and frustration simmered inside him and he was worried by Devereux’s news of the German advance and the Italian losses.
He did not know how long he paced the deck but he was aware of a boat coming alongside, the hail. Then Menzies appeared, stopping his restless striding. ‘From HQ, sir, Captain Devereux.’
So it had been Devereux’s boat. Another envelope but slimmer this time. The later intelligence of Trieste he had asked for? It was not. He read the orders. They originated from the Italian Headquarters but were endorsed by Devereux. Ammunition was needed at the front and Devereux had volunteered the services of Hercules. She was to tow a barge loaded with ammunition to Porto San Margherita, close to the front, and land it under cover of darkness. The barge lay waiting at the island of Certosa.
Smith stared at the orders. Certosa. Zacco had said the ammunition dumps were there. He remembered Devereux complaining, ‘The devil finds work for idle hands.’ So Devereux, on his way to Harrier and Brindisi, had gone back to his office and arranged this. Smith and his little command were to be used like errand boys, given any odd job that would keep them occupied.
He climbed to the wheelhouse and looked at the chart. Porto San Margherita lay on the coast about 45 miles north-east of Venice, at the mouth of the Livenza river. It was no more than a fishi
ng village. He laid off his course then stood scowling at the chart. There beyond the Livenza river lay Trieste, and Salzburg. She must still be there — no sightings had been reported — but Voss would not lie there idle much longer. Smith and Hercules were ordered to tow a barge up to Porto San Margherita while on a night like this with the Flying-Fish... He saw the craft in his mind’s
eye, looking not unlike…
All along he had known that time was against them and they must take a risk.
He swung away from the chart and bellowed, ‘Mr. Menzies! Mr. Archbold!’ Menzies came running from aft but Smith was out of the wheelhouse and slid down the ladder to the deck before the panting midshipman skidded around the superstructure and halted before him. Smith stepped past him to the side and called, ‘Mr. Zacco!’
‘Signore!’
‘I want Lombardo!’
‘Yes, signore!’
‘Mr. Pagani!’
‘Signore!’
‘Come alongside and take me to Devereux’s office in the dockyard!’
‘Yes, signore!’
Smith turned and saw Fred Archbold’s grizzled head coming up out of the companion forward. ‘Mr. Archbold!’
‘Sir!’
‘You have a carpenter?
‘That’s what he calls hisself.’
‘You’ve got canvas, timber and black paint aboard?’
‘We’ve got all o’ that —’
‘Very good. Now listen to me. Mr. Menzies, you will take Lombardo and the carpenter from Hercules, Buckley, Davies and the crew of the six-inch gun —’ He told them what he wanted done and finished, ‘We’ve got to smuggle her past the guard-boat. Understood?’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ That was Menzies.
‘Aye.’ Fred Archbold pushed back his cap and scratched his head. ‘I reckon we’ve got what’ll do the job, sir.’
‘You have two hours! Here!’ Smith scribbled a brief note to Balestra on a page torn from his notebook and slapped it into Menzies’s hand. Pagani’s boat was sliding alongside at the foot of the ladder and Smith went down into it, called ‘Mr. Archbold! Raise steam and be ready to put to sea!’
